The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘Red … pink … what’s the difference?’ Dingy asked. He was a big man, not altogether used to being questioned. Especially the way he was dressed just now.

  ‘Shade,’ said the Governor. ‘A shade of difference, you might say.’ He looked up and smiled manically. ‘And a shade of difference might make all the difference.’

  Dingy didn’t smile back. ‘You know the prisoner these papers refer to?’

  The Governor glanced at them again. ‘Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.’

  ‘Scum, would you say?’

  The Governor nodded. ‘Of the lowest sort.’

  ‘Deserving of the penalty the papers lay out?’

  ‘Penalties are not my business,’ the Governor said primly. ‘My business is to detain—and where necessary torture a little—those placed in my charge. But since you ask, I believe this prisoner is deserving, very deserving, of the penalty laid out. Too good for him, in my view. Purely a personal opinion, of course.’

  Dingy frowned. ‘Too good for him? It’s the ultimate penalty, isn’t it? Can’t get more ultimate than death.’

  ‘Indeed not. But what sort of death? That’s what I would ask.’

  ‘What sort would you want?’ asked Dingy, suddenly curious.

  The Governor leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his hands. He rolled his eyes heavenwards, or at least as heavenwards as the ceiling of his office allowed. ‘Well, we could gradually starve him, or crush his feet and put him on a treadmill, bleed him to death, beat him to a pulp, feed him a slow-acting poison, remove his vital organs one by one, transplant his brain into the body of a rat, insert red-hot needles into his ears, nail his feet to the floor so he can’t reach his food (which is starving him, I admit, but more stylishly), bake him in a slow oven, stampede a herd of elephants over him, force him to eat an endolg, staple his mouth and nose shut so he can’t breathe, drown him in a cesspit, burn off his skin, drop an anvil on his head, stretch him between dray horses, feed him to hounds, electrocute him with an eel, drop him from a high tower, inject him with soapsuds, have him eaten by mosquitoes, make him stab rocks with a Halek knife, change him into a mouse and bring in the cat, bury him in snow until the spring, send him to the ink mines, drill holes in his head and pour in acid—’ He waved an airy hand. ‘This warrant only specifies hanging.’

  Dingy glanced at the papers. They did seem a bit unimaginative. ‘How about I duff him up beforehand?’

  ‘Be a help,’ the Governor said.

  ‘So what about the sealing wax?’

  The Governor shrugged. ‘Red … pink … what’s the difference?’ He stood up. ‘Put your hood up. I’ll get somebody to show you to his cell.’

  The basic cell in Asloght was a twelve-foot cube with a run-off for the water that seeped down the stone-block walls. Furnishings were confined to a heap of damp straw in one corner and a bucket. There were no curtains at the windows because there were no windows. Prisoners were issued with one stubby candle per week.

  Jasper Chalkhill’s quarters were rather more luxurious, thanks to a small fortune spent on bribes. He had more space, for one thing, a pink carpet on the floor, a proper bed in one corner, glowglobes set into the ceiling, an easy chair, a dining chair, a bookcase, a table and a small refrigerator filled with sticky snacks and drinks. Even compared to prison staff, Chalkhill was probably the most comfortable man in Asloght.

  But that didn’t stop him complaining.

  ‘It’s not what I’m used to,’ he told the orderly he’d hired at huge expense to be his valet. ‘I do so miss my little spells. They won’t allow me any magic here, you know.’ Which wasn’t strictly true—a weekly absorbent spell took care of the damp—but there were certainly no magical luxuries.

  The orderly, a patient Trinian named Clutterbuck, was engaged in light housework while Chalkhill reclined prostrate with boredom on the bed. ‘I don’t suppose I could tempt you to a little mahjong?’ Chalkhill asked. ‘We could play for sweeties. Anything to ease this dreadful ennui.’ He drew the back of his hand theatrically across his forehead to give the suggestion emphasis, even though he suspected he knew the answer before he asked the question.

  ‘Sorry, sir, don’t know the game at all,’ Clutterbuck told him briskly. ‘Besides, sir, with respect, sir, gaming isn’t in my contract. Just the basic Four Cs—cooking, cleaning, conversation and clothing. Four Cs, sir. Doesn’t run to gaming, I’m afraid, on account of that being a G.’ He began to set out the cutlery for Chalkhill’s next meal.

  ‘How would it be—’ Chalkhill stopped. ‘What’s the matter?’ The Trinian had moved abruptly to the door of the cell and was now pressed against the wall beside it, sniffing furiously.

  ‘Danger, sir. Approaching us at walking pace.’

  Chalkhill sat up in bed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Can smell it, sir—I had the training.’

  Chalkhill swung his feet on to the floor. He was a fat man with a taste for flamboyant clothing, and although his opportunities to indulge it now were limited, he still managed a lime-green robe with jewelled pumps.

  ‘Will you protect me?’ he asked curiously. Then, before Clutterbuck could answer, echoed, ‘Not in the contract—I know, I know.’ He stood up. ‘My, my, danger coming—this is exciting!’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it, sir. Now, if there’s nothing more you need me for, I’ll leave you to face it.’

  ‘No, you run along, Clutterbuck. Thank you.’ Chalkhill’s eyes were fixed on the door and he licked his lips in some anticipation. Almost anything would be better than the endless, dreadful sameness of his prison days.

  Clutterbuck unlocked the door and opened it to slip out. As he did so, a tall figure slipped in. Chalkhill’s pleasurable expectation drained through the soles of his feet. The creature wore a black robe with a hood that covered its entire face except for two glittering dark eyes. It carried the large, sharp scythe and ceremonial oakwood hour-glass of a State Executioner.

  ‘My God,’ said Chalkhill in sudden dread. ‘They’ve sent you to kill me!’

  Seven

  The Executioner seemed in something of a hurry. He swept down the corridors of the Great Keep like a herald of doom, dragging Chalkhill behind him.

  ‘Steady on,’ gasped Chalkhill breathlessly. At this pace he’d be dead before the man could hang him.

  The Governor was waiting for them at the main gates. ‘Where exactly are you taking him?’ he asked the Executioner.

  ‘That’s something you don’t need to know,’ the Executioner told him flatly. ‘Let’s just say it’s somewhere nobody will see what I plan to do with him.’

  ‘Excellent!’ the Governor exclaimed. He gave a signal to the guards and the gates swung slowly open.

  There was a black coach outside, drawn by four black horses. A hunchbacked coachman in a black cloak and black three-cornered hat gripped the reins with claw-like hands. To Chalkhill’s surprise, there were no bars on the windows. The Executioner bundled him inside and, to Chalkhill’s even greater surprise, climbed in beside him. The coach lurched off violently the moment the door closed.

  Chalkhill watched through the window, wondering if he could safely jump. But the Executioner pushed the hood back to reveal a moon-shaped face that was curiously familiar. ‘Harold Dingy,’ he said, grinning. ‘Lord Hairstreak sent me to get you out.’

  Chalkhill stared at him in astonishment. He’d spied for Lord Hairstreak for years, but he knew the drill well enough—any spy who got caught was on his own Black Hairstreak would deny his existence and let him rot. Which was exactly what he had done since Chalkhill was jailed. ‘What about the execution papers?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Forged, of course.’ Dingy caught his expression and smiled. ‘Don’t worry—he’s got a job for you.’

  A job? That would explain it. Chalkhill found himself beginning to relax. ‘I don’t suppose you know what this job is?’ he asked.

  ‘Course I do,’ said Harold Dingy, still grinning broadly. ‘He
wants you to stop young Pyrgus Malvae becoming Purple Emperor.’

  Eight

  Blue found Pyrgus (at last!) in the throne room. ‘Where on earth have you been?’ she hissed. He was gawping at the Imperial Crown, an amethyst and gold headpiece that crackled with purple fire even in its protective case. In two weeks’ time he would have to submit himself to the energies that coursed from it through his body, transforming him from Emperor Elect to Emperor. Before he had time to answer, she snapped impatiently, ‘Doesn’t matter—I need to talk to you.’

  Pyrgus turned like a sleepwalker and stared at her blankly.

  ‘In private,’ Blue said.

  Pyrgus blinked slowly. ‘There’s no one else here.’ His mind was clearly miles away.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pyrgus!’ The throne room was designed for public pronouncements, with acoustic galleries that carried every whisper into the winding corridors outside. It was the least private chamber in the entire palace.

  He seemed to snap out of it a little and looked at her directly. ‘All right. Blue,’ he said mildly. ‘We can use our father’s quarters.’

  They were his quarters now, had been since he became Emperor Elect. What was wrong with him? What was he doing mooning about in the throne room in the middle of the night? But at least his suggestion was sensible. The Emperor’s quarters were permanently spell-protected.

  They walked together in silence, scarcely acknowledging the saluting guards. Blue felt the familiar sense of dread as they approached the suite. Every time she entered, she remembered. It was as if she could still smell the sickly scent of her father’s blood. But nothing showed on her face as she pushed the vivid images aside.

  Pyrgus closed the door. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t find the Gatekeeper,’ Blue said.

  That dreamy look again. ‘Is that all? Mr Fogarty’s gone home to the Analogue World. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No, that’s not all!’ Blue said angrily. Curiosity got the better of her and she added, ‘What’s he doing in the Analogue World?’

  ‘I asked him to invite Henry to my Coronation,’ Pyrgus said. ‘I want him to be my Male Companion I told you that.’

  ‘Why’s he away until tomorrow?’

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘No, Pyrgus—Mr Fogarty! What’s wrong with you?’

  Pyrgus shrugged. ‘He had some personal business to attend to.’

  ‘What sort of personal business?’

  ‘I didn’t ask him.’

  Blue closed her eyes briefly, seething with frustration. Pyrgus never seemed to care what was going on around him, not even when it concerned as important an official as the Gatekeeper.

  Pyrgus said, ‘Look, Blue, I’m a bit tired, so if that’s all you wanted me for I think I’d —’

  ‘Of course it’s not all. Somebody’s trying to kill you.’

  It still didn’t jerk him out of it. All he said was, ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know who. If I knew who I’d have said, Lord Hair streak’s trying to kill you or the Duke of Burgundy’s trying to kill you, wouldn’t I? Actually, I don’t even know for sure it is you, but you’re the most likely.’

  Suddenly Pyrgus was his old self again. He frowned. ‘Back up, Blue. I want to hear this properly. What exactly have you heard and who did you hear it from?’

  Blue took his arm impulsively. ‘Oh, Pyrgus, I thought all this would stop when we put down the Nighter rebellion. But it doesn’t stop, does it? And now we don’t have Daddy to look after it.’

  An odd expression flickered across Pyrgus’s features. He tugged his arm free gently and put it round her shoulders. ‘No, Blue, it doesn’t stop. I don’t think it will ever stop. But it may get better. Tell me what you heard.’

  ‘There’s a plot to kill a member of the royal family. I suppose it must be you—I don’t see who else it would be.’

  ‘You,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Or Comma.’

  ‘You’re Emperor Elect,’ Blue said.

  Pyrgus nodded. He removed his arm and went over to sit down in the comfortable leather wing chair his father had loved so much. He yawned. ‘Sorry, Blue, I’ve had a long day.’ He nodded again, thoughtfully. ‘You’re right, I suppose—it’s most likely to be me.’ He looked up. ‘And you have no information on who’s behind it?’

  Blue shook her head. ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘It’ll be Hairstreak’s doing, I imagine.’

  He didn’t just sound tired, he sounded old. Sitting in the wing chair with his stocky build and curly red hair, he looked so like their father. Blue said quietly, ‘I’d think so too.’

  Pyrgus brought his head up, another gesture that was a painful reminder of their father. ‘Is your source reliable?’

  ‘Madame Cardui,’ Blue said. She didn’t often reveal her sources, but she had no secrets from Pyrgus.

  ‘The Painted Lady? I trust her.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘She’s trying to find out more, of course?’

  Blue nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Pyrgus stood up stiffly. ‘Not much more we can do at the moment. I’ll order extra guards and a heightened security alert. Then I have to get some sleep. We’ll discuss the situation with Gatekeeper Fogarty when he comes back in the morning.’ He paused at the door. ‘I love you, Blue.’

  Despite their problems, Blue smiled. ‘I love you too, Pyrgus,’ she said.

  Nine

  Gatekeeper Fogarty didn’t come back in the morning.

  Blue found Pyrgus pacing angrily outside the Gatekeeper’s lodge. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded the moment he saw her.

  ‘How should I know?’ Blue asked shortly. ‘You’re the one he talked to. When did he say he would be back?’

  ‘Dawn,’ Pyrgus grunted. ‘That was hours ago.’ There were dark rings under his eyes as if he’d been up all night. Blue wondered if he hadn’t slept—he certainly hadn’t gone to bed that late.

  ‘Maybe his valet or his housekeeper might know something,’ Blue suggested.

  ‘He doesn’t have a valet or a housekeeper,’ Pyrgus said crossly. ‘He doesn’t have any servants at all. Won’t trust anybody with him in his lodge. You know what he’s like. I can’t even get in with the Emperor’s master key—he’s done something to the locks.’

  The Gatekeeper’s lodge was a tight conglomeration of tiny towers and spires within sight of the Purple Palace, but quite separate from it. It was set in formal gardens against the backdrop of the island forest where their father Apatura Iris, the last Purple Emperor, had once enjoyed hunting boar. Pyrgus stared thoughtfully towards that forest now.

  Blue said, ‘Perhaps his personal business took him longer than he expected.’

  Pyrgus said abruptly, ‘Madame Cardui—what exactly did she say to you?’

  Frowning, Blue said, ‘That there was a plot to kill a member of the royal family.’

  ‘Royal family or royal household?’

  Blue hesitated. After a moment she said, ‘Household.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Blue nodded. ‘Yes. You’re right—she said household. I’m certain.’

  Pyrgus dragged his eyes away from the forest. ‘You see, if it’s royal family, that means you and me and Comma and—well, you know: limited options. But if it’s royal household, that includes the noble families in service and dignitaries like Mr Fogarty.’

  ‘I know,’ Blue said soberly. She stared at Pyrgus. ‘You don’t really think ’

  She stopped. There was a priest running towards them from the direction of the palace. Running priests spelled trouble, as she knew from long experience. From the corner of her eye she saw small movements in the bushes near the forest’s edge—Pyrgus had remembered the heightened security alert all right—but the hidden guards must have recognised the priest since they did not emerge.

  Blue recognised him herself now. His name was Thorn, a member of the Dentaria, the Realm’s most ancient Funereal Order. He was in charge of the vigil on the body of
her father and would pray daily for the late Emperor’s soul until Pyrgus was crowned. To her astonishment, he flung himself to his knees before Pyrgus and herself.

  Thorn was not a young man and it was a moment before he caught his breath. ‘Majesty,’ he gasped finally, ‘Serene Highness, your father—your father—the Emperor, your father—Majesty, your father’s body has disappeared.’

  Ten

  Brimstone rose early on his wedding day and pulled back the bedroom curtains with a flourish. Things were looking up already. The narrow street and open sewer outside his old lodgings had been replaced by flower beds and a well-manicured lawn. Widow Mormo was a superstitious woman. She believed it would be bad luck for bride and groom to sleep under the same roof the night before their marriage, so she’d arranged for Brimstone to stop over with her brother, who certainly kept a far more comfortable establishment than his smelly sister.

  Brimstone stretched luxuriously. With a well-stocked cabin in the forest, he could hide from Beleth for months. He walked to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, then popped them into his mouth. The magical residue locked them in place with an audible squelch.

  By the time he’d finished in the bathroom, some silent servant had slipped into his quarters and laid out his wedding suit. Brimstone put it on, admired himself in the mirror, then, humming a catchy little tune, went down to breakfast.

  Widow Mormo’s brother was already at the table.

  ‘Morning, Graminis,’ Brimstone said cheerfully.

  ‘There’s eggs,’ Graminis grunted. ‘Poached, fried or scrambled.’ He had the same tattered look as his sister, but nicer eyes.

  ‘Poached eggs would be just dandy,’ Brimstone said. Hell of a lot better than bone gruel, anyway. ‘Two please—one hard, one soft.’

  Graminis signalled to some half-visible servant lurking in the gloom of an archway and she scuttled off to fill Brimstone’s order. ‘Public prints?’ asked Graminis, pushing the newspapers towards Brimstone. ‘Find out what else is happening in the world this morning?’