The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  This was the life all right. Brimstone tilted his chair back and unfolded the paper. It was full of the forthcoming Coronation, just two weeks away now, give or take. Public holiday had been declared, processional route was being painted, invitations had gone out. There was a special feature on the dress chosen by the Female Companion, the Princess Royal. Little brat had splashed out on spinner silk, sort of thing you did when you were funded by the public purse. The Male Companion was somebody called Iron Prominent, a name new to Brimstone—probably some hideous Hooray Henry with a receding chin. Emperor Elect Pyrgus was described as ‘looking forward to being of service to all the peoples of the Realm, irrespective of creed or race’, a sentiment so sugary it made Brimstone want to puke.

  He started to turn to the section that gave news of Faeries of the Night when another Coronation paragraph caught his eye. It was no more than a passing mention of security arrangements at the ceremony. ‘Since the new Emperor wishes to maintain contact with the common people, security provisions are to be kept to a minimum, a situation made possible by the continuing closure of all Hael Realm portals.’

  The continuing closure of all Hael Realm portals ... Brimstone frowned. ‘Graminis, it says something here about Hael portals being closed.’

  Graminis glanced up from his porridge. ‘Didn’t you know? Old news now. Hasn’t been a functioning Hael portal for … oh, must be … must be weeks now.’

  ‘You mean we can’t evoke demons?’ He could tell from Graminis’s eyes that he was a Faerie of the Night like himself. Nighters had cat’s eyes—very light-sensitive. That was why they kept their cities gloomy and most of them wore trendy shades. It also gave them an affinity with demons that the Lighters never had. Demons liked the dark as well.

  ‘Not so much as an imp,’ Graminis said. ‘Plays hell with the servant problem.’ He giggled suddenly. ‘Get it, Silas? Portals closed plays hell with the servant problem.’

  ‘Very droll, Graminis,’ Brimstone acknowledged. ‘How did the Lighters close them?’

  ‘They didn’t, not as far as I know. Just happened. Talk is Hael’s collapsed.’

  ‘What, all of it?’

  ‘So they say. Seems their Prince of Darkness made a doomsday bomb and the damn thing went off in his face.’

  Brimstone felt a rising excitement. If the Hael portals were down, he was free. Without the portals, there was no way Beleth could get to him, except by making the trip the hard way, in a vimana, and that would take years! And if Graminis was right, Beleth might actually be dead. It was incredible.

  ‘Are you sure all the portals are closed?’ he asked.

  ‘Course I’m sure. Talk of the Realm just after it happened. And believe me, there’ve been a lot of sorcerers tried opening them again, but ...’ He shrugged. ‘Take it from me—anybody gets one working and you’ll read about it. Headline news, I’d say.’

  Graminis was right. It would be headline news. So Brimstone could come out of hiding now. He could go anywhere he liked and Beleth couldn’t touch him even if he were still alive. All he had to do was keep an eye to the public prints for any announcement that the portals might be reopened. If that happened, he could hide again until somebody confirmed whether Beleth had been killed. Meanwhile—his heart leaped at the thought!—it was business as usual. He could cancel the wedding and go back to his glue factory. He could contact Chalkhill again. He could return to his comfortable lodgings in Seething Lane. More importantly, he could go back to his spell books and his gold. He could —

  A thought occurred to Brimstone like a dousing of cold water. He’d tried to sacrifice the young Emperor Elect Pyrgus to Beleth. That wasn’t the sort of thing the boy was likely to forget. Now he was going to be Emperor, he might just want a little vengeance. Emperors were notoriously vindictive. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t return to Chalkhill and the factory just yet. Maybe it would be better if he kept a low profile and scouted things out before making any public moves. Maybe it would be better to let the marriage go ahead, kill the Widow Mormo as planned, and use her cabin as a base. It was perfect!

  Brimstone found he had actually begun to smile.

  ‘You’re looking happy for a man who’s about to get married,’ Graminis remarked cynically.

  Eleven

  Lord Hairstreak had two main residences in the Realm. One was on the edge of the capital, where he’d housed his golden phoenix until Pyrgus Malvae had stolen it. The other, newer and much grander, was surrounded by three thousand wooded acres in the heart of Yammeth Cretch. The forest was full of haniels and sliths, so unwelcome visitors seldom got half a mile before being eaten or poisoned. There was a haniel crouched on a branch overlooking the sweep of formal lawn, its wings half furled as if about to leap and glide. Chalkhill eyed it nervously.

  ‘Shouldn’t worry,’ Harold Dingy said. ‘They don’t come near the house.’

  They waited at the bottom of the broad stone steps until a white-gloved, bewigged footman teetered down in high-heeled boots. ‘His Lordship will be pleased to see you now,’ he announced, staring out a little way above their heads. He handed Dingy a luminous green labyrinth coin and stepped aside. ‘Go on! Go on!’ he said impatiently. ‘You know His Lordship hates to be kept waiting.’ He gave Chalkhill a sidelong glance and smiled.

  Dingy favoured him with a sour look, but flipped the coin. It hung in the air for a moment, then moved away up the steps. Dingy and Chalkhill followed hurriedly. The great oakwood doors swung open at their approach. As they stepped into the entrance hall, there was a surprised squawk behind them. The doors were closing again, but they just had time to see the footman carried off in the haniel’s claws.

  Chalkhill looked at Dingy.

  Dingy frowned. ‘Never saw that happen before,’ he said.

  They followed the labyrinth coin through a warren of corridors until they reached an antechamber hung with silken drapes. The coin dropped to the ground with a muffled thud.

  Chalkhill found the room vulgar. The drapes were indigo with a narrow scarlet trim and the illusion of leering demons. Why people used demons as art was quite beyond him. Fearfully ugly creatures. If he’d been decorating this room, he’d have used cherubs. Sweet little naked cherubs, all pink and cuddly.

  ‘It’s been a while since I saw His Lordship,’ Chalkhill said by way of conversation.

  ‘Hasn’t changed much,’ Dingy grunted.

  Nor, when he arrived, had Cossus Cossus, Hairstreak’s Gatekeeper. His head still looked too small for his body and he walked as if there was a ramrod up his back. ‘Jasper,’ he acknowledged, nodding briefly towards Chalkhill.

  ‘Cossus,’ Chalkhill nodded back. Neither of them smiled.

  ‘I trust you’re in good health?’

  ‘Mustn’t complain,’ said Chalkhill. He sniffed, then added, ‘Despite the prison food.’

  ‘Not what you’re used to, I suppose,’ Cossus said sympathetically. He waved an airy hand at Dingy. ‘Go away now, Harold—you’ve done your little bit.’

  Dingy gave him a glare that would have withered grass, but walked off mumbling just the same. Cossus took Chalkhill’s arm in an unusually friendly gesture. ‘Now, Jasper, His Lordship wants to see you privately. He’s waiting in the little Briefing Room.’

  The little Briefing Room was a book-lined study with seven layers of permanent privacy spells that gave it the smell of old leather. Chalkhill had been there only twice before—once when he joined Lord Hairstreak’s service, once when Hairstreak required him to kidnap Holly Blue, the Princess Royal.

  Cossus left him at the doorway. ‘Your ears only,’ he murmured cheerfully. Then, surprisingly, ‘Good luck.’

  Lord Hairstreak was staring intently through the window, but turned the instant Chalkhill entered. ‘Sit,’ he said sharply. He was a small, slight man, dressed as always in black velvet.

  Chalkhill sat. Despite his claim that they were bosom friends, he was actually terrified of Black Hairstreak. The man oozed ruthlessness from every
pore. Chalkhill folded his hands in his lap and waited. Beyond Hairstreak he could see through the window what His Lordship had been watching—his footman being devoured by the haniel.

  ‘You failed me, Jasper,’ Hairstreak said quietly. ‘You allowed that stupid child to beat you.’

  Chalkhill felt his body chill. The ‘stupid child’ was Princess Blue, of course, who’d certainly got the better of Chalkhill in the past. He opened his mouth to voice a few excuses, then closed it again. It was safer to let Lord Hairstreak do the talking.

  ‘I should have left you to rot in jail, you incompetent crud,’ Hairstreak hissed furiously. ‘Your bungling cost me much.’

  With an enormous effort of will, Chalkhill stopped himself from trembling. There was a chance Hairstreak had brought him here to torture him to death, but he was inclined to believe Dingy’s reassurance that there was another job. Or was that just wishful thinking? Would Hairstreak trust him with another job when he’d failed in the last? Outside, the haniel took off from the lawn, carrying the remains of the footman’s body. At a height of fifteen feet, the head dropped off and rolled under a rose bush.

  Black Hairstreak’s demeanour changed suddenly. He straightened his back and glanced towards the bookshelves. Chalkhill followed his gaze. He seemed to be looking at the twenty-seven volumes of Maculinia’s Dreams of Empire.

  Hairstreak said, ‘I’ve decided to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself.’

  Chalkhill said, ‘Thank you, Lord Hairstreak.’

  ‘Oh, don’t thank me yet. It’s a dangerous mission.’

  Chalkhill said, ‘Yes, Lord Hairstreak.’

  ‘If you fail, you die.’

  Chalkhill said, ‘Yes, Lord Hairstreak.’

  ‘But you won’t fail this time, will you, Jasper?’

  Chalkhill said, ‘No, Lord Hairstreak.’

  ‘Good, Jasper, good. Do you know anything about this mission I have for you?’

  Chalkhill licked his lips. ‘Your—’ He hesitated. What the hell was Dingy’s title? He wracked his brains, but nothing came. ‘Your, ah, man, mentioned you might not, ah, want young Pyrgus Malvae to become Purple Emperor.’

  Hairstreak rounded on him, eyes glittering. ‘I want young Pyrgus Malvae dead—that’s what I want! I want him assassinated. I want to make an example of him, Chalkhill. I want him killed publicly and horribly. I want it to happen at the moment of his greatest triumph, just before the Archimandrake crowns him at his Coronation. I want the world to know what happens to those who stand against Lord Hairstreak—and steal his valuable birds. That’s what I want, Chalkhill. The question is, are you the man to give it to me?’

  He wanted Pyrgus killed in the middle of his Coronation? That was a suicide mission. Kill the Emperor Elect in the Cathedral with all his guards around him and ten thousand people watching? It might just be possible, but getting away afterwards certainly wasn’t. The killer would have a score of swords thrust through him before he took three paces. No way! No way!

  Gripped by those glittering eyes, Chalkhill said, ‘I’m your man, Lord Hairstreak!’

  ‘What’s this, Your Lordship?’ Chalkhill asked hesitantly. It looked like a bubble wand, but he didn’t imagine it really could be. Black Hairstreak was a serious man, and a bubble wand was little more than a child’s toy.

  ‘It’s the weapon you will use to kill Prince Pyrgus,’ Hairstreak told him grimly. ‘It’s called a blowpipe—I had it brought in specially from the Analogue World. Looks a little like a bubble wand, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it does, Your Lordship.’ Chalkhill handled the artifact cautiously. It seemed no more than a short, wooden tube with primitive poker-work designs along its surface, but he wasn’t familiar with Analogue magic and didn’t want to set the thing off accidentally.

  ‘That’s the point,’ said Lord Hairstreak. ‘We need something that will pass unnoticed through Cathedral security. What better than an innocent bubble wand? Sparkling spheres to celebrate the Coronation of a brand new Emperor. I expect quite a few members of the congregation will be carrying them.’

  Chalkhill looked at the tube. ‘But this isn’t a real bubble wand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a weapon of some sort?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was terribly short and had absolutely no feel of a magical charge. Chalkhill said, ‘How will I get close enough to the Emperor Elect to use it, Your Lordship?’

  For the first time Hairstreak actually smiled. ‘Ah, Chalkhill, faithful Chalkhill, you actually think I’m sending you to your death, don’t you? Some sort of suicide mission, is that what you suspect?’

  ‘No, Lordship, of course not!’ Chalkhill protested. ‘Nothing could have been further — I wouldn’t — Lordship, it never occurred —’

  Hairstreak’s smile broadened. ‘You’re a trained operative,’ he said. ‘My master spy and soon to be my most effective assassin. Would I waste such a valuable resource?’ He strolled casually back to the window. There was no sign of the haniel and a small team of servants was clearing up the mess of the footman. One of them dropped his head into a large brown paper bag. ‘Do you want to know how I propose to get you out alive, Jasper?’

  Despite a deep mistrust of Hairstreak, Chalkhill felt just the barest tingle of relief. ‘Yes sir, I do. Yes, definitely. That’s something I would like to know!’

  ‘Here’s the plan,’ said Hairstreak briskly. ‘First, the blowpipe. It’s not a wand. It’s not a magical implement of any sort, Faerie or Analogue. It’s a simple weapon. So simple I guarantee no one in the Faerie Realm will recognise it for what it is. The thing’s actually quite harmless in itself. But with these—’ He took a small box from his pocket and handed it across to Chalkhill, who glanced questioningly at Hairstreak, then opened it. Inside were six tiny feathered darts on a bed of velvet. ‘Don’t touch the tips,’ Hairstreak cautioned. ‘They’re soaked in spider venom. The smallest prick will kill you.’

  Chalkhill snapped the lid shut hurriedly.

  ‘It’s an interesting end as well,’ Hairstreak went on thoughtfully. ‘Agonising, but interesting. First, paralysis. Then the skin turns blue. Then the pain starts. You scream yourself to death within four minutes. I tried it on one of the servants. Astonishing to watch his face peeled off.’ The pensive look left his eyes. ‘You bring the blowpipe into the Cathedral quite openly as a bubble wand. You bring the darts in as part of the ornamentation of your hat. Now this is the clever part. When you want to kill the Emperor Elect, you simply take a dart from your hat—you’ll be surrounded by my men, so no one will notice what you’re doing—you take a dart from your hat, slip it into the pipe, then blow down it sharply.’

  ‘Blow down it, Your Lordship?’ Chalkhill echoed.

  ‘Blow down it, Jasper,’ Hairstreak repeated. ‘It’s the force of your breath that propels the dart towards anything you’re aiming at!’ He paused to look at Chalkhill with glittering eyes.

  Chalkhill looked at the pipe, then at the box of darts. He looked back up at Hairstreak and gave an involuntary shiver. ‘How delightfully … primitive,’ he said.

  ‘Primitive but effective,’ Hairstreak nodded. ‘Our young friend Pyrgus will scarcely notice the wound. At most he might take it for an insect bite. There are three minutes before the paralysis sets in, a further four before he’s dead—ample time, would you not say, for a getaway?’

  Chalkhill examined the plan. If one ever dared to admit it, Hairstreak was an appalling little creep, but there certainly didn’t seem to be any hidden agenda. Or flaws for that matter. Except possibly one ...

  ‘Your Lordship—’ He hesitated. ‘There does seem to be one small problem … ‘

  Hairstreak scowled at him. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Sir,’ Chalkhill said, ‘you must appreciate that I am no longer what one might call an undercover agent. I mean, I thought it an absolutely splendid idea to try to kidnap the Princess Royal, but it did mean my secret identity as your, ah, master spy, was and is for
ever exposed.’ And I was thrown into that dreadful, smelly jail, he thought, but it was probably not the time to bring it up. He leaned forward earnestly. ‘By which I mean, sir, that my face is known now. I have a certain … notoriety. I’m afraid the Emperor’s security people will never allow me to so much as set foot inside the Cathedral.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hairstreak. A malicious little half-grin crawled up one side of his mouth. ‘Ah-ha. You think I haven’t thought of that? You think I haven’t thought of something so glaringly obvious?’

  ‘No, sir. No indeed. I didn’t mean at all to suggest —’

  But Hairstreak ignored him. ‘That’s the best part of the whole plan! You see, my dear Jasper, I shall not attend the Coronation.’

  ‘You won’t?’ Chalkhill asked, wondering what that had to do with anything. ‘But won’t it be … expected of you?’

  ‘Of course it’ll be expected of me, you cretin! Expected and politically expedient. Which is why I’m having a special illusion spell crafted.’

  ‘Illusion spell?’ Chalkhill repeated. He seemed to be repeating a lot of what Lord Hairstreak said in this conversation.

  ‘You’re going in my place,’ said Hairstreak. ‘As me.’ He smiled openly again. ‘I told you you’d be surrounded by my men. They’ll be your bodyguards.’

  Twelve

  When a Purple Emperor died, tradition decreed that his body be dressed in the formal robes of his office, then placed under a stasis spell for display in the Cathedral until the day of his successor’s Coronation. Four uniformed members of the Imperial Guard stood like statues at the corners of the bier while loyal subjects filed past tearfully to pay their final respects.

  But the last Purple Emperor, Apatura Iris, lost most of his face when he was murdered and no amount of reconstruction spells seemed capable of putting it together again. There was no question of public display. Thus the body lay in stasis in the palace crypt, ministered to with hourly prayers by the mortuary priests.