The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  The girl must have noticed his eyes were open because she leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, but I was worried you might use that dagger. It was only a stun wand.’

  He allowed his eyes to roam around without moving his head and discovered he was surrounded by trees. He seemed to be lying on a bed of pine needles in some forest clearing. There were green-uniformed figures swimming out of focus beyond the beautiful girl. For a moment he was too fuzzy to figure out what had happened, then it hit him like an avalanche—he’d been captured by Hairstreak’s forces!

  Pyrgus closed his eyes again and concentrated on pulling himself together. He wondered if Blue and Mr Fogarty were still alive, but there was nothing he could do about them for the moment. He was weak as a kitten, but he noticed his arms were free, which was a huge mistake on Hairstreak’s part—the man must have thought he was dead. He gave a theatrical groan. If they believed him to be more badly hurt than he actually was, he might be able to take them by surprise when his strength returned.

  Could he attack such a beautiful girl? Pyrgus thought about it for a moment, then decided he could. If it was to save Blue and Mr Fogarty he definitely could. What was the girl doing working for Hairstreak anyway? He opened his eyes a slit to find she was still bent over him, a look of concern on her sweet, delicious features. Pyrgus groaned again and this time it was more heartfelt. Of all the luck to meet the first girl he really fancied and find she was working for the most dangerous —

  ‘I think he’s coming round,’ the girl said. She had a cool, clear voice, like temple bells.

  Maybe he’d overdone the groaning—he didn’t want to attract too much attention yet. Maybe he could pretend to faint. Maybe —

  There was something wrong with the girl’s violet eyes. He couldn’t quite work out what it was, but something wasn’t as it should be ...

  He could see other figures gathering around him. One was cloaked and hooded all in black and he knew from the man’s size it had to be Lord Hairstreak. The hooded man leaned over him and suddenly Pyrgus realised he was being presented with the opportunity of a lifetime. If he could just make his body obey his will, he could have Hairstreak by the throat in seconds. With any luck at all he could strangle him, or break his neck before his troops could intervene. It was perfect. It was better than perfect—Hairstreak had committed an unlawful act by attacking Pyrgus and his party when they’d been ordered into exile by the Emperor Elect. If Hairstreak died at Pyrgus’s hand, there wouldn’t even be serious political repercussions.

  But would his body obey him?

  Pyrgus gathered his reserves. A part of his mind was vaguely aware that this could well be a suicide action. Even if he managed to kill Hairstreak his chances of getting away were slim. Hairstreak’s men would cut him down in an instant. At the same time, if he did get away—chance in a thousand though it might be—he would have changed the whole balance of power in the Realm.

  The thought galvanised him. Pyrgus exploded into action. He jackknifed upwards, lips drawn back in an unconscious snarl. His hands caught Black Hairstreak by the throat. Hairstreak jerked and his hood fell back.

  ‘My deeah, where are your manners!’ a shocked voice gasped.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Pyrgus exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry, Madame Cardui.’

  Thirty-Nine

  The woman was slim and very dark, and Henry could see she was quite good-looking, except for her eyes which had very funny pupils. She was seated in a chair to one side of the door and there was a patient stillness about her that was positively creepy. She must have been sitting there the whole time, watching him while he was unconscious, watching him as he came to, watching him as he stood up and swayed and tried to keep his balance. She was watching him now, her eyes like sloes, and he was irresistibly reminded of a snake watching a bird.

  Then she smiled and the whole sinister quality disappeared. Her face lit up with a delight he could almost taste. ‘You must be one of Blue’s young friends,’ she said.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Henry asked at once.

  ‘She should be safe in Haleklind by now,’ the woman told him dreamily. ‘You must be a very close friend for me to find you in her room.’

  Henry flushed crimson. ‘I’m really a friend of Pyrgus,’ he said quickly. Which was true. He wondered if he should try to explain about the portal and the missing filter and the spider, but decided against it. Better to keep things simple. ‘I, ah, I wanted to go to his room and I got … lost.’ Which was nearly true and sort of true and not actually a lie.

  ‘Why don’t I take you to Pyrgus’s room?’ the woman said. ‘It’s just a little way away, not far. Not far at all.’ She stood and waited, watching him.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Yes, that would be … good.’ He was trying to figure out who the woman was. She might be a maid or a Lady-in-Waiting—Blue had lots of servants, he knew—but the way she was dressed she didn’t look much like a maid, or a Lady-in-Waiting for that matter. Her gown looked like silk, probably awfully expensive, and it was purple coloured. He wasn’t absolutely sure, but he thought purple was reserved for members of the royal family. On inspiration he said, ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Henry Atherton.’ He stuck out his hand and waited.

  ‘I am Quercusia,’ the woman said. She took him by the hand and began to lead him gently from the room. ‘Queen of the Faerie.’

  Henry hadn’t known there was a Queen of the Faerie. And even now he couldn’t make her fit. Pyrgus and Blue’s mother was dead, he knew that, so she couldn’t be the wife of the old Emperor, and she certainly wasn’t old enough to be his mother. So where did this woman fit in? Perhaps she was an aunt, who ruled over some part of the kingdom. Or perhaps it was some sort of honorary title that had nothing to do with anything very much.

  He felt silly being led by the hand.

  Quercusia’s own hand was small and slim and very, very cool. In fact it was quite cold, as if she’d come in from a snowstorm.

  They passed beneath an archway where two glum guards snapped smartly to attention and saluted Quercusia. Wherever the title came from, she was familiar in the palace. Henry glanced back at the guards and caught a strange expression on their faces. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn it was fear.

  Pyrgus now used the quarters that had been occupied by his father before the murder. They were guarded as well, but while the men on duty saluted just as smartly, their faces were expressionless. Quercusia pushed through the door and led him inside. Henry looked around for Pyrgus, but there was no sign of him.

  Henry extracted his hand and walked over to the mantle where he pretended to examine the ornaments. There was a small, framed miniature of a bee, so cleverly done he could have sworn it was tattooed on human skin. He was glad to have moved away from Quercusia. For some reason she made him feel uneasy.

  He looked around and found her smiling benignly at him.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be long?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pyrgus.’

  ‘Pyrgus isn’t here.’

  ‘He isn’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Henry blinked. ‘Then why did you bring me here?’

  Quercusia looked up and studied a corner of the chamber near the ceiling. ‘You said you wanted to go to his room.’

  Henry’s unease increased. He frowned, then gave a small nervous smile. ‘Actually, what I meant was I wanted to see Pyrgus. I’m sorry.’

  The sloe-black eyes were back on him again. ‘You can’t do that. Pyrgus is in exile.’ A look of pride crossed her features. ‘My son is the Emperor now.’ She blinked several times like someone waking from a deep sleep. Her face was suddenly very sober. ‘I think I’ll have you put in jail. You’re such a horrid boy.’

  Henry felt a sudden chill. He swallowed and began to edge towards the door. ‘Your Majesty—’ he said to humour her.

  She rang no bell nor made no sign he was aware of, yet suddenly the room was full of burly men.
/>   ‘Lock him in the dungeons!’ Quercusia screamed. Her eyes were wide and flecks of spittle rimmed her lips. ‘Lock him in the dungeons and throw away the key!’

  Forty

  Since the ouklo had clapped out completely and refused to leave the graveyard, the Brimstones left for their honeymoon in a two-seater skim. It was an uncomfortable, ill-sprung craft, but cheap and surprisingly fast in open country—or so the man from the hiring company assured them. For Brimstone, the main problem was its size. There was no room to get away from Madame Brimstone, who clung to his arm and made satisfied trilling noises as he stared stonily straight ahead through the open window.

  The skim’s built-in navigation system had been created for the city and handled the winding streets of Cheapside with ease. It even managed to negotiate Westgate, a notoriously difficult area for precision magic on account of the quartz content in the local bedrock. But once it left the urban confines, it ground to a halt and hung there, awaiting further instructions.

  ‘The lodge coordinates, Dearest Heart?’ said Brimstone, forcing a smile.

  Madame Brimstone smiled back. ‘80-42,’ she murmured.

  ‘Really?’ Brimstone said. ‘As deep in as that?’ He leaned forward and repeated the numbers to the dashboard of the skim, which absorbed them for a moment, then moved off in a north-westerly direction towards the woodlands. Brimstone leaned back and admired the scenery while trying to ignore the pressure of Madame Brimstone’s hand on his knee.

  They reached the lodge in something under ninety minutes. Brimstone felt a little better when they emerged in the clearing. He’d expected a log cabin, probably comfortable enough, but small. Instead he was facing an opulent house, wood-built to be sure, but architect-designed and spacious. A lot of money had been spent here and, without the need for illusion spells in so secluded a spot, it all showed.

  ‘Do you like my little place?’ asked Madame Brimstone as she climbed down from the skim.

  Brimstone didn’t answer. He was too busy calculating how much the building would be worth after he’d paid off the death duties on his late lamented wife.

  Despite a display cabinet full of elemental servants in pristine brass bottles, Madame Brimstone insisted on cooking supper personally. Brimstone was suspicious at once. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might try to poison him on their wedding night—the usual thing was to wait a few weeks so it wouldn’t seem too obvious — but he didn’t like the look of this at all.

  Minutes after she disappeared into the kitchen, he strolled innocently after her in the hope of catching her out, but she shooed him away at once.

  ‘Not a man’s place,’ she cackled. ‘Not my man’s place, to be sure. You take yourself off and read an edifying book. There’s a copy of The Knicker Ripper in the living room. You just leave it to me to serve up something delicious. No more bone gruel, Silas—no more bone gruel!’

  Brimstone went out again reluctantly. He wasn’t quite ready to kill her yet—she had a brother so he’d have to make it look like an accident and that required a little planning—which meant he was going to have to risk the meal. Fortunately, really subtle poisons were expensive, so she probably wouldn’t use them, the miserly old hag. With luck and good judgement he could probably spot the cheap ones she was likely to buy. The trick would be to avoid them without making her suspicious.

  He found the book and pretended to read. After a while, Madame Brimstone stuck her head around the door. ‘All ready,’ she trilled. ‘I’ve laid us places in the dining room.’

  He walked through to the dining room and found that not only were places laid, but the appetiser was already on the table.

  ‘Sit. Sit,’ said Madame Brimstone eagerly. She was looking at him strangely, with a glint of anticipation in her eye.

  Brimstone sat down and stared at his appetiser. It was some sort of grey, jelly-like substance flecked with curdled bits of white flesh. The old bat might be making an effort, but this dish hadn’t turned out much better than her bone gruel. It looked as if a cat had been sick on a lettuce leaf.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Fish mousse,’ said Madame Brimstone, sitting down. ‘I leave the skins on for economy.’

  It might make him ill, but would it poison him? Brimstone glanced across at her plate. ‘You’ve only given yourself a small helping,’ he said.

  ‘Woman’s helping, woman’s place,’ said Madame Brimstone, quoting an old faerie proverb.

  ‘But my dear, we can’t have that!’ said Brimstone heartily. ‘You cooked the meal. You deserve the larger portion.’ He forced his features to contort into something she might take for a smile.

  Still smiling, he switched his plate for hers. Let’s see if she eats it now, he thought.

  Madame Brimstone stared down at the plate. Was it a look of dismay? Did she realise she’d been hoisted with her own petard? But then she looked up to give him a dazzling smile. ‘Why, thank you, Silas. How very thoughtful of you.’ She picked up her fork and began to shovel fish mousse into her mouth.

  Brimstone followed suit. To his surprise, it tasted good.

  The second course was roast pork and, despite himself, he found his mouth watering as she carried the joint to the table. It was done exactly as he liked it, with crispy crackling, stuffing, and a boat of aromatic gravy.

  Madame Brimstone was suddenly holding a vicious-looking knife. ‘How would you like it?’ she asked menacingly.

  Brimstone half-started from his seat, then realised she meant the pork. He opened his mouth to answer, but she went on brightly, ‘A slice or two from here perhaps?’ She pointed with the tip of the knife, then, without waiting for an answer, began to carve.

  The poison would only be in part of the joint, so she could calm his suspicions by having her share from somewhere else. ‘No, no,’ said Brimstone quickly. ‘Not there. I’d like some from here.’ He pointed.

  She didn’t seem in the least perturbed, but dropped the slices on to her own plate and began at once to carve where he had indicated. So the joint itself was not poisoned.

  ‘Crackling?’ asked Madame Brimstone. ‘I expect you like a nice bit of crackling. Can’t have it myself—plays hell with my digestion.’

  It was in the crackling! It had to be in the crackling! He was supposed to eat it while she did not. What cunning! He loved crackling!

  ‘Can’t have it either,’ he said quickly. ‘Gives me gout.’

  If she was disappointed, it didn’t show. ‘Stuffing?’

  ‘If you’re having some.’

  ‘I surely am,’ said Madame Brimstone. ‘And potatoes, carrots, minted sinderack and peas. Always believed in eating well, me.’

  Brimstone stared at his laden plate. Perhaps he had misjudged her. No poison here, unless she was prepared to swallow it as well. A thought struck him. Suppose she was using a special poison. Suppose she had already taken the antidote. Suppose ...

  It was rubbish. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. The old bat was too stupid and too mean for anything of that sort. Anyway, it made no sense for her to poison him on their wedding night. Not with five notches already on the bed-post. Far too suspicious. She would surely wait a month or two before making her move. But by a month or two, it would be too late.

  ‘I’m sorry, My Dear?’ Brimstone murmured. She’d said something he hadn’t caught.

  ‘A toast!’ Madame Brimstone repeated.

  He realised to his horror there was a full glass of wine in front of him. He hadn’t even seen her pour it. That’s where the poison had to be! She’d have added it to his glass while he was distracted. How was he going to get out of this one without showing her he knew what she was up to?

  ‘Here’s to us and those like us,’ said Madame Brimstone cheerfully. She raised her glass and waited expectantly for him to drink.

  Brimstone scowled. What sort of toast was that? And where had that glass of wine come from?

  ‘What sort of toast is that?’ he asked, desp
erately playing for time. A heavy cut-glass claret decanter had appeared on the table and he assumed this was where the wine came from.

  ‘Do you have a better one?’ demanded Madame Brimstone irritably. She was staring at his glass.

  Brimstone leaped to his feet. ‘Why, To happy married life, of course!’ he exclaimed. He waved his arms about excitedly and contrived to knock over his glass. The wine flowed across the table like a river of blood. ‘Dear me,’ shrieked Brimstone, ‘how very clumsy of me. Never mind, my dear, I’ll pour myself another glass.’ As he reached for the decanter he noticed the tablecloth begin to smoke and fall in shreds.

  Madame Brimstone pushed her chair back hurriedly and stood up before the liquid could splash on to her lap. ‘I’ll get a cloth to wipe that up,’ she said shrilly.

  ‘In a moment, Dearest Heart!’ squeaked Brimstone, pretending not to notice his wine was now burning through the table. ‘First our toast, our wonderful toast!’ He poured himself a second glass and skipped around the table to link arms with her. ‘To happy married life!’ he said again, then hit her with the glass decanter.

  Madame Brimstone went down like a stone.

  Forty-One

  The tree was very peculiar. It had the huge trunk of an ancient oak, but the branches were twisted like a monkey puzzle. Fogarty walked around it twice, tapping the bole, but could find no opening, which ruled out an illusion spell. And maybe it wasn’t a spell at all. At the atomic level, matter was largely empty space, and the only thing that stopped the matter of your backside passing through the matter of your chair was an electrical field. So possibly they’d interfered with the field potential of the tree so the soldier’s body could penetrate it. Which would explain the how but not the why. Why would anybody want to interpenetrate a tree?