'Where the hell are we?' he asked.
'Off world,' Gonepterix said. He looked a little startled.
'Off world?'
'For security,' Gonepterix explained.
These faeries could move you off planet? Fogarty frowned. It had to be portal technology of some sort. Except he'd seen no portal. But however they did it, the logistics were mind-boggling. You had to find the right sort of planet for a start – somewhere you could breathe where the sun didn't fry you and the gravity didn't crush you. Then you had to target its coordinates. Then you had to open up a space-time doorway, something like a wormhole, only bigger. Then -
It was slipping away from him. The whole thing was incredible, yet they'd done it so casually. Thank God all they wanted was to be left alone. With technologies like this, they could take over the entire Realm in a fortnight, then swallow up Hael and the Analogue World for dessert.
'How far are we from the forest?' he asked Gonepterix.
To his astonishment Gonepterix didn't hesitate. 'Thirty-eight thousand light years.'
Fogarty blinked. Maybe it wasn't just the pretty face that made him Consort. Fogarty was about to push things further when Blue and Pyrgus walked back into the Hall.
Fogarty caught Pyrgus's expression at once. The boy looked almost ill, and it was Blue who turned to Queen Cleopatra and said decisively, 'Your Majesty, my brother and I want to thank you for your offer of help and accept it gratefully.' She looked from one face to the other as if challenging anyone to disagree. 'Now perhaps we can discuss our plans.'
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
It was very, very cold. At first, Henry thought it might just be the contrast with the sewers, which had been hot as well as smelly, but his breath was steaming from his mouth now and there was a rime of frost on one wall near a door. Where was this place? He was obviously in the lower reaches of the palace, but where exactly? Some sort of food store? The room above the sewer inspection trap was a stone-lined chamber with two doorways and a window so high on one wall that it touched a corner with the ceiling. Otherwise it was empty. No cupboards, no tables, no shelves, no hooks or rails; nowhere you would store food.
Why so cold? A temperature this low could not be natural. He couldn't see any coolant pipes, but the Realm might have some sort of magically-based refrigeration – a special spell-coating maybe.
Henry's fingers started to go numb and he realised he could freeze to death while he was trying to work out why he was so cold.
He made for the nearest doorway. The door wasn't locked. But his breath still frosted in the next chamber, which was just as cold and much more gloomy: the only illumination came from a dim, cobweb-encrusted glowglobe at the bottom of a flight of steep stone steps leading upwards.
Those steps intrigued him. He might be in the palace cellars – a likely place to be in the circumstances – and if so, the only way to go was up. He could get out of the palace and -
And what? Follow Blue and Pyrgus to Haleklind? He didn't even know where Haleklind was, but he'd worry about that once he had managed to get away from the palace and the loony old plud.
Henry climbed the steps. The door at the top was firmly locked.
Henry sat down on the steps to think. Why hadn't he brought something useful with him? There was a toolkit in the house with a large wooden hammer (languishing on a shelf in the garage). There was
… but what was the use? Even a penknife would have come in handy, but he no more had a penknife than he had a key.
The door behind him opened.
Henry twisted round to find himself looking at a group of women wearing the most fantastic gowns that shimmered and clung as they moved.
'Hello,' Henry said, scrambling to his feet. He felt suddenly embarrassed. He was wearing combat trousers and his BABE MAGNET T-shirt and everything, including his face, was filthy from the sewers. He stared at the women, wondering if they worked for Queen Quercusia, wondering if they'd guess he was an escaped prisoner. Eventually he swallowed and said stupidly, 'I'm a bit lost.'
'Then we'd better help you find yourself again,' one of them smiled at him.
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
It was embarrassing, but very nice. The women brought him to a little room with a huge sunken tub filled with lovely foamy steaming scented water and insisted he have a bath. They didn't leave the room while he took his clothes off, although they did turn their backs and, as he slid beneath the foam, he wondered, hoped, was terrified they might actually help him. But all they actually did was take his smelly clothes away.
Henry lay in the tub and realised how exhausted he was. There was something in the water – some herbal additive maybe – that soaked the stress from his muscles. He noticed some of them were paining him, which wasn't surprising considering he'd been shrunk to the size of a butterfly and nearly been drowned in a sewer, but the pain gradually soaked away as well. He wiggled his toes and thought of Blue. Funny thing was, she'd been in a bath like this the first time he'd seen her. Attended by her hand-maidens. His bath was a lot more private, but he had hand-maidens too, of a sort. He wondered who they were.
He sank down quickly when one of them came in carrying towels with something colourful on top. They were very different, these women, different ages, different sizes, different looks, but they all walked the same way, really gracefully, and they all wore these amazing dresses – gowns, he supposed you'd call them
– absolutely amazing the way they… sort of… clung and moved. The women were very nice too. They'd all been very nice to him, although they didn't have much idea about privacy.
'Brought you fresh clothes,' the woman said, leaving the little pile at the edge of the tub. She smiled at him. 'Come through when you've finished. We might even manage something for you to eat.'
Henry watched her as she left, riveted by the last thing she'd said. A minute ago he'd been seriously contemplating resting his head against the side of the tub and letting himself drift off to sleep. Now he realised he was absolutely ravenous.
He climbed out of the tub and dried himself quickly. There must have been something in the water – or possibly sprinkled on the towels – because the exhaustion left him at once. The hunger stayed, though.
They hadn't brought back his clothes. They'd left a colourful silk outfit comprising matching blouse, britches and socks that looked as if they'd come off a gipsy. He scrabbled around for underwear, but there was none. Since it was the gipsy gear or nothing, he pulled on the britches, feeling most peculiar about the underwear, then the blouse. As he was reaching for the socks, he had a sudden surge of confidence.
It was a peculiar feeling for Henry, but it was very definite. The clothes were nothing like he usually woretoo brightly coloured and a bit girly – but somehow he felt really good in them. (He pulled on the right sock.) Macho and heroic. Well, sort of… (He pulled on the left sock.) He liked the way the material moved when he moved. Somehow he thought it made him look good. Well, better than the old BABE MAGNET anyway, although he fancied he might really be a bit of a babe magnet in this gear.
The boots were the strangest part of the whole outfit. They were dark brown, just short of knee-length, but made entirely of the same silk as his blouse and britches. Even the sole was no more than a few extra layers of silk to give a cushioning effect. They wouldn't last five minutes on stony ground, but he'd worry about that later. For the moment, they moulded to his feet and legs as comfortably as slippers.
He was still feeling good as he walked from the bathroom.
The women were waiting for him. With his newfound confidence, Henry smiled and said, T don't know your names, but I'd like to thank you.'
'My name is Peach Blossom,' the nearest woman said. She smiled back at Henry, without making any attempt to introduce the others. 'Thank us for what?'
They were putting food on a little table. Some of it looked unfamiliar, but all of it smelled delicious. T don't know – the bath.' And the food, he thought, except that they hadn't actu
ally offered it to him yet. He remembered his manners and added belatedly, 'My name's Henry.'
'We know who you are.'
Henry didn't know what to say to that. What he did say eventually was, 'Who are you?'
'Silk Mistresses,' Peach Blossom said. 'We're Sisters of the Silk Guild.'
He was eating something called ordle which had a smoky flavour and was absolutely delicious. Without thinking, he said, 'Will you get in trouble for this?'
'Why should we get in trouble?' Peach Blossom asked quickly.
Uh-oh. He was sorry he'd said it now. There was no reason for them to know he'd just broken out of the palace dungeons or any of that. If he'd kept his mouth shut, he could have pretended he was just a casual visitor who'd got lost and strayed into somewhere he shouldn't. Maybe he could still convince them that was all he was. Except when he'd told her his name she'd said, We know who you are. How did she know who he was? But if she did know who he was, did she know it wasn't all that long since he'd been thrown into the dungeons?
Henry decided to feel his way around it. With luck he might not have to give himself away. 'The new Queen's not too happy with me,' he said as casually as he could. If he played it cool enough, he might find out subtly what they felt about the Queen before he had to commit himself.
'The new Queen's loony as a Border Redcap,' Peach Blossom said.
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN
He knew there was something he should have done. He'd thrown her in without staking her heart. Brimstone looked up at the crows circling overhead and making such a racket. Too late now. There was somebody coming and he didn't know how much time he had before they got here. Whoever was approaching was close and there was no way Brimstone could afford to be found beside an open hole with his wife's body at the bottom. Especially with her skull smashed in and her stupid wizened little brain oozing out of her nose.
He grabbed the spade and set to filling in the grave.
It was hard work, but he couldn't afford to slow. The crows were going berserk now, stupid birds, and he even fancied he could hear somebody stomping through the undergrowth. Fortunately filling a grave with loose earth was a lot faster than digging it in the first place. He flung the last spadeful and glanced around desperately. The whole place looked what it was – freshly-dug earth. He might as well have put up a notice: New Grave Here.
Dead leaves!
That was it – dead leaves! Dead leaves for a dead wife. If he could just get the body covered up loosely now, he could divert whoever was coming and get back later to finish the job. He began to strew armfuls of dead leaves across the newly-dug grave. But he was nowhere nearly finished when he was transfixed by a bright blue light and something tall and hideous stepped into the clearing. Brimstone dropped the rest of the leaves. He felt his heart stop and his face go pale. No more than five yards away loomed Beleth, Prince of Darkness.
Beleth looked awful.
He'd appeared in his gigantic demon form, but one of his horns was crumpled, two of his fangs were broken and he had an ear missing. There was a fading bruise under his right eye, a pulsating lump on his head and a hideous scar that ran all the way down his left cheek, over his jaw and across his throat. Brimstone had always been terrified of the Infernal Prince, but at the moment the creature hardly looked capable of chewing off a baby's leg. His heart restarted and the colour flooded back into his face. 'What happened to you?' he asked. Beleth scowled. 'That's not important.' 'No, really,' Brimstone said. 'I'm concerned.' 'A bomb blew up in my face,' Beleth said shortly. 'Fortunately this form is virtually indestructible. But what's important -'
'How come all the Hael portals are closed?' Brimstone asked curiously. Beleth must have come by vimana: it was the only way. And since a transport vimana trip would take years, he had to have come alone in one of the fast single-seater saucers, which he'd never, ever done before.
Beleth covered the distance between them in three massive strides and caught him by the throat. Brimstone felt himself lifted up as if he were thistledown. 'Gaah!' he choked. 'Gaah!'
'What's important,' Beleth repeated quietly, his face close to Brimstone's own, 'is that the rest of the Hael Realm wasn't as fortunate as I was.' He released Brimstone, who dropped back to the ground with a spine-jarring thud.
'The Hael Realm was destroyed?' Brimstone gasped, massaging his throat.
'Don't be stupid. But it's in serious need of reconstruction.' He glared at Brimstone with blood-red eyes. 'The cost will run to billions.'
Brimstone swallowed painfully. 'Bit strapped at the moment, I'm afraid. I -' He caught Beleth's expression and ground to a halt. 'That's not what it's about, is it?' He wondered what it was about, but one thing was for certain: this had to be good news. If the Hael Realm lay in ruins, then Beleth would have more on his mind than a broken contract. Besides, that whole silly business about sacrificing Pyrgus was old news now, hardly worth even think- 'What it's about,' growled Beleth, 'is treachery! What it's about is ingratitude! What it's about is broken agreements, welching on bargains, turn-coating scumbags!'
Perhaps it was worth thinking about after all. 'I'm sorry about that contract business,' Brimstone said hurriedly. 'Circumstances beyond my -'
'Not you, you imbecile!' Beleth roared. 'That mealy-mouthed cretinous little upstart Hairstreak!'
Brimstone blinked. 'Hairstreak? Lord Hairstreak?'
Beleth and Lord Hairstreak had been allies in the last attempt to overthrow the Faeries of the Light.
'Yes. Lord Hairstreak! Crapulous crud-faced puke-mouthed sewage-headed little… little… little… '
Beleth was losing it. His eyes were flashing seven colours and flecks of spittle were flying from his mouth. The bump on his head had started to pulsate and the scar across his throat seemed to be opening up to show a row of straining stitches. Brimstone wondered if he might actually have had to sew his head back on after the bomb exploded. But this was clearly no time for speculation.
'I thought you and Hairstreak were allies?' he said quickly.
'Were,' said Beleth sourly. 'Operative word. Past tense. Hairstreak was happy to accept my help when he thought it would put him on the Peacock Throne. Now I need his, he doesn't want to know.'
'That's dreadful,' Brimstone said sympathetically, wondering what Beleth had expected from a Faerie of the Night. 'He's betrayed you in your hour of need, is that it?'
'Exactly!' Beleth said.
Seemed like a good idea to Brimstone. Beleth was clearly weak now. On his knees, in fact. Perfect time to kick him. Except that demon princes always had their resources – they commanded some very nasty magic. Besides, Beleth now knew Brimstone had been burying a body. Perhaps it was safest to be more subtle.
'So,' he said cautiously, 'what do you want from me?'
Beleth told him.
CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT
It was weird to approach the Purple Palace as an enemy might, examining the terrain for cover, checking points of vulnerability, looking out for guard patrols. Pyrgus felt a mixture of nervous excitement and nausea. It was all so familiar – the river, the island, the palace itself.
He glanced at his companions. Blue, of course. Dearest Blue. He didn't think he'd have got through any of this without her. He'd always been better at doing than planning and since he… since his fa- and now he could hardly think straight any more. It was thanks to Blue they had a plan in place now. And it was thanks to Blue that with just a little luck, they might clear up this mess.
Next to Blue was a wizard engineer named Ziczac -a tiny, bearded Forest Faerie with brown eyes in a wizened face that made him look like a little woodland animal peering through a bush. He had the technical skills to penetrate walls.
Pyrgus remembered how lost he'd felt during that little discussion, although Mr Fogarty had obviously followed it. The bottom line seemed to be that while Forest Faerie were able to phase-shift into solid surfaces once the necessary magic was in place, setting it up for the first time was something that needed specialist s
kills. (And testing the set-up was always dangerous, Queen Cleopatra warned. It took only a small mis judgement and you could find yourself trapped in the middle of a solid rock, suffocating to death.) Ziczac was one of the few who had the skills. He carried the necessary equipment in a small backpack.
Protecting Ziczac, Blue and himself were three Forest Faerie soldiers. One of them, to Pyrgus's secret delight, was Nymph.
That was it. There'd been a brief discussion about sending more troops but Blue had overruled the idea without even bothering to consult Pyrgus. She said a full-scale attack might precipitate just the sort of civil war that had been so narrowly averted only weeks before. Far better to stage a small-scale commando raid and simply rescue their father. Once he was removed from Hairstreak's influence, they could decide what would happen next.
Pyrgus hoped they'd be able to find their father quickly – the operation relied on the element of surprise. But he felt fairly confident he could still command the loyalty of many in the palace building. They should have help once they were safely inside.
There was no question of using the ferry to get across to the palace. Neither Pyrgus nor Blue trusted personal illusion spells, and without them their faces were far too easily recognised for them to approach the island openly. Consequently they were now crouched in the shelter of reeds nearly two hundred yards downstream of the official crossing.
Pyrgus glanced at Nymph. 'Do I take your Queen at her word, or should we all get ready to swim?'
Nymph gave Pyrgus a basilisk look, softened by the hint of a grin. 'Today you keep your feet dry, Crown Prince,' she told him. He noticed she never used his given name, and his title was always granted with a tiny emphasis as if she found it ironic. She had really nice legs. The uniform of the forest army ended in green tights that showed them off wonderfully.
Pyrgus reluctantly dragged his gaze upwards. Nymph was pulling some sort of net from the pouch around her waist. As she drew it clear, she cast it outwards over the river as if trying to catch a fish. But somewhere between the movement of her wrist and striking the surface of the water, the net transformed into a smaller version of the raft-like transport the Forest Faerie used on their overhead roadways. It should have been swept away by the current at once, but instead remained as firmly in place as if it had been anchored.
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