Raising Fire

by James Bennett

  Jia didn’t look convinced. “Someone woke the dragon. Someone with a piece of the harp. Why would the Guild or the Chapter do such a thing? Their entire purpose depends on maintaining the Pact. Safeguarding the Sleep. Neither order wants us around.”

  Ben recalled the old woman and the Sister on the oil rig.

  The rules have changed, she’d told him. Our new Cardinal favours the old ways. The old values.

  Even as they spoke, the Chapter was stepping into the Guild’s shoes, the old tolerance crumbling, replaced by spiritual scorn. And now this Jia Jing wanted to make a house call on the Guild, warn the military branch of the Curia Occultus that this was no time for division between Remnants and humans. A call to arms before this Ghost Emperor of hers breached the walls of reality and brought about a cataclysm for all. Ben couldn’t assure her that the disordered banner of knights would roll out the red carpet either.

  And as for the envoy …

  “Granted, Von Hart has the means … but still, it doesn’t add up. If he’d decided to wake a Sleeper, why choose Mauntgraul? A Cornutus Quiritor—a Horned Screamer—isn’t a breed known for its gratitude. The White Dog least of all. And back in the day, he was the one who put the damn beast into the Sleep. Why would he wake up a dragon that wanted to kill him?”

  And me. But again, he left that part unspoken.

  “I … remember something,” she said. “An old legend about the envoy fighting a white wyrm in the mountains. The Great Khan mentioned it, I think. Years ago in Xanadu.” She frowned, then shook herself back to composure. “But that means nothing. Times change and we change with them.”

  I was there. And ain’t that the truth.

  Ben squeezed the back of his neck. Delvin Blain’s news about the Lambton armour wasn’t doing anything for his suspicions. And he realised that doubts had been congealing in his mind long before he’d seen the crack in the Zhoukoudian hillside. What was it he’d said to Von Hart last year, the two of them standing on the desert dunes?

  You knew all along, didn’t you? Ghosts from limbo. The living and the dead trading places … And still you let me blunder into this. Why? To wake me up? To teach me a lesson?

  And he remembered Von Hart’s answer, his parting smile.

  Never trust the Fay, Ben.

  The envoy had bought the suit of armour at auction last year, and gifted it to House Fitzwarren, Ben’s long-standing nemesis. And, well, he still bore the scars to relate all the rest …

  Still, he wanted to argue.

  “Von Hart is the envoy extraordinary, an ambassador between the Remnant and the human world. There’s no way in hell he’d do such a thing. I’d trust him with my life.”

  “A lie,” she said, simply. “And isn’t there that saying? Never trust—”

  “I know!”

  In the great briar of fabulous beings, the Fay were like roses made of steel. The petals might look pretty enough, but if you didn’t watch your fingers, you’d quickly find out that they were sharper than razor blades.

  His head was tingling, caught by her unblinking gaze. The sensation wasn’t a new one. He remembered Queen Atiya and her lightning, white fire scouring his skull, drinking in his secrets.

  “How are you doing that? Get the fuck out of my head.”

  “I am Jia Jing, the last wakeful daughter of the sin-you. In this land, I am a living symbol of justice. I must warn you, Ben Garston. I see the truth. You can twist your words in any way you please, but deception will not serve you here.”

  Ben groaned. “This is turning out to be a horrible day.”

  “The days ahead will grow worse,” she told him. “The envoy has vanished with his piece of the harp. The White Dog has woken, summoned perhaps by that very same piece. And the Lurkers gather, drawn to the failing magic. Drawn to the door of Creation.”

  Ben couldn’t deny it. He had seen it for himself in the limbo between waking and sleep: the Lurkers shifting across the void, melting into a blazing white sun, the beast with light at its heart.

  “If we do nothing,” Jia said, “the Ghost Emperor will devour the world.” She looked up to meet his level stare. Where they had failed to find accord in respect, they appeared to find it in fear. “We have both sworn to protect our lands. You must help me.”

  Ben found it hard to hold her gaze. Her sorrow was back, tears shining in her eyes. He felt weak in the face of it, the venom drawn out of him, his struggle back to health leaving him weary. In need of a damn good drink. Mauntgraul’s sting would always be with him. He knew that. Another bad memory to throw on the pile with all the rest, like a newly formed scale prised from his side or the look in a woman’s eyes as she had stood on the moonlit dunes … In the end, his suspicions decided for him. Besides, he couldn’t stay in these hills forever, while the White Dog gorged on civilisation. Responsibility nipped at him, but doubt had blunted its teeth. Or maybe, though it was hard to admit, he was disappointed. The envoy extraordinary was one of two things: conspirator or coward. Hadn’t there been a third thing? A friend?

  No, I can’t bank on that.

  Annoyed, he asked her, “How do I know you’re not working for the Chapter?” It couldn’t hurt to rattle her, to see what might fall out. “Trying to get me out in the open.”

  “You dare to—”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re a unicorn. Truth, honour, justice.” He snorted, letting her know what he thought of these high-and-mighty ideals. “All that jazz.”

  “I am no more a unicorn than you are a long,” she said. “The dragons of my country numbered many. Elemental creatures of peace, ruling over nature and the weather, serving the gods. You are simply a western beast, an overfed lizard, a creature of destruction and fire. And you fly in the face of death.”

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the last one standing.” The conversation was over as far as he was concerned. “Look, I can’t help you. You’re on your own. Go to Paladin’s Court if you must. Any old Remnant will show you the way. But I’ve got my own fish to fry.”

  So saying, Ben extended his will, scales covering his flesh. He spread his wings, Jia staggering back in the churned-up dust, her protest lost in the noise. With a leap, he took to the skies, spiralling up from the woodlands.

  Groggily, he snaked skywards, a red shadow pushing up to where the air grew thin, his tail swallowed by cloud. Dog tired, he clawed his way to a safe altitude. Then, wings spread to catch the easterly wind, he turned his snout for home.

  TEN

  London

  Mauntgraul speared on through the night, his wings spread and tail weaving, over Hampstead Heath. His snout was an arrow trained on the building ahead, a throng of gables and turrets thrusting through the trees.

  Paladin’s Court.

  The sight stoked the coals in Mauntgraul’s heart, green fire hissing in his veins. The mansion was unfamiliar to him, of course. In his time, the only buildings on Hamestede had been a farm, a chapel and a couple of windmills. And an old hall where this one now stood, serving much the same purpose, surrounded by a peaceful rural community. Well, peaceful apart from the occasional passing dragon who would pluck clawfuls of sheep and cows from the fields, perhaps a yeoman or two for an after-supper treat (their sweat so piquant, a greasy delicacy). The good old days. Mauntgraul had thought them so, before the flames of the Anarchy had guttered out, forcing him to fly from English shores, abandoning his home to insufferable peace talks and the bastard Pact.

  The White Dog folded his wings and spun towards the earth. A rustle of wings, a snap of his tail, and a naked man dropped onto the lawns, his hungry gaze on the mansion’s front door.

  He walked right up and thumped on the oaken surface, ignoring the knocker, shaped to resemble a gauntlet, with a curling lip.

  And I shall nail your head to my tree of shields, knight …

  No one came to the door. He wasn’t expecting them to, although the hour was far from late. Another thump, his fist swelling into a mallet of scales, and the door c
rashed inward with a boom.

  He kicked his way through a pile of envelopes, tracking mud across the tiles as he strode into the hallway. An elegant staircase ascended through cobwebs to the upper reaches of the house. Colours dappled the steps, thrown by the moonlight falling through the large round stained-glass window above the entrance. Cracks riddled the window, the sign of recent restoration, but the image in the glass was clear, bringing him up short.

  A growl rumbled from his throat.

  Georgius the Palmyrene. The bladdered old lecher …

  Music was coming from deeper in the house, loud enough to explain why his entrance had gone unnoticed. Flutes, horns and strings, he thought, though he did not recognise the melody. Someone started singing and a moment later another voice joined in, this one rougher and out of tune. Mauntgraul scowled in the shadows. Shoulders set, he took the corridor ahead of him, following the echoes like a bad smell.

  Surprisingly, the dogs only noticed him as he set foot in the library, the bookshelves soaring around him. The music had muffled his approach and the pall of woodsmoke and alcohol, a sour medley in his nostrils, must have obscured his smell. Not so now. Growling, the hounds shot onto their paws, catching his animal scent. Ears flat, whining, the two dogs edged in retreat, their trembling shadows merging with those weaving across the threadbare rug. Beyond the hounds, a man leant against the side of the fireplace, staring into the flames. He wore a rumpled blue suit and the dragon placed his age in his middle seasons, tufts of grey showing at the temples of his tousled hair. Mauntgraul had just finished throttling the second dog, letting the carcass fall to the floor beside its twitching companion, when the man noticed him, the shuddering floorboards catching his attention. His singalong snagged in his throat, the glass in his hand slopping on the hearth, the liquid hissing, carrying the faint whiff of brandy.

  “Ah. One need not call the devil, isn’t that what they say? He will come knocking regardless.”

  The man slurred over the music. He didn’t appear to mind the intrusion or the dead dogs, sparing their corpses an inebriated pout. With a tut, he lurched from the fireplace and straight into a stack of books, half packed into a large wooden chest, one of several dotted around the room. He hiccuped and kicked his way through the scattered volumes. Most of the furniture stood around like ghosts, lumpy shapes covered in sheets, and the man bumped his way through this obstacle course to a strange, trumpet-eared device set on a table by the opposite wall. There came a scratch and a squeal and, with a triumphant grin, he spun back to Mauntgraul, brandishing a shiny black disc. A laughable shield, the White Dog thought, if that was the man’s intention.

  “Mozart. The Magic Flute,” the man said by way of explanation, though these words meant nothing to his guest. “Music to soothe a savage beast, eh?”

  Mauntgraul, who hadn’t braced himself for hospitality, raised his eyebrows despite himself.

  “You know who I am?”

  “No, dear heart. Not particularly. Nevertheless, the blood is in the water, eh? Only a matter of time before one of you showed up.” The man took a sip of his drink and steadied himself against the wall. “I suppose you might’ve been a bailiff, if not for the hour and the … you know …” He waved his glass at Mauntgraul’s nakedness, which didn’t appear to bother him either. “Lord knows our sponsors have all disappeared since that terrible business last year. Our agents have vanished like smoke and even the servants have washed their hands of us. The Broken Lance is, well, literally broken. I’m afraid I’m all that’s left. And I never got my chance to take the chair.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Quentin Bardolfe, lord of the manor.” He gave a laugh, the squeak of a mouse, but Mauntgraul failed to see what was so amusing. The man’s eyes, red from lack of sleep, glimmered with moisture. “At least I have been since Daddy … died or what have you. The board never properly explained.” He lowered his voice in a theatrical whisper. “I’ve been in hiding.”

  Lord? Mauntgraul snorted. This fool is as drunk as one.

  “Still, despite the Chapter crawling all over the place, I knew they’d never find what they were looking for. I waited for them to lose interest, watching through the trees. And today I decided to take a look at my inheritance. Old bricks and cobwebs, more like. An anchor around my legs, carrying me down into bankruptcy. Mind you, at least the cellar yielded some quality plonk.” To support this, Quentin Bardolfe raised his glass in a toast. “And, of course, there is the trinket we left behind.”

  “The Guild is no more?”

  “Afraid so, old bean. Please forward any queries, complaints or debts outstanding to the Whispering Chapter. They’re the ones running the show now.”

  “Those dirt-kneed, cross-kissing peasants.”

  “Now, now.”

  Under Mauntgraul’s derision, a shiver of unease. He had come here prepared to face a host of knights, rip through a forest of lances and toast his ancient foe in their armour. But times had changed. His long flight from Beijing to London had shown him a world transformed, one that no longer huddled in rags around woodland fires, but blazed in the darkness, the roar of industry usurping the silence of the heavens.

  Faced with this sot, this Quentin Bardolfe, he could see that things had changed indeed. Was this his only challenger? The best of all royal champions? Shrill bells rang in his head, imagined yet persistent. A part of him wanted to laugh, but he feared that if he started, he would never stop.

  “Lament to your heart’s content, knight. I only came here to kill you.”

  “A shame,” Quentin said. He held up his glass to the firelight, swirling the brandy inside. “There are at least a dozen barrels left.”

  Mauntgraul clenched his fists. He hadn’t expected this. Ever since leaving China, the thought of vengeance had driven him on, a seething, infernal engine. If Red Ben loved the Lore so much, then the White Dog would take the greatest pleasure in making good on his promise, letting the traitor watch his carefully ordered world go up in smoke. With green venom burning in his veins, Benjurigan would die understanding that he had failed, destruction and terror the last things he’d know … At the same time, Mauntgraul would exact a blood price for all serpentkind—all true serpentkind, that is, the ones with the balls to throw off the shackles of the long-departed Fay, heeding their instincts to rend and tear, and who had found themselves tricked and trapped, their fire quelled, snuffed out by the lullaby.

  To the devil with the milk drinkers.

  Standing here in Paladin’s Court, Mauntgraul had found a wasted weakling instead.

  But Quentin Bardolfe had a trick up his sleeve.

  “I imagine that you came here for this,” he said, setting down his glass. He bent towards the trumpet-eared device and, flicking a latch, lifted the lid. “It’s lead-lined. Small, but sufficient. The Chapter’s agents searched this mansion from cellar to attic, but no amount of lunewrought would’ve led them to Daddy’s gramophone. You see, the Chapter may have unhorsed us, but they didn’t take everything. And much as the new Cardinal insisted, there are no Loreful grounds that require us to relinquish the relics in our keeping. Nevertheless,” the word came out never-the-lesh, “in the spirit of sportsmanship, you are welcome to try your luck.”

  The knight lifted an object from inside the box. He held it out, a touch gingerly, as if the object might bite him. As he did so, silvery light washed over the walls. The shadows thrown by the fire retreated, chased by a fiercer flame. In a blink, Mauntgraul took in the offering, a metal bar roughly six hands long. A sword hilt? No. A series of raised furrows, elegantly carved, twisted around the narrowing S shape, the wider part of its surface dotted with what appeared to be pegs, tiny teeth of pearl. Lips peeled back, Mauntgraul made out a mane, soft and white, tumbling in a summer wind. He was looking at part of an instrument, the fragment comprising a neck, a harmonic curve.

  A broken piece of a harp. The harp.

  Despite its gleam, the fragment before him wasn’t made of silv
er. At least no silver native to earth. Lunewrought. It is lunewrought. The ore of Avalon. The instrument, he knew, was incomplete. Dismantled, if one credited the tales, the harp’s music muted, its magic impaired.

  But not completely.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Quentin asked. The shimmering scrap in his hand lent his grin a maniacal cast. “You’d think the news of our downfall would be music to your ears.”

  So saying, he passed a hand over the silver bar. The bar throbbed in answer, the light brightening. Mauntgraul winced. Every inch of him wanted to look away, but the instrument held him mesmerised, enraptured. The neck of the harp, the harmonic curve—for that was the fragment that Quentin held—gleamed in appreciation of his touch, its aura resolving into faint lines, the spectre of silver strings.

  “Stop this …” Music to soothe a savage beast, the knight had said, but as Quentin crooked a finger to pluck at the strings, the sound he produced was anything but pleasant. “Stop or—”

  The notes filled the room, sickly and sweet. At once, Mauntgraul slapped his hands to his head. Shutting out the harp wouldn’t do him any good. The bells were chiming inside him, tolling in his skull, an echoing peal that was part scorn and part sorrow. Anguish and joy warred in his heart, the light shining into deep, dark places. He knew this song. He had heard the lullaby twice before, once upon sleeping, once on awaking. Its beauty, its horror, was as familiar to him as his own fiery dreams. His head spun with unbidden reveries. Rakegoyle tossing him his first chunk of meat, the leg of some peasant or other. The combined hiss of silk dresses, cascading from a high stone wall …

  The library was rippling around him, caught in the cruel osmosis of the music. The shelves and the furniture were melting, growing indistinct. The floorboards sagged, the old wood as soft as toffee. The earth, the deep, wet earth, was churning under his feet. The ground yawned, hollowing, preparing to embrace him in slumber once more.

  Quentin Bardolfe strummed his fragment of the harp. When Mauntgraul caught his eyes, seeing the fright spiking through the brandy, he realised that there was another sound too, a shrill accompaniment to the mounting song. Bells. The bells. This music belonged only to him, swinging in the troubled belfry of his mind.