by Ben Galley
‘You caught it then?’ Merion asked, intrigued.
Lilain shook her head. ‘No, Rhin did. Quite impressively,’ she said, pointing to the little shadow between the barrels. Merion refused to acknowledge him.
‘Best huntin’ dog you’ll ever have,’ Lurker mumbled. He had obviously been at his flask. Alcohol never likes to let a silence go unfilled.
Rhin hissed something in the Fae tongue and chuckled. Lurker chuckled as well, nudging the boy to see if he would bite. Merion just watched the flames, but spared a smile.
He only spoke when the jackalope was being sliced and served. They ate it pinched between fingers and licked the grease off afterwards, swigging bartered wine and feeling like lords and a lady. ‘Fine meat. Well done,’ Merion said, and although nobody knew who exactly he was addressing, the boy was right. The jackalope was delicious.
Between the barrels, a small smile curled around a mouthful of meat. Rhin took that as a good sign.
Chapter III
TROUBLE IN THE EAST, TROUBLE IN THE WEST
20th June, 1867
The Shivering Pines earned their name. The wet breeze shook their needles and boughs, making them rattle and sigh as the drizzle came down. In amongst the branches, ravens flapped and cawed, shaking the rain from their silky black feathers, arguing with each other. It was the ravens that gave the queen’s ancient palace its name.
Through the forest ran a wide path that curled outwards from the palace gardens and into the pines. It was divided in two by a high fence. One path for the queen, and one path for her visitors, side by side. Ever the one for mystery and privacy, was Queen Victorious.
All that Bremar Dizali, the Prime Lord of the Empire of Britannia, could see of the queen was the bobbing of a black umbrella which kept the drizzle at bay—held by a servant, no doubt. The queen would not sully herself so. And all Bremar Dizali could hear was the scraping and shuffling of Her Majesty, as she walked, or even slithered, along the path.
Lord Dizali suppressed a shiver, wary of the watchful ravens above. The queen had a fascination with these birds. Dizali swapped a glance with Gavisham, who held his umbrella for him. His manservant wore a concerned frown, his strange eyes—one blue, one green—cautiously narrowed.
The queen had not spoken since they had left the palace, and Dizali did not dare to speak first. He was a quick learner. He had been kept waiting for almost a week since he had stormed into the palace courtyard, asking for an audience. Victorious had denied him, and he was forced to wait for her summons. Almost a week! A lot can change in a week on the other side of the world.
The shuffling stopped, and they came to a halt where the pines bowed overhead, sheltering them from the infernal drizzle somewhat. It was dark under the trees; not much more than twilight when the sun was already lost behind a thick blanket of grey clouds. The ravens hushed their cawing, which sent a shiver running down Dizali’s spine.
Victorious spoke at last. ‘There is trouble in the east, Prime Lord.’
‘Your Majesty, there is indeed. The Ottoman Empire is crumbling, piece by piece, swiftly falling prey to Tzar Alekzander’s greed. Another war is coming, I believe, with Rosiya.’
‘You speak so dramatically, Lord Dizali.’
Dizali bit his tongue.
‘We must protect our interests in Constantinople,’ the queen continued. ‘I will not have our grip on the axle of central Asia weakened.’
‘Yes, My Queen,’ answered Dizai. There was a silence, filled with soft cawing.
‘Do not just agree with me, Dizali. Explain to me how we will do this!’
‘Well, My Queen, this is what I came here to speak to you about. Our plans to take control of the Hark estate, and quieten the Benches, has hit a … a snag, Your Majesty.’
‘Speak,’ spat Victorious, clearly unamused.
‘Gavisham,’ Dizali said, holding out his hand. Gavisham reached inside his black coat and brought forth the morning paper. Dizali took it, unfolded it at the right page and then held it over the top of the fence to be fetched by another servant. A mottled hand took it, and there was an awkward, pregnant pause as the queen read.
Dizali summarised for her: ‘The Serpeds are dead, My Queen. And the Bulldog’s boy lives. But what that article doesn’t tell you is that it was not a Shohari war party that caused the fire. It was the boy himself. He slaughtered the whole family and set the riverboat on fire. They had invited him and his aunt to dinner.’
‘How do you know of this?’ Victorious hissed.
‘We received a wiregram, Your Majesty, from a few other survivors. Serped’s lordsguards. They saw the boy,’ Dizali replied. He took a breath, and spoke gently. ‘That is what I came to speak to you about, almost a week ago, My Queen.’
‘One does not simply arrive uninvited at the Palace of Ravens, Dizali, not even a Prime Lord! Karrigan Hark did well to remember that and so should you,’ she snarled, and Dizali bowed his head even behind the fence. There was a crackling of stones as she moved. ‘Trouble in the east, trouble in the west. Tell me again, Lord Dizali, what the Hark estate consists of.’
Dizali puffed out his chest. He had stared at the reports many times, long into the night, until the candles had burned to nothing, the brandy was poured, and his fingers itched. ‘A wide range of businesses, large and small, My Queen: warehouses and dock buildings; mills, both cotton and steel; ironworks; mining operations across Europe; trading companies in the East Indus Seas; shipyards; a bank as well, I believe; a hospital; several insurance companies; a string of properties such as towers, inns, shops, and various factories.’
‘And what do these various factories manufacture? Tell me,’ she commanded him, her voice gentle yet altogether terrifying.
Dizali ground his teeth together. Victorious was playing with him, cat and yarn. ‘A range of things, Your Highness, but predominately machine parts, wheels, and armaments.’
There was another pause, which prickled.
‘Does it not then appear to you, Lord Dizali, that if war were soon to erupt, then the late Lord Hark’s estate might be needed in the hands of the Crown?’
‘Most definitely, My Queen, and that is what I have been …’
But Victorious cut him off cold. ‘Not very well, Prime Lord Dizali, not very well at all. After all these centuries, must I still pull each and every string myself? What of our other friends in the west, those who have not been reduced to a corpse? I pray you have some good news for me, Dizali. I do not enjoy my time being wasted, especially not in the rain.’
Dizali did at least have something good to report. He puffed out his chest. ‘The course is set, Your Majesty, and already the talks have been prosperous. We think Lincoln might agree to it, despite his recent meetings with Tzar Alekzander of Rosiya. I have several ears placed inside his cabinet, and the pretender Lincoln is as yet undecided about which way to lean.’
There was a rustle, and a wet sound as of smacking lips. ‘It will not matter in the end. How soon?’
‘A few weeks, perhaps more, My Queen,’ Dizali replied, staring up at the ravens. A few had hopped down to the lowest branches of the trees, so they could listen in and caw rudely to one another. Dizali stared up at their beady black eyes.
The queen outlined her plan. ‘Entwine his fate with the boy’s. Perhaps our friends can teach them both a lesson or two. Tonmerion Hark must be branded as a murderer, or a traitor, so that the crown can rightfully claim the estate. Send a man to see it done. Caught. Killed, and his body in the cursed newspapers for all to see.’ The paper flew back over the fence in a flurry. ‘We shall claim the estate as penance for his sins against the Empire. The Benches will understand.’
Dizali turned to Gavisham once more, and the man nodded firmly. There was a hard look in his eyes. ‘I have just the man in mind, My Queen. He will see the job done. The boy will be dead in no time at all, and the estate will be Your Majesty’s.’
‘And fetch me the deeds and the executor of the Bulldog’s last will and
testament. I will speak with him. Then we shall have our wars.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. Right away,’ he said.
Dizali bowed, as did Gavisham, and the two men began to hurry back towards the palace.
‘Do not fail me this time, Prime Lord,’ Victorious called after him, just before he was out of earshot.
The two men marched through the palace, eager to leave, the echo of cawing ravens still loud in their ears. The marble halls and cavernous rooms were empty, as if the servants were all in the middle of a nap. Perhaps the queen deciding to take a stroll through her shivering pines was the only chance of rest they got.
They waited until the carriage doors had shut with a bang, and the wheels were rattling beneath them before speaking, Dizali first, as was his right.
‘You heard her; you’re to go America. You will have your revenge after all.’
‘Try not to miss me, Milord,’ Gavisham smiled, flashing that new gold tooth of his.
Dizali glared. He was still nurturing a mood after being berated by the Queen.
‘I will see it done,’ added the manservant. ‘I know where to look.’
‘No, you know where to start. You’ll need to travel fast to pick up their trail.’
‘I’ll see it done, fear not.’
Dizali narrowed his eyes and stroked his sharp goatee. ‘I know you will. And I want regular updates.’
Gavisham stared out of the window. ‘And how would you like it done?’ he asked, almost absently.
‘Pardon?’ Dizali looked at him oddly.
Gavisham mimed a choking action. ‘The boy, how do you want it done?’
Dizali leant forwards, and spoke low, so that Gavisham had trouble hearing him. ‘You can shoot him, stab him, skin him, scalp him, flay him, strangle him, drown him, burn him, bury him, or blow him up, I don’t care how you do it. I just want that Hark boy put down. It suits our plan,’ he growled, his eyes bereft of any emotion.
‘Our plan, or her plan?’
It was Dizali’s turn to look out of the window. ‘Ours. Always ours. Almighty, she’s growing mad. Horrendously out of touch! The Benches will do no such thing as understand. They have been rubbing their greedy little hands ever since somebody put a bullet in Hark’s chest.’
‘Time for some fresh blood in the ranks, Milord,’ Gavisham mused.
Dizali nodded. ‘We have just been given the perfect opportunity, Gavisham. The pieces are coming together. What the old fool does not know is that I’ve been watching that executor, a Mr Witchazel, since Hark died. He looks like the squawking type. He will give us what we need. And I have heard of a man that can handle it all.’
‘Did you ever find out who did it? To Hark I mean?’
Dizali frowned, almost as if it still irked him. Perhaps he was somewhat jealous. He had been planning Hark’s downfall for years. Dizali had felt slightly cheated by the murder. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s get you back to Clovenhall. You can get your supplies and then head to the docks. You will leave immediately. I shall despatch a rider to find a ship for you while you’re gathering your things.’
‘That suits me fine, Milord, though I do hate to travel by sea.’
Dizali looked him up and down and sneered. ‘And here was I, believing you had an iron stomach, what with all the bloods you mix.’
‘Seawater’s a different beast, Sir, and I’ve not had the best luck with ships, have I?’ Gavisham winked, and strangled the door-handle, already eager to get some red in him and introduce this blasted boy to his grave. My brother will meet him in hell, he thought smugly to himself.
And so it was done. The carriage had barely passed the gates of Clovenhall, Dizali’s ancestral home, before a rider was swinging up into his saddle and spurring on his horse. Dizali was a man famed for his dislike of dalliance.
Gavisham hit the courtyard running. He leapt up Clovenhall’s steps and went inside. Dizali followed at a more leisurely pace, his long black coat billowing around his booted ankles. The drizzle had now stopped, leaving a humid haze behind, and Dizali found himself sweating. Damn this Britannia weather.
Clovenhall was calm and still, just how he liked it. The servants went to and fro about their errands, swiftly but silently. Only the butlers spoke, and they hissed like lizards as they chased the other servants, checking and reprimanding. Their hushed tones washed over Dizali as he strode through his house.
‘You’ve forgotten to dust the wolf head, I believe, young lady.’
‘There, to the left, no, back I say!’
‘Under the vase, not atop it, stupid man.’
Dizali soon found himself in his office, uncorking a decanter of dark red brandy. He strode about, glass in his hand, staring out of his vast windows at his even vaster estate. He looked at the huge spires of London prickling the horizon, grey and smudged by the drizzle that still drenched the inner city. Smog too, rose on the breeze, belching from chimney stacks. Cranes swung about lazily, building London ever higher and grander.
Dizali turned his eyes to the crooked towers of the Palace of Ravens, which dominated the western centre of the city. He frowned, and took a deep swig of his brandy. The Master of the Emerald Benches would not be needed until this afternoon; he had time to brood and glare. There was plotting to be done, and nothing stokes a mood for scheming and self-preservation like a slug of blood-red brandy.
The Prime Lord swept away to sit at his desk and shuffle his papers, then steepled his fingers and stared at the door. He let his mind tumble and fall over ideas, reeling in the threads of possibility to see where they led.
The Emerald Benches and the Crown had been keeping a steady truce. Victorious had been forced by the people to allow their voice to be heard in a parliament several centuries ago. And since then the queen had been raised constitutionally ever-upwards, like a grand but useless weathervane, as the Benches ruled the Empire from beneath, toiling feverishly. They leeched power from her tiny morsels at a time, wrapping up rules and spinning their webs of power to lock her out, one line of law at a time. For just a handful of words can topple a throne when used in the right way. That, and a dash of madness. Dizali had been brooding over one handful in particular since Hark had found his way onto the slab: the Clean Slate Statute.
The Prime Lord let his mind drill down into detail and fall away to see countries and colours clashing, one by one, until he had them in the order he wanted, until he had the fate of the world entangled between his fingers, like a cat’s cradle, and he was busy flicking the strings.
The door shuddered under an eager knock, and Gavisham strode into the room. He had barely changed. The dark grey bowler hat was still wedged onto his shaved head, covering the spiral scar he had received in the war with Francia. He still wore the red tie he always insisted on, and had simply added a long grey coat while a small hog-leather bag hung at his side. If Dizali was not mistaken, the hint of an eager smile hovered on the manservant’s lips.
‘Are you ready?’ Dizali questioned, over the rooftops of his fingers.
‘And raring, Milord,’ Gavisham fired back.
‘Show me.’
Gavisham set his bag on the floor, and unbuttoned his coat. He held it wide, showing off the myriad of bottles and vials that hid within. Each sat in a pocket of its own, fastened into place with a little loop of twine, ready to break when needed. Each one flashed a different colour, mostly red, but some faint blues, browns, and yellows for good measure. Dizali’s eyes roved over them, losing count.
‘Fine,’ said Dizali, leaning back in his leather chair. ‘To the docks with you then. Have your revenge.’
Gavisham nodded, and then leant forwards to extend a hand. Dizali stared at it for a while before standing and reaching to shake it, briefly.
‘I will not fail you, Milord.’
‘I’m counting on it, Gavisham. Dismissed, and good luck.’
‘You don’t need luck when you can bloodrush, Lord Dizali,’ Gavisham smirked, flashing gold, before turning on a heel and slamm
ing the door.
Dizali raised an eyebrow. He had to smile as he reached for his brandy. ‘No, you do not,’ he replied.
Chapter IV
THE ROAD
20th June, 1867
Merion lingered beneath the eaves of the shed, watching the soldiers and guards on their rounds. The fort’s mood had not lifted in the past few days. A sullen air followed the gun-toting figures like a miasma as they milled about, eyeing the refugees with mild disinterest.
Sniffing the night air, Merion took in the dust, the wood, and the stink of sweaty horses. His feet itched, eager to move, hopefully east. Hell, his whole body itched, as it had since that weary morning trudging through the desert, with the heat rising around his cracked, blood-caked shoes, the magick still buzzing in his veins. He had itched for that feeling again every day since.
Merion bit the inside of his lip. He felt frustrated, more than anything. The war further down the railroad had forced him to languish, forced him to confront the feelings that constantly swirled beneath his otherwise sullen and quiet exterior. Not just the itching for blood, but the outrage, the sorrow, and, though he disliked to admit it, the chilling fear that time was being wasted, crumbling like stale bread. Out on the road, they could be brushed aside or trampled. Here in the fort, there was nothing to be done but sit and stew in them. And he hated it. Fortunately for Merion, tonight was finally the night it would change. Lasp’s orders be damned.
‘Where are they?’ he muttered to himself, just to fill the boredom of silence.
A small voice piped up beside him. ‘Lurker went to fill his flask. Lilain moves a little slower these days.’ Rhin appeared a short distance away, perched on the brink of a step, half-faded.
Merion could not help but jump. A short lifetime of living with a faerie, and still it never failed. He groped for an answer.
‘I’m sorry for making you jump,’ the faerie apologised. ‘I thought you were just ignoring me. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’ Rhin’s words sounded small, even for somebody twelve inches tall.