by Ben Galley
‘Order! ORDER I SAY!’ bellowed the Voice, a red-faced man with cheeks full of broken veins and a sweat-soaked brow. The Benches were unrulier than usual today. He banged his pitiful gavel against the ancient bell propped up on the flat of his pulpit, at the far end of the Benches. ‘There will be order, or I will call an adjournment!’
The arguing and shouting continued unabated. Spittle flew like fireworks from both sides. Dizali decided it was time to act. He had let them squabble enough for one morning. He had a plan to put into action, after all. Adjusting his coat, the Prime Lord got to his feet and raised his hands. He could see the Voice throwing up his hands in despair out of the corner of his eye. The Voice held the power of silence and order, and yet Dizali, as Master of the Benches, had the command of their ears. A little coin here and there fills many of the potholes along the road to command. And Dizali’s purse-strings had been rather busy of late.
‘My Emerald Lords and Ladies!’ he roared. He had been saving his voice since the session started.
Though he may not have been heard, he had been seen, and slowly but surely, the Benches calmed themselves. Seats were taken, arms were crossed, and eyes were narrowed anew. Dizali took a moment to tuck his fingers inside his suit jacket and stare about the room. He even spared some time to look up at the high ceiling, and at the great chandeliers that hung there, stuffed with myriads of crystals; and above them, the great paintings of the history of the Empire. A thousand years splayed across the arches and gilded ribs of the ceiling.
‘You have questions, I am sure …’ he began.
One was immediately hollered out from the back of the hall, from the Cardinal’s side: ‘And just when are we going to talk about the real matter at hand here?’
Dizali despised being interrupted, but he let it play out. Over the last week, he had teased out every thread of this moment, followed every strand.
‘And what matter is that, Sir?’ Dizali looked up at the Cardinal party, scanning faces until he found the culprit. ‘I presume you speak of the war in the east? Of the Red Tzar’s hunger for Ottoman land? Or perhaps the growing war in the west? And of Lincoln’s struggle with the Shohari?’ he bellowed in reply.
There were mutterings now in the Emerald House. Dizali had shamed them, and he knew it.
‘Or perhaps you wish to discuss matters closer to home? he asked.
There was a murmuring, like an autumn wind through summer trees, colder than usual. Dizali wanted to smile, but he refrained. He let the chuntering grow into a clamouring, let the complaints rain down. The lords and ladies of his cabinet sat either side of him. He turned to each with a knowing look as the Benches descended into uproar again.
‘Five days, it has been, since the Hark estate was burgled!’
‘Violated, I say!’
‘And not a word of the culprit! Not a damned explanation!’
‘And a traitor? What is the meaning of this?’
The Voice began to bawl once more, hammering his little bell, but to no avail. Once more Dizali held up his hands for silence, and once more, the Voice despaired in his pulpit, shaking his head, and wondering what the point of it all was.
‘As the papers have been rife with speculation, let me put it to you simply and plainly.’
‘Please do!’
Dizali’s face flashed with anger. ‘Lord Umbright, if you speak out of turn again, I will have you ejected from the hall. Perhaps in the street outside you can find something more worthwhile to do than interrupting your Prime Lord with injudicious yelping.’
The Lord Umbright lowered his head and said no more. Pompous Cardinals, Dizali cursed inwardly. They always needed a firm hand.
Dizali continued. ‘As you all are aware, two tragic crimes have occurred in the last week. Firstly, the late Prime Lord Hark has been discovered to be a traitor to the crown and to the Empire. Now I for one, was initially shocked and appalled at such accusations. Outraged even. All of us here knew Karrigan Hark to be a true and just man, a fine servant of the Empire.’ Dizali paused here for effect. ‘And yet, my Lords and Ladies, we have been all of us deceived.’
There was a flurry of concerned mumblings from both parties.
‘The newspapers, usually so concerned with gossip and keeping their pockets full of coin, have been proved correct. I myself have seen the evidence produced from their anonymous sources, and let me tell you, it is most disturbing. Letters, in great number and with great secrecy, were exchanged between our good Prime Lord and the so-called king of the Endless Land, Lincoln. I have seen his signature and seals with my own eyes.’
And here, a collective gasp. Dizali once again fought the urge to smile. The Voice rang his bell pre-emptively. He was resoundingly shushed by both parties. He almost made to leave, but then thought better of it, and slumped back into his leather chair.
‘It appears that Karrigan Hark, not content with building his own private empire, sought to pervert ours with clandestine dealings with America, and with not a thought to include either the Benches, or the Queen. We can only assume that these were the tip of his treachery, and no doubt we shall uncover more as time goes on,’ Dizali lectured, now striding back and forth over the hall’s diamond-patterned floor. ‘I for one am still outraged.’
The shouts of ‘Hear, hear!’ were nearly deafening. For one of those rare moments, both parties had found a common enemy. Their worst fears, and in many cases, darkest wishes, had been confirmed. Karrigan Hark had betrayed them. Dizali watched the Emerald Lords and Ladies clench their fists and bark angrily between themselves. He knew that it was not just anger there, but something else entirely. They knew the law almost as well as he. They had seen their opportunity the moment the headlines had landed on doorsteps, barely five days ago.
‘And now onto the second of these crimes, very much entwined with the first,’ Dizali announced, and silence fell once more.
‘The Hark estate has been ransacked,’ he said, gaining volume and speed now. ‘And so it would seem that we have another traitor at large. One who seeks to circumvent the law, and claim Hark’s estate as his or her own, under the twilight of his treachery.’ He watched shock bloom on the faces around him like spring flowers.
Roars of indignity, some rehearsed, some genuine, filled the hall.
‘Outrageous!’
‘Proper protocol must be observed!’
‘Where is Hark’s executor?’
Dizali nodded at that, pointing a finger at the speaker, the grey-haired Lady Juven, from his very own party. He would thank her later. ‘Arrangements are being made to find him. It gives me great sadness,’ and here Dizali placed a hand over his heart, ‘to tell you that this traitor has not only defiled the Hark estate, but taken his lawyer and his documents hostage. But mark my words!’ Dizali yelled over the indignant ruckus. ‘And mark them well, my Lords and Ladies. He shall be found. He shall be rescued. And we shall bury this treachery behind us!’
There was a cheer or two now, and a smattering of applause that grew and grew into thunder. The Cobalts hastily got to their feet, standing behind their Prime Lord and Master. The Cardinals slowly followed suit, until the Benches stood to applaud the gallant Bremar Dizali, and his vows.
‘I will see it done!’ Dizali shouted, hammering the promise home. He nodded to the Voice, who roused himself from his petulant glowering and rang his bell with vigour.
‘Order! Order!’ he yelled to no avail. ‘This session is now adjourned!’
One by one, bench by bench, the lords and ladies moved their umbrage to the long and winding corridors that curled around the hall of the Emerald Benches like ropes around a prisoner. Some filtered away quietly, eager to set their own cogs in motion, frantically so, aware they were already late in doing so.
Dizali stood where the crowds were fiercest, shaking hands and nodding at the praise. It was all another act, of course. It always was. Favour leant in the direction of the wind, like a flag on a pole, and currently, it was blowing straight in his direction
.
‘Second Lord Longweather, a moment please,’ Dizali whispered to his right-hand man when the praise had died away a little. Dizali took him by the shoulder and walked him between two pillars, where they could speak quietly.
‘How many?’ Dizali asked, barely above a whisper.
‘Fifty-two so far, Lord Dizali,’ grinned Longweather, a man whose stately nature was ruined only by a despicable comb-over that did nothing for his obvious baldness. He was a little on the portly side, a clear sign that he was taking to his role as Second Lord rather too comfortably. Still, the man had a tongue of pure silver, and it had been wagging quietly all week, bending ears and stealing votes.
‘I need more to swing the Benches, Longweather,’ Dizali growled. That’s not enough to sway the doubters, and the greedy.’
Longweather nodded, staring about the halls as the finely-dressed crowds milled about. ‘I’m aware of that, my Lord, but I’d wager they’re content to sit on the fence until you choose your moment. Dissent against the crown is a hard seed to sow, even though there are rumblings and gripes.’
Dizali shook his head and prodded a finger into Longweather’s ample belly. ‘More. I will not risk them forming their own alliances before the moment comes. If I am to supplant her, I need to do it in a landslide.’
‘Surely our accusations will …’
‘Empires have fallen because of assumptions long before ours dominated the globe, Longweather. I need more of the Cardinals behind us,’ Dizali hissed. He spared a moment to shake the hand of one of his party members before continuing. ‘A united front is the only way to topple the throne. Our own doubters will not be able to fight that.’ Again another prod to the belly, sharper this time, and Longweather winced. ‘Play to their greed. I don’t care how much you have to spend, what you have to promise. Even if I have to whore you out myself, I will see that crown lying in the dust. Do you hear me? Just remember where you shall stand, in this new world we’re forging.’
Longweather bowed as low as he could before shuffling away to let his silver tongue perform more magic. ‘Loud and clear as always, my Lord Dizali.’
Dizali watched him go, and for the first time in days, allowed himself a small yet smug, smile.
There was more work to be done.
*
The key had foxed him for the past five days. Every day he had carried it inside his breast pocket, and every day he had found himself fondling it in with distracted fingers. He had tested its edges, felt its grooves, wondered at its purpose. It had teased him with its mystery, taunted him with the unknown. And he had quite enough of that.
Dizali had never been fond of showing his hand. But then again, if he was going to bare his cards, it was better to show them to a man tied to a chair in a dark cell in the depths of Cheapside than to anybody else. The Prime Lord stood outside the door, left ajar just a crack, listening to the grunts and soft, wet thuds from within. He held a handkerchief firmly over his mouth. The stench had only gotten worse in his absence.
Fever opened the door a crack wider and slipped out, leaving the twins to their work of knuckles and bruised flesh. The torturer seemed to have a spatter of blood on his shirt, no doubt not his own. It made a merry pattern across his buttons and decorated the lip of his collar.
‘If you kill him, Mr Rowanstone, I shall have your head,’ Dizali commented, as casually as if he had just mentioned the weather.
Fever bowed, as usual, an irritating habit he had refused to shake off. No doubt he would have called it professionalism. Dizali had repeatedly branded it as fawning.
The little man looked tired. There were bags under his eyes that would have fed a horse. His hair, usually pristinely combed, was more bedraggled than usual. He had obviously reached the end of whatever tether he clung to. He still clutched his bandaged hand to his chest.
‘He now refuses to speak. Not a word in five days,’ Fever confessed, clearly hating his own admission.
‘That will not do,’ Dizali mused. There was an edge to his voice that made Fever bow his head.
‘In all my years, my Lord, I have not encountered such a stubborn subject.’
Dizali entertained the idea of reaching out and crushing the man’s skull with his hands. Fortunately for the torturer, he held himself back. ‘He is a lawyer, Rowanstone. Are you telling me you’ve been defeated by a simple pen-pusher?’
‘He’s more loyal than a dog,’ came the excuse. ‘There are … other methods we could try,’ Fever ventured. ‘Methods that so far your wishes have prohibited.’
Dizali raised an eyebrow. ‘And they are?’
There was a muffled scream, and both men turned to look at the door. Fever took a breath. ‘I find that as they grow older, men grow fonder of what they have, and so their fear of losing it grows.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
Fever bit his lip. ‘Certain appendages, for instance, are greatly missed.’
‘Fingers? Toes? Spit it out, man.’
‘More sensitive areas than that, my Lord. So far we’ve kept to fists and needles, or games that rot the mind, all of which Mr Witchazel has proved incredibly resistant to. Permanent loss, however, breaks the mind in another way. To change him permanently, so to speak, may just get the results you want.’
Dizali curled his lip as it became clear. ‘Whatever gutter you sprang from, Rowanstone, must have been foul indeed.’
Fever almost seemed to take that as a compliment. He bowed low again. ‘The foulest, my Lord.’
The Prime Lord pondered this for a while, toying with possibilities in his head. ‘Fine,’ he said at last, when Fever had begun to fidget. Dizali reached into his pocket and produced the black iron key. He held it in front of the torturer. ‘I want to know what this opens, nothing more. And Rowanstone?’
‘Yes, my Lord?’
‘Don’t let him die.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Now say exactly as I say …’
*
The pain is just in your mind.
Pain doesn’t exist.
Don’t let them hear you hurt.
Keep your mouth shut.
Witchazel kept his dizzy mind focused on those words as the punches rained expertly down. Not enough to break, but just enough to bruise, and to make him gasp. Relentless enough to make him want to vomit. Clever enough to keep him conscious. Half the trick, Fever had delighted in telling him over and over, is to keep the subject suspended on the cusp of a permanent sleep.
Hatred failed to describe what Witchazel felt for the man.
Slam. Another rib squealed in agony. The lawyer grit his teeth, retreating back into that place where he imagined all sorts of horrid things befalling these men, the twins and their little master. The same place where the memory of Karrigan dwelt, who told him over and over that pain is a mirage, and to keep his mouth shut.
The door slammed, and the Nord twins stepped back. Witchazel slumped in his bonds. It felt like the ropes had finally cut to the bone. Witchazel was beyond caring.
Fever was carrying his briefcase with him. Witchazel’s heart dropped into his gut. There was no point in ignoring it. He felt the old familiar burn of fear rise in his chest, then rise to tickle his temples, flush his face. There was something new in his demeanour, like a rabid dog let loose, and anything new in a torture cell is meant to be feared. New meant a fresher pain he had not yet dulled himself to.
‘I believe I have already told you,’ Fever began, ‘of my previous employment in the morgue, have I not?’
‘I do remember being bored by such a story, yes,’ Witchazel spat, his voice nothing more than a scrape of a boot against dusty ground. He found a little solace in the bravado. He had not dropped the act once during his time in the cell. Even when his face was being tossed from fist to fist, he kept up his contemptuous sneer, kept to the higher ground. Most importantly, he kept his mouth shut as he had promised himself. Surely not long now …
Witchazel couldn’t help but linger on the t
hought that his resolve was teetering on the edge. As Fever went about tutting and fiddling with the locks on the briefcase, Witchazel allowed himself an inward sob. He wanted to deflate and give in like a punctured sack of wine. Let all the blood flow out of him and finally find some peace and quiet on the floor.
Don’t let them hear you hurt.
Karrigan was relentless in his reminders. Witchazel sneered some more. ‘What have you got there, then?’
Fever popped the locks and raised the lid, showing off a glittering array of scalpels and forceps and saws and needles and blades. Witchazel’s eyes skipped over every one, babbling internally to himself as he tried to guess what each one was for.
‘My father’s instruments. His hands could conduct music with them, write poems, paint a masterpiece. I took them from his study before I left his house. To this day he hates me for it, and other things,’ Fever whispered, full of reverence.
‘Fetch me a handkerchief, please. I must wipe my eyes.’
Fever smiled wickedly. Despising the man was no longer enough. Witchazel felt some coldness in the hatred, carving it into a deep terror of what those hands and blades were about to do to him.
‘How many times do I have to repeat myself: I will not talk.’
‘The Hark estate has been broken into, did you know that?’ Fever might as well have punched him, the news hit so hard. ‘Greedy powers from within the Emerald Benches. Somebody taking a pot shot, one might say. Awful news.’
‘You dare to …’
Fever held up a scalpel and Witchazel’s voice scraped to a halt. ‘If I were you, Mr Witchazel, I would listen carefully, and be silent.’
‘They say they found some evidence of treachery in his study. Letters to Lincoln, King of the Endless Land.’
Witchazel felt something snap. ‘You fu—’
The scalpel was pressed to his bare knee, where his suit trousers had been worn through. Witchazel barely felt it, and yet blood poured from the cut.