by Ben Galley
Further muttering followed in the wake of his words. He’s the guest, not us! The whispering floated down to The Prime Lord’s keen ears.
‘Her Majesty asks that the session begin.’
‘With pleasure, Presence!’ yelled Dizali, getting to his feet. He turned his back on the man and rolled his eyes at the Benches. A few chuckles rewarded him. He had the House.
‘I have called this session to address two very specific matters that I have no doubt are all close and dear to your heart. And I shall not mince my words nor dally around the point. With war brewing and meddling rife …’ Dizali cast a quick look up to the balcony. The Presence turned, strangely, to look down at him. ‘…we should not waste our time with tradition and similar shackles.’
Dizali took the centre of the hall, between the two great slopes of the Benches, where the great golden coffin of the first Prime Lord dominated. He placed his hands upon its cold, polished lid.
‘First, to the estate of the late Karrigan Hark, who I will no longer refer to as Prime Lord. No traitor to the Empire should claim that title, not even in death. Since the ransacking of the traitor’s estate, my lordsguards have kept a watchful eye, and I have personally overseen the investigation to rescue the Hark’s honourable lawyer, a Mr Witchazel. And I have kept my promise to this parliament.’ Dizali began to stride around the coffin, circling it like a shark. ‘Justice has very much been served, my Lords and Ladies!’
Amidst the eager muttering, he clapped his hands, and with a whine the doors at the front of the hall opened. Two lordsguards came forth, gently escorting a withered figure forward. He walked with shuffling, browbeaten steps, head low and thinning hair lank. Dizali raised his chin. They had done a good job. Just enough powder to age the bruises, cover the most recent cuts, to make him look fed and watered at least. He had been given robes to hide his broken bones. The lawyer’s face was cast down, depressed, clouded, and beaten by more than just fists. Finally, he had broken.
The Benches got to their feet to get a better view, and a wave of whispering rose and fell. Dizali could feel the horror, the shock, and he pounced on it before the Voice could ring his bell. ‘Might I introduce to you a hero of the city? Mr Witchazel, executor of the Hark estate, now rescued from his recent captors.’
Witchazel looked up and around at the alarmed lords and ladies of the hall as Dizali laid it on thick. ‘They beat him, tortured him, abused him, all so they could lay their hands on the deeds to the Hark estate, all so they could circumvent the law we strive to uphold, and satisfy their own greed!’
‘Who, Lord Dizali?’
‘Yes, who?’
‘Bring them to justice!’ came the cries. Voices bought and paid for. Dizali could almost hear the jingling of their coin purses.
‘And so I shall!’ Dizali bellowed. He moved towards the Cardinal half of the hall and put a foot on the front bench, among the shadow lords to his cabinet. ‘Lord Umbright and none other!’ His finger was like a spear, cutting through the crowds. Lords and ladies moved aside to escape its judgement, staring back and upwards at the blushing Lord Umbright, jowls already flapping with disbelief and outrage. Dizali had to move quickly.
‘Guards! Remove this man from my hall,’ he shouted, as the volume soared.
Armour clanking, the lordsguards moved in swiftly, swarming down from the upper doors as well as surging up from the floor. As others scrambled out of the way—protesting, cheering, or just too shocked to move—Lord Umbright was dragged to his feet and out of the hall. Dizali delivered the man’s charges as Umbright gasped and hollered unintelligible curses at the hall. It was a fine choice indeed. The man had not the wit to argue his innocence, just the stupidity to spit and snarl at the outrage. He played his part perfectly if unwittingly. At least there would be work for him on the stage, if he ever made it out of prison.
‘Lord Umbright sought to steal from under the Empire’s nose. In his desperate search for the deeds, he had his own men plunder the Hark estate, directly breaking our laws. Not content with burglary, Umbright then went as far as to kidnap our good Mr Witchazel here, with a mind to force him into signing the deeds over to him! But our good friend Mr Witchazel, thanks to his upstanding moral fortitude, held out, and gave him nothing!’
Umbright was charged and sentenced in the space of a breath—tried by the court of opinion and emotion. All it had needed was a little coin to grease the wheels. Booing and hissing was rife as the Benches turned. Who would they believe? The Prime Lord and the poor wretch that stood before them, or a cantankerous lord, long reviled for his moods and preposterous notions? Two birds, one stone, or so the saying went.
Dizali dusted his hands for all to see as Umbright was stolen from view. A smattering of applause followed, one that soon swelled into a standing ovation. Dizali had to work hard to maintain his humble composure, waving his hands until the praise abated.
‘And what of the deeds?’ hollered the Presence. He had a thin smear of confusion on his face, no doubt an echo of the queen.
The question had to be asked at some point. A few nods suggested some on the Benches also wanted to know.
Dizali waved a finger. ‘Being recovered, as we speak, from Umbright’s clutches. He hid them well, the stubborn, traitorous goat, but we won’t be beaten.’
Concerned mutterings now. Dizali ushered Witchazel forwards and held him by the shoulders, as if guarding him. He could feel the cold stiffness in the lawyer’s body.
‘The good Mr Witchazel has examined Karrigan’s last will and testament, have you not?’
Witchazel nodded, but stayed quiet. Dizali patted him gently as the hall fell deathly silent to hear him speak. ‘Tell them,’ he whispered.
‘Despite what you …’ Witchazel began, his voice cracking, loose teeth slurring his words. Dizali dug a sharp finger into his arm. ‘What we have learnt of Lord Hark, he was a lawful man, honourable. He made preparations for a situation even such as this. Karrigan insisted on following the Clean Slate Statute, and I …’ Witchazel’s voice failed him, and he scraped to a halt. He bowed his head, much to Dizali’s concern.
Dizali poked him again, a carefully crafted look of worry upon his face.
‘And I thank the Almighty he did.’ Witchazel breathed, almost panting, ‘so that his estate can be protected from any more interference.’ His words were dull and cold, but the Benches did not seem to notice. Those who had seen their palms greased nudged their neighbours and nodded knowingly. Those that hadn’t soon found whispers in their ears, blindfolds undone. It set a stir in the hall. The wind of change was blowing.
The Presence held up his hands, staring sightlessly around the Benches. ‘The Queen demands an explanation of this!’ he yelled.
Dizali allowed himself a smirk as he left Witchazel by the golden coffin and strode forwards to address the Presence. The blind man’s lip curled as though he had noticed the contempt on the Prime Lord’s face.
‘You may tell Your Majesty that the crown might want to study the laws of the Empire it rules. The Clean Slate Statute sees to it that Mr Witchazel here may exercise the right to put control of the Hark estate into the hands he deems most worthy, not the hand that deems itself worthy!’
‘Hear, hear!’ came the cry, right on cue. It sounded like Longweather, that rasping bellow of his.
‘Her Majesty is most displeased!’ screeched the Presence.
‘I should expect so! For too long has she held that displeasure over us, like a parent belittling a child. We shall weather her whims no longer!’ Dizali whirled to see the effect his words had had on the Benches. They were roaring, that much was clear. He let it flood his ears, a boiled-up brew of clashing words. Coin and contempt: both would deliver him his victory.
‘No longer!’
‘Treachery!’
‘This is an outrage!’
‘Out with the crown!’
‘The Benches rule the Empire, not its queen!’
‘How dare you!’
Dizali d
id not let up now. ‘The queen is war-mongering, my Emerald Lords and Ladies. For weeks now, she has pressured my cabinet and I into open war with Rosiya, far from our own shores. Not content with that, she also seeks also to lash out at Lincoln and his New Kingdom. War, my colleagues, for war’s sake, in a time when taxes are already high and the city strikes around us!’
More shouting. Dizali rode it. The Presence looked to be fuming now, now doubt burning with the queen’s own rage, even from a mile away. ‘This is the final straw, and I move that we put an end to it!’
‘Prime Lord, what you suggest is treason!’ came a cry from the Cardinals. A Lady Vutland.
‘Or is it treason to embrace inaction and blind tradition, Vutland?’ Longweather shouted her down.
‘Lords! Ladies! This is what Victorious would have us do! Tear ourselves apart. But we must stay united, powerful, resistant to the meddling of a megalomaniac holding ancient grudges!’ Dizali yelled.
‘You dare to oppose Your Queen!’ The Presence looked apoplectic, turning a bitter shade of purple.
Dizali fixed him with a vicious stare, raising his voice high above the clamour. ‘Oh, I dare, Presence. We all dare.’
‘Speak for yourself!’ came another yell. Another Cardinal. Dizali scowled. He should have spent more.
‘I shall let Mr Witchazel speak for me!’ he countered, striding back to the lawyer’s side. The ruckus over the queen had distracted them from the true reason they had all gathered in that hall: to get their slice. To see where the crumbs fell. Now Dizali hauled them back to it, like dragging a carpet from under feet they had forgotten. ‘I shall let him prove my virtue. My will to do what is just. My love for this Empire!’
‘Hear, hear!’ Knutshire hollered.
‘Let him speak!’
Dizali did just that, giving the floor to the battered, bruised lawyer. He let a private spark of fire flash in his eyes as Witchazel fixed him with a stare. The silence ached while he chose his words. Dizali felt a single bead of sweat gathering at his temple.
‘Mr Witchazel.’
The lawyer slowly ripped his gaze away and stared up at the Presence, as if staring at the blind man meant nobody could see the pain behind his eyes, the searing disappointment. ‘In light of Karrigan Hark’s apparent … treachery, I find it right and just to place the control of the Hark estate, in its entirety, in Prime Lord Dizali’s hands. I could not choose better to entrust it to. Truly, and Almighty strike me down if I don’t speak the truth.’ Witchazel looked up to the gilded rafters of the great hall, as though secretly praying the Almighty would do exactly that. But there was no lightning strike, no thunder. Just an uneasy silence as the documents were ushered forwards and signed right there and then, while the Emerald Lords and Ladies calculated which side they abruptly found themselves on.
Dizali felt his heart racing as he looked between them, catching their wide eyes and murmuring lips. He challenged each gaze, each glower and wink. He challenged them all, and when he was done, he turned his stare on the Presence, who was busy shaking in his balcony.
‘You will not … There will be no …’
‘Having trouble finding your words, Presence?’ Dizali mocked.
‘The Queen will have your head!’
Dizali sketched a bow. He had earned it. ‘Then she will have to come here to get it, Presence. Now go, and tell the queen what you’ve seen here, if she does not already know.’
A few cheers erupted from his front bench as the blind man tore himself away from the railing and disappeared behind the green curtain. Dizali turned to the Benches with open arms. ‘Are you with me, my Emerald Lords and Ladies? A new Empire, free from ancient tyranny? A true democracy that we and we alone oversee?’ he roared. It took a moment for the Benches to rally with an answer. The Cobalts, as expected, led the charge, leaping to their feet if they hadn’t already done so. They aimed their fists at the air and cheered. The Cardinals came over more slowly, but sure enough, they came. Only a handful stayed in their seats, staunchly refusing, but the rest—the bought, paid-for, coerced, or convinced—they all got to their feet, cheering and clapping.
Dizali clapped with them, moving to Witchazel’s side. ‘And there it is. I’ve won.’
Witchazel feigned a hollow smile, broken on the inside. ‘And in doing so you’ve started another battle. Maybe even a war.’
The Prime Lord sneered and shook his hand before having the lordsguards take him away. ‘Back to Clovenhall with you, along with that other relic, the Orange Seed,’ he ordered.
Dizali turned to shake the hands of his cabinet and the hundred others who wanted to express their congratulations and utmost gratitude, like bankers come to collect on promises. Dizali smiled to each and every one, keeping appearances for now. They all had a place in his new world, but as for what place, they would have to wait to find out. All new empires needed foundations.
Dizali paused at the upper door to bathe in the applause that blossomed again. He donned his hat with a flourish and then ducked into the shadows of the corridor, his praise ringing in his ears.
Longweather was instantly at his side. ‘What next, Dizali?’
‘Tell the newspapers to release the stories. Let the people know what we’ve done here. What freedom we’ve given them. What freedom I’ve given them.’
Dizali felt the rush now, coursing through him. The nausea of victory. For he had, indeed, won. Finally.
‘They will want to see the deeds,’ Longweather hissed.
‘Pay it no mind,’ Dizali replied sharply. ‘Today is a day for celebration, Longweather. The matter is in hand.’
Longweather nodded. ‘Then congratulations once again, Prime Lord. We’ve finally done it.’
‘Long years, it’s taken,’ Dizali agreed, raising his chin. ‘I remember my mother telling me fairy tales when I was young, very young. Tales of witches and evil knights. They always managed to get themselves caught out. The hero would always defeat them, even at the last moment. And do you know what? I found myself wondering why that was so, and how unfair it was. The villain could never win,’ Dizali said with a grin. ‘Well it’s about time the villain won.’
And with that, he strode away, leaving a very excited and rather nervous Longweather standing in the corridor.
Chapter XX
MISSING
15th July, 1867
He felt broken, just a vessel for the throbbing that had taken up residence in his body. It rang like a farrier’s shop, each beat in his head running through his bones, making him want to vomit. That was probably down to the alcohol. He groaned, and a stench of moonshine on his own breath sealed the deal. Lurker hurled up his guts in the corner of wherever he was.
Feeling broken, beaten, and bereft of wherewithal, Lurker rolled onto his back, careful to support his pounding head. Wiping his mouth, he blinked, wondering where the hell he had been put. His gloves were gone. So was his hat and gun. A curious finger gingerly touched the back of his skull. He could feel the crust of blood crumbling, the stickiness of the wound and its fiery edges.
Lurker wasn’t normally a man you could sneak up on and whack. Many had tried it in the past. Few had escaped a broken nose. He could count the number of times they’d danced away on his fingers. He held up his middle finger and grunted. One more for the exclusive club.
Whatever he had been hit with had been solid and heavy, that was for sure. Lurker winced as he moved around, trying to blink the smear of his hangover from his eyes.
He was in a cage, that much was clear. It was dark, thanks to the heavy curtain wrapped around it. He wasn’t being jostled. There was neither rattling of rails nor creaking of cars. Wherever he was, it was not on the train. And damn, was it hot!
Lurker’s stomach growled, and he ran his sour tongue along his furry teeth. He rolled over onto his knees and, fighting the nausea, stood up and took the measure of his balance. It was seriously lacking. After several stumbles, he held himself against the warm bars of the cage and shook his he
ad.
There was a tiny rip in the curtain, and Lurker made it wider with a finger. Blinking, he looked out on an abandoned warehouse, with just a few more cages for company. ‘What a mess you’ve got yourself into now, John,’ he grunted quietly to himself.
An hour, maybe two, passed. Lurker took to wandering in small circles, trying to walk off the pounding ache and his devilish hangover. It didn’t work, but it passed the time. Of that, he seemed to have a lot.
Soon enough his captor came calling. There were footsteps on floorboards and then a rustling of fabric as the curtain was dragged back. Nelle Neams greeted him with a smug face and crossed arms. His white-blonde hair was slick with sweat. It was a hot day indeed, wherever they were. Lurker could smell water in the air, and the scent of baking tree-bark.
‘The thief awakens,’ said Neams.
‘I ain’t no thief,’ Lurker spat whatever saliva he could muster at the man. He barely made it through the bars. Neams snorted.
‘Dolmer found you sneakin’ around his car. Sounds like sneakin’ to me.’
‘Maybe you jus’ didn’t like what I found there.’
Another snort. ‘You don’t know shit, Lurker. Deluded, that’s what. Never liked the look of you.’
Lurker decided to try and poke at the man. ‘Feeling’s mutual, kidnapper, or should I call you lamprey.’
Neams did not look too happy at that. He took a step forward, squinting his eyes. ‘We ain’t no lampreys.’
‘So it is “we” then, and not just Dolmer.’ Lurker sneered.
Neams looked increasingly annoyed. He worked his jaw as he concocted a retort. ‘Not that it’ll matter for you after tomorrow night. You ain’t setting foot outside that cage again.’
Lurker shrugged, baring his teeth. ‘Might as well just shoot me now then,’ he said, nodding to the bulge inside Neams’ coat. ‘Don’t take kindly to child killers.’ It all made sense to him now: the missing children, the blood, and the speed with which the circus moved.