The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  ‘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, 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.’

  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 to 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.’ 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.’

  ‘Loud and clear as always, my Lord Dizali.’ Longweather bowed as low as he could before shuffling away to let his silver tongue perform more magic.

  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’d 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 and vocally branded it as fawning, and yet still he insisted.

  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, to all of which Mr Witchazel has proved incredibly resistant. 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 to which he had not yet dulled himself.

  ‘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 thought 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.

  ‘Now Karrigan Hark has been proven a traitor, some of the Emerald Lords and Ladies have apparently taken it upon themselves to take matters into their own hands. They break away from the law. Now, I imagine that would trouble you rather deeply?’

  Witchazel did not dignify that with an answer.

  ‘Fortunately, our good Lord Dizali has stepped forwards to put an end to all this … grabbery. He has put Harker Sheer under his guard,’ Fever idly chatted as he examined each of the tools, showing their mechanisms or razor edges to Witchazel, or testing them on the air. Fever looked up from his tools and fixed him with a curious stare.

  Witchazel looked away. The floor, ceiling, either of the stoic Norse twins—he didn’t care, anywhere but those questing pupils.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear, Mr Witchazel, that fortunately an artefact, shall we say, of the late Bulldog’s was recovered by Dizali’s men.’ Fever reached into his waistcoat and produced a black iron key. A key, Witchazel was very sorry to say, he had seen many times before. A key Karrigan should have entrusted to him, instead of insisting on his secretive shenanigans.

  ‘Do you recognise this?’

  Witchazel was busy cursing silently, jaw muscles bunching. He hated himself for it.

  Fever grinned. ‘I know that look very well!’ he exclaimed. He even went as far as to clap, as if he had just enjoyed several hours of opera. ‘You will tell me everything you know. Forget the deeds. Forget everything else. All you have to do, is tell me what lock this opens.’

  Witchazel tore his eyes away, and managed a shrug. ‘No. I don’t recognise it.’

  Fever rubbed the creases in his forehead with finger and thumb. He sighed dramatically. ‘I was hoping you would cooperate, Mr Witchazel, given what I’ve brought to show you.’ Eyes flicked to the briefcase, and its glittering tools of surgical precision, all wrapped up in black velvet and leather straps.

  ‘I have never seen that key in my life.’

  Fever stared at him for a moment, testing his gaze. Then he shook his head, and nodded to Sval and Sven.

  Large men should not be so fast, thought Witchazel, as he was swiftly untied from his chair and dragged to the stone floor. Either be big and slow, or lithe and fast. Both is just unfair. His skull knocked against the floor as he was pinned down by both arms and legs. From somewhere deep within him, Witchazel found the energy to struggle. Fear will make you do marvellous things on occasion.

  Fever had removed a long, serrated scalpel from the case, and was now standing over him, holding it aloft. Witchazel groaned and spat whatever saliva he could dredge from his cracked mouth. This was very different indeed. It reeked of impatience and desperation. People will do awful things to each other in such a state. The powerful. The greedy. The dying.

  Fever waved the knife in a slow circle. ‘I will at least let you choose.’

  ‘Choose what?’ Witchazel panted.

  ‘What you get to lose.’

  ‘Lose?’

  Fever grinned, a hint of madness in his tired eyes. That terrified Witchazel, and he did not mind admitting it. ‘An ear, a nose, a foot? Maybe even some teeth, or, then again, we could be more inventive. His shirt, if you please, gentlemen.’

  Witchazel almost fought them off for a moment, for a teasing, flicker of a second. But they were just slightly taken aback by the man’s sudden thrashing. But down came the strong hands, and off came the shirt. Fever knelt over him, a clamp now in his other hand.

  The torturer’s eyes roved over him, like an artist about to throw the first splash of colour on a blank, albeit beaten, canvas. Fever smirked, gazing at a point on his chest; it was hard to see when a thick, rough hand kept pushing Witchazel’s head down.

  The clamp was cold against the skin around his nipple, deathly cold. So was the
blade of the knife, as it rested against the filed teeth of the clamp. ‘You said I get to choose,’ Witchazel rasped. It was a futile complaint, more a feeble attempt at appealing to whatever gentleman Fever tried so very hard to be.

  ‘And so you do!’ Fever cried. ‘You can choose whether to answer my question, or to lose a nipple. You have ten seconds. One.’

  Witchazel wheezed, in and out, his breath rapid in his throat. He was panicked.

  ‘Two.’

  Surely he can’t be serious, Witchazel inwardly cried.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I? Four.’

  Witchazel look to Sven, then to Sval, but both wore their faces like a mask, devoid of emotion.

  ‘Five.’

  The lawyer’s mind was a tiny hall full of screaming.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘This is madness!’ Witchazel roared.

  ‘Seven. Getting close, Mr Witchazel.’

  He had to tell them, let the Seed confound them, buy more time …

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Please!’ It was the first time he had begged.

  ‘Nine’

  Witchazel screwed up his face as the words fought to burst from his lips. Those treacherous, foolish words. Think of the boy!

  ‘Ten.’

  The knife was so sharp the cut barely registered, and for the briefest of moments, Witchazel thought it had been a trick all along. But then came the pain, swelling up and spreading across his chest like a poison. It was excruciating. Witchazel howled and he bellowed, fighting to look down at the bloody circle of raw flesh that had replaced his left nipple.

  Not a second was spared to let him wallow in pain. Fever tutted to himself as he picked out a large, wickedly curved blade.

  ‘Please …’ Witchazel moaned.

  Fever stood over him again and nodded to the twins. ‘Let’s move on, shall we, Mr Witchazel?’ he asked. ‘Gentlemen, his trousers.’

  ‘No!’ Witchazel yelled, but the pain had weakened him. The twins turned him into a naked, bloody thing in seconds.

  Once again came the clamp, clutching him in his most private of places, the metal cold and painfully tight. Witchazel thrashed as hard as he could, but he was like an infant in their hands, mewling and defenceless.