The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  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 did 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 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, no 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 head.

  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 thievin’ 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.’

  ‘But you are kidnappers. And 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.

  The beast-keeper smirked. ‘You’ve got some use in you yet. The tired old dog’s got one more job to do,’ he chuckled. ‘We need you just in case that boy don’t play along nicely.’

  Lurker grabbed the bars, snarling. ‘You touch him and I’ll end you! That goes for the others, too.’

  Neams laughed at that. ‘You don’t scare me. You’re just one of my animals now. Enjoy your stay.’ And with that, he shrugged back the curtain and left Lurker to pace, like an animal indeed.

  *

  ‘And how is our guest?’ Yara muttered, as Neams poked his head out of the warehouse.

  ‘Promising death for us all. He knows about the children. And the blood.’

  No guilt found its way to her face. ‘As to be expected,’ she sighed. ‘But you are used to wild animals. Treat him as one.’

  ‘That I will, Yara,’ Neams said, nodding, his pigeon-chest swelling with pride. ‘What about the boy?’

  Yara watched the passing wagons rolling to and from the berthed ships, taking a moment to listen to the clatter of the city. They had been given a space on the eastern docks by Lincoln’s clerks. It was a fair trot from the circus’s pitch, but that had its advantages. ‘If Merion suspects, he will not do anything about it. He is too preoccupied with his moment in the spotlight. And if he does, well.’ Yara shrugged. ‘We have his friend. And friends are terrible things to have in situations such as these.’

  Neams sniggered. ‘That they are, Yara. That they are.’

  Yara pushed herself from the wall and ran a finger through her hair, which was in a tangled state. ‘I have another guest arriving who I must see to,’ she said, before wandering into the street and leaving Neams to see to his other animals.

  Yara took her time strolling through the bustling streets of Washingtown, Lincoln’s capital. Cirque Kadabra had visited most of the cities in the known world, but never this one. Yara wanted to get the measure of it, like she did everywhere they set up camp: the mood, the sway of the town, the weight of the coin purses. Any good performer knows her audience before they arrive, and Yara Mizar went about it like a hunter stalking prey.

  Washingtown was a low and sprawling city. Drenched in greenery and cut through the middle by the Potomac River, the capital of the Endless Land was an exercise in marble and grandness. It was more akin to the ancient cities of Europe than to its neighbours along the coast, with its streets curving and criss-crossing like complicated capillaries. Majestic, pillared buildings stood on every corner, their white steps sloping casually upwards out of the wide streets. Signs proclaimed each of them as the House of This or the House of That. Great doors sat behind their pillars, and officious looking men and women scurried in and out of them, clearly busy with the running of a country. If the Endless Land was a vast tree, reaching far and wide with its branches, then Washingtown was the taproot.

  Yara’s wandering took her north, away from the river bank and past the vast gardens that sat at Washingtown’s heart—a green belt of grass and water that played host to the city’s monuments. The Ivory House, Lincoln’s marble palace, sat in the distance ahead of her. Before it, the half-finished Spike sitting alone on a slight rise, was clad in scaffolding. The faint chip and bang of hammers on stone could be heard over the city noise and droning of the airships above. To her right was the tallest building of them all: Capitol House, the domed seat of Lincoln’s government. It shone in the summer sun, dominating the green fields and ponds laid out so neatly in front of it.

  The circus master nodded and smiled to pa
ssersby, rich folk strolling up and down the fringes of the greenery. She walked in a curving arc north and west, to where an elliptical circle of stone and statues lay in the Ivory House’s shadow, and within that circle—she smiled as she saw it—her own grand structure, the main tent.

  Cirque Kadabra had been allowed to pitch right in the heart of the city. If Yara had learned one thing about these rich folk, it is that they do not like to walk far for their entertainment. The circus had found its place between the towering trees and black iron statues, like a maggot curled at the core of an apple.

  The circus was almost ready to receive its prestigious audience. They had arrived barely a few hours before, and had been given a stiff welcome by Lincoln’s guards. King Lincoln was a very popular individual, and yet popularity always comes with a shadow, one of greed and spite. Lincoln’s victories had made him enemies, and the guards were taking their jobs very seriously indeed. And rightly so.

  A circus in the Ivory House grounds was a security nightmare. The guards’ displeasure might as well have been written on a sign and waved in Yara’s face, it had been so obvious. Every crate had to be checked. Every box rooted through. Every trunk inspected. They had been thorough to the point of madness. Yara allowed herself a smile as she walked. And yet not thorough enough. Fools. It happened every time, and she had been at this game many a long year.

  Before she entered the bustling circus, trapped in the tumult of preparation, Yara paused for a moment to stare at the Ivory House standing barely half a mile away. In all her years, she had never performed for an audience like the one that sat behind those windows. She was honoured, in truth, though not just because of Lincoln, but for the part she was playing. And come death or worse, she would be remembered for it, and that is what every performer wants when the final curtain falls.

  ‘Yara!’ came a shout. Devan Ford came striding across the sunburnt grass towards her. ‘He’s here,’ he mumbled when he was closer. They walked into the circus side by side.