The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

Merion counted with his fingers. ‘One, that Mr Witchazel is dead and Dizali used a stooge. Two, that the lawyer was somehow coerced into signing. Or three, that Mr Witchazel has betrayed my family.’

  ‘We’re prepared for every eventuality.’

  ‘Better damn well be, after all this time and practice. What does it say of the deeds?’

  ‘Dizali is mentioned to be the ward, not the owner. “The House looks forward to the recovery of the deeds”.’

  ‘Good. Very good.’

  Calidae folded the paper and stowed it under her arm. She pulled her hood lower as they strode deeper into the heart of the city. In the distance they could see the dark towers of the Palace of Ravens, and the Bellspire, commanding all.

  ‘I wonder what the Queen supposedly did?’ wondered Calidae.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest. But the fact that Dizali can fell a Queen doesn’t exactly stir any warm feelings inside me.’

  ‘We’ll have to discuss your insides another time. We’re close.’ Calidae raised a finger. ‘See?’

  Merion followed her arm and nodded. ‘Just as I remember.’

  On the corner where the Kingsroad met the Marble Mile, just on the edge of Westminster, he spied the blue and white flag of the constabulary, hanging limp in the still air. Merion remembered standing outside of it, not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, gazing up at the granite clouds and wondering where his life had just vanished to.

  ‘Right you are.’ The boy rubbed his hands and began to peer through the crowds, looking for something else. It didn’t take long to find. ‘There.’

  Calidae nodded. Their target was a stately-looking market stall, proffering necklaces and bracelets to the finer dressed women of the city streets. Merion pulled his hood further down over this face. Before she could move away, he put a hand on her arm and fixed her with a hard look. ‘Remember our agreement. He sees a trial. No knives. No guns. And no chairs. You and I will settle our business once it’s over.’

  ‘I know our agreement, Hark,’ she hissed, before throwing her hood back and marching off as if she owned those cobbles, as if she too had a troop of lordsguards surrounding her. Like every Empire lady can, thought Merion.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he muttered.

  Merion followed in her wake, a dozen feet behind. Her posture and confidence drew as many stares as her scars. The ship’s doctor had done some good for them, but only in healing the parts that were not refusing to cure. Calidae didn’t appear to care. In fact, she seemed to relish the effect they had on people.

  The boy paused behind a tree as Calidae halted to browse the glinting wares, hands wandering over the gold and silver and gems. She gave a good show, humming and tutting as she tried on each piece, asking for a mirror or for opinions before discarding them. High-borns are bred, not taught.

  Merion eyed a pair of constables moving slowly along the street, hands folded inside their blue leather jerkins, truncheon and rapier side by side at their belts; eyes sharp as blades, darting beneath the brim of their black hats.

  Head low, keeping his arms tucked into his pockets, Merion sauntered up to the edge of the stall, relying on Calidae to hold the merchant’s eyes, just as they’d practiced on the ship.

  ‘This is the one!’ she exclaimed, holding her wrist out to admire the sparkling gold. Merion lunged for it, seizing Calidae’s arm with both hands.

  ‘Thief!’ she yelled, painfully loud in his ear.

  ‘I say!’ shouted the merchant, grabbing a broom to pummel and poke Merion. It was a little more resistance than the boy had expected.

  With a jerk of the wrist, the bracelet was his, and Merion bounded for the Mile. He made it three lunging paces before he came to a halt against the sturdy chest of one of the constables.

  The constable grabbed his arm, quick as a snake, and plucked the bracelet from his grasp. ‘ ‘Ello there. Now what do we ‘ave ‘ere?’

  ‘A thief, Corporal,’ said his colleague, wriggling a pair of black iron handcuffs out of his belt.

  Merion’s hands were swiftly pinned behind his back. ‘I can see that, ‘Iggis.’

  ‘Fresh from the scene o’ the crime,’ Higgis remarked, as he yanked back the prisoner’s hood. Merion kept his face in a dark scowl. Several of the onlookers were applauding, Almighty bless them. He should have put out a hat to collect coins for the performance.

  Merion felt the cold iron encircle his wrist, and then a brisk tug on his collar. ‘Ain’t your day, is it, sonny?’

  ‘No it ain’t, Constable,’ Merion grunted, suppressing a smile as he was hauled across the cobbles.

  Calidae watched him go, arms fluttering in mock upset, wringing her wrists over and over.

  Only she saw his infernal little smirk. Only she was watching for it.

  ‘Insufferable,’ she mouthed.

  *

  ‘Papers, Milord,’ asked Captain Rolick, voice distorted by a stifled yawn. He held out a calloused, powder-blackened hand and waited.

  The rotund face that stared back from the slit of the carriage window wore an indignant expression. Lord Darbish hooked a finger and slid his owlish glasses down his nose, fixing Rolick with a dark look. The finger tapped the side of the carriage irritably, as if he was late for something. (Which, in truth, he was; almost an hour late, in fact. Dizali would be far from pleased.)

  ‘What do you see here, hmm?’

  ‘A carriage door, Milord,’ Rolick replied, his voice flat, almost bored. He ran a hand over his skull to slick back his greying hair. Gate duty did not suit him.

  ‘And what is on the carriage door, my good man?’

  ‘A coat of arms. Rather nice one at that, if I may say so, Milord.’

  It was a lie. The crest was rather weak in prowess. No eagles lifting tigers into the sun, no gryphons or swords. Just a speckled trout and a couple of crossed spears.

  ‘And what do you suppose that means?’

  Rolick sniffed, resting his hand on the edge of the window. He had the feeling he might be there a while.

  ‘That you’ve got a fine carriage painter in your employ, and your ancestors were kind enough to spend time thinking about their heraldry.’

  Darbish turned a shade of pink. His jowls worked overtime.

  ‘It means, you ignorant fool, that I am Lord Darbish! I have no need to display my papers to you.’

  Rolick snorted. ‘And this uniform means I’m Captain Rolick, and that big gate there means I need to see papers before you go in. Understand, Milord?’ Southerners.

  Darbish flushed red, positively trembling with outrage. Rolick couldn’t have cared less. Dizali was the only lord he answered to.

  ‘I’ll have you struck off! Fired and in the gutter begging for scraps by sundown!’

  Cheeks wobbling, he dug out his papers and practically threw them out the window. Rolick took his time with them, rubbing the seals, flicking the coats of arms.

  ‘All seems to be in order,’ he murmured, before handing them back.

  ‘Of course it is!’

  ‘Ring, Milord?’

  Darbish flashed his signet ring, bearing the same coat of arms.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  Rolick bowed as he signalled for the sturdy gates to swing open. ‘Enjoy your visit, Milord.’

  Darbish scowled at Rolick, holding his gaze until the courtyard’s curves stole the captain from site. Rolick had the urge to wave, but refrained. He tapped his halberd on the gravel and winked at his lordsguards. ‘Just wait until his Lordship gets hold of him.’

  *

  The carriage had barely come to a halt before Darbish wriggled out and strode towards the door. His suit was trimmed with gold in the Ottoman style; evidence, along with the ample frame, of his recent post. The Ottomans were famed for their use of sugar.

  Darbish wasted no time drinking in the beauty of Dizali’s grounds and the lofty towers of Clovenhall. He was late, pure and simple, and any member of the Cobalts worth his salt knew how the Prime Lord detested tardiness. Or
should that be Lord Protector now? Darbish repeated the title to himself over and over as he marched across the marble atrium. Lord Protector, Lord Protector.

  Several lordsguards were waiting at the end of the long corridor, in the depths of Clovenhall’s foundations. They escorted Darbish down a winding stairwell and around half a dozen corners. At last, he was shown to a door clad in ageing bronze and puckered with rivets. The lordsguards rang a bell, and waited. Darbish passed the time trying to ignore the sweat dripping down his nose.

  There came the crunching of old mechanisms and the whining of bolts, and the door swung open with a moan. More lordsguards greeted him, and led him through yet another door, this time made of rich mahogany and laced with silver.

  The drab brick walls of the cellars were left behind in the simple turn of its handle. The room that greeted him dripped with luxury and wealth. He could smell it in the varnished panelling, the lingering cigar smoke, and the earthy tang of green leather chairs. He could feel it in the carpet under his polished shoes. He could taste the gold in the air, and spy it in the rich cuts of clothing and shimmering jewellery of the dozen men and women now sat staring at him. A few even had the audacity to check pocket watches.

  ‘Prime Lord Dizali!’ Darbish began, and cursed himself inwardly. ‘I mean…’

  Dizali’s face was already resembling thunder. Whatever moment Darbish had interrupted, it was clearly not a calm one. The Lord Protector sat with his fingers templed, elbows on the polished table, glaring about the room with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Sit, Darbish.’

  Darbish did as he was told, sliding to an empty chair and clearing his throat politely.

  ‘My utmost apologies. The train from Dove is—’

  ‘None of our concern, Darbish. You are late, and we are deep in discussion. I suggest you silence yourself and try to catch up.’

  ‘Yes, Pr… Lord Protector.’ Damn this tongue, he cursed. He surveyed the eleven haughty faces gathered around the huge triangular table; lords, ladies, dignitaries, and an admiral to boot. Most were of the Empire and the Benches. Only two were not. A Prussian ambassador, and a woman of Egyptia, wrapped in turquoise silks and red gold. One seat sat vacant, to the left of the Lord Protector.

  Second Lord Longweather drummed his nails on the table. He still insisted on the despicable comb-over, and he had grown portlier in the time Darbish had been absent. ‘As I was saying before we were interrupted… The Queen should not be ignored. She still holds power with the people. Royalists, they call themselves, and they are not taking kindly to the steps we have taken. If they gather support, she could become more dangerous than ever.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Lady Sargen chimed in. Dizali shot her a look that would have withered a statue.

  ‘The question of the Queen is far from being ignored, my friends,’ Dizali snapped. ‘It is simply on hold. If you have not noticed, there is a war to be won.’

  ‘A war that you started,’ rumbled the Prussian ambassador.

  There was a rustling of coat-tails on leather and a mumbling awkwardness.

  ‘Bah!’ said Dizali. ‘She began the war, Kiefel, by manoeuvring against Lincoln with that assassin of hers. War was inevitable in any case. The Rosiyans have been poised to claim the Ottoman Empire for years. If none of this had happened, they would have pounced by winter. The news of their “failed assassination attempt” only served to push them into an early attack.’

  A young-faced lord spoke up. ‘I must congratulate you once again on using that failure to our advantage, Lord Protector,’ he said with a smile.

  A glare was turned on him. ‘Perhaps if your lips were removed from my posterior, Oswalk, you might be able to contribute something more useful to the meeting.’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  A balding lord at Darbish’s left spoke up. ‘You should not have trifled with her. She is the founder of this Order. Like all Europe’s royalty. She is dangerous.’

  Dizali flashed teeth at him. ‘And what did she do with that privilege? She left it to rot, before handing it over to us like some grand gift. She turned her back on us, is what she did. Like all Europe’s royalty. But we have prevailed. We have brought this Order out of the shadows, back out into the light, stronger than ever! Or are you too crippled with worry to realise this?’

  The man cleared his throat and bowed his head. ‘My apologies.’

  Dizali looked around the table. ‘Please, do illustrate to me what it is that concerns you, friends, for I have many other matters that require my attention. The grumblings of our wondrous populace for example, or the stubbornness and endless lack of imagination that are the Emerald Benches.’

  The Egyptian woman rose to her feet. ‘If our concerns do not hold your attention, Lord Dizali, then perhaps we should leave.’

  Dizali held up a hand and took a moment to sigh. ‘My apologies, Neritis. Please go on.’ He crossed a leg and rested his head on his knuckles, as if he were about to endure some odious opera.

  Neritis went on. ‘My Lord, it’s a fragile position. Branding the Queen as a traitor and a warmonger may have seen her removed from the throne, but it has also made the people nervous. That is why she gathers support even cooped up in her palace. Not to mention how nervous it has made the royalty and lampreys of Europe. Should the war not go our way, we may see an attack on our borders. On this very Order.’

  ‘Ambassador Darbish,’ Dizali spoke his name as though he were snapping a twig.

  Lord Darbish sat up straighter. ‘Yes, my Lord?’

  ‘As you have just returned from Constantia, perhaps you can inform us of how our war is going?’

  Darbish took to standing and cleared his throat once more. ‘Well, my Lords and Ladies, despite the early Rosiyan advance, our forces and defences have held strong. As have the Ottoman lines to the north, bolstered with our own troops and guns. The Turks see us as protectors. Saviours, even. They fight alongside our men and women in the trenches, you see—’

  ‘As well they should,’ growled the admiral.

  ‘—and they have treated me with the utmost kindness.’

  ‘We can see that.’ Dizali’s eyes flicked to Darbish’s belly, straining against the buttons of his Ottoman suit.

  ‘W…’ Darbish’s mouth flapped for a moment before he recovered his sentence. ‘And if we can fight them back beyond the Black Sea before winter, we shall be assured a victory.’

  ‘A short war is always the best sort of war,’ Longweather murmured. Darbish noticed his eyes slipping to meet Dizali’s. He had brokered enough peaces, and sat through far too many trade meetings to know when a game was being played. ‘Especially when supplies are short.’

  ‘Far too short,’ spat another lord, Traff.

  Dizali rolled his eyes. ‘You forget that we now have the Hark estate at our disposal.’

  ‘Only if the deeds can be produced,’ the man ventured.

  ‘That is in hand. Good hands, I might add. Two of the Brothers Eighth, in fact. Not only that, but we still have another windfall coming our way. You forget the Serped estate.’

  ‘Have you had word from your man in America?’ said Longweather.

  ‘Pardon me,’ interjected Darbish, confused. ‘The Serped estate?’

  Dizali took a moment to pick at something on the polished table. ‘It seems the Serped girl survived the fire.’

  ‘Calidae. I knew her well.’

  ‘As did we all, Darbish,’ Dizali snorted. ‘We have all met the girl on many an occasion. The last I heard from Gavisham, he was bringing her east and back to London.’

  More glances. ‘And you think you can take her under your wing, as you failed to do with Tonmerion Hark?’ Sargen surmised.

  ‘“Failed” is a strong word, Lady Sargen,’ Dizali hissed. ‘And yes, that is what I plan to do.’

  ‘And when did you last hear from your man?’ Longweather asked again. Darbish fidgeted in his chair, inordinately sweaty.

  ‘Over two weeks ago,’ said Dizali. ‘I had ex
pected to hear from him the day after the Bloodmoon.’

  There was a collective humming as the men and women pondered. Darbish stared up at the ceiling, at the silver crest of their order. ‘They may simply be at sea, due any day now.’

  ‘Ever the optimist, Darbish,’ said Sargen. ‘But you may be right.’

  ‘Has there been any word from the pretender Lincoln?’ asked the admiral, idly picking at a thread of one of his many medals. ‘Any clue to his intentions?’

  Dizali shook his head. ‘None, Caven.’

  Admiral Caven raised his hands, bringing the conversation full circle. Victorious sat in the forefront of the Order’s minds. ‘Then we may be able to assume that he doesn’t hold the Empire responsible for its queen’s actions.’

  ‘Assumptions are not a currency I deal in, Admiral,’ said Dizali.

  Longweather cut in. ‘If she were to spread rumours of her innocence, it could hurt us.’

  Dizali got to his feet and folded his hands behind his back. There was no colour of anger in his cheeks; none of the usual narrowed, impatient eyes. To Darbish, the Lord Protector almost looked faintly amused, and the ambassador in him nodded knowingly. Dizali had played the busy man, exhausting all their complaints until he had them where he wanted. Darbish had performed the same trick himself once or twice.

  ‘This table will have its way,’ announced the Lord Protector. ‘Victorious will be given my full attention, and swiftly dealt with. It is time to take a step forward, not a step back, as we seem to be suggesting. Therefore if something must be done with her, then we shall put her in the Crucible. We have shown Europe’s royalty they can be deposed. It’s time we showed them what else we are capable of. She will rot there until we can throw her corpse in the river. The people will soon forget her, once she is behind iron bars and brick, rather than golden drapes.

  Traff gasped. ‘The Orders will see that as heresy!’

  ‘Then let them! Are they our allies? No! And last time I checked, the Empire does not care much for its enemies’ opinions. The world is the prize we work for, my friends. You would do well to remember that!’ Dizali paced back and forth behind his chair. ‘This is the only path to take. If we release her, she will work her spells to turn the people against us. She will not rest until we are all hanging from a rope. In the Crucible, however, she will be alone, abandoned, and invisible. Are we agreed?’