The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Now she was running her nails along the table, drumming out an irritable tune. Before long her legs began to grow restless and she took to pacing up and down behind her chair. Pacing often leads to wandering, and soon enough she found herself roaming the atrium. The sun was now embedded in the horizon. It was that time of day when the dusk light plays tricks with the eyes, turning everything one shade of shadow before lamps define the darkness. The butlers and maids had yet to go to work.

  Her legs took her down the hallway, treading on the softer carpet rather than the marble. Her feet fell more quietly with every step. This was no longer wandering, this was creeping, and Calidae did like to creep.

  Muffled voices came floating down a dark hallway with two tall oak doors at its end. She headed in their direction, sticking to the shadows.

  Calidae hid herself by the hinges of one of the doors, and pressed her ear against the wood. The voices were distorted, but she could just about make them out.

  This was business after all, and you never mumble when conducting business.

  Another Castorism for the pile.

  Two men could be heard speaking in turn. One was undoubtedly Dizali; it was his office, and even a thick oak door couldn’t strip the oily confidence from his voice. The other sounded Empire high-born. She caught the clink of rings on crystal glasses and her stomach flinched.

  The high-born was having trouble swallowing Dizali’s words, it seemed.

  ‘Spit it out, man!’ said the Lord Protector.

  ‘I can’t see them agreeing to that.’

  ‘They will have little choice in the matter.’

  ‘But they will have a vote—’

  ‘The strikes continue to worsen. The Royalists spend their nights camped at the Crucible’s gates. European support grows weak. What choice is there to be had? It is a step we must take.’

  Footsteps now, up and circling, like a wolf to a fat hog.

  ‘We shall impress upon them the shock and awe of the matter.’

  Fingers clicked.

  ‘Sell them the glory of a such a bold step.’

  ‘If you think it’s the right—’

  ‘You are lucky I do not take that as evidence of further doubt, Longweather. It is the only path. The only option. The only way we can claim our Empire.’

  A clink of glasses.

  ‘How’s the hunt going?’

  ‘Slow. These Brothers are far from what I’m accustomed to.’

  ‘Even with three?’

  ‘Even with three. Not helped of course by the rarity of their prey.’

  ‘Mmm. I hear leeches are hard to find these days.’

  ‘Do you think it will work—’

  ‘Good gracious, Milady!’ hissed a voice behind Calidae. A butler, lingering in the shadows, candle taper poised in his hand, its light painting the horrified edges of his face orange.

  ‘Shh!’

  Calidae drew herself up to her full height. Still keeping to the carpet, she strode towards the man, playing calm even though her mind screeched and her heart pounded. Capture was not an option.

  ‘That is the Lord Protector’s private study!’

  The butler had raised his voice a fraction, and it made Calidae wince. She prodded him sharply in the stomach and led with the first thing she could come up with. Lies can wither if told without speed.

  ‘There you are!’ she snapped, voice still a whisper. It seemed to confuse the butler just enough to keep him quiet. ‘I have been examining the edges of these carpets, and I’m furious with what I’ve found!’

  ‘I hardly—’

  Calidae grabbed his arm and led him to a section of carpet several yards back down the hallway.

  ‘Frayed! Every inch.’

  ‘Lord Dizali will not—’

  ‘And that’s not all!’ Calidae pushed the man ahead of her, bamboozling him with her haughty words and outraged face. She was a lady, after all.

  ‘My Lady, I must insist—’

  ‘That we rectify the problem immediately? I completely agree! What is your name, servant?’

  ‘Pontis, Milady. Eswald Pontis, but—’

  ‘Pontis, I’m glad I found you. The carpets are just the tip of the iceberg. The windowsills are dreadful. And have you seen the larders? They are filthy!’

  Calidae didn’t pause her barrage until she had poked and prodded and hauled him down into the roots of Clovenhall, past the kitchens, now quiet after supper, and into a corridor lined with old cupboards and spare chairs. It was a nook she had found in her recent wanderings, as she had surreptitiously mapped the house for Merion, along with the names of those who came and went. Only the northeast wing had eluded her scrutiny so far.

  ‘Lady Serped, I really must insist!’

  Pontis’ voice was getting louder by the minute. This was taking far too long, and was far too dangerous. He stopped in his paces and wrenched his arm away from her.

  ‘I will need to report this to his Lordship!’

  ‘How dare you shout at me, Butler Pontis! I say, move onwards,’ she ordered, hands on hips for good measure. ‘Or I shall report you!’

  Pontis turned slowly, eyes narrowed and clearly beginning to boil. Calidae had to act swiftly. As soon as his back was turned, she pounced.

  Calidae jumped high, throwing herself up to his shoulders. As her knees collided with his back, making him lurch forward, she put her palms to the back of his skull and pushed him down with all her weight and might, aiming his forehead for the corner of a sturdy side table.

  She missed her mark, but the result was still the same. Pontis’ temple met the sharp oak edge with a wet crack and he sagged to the ground, lashing out wildly with his arms. He was stronger than his pudgy frame suggested, and a thrash of his arm caught the side of her face. The pain only served to make her rage blossom, bringing out the monster she always felt lurking under the surface.

  Calidae grabbed him by the roots of his hair and slammed his head repeatedly down onto the tabletop until his limbs grew sluggish. She hit him again—once, twice—until the bone caved inwards to reveal his insides. She slumped with him as crimson pooled on the floor, flooding her vision. The bloodlust, they called it; when a lamprey bares the side where the animal still resides. Lampreys are not called sons and daughters of Cain for no reason.

  When Pontis’ lungs had rattled their final wheeze, Calidae rose to her feet. Between the thunderous beats of her heart, she listened for shouts or ringing bells. There was nothing. She let her head sag down onto her chest, wincing at the throbbing in her face. It was then that she saw the blood on her fingers. Slowly, she raised a hand, mouth already inching open. She dabbed the warm blood on her tongue and sucked it clean, savouring the tingle on her lips, the wriggle in her throat. She screwed her eyes shut and revelled in it.

  Once the beast had receded, she began to drag Pontis away. Yanking at his arms, she inched him down the narrow hallway, leaving a smear of blood. She would have to be faster than this, she thought, and hauled harder, using the slope of the corridor to aid her. Soon enough, she reached a cupboard; a huge, heavy thing engraved with scenes of forests and mountains in the Prussian style. There was a key sticking out from one of its thick oak doors. With a great deal of difficulty, Calidae stuffed Mr Pontis inside. Her anger helped her along. When she finally managed to get his foot to stop falling out, she locked the doors tightly and slid the key into her pocket.

  Within half an hour, and after the theft of a bucket and rag, she had the corridor clean of blood, and her hands the very same. With every wipe and scrub, she thanked all the deities she didn’t believe in for large houses and forgotten corridors.

  Soon, she was sat in the library, flicking through a book about a journey to the Galapagods Islands, where it seemed all sorts of strange creatures and theories abounded. Whenever a maid or butler passed her by she nodded and smiled, playing the good little lady.

  Dizali paid her a visit as she was walking up the stairs to her room, ready to retire. Or at le
ast that was what she told the Lord Protector.

  ‘I bid you goodnight then, Lady Serped. You no doubt have a great many things to ponder. It will be good to sleep on them. Tomorrow, we shall talk some more.’ There was a curious glint in Dizali’s eye.

  Calidae nodded. ‘That we shall, Lord Protector.’

  ‘And I trust,’ Dizali added, before she could escape, ‘that I was not too absent this evening. I had some business to attend to.’

  ‘Not at all, my Lord. I was perfectly happy reading in the library.’

  ‘Anything of note, Lady Serped?’

  Calidae tilted her head to one side, as if recalling the text. ‘Just a book on what a Mr Darwin is calling evolution, and how creatures can change to suit their environment, however harsh.’

  Dizali raised an eyebrow. ‘How curious.’

  ‘Apparently, only the strongest survive,’ she said, fixing him with a bold stare. ‘Personally, I believe it is nothing more than a radical claim.’ She pretended to stifle a yawn. ‘Excuse me, Lord Protector. I believe it is time for me to sleep on it, as you say. Goodnight.’

  Calidae could feel Dizali’s eyes following her all the way up the stairs until she had disappeared behind the ornate balustrade. Only then did she exhale, slowly. Her heart played a merry tune all the way back to her chambers.

  Once the door was locked, she pressed her back against it and concentrated on prising her teeth from her bottom lip. The ice beneath her feet was already thin enough; a dead body was the last thing she needed. And yet, within a handful of minutes she had quelled her angst and stoppered her nose to the stench of fear. Mr Darwin was a wise fellow, indeed. What is survival, at its basest, if not to kill or be killed? This evening, she had been forced into making that choice.

  ‘I am a Serped,’ Calidae whispered to herself.

  The next half an hour was spent pacing, deciding on her next move. She pondered the odds of getting Dizali to take her back to Slickharbour tomorrow or the next day, but they were slim at best. It took far too long by carriage, and the Lord Protector would not have had his corpse seen on a rumbleground train. This messaging system she and Merion had invented was altogether disappointing.

  Tap.

  Calidae looked down at her fingernails in confusion, then at the door.

  A figment, nothing more.

  Perhaps she could convince Dizali of a nostalgic journey into the city, and slip away.

  Tap, tap.

  She could always use the rumour of a safe under the house, and sneak off while the lordsguards hunted for it. No doubt they would tear the place apart.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Something was attacking the window behind her. Was it rain? Calidae whirled around to find a bird—a magpie, no less—pecking the glass. She drifted towards the window, drawn by curiosity. The magpie was a fleabitten thing and missing one eye, but it seemed eager enough to get in.

  It was then that she remembered Merion’s words on the journey over the Iron Ocean.

  A one-eyed magpie.

  Something to do with that old prospector friend of his. A pet, for all intents and purposes.

  ‘Surely not,’ she mumbled to herself. Almost without her permission, her hand reached for the cord to hoist the window. She yanked it, setting the pulleys to work, and with a scrape of paint on paint, the glass shifted upwards. The magpie wriggled though.

  The bird cawed softly, as if it knew it needed to be quiet. It paraded up and down the windowsill as Calidae took to kneeling, her eyes still curious slits. The bird’s feathers caught the candlelight, and greens and shimmering blues danced in its inky feathers.

  ‘Can you understand me?’ she asked. ‘Did Merion send you?’

  The magpie squawked twice. Calidae had no idea what that meant, but she took it as a yes.

  ‘Can you get a message to Merion?’ She might as well try it, seeing as the bird had sought her out. Maybe it worked like a carrier pigeon.

  Two squawks. Calidae moved to her desk and pulled out a fresh sheaf of paper. With the nib of her quill clinking against the inkwell, she had a letter scratched out in no time at all. It was brief, and to the point. She read it aloud:

  M,

  No sign of deeds nor contact with W.

  The Spit is being sacrificed. Dizali incessant.

  C.

  P.S. D hunting leeches for their blood. Why?

  At the end, she included a name, one for Merion’s list.

  Longweather.

  She folded the note twice and brought it back to the bird, who was preening in boredom. ‘I must be going mad,’ she muttered, holding the letter out straight. ‘Don’t you dare eat it.’

  The magpie blinked and inspected the letter, tilting its head back and forth until its beady eyes, or in this case, eye, had got the measure of a thing. The magpie snatched up the letter in its beak and escaped back into the night, all in a blink.

  Calidae shook her head as she closed the window. She turned around, eyes vacant, as if she couldn’t quite understand what she had just done. ‘I must be mad,’ she told herself. Giving letters to a magpie.

  Despite all her anger and hatred for the Hark boy, she couldn’t help but deny a strange glimmer of gratitude. He was the reason she was here, after all. It may have been the mouth of the beast, but it was closer to home.

  ‘Damn you, Tonmerion…’

  She still could not wait to shoot the boy.

  Chapter IX

  WORMS

  4th August, 1867

  Worms.

  The hole in the earth Sift had chosen for Rhin was not a private residence. He shared it with huge earthworms. Great fat beasts, thicker than his arm, writhing and slithering around in the mud, making a noise that made Rhin shudder.

  The faerie huddled in the corner, clutching himself, his wings drooping. But his eyes did not echo his disgusted, dejected posture. They were slits of glowing purple, hard and fierce. They stared out of the bars keeping him confined, watching anything that moved.

  The bowels beneath the Coil of Cela’h Dor were vacuous. They were misshapen caverns where cranes and wires fought for space, where prisons lurked at the edges, and barracks oversaw all from above, near the surface and the streets of Shanarh. The sheer walls and arching ceilings were pockmarked with hollows and rooms bristling with machinery; Fae clockwork and waterworks, already centuries old. Glow-worm lanterns shone from every nook and crevice, bathing all in their strange bluish light, painting the hollow world in monochrome.

  These were the innards of the city and the fortress above, and Rhin watched it all closely as it ground and clanked away. Shouts echoed through the damp air, keeping time with the incessant dripping. Mighty though Shanarh’s inner workings might have been, plumbing had never been the Fae’s strong suit.

  One of the worms brushed Rhin’s elbow with its knobbly tail, and he whacked it, eliciting a wet thud, and a hand smeared in mud. He wrinkled his mouth, even though he was already practically bathing in the stuff. The guards had tossed him around a bit before slamming the door in his snarling face. The cuts and bruises they had carved still ached; no doubt soiled with the fetid mud around him just like his other wounds: marks of Sift’s enjoyment. He would have to keep his spells going strong to keep infection at bay. That meant he would have to eat.

  His stomach growled at the thought of food. Sift hadn’t fed him yet; she was trying to chip away at his strength. He knew he would get slop, that much was certain. Probably a mug of spit, too, if he was lucky. But he would eat it all the same. He wasn’t a fool. He knew a prisoner’s best weapon is resolve. That, and patience.

  Sift had promised him pain, and pain she had delivered, chuckling and purring throughout. She had taken him to a hall with all sorts of vicious devices and blades. A solitary stone chair had been his throne. He had been shown the edge of his determination within an hour, and the depth of the Queen’s ideas in half of that. That first day had taught him more about himself then several centuries as a soldier, fighting for his li
fe and his so-called Queen. Torture is at least open and honest.

  It had worried him deeply how weak he now felt; how the pain ebbed and flowed, inexorable. Rhin consoled himself by dragging up old memories long-banished, in an effort to paint over the horror of current times with the varnish of perspective. Memories of times worse than this.

  Rhin thought back to the battlefields of Bodmin, almost a century and a half ago. Dark and steaming from the blood of battle they had been. Bodies impaled upon the stalagmites in their dozens, gaping faces and broken wings left, right, and centre. Rhin had staggered through them, eyes up and straight ahead, refusing to let his gaze wallow in the slaughter. Sift had sent them there to break the rebellion of Ghori Felltongue, an ambitious Earl with a loud mouth. It’s strange, how just a few words can send thousands to their graves.

  Then there was the day the trolls broke into Carn’Erfjan. Clever things, trolls. They always work in threes, and they can sniff out a tunnel or a hidden exit no matter how clever the door, or tight the seam. Their claws and teeth do the rest. Then they come for you, wading through the shadows, a wall of muscle and hunger, dripping acidic blood, filling the diameter of all but the largest tunnels. Swords don’t work but lances do, and glass shields keep the blood at bay. He remembered how they painted every inch of the stone purple with the dead before the soldiers brought them down. He could still hear the screams.

  Or the Tunnels of Eyri, directly south-east of Carn’Erfjan, where Feghan of the Black Eruption—the last protester of Undering—had made his refuge. And what a refuge it was; a fortress within a mighty oak root, hanging from a cavern’s ceiling. They had ridden moles high along the cavern’s walls, until the roots took them close enough to scale the fortress. They’d climbed to the very top, where Feghan’s family slept alongside his captains, his generals, and of course Feghan himself. It had been a bloody slaughter that night; the work of black knives and no mercy. When every scream and baby’s cry had been silenced, Rhin had let his gaze finally fall and meet the vacant eyes of the dead. That was the last time he had taken an order from Sift. He had stolen the Hoard nine days later.