The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Slowly up the coiling stairs he went, eyes checking every surface, every inch, making sure the butlers and maids weren’t slacking in their duties. All seemed well enough, barring a few mistakes here and there that he would mention to Mr Pontis. He should have known better than to get sloppy, especially after the recent “mass dismissals” of his entire staff. (Strangely enough, they had coincided with the day of the Bloodmoon.) For all these new minions were aware, he was simply a ruthless employer.

  On the second floor of the small tower, he found his stool and placed it quietly by the bedside. He turned the lamp a fraction brighter but stared straight ahead, not daring to glance down and witness the vacant eyes of his wife. As usual, the ceiling held her unwavering, blinkless gaze, unchanged since that brief moment several weeks before. Since then, the catatonia had held her tightly in its strict embrace.

  Dizali reached out a hand and grasped her fingers. He could still remember them warm and slender, not these bony things he held now. He thumbed the golden ring trapped between her knuckles as he pondered his words. It must have taken him half an hour to speak.

  ‘Avalin, my dear. I have decided it is time to do something no Order in the world has ever accomplished. Not to mention attempted.’

  No reply but the rasping of her shallow breath.

  ‘It is the start, my dear. The start of a new era, one that you once dreamt of for us. I still remember so clearly what you told me. I have never forgotten.’

  More breathing.

  Dizali waited for a while before continuing, almost as if he were imagining the other half of the conversation. He nodded to himself. ‘Now is the time to take your dream and make it a reality. It’s time for the Order to claim itself an empire. Time to show Europe what we’re capable of. It is time, my dear Avalin, to kill the Queen!’

  He waited for that to sink in.

  ‘Without her, and with no heir, these Royalists will have nothing to put their trust in. No legitimate line on which to support. They will die out, one by one, as the newspapers laud our new government over the people. The people and their precious Emerald Benches will see power, and flock to it. I will… we will take—’

  There came a sharp rapping from below him. Dizali cursed and apologised to his silent wife.

  ‘It seems it shall have to be a quick visit tonight, my dear.’ He leaned to bring her hand to his mouth, and placed a careful kiss on it. ‘I shall tell you more tomorrow. I promise.’

  Dizali stood, replaced the stool, and reached into his pocket. He produced an ornate vial of dark blood. After giving it a shake, he moved to the bed. This part always troubled him and yet he would have nobody else do it. He unscrewed the lid and reached out to dribble the crimson into her open mouth, making sure she swallowed instead of choked. All the while, he looked anywhere but her eyes.

  Another knock came from below, more timid this time.

  ‘Goodnight, my dear Avalin,’ he whispered, and put his boots to the stairs.

  Hanister was behind the door, bowler hat in hand, wrinkles in his face.

  ‘My apologies, Lord Protector. I hadn’t expected them to arrive so soon.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Dizali locked the door behind him and slid the key back under his collar. ‘Where have you put them?’

  ‘In your study, Milord, out of the way.’

  ‘See? You can do something right.’

  Hanister dropped a step behind him. ‘Yes, Milord.’ Dizali would train them eventually. Or he would buy a Brother Sixth. Maybe even a Fifth if there was one still alive.

  With a thrust of his arms, the study doors were thrown open. Two practically identical men were standing by his desk, chatting. They had the graces to bow as Dizali walked around to his chair. Hanister shut the doors behind him and sequestered himself in a corner, making the twins a trio.

  ‘Mr Heck. Mr Honorford. Welcome back to London,’ said Dizali.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to be back, Milord,’ Heck replied, mismatched eyes gleaming.

  ‘Were you successful?’

  Honorford was carrying a case. The Brother came forward immediately, laying the beaten-up old thing on the desk and flicking its latches. Six syringe vials sat nestled into velvet hollows, perfectly moulded for them. Only one lay empty.

  ‘All but one, Milord. One was rather… twitchy, shall we say.’

  Dizali raised an eyebrow. ‘Shall we indeed?’

  Honorford avoided the question, gesturing to the syringes. ‘In any case, you have five samples of fine leech-blood, just as you asked for. Taken almost immediately after death.’

  ‘I remember asking for six.’

  Honorford took off his hat. ‘There was unfortunately a lot of travelling involved, Lord Protector…’

  ‘… and leeches aren’t as numerous as they used to be,’ Heck finished.

  Dizali spent a moment switching between them with a sharp gaze. Even Hanister, lurking in the background, didn’t escape it. He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Tell me who we have here.’

  The Brothers’ hands darted over the vials. They spoke alternately.

  ‘Tork Knorsson, fisherman.’

  ‘Esther Unbridge, nurse.’

  ‘Bargen Bain, Swist banker.’

  ‘Raif and Carnby Redshire, soldiers in the Ottoman Empire lines.’

  Dizali ran his fingers through his sharp goatee, eyeing the dark red blood. He reached out to grasp a vial, and held it up to the gaslight. It was pure enough.

  ‘It is time to put this damnable Orange Seed of Karrigan’s to the test, and find out whether Mr Witchazel has been lying to us.’ Dizali was convinced that he was; that the Orange Seed would open for any leech, and not just the Bulldog’s boy.

  ‘A fine plan,’ Heck smiled. Dizali rolled his eyes.

  ‘Hanister, fetch the lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, Milord.’

  Dizali ran his finger along the long glass cylinders, examining the blood. It was a shame to waste it. Leech blood was the secret to making the finest scarlet brandy.

  He called for a butler, who called for Rolick. Within two minutes, the lordsguard captain was standing in front of him, acting sheepish. There was still a hint of a bruise on his pockmarked cheeks.

  ‘Yes, Milord?’

  Dizali beckoned him closer. ‘It struck me today how dangerous some of the roads are in this city, and how many of the carriages are not maintained as they should be.’

  Rolick knew the game and nodded. The hangdog expression soon lifted. ‘Yes, Milord. Bloody disgrace.’

  ‘Even some of the Emerald Lords are guilty of it. I have seen plenty of cracked wheels and creaking joints at the kerb of the House. Any one of them could have an accident at any time.’

  ‘I expect so, Milord.’

  ‘In fact, do you know of a Lord Felcher?’

  ‘I have had the pleasure of drinking with his personal guard more than once, Milord.’

  ‘Is that so? You may have heard the same rumours as I have then. That the axle of his carriage is near-broken and his horses are a skittish breed.’

  Rolick thumbed his nose, and pondered. ‘I had not, Milord. Would you like me to see that Lord Felcher is informed of it, Milord?’

  Dizali nodded solemnly. ‘I would indeed, Captain Rolick. ‘I would indeed.’

  *

  Wine cellars are wonderful places. Not only are they crammed with bountiful amounts of alcohol, they are also warrens, winding and burrowing into cold and dark places.

  The Brothers had the intelligence to at least recognise the need for lanterns. Four stood around the Orange Seed, one knelt. Three Brothers, a Lord Protector, and an emaciated lawyer. Witchazel’s gaze was nailed to the floor.

  ‘The case?’ Dizali hissed.

  Heck walked forward, showing off the vials.

  Dizali gestured to the golden cradle and orb. ‘Then let us begin, and see if we cannot fool this contraption. Start with the fisherman.’

  ‘Yes Milord.’ Heck bobbed his head. He set the case do
wn and plucked the first of the bloods from its velvet hollow. He tipped it into the funnel in one swift movement and the fisherman’s crimson flowed.

  Silence reigned. The men hardly breathed.

  Dizali frowned. Disappointment was not something he enjoyed. Success was his delicacy.

  ‘Next!’

  The nurse went second, and once again they waited and watched, hoping for a click, a whir, anything to indicate they were close. Dizali clenched his fists, dreaming up all sorts of fun things to do to Witchazel, just for being the one who had introduced him to this infernal device. He gave the lawyer a kick for good measure. That brought his eyes up, staring at the Seed. There was the faintest shadow of a smile on the lawyer’s face.

  ‘Next!’ Dizali barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The banker came and went with no results. Dizali bared his teeth.

  ‘Soldiers!’

  The Redshires’ gore wrapped the debacle up nicely. For a blessed moment there came a purr of some unseen cog. Dizali was halfway through celebration when a resounding click followed and the Seed fell still again. Blood began to trickle from beneath it, staining the grey stone floor.

  For a long time, Dizali didn’t speak. He just stared at the golden globe, letting its glowing, intricate face mock him for as long as he could bear. He knew there was only one option left.

  ‘I want Tonmerion Hark,’ he growled.

  ‘The boy that killed two of the Seventh?’ Hanister asked.

  ‘The very same. The Bulldog’s boy.’

  ‘It would be our pleasure, Milord.’

  ‘It will be your duty. I want him found. I don’t care how, but I want him. Alive, so I can spill his blood right here. He won’t be able to keep away. I want you to patrol the dockyards. Ask in the taverns, talk to your letters, to your acolytes! Find that rusher who attacked my carriage! ANYTHING!’ Dizali’s voice rose to a strangled shout.

  ‘Yes, Milord!’ said Hanister.

  Heck and Honorford tugged at the brims of their hats and filed up the stairs. Hanister remained, a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder.

  ‘You promised you would spare us both,’ Witchazel croaked. His eyes were fierce in that hollow face, his long, thin hair a smear of black across his knobbled skull.

  ‘Promises are like pottery, Mr Witchazel. They shatter with time and use. Take him away!’

  Hanister hauled Witchazel across the floor and out.

  Dizali was left alone to stare at the Orange Seed, grinding his teeth until the lanterns began to die, one by one, until he was plunged into darkness.

  In the shadows he saw the face of a thirteen year-old boy, sandy of hair and face, laughing at him.

  Chapter X

  “MAGICK IS A STUBBORN BEAST”

  5th August, 1867

  The park was a blur to Merion’s unfocused eyes. The scent of rain on grass and tree bark went unnoticed. The tapping of the drizzle on his hood was just a drone. He was a statue to contemplation and quiet meditation.

  For over an hour he had kept that quiet bench company. The world had moved on around him. The occasional passerby would toss him a quick glance. A lost ball had nudged his foot once, but he barely flinched. Even the ducks and sparrows didn’t pester him; they had quickly realised he had no bread or tidbits.

  A voice broke his reverie.

  ‘They should put you in a circus. The Amazing Frozen Boy.’

  ‘They tried that. It didn’t work out too well,’ said Merion, dragging his glazed eyes from the river and up to his aunt.

  Lilain shrugged and set herself down beside him without bothering to wipe the seat. She seemed to enjoy the rain.

  ‘What’ve you learnt?’ she asked, staring out at the riverbank and the passing ships, spewing smog from their funnels.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘One of my tutors, Lerbersson, a Nord gentlemen with the softest voice you’ve ever heard. He always used to ask me that when he caught me staring off into nothin’. He would slam his ruler down on the desk.’ She slapped her britches for good measure. ‘Then he’d say to me, “Lady Hark, what have you learnt? You must have been thinking about something more important than this lesson. Tell me what you’ve learnt!” Crotchety ole mule, but a fine letter. So, what have you learnt?’

  ‘That it’s hard being a traitor,’ said Merion. At first he spoke slowly and quietly, but then his words ran away with him. ‘This is the first moment in weeks where I’ve been able to sit and just… be. To truly put my thoughts in order. I keep forgetting I’m in London, for Almighty’s sake. I am home, as I promised myself, and yet all I can think about is Dizali swinging from a rope. That moment grows more golden every day. The moment I end this and go back to simply living. Back to a life where I can sit here and watch the ships and feed a duck, and not worry about being strangled to death by Calidae Serped or a Brother.’

  She must have seen his hand rise to his throat. ‘Is that what happened with Gavisham?’

  Merion nodded. ‘I would have died had it not been for her. It still bothers me.’

  ‘Well, it would.’ Aunt Lilain ruminated for a while, nodding slowly and thoughtfully. ‘I used to go out on the east road out of Fell Falls, remember it? I used to get up an hour before dawn, and go sit up on the ridge so I could watch the sun rise out the earth. Put my back to the town and pretend I was the last soul on a scorched Earth. I never took any water, or supplies. Not even a gun. Just my mind and thoughts for company. Makes you want to sort through them, weigh everything up, put it all in perspective. Solitude. It’s as good for our thoughts as sleep is for bodies. And by the looks of you, I’d say you needed this. That’s why we left you alone. I understand time’s an evil mistress and we’re not on her good side, but you don’t have to fight the world all at once, Merion.’

  ‘It’s not the whole world. Just Dizali.’

  Lilain chuckled. ‘I know you, Nephew. If you wanted revenge on just one man, you’d have fried him the first day you set foot in London. But no, you develop this grand scheme to bring him to his knees in the most public of ways. Otherwise you wouldn’t be making your list of lords and ladies, now would you? You’re far from a fool, Merion, and that’s the truth. I’d wager that you know full well that anythin’ you do here, in this city, will echo around the world. And you want that. You want the whole world to see him fall, right?’

  It was Merion’s turn to shrug. ‘You may have a point,’ he said, a smile sneaking over his face. He could always trust Aunt Lilain on matters of the mind.

  ‘I get it,’ said Lilain. ‘You’re following in your father’s footsteps. I saw the glint in your eye when Dower spilled the beans. You want to finish the work he started and see the whole Order down in the dust with Dizali. Lampreys against leeches. It’s the oldest battle there is. I don’t doubt you and your plan, Merion, and I have faith you can do this, but I have to say this, otherwise I wouldn’t be fit to call myself an aunt. If you stretch yourself too far, you’ll get yourself killed. Or one of us, for that matter. That ain’t high on my list of plans.’

  Merion thumbed a rebel raindrop from his chin. ‘How did you get so wise, Aunt?’

  ‘I do my best.’ She nodded, and they fell into silence. She had spoken, and Merion would listen.

  ‘Have you missed it?’ asked Merion, once an iron-plated Queen’s cruiser had drifted past, its brass clockwork cannons glistening. Off to the Obsidian Sea, most likely. It reminded him of a similar ship he had felt beneath his feet, not so long ago.

  Lilain snorted. ‘Not one bit. Give me the wide open nothing any day. It’s too close and crowded here. Far too vertical for my liking. I appreciate it, but I don’t enjoy it.’

  ‘So you won’t be staying when all of this is done?’

  Lilain shook her head. ‘I ain’t a clue, but something tells me wherever I’ll be, it’ll be with Lurker.’

  ‘With Lurker?’ Merion echoed, watching her from the corner of his eye. He had seen their sly looks at each other, the brief touching of hands.


  ‘Yes, Lurker.’

  ‘Then I was right, that night in Yara’s tent.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I learnt something else, too.’ Merion nudged her with an elbow.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That if I am to fight the whole world, there isn’t another strange gaggle of people I would rather fight it with. I’m glad you came looking for me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lilain, ‘I know.’

  *

  ‘You’re telling me whenever my father said he was overseeing the grounds, he was in his cavern, cooking up shades?’ said Merion. He was tense in the jaw. The perfection of his father’s secret still niggled at him.

  ‘Or practising,’ said Gunderton. Together, they negotiated a deep puddle and hopped back onto the pavement. The rain was a fine thing indeed; the sky above them a murky black, delivering a fresh torrent upon London. Anyone still mad enough to be out in the downpour was running for their lives. Nobody spared the men a glance. Just another couple of poor souls, weathering the storm.

  ‘So that’s why you always kept me inside.’

  ‘And I remember you screaming about it.’

  Merion blew rainwater from his lips. ‘Well, perhaps if there had been a bit more honesty in the Hark household, I might have understood.’

  Gunderton chuckled, disarming Merion’s jab. The boy was making a habit of exercising his wit; fair repayment for all the secrets he had been refused. At first, the jibes had a sharp edge to them. Now they were blunt as a hammer, just jokes to keep the conversation rolling.

  Gunderton had crawled further out of his shell with each passing day. He and Lurker had grown some sort of rapport, no doubt based on a mutual love of whisky and tobacco, guns and magick. Hardship too, perhaps. They had both seen war. Old soldiers always talked the lowest and the longest.

  Merion had warmed to him as well, despite who and what he was, and the lingering ghost of Gavisham. When Gunderton could get away from Lilain’s eager letter-chat, he had shown Merion some bloodcraft, sharpening the boy’s rudimentary skills. They had even squeezed in a little training, when the gaslights were low and the city slumbered. He still thought the old butler strange, but that was nothing more than a product of his years. Merion wondered what it meant to be a Brother, and how he would have turned out had he been born to a different bloodline of leeches. It was a disturbing thought; how the ingredients of time and circumstance can forge a man and how powerless a soul can be against them.