The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

  Rootsby sighed. ‘No colour,’ he said. ‘No beauty. No life.’ He turned and walked to stand behind one of the chairs that surrounded the large duckwood meeting table. ‘Please be seated, Mr Pooter,’ he said, indicating a chair as boldly as if the office were his own. Pooter obeyed without hesitation, moving to the designated chair and sitting first, as etiquette dictated.

  ‘How found you the King this day?’ Rootsby asked, as he took his own chosen seat.

  That a lord should inquire after the King’s health from a proletaire, struck Pooter as strange, but he was eager to respond. ‘His Lightness looked…unwell,’ he said, the simple words causing him to curse inwardly his obvious lack of observation.

  Rootsby’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘But, I was a long way up, My Lord,’ he added quickly. ‘On a high balcony. It was difficult to see.’

  ‘Is there anything particular that you remember from the ceremony?’

  Pooter thought for a moment, but the whole affair had been so interminable that his attention had drifted regularly into his daily worries. Then he remembered the furious row that had suddenly erupted between Cardinal Oblong, Primate of the Holy Church of Afterwards, and Lord Hardknot, Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, and despite catching only pieces of their heated exchange, he recalled the event for Lord Rootsby, Rootsby rubbing his chin with jewel-encrusted fingers as he weighed each word.

  ‘And you are quite sure that is what Lord Hardknot said?’ Rootsby pressed, as Pooter recalled the final blow of the argument. She will be recognised, and He will be chosen? Think now, for the detail is beyond importance.’

  Pooter took a moment to see the scene in his mind’s eye, the rotund and increasingly purple-faced figure of His Mostfull, Cardinal Oblong, spitting words he could only partly hear at the ice-cold and lofty figure of His Oneness, Lord Hardknot. Then Hardknot had cut Oblong dead, the words he spoke seeming to slice like a blade through the Primate’s rhetoric.

  ‘Yes, I am sure, My Lord,’ said Pooter at last. ‘She will be recognised, and He will be chosen.’ That is what Lord Hardknot said.’

  Rootsby stared into the space above Pooter’s head for a moment as if very far away, and then he looked at Pooter once more, his face dark and foreboding. ‘I have come to see you, Mr Pooter, on a matter of the utmost importance. A matter so important that only one such as you, could possibly endure its obligations. But I must caution you. To fail in the grave task I am about to place upon you, would certainly cost you your life.’

  As he said these words Rootsby’s eyes blazed with such a display of colours that Pooter felt as if he would burst into flames in their glow. He felt the blood drain from his face, his head adrift in a sea of confusion. In a flash, he wondered how a day that had started out so grandly, could have cascaded to a point where a noble lord was telling him his life was in danger. He tried desperately to gather his thoughts, a hopeless process interrupted by Rootsby reaching into a pocket and bringing forth a small jar containing a bright golden liquid. He placed it on the table between them where it seemed to glow with a powerful intensity in the darkening room. Though Pooter had never seen it before, there was no doubt in his mind that the jar contained honey, and he recoiled instantly from the danger. He tried to push from his mind the many Church sermons he had heard on the awful consequences of close contact. No one was safe, and certainly not a proletaire accounter. But as the light from several glowicks on his mantelpiece began to streak through the liquid like golden skyrockets, he found it impossible to resist its magical spell.

  ‘It is beautiful, is it not, Mr Pooter?’ whispered Rootsby.

  ‘But, isn’t it dangerous, My Lord?’ asked Pooter, his heart still drumming.

  ‘Indeed it is not, Mr Pooter. And you will have need of it soon. For tomorrow you must enter the Palace once more.’

  Pooter stared wide-eyed and spoke without thinking. ‘But I have been to the Palace but once, My Lord, and that on this day alone. I am not entitled to another. And my practice. It is very new, and I am required to…’

  ‘I dare not enter the Palace myself,’ Rootsby continued. ‘I have been away for very many years and my presence would not go unnoticed. The passage of time clings as fast as the dust of travel. But an accounter? Though the punishment for such a transgression would be severe, no high motive would be attributed to your actions. But,’ he added, before Pooter’s alarm could find words, ‘we must do all we can to ensure you are not apprehended.’ With this he reached into a deep pocket once more and retrieved a rolled document, tied with a purple ribbon, which he laid on the table beside the honey. ‘A Royal Warrant of Appointment. It grants you access to the Palace Grand Library for the purposes of State Accountering. It is a forgery, of course, but very few are the number that will recognise it as such. Beyond that, your own wits will have to serve. When you are in the library you must find the Far Pre-Ancient Hall, and once there you must locate The Kingdom of Honey, a book that has rested unrecognised through an age of time.’

  ‘But, My Lord,’ protested Pooter, as politely as possible. ‘Even if I manage to enter the Palace again, how shall I find what you seek? The Grand Library is known to contain countless millions of books filling six vast rooms. Whole sections are known to be unexplored for many generations. And to find a single book, a book that has lain lost for so long, and all within but a single day. The prospect of failure must surely be...’

  ‘The Kingdom of Honey contains the key to a treasure of the utmost importance,’ interrupted Rootsby firmly, ‘and far more than you could possibly imagine rests on its safe recovery. You must not fail.’ With this he stood and walked to the window once more where the Blue Sun fell fast from an ice-grey sky. ‘Night approaches, Mr Pooter,’ he said, ‘and I must take my leave.’

  ‘But My Lord. I…’

  ‘Take heart, Mr Pooter,’ interrupted Rootsby, turning to him once more, ‘for deep within you is more strength and courage than you realise. You have not been chosen lightly.’ And with that he left the office in several large strides, pausing in the hallway only to retrieve his cloak before opening the large door that led to the outside world. ‘And keep the honey close to you,’ he called out, as he began to disappear into the gathering gloom.

  It was only some moments after he had gone that Pooter realised that Abather had completely ignored his departure, with not a single growl or bark emanating from her chest.

  Cabble appeared and the spell was broken. ‘I was wondering, sir, as whether I might be permitted to leave now. I appreciate that I have not quite finished balancing all the bills as how you expected, but then I did have the gentlemen visitor, and I have need to be home tonight on time as...’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ interrupted Pooter, ‘I had quite forgotten you, Cabble. You may leave at once.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Cabble. ‘I will of course present myself here tomorrow at the usual hour and shall ensure that …’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said Pooter. ‘Be off with you now. It grows late and the Shufflers will be abroad before long.’

  That seemed to do the trick, and after collecting his coat Cabble was off, the noise of the door closing behind him marked by two final gruffs from Abather.

  Pooter led Abather into the back yard for the night, her claws clumping heavily on the stone floor, and though her tails wagged with anticipation of the meal to come, she was clearly far from her usual self.

  ‘What ails you, girl’ he said, ruffling one of her ears, and she looked back towards the door, her huge brow furrowing and a quizzical whine catching her breath.

  Pooter made his way back to his office, his mind filled with uncertainties. He stared at the pile of books and papers that lay upon his desk. More would be added tomorrow. As tired as he was, he picked up a dull grey bundle tied with string. ‘Yearly Accounts for Larkgrove and Bundlecord, Tailors of Hardwax Alley’. There was time for at least one hour of accountering to salvage something from such a strange day. His cash flow demanded it. He undid the bow and
tried to focus on his work.

  When Pooter finally decided it was a hopeless task and rose from his desk to head homewards, the visit he had received from Lord Rootsby already seemed far more dreamlike than real. But the small jar of honey and the document that lay upon his table beside it, had not disappeared. He tried to remember everything Lord Rootsby had said to him. Every word came back to him as clearly as if freshly spoken.

  ‘Strange,’ he whispered, before placing both the document and the precious honey deep within a pocket. He headed for the door.

  When Pooter arrived at his modest home in Dutiful Crescent, darkness had swept all but a faint blue glow from the night sky. Glarious Pooter, his wife, had already taken to her bed. He tiptoed up the stairs and past the ornate carved glass door to her bedroom. As was customary for proletaires, they only slept together on the feast days prescribed by the Blessed St. Prolifica, the Perpetually Pregnant. He carefully opened the large double door to their children’s bedroom and in the gloom saw three small shapes in three neatly arranged beds. In the first bed lay Punsworth One, who was five, then Punsworth Two, who was four, and finally Punsworth Three, who was two. In a fourth bed by the window was their adopted Eject child, Allacar, who was eight, and who flatly refused to sleep in any other location. Pooter held his breath and could hear the sound of gentle breathing. In seven days’ time his eldest son, Punsworth One, would attain the age of six, and they would have the Ceremony of Identity. Glarious had already baked the Cake of Names and would be covering it in coloured sweets before long. Baked within it were twenty-seven names on small brass coins, the names having been drawn at random from the Family Name Chest that all Proletaires handed down from one generation to the next. One of these would be found in the slice of cake given to Punsworth One at the ceremony, and this would be his adult name. Punsworth hoped it would be something manly like Chastyker, Grassfelt or Paramoor, and not something short and insipid like Floop or Bilp, his least favourite names of all that had gone into the cake.

  He closed the door and made his way along the corridor and then up a further flight of stairs to his own bedroom. Sleep came easily to him, and as he drifted into its embrace he fell into a magical dream. He was standing before a deep green sea that stretched across the horizon, the surface swelling and rolling in bright yellow sunlight. He jumped into the sea, and several dolphins came to him and carried him at great speed out into the vastness of a warm ocean. In the distance he could see a huge mountain rising above the clouds, and as he was carried closer he could see the land beneath, and it was wonderful to behold. He found himself walking on an island. Exotic birds filled the air with light and colour, tall trees with large green leaves swayed gently in the warm sea breeze, and a myriad of flowers painted the hillsides with colour. Fruits of every description filled the branches of the trees and the scents of a billion varied blossoms kissed the air. He moved into a forest and heard a deep humming sound, but could not see what was causing it through the impenetrable green canvas. The air became filled with a gloriously sweet aroma, and through the canopy of leaves above him he glimpsed an occasional dark shadow move quickly across the sky. Quite suddenly the trees cleared, and there before him lay a large conical beehive, the honeybees hard at work flying to and fro as they gathered nectar and pollen from the countless flowers on the island. But this was not a single hive, but one of millions, stretching to the left and right and off into the far distance, and all immersed within an endless vista of activity, with clouds of honeybees flying through the sky like whales in the sea, and the air filled with the sound of wings and the scent of honey.

  Pooter awoke, and for a time he tried to take himself back to the magical island, but further sleep evaded him. He left the warmth of his bed and went to a large bay window that led onto his balcony. The air was still, the total blackness of night enveloping the City. He reached deep into a pocket; the small jar was still there. A shaft of ice-cold air suddenly fell over him and within its embrace lay a depth of fear that gripped his heart. He pulled his hand free, not daring to dwell on the danger of having honey in his possession, but unable to think on anything else. He forced his mind to the fast-approaching day when he must enter the Palace again. The task of locating a single book now lost amongst every book that had ever been written, made his head spin. The odds of success, on any score, were beyond reason. And what treasure could this book possibly unlock that was worth risking his life for? He imagined being caught as an intruder in the Grand Library and dragged into captivity; the Palace guards were known to employ many cruel punishments. He shook his head, trying to clear it of emotions he had never imagined before.

  But what if he were to return to sleep, he thought, and then on waking find that it had all been a fantastic dream? That he was just Mr Punsworth Pooter again, a newly established Midwall Accounter weighed down by debt and responsibility, and heading off to work once more to a desk full of other people’s bills? But try as he might, he knew that this was not so. Something had been awoken deep within him, and whilst there was fear, there was also something more.

  He heard shufflers in the dark streets below as they warmed to their nightly task.

  Chapter 2

  Lord Hardknot, the 967th Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, High Lord of the Hives and the Oneness of All, left the Hivedom for the Palace, his coach rattling over the cobblestones of the dark deserted streets. At such a late hour, few would dare to venture from the safety of hearth and home. At a prominent intersection, their swift passage startled a dusk of shufflers that disappeared before them as quickly as shadows before light. Shufflers were exiles that nightly entered the City to clean the streets of detritus, be that what it may. Adding to their dark reputation was their right to take any souls found wandering alone, a fact that caused as many nightmares for children, as inconvenience for their elders. But the rights of the Shufflers were enshrined in an ancient Book of Doings, and no one, be they King or Downcast, would dare to challenge such a lofty precedent.

  Hardknot was a tall man with a slim body, his face sharp-featured and holding a proud narrow nose fixed beneath a prominent forehead. His piercing grey eyes lay within two dark shadows, and once fixed upon another’s they held a fearful stare that could weaken the resolve of even the stoutest heart. In every respect Lord Hardknot had a cold countenance, but behind it lay a mind of such power and agility that none in the Kingdom could match.

  As was his custom, Hardknot made first for the Queen’s Wing to visit Queen Camellia. She was almost hidden within a mass of femones fussing over her like honeybees around fresh dawn clover. Whilst five years beyond the Prime Age, she was still a most beautiful woman. Her long black hair cascaded in curls over her shoulders. Her face was elegantly defined, with two almond-shaped green eyes, a precise nose, and a wide arrow’s bow mouth; all in harmony. Her limbs were long and perfectly formed, whilst beneath a shimmering purple gown her breasts were full and firm, it being neither the expectation nor desire of a Queen to suckle her young. In fact, it would have been quite impossible to guess that one whose figure was so pleasing to the eye, had produced close to three thousand offspring, but then the science of Drollup procreation was precise and well-practiced. There was little the Queen had to do save permit the daily gathering of an egg for the Deep Hives, a not altogether uncomfortable procedure wrapped in an ancient ceremony. Of far more concern to Hardknot, however, was the preeminence of her title. The scent grew weak, but the timing was all.

  Several femones came to welcome him.

  ‘Her Lightness is to be rested this night,’ he said, ‘and the windows kept tight closed. At green sunrise, she is to be bathed and the windows opened once more. After the visitations of the Royal Honeybees, I shall return.’

  They bowed as one and moved gracefully away.

  Hardknot watched the sea of activity a moment longer and saw within it a young girl named Lasivia, a femone of the very highest pedigree amongst the Queen’s retinue. He caught her eye and her fleeting glance in return was
all he needed to see. She would ensure that the small phial containing Tincture of Ellyssia he had given to her, and which she now had hidden about her person, was added surreptitiously to the Queen’s morning bath water. Several femones began to shut the latches on the huge windows as instructed. Satisfied that all was in order, Lord Hardknot walked swiftly away from the Queen’s Wing into one of the many long corridors that crisscrossed the Palace like a spider’s web.

  Paintings of the good and noble from ages past looked down upon him. Large glowicks caused his shadow to lengthen then fall away as he passed by, his precise footsteps filling the air like a metronome. Occasionally he passed a Palace guard, stood stock-still to attention and with their long pikestaff grasped in an upright position. Each guard saluted Lord Hardknot as he strode by, none daring to challenge the imposing figure of the Keeper of the Royal Honeybees.

  The corridor terminated in the Grand Hall; Hardknot entered the large open space and moved to one of the floor to ceiling windows to view the top of St. Butterbean’s Tower, illuminated like a candle. Just as he had anticipated, Cardinal Oblong, Primate of the Holy Church of Afterwards, had dispatched a team of Relicals to search the texts for fresh ammunition to direct against the Hivedom. He smiled; his warm breath caused a momentary circle of mist to form on the glass.

  Several King’s Own Guards were on duty at the entrance to the King’s State Rooms. They snapped to attention, visibly relieved that Lord Hardknot had found them alert. King Samel’s two nighthounds also guarded the door. They bared sharp white teeth as Hardknot approached, but did not growl; his scent recognisable to them. He approached each beast in turn, rubbing their ears and stroking that part of their forehead still visible below a spiked steel cap. ‘Good boys,’ he said, and their chain-mailed tails carved fresh grooves across the wooden floor in slow deliberate wags.