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

by David Gardner-Martin

  Oblong fought for patience. ‘And who dares act as the receptacle of such a blessed seed?’

  ‘She lives within the Nursekeepers Quarters.’

  ‘She must be apprehended and opened. See to it at once. I will deal with Relical Bartolamy myself. But the damage this girl will have done will not be easy to heal. ‘For he that tastes but once of forbidden fruit, then shall their heart and mind be twisted forever, by the desires of the Mouthless One.’

  ‘Amen to all that,’ said Henceforth. ‘But there is more, Your Mostfull,’ he then added, delaying Oblong’s departure still further, ‘and of a nature that I dare hardly believe.’

  ‘What more can there be to torment me?’ cried Oblong.

  Henceforth moved closer to his master and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Whilst I was praying for Bartolamy’s soul before the High Altar, a large honeybee landed upon my hand and did sting me most painfully.’

  He held up a badly swollen finger, the bright diamond and ruby ring upon it partially submerged within a fold of yellow and purple flesh.

  ‘Is that all?’ roared Oblong.

  ‘No, Your Mostfull,’ whispered Henceforth urgently, whilst looking over his shoulder in concern, ‘for there is more, and truly of a most incredible nature. For there was something curious about this bee. It seemed to me unreal, almost ghostlike. In the brief moment before the agony arrived, I found myself transfixed by its unworldly nature. Then as I stared perplexed, it did lift its head as if to look at me, and as it did so my heart almost stopped, so shocked was I by what I could see. For this was no ordinary honeybee, but a bee that held a face, and the face was that of His Oneness, Lord Hardknot.’

  Chapter 4

  The Nursekeepers Quarters stuck out as an ugly afterthought from the southernmost tip of the Palace Hospital, a place so secluded that only occasional cries of pain disturbed the septic calm. Nursekeeper Annie Rubetter’s room lay on the ground floor, its single window lost behind a confusion of dark green bushes. It was through these that the distant sound of bells fell over two naked bodies that lay upon a single bed.

  Relical Bartolamy stretched an arm over Annie’s shoulder, stroked her long golden hair, and then gently pulled her closer still.

  ‘Will they never stop,’ he whispered.

  ‘I am scared,’ she replied softly.

  Bartolamy turned his face to hers and smiled, his deep green eyes filled with love. ‘They herald some event of great importance to those who care for such things. The good and noble of the Kingdom waste no excuse to fill the air. But you have no need to worry about their games. All will be well.’

  Annie looked into his face as if searching for any sign of doubt. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, brushing his lips with one of her fingers, ‘you speak as if you have seen the future.’

  Bartolamy raised himself onto one elbow and stared through the green canopy covering the window and into the gathering light. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have not.’ He turned to her once more. ‘But this much I know. We were made for each other.’

  He kissed Annie upon her lips and they made love once more, the growing sunlight and the sound of bells filling the air around them. After they had shared a glass of water, Bartolamy took Annie’s hands and kissed them each in turn upon the palm, Annie watching him.

  ‘Are you sure His Mostfull does not know?’ she asked.

  ‘Cardinal Oblong is a man filled with worries that do not include me.’ Bartolamy replied.

  ‘But what if you are wrong?’

  ‘Hush, ‘said Bartolamy, putting a finger to her lips, ‘enough of this. I am a trusted servant of His Mostfull. I serve him well. And his mind is as fixed upon Lord Hardknot and the high walls of his Hivedom, as waves upon a shore. He means to destroy them both.’

  ‘Then take care,’ Annie said. ‘If you find yourself between Cardinal Oblong and Lord Hardknot, I would fear for your life.’

  Bartolamy sensed the well of excitement that lay deep within him rushing to the surface once more.

  ‘Have you ever seen His Oneness?’ he asked at length.

  ‘No, I have never seen Lord Hardknot,’ Annie replied, looking away.

  ‘I have only the words of His Mostfull,’ said Bartolamy, ‘and they fill the air with such damnation upon his soul, that only an image of a demon comes to my mind. But I have heard it said that he is a handsome man, with great charisma.’

  ‘I know that he is dangerous, and best left alone.’

  ‘There is a rumour that he denies the blessing of Words,’ Bartolamy continued. ‘That he is a secret Honeyist. I have even heard His Mostfull shout the damning accusation.’ He paused, his bright green eyes sparkling. ‘How I wish that I could see his Hivedom. I have seen pictures in books, for there are many ancient images held securely out of sight in the Imposium. Even though most are faded with time, such beauty can still be seen. Can you imagine such a place?’

  ‘It is dangerous to talk of such things.’

  ‘They say it is impossible to resist its spell,’ continued Bartolamy, ‘and that is why we are never permitted to go there. But one day I shall see it. Can you imagine?’ he said standing. ‘A place that is not grey? A place where plants grow colours? But more than anything, I want to see the Royal Honeybees.’ He sat down beside her once more. ‘Shall I tell you something?’ he asked. ‘Something you must never breathe to another soul?’

  ‘No, do not,’ Annie said firmly, but he had already begun to speak.

  ‘I have tasted honey.’

  Annie stood up. ‘How can you say such a thing?’ she whispered, with a glance at the open window.

  ‘I found a jar sealed in St. Butterbean’s Tower. It is held in a small safe in a room of forgotten clutter. It was thick with the dust of many years, but even through the grime, I saw such a richness of colour that stilled my heart.’

  ‘But to keep honey outside of the Hivedom is a cataclysmic sin,’ whispered Annie.

  ‘Last night I went to the room alone,’ continued Bartolamy, ignoring Annie’s obvious alarm. ‘Though I dared taste only a single spoonful, it was beautiful.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Simply, beautiful.’

  Bartolamy left as he had arrived, through a convenient hollow in the bushes allowing hidden access to and from Annie’s bedroom window. But such was his haste to avoid discovery, that he did not notice a figure hidden in a shadow that watched his departure in silence. A strange figure that moved with slow catlike elegance, and one that slipped into Annie’s room carrying a near invisible blade.

  Chapter 5

  News of King Samel’s death settled like a storm cloud over the City. The Bells of St Vacant, ringing once more, filled the air, the charged atmosphere flashing and crackling as one enclave after another of the vast population seethed into the streets to swell the tide of uncertainty. Despite the confusion however, it was the fact that he was about to enter the Palace again for only the second time in his life, which occupied the immediate thoughts of Mr Punsworth Pooter. But Lord Rootsby had been adamant, with any objections swept away with a look that would have sent Pooter into battle with Vulfkings with just a spoon in his hand, had the instruction been given. For there was something about Lord Rootsby that had to be obeyed, no matter what the logical objections might be. Pooter was in no doubt that he must find a way to enter the Palace’s Grand Library, and there to try and locate The Kingdom of Honey, a far-ancient book which held the key to a treasure of great importance. Staring into Rootsby’s rainbow eyes by the light of a single glowick, Pooter had felt sure that he could accomplish the task, yet now, in the full light of day, and all alone, actually doing it seemed quite another matter. For the famed and gargantuan repository of books was as centrally placed within the heart of Palace as it was possible to be, and even if he managed to reach it safely, locating a single book in so short a space of time, seemed a forlorn task.

  The East Entrance to the Palace was most commonly used by those with trade credentials and business to attend, and Pooter strode towards it as confid
ently as he might, the forged Royal Warrant of Appointment that Rootsby had given to him clasped in his hand. Several guards were on duty, their tough expressions tempered by the ringing of bells. One of their number snatched the warrant from Pooter’s hand and glanced at it with the total disinterest that only those in positions of saying ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ can truly master.

  ‘No,’ he said, holding the document out whilst staring over Pooter’s head at the crowded streets, ‘that won’t do here.’

  ‘But I am Mr Punsworth Pooter,’ protested Pooter, ‘and the document you hold is my Royal Warrant.’

  The guard’s eyes narrowed with anger, whilst one of his companions, a giant of a man with a flat nose and hands like slabs of meat, one of which held a huge pikestaff, took three long strides to join them.

  ‘Says it’s a warrant,’ said the first guard, still staring at Pooter with a look that could kill. The second guard took the document and studied it closely, raising his head on several occasions to stare into Pooter’s face.

  ‘A Royal Warrant,’ added Pooter, staring back with as much righteous indignity as he could muster, the quavering in his voice thankfully masked by the continuing din of bells.

  ‘And what business might a proletaire ‘ave in the Palace,’ the second guard asked.

  Pooter gulped inside, then recovered his composure sufficiently to furnish an accounters reply he knew would fox them completely. ‘And thereby,’ he finished at last, ‘I am commanded to determine the statutory concurrence of numerical anomaly, by cross-conjugation.’

  ‘You may pass,’ said the guard, losing interest and handing Pooter the document back.

  Pooter took the paper with a simple ‘Thank you’ and walked by, avoiding all further eye contact with any of the guards and with his breath trapped in his chest.

  Noise filled the Palace, the crowds drawn towards the fast spreading rumours like moths to a flame. The mass of bodies made progress difficult, but Pooter pressed on as best he could, the corridor eventually carrying him along like a fast-flowing river. At length, he was cast into a vast open courtyard filled to bursting point with a confusion of drollups. Several statues had been toppled and cries of discomfort filled the air. Though he knew that all Drollups were bred deep within the Hivedom for specific menial functions within the Palace, Pooter had never seen them up close before, and certainly had not realised that they were of such an amazing variety. He found a safe recess next to a large crystal fountain and observed them closely, spellbound by the dreamlike figures that surrounded him.

  A stocky figure with muscle-bound arms staggered by, a large safe fixed upon his back almost crushing his shoulders, but a serene look of total disinterest fixed upon his face.

  A petite maid with no nose and tiny sharp fingers was pushed against him, her eyes bulging as the air was squeezed from her lungs.

  ‘Have a care there!’ Pooter shouted at the throng behind her, but she simply slipped into the tangle of bodies once more to continue her journey.

  He saw a huge roly-poly woman with big red cheeks and large chubby hands covered in flour; a squat dwarf-like man with a dirty face with huge green eyes; a skinny pasty-faced youth with long thin limbs, a shiny silk tunic, and a rubber mask covering his head; a delicate maiden with long blue hair and fingerless hands. All fought for air and passage, and all with a complete lack of care for their own wellbeing.

  As if finally freed of obstruction, the crowd suddenly surged as one towards a wide entrance until the courtyard, though still thick with drollups, settled into a moving thoroughfare once more.

  ‘A disgrace!’ a tall heavily whiskered red-faced noble shouted to Pooter as he strode by. ‘An utter disgrace!’ And he fetched a nearby drollup a series of blows with his cane, the individual whimpering and cowering, but making no move to avoid punishment.

  At length Pooter reached a wide corridor that led away from the suffocating throng. He entered it with a sense of relief, but soon felt increasingly exposed and vulnerable; the echo of his footsteps on the polished hardwood floor snapped before him into a dusty distance.

  Despite being deserted, the long walkway was clearly an important route through the Palace, being wide, richly decorated, and generously hung with tapestries, chandeliers and huge works of art. He encountered several groups of nobles, but found the courage to march past them as if on important Royal business. Several eyed him with an unsettling degree of interest, but following the death of King Samel, clearly had more pressing engagements. The drollups however, became increasingly wary of the lone proletaire, and huddled close to the walls as he approached, their faces downcast lest the figure in a strange costume should take issue with their presence.

  Pooter heard the thud of heavy footsteps approaching and before he had time to react a detachment of guards hove into view, their buckles and armaments jangling as they marched. Instinctively he ducked behind a velvet curtain that fell like a waterfall from the high ceiling to the floor. The detachment began to stride by, their richly plumed helmets erect and their steel eyes fixed into the distance, until a scream from their commander brought them to a halt. Pooter could not decipher the piercing babble of orders that followed, but within moments the guards dispersed to individual positions along the corridor where they stood to attention. They had been posted on duty and would clearly remain so for some time. To make matters worse, one of their number now stood close to Pooter’s hiding place, a huge hound with blood red eyes and long teeth, tethered to his wrist by a steel chain.

  Pooter’s heart raced, he was trapped, but then he caught sight of a door in the gloom behind him; a door seemingly long forgotten, such was its shabby appearance. The officer began to bark orders once more and without any further thought, Pooter managed to drag it open a few inches, a dull screech from a rusted hinge thankfully lost in the commotion. He squeezed through the gap and entered a dark passageway, gently pulling the door closed behind him.

  It took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves to the dark, and then as the veil lifted, Pooter saw a floor thick with dust, walls cracked and peeling, and a ceiling covered with large dirty cobwebs. Neglect and time had taken hold, and he shivered, every breath of the stale cold air causing butterflies to flutter within him. Small grates placed high in the walls borrowed light from rooms beyond, but they too were so bound in thick cobwebs that only a faint glow illuminated the way ahead. He walked slowly away from the door, his muffled footsteps sending large spindly spiders scuttling for cover.

  At length, several flights of stairs led to a level passageway, several dimly lit grates showing the route ahead. The floor became littered with a variety of ancient kitchen implements and Pooter had to place his feet with care to avoid tripping over the detritus of a distant time. A figure caught the corner of his eye and he turned to see a skeleton in a rough leather outfit resting against the wall. A hole in their forehead held fast a large kitchen knife, the hollow eyes beneath still fixed upon the assailant. He shivered and crept by, but with the strangest feeling of being watched. The sensation grew stronger and he turned to look back into the darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he said, his voice dying in the oppressive atmosphere.

  Silence and fear engulfed him in equal measure as the evil came closer still. With his heart beating so fast he felt it would burst through his chest, he moved quickly away.

  Eventually Pooter reached a grate high in a wall through which a bright light, shining like a beacon, finally banished the malevolent presence that had seemed to follow him. Voices could be heard from the room beyond the grate, and he moved closer.

  ‘But I hate being cooped up in this dreary wing,’ pleaded a young girl’s voice. ‘Why can’t I leave? Why can’t I visit the City?’

  ‘No, Allessia,’ said a woman firmly. ‘We have told you a thousand times. That is not possible.’

  ‘But it’s so unfair!’ the girl cried.

  ‘You must be brave,’ said the woman. ‘It is for the best.’

  ‘But I do
not want to be brave, mother!’ the girl shouted. ‘I want to see the City!’

  The woman tried to calm her daughter once more. ‘You are wonderful!’ she said with passion. ‘You are clever, and beautiful, and have such skills that no one else your age could possibly possess!’

  ‘When you dance, my dear, you are as light as a feather,’ added a man’s voice, doubtless her father, thought Pooter. ‘When you play the hexacord, the notes are perfect to the ear. And when you sing, why, it’s like an angel has entered the room.’

  ‘And all your many accomplishments will reward you in a most glorious way,’ said her mother. ‘You will soon be eighteen, the Prime Age, and when the time is right, you will be presented to an eligible noble.’

  ‘At Court?’

  ‘No, Allessia,’ said her mother, with some impatience. ‘You know it cannot be at Court. But there is already a most handsome young man amongst our trusted circle of friends who has expressed a keen interest in making your better acquaintance, once you come of age. I am sure you will have noticed Lord Chillhide, who visits us often? A most eligible bachelor, and one with a true Mascone heritage.’

  ‘If I will not be presented at Court, then I don’t see the point,’ replied Allessia, clearly unimpressed. ‘And anyway, if that’s all really true, then why can’t I finish my lessons? They go on and on and on. Please, father?’

  ‘But what will you do all day?’ her father replied. ‘Surely you would rather design clothes, tune strings, draw bodycality?’

  ‘There are some lessons I like, that’s true, but not Holy Indoctrination. I hate that! Forster Culcuth is horrible. He smells, and I do not like the way he looks at me. He’s always getting me to repeat things. And it’s all rubbish.’