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

by David Gardner-Martin

  ‘Think you that this will be her last?’ he asked, without emotion.

  The drollkeepers looked at each other and then one of them spoke.

  ‘We would expect but two more, at most, Your Oneness.’

  ‘Forty-one births,’ said Hardknot. ‘You must do better.’

  ‘Yes, Your Oneness,’ they replied, bowing in unison.

  The femone Lasivia, who he had brought to the Hivedom from the Queen’s Wing, was enjoying being bathed in honeyed warm milk when he entered her room on the Sixty-fifth Descent. Despite the fact that they were now several hundred feet under the ground, the air pipeways managed to maintain a pleasant cool atmosphere. Several bathroom drollups were in attendance, making sure that every pore of Lasivia’s body was cleansed whilst readying the ornate silk nightgown she would wear. The drollups ignored Hardknot, as was their nature, one of them washing between the toes of Lasivia’s right foot whilst another held her leg out of the water. A third ran an ivory comb through her freshly-washed auburn hair whilst another gently massaged the fingers on her left hand. Lasivia had her eyes closed, soaking up fully a nature of pleasure normally reserved only for a Queen. Many had been the times when she herself, together with her femone companions, had bathed and dressed Queen Camellia in the self-same manner, but now it was her turn, and she positively purred with satisfaction as the round nailless fingers moved over her.

  Hardknot observed the scene for a moment, admiring the curves of Lasivia’s body and the striking nature of her face. She had developed into a truly beautiful young woman, and he congratulated himself on recognising her above all others as a vessel of Prime Integrity. There had been several other candidates for the scent, but only Lasivia combined the necessary qualities of beauty, passion and selfishness, to the extent that he required. For there could be no compromise on the attributes of her offspring, the first seeds to be sown in a new hereditary Royal bloodline that would strike through the future like a beacon in the dark.

  Lasivia arched her back, the upward curves of her breasts clearing the rich cream liquid. She rolled her head to one side and saw her master; her expression precisely the one Lord Hardknot wanted to see. A drollup came into the room carrying a fresh jug of hot honeyed milk which they poured slowly into the bath; two drollups stirred the sweet liquid to ensure a quick and even spread of temperature.

  ‘Is it done, My Lord?’ asked Lasivia.

  Hardknot smiled, for no one else had the authority to use such a title, a further pleasure to him. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Queen Camellia has been cast from the City.’

  Lasivia closed her eyes as several fingers massaged the small of her back. ‘I will miss her,’ she said.

  ‘She will not miss you,’ said Hardknot, ‘and soon her memory will be only a vague shadow. Her time has gone.’

  ‘And my time?’ She opened her eyes again and looked at Hardknot.

  Hardknot smiled, delighted by the self-centered emotion. ‘Yes, my child, your time is soon to come. But one more night.’

  The endless motion of the drollups distracted his thoughts. ‘Enough,’ he snapped. ‘Her Ladyship must be dressed.’

  The drollups responded immediately, fresh warm towels being readied as Lasivia was helped from the bath, her eyes catching Hardknot enjoying her nakedness with a childlike twinkle. She was wrapped in towels and gently dried before a silk gown was slipped over her head and tied with sparkling golden braids. When they were seated together on a large fur sofa, Hardknot spoke again.

  ‘There is another scent,’ he said, watching Lasivia closely for her reaction.

  ‘Another scent?’ she repeated, aghast.

  ‘Vague, but freshly formed. Several of the hives have been contaminated.’

  Lasivia looked at Hardknot, anger in her bright violet eyes.

  ‘It is Camellia!’ she cried. ‘She must have prepared another!’

  Hardknot’s eyes sharpened and Lasivia blanched visibly.

  ‘I mean…I meant. No, of course. That cannot be so, My Lord.’

  ‘There may be times, my child, when any looseness of your tongue will do you great disservice,’ said Hardknot, with sudden coldness.

  Lasivia bowed.

  ‘You alone have been prepared for Prime Integrity,’ continued Hardknot. ‘You alone are the chosen vessel of the scent. There can be no other.’

  He stood and began to pace the room as the distant cry of a particularly distressing drollup birth ripped the air; Lasivia closed her eyes at the dreadful sound.

  ‘You must rest,’ Hardknot said at length, now with a surprisingly gentle touch to his voice. ‘The hours move fast and I must be about my business. On no account must you leave this room.’

  A childlike sulkiness crossed Lasivia’s features and she lowered her eyes to the floor. ‘Yes, My Lord,’ she said obediently.

  Hardknot turned to the drollups standing silently by, their cow-like eyes glazed with disinterest in the scene before them. ‘Attend to Her Ladyship’s wishes,’ he said. ‘If there be the merest displeasure, the fires under the poaching pot will be lit.’

  This focused their attention and they gabbled affirmation as one, rushing here and there as they sought various means of bringing contentment to the body in their charge. Lord Hardknot departed to the sound of the general commotion orchestrating Lasivia’s pleasure.

  He journeyed deeper still, so deep that even the cries of anguish were left far behind. He went to a place so remote, that none who entered it were ever permitted to leave. For here it was that Hardknot had first given life to a secret program of procreation. Over the years many strange creatures had been born, Hardknot’s own seed providing the first building block of his dark ambition. Few surrogates had survived the first gestations, their wombs incapable of sustaining the alien life forms that had grown within them. But then with the aid of a strain of deyenalum extracted from vicious ditch wasps, the pieces had finally fallen into place.

  Hardknot entered a large gloomy basement and viewed with pride the fearful beauty of his creation. Twelve jazpahs gorged their appetites, their mandible-like jaws slicing through rich honeycomb with ease. They sensed a presence, and as the natural anger of wasps grew within them, they slid their blades into view. Almost invisible, they swished gently from side to side in the heavy sweet air.

  Not for the first time did Hardknot marvel at the secret nature that had crafted so deadly and terrifying a creature, a nature that he alone had unlocked from its ancient sleeping place. Only a small number had been created this year, but next year there would be hundreds, and each one as connected to his wishes as a faithful hound.

  He spoke to them with words that made no sound, words that echoed within his mind, and the creatures buzzed with pleasure as their master came within them once more. One of their number had killed the Nursekeeper. He was pleased. The jazpahs buzzed happily. But there is a new scent in the Kingdom, a rogue scent that is unknown to me. You must find the source, and destroy it.

  Chapter 14

  The Council of Yesses gathered in St Cloud’s Hall. The forty stone seats that ran in a circle around its circumference had been almost worn away by countless holy posteriors over very many years; sitting on them now was more like sinking into the floor than reclining in a position from which to conduct the affairs of the Church. But they were such sacred seats, and the backsides through the ages that had carved their profiles of such a venerated nature, that no one dared to suggest that they should be replaced.

  The small domed roof had several narrow slits that led directly to the sky above. Despite the fact that these were big enough to permit entry to the wind and rain, their purpose was so vital that no covers could be permitted to obstruct them. On the Six Feast Days, the rays of light that penetrated the gloom to trace lines on the patterned floor below were of the deepest significance. Learned Relicals were trained for years in the methods of interpreting these crisscrossed patterns, the need for Mesharist accuracy of immeasurable importance.

  Oblong arr
ived at the Council at dawn. Despite the efforts of his relicals in St Butterbean’s Tower, they had still been unable to open the Golden Symbol Bartolamy had found; the meaning locked within Hardknot’s words still remained hidden from view. It was yet another frustration that did nothing to improve his mood.

  Cardinal Oblong, as Primate of the Holy Church of Afterwards, sat on the largest chair in the Council, a monstrous stone gargoyle above his head adding a macabre air to his heavily-jowelled features. For above every chair in the room, one of the Forty Deadly Sins had been carved in loving detail.

  Opposite the Primate, in a seat only slightly less obscene, sat the Principal of the Council, a position reserved for one who held the rare status of Archbishop. Upon the death of the long serving previous incumbent, Archbishop Dullard, from an overdose of flagellation, Oblong had played a telling hand in the selection of their successor. Now he could gaze across the room and meet the bloodshot eyes of Archbishop Intactum, one of the most debauched individuals Oblong had ever met in his life, and as such, a man eminently suited to the spectrum of rewards with which Oblong could ply him for faithful service.

  Archbishop Intactum was looking particularly the worse for wear. The death of the King and casting of the Queen had troubled him to such an extent that he had overdosed on nixtar, and then inducted a newly anointed sister in a series of practices that had opened more than her mind to the wonders of the modern Church. He slouched in an ungainly fashion in his chair, his sagging features as grey as clay.

  When all the Bishops were present, Archbishop Intactum revived sufficiently to stagger to his feet to call the gathering to seat.

  ‘Praise Them, from whom all things…come and go,’ he rasped, in a deeply unhealthy voice, his body swaying from side to side. ‘And may They bless...and protect us, so that all may know...the power of Their blessings!’

  Even for Oblong the condition of Intactum was more than irksome, but he knew that it would be a short meeting and so allowed it to pass. There were but a handful of dissenting voices on the Council and things could doubtless proceed at a brisk pace.

  ‘Thank you, Your Fullest,’ said Oblong, rising to his feet.

  Intactum nodded, it being clear that little was going to be expected of him this day, and then he collapsed thankfully back onto his chair and closed his eyes, his ornamental robes inflating with a trumpet blast of noxious gas as he did so.

  Oblong starred at the faces in the room and then began to speak.

  ‘Your Fullnesses,’ he said. ‘The King is dead and the Queen cast. These are uncertain times.’

  ‘Amen to all that,’ came the mumbled reply.

  ‘In case of a threat to the security of our Holy Church,’ he continued, ‘I have taken the precaution of placing the Holy Guard on high alert. We must be ready to protect our Holy Places at a moment’s notice, should such an action be required.’

  There was an audible rumble as most posteriors rubbed their seats with approval.

  ‘I can also report to you,’ continued Oblong, ‘that our Nomination for the vacant crown, Baron Pencille, has been taken to the Imposium for protection.’

  Once again a general murmur of approval for this prudent action.

  ‘The Board of Doings has been made aware of the Church’s rightful Nomination, and of the peril that awaits their souls should they fail to support our claim. For I must also tell you that word has reached me this very day, that several high-ranking nobles, in contravention of their primary oath of loyalty to our Holy Church, have Nominated Lord Chillhide to the Crown.’

  There was a murmur of surprise.

  ‘I have, therefore,’ Oblong continued, ‘ordered our Sisters of St. Salacious to withhold their services and remain within their convent until further notice.’

  Several exchanged whispers of disappointment.

  ‘And in addition, as a punitive measure, I am recommending that the price of Holy Indemnification be increased by three per centum.’

  Cheers of approval filled the room until Bishop Constantly rose slowly to his feet to obtain the floor. Constantly was an old-school clerical scholar, small in stature but with bountiful intellect, and one of the few voices prepared to challenge Oblong on the Council of Yesses.

  ‘These are indeed uncertain times, Your Mostfull,’ Constantly began. ‘And this being so, I wonder at the prudence of antagonising the situation. Will not a denial of Carnal Purification only raise anger against us? And can an increase in the cost of Indemnification really be wise? Will we not be in danger of denying a perfect Afterwards to many who can already ill afford its current tariff?’

  ‘Do not be misled, Your Fullness,’ said Oblong, ‘by the power of Her deception. Think you that the Mouthless One is not abroad at this time, turning minds and twisting hearts to suit Her needs? Are we not all aware of the insidious seed of Honeyism that daily grows stronger within our midst? We must ensure that the Church has the fiscal resources needed to meet the grave challenges that lie ahead, as must we ensure that the Board bows to our rightful claim to the Crown.’

  The room filled with nodding heads and the soft rubbing of seats once more until Constantly, with a look of resignation, sat down.

  ‘Turning to another serious matter,’ Oblong continued, ‘I must report to you the deviation of one of our Mesharist brethren, the Relical Bartolamy. He has been removed from St. Butterbean’s Tower and taken to the Sacred Hellholes. We cannot allow one of our own servants to become a vessel upon which the plans, the designs, and the wicked intentions of the Honeyist creed, can be written.’

  Several Bishops shouted their angry agreement until calmed by a sweep of his hand.

  ‘We must also take action,’ continued Oblong, with slow deliberation, ‘to ensure that all are aware of the terrible price to be paid, if they shun the protection of the Holy Church. To this end, I plan to hold a High Service of Total Nothingness in the Cathedral this very evening, and there and then, to send the soul of the Relical Bartolamy into total oblivion.’

  ‘Your Mostfull!’ Bishop Constantly called out again rising to his feet. ‘Are we to believe that you have taken it upon yourself, alone, to approve such an action? We all know that every High Service must first be debated, and then voted upon, by this very Council!’

  Oblong stared coldly at his protagonist, a man he would soon silence for all time.

  ‘There comes a time, Your Fullness,’ he replied calmly, ‘when even in the affairs of Them, the need for Action overtakes the meaning of Words. All shall see the price of deviation.’

  ‘But there has been no vote!’ shouted Constantly, and then looking at the faces around him for support.

  ‘We stand at the threshold of a new age for our blessed Church,’ said Oblong. ‘An age where we can wash from this land, once and for all, the bodies and minds of the evil doers. We have the chance today to take the first step towards building a Church freed from restraint; a Church that is not only all seeing, all knowing, and all doing, but rich and powerful beyond even our most fervent prayers. But if we fail,’ he paused, and allowed his head to fall, ‘if we fail in this, and allow those that would pervert our Kingdom to have their way, then it is we that will be swept away; washed into the gutter on a tide of evil the like of which has never been imagined.’

  Voices cried out in horror whilst several bishops began to stab their fingers at Constantly and demand he sit down.

  ‘Bodies must be broken!’ shouted Oblong, raising his voice above the growing noise. ‘Souls must be tormented! And when our vengeance is complete, even the unborn will cry out, fearful that they too might retain a hidden seed of the Honeyist creed within them! You have asked for a vote, Your Fullness!’ he cried, glaring at Constantly who had remained standing in open defiance. ‘Very well, I give you a vote!’ He moved to the centre of the room and fought the muscles on his face to bring his eyes fully into view, sweeping their bright-blue stare slowly from face to face. ‘What is it to be, Your Fullnesses, for the choice is clear? Is it Yes for ac
tion, or No for subjugation? Is it Yes for progress, or No for stagnation?’ He stared coldly at Constantly once more and then in a voice that made the hairs stand on most necks in the room, he put back his head and cried at the ceiling; ‘Is it Yes for the future of our Holy Church, or No for a new age of Honeyism?’

  There was now no doubting the strength of sentiment in the room, a loud chorus of Yesses drowning Bishop Constantly’s attempt to object and several convenient missiles striking the back of his head. Though a brave man, Constantly was far from reckless, and so he sat back down in his seat, a look of hopelessness upon his face. Cardinal Oblong, meanwhile, soaked up the approval for several moments, his right hand waving the air with gratitude. Then with a final nod at the sleeping figure of Archbishop Intactum he marched across the chamber, the roll of his gait eventually sweeping his body through the door like a vast wind-filled sail.

  Oblong left in his carriage and made for the Imposium, a large fortification with thick stone walls peppered with arrow slits and surmounted by high battlements. Not for the first time did he congratulate himself for his foresight in having such a bastion constructed. The drawbridge was let down over the moat and he clattered over the leaf-strewn seaweed-green water. When he arrived in the Great Hall a nervous bodycian was tending to a deep wound on the heavily-muscled back of High Commander Sideswipe, Commander of the Holy Guards.

  ‘Hivecarls?’ exclaimed Oblong.

  ‘Indeed no, Your Mostfull. They remain still behind the high walls of the Hivedom.’

  ‘But who else would dare?’

  ‘After securing and sending Baron Pencille to this fortress, I found myself alone in an alleyway close to Pencille Manor. Into that place I saw a shadow follow me, a shadow that hugged the wall so tight that I thought my eyes deceived me. At a dark corner I drew my two-blades and waited to confront it. It did not appear. But when I looked to see where it might be, it came upon me in a flash.’