by Ben Galley
‘I meant each generation. The Brothers Fifth and Sixth, for example. Are you all taught the same, decade after decade?’
Gunderton was starting to bite. Lilain could feel it, like a fisherman with a tickle on the line. ‘The masters’ process has not changed in two centuries.’
‘Well if their ways work, and from what you said a Brother’s price tags seemed to suggest they do, then surely there ain’t any reason to change them?’
‘Brothers are highly prized among those who know they exist,’ said Gunderton.
‘Do you have any weaknesses? Besides stools, of course,’ she asked, wondering if she had pushed too far when he flashed her an uneasy look.
‘Pride. And time.’
‘Pride, I understand, but I don’t think time is a weakness unique to a Brother. We all share the fear of time running out. Besides, you’re all lampreys. Sorry, they are all lampreys.’
Gunderton shook his head. ‘Think about it in the reverse. Not time running out. Just not enough time.’
‘Don’t think I see a difference.’
‘Each generation is weaker than the last, by default. For all a Brother’s skills, he still needs time to work at them, expand them, let them settle in. The longer a Brother lives, the more deadly he is. Newer generations are fresher, relatively inexperienced. Prone to mistakes. It’s whether you live through them that matters. Plenty haven’t. The Sixth lost one barely a year outside of the Rift. Masters weren’t pleased with that.’
‘What about the Eighth, then? Do they exist?’
‘Generations can be up to twenty or thirty years apart, with all the breeding and training. The Eighth exist, but I’ve never met them. I’ve seen their acolytes. Fought them before leaving for Washingtown. They were working for Dizali. Must have arrived before them, as they normally do.’
‘Acolytes?’
‘Sycophants and lickspittles, as I told your nephew earlier. We refused ours, preferring to work alone. They’re rushers who wish they were leeches, and furthermore, Brothers. Orphans or runaways, the lot of them, living in the Rift, hired out when the buyer can’t afford a Brother. And you can always tell them by their tattoos. Bloodglyphs etched into their hands, as if it’s acceptable to shout out your shade for all to know. Idiots. I’ve never known why the masters tolerate it.’
‘Probably because they’re expendable?’
‘You’ve got a sharp mind, Lady Hark.’
‘Lilain, please.’
Gunderton worked his mouth, as if trying out the name. Something about it didn’t seem right to him. ‘Lady Hark would be more proper.’
Lilain tutted. ‘You sound like Merion. You call my brother by his first name, you can do the same with me.’
Gunderton nodded, and silence hung between them for a time.
‘What was he like, in the end? My brother.’
‘On the cusp of something. He cast me out before he told me what it was. Something to do with exposing the Order, and Victorious.’
‘As a traitor? That’s what the papers are sayin.’
‘Bigger than that. A lamprey.’
‘Right. I think you’ll have to start from the top.’
‘Please do,’ said a voice, chased by the hammering of rain and the clicking of a closing door. Merion had returned. ‘What have I missed?’
Lurker sniffed, no doubt scenting all sorts of things in the rainwater and mud dripping from Merion’s cloak and boots. ‘They were just sayin’ how your good Queen is a lamprey.’
Gunderton waved his head back and forth. ‘No, well. Yes, but it’s not as simple as that.’
‘Do tell.’ Merion dragged up a stool next to them, eying the contraptions on the table.
‘Every Brother knows the real shape of Europe, where the actual borders lie and whose pockets are connected to whose fingers. As you are probably aware, the royalty of Europe aren’t normal.’
‘Reignin’ for centuries on end?’ snorted Lilain. ‘No, I’d say that’s far from normal. But I’d suspected magick, or breeding, not the human shade.’
‘They were some of the first. Daughters and sons of Cain,’ said Gunderton. ‘They founded the Orders in the Age of Enlightenment, when power slipped from public view and began to work from the shadows. Countless wars have been waged because of old disputes between the royals. The Bitter Prince and the Lady Gotha, for instance, have been at each other’s throats for decades, though all you’d see is border skirmishes and political posturing. Where rushers and leeches once stood, lampreys rule. Lampreys just like Dizali.’
‘Yara Mizar told me of Cain,’ Merion mused. ‘How he was the first of us.’
Gunderton nodded. ‘The royals chose their side several hundred years ago when the Church took a dislike to the practice of rushing. Drinking human blood is perfectly acceptable, of course. One lifetime is never enough for the powerful.’
‘And here was I thinking you were the history teacher, Aunt,’ said Merion.
Lilain rolled her eyes. ‘Lamprey fighting lamprey doesn’t make sense.’
‘Sure it does,’ Gunderton replied. ‘The royals of Europe passed on their mantles a long time ago. I think Karrigan was on the cusp of unearthing who she had put in her place as head of the Empire’s Order. He died before he realised it was Dizali.’
‘It’s a power struggle,’ Lurker summarised with a growl, eyes-half-closed and partially buried under his hat.
‘He’s right,’ said Gunderton.
‘Always am,’ agreed Lurker.
Lilain tutted. ‘Keep your dreams to your sleepin’, John Hobble.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘So,’ said Lilain, ‘Dizali wants to be the very top of the pile.’
Gunderton shrugged. ‘Why else topple a queen?’
She took a moment to shake her head. ‘Betraying his own kind just for greed.’
‘All the more reason to see him in the dust and begging for his life,’ Merion added.
‘Don’t be too careless in your lust for revenge, Nephew,’ said Lilain, keen to make him understand that there was still danger in his quest; by the sounds of it, the most they’d faced yet.
Maker’s anvil.
‘Think it’s there,’ Gunderton interrupted, tapping a vial. Lilain fetched a scrap of cloth. Bundling it up around the glass, she took the vial from its makeshift holder and wedged the cork firmly in place. ‘Now it cools.’
‘How far are you along?’ It was the inevitable question. If Merion had known more about letting, he wouldn’t have asked it.
‘Not very far at all, Nephew. We’ll let you know when we’re halfway.’
‘Just let me know when it’s done.’ Merion sat beside Lurker and fed Jake a cracker.
‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—’ Lilain began, but Gunderton cut her off.
‘Too much like his father?’
‘Absolutely right.’ Lilain smiled. ‘Though we say it like it’s a bad thing.’
Gunderton nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the vial, trapped in thought. ‘Finest man I ever knew.’
‘Finest brother I ever had.’
Lilain felt the chill of the conversation, so she hummed and added, ‘And this will be the finest blend ever known, if I have my way. Go on, I can tend to this.’
Gunderton had felt it, too, and parted company with a smile and a nod. He joined the others and busied himself by watching a magpie eat crackers.
Lilain was left alone to fade out of their murmuring conversation, eyes locked on the cooling vial, thoughts wandering.
Finally she understood all the strict orders from her father, and the frantic hand-flapping of her mother in her teenage years. Being the closest thing to a parent Merion had left, she alone was privileged to sip that mixture, to grin and bear it. She secretly relished it. For one, it meant family, and the responsibility made her feel she was back within its fold. Being assured that Merion was in good hands was a garnish to the cocktail.
Lilain thought of Merion’s mother, of the
few times she had met and spoken with her. A kind soul. Sick from a young age and sadly never hopeful for many years above forty. She had passed away during childbirth. He had never known her, and that was why he never spoke of her, but Lilain wondered if he ever thought about her. She hoped she was filling the gap, if it was there.
The vial had cooled enough to be able to touch it. With a flick of her wrist she uncorked it, and began to pour it into a larger beaker. Blending was a difficult process; you had to get the magick to mix as well as the blood. And magick is a stubborn beast. Just like its users, Lilain though to herself with a smile.
Chapter XI
A PRESTIGIOUS CLUB
6th August, 1867
‘I will need a decision soon, Calidae,’ Dizali repeated himself for the third time that morning.
Her name sounded sour in his mouth, and he now revelled in using it instead of her full title. He was also beginning to delight in telling her what to do. It was as if all pretences had been chipped away, and now he saw her as another one of his lackeys. Like a Brother.
Calidae barely tempered the gaze she gave him over a slice of Francian toast.
‘I still need time to decide, Lord Protector. There is a lot of paperwork to examine.’
‘The world is about to change dramatically, Calidae. You may not be able to control your father’s estate.’
‘My estate.’
Dizali shrugged off the correction. ‘In either case, you will need somebody like myself to help you keep it from being eaten away. The lords and ladies of the Benches are a hungry lot. Desperate times call for desperate measures.’
Calidae narrowed her eyes. ‘I was under the impression the Benches followed your lead, Lord Protector.’
Dizali leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced. ‘For the most part, yes. But there are those who would still defy our Order, even if they are unaware they do so.’
Calidae nodded, focusing on her toast, as if it was far more interesting than the man sitting at the far end of the table. She dolloped on another smear of mustard and continued to chew. Her scars were stiff today, making life difficult. These days came at random to test her. Usually she welcomed the challenge, but today was not a good day for it to call. She wanted to growl.
‘Which reminds me,’ Dizali added, raising a finger. ‘I wish for you to join me in today’s meeting. I have decided that it is time for you to take your father’s place.’ His tone was flat, as if he’d just tossed her a small trinket and nothing more.
Calidae knew it was a ploy; another treasure to dangle in front of her nose. Annoyingly, it worked. Becoming part of the Order was simply a cog in the grand plan, but she had always harboured a secret and personal desire to follow her father into the upper echelons. Castor had kept her acquainted with the dealings of the triangular table and of those that sat around it, but he had maintained gaps in his descriptions. She had spent long nights wondering about them, and now, here Dizali was, offering her those secrets as casually as a snap of the fingers. It tarnished the thrill of it. Calidae felt she had not earned her place at the table. She had been offered it like a carrot on a stick. It was callous, and denigrated the importance of it all.
However, secrets are a fine currency, and never to be snubbed.
‘I would be delighted. When?’
‘I’ll have Rolick fetch you when the time comes. Until then…’ he rose from his chair and threw his napkin down onto the plate. ‘I want you to think about what I said.’
Calidae stood with him, though she stayed at the table. ‘Of course, my Lord.’
Taking her seat, she watched him disappear behind the doorframe. Then she rolled her eyes and delved back into her plate of toast and grapes.
*
Dizali was enjoying the distraction of the rain pattering on the windows of his study. There was a timid knock, and he stormed from his chair.
‘You had better have the unconscious body of the Hark boy in your arms, or I swear—’
The Brothers had yet to report, late as usual. It was beginning to stir up murderous sentiments in Dizali.
‘It’s Rolick, my Lord,’ coughed the lordsguard, as Dizali wrenched open the door, vowing to write a stern letter to the Masters detailing their performance.
‘Report!’
‘The members are here, Milord, all except Second Lord Longweather.’
‘Longweather is dealing with a matter of the House this morning.’
‘All are present then, Milord.’
‘Thank you, Rolick.’ Dizali shut the door in his face. He prowled his study for a short spell, composing his words in his head. Preparation was the secret behind power, or so he had always heard. The Lord Protector practised every line in his head twice before he headed into the bowels of his mansion.
Rolick stood at the ornate door, waiting to close it. Dizali strode into the room with great purpose. His eyes darted from seat to seat, nodding to his comrades. A few declined to meet his gaze: Neritis, Kiefel, Sargen, and now Oswalk, finally finding a little courage even if it was in the wrong places. Calidae was sitting right where he had ordered; one space to the right of where Castor had once held court.
‘My Lords and Ladies,’ Dizali greeted them, taking his place at the sharpest point of the triangular table. He did not bother with a seat. Neritis raised her head, looking as stern as ever. Darbish seemed sleepy. Kiefel and Sargen were still examining smudges on the table. Calidae was expressionless. The rest looked up eagerly, either brimming with hope for good news, or waiting for the moment when they could bleat their grievances and tiresome opinions. Dizali knew what they would be. The girl. The queen. The war. The deeds. Around and around like an endless carousel of fear-mongering and vacuous ambition.
Dizali had not a creative bone in his body. He would have made a violo screech. He had no love for paint and messy things. Food was a fuel. And yet, poised there, waiting for the last few scraps of attention, he could have been a conductor laying out his sheets, an artist picking up the easel, or a master chef sharpening his knives. Dizali’s virtuosity lay in the realm of the mind, in the subtle disciplines of convincing, coercing, and cornering. He was an artist of rhetoric and lies, and if he had believed in a god, he would have thanked him ten times a day. As it stood, he just thanked himself.
‘I believe we have no need nor desire for small talk, as I know many of you have important luncheon appointments.’
Belittlement. The first splash of paint.
‘And so I will begin with the first item on the agenda. Our new arrival, Lady Calidae Serped.’
There was a round of polite nods and muttered welcomes as everyone turned to her. She met the attention as confidently as ever. They did not shy from looking at her scars.
Admiral Caven spoke up. ‘Welcome, Lady Serped. I knew your father well.’
‘Thank you, Admiral Caven. It’s a pleasure to see you again. And Lord Darbish. Lady Sargen.’
‘Is she to carry Castor’s vote?’ asked Neritis, not wasting any time.
Dizali kept a smile affixed to his face as he took his seat. He nodded to Calidae. ‘In time, she will. For now she is here to learn, and listen, and play her part.’
A broader brushstroke to remind them of Calidae’s purpose.
He saw several ears prick up. Neritis relaxed a little more in her chair.
‘I believe Lady Serped has some excellent news for us, have you not, Calidae? News that could help us win the war.’
Calidae gave him a flat stare. He noticed the pinch of white in her knuckles, calmly folded across her lap.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lord Protector.’ Dizali caught the flash of anger in her bright blue eyes. He looked around the table, still playing nice.
‘Three days ago, Calidae and I went to review Castor’s deeds. She is indeed entitled to inherit, but as we are all aware, these are harsh and expensive times. The war may drone on for months to come and at great cost to the Empire. To the Order, no less! However, Lady Ser
ped has expressed to me her kind wish to place the Serped estate into the Order’s hands for safekeeping. For guarding against interference from the rabble that occupies the Emerald Benches.’
‘I don’t believe I put it quite like that, Lord Dizali,’ said Calidae, voice slightly raised. She spent a moment looking around the room for help. The expressions around the table indicated the Order knew perfectly well what was happening. Not a single face twitched with the urge to stop it. They knew the rules; joining the Order meant sacrifice. Or to put it nicely: sharing.
Dizali continued, dabbing a smidgeon of flattery onto the canvas for good measure.
‘Every one of us has played their part in order to claim their seat. We play our parts still. Your father did, and we expect you to do the same. That means following the goals of this Order, upholding our ideals, supporting your fellow lampreys.’
And lining their pockets, of course. The Order was a club, and like every prestigious club it had its joining fee. This club’s just happened to be a familial estate or two.
Calidae was chewing her tongue now, holding back whatever words she was composing. She spat out just two.
‘I see.’
The picture was clear now: pay up or play outside.
‘Of course, if this is a gesture of trust that you feel you cannot make, I can have Captain Rolick show you back to your rooms, and we shall continue without you.’ Dizali drummed his nails on the tabletop.
Calidae remained where she was, clearly torn and embarrassed at being forced into a corner so easily. She looked around the table, before nodding her head.
‘I may have mentioned such an inclination.’
‘So, you are ready to take your father’s place at our table?’
Calidae spoke from between her teeth. ‘I am.’
Dizali clapped his hands. ‘It is settled, then.’ An officious-looking man swept into the room with a sheaf of papers. Taking a breath, Calidae took the offered quill. The table collectively leaned forward to watch, leather chairs creaking, fingers inching across the marble as if their coins were being counted out right there and then. What the Order claimed, the Order benefitted from; each and every member.