Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  ‘And it gets madder,’ she muttered. Calidae met the bird’s one-eyed gaze; beady and black. The magpie cawed once more. ‘So, you’re Jake. Well, Jake, you can tell the good Master Hark that Dizali has Brothers working for him,’ she began, speaking slowly. ‘Like Gile and Gavisham. The Eighth.’ For that she drew the number in the air, as if it would help. ‘Tell him I’m a member of the Order now, though it cost me the Spit. That Dizali is planning to have Victorious hanged, and give him the names Longweather, Oswalk, and Darbish. And tell him to hurry up!’

  Jake cawed again, and flapped towards the window, blowing Calidae’s hair in all directions. With one more clack of his beak, he shimmied under the window and disappeared into the evening. Calidae shook her head before heading back to the bathroom to re-wash her hands. Birds carry all sorts of diseases.

  ‘Damn you, Tonmerion Hark,’ Calidae whispered to herself as she unlocked the door and tip-toed along the corridor. She knew Witchazel needed convincing. How dare he throw orders about! She had already tried twice.

  The first night he had not answered her quiet knocks and whispers of escape. She had slipped a quick letter under the door and left, having heard boots coming down the hallway. Brother’s boots.

  The second, a letter had been slipped the other way, saying only, “NO!” She had told him that Merion was alive, that he wanted to free him, rescue him, even. Witchazel had to be ready. And yet still the foolish lawyer refused to agree, whispering something unintelligible about the Bulldog and broken promises.

  Tonight, she would convince him. She would talk some sense into the lawyer or poke him in the eye with a needle through the keyhole. She wasn’t in the mood to get caught arguing with a door, not with so much zealotry afoot.

  She paused at a junction of three opulent corridors, heart beating harder than usual. The lawyer’s room was close, tucked inside an alcove. Calidae was about to move when she heard the whump of a closing door. A figure appeared in the hallway, adjusting his bowler hat as he walked away. It was a Brother, though she didn’t know which one. There were three of them now.

  When the sound of boots had disappeared, she crept on, ducking into the alcove and hunkering down beside Witchazel’s door. Tap, tap went her fingers on the wood.

  Something stirred. The door shuddered briefly as somebody pressed up against it.

  ‘Mr Witchazel. You need to recon—’ she whispered.

  ‘I have.’ Calidae wondered what the Brother had done to him to make him change his mind so easily. ‘I shall come with you. Just tell me when.’

  ‘The tenth of this very month,’ she whispered.

  ‘Four more days?’

  Calidae wished she could fix him with a glare. ‘You didn’t even want to—’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  If he interrupted her one more time…

  Calidae swore to herself. ‘Then you shall have to make do if you want to be freed. It’s Merion that wants you, not me.’

  ‘Fine. Thank you both.’

  ‘Just stay alive.’

  ‘Thank… you.’

  Calidae was already gone.

  *

  A city at night entertains all sorts of inclinations; from honest to dishonourable and everything in between. In the deeper parts of London, the narrow streets teemed as though it were day. Creatures of the evening filled the gaslit channels: factory boys headed to their shifts; prostitutes and pickpockets worked in tandem; high-born heirs sought debauchery; pedlars hawked items of all shapes and sizes and origins, some more dubious that others; and in some places, now that the rain had given up its game, night-markets began to emerge, setting up their tables over drains and gutters that still gurgled with rainwater.

  In the western docks, the pubs and taverns acted as though the sun had yet to set and a drop of moisture hadn’t fallen all day. Those that didn’t blare their music and revelry through open windows rumbled on behind closed doors. Every so often one, a door would fly open and the cacophony would tumble out for just a moment, filling the dripping darkness with noise. Sometimes, a body would accompany it, landing in a moaning heap on the slimy boardwalk.

  The Brothers Eighth picked their way through the crowds. Here and there, they would pause to stand by a tavern door, gleaning what secrets they could from any drunks and shady characters who lingered there. Coin always seems to jog a memory, especially when its owner is in possession of empty pockets. The Brothers had already shed quite a few in this evening’s quest, and, in order to not arouse suspicion, they were also forced to buy drinks in the taverns they ventured into. Hanister would rush bat blood and listen to the roaring chatter, overhearing nothing but empty gossip. Their patience, and their sobriety for that matter, were like their coin; swiftly fading away.

  Hanister adjusted his tie. He was growing weary of the stench of bilge and drowned rat, and this was only the second night this week.

  ‘Congratulations once again, my dear brothers, for landing us with this superb mission!’ he said, irritably.

  Honorford sighed. ‘I would quit my whining if I were you.’

  Heck followed up. ‘You weren’t the ones crawling through muddy trenches and the frozen forests of Prussia, hunting down those leech bastards.’

  ‘No, I was at Clovenhall, apologising for your lateness and apparent uselessness. Dizali is not pleased with us.’

  ‘Evidently,’ Heck snapped. At that moment a man burst from a doorway, dashed four paces and proceeded to vomit over the Brother’s polished shoes. Heck didn’t bother to restrain himself. The Brother’s fist caught the man under his chin with such force that it sent him head over heels and down again, face-first into his own puddle of spew. It was a mercy he didn’t kill the drunken fellow.

  ‘Delightful.’ Hanister shook his head.

  ‘This Tonmerion is nowhere to be found,’ said Heck. ‘Are you still rushing carp, Honorford?’

  ‘Strong and true, brother. And yes, I would tell you if I felt anything. Just minor rushing skills here and there, nothing else.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  By the time night had blended into early morning, they had tried every pub they could find except one; an establishment that sat out on a pier among the tall ships rather than nestling in the jumble of warehouses like the others.

  Hanister pointed at it. ‘I say we try this last one.’

  Honorford shook his head. ‘And waste our time with more revellers and drunkards?’

  Hanister sighed. ‘Deal with a few more battered poltroons or have good Lord Dizali cut us loose. Up to you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  And so it was decided. The three Brothers strode along the rickety planks of the pier and made for the tavern. It looked like an upturned boat with walls shoved under it. The door even had a porthole, and through its grubby pane, they feasted their eyes on a debauched sight indeed. A man was furiously attacking a fiddle in the far corner, sending the crowds of drunkards into a frenzy of dancing and whirling. Drinks and punches flew left and right. Those without the stomach for dancing—nor for any more ale—were slumped over tables or sprawled across the grimy floor, painted black with tar-scrapes and decades of spillage.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Heck.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Hanister, tipping his bowler hat low and striding inside.

  They reeled from the stench of old alcohol, sweat and shame. Heck had to hold a handkerchief to his nose, drawing more than a few bitter and rather cross-eyed looks.

  ‘Three, sir!’ Hanister waved to the bar-keep. The man looked as drunk as his patrons, but somehow he managed to fetch them three pints of the “finest” ale. He even found them the right change in his apron.

  The Brothers began to look around, getting the measure of the place, as they had in the other taverns. ‘Anything, Honorford?’

  ‘I would tell you, you know,’ Honorford groused around the rim of his glass. Heck murmured something unintelligible and altogether unhelpful.

  As he and Honorford began to drift around, f
olding themselves into conversations and hovering near tables, Hanister slipped a vial into his palm. Miming a stretch, he downed the crimson and pushed it into his veins. He let it take root gradually, expertly, letting the noise flood into his ears. Within moments, he could focus in on every shoe-tap, every scrape of the fiddle, every wag of a lip and slurp of a drink. He closed his eyes and roved through the discord, picking apart conversations until he found what he wanted.

  They look official-like.

  Hanister tilted his head, concentrating on this voice. The rest of the pub faded to a murmur.

  Two men, western accents. One had the sound of sea-spray in his throat.

  ‘Don’t they just? Suits and hats in this sort o’ place. An’ they all look the same.’

  ‘ ‘Igh-born spies, maybe?’

  ‘Spies? Spyin’ on what, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, there’s lots to see in the docks. Lots of things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Saw a Spaniard ship the other day. It didn’t look like one, but I knew it was. Changed their colours.’

  ‘How do you know they were Spaniards?’

  ‘Their hats.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Saw an American ship, too.’

  Hanister’s ears focused harder.

  ‘Ironclad thing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You listen ‘ere. A great black thing, it was. Came in a week ago or more. In the fog.’

  ‘Then ‘owd you see it?’

  ‘Got good eyes, ain’t I?’

  ‘You’re blinder than me and I got one eye missin’.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All they did was drop off two people and then left right away. Important-lookin’ people.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘In cloaks and all.’

  ‘Then ‘owd you know they was important?’

  Hanister’s eyes flicked open. There, in the back of the tavern, by a fireplace, a man in a floppy cap huddled close to another man with one eye and grey mutton-chops. He caught Heck’s gaze and pointed left, Honorford to the right. The Eighth wandered casually through the tables, heading for the pair.

  ‘They’re coming. Shh!’ He caught their whispered words before he quelled the shade’s effects.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ said Hanister over the screeching fiddle-work. He took a seat directly next to One-Eye and smiled at them both.

  The man with the floppy cap tried to stand, but Heck’s hand was on his shoulder, holding him down. Heck scratched his shaved head under his hat.

  ‘Why don’t we just stay seated, eh?’

  The man did as he was told. Heck took a seat, leaving Honorford to linger nearby, looking nonchalant but dangerous.

  ‘An American ironclad. Tell me about it,’ said Hanister, still calm and friendly in tone. ‘Mister…?’

  Floppy-Cap spluttered. ‘I don’t know mu—’

  ‘Mister…?’

  ‘Grippen. Eli Grippen.’

  ‘Eli! May I call you Eli? Good. Now, Eli. There is a war on, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And who are we at war with?’

  Eli actually had to think for a moment. ‘The Rosiyan Empire.’

  ‘And?’

  More thinking. ‘Greeks?’

  Heck slapped the cap from Eli’s head in annoyance, causing him to whimper.

  Hanister turned to the man next to him. ‘No! Do you know, Mr One-Eye?’

  ‘Tanigan.’

  ‘Do you know, Mr Tanigan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, the answer is everybody who isn’t our ally. Understand? That means the Americans, too.’

  ‘Are you with the constabulary or somethin’?’ Tanigan ventured.

  Hanister ignored him. ‘Do you think we should be letting American ships slip unnoticed into the heart of our capital?’

  ‘No.’

  Hanister nudged Mr Tanigan with his elbow. ‘Then you should do your patriotic duty and tell me about this ironclad and who exactly stepped off it.’

  Eli gulped. ‘Right, well. Three masts. Ship o’ the line. Flagship class. Clad all over with iron plates, all black. ‘Undred cannons easy. Looked American to me.’

  ‘It flew a flag?’

  Eli looked put out. ‘No, but I know their lines. I watch a lot of ships come and go, from just right outside ‘ere. It’s all I got after me leg got bust up in a storm. I seen enough ships in my time, and only Americans build ships like that. If I had to guess by her size, I would’ve said it were the Black Rosa ‘erself.’

  Tanigan snorted in disbelief.

  ‘Who disembarked from this ironclad?’ said Heck. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Docked just over there. Some nobles, I think. Boy and a woman. Both all trussed up in cloaks.’

  ‘Old? Young?’

  ‘Woman looked older. Blonde. Boy was young. Maybe fourteen. Also blonde. But you don’t mistake steps like theirs. Only ‘igh-born walk like that.’

  ‘Both of them?’ Hanister shared a look with Heck.

  ‘You sure she was older?’ said Heck.

  ‘Sure enough. Docked right down there.’ Eli motioned to the left. ‘Wrinkles on her face and all that.’

  ‘Good man, your friend Eli,’ said Hanister, again nudging Tanigan. ‘Patriotic man. Well, gentlemen, thank you for your cooperation.’

  ‘Stay out of trouble,’ Heck added as they got to their feet, leaving Mr Tanigan and Mr Grippen to sip their ales with wide eyes and thumping hearts.

  One by one, the Eighth filtered out of the tavern and into the damp, dark morning.

  Chapter XII

  UNDERING

  7th August, 1867

  ‘Troll blood is a fascinating thing, don’t you think?’

  Rhin tried to spit at her, but the insult barely made it past his lips. He hadn’t drank in a day and had barely eaten since the mole fight, three days ago. He had been given only pain; endless pain of every kind to be found under the Lonely Star.

  Sift was a professional pain-bringer, and he hated her all the more for it. (A lifespan of centuries comes in handy when you have something to practice.) She had honed her skills into a deadly art form, and her collection—implements and devices, blades and needles, hooks and brands—was morbidly impressive. The tools were spread around that horrid cave of a room, sitting in purple, mole-velvet cases on skinny root-wood tables, or hanging from elegant iron brackets in the walls. He had only sampled but a fraction so far. There were still many more toys to enjoy. The thought summoned a cold sweat to his forehead.

  In the back of the room, a small forge crackled away. Rhin snuck another glance at the two pokers that lingered there, and winced.

  Sift paced some more, still waiting for her answer. In one hand, she held a fork with needle-sharp tines, and in the other a bottle of something orange and putrid.

  ‘I take it that’s a “no”?’

  Rhin knew all about troll blood. He had seen its effects first hand; splashing or dripping onto the fallen, bodies hissing and steaming as it ate into them, down to the bones. The only things troll blood couldn’t eat were glass and troll innards.

  ‘The humans call it “cauterisation”’, said Sift. ‘It burns while it eats, sealing the wound as it burrows through you. You simply lose whatever is in its way.’

  ‘How very pleasant,’ replied Rhin.

  Sift wandered closer, aiming the fork at him. ‘Would you like to see what we can cauterise?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ he replied, only to receive a stab from the fork. He looked down to find lavender blood pooling around the three tiny puncture wounds in his side.

  Another wound for the ledger. He was building up quite the collection.

  ‘His hand!’ Sift ordered. The two burly Coil Guards either side of Rhin dragged out his hand; the one with the black bean sidhe cross still etched into the palm. Rhin snarled and struggled, but to no avail. He was exhausted after the endless
torture, wracked by how close he felt to cracking. Sift only stopped her games to eat, sleep, or deal with the riotous gatherings that seemed to be flaring up all around Shanarh. Something about food shortages and Sift squandering Fae gold on border wars instead of the city.

  Or spending too much time torturing old friends, thought Rhin.

  ‘All you need is a drop,’ Sift crooned, expertly flicking a single drop from the bottle’s coiled tip onto his palm. Rhin writhed immediately. The pain was intense, rushing up the veins of his arm. His heart clenched and spasmed as the blood bored a hole where the lines of the cross met. It soon found his bones, and Rhin seethed, spitting through bared teeth until the blood fizzled out.

  ‘More?’ Sift asked, raising the bottle.

  ‘No!’ Rhin answered quickly, almost biting the tip from his tongue. He hated to show weakness, but he also wanted to remind Sift that no prize could last long under this sort of treatment. She smirked.

  ‘Had enough, have we?’

  Rhin nodded, giving her what she wanted. Sift purred to herself, replacing the bottle and her fork in their individual nests before coming back to circle him, a smug grin on her face. She was just reaching for his cheek when a Coil Guard burst into the room.

  Her title was a rasping wheeze. ‘My Queen!’

  ‘I did not bid you enter!’ Sift shrieked.

  There was a clang as the guard’s armoured knees met the stone floor. ‘My apologies, Your Majesty, but a riot has begun in the Quivering Quarter.’ He bowed his head and flattened his wings.

  Sift scowled at him, hands outstretched but stopping short to strangle the air instead of his throat. Rhin knew she hated it when a faerie had a good excuse. With an irritated hiss, she clicked her fingers and strode from the room. ‘Put him back in his cell!’ The words tumbled in her wake like shrivelled leaves.

  ‘See you soon,’ Rhin whispered through cracked and bloodied lips as the Coil Guards grabbed him.

  His new cell was a square hole with a dirt floor, carved into the rock about halfway up the towering cavern walls. At least his view was improving, and there wasn’t a worm in sight.

  Rhin was shoved through the door. He smiled, sickly-sweet with gratitude, as one of the guards put his toothy keys to work. The other just spat an ugly pearl of phlegm through the bars before they sauntered back along the walkway, stolen by the shadows of the honeycomb corridors.