by Ben Galley
Every one of his senses prickled with a new intensity. He heard a deep throbbing and instantly ducked into a doorway, pushing Calidae against the wall. He had assumed pounding boots; but it was Calidae’s heart, thudding as fast as his. He could hear it as clearly as a drum being bashed in an adjoining room. He looked at her and felt her surrounded by an aura. Not a colour, not a glow, but a presence. As if she stood at angles to reality, vibrating unseen strings.
‘Never rushed this shade before,’ he explained as she glared at him.
‘Your eyes are glowing.’
‘Happens. Onwards!’
Corridor by corridor they crept, working their way into the cavernous halls. The gaslights were either dead or perilously low, but his eyes lit the shadows a faint orange. Two lordsguards wandered past, but Merion had felt them coming, and motioned for Calidae to hide. Their vibrations were softer and less angular than Calidae’s. Perhaps that was the difference between lampreys and humans.
‘Which way?’ he asked.
‘Next left and in the alcove.’
Merion nodded and crept forward, rushing hard. He could feel all sorts of movement below them: heartbeats thrumming and people moving. It was almost intoxicating. Several pinpricks of sensation stood out in the multitude, sharp to his carp senses. Rushers, probably. Or leeches. He was about to smile when he felt two more heartbeats, worryingly close. He peered around the corner and winced. A candle shone alone on a dresser.
‘Is his room always guarded?’
‘No,’ she breathed. ‘Never!’
Merion was growing a knack for improvisation. ‘Fine. Distract them for me, would you? Get rid of that candle.’
Calidae crept forward and pinched the candle. No sooner had darkness fallen than he was moving past her, taking the heavy candlestick with him and sliding to the mouth of the hallway, shadows ablaze and clear.
‘Who’s there?’ Two lordsguards came tramping forward, blinking hard.
‘I swear, if that’s you, Jollins…’
‘Isn’t Jollins. He’s on the main gate.’
‘ ‘E’s always playing pranks though, isn’t he?’
‘Hello? Is there anybody that can help me?’ Calidae called out, as the guards stepped into the main hallway.
Clang! The candlestick smashed into the base of the first man’s skull, dropping him like a squashed fly. As the other lordsguard turned, Merion swung the candlestick around to collide with his forehead, knocking him out cold.
‘Nicely done,’ said Calidae. She led him forward to the door and rapped three times, quietly and gently.
‘Is it time?’ said a voice; muffled by the ornate wood.
‘It is,’ whispered Calidae.
The boy looked through the keyhole and saw the dishevelled form of Mr Witchazel standing back from the door, nibbling nervously at his fingers. He had a slope to his posture, with only a threadbare jacket, shirt, and pair of trousers to his name. He was a figure far removed from the upright man he remembered sitting at Pagget’s desk, with his oleaginous hair and pristine suit.
‘How are you going to get the door open?’ Calidae asked, folding her arms. ‘They’ll hear it.’
Merion smiled. ‘We just have to wait for the distraction.’
‘What distraction?’
‘You’ll see.’
*
Lord Darbish was sweating: a cold, thin sweat that only showed when he was in Lord Dizali’s presence. It permeated his shirt and dripped down his forehead.
He realised he was staring at Dizali, and quickly lowered his head, back to his glass of crimson brandy. The tingle of the drink did nothing to quell the beating of his heart. Neither of them had spoken in quite some time. They lingered in the uncomfortable silence between pleasantries and business. It was a void that ached.
Darbish took another sip of his drink and cleared his throat of its fire.
‘So you see, Lord Protector. The reason I’m here is to discuss my time in Constantia.’
‘Ah yes, the long overdue report.’
Darbish smiled. The good Lord Protector had ignored every one of his letters until the last. Four, he had sent him, and in each he had asked for an audience to discuss the Ottoman Empire. Overdue, indeed.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ Darbish began, settling deeper into his armchair. He rearranged his suit jacket over his ample belly. Judging by Dizali’s furrowed brow, he disapproved of Darbish’s undeniable love of sweet treats. The Ottomans rather excelled at them.
Before Darbish could launch into his prepared report—many times rehearsed since stepping onto the ship to London—Dizali waved a hand.
‘That reminds me, Lord Darbish…’
Darbish was thrown. He wiped his hand across his brow. ‘Of what, Lord Protector?’
‘Of renumeration, for your services to our new government and to the Order.’
‘Well, it was one of the aspects I wished to discuss—’
‘There is no need.’ Dizali dismissed his words with another wave of his drink. ‘Over there, in the cabinet under the decanter. And while you are there, Darbish…’ He clinked a fingernail against his glass.
‘Of course, my Lord.’ Darbish thrust himself out of the comfortable chair. He collected Dizali’s glass, filled it first, and then on his return, sought out the key poking from the cabinet door. With a swift turn and pull, he discovered a small wooden box, trimmed with silver and inlaid with Dizali’s coat of arms: the tiger, the sun, and the eagle.
It was heavy. Darbish felt his cheeks blush as he hauled it from the cabinet and set it down on the table between them. It had irked him somewhat that Dizali hadn’t invited him to his private office. He had been shown to a smaller lounge instead; one with a great glass wall that looked out upon the misty darkness of the grounds. The heft of the box washed away some of that disgruntlement.
‘I believe it’s unlocked,’ Dizali said between sips.
Indeed it was. Darbish opened it eagerly with sweaty fingers. His relief quickly dissolved.
Coins. Just stacks of coins, all lined up in rows and bound by paper. Darbish pulled one from the box and counted its rows.
‘One thousand florins,’ said Dizali. ‘In payment for your hard work.’
Darbish flapped his jowls. ‘I—’
‘Is there something wrong?’ Dizali raised his eyebrows.
Those jowls flapped for another few moments before Darbish could summon the courage to speak.
‘This is not what we agreed, Lord Protector.’
Dizali leaned forward in his chair and placed his brandy on the table. ‘Is it not?’
‘No, my Lord. We agreed on Lady Knutshire’s estate. Now that she has been ousted from the party and disgraced.’ The sweat was now coming in rivulets.
Dizali shook his head. ‘As ever, the paperwork is prohibitive, my good man—’
‘I was under the impression that I would receive much more in return for my work. Hard work, if I may say so, and time spent keeping the Ottomans on our side.’
‘Time, it would seem, well spent at dinners, sampling the delights of our ally’s fare, spending Empire coin as well. All signed for by your hand, I believe, as “necessary expenditure regarding the ongoing political effort”. Your very words.’
Dizali took a moment to reach into his jacket pocket and retrieve a folded slip of paper. He splayed it on the table and pointed to a sentence underlined in red ink.
‘I had some of the Emerald House’s financial advisors investigate. Do you know what they informed me, Lord Darbish?’ Dizali asked, pulling another piece of paper from his pocket.
Darbish was too busy wiping the sweat from his face to answer.
‘Twenty thousand, four hundred and ninety-eight florins, never mind the pennies. Spent over a course of three months. That is enough for a deposit on an abode as large as Knutshire’s.’ Dizali cast the second paper on the table.
‘You see—’ Darbish began.
‘I see nothing but a man who has already received far
more than what was agreed, and has squandered it away.’ The Lord Protector rose and so did Darbish, with the usual struggle. He didn’t know whether to down the brandy or leave it on the side. He chose the former and then reached for the box.
‘My Lord. I must protest!’ he said. But on seeing the glower on Dizali’s face, he chose to cut the sentence short. ‘My apologies.’
‘See that you do not squander the payment, Lord Darbish. I would hate to see you unable to contribute to the Order’s ongoing work.’ Dizali manoeuvred around the table to show him the door. ‘We cannot have penniless members, now, can we? We would have to throw you out of the—’
A lordsguard came crashing through the grand windows. He sailed across the room like a misshapen cannonball, shrouded in glass. Dizali deftly shifted Darbish in front of him, and the armoured man flattened him, knocking him senseless.
Dizali was already marching for the door, enraged.
‘GUARDS!’
*
‘A fantastic shot, if I don’t say so myself,’ said Gunderton, shaking his hand. ‘Told you mantis shrimp was impressive.’
‘Fantastic. But we haven’t come here to show off. Come on!’ Lilain dragged him forward.
Lurker spun the Mistress around his finger. ‘I could have just shot the bastard, right there and then,’ he said. They hadn’t banked on Dizali sitting pretty behind a wall of glass, but it had been a happy coincidence. Drawing in a couple of guards was even better. That mantis shrimp shade had some punch to it. Literally.
‘And he would have died a martyr, just like Merion said.’ Lilain shook her head.
‘More lordsguards!’ Gunderton snapped, breaking free of Lilain’s hold and wading forward, as Lurker kept them pinned with a few thunderous shots from the Mistress. The Brother was already drinking another vial, bright orange blood leaking onto his lip.
He ducked behind a column as a bullet sprayed him with stone chips. Lilain stared at him, only three feet away, cocking Long Tom. ‘Gunderton?’
‘It’s nothing.’ He grimaced as he patted his arm, eliciting a thud. The skin beyond his sleeves and around his collar had hardened into armoured plates. It was a carapace, running along his chest, shoulders, back, and arms. It glittered like oil in the gaslight and the lightning flash of the gunshots, sporting all the colours of the rainbow. Lobster blood. His grimace turned to a grin before he darted away, with Lilain firing past his ear.
She watched as the Brother cleared them a path, swinging hammer-like punches left and right; breaking bones and cracking armour with his bare fists. The sounds made Lilain’s stomach twinge as she dashed forward with Lurker, who was reloading mid-stride.
‘I think our new friend misheard the word “distraction” for “destruction”!’
‘We seem to be doin’ both,’ said Lurker.
‘Just don’t go doing anythin’ brave or stupid tonight.’
‘I never plan it. Stupid things just come and find me.’ Lurker looked back at her and touched a leather finger under her chin. Lilain fixed him with a flat gaze.
‘That’s what I’m worried about. Now that we’re so close to the end.’
‘You’re feelin’ it too, ain’t you?’
‘Hopin’, more like. It’s about time we had a break.’
‘We’ll get one, you’ll see.’
‘We all finished?’ Gunderton had just punched the lock out of the door. He was already standing on the other side, panting, looking impatient. He glanced at them over his armoured shoulder; not an easy feat for a man with a shell.
A gunshot rang out as soon as their feet crossed the threshold. Glass exploded above them.
‘Down!’ Lurker shouted, dragging Lilain behind a nearby cabinet. It was the grand and large sort, built out of oak and delightfully solid; useful when under fire. Several bullets hammered into its other side, making it shudder against their spines.
Lurker angled the Mistress over his head and spent her chambers, keeping the lordsguards at bay. Lilain took a quick peek before the shots began to rain down again. The guards were a hundred yards down the hallway, barricaded behind an overturned table. In the centre of the battleground were the stairs that Merion would be coming down any moment. Another gun-crack made Lilain duck back in. ‘We’re almost there!’
‘They’ll press forward as soon as they can,’ Gunderton barked over the tumult. Shouts echoed through the arching hallway. ‘And it won’t be long until the Brothers find us.’
‘We said we’d trust him!’ yelled Lilain. ‘We’ll stay put. ‘Merion will be here.’
‘He’d better be,’ said Lurker, sliding more bullets into his pistol.
*
A rattle of gunfire exploded from beneath them, making Calidae jump. Merion clapped his hands. ‘And there we are! If not a little late.’
The Lady Serped was not amused. ‘So this is your distraction? An all-out gun battle? I knew I shouldn’t have left this part up to you.’
Merion scowled. ‘It’s working, isn’t it? Now, stand back!’ He waved her away and took a step from the door, kicking at it until the lock began to splinter.
‘Do take your time,’ said Calidae, between the kicking and the bursts of gunfire. She had picked up one of the lordsguard rifles and stood ready, pointing its bladed muzzle back the way they had come.
‘Should have bought some bear blood,’ hissed Merion.
Three more kicks and the door surrendered in a cloud of splinters. Merion almost fell with it, but managed to stay upright, barely a foot from Witchazel’s face.
‘Mr Witchazel,’ Merion said, extending a hand. The lawyer shook it weakly. ‘We will talk. But now we have to run. Understand?’
‘Yes, Tonmerion,’ Witchazel rasped in a broken voice.
The boy examined the man’s crooked stance; the extra wrinkles in his face. ‘Are you able to?’
‘I may not be as fast as I once was, but I will keep up. I want out!’
Merion grabbed the lawyer’s sleeve and hauled him to the doorway.
They had barely taken three paces when two deafening gunshots rang out. Merion rushed out into the hallway, hand clasping another vial, only to find the muzzle of Calidae’s rifle smoking, two dead lordsguards at her feet.
‘This is why you need me,’ said Calidae.
‘Bring them running, why don’t you?’
‘In a house full of gunfire, who is going to notice a few more shots?’
Merion rolled his eyes. ‘Mr Witchazel, Lady Serped, so on and so forth.’
‘A pleasure to finally meet you…’ the lawyer’s voice fell away as she turned and showed him her scars.
‘Likewise, I am sure,’ Calidae snapped, dragging him onwards. ‘We need to move. Take a left, Merion.’
The rifle fired three more times, leaving three more guards on the plush carpets to bleed out. Merion dropped one of his own with a vase to the face. Witchazel just stayed well back and did as he was told.
They paused at the top of the staircase that Calidae had marked as their escape route. Merion poked his head around the corner and saw a troop of lordsguards standing at its foot, firing across the atrium, choking it with smoke and echoes. Three men in bowler hats stood between them, hurling flames though the air. Their acolytes fired wildly into the haze with sleek pistols, or threw spars of wood with alarming speed.
Calidae nudged him out the way and took a look for herself. ‘Think you can take them, leech?’ she said, looking Merion up and down. There was no sarcasm in her voice; just a simple question. That was too rare to be ignored.
‘Is that a challenge?’ replied the young Hark, managing a smile. He held open his coat and snatched the next vial. Sprite. It glowed a fearsome orange, as though a furnace was trapped behind the glass. He swigged it down and let it burn in his stomach. It was fierce, but Merion’s blood was running hot. Within moments he was bubbling with magick.
Merion crept back to the edge of the stairs and fixed his eyes on the crackling rifles below as they sparked in quick
succession. He stretched out a hand, fingers straining. His whole body shook with the effort.
The flames were too brief for him to snag. But then, there was a sudden pop in the flow of magick, and as the next gun spoke, he reached out with his mind. The rifle burst asunder, flames tracing back through the barrel and igniting the other rounds. The lordsguard fell, screaming as the hot shards of metal kissed his face. The next gun did the same, and the next. Howls of pain punctuated the gunfire. In the lull, Calidae took aim, firing at anything that moved. The remaining lordsguards skipped back, eager to escape the bullets. Even the Brothers hunkered down behind the nearest doorway.
‘Go!’ yelled Calidae.
Merion bounded forward, yanking at her arm, but she shrugged him off. ‘I’ll hold them back.’
The boy flashed his most serious glare. ‘This is no time for heroics, Calidae Serped. Come on!’
She fired off another round before matching his fiery eyes with her icy blues. ‘Go, then. I’m staying!’
Merion’s mouth flapped.
Below them, a blur of iridescent armour and whirling fists darted through the smoke, eliciting shouts from the adjoining hallway. Merion pushed Witchazel ahead of him. ‘Go, man! Make for the door!’ He looked back to Calidae. ‘Are you mad? What about the plan, damn it?’
Calidae grabbed him by the collar of his cloak. Merion batted her hand away and the two stood toe to toe for a moment, noses almost touching. ‘I need to stay. I need to find out his secret.’
Merion shook his head. ‘You can’t change the plan this late in—’
‘Tough!’ she snarled. ‘It’s already changed! This doesn’t affect you. You still get to pull off your trick. You found your deeds and the Fae blood, right?’
Merion winced, watching a dark body slipping down a muddy slope in his mind’s eye. ‘Of course,’ he lied.
A burst of flame flashed at the foot of the stairs, and they both turned to see a Brother standing there, trying to keep Gunderton at bay. As he ducked a bullet, lightning fast, he caught sight of them in the corner of his vision. His mismatched gaze turned just enough to see Merion and Calidae standing there, rifle in hand. The boy met his eyes for the briefest of moments, before the Brother was forced back behind the wall. Merion cursed.