Ruler of the Realm fw-3

by Herbie Brennan

  But it was a small, rather battered, wooden hand-drum he took from the wardrobe. ‘Dragonskin,’ he murmured as he passed it to her.

  Blue glanced down at the worn green surface. ‘Did you say dragon skin?’

  ‘A small piece only, Majesty. The beast was in no way harmed when it was taken.’

  Blue continued to stare at the drum. She couldn’t imagine how you extracted a piece of skin from a dragon without harming it… or getting yourself devoured, come to that. Perhaps he was lying. Dragons had been protected for years and the penalties for killing one were severe. But she had other things on her mind at the moment. She looked up at the Spicemaster.

  ‘What do I do with this?’

  ‘If Your Majesty would care to sit on the chair and -’ he managed to look concerned, nervous and embarrassed all at the same time, ‘place the drum between Your Majesty’s knees…’ Blue did so without fuss, pushing down her skirt to make a lap. ‘Now, Your Majesty, tap the drum gently: one-two.’

  Blue tapped the drum with the tips of her fingers. For such a small instrument, it made an astonishingly loud, resonant note. She looked up at the Spicemaster.

  ‘ Gently, Majesty,’ he emphasised. ‘Let the dragon-skin do the work.’

  She tapped it again, more gently this time. The note still sounded loudly, but the Spicemaster appeared satisfied.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘one-two, like the beat of a human heart.’

  Blue reached out to stroke the dragonskin. It looked smooth, but there was a coating of very fine green hair beneath her fingers. Tap-boom. She looked up at the Spicemaster. Tap-boom.

  ‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Like that. Exactly like that and at that speed until I reach the centre of the spiral. Then slower and more softly. Do you understand?’ He blinked and added, ‘Majesty.’

  Blue nodded.

  ‘Now, Majesty,’ said the Spicemaster, ‘if you will leave the drum on your chair for a moment and help me with the cloak…’

  She was completely unprepared for the cloak. Although bulky, it was made from feathers so she expected it to be light, but the moment she tried to take it from the hanger, it writhed and twisted like a live thing and proved so heavy she needed all her strength to hold it. Glory only knows how the Spicemaster was going to manage.

  ‘Fight it!’ he commanded urgently. ‘There’s no real danger, but it will try to strangle you!’

  How could there be no real danger if something was trying to strangle you? And why hadn’t this silly little man mentioned the damn cloak if he was so concerned with her safety? But she fought the struggling garment gamely.

  ‘My shoulders!’ shouted the Spicemaster. ‘Put it on my shoulders! It will quiet down once it gets hold of me!’

  If I put it on his shoulders it will crush him to the ground, Blue thought. The thing felt as if it weighed a ton. But he was wriggling into position and the cloak was now so violent it almost wrenched itself out of her hands. Suddenly it was across his shoulders. The Spicemaster staggered a little, his knees buckled, but he managed to hold himself erect. The cloak, as predicted, settled down at once.

  ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ he said.

  Blue sat on the leather seat, one hand absently caressing the dragonskin. It was almost like stroking a cat. The skin vibrated gently as if purring. But her eyes were on the Spicemaster, now at the entrance of the labyrinth. He looked magnificent in the cloak, far more magnificent than a man of his height deserved. The garment had changed him, lending him huge authority and presence. For the first time she found herself wondering if it might not, after all, have been a good idea to bring a guard with her. But she pushed the thought aside. Whatever the illusion of bulk, he was still the same frail little man underneath. She was perfectly safe.

  He poured the contents of the liquid vial – was it water? – into the copper bowl, then unstoppered the second vial. At once a heady scent of nutmeg filled the air. Yet the spice wasn’t nutmeg: she knew that instantly. There were citrus undertones and a heavy hint of musk that carried with it a curious note of corruption. The Spicemaster emptied the vial into the liquid and mixed the two together with a spatula. He glanced back at Blue.

  ‘Drumbeat, please, Majesty.’

  Blue jumped slightly, then tapped the drum. In one quick movement, the Spicemaster drank down the mixture in his bowl and stepped into the labyrinth.

  Four

  If he’d been prepared to admit it, Pyrgus was afraid.

  As Crown Prince, he’d never been allowed to visit Yammeth City – or anywhere else in the Cretch for that matter – and even when he’d run away, some natural caution kept him clear of the place. But he was here now; and he didn’t like it.

  The city wasn’t at all what he’d imagined. It was cleaner, for one thing – far cleaner than the capital, which every Faerie of the Light touted as a shining example to the Realm. It was also – he hated to admit it – better laid out, although that wasn’t surprising since it was a newer city. The capital was nearly two thousand years old. Yammeth City had been built no more than four hundred years ago, when the Cretch was ceded to the Faeries of the Night after the War of Partial Independence. They’d built it from scratch, with the help of demon labour, and laid it out, some said, to mimic the soulless metallic sprawls of Hael.

  Maybe that was what made him nervous. Or maybe it was the level of the light.

  Pyrgus was used to dark alleys. (Light’s sake, he’d lived in one before his father’s guards found him.) But this was different. Even the main streets of Yammeth were dim. And not just dim: the glowglobes in the street lamps gave out a blue-green illumination that left everything looking as if it was attacked by fungus. The lenses made it worse. Everybody here wore lenses, including Pyrgus, as part of his disguise. But the Faeries of the Night needed theirs because of their light-sensitive eyes. For Pyrgus, all lenses did was make things darker still. He’d already tripped twice, and tried to walk through a plate-glass door. He must have been mad to come here.

  The traffic didn’t help. The most popular form of transport among Faeries of the Night was something you just didn’t see in other areas of the Realm: a single-seater flying pod you straddled like a horse. Unfortunately the pods were powered by cheap spells set for speed rather than altitude and most Nighters flew them at a breakneck pace around shoulder height. If you were on foot, as Pyrgus was, you ran an excellent chance of losing your head until your ears became attuned to the approaching hum. All of which meant he was avoiding the gloomy main thoroughfares and sticking to the even gloomier side streets. Getting anywhere took for ever.

  All the same, he seemed to have reached the boundary wall of the Ogyris Estate. Even in the leprous light, he could see the distinctive red and gold of the Ogyris crest on the decorative frieze near the top.

  Pyrgus glanced around. He couldn’t afford to use the main gate, but he knew there were others and needed to find one in particular. What he wanted now was the statue of Lord Hairstreak. But that was carved from volcanic glass and nearly impossible to see in this light unless you were almost up against it. He certainly couldn’t see it now. He could hardly see anything now. In desperation he risked taking off his lenses – how many passers-by would be looking at him closely enough to discover he didn’t have cat’s eyes? – and there it was! At least there he thought it was: a black blob in a flowing cape. There should be an alley just south…

  Yes! He had it now. There was the alley, bounded on one side by the estate wall.

  Pyrgus put his lenses back on and slid furtively into the alley. Mercifully it looked empty. But how could anybody be sure through these damn glasses? He took them off again and the alley really was empty. He moved along it swiftly, one hand trailing on the wall, and reached the side gate in a moment. It was locked, of course, and the brown slick of spell coating suggested climbing it might be lethal. But it wasn’t the gate that interested him. According to his information, there should be a small pedestrian entrance – no more than a narrow wooden doorway – just
a little way…

  Yes, there it was: a recess in the wall. He slipped in, tried the handle and – yes!!! – it was open, exactly as he’d been promised. Pyrgus went through, closed the door and uttered a triumphant prayer of thanks. He was in the Ogyris Estate!

  Oddly enough, he could see better here, partly because the estate was open to the sky, partly because he was able to get rid of those damn lenses now. If anybody spotted him he was dead anyway, whether they discovered he was a Faerie of the Light or not. He looked around. He was on a narrow path that meandered through a stretch of lawn to disappear into a copse. There would be guards at the end of it, that was for sure. The Ogyris family might not be of noble birth, but they were fearsomely rich, which made them a magnet for every thief in the Realm. In fact guards were probably the least of their protections. He shuddered, thinking of the minefield that once guarded the old Chalkhill and Brimstone Miracle Glue Factory. You never knew how far Faeries of the Night might go.

  Pyrgus found he’d stopped just inside the entrance and straightened his back to pull himself together. He was quite safe as long as he followed his instructions. Perfectly safe. Never safer.

  The trouble was, they were complicated instructions.

  He pulled the piece of paper from the pocket of his jerkin and discovered to his horror that even with his lenses off, he couldn’t read his notes. What was wrong with him? It would have been so simple to bring a portaglobe or even a sparklight. But no. Perhaps he’d been a little… overexcited…?

  Overexcited or not, he had limited choices now. He could go back to the street and reread the instructions under a street lamp for everyone to see. Or he could trust his memory. No contest, really. He couldn’t run the risk of anybody finding out what he was up to.

  Pyrgus left the path and cut diagonally across the lawn. He prayed he was heading for a rose bower.

  The estate was a lot bigger than he’d imagined. After fifteen minutes he was still not in sight of the house, although he had found the obelisk, which was reassuring. He’d also avoided guards and traps, which was more reassuring still. Once he found the lake, he could follow the water’s edge until he reached the boathouse.

  The lake, when he found it, was also a lot bigger than he’d imagined. A private estate this size in the middle of a city must have cost an Emperor’s ransom. He was following the water’s edge, eyes peeled for the outline of the boathouse, when a sudden blaze of light erupted on his left.

  Pyrgus dived for cover. His first instinct was that he’d triggered a trap, but as he peered through the undergrowth, he discovered a large glasshouse had suddenly illuminated. He lay where he was, waiting. Chances were somebody had switched on the glowglobes. But he could see no moving shapes, no shadows, nothing to suggest anyone else was about. Glowglobes could be set to come on automatically.

  After a while, he began to crawl forward. Cautiously.

  The closer he got, the more he grew convinced there was no one in the glasshouse. Or if there was, they were keeping very still. He came to a decision and risked climbing to his feet. He waited. He was standing at the edge of the glow spilling out from the glasshouse, visible to anyone who happened to glance in his direction… but still far enough away to make a run for it if someone did.

  Nothing. No startled voice, no sound of an alarm. The glowglobes must have been set to automatic.

  He realised he’d been holding his breath and released it with a sigh. Now that it seemed he was in no danger, he took time to look at the glasshouse properly. It was a far more sturdy building than he’d thought and, as he moved closer, he noticed the glass bore the telltale sheen of magical reinforcement. Something valuable inside. His mind suddenly went back to the time he’d freed Lord Hairstreak’s phoenix. The bird had been penned in a glass cage with the same sort of spell coating. Was Ogyris holding some poor creatures here? The glasshouse was a lot bigger than Hairstreak’s cage.

  Pyrgus pressed his nose against the glass and saw at once that this was something very different. Inside, set in trays, were row upon row of delicate, exotic blooms, their petals glinting and sparkling under the lights. But even at a glance he could see these were not natural plants. Every stem, every bud, every blossom, every leaf was delicately sculpted from the very finest rock crystal. The entire content of the glasshouse was an artefact, an astonishing, priceless, near incomprehensible work of art, laid out in the whimsy of a natural setting.

  Had each flower really been individually sculpted? The only other possibility was magic and he knew of no spell that could create such an effect. Illusions were far too coarse, transformations far too limited. Some master sculptor had lovingly created every piece and Merchant Ogyris had set them one by one in this vast glasshouse. There were hundreds of the crystal blooms. The cost must have been mind-numbing.

  Pyrgus was still staring in awe at the crystal flowers when a hand fell on his shoulder.

  Five

  ‘You’re Tim’s son?’ the girl asked incredulously after Henry calmed her down. ‘He never told me he had a son.’

  Nice one, Dad, thought Henry. The girl didn’t look much more than twenty-five, way too young for Dad who was positively middle-aged, for Pete’s sake! She had auburn-red hair like – well, like somebody he knew in another place – and a terribly curvy figure and that towel didn’t look too secure since she’d been screaming.

  ‘He did tell you he’d a wife, though?’ Henry asked, then wished he could have amputated his tongue. It was the sort of thing that sounded really, really mean; and if Dad hadn’t told her, then Henry could have blown his nice new romance with the very first question he asked. He was fairly sure this was Dad’s nice new romance, and even though the girl was way too young, Henry couldn’t blame him. Not after what Mum did.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the girl said, frowning, but not at all put out. ‘But I thought his wife was a lesbian. I didn’t know lesbians had children.’

  It had thrown Henry a bit the first time it came up. ‘Yes, they do,’ he said earnestly. ‘At least, Mum did. But maybe she wasn’t lesbian when she had us – that happens sometimes.’ It came out so miserably he saw the girl’s expression soften.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is awful – I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Henry,’ Henry told her. He wished he’d foregone the Brownie points and headed straight for Mr Fogarty’s house. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘You mustn’t laugh – it’s Laura Croft.’

  Henry looked at her blankly.

  ‘You know, like the computer game. And the movie. Except she’s Lara.’

  ‘Oh, yes…’ Henry said uncertainly. He didn’t play computer games and never seemed to have time to go to movies. ‘Nice to meet you, Laura.’ He held out his hand, then wished he hadn’t because he was seriously worried what might happen if she lost her grip on the towel.

  But she shook hands without mishap, then, either reading his mind or possibly just following his gaze, said, ‘Look, let me get dressed. I was in the shower – that’s why I didn’t hear you. Your dad should be back in a minute. Make yourself a cup of tea or something -’ She glanced at the mug in his hand. ‘Oh, you have – that’s good. Won’t be a sec.’ He noticed she went through the door to the master bedroom, not up the spiral staircase.

  Henry sat back down on the couch, wondering how he was going to escape before his dad came back. What had happened was bad enough. The thought of a three-way conversation with his dad and his dad’s new girlfriend was just too awful to contemplate. He sipped his tea and found it had gone cold, which didn’t matter because it tasted foul anyway. But he decided against making himself a fresh mug. He also decided against mentioning any of this to his mother, even the fact he’d called to see his dad.

  The girl came back wearing a mustard-yellow suit that would have been mad on most people, but somehow went with her colouring. Her hair was still wet, but she’d brushed it back off her face. She grinned suddenly.

  ‘Know how I knew you really w
ere Tim’s son and not some axe-murderer just pretending?’

  Henry shook his head.

  ‘You’re the image of him,’ Laura said. Then added seriously, ‘You have such sensitive eyes.’

  ‘Look,’ Henry said, embarrassed, ‘I have to be going.’ He nearly added, I have to feed a cat, but decided that sounded stupid.

  ‘You can’t go yet,’ Laura told him firmly. ‘Tim would kill me. Let me make you another cup of tea.’ She glanced into his mug with its yoghurt globules. ‘That one looks peculiar.’

  Henry sat down again. He didn’t see how he could just walk out, however much he wanted to. Laura went into the kitchen. He watched her through the open door, bustling about with the ease that comes when you live in a place.

  ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’ she called.

  ‘There isn’t any milk,’ Henry said.

  ‘Yes, there is.’ And there was. She came back with a nice cup of tea in a proper cup, although he couldn’t think where she’d found it. Or the milk.

  He took a sip. ‘Are you and Dad… you know…?’

  She watched him for a moment, grinning slightly, then helped him out by saying, ‘An item? Yes. Yes, we are. He’s not that much older than me.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Henry said, even though he didn’t suppose that at all.

  Laura said, ‘I’m not a gold-digger.’

  Henry looked at her in surprise. It had never occurred to him his dad had enough gold to be worth digging. But now he thought about it, Tim Atherton was a successful company executive – he drove a Merc, for heaven’s sake – which must mean he was pretty well off. And he had an expense account for entertaining clients, so he knew the best restaurants. For somebody who wasn’t family, he probably looked rich.