Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) (24 page)

All but Felcher, who remained standing for a long time after the applause had died. His hand hovered, half-raised, his lips a puckered seam in his raisin-like face.

‘Anything to add, Lord Felcher?’ Dizali had asked.

It had taken a long time for him to spit it out. ‘Nothing, my Lord. Nothing at all.’

His walk from the hall was escorted by boos and jeers. The word “traitor” screamed from the trained dogs in the front benches.

They had taken Dizali’s side rather willingly after that, it had to be said. Perhaps they could already feel themselves teetering on the rickety bridge of indecision. Behind, an icy drop. Ahead, a difficult climb. All they needed was something solid to grab onto, and that was exactly what Dizali had sold them. (Felcher wasn’t exactly promising riches.) And so forward it was.

Dizali smiled to himself as he heard the familiar whine of his gates. If the lords and ladies of the Emerald Benches continued to be so pliable, it was time to take the next step, and put an end to his royal troubles. Someone would be proud, he told himself. He would have to tell her.

He strode up the sweeping stairs of the atrium and onto the mansion’s first floor. Hanister was waiting for him, lounging against a pillar of stone.
Gavisham would have never lounged
.

‘What is it?’ Dizali demanded, without breaking his stride. Hanister stepped quickly after him and they spoke as they walked.

‘I’ve had word from my Brothers. Their ship docked late this afternoon. They should be here within the hour.’

‘About time! Does the stock get worse over the years, or is it because you three are barely out of training?’

Hanister almost tripped on the carpet. ‘My apologies—’

‘Better late than never is all I will say on the matter, Hanister!’

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

Dizali slowed as he came to a door, deep in the northeast wing. ‘I am not to be disturbed until they arrive, you understand me?’ Hanister bowed and retreated down the hallway.

When he was out of sight, Dizali plucked a key from beneath his shirt. It dangled on a golden chain. He jiggled it in the lock, smoothed by years of practice, and entered the gloom.

Slowly up the coiling stairs he went, eyes checking every surface, every inch, making sure the butlers and maids weren’t slacking in their duties. All seemed well enough, barring a few mistakes here and there that he would mention to Mr Pontis. He should have known better than to get sloppy, especially after the recent “mass dismissals” of his entire staff. (Strangely enough, they had coincided with the day of the Bloodmoon.) For all these new minions were aware, he was simply a ruthless employer.

On the second floor of the small tower, he found his stool and placed it quietly by the bedside. He turned the lamp a fraction brighter but stared straight ahead, not daring to glance down and witness the vacant eyes of his wife. As usual, the ceiling held her unwavering, blinkless gaze, unchanged since that brief moment several weeks before. Since then, the catatonia had held her tightly in its strict embrace.

Dizali reached out a hand and grasped her fingers. He could still remember them warm and slender, not these bony things he held now. He thumbed the golden ring trapped between her knuckles as he pondered his words. It must have taken him half an hour to speak.

‘Avalin, my dear. I have decided it is time to do something no Order in the world has ever accomplished. Not to mention attempted.’

No reply but the rasping of her shallow breath.

‘It is the start, my dear. The start of a new era, one that you once dreamt of for us. I still remember so clearly what you told me. I have never forgotten.’

More breathing.

Dizali waited for a while before continuing, almost as if he were imagining the other half of the conversation. He nodded to himself. ‘Now is the time to take your dream and make it a reality. It’s time for the Order to claim itself an empire. Time to show Europe what we’re capable of. It is time, my dear Avalin, to kill the Queen!’

He waited for that to sink in.

‘Without her, and with no heir, these Royalists will have nothing to put their trust in. No legitimate line on which to support. They will die out, one by one, as the newspapers laud our new government over the people. The people and their precious Emerald Benches will see power, and flock to it. I will…
we
will take—’

There came a sharp rapping from below him. Dizali cursed and apologised to his silent wife.

‘It seems it shall have to be a quick visit tonight, my dear.’ He leaned to bring her hand to his mouth, and placed a careful kiss on it. ‘I shall tell you more tomorrow. I promise.’

Dizali stood, replaced the stool, and reached into his pocket. He produced an ornate vial of dark blood. After giving it a shake, he moved to the bed. This part always troubled him and yet he would have nobody else do it. He unscrewed the lid and reached out to dribble the crimson into her open mouth, making sure she swallowed instead of choked. All the while, he looked anywhere but her eyes.

Another knock came from below, more timid this time.

‘Goodnight, my dear Avalin,’ he whispered, and put his boots to the stairs.

Hanister was behind the door, bowler hat in hand, wrinkles in his face.

‘My apologies, Lord Protector. I hadn’t expected them to arrive so soon.’

‘It’s fine.’ Dizali locked the door behind him and slid the key back under his collar. ‘Where have you put them?’

‘In your study, Milord, out of the way.’

‘See? You can do something right.’

Hanister dropped a step behind him. ‘Yes, Milord.’ Dizali would train them eventually. Or he would buy a Brother Sixth. Maybe even a Fifth if there was one still alive.

With a thrust of his arms, the study doors were thrown open. Two practically identical men were standing by his desk, chatting. They had the graces to bow as Dizali walked around to his chair. Hanister shut the doors behind him and sequestered himself in a corner, making the twins a trio.

‘Mr Heck. Mr Honorford. Welcome back to London,’ said Dizali.

‘It’s a pleasure to be back, Milord,’ Heck replied, mismatched eyes gleaming.

‘Were you successful?’

Honorford was carrying a case. The Brother came forward immediately, laying the beaten-up old thing on the desk and flicking its latches. Six syringe vials sat nestled into velvet hollows, perfectly moulded for them. Only one lay empty.

‘All but one, Milord. One was rather… twitchy, shall we say.’

Dizali raised an eyebrow. ‘Shall we indeed?’

Honorford avoided the question, gesturing to the syringes. ‘In any case, you have five samples of fine leech-blood, just as you asked for. Taken almost immediately after death.’

‘I remember asking for six.’

Honorford took off his hat. ‘There was unfortunately a lot of travelling involved, Lord Protector…’

‘… and leeches aren’t as numerous as they used to be,’ Heck finished.

Dizali spent a moment switching between them with a sharp gaze. Even Hanister, lurking in the background, didn’t escape it. He snapped his fingers.

‘Tell me who we have here.’

The Brothers’ hands darted over the vials. They spoke alternately.

‘Tork Knorsson, fisherman.’

‘Esther Unbridge, nurse.’

‘Bargen Bain, Swist banker.’

‘Raif and Carnby Redshire, soldiers in the Ottoman Empire lines.’

Dizali ran his fingers through his sharp goatee, eyeing the dark red blood. He reached out to grasp a vial, and held it up to the gaslight. It was pure enough.

‘It is time to put this damnable Orange Seed of Karrigan’s to the test, and find out whether Mr Witchazel has been lying to us.’ Dizali was convinced that he was; that the Orange Seed would open for any leech, and not just the Bulldog’s boy.

‘A fine plan,’ Heck smiled. Dizali rolled his eyes.

‘Hanister, fetch the lawyer.’

‘Yes, Milord.’

Dizali ran his finger along the long glass cylinders, examining the blood. It was a shame to waste it. Leech blood was the secret to making the finest scarlet brandy.

He called for a butler, who called for Rolick. Within two minutes, the lordsguard captain was standing in front of him, acting sheepish. There was still a hint of a bruise on his pockmarked cheeks.

‘Yes, Milord?’

Dizali beckoned him closer. ‘It struck me today how dangerous some of the roads are in this city, and how many of the carriages are not maintained as they should be.’

Rolick knew the game and nodded. The hangdog expression soon lifted. ‘Yes, Milord. Bloody disgrace.’

‘Even some of the Emerald Lords are guilty of it. I have seen plenty of cracked wheels and creaking joints at the kerb of the House. Any one of them could have an accident at any time.’

‘I expect so, Milord.’

‘In fact, do you know of a Lord Felcher?’

‘I have had the pleasure of drinking with his personal guard more than once, Milord.’

‘Is that so? You may have heard the same rumours as I have then. That the axle of his carriage is near-broken and his horses are a skittish breed.’

Rolick thumbed his nose, and pondered. ‘I had not, Milord. Would you like me to see that Lord Felcher is informed of it, Milord?’

Dizali nodded solemnly. ‘I would indeed, Captain Rolick. ‘I would indeed.’

*

Wine cellars are wonderful places. Not only are they crammed with bountiful amounts of alcohol, they are also warrens, winding and burrowing into cold and dark places.

The Brothers had the intelligence to at least recognise the need for lanterns. Four stood around the Orange Seed, one knelt. Three Brothers, a Lord Protector, and an emaciated lawyer. Witchazel’s gaze was nailed to the floor.

‘The case?’ Dizali hissed.

Heck walked forward, showing off the vials.

Dizali gestured to the golden cradle and orb. ‘Then let us begin, and see if we cannot fool this contraption. Start with the fisherman.’

‘Yes Milord.’ Heck bobbed his head. He set the case down and plucked the first of the bloods from its velvet hollow. He tipped it into the funnel in one swift movement and the fisherman’s crimson flowed.

Silence reigned. The men hardly breathed.

Dizali frowned. Disappointment was not something he enjoyed. Success was his delicacy.

‘Next!’

The nurse went second, and once again they waited and watched, hoping for a click, a whir, anything to indicate they were close. Dizali clenched his fists, dreaming up all sorts of fun things to do to Witchazel, just for being the one who had introduced him to this infernal device. He gave the lawyer a kick for good measure. That brought his eyes up, staring at the Seed. There was the faintest shadow of a smile on the lawyer’s face.

‘Next!’ Dizali barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The banker came and went with no results. Dizali bared his teeth.

‘Soldiers!’

The Redshires’ gore wrapped the debacle up nicely. For a blessed moment there came a purr of some unseen cog. Dizali was halfway through celebration when a resounding click followed and the Seed fell still again. Blood began to trickle from beneath it, staining the grey stone floor.

For a long time, Dizali didn’t speak. He just stared at the golden globe, letting its glowing, intricate face mock him for as long as he could bear. He knew there was only one option left.

‘I want Tonmerion Hark,’ he growled.

‘The boy that killed two of the Seventh?’ Hanister asked.

‘The very same. The Bulldog’s boy.’

‘It would be our pleasure, Milord.’

‘It will be your
duty
. I want him found. I don’t care how, but I want him. Alive, so I can spill his blood right here. He won’t be able to keep away. I want you to patrol the dockyards. Ask in the taverns, talk to your letters, to your acolytes! Find that rusher who attacked my carriage! ANYTHING!’ Dizali’s voice rose to a strangled shout.

‘Yes, Milord!’ said Hanister.

Heck and Honorford tugged at the brims of their hats and filed up the stairs. Hanister remained, a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder.

‘You promised you would spare us both,’ Witchazel croaked. His eyes were fierce in that hollow face, his long, thin hair a smear of black across his knobbled skull.

‘Promises are like pottery, Mr Witchazel. They shatter with time and use. Take him away!’

Hanister hauled Witchazel across the floor and out.

Dizali was left alone to stare at the Orange Seed, grinding his teeth until the lanterns began to die, one by one, until he was plunged into darkness.

In the shadows he saw the face of a thirteen year-old boy, sandy of hair and face, laughing at him.

“MAGICK IS A STUBBORN BEAST”

5th August, 1867

T
he park was a blur to Merion’s unfocused eyes. The scent of rain on grass and tree bark went unnoticed. The tapping of the drizzle on his hood was just a drone. He was a statue to contemplation and quiet meditation.

For over an hour he had kept that quiet bench company. The world had moved on around him. The occasional passerby would toss him a quick glance. A lost ball had nudged his foot once, but he barely flinched. Even the ducks and sparrows didn’t pester him; they had quickly realised he had no bread or tidbits.