Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) (5 page)

No summer’s day in the Empire could ever be trusted. Though a morning might spring up all warm and shining, its sibling afternoon might just as easily pounce, drenching the hot streets and lightly dressed people with a downpour. It was a mischievous climate, and it never failed to wrinkle a lip or furrow a brow, even on staunch Britannia faces.

This particular summer’s day was just as slippery. When one o’clock ticked past, the skies were abruptly streaked with wispy clouds; heralds of the coming storm. By two, they gathered in dark patches, ominous and brooding. By three, the rain was unleashed. Steam rose from the warm cobbles. Umbrellas bloomed. Newspapers were held aloft. People scurried in every direction, as the clouds rumbled on, laughing at their mischief.

Merion trudged along the gutters, unbothered and unhurried. He was enjoying this. It had been months since he had last felt the patter of these raindrops on his skin; months since he had inhaled the pungent scent of rain on dirty stone and rooftop. Like every true-born of the Empire, rain ran in Merion’s blood. Though the island’s children scowled at it, cursed it, and shook their fists at it, given time away they would always secretly long for the feel of the rain on their skin. And so it was with the young Hark.

He walked slowly, keeping his eyes quick and his hood low, careful to dodge the scattered piles of horse dung; shiny in the summer showers. The rain drummed on the waxy cloth of his overcoat. As he blew a strand of hair from his face, his stomach gurgled, and Merion realised he hadn’t eaten since that morning.

A quick jump took him up onto the pavement. He weaved through the crowds, following his nose to something warm and greasy; the unmistakeable smell of Empire fare. Pastry. Gravy. Beef. Smells wafted from every corner. His stomach complained more loudly.

He discovered a bakery down a side street, where a young woman sat behind the counter, occasionally poking her pies and slices into different positions, as if trying out some impromptu art.

Merion’s mouth was practically a waterfall by the time his eyes made it across the shelves and up to the woman’s questioning face.

‘One of the beef pies, please, madam.’

‘Tuppence.’ She rustled a flat brown pie into a bag.

Merion fished out two coins and slid them across the counter. The woman eyed him up and down before deciding to test their metal with her teeth. On any other day, Merion would have been offended. The baker was apparently satisfied, but the boy caught the hint of surprise that flashed across her face. She handed him a coarse napkin, and went back to her arranging.

The only problem with pies is that they can never cool down quick enough to calm your hunger. Once Merion had scalded his lips and tongue a few times, and made them numb, he managed to swallow a few chunks. It was exactly what he was craving: rich, gravy-soaked beef with onions, carrots, and a tang of ale and pepper. No food of the Endless Land could ever come close. He was enjoying the pie so much, he had to sit down.

When the last scrap of gravy had been wiped away, and the paper bag had been licked clean of crumbs, Merion patted his stomach and set off again, heading deeper into Westminster.

This was the city’s core, where the buildings seemed to push themselves back from the streets, growing grander and taller with every step Merion took. It all came flooding back to him. The cramped roads became wide channels of cobble and flagstone, flowing with rivers of carriages rattling back and forth. Polished marble gleamed alongside buffed copper and gold, and jet-black iron. Window upon window stared down at the sodden bustle below, a patchwork of curtains and glowing gaslight. The rest were dead eyes, just waiting to be occupied. There was a different cut of cloth in London’s core, literally speaking. The clip-clop of shoes and heels were smarter, the hurrying a little more dignified. Wafts of aftershave and perfume filled Merion’s nose. Butlers waited at grand doorways, wrapped in finery and their masters’ colours, umbrellas prepared for important visitors. Even the carriages gleamed, waxed and relatively mud-free.

Merion followed the curve of the streets until he could smell the river. He could see the Bellspire now, its summit peeking out between the soaring spires and rooftops. Four immense clock-faces surveyed all four points of the city’s compass, their gold and ivory visages glistening in the rain and the glow of spotlights. The tower’s pinnacle brushed the clouds, half-lost in their murky tendrils. Merion felt a shiver, then; a cocktail of feelings. There was pride, relief to be back, a dark and undeniable undercurrent of anxiety, and most of all, hatred. For the Bellspire was the mighty corner of the Emerald House, home of the Emerald Benches, soapbox of Lord Bremar Dizali.

Merion had wisely chosen not to inform Calidae of this minor deviation from their plan. This he was keeping all for himself. It was a simple desire; he wanted to see Dizali. He wanted to lay eyes on the man who had dared to ruin his life, to besmirch his name and pilfer what was his. Dizali had refused to leave the boy’s thoughts since he had steamed along the Potomac. Now he wanted to combine fact with wrathful fiction and memory. He wanted to see Dizali in the flesh; to know he was just a man, like any other that walked these streets. This was not to torture himself, but rather to inspire. All men can be felled, one way or another, and that goes double for those infested with pride.

The boy walked the mighty edges of the House, keeping his head as low as he could without bumping into the men and women huddled on the pavement, eager to be somewhere dry. He moved to the kerb, where the carriages thundered by. He watched each one from the corner of his eye, inspecting their coats of arms: a gallant hawk pierced with an arrow; a tree sprouting from a book; a hog with a clock in its mouth. None of them a tiger and eagle.

Picking a spot across the street from the House’s grand entrance, he hunkered down beneath a shallow archway. From there he could stare out over the heads of the pedestrians, and survey the mighty steps of the House. Even though he feigned sleep—playing the street-boy, tired and cold—he refused to blink, refusing to miss a glimpse.

Half an hour passed, filled with the slapping of wet footwear and the clattering of iron-clad wheels, not to mention the incessant pattering of rain. His legs ached, his eyes were tired, and his backside was numb after being pressed against the cold stone. And yet he refused to move. He didn’t care how long it would take. The
Lord Protector
had to blurt out some more lies at one time or another. Merion would wait, and look upon his enemy. The stubbornness in him told his aching bones to pipe down and deal with it. If they could handle weeks tramping across a desert, they could handle a cold step in rainy Londontown.

It took another half hour for Merion’s patience to be rewarded. A grand carriage shackled to four horses rattled to a stop outside the steps of the House. The horses displayed bright blue plumes between their ears. Merion sat up straight.
Cobalt colour
. Out of habit, he looked down to his side, but as his brain refused to forget, there was nothing there. He cleared his throat, refocusing himself.

Squinting through the rain, Merion eyed the coat of arms on the carriage’s double-doors: an eagle lifting a tiger into the sky. Merion leaned forwards as he heard the sound of slamming doors and scattered applause from some passers-by. There were even a few cheers.

As the carriage pulled away, Lord Protector Dizali was revealed, standing alone. He was just a man; a world away from the dark shape constantly perched in the centre of Merion’s thoughts. He was a mortal who could bleed, and not some paragon of evil; some shadow-wearing demon with dust for veins.

He was smiling and waving magnanimously to his admirers; one foot poised on the first step of the House, the other on the pavement. Part of Merion wanted to stride across the street and slit his throat that very moment. But he lacked the knife and, thankfully, the stupidity to do so. The rest of him was content enough to stay put, and bask in the prospect of retribution, revenge, and the final chapter. He smiled as he watched Dizali striding up the steps and into the House, disappearing into the darkness behind its doors. ‘Every fairytale must have its end,’ Merion muttered aloud, before pushing himself from the stone.

*

As he seemed to be paying visits, Merion thought he might as well grant one to Queen Victorious; and besides, he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. So he walked northwest, towards the dark and twisted spires of the Palace of Ravens.

It was a short walk between the House and the palace, and an even shorter walk to realise just how serious the royal situation was. The palace was completely surrounded. Merion could not have reached the Queen with a gold-plated invitation in his hand. Soldiers and lordsguards formed a buzzing ring around the building; standing, patrolling, dug in behind makeshift walls, or chatting idly at Gatling gun emplacements. The palace had drawn every one of its curtains, and locked every single door. Even the Shivering Pines, the small forest in the grounds, was deathly silent. Not a single one of the Queen’s ravens cawed. It was a disturbing form of protest. As Lurker would have said, she was cooped up tighter than a pig in a barrel.

Apparently it was a day for uninvited emotions. Merion felt a flush of sadness as he hovered on the edges of the crowds, come to gawp at the Queen’s makeshift prison. He thought of his aunt and that grizzled old prospector, swigging from his flask; his aunt smirking at him, or prattling on about blood. The boy pulled a stern face as the guilt came again, chastising him. He recited his reasons beneath his breath, over and over. It had helped during the voyage, reminding himself of why he had come alone, with his closest enemy his only company. His mind slipped to another absent friend and he shivered in the rain. ‘Soon, Rhin,’ he whispered.

Merion left the crowds to themselves, and headed back the way he had come. The thought of prattling and blood had reminded him of the next item on his mental list. To the rhythm of splashing boots, he left the core of London behind, and headed east, deeper into the old quarters of the city, where the buildings were shorter, pressed more tightly together, and on the drab end of the grand spectrum. He kept his hood low but his gaze up, and with every corner and bend, his eyes wandered the buildings, looking for something in particular.

There are many different ways to acquire power in a city. It can be bought with coin or squeezed from the people by birthright and votes. It can be honestly built, and it can be nefariously claimed. And in a city, these forces are most often concentrated at a location. The House was the seat of political power, for instance. The docks bowed to coin and trade and gambling. Kensing Town sported its proud and upright businesses. In Cheapside, however, the currency was crime, and all it took was the wrong shortcut or the wrong tavern to find yourself in the middle of a transaction.

Merion knew this all too well. His father and his old butler had lectured him many a time on the dangers of London. But he was not blithely ignoring his teachings; irritatingly, he had taken the wrong street and missed the thoroughfare he could remember rattling down with his father. None of the paths seemed to lead him where he wanted. With evening slowly falling, he was growing anxious. Every now and again, his hand would surreptitiously pat his pocket.

There!
His eyes spied a sign bearing a hand-painted pig’s head, and behind it, one with a garish trout. A butcher and a fishmonger, side by side and occupying the same doorway. They would have to do. Merion set a course straight for them.

As he put a hand to the wide door, and heard the bell above him ring, he was struck with the stench of fish and the iron tang of bloody meat. Four men stood behind the combined counter. Each of them seemed to be rather lacking in the neck department. Their shoulders were so muscled they had apparently fused with their heads. Their hair was short and their faces impassive. They were all a good foot taller than Merion, and to put it frankly, didn’t look one bit like butchers or fishmongers. They looked more used to breaking people’s necks for a living. Merion wondered if he had indeed chosen the wrong tavern.

‘Hello,’ he began, immediately hating himself for how his voice cracked. He tried to slip a little coarseness into his accent. ‘I need some fish, and some offal. His lordship is throwing a special banquet. Wants to try some of those Francian delicacies, see.’ He chuckled slightly.

Not one of them moved. Merion was about to repeat himself, or perhaps do the right thing and walk out, when the blank face of the nearest fishmonger cracked into a wide smile, full of teeth. He clapped his hands and laughed.

‘Then you have come to the right place, little man!’ he replied cheerily, in a thick, burbling accent that Merion had not heard before. The others followed suit, laughing and grinning, beaming at him. Merion tried not to appear too perturbed by the sudden enthusiasm, and smiled politely. He kept his hood up, however, and his hand on his pocket once more. The ship’s captain had gifted both he and Calidae with a bag of coin at the mouth of the Thames. Because of pity or orders, Merion hadn’t been able to tell; but he and Calidae had taken them nonetheless. To put it bluntly, they were both reasonably flush for the time being. Merion knew the importance of keeping that quiet.