Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (29 page)

Another moment, though this time it was his. ‘I did,’ he replied.

‘How well?’

Gavisham kept his eyes on his stick. ‘Like a brother. We were raised together. Shared everything. The masters, the training, the skills. There were three of us. The Brothers Seventh. The oldest met his end years ago. Now Suffrous. I’m the last one.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Calidae offered her condolences, watching his face for any flicker of emotion, some tell-tale hint that she was getting somewhere.

‘Don’t be,’ Gavisham grunted. He twirled the knife in his hands and plunged its blade into the sand with a crunch. ‘Feel sorry for the one who killed him. The one I’m going to skin alive.’ The words were hard, and the way he kept his hand on his knife left no doubt in her mind he was serious.

Calidae felt the heat in her cheeks, the clenching inside her chest. ‘And who is that again?’

Gavisham snorted, but stayed silent. He stared at the flames. For a moment Calidae thought she had hit another wall in the conversation, but then the man spat out a name. A name that she had chewed on for hours on end to the music of trudging of boots. A name she had whispered to the cold night more times than she cared to wonder at. A name she had held close to her chest and strangled to death, over and over again in her thoughts.

‘Tonmerion Harlequin Hark, that’s who.’

Calidae could only nod. For one of those rare moments in her life, she did not trust herself to speak.

Gavisham fixed her with a look. ‘Was he one of the ones sat at the Serpeds’ table?’

Calidae nodded again. ‘I remember the name. Though I didn’t see him. Who is he?’ she asked, to bide her time, and gain a few moments to drown in the fact of the matter. This man had been sent west to steal her vengeance from her grasp.

‘The son of the late Prime Lord. Surely you’ve heard of him?’

Calidae shrugged, playing nonchalant. ‘It paid to keep your head down in the Serped house.’

The knife poked at the embers of the fire. ‘Well, he’s a traitor and a murderer. And he’ll get what’s coming to him.

‘So you’ve been sent here to kill him?’ she asked. Calidae needed to hear it.

Gavisham waggled his blade, black-tipped and smoking. ‘Let’s just say that some things in this world have an odd habit of becoming entangled, getting themselves tied and twisted. Entwined is the word. Such as inevitability and revenge, in this case. This time they just happen to paint the same target on the back of the same boy.’

‘Mmm,’ Calidae murmured, before making a show of yawning. ‘I’m tired. Wake me when it’s light,’ she said, in a quiet voice, almost strangled in a way.

Gavisham did not notice and made no reply. Only the
schnick
,
schnick
of his knife on his stick bid her a good night.

Calidae rolled over and made a hollow in the warm sand. She rested her head on a spare shirt from Gavisham’s pack, bundled up into a pillow, and stared sideways out into the dark, moonless desert beyond the rock walls of their culvert.

She ground her teeth as she thought. She dug her fingernails into her palms as she dared to ponder the worst, and let it spill out of control in her head. She let the worry chill her, let the indignation rise, the fervour. She felt cheated.
One brother did not equal a father, a mother, and a life
. This would not do. Not one bit. Merion was hers to destroy, not Gavisham’s. And it would stay that way. She had killed to escape. Nothing said she couldn’t do it again for necessity.

A TRAITOR’S BOY

6th July, 1867

L
ondon sang to the tiresome tune of constant, dripping rain. It had a heavy sky for company, grey and wet, drenching the world with every incessant, endless raindrop it had to offer. Everything had a sheen to it, splashed and soaked. Even the airships had given up, letting the storm hold sway over the city.

Prime Lord Dizali was not often seen walking alone, but on a day like this, with a low-brimmed hat, an umbrella, and one of his older greatcoats, he could pass for any fool braving the weather to go about their business. There were plenty of them. This was Britannia after all. They were used to rain.

Dizali tucked his hands deeper into his coat and breathed hot air into his scarf to keep his face warm. The rain was cold, and the breeze from the north did not help matters. At least that was slowly dying away.
A classic summer’s day
, he thought. They had been due a storm or two, with all the fierce weather they had been having.

Dizali’s mind was full of the past hour, and the words he and the queen had shared. It was at times like these he liked to wander, to order his thoughts and correct his clever path. The rhythmic purpose of his walking had the same effect as sipping whisky at the window, or steepling his fingers on his polished desk. It allowed his doubt to undergo its catharsis.

Dizali let the shudder of his steps fill him and thought long and hard about his visit to the Palace of Ravens.

*

Two hours earlier
.

‘Prime Lord, this way please,’ the queensguard beckoned to him. Dizali swept from his carriage, his cane clicking on the steps and his top hat held tightly on his head to stop it from escaping. The breeze was fierce in the palace’s open grounds, even behind its sharp walls and fences.

Prime Lord Dizali had been summoned. That was all there was to say. There had been no explanation by the messenger from the palace itself, just the demand for attendance, forthwith. Well, of course, he was compelled to acquiesce and, knowing the queen, instantly.

Dizali wore the same face now as he had when the messenger had been ushered into his study: unimpressed, displeased, concerned. He tried to wipe the latter from his stern countenance as he strode up the spiralling steps, heading towards the high throne room.

He scratched at his neatly-trimmed goatee and wondered why the queen was demanding his presence. She was becoming agitated, it seemed.
Madder still
. That did not bode well. The queen was supposed to let the Prime Lord carry on as he saw fit. Not harangue him at every turn. It set his face to snarling.

Or maybe she was onto him
. Dizali stowed that thought away.

At long last they came to the doors, and the Prime Lord waited to be announced by a hollering servant in frilly garb.

‘Your Majesty. Prime Lord Dizali.’

‘In,’ echoed her voice, stern and harsh, like the cackling of crows.

‘In you go,’ whispered the servant, bowing and shuffling away.

‘Why thank you! However would I have known what to do,’ hissed Dizali. The Prime Lord of the Empire of Britannia was not in the mood.

The queen was not either. Dizali could hear her shuffling back and forth like a caged bear eager to smell its home again. He set his jaw, raised his chin, and strode up to the heavy velvet curtain that cut the throne room in half.

‘Prime Lord Dizali,’ scraped her voice. She sounded angry.

‘My Queen,’ Dizali replied, removing his hat and bowing low despite the curtain. Somehow she could always tell if you did not.

‘Is there no paper in the Empire? Have we used up all the trees?’

‘No, Majesty,’ replied Dizali, in as flat a tone as he could manage. He had already cottoned on, and bore it out.

‘And what of all the ink? Have we run dry?’

‘No, My Queen.’

‘Then we must have run out of wax, with which to seal these absent letters.’

‘No,’ Dizali held back a sigh. ‘Your Majesty.’

The queen shuffled forward. He could see the shadows moving under the hem of the curtain. ‘Then explain to me why it is I must call you here to have you update me on our progress?’

Dizali took a breath. ‘My Queen, my utmost apologies. I had assumed you would rather me spend my time seeing to the executor, and building favour for the Crown with the Cardinals and Cobalts, as I have been, rather than constantly bother you with letters.’

There was a most un-human growl. ‘Do I sense a hint of sarcasm in your words, Prime Lord?’

‘No, Your Majesty,’ Dizali bowed again. ‘It was purely my assumption.’

The queen hissed her words. ‘To assume is to say you do not know, and not to know is to be wrong. Do I make myself clear?’

Not particularly
. ‘Yes, my Queen.’

‘Report, then. Tell me all.’

‘The Rosiyans have moved further south, and are camped on the edges of the Obsidian Sea, moving through Persia. They have struck some sort of agreement, it seems. The Romanian Principalities have also consented, even allied with the Rosiyans. After the last war, and our distrust of them, I expected that would happen,’ Gavisham explained.

The queen shifted and the shadow fell away. Her voice had calmed slightly at least, though she breathed heavily, rattling as if she were still seething. ‘And what are you doing about it?’

‘I have half the navy off the coast of Greece and Cyprus. The Huns are still skirmishing with the Prussians, but they have allowed us passage from our strongholds in Francia. Our third and fourth airship navies are moving in over the Obsidian Sea within the next two weeks.’

‘And what of Karrigan’s estate?’

The Prime Lord paused for a moment, wincing at the sound of the queen rasping at something. ‘It appears both the executor and the deeds have escaped London, my Queen. Without them, the Benches will not accept our claim, even with painting his son as a traitor.’

A hiss and a scrape emanated from behind the curtain. ‘How could this happen?’ came the question.

Dizali played his cards one by one. ‘Easily, My Queen. It seems he may have done so weeks ago, before you asked me to find him.’

‘The Benches will yield.’

Dizali shook his head. ‘With all due respect, Your Majesty, they will not. Many are as eager to grasp Karrigan’s estate as we are, and the longer it goes unclaimed, the more eager and desperate they become.’

He could hear it in her voice: anger of course, but something else, something desperate. ‘Then we shall declare a state of war,’ she demanded.

Dizali stepped forwards and raised his voice a fraction, as much as he dared to. He had to choose his words carefully, or risk angering her too much for sense. ‘But we are not at war yet, Majesty, and I will not rush in without the necessary funds or resources. This must be a war we can win. It may break us, here, at home, before we lose it. The Emerald Benches will not stand for it. They will call a re-election. The new government may not share the same visions as you do, My Queen. We will lose our grip on the east and the west.’

There was hesitation from behind the curtain. The queen had seen the truth he had laid out for her.
Expertly so
, if he didn’t think so himself. Dizali strongly resisted the urge to smile. She may have had others waiting in the wings—he was not naive of that, but she was scared of delay. He could see it now. He was the only option she had, to kindle her wars, to seize back the world.

A realisation clattered into his head then, one that he cursed himself for not entertaining before. It was then that the queen spoke, and cut through his thoughts. ‘You will find those deeds, and this executor who thinks himself too smart for us. Then we shall order the Benches to war.’

‘I agree, Your Majesty. All I need is a week, perhaps two, before I can find him. I have the best people on the task.’

‘You had better, Lord Dizali, or I shall have you fed to my ravens. You have your time. Leave.’

Dizali bowed and made his exit. He wore a frown. The queen had never made a threat quite like that before. It made him all the more suspicious. When the door to his carriage slammed, once he was settled on the velvet bench and unbuttoning his coat, he grasped it. The eagerness. The anger. The rattle in her voice.
Desperation strikes fiercest when a person is faced with their mortality, forced to take stock of what they have, or have not built
.

‘Keystreet, driver,’ Dizali barked, and there was a tap of heels on the roof to acknowledge him. The ironclad wheels crunched on the gravel, and Dizali reached for his old greatcoat and tired umbrella perched unassumingly on the opposite seat.

*

Could the queen actually be dying?
Surely the Almighty could not smile that wide for him
. Victorious had ruled the Empire longer than any monarch ever had. For over five hundred years she had reigned, as only the other great kings and queens of Europe, Indus, and Africanus knew how—the Red Tzar, the Bitter Prince, Silent Affar, Belicista, the Lady Gotha, and of course Victorious, to name a few. They were of an older race, one that had appeared in the ashes of the First Empire. Nobody had ever seen their true faces, and those that had either found themselves at the end of a noose or with their eyes in a dish. But however ancient they were, they did die eventually. That much was fact.