Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

‘Fascinating.’

Coltswolde bowed again. ‘Thank you, sir. Now, my instructions were to meet you here and put you on a locomotive going west, with these tickets,’ he informed the boy, brandishing a sealed envelope.

‘Wonderful,’ replied Merion, his voice flat.

‘Might I enquire where it is that you’re going?’

‘Wyoming.’

The young man almost dropped his sign. ‘Wyoming?’ he echoed.

‘Yes, that’s right. Why, is there a problem?’ Merion demanded.

Humbersnide gulped and then cracked an unsteady smile. ‘Not at all. I just hear it is rather hot, this time of year. Nice for a holiday, of course. Better than all that
bloody
rain, eh?’ He chuckled weakly, and fell silent with a cough.

‘I’m not on holiday,’ Merion muttered.

It was an uncomfortable hour that passed them by, spattered with polite and mumbled conversation here and there. All the while, the
Tamarassie
crept forwards until her rust-bucket sides were making the fenders moan. Ropes were thrown, planks laid out, and the slow process of unloading began.

As soon as the first few items of luggage hit the deck, an idea blossomed in Merion’s head. ‘Mr Humbersnide, I hope it’s not too bold of me to ask you such a favour, but it seems I have hurt my arm on the boat ride. Would you mind helping me with the luggage? The sailors should point them out.’

Coltswolde’s polite smile wavered at the thought of manual labour. He had seen the size of the trunks being unloaded onto the bustling wharf, and he had just remembered he had forgotten to hire a cart. ‘Er …’ he croaked. ‘Of course.’

As Coltswolde stumbled off down the wharf, busy praying that Merion had travelled lightly, Rhin patted the boy on the back through the rucksack. ‘Nice,’ he said.

‘I think I deserve a little bit of a break, after nine days at sea,’ Merion explained with a sigh.

‘Damn right,’ Rhin replied.

*

‘Five days!’ Merion spluttered. ‘Just how big
is
this country, Mr Humbersnide?’

While Merion gawped, Humbersnide read through the schedule and totted up the hours. ‘New York, and from there to Philadelphia, then Pitt’s Berg, Chicago, Cheyenne, and then finally, the brand new railroad to Fell Falls, the last stop. One thousand, two hundred miles … divided by … twenty … Yes sir. five and a half days, it seems. Plus stops for water and coal, so perhaps six.’

‘On a train?
This
train?’ Merion’s eyes switched again to the locomotive that had just sidled up to the platform. His boyish excitement had returned, inconvenient and inappropriate though it may have been.

The locomotive was heart-thumpingly fascinating, he could not deny it. It was a veritable monster straining at the bit, salivating on the gleaming tracks. Steam leaked from its bared teeth, and it dripped water onto the platform. The flanks of its long boilers bristled with wires and cogs and mechanical arms while thin slits cut like gills glowed in places, betraying the fire stoked in its belly.

This locomotive, like the city it seemed so eager to flee, was also feral. Not like the sleek engines of St Vanquish station at which Merion had spent long hours gazing, with their polished silver plates so clear you could see yourself in them. This engine was a wild beast in comparison. Still, there was a part of him that couldn’t wait to feel it gallop.

‘No, Master Hark, four trains altogether,’ added Coltswolde, shrugging casually. ‘This is why they call America the Endless Land. Vast, she is. My my.’

‘I’m starting to realise that,’ Merion groused.

Coltswolde’s face had taken on a distant look. ‘Vast and endless, that’s true, but this railroad will change all of that. Transcontinental, they’re calling it. It will forge a path straight across the desert and onto the shores of the Last Ocean, eventually. The Serped Railroad Company have spent years trying to conquer that desert. What with all the trouble from the Shohari and those rai—’ Coltswolde realised what he was saying and clamped his mouth shut.

Merion folded his arms. ‘Please, don’t stop on my account,’ he challenged him, but Coltswolde just coughed loudly and busied himself with the luggage instead, manhandling it awkwardly down the platform. Merion would get no more out of him on the matter.

That old lump had returned to stick in his craw, one more worry to add to the pile. During the cold, rumbling nights he had spent on the ship, he had let his mind wander to dark places, spinning fears out of the shadows:
his father’s murderer, going unpunished; Harker Sheer
being overrun by looters; his father’s businesses, taken; Witchazel stealing his inheritance
. Now he had a new grim thread to tug at: the thought of not returning home at all, of succumbing to the dangerous wilds of America. Fear tickled the skin of his back, and laid a cold hand upon his neck.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Rhin reassured him, whispering as loudly as he dared from the rucksack. ‘So far, we’ve only met two people on this voyage, and both of them have been stark raving mad.’

Merion wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m starting to think they’re all bloody mad.’

‘Look, if this land’s as wide and as endless as they say, it’s probably just all rumour and wives’ tales, warped whispers. Wyoming’s probably harmless, just too wild for these city boys.’ There was more hope than fact in that last sentence, but Rhin didn’t let it show. ‘Besides, we want to toughen you up, don’t we?’

‘Even if Coltswolde is right about Wyoming, it isn’t as though I have a choice.’

‘Maybe not, but even if he is, America’s going to have to get through me first.’

Merion felt the warmth of Rhin’s friendship quell the cold for a moment. The young Hark stuck out that stiff upper lip of his. ‘Well, they say a gentleman never shrinks from his duty,’ he mumbled, just loud enough for Rhin to hear. ‘It’s too late to run away now.’

‘That’s the spirit. Anyway, we can always get you a gun when we get to Fell Falls.’

‘No guns,’ Merion snapped abruptly, then softened. ‘No guns.’

‘A knife then,’ Rhin offered.

‘Maybe.’

‘It won’t be Fae steel, but we’ll find you some good old fashioned human steel instead,’ mused the faerie.

‘One knife against the wilds of the Endless Land. Hardly seems fair.’

Rhin chuckled. It was good to see some mirth in the boy. He had heard him tossing and turning in the night, muttering worrisome things. Tonmerion was hurting, that was obvious enough, but the simple fact that he was putting on a brave face was all that mattered for now. There was hope there. Rhin just had to get him to Fell Falls, to that last stop. It would be different there, Merion would see.

‘Come on,’ said the faerie. ‘Let’s get moving.’

‘Right you are,’ Merion cleared his throat and nodded affirmatively. ‘Mr Humbersnide, sir!’ he shouted.

Coltswolde came shuffling back along the platform. Merion showed him his best smile. ‘Yes, Master Hark?’

‘I trust I can leave my luggage in your capable hands?’

Humbersnide’s face underwent a series of twitches as he deciphered the boy’s meaning. ‘Er … of course, young sir, in my capable hands.’ He even had to look at his hands to check that yes, they were indeed capable.

‘Good! My thanks to you, Mr Humbersnide. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch,’ Merion replied, and before Humbersnide could make any comment, or twitch any further, the boy departed, quickly striding across the wooden boards towards his carriage.

‘If only we could take him with us,’ said a voice from the rucksack.

‘True, though I’m sure we’ll manage to find another willing helper. My father always said that if a man wasn’t a lord, or above a lord, then he must be a servant.’

Rhin winced. ‘I’m not too sure the Americans will take kindly to that logic, especially after all the wars and such.’

Merion shrugged again. ‘This Kingdom is indebted to us, Rhin. They may not pay their taxes any more, but we built them. And a son should always do what his father asks of him,’ he intoned.

Rhin snorted. ‘What, like keeping secret faeries in the garden?’

‘You found me, not the other way around, friend.’

No answer came from the rucksack.

When he found his allotted carriage, he paused just outside the door for a moment, his hand hovering above the twisted iron railing that sprouted from the rain-spattered wood of the carriage. From there he could lay his eyes along the tracks. Straight as a spear they were, glinting in the sparse light of day. They carved an almost perfect path through the city, and if he looked hard enough, he could just about make out hills, forests, and green fields beyond.
Endless Land, indeed,
he snorted. Everything had to end at some point.

THE BULLDOG’S BOY

‘Leg’s gone. Fought a cat in the last house. Claw caught me right above the knee, so I’ve had to wrap it up tight for the night. I’m starting to wonder whether I’ll ever see a tree again. This city is all stone and iron. Cold to the bone.

Sift still searches. She’s got the Day Watch on my trail. Coil Guards too. It’s got to be further east, where the big houses are, the rich houses.’

5th May, 1867

T
he city was soaked to the bone. A constant pattering of drips filled the air as the drainpipes, arches, lampposts, and even the bricks wept. The day was filled with fog. Interminably thick, it swirled about the streets without a care for the day, filling nooks and crannies until the air was choked and thick. In just the right places, you could stand and watch your limbs turn ghostly, stolen momentarily by the fog. It was an ethereal day. A day to stoke fires, rub hands, and leave the streets to the jealous weather. It was a fine spring day, by any Empire standards.

It was a Sunday, and a lone black carriage rattled through the streets of central London. Pulled by four enormous horses, the carriage was ornate to say the least. Its wheels and axles were gold-trimmed, and a colourful coat of arms adorned each door. If you looked closely, you would have seen an eagle lifting a tiger into a blood-red sky. And if you’d looked any closer, you might have seen the name
Dizali
written in flowing letters. A powerful name indeed, amongst the Emerald Benches.

It wasn’t long before the Palace of Ravens loomed out of the thick fog. The two drivers slowed the horses to a gentle trot and aimed their carriage at a pair of giant black gates. The Palace of Ravens was a marvel of architecture—a terrifying one to the average tourist, but a marvel nonetheless. Four giant spires marked its boundaries, and between them thick walls and towering pillars formed the palace proper. It was a humongous box, to put it plainly—a blotch on the face of London. Yet as its detail crystallised out of the fog, it was easy to see that it was grand beyond belief. Each side was a chaotic tumble of glass, turret, balcony and ironwork. The palace glittered in the murk, and through the glowing orange windows, a passerby could glimpse golden chandeliers and vast dining and dancing halls. Ravens cawed in its sharp reaches, watching any passing subjects like worms writhing in the dust.

As the carriage came face to face with the black gates that guarded the entrance to the palace, soldiers poured from the twin guardhouses and surrounded the coach. They had short swords at the hip, shields, and of course, the golden rifles for which they were famous were slung over their backs.

‘Papers, if you please,’ ordered an officer, the medals pinned to his tall black hat chiming softly as he bobbed his head.

The blackened window of the carriage cracked open an inch, and a thin slice of paper was poked through the gap. The officer stepped up to the coach to grab it. He peered at the scribbled name.

‘Your ring, my lord?’

There was a tap of metal on glass as an eagle and tiger-crested ring tasted the misty air, wrapped around a pudgy finger. The officer nodded and clicked his fingers. The soldiers jogged to the gates and began to push. The window was rolled up once more.

A man was waiting for the carriage at the main entrance, hands folded neatly behind his back and eyes low. He wore no hat, only a long coat that bulged in a way that indicated he was carrying a sword. As soon as the carriage had squeaked to a halt on the marble flagstones, the man stepped forwards and opened the door.

High Lord Bremar Dizali practically jumped from the couch to the cold ground. He seemed flustered. Puzzled, and perhaps a touch nervous. He was right to be so.
Nobody was summoned by Victorius
. Save for Prime Lord Karrigan Hark, that was. But he was dead as a doornail.

Dizali was a broad and tall man, with a sharp face, and ever sharper goatee, dark, like the combed-back hair on his head. There was something rather eagle-like about him, something deep and clever in those narrowed green eyes.

Lord Dizali didn’t spare the man a single glance. Not yet. ‘Did she say anything, anything at all?’

‘Nothing other than to bring you straight here, Milord, nothing at all,’ the man smiled, watching Dizali adjust his wide-brimmed hat and grey gloves. He combed his short beard with his fingers and then tucked the stray strands of hair behind his ear. He caught the man’s eyes at last, and then his smile soon after.