Poison (10 page)

Myrrk shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Then how are you still alive?” Poison asked bluntly.

“Good question,” Myrrk replied. “I suppose
he
didn't think hard enough when he put me here.”

“Who?”

“The Hierophant. Aren't I tragic? Always fishing, every day, never catching a thing. I even
look
sad, don't I? But I suppose he didn't bother to work out the details like what I
do
eat if I can't get fish. Shoddy work, if you ask me.”

“Aren't you hungry?” Peppercorn asked, her face a picture of concern.

“I just told you I hadn't eaten in a hundred years,” Myrrk groaned. “Wouldn't
you
be hungry?”

“I'd be dead,” Peppercorn replied cheerily.

“Did you want tea or not?” Myrrk prompted.

“Yes, please!” she piped.

The others agreed to tea as well, if only to placate their host, who was obviously eccentric if not totally insane. Poison did not even trouble herself to ask about the Hierophant; she could not imagine what good it would do to encourage Myrrk's delusions, and she didn't want to get sidetracked from her real task, which was finding Azalea. Yet Poison found an odd logic in his words, a pattern which she could not quite grasp that made her think he might be talking a kind of sense – just not the kind of sense that any of them recognized.

“About the palace. . .” Bram said at length. Myrrk bustled past him to dig out some cups, and they had to shrink back to avoid his enormous cloak of quills.

“Yes, yes, the palace. Of course, you can reach the palace from anywhere in the Realm, if you have a mind to. Have you ever heard of firewort?” Here he turned back, brandishing a large clump of green weeds.

Poison replied that she had. It thrived around the marshes where she had grown up.

“Then you must be new to the Realm, if you don't know what it does. Firewort burns in a particular way. You make a fire when the sun goes down, throw on the firewort, and leave it burning. It's what they call a short cut. So you can keep things moving, see?”

Poison did not really know what he was talking about, but she was all for short cuts. Patience was never one of her virtues.

“You do wish to go to the palace, don't you?” Myrrk asked, craning his moist neck around and gazing mournfully at them. “You can't change your mind once the signal is sent.”

“We want to go,” said Poison unhesitatingly. Peppercorn gave a cheep of alarm, but she did not protest beyond that. Myrrk tossed the firewort on to the growing blaze, disturbing Andersen, who had somehow managed to arrange himself in prime position for the greatest heat source in the room. The fire guttered, and then took up again, but Poison noted that the black smoke was shot through with swirls of crimson now, and the fire seemed to glow red from within like molten rock.

“He is coming,” Myrrk said.

“
Who
is coming?” Bram asked.

“The Coachman,” Myrrk replied.

“We're getting a coach?” Peppercorn asked excitedly, seeming to miss the deliberate capital letter that Myrrk had insinuated into the word.

“Right to the Phaerie Lord's palace,” Myrrk agreed. Poison did not much like his tone.

Myrrk brewed them some tea, and in exchange they shared with him some of the food in their packs. The tea was bitter and green, with bits of herb and twig floating in it, but it had a curiously addictive edge that Poison found pleasant. She noted that Bram was not drinking his; he radiated mistrust for the pitiful-looking creature that attended them.

Myrrk sat himself down on a bench in a shiver of spines. The tiny house was becoming cosily warm now, and the fire threw a homely glow that kept out the gathering night. Poison felt herself relax a little. Myrrk did seem like a sad fellow, but dangerous? She doubted it. Of course, in the Realm of Phaerie, anything was possible.

“I have a question, Myrrk,” she said at length. “Two, in fact. You don't seem like you're happy here. You never catch any fish and you don't eat. Yet you've been here for a hundred years. So my questions are this: how did you get here? And why don't you leave?”

Myrrk blinked and raised his head as if it were a great weight. “You know, nobody has ever asked me that. Why don't I leave? Not once in a hundred years.”

“Well?” Poison asked. “Why don't you?”

“I tried, once,” he said. “I wouldn't recommend it.”

“So what happened?” Poison prompted. He was reminding her of Lamprey all of a sudden, who evaded her questions with vague answers when she asked him about the purpose of his riddles. She wasn't going to let Myrrk get away without giving her some satisfaction.

Myrrk gave her a penetrating gaze for a long time. “Maybe you'll find out, one day. Yes, you're one of those. Like me. A questioner. Shall I answer your first question before your second? How I got here? I don't know. One day I was simply here; that's all I remember. And so I started asking questions. But nobody listened; everyone just wanted to be on their way, as quick as possible, and never to think about what they were doing.” He took a loud slurp of tea. “But fishing all day gives you time to think, and I thought. I listened to the stories people told me, people who were passing through, and I worked it out.”

“You worked out
what
?” Poison asked.

“How I got here,” Myrrk replied.

“And how was that?”

“You'd better ask the Hierophant.”

“Why can't you just
tell
me?” Poison urged.

“It doesn't work that way,” Myrrk sighed, looking genuinely aggrieved. “There's laws to follow, a way of doing things. You can't find out for a good while yet. It's just too early.”

Poison gritted her teeth in frustration. “So what about my second question?”

“Ah yes,” Myrrk said. “Well, as I told you, there's a way of doing things. Everyone has their own way to tread, their own little part to play. And if you stop doing what you're supposed to, it starts messing up everyone else's part. Everything's a chain, see? I'm supposed to stay here. I'm supposed to be the one with the answers. Whenever people are lost, they find me and I set them right. I give them a short cut, just like I did with you.” He seemed to deflate a little, his yellow gaze falling to the floor, where Andersen was watching him slyly through one half-open eye while pretending to be asleep. “I wasn't supposed to go wandering. When I did, people started getting lost. Things started breaking down.”

“Because you didn't do what you were supposed to?” Peppercorn asked, wide-eyed.

“Because I worked out the way things are,” Myrrk muttered. “I had a story myself, once, but I didn't like it and I tried to change it.” He groaned. “I'd advise against that.”

Poison's next question was forestalled by a sudden wind that whipped up outside, a loud gust that rattled the kettle and the plates. It tailed off in a clatter of hooves, the sound of horses coming to a halt outside.

“You'd better go,” Myrrk said, pointing one knobbed finger at the door. “The Coachman won't stay long.”

Peppercorn scooped up the cat and they went outside. There at the lakeside stood their coach. Peppercorn's eyes lit up at the sight. Not for the first time, Poison had to remind herself not to be taken in by the beauty of the Phaerie Realm; for what stood before them was elegant enough to make her easily forget.

The coach was all in white and grey, with ivory crossbeams and spokes of gold, and hubcaps filigreed in silver. Four lithe horses drew it, snow-maned as clouds, clad in great plates of lacquered white armour. Golden chainmail hung from their backs. They tossed their heads and clacked their teeth as the humans stared at them. Yet beautiful as they were, there was a terrible coldness about them, and their eyes seemed to regard the humans with a baleful arrogance.

The Coachman himself sat hunched in his seat, concealed by an enormous white cloak and cowl, so that only his hands could be seen holding the reins. He was fully seven feet tall, and would have dwarfed Bram if he had been standing. He looked down from the driver's bench and glared at them, and they saw a face of porcelain within, features perfect, cheekbones high and smooth and skin pale and unblemished. Yet while the face was handsome, it was as chilling as the horses, for the green eyes of the Coachman regarded them like insects, and his lip curled in a sneer of disgust.

The door to the coach swung open of its own accord.

Peppercorn glanced reluctantly at Bram and Poison, hugging Andersen close to her chest. Poison looked back at Myrrk, who regarded her with a pitying gaze.

“Go and see the Hierophant. He has the answers.”

Poison made no reply. They got into the carriage and shut the door.

 

The palace of the Phaerie Lord stood at the hub of a dozen rivers and streams, as beautiful and elegant as a jewel. It was a sliver of jade, rising from the lakeland in a multitude of delicate spires and minarets that gradually dwindled as they rose until there was only one left, the most central and mightiest of the towers which reached high above the others and tapered to a needle at its apex.

The too-large phaerie sun was rising as Poison and her companions approached, and from their vantage point high in the amber sky the scene below seemed wondrous. The morning light shimmered across the pale green surface of the palace, and shone gold on the network of rivers and lakes that covered the grassy land all around.

“You have to see this, Peppercorn!” Poison urged, but Peppercorn would not budge. She had curled up with her face against the back of the carriage and her hands over her eyes. She had been in the same position since that first shriek of surprise, when the coach suddenly lifted off the ground and flew, the hooves of the horses beating the sky as if it were solid earth. Peppercorn evidently had no head for heights, and she cringed from the windows in terror while Andersen licked her face in an attempt to coax her out.

The palace loomed closer as they raced towards it. The journey had taken less than an hour, yet somehow night had passed and it was morning, and the passengers felt as rested as if they had had a long sleep, though none of them had even dozed. When Poison remarked on this to Bram, he replied by reminding her what he had said on the night she left him to break in to the Bone Witch's house: “Time is not the same here,” he murmured. “We might have already been gone a thousand years from home, and when we get back there won't be a thing we recognize.”

Poison thought about that. “I won't miss much. Except Fleet, I suppose. And maybe Father; but he's probably happier without me.”

“Is that so? That's a terrible thing to say,” Bram observed.

“It's not terrible if it's true,” Poison argued. “Him and Snapdragon – my stepmother – they only wanted me out of the way after they got together. No matter how much they pretended they didn't.” She intercepted his sceptical look. “This is not just a fit of adolescent pique, Bram. I know what I'm talking about. I was just a nuisance to them. Poison.”

“Ah, that's why you chose that name,” Bram said, his moustache curving as a wry smile creased his face. “Might have known.”

“Is there anything you'll miss?” she asked, looking out of the window again. They were almost on top of the palace now.

“That depends what's changed,” Bram said. “I'll have words to say to the Phaerie Lord if they've stopped making those sausage pies in the Butcher's Market at Shieldtown by the time I get back.”

Poison laughed and hit him across the chest. “You're an idiot!” she said happily.

“Hmm, well,” said Bram, grinning; and he left it at that.

 

The coach came to a halt inside one of the lower side-towers of the palace, having soared in through a vast, arched portal. As the hooves of the horses clattered on to a solid floor, Peppercorn dared to peep out through her fingers, and when the coach had stopped completely she shuddered in relief. The door opened, once more of its own accord, and Bram helped Peppercorn out, with Andersen hopping down last. When they had all disembarked, the door closed. The Coachman glared at them icily, then turned the coach and snapped the reins. His horses took a few steps at a gallop and then soared through the portal and out into the cloudless amber sky beyond.

They were left in a broad, circular room, its walls and floor of lime-veined marble, with nothing in it except a vast disc of bronze that was set into the floor in the centre, on which the coach had landed. There was a small, arched door in one wall, made of some kind of moulded metal, its surface alive with serpents. As the echoes of the coach's departure faded, Poison, Bram and Peppercorn looked at each other.

“Now what?” Bram asked.

The door burst open and in came a chaos of noise and chatter, a dense mass of frantic movement. At the centre of the crowd was a thin, pinch-faced man in a brown suit, striding quickly across the room towards them while writing in a large, leather-bound ledger with a quill pen. He was orbited by a gaggle of pale imps: tiny, slender, daemonic things with batlike wings and chirruping voices. They bombarded him with reports, observations and comments on all manner of things, while he replied to them with orders and instructions and questions. He crossed the room with efficient swiftness and halted in front of the newcomers, then with one dismissive swipe of his hand the imps dispersed like a flock of startled birds, flying through the doorway or the great arched portal until they were all gone.

The man adjusted his round, iron-rimmed glasses on the knifelike bridge of his nose and peered over them at Bram.

“State your names,” he snapped.

“Bram of Oilskin, Poison of Gull, Peppercorn of. . .” Bram trailed off.

“Peppercorn of
where
?”

“Lately of the employ of Maeb, the Bone Witch,” Poison said formally.

“Ah. And how is dear Maeb?” said the man, raising an eyebrow.

“Dead,” Poison replied. Peppercorn, who had guessed as much, merely looked miserable.

“Excellent,” the man grinned, showing sharp, catlike teeth. He scratched a note in his ledger. “That frees up some very desirable real estate.” He snapped the book shut. “My name is Scriddle, secretary to Aelthar, Lord of Phaerie. You are aware, I suppose, that due to a frankly tiresome law handed down by Amrae, Hierophant of old, every intelligent being born of the Realm of Man has the right to a single audience with the Lord or Lady of any foreign Realm, in which said being's safety is guaranteed by the honour of said Lord or Lady, at least until the conclusion of the audience, after which all legal obligation has been discharged and, not to put too fine a point on it, all bets are off?”

“No,” Poison said with a shrug.

“You are now,” Scriddle replied. “Who's this?” He pointed with the feather of his quill to the fourth member of their party.

“This is Andersen,” Peppercorn said, picking him up and cradling him to her.

“How delightful,” Scriddle observed, deadpan. He turned on his heel and walked towards the door. “Follow me! The Lord Aelthar will see you immediately.”

 

The Great Hall of Aelthar's palace was awe-inspiring indeed, but by the time they had reached it, the newcomers had become so inured to wonder that it barely affected them. Walking through the corridors of the palace had afforded them sights such as none of them had ever seen, feats of majesty that left any of man's creations far behind, and which only nature's best could possibly surpass. They had crossed crystal bridges that spanned dizzying drops, with waterfalls plunging past them like sparkling pillars; they had passed a circular window that refracted the sunlight into one enormous rainbow beam, and spread it across the floor before them; they had seen rooms decorated with tapestries of such beauty that even Bram's earthy heart was stirred at the sight, and walked beneath the gaze of murals so intricate that they defied understanding.

And then there were the phaeries themselves: elves, naiads, pixies, undines, wisps, nymphs and dozens more that Poison could not name. They shimmered with cold, unearthly elegance as they passed by, barely deigning to even glance at the verminous humans in their midst. Poison felt suddenly and acutely filthy, like a swamp-lurker that had staggered into a princess's ball. The Realm of Phaerie was glutted with perfection and beauty, and these humans who came sweating and stinking into their land of harmony were an insult to them. It soured her amazement.

I want to be gone as much as you want me gone
, she told them silently.
But you took my sister, and I want her back.

The Great Hall was predictably enormous, built in a cool blue kind of smooth, moist-looking stone. Though it was not so large in length or breadth, its height was startling, for it was built inside a narrow, hollow tower, and it had no ceiling except where the tower tapered to a point hundreds of feet above. Delicately carved ribs soared up towards the apex of the room. Tall, thin windows spread light across the floor, where sat the Phaerie Lord on his great chair atop a dais.

The Phaerie Lord was seven feet in height, and he lounged in his seat with the lazy air of deadliness possessed by a jungle cat. His hair was a shocking flame-red against his pale skin, tousled and ruffled into a style of studied disarray. The morning sun sent blades of gold across his polished silver armour, which seemed on him to be as light as air, and which never clashed as he moved. His face had all the beauty of the phaerie folk, but his eyes were hard and cruel and arrogant. By his side, in an ornamental stand, was a sword of exquisite craftsmanship, a weapon of such perfect design that even someone who had never seen a sword before would know it as the greatest of its kind, the pinnacle of achievement in its field.

Around the Great Hall stood an assortment of phaerie folk, ethereal in their beauty, malevolent in their gaze, watching as Poison and her companions were led into the presence of the Phaerie Lord. Scriddle walked before them, straight-backed, his oiled hair shining and his narrow, sharp face set in an unctuous smile.

“My Lord Aelthar,” Scriddle cried, bowing. “Four come from the Realm of Man, claiming an audience with you, under the terms of Amrae's Law.”

Poison felt the chill in the room deepen. All eyes were on them now.

“Is that so?” Aelthar purred. His gaze fell to Poison, who returned it sullenly. The sight of him had brought back all the anger she had initially felt at having her baby sister snatched from her, and she nursed it as a defence against the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. She was in the heart of phaerie territory, as far from help as she might possibly be; she was in no place to make demands, nor had she any way to prevent Aelthar doing whatever he wanted with them. For the first time she began to question whether what she had done was wise. Maybe Azalea was already dead and gone. Maybe all this was for nothing. Or maybe she had just walked into the jaws of death, and she would never leave this room alive. Phaeries were notoriously capricious, and they might as easily cut her head off now as give Azalea back.

No, not now. Not during the audience. That law prevents it. But afterward. . .

It was too late, anyway. She had taken the chance, and so had Bram and Peppercorn, who was stroking Andersen nervously and chewing her lip.

The Phaerie Lord let the silence become agonizing before he waved one hand at them. “Well, we must endure these little trials,” he said, his voice like molten darkness. “Speak.”

Poison's throat was dry. She tried to compose a careful and respectful sentence in her head, but nothing worked. Instead, she opened her mouth and spoke bluntly, the only way she really knew how.

“Your Scarecrow stole my baby sister from me,” she said. “I have come to ask for her back.”

Aelthar gaped in genuine disbelief for a moment, then burst out laughing. The entire hall joined in with the uproar, surrounding them with cruel mirth. Poison felt her face redden in embarrassment and anger. The Phaerie Lord was roaring with glee, tears running from his eyes. Peppercorn shrank away from the noise, and Bram laid a gloved hand on Poison's shoulder.

“Don't get angry,” he whispered.

But Poison
was
angry. She felt it come boiling up inside her, taking her over, and she pushed off Bram's hand and took a step forward to the foot of the dais.

“
What is funny to you?
” she screamed, and silence fell so fast that the echoes of her demand were left reverberating around the hall like lost phantoms. As if they had never been laughing at all, the phaeries – and their lord – had reverted to their icy serenity again, and now glared at her impertinence.

“Forgive us,” said Aelthar, suddenly becoming indulgent. “But you are such an amusing species.”

“You can laugh yourselves insane at us for all I care,” Poison said truculently. “But I ask that you give me my sister back, in exchange for the changeling that you left in her place. I've heard many great things about the Lord of Phaerie, but I had never thought I would find him a thief!”

The air seemed to darken, and Aelthar sat up in his chair, his features knitting in anger. “Be careful what you say, little worm. It is no theft to take what already belongs to me.”

“No human belongs to you!” Poison challenged. “We may be scattered, divided. We may be leaderless, and your creatures have overrun our lands. But we're not your vassals. I am Poison of Gull, as my sister is Azalea of Gull, and not one of the folk of Gull has ever sworn allegiance to your kind!”

“Do you think twice to crush a swamp-spider beneath your boot, Poison of Gull? Do you care whether the eyefish you spear and eat has sworn allegiance to you or not? You
own
them; you hold power of life or death over them, as I do over you and your kind. Humans are merely animals to us, albeit possessed of an extreme sense of self-importance. I take or destroy as I choose.”