The Faerie Lord (12 page)

‘That’s what I want to show you,’ Brimstone said. He caught his breath at last and started down the corridor. He must have set up light spells here as well, for it lit up as he went. ‘Stick close,’ he called back. ‘This place can be confusing if you’re not used to it.’

Chalkhill hesitated for a fraction of a second, then started after him.

It was, as Brimstone said, confusing. The arched corridor turned quickly into a maze of cramped tunnels, which bulged into smallish chambers from time to time and occasionally opened out into charnel galleries. There were bones and skulls everywhere. The whole place smelled of must.

Now he’d left the stairs behind, Brimstone had regained his old sprightly self and scuttled along without apparent discomfort. ‘Nearly there,’ he called over his shoulder.

They reached a chamber that clearly had been modified in recent years. There was a heavy metal-clad door set into the wall at one end.

Brimstone produced a massive key. ‘Put on your lenses,’ he instructed. He dragged a heavy pair of darkened goggles from his pocket and fitted them carefully around his ears.

Like Brimstone, Chalkhill was a Faerie of the Night. He produced his own dark glasses - rimmed with ormolu worked into an impressively baroque design -but hesitated. ‘There’s not much light down here.’

‘Just do it,’ Brimstone said. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it with some difficulty. Then he grabbed the handle and pulled back the massive door.

ChalkhilPs jaw dropped as he stared inside the room.

Blue hesitated in the doorway. Comma had been such an
odious
child, sneaky, pompous, sly. She’d loved him, of course – he was her half-brother after all – but she could never bring herself to like him. It almost seemed as if the change had occurred overnight, temperament and looks together. He lost weight, gained height and suddenly he was a good-looking young man, full of new-found courtesy, sensitivity and understanding. The odious child was Comma then. Comma now was … Comma now was …

Comma now was levitating gracefully close to the ceiling of the practice hall. The tight-fitting suit accentuated the sleek muscularity of his body as he swooped and soared in complex, graceful patterns. He would have a devastating effect on girls one of these days. Blue shook her head. Who was she fooling? He
already
had a devastating effect on girls. There were eight of them in the practice hall, members of the Royal Ballet, and every one was watching him with adoration.

As Blue herself watched, one of the girls took off with expert skill and soared to join him. She had long, dark hair tied in a tight bun and the sort of body that comes with years of training. Her eyes were glazed with concentration as she induced the levitation trance.

Comma reached for her and took her hand. Blue stared, enraptured, as the two floated, light as thistledown, into the dance steps of a classic
pas de deux.
They moved gently at first, then faster, but always gracefully, parting, soaring, reaching, closing for a brief embrace, then onwards, heavenwards. Blue recognised a movement from Februa’s
Heliconius,
one of her personal favourites. She wondered briefly if the dancers would end it at the kiss; and when they did, she noted the envious looks on the faces of the other girls.

The dark-haired girl sank slowly back down to the ground, unable to maintain her trance, but Comma stayed easily aloft. Clearly he had a talent that would take him far. Blue stepped into the hall and at once the ballet girls ran to greet her with elaborate, elegant curtsies. Blue returned their smiles, then said softly, ‘Leave us.’ The girls scattered like doves, taking their exits in small, swift steps. Above her head, Comma sank gently towards her.

‘Security?’ Blue asked without preliminary as he landed. She noticed that despite the efforts of the levitation he had scarcely broken a sweat.

In the old days he would have made a fuss, demanded to know at once what her visit was about, accused her of interrupting his practice and Light only knew what else. As it was, the new Comma only smiled and nodded and walked lightly to close the double doors with their self-activating spells. ‘Secure now, Blue,’ he said. ‘Is there a crisis?’ He blinked and added, ‘Other than the ones I know about.’

So many crises. But at least she could trust him now. In fact, she realised suddenly, she could trust him completely. Comma was still young, but he was intelligent and calm, with a surprising, if unobtrusive, grasp of Realm politics. Which was just as well, considering what she was about to ask. She gave him a warm, fond smile. ‘If there is, you’ll have to handle it.’

He frowned slightly but was intelligent enough to understand. ‘You’re leaving the Palace?’

Blue nodded. ‘It’s possible I might be away for quite some time.’

Comma waited, his eyes on her face.

Blue said, ‘I want you as Acting Emperor while I’m away.’

Pyrgus waited.

An old Realm saying,
The Purple Palace never sleeps,
drifted through his mind. It was meant as a political comment - your rulers work tirelessly on your behalf -but now he could see the literal aspect of it as well. Move from your quarters at any time of the day or night and the corridors were bustling: servants ... guards ... messengers ... He was watching them now from the shadow of an archway. Unlike the city streets, the plague made no difference to the Palace traffic. It was an almost constant stream.

But only
almost
constant. If you were patient, opportunities arose. He remembered that from childhood when he’d defied his father to slip away – usually from some punishment or other. You waited, then you seized your chance and made a dash. With a little luck, no one noticed you until it was too late. With a lot of luck, no one noticed you at all.

He should have realised Blue would want to come. But his attention had been so focused it simply never occurred to him. If it had, he’d have kept his mouth shut, of course, but too late for that now. What he had to do now was get away without her. She’d be furious when she found out, but better that than have her ruin everything.

The trouble was he felt really sorry for Blue. She loved Henry – he’d known that for years – and now Henry was in greater danger than he’d ever been in his whole life. Not knowing what was happening must be tearing her apart. Not to be allowed to help was even worse.

The corridor was suddenly empty. Without a second’s hesitation, Pyrgus stepped from the archway, ran a hundred yards south, then slipped into a little-used servants’ passage. He moved along it quickly, listening intently for sounds of anyone approaching. No servant would stop him, of course – he was still a Prince of the Realm and, besides, was known to have the plague – but best that he should not be seen. People talked. It would be a disaster if word of his actions reached Blue.

Halfway along the passageway, he stepped through a doorway into an empty chamber and waited, leaving the door open a crack. Blue was no fool. It would be so like her to assign one of her miserable little agents to track him if he left his quarters.

Seconds ticked by into minutes as he listened, holding his breath. After a while, he began to relax. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. Perhaps she’d learned to trust her big brother.

He was about to step back out into the passageway when he heard a sound. Pyrgus froze. He placed his eye to the crack. His field of vision was limited and the corridor was poorly lit, but after a moment a shadowy figure slipped silently past, a Trinian to judge from his height. Pyrgus grinned. Little sister still didn’t trust him after all.

He waited until he was certain the agent was clear, then cautiously vacated the chamber and made off back the way he’d come. But instead of returning to the main corridor with its renewed bustle, he slipped through an archway and crossed an empty gallery that took him to a second servants’ passage running parallel to the first.

He hesitated. There was someone coming. He could hear heavy breathing, dragging footsteps and a curious metallic clanking. Clearly not another agent. He risked a quick glance down the corridor. An old cleaning woman was approaching, dragging an empty bucket and a mop. Pyrgus stepped back into the shadows and she passed him without so much as a glance.

Pyrgus waited until the woman’s footsteps faded, then slipped into the passageway. He wasn’t entirely familiar with this part of the Palace, but quickly discovered Blue’s agent had done him a favour by sending him this way. The passage led to a gloomy wooden staircase, which took him to a storeroom that opened into the basement corridors beneath the main entrance hall. It was an area Pyrgus knew well – he’d hidden down here often enough as a child.

Moving quickly now, he raced along until he found a second staircase, which took him to a disused area of the Palace kitchens. The place had a ghostly feel, but he ignored it and pushed through a heavy doorway into exactly the passageway he was looking for. It ended at a locked door leading outside. Pyrgus grinned and inserted his master key. (Some perks to having been a Crown Prince after all!) The solid old spells recognised him at once and slid back the bolts. In a moment, Pyrgus was outside, breathing the fresh, clean river air of Imperial Island.

Blue’s agents could not be tracking him now, but all the same he moved cautiously. Nymph had promised to arrange for a personal flyer, fully charged and ready for take-off, to be hidden in the grove of trees beyond the Gatekeeper’s Lodge. There was absolutely no chance of anyone else going there during the period of mourning that followed Mr Fogarty’s death. Once Pyrgus reached it, he was free and clear.

But not free and clear yet. There was a Volunteer Guard posted along the perimeter of the Gatekeeper’s property. They would not be particularly vigilant – their duties were largely ceremonial – but he couldn’t risk their seeing him all the same. So he took a circuitous route through the shrubberies, crossed the little ornamental river by way of the stepping stones, then climbed a low wall and dropped into the Gatekeeper’s grounds.

It occurred to him suddenly that his problems getting here were nothing beside Nymph’s problems arranging for the flyer to be brought in secretly. But he was so used to trusting Nymph now, so used to her terrifying efficiency, that he felt not the slightest stirring of surprise when he caught his first glimpse of the dull sheen reflecting from the vehicle’s exterior spell coatings.

He ran through the grove like a wraith, jerked open the flyer door and climbed thankfully inside.

‘What kept you?’ Blue asked sourly.

There was gold carpeting on the floor, velvet drapes on picture windows, a little ante-room for Kitterick. In many ways, it made her personal quarters at the Palace seem positively utilitarian. But, however luxurious, a prison was still a prison.

Madame Cardui dressed carefully. She was far too old for field work, of course, but that was of small account now that field work had become necessary. If dear Alan was right, they all must play their part. Thus she abandoned her usual flowing silks for form-fitting assassin’s black, spell-treated to turn it into body armour. The effect was actually quite fetching: how gratifying to have kept one’s figure. How sad that Alan wasn’t here to see it.

She extinguished all lights, then walked to the window and drew back the curtains. The first glow of dawn had begun to illuminate the horizon far to the south. She stood for a moment, staring at the increasing light.

Poor Blue. Madame Cardui felt not the slightest resentment at her own incarceration. In the circumstances, what else could the child do? Another Emperor might well have ordered her death, or had her tortured until she gave an explanation. Blue had been nothing but patient, generous and thoughtful. She had even specified low security in return for Madame Cardui’s pledge not to attempt an escape. A pity to repay her with another betrayal.

It was such an
odd
situation to be in. All the old certainties had been turned upside down. She was reminded irresistibly of her stage days as the diverting young assistant to the Great Myphisto. She had been a real beauty then. The audience could scarcely take their eyes off her – especially the men. And while they watched
her,
Myphisto prepared his sleights of hand.
Miracles Without Magic,
they had called the show. Not a single spell used … and that was guaranteed.

She dragged her attention back to the present. Focus. She had to focus. There were so many imponderables in the present situation, so much to lose if they got things wrong.

She turned away from the window and flicked a bell-ring on her finger. Kitterick appeared at once. With his usual efficiency he had anticipated her next move and was himself dressed in black, doubtless spell-armoured as well, with a pointed hood that made him look like a demented pixy. He had dyed his skin black as well, which was possibly a step too far, although his natural orange would, admittedly, have been a trifle garish in the morning light.

‘I assumed we would be leaving, Madam,’ Kitterick told her.

‘Your assumption was correct,’ said Madame Cardui.

He waited, patient as ever, for his briefing. Kitterick had been in her service for more years than she cared to remember and still looked much as he had done the day she hired him. How did Trinians manage it? They never seemed to age at all – although they did have something of a reputation for dying suddenly. Would she have bartered sudden death for youthful looks and energy? Such a bargain was hardly open for her now. Not only had she lost her looks – although not her figure, one was forced to admit – but what she was about to do held its own risk of sudden death.

Madame Cardui blinked. Losing Alan had made her morbid. All she could think about was death in one form or another. Such a waste of energy and the ruination of one’s concentration. She must pull herself together.

‘We have no time to lose,’ she told Kitterick.

‘No, Madam,’ Kitterick agreed.

‘It is important that we leave the Palace – and indeed the city – at the earliest opportunity.’