The Faerie Lord (6 page)

Nymph waited.

Henry said, ‘I just panicked. You’ve lived in the Realm all your life; you don’t know what it’s like for me. None of you do. I feel really out of place here. I’m not a hero or a prince or somebody that Blue deserves. I’m just a schoolboy. I have this awful mother and my father’s lovely, but he’s weak and everybody expects me to, you know, just do normal things. Like exams and becoming a teacher. If I married Blue I’d be a consort or a king or something and I’d have to rule the Realm with her, or help her out at least. I don’t know how to do that. I hardly even know how things
work
here. I could never make the changes.’

‘Mr Fogarty did,’ Nymph said.

Mr Fogarty was dying, Henry thought. The carriage rolled to a stop. It had reached the ferry that would take them to Imperial Island.

Imperial Island looked the same as ever, but Henry’s heart began to pound the moment the ferry docked. He was very much afraid. He was afraid of meeting Blue, afraid of what she would say and what he should say. He was afraid of how Mr Fogarty might look now he’d lost most of what little future he had left. But, oddly, he wasn’t afraid that he’d fail to get Mr Fogarty to come back to the real world. He knew, in the depths of his being, Mr Fogarty wasn’t going to die yet. Henry could handle the old man. He’d always been able to handle the old man even in his most stubborn moods. Henry would get him to come home and the fever would stop and he could come back to the Realm when the wizards found a cure.

The guards at the ferry dock were all wearing surgical masks, but several had them pulled down around their necks so nobody seemed too worried about infection. Nymph was treated with huge deference, Henry noticed, and wondered why; then he realised she was married to the former Emperor. Pyrgus may have lasted only seconds in the job, but he was still a Prince of the Realm, which meant Nymph was probably a city princess now, as well as a forest princess in her own right. Henry himself was treated politely, but he had the strong feeling nobody actually remembered him. Which was fine – he’d never felt comfortable as Iron Prominent, Knight of the Grey Dagger, largely because he never thought he deserved it.

‘Shall we walk from here?’ Nymph said, cutting in on his thoughts. ‘Or would you like me to order a carriage?’

‘Walk,’ Henry said shortly. ‘It’s only a little way.’ And it would give him time to get his thoughts in order, figure out what he was going to say to Blue. Or to Mr Fogarty, which was really far more important.

But moments later he was sorry for his decision. The path they took was the same one he had walked that night with Blue. The memories, already fresh in his mind, flooded over him in vivid detail. His discomfort must have shown on his face, for Nymph asked, ‘Are you all right, Henry?’ When he nodded, she added kindly, ‘It’s okay, you know. Everybody understands.’

He had the idea in his mind that Blue would be waiting on the steps of the Purple Palace, maybe even flanked by guards who would arrest him for … for … for insulting the Queen or something. But that was stupid and he knew it and he wasn’t really surprised to find no one waiting on the steps at all. Nymph led him in through a side door; they walked familiar corridors; then suddenly he was in the doorway of Mr Fogarty’s sickroom. ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Nymph whispered, but he hardly heard her.

Mr Fogarty looked awful. To be honest, he looked dead. He was laid out on a bed, eyes closed, with skin the sort of grey colour that wouldn’t have been out of place on a corpse. There was no sign at all of breathing, but there were tubes running into his body from a shelf above the bed, which gave Henry a little hope. If he was dead, somebody would surely have taken them out. Unless he had died within the last few minutes. There was no one else in the room.

‘Mr Fogarty,’ Henry whispered in something close to panic.

Mr Fogarty opened his eyes at once. He looked at Henry for a moment without moving his head, then said sourly, ‘You’ve cut it fine.’

Henry sat on the edge of the bed, taking care not to sit on Mr Fogarty’s legs, which hardly showed up at all under the covers and were so stick-thin they would have broken like twigs under the impact of Henry’s bottom. There were little …
things
... swimming up and down the tubes that penetrated Mr Fogarty’s spine. They were repulsive and Henry could hardly take his eyes off them. It felt as if he’d stumbled into some sort of horror movie.

On top of which, the conversation was not going well.

‘But
why
won’t you come back with me?’ he asked for the third or fourth time, aware his voice sounded whiney and shrill and even a little desperate, yet not able to control it at all, because he
felt
whiney and shrill and more than a little desperate. ‘Your old house is great -‘ which was a lie, but it was certainly no worse than Mr Fogarty had left it’- but I’ve talked to Pyrgus and we can get you somewhere else if you want and you’ll be very comfortable until the wizards find a cure -‘

‘The wizards won’t find a cure,’ said Mr Fogarty bluntly.

‘Yes, of course they will!’ Henry said with conviction,

except it came out sounding patronising, the way people sounded when they talked to somebody very old and a bit deaf and gaga. It was dangerous to patronise Mr Fogarty. He licked his lips. ‘They have magic and stuff.’

‘Magic!’ Mr Fogarty snorted. To Henry’s surprise he pushed himself up in the bed and all of a sudden the old fire was back. He glared at Henry. ‘Those clowns know nothing about magic. You ever see a caterpillar?’

Henry blinked. ‘Caterpillar?’

‘Little hairy wormy thing with legs,’ Fogarty growled.

‘Yes, I know what a caterpillar is,’ Henry said, miffed. ‘What’s that got to do -?’

‘First couple of weeks of its life, month at most, your caterpillar trolls about eating plants,’ Mr Fogarty said as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘It gets maybe thirty thousand times bigger than it was the day it was born. Well developed little animal. It’s got eyes and taste buds and antennae it uses to smell. Great jaws. Uses its front legs to hold on to food. Inside it’s got intestines and all sorts of useful organs.’

‘Mr Fogarty, what -?’

‘Shut up, Henry. Then one day, the caterpillar – which has never done anything but eat, remember – starts to spin silk. This thing that’s spent its life avoiding birds and wasps, spent its life
surviving,
Henry, it spins silk and wraps it round itself like a mummy until it can’t breathe any more. It commits suicide.’

‘That’s -‘

‘Can’t put it any other way, can you? Caterpillar kills itself. Then, inside this silk cocoon it’s spun, hanging from some leaf or branch or wherever, the caterpillar rots. Rots right down into liquid. Not a thing left of it. Jaws gone, all six eyes gone, intestines gone. Everything. Henry,
there is nothing left of that caterpillar!’

Maybe it was something to do with the disease, or maybe it was just old age, but Mr Fogarty was definitely losing it. Another bout of fever would burn up the rest of his future for sure. Five minutes after it hit him he’d be dead. His only hope – his
only
hope - was to come home to the Analogue World and he was lying there delivering a nature lecture. ‘Mr Fog -‘ Henry attempted to cut in.

‘So it hangs there, this bag of liquid,’ Mr Fogarty said excitedly. ‘Until next thing you know, the sac suddenly turns transparent, then splits and out comes -‘

‘A butterfly,’ Henry said. ‘Mr Fogarty, we really don’t have time for -‘

‘A
butterfly!’
exclaimed Mr Fogarty. ‘A thing with wings and heart and blood and nervous system and ovaries or testicles and even a special organ that lets it keep its balance when it’s flying. What comes out is about as different from the caterpillar as you could get.
And nobody on the planet has the least idea how the caterpillar does it!’
He pushed himself forward until his face was only inches away from Henry’s own. ‘Now
that’s
magic!’

Henry opened his mouth and shut it again. Mr Fogarty collapsed back on the bed. ‘You have to find the magic,’ he said softly. ‘You’re the caterpillar, Henry. You’re the only one can do it.’

‘How,’ hissed Black Hairstreak furiously, ‘did he find out?’

Brimstone glared back. ‘Not from me.’

‘Then who?’ Hairstreak demanded.

‘How should I know?’ Brimstone asked him crossly. He felt nervous around Hairstreak, but not
that
nervous. His Lordship had fallen on hard times since the Civil War. The country estates were gone and they were meeting in miserable little city lodgings. Hairstreak needed the Brotherhood far more than the Brotherhood needed him. And the Brotherhood needed Brimstone. He was the only one who could revive their lost fortunes.

But Hairstreak was not about to back down either. ‘You’re his Sponsor,’ he said shortly.

‘A formality,’ snapped Brimstone. Then, to turn the screw, added, ‘Undertaken at
your
request.’

It had the desired effect. Hairstreak backed down a little – you could see it in his eyes. Brimstone looked pointedly around the room, a small gesture designed to keep Hairstreak in his place. The lodgings weren’t even in a fashionable part of town. In the old days they’d been an artisan dwelling, tarted up at the turn of the century by a merchant who wanted somewhere to stash his mistresses. Now they were just seedy. As was Hair-streak himself, if the truth be told. The velvet suit had seen better days and his boots were worn and scuffed.

All the same, it never did to underestimate the man. He might be in disgrace, but he was still a Lord, with a Lord’s connections. And he was still head of the Brotherhood, a fact Brimstone had to live with. To take some of the tension out of the situation, he said, ‘I’m not sure he
has
found out anything really.’

‘He asked when he could speak to God,’ Hairstreak reminded him. ‘I’d say that was a pretty good indication he
has
found out something … really!’

‘There’s been talk,’ Brimstone said. ‘You know there’s been talk. That’s what got him interested in the first place. It’s all rumours, tittle-tattle, nothing specific, nothing important.’ He fixed Hairstreak with a gimlet eye. ‘He’s just parroting something he picked up in a tavern. Testing us out. If he hadn’t heard the rumours, he would never have joined the Brotherhood.’

Hairstreak stood up suddenly and jerked open a cupboard hidden in the panelling of the wall. ‘Want a drink? There’s gin, simbala or Analogue coffee.’ When Brimstone shook his head, he poured himself a shot and strode back to his chair. ‘Did you get the money?’

Brimstone shook his head a second time. His lip curled slightly of its own accord.

‘Why not?’ Hairstreak demanded.

‘I have no plans to root around in Chalkhill’s knickers,’ Brimstone said coldly. He caught Hairstreak’s blank expression and added, ‘He keeps it in his knickers. At least that’s what he told me.’

‘He keeps it
where?’

‘Oh come on!’ Brimstone said impatiently. ‘You know Jasper just as well as I do – you employed him long enough. The man’s a pervert.’

‘Yes, but he’s a rich pervert,’ Hairstreak muttered sourly. ‘He is
going
to pay?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve arranged a bank draft.’ It would be made out to Brimstone, but he felt no urge to mention that. He was the one who would be spending the money after all.

‘When?’

‘When did I arrange it?’

‘When will it be paid?’

‘Seventy-two-hour clearance,’ Brimstone said. ‘Best you can do with a sum that size.’

‘Three days …’ Hairstreak mused thoughtfully.

Brimstone frowned. ‘Something wrong with that?’

‘I was just thinking about the
rumours
Chalkhill’s heard. About talking to God. He’s not going to be satisfied until he’s found out what’s behind them.’

‘I don’t suppose he is,’ Brimstone agreed. Chalkhill was nothing if not curious. Besides which, he was parting with an obscene amount of money. Nobody in his right mind would do that just to join a clapped-out Lodge of sorcerers who couldn’t even raise a demon any more. It was an open secret that Chalkhill realised there was something afoot. He might live without knowing details
before
he was a member of the Brotherhood, but once he parted with his gold, he’d want to have the truth.

‘Do you trust him?’ Hairstreak asked.

It was a good question and one Brimstone hadn’t considered. His whole attention had been on reeling Chalkhill in, not worrying about the consequences. ‘Do
you?’

‘Not much,’ Hairstreak said. ‘He was a good enough spy, but he puts his own interests first. When I employed him, he was too frightened of me to set a foot out of line – and besides, I had the manpower then to keep an eye on him. I’m not sure that’s the case any more.’

‘He looked frightened enough when he saw you in the Lodge Room.’ Brimstone shrugged.

Hairstreak gave an inward, wicked smile. ‘Not the way he used to be. Not the way he
should
be. Not to the very depths of his
soul.’
His eyes swung round to lock on Brimstone and the smile became more chill. ‘A lot of people make that mistake these days. They think because I backed the wrong horse in the Civil War, I’m no longer a force to be reckoned with.’

‘Do they?’ Brimstone asked drily.

Hairstreak tossed back his drink and set down the glass. ‘When the money comes through, I want you to kill him.’

Brimstone stared. Jasper and he went back a long, long time. They’d been on
adventures
together. They’d set up a business together – Chalkhill and Brimstone’s Miracle Glue factory had been the foundation of Brimstone’s own fortunes at one time and the company would never have been established without Chalkhill’s help. Chalkhill, for all his irritating ways, had been a loyal support to Brimstone for more years than he cared to remember. Kill Chalkhill?

‘Yes, okay,’ said Brimstone.

‘What’s he mean by that?’ Nymph asked. She’d materialised in the corridor the minute Henry came out of the sickroom. Now they were seated together in an antechamber, drinking something that tasted like tamarind juice.