The Faerie Lord (7 page)

‘I don’t know,’ Henry admitted. ‘To be honest, I think he’s a bit -‘ He wanted to say Alzheimer’s, but didn’t think Nymph would know the term, so he circled his finger at the side of his forehead instead. But even while he was making the gesture, he wasn’t all that sure. Mr Fogarty’s talk about caterpillars sounded cuckoo, but what he said afterwards seemed sensible enough.

‘But he’s definitely going to come back with you?’ Nymph pressed. ‘Back to the Analogue World?’

‘Oh yes,’ Henry said, aware he still sounded surprised. The minute he’d repeated the suggestion, Mr Fogarty agreed like a lamb. Nymph had set arrangements in motion and now they were both going over the conversation in detail while they waited for things to happen. The trouble was the conversation didn’t make a lot of sense. What made even less sense was why Mr Fogarty had insisted on seeing Henry in the first place. If he’d decided to come home and wait for a cure, he certainly didn’t need Henry to hold his hand. It would have been easier and a whole lot safer for him to use a portal when he first became ill. And if he’d still wanted to see Henry for whatever reason, all it would have taken then was a phone call.

‘What else did he say?’ Nymph asked. ‘After the butterfly business and the bit about finding the magic?’

‘Not much,’ Henry told her. ‘He said I was the only one who could do it and I said he had to come back to the Analogue World before he had another bout of fever because another bout of fever would probably kill him and he said yes, all right. So I thought I’d better get it organised before he changed his mind.’ He grinned at her, a bit pleased with himself.

Nymph grinned back. ‘We knew you could do it, Henry. Pyrgus said you could, and I knew you could as well. Everything’s going to be all right now.’

‘Yes,’ Henry agreed. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

Henry stared. It was the first time he’d seen the Palace portal and he was mightily impressed. The equipment was in a temple, for one thing. He was looking up at a raging blue fire that flared between twin pillars before an altar. The technicians who serviced it were dressed as priests. Henry vaguely remembered Pyrgus telling him the whole concept of moving between worlds had once been a religious experience in the Realm. It still was, by the look of things.

‘I normally use just a little portable translator,’ Henry said to Chief Portal Engineer Peacock, who’d escorted them to the temple. The devices, ironically, had been Mr Fogarty’s invention.

Peacock sniffed dismissively. ‘They’re a bit of a fashion accessory these days,’ he said in a tone that left no doubt about what he thought of
that
nonsense. ‘Never trusted them myself.’ His face took on a different expression altogether as he followed Henry’s eyes to the blue flame and added proudly,
‘This
has been going for centuries.’ He laid a hand fondly on the obsidian casing of the controls.

‘What do we do?’ Henry asked. ‘Just walk into the fire?’ He was fairly sure that was what they were supposed to do, although he didn’t fancy the thought now he was actually looking at it.

‘One at a time,’ Peacock said. ‘You first, since you know the Analogue World. Then Gatekeeper Fogarty when he gets here. And then Princess Nymph. That way, you can make sure he’s all right as he comes through, sir, and the Princess will be bringing up the rear. I understand Prince Pyrgus will be waiting too. It all takes just a second or so.’

And it would all happen in a minute,
Henry thought with painfully mixed feelings. He’d been dreading meeting up with Blue on this trip and now he was going home again without so much as a glimpse of her. Relief mingled with regret and even a surge of resentment. Even though he didn’t want to meet her, he didn’t want her to ignore him either. Actually being ignored was the worst thing of all. ‘I wonder what’s keeping Mr Fogarty?’ he said to no one in particular.

‘They may have to carry him,’ Nymph said. ‘He’s terribly frail.’

‘Should have come home earlier,’ Henry said without much sympathy because he was feeling sorry for himself over Blue. As a distraction, he turned back to Chief Portal Engineer Peacock. ‘Could you explain to me how it works?’ he asked.

A huge smile crossed Peacock’s face. ‘Well, sir, I -‘ He stopped. There was an immediate change of atmosphere in the temple and a sudden silence. Peacock was looking at something over Henry’s shoulder. Henry turned.

Blue was standing in the doorway. There was a tall, slim, very handsome young man by her side.

Henry couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was … she was … He took a deep breath. Blue had grown a little, unless it was his imagination, perhaps lost a few pounds. And she’d let her hair grow. It was no longer the short, boyish cut he remembered. Now it cascaded to her shoulders.
She was utterly, totally gorgeous!

He wondered who the man was with her.

She walked differently as well. Not affected, but confident, very upright, sort of … regal. As she moved into the room, the priests bowed deeply to her, like a wave. Henry watched her, mouth open, as she approached, wondering if he should bow too, but unwilling to stop looking at her. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

She’d seen him, but she wasn’t smiling.

‘Hello, Blue,’ said Henry, his heart pounding.

‘Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry!’ Blue said, and threw her arms around his neck.

She smelled of musk and jasmine and for a moment he was lost to everything but the scent of her skin and the scent of her hair. His heart was thumping so wildly now he was certain she must hear it. He wanted to hold her and kiss her on the mouth. He wanted to She was crying! He could feel her tears on his cheek and suddenly the world came rushing in and he relaxed his arms and stepped away. He raised his head and was looking into the eyes of the handsome young man, who looked back at him without expression.

Henry’s mind began to function again.
So sorry?
So sorry about what? What had Blue got to be sorry about? He was the one who …

Still looking into the eyes of the young man, Henry suddenly knew, beyond doubt, that this was Blue’s new love.
Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry.
So sorry I took you at your word. So sorry I didn’t wait. So sorry I found somebody else.
So sorry we’re to be married?

‘Blue …’ Henry croaked, then stopped. What was he going to say? You should never have listened when I turned you down?

‘I know you came as soon as you could,’ Blue said.

The young man, his eyes still on Henry’s, said inconsequentially, ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

Henry said, ‘No.’ His voice was small.

The young man gave a brief, bleak smile. ‘Comma,’ he said shortly.

‘Comma,’ Henry echoed.
Comma?
Blue’s peculiar, sneaky, chubby little brother? ‘Comma?’ It couldn’t be Comma. Nobody could change that much, even in two years. But now the name had been spoken Henry realised the young man had Comma’s eyes and the turn of Comma’s jaw. It was incredible.

Comma nodded. His face was sober. He had a well-modulated voice and an air of sophistication Henry couldn’t match. ‘I’m sorry we meet again in such dreadful circumstances,’ he said.

But really Henry couldn’t take his eyes off Blue. Why had he ever let her go? What was there in his life now that came even close to … ? He gazed at her adoringly, vaguely aware he must look like a puppy, and felt a rising excitement that came out of nowhere.
Maybe it isn’t too late!

Blue said, ‘What will you do now?’

Henry stared at her, not really knowing what she was talking about, not really caring. He allowed himself to smile a little. ‘What?’ he asked.

Then he watched it happen in a sort of ghastly slow motion. Blue’s tears dried and a look of horror crawled across her face. Her eyes grew wide. ‘No one’s told you!’ she said. She glanced around with growing anger. But the faces that looked back were just as puzzled as Henry’s own. ‘No one’s told you,’ she said again, not angrily this time, but quietly, with shock. She looked him in the eye, her face a wooden mask.

‘Henry, Mr Fogarty is dead,’ she said.

‘My guess is they plan to kill you once the money is paid over,’ Madame Cardui said calmly.

They were in a standard Security Chamber, a purposeful confusion of hanging drapes and full-length mirrors that reflected her cloaked and hooded figure scores of times. Chalkhill shivered. He had a feeling she might be right, but that didn’t mean he wanted to face up to it. ‘I’m sure my old partner will protect me,’ he said without much conviction.
And if he doesn’t, you will, you old hag,
he thought.
You’re the one who got me into this.

Madame Cardui snorted. ‘Silas Brimstone? He would sell his own mother for sixpence. No, I’m afraid your only hope is to expose the Brotherhood before they move against you.’

The trouble with a Security Chamber was you never knew where to look. Which was the whole point, of course. All the reflections duplicated the person you were talking to and the curtains deflected their voice so you couldn’t even follow the sound. It meant assassins didn’t quite know what to attack, but it was hael trying to carry out a sensible conversation. He selected a reflection of Madame Cardui at random and wailed at it, ‘But that only gives me to the end of the week!’

‘Can’t you ask your bank to slow the transfer?’

‘I’ve already done that,’ Chalkhill told her. ‘Standard clearance is seventy-two hours. They’ve pushed it back to six days – a working week. But they won’t go any further. They say more delay would ruin their reputation.’

‘Such a shame,’ said Madame Cardui.

The deep hood meant he couldn’t see her face, but he sensed she was smiling and felt a sudden chill. She’d sounded so plausible when she first approached him and frankly her proposition had appealed hugely. But there’d been no talk of killing then and especially no talk of killing
him.
He began to suspect the old witch had a hidden agenda. All the same, he felt compelled to venture, ‘Can’t
you
do anything?’

‘My deeah, I would if I could – you know that. But I can’t. My hands are tied. We’re all supposed to be
friends
with those ghastly Faeries of the Night these days.’

Chalkhill was a ghastly Faerie of the Night himself, but he let it go. For better or worse, Madame Cardui was his paymaster now. However tricky she proved, she couldn’t be more dangerous than Hairstreak and he’d survived for years as Hairstreak’s spy. Besides, he knew that whatever she said, she wasn’t likely to let him be murdered while he remained a valuable asset. At the moment, he was the only asset she had. No one else had managed to infiltrate the Brotherhood.

He decided the talk of death was just meant to put pressure on him, hurry him up a little, as if he hadn’t enough motivation already. Darkness knew Hairstreak had played the same game often enough. To move things along – perhaps even take control of the situation – he asked, ‘Any new intelligence?’

A hundred hooded heads shook negatively. ‘Only confirmation of what we already know. The Brotherhood is up to something.’ There was just the barest hesitation before she asked, ‘Did
you
find out anything else, Mr Chalkhill?’

For a moment he debated keeping it to himself, then decided against it. This early in the game he needed to ingratiate himself with Madame Cardui, reassure her he was loyal. Besides, what he
had
learned was little enough and of doubtful importance. ‘Hairstreak looked taken aback when I asked to speak to God,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ said Madame Cardui, as if he’d told her something interesting. ‘How did he respond?’

‘Brushed it off as a joke. “I’m the only God you’ll find round here” or some such. But I’m sure I rattled him.’

‘And your analysis?’

Chalkhill opened his mouth and closed it again. Hairstreak had never asked for his analysis of anything in the old days. Madame Cardui was obviously a very different sort of spymaster. His eyes flickered from one reflection to another. The fact was he didn’t
have
much of an analysis. Everything he’d done so far had been prompted by greed and gut instinct. Plus some loose tavern talk. He doubted the Painted Lady would be impressed by
that.
‘Well, it’s obviously a code-name …’

‘Yes, of course,’ Madame Cardui cut in impatiently. ‘But what does it stand for? A person? Some important ally? Another country, perhaps? Or does it simply stand for whatever it is they’re scheming about – the name of their current
project?’

How am I supposed to know, you stupid old sow?
Chalkhill thought. Aloud he said, ‘I don’t think that’s important. I -‘

‘It most certainly is, Mr Chalkhill,’ Madame Cardui cut in again. ‘In my experience, people are often foolish enough to choose code-names that hint at exactly the thing they’re trying to conceal. For example, if “God” refers to a person, we might infer someone in authority, someone with power. Whereas if “God” is the code-name for a project, we may be forgiven for assuming it was a grandiose project, something far-reaching and all-consuming.’ Her voice took on a steely edge. ‘Like a plot to overthrow the legitimate ruler of the Realm.’

Chalkhill jumped as if stung. He’d been thinking much the same thing himself, which was why he was so interested in what Brimstone was up to. By playing both ends against the middle, he hoped to ensure himself a high position in the new order if the Brotherhood plot succeeded, or ingratiate himself with the old order if it failed. The trouble was he didn’t
know
what Brimstone was up to. He didn’t even know where Brimstone
lived,
although he hoped to remedy that soon. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing like that, Madame Cardui,’ he said smarmily. Because whether it was or whether it wasn’t, it was better if
he
found out first. Cardui was too suspicious for her own good. He didn’t want her poking into things on her own account, oh no.

‘Why not?’ Cardui asked sharply. ‘Lord Hairstreak has tried that sort of thing before. Have you not heard the Analogue expression about a leopard and its spots?’