The Fire King (18 page)

“Then how did he come to be the prosecutor in the case?” asked Wren. “Surely that's a conflict of interest.”

Beezle laughed. “Conflict of interest. That's the most

polite way I've heard it put. But aye, you're right. That's what it is. Thing is, the prosecutor who was supposed to be hearing the evidence ‘mysteriously' disappeared. He was last seen going out to dinner with Munifus. Hasn't been sighted since.” Jack cast an annoyingly knowing look in Emily's direction. “Now, what were you saying, young lordling? About get-

ting me out of here?” “If you agree to help us.” “Oh, I agree.” “You don't even know what we're asking,” Wren pointed out. Beezle cracked a smile at Wren. “Very true, good sir. What

do you want, then?” “We're looking for a fey—a creature called Nimue.” “There're lots of fey called that.” “This is the one who trapped Merlin—Ow!” Emily glared at Jack, who was rubbing his arm where

Emily had just punched him. Beezle cast a slow look across the three of them. “I see,” he

said. “
That
Nimue.” “Do you know where she is?” asked Emily. “Might do, might do.” “Stop playing around,” ordered Emily. “Do you or don't

you?” “Not sure.” Beezle knocked on the bars. “Believe it's this cage. Makes it hard for me to think, if you know what I mean.”

“How are we even supposed to get you out?” Emily asked. “I assume this lock is magical?”

“Of course. But Munifus has the keys. He'll be up in his changing room now. At the back of the stage. I'm sure someone with your … determination will be able to think of something.”

Emily glared at the fey. “You're nothing but a scoundrel and a rogue.”

Beezle grinned and winked at her. “And proud of it,” he said.

After speaking to Beezle, Emily, Jack, and Wren had come up with a hasty course of action. They left the area beneath the stage and found a set of stairs behind the canvas backdrop that descended into a warren of tunnels and rooms that were built beneath the actual bridge itself. They found Munifus's dressing room, and Jack slipped away, leaving Emily and Wren standing before a bright green door. The words
Munifus the Magnificent
were painted on the wood in a childlike scrawl.

“Are you ready, Mr. Wren?”

Wren smiled at Emily. “It's not exactly a challenging part to play, is it? Yes, I'm ready.”

Emily swallowed nervously and nodded. She wasn't exactly sure if
she
was ready. At some point she had become the leader, the most experienced in all things fey, and she wasn't sure she liked it. She missed having Corrigan along, having someone to turn to for advice. Now that he was (hopefully) watching William, all she had to rely on was her own instinct. Oh, she was used to it. It was what she'd been doing since her parents went missing. But it was easier in London. She
knew
London. She'd grown up there.

Here, she was simply bluffing, hoping nobody noticed that she didn't know what she was doing.

Wren laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Shall we?” he asked gently.

Emily squared her shoulders and knocked hard on the door.

“Leave me be!” shouted Munifus in an aggrieved tone.

Emily knocked again.

“I said, ‘Leave me be!'”

This time Emily kept knocking until the door was yanked open to reveal Munifus the Magnificent, standing in the opening, his jacket unbuttoned to reveal an old, stained vest.

“Gods, girl! Don't you know a genius must unwind after a performance of such magnitude? Otherwise, he's a danger to those around him. A drawn weapon, a raised hand, a …

a …” He waved his hand in the air, clutching for inspiration. “A sharpened quill?” suggested Emily.

Munifus froze. “Sharpened quill. Sharpened quill. I like that.” He whirled around and stepped back into his extremely cramped dressing room to scribble something down on a piece of parchment. Once he had finished, he turned around to face Emily once more. He looked her up and down, his upper lip curling with distaste. Then his eyes flicked across to Wren, who hadn't moved a muscle since the door first opened.

“You're a human child.”

“Correct.”

Munifus stepped closer. He bent forward, almost folding himself in half so that he could peer into Emily's eyes. Emily did her best not to flinch.

“Stand on one leg,” he ordered.

“No!”

“You can resist my orders? You're not bewitched? Bedazzled? You're not under a spell?”

“No.”

“You're here under your own free will?”

“Correct.”

“How did you get on the bridge?”

“Not telling.”

“How did you find out about us?”

Emily shook her head but didn't say anything.

Munifus's long nose twitched. He stared at Emily for some time, before exhaling loudly. “You …
fascinate
me, girl.”

“That's nice,” said Emily. She grabbed hold of Wren's arm. He still didn't move. “This man, on the other hand, is. Bewitched, I mean. And bedazzled.”

Munifus barely gave Wren a glance. “Mmm.”

“And he's from the circus. In his real life. Very sought after. A tumbler.”

Munifus's face finally showed a flicker of interest. He straightened up and peered at Wren. “Doesn't look like much.”

“That's what I thought. Till I saw him, that is. Do you want to see?”

“Are you selling him?” asked Munifus, surprised.

Emily shrugged. “Why not? I'm due my pay. Had to get a special potion and everything to get him here.”

“Oh? And where did you get such a potion?”

Emily almost froze. She hadn't thought of that. But then a name jumped out at her. “Merrian. He's a friend. He gave it to me.”

“Merrian?” Munifus sounded amazed. “Are we talking about the same Merrian? Half-giant? Big, heaving lout?”

“Careful there,” said Emily. “Merrian's a friend. Don't think he'd take too kindly to being called a heaving lout.”

“No. No, quite. Good call.” Munifus squinted at Wren again, then stepped forward and lifted Wren's lips, peering at his teeth as if checking a horse's condition. “Come on then. He can give me a demonstration topside.”

Munifus buttoned up his jacket and stepped from his changing room, pulling the door closed behind him. Emily and Wren followed him back through the tunnels, Emily praying with all her might that there wasn't some kind of magical lock on the door.

Jack could pick a lot of things, but magical locks were where his talents would let him down.

It was Emily's job to make sure Jack had enough time to search for the keys. The problem was, she hadn't really thought past getting Munifus out of his changing room. She, Munifus, and Wren climbed the stairs and emerged from the tunnels into the open air.

Munifus led them onto the stage. Emily looked around curiously. She'd never been on this side of a theater before. The seats were almost empty now, the fey all heading back to their own business now that the show was over.

“Right,” said Munifus. “Show me what he can do.”

Emily turned to face Wren with some trepidation. His eyes had a slightly panicked look about them. “Come on then,” she said. “Show Munifus what you can do. I order you.”

Wren swallowed nervously, then he turned and started to jog across the stage. For a brief second, Emily was worried he was going to make a run for it. But she needn't have worried. When he reached the edge of the stage, he turned and jogged back toward them.

When he was about ten feet away, he tripped. At least, that's what it looked like to Emily. He threw his right shoulder down, lifted one foot from the floor, pushed back with the other, and flew through the air. He landed on his shoulder, and it was at that moment that Emily realized he was trying to do a roll. Unfortunately, all he did was bang his shoulder into the wooden planks, tumble head over heels, and land flat on his back with a painful
Oof!

“What,” said Munifus slowly, “was that?”

“Uh … that's his act,” said Emily, desperately seeking inspiration. “He's a sort of tumbler clown. That may have looked extremely clumsy and painful to you, but he's spent hours and hours practicing that move.”

“Is he alive? He's not moving.”

“All part of the act.” Emily hurried forward and pulled on Wren's arm. He groaned. “Come on. Up you get. Show us another. I order you to.” She stared into Wren's eyes. “You're
bewitched
. You
have
to do what I say. Now come on. Up you get.”

Wren climbed slowly to his feet. He put his hands in the air, then lowered them to the ground and tried to do a handstand. It took him a few tries to actually get his legs past the halfway point, but when he did finally manage it, he overbalanced and fell all the way, landing on his back once again.

“What do you think?” asked Emily. “You can put him on the bill as the comedy acrobat.”

“Noooo, I don't think so,” Munifus said. “We don't have an apothecary traveling with us, and I fear he may need one quite frequently.”

He turned toward the stairs. Emily hurried after him. “Wait!”

Munifus paused, but at that moment, Emily saw Jack and Beezle slipping out from beneath the stage and darting into the crowd.

“Well?” snapped Munifus.

“Nothing,” said Emily. “You can go now. I'm finished with you.”

Munifus stared at Emily in amazement as she turned and led a rather shaky Wren from the stage. As soon as her feet touched the bridge she put on an extra burst of speed in an attempt to put as much distance between themselves and the Regent as possible.

She didn't want to be anywhere close by when Munifus found out that Beezle had escaped.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Stolen memories. An unexpected companion.

T
he street was called Gutter Lane, a name that William thought wholly fitting with his surroundings. He glanced around with distaste, noting the rubbish piled up against the buildings, the huge rats that scurried through the shadows, fighting one another for whatever scraps they could find.

“Are you sure this is the place?” he asked Corrigan. They were standing before an abandoned shop. The windows had been boarded up, a huge red cross painted onto the thick planks. William glanced nervously to either side. He'd always hated the dark.

“Course I'm sure,” said Corrigan. “You said Gutter Lane. And this is the only fey building on the street.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“So … what now?”

Corrigan shrugged. “Why are you asking me? You're the man with the plan. I'm just along for the fun of it. I defer to your experience,” he added with a bow.

William bit his lip. The only plan he had was to pretend to be Cavanagh. And if this Croth had already met the man, then obviously everything would go badly wrong. But he wasn't about to admit that to Corrigan, especially when the piskie was being so sarcastic.

Instead, he leaned forward and knocked on the door. He did it louder than he intended to, the sound echoing up and down the street. A dog started barking.

“Why don't you just shout?” said Corrigan. “Wake everyone else up as well.”

A small hatch in the door slid open. Two yellow eyes glared at William.

“Yes? What?” snapped the unseen figure.

“Uh, we're here to see Croth?”

“Why?”

“Because we have an appointment,” said William, praying his ruse would work.

“What's your name?”

“Cavanagh.”

There was a pause. The eyes flicked downward. “Do you know you've got a piskie stuck to your boot?”

“Oh, most amusing,” snapped Corrigan. “Yes, quite the comedian, aren't you? Do you want this gold or not?”

The hatch slammed shut, and the door was pulled open by what William had no hesitation in labeling the ugliest creatures he had ever seen. Croth—if this was, in fact, Croth—had a face that was a mass of warts and flaking skin. His yellow eyes flicked around constantly, shivering in their eye sockets as if he couldn't seem to keep them still. He had long, thick arms that trailed to the ground, and his knuckles were covered in calluses from the constant rubbing as he walked. William swallowed nervously, resisting the urge to back away.

“Ugly beggar, aren't you?” asked Corrigan.

“Speak for yourself, runt. I'm considered quite the catch among a certain type of female.”

“What type is that? The blind?”

Corrigan strolled past the creature's knobby legs as he said this. The creature glared down at him but didn't try to stop the piskie from entering. William took this as an encouraging sign.

“Are you Croth?” asked William.

“Maybe. Let's see the color of your purse and we'll know for sure.”

William held up the small pouch he had found on Cavanagh's desk. Croth snatched it from his hand and brought it up to his bulbous nose, sniffing deeply.

“Good enough. Come on.”

He stood aside, and William stepped into the shop. He hesitated and looked around. You couldn't really call it a shop. Not anymore. The room was a ruin. Broken shelves lay in pieces across the dusty floor. What had once been a shop counter was now lying on the floor split in two. Rather worryingly, an axe was buried deep in the wood right where the break was. Shards of glass crunched underfoot as William turned in a slow circle.

“What happened in here?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Croth looked puzzled for a moment, then his brow cleared and he smiled, revealing green and black teeth. “Oh, the mess. Nah, that was just a bit of a party, that was. Come on. Follow me.”

Croth turned and disappeared through a door at the back of the shop. William hurried over to Corrigan, who was testing the edge of the axe.

“Do you think we can trust him?” whispered William.

Corrigan looked up. “No. But then I'm a cynical soul, me. Let's just see what Cavanagh thought he'd found and get out of here. I don't like the smell.”

William and Corrigan followed Croth through the door, finding themselves in a short corridor. Strange lights emanated from the room at the end of the passage, flickering over the walls in constantly shifting patterns. They cautiously approached the doorway. Corrigan pulled himself up William's clothes to sit on his shoulder. William wondered if the piskie was scared.
He
certainly was.

No,
he corrected himself. That was the William Emily thought she knew. This was the brave William, the William who didn't need anyone or anything.
This
William wasn't afraid of some flickering lights.

He squared his shoulders and stepped through the door.

His steps faltered immediately. William's eyes widened, and he stared around in amazement.

They were in a huge space, a warehouse of some kind. The vast floor was lined with shelves that receded into the far distance. On these shelves, crammed in as tightly as possible, were thousands of strange, bulbous creatures about the same size as William's head. His face wrinkled in disgust. They looked like fat gray ticks. Their tiny legs waved uselessly in the air, lifted from the ground by their bulbous, stretched bodies.

“Nostalgae,” whispered Corrigan.

“What?”

“Nostalgae. They feed on memories, hold them inside their bodies. But I've never seen so many of them….”

Frowning, William stepped forward to investigate the closest of the creatures. Sure enough, the flickering light came from moving images that were somehow on the
inside
of the nostalgae. The one closest to William showed a young woman and a small child in a park. The woman smiled at William, but he realized that if these were memories, then she was actually smiling at whoever's memory this
was
. He moved to the next one. It showed a street littered with corpses. The bodies were covered in black pustules that wept blood and pus. The image was from low to the ground, and William realized that whoever this memory was taken from was probably dying, crawling along the ground because he or she was too weak to stand up.

He looked away. “This is disgusting,” he said angrily.

“You'll hear no argument from me,” muttered Corrigan.

“Over here,” called Croth.

William looked over to see that Croth had brought a nostalgae over to a small table in the center of the huge room.

William moved over to the table and stared into the body of the creature.

The image before him was that of a forest. The owner of the memory was walking along a path through the trees. The image shifted as he looked upward, and William could see the full moon between the tree branches. The owner of the memory entered a clearing, and inside the clearing was a large, grass-covered mound. He approached it—

The image froze, then started from the beginning once again.

William looked at Croth, confused. “Is that it?”

“That's it. A memory from the Prophet.”

William frowned. This wasn't what Cavanagh had talked about in his diary. His contact had said the Prophet could maybe help him in his search for the Raven King, but Croth seemed to think that Cavanagh just wanted to see one of the Prophet's memories. That didn't help them at all. How were they supposed to find out who the Prophet was from this?

“This isn't what I asked for,” said William.

Croth frowned. “Your representative said you wanted to see something taken from the Prophet. That's exactly what this is.”

“That's not good enough,” said William. “Bring us another one.”

“But you've already seen this one,” complained Croth.

“That could have been taken from anybody. Show us something that proves it's from the Prophet. Something specific to him.”

Croth muttered under his breath, but he grabbed the nostalgae and disappeared between the shelves.

“What are you doing?” whispered Corrigan.

“We have to find out who this Prophet is. I think that's what Cavanagh was going to do.”

“And how was he going to get the information?”

“I have no idea.”

Croth appeared from the shadows and dropped another nostalgae onto the table. “Here you go. This one is from inside Elfhame. So you know I'm not tricking you.”

William and Corrigan both leaned forward. The pictures inside the nostalgae showed some kind of royal court. An elegant fey woman sat on a dark wooden throne that was carved into the wall behind her. She looked down at the owner of the memory and said something. The image shifted as the person turned to look out over a sea of assembled fey creatures. The expressions on the fey changed, some of them laughing, some of them nodding, and Will realized this was because the Prophet must be speaking. The fey burst into silent applause, then the image restarted again.

“Happy?”

Far from it,
thought William. The memory still didn't bring them any closer to finding out who this Prophet was.

“I'll be truthful with you,” said Corrigan. “We actually need to speak to the Prophet himself, not sniff through his memories like scavengers.”

“You want to meet him? Don't be ridiculous. He's my best supplier. I can't just tell you where he is. How do I know you won't poach him from me? I'd go out of business.”

“Your best supplier?” William glanced around the room once again. “How many of these are his?” asked William.

“About a third.”

“A third? How long have you been …” William hesitated, unsure how to put it.

“Harvesting his memories? A few hundred years. Give or take a decade.”

“A few hundred?” asked Corrigan in surprise. “Then he's fey?”

Croth frowned. “Enough talking. I've given you what you paid for. Now get out.”

“We just need to speak to him,” said William. “He might know something that could help us.”

“You're wasting your breath. I don't even know where he is. I always deal with his handler.”

“His handler? You make him sound like an animal,” said William angrily.

“You're not far off it, boy. Now get out. Before I eat you.”

“Is that supposed to scare us?” snapped William.

“No. But this is,” said Croth. He opened his mouth, baring his teeth at them. But to William's horror, Croth's mouth kept on opening, revealing a darkened maw that gave off the stench of rotten meat. William stumbled back in fear as Croth's lower jaw dropped to his chest.

“Now get out!” he shouted, and his voice was so loud the floorboards vibrated under William's feet.

“I think we should go now,” whispered Corrigan.

“I was thinking the same thing,” said William, backing slowly away.