Stephen Hunt - The Court of the Air

The civil servant from Greenhall nodded in agreement. The corpse of Julius’s predecessor had been intercepted by an excitable mob and thrown into the Gambleflowers, swept away by the tidal pulls and lost to the sea. No body left to stuff and display.

‘You have my sympathy,’ said Flare. ‘But I am sure the smell is nothing a little rosewater won’t mask.’

‘You don’t understand. I was alone with his body. I was bored, curious — and I am still studying for my second flower.’

‘Does this conversation have a point, son?’ said Flare.

‘I thought I would practise a mind-touch summoning. Memories can last for days after death — it’s always good to practise.’

‘You practised on the King’s corpse?’ said the administrator. ‘That is disgusting. Dear Circle, do your superiors authorize that sort of thing?’

‘No,’ said the acolyte, shame-faced. ‘They would not approve if they knew. But it is practise — and I know now how the King died.’

‘Hardly a secret,’ said the administrator. ‘Nobody recovers from waterman’s sickness.’

‘There was one memory left — only one. It was strong enough to last for a week, probably. Prince Alpheus was suffocating his father with a pillow. The sense of betrayal and shock was so strong, I can still taste it.’

‘Alpheus murdered his own father?’ said the administrator. ‘When waterman’s sickness was about to kill him off anyway?’

‘I know it doesn’t make sense,’ said the worldsinger. ‘But the last memory was so strong. I could not have misread it. The pain in his soul was terrible.’

‘It changes nothing,’ said Flare. ‘Remember the revels, the carnivals, the riots if the people don’t get their holiday. The coronation must go ahead as scheduled.’

‘It changes everything,’ said the administrator. ‘However we mate the royal vermin, it seems we just can’t breed that streak of wickedness out of them. There are plenty of candidates in the breeding house we can select for the succession — and the people will turn up just as happily to see the murdering little jigger get the rope outside Bonegate as the crown at Parliament Square. The vicious scum were always poisoning each other in the old days. It looks like our dear little prince is reverting to type. But what an opportunity for us, captain. Think of it. We remind the entire state of the moral authority of our rule with a good hanging — and the people still get a new king on the throne for carnival week.’

Flare reached out and snapped the administrator’s neck, the crack reverberating across the room. The functionary flopped back in his chair, lifeless head hanging limply to the side. ‘Somehow I thought you might say that.’

Across the chamber the worldsinger was stepping back, his legs moving him subconsciously towards the exit. Towards the two Special Guardsmen standing there. ‘You killed him!’

‘Regrettable,’ said Flare. ‘But I doubt he’ll be missed. Unlike yourself, Blundy. Your disappearance will ring too many bells within the order.’

The worldsinger threw his hand out and chanted a hex, swaying as he tossed the magic towards Flare. Nothing happened, the captain stood still, as tall and immovable as a rock.

‘You-’

‘Should be burning?’ said Flare, tapping his neck torc. ‘All those nasty runes and rituals stored inside my torc for a rainy day, ready to tear me inside out? I have seen your kind activate a torc on a feybreed, worldsinger, have you? I still remember the young guardswoman’s eye sockets smoking in the snow. You would call her a rogue — but I just saw a frightened girl who bolted from her first taste of battle, sickened by the bodies and the murder. That’s a terrible thing to wish on anyone.’

‘Only a worldsinger can unlock the hex on a torc.’

‘So it’s said,’ nodded Flare. ‘Of course, while we may have the majority of feymist changelings, Jackals is not the only country with people who sing the worldsong.’

One of the guardsmen opened a door and a deformed grasper-sized thing hobbled out, one of the ill-fated inmates of Hawklam Asylum.

‘Have you gone insane, captain, where is that thing’s hex-suit? Where are its handlers from the order?’

‘The plates that bind? Well, Blundy, it must be a laundry day. As for his handlers, let me show you what happened to them…’

The worldsinger’s head jerked up, blood bubbling out of his nose as the wild creature’s mind forced itself into his brain, advancing on him. Both arms of the sorcerer were seized from behind by a guardsman and a hand clamped over his mouth to stop him screaming.

‘I like this one,’ said the feybreed, caressing the sorcerer’s chest and arms. ‘Strong. Young too.’

‘Mist-brother, you know what must be done,’ said Flare.

‘You are so good to me, brother.’

With a pop the creature’s jaw detached, its chin flowing down to the floor. Then the feybreed clambered up the shaking sorcerer. Blundy, struggling for his life, thrashed and tried to break free of the guardsman restraining him. He did not stand a chance against the fey-born strength of his captor. When the feybreed reached the worldsinger’s shoulder, Blundy’s head vanished as the thing’s lips sucked down over it. Rivers of fey flesh poured down and covered his body. There was a flickering translucence of skin as the two beings merged. The worldsinger fell forward, legs stumbling like a newly born calf finding its feet. Blundy steadied himself against the wall, breathing hard.

‘Are you done?’ said Flare.

Blundy stroked the nape of his neck, feeling his groin with his other hand. ‘Oh yes. This body will last months .’

‘Long enough,’ said Flare. ‘Long enough for our purposes.’

Hoggstone followed the spiral staircase down into the depths of Ham Yard, his footsteps echoing up the stairwell. ‘This is important, Inspector Reason?’

‘The politicals seem to think so, First Guardian. The yard’s been turning down their custody transfer requests ever since we caught the man.’

‘I know,’ said Hoggstone. ‘Where do you think the political police’s complaints end up?’

Inspector Reason reached out to a bank of switches and beneath them a rank of gas lanterns flared into life, the light revealing stairs corkscrewing down into the distance.

‘Your people really should put a lifting room in here,’ said Hoggstone.

‘The exercise wouldn’t have bothered you so much when you were younger, First Guardian.’

‘I was stuffing pamphlets through the doors of the Driselwell rookeries then, playing debating sticks with the young bucks from the Levellers.’

The inspector smiled. ‘And I was a green-around-the-gills crusher trying to run down dippers and the flash mob.’

‘We’ve both come a long way since Driselwell,’ said Hoggstone.

‘Yes. That we have, First Guardian. And don’t think I’m not grateful for the little nudges you’ve given my prospects.’

‘It’s always good to invite the local crusher in for a cup of caffeel, as my mother used to say.’

‘She always made it too sweet,’ said the inspector. ‘Although I don’t think anyone ever told her.’

‘Cheap jinn burns away your sense of taste. Sweet is all you have left.’

‘I’m temperance myself, these days,’ said the policeman.

‘What did the political police leave out of their report?’

‘Most of the credit we took in nabbing him in the first place, I expect. Although to be fair to the g-boys, it was plain luck that we rumbled him.’

‘Did he ever run with the rioters at the docks?’

‘I dare say some of them used to be his compatriots, once upon a time. But he is not directly involved with the new mob, First Guardian.’