Herbie Brennan: The Purple Emperor

Mr. Fogarty's house was at the end of a short cul-de-sac. The front windows were partly boarded up, which gave it a deserted, derelict appearance. But Henry knew they'd been boarded up while Mr. Fogarty still lived there, so the neighbours wouldn't notice any difference. And nobody with any sense would try to visit him. Mr. Fogarty had broken his last visitor's arm with a cricket bat.

Henry had a full set of keys, but he avoided using the front door and walked around the back. It was gloomy there as always – Mr. Fogarty had erected an enormously high fence to stop the neighbours spying on him – and there wasn't much to see: just a grey, mossy patch of lawn and the garden shed beside the buddleia bush where Henry had first met Pyrgus. He walked down to the bush – it was one of Hodge's favourite haunts – and called out, 'Hodge! Come on Hodgie, suppertime!'

Hodge must have been lurking in the undergrowth, because he emerged at once, tail up, and polished Henry's ankle. 'Hello, Hodge,' said Henry fondly. He sort of liked the old tomcat, even though he'd made the place a killing field for rats, mice, birds and rabbits.

Henry walked towards the back door, taking slow, careful steps on account of Hodge making figures of eight between his feet. When he unlocked the door and pushed it open, Hodge ran in ahead of him, eager for his pouch of Whiskas. Mr. Fogarty had always fed him some foul-smelling stuff that looked like puke and cost less than 25p a tin. Hodge ate it under protest, but liked pouch Whiskas better. He'd never smooched Mr. Fogarty the way he smooched Henry.

Henry opened the cupboard, took out two pouches and Hodge's special tin plate.

'You're ruining that cat – you know that,' a voice growled from the shadows.

Henry was so startled he dropped the plate, which clattered loudly on the kitchen tiles. Hodge squawked in protest and bolted for the door.

'Scaredy-cat!' sniffed Her Serene Highness, Princess Holly Blue.

'I'm not a scaredy-cat!' Pyrgus protested. I just want to see exactly what he'll be doing.' He leafed ostentatiously through the pattern book. Lavish animation spells caused the butterfly illustrations to writhe and stretch their wings.

'You know exactly what he'll be doing,' Blue said fiercely. 'They're traditional designs – they haven't changed in years! And you saw them often enough on Daddy.' Her eyes clouded. 'While he was alive.'

'I know, I know,' said Pyrgus. He turned another page.

'Well, what are you waiting for?'

Pyrgus mumbled something under his breath.

'What?' asked Blue sharply.

'Don't like needles,' Pyrgus mumbled just a little louder.

They were in the Emperor's private quarters Pyrgus's private quarters now – in the Purple Palace. The Royal Herticord had been waiting outside for nearly an hour.

'I know you don't like needles,' Blue said, not unkindly. 'But you have to have it done. And you have to have it done now, otherwise they'll still be itching at your Coronation. You can't have the new Purple Emperor scratching through the ceremony – people will think you have fleas.'

'I could use a healing spell,' Pyrgus said.

'You could pull yourself together,' Blue told him shortly. 'You've sent that poor man away twice already. Just grit your teeth and get it over with.'

'Oh, all right,' Pyrgus said with bad grace. He nodded to the footman standing like a statue by the door. 'Show him in.'

The footman swung the door open with a flourish. 'Sir Archibald Buff-Arches,' he announced loudly. 'The Royal Herticord.'

The man who strode in reminded Blue a little of her old enemy Jasper Chalk hill. He was overweight, and had a taste for extravagant clothing – he was wearing a shot-silk robe woven with illusion spells so that misty nymphs swam through its folds. But that's where the resemblance ended. His eyes showed he was no Faerie of the Night, and he walked with purpose. Two wiry helpers manoeuvred in a trolley spread with multicoloured pots, several bottles and a tray that displayed Pyrgus's dreaded needles.

The Herticord bowed formally to Pyrgus. 'Your Imperial Majesty,' he acknowledged. He turned to Blue and made a lesser bow. 'Your Serene Highness.' She noticed he had very delicate hands. They were rather beautiful.

'My brother's ready for you,' Blue said quickly before Pyrgus could change his mind.

Pyrgus gave her a dirty look, but had obviously decided to go through with it. He turned to Buff- Arches with exaggerated dignity. 'I'm in your hands, Herticord. Let's get it over with.'

The two helpers were busying themselves opening jars and bottles and laying out a range of gleaming instruments beside the needles. Blue saw Pyrgus turn a little green. The trolley looked as if they were preparing for major surgery.

'I expect His Majesty would like to know his options,' Buff-Arches said briskly.

Pyrgus stared at him and Blue's instincts told her that if her brother was going to chicken out at all, this would be the moment. But all he said was, 'Options? Yes, I'd like to know my options.'

'Traditionally,' said Buff-Arches, 'the tattoos are done without anaesthetic or magical intervention of any sort, save for a small transfusion should royal blood loss exceed two pints in any single hour -'

'Blood loss?' Pyrgus squeaked. 'Two pints an hour?'

'Oh, it seldom reaches anything approaching that amount,' Buff-Arches said easily. 'Unless, of course, one happens to sever an artery when preparing the Royal Transposition.'

'The Royal Transposition?' Pyrgus echoed. Blue moved nonchalantly a little closer in case he fainted.

'A deep tissue sample used to gauge the effect of the dyes. A safety precaution in case of allergic response. I tattoo the sample first – with a picture of a bee – then, if there is no reaction, we proceed with the formal illustration of Your Majesty's body. The tissue sample is normally taken from the royal buttocks.'

Blue fully expected Pyrgus to protest. She certainly would have – a tissue sample of that sort meant you couldn't sit down for a week. But all Pyrgus said was, 'Why a bee? Why do you tattoo the sample with a bee?'

'I haven't the slightest idea,' Buff-Arches said. 'It's simply the specified picture – specified by tradition, you understand.' He watched Pyrgus for a moment, as if expecting further questions, then said abruptly, 'But I was explaining your options. As I say, the traditional way involves no anaesthetic or magical intervention, but one of your illustrious ancestors, Emperor Scolitandes the Weedy, decreed that henceforth all Purple Emperors might elect to have their official tattoos carried out under general or local anaesthetic -' he gestured towards some bottles on the trolley '- these herbal tinctures here. Or, alternatively, that the candidate might light a spell cone that would render him temporarily immune to pain.' He paused expectantly, then added, 'Perhaps your Imperial Majesty would care to tell me the option of his choice?'

Pyrgus was staring at the tray. 'What are those instruments for?' he asked. 'The tissue sample?'

'Oh no, sire. Your Majesty will recall that my secondary duty as Herticord is to shave Your Majesty's head in the Royal Tonsure. The tools look a little off-putting, but that part of the procedure is quite painless, I assure you. Unless Your Majesty has a twitch, of course.'

'Do we have to do the shaving thing?' Pyrgus asked. He was a bit vain about his hair.

Buff-Arches nodded briefly. 'Yes, we do. Your Majesty is titular head of the Church of Light, so the tonsure is wholly appropriate. But if Your Majesty wishes, I can retain the shaven hair and have it made into a little wig for Your Majesty to wear when he is not engaged in State occasions.'