Herbie Brennan - Faerie Lord

‘I was called too,’ Loki said, but without the edge this time.

‘Brimstone called you both?’

‘Oh no, just Jormungand.’

Blue glared at him suspiciously. ‘Then who called you?’

Loki smiled smugly. ‘That peculiar little creature the Purlisa.’

The Purlisa? Why would the Purlisa call up one of the Old Gods – particularly this Old God – when he was so concerned about the Midgard Serpent? Surely one entity from that dimension was enough? Except, of course, she no longer knew what to believe about the Purlisa.

‘To make sure all goes well for you and Henry,’ Loki said as if he’d read her thoughts.

Lord Hairstreak was furious. And helpless, which made things worse. He glowered with impotent rage as the guards marched him from the ferry to the Purple Palace. He’d already suffered the indignity of a body search. Now he was escorted like a common criminal. On whose orders? he wondered. The guards had been more than a little vague about that. They were Palace Guards all right, which meant they were theoretically responsible to his niece, Queen Blue. But Blue was away from the Palace at the moment – he knew that for sure. Unless she’d just returned, of course. The possibility struck him as interesting, but why have him arrested? There was no way she could have got wind of his plans.

Not that he’d been formally arrested. He might have lost his political influence and most of his money, but he was still a Lord, still of the Blood Royal (albeit on the wrong side of the blanket), which meant he had been ‘invited’ to accompany the Guards. When he declined, they insisted, politely but firmly. Later, when he was searched, he knew even the veneer of courtesy had been abandoned.

The irony was that the Guard Captain was one of his own men – or rather what used to be one of his own men – a Faerie of the Night. Blue had instigated an ecumenical policy soon after her coronation: demons, Faeries of the Night… all were welcome to Palace service. It was supposed to help draw all sides together in a spirit of harmony and cooperation. Adolescent naivety, if ever he saw it, but the irritating thing was it seemed to have worked. There was a time when he could have counted on a Faerie of the Night to do his bidding absolutely. Now he couldn’t even get this one to give him a little information.

He made one more try. ‘Captain, what exactly is this all about?’

‘Couldn’t say, sir,’ said the Captain.

The dark bulk of the Purple Palace, long blackened by time, was looming over them now, and he noticed they were skirting the main entrance in favour of a lesser door, another indication that this was no formal invitation from his niece. But it was none of the usual business entrances either, not the way of the diplomats, not the way of the merchants, not the way of the petitioners. If his memory of Palace geography served him, they seemed to be taking him towards the cellars. Who had quarters in the cellars? No one, so far as he was aware.

In a moment they were inside and, sure enough, they were leading him downwards, through a series of descending corridors and stairways. The going grew gloomy as they entered the older quarter of the Palace, what had once been the original keep, and as they turned a brick-lined corner, Hairstreak suddenly realised he was not being taken to the cellars at all, but to the ancient dungeons.

The sheer insult almost took his breath away. Clearly someone had not only ordered his arrest, but his imprisonment. And not in State Quarters, but in some dank cell where he would rot for the remainder of his days while the world and its wiles revolved without him. It was so outrageous he could scarcely believe it. Nothing like this could have happened in the old days. The very suggestion would have sparked a rebellion throughout the Realm. But those days, it seemed, were gone. His old enemies could act with impunity now – or at least so they believed. The question was, which old enemy?

The Guard Captain opened a door and pushed him, none too gently, into a well-lit room. At once he had his answer. ‘Ah, Madame Cardui,’ Hairstreak murmured. ‘How kind of you to invite me.’

The old witch was reclining on a suspensor cloud. Someone had mentioned she seemed to be using suspensors a lot these days, a possible indication that her bones were growing brittle. But brittle or not, it never did to underestimate her. She was wearing something long and flowing, with woven hypno-spells suggesting grace and beauty. She seemed very much at ease, which was a bad sign. The chamber was unfurnished except for the bank of glowglobes that gave it light and a heavy maroon velvet curtain that cut off a portion of its area near the back.

‘How kind of you to come,’ said Madame Cardui. She gestured to the guards, who withdrew at once, closing the door behind them, ‘I would ask you to sit down, Lord Hairstreak, but I seem to have neglected to provide a chair.’

‘No matter,’ Hairstreak said, ‘I imagine our business will not take long.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Madame Cardui told him. She gave him a hard stare. ‘Or cooperation.’

‘It’s all cooperation these days,’ said Hairstreak easily. ‘I was just thinking that on the way here.’ What he was thinking now was that, in an emergency, he might get away with killing her. The body search, while humiliating, had missed the stiletto implanted in his upper thigh. He could reach the weapon through a side pocket, drive its tip behind her ear and let the poison coating do the rest. With luck, the guards might imagine she was sleeping until he managed to get clear, and the poison, of course, was undetectable. It would be nice to have Cardui out of the way. But possibly not just yet. For the moment he needed to know why she’d had him brought here and what she wanted.

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Madame Cardui said. ‘In that case our business certainly will not take long.’

He waited. She had her hideous translucent cat with her, unhygienically curled up on the same cloud: the scabby creature must be nearly as old as she was and still refused to die. It glared at him malevolently, but at least it was too slow to act as her bodyguard now. Presumably she kept it out of habit or from some misplaced sense of gratitude. A great mistake. When something outlived its usefulness, you got rid of it.

‘Lord Hairstreak,’ Madame Cardui said gently, ‘why did you decide to start the time plague?’

So that was it. He’d wondered how long it would take her to become suspicious. To test how much she knew, he adopted his most bewildered expression and frowned. ‘The plague, Madame Cardui? I don’t understand …’

‘Of course you do,’ said Madame Cardui sharply. ‘This is no natural disease – we both know that. My Chief Wizard Healer confirmed it earlier today. It does not spread in the normal way, it does not react to any conventional treatment and it attacks its victims with an unprecedented ferocity. This is not a disease, Lord Hairstreak. It is a weapon. And I believe you are the one who is wielding it.’

Not bad, Hairstreak thought. Considerably less than the whole truth, but logical and pointing roughly in the right direction. Age hadn’t blurred her focus yet. But she was certainly less careful with her words than she used to be. I believe you are the one who is wielding it. Belief was not knowledge. If she had proof she’d have said I know you are the one…

So this was a fishing trip.

He spread his hands. ‘Madame Cardui, I appreciate that you and I have never been the best of friends, but where is the logic in your position? Time fever is an unconventional disease, I grant you that, but are you suggesting I somehow… manufactured it? And if I did, to what end? You use the term weapon. The plague has attacked Faeries of the Night and Faeries of the Light without distinction. What sort of weapon is that?’