Herbie Brennan - Ruler of the Realm

‘The gates are made from iron,’ remarked the other statue conversationally. ‘Very dangerous to faeries.’

‘The master coated it with spells, but they’ve worn a bit thin.’

‘Need replacing, really.’

‘So keep clear, or let the dwarf touch them. Iron doesn’t work on Trinians.’

‘It’s Prince Pyrgus, isn’t it?’ the other statue said. ‘You’ve been here before with young Mistress Gela, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Pyrgus said nervously.

‘Thought I recognised you. Nice to see you again, sir. Careful of the gates.’

‘You’ll still have to state your name and business, I’m afraid, sir,’ said the other statue. ‘Just for the record. We have to log all visitors with Security Central.’

‘Troubled times.’

‘Purely a formality in your case, sir.’

‘But one we must adhere to. Full name with titles, sir. Please speak clearly. Oh, and you should name the dwarf as well. He has to be stamped, since it’s his first time.’

So much for Gela sneaking them in without her father knowing. ‘Prince Pyrgus Malvae of House Iris,’ Pyrgus said quietly, in case the name was heard by some passer-by. You could never tell what might happen to a Faerie of the Light in Yammeth City. You heard stories of them being lynched.

‘Bit louder, sir,’ the statue said.

‘Prince Pyrgus Malvae of House Iris!’ Pyrgus shouted, throwing caution to the winds. ‘Knight Commander of the Grey Dagger, Honorary Arcond of the Church of Light, former Emperor Elect, former Crown Prince of the Realm, Chief Friend and Sponsor of the League of Decency to Animals, President of the Weirdling Congress, Honorary Grand Herald of the College of Heraldry, First Cooperdentoid of the Ancient and Honourable Order of the Immaculate Hand, plus various subsidiary honours.’ He drew a fresh breath and added, ‘And Kitterick.’ He leaned across and whispered, ‘You don’t have any titles, do you Kitterick?’

‘Afraid not, sir.’

‘And the Orange Trinian Kitterick,’ said Pyrgus loudly.

‘And your business, sir? Succinctly. It just needs to be something like “Visiting Merchant Ogyris” or “Delivering ornaments for the house” or something of that sort, sir.’

‘Visiting Mistress Gela Ogyris,’ Pyrgus said.

‘Passing on,’ murmured the first statue. It closed its eyes to process the information.

‘Would you like to step over beside me, Mr Kitterick?’ asked the second statue in a friendly tone. ‘Might as well get you stamped while we’re waiting.’

When Kitterick moved beside it, the statue produced a large rubber stamp from the folds of its tunic and imprinted a luminous OG on his forehead.

‘Just show that if you’re stopped. It’s valid for twenty-four hours. Don’t wash until you want rid of it – rain won’t affect it, but it comes off with soap. Some of the younger generation keep them on for weeks – it’s a fashion accessory, apparently.’

‘Cleared,’ said the first statue.

There was an ominous click and the massive gates swung open.

Henry’s eyes opened and flashed red. ‘Won’t do you any good,’ he said.

Blue swung round, her heart pounding. He was still slumped squatting against the wall. There was no way he could get to his feet, cross the room and reach her before she dived through the open door. All the same she hesitated.

Henry said, ‘It leads back here.’ He closed his eyes again. There was something in his careless confidence that was absolutely terrifying.

Blue twisted round again and plunged through the open door. There was a soft snick as it closed behind her.

She was in another featureless white cube.

This room looked exactly like the one she’d left. White walls, white floor, white ceiling, the same concealed lighting, the same curious softness underfoot.

And Henry, slumped against one wall.

At almost four miles long, the winding driveway of the Ogyris Estate was clearly not meant for foot traffic. By the time Pyrgus and Kitterick arrived at the house, it was growing dark.

‘You OK, Kitterick?’ Pyrgus asked. His feet were sore and there was a knot in the muscle of one calf.

‘Never better, sir,’ said Kitterick annoyingly.

The Ogyris mansion was a relatively new building of curious construction. It combined the slim spires of a traditional Haleklind castle with a blocky underpinning – so fashionable across the Cretch these days – that seemed to have been inspired by a troll’s dungeon. The result was something that looked vaguely like a giant porcupine crouched to spring. In an ostentatious display of wealth, Zosine Ogyris had commissioned lavish spell coatings that transmuted the base material of the building into copper, into silver, into gold, into platinum, into orichalcum and back to copper again, endlessly, at seven-minute intervals. It was burnished copper at the moment and the reflected rays of the dying sun made it look as if it was on fire.

‘Well, here we go,’ said Pyrgus and stepped up to the massive door.

The woman who answered his knock – Pyrgus assumed she was a maid – was short and plump with something about her eyes that reminded him of Gela. She had the greenish skin tone and nose wrinkles of a Halek peasant, which may have been exactly what she was, since Ogyris could have brought her with him from his native land. She wore a crisp blue-striped apron and there was a dusting of flour on her hands.

‘Sorry to keep you,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Making scones.’

Pyrgus favoured her with an uncertain smile. ‘I’ve come to see Gela,’ he said. Time to find out whether Gela wanted to see him.

‘Not here,’ said the woman promptly. ‘Father sent her ’ome.’

Pyrgus blinked. This was Gela’s home.

‘To Creen,’ the woman said, using the native term for Haleklind. ‘Thought it would be safer.’ When Pyrgus looked at her blankly, she added, ‘The war.’

‘The war?’

‘The war what’s coming.’ She said it so matter-of-factly that Pyrgus chilled. But before he could react, she began to tilt her body at an alarming angle. It took him a moment to realise she was trying to look past him. ‘That you, Kitterick?’ she asked, her face suddenly beaming.

‘Yes, indeed, Genoveva,’ Kitterick said smiling, as he stepped from behind Pyrgus. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘Well,’ said Genoveva, ‘this is a real bootiful surprise! Come in, come in and bring your ’andsome young friend. I’ll brew up some fume and you can try my scones, tell me if I’ve lost my touch.’ She smiled broadly at Pyrgus and added, ‘So Gela knows you – lucky girl!’

As they followed her along a flagstoned corridor towards the smell of baking, Pyrgus whispered urgently to Kitterick, ‘I didn’t know you knew Ogyris’s servants.’

‘Not his servant, sir,’ Kitterick whispered back. ‘That’s his wife.’

‘His wife?’ Pyrgus exclaimed loudly, then repeated in a whisper, ‘His wife? This is Gela’s mother?’

‘Yes, sir. Genoveva, sir. Very pleasant woman. Wonderful touch with scones, as I suspect we’re about to discover. Married when she was sixteen and he was twenty-five. That was before he left Haleklind and got rich. Happy as two clams in gravy, I’m led to understand. Halek marriages are often like that. Something to do with the composition of the soil, I believe.’

‘Why’s she doing her own baking?’ Pyrgus asked curiously.

He must have spoken too loudly, for Genoveva called over her shoulder, ‘Because there’s not a servant in the country can match my scones. So Zosine Typha says, anyway. I think it’s a plot to keep me in my place, myself.’ She chuckled.