Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) (2 page)

Merion began to smile. He was supposed to be keeping a straight face beneath his hood, but this was a landscape he knew well; one he had traipsed for years. The flagstones were his again, and would be from now on. That alone was cause for celebration. No more baking sand, bothersome prairie, or scraping rock. No railwraiths or tornadoes. Just sheer London walls and acres of city street.

They headed further north and then west onto the grand Kingsroad. It was a route lined by trees and flagpoles, drenched in marble, filled with crowds of important-looking people. Pealing carriage-bells and urgent cries filled the air. Merion wallowed in the waterfall of noise. It was good to feel the urban pulse again. He heard a commotion of pigeons and tilted his head to watch a flock skim the treetops, hunting crumbs. A new spire was being hammered together to the north; another huge feat of engineering. Its scaffolding was already pawing at the powder blue of the morning sky.

A sharp whack on the arm brought his eyes back to the streets. He grunted. ‘We should get a newspaper,’ he suggested, nudging Calidae back. She took a moment to think; something she did when she had no argument to offer, as if the suggestion was her own idea. Then, she drifted through the crowds and found a paperboy, hollering his lungs out at the next corner. Calidae flicked him a few coppers, snatched a paper from his hand, and returned to Merion, reading aloud as they walked on.

‘War,’ she said. ‘“Now in our second week of war, support has remained strong for the new Lord Protector Dizali. With the royal conspiracy insistent on hanging over this country, and while Her Majesty continues her silence, he continues to drive the war effort, claiming early victories in…” somewhere or other.’

‘Looks like he’s been busy,’ said Merion. ‘We’ll have to catch up. See if anything’s changed.’

‘A lot can happen on the other side of the world in a week, Hark.’ Two weeks on a boat and her mood had barely softened. She had cracked slightly here and there, but not enough to melt the glacier in her heart. At least he had managed to stop staring at her scars. The twinge in his stomach was now barely noticeable, though whether it was guilt or empathetic pain, he still hadn’t decided.

‘Explain the queen part to me,’ instructed Merion.

Calidae ruffled the pages as her keen eyes traced the stories. ‘Seems the old bag has been conspiring with the Tzar, in true royal style. Treason. There seems to have been a spate of it recently.’ A pause. ‘A Lord Umbright, too. He was hanged a week ago. You and your father are mentioned more than once.’

‘Yes,’ Merion kicked an errant cobble. ‘I expected as much.’

‘“And still the queen refuses to show her face. No word has come from the Palace of Ravens since the failure of the Rosiyan assassination attempt on Lincoln’s life, and the discovery of her treacherous ways.”’

‘What paper is that?’

‘The Empire Watchful.’

‘Thought so.’

‘May I continue?’

‘Please do.’

Calidae read some more to herself. ‘Looks to me like Dizali set her up.’

‘No loose threads.’

‘
Ends
, Merion, and I’m afraid you are not going to like the next section.’ She almost sounded pleased.

‘Go on.’

More rustling of paper as they trod the cobbles, striding in unison. ‘Well, before Dizali uncovered the royal treachery, he had the Queen’s Presence thrown out of the Emerald House and called for a complete abdication, on the grounds that she was warmongering. He had a lawyer sign the Hark estate over to him, there and then. Something about a “Clean Slate Statute”.’

Merion was overcome with an urge to punch something. He settled for his open palm, thwacking himself hard several times.

‘You think that will help?’

‘No, but it’s better than doing nothing. Which lawyer?’

‘An “executor of the Hark estate”.’

‘That means one of three things.’ Merion eyed a passing troop of lordsguards, a bulbous man swaggering at their centre, mopping his brow even though the sun had not yet risen to paint the streets. A coat of arms was stitched into his black breast. Merion didn’t recognise it through the crowd of guards but he glared all the same.

‘And they are?’

Merion counted with his fingers. ‘One, that Mr Witchazel is dead and Dizali used a stooge. Two, that the lawyer was somehow coerced into signing. Or three, that Mr Witchazel has betrayed my family.’

‘We’re prepared for every eventuality.’

‘Better damn well be, after all this time and practice. What does it say of the deeds?’

‘Dizali is mentioned to be the ward, not the owner. “The House looks forward to the recovery of the deeds”.’

‘Good. Very good.’

Calidae folded the paper and stowed it under her arm. She pulled her hood lower as they strode deeper into the heart of the city. In the distance they could see the dark towers of the Palace of Ravens, and the Bellspire, commanding all.

‘I wonder what the Queen supposedly did?’ wondered Calidae.

‘I haven’t the foggiest. But the fact that Dizali can fell a Queen doesn’t exactly stir any warm feelings inside me.’

‘We’ll have to discuss your insides another time. We’re close.’ Calidae raised a finger. ‘See?’

Merion followed her arm and nodded. ‘Just as I remember.’

On the corner where the Kingsroad met the Marble Mile, just on the edge of Westminster, he spied the blue and white flag of the constabulary, hanging limp in the still air. Merion remembered standing outside of it, not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, gazing up at the granite clouds and wondering where his life had just vanished to.

‘Right you are.’ The boy rubbed his hands and began to peer through the crowds, looking for something else. It didn’t take long to find. ‘There.’

Calidae nodded. Their target was a stately-looking market stall, proffering necklaces and bracelets to the finer dressed women of the city streets. Merion pulled his hood further down over this face. Before she could move away, he put a hand on her arm and fixed her with a hard look. ‘Remember our agreement. He sees a trial. No knives. No guns. And no chairs. You and I will settle our business once it’s over.’

‘I know our agreement,
Hark
,’ she hissed, before throwing her hood back and marching off as if she owned those cobbles, as if she too had a troop of lordsguards surrounding her.
Like every Empire lady can
, thought Merion.

‘Let’s hope so,’ he muttered.

Merion followed in her wake, a dozen feet behind. Her posture and confidence drew as many stares as her scars. The ship’s doctor had done some good for them, but only in healing the parts that were not refusing to cure. Calidae didn’t appear to care. In fact, she seemed to relish the effect they had on people.

The boy paused behind a tree as Calidae halted to browse the glinting wares, hands wandering over the gold and silver and gems. She gave a good show, humming and tutting as she tried on each piece, asking for a mirror or for opinions before discarding them. High-borns are bred, not taught.

Merion eyed a pair of constables moving slowly along the street, hands folded inside their blue leather jerkins, truncheon and rapier side by side at their belts; eyes sharp as blades, darting beneath the brim of their black hats.

Head low, keeping his arms tucked into his pockets, Merion sauntered up to the edge of the stall, relying on Calidae to hold the merchant’s eyes, just as they’d practiced on the ship.

‘This is the one!’ she exclaimed, holding her wrist out to admire the sparkling gold. Merion lunged for it, seizing Calidae’s arm with both hands.

‘Thief!’ she yelled, painfully loud in his ear.

‘I say!’ shouted the merchant, grabbing a broom to pummel and poke Merion. It was a little more resistance than the boy had expected.

With a jerk of the wrist, the bracelet was his, and Merion bounded for the Mile. He made it three lunging paces before he came to a halt against the sturdy chest of one of the constables.

The constable grabbed his arm, quick as a snake, and plucked the bracelet from his grasp. ‘ ‘Ello there. Now what do we ‘ave ‘ere?’

‘A thief, Corporal,’ said his colleague, wriggling a pair of black iron handcuffs out of his belt.

Merion’s hands were swiftly pinned behind his back. ‘I can see that, ‘Iggis.’

‘Fresh from the scene o’ the crime,’ Higgis remarked, as he yanked back the prisoner’s hood. Merion kept his face in a dark scowl. Several of the onlookers were applauding, Almighty bless them. He should have put out a hat to collect coins for the performance.

Merion felt the cold iron encircle his wrist, and then a brisk tug on his collar. ‘Ain’t your day, is it, sonny?’

‘No it ain’t, Constable,’ Merion grunted, suppressing a smile as he was hauled across the cobbles.

Calidae watched him go, arms fluttering in mock upset, wringing her wrists over and over.

Only she saw his infernal little smirk. Only she was watching for it.

‘Insufferable,’ she mouthed.

*

‘Papers, Milord,’ asked Captain Rolick, voice distorted by a stifled yawn. He held out a calloused, powder-blackened hand and waited.

The rotund face that stared back from the slit of the carriage window wore an indignant expression. Lord Darbish hooked a finger and slid his owlish glasses down his nose, fixing Rolick with a dark look. The finger tapped the side of the carriage irritably, as if he was late for something. (Which, in truth, he was; almost an hour late, in fact. Dizali would be far from pleased.)

‘What do you see here, hmm?’

‘A carriage door, Milord,’ Rolick replied, his voice flat, almost bored. He ran a hand over his skull to slick back his greying hair. Gate duty did not suit him.

‘And what is on the carriage door, my good man?’

‘A coat of arms. Rather nice one at that, if I may say so, Milord.’

It was a lie. The crest was rather weak in prowess. No eagles lifting tigers into the sun, no gryphons or swords. Just a speckled trout and a couple of crossed spears.

‘And what do you suppose that means?’

Rolick sniffed, resting his hand on the edge of the window. He had the feeling he might be there a while.

‘That you’ve got a fine carriage painter in your employ, and your ancestors were kind enough to spend time thinking about their heraldry.’

Darbish turned a shade of pink. His jowls worked overtime.

‘It means, you ignorant fool, that I am Lord Darbish! I have no need to display my papers to you.’

Rolick snorted. ‘And this uniform means I’m Captain Rolick, and that big gate there means I need to see papers before you go in. Understand, Milord?’
Southerners
.

Darbish flushed red, positively trembling with outrage. Rolick couldn’t have cared less. Dizali was the only lord he answered to.

‘I’ll have you struck off! Fired and in the gutter begging for scraps by sundown!’

Cheeks wobbling, he dug out his papers and practically threw them out the window. Rolick took his time with them, rubbing the seals, flicking the coats of arms.

‘All seems to be in order,’ he murmured, before handing them back.

‘Of course it is!’

‘Ring, Milord?’

Darbish flashed his signet ring, bearing the same coat of arms.

‘Satisfied?’

Rolick bowed as he signalled for the sturdy gates to swing open. ‘Enjoy your visit, Milord.’

Darbish scowled at Rolick, holding his gaze until the courtyard’s curves stole the captain from site. Rolick had the urge to wave, but refrained. He tapped his halberd on the gravel and winked at his lordsguards. ‘Just wait until his Lordship gets hold of him.’

*

The carriage had barely come to a halt before Darbish wriggled out and strode towards the door. His suit was trimmed with gold in the Ottoman style; evidence, along with the ample frame, of his recent post. The Ottomans were famed for their use of sugar.

Darbish wasted no time drinking in the beauty of Dizali’s grounds and the lofty towers of Clovenhall. He was late, pure and simple, and any member of the Cobalts worth his salt knew how the Prime Lord detested tardiness.
Or should that be Lord Protector now
? Darbish repeated the title to himself over and over as he marched across the marble atrium.
Lord Protector, Lord Protector.