Faerie Wars 02 - The Purple Emperor (14 page)

Although Madame Cardui was staying at the palace, she was not in her quarters according to the servant sent to fetch her. Fortunately Gatekeeper Fogarty found her somewhere. At least, the two of them arrived together. Blue thought they looked smug about something, but had too much on her mind to find out what. She told them what had happened.

'Hairstreak can resurrect the dead?' Mr Fogarty put in the moment she drew breath.

'Necromancers can,' Pyrgus said. He had a shamed look, as if he was talking about an obscenity. 'Some of them. A few of them. Most of them can only talk to the ... to the ... '

'But some of them can?' Fogarty pressed him. 'Some of them can actually do it?' From the intensity of his expression, he seemed to have a personal interest.

'If ... you know, if the ... if the ... if things haven't too far gone.'

'You mean if the corpse hasn't started to rot?'

Pyrgus swallowed painfully. 'Yes.'

'Why didn't you do this right away?' Fogarty asked.

Pyrgus stared at him in astonishment. 'Me?'

'You and Blue. Yes.'

'Resurrect Daddy?' Blue was looking at him wide-eyed. She seemed stunned by his question.

'You liked him, didn't you?' said Fogarty. He looked from one to the other, clearly bewildered by their reactions. 'Come to that, how come everybody isn't resurrected? After battles and so forth?'

After a long moment, Blue said gently, 'It's forbidden, Mr Fogarty.'

'Forbidden by who, for God's sake?'

Blue swallowed. 'Law,' she said. The distress was evident on her face. 'And the Church of Light.'

Frowning, Fogarty asked, 'Is that the only reason?' He sounded incredulous.

Pyrgus was staring at the floor. He looked as if he was going to be sick. Blue shuddered. 'It's just wrong, Mr Fogarty!' she blurted.

But Fogarty wouldn't leave it alone. 'Suppose I died and you put me in stasis, would you be able to have me resurrected then?'

'It's forbidden,' Blue said again.

'By your religion? I'm a Presbyterian.'

Long seconds ticked away. Fogarty thought Blue might be going to cry, but eventually she said almost crisply, 'Gatekeeper, the necromancer would have control of you.'

So that was it! That was why they were so upset. Fogarty leaned forward. 'So it's a zombie deal?' They thought their father had been raised from the dead and now he was some sort of shell commanded by Hairstreak. 'Let me get this straight,' he said. 'Lord Hairstreak stole your father's corpse, then animated it?

And now it's his slave? Doing anything he tells it?'

'Not Hairstreak personally,' Blue said. 'It would have to be a necromancer. Somebody who knows how to do it. But he'd have been working on Hairstreak's orders. Or maybe -' she swallowed again and closed her eyes briefly,'- maybe it was somebody who ... who just did it and sold Daddy to Lord Hairstreak afterwards. That's happened sometimes: I read about it in the history books. But it doesn't matter what exactly happened. The thing is, Daddy's soul is trapped and he has to do what Lord Hairstreak tells him. That's why he signed the pact. That's the only way he would have signed that pact.'

Mr Fogarty was frowning fiercely. 'If it's a zombie deal, people will know he didn't sign of his own free will. Nobody will take the pact seriously.'

'Ah,' Pyrgus said, but then looked too close to tears to continue.

'That's why Lord Hairstreak is claiming Daddy was only in a coma,' Blue said. 'If there was no death, there was no resurrection. Hairstreak will say Daddy is acting of his own free will.'

'Is he still here?' Mr Fogarty asked suddenly.

'Who?'

'Your father.'

Blue shook her head. 'No. I don't think so. I don't know. He came with Duke Hamearis, but left after he told us to honour the pact.'

'What about Hairstreak's sidekick? This Duke person?'

Blue glanced at Pyrgus, who shook his head. Pyrgus said, 'He went off half an hour ago.'

'Pity,' Fogarty said. 'We might have kidnapped him. We need a little leverage over Hairstreak.'

Madame Cardui spoke for the first time. 'I'm afraid this has gone beyond simple solutions, Alan.' Blue glanced at her in surprise. She'd never heard anyone call Mr Fogarty 'Alan' before. 'This is a very emotive issue, my deeahs, and a truly dreadful situation. How long before that wretched little man makes the pact public?'

The wretched little man was clearly Lord Hairstreak. Pyrgus said, 'He wants me to step down as Emperor Elect. The pact will be published as soon as I do so.' 'How long can you stall him?' Fogarty asked. 'It will have to happen before my Coronation.' Madame Cardui said, 'Then we must draw up our plans without delay.'

Blue nodded. She wished Henry were with her. Why on earth hadn't he followed on as he had promised?

The Facemaster sighed. 'Mr Chalkhill, will you please try to concentrate?'

'But I'm improving,' Chalkhill protested. 'I'm definitely improving.'

They were alone together in the vast Practice Hall of Hairstreak's Assassins' Academy, with its highly-polished oakwood floor and mirrored walls. Their images extended to infinity. The Facemaster was a dark-haired man with a lean, muscular body and a cool, professional air.

'Improving?' he said. 'Yes, slightly. But there is still a way to go, Mr Chalkhill. Frankly, if you were to attempt your mission tomorrow, you would fail. And then where would we be?'

I'd be dead, thought Chalkhill. And you'd be trying to explain to Hairstreak why you failed to knock me into shape. The Facemaster knew all about his mission, only one of four to do so, as far as Chalkhill was aware. The remaining three were Chalkhill himself, Lord Hairstreak and the wizard retained to cast the transformation spell - a Halek-trained ninny called Puderow, Plumduff, Psodos ... something of that sort. Everyone else involved with the Coronation had been told Hairstreak himself would be attending. There was not so much as a hint abroad that Chalkhill would be taking Hairstreak's place. Assuming Chalkhill ever got beyond his basic training.

Of course, if he didn't get beyond his basic training, Hairstreak would have him murdered. Something slow and painful, no doubt.

'I don't see why all this is necessary,' he said petulantly. 'The illusion spell will make me look exactly like His Lordship.'

'Yes it will, Mr Chalkhill, but it will not help you move like him, which is what we're working on now. You realise what the problem is, of course - it's your bulk.'

'My bulk?' Chalkhill echoed, appalled. He was a little overweight certainly, perhaps enough overweight to be called cuddly, but he hardly thought anyone in their right mind would refer to him as bulky.

'You're a bigger man than Lord Hairstreak,' the Facemaster frowned, 'so you move differently. I'm not criticising you, but it's something we have to change. I'm bigger than Hairstreak too, but watch -'

It was positively creepy. As the Facemaster set off across the room again, he seemed to shrink. His right shoulder dropped in a characteristic Hairstreak posture. His features composed themselves into a grim, unforgiving mask. But most of all, his walk became an arrogant, insectile scuttle. There was no transformation spell, no physical resemblance at all, but you could almost imagine you were watching Black Hairstreak himself.

'Now you do it,' Facemaster Wainscot told him.

Chalkhill tried. Oh how Chalkhill tried. He dropped his shoulder, scrunched his body and made sortie after sortie across the polished floor. He studied his reflections in the mirrored walls. He tried to think himself into Lord Hairstreak like an actor taking on a part. He walked and walked and tried and tried until his feet began to ache.

'It's no good,' the Facemaster said at last. 'We'll have to use the worm.'

Brimstone was puffed by the third circuit of the fire, but thankfully the priest signalled them to stop. 'Stand side by side,' he instructed loudly. Then, dropping his voice, he whispered in Brimstone's ear, 'And try to look as if you're enjoying it.'

Too breathless to answer, Brimstone contented himself with delivering a cutting look. Then he turned to smile briefly and hypocritically at his bride. She smiled back cheerfully. Five husbands! If she really did put them all down, she must have a fortune squirrelled away. This wedding could prove an exceptionally profitable enterprise.

'Friends,' announced the priest in the general direction of the down-and-outs who looked as if they hadn't a friend between them, 'we're gathered here for blah-de-blah etcetera rhubarb and etcetera, ah-hummmm.''

Brimstone looked at him in astonishment.

'Full ceremony costs extra,' the priest whispered. 'Bride won't pay, but I can charge it on to you if you like.'

Brimstone shook his head firmly. 'Get on with it,' he hissed.

'Having dispensed with the religious introduction and the blessing,' the priest intoned, 'we move on to the symbolic portion of the rite. The bride, as you can see, is carrying a spiny cactus to symbolise the thorns of adversity experienced by all couples in the course of their life together. I now ask the bride to hand those thorns to her groom who, in accepting the gift, solemnly pledges himself to bear those thorns for her henceforth and for evermore, ah-hummmm.'

Fat chance, Brimstone thought, but he reached for the cactus anyway, taking care to grip it by the pot. The down-and-outs applauded listlessly.

'Hold it up!' the priest whispered.

Brimstone held the succulent above his head. This time it was the Widow Mormo who applauded. Five husbands! That had to be some sort of record; and if it wasn't, it was certainly worthy of admiration.

One of the nymphs tripped forward and relieved Brimstone of his cactus. She had the wasted body and blank stare of a simbala music addict, but she wasn't so far out of it as to forget to ask him for a coin to mark her part in the ceremony. Brimstone gave her a groat and she danced away looking cross.

'Just the impediments now,' whispered the priest. 'Then I can make it legal.' He raised his voice to fill the church. 'I now call on any here present with a prior claim to this woman to enunciate such claim clearly and fully as an impediment to the Holy Ceremony of Marriage we are here to undertake; and I further call on any here present who knows of this or any other impediment to come forward now and so enunciate or henceforth keep shut his mouth.'

This should tell us if any of the last five has survived, thought Brimstone in a moment of rare whimsy. The priest studied the ceiling of his church for a long moment, but nobody piped up to protest.

The priest hitched up his robe as if preparing for a quick exit now the rite was nearly done. 'I now call on any here present,' he repeated, 'with a prior claim to this man to enunciate such claim clearly and fully as an impediment to the Holy Ceremony of Marriage we are here to undertake; and I further call on any here present who knows of this or any other impediment to come forward now and so enunciate or henceforth keep shut his mouth.'

This time it was Brimstone who looked up at the ceiling. A decent pause, the final legalities, then off to the woods to kill her.

It was a very happy wedding day.

The worm was more like an eel or a snake, except it was segmented and protected by a natural, glistening armoured shell. It stared at Chalkhill with black, beady eyes from the bottom of a heated glass tank. There was a sandy floor to replicate the desert of its natural environment and a few desiccated plants to keep it company. Slices of ordle had been scattered on a flat-topped rock.