Faerie Wars 03 - Ruler of the Realm (5 page)

Pyrgus pressed his nose against the glass and saw at once that this was something very different. Inside, set in trays, were row upon row of delicate, exotic blooms, their petals glinting and sparkling under the lights. But even at a glance he could see these were not natural plants. Every stem, every bud, every blossom, every leaf was delicately sculpted from the very finest rock crystal. The entire content of the glasshouse was an artefact, an astonishing, priceless, near incomprehensible work of art, laid out in the whimsy of a natural setting.

Had each flower really been individually sculpted? The only other possibility was magic and he knew of no spell that could create such an effect. Illusions were far too coarse, transformations far too limited. Some master sculptor had lovingly created every piece and Merchant Ogyris had set them one by one in this vast glasshouse. There were hundreds of the crystal blooms. The cost must have been mind-numbing.

Pyrgus was still staring in awe at the crystal flowers when a hand fell on his shoulder.

'You're Tim's son?' the girl asked incredulously after Henry calmed her down. 'He never told me he had a son.'

Nice one, Dad,
thought Henry. The girl didn't look much more than twenty-five, way too young for Dad who was positively
middle-aged,
for Pete's sake! She had auburn-red hair like - well, like somebody he knew in another place - and a terribly curvy figure and that towel didn't look too secure since she'd been screaming.

'He did tell you he'd a wife, though?' Henry asked, then wished he could have amputated his tongue. It was the sort of thing that sounded really, really mean; and if Dad
hadn't
told her, then Henry could have blown his nice new romance with the very first question he asked. He was fairly sure this
was
Dad's nice new romance, and even though the girl was way too young, Henry couldn't blame him. Not after what Mum did.

'Yes, of course,' the girl said, frowning, but not at all put out. 'But I thought his wife was a lesbian. I didn't know lesbians
had
children.'

It had thrown Henry a bit the first time it came up. 'Yes, they do,' he said earnestly. 'At least, Mum did.

But maybe she wasn't lesbian when she had us - that happens sometimes.' It came out so miserably he saw the girl's expression soften.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'This is awful - I don't even know your name.'

'Henry,' Henry told her. He wished he'd foregone the Brownie points and headed straight for Mr Fogarty's house. 'What's yours?'

'You mustn't laugh - it's Laura Croft.'

Henry looked at her blankly.

'You know, like the computer game. And the movie. Except she's Lara.'

'Oh, yes ...' Henry said uncertainly. He didn't play computer games and never seemed to have time to go to movies. 'Nice to meet you, Laura.' He held out his hand, then wished he hadn't because he was seriously worried what might happen if she lost her grip on the towel.

But she shook hands without mishap, then, either reading his mind or possibly just following his gaze, said, 'Look, let me get dressed. I was in the shower - that's why I didn't hear you. Your dad should be back in a minute. Make yourself a cup of tea or something -' She glanced at the mug in his hand. 'Oh, you have - that's good. Won't be a sec' He noticed she went through the door to the master bedroom, not up the spiral staircase.

Henry sat back down on the couch, wondering how he was going to escape before his dad came back. What had happened was bad enough. The thought of a three-way conversation with his dad and his dad's new girlfriend was just too awful to contemplate. He sipped his tea and found it had gone cold, which didn't matter because it tasted foul anyway. But he decided against making himself a fresh mug. He also decided against mentioning any of this to his mother, even the fact he'd called to see his dad.

The girl came back wearing a mustard-yellow suit that would have been mad on most people, but somehow went with her colouring. Her hair was still wet, but she'd brushed it back off her face. She grinned suddenly.

'Know how I knew you really
were
Tim's son and not some axe-murderer just pretending?' Henry shook his head.

'You're the image of him,' Laura said. Then added seriously, 'You have such sensitive eyes.'

'Look,' Henry said, embarrassed, 'I have to be going.' He nearly added, I
have to feed a cat,
but decided that sounded stupid.

'You can't go yet,' Laura told him firmly. 'Tim would kill me. Let me make you another cup of tea.' She glanced into his mug with its yoghurt globules. 'That one looks peculiar.'

Henry sat down again. He didn't see how he could just walk out, however much he wanted to. Laura went into the kitchen. He watched her through the open door, bustling about with the ease that comes when you live in a place.

'Do you take milk and sugar?' she called.

'There isn't any milk,' Henry said.

'Yes, there is.' And there was. She came back with a nice cup of tea in a proper cup, although he couldn't think where she'd found it. Or the milk.

He took a sip. 'Are you and Dad ... you know ...?'

She watched him for a moment, grinning slightly, then helped him out by saying, 'An item? Yes. Yes, we are. He's not
that
much older than me.'

'No, I suppose not,' Henry said, even though he didn't suppose that at all.

Laura said, 'I'm not a gold-digger.'

Henry looked at her in surprise. It had never occurred to him his dad had enough gold to be worth digging. But now he thought about it, Tim Atherton was a successful company executive - he drove a Merc, for heaven's sake - which must mean he was pretty well off. And he had an expense account for entertaining clients, so he knew the best restaurants. For somebody who wasn't family, he probably looked rich.

Henry said, truthfully this time, 'I didn't think you were.'

Laura sat down beside him on the couch. She'd made herself a cup of tea as well. 'Just so you know,' she said. She hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. 'I don't know why he didn't tell me about you, Henry - I suppose it's the age thing: he's very sensitive about it -but I want you to know I love your father. I mean, I don't expect you to approve of me, or even like me -you love your mother, I know that. But I didn't break up their marriage: I had nothing to do with that. And it's important for you to know I'm not just some little floozy on the make.'

This was hideously embarrassing, but despite his discomfort, all he could think of was that he'd never heard anybody use the word 'floozy' outside of a black-and-white movie.

'I didn't think you were,' he said again. Maybe if he allowed her to get it off her chest, she'd let him go before his father came back. Henry didn't think he could cope if his father came back. To encourage her, he asked hesitantly, 'How did you two meet - you and Dad?'

'At a club,' Laura said.

For a moment he thought she must be making fun of him, then saw from her face she wasn't. His dad went to
clubs?
Oldest swinger in town? He opened his mouth to say something, couldn't think of anything to say and closed it again. Fortunately Laura was burbling on.

'I don't usually go to clubs, but my sister dragged me to this one. Said it would cheer me up, but actually she just wanted company. It was just as dreadful as they usually are. I don't really go for men my own age -they're always on the pull and the only thing they can talk about is football. I'd decided to stay half an hour just to please Sheila - that's my sister - then go home. But then I saw Tim on his own in the bar. He was drinking wine; all the other men - boys, really - were drinking beer. He looked so Byronic: you know, a tragic figure.'

That would be Dad all right - a tragic figure. Just lost his wife to his secretary, just lost his kids to his wife, just lost his home to a waterside apartment with a fancy prospectus. Not sure you'd call that Byronic, though. Henry set his cup down on the floor.

'Look, I'm sorry, but I really do have to go. Got something to do. It was - it was very nice to meet you and I'm sorry I frightened you when, you know, when you came out of the shower and everything. And thanks for the tea: it was great. Anyway, maybe you'd tell Dad I called -'

A door slammed shut somewhere. Laura said brightly, 'You can tell him yourself. That must be him now.' Henry looked around, frantically searching for some means of escape, but then his father walked into the room and she smiled and said, 'Look, Tim. Look who's here!'

As the Spicemaster reached the centre of the spiral, his whole appearance changed. His back straightened. He seemed taller. The feathered cloak expanded, giving him the illusion of fearsome bulk. But far more impressive was the way he moved. The hesitant, sickly steps of the old man were gone and he strode like a warrior. He spun round to look at Blue and hissed. His eyes burned.

With a chill, Blue saw his face had changed as well. He was still recognisable - if only just - but his features were florid and swollen, his lips thickened, with a bluish tinge. Worst of all were the teeth which had, incredibly, enlarged so that they seemed almost like those of an animal. He hissed again, a long drawn-out sibilant that cut through the air like a knife. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. He began to tremble violently.

'Spicemaster -' Blue murmured in alarm. The dragonskin drum slipped from her fingers and rolled across the floor.

The Spicemaster's trembling turned to something more violent, a sort of convulsion, like someone preparing to have a full-scale fit. His head began to snap back rhythmically with increasing force.

'Spicemaster!' Blue exclaimed again. He was dropping on all fours now, like an animal, but the convulsions were, if anything, more violent. It was the head-jerking that really worried her - the man could break his own neck. Despite a sudden eruption of fear, she started forward. Whatever was happening, he needed help.

'Back!' hissed the Spicemaster. His fierce eyes held hers for a moment, then the head resumed its jerking. He howled like a wolf and gripped his skull with both hands. 'Stay ... back ...' he gasped with enormous effort. 'You ... are not ... safe ... within the spiral!'

Blue halted, one foot just short of the entrance. Her mind was a turmoil. The spiral was nothing more than markings on the floor. Inside or outside surely made no difference. Besides, he needed help. She couldn't let him injure himself, no matter how important this consultation was to her. All the same, she hesitated.

But then, impossibly, the Spicemaster was on his feet again and he was no longer the Spicemaster. All vestige of the old man had disappeared. In his place towered a creature of gigantic proportions. For a moment it seemed as though it might be eight feet tall and vastly bulky. The thought of an illusion spell passed through her mind, but this was no illusion; or at least no magical illusion she had ever seen. Despite everything, the Spicemaster hadn't really changed. She could still make out the wreckage of his features, the poor distorted body. But it was as if some alien entity had got inside him and blown him up like a balloon. She half expected to see his skin crack and something huge emerge.

The creature that had been the Spicemaster began to dance.

It was a rough, raw dance, a stamping, shuffling dance that conjured scenes of swampland and evoked the rage of beasts. From somewhere on the edges of her mind, Blue imagined she could hear the savage rhythms of primeval music: click-sticks, toma and mercomba, growling voices.

The creature whirled to look at her ...

And smiled.

The voice that echoed through the chamber should never have emerged from the Spicemaster's throat. It reverberated like the dragonskin, but carried with it the infinite chill of deep space, a voice so alien, so
other
that she shuddered.

'I see thee, Faerie Queen,' it said.