The Fire King (10 page)

“Oh, I see. Well, just thought I'd offer.”

They left the grass square behind them and stepped onto the gravel, the small stones crunching noisily underfoot. As they approached the gate, Katerina saw her and hurried across the road.

“Is that your friend?” asked Barnaby.

“Yes.” She smiled wanly at Barnaby and held out her hand. “Thank you. For everything. You've been very kind.”

Barnaby solemnly shook her hand. “It was my pleasure, miss. Good-bye.”

An hour or so later, Emily and Katerina were back with the others, seated around the table while she explained what had happened.

“I thought you said Wren was the key?” Jack asked.

“He is!”

“Then why doesn't he know anything?” asked William. “What if you were wrong, Em?”

“I wasn't wrong. It was Wren who wrote the clues so we could find the stone. Even the Faerie Queen said he was involved. She said it was Wren who closed the gates to Faerie, remember?”

“Then he was lying,” Corrigan said.

Emily shook her head. “No. He really didn't know what I was talking about.”

“So what do we do now? We need a new plan.”

“I did think of something,” said Emily hesitantly.

“Well? Out with it,” snapped Corrigan. “I'm not a mind reader.”

Emily took a deep breath. “You reveal yourself to Wren.”

“No,” said Corrigan immediately. “Forget it. I'm tired of you using me like that. Look what happened last time you made me do it.” He nodded his head at Jack. “We ended up stuck with him.”

“In case you're short on memory as well as short on brains, I rescued you from Black Annis and Jenny Greenteeth, remember?”

Corrigan ignored this. “And he's a scientist. You know how annoying scientists are? With their logic, and … and their sums.” He shook his head. “No. And when I say no, I mean no. Never. Won't happen. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. And that's my final word.”

Emily stared at him for a moment. “Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We'll leave in a few hours. Wren is giving some kind of lecture this afternoon, so we'll only be able to see him after that.” She looked at William. “In the meantime, you should get some sleep. We all should.”

“I'm not tired,” he said immediately.

Emily suppressed the urge to snap at him. Instead she said, “Fine. Do what you want. But I'm getting some rest.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?” asked Puck.

“What?”

“I haven't said you can leave,” said the fey boy smugly.

This was just about enough for Emily. “Oh, is that right? Well you just listen here, Puck, or Rob, or whatever you want to call yourself. It seems we're on the same side, whether you believe it or not. You don't want the fey taking over London, and neither do we. So my advice to you is to be quiet and give us what help you can. Honestly, I'm tired of all this subterfuge. Everyone needs to grow up. And right now!”

Emily stamped her foot on the ground as she said these last words. She was aware this slightly ruined the effect of trying to act like a grown-up, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was just so frustrated with everyone.

But Puck didn't appear to notice. He stared at her in some surprise, then finally nodded. “Fair point,” he said. “And actually, I agree with you. Bringing someone else into the mix might shake things up a bit.”

“Just one thing,” said Jack, leaning toward Puck. “Why are you doing all this? What's in it for you?”

Puck looked offended. “What—you think you lot are the only ones who want to do any good?”

“Well…,” said Jack, looking at the others. “Not really, but—”

“But nothing,” said Puck. “You've probably heard the stories, yes? ‘Oh, don't trust that Puck. He'll stab you in the back, he will. Only thinks of himself, he does. Bit of an imp. Full of mischief. Always thinking of the moment, never looking ahead.' Yes?” He glared at the others.

“Actually,” said Emily, “I've never heard any of that.”

Jack shook his head. “Me, neither.”

“Nor me,” said William.

“Oh.” Puck deflated slightly. Emily thought he seemed slightly disappointed.

“They may never have heard any of that,” said Corrigan. “But
I
have. And it's all true. Didn't you once put a hedgehog on Queen Elizabeth's throne?”

Puck leapt suddenly to his feet with a crow of laughter, startling everyone at the table. His shadows separated, linking arms and dancing an excited jig across the walls. “Aye. That was funny, that was. I was hiding in the ceiling beams. You should have seen her face. The funniest thing I'd ever seen.”

“Yes. Some of her courtiers couldn't help but crack a smile,” said Corrigan.

“No wonder. It was a truly remarkable jest.”

“They were all executed.”

This just seemed to please Puck even more. He clapped his hands together, his shadows doing somersaults of delight on the walls. Then he saw the looks on their faces and dropped immediately back into his seat.

“Yes. Terrible affair, that. Tragic. Tragic.” He shook his head sadly. “'Twas a silly prank.” He hung his head in shame. His shadows slunk slowly back along the walls to take up their accustomed place.

But then Puck looked up again, his eyes dancing with delight. “But you should have heard her scream,” he said gleefully.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

A traitor revealed.

B
arnaby Stephens hurried through the late-afternoon streets of London. The sun was sinking just below the skyline, sending hazy shafts of golden light past the roofs of buildings to spear the ground.

Beyond a brief, cursory glance, Barnaby ignored such things. Beauty had no place in a city such as London.

He held a kerchief to his mouth as he walked. To get to his destination, he was forced to travel through some of the less desirable areas and, although the plague had finally left the city last year, he wasn't taking any chances. Who knew how long it would linger in the damp and dirty corners, waiting for the opportunity to take down the unwary.

Even though, if things went according to plan, there would be other means of combating the disease, of cleaning up the city. Less …
scientific
ways.

It was dusk when Barnaby finally arrived at the house. It was nondescript, very much like any other house in London. Yes, the garden was slightly overgrown, but again, most gardens were. Those who had returned to London after the plague hadn't quite gotten round to tidying up what Nature had wreaked in their absence.

It was the first time he'd been here. He had been ordered never to come. That if he was seen it could ruin everything. But this was important. She would want to hear the information he had uncovered.

Barnaby pushed open the wooden gate and stepped onto the paving stones that formed a winding path up to the front door (half hidden behind a clump of bushes).

He hesitated for the first time. The deepening dusk drew shadows out of the undergrowth, patches of darkness where anything could be hidden. A strong wind was gathering, warm and dry. It flicked against his face, doing nothing to soak up the sweat on his brow. If anything, it made it worse.

He moved tentatively forward. Just walk, he told himself. Walk up to the front door and knock. He wasn't doing anything wrong. In fact, he should be praised for his actions.

So thinking, Barnaby squared his rounded shoulders and set off at a brisk pace.

Until he heard the noise.

It sounded like a hundred people whispering at the same time, a dry, sibilant hiss that made his neck prickle with fear. Barnaby whirled around in a circle, searching for the source.

Then he saw it. A patch of oily, heaving darkness that detached from the shadows and floated through the air toward him. He hesitated a second too long. When he finally decided to retreat to the street outside, the cloud was upon him, enveloping him in thick, cloying strands that probed and prodded his face. He opened his mouth to scream, but the strands (strands that now felt like fingers), crawled down his throat, choking off any sound. He couldn't breathe. His eyes opened wide with horror. He saw faces in the darkness, defined by darker shadow and brief flashes of light, as if he were watching lightning flickering in thunderclouds. The faces whispered nonsense in his ears, threats and promises of what was going to happen to him for trespassing.

Depart, Sluagh,
said a disembodied voice.
He has my … reluctant blessing to attend.

The whispers in Barnaby's ears changed to hisses of frustration. The strands pulled slowly from his throat, from inside his ears, his nose, leaving Barnaby on his knees, gasping and retching.

Through a haze of pain he heard a curiously comforting sound: the clicking of a door latch. He looked up through streaming eyes and saw the front door of the house swing open.

Barnaby scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could through the undergrowth, ignoring the twists and turns of the path in his haste. He tripped over some creeping ivy, but quickly righted himself and lunged through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

He leaned up against the heavy wood, gasping with relief.

“You are ordered to follow,” said a voice.

Barnaby looked down. An ugly, goblinlike creature stood in one of the doorways that opened from the front corridor. It blinked its sickly yellow eyes, then stepped into the room beyond.

Barnaby quickly followed, finding himself entering a large, empty sitting room. There was another doorway on the opposite wall, and Barnaby reached the room just in time to see the creature disappear through the door.

Barnaby stepped through the door and found himself in another corridor, this one lit by flickering torches. He frowned, doing some quick calculations in his head. There was no way this corridor could be part of the house. It would extend out into the garden if it were.

The goblin was already at the far end of the passage. It had stopped before a huge wooden door that slowly swung open to reveal yet another room.

“Attend me,” called a rich, commanding voice. Barnaby knew that voice. Knew it didn't like to be kept waiting.

Barnaby hurried along the corridor and into the room beyond. The door slammed shut behind him. He jumped but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, staring at the black-and-white tiles as he waited for his cue. There was a strange noise in the room, a soft ruffling sound he couldn't place.

“You may look up,” said the voice.

Barnaby raised his eyes to behold Kelindria of Faerie.

For a brief moment, he thought she was sitting on a throne made from white ravens. But then he caught glimpses of the black wood of her seat as the many birds shifted their weight, casting their unnerving blue gaze over Barnaby.

His eye shifted to Kelindria. She did not look pleased.

“Approach.”

Barnaby shuffled forward until he stood at the foot of her throne.

“Why have you come here? Did I not tell you to stay away?”

“F-forgive me,” stammered Barnaby. “But I bring news. I … I thought you should know straightaway.” “Tell me then.” “A girl came to the college today, seeking Christopher Wren. She spoke to him of the Invisible Order—” Kelindria stiffened in her throne. The ravens cawed, then snapped their beaks in displeasure.

Click-click. Click-click.

Barnaby froze, then swallowed nervously, wondering if he should go on.

“This girl,” snapped Kelindria, “what did she look like?”

“She looked about twelve or thirteen. Dark hair. Large eyes—”

Kelindria pushed herself up from her throne, a look of fury darkening her beautiful features. Barnaby stumbled backward, squeezing his eyes closed against the anticipated blow. But when nothing happened, he opened his eyes to find Kelindria standing before him. After a moment an image formed in the air between them, an image of a girl lying on the ground next to a river.

“Is this her?”

“It … it is. How—?”

“Never mind. Who is this Christopher Wren?”

Barnaby couldn't take his eyes off the image hovering before him. “He's an astronomer. Among other things. A scientist.”

“And is he a member of the Order?”

Barnaby wrenched his gaze away from the image. “No! I would have told you if he was.”

“Perhaps you did not know.”

“Impossible. I had access to all the names. Besides, he had no idea what the girl was talking about.”

“Unless he was simply acting.”

Barnaby shook his head. “My lady, if I may be so bold, I really do not think Wren knows anything.”

“What of the girl? What exactly did she say?”

“She asked if he knew of the Invisible Order. She looked most upset when he said no.” Barnaby searched his memory. “Oh, and she also asked him about Merlin.”

Kelindria narrowed her eyes. “Merlin? What of him?”

“That was all. She asked if he knew of Merlin the Enchanter.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that they were childish stories, and that he had no time for such things.”

Kelindria sat back thoughtfully in her throne. The ravens cawed as she did so, but she raised a hand to quiet them.

“Where is the girl now?”

“I … I do not know. I came here straightaway.”

“You let her go?” asked Kelindria incredulously.

“I had to!” whined Barnaby. “There was someone waiting for her outside. I … I tried to get her to accompany me, but I didn't want to draw attention—”

Kelindria sliced her hand through the air, cutting him off. “I like this not,” she said. “I feel as if someone is making moves behind my back.”

Kelindria stared at the black-and-white tiles. Barnaby waited, unsure whether he had been dismissed or not.

Finally, Kelindria straightened. “We can afford no mistakes,” she said. “Go back to the college. I will send one of the Morrigan's ravens to her and ask for one of her knights. Show the knight this Christopher Wren and bring him to me. I wish to speak to him.”

“But, my lady, I assure you, he's not a member. He will know nothing.”

“When I want your opinion, you sniveling worm, I will be sure to ask for it. And since that will never happen, I advise you to keep your mouth shut. Nothing can be left to chance, do you understand? You have been through the Invisible Order's records. I have captured and tortured every member we could find, and yet I am
still
no closer to finding the Raven King. The Order knows who he is, they must do! So if there is even the remotest chance that this Wren is one of them, I want him brought here!”

“Yes, my lady,” said Barnaby meekly.

“Now go, before you try my patience any further.”

Barnaby bowed. “Yes, my lady.”

He turned and walked back toward the door. The ravens snapped their beaks as he went, a chorus of disapproval.

Click-click.

Click-click.