The Fire King (17 page)

“Well … fine. Just don't let it happen again.”

There was a deep grinding sound, and a second, round door opened within the gates of London Bridge, a door that hadn't been there a moment ago. Light and sounds spilled out: the hubbub of voices, raucous cries, the music of fiddles and flutes, laughter, shouting, crying. Emily could see figures moving on the other side of the door, figures that were not visible on the London Bridge she could see through the iron bars of the gates.

Emily stepped forward. The others followed, and the small door slammed shut behind them. Emily glanced over her shoulder and saw a fey creature about the same size as her turning a heavy brass wheel that moved a series of cogs and gears, locking the door tight. Once she had finished, the fey stepped back. The wheels and gears and cogs flared white then vanished, leaving behind a blank wall.

The bridge extended before them, and like the real version, it was lined with shops and buildings. But that was where the similarity ended. On the real London Bridge, there was some semblance of order, but here it seemed that every shop and house had simply been dropped from the sky and then left wherever it landed. Structures were piled haphazardly one atop the other, stilts and poles used to stop them from falling over. Emily was sure she could see some of them swaying in the warm night breeze. The buildings were painted every conceivable color. Red, purple, bright green, faded yellow. Everything combined to give the bridge the vibrancy of a carnival.

Fey of all descriptions went about their business: tall, short, fat, thin, flying, or crawling. Three huge, shaggy men lumbered out of a building ahead of Emily, and judging by their raucous laughter and unsteady walking, Emily assumed the building was an inn. The door opened as another fey entered, and Emily was surprised to see a group of human men and women playing music. All but one had their eyes closed as if asleep, and the one who was awake looked desperately afraid as he played his fiddle, his eyes darting around as if searching for escape.

The bridge reminded Emily of market day back home, when the wives bought the food for the coming week and the afternoon was coming to an end. All the serious business was taken care of, and now was the time for the fun to start. Except, knowing what she now knew about the fey, she thought there probably never
was
any serious business. That the bridge always felt as it did now, barely restrained, overcrowded, too noisy, and very confusing.

“So where do we find this Beezle fellow?” asked Wren, unable to take his eyes off the scene before him.

“I'm not sure,” Emily replied. “I suppose we could ask?”

But who? Who could they ask? Emily didn't trust the fey. They were sneaky and conniving, so she had no idea who would offer them genuine help and who would hinder them simply because they thought it a funny joke.

She took a step forward, only to feel a firm hand grab her and stop her from moving. It was Wren. He was staring down at her feet. Emily followed his gaze to find what looked like a family of tiny fey with snail shells on their backs crossing in front of her. One of the tiny fey shook his fist at Emily.

Emily carefully lowered her foot to the side of the tiny creature. “Sorry,” she said.

The fey cast a disgusted look at her, then moved slowly on.

They set off again, this time Emily being more careful where she trod. They moved off to the side of the thoroughfare so they could get a look inside the shops as they walked.

The problem was, Emily had no idea what kind of shop Beezle owned. She didn't even have a clue what type of fey Beezle was. He could have been one of those creatures she had nearly squashed.

Emily stopped walking. “This is ridiculous. We'll have to just ask someone.” If they didn't, they'd be wandering around the bridge all night. She looked around. They had stopped next to a bookshop. That would do, surely? If any fey shop was going to be harmless, then surely a bookshop would be the one?

Emily pushed open the door. A bell jingled as she entered into a musty, dimly lit interior. She peered into the shadowy interior of the shop, but there didn't seem to be anyone around. She was just about to leave when what had to be the untidiest, most unruly head of hair Emily had ever seen popped up from behind the counter. About half a yard below this bird's nest a face appeared, blinking owlishly from behind thick, round spectacles.

There was a moment of silence while she turned her magnified eyes onto each of them. Then her face broke into a huge smile, revealing overlarge, but perfectly formed teeth. “Good
eventide
to you all. And welcome to Bansho and Co., purveyors of ethereal books, dream texts, and various other knicks and knacks. ‘Even if it hasn't been written, I can most likely still get hold of it for you.' That's my motto. Although it needs some work. Not very catchy, is it? I'm Bansho, by the way. In case that wasn't clear.”

“We're not really after a book,” began Emily apologetically.

“Sorry,” said Wren. “Can I just clarify something? Did you say you can get books that haven't been written yet?”

“Oh, yessir. We pluck them from the dream space. One of our best lines of business.” Bansho picked up a leather-bound book from the counter. “Take this one, fer instance. Won't be written for almost four hundred years. Got a collector after this one.”

Emily tried to catch a glimpse of the title.
Preludes and
… but she couldn't see the rest, as the fey had put the book down again and picked up another. This time Emily could see it clearly:
The Hound of the Baskervilles,
by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Wren stepped forward, his hands eagerly outstretched.

“Mr. Wren,” said Emily. “We are here for another reason.”

Wren stopped and forced his hands down to his sides. “Of course. I'm so sorry.” But he couldn't help casting a sad look at the shelves of books that surrounded them.

“We're actually looking for someone called Beezle,” said Emily.

Bansho's face creased into a frown. “Oh, no, no. No, you don't want to look for him. Oh, no.”

“Uh, I'm afraid we do,” Emily said.

Bansho shook her head. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You don't want him. Trust me. Think of someone else. Anyone. I'll help you with someone else.”

“We really need to find Beezle,” pressed Emily.

“No. You don't. Trust me on this.”

“Is there any reason why we
shouldn't
be looking for this Beezle?” asked Jack.

“He's a crook,” said the fey promptly. “And he's not nice.”

“Be that as it may, I'm afraid we still need to see him,” Emily said.

“Oh. That's a shame. And nothing I say will change your mind?”

“I'm afraid not.”

Bansho sighed. “Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. What time is it?”

Emily stared for a moment, then shook her head in puzzlement. “Sometime after midnight?”

“Then you'll find Beezle at the Regent. It's a theater about halfway down the bridge. You can't miss it.”

“Theater? Is he an actor?” Jack asked.

“Actor? Oh, bless you, no. The Regent is where we hold our trials. The guards arrested Beezle yesterday. He's facing charges of theft, forgery, lying, bamboozling, sneakiness, staying up too late, and all-round naughtiness. Reckon he'll be put to death this time.”

“Put to death?” said Jack. “That's a bit extreme, isn't it? From what I've seen, nearly all you fey are guilty of those charges.”

Bansho smiled brightly. “Bless you, young sir, and you've hit a nail on the proverbial head there. But Beezle is even more guilty than most.”

“How so?” asked Emily.

“He tried to bamboozle the Queen.”

Silence lay like a shroud over Bishopsgate Street. It was as if the heat of the day had leeched all life from the stones and bones of the city, leaving behind a desiccated husk. A hint of what used to be.

Two red eyes lit up the darkness at the end of the street. They were joined a moment later by another pair and then another. They blinked and wavered, shifting as the owners looked this way and that, sniffing the air, searching for a scent.

The Crimson Knight followed his hounds, waiting for the sign he knew would eventually come. They had already been to the college. The trail there had been confused, both old and new trails crossing over each other. But the hounds had finally fixed upon a scent they recognized, leading him here.

The hounds stopped before a small house. A low growl crawled from their throats, low and menacing.

A fresh trail.

The Crimson Knight issued a sharp command, then followed after the hounds as they loped along the street.

The ravens kept pace above him, a burst of white through the night sky.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

In which Emily and Co. must rescue a scoundrel from a sneak.

I
t was impossible to miss the Regent. About halfway across the bridge was a large section where the shops and houses suddenly stopped, as if they had been swept away into the raging waters by an enormous hand. In their place, built up against the left side of the bridge, stood a huge, sprawling, open-air theater of an incredibly flamboyant design.

Emily stared at it critically as they approached. It was far too overdone for her tastes. She got the impression that whoever had built it had been trying to show how artful he was by filling every available surface with carvings and frescoes. Everywhere she looked, stone faces peered out at her, or cavorting fey danced around trees and stone circles.

The stage was raised from the ground by wooden supports carved in the shape of odd-looking animals. The two closest to her were a lion with the head of an eagle and a monkey with the head of a dog. She couldn't see the others as the space beneath the floor was cloaked in darkness.

A wooden cage sat on the stage in front of a backdrop that had been painted to resemble a prison cell. Inside the cage sat a fey slightly shorter than Emily. He was slim and looked to be middleaged (as far as Emily could judge such things), and could probably pass as a human if he had wanted to. He wore a floppy hat similar to the one Katerina wore, pulled down to one side at a rakish angle.

A crowd of fey were jostling one another in an attempt to get a seat in the tiers of benches that faced the stage. The fey lucky enough to have their seats already were having a good time, laughing, booing the fey in the cage, eating (and throwing) food.

“Why am I not surprised that someone Corrigan knows is a criminal on trial?” Jack said as they drew level with the theater. “What are we supposed to do now, Snow?”

Emily studied the creature in the cage. He was doing his best to look forlorn and sad, but Emily could see it was all an act. His eyes were shrewd and calculating, weighing everything for its value and use. “I suppose we wait till this is over and try to talk to him. Maybe he can still help us.”

A tall, thin figure swept imperiously onto the stage, his arms raised into the air. The figure wore a green frock coat that trailed along the floorboards and a red top hat that was ludicrously high. At his appearance, the assembled fey burst into enthusiastic applause. The man twirled his hands and bowed.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “Munifus the Magnificent has returned.”

The applause grew even louder. Munifus allowed it to continue for some moments more before raising his hands.

“Please, please. You are too kind. I don't deserve it.” He paused for dramatic effect, then smiled, showing startlingly white teeth. Emily wondered if he had done some magic on them, because they really did appear … strangely bright. It was just possible that they would light up a darkened room.

“Actually, that's a lie,” continued Munifus. “We all know I
do
deserve it. Because I really am just
that
amazing. But now, back to the business at hand. Because as you know, I stand before you here not as one of the greatest actors of all time, but as my alter ego—the greatest
lawyer
of all time. I put the ‘prose' into prosecution. I put the ‘dance' into evidence. I put the ‘ooh' into proof. For I am the one, the only …
Munifus the Magnificent.
”

This got another round of cheers from the fey.

“So to conclude the proceedings before us. To cap them off. To tie the final knot. To lower the curtain, so to speak, I shall finish up reading the tally of charges.”

Munifus lifted his hat, revealing a startled-looking rabbit. It blinked as Munifus took a scroll from inside the hat before placing it back on his head.

“Ahem. Now, where were we? Had we done ‘blowing a raspberry at the King and Queen?'”

The crowd responded with an enthusiastic “YES!”

“Ah. What about ‘charming the maids of the visiting Spinster Queen and stealing the crown jewels?'”

Again, a loud “YES!” swept through the crowd.

“What about ‘trying to sell the aforementioned crown jewels
back
to the Spinster Queen at double their value?'”

Another “YES!”

Munifus rolled the scroll up as he read farther down the list. “Ah, yes, here we are. The final charges leveled against Beezle. ‘Smuggling goods out of Faerie.'” Munifus turned to Beezle and shook his head sadly. “For shame, Beezle. For shame.” He resumed his reading of the list. “‘Supplying fake invisibility potion to the Queen's secret service.'” Munifus shook his head. “Very embarrassing for them when they tried to sneak into Queen Mab's castle in Eire. Very embarrassing, indeed. And of course, let us not forget the main charge, the one that convinced me to take up this case in the first place. That of enticing the attentions of my wife! Now, to the good fey gathered before me, what say you? Guilty or not guilty?”

The crowd erupted into a frenzy. “Guilty! Guilty!” The roars swept around the benches. Munifus spread his arms wide and moved in a slow circle, letting the shouts and screams wash over him as if they were personal adulations.

“Good to see they have a fair legal system,” muttered Jack sarcastically.

After a full minute of basking, Munifus finally lowered his hands, bringing the shouting and screaming to a reluctant end. He turned to face Beezle. “And so you hear your judgment, foul creature. The people of fey find you guilty of all—” Munifus paused and turned to the crowd. “Was it
all
charges?” The crowd shouted their agreement. Munifus smiled and nodded, turning back to Beezle. “
All
charges. The sentence is death, to be carried out by me at a future date when I can clear enough time in my diary to enjoy … uh, I mean, to properly give my full attention to such a serious and burdensome task. Take him away!”

Munifus swept his hands into the air again. This was the signal for more cheering, and the cage Beezle was locked in started to descend shakily through the floor.

“Now's our chance,” said Emily. “Come on.”

“What are you planning on doing?” asked Wren nervously.

“I'm gong to sneak under the stage. Maybe we can get close enough to speak to him.”

“And you think that will work, do you?” asked Jack. “You think he's just going to tell you what you need to know?”

“Hopefully. Unless you have a better idea?” Emily paused and looked expectantly at Jack.

He didn't say anything, so Emily led the way beneath the benches, stepping around the litter that had been dropped by the fey above them. When they arrived at the edge of the stage, one of the wooden creatures—the lion with the head of an eagle—turned its head and stared at Emily.

“Um … hello,” she said hesitantly.

“Hello,” said the creature.

“Can we come in?”

“Come in where?”

“Under the stage?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Emily glanced over the creature's shoulder. In the dim light beneath the theater's floor she could just make out the cage that imprisoned Beezle. It had lowered through a trapdoor into another, much larger cage. This one had wooden wheels attached to it.

“I … I lost something. It fell through the floorboards. Please? I'll only be a second.”

“I'm not sure.” The eagle-headed lion turned to the next pillar, which was the monkey with the head of a dog. “What do you think, Walter? Should we let her in?”

The dog's head turned to look at Emily and the others. “Don't know. They look a
bit
shifty to me. Why does she want in?”

“Said she dropped something through the floorboards.”

“Bloomin' careless, if you ask me.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“What does Barglehun say?”

“Haven't asked her yet.”

“Well what are you waiting for? Ask her.”

The eagle turned its wooden head so that it was looking into the shadows beneath the stage. “Barglehun?”

“What?” shouted a rough voice.

“Girl here wants to come under the stage. Says she dropped something.”

“She sounds silly. Send her away.”

The eagle-headed lion turned back to Emily. “Sorry. You heard Barglehun. No entry. She says you're sill—Hey! Where are you going?”

Emily had grown tired of listening to the wooden creatures.
They
were the ones who were silly. Very silly indeed. She strode past the pillar and headed toward the cage. Jack and Wren hurried after her.

“Are you sure it's wise to go against their wishes?” asked Wren.

Jack grinned. “What are they going to do, Mr. Wren? Throw splinters at us?”

Emily stopped before the cage. The lights from above filtered down through gaps in the flooring, tracing thin lines across the cobbles of the bridge.

Beezle sat on the floor, his legs stretched out before him and his hat pushed down over his eyes.

“Hello?” Emily called.

Emily tried the door of the second cage, but it was locked with a bronze padlock. The bars themselves were about as thick as her arm. Emily didn't think they'd be breaking them apart anytime soon.

Jack bent down to inspect the lock, peering inside the mechanism. He straightened up after only a moment. “There's something in there,” he said. “It stuck its tongue out at me.”

Emily looked inside. Sure enough, a tiny beetle with a curiously human face blocked the keyhole. There was a hole all the way through its body the same shape as a key. Its legs were all stretched out to—Emily assumed—hold the lock mechanism in place.

The beetle stuck its tongue out at her and made a rude noise. “You're very rude,” Emily said, then straightened up.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Hello? I wonder if you could help us? It's really rather urgent.”

Beezle didn't respond for a moment. Then he let out a heavy sigh, uncrossed his arms, and slowly lifted the hat up over his eyes.

“What?”

“Um … we're friends of Corrigan. He said we were to find you—that you could help us with something.”

“Sorry. Can't even help myself at the moment. Nothing I can do for you.”

He lowered his hat and made himself comfy once again.

“Please,” said Emily. “It's urgent. Lives are at stake!”

The hat lifted quickly. “Lives are at stake?” asked Beezle. “Madam, why didn't you say so in the first place?”

“Then you'll help?”

“No.” Beezle dropped the hat back in place.

Jack stepped forward. “What if we get you out of here?”

Emily grabbed Jack's arm. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Getting the information we need. Come on, Snow. You saw that trial up there. The whole thing was a sham.”

“You've got that right,” said Beezle's voice right next to Emily's ear. Emily took a hasty step backward. As did Jack. Beezle was now lounging against the bars only an arm's reach away. Neither of them had heard him approach. “Munifus has got it in for me. He's the one who turned me in, led the guards to my shop.”