Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) (21 page)

‘It’s all yours,’ Witchazel said, biting off his words. ‘What is the meaning of this? I am a free man, a servant of the law. I won’t be treated in this manner!’

Fever wiped his nose on the back of his glove and sat back in his chair, folding a leg. ‘Yes I know exactly who you are, Mr Witchazel. We’ve been watching you for a while now.’

‘Who are you, damn it?!’

Fever shrugged nonchalantly. ‘In our current employ, we are servants of the Empire. Looking after its best interests.’

Witchazel wanted to spit, but his mouth was too dry. ‘I doubt that very much.’

‘Oh, trust me, I’m not one for lying. It pays to avoid it, in my business.’

Witchazel sneered as best as he could. He had never been one for it. ‘Yes, and what sordid business is that?’

Fever’s hazel eyes turned hard and stony. ‘The business of truth, Mr Witchazel.’

‘Is that so?’

The hardness faded, and Fever smiled broadly, as if he were about to perform a trick. ‘It is indeed. People hire me and my two associates when they want truth. Our services are simple. We deliver it, plucking the secrets out of the people that keep them,’ Fever said enthusiastically. It was unnerving to say the least.
Nobody should have that much cheer when they worked in a room like this
. ‘You’re here because somebody wants to know what secrets you have locked up in that head of yours.’ He rubbed his knuckles painfully across Witchazel’s skull.

Witchazel felt a stab of cold amongst the heat of his indignation. ‘I’m a lawyer. I deal with some of the most powerful men and women in this city. I handle their legal affairs. I solve their problems. Of course there are secrets! But if you think I’m going to tell you any of them, then your employer did not pay you enough for your time! This is outrageous! I demand to be let go!’

‘I think we’re going to have fun,’ Fever replied, clapping his hands as he got to his feet. It barely made any difference to his height. ‘Gentlemen? Which of you would like to go first?’ he asked of the two men either side of him, the veritable trolls tucked into matching brown shirts, britches, and boots. They were absolutely identical, even down to the way they wore their blindingly blonde hair. Nords, by his guess, and neither of them seemed to speak.

‘Sval? Sven?’

One of them lifted a hand, and Witchazel flinched as Fever nodded for him to go ahead.

‘How dare you! I dema—’

A fist lit up blinding sparks behind his eyes. Pain came like a downpour, drowning him. His body went limp, and he sagged in the chair.’

‘How dare you!’ he wheezed, as he fought to break out of the dizziness. ‘How dare—’

Another fist, this time to the chest.

‘Gentlemen,’ Fever held up a hand and the two men retreated. ‘We don’t want to rush Mr Witchazel, now do we? He’ll spill his secrets in good time.’

‘What do you want from me?’ Witchazel managed, once the breath had found his lungs.

Fever bent close to the lawyer’s face and smiled that horrid smile of his. ‘We’ll start with everything you know about Lord Karrigan Hark: which closets he keeps his skeletons in, so to speak. And we want it all written down, and signed.’

‘You can go right to hell,’ Witchazel laughed.

‘Sval?’

The twin on Witchazel’s right grabbed his arm and lifted it into the air while at the same time twisting and pressing down on the shoulder joint with his thumb. Witchazel had never felt such pain. He roared, kicking out at the little bastard who stood sneering in front of him. Sven grabbed his legs and pinned his feet to the floor.

‘Straight to hell, I tell you!’ Witchazel screamed.

‘That’s enough for now,’ Fever clapped his hands, and once again the Nords retreated.

‘I will tell you nothing,’ Witchazel panted, nursing his arm and shoulder, glaring daggers at the three of them. ‘Nothing!’

‘You’ll find us very persuasive,’ Fever replied, moving towards the locked door. ‘We shall see each other again very soon, Mr Witchazel. Gentlemen? Get the lights before you come out, would you?’

The box of a room was plunged into darkness, and Witchazel was left panting and aching, sprawling in the chair. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, feeling the grease of wax under his fingers. He sank to his knees and put a shaking fist to the floor.

‘Not going to let you down, Hark, nor the boy. They will not break me,’ he swore to the cold granite and the memory of his old friend. All he had to do was last long enough.

*

Outside the room, once the door was firmly locked, Fever clasped his hands and bowed to his new employer. ‘Well, my Lord, I have some bad news.’

Prime Lord Bremar Dizali looked down, lip already curling.
Freelancers were always keen for more coins
. ‘What is it, Rowanstone? I was promised quick results,’ he said, sternly. This man may have dealt with other lords and ladies of the Benches, but he had never dealt with the Prime Lord. Dizali could see it plainly, and it rattled him ever so slightly.

Fever smiled. ‘And they will be, my Lord. But what we have here is anger, outrage. These are very difficult to break through pain alone. With fear, that’s easier. Fear overcomes the man, and in time it kills anger. Always has, always will.’

Dizali sighed. ‘You talk too much for somebody I pay to conduct torture, Rowanstone. I expect the people I hire to do, not talk about doing it. Will he give me what I need, or not?’ he demanded brusquely.

Fever nodded, still playing at the fawning servant with his hands clasped tightly against his waistcoat. ‘He will, in time, my Lord. A week, maybe more.’

‘And I suppose that means your fee also increases?’

Fever bowed again. ‘We are paid by the day, Prime Lord Dizali. Some men cannot be broken that quickly.’

‘Oh, stand up straight, fool,’ Dizali snapped.

My Lord,’ interrupted a voice.

‘What?’

A soldier, armoured beneath his black cloak, stood in the doorway. ‘A letter, my Lord, delivered by a courier.’

Dizali growled, stalking up and down the corridor. ‘Can it wait?’

‘It is for your eyes only, my Lord,’ replied the soldier, ‘delivered just now. He’s waiting downstairs. He said you’d recognise the seal.’

‘Give it here,’ Dizali said, snatching the package away from the man. ‘Give me a moment, all of you!’ he ordered, and the corridor was swiftly emptied for him. What the Prime Lord wants, the Prime Lord gets. Being the Master of the Empire comes with some perks.

Dizali held the package up to the gaslight to read the seal. He recognised it indeed. It was the seal of a very secretive company, recently hired to peruse Witchazel’s office. Just a triangle stabbed in red wax, nothing else. He ripped open the packet and delved inside. He found a thick wedge of folded paper, frayed at the edges. Dizali dragged it out into the light.

‘The last will and testament of Lord Karrigan Bastion Hark, Master of the Emerald Benches, Lord of the Empire of Britannia.’ Dizali smiled. ‘I have you now.’

His eyes flicked quickly over the curving letters, written with a quill, such as all lawyers love to employ. The old pages crackled impatiently. There were numerous updates, alterations and appendices, but Dizali did not need to scour the whole damn thing, just one particular section, to confirm a suspicion—or a hope, dare he say. A hope that he was right. All he needed was a handful of words, and he would have his glory. He would have what he needed to pull the rug from beneath the Benches, and the Queen along with them. He would have his prize.

There
.

Dizali’s fingers stabbed the paper, under article fourteen, the declaration of the law:

… and it is with great honour that I defer to the Clean Slate Statute should history review me as a betrayer of this Empire and found guilty of treasonous tendencies …

Like a rat in a trap, Hark. I have my death at last
. ‘I may not have murdered the body, but I will murder your reputation, and build my empire on its ashes,’ Dizali hissed at the will, as if it were the embodiment of Karrigan Hark himself. He strangled the papers before stuffing them back into the packet. He held the seal up to the gaslight until it turned soft again and then pressed his ring down hard, until it set. Dizali shouted down the corridor for them all to return. They shuffled in, one by one, soldiers and torturers all.

He turned to the soldier first. ‘Take this and give it back to the courier. See that he is paid as well,’ Dizali pressed it into the soldier’s palm with a look that dared him to try stealing any, and then sent him on his way.

Dizali rounded on the torturer next. ‘You, Fever.’

The short man clicked his heels together and bowed yet again. Dizali let him have this one. ‘You have two weeks, and no more. And you’ll see your coin purse at the end of this, when he’s broken, and not a moment sooner. Do we have an accord?’

‘We do, your Lordship,’ Fever shook the Prime Lord’s gloved hand and tried not to wince at the strength in it.

‘Then do what you must, Mr Rowanstone. But remember, I need him alive. I do not like to be disappointed. Do you understand me?’

‘Perfectly, my Lord.’

‘Wise man,’ Dizali replied, before disappearing down the corridor. He was done skulking in the shadows. A Prime Lord cannot be seen to be skulking too much. The occasional skulking is necessary, acceptable even, but making a habit of it had dire consequences.

Dizali skipped down the steps to the street, quick and nimble. His carriage was waiting outside the door. The coat of arms and some of the gold trim too had been painted black. He spent a moment tutting at the mud and muck sprayed across its exterior. He was so disgusted by it, he did not notice the hooded figure lingering in a doorway further down the street, leaning out to stare at him.

‘I want this cleaned off!’ Dizali shouted at the driver before clambering into the carriage and shutting the door, abruptly cutting off the driver’s reply.

‘Of course, my L—’

Inside Dizali breathed a sigh of relief as he reclined into the plush velvet. It was all so tiring, trying to rule most of the known world, trying to get ahead in life. Dizali rubbed his eyes and felt the sleepiness creep up on him. After a while, he gave in, and his head lolled as the carriage bounced and rattled around him.

He awoke to a polite knocking on the carriage door. Dizali cleared his throat and pushed it open. The sky was now pitch-black, starless. Several of his butlers were waiting with lanterns. The Prime Lord dismounted and strode through them, causing them to spin and follow in his wake like autumn leaves in a gust.

‘Have you eaten, my Lord?’ asked the first.

‘No, and I don’t care to tonight.’

‘Will you require the sitting room, my Lord?’ asked another.

‘No, just privacy.’

‘Would you like a book, as usual, my Lord?’ enquired the third.

‘Not tonight. Tonight I will just sit and think.’

‘A fine choice, my Lord,’ they chorused, each then peeling off through separate doors and down hallways. Clovenhall was quiet and still. Dizali took the main stairwell and spiralled upwards. A short walk led him to the northeast wing, where a small tower jutted out from the brickwork and coiled upwards into a point.

The door was locked to all except him and one of the butlers, the one he trusted most. Dizali fished the key from around his neck and slid it into the lock. He slipped inside, quick as a cat, and locked the door after him. He stood there for a moment, in the shadows, and took a long, slow breath.

The stairs curled up to one circular room, then another with an ornate wooden ceiling, its rafters spinning an intricate pattern. The first room was a small sitting room, complete with fireplace, armchair, and a small bookcase. The upper room was a bedroom lit by small candles in jars, almost burnt down to their wicks. Dizali scowled at that as he trod softly up the stairs. He would have them seen to.

In the middle of the upper room was a wide bed, laden with white sheets and white pillows, as though a small iceberg had come for a nap. Dizali shook his head and dragged the sheets and blankets back. ‘Give you some air,’ he said quietly.

With great ceremony, Dizali fetched a small, three-legged stool and positioned it carefully next to the bed: not too close, and not too far. Sitting, he reached into the mound of pillows and retrieved a very thin and very frail hand. The wedding ring on it was loose, sliding back and forth, trapped between the knuckles. Dizali lifted the hand gently to his lips.

‘I shall tell you a different story tonight, my dear,’ he said quietly, as if afraid to disturb the rhythm of shallow breathing coming from between the pillows. He did not dare look. He did not like to see her eyes, empty and wide as always, staring at whatever was placed before her. For now, as it had been the past few years, it was the ornate ceiling.

‘I shall tell you what I have planned for this city, for this Empire. I will tell you a story of what I will achieve, because I know you will be proud of me when you hear it all out,’ he said, listening to the breathing for a while, as if waiting for a reply. ‘It will be as you dreamt.’

Dizali went on, telling her of every strand in his web of politics. It was a tale that roved from dusty America to the black beaches of the Ottoman Empire and beyond. His gripped her hand tighter and tighter as he spoke, laying it all out before her, as if somewhere deep inside her broken mind, behind that glass-like gaze he could not meet, his wife remained, and was listening, huddled in a cell, smiling for him.