Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

Rhin tilted his head. ‘Did she now?’

Merion clapped. ‘I knew that would interest you! Why haven’t you ever told me about these olden days? She told me she got lessons on the subject when she was my age.’

‘Because such times go by a different name to the Fae. The golden days, not olden. A few of your kind have kept the stories alive; singing the old songs all these years. Maybe she was taught by them.’

Merion shimmied out of his shirt as he thought aloud. ‘But why would my grandfather care about such things?’ he asked.

Rhun shrugged. ‘Looks like you need to ask some more questions. In the meantime, let’s go exploring.’

‘
I’m
going exploring. You are staying here.’

Rhin’s face fell. ‘What?’

‘It’s too dangerous with you in the rucksack. I’ll go alone and scout it out. In return, you can have my breakfast.’

This seemed to get Rhin’s attention. The faerie was a greedy sort. ‘You don’t want it?’

Merion nodded and pointed to the kitchen. ‘Aunt Lilain’s quite the … er,
cook
, but I’m not in the mood for eating.’

Rhin hopped down from the bed and looked around the doorframe. He spotted the pile of steaming, smoking food instantly. ‘Have fun in town,’ he muttered, as he strode towards his newly acquired feast.

Merion paused on the doormat, door half-open, the heat from the morning already spilling inside the dark house. ‘Don’t eat too much and pass out again. Remember last time?’

‘Never fear. I’m not keen on going through that again.’

Rhin was already murdering the first sausage before the door closed.

*

Blast if it wasn’t hot.
The sun had barely risen over the eastern hills and already the ground was shimmering underfoot. Merion could feel the moisture pouring out of him with every step he took down the rocky, dusty trail into town. He was genuinely concerned that his boots would fill up with so much sweat he would have to empty them by the side of the road. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing, his first day in town? But it could also possibly be his last.

He soon came to a small row of dusty gardens and a familiar alleyway. It was mercifully cool between the houses. Merion leant against the wall while he caught his breath. He could hear the hustle and bustle of a main street at the end of the curving alleyway. It sounded hot and dusty, and, he guiltily confessed, rather exciting. Merion followed the alleyway and stepped out into the heat once more. He was almost instantly knocked down by a large man carrying a heavy sack.

‘Watch it, boy!’ he barked, as he sauntered on down the street, hat low and beard bushy.

Merion did indeed ‘watch it’. He watched it as carefully as he could for the next few hours.

The streets of Fell Falls were not the streets of London; that was clear. They were simply tamed stretches of bare desert, kept in line by buildings and fences. But they teemed and buzzed and thundered like London’s; that was for sure. The combined hubbub of hooves and carts and feet churned the air, making Merion’s heart pound. Conversation was rife. Large groups of people had congealed on the steps of each and every building, busy swapping hot words. Everybody was talking, and death was the topic of the day.

‘Two deaths in two days.’

Merion heard those words repeated over and over as he roamed the streets, dodging men on horseback and rumbling carts full of iron and wood. He took a short break between two piebald horses so that he could watch the world pass by, and take it all in. If Merion thought he had seen the wildest bunch of people that America had to offer, he was instantly proved wrong by the citizens of Fell Falls. He had never seen such a stranger breed of stranger.

From the men with brimmed hats and triple-barrelled guns at their belts, to those covered in dust and hauling heavy sacks to and fro, the citizenry both thrilled and scared the young Hark. Once again, it seemed that no town could be without its whores. Those that were not leaning out of high windows and whistling at men stood in the alleyways and doorways, chatting idly to passers-by. Like the taverns that dominated every corner Merion could see, they served to keep mankind distracted from the fear of the wild, of the unknown. He was starting to realise that now.

It seemed that business had also managed to find a toehold at the edge of the world. People needed to shop, of course, no matter how many fanged and terrifying beasts lay just over the hills. Blacksmiths, butchers, tailors, farriers, jewellers, stables, banks, barbers, general stores, and even a pet shop; the streets bristled with their signs. It did not take Merion long to find the post office. It had been thoughtfully placed at the very centre of town, and had even been painted a bright blue to help it stand out. He marched right up its steps and pushed through the swinging doors.

Now, unfortunately for Tonmerion Hark, there is a certain method behind using a swinging door, and he was completely unaware of it. The basic mechanics involve pushing the door forward, stepping through aforementioned door, and then releasing it, remembering to step clear of its return swing, lest you get struck in the back. Some of the more vicious swinging doors have been known to do this.

So it was that Merion followed steps one through three of this method to the letter, but sadly failed to remember step four. The door sent him staggering forwards to sprawl rather ungracefully over the post desk.

As Merion regained his balance, he heard somebody sniggering. He looked up to find a short bald man sat behind the counter. He was wearing a clerk’s uniform so bleached by the sun it was almost grey, and for some reason he had thought it a good idea to cultivate a moustache under the balloon-like growth he called a nose. Merion wasn’t surprised to see that he was lacking several of his teeth.

‘I want to send a letter,’ Merion stated.

The clerk regained his composure and laid his hairy hands flat on the counter. ‘Well, you’re in the right place for it. Where’s this letter of yours going to?’

‘To London, please. To Constable Pagget’s office on Gibbet Street.’

The clerk puckered his lips and emitted a low whistle. ‘Empire-born, are you? Gonna cost you.’

This man was already beginning to irritate him intensely. Merion took a breath. ‘I imagined it might. How much?’

Now the clerk began to suck at his teeth. Merion wondered how many more annoying noises he had in his repertoire.

‘One sil’erbit,’ he said.

Merion shook his head. ‘I don’t know what one of those is.’

The clerk laughed so hard and so suddenly that he wheezed instead. Merion clenched his fists and forced himself to be polite.
Manners.

‘A silver bit, son. A silver coin with Lincoln’s face on it.’

‘I don’t have one of those …’ Merion mumbled as he dug into his pockets.

‘Well then, we ain’t sending your letter now, are we?’

‘… but I do have one with the sigil of Queen Victorious on it.’ Merion held a silver coin up to the sunlight streaming through the windows and then placed it on the counter. He left his finger on it, pointing straight down at the queen’s mark.

The clerk sniffed, and coughed, and then shuffled in his seat. ‘Don’t normally make a habit of taking Empire coin,’ he finally said. ‘It’ll have to be two.’

‘But you just said …’ Merion spluttered.

The clerk just shrugged. ‘Exchange rate,’ was his only excuse.

‘Fine.’ Merion dug out another silver coin and slid it across the desk to sit beside the other. A finger was placed on that sigil too. ‘How long?’ he asked.

‘How long what?’

‘How long does it take to get there?’

‘A month, at best.’

Merion rubbed his forehead. ‘Do you have a pen or a quill?’

The clerk sniffed again. ‘One sil’erbit.’

‘Not to buy! To borrow.’

The clerk shook his head, trying to give his mouth an officious slant. ‘We ain’t in the habit of loanin’ pens to strangers. ‘Specially Empire ones.’

Merion wanted to take a pen and shove it up the man’s nose, but he managed to stay calm. Well, almost. ‘I’m not a stranger,’ he snapped. ‘I am Lilain Rennevie’s nephew, I’ll have you know.’

The clerk raised his greasy eyebrows. ‘Are you indeed?’

Merion nodded firmly. ‘I am. Now, may I have a pen?’

An ink-stained finger was waved at the doorway. ‘Over there. On the desk.’

Merion scowled. ‘I’ll be back momentarily.’

The clerk sniffed once again. ‘Very well then, I’ll see you,
momentarily
.’

With his shoulders well and truly hunched, the boy stalked over to the desk and snatched the pen from its little glass jar. He stuck a hand inside his shirt and pulled out a few of the blank sheets of paper he had swiped from his aunt’s floor. With purpose, and a dwindling supply of ink, Merion bent over the paper and scribbled until his arm ached. He recounted his whole journey, going into detail on the conditions of his past and current accommodation, and making sure to convey exactly how dissatisfied he was with the transfer of information from London to America. Finally, just as the pen offered up its last obsidian drops, he demanded to be updated on the capture of his father’s murderer, and insisted on being sent a return ticket.

When Merion was finished, he held the paper up to the light of a high window, like a trophy of his utter dissatisfaction with the world.

‘You done?’ grumbled the bald dolt behind the counter.

‘Yes,’ Merion replied. ‘Yes, I am.’ He returned to find his two silver coins had been already been pocketed. ‘To the office of Constable Jimothy Pagget, Gibbet Street, London, the Empire of Britannia.’

‘Here,’ said the clerk, sliding an envelope across the counter. ‘Write it yourself. That’ll cost you a copper dime by the way,’ he sniffed, as Merion pulled a bronze penny from his pocket. ‘Don’t send many letters over the Iron Ocean.’

Merion looked the man square in the eye. ‘Well, from now on it will be a regular occurrence,’ he told him, and then glanced back at the desk. ‘That pen needs more ink.’

The clerk gave him a look that seemed to suggest Merion had just asked for a pouch of gold nuggets instead of a pot of ink. He shook his head, tutted, and produced a fresh bottle from underneath the counter. ‘Don’t be using it all up now.’

Merion had half a mind to spill the ink on the floor as he made his way back to the desk. He scratched out the address as quick as he could, and then pressed the letter into the clerk’s palm, along with another copper coin. ‘So it gets there a little faster,’ said Merion, puffing out his chest.

‘Hmph,’ replied the clerk, and as Merion gingerly slid through the swinging doors, he added, ‘You’ll be lucky.’

But Merion did not hear him. He was too focused on his next task: he had business at the train station.

*

‘
How
much
?’ Merion shouted over the deafening hissing of the locomotive. A fresh batch of workers had just arrived, adding to the chaos that gripped the town. ‘It sounded like you said fifty gold florins!’

‘That’s right, sixty gold florins!’

‘
Sixty
?’

The driver, whose name badge said ‘Eldrew’, was a big pile of lard topped off with a big black beard that was thicker than a hedge. His face, what little of it could be seen, was smeared with engine grease and coal dust. His eyes twinkled in the sun as he gazed at his beast of a machine. He could have been staring at one of the street whores, the way he eyed her up and down. Taking a grubby hand from his pocket, he flashed five fingers, then one. ‘Sixty!’ he shouted again.

Merion’s heart sank.
Sixty gold florins
.

‘Somebody has paid a lot of money for me to be here,’ he whispered to himself, his words lost in the hissing of the engine. People milled around him. There was the occasional shove, or casual elbow. Merion didn’t feel a thing. He just stared at the great big jets of steam erupting from the locomotive’s jagged vents and wondered how he could ever gather together such a large amount of money. His mind tumbled over a wandering path of logic, aching for a plan, a scheme, anything that could get him all the way to the ocean and beyond. All the while he thumbed the few coins he had in his pockets.