Faerie Wars 02 - The Purple Emperor (5 page)

'Maura,' said the old bag. 'Call me Maura.' She lowered her eyes. 'And I shall call you Silas.'

'You'll call me nothing of the sort,' Brimstone snapped. Lower classes never knew their place when you were short of cash.

'What I was thinking of, Silas,' said Widow Mormo, not at all put out, 'was a little ... arrangement.'

'What sort of arrangement?' he asked suspiciously. Anything that got him better food without paying more had to be worth listening to. But she'd want something in return, of course - people always did. Probably his help with an illegal spell. He'd told her nothing, but he knew he had the scent of sulphur about him and she was as shrewd as she was hideous. Chances were she'd put him down for a sorcerer the minute he'd walked through the door. It'd be an illegal spell all right. But how bad could that be? He'd dealt with demons all his life and his last contract with Beleth had called for human sacrifice. Nothing the crone came up with was likely to be in the same league.

'I'm a widow woman, Silas,' she said softly. 'Have been since my Stanley died.'

'What's that got to do with me?' Brimstone snapped.

'Thought we might get married,' Widow Mormo told him coyly.

Brimstone stared at the old bat in astonishment. Even in her younger days she must have been the ugliest woman in the country. Now, without teeth, warty, wrinkled, rheumy, balding, smelly, dirty, badly-dressed and flatulent, she'd have been more appealing as a corpse.

'You want me to marry you?' he said.

'Get you out of here,' Widow Mormo sniffed. 'I got a place of my own in the woods - log cabin with mod cons, a full cabinet of spells and a nice comfortable double bed. Keep my money underneath the mattress.

Nobody ever goes there. Nobody even knows about it.' She smiled seductively and gummily. 'We could slip away for our honeymoon.'

Brimstone frowned. A nice isolated log cabin could be just the thing he needed. Not to mention Widow Mormo's money and the spells in her magic cabinet. He cracked a wintery smile. He could cut her throat when they got there and bury her body in the woods.

'Yes, all right,' he said brightly.

The Great Keep of Asloght was an imposing sight as it rose against the stark backdrop of the Nikure Barrens, but most of its structure was actually underground. The eighteen-hundred-year-old fort was built with a warren of subterranean chambers for food storage. Now prisoners were the only things that rotted in the gloomy cells. For more than three centuries, Asloght had been the Realm's main jail for recalcitrant criminals and political dissidents.

Harold Dingy was having trouble with the Governor of the Keep.

'I'm not saying these papers aren't genuine,' the Governor said. 'I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying the sealing wax is red, and in my experience it should be pink.'

'Red ... pink ... what's the difference?' Dingy asked. He was a big man, not altogether used to being questioned. Especially the way he was dressed just now.

'Shade,' said the Governor. 'A shade of difference, you might say.' He looked up and smiled manically. 'And a shade of difference might make all the difference.'

Dingy didn't smile back. 'You know the prisoner these papers refer to?'

The Governor glanced at them again. 'Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.'

'Scum, would you say?'

The Governor nodded. 'Of the lowest sort.'

'Deserving of the penalty the papers lay out?'

'Penalties are not my business,' the Governor said primly. 'My business is to detain - and where necessary torture a little - those placed in my charge. But since you ask, I believe this prisoner is deserving, very deserving, of the penalty laid out. Too good for him, in my view. Purely a personal opinion, of course.'

Dingy frowned. 'Too good for him? It's the ultimate penalty, isn't it? Can't get more ultimate than death.'

'Indeed not. But what sort of death? That's what I would ask.'

'What sort would you want?' asked Dingy, suddenly curious.

The Governor leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his hands. He rolled his eyes heavenwards, or at least as heavenwards as the ceiling of his office allowed. 'Well, we could gradually starve him, or crush his feet and put him on a treadmill, bleed him to death, beat him to a pulp, feed him a slow-acting poison, remove his vital organs one by one, transplant his brain into the body of a rat, insert red-hot needles into his ears, nail his feet to the floor so he can't reach his food (which is starving him, I admit, but more stylishly), bake him in a slow oven, stampede a herd of elephants over him, force him to eat an endolg, staple his mouth and nose shut so he can't breathe, drown him in a cesspit, burn off his skin, drop an anvil on his head, stretch him between dray horses, feed him to hounds, electrocute him with an eel, drop him from high tower, inject him with soapsuds, have him eaten by mosquitoes, make him stab rocks with a Halek knife, change him into a mouse and bring in the cat, bury him in snow until the spring, send him to the ink mines, drill holes in his head and pour in acid -' He waved an airy hand. 'This warrant only specifies hanging.'

Dingy glanced at the papers. They did seem a bit unimaginative. 'How about I duff him up beforehand?'

'Be a help,' the Governor said.

'So what about the sealing wax?'

The Governor shrugged. 'Red ... pink ... what's the difference?' He stood up. 'Put your hood up. I'll get somebody to show you to his cell.'

The basic cell in Asloght was a twelve-foot cube with a run-off for the water that seeped down the stone-block walls. Furnishings were confined to a heap of damp straw in one corner and a bucket. There were no curtains at the windows because there were no windows. Prisoners were issued with one stubby candle per week.

Jasper Chalkhill's quarters were rather more luxurious, thanks to a small fortune spent on bribes. He had more space, for one thing, a pink carpet on the floor, a proper bed in one corner, glow globes set into the ceiling, an easy chair, a dining chair, a bookcase, a table and a small refrigerator filled with sticky snacks and drinks. Even compared to prison staff, Chalkhill was probably the most comfortable man in Asloght.

But that didn't stop him complaining.

'It's not what I'm used to,' he told the orderly he'd hired at huge expense to be his valet. 'I do so miss my little spells. They won't allow me any magic here, you know.' Which wasn't strictly true - a weekly absorbent spell took care of the damp - but there were certainly no magical luxuries.

The orderly, a patient Trinian named Clutterbuck, was engaged in light housework while Chalkhill reclined prostrate with boredom on the bed. 'I don't suppose I could tempt you to a little mahjong?' Chalkhill asked. 'We could play for sweeties. Anything to ease this dreadful ennui.'' He drew the back of his hand theatrically across his forehead to give the suggestion emphasis, even though he suspected he knew the answer before he asked the question.

'Sorry, sir, don't know the game at all,' Clutterbuck told him briskly. 'Besides, sir, with respect, sir, gaming isn't in my contract. Just the basic Four Cs - cooking, cleaning, conversation and clothing. Four Cs, sir. Doesn't run to gaming, I'm afraid, on account of that being a G.' He began to set out the cutlery for Chalkhill's next meal.

'How would it be -' Chalkhill stopped. 'What's the matter?' The Trinian had moved abruptly to the door of the cell and was now pressed against the wall beside it, sniffing furiously.

'Danger, sir. Approaching us at walking pace.'

Chalkhill sat up in bed. 'How do you know?'

'Can smell it, sir - I had the training.'

Chalkhill swung his feet on to the floor. He was a fat man with a taste for flamboyant clothing, and although his opportunities to indulge it now were limited, he still managed a lime-green robe with jewelled pumps.

'Will you protect me?' he asked curiously. Then, before Clutterbuck could answer, echoed, 'Not in the contract - I know, I know.' He stood up. 'My, my, danger coming - this is exciting!'

'That's one way of putting it, sir. Now, if there's nothing more you need me for, I'll leave you to face it.'

'No, you run along, Clutterbuck. Thank you.' Chalkhill's eyes were fixed on the door and he licked his lips in some anticipation. Almost anything would be better than the endless, dreadful sameness of his prison days.

Clutterbuck unlocked the door and opened it to slip out. As he did so, a tall figure slipped in. Chalkhill's pleasurable expectation drained through the soles of his feet. The creature wore a black robe with a hood that covered its entire face except for two glittering dark eyes. It carried the large, sharp scythe and ceremonial oakwood hour-glass of a State Executioner.

'My God,' said Chalkhill in sudden dread. 'They've sent you to kill me!'

The Executioner seemed in something of a hurry. He swept down the corridors of the Great Keep like a herald of doom, dragging Chalkhill behind him.

'Steady on,' gasped Chalkhill breathlessly. At this pace he'd be dead before the man could hang him.

The Governor was waiting for them at the main gates. 'Where exactly are you taking him?' he asked the Executioner.

'That's something you don't need to know,' the Executioner told him flatly. 'Let's just say it's somewhere nobody will see what I plan to do with him.'

'Excellent!' the Governor exclaimed. He gave a signal to the guards and the gates swung slowly open.

There was a black coach outside, drawn by four black horses. A hunchbacked coachman in a black cloak and black three-cornered hat gripped the reins with claw-like hands. To Chalkhill's surprise, there were no bars on the windows. The Executioner bundled him inside and, to Chalkhill's even greater surprise, climbed in beside him. The coach lurched off violently the moment the door closed.

Chalkhill watched through the window, wondering if he could safely jump. But the Executioner pushed the hood back to reveal a moon-shaped face that was curiously familiar. 'Harold Dingy,' he said, grinning. 'Lord Hairstreak sent me to get you out.'

Chalkhill stared at him in astonishment. He'd spied for Lord Hairstreak for years, but he knew the drill well enough - any spy who got caught was on his own. Black Hairstreak would deny his existence and let him rot. Which was exactly what he had done since Chalkhill was jailed. 'What about the execution papers?' he asked suspiciously.

'Forged, of course.' Dingy caught his expression and smiled. 'Don't worry - he's got a job for you.'

A job? That would explain it. Chalkhill found himself beginning to relax. 'I don't suppose you know what this job is?' he asked.

'Course I do,' said Harold Dingy, still grinning broadly. 'He wants you to stop young Pyrgus Malvae becoming Purple Emperor.'

Blue found Pyrgus (at last!) in the throne room. 'Where on earth have you been?' she hissed. He was gawping at the Imperial Crown, an amethyst and gold headpiece that crackled with purple fire even in its protective case. In two weeks' time he would have to submit himself to the energies that coursed from it through his body, transforming him from Emperor Elect to Emperor. Before he had time to answer, she snapped impatiently, 'Doesn't matter - I need to talk to you.'

Pyrgus turned like a sleepwalker and stared at her blankly.

'In private,' Blue said.

Pyrgus blinked slowly. 'There's no one else here.' His mind was clearly miles away.

'Oh, for heaven's sake, Pyrgus!' The throne room was designed for public pronouncements, with acoustic galleries that carried every whisper into the winding corridors outside. It was the least private chamber in the entire palace.