Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3) Page 6

  ‘Good,’ Dizali said, raising his glass again. She followed suit.

  ‘I’m still interested in the Queen, however. How exactly did she betray the Empire?’

  Dizali didn’t seem as proud of this story as he had been of the last; perhaps because it had a few dubious holes in it. Maybe because it was messy, rushed, already fraying at the edges. Calidae had seen the lies printed between the lines of the newspaper stories, and he spun her the same now. She was not ready for the whole truth, it seemed.

  ‘Some of the more loyal Emerald Lords and I went to read her the terms we had devised for her new state of rule. We were refused entry at first, but upon reaching her throne room, we discovered she was holding a secret meeting with a Rosiyan envoy, and colluding to divide up the Ottoman Empire between our two realms. Our own allies, might I add! We arrested the envoy and had Victorious placed under lock and key in her own palace, until such time as we could pass sentence.’

  Dizali hummed for a moment, as if deciding whether to go any further. Calidae was glad he did.

  ‘The Order has finally decided to imprison her.’

  Calidae could barely hide her shock. This was a move no Order in Europe had ever made. She masked her expression with a long sip of brandy, practically chasing it to the bottom of the glass.

  ‘As all criminals in the Empire should be,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ muttered the Brother.

  ‘Be silent, man!’ Dizali snapped. ‘Well, Lady Serped, I believe that is enough deep conversation and politics for today. It is time to show you to your rooms. I shall keep you here for the time being, until we can ensure no filthy fingers are busy groping your father’s estate.’

  ‘What a delightful image, my Lord,’ Calidae remarked. Dizali pulled an unamused face.

  ‘Slickharbour Spit will be returned to you in time. But you must be patient. We will go about this carefully.’

  Calidae was not fooled for an instant. Dizali’s words could have fertilised a field. There was no need for care. She was the rightful heir and that was that. Her father had been wise to explain the process to her, on first leaving for the Endless Land. But she would let Dizali play his games while she played hers, and made her sacrifices. She nodded graciously.

  Clovenhall was mightier than Slickharbour, and that rankled Calidae even more. The ceilings soared and the marble shone. Butlers hovered in every doorway, ready and waiting to bow and scrape. The afternoon sunlight streamed down in thick shafts, painting the granite walls a glowing orange. Dizali didn’t deserve this sort of finery; he was owed a pit full of spikes and rats.

  She was led up a curving river of steps and into the opulent upper corridors. Corner after corner they turned, their route tangled like twisted knitting. Her mind ached as she tried to remember her steps.

  She heard a peculiar noise coming from ahead. Banging. Thudding of some sort. It sounded like fists on a locked door.

  Calidae halted at the door in question as another it was shaken by another cluster of poundings.

  ‘Dizali!’ came a shout, muffled by the silver-inlaid panels. ‘Dizali!’ It was clear from the foul expression on Dizali’s face that this was definitely not welcome.

  ‘Deal with him, Hanister.’

  ‘Milord.’ The Brother produced a key from his breast pocket. The door was unlocked and shoved inwards, eliciting a cry, and swiftly shut again. The corridor fell silent, except for the thudding of their feet.

  ‘How peculiar,’ Calidae remarked, testing whether Dizali would talk.

  Dizali spoke over his shoulder. ‘A disgruntled former business associate of mine. One who is currently struggling to learn the meaning of patience.’

  ‘I see.’ She took the opportunity to glance out of a passing window, trying to gauge where exactly they were in this monstrous house. It turned out they had already reached her rooms.

  ‘And here we are, Lady Calidae. My finest guest quarter. Decorated by my late wife, many years ago, and untouched, as she would have wanted. It was one of her many projects. I trust you’ll find it to your liking,’ He unlocked the door and swept into the room.

  ‘Anything would be better than sleeping in the dust, my Lord, or on stinking ship bunks,’ she said, shivering for good measure.

  For once, Dizali was sincere. The room was humongous; loaded with plush furniture, draped in silks and gold leaf. Every inch of it screamed luxury. An immense four-poster bed stood in the centre. Blue curtains reached from the carpeted floor right up to the roof, where cherubs filled the cornicing and surrounded a small chandelier hanging over the foot of the bed. It was a stark contrast to the rest of Clovenhall.

  ‘This will do nicely, Lord Dizali. Thank you!’

  Maybe spending time in the mouth of the beast came with some perks. Merion would be jealous.

  Dizali nodded, turning his gaze to Calidae’s old skirt and borrowed cloak. ‘There are clothes that may fit you in the dressers. Dinner is at six. You may read in the library until then.’

  Calidae cocked her head to one side. ‘And will your house-guest be joining us?’

  Dizali wrinkled his nose. ‘He will not. He’ll be firmly in his rooms where he belongs.’

  ‘Intriguing.’

  The Lord Protector decided that was enough talk for one day and made for the door. He paused halfway under its frame, fingers tapping on the handle. ‘I assume I do not need to remind you, Lady Serped, of the need for confidentiality.’

  Calidae gave him her most earnest look. ‘Of course not, my Lord.’

  ‘Because we have a war to fight, both silently and openly. There are supporters of our cause, and there are traitors to it. The line is thin, often crossed with barely a whisper. I trust you will be a firm supporter, Calidae, and give us the help we need. You will, as you so rightly said, do your father’s memory proud.’

  ‘Of course, my Lord.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dizali, and closed the door behind him.

  Calidae clenched her fists so hard her knuckles popped. She paced in a tight circle, panting long and hard to quell her indignation. Dizali might as well have painted the words Slickharbour Spit across the walls. Her estate for his war effort. Her father would have been turning in his grave had he not been ash on the wind.

  As Calidae stormed about, glaring at paintings and gilded windows, she caught her reflection in a silver mirror, perched on a nightstand. She slowly stepped toward it, eyes studying the patches of bare skin that poked through her hair, now finally growing again. As she examined herself, her anger was forgotten, and she thought only of the game she now played, and how she would see it to the end. No matter the cost, a winner is always a winner.

  She stared at the whorl of her ear and cheek, noting how it wrinkled. She smiled.

  ‘I am a Serped.’

  *

  ‘You believe her?’ Hanister asked, standing straight and tall at the end of the corridor, arms folded behind his back. Dizali glared at the man as he swept past him. He was no Gavisham, and it irked him deeply.

  ‘My Lord?’ Hanister added, as he leapt to catch up.

  Dizali spoke low and quiet. ‘She is either a very accomplished liar, or she is telling the truth and has only loyal intentions.’

  Hanister mulled that over. Like Dizali, he couldn’t seem to decide. ‘She is a lamprey, after all,’ he said.

  ‘And therefore should have no reason to lie,’ said Dizali.

  There was something perplexing about the Serped girl. Perhaps it was her tenacity. Maybe some of the fire that had scorched her had crept into her bones. She certainly seemed fearless enough; most people quailed when he asked them a question. This fourteen-year-old girl had barely batted an eyelid. ‘In any case, I still want her watched. And you,’ he poked Hanister sharply in the arm, ‘will be the one watching her. I want her under close supervision. Even here in the house.’

  ‘As you wish, my Lord.’

  ‘And I want Rolick put on guard duty at Harker Sheer with a few of his men. Jus
t in case the boy is also on his way back. It’ll be the first place he goes. Hark will not be able to resist taking a peek at what I have taken from him.’

  ‘Like a bee to a flower.’

  Dizali and Hanister walked along in silence until they passed the door with silver etched into it.

  ‘What did he want?’ asked the Lord Protector.

  ‘To see you, as usual. Thinks he should be set free. In the captivity sense, not killed. He was quite clear on that.’

  ‘I grow tired of his demands.’ Dizali had pondered long and hard over whether he should just kill Witchazel and be done with the bothersome wreck of a man. He was a loose thread, but the deeds still had to be plucked from the detestable Orange Seed device. Karrigan’s last laugh, as Dizali had privately dubbed it.

  ‘Want me to shut him up?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Dizali replied as they juddered down the stairs. ‘Come. It is time we went to pay our good Queen a visit. We have a sentence to deliver.’

  *

  The day had become rainy and humid, and it made for an uncomfortable carriage-ride to the Palace of Ravens. If they kept the windows shut, they practically roasted alive. If they had them down, the stench of a wet city pained their noses. There wasn’t a thick enough handkerchief in the world that could combat London’s summer stink.

  Dizali sweated beneath his suit. For such a momentous occasion, his attire was rather plain; but he had never been one for show and pomp. Doing. Action. Progress. That was where he directed his efforts.

  The Lord Protector watched his city roll by, fading from riches to poverty to riches again, all in a score of miles. A rolling picture of humanity, spattered with all its glory and grime. His city. His, and only his. Or at least it would be very shortly. Loose ends always beg to be cut.

  When he heard the familiar rattle of the cobbles die to the smoother gallop of the flagstones of London’s core, Dizali turned to Hanister.

  ‘Has there been any word from your Brothers?’

  ‘Not since the last wiregram, my Lord. They should be out of the trenches by now. Going via Venice, then London via the railroad.’

  ‘With good news, I trust? Vials brimming with leech-blood.’

  Hanister met his gaze evenly. ‘My Brothers will get it done, Lord Protector. They always do.’ At least he was managing to remember the proper titles. Only Gavisham could get away with being casual.

  ‘We shall see. Speaking of blood, are you prepared?’

  ‘As always, my Lord.’ Hanister undid a few buttons and showed the insides of his waistcoat, where a score of skinny vials were concealed in clever pockets. Blue through to brown and yellow, and then to deep red. A neat spectrum.

  ‘Good. I expect the Queen to be far from gracious.’

  Hanister joined him in a murky chuckle.

  Before long, they were rolling up the wide road connecting the Emerald House with the Palace of Ravens. The palace walls bristled with arms and armour, as they had for many days now. Barricades blocked every gate and entrance. Heavy guns perched in their cradles, glinting in the patchwork sunlight. Men and women swarmed every inch of pavement: lordsguards, soldiers of the army, even some of the constabulary, come to gawp. They were as silent as the crowds of citizens, perched on the opposite sides of surrounding streets and braving the showers. Some came to glare at the house of the traitorous Queen, others to stare at the soldiers and lordsguards. The more the merrier, thought Dizali, allowing himself a smile. Making history always requires an audience.

  Dizali wound down his window, peering over the armoured heads, bayonets, and spear-tips to admire Victorious’ temporary prison. The vast grounds between the barricaded gate and the palace door were empty; just a few dumbstruck queensguards hovering by the mighty steps. They were trapped, the same as their queen. They carried no spears, no weapons at all. Warning shots inches from their feet had seen to that, thanks to Admiral Caven’s excellent snipers. Now all they wanted was out. Sadly for them, Victorious had put some old magick in the gates, and melted them shut with her will.

  The palace itself looked dead to the core. Every window was closed and curtained. The flags had been ripped from the soaring turrets. Not even the ravens cawed from their nests in the pines. All that could be heard was the rumblings of the gawpers, and the squeak of carriage wheels coming to a rest.

  If he was honest with himself, Dizali found it all rather disconcerting. But honesty was never his flavour of choice, and so he affected a charismatic yet determined expression and stepped out of the carriage. The crowds had already spied his coat of arms on the doors, but only now was the silence broken. The muted whispers gradually grew into cheers and cries, boos and yells. It seemed the crowd was split down the centre. Dizali ignored what he could and lapped up the rest.

  He waved as he strode through the lines of soldiers and lordsguards, escorted by grim-faced generals and captains. Hanister walked at his shoulder. Dizali didn’t even have to give orders. They knew the time to act had come. The ranks split for him, falling back to let the Lord Protector pass. It was though a hole had been punched in a dam. Men and women surged forwards, chasing Dizali’s wake. They formed into thick ranks, toting guns and spears, drawing swords.

  They thickened into a wall that left a clear bubble around the main gates. A huge, black-mouthed cannon emerged from the ranks, much like a shark breaking from angry water. It was a formidable-looking thing; all cogs and sharp angles, a burnt bronze on the outside. Its black mouth had a jagged edge, poised to belch fire. Parts of it ticked. Others steamed.

  ‘A Chimera Cannon, my Lord,’ a man was saying into Dizali’s ear, as if he cared. ‘Built by the world-famous Starford gunsmiths. Designed to sink a small ship in one hit.’

  An intricately pitted cannonball was brought forth and loaded into the claws of the mechanism. Men went to work pulling cranks and winding the aiming wheels. It was the musical clatter of expert training. Britannia gun-crews were the fastest in the world.

  In mere moments, the Chimera was poised and ready. The crowd took a collective breath. Dizali raised his hands and plugged his ears. He did not want to be deaf when the Queen was pleading for her life like a factory whelp with a broken back.

  By his side, a general raised his hand, held it, and let it fall. The blast was thunderous; the sort of explosion of sound that punched straight to the inner organs. Dizali found himself momentarily breathless.

  The gates flew open with a screech and a shower of sparks. One was partially torn from its hinges. The cannonball tore across the grounds and dismantled part of the palace’s grand steps. A few of the queensguards tottered about in the haze of stone-dust, half-stunned.

  The bubble collapsed and the eager ranks poured forth like a tidal surge. Dizali and his entourage marched at its head. The roar of boots on gravel meshed with the cries and cheers of the crowd. Dizali grinned inwardly. Public opinion was the currency of power. He was winning hearts today. Karrigan the Bulldog had never been so bold, so righteous.

  As the Lord Protector climbed the cracked steps up to the mighty doorway, the soldiers and lordsguards fanned out to surround the palace, blades and guns low and ready. The queensguards immediately buried their faces in the dust, lying spreadeagled. They were mercilessly hauled aside. Dizali would decide their fates when he was done with Victorious.

  ‘The door!’ He waved a hand, and several lordsguards broke the golden handles from the wood. A few kicks gave them access, and they swarmed through the opulent halls of the huge palace, where gargoyles lingered in every corner, and where purple carpets traced a maze through the endless corridors and rooms. It was one of London’s most ancient buildings, and it never failed to bring a chill to the nape of Dizali’s neck.

  With a snarl fixed on his face, he led them up the curving staircases. At the highest level—some ten floors above ground—they came to the grand doors of the Queen’s throne room, studded with jewels and etched with scenes of wherever she and her kind had sprung from. The Lost, as they called i
t. Some island forgotten in the ice. Dizali spared no time for staring.

  The soldiers went to work, throwing their weight against the huge doors. There was no Chimera this time, just brute strength, and it took considerably longer. Dizali spent the minutes rehearsing his words. These were to be the words of revolution and every good usurper knows the benefits of practice. He looked around, counting the scores filling the hall, crowding the stairs. Witnesses all, each with a tongue that would wag on street corners and in taverns, telling the story of how Dizali damned the Queen. He wanted those words to be carved into memory, etched into stone, recorded in books for generations. Like himself, immortalised.

  When finally the bolts broke and the doors splintered, a gust of wind rushed inwards. Dizali felt the breeze rustle the waxed strands of his hair and goatee. It was as if the room itself gasped for air. The soldiers murmured between themselves.

  ‘Onwards!’ yelled a general. Rank by rank the soldiers and lordsguards pushed on, shoulders jostling together. Dizali and his entourage stayed behind this time, waiting for their troops to fan out and fill the vast throne room.

  When he emerged from the press of men and women and armour, Dizali looked up at the tall crimson curtain that halved the room and regarded it with a sneer. Hanister stood by his side, fingers twitching and ready. Dizali took a deep breath.

  ‘Victorious!’ he bellowed, intentionally omitting her royal title.

  His lone voice reverberated around the throne room. Echoes piled on top of echoes, until they finally died to eerie silence. There was no rasping, no rattling, no hoarse breathing.

  ‘Tear it down!’ Dizali ordered. But before anybody could move, she spoke.

  ‘Come to destroy me, Lord Dizali?’ rattled Victorious, her voice tight and hoarse. She sounded a good distance behind the curtain.

  Dizali spoke clearly as he delivered his practised words.

  ‘Queen Victorious, you have failed this country in its time of need, and spat upon its loyalty. You have been found wanting, and now we people have spoken. We will be heard. The Empire deserves, and shall be delivered with, a finer leader than you—’