Faerie Lord

Twenty-Three

There was a moment of confusion, then Henry opened his eyes to darkness. He couldn’t remember where he was, or how he got here. He couldn’t even remember where he’d been. There was something about coming to the Faerie Realm with Nymph, then… then…

No, it was gone. He knew he’d been doing something in the Realm, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what. Every time he tried, it was as if his mind went soggy and a white fog swirled across his memory.

The darkness was absolute.

He was on his knees, on a hard floor. He shouldn’t be on his knees (which hurt quite a lot now he thought of them). Surely he should be standing up? Surely he was standing up – or maybe sitting down, but certainly not on his knees – before he… before he…? Where the hell was he?

You didn’t often get darkness like this. In the dead of night there was always starlight or moonlight or reflections from street lights. Even in a curtained room, some light filtered through. But there was no light here at all. He thought he might be underground.

There was a dry smell of decay.

Still on his knees, Henry began to feel afraid. ‘Hello…?’ he whispered.

He felt the floor with one hand. It was hard, like rock, flat with a sandstone texture. It was cool, but not exactly cold, and dusty. The dust rose to catch in his throat and make him cough. For some reason he tried to suppress the cough, keep it as quiet as possible. So the cough turned into a little cough, hardly more than a clearing of the throat. He shouldn’t have said Hello, not even in whisper, not when he didn’t know where he was or who might be close by. He was in the Realm now and the Realm was different from his own world. The Realm was a lot more dangerous.

Henry climbed cautiously to his feet, very much aware of the thumping of his heart. He swallowed hard to get rid of the dust. Without moving from the spot, he reached out cautiously in front of him. His hands touched… nothing. He reached behind him with the same result.

The air was quite stuffy, as if he was in an enclosed space. He stretched out one foot. The floor in front of him seemed solid enough, but he really didn’t fancy walking forward in the darkness. He might be near the edge of a cliff or a pit or a crevasse.

What he needed – badly – was light.

He was still wearing his own clothes, the ones he’d been wearing when Pyrgus and Nymph turned up at Mr Fogarty’s house. (Pyrgus had looked old, Henry remembered, but couldn’t remember why.) Henry began to fish in his trouser pocket. Almost at once, with a surge of delighted relief, he found a Bic lighter.

And promptly dropped it on the floor.

He heard the little disposable strike the ground and skitter. Henry dropped to his knees again. It didn’t sound as if the lighter had dropped into a pit, but he was taking no chances. Besides which, his only chance of finding it again was to sweep the floor carefully with his hands. Which he did, disturbing more dust. He crawled forward slowly, on his knees, sweeping carefully, cautiously, a little at a time.

Something moved and he snatched his hand away, then froze. After a moment the renewed thumping of his heart died down a little. Whatever moved was really small, probably just a cockroach. Henry didn’t much like cockroaches, but at least they didn’t do you any harm. Unless, of course, it wasn’t a cockroach, but something poisonous, like a scorpion or a – But he forced himself to put a rein on his imagination. The lighter was his only hope. He couldn’t stop looking for it now.

He leaned forward and resumed the sweeping movement with his hands.

His left hand struck something hard. He felt along cautiously and came to the conclusion it might be a wall, but couldn’t make up his mind whether it was a natural structure or man-made. He might be in a cave. (How had he got here?) But he might equally well be in some sort of enclosed chamber.

Something rustled drily a little way in front and to his right.

Henry froze again, holding his breath. Every sound was magnified in darkness, he reminded himself. It might be no more than a mouse. But somehow, he didn’t think it was a mouse. He needed light!

He found the Bic!

He couldn’t believe it, but his right hand, the one furthest from the wall, closed around it so tightly he half wondered that the plastic didn’t crack. He scrambled to his feet at once and flicked the wheel. A tiny flame flared, then died at once. The damn lighter had run out of fuel! He remembered now – he’d meant to buy a new one.

There was something white and naked crouching no more than ten feet away from him.

Henry’s mind began to work at lightning speed. Of course there was really nothing there. It was purely his imagination working overtime. That’s what imagination did when you were in the dark. And if there was something near him, it wasn’t living. It was some sort of statue, maybe a gargoyle, something ugly like that because what he’d seen – what he’d thought he’d seen was too ugly to be real. So it was nothing, nothing to worry about. Just a statue or a gargoyle or nothing at all, a lump of rock.

While his mind was working, his thumb took on a life of its own and flicked the little wheel again and again. There was no more gas in the lighter, but it sparked bravely: sparked and sparked and it was so dark that even that small light, the light from the sparks, was enough to let him see the thing that hurled itself towards him.

Twenty-Four

As soon as Chalkhill set eyes on the place, he knew he’d struck gold. Brimstone usually favoured pokey, unobtrusive lodgings, but the Whitewell house was very different: a large, old waterfront property with the overhanging balconies that were fashionable five hundred years ago. It looked dilapidated to the casual eye, but Chalkhill’s eye was far from casual. He could almost smell the spell coatings, cunningly disguised but lavishly applied, that turned the place into a fortress. That sort of security cost a fortune and Brimstone was notoriously careful with money. There had to be something of importance hidden in there.

Whitewell itself was one of those districts that had seen better days. Many of the fine old buildings had been turned into tenements. One of them, almost directly behind Brimstone’s new home, overlooked both its river access and the street. The toothless old crone who lived there accepted Chalkhill’s coin with alacrity, offered him services in which he had no interest, then vacated the premises with an assurance that she would not be back from the tavern before midnight.

Chalkhill pulled a chair to the grubby window, fanned away a lingering odour of flatulence, and settled down to wait.

Brimstone emerged as it was growing dark.

Chalkhill drew back a little from the window, although it was hugely unlikely that Brimstone would look up. He watched as the old man scuttled down the narrow street and disappeared around a corner. Chalkhill waited fully five minutes to see if he would return, then decided the chances were Brimstone was headed for a cafe or a tavern to find himself something to eat. He was as frugal with his meals as he was with his money, but all the same, it would probably be at least an hour before he came back, and it might even be two. Chalkhill waited another few moments, just to be certain, then left the tenement.

There were too many people about to allow a leisurely inspection of the front door, but fortunately a narrow archway led round to the river walk at the rear of the house and there he found no people at all. He had some small chance of being seen from the balconies of neighbouring houses, but it was well worth taking, especially as it was growing darker by the minute.

Close up, his suspicions about spell coatings proved correct. But the interesting thing was they were so subtle. Most security wizards recommended coatings should be obvious to passersby, to act as a deterrent. Heaven only knew what Brimstone’s coatings were designed to do, but they were virtually invisible.

Chalkhill stood for a moment wondering if he had the nerve to test the spell. It was unlikely to be lethal force – that sort of enchantment announced itself in heaps of dead birds and rodents at the foot of the wall but, knowing Brimstone, it was likely to be nasty. But he had to get past Brimstone’s securities if he was to gain entry to the house.

He stood for a moment longer, considering. Short of lethal force, the most popular securities were lethes and mind-benders. Any prospective burglar hit with a lethe promptly forgot what he’d planned to do and wandered off. Mind-benders were less specific. Some regressed you to childhood, so you pooed in your pants, some compelled you to sing loudly until the Guard arrived, some simply knocked you unconscious and left you that way until you were discovered, tried and hanged. None of them was pleasant, but even if he was found unconscious with poo in his pants, he reckoned he could simply claim he’d come to visit an old friend and triggered the spell accidentally. Brimstone might even believe it.

Chalkhill pushed through the coating to test the catch on the nearest window.

He was halfway along the street before he realised what he was doing. The house – Brimstone’s house, that he’d searched for so long – seemed drab and uninteresting. Not the sort of place you would want to rob or enter or even look at for very long. It was a nonentity of a house, a bore of a house, a It was a mind-bender. But what a spell. So subtle you didn’t even realise you’d been bent. Nothing spectacular or embarrassing, just the absolute conviction you should leave Brimstone’s house alone and get on your way. This was no standard, off-the-shelf mind-bender. This spell was clearly custom-made – and by a craftsman. Chalkhill felt a surge of excitement. You didn’t spend money on a craftsman-wizard unless you were hiding something important.

He spun round, but discovered he was still in thrall. Each step towards Brimstone’s home turned his mind to porridge. In less than twenty yards, he could scarcely think at all. He took a deep breath and backed off until his head began to clear.

What now? The spell would wear off eventually, of course, but by then Brimstone might be home again and the opportunity would be lost. It could be a day or more before another one arose. He had an antidote, of course – all spies carried antidotes to mind-benders but he was loath to use it. Maybe if he approached the house from a different direction…

Chalkhill circled the street and approached the house from a different direction. The ploy worked well enough until the house was actually in sight, at which point it was mental porridge time again. His only other option was a river approach, a landing on the Brimstone jetty, but the chances were high that the spell was omnidirectional. Only an idiot would install partial protection and whatever else he might be, Brimstone was no idiot.

It would have to be the antidote. But where to take it? Not in the street, that was for sure. Even though the plague left most streets half empty, there was still a chance that someone might pass by. And not on the river, or even near it. The aftermath was bad enough without the risk of drowning. Eventually he settled on a dark alley. He couldn’t think of anywhere better.

The alley smelt of pee and was the sort of place where you were just asking to be mugged. But fear of plague had cleared out all the derelicts, so his only companion was a scrawny tomcat, which eyed him briefly without much interest, then returned to scavenging its dustbin.

Chalkhill pulled the spy-kit from his pocket and extracted the golden vial. It was one of the new fast-acting spray spells and he pushed the nozzle against the pulse in his wrist before he had a chance to lose his nerve. The tomcat glanced round warily as the vial hissed.

‘Yeee-ahhhh!’ Chalkhill howled as the inside of his head exploded. He hurled himself against one wall of the alley, bounced violently and ricocheted into a doorway. The door held, if only just, so that his momentum took him out again and slammed him face down on the cobbles. His foot caught the dustbin. The tomcat spat at him angrily and raced away. Chalkhill climbed to his feet, aching all over with a warm flow of blood dribbling from his nose. He stood for a moment, breathing heavily.

‘Ooooowwwww! The second wave hit him. He spun on his axis, flailed his arms and punched in a small, leaded window.

‘Bog off – I’m drunk!’ a cross voice called out from inside.

Chalkhill hurled himself backwards and sent the dustbin flying. The metallic clatter was unreal. Along the alley lights began to appear in the windows. Plague or no plague, somebody was bound to come out soon. Maybe none of this was such a good idea. Maybe…

‘Waaaaaaaaahhhhhh!’ Wave three. ‘Yabba-dabba-dabba- dabba-dabba!’ Chalkhill chattered. Sparks danced before his eyes. The world spun round and round. He began to hallucinate pink snakes. Sensing his helplessness, a large rat emerged from the shadows to gnaw at his ankle. In a sudden suicidal impulse he ran head down towards the nearest wall.

Then it stopped and so did Chalkhill, mercifully having only grazed the wall. He stood, paining and panting while the hallucinations died away. He was bruised and bleeding and the rat had ripped flesh from his leg.

He just hoped it would be worth it.