The Purple Emperor

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

It was pleasant to be free again. Not just free from prison, although that was a definite bonus, but free from responsibilities. With any amount of luck, Hairstreak would forget about him now – heaven knew the little turd would have enough on his plate just running the Realm. Chalkhill scratched his ear. It might be useful to change his name as a precautionary measure, perhaps adopt something heroic like Lime Hawk, but that apart he could go where he wished, do what he wanted. He'd sell the estate, of course, use the cash to make a new start, possibly look up his old partner Brimstone – dreadful creature, but one had to admit he had a talent for business. The world, as the old saying went, was his chrysalis.

But first he had to get rid of the worm.

The brass plaque said simply Dr Vapourer and was as discreet as everything else about the clinic. Chalkhill had used the place before to rid himself of that embarrassing little problem he'd picked up at the tattoo parlour. Expensive, but circumspect and extremely skilful in certain areas. He was fairly sure they could have the creature removed – and painlessly – in a fraction of the time mentioned by the Facemaster.

He reached out to ring the bell and the worm froze his arm.

'What do you think you're doing?' Chalkhill asked crossly. He was actually more than a little taken aback – he hadn't realised how much control the worm had over his body. But perhaps it was temporary, or perhaps with an effort he could overcome the vermicular influence. Cautiously he tried to move the arm again, but it remained frozen.

'You don't want to do that,' the worm said crisply inside his mind.

'Don't If

'No, you don't,' the worm insisted. 'Not until you've heard what I have to say.'

Chalkhill groaned silently. The creature was about to embark on one of its interminable philosophical debates, he was sure of it. 'Cyril,'' he said patiently, 'it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but the time has come for us to go our separate ways.' An elderly couple passing in the street glanced at him strangely, but Chalkhill ignored them. 'I'm sure you appreciate -'

'I've been instructed to recruit you,' Cyril interrupted him.

Chalkhill blinked. 'Recruit me?'

'You're an intelligent man,' the worm said smoothly. 'I'm sure it won't have escaped your notice that the Realm is in a mess. Faeries at each other's throats over nothing more substantial than the shape of their eyes or the nature of their beliefs. One Emperor assassinated, the next replaced before he can be even crowned. The constant threat of war. The failing economy. Greed and hedonism everywhere. Complete failure of old family values. The entire Empire would be going to hell in a handcart if the portals weren't closed.'

'Well, clearly things aren't perfect,' Chalkhill agreed, wishing the worm would release his arm. It was beginning to ache quite badly. 'But they're no worse than they've ever been and there's not a lot that anyone can do about it, so if you'd just let go of my ar-'

'There is something we can do about it,' Cyril said earnestly. 'Specifically, there's something you can do about it. I'm inviting you to join the Wangaramas Revolution.'

Chalkhill suddenly found his arm was free. He flexed the fingers to relieve the ache, then slowly withdrew it from the bell. 'What's the Wangaramas Revolution?"