The Purple Emperor

CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE

They took Chalkhill up to the floating platform, where he was faced with the most terrifying sight he'd ever seen. Although it did have some reassuring aspects. It was clean for one thing. All the metal surfaces sparkled, the floor had been recently polished and there was fresh linen on the operating tables.

There were two tables, side by side. Apatura Iris, the Purple Emperor, was strapped naked to one of them. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and, while his face had a flaccid, expressionless look, Chalkhill somehow didn't think he was under the influence of an anaesthetic spell. Although to be fair, Hairstreak would probably use one. He'd want the Emperor fit and well as soon as possible after the operation.

There was a swarthy man in a shaman's loincloth between the two operating tables. His eyes were so dark it was impossible to tell whether he was a Faerie of the Night or some eccentric Lighter. He had very large, powerful hands.

'This is Mountain Clouded Yellow,' Hairstreak said by way of introduction. 'Our psychic surgeon.'

'Pleased to meet you,' Chalkhill said without enthusiasm.

The scary thing, Chalkhill thought as he climbed on to the operating table, was the equipment. There was a lot of it packed into the theatre and none of it was nice. He recognised an automatic stitcher for treating open wounds, and a weighted scissor blade that amputated any limb poked through an adjustable aperture. There was a glass-fronted cupboard with shelves full of body parts – hands, feet, toes, fingers, ears and, alarmingly, an enormous number of eyeballs laid out in colour-coded batches.

'I hope they use everything on you,' Cyril muttered sourly in his mind.

Chalkhill ignored him. They'd taken his clothes off and he was feeling chilled to the bone as he stretched out on the table. Psychic surgeons didn't necessarily use equipment, of course. The good ones just plunged their hands into your body and fiddled with your guts. It sounded hideous, and he'd read in a magazine somewhere that it was seventeen times more painful than having your testicles crushed in a vice unless an anaesthetic spell was used.

He wriggled to try to get comfortable and wished they'd cover him up with something, preferably a heavy blanket. He supposed Mountain Clouded Yellow would plunge his hand in and rummage around in his intestines until he found Cyril. Then he would probably rip the worm out and ram him directly into the abdomen of the Purple Emperor.

Chalkhill wished he hadn't thought of that. He was suddenly feeling so nauseous that his stomach had begun to heave. Worse still, Cyril was feeling nauseous as well, something that gave Chalkhill the sensation of a small dog throwing up on his brain.

Chalkhill closed his eyes and prayed Hairstreak wasn't double-crossing him, prayed that, frightened though he was, this would be started quickly and finished soon, prayed that -

'Just waiting for the anaesthetic wizard,' Hairstreak told him cheerfully.

An elderly wizard tottered into the operating theatre and looked around vaguely.

'Ah, Colias,' Hairstreak said. 'So glad you could make it.'

A look of panic flitted across Colias's face. 'I'm sorry, Your Lordship – I forgot what day it was.' He forced a smile that showed rotted teeth and waved one trembling hand in the air. 'But I'm ready now, Your Lord… ah… Your Lord… ah… Your Lord…'

'Ship,' said Hairstreak.

'Ship,' said Colias. 'Ready now, Your Ship. Oh yes indeed.'

'This is your anaesthetist, Jasper,' Hairstreak said.

Chalkhill stared at the walking wreck in horror. The man's eyes were streaming so badly it was odds on he could hardly see. A drop hung at the end of his nose, which probably meant he was suffering from some disease. The tremors in his hands extended to his body at regular intervals, so that he shook uncontrollably all over. His filthy robe hung on his wasted frame like a rag thrown over a tent-pole. This was the anaesthetist} He couldn't remember what day it was and his magical skills didn't even extend to preserving his own teeth.

'Oh no,' Chalkhill said and tried to sit up. At once the leather straps on the operating table snapped around him in a series of audible slaps. 'Yipes!' He struggled wildly, but was firmly held.

'They're for your own good, Jasper,' Hairstreak told him, grinning. 'Can't have you moving when the surgeon gets to work, can we?'

'This will kill you,' said Cyril smugly. 'I told you so, but would you listen?'

Chalkhill didn't even bother to tell him to shut up.

Hairstreak looked at Mountain Clouded Yellow. 'Are you ready to begin, Mountain?'

The shaman nodded.

With a sinking sensation, Chalkhill realised he was supremely expendable in this whole ghastly affair. What mattered was Cyril, who would survive since nobody was messing with his innards, and the Purple Emperor who, let's face it, was dead already and couldn't be killed a second time unless Mountain Clouded Yellow accidentally staked him through the heart or cut his head off.

Hairstreak turned to the supine Apatura Iris. 'Are you ready, Your Majesty?' he asked with mock deference.

The Purple Emperor said nothing. Chalkhill noticed that while his eyes moved slightly, he did not breathe at all.

Black Hairstreak smiled broadly. 'In that case,' he said, 'we'll begin.'