Faerie Wars 02 - The Purple Emperor Page 11

  'I am.' What now, Chalkhill wondered. What else had Hairstreak got in store for him?

  'Lord Hairstreak presents his compliments,' said the messenger stiffly, 'and begs me to inform you that he shall no longer be requiring your services in the capacity he discussed with you due to a sudden fortuitous change in circumstance. In short, the operation's off.'

  Chalkhill stared at the man in horrified bewilderment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  This wasn't the palace. It had been the palace when he looked into the portal and it seemed like the palace when he threw himself through, but it wasn't the palace now. Henry was standing on a vast, level plain with really weird maroon-coloured grass growing up around his ankles. Henry kept thinking about Pyrgus, who had used one of Mr Fogarty's portal controls and ended up in Hell. Was this Hell? Henry looked around. It didn't seem hot enough, but what did he know? He'd never been in Hell before.

  But he'd never been anywhere like this before either. The grass was freaky. It grew in tufts and each blade wasn't a blade at all, but a thin strand. And it was far tougher than ordinary grass. He couldn't uproot it or break it or anything. It didn't smell like grass either. If anything, it smelled like wool, which probably meant there had been sheep this way lately. Did sheep go to Hell?

  The plain went on and on, but there was something wrong with the horizon. Henry found his distance vision wasn't too good - which was something else he didn't understand - but the plain didn't curve against the sky, it just sort of ... stopped. Actually he wasn't sure he was looking at a horizon at all. It was almost like a sheer cliff, except huge. It was just about the highest cliff he'd ever seen, so high he couldn't really see the top.

  The sky was weird as well. It was blue all right, but that was the only familiar thing about it. No clouds and, to be honest, it looked like a rigid dome, like those old medieval paintings of the vault of heaven. But that was probably his eyes as well. He just couldn't seem to get them to focus properly.

  Which might account for the look of the trees. There were trees scattered across the plain, growing in oddly geometrical groups of four. Four here ... four there ... four over there ... Nothing in between, no undergrowth, just straight, round trunks with not a branch or leaf. He'd never seen trees grow like that before. But then he'd never seen trees that sort of ... sort of ... sort of grew together at the top to make a wooden roof before. What was wrong with his eyes? Where on earth was he? This definitely, positively, was not the Purple Palace.

  He glanced behind him, more in vague hope than any solid expectation. The portal was no longer there. Which was really how he'd thought it would be. It had started to collapse as he jumped through. Henry's heart suddenly started to race. What would have happened if it had collapsed exactly when he was passing through it? Would it have killed him? Would it have cut him in half, leaving his head and torso bleeding in the Faerie Realm while the bottom bit kicked and writhed in Mr Fogarty's back garden?

  Henry took a couple of deep breaths to pull himself together. The fact was it hadn't killed him. He was alive and well and in one piece with nothing to worry about. Except he didn't have a portal control. The one he'd made was lying in another world now, probably burned out if all that sparking was anything to go by. Which was no big deal if he'd reached the Purple Palace, which had a portal of its own to get him back. But he hadn't reached the Purple Palace. He'd reached somewhere else with stupid-looking grass and he had no way back!

  Don't panic, Henry told himself. There's no need to panic. All he had to do was walk until he found a village or a town. Or even a farmstead. This wasn't Hell - he was sure of that now. No heat, no demons, nobody with pitchforks. So it had to be just a peculiar area of the Faerie Realm. Once he found people, he'd just ask them to direct him to the Purple Palace. He might even cadge a lift, but if not he could walk there. Didn't matter how long it took. Well, it did - Blue would still be wondering what had happened to him -but that couldn't be helped. All he had to do was find some people. If he followed the sun he could be sure of always walking in the same direction. He wouldn't get lost. Nothing to it.

  He couldn't see the sun.

  He had to be able to see the sun. The vault of the sky was a cloudless blue, but there was no sun. There was light - it was like daylight - but he couldn't see the sun. This wasn't his eyes, although his eyes were still having trouble focusing - the sun simply wasn't there!

  Henry pulled himself together with an effort. He didn't need to navigate. Since he didn't know where he was going, navigation didn't matter. He was as likely to find people in one direction as another. The thing to do was to stop wimping and get started.

  Henry began to trudge across the open plain.

  There was something on his back! The moment he moved, he could feel it. It was gripping him around the shoulder blades and flapping loosely in a truly horrible, awful, nightmarish way. Without thought he reached round and his hands gripped something ghastly and fragile and insectile and -

  And ticklish.

  In a moment of pure wonder, Henry discovered he'd grown wings.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  He'd got all excited about his prospects for the future, wasted hours of effort, and endured the huge indignity of having a worm inside his bottom. All for nothing! Why had Hairstreak called off the mission? Chalk hill wondered furiously.

  'I can help you there,' the wangaramas wyrm told him.

  ''Can you?' Chalkhill thought at it. He had managed to tune out some of the incessant chatter, but the wyrm was still capable of attracting his attention when it wanted to.

  'Course I can,' the wyrm assured him. 'All1 have to do is poll the Network.'

  'What's the Network?' Chalkhill asked, frowning.

  'The wangarami are telepathic,' the wyrm explained inside his head. 'Amongst ourselves, that is, not with other species, except during an actual symbiosis, of course, such as we have now. I've always believed the characteristic speaks of a certain superiority, but that is, of course, a matter of philosophical discussion among wangarami wise wyrms, so that -'

  'What's the Network?' Chalkhill repeated mentally to shut it up.

  'The telepathic Web. Every wangaramas is plugged into it. Which means that any given wyrm - myself for example - has access to the knowledge, information, belief and memory structures of every other wyrm.'

  'What they know, you know?' Chalkhill ventured uncertainly.

  'Potentially, yes.'

  'So if any other worm happens to know why Hairstreak called off my mission, you could tune in and find out?'

  'As you say,' the wangaramas wyrm confirmed. 'And I would prefer you didn't use that word.'

  'What word?' Chalkhill asked aloud, forgetting again.

  '"Worm",' said the wyrm. 'The correct term is "wyrm." Or better yet, "wangaramas".'

  Chalkhill couldn't hear much difference between 'worm' and 'wyrm' but he thought it best to humour the creature. 'Sorry,' he said. Then to make amends added, 'What should I call you? As an individual?'

  'Cyril,' said the wangaramas wyrm inside his head.

  Since the messenger had delivered his message, the Facemaster had disappeared to instruct some other unfortunate and Chalkhill had taken the opportunity to make himself scarce. He was now in the grounds of the Assassins' Academy, casually strolling towards the gate. He was far from certain whether the news the messenger had brought was good or bad. If Hairstreak no longer needed him, it could mean he was free to go his own way, do what he liked so long as he kept clear of the Imperial Authorities, which would be easy enough to do if he set himself up in Yammeth Cretch. On the other hand, it could mean that Hairstreak would have him killed, in which case he had to get out of Yammeth Cretch as fast as possible. It was a difficult dilemma. What he needed was more information.

  'Would you do that for me ... Cyril?' he asked ingratiatingly. ' Would you plug into your Network and find out what Lord Hairstreak is really up to?'

  'Of course I would, Jasper,' the wyrm said warmly. 'If
the data is there, I shall obtain it for you.'

  Without warning, it was quiet in his head. Chalkhill experienced a wave of relief so extreme he felt quite faint. Then suddenly it was bedlam. A thousand voices, a hundred thousand voices were wittering full blast. The volume level rose until he thought his skull must burst. He felt his vision fading and sank to his knees, clutching his temples.

  'Are you all right?' a voice asked from outside him somewhere, but he could not work out who it belonged to.

  The inner voices stopped. In the blessed mental silence, he felt Cyril stir. 'Well, that didn't take too long,' the wangaramas said. 'And it's good news, Jasper. Lord Hairstreak no longer needs you to kill Prince Pyrgus while he's being crowned Purple Emperor because Prince Pyrgus will never be crowned Purple Emperor. Lord Hairstreak has pulled off an early coup. Prince Pyrgus and his supporters have been exiled. The Realm is now ruled by Lord Hairstreak acting as Regent for Prince Comma. It will all be public knowledge soon.'

  For a long moment Chalkhill simply couldn't believe it. The entire Realm ruled by Hairstreak? That meant the Faeries of the Night had triumphed. It was incredible. It was wonderful. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. 'Are you sure about all this?' he asked.

  'I got it from a wyrm named Wilhelm in the bottom of one of Hairstreak's PR advisors,' Cyril assured him.

  'Are you all right?' the voice from outside asked again.

  Chalkhill blinked. It was a young woman, one of the Academy servants by her uniform. He smiled at her. 'Never better,' he said warmly. 'Never better.'

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  It was really peculiar. If he tried and thought about it, nothing happened. But if he didn't think about it and just did it, the wings moved. Not a lot, admittedly, but some. The trouble was they didn't move together. Sometimes one twitched, sometimes the other waved about a little. But there was no question of coordination, or any real strength.

  As he tried to move the wings, Henry discovered he had a brand new slab of muscle. It stretched between his shoulder blades and the wings were rooted in it like a tree. He could move the muscle too, if he wriggled about a bit, but again only weakly. He stood in the middle of the maroon plain, totally absorbed. It was scary, but the wing business was still the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years.

  The wings suddenly unfolded and stretched out behind him like a ... like a ... He couldn't think like a what, but' he could see himself in his mind's eye as an incredible winged boy, standing statuesque and proud on the edge of unexplored terrain. It made him feel heroic and confident. But it would be a lot better if he could use the wings.

  Henry twisted his head to look at them. They hung behind him, large and marvellous. They weren't the wings of a bird, more like the wings of a butterfly or moth - a rusty iron colour with some patchy, muted markings. He'd seen more spectacular butterflies, but his wings were still beautiful. Beautiful! He had wings! He was a winged boy! It was just too wonderful for words.

  Henry began to run. He thought that if he ran, his wings might make him fly.

  His wings stretched out behind him and he could feel the lift of air beneath them. That was really freaky. There was sensation in the wings, a straining in the new muscles between his shoulder blades while the air itself took on a squishy-pillow feeling. He thought he might lift off, but it didn't happen. He tried again, running harder. His wings vibrated and flapped uncontrollably, but nothing else.

  It occurred to him that since he couldn't really move his wings, the next best thing might be to hold them rigid. He ran again, experimentally. His wings locked easily into one position and there was a slight, reassuring sense of upward pull. Maybe he was on the right track.

  Near one of the quadruped trees, Henry found a small, spongy hillock. On the far side was a gentle downward slope that ended in a sheer drop of several feet. It was a perfect launching pad.

  He could spread and furl his wings now, more or less to order, and while he couldn't move them otherwise, he thought this might be enough. He spread his wings, locked them open, then began to run down the slope towards the drop.

  He began to feel the lift on the slope. The locked

  wings tugged at him, affecting his balance and almost causing him to veer off to the right. He gritted his teeth, compensated and managed to head straight. Even before he reached the edge, he knew it was going to work.

  The edge was rushing towards him faster than he would ever have believed possible. At the last possible moment, he began to doubt. This was stupid. The wings would never work. He was running down a weird hill on a weird plain in some weird world and the chances were when he went off the edge he would end up breaking his neck.

  Henry ran off the edge.

  And flew.

  Henry soared. It was fantastic. It was as if a giant hand had pulled him upwards. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before, not like running, not like swimming, but a magnificent, wonderful, delightful, joyous something else.

  The strange thing, the great thing, was how natural it felt. Henry had never had much of a head for heights, but now he didn't care. It was as if he lived in the air, as if he'd lived in the air all his life. It felt as safe as walking.

  Within seconds he discovered he was in control. He didn't quite know how, but it was happening. If he wanted to turn right, he turned right, banking like a glider with his right wing tipping downwards. He wheeled and plunged and soared and fell and soared again. It was utterly, totally and completely wonderful.

  Henry flew higher and higher. He felt the wind on his face and the elation in his heart. He flew until he thought he soon must touch the sky.

  His hand reached out and really touched the sky. The blue dome wasn't sky at all - it was ceiling. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. He was in a giant room. What he had thought were tree trunks were the legs of chairs. The horizon was a wall. That strange formation to the south was actually a bed. There was a dressing table, a cupboard, a wardrobe. The 'hill' he'd used as a launch pad was a crumpled garment somebody had left lying on the floor.

  Not a giant room. Not a giant room at all! Henry had shrunk. It all came together now. The strange perspectives. The missing biofilter on the portal control. He had reached the palace all right - he was in somebody's bedroom - but he had undergone a transformation in the process.

  He fluttered down to the dressing table and examined himself in the towering mirror. He was a fairy creature. Except for the patterns on his wings, he looked like Pyrgus had looked the first time they met. He was a fairy creature who could fly! He felt like dancing with delight.

  Then he saw the spider.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  There were rows of Palace Guards standing in formation on the palace lawn. Pyrgus walked between them with as much dignity as he could muster. Blue was at his side. Mr Fogarty walked three ceremonial steps behind, his features set. They had all taken the short time allowed them to change into official robes, giving the whole nasty affair the feel of a State occasion.

  Comma was standing by the main gates, smiling smugly. 'I don't want you to give me any trouble, dear half-brother,' he said as Pyrgus reached him. 'If you try to come back again or interfere in any way, Lord Hairstreak will insist I have you killed. I wouldn't want to, you know that, but it's only fair. We have a Realm to run and there can't be any interference. Besides, I shall be Emperor and any opposition to the Emperor's will is treason.'' The smile left his face and was replaced by a curious, almost sympathetic expression. He dropped his voice. 'You can keep all your money, Pyrgus, and if you need any more send word and I'll give you more. If you stay away and don't make any trouble, I'll let you come to my Coronation. Lord Hairstreak won't like it, but I shall overrule him.'

  'You'll pay for this, Comma!' Blue hissed. Pyrgus said nothing.

  'Escort them off the island!' Comma called grandly. 'Then have them transported to the Haleklind border. When they leave the Realm they must not return except on my invitation.' He tilted his h
ead back and struck a pose, then added, 'In writing. And stamped with the Imperial Seal.'

  'Where's Lord Hairstreak, Comma?' Mr Fogarty asked in a conversational tone. He managed to sound as if he was going for an afternoon's stroll.

  'It's Prince Comma, Gatekeeper,' Comma told him crossly. 'And you aren't Gatekeeper any more. I've fired you. I'm going to appoint another Gatekeeper, a Faerie of the Night. Lord Hairstreak says that's more ecumenical.'

  'I'm sorry, Prince Comma,' Mr Fogarty said mildly. 'I was just wondering where Lord Hairstreak was. After all, he's Regent now.'

  'You'd best be glad Lord Hairstreak isn't here,' Comma said, 'otherwise you'd be in jail instead of leaving for a nice comfortable exile. But he's coming soon, once he finishes off some business or something. He'll be living in the palace from now on. With Father.'