The Purple Emperor Read online

  THE FAERIE WARS CHRONICLES

  BOOK TWO

  THE PURPLE

  EMPEROR

  HERBIE BRENNAN

  This one for Steve.

  With love and thanks.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Ninety-Seven

  Ninety-Eight

  Ninety-Nine

  One Hundred

  One Hundred and One

  One Hundred and Two

  One Hundred and Three

  One Hundred and Four

  One Hundred and Five

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Also By Herbie Brennan

  Praise for the Purple Emperor

  Imprint

  One

  Mr Fogarty’s house was at the end of a short cul-de-sac. The front windows were partly boarded up, which gave it a deserted, derelict appearance. But Henry knew they’d been boarded up while Mr Fogarty still lived there, so the neighbours wouldn’t notice any difference. And nobody with any sense would try to visit him. Mr Fogarty had broken his last visitor’s arm with a cricket bat.

  Henry had a full set of keys, but he avoided using the front door and walked around the back. It was gloomy there as always—Mr Fogarty had erected an enormously high fence to stop the neighbours spying on him—and there wasn’t much to see: just a grey, mossy patch of lawn and the garden shed beside the buddleia bush where Henry had first met Pyrgus. He walked down to the bush—it was one of Hodge’s favourite haunts—and called out, ‘Hodge! Come on Hodgie, suppertime!’

  Hodge must have been lurking in the undergrowth, because he emerged at once, tail up, and polished Henry’s ankle. ‘Hello, Hodge,’ said Henry fondly. He sort of liked the old tomcat, even though he’d made the place a killing field for rats, mice, birds and rabbits.

  Henry walked towards the back door, taking slow, careful steps on account of Hodge making figures of eight between his feet. When he unlocked the door and pushed it open, Hodge ran in ahead of him, eager for his pouch of Whiskas. Mr Fogarty had always fed him some foul-smelling stuff that looked like puke and cost less than 25p a tin. Hodge ate it under protest, but liked pouch Whiskas better. He’d never smooched Mr Fogarty the way he smooched Henry.

  Henry opened the cupboard, took out two pouches and Hodge’s special tin plate.

  ‘You’re ruining that cat—you know that,’ a voice growled from the shadows.

  Henry was so startled he dropped the plate, which clattered loudly on the kitchen tiles. Hodge squawked in protest and bolted for the door.

  Two

  ‘Scaredy-cat!’ sniffed Her Serene Highness, Princess Holly Blue.

  ‘I’m not a scaredy-cat!’ Pyrgus protested. ‘I just want to see exactly what he’ll be doing.’ He leafed ostentatiously through the pattern book. Lavish animation spells caused the butterfly illustrations to writhe and stretch their wings.

  ‘You know exactly what he’ll be doing,’ Blue said fiercely. ‘They’re traditional designs—they haven’t changed in years! And you saw them often enough on Daddy.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘While he was alive.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Pyrgus. He turned another page.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  Pyrgus mumbled something under his breath.

  ‘What?’ asked Blue sharply.

  ‘Don’t like needles,’ Pyrgus mumbled just a little louder.

  They were in the Emperor’s private quarters Pyrgus’s private quarters now—in the Purple Palace. The Royal Herticord had been waiting outside for nearly an hour.

  ‘I know you don’t like needles,’ Blue said, not unkindly. ‘But you have to have it done. And you have to have it done now, otherwise they’ll still be itching at your Coronation. You can’t have the new Purple Emperor scratching through the ceremony—people will think you have fleas.’

  ‘I could use a healing spell,’ Pyrgus said.

  ‘You could pull yourself together,’ Blue told him shortly. ‘You’ve sent that poor man away twice already. Just grit your teeth and get it over with.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Pyrgus said with bad grace. He nodded to the footman standing like a statue by the door. ‘Show him in.’

  The footman swung the door open with a flourish. ‘Sir Archibald Buff-Arches,’ he announced loudly. ‘The Royal Herticord.’

  The man who strode in reminded Blue a little of her old enemy Jasper Chalkhill. He was overweight, and had a taste for extravagant clothing—he was wearing a shot-silk robe woven with illusion spells so that misty nymphs swam through its folds. But that’s where the resemblance ended. His eyes showed he was no Faerie of the Night, and he walked with purpose. Two wiry helpers manoeuvred in a trolley spread with multicoloured pots, several bottles and a tray that displayed Pyrgus’s dreaded needles.

  The Herticord bowed formally to Pyrgus. ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he acknowledged. He turned to Blue and made a lesser bow. ‘Your Serene Highness.’ She noticed he had very delicate hands. They were rather beautiful.

  ‘My brother’s ready for you,’ Blue said quickly before Pyrgus could change his mind.

  Pyrgus gave her a dirty look, but had obviously decided to go through with it. He turned
to Buff Arches with exaggerated dignity. ‘I’m in your hands, Herticord. Let’s get it over with.’

  The two helpers were busying themselves opening jars and bottles and laying out a range of gleaming instruments beside the needles. Blue saw Pyrgus turn a little green. The trolley looked as if they were preparing for major surgery.

  ‘I expect His Majesty would like to know his options,’ Buff-Arches said briskly.

  Pyrgus stared at him and Blue’s instincts told her that if her brother was going to chicken out at all, this would be the moment. But all he said was, ‘Options? Yes, I’d like to know my options.’

  ‘Traditionally,’ said Buff-Arches, ‘the tattoos are done without anaesthetic or magical intervention of any sort, save for a small transfusion should royal blood loss exceed two pints in any single hour ’

  ‘Blood loss?’ Pyrgus squeaked. ‘Two pints an hour?’

  ‘Oh, it seldom reaches anything approaching that amount,’ Buff-Arches said easily. ‘Unless, of course, one happens to sever an artery when preparing the Royal Transposition.’

  ‘The Royal Transposition?’ Pyrgus echoed. Blue moved nonchalantly a little closer in case he fainted.

  ‘A deep tissue sample used to gauge the effect of the dyes. A safety precaution in case of allergic response. I tattoo the sample first—with a picture of a bee—then, if there is no reaction, we proceed with the formal illustration of Your Majesty’s body. The tissue sample is normally taken from the royal buttocks.’

  Blue fully expected Pyrgus to protest. She certainly would have—a tissue sample of that sort meant you couldn’t sit down for a week. But all Pyrgus said was,

  ‘Why a bee? Why do you tattoo the sample with a bee?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Buff-Arches said. ‘It’s simply the specified picture—specified by tradition, you understand.’ He watched Pyrgus for a moment, as if expecting further questions, then said abruptly, ‘But I was explaining your options. As I say, the traditional way involves no anaesthetic or magical intervention, but one of your illustrious ancestors, Emperor Scolitandes the Weedy, decreed that henceforth all Purple Emperors might elect to have their official tattoos carried out under general or local anaesthetic—’ he gestured towards some bottles on the trolley ‘—these herbal tinctures here. Or, alternatively, that the candidate might light a spell cone that would render him temporarily immune to pain.’ He paused expectantly, then added, ‘Perhaps your Imperial Majesty would care to tell me the option of his choice?’

  Pyrgus was staring at the tray. ‘What are those instruments for?’ he asked. ‘The tissue sample?’

  ‘Oh no, sire. Your Majesty will recall that my secondary duty as Herticord is to shave Your Majesty’s head in the Royal Tonsure. The tools look a little off-putting, but that part of the procedure is quite painless, I assure you. Unless Your Majesty has a twitch, of course.’

  ‘Do we have to do the shaving thing?’ Pyrgus asked. He was a bit vain about his hair.

  Buff-Arches nodded briefly. ‘Yes, we do. Your Majesty is titular head of the Church of Light, so the tonsure is wholly appropriate. But if Your Majesty wishes, I can retain the shaven hair and have it made into a little wig for Your Majesty to wear when he is not engaged in State occasions.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pyrgus said quickly. ‘Yes, you do that.’

  ‘And Your Majesty’s options? The anaesthetics, the spell cone … ?’

  ‘What did my father do?’ Pyrgus asked.

  For the first time Buff-Arches’s expression softened. ‘Your father, sire, opted for the traditional approach no spells, no anaesthetics. He didn’t even require my assistants to hold him down.’

  Blue felt herself tense. It was only weeks since their father was murdered—and murdered horribly with an Analogue World weapon that had destroyed most of his face. But Pyrgus and their father had seldom seen eye to eye. It had got so bad at one stage that Pyrgus had left home and lived in the city as a commoner. Would he follow his father’s example now?

  ‘Then I shall do the same,’ said Pyrgus grandly. He began to unbutton his breeches.

  Blue left discreetly. She was proud of her brother, delighted with his choice. But she had no desire to be there when they took the tissue sample from his bottom.

  There were still a million things to do before the Coronation. Gold leaf for the Cathedral, spell candles for the nave, gifts for the congregation, musicians, the celebratory games, rabbits for the Official Distribution, the Honour Guard, the clerical bribes, the State Barge, the seven conjuration troupes, the Endolg Chorus, the Male Companion—Pyrgus wanted Henry for that and Blue wasn’t even sure Gatekeeper Fogarty had contacted him yet—the Female Companion, which would be Blue herself, except she still hadn’t had her fitting for the dress, the Grand Salute, the new statue in the Great Square, the reception menu ... the list went on and on.

  And all of it was down to Blue since Pyrgus wouldn’t take it seriously.

  She was hurrying towards her own rooms and the dreaded To Do list when she decided on impulse to get the fitting over with. She turned down a steep flight of narrow stairs that led to the servants’ quarters. It wasn’t an area of the palace she normally visited when the Princess Royal needed something, servants came to her — but tradition had it that the gown worn by the Female Companion should be woven from the finest spinner silk with no spell reinforcement.

  Ridiculous, but that was tradition for you. Everybody knew spinner silk was the most fragile substance in the world until it set. Afterwards, of course, it was the strongest. The trouble was, to get the astonishing form-fitting folds that made spinner dresses so desirable, you had to try the garment on before the fabric set. You had to try it on carefully. At least, you had to try it on carefully when you weren’t allowed to use a stasis spell. If you were lucky, the whole thing didn’t fall apart and you had the most wonderful gown in the realm. If you weren’t, the Silk Mistresses made up another one (at hideous expense) and the whole process began again.

  Most clients, even nobles, visited the Mistresses in their trading lodges above the spinner pits. It was only by a very special concession to the Princess Royal that her Coronation gown was being constructed in the palace itself. Blue would have been happy to give the Mistresses a state apartment, but they insisted on setting up their workshop in the servants’ quarters. Blue discovered the reason when she entered it.

  ‘Why’s it so cold in here?’ she demanded, her breath frosting.

  One of the Silk Mistresses glanced up from her bench. If she was impressed by the sudden appearance of the Princess Royal, she didn’t show it. ‘The fabric is unworkable at higher temperatures,’ she said.

  Blue shivered and hugged herself. ‘I’ve come for the fitting,’ she said shortly. ‘Is everything ready?’

  The Mistress stood up and walked towards her. She was a tall, elegant matron with waist-length hair and her own gown was divine. That was the great thing about spinner silk. It made any woman look wonderful; any woman who could afford it, that is.

  ‘Of course, Serenity. Please follow me.’

  Blue allowed herself to be led across the workshop. The Mistresses had moved their entire operation into the palace, to judge from the garments they were creating. Blue hoped they hadn’t moved their spinners in as well. She liked arachnids—she even owned an illegal psychotronic—but silk spiders were the size of terriers, too large even for her.

  The Mistress opened a door to a second room, smaller than the first and empty of workbenches. There was a stunning purple and gold gown draped over a wooden form and illuminated by a gentle glowglobe. The fabric shimmered as if enchanted.

  Despite herself, Blue sucked in her breath. ‘It’s … amazing.’

  The Mistress smiled lightly. ‘Indeed, Serenity.’

  On impulse Blue said, ‘What’s your name, Silk Mistress?’

  ‘Peach Blossom, Serenity.’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Peach Blossom,’ Blue said sincerely. She took a
step closer to the garment. Although the temperature of this room was perhaps a degree or two higher than that in the workshop, her breath was still frosting. ‘Do I have to undress to try it on?’

  ‘Yes, Serenity. It will fit, of course, but your body heat will set the material to conform to your figure now and for ever. Assuming you don’t tear it as you put it on.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ Blue promised.

  The material felt … elusive. Not quite slippery, yet somehow distant, as if it belonged in another dimension. Blue desperately wanted to put it on quickly—the room was so cold she was already shivering—but forced her numbing fingers to move with slow deliberation. The gown slid over her head and down her body like a slick of perfumed oil. She felt warmer at once and sensed the catalytic process as the spinner threads began to set.

  ‘Well, done, Serenity!’ Peach Blossom said. ‘You may move now—it’s quite safe.’

  Blue moved and the gown moved with her. She was suddenly energised, as if someone had lit a euphoria cone.

  ‘You look wonderful, Your Highness,’ Peach Blossom said. ‘Please come through and show the other Mistresses.’

  Although Blue had never thought much about her appearance, she thought about it now. She felt graceful. She felt beautiful. She felt as elegant as the Silk Mistress herself. Her movements were a dance. No wonder the Mistresses could command such high prices for their designs: the effect of wearing one was quite extraordinary.

  There was a burst of spontaneous applause as she walked back into the workroom. Several of the Silk Mistresses even stood up, smiling their delight. Blue smiled back in sincere appreciation, but at the moment of triumph an unexpected thought occurred: Just wait until Henry Atherton sees me in this!

  Three

  The man who stepped out of the shadows was tall, thin and wearing an ankle-length indigo toga embroidered with electrical and planetary symbols. He fixed Henry with a gimlet eye. ‘You know they put dope in that stuff, don’t you? Cat dope. Little twits get addicted and won’t touch anything else. That’s what makes it so expensive.’

  Henry glanced at the pouch of Whiskas in his hand, then back at the scowling figure. ‘Mr Fogarty! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I live here,’ Fogarty said sourly.