The Faeman Quest

  THE FAERIE WARS CHRONICLES

  THE FAEMAN QUEST

  BOOK FIVE

  HERBIE BRENNAN

  For Cousin Wally and his lovely Barb

  with huge affection and best wishes for Luc

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Part Two

  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

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Also by Herbie Brennan

  Imprint

  PART ONE

  One

  ‘We have a what?’ Henry exploded.

  ‘We have a daughter,’ Blue repeated. ‘She’s fifteen years old, nearly sixteen. Her name is Mella.’

  They were together in the Throne Room of the Purple Palace. Blue, annoyingly, had perched herself on the edge of the Consort’s Chair, and since Henry wasn’t allowed to sit on the Imperial Throne, he was squatting near her feet on the third step of the dais. The little physician seated beside him was scratching at his arm with an instrument that looked much like a wire-headed toothbrush. Henry pushed his hand away impatiently and frowned at him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Preparing your veins for an infusion of elementals, Consort Majesty.’ The physician held up a writhing leather pouch. One of the elementals almost clawed its way out before he jerked the drawstring to trap it. The creature glared at Henry malevolently.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Henry said to Blue. ‘Of course we haven’t got a daughter.’ A sudden thought occurred to him. ‘Unless …?’

  Blue shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. One faeman child is quite enough, thank you.’ She sighed. ‘She used a lethecone on us.’

  Henry felt his jaw muscles slacken as he stared at her. ‘We have a daughter called – what was her name?’

  ‘Mella.’

  ‘We have a daughter called Mella who used a lethecone on us?’

  The little physician was attaching a flexible transparent tube to his arm, but Henry ignored him. They couldn’t have a fifteen-year-old daughter. They didn’t have a fifteen-year-old daughter. They didn’t have any children. Although they had been married sixteen years now, and he vaguely recalled wanting children. And even though they’d have been very young, it was a royal faerie custom to produce an heir as quickly as possible …

  ‘You always do that,’ Blue said crossly. ‘Repeat things I say as a question. You have no idea how irritating it is.’

  Henry brushed the physician’s hand away again and frowned. ‘I have no idea how –?’

  But Blue cut him short. ‘Leave the doctor alone, Henry. He has to get those elementals into your bloodstream otherwise you’ll never remember.’

  Her words brought him up short. Lethe spells made you forget things: specific, precise things like people or events. A good magician could craft one that would blank out all knowledge of your own mother. Was it possible he really did have a daughter? The physician rubbed some salve on his skin that caused it to tear open, then pushed the transparent tube inside.

  ‘Ow!’ Henry said. ‘That hurts!’

  ‘Won’t be long now, Consort Majesty,’ the physician told him cheerfully. He clipped a funnel on to the open end of the tube and tipped his pouch of elementals into it. The creatures slid down the sides, changing texture as they moved, then slipped like smoke into the transparent tube.

  Henry opened his mouth to protest again and discovered he could not speak. There was a weird slithery sensation as the elementals entered his bloodstream, then a moment of utter confusion when they reached his brain and began to dismantle the crystalline structures left by the lethe. After that came the nausea, a gut-wrenching, toss-your-cookies-now sort of nausea as the debris dropped into his stomach. Then the elementals were streaming out of his ear into the physician’s waiting pouch. Henry’s head cleared at once.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said.

  ‘You remember now?’ Blue asked.

  Henry placed his head in his hands. ‘Oh my God,’ he said again. He looked back up at Blue. ‘She’s run off, hasn’t she?’

  Blue nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Blue shook her head and shrugged grimly. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three days ago.’

  ‘Three days?’ Henry stared at her in enraged disbelief. ‘Why did nobody tell us?’

  ‘She put it about that we were sending her to Haleklind to further her education.’

  The little physician had packed up his equipment and was backing out of the Throne Room, bowing as he went. Henry scarcely registered his departure. ‘Didn’t anyone go with her?’

  Blue shook her head again. ‘She took a personal flyer.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a flying licence!’

  ‘She’s a Princess of the Realm, Henry. Do you honestly think anyone was going to stop her?’

  After a moment, Henry said, ‘I don’t suppose she actually went to Haleklind?’

  ‘No. No record of her flyer moving in or out of their airspace, no record of her at a border crossing, no breaches of security involving anyone of her description – and you know how careful the Table of Seven are about that sort of thing.’

  The Table of Seven was Haleklind’s ruling council. Haleklind’s paranoid ruling council. Henry stared at her bleakly. ‘So she could be anywhere.’

  Then Blue was beside him, clutching him, demanding comfort. He could feel she was trembling. ‘Henry,’ Blue said, ‘Mella could be dead!’

  Two

  ‘I want the girl dead,’ said the severed head of Lord Hairstreak. It stared – glared, really – at Jasper Chalkhill, a Faerie of the Night who had undergone dramatic changes in the past decade. He’d lost weight, for one thing – hadn’t we all? – and a great deal of it. Did he still have a wangaramus up his bottom, Hairstreak wondered. The worms had their benefits, but they did leech nourishment. Their hosts all tended to get thinner by the month: it was almost the standard way of spotting them. Chalkhill was positively wraith-like. He was showing cheekbones for the first time in years. But that wasn’t the only change. He’d abandoned his camp act, thank Darkness, and he spoke very little. He was no longer anybody’s spy, not Madame Cardui’s, not Hairstreak’s own. He was an assassin now, perhaps the best assassin in the Realm. Which was just what Hairstreak needed.

  Chalkhill glared back. There was a time when he’d been very afraid of Lo
rd Hairstreak. But it was difficult to take the little turd seriously now he was just a severed head supported by an onyx cube. You could see the veins and sinews trailing from the stump of neck if you looked hard enough. All the same, Chalkhill had to admit His Lordship had made a miraculous – if highly secret – comeback. Working with extreme cunning through a network of proxies, he was almost as powerful as he’d ever been and a great deal richer. More than rich enough to pay Chalkhill’s outrageous fees.

  ‘Not possible,’ Chalkhill said. ‘The security arrangements in the Purple Palace are impregnable.’

  The lips of the severed head began to writhe. It took a moment for Chalkhill to realise the contortions meant Hairstreak was trying to smile. It was a creepy sight.

  ‘She is no longer in the Purple Palace,’ Hairstreak said at length.

  An interesting development, Chalkhill thought. The faeman child’s condition meant she only ever left the Palace on State occasions – once, perhaps twice a year at most. And there were no State occasions scheduled for the next six months.

  ‘Where is she?’ Chalkhill asked.

  The energies generated by the onyx cube were erratic and sometimes caused one of Hairstreak’s eyes to roll without reference to the other. It did so now, turning momentarily white in the process, before coming to rest focused disconcertingly on a spot beyond Chalkhill’s left ear. ‘No one knows,’ Hairstreak said.

  There was a discreet Body in a Box sticker on the cube beneath the intertwined CMS logo of Consolidated Magical Services. The cube itself and the head resting on it were both protected by a military-grade spell field, which meant Hairstreak – what was left of him – had become indestructible and virtually immortal. The cube drew its power directly from the sun, so you couldn’t even shut him down – an ironical outcome for a botched suicide attempt.

  Chalkhill said, ‘So I have to find her before I kill her?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘In that case my fee is doubled.’

  ‘I thought it might be,’ Hairstreak said, but voiced no objection.

  Chalkhill said, ‘There’s a time limit?’

  ‘For having her killed? Of course there’s a time limit. One calendar month from today. But obviously earlier if possible.’

  Chalkhill did the calculation in his head. One calendar month from today was Princess Culmella’s sixteenth birthday. So the job had something to do with the Imperial succession. He half wondered if he should ask Hairstreak directly, but decided against it. Probably safer not to know. He took a deep breath. ‘Triple fee for fast jobs.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Hairstreak said.

  Chalkhill chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip. ‘Any special instructions?’

  ‘Just one,’ said Hairstreak’s head. ‘You must bring her here to kill her.’

  Chalkhill blinked. ‘Here? To your Keep?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  It made sense for Hairstreak to want the faeman girl dead, but it made no sense to have her killed in his own home. ‘But if she is killed here, won’t that throw suspicion on to you, Your Lordship?’

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ His Lordship said. ‘The terms of our contract will be that you find her, bring her here and kill her.’

  ‘In that case –’ Chalkhill said.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Hairstreak irritably. ‘Your fee is quadrupled.’ He got his eyes under control and fixed Chalkhill with a piercing gaze. ‘Can I take it you’re prepared to do the job?’

  Chalkhill smiled benignly. ‘Oh, yes, Lord Hairstreak, yes indeed.’

  Chalkhill’s personal stealth flyer was marked by a tiny Imperial flag stuck in a flowerpot just a few yards from the side door. Anxious though he was to get away unseen, he could not resist a backwards glance as he walked towards it. Hairstreak’s Keep was a Gothic nightmare of obsidian blocks and granite towers clinging to a cliff edge above an angry sea. Rain lashed down and wind whined perpetually, the result of weather spells that, some said, were so well crafted nobody could turn them off. There were rumours of a curse on the place. It had been owned by Hamearis, Duke of Burgundy, when the demons got him. Soon after Lord Hairstreak took it over, he’d attempted suicide by flinging himself off its battlements.

  Chalkhill could not decide whether that had been Hairstreak’s lucky or unlucky day. He was certainly lucky not to be killed, unlucky in that death was what he wanted, lucky that Hamearis had installed safety spells designed to help guests blown off open parapets, unlucky that his suicidal leap caused him to land with his head inside the spell zone while his rain-soaked body smashed itself to a pulp on the surrounding rocks. It was nearly six months before anybody found him – he’d fallen on hard times and dismissed his servants – by which point his body had rotted. The head, however, was perfectly preserved. An admirer bought him his first Body in a Box – the cheap, basic version that supported brain function, but allowed no communication. Hairstreak developed an eye-blink code and set to rebuilding his fortunes. Now, just sixteen years on, he was once again among the richest, most powerful faeries in the Realm, although very few people realised it. And he still harboured ambitions for the throne, to judge by the latest developments.

  Chalkhill pulled his vanishing hood over his head, climbed into the invisible flyer and grinned. Ambitions to become the head faerie, you might say.

  Three

  The rat was coming again. Brimstone could hear it. Could smell it and sense its evil little ratty thoughts. It wanted to kill him, of course. Everything wanted to kill him these days. Especially Dr Philenor.

  Brimstone was squatting in the corner of his cell, spotlighted by a ray of watery sunshine streaming through the sole high window. It was his favourite spot, marked by striations and browning bloodstains on the flagstones where he’d once tried to dig his way out with his bare hands. He usually squatted naked, or covered in excrement, but today he was wearing a suit. Today was a special day.

  He expanded his senses to discover what else might be threatening him. His mind flowed out into the tangled corridors of the Double Luck Mountain Lunatic Asylum and latched on to the left ear of one of the nurses, a plump attractive little Faerie of the Night, who was currently thinking of buying sardines for her cat when her shift ended. There was a special offer on sardines at a fishmonger she passed on her way home. She could buy four at a saving of thirteen per cent and cut them up for Tiddles, who liked to eat them raw. Four sardines, chopped, would be a very satisfactory supper for Tiddles, and once Tiddles was fed, the nurse could come back in the middle of the night when the asylum was quiet and use her special pass key to get in and murder Brimstone. She was just the same as the other nurses. They all wanted to kill Brimstone. As did that nurse’s cat. And the fishmonger. And the sardines.

  There were cockroaches in the walls. He could hear them easily with his heightened senses, clicking and feeding and singing martial songs. They were planning to get him, those cockroaches, just as soon as they’d mustered enough troops. There was an army of cockroaches stationed just inside the walls, not quite big enough to kill him yet, but they were breeding steadily in their special farms, training up young cockroaches for the cockroach army. When there were enough of them, say 3.7 billion cockroaches, they would swarm out of the walls and begin to eat him from the feet up. Cockroaches always ate you starting at the feet, leaving your eyes to the last so you could watch what they were doing right up to the bitter end.

  A bluebottle squeezed through a crack in the windowpane and began to buzz lazily around the cell. Almost certainly a spy-fly for the cockroaches, Brimstone thought. Insects stuck together when it came to killing humans. Insects and germs. Dr Philenor was breeding giant germs, of course: things the size of sparrows. He kept them in old handkerchiefs and unleashed them on his enemies. They flew up your nose and made you sick.

  The bluebottle buzzed within a yard of Brimstone. He caught it expertly and ate it.

  The rat was definitely getting closer and it was not alone! With the astonishing reach of h
is expanded senses, Brimstone could tell the creature was bringing his wife and children, four hungry little rats, less than half the size of their parents, but with sharp, piranha teeth. It was a family outing, aimed at killing Brimstone.

  They were all planning to kill Brimstone – the rats and the spy-flies and the cockroach army and Dr Philenor’s giant germs and the nurses and their cats and the sardines and the fishmongers and anything else that could burrow, fly, squeeze or otherwise gain entry to his padded cell. But Brimstone was not afraid.

  He had George to protect him.

  There was a scritch-scratch at the door of his cell and for a moment Brimstone wondered if the rat family had circled round in a flanking movement, then realised, as the door swung open, it had to be Orderly Nastes.

  ‘Are we dressed?’ asked Orderly Nastes as he marched in with his tray. ‘I see we are! Well done, Silas. It’s an important day for us, isn’t it? Do you know why it’s an important day, Silas?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brimstone muttered, scowling.

  ‘Of course you do!’ exclaimed Orderly Nastes cheerfully. He was a plump bald man with an unexpected lisp and a drooping moustache, grown in imitation of Dr Philenor. ‘It’s the day we meet up with our Review Board. And that means our Sunday suit, doesn’t it? Because we have to look our best.’ He placed the tray on the floor beside Brimstone. It was set with a mug of medicinal ale, a lump of stale bread and a piece of mouldy cheese.

  ‘Ta,’ Brimstone muttered, taking care not to meet Orderly Nastes’s eye. It was important not to meet the eyes of orderlies, who were equipped with special eye inserts that shot invisible rays into your head and melted your brain. He reached out for the cheese and began to break it into crumbly pieces.

  ‘How’s George?’ asked Orderly Nastes conversationally.

  Why don’t you ask him yourself? thought Brimstone crossly. George had put in an early appearance, as he often did when there was cheese about. He was towering over them now, fangs bared, with his back against the far wall. But experience had taught Brimstone that idiots like Nastes often failed to notice things that were right under their noses, so he murmured, ‘Fine.’ George smiled and nodded his agreement.