Faerie Wars Read online

  There was a speakhorn fastened to the gate above the lock, but Pyrgus knew better than to get into conversation with some gluehouse guard. Without bothering to glance behind, he jumped on to the gate. The combat shirt and breeches he was wearing underneath his jerkin made him look like some great, green insect as he climbed.

  Despite the fierce notices, the only thing on the other side of the gate was a spacious sweep of cobbled yard surrounded by the factory buildings. Although the place was new – opened no more than a month or two ago – it somehow managed to look old. Grime clung to every surface. Beyond the office buildings he could see the squat glue-oven chimneys belching foul black smoke. Chalkhill and Brimstone Miracle Glue would glue anything to anything.

  It would be only a matter of time before his pursuers reached the gate. He didn’t think they’d climb over, but they might bribe a guard to let them in. In any case, he couldn’t afford to hang around. He was about to make a dash across the yard when a fat rat darted from one of the buildings. It had got no more than six feet when a cobblestone exploded.

  Pyrgus froze as chips of stone and bits of rat rained down on him. Chalkhill and Brimstone had laid mines around their factory? He shivered. He’d been about to run across those cobbles.

  What were Chalkhill and Brimstone trying to hide? A minefield was more than Faerie-of-the-Night suspicion, way more than anything you’d do to protect a formula for glue. What was going on in the factory?

  A uniformed guard emerged from a doorway, fastening his trousers. Pyrgus was in plain sight and too terrified to move, but the man was looking towards the crater in the courtyard where the mine had exploded. All the same, it was only a matter of seconds before he’d look in Pyrgus’s direction. Where to go? What to do? With Hairstreak’s men in Seething Lane, he could hardly climb back over the gate. But if he tried to cross those cobbles he risked blowing himself to rat-sized bits.

  The speakhorn blared suddenly.

  ‘Coming,’ the guard shouted sourly, but without turning round. He reached the crater and stared down into it as if he hoped to find some clue as to what had triggered the mine. He was moving without any great haste.

  There was no way Pyrgus could stay standing where he was. Once the guard turned, he’d be spotted. He wasn’t sure which would be worse: Chalkhill and Brimstone’s fury at finding someone trespassing in their factory or Hairstreak’s men exacting rough justice for the missing phoenix.

  The speakhorn sounded again, louder this time. ‘All right! All right!’ the guard called out impatiently.

  A scary thought occurred to Pyrgus. Not every cobble was a mine. The rat had run at least two yards before it got blown up. If he ran too, he might get lucky.

  Or he might not.

  Another scary thought occurred to Pyrgus. Suppose he didn’t run. Suppose he jumped. Suppose he bounded like a kangaroo. That way he wouldn’t touch so many cobbles and so cut down his chances of triggering a mine.

  He glanced around and estimated he was about thirty feet from the nearest doorway. If he covered six feet with each leap, he’d touch down on just five cobbles altogether. How many cobbles were mined? There was no way he could know, but surely it wasn’t likely Chalkhill and Brimstone had booby-trapped one cobble in five.

  Or was it?

  No, of course it wasn’t. If he only touched five cobbles altogether, he had a chance – a very good chance, a very, very good chance – of reaching the doorway in one piece. The rat must have crossed at least ten cobbles before it got blown up. And even then it probably wasn’t a very lucky rat. A lucky rat could have crossed fifteen, twenty, maybe even thirty cobbles safely. Pyrgus had to ask himself, was he a lucky rat? He also had to ask himself, would the door he was aiming for be locked?

  The speakhorn blared and kept on blaring. It was the perfect time to move – the noise would cover any sound he made. Pyrgus leaped.

  The world went into slo-mo so he watched with terrified fascination as his leading foot approached a cobble, then gently touched the cobble, then slammed down hard on the cobble. He winced, but the cobble failed to explode.

  Then he bounded off again and watched with horror as his foot landed full force on a second cobble ... which also somehow failed to explode. In the middle of his third leap he saw the cobblestone beneath him was a different colour from the others and closed his eyes as he approached it. He landed, stumbled, trod on three more cobbles – three! – but somehow bounded off again.

  Then the slo-mo stopped, everything blurred and seconds later he was standing in the doorway. The guard was headed for the gate, amazingly not caring where he stepped on the cobbles, his muttered complaints suddenly audible as the speakhorn silenced.

  Pyrgus pushed the door. It opened.

  He was in an empty whitewashed corridor. There were doors along the right-hand side and, with the first one he tried, his luck changed massively. He found himself staring into a cupboard lined with uniform white coats, the sort issued to glue-factory workers. He noticed that the coats were tagged and suddenly realised why the guard could walk safely through the minefield. The tags had to stop the mines exploding. It was the only thing that made sense – there would have to be something so the ordinary factory workers wouldn’t get killed. He grabbed one of the coats and shrugged into it.

  Pyrgus closed the cupboard door and took time to have a little think. Tag or no tag, he wasn’t going back the way he came. He’d have to find another way out.

  He was still looking for it when he stumbled on the secret of Chalkhill and Brimstone’s Miracle Glue.

  With his white coat and tag, Pyrgus discovered he could go anywhere in the factory and nobody showed the slightest interest. All the same, he was careful to keep to himself, and do nothing that would arouse suspicion. Mostly he walked with a confident air as if he knew exactly what he was doing, where he was going. The trouble was he didn’t really have a clue and, far from discovering an exit, he found himself wandering deeper and deeper into the maze of factory buildings.

  Eventually he wandered into what must have been the production plant.

  The heat was horrendous, the stench hideous: it was all he could do to stop throwing up on the floor. But he controlled himself and looked around.

  The floor space was packed with evil-smelling vats of bubbling liquid and criss-crossed with encrusted pipes. Banks of heavy machinery drove pumps that strained to push the viscous fluids to a giant stoup set inside an enormous open oven at the south side of the chamber. Inside the stoup, a yellow-greenish mass of something ghastly roiled and boiled. The room was packed with workers, their uniform coats stained with residues and sweat. Some of them tended the machinery, others stirred the liquids in the bubbling vats. A hardy few hovered by the open oven, their faces ruddy from its glow.

  Fighting back the urge to gag, Pyrgus moved forward cautiously. There was an observation gallery about fifteen feet above the main floor. A few guards lounged on the railing, staring down with bored expressions, but most of those on the platform were inspectors using the high vantage point to check the fluids in the vats. One or two workers threaded among them, part of a constant stream parading up and down the metal stairway near the oven. With a surge of relief, Pyrgus noticed there was a door towards the end of the gallery prominently marked EXIT.

  Pyrgus moved forward into the swarm of workers, confident the few bored guards would never notice him. With a purposeful expression, he made his way towards the metal stairway, stopping from time to time as he pretended to adjust machinery or inspect the contents of a vat. No one paid him any attention.

  As he approached the stairway, the heat from the open oven reached such a peak that he began to pour with sweat. By the oven itself, some of the workers had taken off their coats and were working naked to the waist. He noticed a cage hanging close by. It was not a great deal larger than a birdcage, but inside was a small cat patiently nursing five sturdy little kittens.

  Pyrgus stopped. He liked animals – Hairstreak’s men were after hi
m because he’d rescued Hairstreak’s phoenix – and while it was nice to see Chalkhill and Brimstone had adopted company mascots, the kittens were far too close to the oven to be comfortable. He hesitated for a moment at the foot of the staircase, then walked over to one of the oven workmen.

  ‘It’s too hot here for those cats,’ he said bluntly, nodding towards the cage. ‘You should move them further from the oven.’

  The man turned towards him with a sour expression on his face. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and eyed Pyrgus’s clean coat. ‘You new here or what?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pyrgus. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Then you won’t know, will you?’ said the workman.

  ‘Won’t know what?’ Pyrgus demanded impatiently. It looked as if he’d picked the village idiot. The man had the dull, smug expression of a child pulling wings off flies.

  ‘Won’t know that it doesn’t matter if they’re a bit hot now, ‘cause they’ll be hotter in a minute, won’t they? at least one of the little ones will be.’

  Something about his tone set off an unpleasant tingling near the base of Pyrgus’s spine. ‘What are you talking about?’

  The man smiled slyly. ‘That’s the secret ingredient, ain’t it? That’s what puts the miracle into Miracle Glue.’

  Frowning, Pyrgus said, ‘What’s the secret ingredient?’

  The man’s smile broadened. ‘Kittens!’ he told Pyrgus expansively. ‘Kitten a day sends the glue on its way! Didn’t they tell you that one when you joined? Chuck in a live kitten and it makes a batch of glue stick better than anything else on the market. Nobody knows why. Mr Brimstone found it out by accident when he was drowning a litter and couldn’t be fagged to go down to the river.’ He leaned forward and tapped the side of his nose. ‘’Course that’s a secret. Lot of people wouldn’t use the glue if they found out it was made from kittens.’

  There was a distant commotion behind him near the door where he’d come in, but Pyrgus ignored it. ‘You ... put kittens in the glue?’

  ‘One a day,’ the man said proudly. ‘There’s one due to go in about now, so you can see it if you like. Mother cat’s quiet now, but she howls for hours afterwards. Keeps calling the dead kitten, stupid little toad. It’s a great laugh.’

  The commotion behind was nearer and louder. Pyrgus glanced over his shoulder and saw to his horror a team of guards pushing purposely towards him through the workers. He looked up the stairway. There was nobody between him and the exit door.

  ‘Tell you what,’ the workman said. ‘You can throw the kitten in, seeing as you’re new and all. Best fun you’ll have here all day.’

  Pyrgus hit him in the mouth. The man stumbled backwards, more surprised than hurt, but as he flailed to keep his balance, he set one hand firmly on the glowing surface of the oven. ‘Yoooow!’ he howled in sudden agony.

  Pyrgus pushed past him and grabbed the hanging cage. For a moment he couldn’t get it free, then it came away from the chain. The mother cat looked up at him warily but continued to feed her kittens. Pyrgus spun round and discovered a burly guard between him and the staircase.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ the guard said, grinning. He spread himself to block Pyrgus’s way.

  The target was too good to miss. Pyrgus kicked him hard between the legs and leapfrogged over him when he bent double.

  Then, still carrying the cage of cat and kittens, Pyrgus sprinted up the staircase towards the door marked EXIT.

  Four

  Silas Brimstone locked the door. He had a grin on his wizened old face and a book in his wizened old hands. The book looked even more ancient than he did, a massive, dusty parchment tome bound between heavy boards. Brimstone’s wizened old fingers stroked the faded gold leaf of the inlaid title: The Book of Beleth.

  The Book of Beleth! He could hardly believe his luck. The Book of Beleth! Everything he’d always wanted was between those heavy boards. Everything.

  He was in his attic room, a gloomy, poky, low-ceilinged chamber with few furnishings and more grime than the glue factory. But it had everything he needed. Oh yes, it had everything he needed. Brimstone giggled to himself and scratched a scab on his balding pate. Everything he needed to bring him everything he wanted.

  Brimstone carried the book to the single, grubby window and opened it beneath the light. On the title page there was a heavy black sigil made up of curls and loops like the doodle of an idiot child. Below the sigil some long-dead scribe had written six stark words:

  Beleth holds the keys to Hell.

  ‘Yes,’ chuckled Brimstone. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ His rheumy old eyes glittered with delight.

  Everything he’d always wanted and the book had cost him nothing. What a bonus that was. What an unexpected pleasure. What a strange, deep turn of fate. For years he’d searched for Beleth’s book, fully expecting to pay out a small fortune when he found it. But when it came to him, it came so easily – and at no cost whatsoever! Well, no cost worth considering. A pittance to the bailiff who threw the widow from her home and seized her pitiful possessions in lieu of rent.

  What fun that had been. Brimstone stayed for the eviction. He tried to attend all his evictions. He enjoyed the way the tenants begged and pleaded. The widow was no different from the rest, except a bit younger and better-looking, which added to the pleasure. Her husband was just three hours dead. Tripped and fell into a vat of glue, the clumsy cretin. Ruined the whole batch. But then he’d always been a troublemaker – one of those bleeding-hearts who wouldn’t boil the necessary kitten. Brimstone hurried round to tell the widow – he loved bringing bad news – then asked her about the rent while she was still in shock and crying. Just as he suspected, she couldn’t pay now that her husband was dead. He had the bailiff round in twenty minutes.

  It was an exceptionally entertaining eviction. The woman wailed and screamed and fought and howled. At one point she even threw herself at Brimstone’s feet, begging and pleading and scrabbling at his trouser-leg. It was as much as he could do to stop himself giggling aloud. But he maintained his dignity, of course. Gave her his more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger lecture about fiscal rectitude and the responsibilities of the tenant. God, how he loved giving that tight little lecture. The bailiff knew the form and didn’t drag her off his leg until he’d finished. Marvellous. If it hadn’t been for her little dog, it would have been his best eviction ever. Her little dog peed on his shoe.

  The bailiff’s men brought her possessions round to his office. Not that she had very much, but he liked poking through his tenants’ belongings and destroying anything that might have sentimental value. The young widow was much like the others – a few shreds of pitiful clothes, a handful of well-mended pots and pans, one or two cheap ornaments. But there was a wooden chest that looked far better quality than anything else she owned. It was bound with metal bands and padlocked.

  ‘What’s this?’ Brimstone asked the bailiff’s man suspiciously.

  ‘Dunno,’ the man said dully. ‘She said we shouldn’t take it because it wasn’t hers. Keeping it for an uncle or some such. But we took it anyway.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Brimstone told him. He fingered the padlock with sudden interest.

  That padlock gave him a lot of trouble when the bailiff’s man left. It was too well-made to pick and the metal binding round the chest wasn’t iron as he’d thought at first, but something far stronger. There was even a security charge running through the wood that made it impossible to smash open unless you wanted to risk considerable injury. Brimstone had to drain it off before he tackled the chest seriously. By then, of course, he knew it had to contain something valuable. Nobody took that much trouble just to store their washing.

  When the chest resisted all other attempts to open it, he invested in a piece of firestone that turned the lock to molten slag while leaving the remainder of the chest intact. It was nearly half an hour before it had cooled down enough for him to touch and by then his heart was thumping with excitement. What was it the w
idow had been storing? Gold? Jewels? Family secrets? Artworks? Whatever it was, Brimstone wanted it. But before he threw back the lid, he had no idea how much he wanted it.

  As he stared into the chest, he simply could not believe his eyes. The book lay on a bed of straw. It was bound shut with an amber ribbon, but he could still read the faded lettering: The Book of Beleth.

  Brimstone’s hands shook as he reached inside the chest. He took several calming breaths. It might be a forgery. Heaven knew there were enough of them about – he’d even bought two himself from dealers who turned out to be no better than thieves. But when he slid off the ribbon and opened the boards, he knew at once this was the real thing. The parchment was brown and foxed with age. The hand-drawn lettering was archaic in style, the ink authentic in its fading. But most important of all was the content. Brimstone knew enough about magic to recognise the ritual as genuine. He’d found it at last! He’d found The Book of Beleth!

  For three days and three nights, Brimstone studied the book. He refused all food except for a little gruel and declined all strong drink. For once he allowed Chalkhill to run the business affairs without interference. The idiot wasn’t likely to lose too much money in so short a time; and even if he did, Brimstone would soon make it up now he had The Book of Beleth. It was the portal to Hell, the key to riches. The man who had The Book of Beleth had all the gold in the world. What a fool that widow was. If she’d only known what was in her safekeeping, she could have paid the rent a thousand times over. She could have owned Chalkhill and Brimstone. She could have overthrown the Purple Emperor himself! But she hadn’t known and her stupid dead husband hadn’t known and now the book belonged to Silas Brimstone.

  In the attic room, he prepared to put it to use.

  Brimstone left the book by the window and shuffled over to the cupboard in the west wall. From it he took a bag of coffin nails, a hammer and the dead body of a young goat. It smelled a bit since it was more than four hot days since he’d sacrificed it, but nobody would notice once he started to burn incense. He set a bucket to one side to catch the remains, then drew his dagger and began to skin the goat.