The Purple Emperor Page 8

  Since it was clear he wouldn’t have the device finished in the next hour or so, he decided to stay the night. He felt a wonderful surge of pleasure at the decision. The sense of freedom was astonishing. He didn’t have to answer to his mother. He didn’t have to listen to his rotten sister. He could stay out all night if he damn well liked. They wouldn’t even notice he was missing.

  Henry’s sense of freedom was gone in the morning, replaced by something close to panic. He’d had the weirdest dream about Pyrgus. They were running from a small army of rotting zombies who loped along a city street with bits falling off them. Blue was in the dream as well. She followed after the zombies with a dustpan and brush, sweeping up the bits. As she worked, she kept calling after them, ‘What kept you, Henry? What took you so long?’

  Whatever about the zombies, he could believe that was exactly what Blue must be saying now. There was trouble in the Realm, she’d asked Henry for his help and he’d promised to follow on as quickly as he could. She’d probably expected him within an hour or two at most. He grabbed the soldering iron without even bothering to have breakfast.

  He finished the portal control around lunchtime, with one break mid-morning to fry up two hamburgers he found in the deep freeze. It looked a real mess as it sat there on the kitchen table—a rat’s nest of terminals and wires with an on/off switch too big for the rest of the components. The control Mr Fogarty made was smaller than a mobile phone. Henry’s version would hardly fit into a shoebox. He wondered how he was going to carry it about with him, then decided he didn’t have to. If he could open a portal to the Realm, Mr Fogarty could always get him back. Or Pyrgus, come to that—there was a portal in the Purple Palace.

  He bit his lip, stared at it for a little while, then decided it was time to try it out. Since he’d learned the hard way not to open portals indoors, he carried the device into the back garden and down to the little area of wasteland and rubbish beyond the buddleia bush. It struck him that if he hesitated he’d never have the courage to do anything, so he threw the monstrous switch right away.

  Nothing happened.

  It was that biofilter thing! It wouldn’t work without the biofilter! He was finished. He’d have to go home and wait for Aisling to get back to normal all because of that stupid biofilter!

  Or possibly a battery ...

  Henry felt like kicking himself. The famous biofilter might yet be a problem, but meanwhile it would be an excellent idea to put a battery in his device. He ran quickly back into the house and searched the drawer. There were several batteries pushed in at the back, but none was the lithium button he needed. He ran to the shed, but could find no batteries there at all.

  Where are you, Henry? Why didn’t you follow on like you promised?

  He was so late! He was so long delayed! He glanced at his watch. One twenty-eight. That was nearly—there was a battery in his watch!

  Henry ripped the watch from his wrist. He needed a little screwdriver to get the back off, but there were little screwdrivers in the shed. In moments he was looking at a battery that would fit his makeshift portal control to perfection. He prised it out of the watch and carried it quickly outside.

  He discovered he was breathing heavily as he pushed the battery into place. He checked the contacts and decided everything was ready. Then he had a small heart-thumping panic: there was no way this thing was going to work without its biofilter. The biofilter just had to be the most important component in the entire thing. Dear heaven, what was a biofilter?

  One last search, he thought. One last search. It was stupid risking everything for the sake of a biofilter. What happened if all his work went into meltdown?

  Henry ran back to the house—he seemed to be running everywhere these days—and began a search so thorough that at one point he found himself looking behind the bowl in the loo. The ridiculousness of his situation struck him then. Did he really think Mr Fogarty kept a biofilter in his toilet? It was ludicrous. He was letting his panic get the better of him. What was such a big deal about testing the device without one tiny little component? Worst-case scenario, the chances were it simply wouldn’t work. He’d been willing enough to try it without its biofilter a few minutes ago before he remembered he hadn’t put in the battery. Why was he making such a fuss about the damn thing now?

  He went back outside again. His electronic rat’s nest lay where he’d left it on top of a broken-down old garden table Mr Fogarty had never got around to throwing out. Before he could panic again, Henry threw the switch.

  In the middle of the rat’s nest, an LED glowed green.

  Henry looked around. There was no sign of a portal, no sign of anything at all. It hadn’t worked. It was never going to work without a bio—

  Behind him, somewhere near the shed, there came an electronic hum. It was so low-pitched at first that he felt it through his feet as much as heard it with his ears. But then it rose higher and began to pulse like the siren of a cardiac ambulance. The volume rose to a painful level. This was nothing at all like what happened when he used the portal control Mr Fogarty made. Something was wrong. Something was badly wrong.

  The sounding siren stopped abruptly. There was an unfamiliar popping sound and a portal opened little more than six feet from where he stood. Henry stared at it in astonishment. He’d done it! He’d built a working portal control! What’s more, it opened up directly into the Purple Palace—he recognised its corridors at once. How great was that?

  He froze. There was a small sizzling sound like frying bacon. A whisp of smoke rose from a junction in his makeshift control. As he watched, sparks began to snake through the wiring of the rat’s nest.

  The portal flickered.

  For an instant, Henry’s legs refused to function. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the flicker meant the portal was going to close again, but he could do nothing, absolutely nothing about it. Then his paralysis broke and he flung himself forward.

  The portal collapsed a second after he passed through it. But it didn’t matter. He had made it. He was in the Purple Palace.

  And something was very wrong.

  Twenty-Two

  The old Purple Emperor would never have seen them in the throne room—serious negotiations with serious enemies took place in private. But Hamearis was not even slightly surprised. The Purple Emperor Elect was young and inexperienced. He would see a formal audience as the only possibility with a ranking Duke. Besides, he wouldn’t realise how much trouble he was in.

  It was years since Hamearis had entered this chamber. It had been set out for a banquet then and packed with gaudy people. Now it was almost empty and surprisingly gloomy. There seemed to be some sort of glowglobe failure: a brace of sleepy flunkies were setting out banks of lighted candles. The flickering flames caused eerie shadows, which was possibly no bad thing, considering the news he brought.

  He let his gaze drift casually, arrogantly, along the forest of pillars and up to the acoustic galleries high above. Those baroque constructions carried every whisper through the great hall and out into the corridors beyond. Which was no bad thing either. If servants overheard, the word would spread like wildfire — and cause just as much panic.

  At the far end of the chamber, Crown Prince Pyrgus and his sister, the Princess Royal, were seated on two huge elevated thrones. They had clearly chosen their positions in order to impress, but managed only to look like nervous children. They both had their father’s aspect in them, Pyrgus even more than his sister. Word had it he was a wild one, as young people often were, but there was intelligence in his eyes and given a few years he might even have made quite a decent Emperor. Almost a pity he would never get the chance.

  Hamearis began to walk towards them. His cloaked companion moved like a ghost three paces behind.

  Blue watched Hamearis stride along the aisle. He walked slowly, almost insultingly so, as if he was on an evening stroll. But that would be deliberate. From everything she had learned, Hamearis Lucina was a master of diplomacy and psychologi
cal manipulation, skills that in some ways made him even more dangerous than Lord Hairstreak himself. Although she’d seen many pictures of him and watched some of his viewscreen appearances, the reality was even more impressive than the image. His body was well-muscled, like a warrior, but there was a deceptive sensitivity about his face. He had the handsome looks of a hero, which doubtless contributed to his enormous public following among the Faeries of the Night.

  Hamearis bowed. ‘Greetings, Prince Pyrgus. I must thank you for granting me an audience at so late an hour.’ Prince Pyrgus, Blue noticed, not Emperor Elect. He had tawny yellow eyes like a haniel, and now they moved to her. ‘Your Serene Highness,’ he acknowledged.

  Blue inclined her head slightly. She was glad Pyrgus had had the good sense to bring her to this meeting. Hamearis might be handsome, but he was dangerous as a viper and crafty as a rat.

  Pyrgus said coolly, ‘Since it is a late hour, Your Grace, I would appreciate your getting directly to the purpose of your visit.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hamearis said mildly. ‘But first, with your permission, sir, I am required to present compliments and greetings from my friend and colleague Lord Hairstreak, who has expressly asked me to enquire after your health and that of your sister.’

  ‘My health is fine,’ Pyrgus said shortly. ‘So’s Blue’s.’

  Her brother would never, ever make a diplomat. ‘Please convey our greetings to Lord Hairstreak and express our hopes that he too is fit and well,’ Blue put in.

  ‘Now get on with it,’ said Pyrgus, spoiling the effect.

  If Hamearis took offence, he didn’t show it. In fact, he actually began to smile. ‘As you wish, Crown Prince,’ he said.

  Blue had a sudden, gripping intuition that something terrible was coming. It was so strong she wanted to cry out, to stop whatever it was that Hamearis Lucina was about to say. But her terror was so great her tongue refused to function.

  Hamearis said formally, ‘Crown Prince Pyrgus, your father, the Purple Emperor, has contracted a pact with Lord Hairstreak, acting in his capacity as representative of the Faeries of the Night, whereby henceforth the Purple Emperor agrees that, due to his recent and ongoing illness, the functions of State shall become the responsibility of his son Comma, who shall, until his majority, be advised in all matters by Lord Hairstreak in the capacity of Royal Regent.’ Hamearis drew a rolled scroll from the pocket of his tunic and offered it to Pyrgus. ‘I am charged, Crown Prince, to present you with a copy of this pact, struck with the Imperial Seal and signed by the hand of your father, the presiding Purple Emperor, in the certain knowledge and expectation that you and all members of the Royal Family and Household will abide by the detailed terms herein and grant such aid and assistance as may become necessary to Prince Comma and Lord Hairstreak in the pursuance of their various duties.’ When Pyrgus made no move to take the scroll, Hamearis dropped it at his feet.

  ‘Duke Hamearis,’ Blue gasped, ‘our father is dead!’ What the man had just said was appalling, sick, hurtful, despicable, stupid —

  Hamearis licked his lips. ‘Your Serene Highness,’ he said formally, ‘it is my pleasant duty to inform you that your illustrious father is very much alive.’ He gestured.

  The cloaked figure behind him took three steps forward and threw back his hood.

  Twenty-Three

  ‘That wasn’t Daddy!’ Blue said wildly.

  Pyrgus said nothing.

  ‘It can’t have been Daddy—Daddy’s dead! I saw him dead!’ She couldn’t stand still. She paced the length of the private antechamber, then paced back again. There were tears in her eyes. ‘It wasn’t Daddy! It wasn’t! It wasn’t!’ She hesitated. ‘It wasn’t, was it, Pyrgus?’

  ‘It looked like Daddy,’ Pyrgus told her dully.

  She could still see every movement of the hood, the fold of the cloth as it slipped back. She could see her father’s eyes turning towards her. She could see the hasty repairs done to the ravages the Analogue World weapon had wrought on his face.

  ‘It could be a double,’ she said. She was aware of her hands trembling. ‘Just somebody who looks like him. Or a magical illusion. Something Hairstreak and Hamearis arranged between them. They’d do that, you know. Hairstreak would stop at nothing to —’

  ‘I don’t think it was a double,’ Pyrgus said. ‘I don’t think it was an illusion either.’

  Neither did Blue, not really. The moment the figure uncloaked, she’d known. It was all there, in the shape of his body, the tilt of his head, even that curious open way he held his left hand. Besides, while an illusion or a double might pass muster for an hour or two, maybe even a day, Hairstreak knew there would be no question of pacts or changes in the way the Realm was run. No fake could possibly stand up to the sort of scrutiny that would bring. What she’d seen had to be real.

  The emotion hit her like a tidal wave. Her father was alive again! She could see his face, hear his voice. She could feel the touch of his hand on her cheek. They could walk together, talk together as they once had. It could be as it was before!

  Then, as suddenly as it came, the wave ebbed. It was not as it had been before. Their father had refused to talk to them, to approach them, refused even to stay in the throne room. He had showed his face, woodenly confirmed the agreement with Lord Hairstreak, then walked out. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right. Softly, without warning, Blue began to cry.

  Pyrgus was by her side at once, his arm about her shoulders. ‘It’s all right, Blue. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Empty words, and they both knew it. ‘Do you believe Hamearis?’ Pyrgus looked at her blankly. Blue blinked back her tears. ‘He said Daddy was never really killed, never really dead. He was only in a coma and when Hairstreak took him out of stasis he … he just sort of woke up. Do you believe that?’

  Pyrgus said very carefully, ‘I suppose that’s possible. I mean, people do go into comas. Sometimes. I mean ’

  Blue seized him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Do you believe it, Pyrgus? Do you believe that’s what happened?’

  Miserably, Pyrgus shook his head. ‘No.’

  Blue stared at him bleakly. ‘They must have brought him back,’ she said. Her words were scarcely more than a whisper. They hung in the chamber like a sentinel of doom.

  Pyrgus said nothing.

  With a huge effort Blue stopped crying and used a corner of her gown to dry her eyes. She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Nothing.’ For a second she thought the tears might start again, but she forced them back and said briskly, ‘Have someone fetch the Gatekeeper.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘And Madame Cardui. I think we’re going to need all the advice we can get.’

  Although Madame Cardui was staying at the palace, she was not in her quarters according to the servant sent to fetch her. Fortunately Gatekeeper Fogarty found her somewhere. At least, the two of them arrived together. Blue thought they looked smug about something, but had too much on her mind to find out what. She told them what had happened.

  ‘Hairstreak can resurrect the dead?’ Mr Fogarty put in the moment she drew breath.

  ‘Necromancers can,’ Pyrgus said. He had a shamed look, as if he was talking about an obscenity. ‘Some of them. A few of them. Most of them can only talk to the … to the … ‘

  ‘But some of them can?’ Fogarty pressed him. ‘Some of them can actually do it?’ From the intensity of his expression, he seemed to have a personal interest.

  ‘If … you know, if the … if the … if things haven’t too far gone.’

  ‘You mean if the corpse hasn’t started to rot?’

  Pyrgus swallowed painfully. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do this right away?’ Fogarty asked.

  Pyrgus stared at him in astonishment. ‘Me?’

  ‘You and Blue. Yes.’

  ‘Resurrect Daddy?’ Blue was looking at him wide-eyed. She seemed stunned by his question.

  ‘You liked him, didn’t you?’ said Fogarty. He looked from one to the other, clearly bewild
ered by their reactions. ‘Come to that, how come everybody isn’t resurrected? After battles and so forth?’

  After a long moment, Blue said gently, ‘It’s forbidden, Mr Fogarty.’

  ‘Forbidden by who, for God’s sake?’

  Blue swallowed. ‘Law,’ she said. The distress was evident on her face. ‘And the Church of Light.’

  Frowning, Fogarty asked, ‘Is that the only reason?’ He sounded incredulous.

  Pyrgus was staring at the floor. He looked as if he was going to be sick. Blue shuddered. ‘It’s just wrong, Mr Fogarty!’ she blurted.

  But Fogarty wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘Suppose I died and you put me in stasis, would you be able to have me resurrected then?’

  ‘It’s forbidden,’ Blue said again.

  ‘By your religion? I’m a Presbyterian.’

  Long seconds ticked away. Fogarty thought Blue might be going to cry, but eventually she said almost crisply, ‘Gatekeeper, the necromancer would have control of you.’

  So that was it! That was why they were so upset. Fogarty leaned forward. ‘So it’s a zombie deal?’ They thought their father had been raised from the dead and now he was some sort of shell commanded by Hairstreak. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘Lord Hairstreak stole your father’s corpse, then animated it? And now it’s his slave? Doing anything he tells it?’

  ‘Not Hairstreak personally,’ Blue said. ‘It would have to be a necromancer. Somebody who knows how to do it. But he’d have been working on Hairstreak’s orders. Or maybe—’ she swallowed again and closed her eyes briefly,’— maybe it was somebody who ... who just did it and sold Daddy to Lord Hairstreak afterwards. That’s happened sometimes: I read about it in the history books. But it doesn’t matter what exactly happened. The thing is, Daddy’s soul is trapped and he has to do what Lord Hairstreak tells him. That’s why he signed the pact. That’s the only way he would have signed that pact.’