Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (45 page)

Merion took all that in. ‘I had no idea. I was travelling …’ The excuse tasted sour in his mouth. All the known world had mourned his father, and he had not. Not yet. Merion blamed this foul town, and his father’s damned will. He blamed his aunt. He blamed the railwraiths. He blamed every chance and circumstance he could, save his own stubborn nature. He even blamed the blasted heat, and the dust.

‘Of course,’ Castor said as he raised his glass. ‘You have been stuck here instead, with only dead bodies for company.’ It was as though he had read the boy’s mind.

Merion almost missed his opening. ‘And a useless postal service for that matter,’ he added.

Castor stood again. These words obviously needed height. Business was afoot. Was there a smirk on Castor’s face? Was the skeleton cracking? Merion hoped he was. It may have been the brandy talking, but he was liking the feel of this lord.

‘And here was I under the impression that Calidae had invited you on a social visit. This feels more like an introduction with purpose to me,’ he surmised, narrowing his eyes.

Merion also got to his feet.
Man to man
. ‘I confess, I have come to dinner with an ulterior motive, one which I assure you Calidae was unaware of.’

Castor took a moment to raise his nose and survey the whole of the boy. ‘I believe you, and I am listening, Master Hark.’ And he listened while he sipped his brandy.

‘As you can imagine, I’m keen to see my father’s murderer behind bars. But I seem to be several thousand miles away, and the postal office in this town can’t seem to comprehend the urgency of my situation. I’ve sent almost ten letters, my lord. Not a single one has reached Constable Pagget in London,’ Merion took a breath to steady his eager heart. ‘You have given me some comfort this evening, Lord Serped, and for that I am grateful, but I need justice. I need information, news, correspondence. And of course, it is not just the matter of my father. His estate needs managing.
My
estate needs managing, to keep the wolves from the door, so to speak.’

Castor turned to admire a painting hanging on the wall behind him. It was an ancestor no doubt, astride a great horse and holding a sword which was far too large for Merion’s liking. Castor spoke as if to the painting. ‘I take it you have not heard talk of the election, then?’

‘An election?’ Merion asked, eyes wide. ‘So soon?’

‘The cogs of the Empire must keep turning, Merion. The Bulldog is dead. We must have a new Prime Lord,’ Castor replied. He saw the boy’s expression and waved a hand. ‘It’s early days, Merion, and for now you need not worry yourself with it. You’re wise to think of your house, and your name, as well as your father. It shows a keen mind, Master Hark, one that I admire.’

Merion tried not to let the pride show in his cheeks. He was doing well, he could feel it in the prickles of his skin. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Once again Castor turned away to trace a curve in the carpet. ‘Tell me then, Tonmerion, what would you ask of me?’

‘If you would send a wiregram for me, to Constable Pagget, I would be forever in your debt.’

Castor narrowed his eyes and took another sip of his brandy. Merion mirrored him, feeling the burn of the sweet, hot liquid on the back of his tongue. ‘Be careful offering such terms, Master Hark. There are others in this world less scrupulous than myself. They may not be so kind and cautionary,’ he advised.

Merion sketched a shallow bow. ‘In that case, my lord Serped, I would be very grateful, and you would have my utmost thanks,’ he offered.

‘Now those are terms I can accept. I shall have a wiregram sheet fetched immediately.’

Before Merion could protest that it needn’t be fetched at this very moment, Serped had already rung a small bell on a cloth rope. Within several seconds, a loud thudding was heard behind the door.

A man entered and bowed. Merion immediately noticed his eyes: one a bright green, the other a piercing blue. The man was wearing a bowler hat, and beneath it, a smile peppered with bright gold. He was dressed in a smart, yet unremarkable grey suit.

‘My lord,’ he said.

‘Tonmerion Hark, might I introduce Suffrous Gile, master of my affairs here in Wyoming.’

Suffrous Gile
. What a name. Merion bowed low nonetheless, and made the man’s acquaintance.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Lord Hark. My condolences for your father. He was a very talented man,’ said Suffrous. touching the edge of his hat. His voice was a churning pile of gravel.

Merion had never quite heard the Bulldog of London described as ‘talented’. ‘Thank you, Master Gile,’ he replied, bowing again.

Suffrous reached deep into his pocket and brandished a handful of paper. ‘As you requested, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Suffrous,’ Castor replied, holding out a hand. Merion did not dare to wonder how a wiregram sheet had been fetched so quickly. Castor had not uttered a single order.

As Master Gile placed the papers in his master’s palm, he leant forwards to whisper something in Castor’s ear. Merion had to fight not to lean forwards. Such was the alluring pull of the whispered word, tantalising and out of reach. Castor slipped one of the sheets into his pocket, and held out the other: a yellow wiregram sheet. Merion’s heart thudded as he walked forwards to seize it. His prize, long awaited.

‘My thanks, Lord Serped, my utmost thanks,’ Merion said, nearly gasping his words.

‘I cannot be held responsible for the answer, I’m afraid,’ Castor cautioned.

‘Of course,’ Merion bobbed his head.

‘If you manage to write it tonight, I can have Master Gile here run it to Kaspar in the morning.’

‘You’re very kind, my lord. If you have a pen I can have it written in no time at all,’ Merion replied. The weeks of practice at the postal office had paid off. He could write this message blind-folded. A smile crept across his lips.

Castor motioned to a small writing desk tucked away in the corner, and then clicked his fingers at Gile. ‘Have the good wine brought in, Suffrous, and my wife and daughter also. I believe our business is concluded here,’ he instructed.

‘Very good, my lord,’ said Suffrous, sketching a bow. The man’s great boots twisted a whorl in the rug as he turned and strode away, footsteps heavy and clunking.

Merion had the message penned in under a minute. The ink was still drying by the time he handed the sheet back to Castor, who balanced it on the pillars of his fingers. He blew gently on the glistening ink while his eyes flicked over it.

Castor hummed approvingly. ‘Short and to the point, Master Hark.’

Merion beamed like a lantern. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he replied, fidgeting with his fingers to keep himself from either yelling, dancing, or passing straight out.
Finally, he had done it
.

Before he could enquire how long he would have to wait for his answers, the sound of heavy boots returned to the door. Gile came first, bearing a tray topped with two carafes of dark red wine and five glasses; the small, skinny sort that looked about as sturdy as a weeping icicle.

Merion found Castor’s bony hand between his shoulders, guiding him back to his armchair, and a smiling Calidae holding a gold-rimmed carafe of wine out to him. She had spied the wiregram in her father’s other hand. Her quick mind missed nothing.

‘Wine, Lord Hark?’ she asked, her voice like bells again. There was a glint in her eye that transfixed him, pinning him in place like a prize butterfly in a case. A glass was pressed into his hand by Master Gile, and before Merion could answer, deep, ruby-red blood began to trickle into his glass.

‘To the Empire,’ Castor announced.

‘The Empire!’ echoed the others, Merion loudest of all.

Glasses were put to lips, and wine introduced to tongues. It was sweet, almost too much, and it had a metallic taste that numbed his mouth. Merion took a long gulp, not wishing to appear rude. The sweet wine filled his mouth until he was wincing from the sugar and his tongue had become sluggish. It was the sort of wine that flowed upwards, as he had heard Lurker say one night in the desert.
Straight to your head, forget your belly.
Merion felt the wine washing around his skull almost immediately. The room grew a little darker at the edges. If he was not mistaken, the riverboat seemed to be listing to one side. All he could do was smile, hold out his glass to Calidae, and try not to fall head-first into her eyes. This was worse than that Shohari swill.

He sat down at some point, he knew that much. Or did he lie down? In any case he remembered Calidae’s hand resting on his arm. He had not dared to move it. Not for anything. At the window, Gile had spoken to him of all the facets of his past: ship-wrecker, smuggler, prisoner, manservant, master of affairs. Merion remembered swaying through the man’s whispered stories, squint-eyed and silent, wondering how to get away. Calidae had rescued him. Or had it been Castor? Wine flowed in any case. Merion’s lips were smeared red and sticky.

In the morning he would remember nothing of the dancing, nor the singing, nor even the long and hushed conversation with Castor. Merion would remember none of the words that passed, for wine is a double-edged blade. It loves to play the merry prince, but it also delights to play the thief, creeping in when the lights have been turned down, when the mind is drenched. It cheats you of sense and memory, leaving a slice of darkness in their place. The thief was already picking the locks, as far as Merion was concerned. Long into the night, and deep into the morning, two things kept flowing. That damned wine, and Castor’s hushed words.

A LONG DROP AND A SHORT STOP

‘Karrigan caught me again. Wanted to know why I was spending so much time with Merion. Rumours had started spreading. The boy had been heard talking to himself on many an occasion. Told him I was teaching him the ways of the world. Karrigan slapped me. Told me I was a guard, not a tutor. I bowed and scraped, but I won’t be beaten. I’ve never been beaten. I’ll just be smarter.’

2nd June, 1867

M
erion wasn’t sure what he abhorred the most: the cold water on his clammy skin or the hot fingers of daylight prying open his skull by the sockets.

‘Almighty …!’ Merion managed to choke out some blasphemy before his aunt threw another cup of water on him.

‘Your Almighty’s got nothing to do with it, Tonmerion Hark. Get out of bed this instant!’

This was worse than the bat blood, he swore. Merion felt as though he had a dozen stomachs, and each of them was trying to crawl out of him through a different exit. And his head, oh his head. He didn’t even want to admit it was attached to his body. His swollen brain knocked against the inside of his skull with every twitch and jolt. They say you never forget your first hangover. They are absolutely right.

Merion shuddered as he got to his feet. The confusion hit him almost as hard as the dizziness, along with the very tempting urge to vomit all over his aunt and her bucket of cold water. The wine had made a dark, fuzzy hole of last night. All he could remember was muttered words, scraps of song, and sickly sweet alcohol. Merion tried to piece together their tendrils while his aunt ranted.

‘… to open the door for the coachman. Poor man, having to drag you to the doorstep in your state … And this room! What have you done with my books? Why are they here? And what is that in the corner?’ Lilain wrinkled her lip, and thought better of investigating. It was all Merion could do to shrug.

‘The nerve of those bastard Serpeds! Getting a thirteen-year-old boy into such a state. It’s disgusting! What exactly where they plying you with?’

‘Wine.’

‘Wine indeed.’

‘And brandy, I think,’ added Merion. ‘Calidae was drinking too …’

Lilain turned a slightly darker shade of red. Veins had appeared at her hairline. Her eyes were blazing with anger. She said nothing.

‘Ouch,’ Merion sighed, rubbing a tender forehead.

‘Ouch indeed,’ Lilain curled her lip. ‘You’re an embarrassment and a disgrace, Merion. What would your father have said, if he were here?’

Merion flashed her a look that warned of dangerous territory, but Lilain was having none of it. She was too angry for that. ‘He would have given you the rod, no doubt. But I have other methods of punishment.’

‘Punishment? It isn’t as if I wanted this to …’ Merion spluttered.

Lilain whirled on him. ‘Did Calidae Serped pour the wine in your mouth, as well as your glass, nephew, hmm? Did they force it down your throat? Tie you to a chair and empty flagons down your throat?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not. Which means you’re just as in the wrong as they are, aren’t you?’

Merion nodded in reply. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could die quietly under his blanket. There was to be no such luck.

‘What if you had said something in your addled state, have you thought about that? Told them all about your bloodrushing, or Lurker for that matter, or of your time with the Shohari? Did you ever stop drinking to think about where you were and the ears that were listening? I don’t think you did. Merion, you are too important and too naive to be getting fast and loose with the truth around people of such power, and connection. Do you understand me?’

Merion did. Shame was piled onto confusion and worry. He bowed his head.

‘First, you’re going to clean this room. Then you’re going to wash yourself. You reek of alcohol and other things I don’t want to mention. Then you’re going to help me with the two Shohari bodies I’ve got on the table downstairs. Any questions?’

Merion was too sick to argue. ‘No, Aunt Lilain.’

His aunt stormed from the room and slammed the door. Pain erupted behind his eyes.

*