Faerie Lord

Thirteen

‘How,’ hissed Black Hairstreak furiously, ‘did he find out?’

Brimstone glared back. ‘Not from me.’

‘Then who?’ Hairstreak demanded.

‘How should I know?’ Brimstone asked him crossly. He felt nervous around Hairstreak, but not that nervous. His Lordship had fallen on hard times since the Civil War. The country estates were gone and they were meeting in miserable little city lodgings. Hairstreak needed the Brotherhood far more than the Brotherhood needed him. And the Brotherhood needed Brimstone. He was the only one who could revive their lost fortunes.

But Hairstreak was not about to back down either. ‘You’re his Sponsor,’ he said shortly.

‘A formality,’ snapped Brimstone. Then, to turn the screw, added, ‘Undertaken at your request.’

It had the desired effect. Hairstreak backed down a little – you could see it in his eyes. Brimstone looked pointedly around the room, a small gesture designed to keep Hairstreak in his place. The lodgings weren’t even in a fashionable part of town. In the old days they’d been an artisan dwelling, tarted up at the turn of the century by a merchant who wanted somewhere to stash his mistresses. Now they were just seedy. As was Hairstreak himself, if the truth be told. The velvet suit had seen better days and his boots were worn and scuffed.

All the same, it never did to underestimate the man. He might be in disgrace, but he was still a Lord, with a Lord’s connections. And he was still head of the Brotherhood, a fact Brimstone had to live with. To take some of the tension out of the situation, he said, ‘I’m not sure he has found out anything really.’

‘He asked when he could speak to God,’ Hairstreak reminded him. ‘I’d say that was a pretty good indication he has found out something

… really!’

‘There’s been talk,’ Brimstone said. ‘You know there’s been talk. That’s what got him interested in the first place. It’s all rumours, tittle-tattle, nothing specific, nothing important.’ He fixed Hairstreak with a gimlet eye. ‘He’s just parroting something he picked up in a tavern. Testing us out. If he hadn’t heard the rumours, he would never have joined the Brotherhood.’

Hairstreak stood up suddenly and jerked open a cupboard hidden in the panelling of the wall. ‘Want a drink? There’s gin, simbala or Analogue coffee.’ When Brimstone shook his head, he poured himself a shot and strode back to his chair. ‘Did you get the money?’

Brimstone shook his head a second time. His lip curled slightly of its own accord.

‘Why not?’ Hairstreak demanded.

‘I have no plans to root around in Chalkhill’s knickers,’ Brimstone said coldly. He caught Hairstreak’s blank expression and added, ‘He keeps it in his knickers. At least that’s what he told me.’

‘He keeps it where?’

‘Oh come on!’ Brimstone said impatiently. ‘You know Jasper just as well as I do – you employed him long enough. The man’s a pervert.’

‘Yes, but he’s a rich pervert,’ Hairstreak muttered sourly. ‘He is going to pay?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve arranged a bank draft.’ It would be made out to Brimstone, but he felt no urge to mention that. He was the one who would be spending the money after all.

‘When?’

‘When did I arrange it?’

‘When will it be paid?’

‘Seventy-two-hour clearance,’ Brimstone said. ‘Best you can do with a sum that size.’

‘Three days…’ Hairstreak mused thoughtfully.

Brimstone frowned. ‘Something wrong with that?’

‘I was just thinking about the rumours Chalkhill’s heard. About talking to God. He’s not going to be satisfied until he’s found out what’s behind them.’

‘I don’t suppose he is,’ Brimstone agreed. Chalkhill was nothing if not curious. Besides which, he was parting with an obscene amount of money. Nobody in his right mind would do that just to join a clapped-out Lodge of sorcerers who couldn’t even raise a demon any more. It was an open secret that Chalkhill realised there was something afoot. He might live without knowing details before he was a member of the Brotherhood, but once he parted with his gold, he’d want to have the truth.

‘Do you trust him?’ Hairstreak asked.

It was a good question and one Brimstone hadn’t considered. His whole attention had been on reeling Chalkhill in, not worrying about the consequences. ‘Do you?’

‘Not much,’ Hairstreak said. ‘He was a good enough spy, but he puts his own interests first. When I employed him, he was too frightened of me to set a foot out of line – and besides, I had the manpower then to keep an eye on him. I’m not sure that’s the case any more.’

‘He looked frightened enough when he saw you in the Lodge Room.’ Brimstone shrugged.

Hairstreak gave an inward, wicked smile. ‘Not the way he used to be. Not the way he should be. Not to the very depths of his soul.’ His eyes swung round to lock on Brimstone and the smile became more chill. ‘A lot of people make that mistake these days. They think because I backed the wrong horse in the Civil War, I’m no longer a force to be reckoned with.’

‘Do they?’ Brimstone asked drily.

Hairstreak tossed back his drink and set down the glass. ‘When the money comes through, I want you to kill him.’

Brimstone stared. Jasper and he went back a long, long time. They’d been on adventures together. They’d set up a business together – Chalkhill and Brimstone’s Miracle Glue factory had been the foundation of Brimstone’s own fortunes at one time and the company would never have been established without Chalkhill’s help. Chalkhill, for all his irritating ways, had been a loyal support to Brimstone for more years than he cared to remember. Kill Chalkhill?

‘Yes, okay,’ said Brimstone.