Faerie Lord

Forty-One

‘I thought we were going to Haleklind,’ said Chalkhill.

Brimstone shook his head. ‘No.’

‘New Altran?’

‘No.’

‘The Feltwell Crescent?’

‘Hairstreak has cousins in the Feltwell Crescent.’

‘Where then?’ Chalkhill demanded.

‘Buthner,’ Brimstone told him shortly.

Chalkhill blinked. ‘That godsforsaken wilderness? The Faeries’ Graveyard?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s nothing there,’ Chalkhill wailed. ‘The country’s run by savages and half the population are nomads. They eat people in Buthner.’

‘That’s an urban myth,’ said Brimstone.

‘How can it be an urban myth when there aren’t any towns?’ When Brimstone failed to answer, Chalkhill pressed, ‘Why a haelhole like Buthner?’

‘Can you think of anywhere better to hide something?’

He had a point. Chalkhill stared through the window of the coach, wishing it was an ouklo. Although they were only just approaching the southern border of Altran, the weather outside looked oppressively hot. Heaven only knew what it would be like when they reached Buthner. And why didn’t they have any guards? They were going to need someone to protect them from the savages.

The coach hit a pothole and jarred Chalkhill’s spine. ‘Why couldn’t we have flown?’ he demanded. ‘An ouklo would have been ten times as fast and a million times more comfortable.’

‘Hairstreak may be watching the airports.’

‘He doesn’t have the manpower for that any more! The little creep has hardly any money. Except mine now,’ Chalkhill added sourly.

‘Oh, you can stop payment on the draft,’ Brimstone said, as if suddenly remembering something unimportant.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Perfectly. I don’t need the Brotherhood any more. You can stop payment at the border – there’ll be banking facilities.’

The old cretin was infuriating. Why hadn’t he mentioned this before? It might be too late now, although Chalkhill would bend heaven and earth to make sure no gold was actually transferred. Because he was angry at Brimstone he said, if you’d told me that sooner, I could have used the cash to hire a private flyer. Quite untraceable.’

‘It won’t fly,’ Brimstone said. He had a small purse on his lap and was fiddling inside it.

‘What won’t fly?’

Brimstone nodded back towards the trailer that was transporting their captive.

‘Of course it will fly!’ Chalkhill exclaimed. ‘It’s a full-grown -’

‘Quiet!’ Brimstone hissed urgently. ‘If the coachman finds out what we’re carrying, we’re finished. These carriages have very thin roofs.’

‘All right, I won’t mention what it is,’ Chalkhill said. ‘But you know what I mean.’

‘Of course I know what you mean,’ Brimstone said crossly. He dropped his voice another notch, ‘It will fly under its own power, but it panics if you try to put it into anything spell-driven. Darkness knows I tried. That’s how it got injured.’

‘How ironical,’ Chalkhill said. It was hard to get his head around. But then there were a lot of things about this little escapade that were hard to get his head around. ‘All the same – ’ he began.

Brimstone waved him to silence. ‘We’re coming up to Customs. This is the tricky bit. So keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.’

‘Gladly,’ Chalkhill said. ‘It’s your head.’ Except it wasn’t. If Customs found out what they had in the trailer, it would be both of them for the chop, however much he pleaded innocence and ignorance.

The border was marked by a flimsy rustic fence that looked as if it wouldn’t stop a migrating slith, but its spell coatings were guaranteed to halt anything short of a full-scale invasion. The Customs Houses, build in the reign of Scolitandes the Weedy, were on a monumental scale, with vast warehousing to hold confiscated goods. The times were less troubled now, the formalities far more relaxed, but the Customs Officers were watchful and anybody found trying to smuggle contraband usually disappeared for a very long time. If he wasn’t hanged.

Chalkhill shuddered as Brimstone climbed down from the coach.

The officer was covered in braid and as self-important as a pigeon. He ignored both Brimstone and the driver while he strutted round the coach and stared up at the covered trailer behind it.

‘What’s this then?’ he asked.

‘Crated nants for export,’ Brimstone said. He produced documents in triplicate and handed them across. ‘You’ll find the papers are in order.’

‘Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,’ the officer told him. He studied the papers carefully.

‘Clement weather for the time of year,’ said Brimstone conversationally. Coaches leaving the country passed through the archway up ahead and into a short tunnel. When they emerged, they were on foreign soil.

The officer ignored him. After a while he glanced up towards the trailer. ‘Those things live?’

‘Not much good dead,’ Brimstone said.

‘Let’s see then.’

‘They’re crated,’ Brimstone said.

‘I know they’re crated. Let’s see them.’

‘That’ll mean opening the crate,’ Brimstone said. ‘It’s very well sealed.’

‘Better get on with it then.’

Brimstone sighed and nodded to the coach driver, who climbed down and pulled the tarpaulin off his trailer. Chalkhill began to climb out as well, preparatory to making a run for it. ‘Get back in the coach,’ said Brimstone conversationally. Chalkhill recognised the undertone of menace and backed off at once.

‘See?’ said Brimstone as the huge crate came into view.

‘I see,’ said the official. ‘Now I want to see in.’

Brimstone nodded again at the driver, who produced a crowbar from his toolkit and began to prise off one side of the wooden crate. After a moment, the siding fell away to reveal the cage inside. The heavy titanium bars were reinforced with fine wire mesh. Beyond it crawled the nants, several hundred thousand of them, their stubby wings beating furiously. Brimstone waited. The Customs Officer bent forward to peer closely through the mesh. As he did so, the nants set up their familiar, grating, high-pitched whine. The man drew back at once.

‘Would you like to go inside, Officer?’ Brimstone asked innocently. ‘There’s a double door to keep them from escaping.’

‘No, thank you,’ said the officer stiffly. He glanced at the papers again, then nodded to the coachman. ‘Crate them up again. You’re free to go on.’

‘Thank you, Officer,’ said Brimstone unctuously.

The coachman pushed the wooden side back onto the crate and secured it roughly before drawing the tarpaulin over it again. In the darkness, the nants began to settle and their high-pitched whine died down. The Customs Officer stepped aside and waved them onwards with large, sweeping motions of his arm, as if he was suddenly anxious to get rid of them. The coachman climbed back into his seat. Brimstone made to join Chalkhill inside the carriage.

From somewhere deep inside the covered crate, a voice called, ‘Help!’

The scene froze for an instant; then the Customs Officer slowly turned his head towards the trailer.

‘Just my little joke,’ said Brimstone quickly. ‘I’m a ventriloquist.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said the Customs Officer. ‘Get it opened up again.’