Faerie Lord

Four

Chalkhill was dressed in a shocking-pink silk knicker-bocker suit with fashionably clashing electric-blue suede knee boots and a sweet little lime-green slithskin apron. Brimstone stared at him in distaste. ‘Were you followed?’ he asked.

‘No, of course not,’ Chalkhill said. ‘I took precautions.’ He smiled broadly. The spell coatings on his teeth flashed and sparked and played a cheery tune. ‘Isn’t this fun? The old team back together again. Really, Silas, I’m so excited I could dance.’

‘Have you brought the money?’ Brimstone asked drily.

‘In my knickers,’ Chalkhill said. He caught Brimstone’s blank look and added, ‘In case somebody tried to steal it.’

They were waiting together on the doorstep of a lonely, tree-shrouded mansion set in the outer reaches of the Cretch. There was a legend that it had once belonged to the Master Vampire Krantas, and whether or not this was really true, it certainly looked the part. Gothic towers and spires reached for the sky like spindly fingers. From somewhere deep inside, a bell was tolling hollowly.

‘I thought you’d given up that nonsense,’ Brimstone muttered.

‘What nonsense?’

‘The camp act,’ Brimstone said. ‘It may have served some purpose when you were spying for Lord Hairstreak, but everybody knows it’s just a performance now.’

Chalkhill sighed. ‘Perhaps, but the performance has become a part of me.’ He glanced philosophically into the middle distance. ‘It may be that life itself is a great actor seeking parts to play. It may be -’

‘Just don’t try it on with the Brotherhood,’ Brimstone told him.

They could hear slow footsteps in the depths of the building, and after what seemed like an eternity, the heavy oakwood door swung open. A hollow-eyed Faerie of the Night in evening dress stared down on them. ‘Ah, Brimstone,’ he said. The eyes swung to regard Chalkhill with an ill-concealed expression of disgust. ‘And this must be the Candidate.’

Brimstone nodded shortly. He felt no urge to explain. Everybody knew Chalkhill’s only real function was to provide money. Lots of money, warm from the knickers.

‘Walk this way.’

They followed the creature through a maze of winding corridors until they emerged into an enormous stone-flagged kitchen. The forbidden smell of Analogue World coffee wafted from a cauldron on the stove. Brimstone wondered briefly if it was to be used as an hallucinogenic.

Their hollow-eyed guide looked around him, frowning. ‘Wrong turn,’ he muttered. He swung on his heel. ‘This way,’ he said firmly.

They approached, and passed, a sweeping staircase. ‘D’Urville!’ a voice hissed angrily.

D’Urville stopped and looked up. ‘Ah, there you are, sir,’ he said.

Brimstone recognised the Faerie of the Night at the head of the stairs as Weiskei, the Brotherhood Sentinel, a beaky little pain-in-the-ass with a habit of sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. He was wearing a red robe with his official lamen on the breast and carrying a ridiculous ceremonial sword. He stared at Chalkhill with even more distaste than D’Urville had. ‘I take it this is the Candidate?’

Brimstone nodded.

‘Why is he dressed like a circus clown?’

Chalkhill started to say something, but Brimstone signalled him to silence. ‘Where do we get ready?’ he asked shortly.

Weiskei glanced at him. ‘You’re Sponsor, are you not, Brother… Brother… ah, Brother…?’

‘Brimstone,’ Brimstone said, frowning with irritation. What was the matter with the man? They’d only known each other for a quarter of a century; not well, admittedly, but well enough. Unless Weiskei was trying for a put-down, the little tort-feasor.

‘Brimstone,’ Weiskei echoed and there was a momentary blankness in his eyes that was disturbing. But he rallied quickly. ‘Follow me.’

They followed him to the antechamber of the Lodge Room, a stuffy pigeonhole of a place with heavy black curtains blocking any daylight from its windows. The only illumination came from the stub of a candle stuck onto a skull on a side table. It was supposed to remind the Candidate of his own mortality, but Chalkhill didn’t seem impressed.

Weiskei pompously took up guard position with his back against the Lodge Room door and his ceremonial sword upraised. Brimstone swung his demonologist’s shawl over his shoulders. ‘Take off your shoes and socks,’ he instructed Chalkhill. Then, as an afterthought, ‘And that idiotic apron.’ As a petulant expression began to crawl across Chalkhill’s fleshy face, he added patiently, ‘It’s symbolism, Jasper. Supposed to show humility.’

‘Oh, very well!’ Chalkhill exclaimed.

The man had painted his toenails! Was there no end to his theatrics? Brimstone looked away tiredly. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anybody could do. The Brotherhood was desperate for Chalkhill’s money.

They settled down to wait. The candle had started to gutter precariously before the Lodge Room door finally opened.

A loin-clothed creature with a jackal’s head peered out.

‘Good grief!’ Chalkhill exclaimed.

‘Hoodwink the Candidate, Brother Sentinel,’ the creature instructed, his voice muffled by the mask.

‘At once, Brother Praemonstrator!’ Weiskei exclaimed, snapping to attention. He produced a hoodwink from the folds of his robe and pulled it over Chalkhill’s head. Brimstone knelt quickly and rolled Chalkhill’s left trouser leg up to his knee. Chalkhill giggled.

The man was utterly impossible. But obscenely rich, Brimstone kept reminding himself. And the Brotherhood had never needed his money more than it did today.

Not if they wanted to regain their former glory.