The Purple Emperor

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The Facemaster sighed. 'Mr Chalkhill, will you please try to concentrate?'

'But I'm improving,' Chalkhill protested. 'I'm definitely improving.'

They were alone together in the vast Practice Hall of Hairstreak's Assassins' Academy, with its highly-polished oakwood floor and mirrored walls. Their images extended to infinity. The Facemaster was a dark-haired man with a lean, muscular body and a cool, professional air.

'Improving?' he said. 'Yes, slightly. But there is still a way to go, Mr Chalkhill. Frankly, if you were to attempt your mission tomorrow, you would fail. And then where would we be?'

I'd be dead, thought Chalkhill. And you'd be trying to explain to Hairstreak why you failed to knock me into shape. The Facemaster knew all about his mission, only one of four to do so, as far as Chalkhill was aware. The remaining three were Chalkhill himself, Lord Hairstreak and the wizard retained to cast the transformation spell – a Halek-trained ninny called Puderow, Plumduff, Psodos… something of that sort. Everyone else involved with the Coronation had been told Hairstreak himself would be attending. There was not so much as a hint abroad that Chalkhill would be taking Hairstreak's place. Assuming Chalkhill ever got beyond his basic training.

Of course, if he didn't get beyond his basic training, Hairstreak would have him murdered. Something slow and painful, no doubt.

'I don't see why all this is necessary,' he said petulantly. 'The illusion spell will make me look exactly like His Lordship.'

'Yes it will, Mr Chalkhill, but it will not help you move like him, which is what we're working on now. You realise what the problem is, of course – it's your bulk.'

'My bulk?' Chalkhill echoed, appalled. He was a little overweight certainly, perhaps enough overweight to be called cuddly, but he hardly thought anyone in their right mind would refer to him as bulky.

'You're a bigger man than Lord Hairstreak,' the Facemaster frowned, 'so you move differently. I'm not criticising you, but it's something we have to change. I'm bigger than Hairstreak too, but watch -'

It was positively creepy. As the Facemaster set off across the room again, he seemed to shrink. His right shoulder dropped in a characteristic Hairstreak posture. His features composed themselves into a grim, unforgiving mask. But most of all, his walk became an arrogant, insectile scuttle. There was no transformation spell, no physical resemblance at all, but you could almost imagine you were watching Black Hairstreak himself.

'Now you do it,' Facemaster Wainscot told him.

Chalkhill tried. Oh how Chalkhill tried. He dropped his shoulder, scrunched his body and made sortie after sortie across the polished floor. He studied his reflections in the mirrored walls. He tried to think himself into Lord Hairstreak like an actor taking on a part. He walked and walked and tried and tried until his feet began to ache.

'It's no good,' the Facemaster said at last. 'We'll have to use the worm.'