The Purple Emperor

CHAPTER NINETY NINE

Gnoma's laboratory was a sterile, windowless subterranean cube that smelled of Chinese wash. There was an alchemical furnace in one corner near a blacksmith's anvil and a selection of alembics in an open cupboard. Towards the centre of the room was a six-foot metal gurney underneath a set of high-powered glow globes. Beside it was an instrument tray that made the Royal Herticord's equipment look like toys.

The crate was on the floor beside the gurney.

'No one knows you brought it here?' Gnoma asked.

Pyrgus shook his head. 'Except the coachman and he doesn't know what's in it.' He was feeling so nervous he could scarcely keep still.

Gnoma said, 'I must ask you again, Pyrgus Malvae, if it is your wish to go through with this operation? Once the work begins, it cannot be stopped.'

Pyrgus licked his lips. 'Let's get it over with.'

Gnoma gave him a glance that might have shown contempt. 'There's a floater on the crate and contents?'

Pyrgus nodded.

'Open it,' Gnoma commanded.

Pyrgus glared at him, but said nothing. He might be Crown Prince and Emperor Elect, but he was engaged in something so forbidden he could scarcely stand on ceremony now. He knelt by the crate and uttered a silent prayer for forgiveness. The lock was keyed to his touch and he pressed his thumb firmly against it. There was an oily click as the bolts slid back. Pyrgus looked up.

'Open it,' Gnoma repeated, more quietly this time. His eyes were gleaming.

Pyrgus discovered he was holding his breath and released it explosively. He pushed back the lid of the crate which fell over on its hinges with an horrific and unseemly crash. His father's body lay inside on a cushion of clean straw.

The stasis spell held corruption at bay, so the only smell was that of fresh, cold meat, but not all the application of the embalmer's art could repair the ravages to the face of Apatura Iris. Henry said the weapon used to kill him was something called a shotgun, which caused an explosive charge to propel several hundred violent beads of lead. It had been used at close range. Merciful tears swam before Pyrgus's eyes to soften the image.

'Place the body on the operating table,' Gnoma said.

He had expected something of the sort. Eyes still streaming, he reached inside the crate. It was the first time in years he'd put his arms around his father and the floater spell rendered him unreal, like thistledown. Pyrgus stood up, the corpse cradled in his arms. Shuddering with sobs, he placed it gently on the gurney.

'Face downwards,' Gnoma said.

'Is that necessary?' Pyrgus asked sharply. It was improper for a Purple Emperor to lie prone.

'We must have access to the luz,' said Gnoma firmly.

Pyrgus turned the body.

'Please stand clear,' Gnoma said. 'Your work is done.'

Pyrgus stepped back. With a massive act of will he held himself steady, but emotions were pouring through him like a torrent. He could no longer understand why he had fought so long and so hard with his father. The disagreements seemed unimportant, even silly. The body on the table was so small, so helpless, so… empty. But perhaps he could make amends now. Perhaps he could make it all right.

Gnoma took a massive pair of tailor's shears and inserted them into the back of the Emperor's formal purple jacket.

'What are you doing?' Pyrgus demanded in sudden panic.

'Be quiet!' Gnoma hissed. 'You ordered this to be done. Now leave me to do it!' The shears ripped through the material as if it were a cobweb.

The Emperor's naked back came into view. Pyrgus stared at the butterfly tattoos that were now matched by his own.

Gnoma reached for a scalpel.

'What are you going to do?' whispered Pyrgus.

'Remove the luz,' said Gnoma shortly. He plunged the scalpel into the Emperor's spine.

It was a small piece of bone, about the size of a thumb joint, shaped a little like a vertebra, but without the typical protuberances. It gleamed white now that Gnoma had wiped it.

'That's it?' Pyrgus asked in wonderment.

Gnoma held the bone between his thumb and forefinger, eyes gleaming. 'Watch,' he said softly. He took two steps across the room and placed the bone gently on the anvil. Then he opened a drawer in the bottom of the albemic cupboard and drew out a large, short-handled hammer. The metal head writhed with serpentine energies.

Gnoma glanced at Pyrgus, then smashed the hammer down with heart-stopping violence. The sound was like a thunderclap. Trapped lightning exploded from the hammer-head.

'No -' Pyrgus screamed. He moved to grab Gnoma's arm.

The anvil shattered into fragments under the impact of the blow. Gnoma tossed the hammer to one side and reached down casually into the debris. He held up the bone, still in one piece, unharmed. 'The luz is indestructible,' he said.

Pyrgus stepped forward to examine the bone. It was not so much as scratched.

'It is the bone used by God Himself to resurrect a man on Judgement Day,' Gnoma whispered.

Pyrgus closed his eyes.

'It is the bone I shall use,' Gnoma said, 'to resurrect your father.'

Pyrgus heard the distant footsteps and felt very much afraid.

For lack of a chair, he was perched on an old wicker trunk in a room jam-packed with dusty theatrical equipment. Life-sized puppets slumped from their strings like grinning corpses. There were several cabinets displaying crudely-painted flames. Decorative masks watched him blankly from the walls. The room was at street level. Gnoma said it was dangerous to meet the dead underground.

The footsteps reached the stairway and stopped briefly. For just the barest second he felt a flicker of relief, then there was the creak of wood as someone -something? – started to ascend.

What was approaching on the stair?

Gnoma's lodgings were deceptive. As well as the basement living room and the deeper subterranean laboratory, the ground floor of the house was a warren of corridors and chambers, most suspiciously locked. This theatrical storeroom smelt of grime and shimmered behind a watery curtain of tears that would not leave Pyrgus's eyes.

What had he done?

There was less than two weeks to go before the Coronation and after that there could be no going back. Nobody knew how that felt. Not Henry, not Mr Fogarty, not even Blue. Everyone expected him to do his duty. Everyone assumed he would want to be the Emperor. No one knew the fear.

Although that fear felt like nothing set against the terror he felt now.

What had he done?

He couldn't become Emperor. He had no talent for it, none at all. They all thought just because he was his father's son it meant he was equipped to follow in his father's footsteps. But Pyrgus and his father had fought about everything. Everything.

The trouble was he hated politics. He hated the lies and the deceit, the double-dealing and corruption. Yet he knew it was impossible to survive in high office without them. Even his father, an honourable man, had been forced into questionable acts from time to time.

But his father had at least been ruthless enough to undertake them. Pyrgus knew he never would. He would try to hold firm to his principles and ruin the Realm in the process. How could he follow in his father's footsteps?

His father's footsteps were coming closer.

It was peculiar. He believed Gnoma could raise the dead – that's why he was here, that's why he'd subjected his father's body to… to

… But at the same time he didn't believe, not really. Dead was dead. There was no turning back. Once the stasis spell was removed, his father's body would quickly turn to dust. There was no way to escape, no incantation that could…

Yet he believed in Gnoma. And something was approaching.

The footsteps had reached the top of the stairway and were now on the corridor outside. Perhaps it was Gnoma himself, come to admit failure. The man would be full of excuses, full of reasons why he should keep his fee.

Why was he moving so slowly? The tread was like a leaden procession. One step… one step… one step… Not halting or feeble or stumbling or ill, but miserably, terrifyingly slow.

Slow or not, the footsteps were close now. He could imagine the figure in the corridor and in his mind's eye he knew it was not Gnoma.

What had he done?

A dark shape loomed in the doorway. Apatura Iris stepped into the room.

Apatura, once Head of House Iris, former Purple Emperor of the Realm of Faerie and Lord Protector of the Church of Light, father of Pyrgus Malvae, had been a striking man, not handsome exactly – his features were too coarse for that – but with charisma and appeal. He had carried himself with nobility and grace.

Now he was a monster. His spine was twisted from the removal of the luz. No wonder he walked slowly -he could scarcely hold himself upright and his body seemed wracked by preternatural pain. But the real monstrosity was his face. The wax used by the morticians to reconstruct his features had fallen away once life returned, leaving almost all his head a raw and bloody open wound. One eye remained intact, glittering darkly from the mass of torn flesh. The regal nose was no longer there. The mouth was little more than a gash.

'Father,' Pyrgus whispered. But this creature was no longer his father. It was an animated shell, driven by dark powers.

It moved towards him and suddenly he imagined he could smell the stench of rotting flesh. It reached out a hand, the fingers curled like claws.

What had he done? What had he done?

'Kill me,' Apatura Iris said.