‘Walk,’ Henry said shortly. ‘It’s only a little way.’ And it would give him time to get his thoughts in order, figure out what he was going to say to Blue. Or to Mr Fogarty, which was really far more important.
But moments later he was sorry for his decision. The path they took was the same one he had walked that night with Blue. The memories, already fresh in his mind, flooded over him in vivid detail. His discomfort must have shown on his face, for Nymph asked, ‘Are you all right, Henry?’ When he nodded, she added kindly, ‘It’s okay, you know. Everybody understands.’
He had the idea in his mind that Blue would be waiting on the steps of the Purple Palace, maybe even flanked by guards who would arrest him for… for… for insulting the Queen or something. But that was stupid and he knew it and he wasn’t really surprised to find no one waiting on the steps at all. Nymph led him in through a side door; they walked familiar corridors, then suddenly he was in the doorway of Mr Fogarty’s sickroom. ‘I’ll leave you alone,’ Nymph whispered, but he hardly heard her.
Mr Fogarty looked awful. To be honest, he looked dead. He was laid out on a bed, eyes closed, with skin the sort of grey colour that wouldn’t have been out of place on a corpse. There was no sign at all of breathing, but there were tubes running into his body from a shelf above the bed, which gave Henry a little hope. If he was dead, somebody would surely have taken them out. Unless he had died within the last few minutes. There was no one else in the room.
‘Mr Fogarty,’ Henry whispered in something close to panic.
Mr Fogarty opened his eyes at once. He looked at Henry for a moment without moving his head, then said sourly, ‘You’ve cut it fine.’
Henry sat on the edge of the bed, taking care not to sit on Mr Fogarty’s legs, which hardly showed up at all under the covers and were so stick-thin they would have broken like twigs under the impact of Henry’s bottom. There were little… things… swimming up and down the tubes that penetrated Mr Fogarty’s spine. They were repulsive and Henry could hardly take his eyes off them. It felt as if he’d stumbled into some sort of horror movie.
On top of which, the conversation was not going well.
‘But why won’t you come back with me?’ he asked for the third or fourth time, aware his voice sounded whiney and shrill and even a little desperate, yet not able to control it at all, because he felt whiney and shrill and more than a little desperate. ‘Your old house is great – ’ which was a lie, but it was certainly no worse than Mr Fogarty had left it ’ – but I’ve talked to Pyrgus and we can get you somewhere else if you want and you’ll be very comfortable until the wizards find a cure -’
‘The wizards won’t find a cure,’ said Mr Fogarty bluntly.
‘Yes, of course they will!’ Henry said with conviction, except it came out sounding patronising, the way people sounded when they talked to somebody very old and a bit deaf and gaga. It was dangerous to patronise Mr Fogarty. He licked his lips. ‘They have magic and stuff.’
‘Magic!’ Mr Fogarty snorted. To Henry’s surprise he pushed himself up in the bed and all of a sudden the old fire was back. He glared at Henry. ‘Those clowns know nothing about magic. You ever see a caterpillar?’
Henry blinked. ‘Caterpillar?’
‘Little hairy wormy thing with legs,’ Fogarty growled.
‘Yes, I know what a caterpillar is,’ Henry said, miffed. ‘What’s that got to do -?’
‘First couple of weeks of its life, month at most, your caterpillar trolls about eating plants,’ Mr Fogarty said as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘It gets maybe thirty thousand times bigger than it was the day it was born. Well developed little animal. It’s got eyes and taste buds and antennae it uses to smell. Great jaws. Uses its front legs to hold on to food. Inside it’s got intestines and all sorts of useful organs.
‘Mr Fogarty, what -?’
‘Shut up, Henry. Then one day, the caterpillar – which has never done anything but eat, remember – starts to spin silk. This thing that’s spent its life avoiding birds and wasps, spent its life surviving, Henry, it spins silk and wraps it round itself like a mummy until it can’t breathe any more. It commits suicide.’
‘That’s-’
‘Can’t put it any other way, can you? Caterpillar kills itself. Then, inside this silk cocoon it’s spun, hanging from some leaf or branch or wherever, the caterpillar rots. Rots right down into liquid. Not a thing left of it. Jaws gone, all six eyes gone, intestines gone. Everything. Henry, there is nothing left of that caterpillar!’
Maybe it was something to do with the disease, or maybe it was just old age, but Mr Fogarty was definitely losing it. Another bout of fever would burn up the rest of his future for sure. Five minutes after it hit him he’d be dead. His only hope – his only hope – was to come home to the Analogue World and he was lying there delivering a nature lecture. ‘Mr Fog – ’ Henry attempted to cut in.
‘So it hangs there, this bag of liquid,’ Mr Fogarty said excitedly. ‘Until next thing you know, the sac suddenly turns transparent, then splits and out comes -’
‘A butterfly,’ Henry said. ‘Mr Fogarty, we really don’t have time for -’
‘A butterfly!’ exclaimed Mr Fogarty. ‘A thing with wings and heart and blood and nervous system and ovaries or testicles and even a special organ that lets it keep its balance when it’s flying. What comes out is about as different from the caterpillar as you could get. And nobody on the planet has the least idea how the caterpillar does it!’ He pushed himself forward until his face was only inches away from Henry’s own. ‘Now that’s magic!’
Henry opened his mouth and shut it again. Mr Fogarty collapsed back on the bed. ‘You have to find the magic,’ he said softly. ‘You’re the caterpillar, Henry. You’re the only one can do it.’
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?’