‘Yes, of course,’ Madame Cardui cut in impatiently. ‘But what does it stand for? A person? Some important ally? Another country, perhaps? Or does it simply stand for whatever it is they’re scheming about – the name of their current project?’
How am I supposed to know, you stupid old sow? Chalkhill thought. Aloud he said, ‘I don’t think that’s important. I -’
‘It most certainly is, Mr Chalkhill,’ Madame Cardui cut in again. ‘In my experience, people are often foolish enough to choose code-names that hint at exactly the thing they’re trying to conceal. For example, if "God" refers to a person, we might infer someone in authority, someone with power. Whereas if "God" is the codename for a project, we may be forgiven for assuming it was a grandiose project, something far-reaching and all-consuming.’ Her voice took on a steely edge. ‘Like a plot to overthrow the legitimate ruler of the Realm.’
Chalkhill jumped as if stung. He’d been thinking much the same thing himself, which was why he was so interested in what Brimstone was up to. By playing both ends against the middle, he hoped to ensure himself a high position in the new order if the Brotherhood plot succeeded, or ingratiate himself with the old order if it failed. The trouble was he didn’t know what Brimstone was up to. He didn’t even know where Brimstone lived, although he hoped to remedy that soon. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing like that, Madame Cardui,’ he said smarmily. Because whether it was or whether it wasn’t, it was better if he found out first. Cardui was too suspicious for her own good. He didn’t want her poking into things on her own account, oh no.
‘Why not?’ Cardui asked sharply. ‘Lord Hairstreak has tried that sort of thing before. Have you not heard the Analogue expression about a leopard and its spots?’
Chalkhill wasn’t big on Analogue expressions, but caught her drift easily enough. ‘Ah yes, Painted Lady, but that was Lord Hairstreak acting on his own account, acting politically, you might say. What we are dealing with now is the Brotherhood, which is, I suppose you might call it, a religious organisation, of which Lord Hairstreak just happens to be temporary head. Times have changed, as you mentioned yourself just a moment ago, and one may well act as a brake on the other.’ He realised he was making no sense at all, even as he said it, but hoped it might muddy the waters enough to divert her paranoia.
It didn’t work. ‘You would call the Brotherhood a religious organisation?’ Madame Cardui asked incredulously.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Chalkhill innocently.
‘Not entirely,’ Madame Cardui told him. ‘I think of it more as – ’ She stopped as something flashed orange in the mirrors.
Chalkhill drew back with instinctive loathing. Every mirror now showed a dwarf crouched at the Painted Lady’s ear. Chalkhill recognised it immediately, of course – that hideous creature Kitterick, with the toxic teeth. He shivered.
Madame Cardui stood up abruptly. ‘I am required elsewhere,’ she said without preliminary. ‘Report to me directly when you have more information, Mr Chalkhill.’ Then she was gone.
With a whisper of hidden machinery, the mirrors changed position, leaving Chalkhill to stare woodenly at his own reflections.
Eighteen
Brimstone still wore his demonologist’s shawl when weather permitted. The horned symbol kept people at a distance – that or his body odour – even though the demons were tamed now. It suggested, he often thought philosophically, that once people were conditioned to a particular response, most of them were too lazy to rid themselves of it when it was no longer necessary.
He was wearing the shawl now. It permitted him to move unmolested through one of the roughest districts of the docks, a favourite ploy when he wanted to avoid being followed. The ruffians might leave him alone, but anyone who tried to follow risked their gold, their limbs and possibly their life. Not that there were many ruffians about at the moment. They seemed to be just as nervous of the plague as everybody else. All the same, he didn’t think he was being followed.
In fact he was sure of it. Brimstone stepped to the river’s edge and flagged down a passing water-taxi. The driver pulled in warily. ‘Where to, Guv?’
‘Mount Pleasant,’ Brimstone told him loudly, which was nowhere near where he wanted to go, but he could change the destination once he was aboard. Meanwhile, anyone who might be listening would be sent off in the wrong direction. Couldn’t be too careful, even with the streets half empty. He made to step on the boat.
‘Got your cert?’ asked the driver.
Brimstone glared at him. ‘Cert?’
‘Your chitty, Guv. Signed by a healer. Certifying you’re disease-free.’
For a minute Brimstone didn’t believe it. He ratcheted the glare up a notch. ‘What are you talking about, you cretin?’
‘Can’t get on a public vehicle without your cert,’ the cabbie explained patiently. ‘New regulation. Proposed by the Mayor, passed by the Queen, God bless her.’
‘When did this happen?’ Brimstone asked, appalled. Every time he turned around, that royal trollop enacted something else that took away your freedom. No bear-baiting, no cock fights, no duels. You weren’t even allowed to poison someone in a vendetta any more. Now it was freedom of movement.
‘Hour ago,’ the driver told him.
‘An hour ago?’ Brimstone repeated. ‘With no public announcement?’
The driver shook his head. ‘Oh, there’s been a public announcement all right, Guv. They posted a notice on the door of the cathedral.’
‘And how,’ asked Brimstone sarcastically, ‘do they expect somebody to arrange for a healer’s certificate if he’s a Faerie of the Night who isn’t allowed into the Lighter cathedral?’
‘Dreadful, ain’t it?’ agreed the cabbie sympathetically. ‘All the same, sir, that’s the law. I don’t make it, but I can’t break it, as the saying goes. I’m only following orders. I just work here. I’m not paid to think.’
‘Double fare?’ Brimstone suggested.
‘Hop in, Guv.’
Brimstone climbed into the boat. It was nice to know some things hadn’t changed.
He settled himself into the rear of the cab and pulled across the tattered sunshade. Not that there was any sun, but it protected him from prying eyes. The cabbie struck a spell cone, which spluttered for a moment, then flared into life. ‘Mount Pleasant, was it, Guv? The posh end, I suppose?’
‘Whitewell,’ Brimstone told him shortly. ‘The one past Cripple’s Gate.’
‘Could have sworn you said Mount Pleasant,’ the cabbie muttered. ‘I must be getting senile.’
Brimstone closed his eyes as the boat began to gather momentum. Queen Blue’s latest law was disturbing as well as inconvenient. Any imbecile could see it would be wildly unpopular, especially with those who didn’t have Brimstone’s access to funds for bribes. The Queen was answerable to nobody, but the Mayor was running for re-election next year. The fact he’d proposed it showed how bad the time plague had become.
If he wasn’t careful, it would be completely out of control before he could exploit it properly.
Brimstone opened his eyes and leaned forward. ‘There’s an extra seven groats for you if you ignore the speed limit,’ he told the cabbie.
Nineteen
Henry breathed a sigh of relief. It was a mistake. (It was a really stupid mistake, made by a really stupid nurse.) He looked across the room to where Mr Fogarty lay asleep on the bed, looking just the way he had when Henry left him. Somebody had taken that horrid tube out of his back, which probably meant he didn’t need it any more, which was more good news.
‘He’s just sleeping,’ Henry told Blue.
‘Henry…’ Blue said.
‘No, really,’ Henry told her. ‘He always sleeps like that. On his back. I mean, he was sleeping like that when I left him. It’s just that you can’t see his breathing. Lots of people would make the same mistake: he breathes very shallowly when he’s sleeping.’