He wished he hadn’t. The wound on his arm was a claw slash. The wound on his leg seemed like the result of a bite. Even in so short a time, it had swollen dramatically, stretching and discolouring the skin while the site of the bite itself oozed a foul-smelling, yellow pus. That one was going to need medical attention, and soon. He poked the skin cautiously and was rewarded by a wave of agony so extreme that he almost threw up.
Henry pulled his trousers up again and buckled the belt. There was nothing he could do about his injuries yet, so the only thing to do was ignore them and concentrate on…
On survival.
How did you stay alive in a desert?
Henry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember anything he’d read or seen on TV about survival. What would the S.A.S. do in a situation like this? Strangely, information started to trickle through from foggy corners of his memory. Find shelter from the sun… preserve your energy… travel only at night… drink your own urine if you can’t find water…
He opened his eyes again. The desert stretched endlessly in all directions, barren and bare. Not a tree, not a rock, no shelter of any sort. How did you find shelter when there was no shelter to be found? But the business about travelling by night was a good idea. It would be cooler at night. He could get further with less energy and he’d sweat less so he’d need less water.
But he’d still need some. Without water he would die in days.
He began to think about drinking his own pee. The idea sounded gross, but he could probably live with that. The problem was… the problem was…
The problem was how?
He couldn’t pee in a bottle and drink from that because he didn’t have a bottle. He couldn’t pee in a hollow on a rock, because there were no rocks any more. He couldn’t pee on the ground: the hot sand would soak up the precious fluid in a second. So how…?
Henry bent forward in the sitting position and considered angles. It was a fairly batty thought, but he might just be able to do it. Although only if he managed a strong jet – a trickle wouldn’t hack it. He straightened up and decided to shelve the problem for the moment. He wasn’t that thirsty yet.
So what did he do now? Rest until nightfall, then move off again? It had to be the sensible thing, but something kept telling him not to do it. Nightfall was still hours away. The sun was hotter than anything he’d ever experienced. If he sat here without shelter he’d be a baked husk by dark. And God knew how bad the wound in his leg might be by then. Maybe it was best to move on now, while he still had some energy left, trust to luck that he was going in the right direction, trust to luck that he’d find help before it was too late.
Trust to luck he wouldn’t die.
With a massive effort, he pushed himself to his feet.
Thirty-Five
Lord Hairstreak looked around his seedy office and wondered where his life had gone.
The rot had set in after the brief Civil War. Too many bad decisions, too many gambles. But most of all, the collapse of the market. Demon servants were a thing of the past since his niece became Queen of Hael. Hard to believe anybody could be so stupid as to free the slaves, but Blue had done it. Lost herself an almost unimaginable source of income at the stroke of a pen. More to the point, lost Hairstreak his percentage.
He closed his eyes briefly. Such a sweet, sweet deal while Beleth was alive. Five per cent of earnings from every demon placed in servitude. Five per cent! He’d never lacked for money then and never thought he ever would. Even when Blue killed Beleth it didn’t occur to him things might be different. He’d simply assumed the old arrangement would continue with a new name on the contract. The worst he expected was that she’d try to cut back a little on his percentage. But only a little. Blue needed Hairstreak as much as Beleth ever had if the market was to continue: he was leader of the Faeries of the Night after all and only they used demon servants. He never thought, not for an instant, that Blue would stop the trade altogether. Even now her decision made no sense to him. If he’d lost millions when his five per cent disappeared, imagine how much Blue herself had lost. As Queen of Hael she would have harvested every penny of the remaining ninety-five per cent.
But pointless to dwell on the past. What was done was done and nothing he could do would change it. The trick was to replace his former source of income. And now, thanks to that old goat Brimstone, it looked as if it just might be possible.
The only problem was he didn’t trust Brimstone.
Hairstreak opened his eyes again. The cloud dancer was pretending to sit on the chair, but had miscalculated slightly and seemed to be hovering an inch or two above it. Not that it mattered since the dancer wasn’t truly there at all. Its home was a wholly different dimension. But now the strain on the fabric of reality was making Hairstreak nauseous and he decided to conclude the business as quickly as possible.
‘Can you do it?’ he asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical. Cloud dancers could track down anybody anywhere. And their unique access to the faerie brain made them more efficient at extracting information than a torture chamber. Brimstone’s secrets wouldn’t stand a chance against this thing.
‘For the standard fee,’ the cloud dancer told him. The voice was as bizarre as everything else about the creature. It reverberated through the air and through your mind, but not quite synchronised so everything produced a weird mental echo.
‘Yes, yes,’ Hairstreak said impatiently. Of course for the standard fee. Everybody knew about cloud dancers and their standard fees. It was the one aspect of this transaction he had not been looking forward to. But at least the thing wouldn’t ask for money. Money was in short supply.
‘I can do it,’ the cloud dancer confirmed.
And that seemed to be that. After a moment, Hairstreak said, ‘Well, get on with it.’
‘The fee is payable in advance,’ the cloud dancer said.
There was silence in the little room. The thing remained not quite sitting on the chair, gazing patiently at Hairstreak.
‘Oh, very well!’ snapped Hairstreak. He rolled up the left sleeve of his jerkin.
The cloud dancer floated towards him, curling itself sensuously into a foetal ball.
Thirty-Six
‘What is it?’ Chalkhill gasped.
‘You know what it is,’ Brimstone told him shortly.
That was true enough. Although he’d never seen one before – or imagined he ever would – there was no possibility of a mistake. Chalkhill swallowed painfully. ‘How did you get it?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Brimstone said. He walked through the doorway.
The chamber was lined with lead and the floor sparkled with inlaid quartz. Bowls of rotting offal had been set at the cardinal points. All the same Chalkhill hesitated, ‘Is it safe?’ he called in after Brimstone.
The man is an idiot. Brimstone thought. But a necessary idiot. ‘Safe as houses,’ he called back. Which was hopefully the truth, otherwise they were both dead and half the country with them.
Chalkhill approached cautiously, sidling through the doorway like a crab. Not once did he take his eyes off the cage. ‘Are you sure?’
‘The bars are reinforced titanium,’ Brimstone said. ‘Nothing could break through them.’
‘But what about… you know… its powers?’
‘The lead should take care of any of that nonsense,’ Brimstone said. ‘Besides, it’s crippled.’
‘I thought it looked a bit funny,’ Chalkhill said. He seemed to be getting his nerve back, for he took a step closer to the cage. ‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘Get it out of here, for one thing,’ Brimstone said. ‘It’s only a matter of time before Hairstreak comes after me.’ He glanced at Chalkhill, who was poking his umbrella through the bars. ‘Don’t do that.’