Pyrgus stopped dead. They had entered a boulder-strewn area and he was certain there was something moving behind a rock.
‘Quiet!’ he hissed.
Nymph responded at once and unslung her bow. Pyrgus pointed silently to the rock and she began to circle behind it. As much for a diversion as anything else, Pyrgus said, ‘Better take cover, Mr Woodfordi.’
‘Sir!’ Woodfordi acknowledged briskly.
Then Pyrgus abruptly realised Nymph might be moving into danger and started to run towards the rock, reaching for his trusted Halek knife.
And then suddenly, incredibly, they were surrounded.
Eighty-two
Blue woke with a start. For just the barest moment she didn’t know where she was, then saw she was in her Imperial Quarters, in a comfortable chair where she must have fallen asleep. How long ago? Minutes? Hours?
She felt better. Various pains had drained from her body, leaving only a residue of stiffness, and her mind was a great deal clearer. She started to push herself out of the chair when the memory flooded back. The war. She’d be needed in the Situation Room.
Then as the knocking came again she realised what had wakened her. ‘Come!’ she called and her voice pattern released the spell securities.
It was Gatekeeper Fogarty, along with Madame Cynthia and -
‘What’s he doing here?’ Blue demanded. Her heart was pounding suddenly. For a mad moment she thought he might be a prisoner of war.
‘My deeah,’ said Madame Cynthia cautiously. ‘Your uncle has something to say to you.’
Lord Hairstreak was already striding forward, arrogant as always, dressed in his favoured black. ‘Your Majesty -’ he began formally.
What in Hael was he doing here? No guards. No uniform. He might have been on a social visit.
‘I’m here to offer an immediate truce,’ he said.
Blue stared at him, certain she’d misheard. Nobody would offer a truce so soon. It had to be a trick.
‘Why?’ she asked him simply.
Hairstreak’s face remained unreadable. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘if we do not cease fighting at once, the Realm is doomed.’
Eighty-three
Pyrgus slid his knife slowly back into its sheath. From the corner of his eye, he could see Nymph carefully setting her bow and arrows on the ground. Then she stood up and raised both hands to show they were empty. A little to his right, Woodfordi had ignored the order to take cover and was standing with his empty hands exposed as well.
‘We come in peace,’ said Pyrgus, feeling stupid.
There were maybe twenty-five nomadic Trinians in plain sight and Light alone knows how many more still hidden in the rocks. They were wearing only loincloths on account of the heat and all three Trinian types were represented. Violets predominated as you’d expect in a hostile environment, but there was a goodly scattering of orange and even one or two green. None of them was armed. They didn’t need to be – all three breeds were toxic. A Trinian bite was almost always fatal and even a venom spit – which travelled several yards – could incapacitate you for months. Pyrgus noted with relief that the leader – you could tell he was a leader from the feathers – was orange.
‘Ayre ning?’ the leader asked solemnly. His face was striped with white and purple paint.
Pyrgus looked at him blankly. Trinians – even nomadic Trinians – were supposed to speak Faerie Standard and perhaps this one did, but his accent was so thick it might as well have been the click-speech of High Halek.
Nymph said, ‘North-east, Plainsman,’ and pointed. Plainsman was an honorific, roughly equivalent to saying sir.
‘Ou eek our yolader?’ asked the Trinian chief.
‘Yes,’ Nymph told him promptly. She gestured. ‘Pyrgus.’ Then, pointing to the third member of their party, added, ‘Woodfordi.’
The Trinian struck himself forcibly on the chest. ‘Nagel!’ he said explosively and coughed.
It was clearly introduction time. ‘We come in peace,’ Pyrgus said again, rather feebly.
One of the greens pushed forward, accompanied by the strangest little animal Pyrgus had ever seen. It was short and squat, hairless and wrinkled, much like its master. The Trinian launched into what sounded like a stream of invective, the content of which Pyrgus couldn’t even guess at. It had a galvanising effect on the rest of the tribe, who advanced muttering, and on the leader, who began to wave his arms about.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Nymph helplessly.
Nymph smiled a little. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘He just wants to marry me.’
For an instant Pyrgus thought he’d misheard. ‘He wants to what?’
‘He wants to marry me,’ Nymph repeated. ‘He says he’ll give you forty placks.’
‘He can’t -’ Pyrgus began, then asked, ‘What’s a plack?’
‘That little creature he has with him. He makes them. He’s the tribe’s witch doctor.’ Nymph’s smile broadened. ‘It’s a terribly good price for a wife. I think I’m flattered.’
‘But he can’t marry you!’ Pyrgus protested. ‘I won’t have it!’
‘You’d better tell him,’ Nymph said blandly. ‘Just speak slowly and pronounce your words carefully.’
‘You can’t marry -’ Pyrgus shouted at the witch doctor, then aside to Nymph, ‘What’s his name?’
‘Innatus, I think.’
‘Now listen, Innatus,’ Pyrgus began again. ‘There’s absolutely no way I’m going to let you -’
‘Best not to threaten,’ Nymph put in quietly. ‘He carries a lot of weight.’
But Pyrgus was already losing it, ‘- marry this girl, and if you so much as lay one of your ugly little fingers -’ he drew his Halek blade again to a chorus of ‘ Oooh ’s and wide grins from the surrounding Trinians, ‘- on a single hair of her -’
Nagel’s voice cut across him, talking not to Pyrgus, but Innatus.
‘Oh, how sweet,’ said Nymph. ‘He wants to marry me as well.’
‘Is he out of his -?’
Woodfordi touched Pyrgus’s elbow. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but I’d suggest you give her to the chief. Army policy in situations like this. Always give the girl to the most important man in the tribe. Witch doctor’s a big noise, OK, but the orange one with feathers and stripes is definitely the Chief.’
‘Are you out of your -?’
Woodfordi backed off, hands raised. ‘Just telling you the army way, sir.’
Nymph said, ‘Forty placks, seven bales of ordle and a full service contract.’
‘What in the name of Light are you talking about?’ Pyrgus exploded.
‘That’s what Nagel’s offering,’ Nymph said. ‘You can tell he’s an orange Trinian, can’t you? A full service contract! A Violet would just kill you.’
Pyrgus’s panic-stricken gaze jumped from one Trinian to the other. ‘You can’t marry this girl!’ he shouted desperately. ‘Neither of you! Because… because…’ He looked around for inspiration. This whole thing was insane. ‘Because she’s engaged to marry me!’ he screamed at last.
‘Oooh!’ exclaimed Nymph, and moved over to stand beside Pyrgus, her chest pushed proudly forward. She was grinning broadly.
Pyrgus still had the Halek blade in his hand, but to his astonishment, the crisis defused at once. Innatus turned and walked away, the funny little plack creature at his heels. Nagel simply shrugged, as if the matter was of no importance. He murmured something to Nymph, who said, ‘Yes.’
‘What’s he saying? What’s he saying?’ Pyrgus demanded.
‘He says we can’t go north-east,’ Nymph told him.
Pyrgus bristled again. ‘Who does he think’s going to stop us? A pack of lunatic dwarves who want to marry everything in sight? You just tell him -’
‘He’s not trying to stop us, Pyrgus,’ Nymph told him patiently. ‘We can’t go north-east because there’s a magma flow blocking our way.’
‘Oh,’ said Pyrgus, deflated. He had a feeling he’d made a complete fool of himself and not just about travelling north-east. As leader of the little party, events seemed to have slipped away from him entirely. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked Nymph.