Chalkhill took three deep breaths to steady his nerves. One thing was certain: there would never be an opportunity like this again. Madame Cardui’s security system was legendary. One Purple Emperor, Holly Blue’s father, had been assassinated on her watch and she was determined that would never, ever, happen again. But even Cardui’s long talons didn’t reach into the Analogue World. Chalkhill suspected the headstrong Queen Blue had probably taken off impulsively without even notifying the old witch. Blue had a history of incognito jaunts. She might well be travelling with little security, possibly with no security at all. And while it would never do to underestimate King Consort Henry – he’d once killed a vampire with his bare hands – Chalkhill knew his own assassin’s training made him more than a match for anybody.
Could he do it? Could he capture the entire Royal Family, Henry, Blue and Mella? Probably not alone – the logistics of an operation like that were almost certainly beyond one man. But he didn’t have to do it alone. He had one potential ally already, albeit a tricky one. Between them, they could do the job…
Heart thumping, Chalkhill ran across the road and decloaked beside his old business partner.
‘Yipes!’ exclaimed Brimstone, jumping back a pace. Then he leaned forward to peer closely at Chalkhill. ‘What are you doing here?’
There was no point in recriminations. Brimstone had lied to him, in all probability tried to cheat him, but it was no more than he’d have done to Brimstone had their positions been reversed. Now he needed Brimstone’s help and he was certain he could keep the old man in line. After all, he’d managed it in the past. He drew another deep breath. ‘Same thing as you – looking for Princess Mella. Did you know her parents are here? The two people in the entire Faerie Realm who are worth the most ransom.’
Brimstone may have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid. He stared at Chalkhill with sudden interest flaring in his rheumy old eyes. ‘You’re not after them as well?’ he asked.
Chalkhill gave a long, slow smile. ‘I am now,’ he said.
PART TWO
Twenty-One
‘Pyrgus?’
Nymphalis found him in the vineyard, on his knees, talking softly to a vine. He was so focused on the plant that he obviously didn’t hear her. ‘Pyrgus!’ she repeated more sharply.
Pyrgus Malvae turned his head slowly with the familiar, trance-like look he frequently got while he was tending to the grapes, then smiled his old, fond smile when he registered who it was. They’d been married seventeen years and the chemistry between them was as strong as ever. Except now wasn’t exactly the time for a romantic interlude or even a short walk down memory lane.
‘The manticore has escaped,’ Nymph said.
‘What?’ he gasped. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve just been up to the sanctuary.’
‘Nymph, she can’t have! How?’
‘Does it matter?’
Pyrgus suddenly tuned in to the reality of what she was telling him. ‘Anybody at the sanctuary now?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Make sure it stays that way, Nymph. Nobody within a hundred yards – two if possible. We have to keep this quiet at all costs.’
‘If we can.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Pyrgus said.
The sanctuary was a low-slung wood-frame building with special light panels in place of windows. Pyrgus, who’d lived in the Analogue World for a time, liked to think of it as Scandinavian in design, but any actual resemblance was slight. He’d built it as a home for rescued animals and since he was prone to rescuing any disadvantaged animal he came across, their needs were varied. At the moment the sanctuary housed the usual contingents of stray cats and dogs, a mountain llama, a rare desert haniel, two porkines, a herd of apts and a niff colony. The spell costs needed to provide suitable safe and separate environments for each were substantial, but fortunately Chateau Malvae wines were proving popular so that the vineyards funded the sanctuary, with enough left over to provide a modest living for Nymph and Pyrgus.
He could see the problem at once. An area of the south wall had been smashed outwards, leaving a gaping hole that even now still crackled with spell energies. Through the gap he could see the pillared environment that seemed to calm the manticore, but not, apparently, enough. Despite everything, Pyrgus felt a surge of admiration.
He moved cautiously towards the building. He might admire the manticore, but he respected her even more. While Pyrgus loved animals, he was far from sentimental about them. The wilder ones could kill you or leave you maimed for life; and there was no wilder, more unpredictable beast on the face of the planet than the manticore. More to the point, his manticore was one of the early prototypes, created before the Halek wizards realised the need to build in safeguards. The beast had proven so troublesome, so uncontrollable – even with magical restraints – that they’d been about to destroy it when Pyrgus intervened. Not that he got any thanks for the rescue – or theft, as the wizards insisted on calling it – but once he’d transported the poor thing across the Haleklind border they hadn’t wanted to risk an international incident by following. Especially since he’d taken a problem off their hands.
And now, if his guess was correct, they were about to get it back.
He used his portakey to kill the securities – they’d proved useless anyway – and stepped warily through the gap. He was sure the creature had escaped – Nymph had told him it had escaped – but there was still a deeply ingrained part of his mind that warned him to be careful. The manticore was intelligent: he constantly reminded himself there were faerie genes in there along with lion and scorpion. She was quite capable of faking a breakout as bait for a trap. But as he peered around, there was no sign of the beast and few places where she might be hiding. To his right, half hidden by a pillar, was the creature’s feeding table with a wooden bowl of half-chewed leaves. Pyrgus frowned, then went across and sniffed.
The smell confirmed his suspicions at once. The leaves were St John’s wort, a mild euphoric for a human, a strong ecstatic for a faerie, but a berserker hit for a Haleklind creation like a manticore. No wonder she had found the strength to smash through the wall. Who fed her the wort? Not Nymph, a Forest Faerie skilled in herbal lore; not any of the sanctuary staff, who had strict instructions about the diets of their charges; not any of the vineyard workers, most of whom avoided the sanctuary like the plague; and certainly not Pyrgus himself.
He pushed the puzzle aside. The fact was he had a maddened manticore on the loose and a sinking feeling about exactly where she might he headed.
Pyrgus climbed back through the gap and almost bumped into Nymph.
‘Definitely gone?’ she asked, frowning.
He nodded. ‘Yes. Some idiot fed her John’s wort.’
‘Bloody Hael!’ She hesitated. ‘You don’t think…?’
‘I think she might. And can’t say I blame her after what those bastards did.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Make sure, for a start.’ He leaned over impulsively and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Do we have any glowdust left?’
‘I’m ahead of you,’ Nymph said. She handed him a small packet. ‘Go easy with it. There’s more on order, but that’s the last we have until the shipment comes.’
‘Thanks,’ Pyrgus murmured. He slit the packet with his thumbnail, squeezed and blew. The dust fanned out in a stream, ignoring both Pyrgus and Nymph, and began to glow almost immediately. Then it settled to leave a trail of luminous manticore padprints leading from the ruined wall towards the copse across the field. They set off to follow it together, quickly breaking into a panicky run.