‘He sucker-punched me!’ gasped the ninja and though his voice was overlaid with astonishment, Henry recognised it immediately. The voice belonged to Jasper Chalkhill.
Both Chalkhill and Henry climbed to their feet. Blue twisted her body violently and her stimlus, at long last, discharged a bolt of energy. It caught Chalkhill on the shoulder as he was reaching for Henry and spun him round, ripping off his mask. Brimstone cracked the spell cone and giggled as a filament net emerged like a plume of smoke. The thing enmeshed Blue at once, causing her to drop the stimlus, then reached for Henry. He jerked backwards, but it had his arm. His old allergy to magic cut in, so that he threw up on the floor. ‘Oh, Henry!’ he heard Blue say, whether in exasperation or sympathy he couldn’t be sure. Then the filaments drew them closer together so that he was pressed against Blue, which was nice but didn’t last long because he was having trouble breathing, then couldn’t breathe at all, then he was sliding, sliding into darkness…
… darkness, silent darkness.
Twenty-Four
The automated security system guided Pyrgus’s flyer gently down to the reserved area of Creen International Airport, then, Prince Royal or no Prince Royal, disarmed his ship, confiscated several of his personal belongings, sprayed him to remove all microorganisms, conducted an internal examination to check for the presence of a wangaramus worm in his bottom, examined his identifications, photographed his tattoos and required him to answer a lengthy list of questions, the first of which was, ‘Do you plan to engage in any action purposely designed or likely to lead to the overthrow of the lawfully constituted government of Haleklind?’ Pyrgus resisted the temptation to respond ‘Sole purpose of visit’ and was eventually rewarded by a tone that told him the controls of his vehicle had been unlocked and he could now disembark without danger of being vapourised.
He changed unhurriedly into the standard blue-grey pilot’s uniform, selected an enormous pair of darkened glasses that would mark him as a Faerie of the Night, pulled on a curly black wig, then ordered his elementals to provide a suitable ramp, opened the cabin door, and walked out to meet the inevitable reception committee.
The reception committee was an exercise in applied hypocrisy. They must have known Crown Prince Pyrgus Malvae had stolen their manticore – a hanging offence if he’d been caught – but with his flyer bedecked in royal insignia, they were forced by protocol to ignore the crime and treat him like the visiting dignitary he was. Not that it mattered, since they weren’t about to meet with Crown Prince Pyrgus Malvae anyway, whatever they expected.
The head of the delegation was the local mayor, to judge from his imposing chain of office. In his pressed new uniform, Pyrgus marched briskly across to him and saluted sharply. ‘His Royal Highness is not to be disturbed,’ he told the Mayor. ‘He is currently sleeping.’ He held the man’s eye and added in a voice so low that only the Mayor could hear him. ‘Sleeping it off, Your Honour.’ He gave a slight nod and the hint of a wink.
The Mayor leaned over. ‘Sleeping it off, pilot?’ he repeated in a shocked whisper.
‘The old problem.’ Pyrgus nodded. He waited.
‘Drink?’ asked the Mayor. ‘You’re not trying to tell me His Highness -’ He gulped, ‘- imbibes? ’
‘Like a fish,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Did no one warn you?’
The Mayor shook his head. ‘No one.’
Pyrgus gave an ostentatious sigh. ‘Diplomats. You wonder what we pay them for. You should have been told at the time they arranged this visit. You really had no idea?’
‘None. Absolutely none.’
Pyrgus moved a little closer. ‘Look, I feel sorry for you, I really do. Typical behaviour, does it all the time. Started -’ He glanced around to make sure no one else could hear him, ‘- you know -’ He made a glugging sound in his throat, ‘- shortly after we left the capital. I’m supposed to stop him, but what can I do? He is a Prince of the Realm, after all, and he hides his supplies. By the time he reached Creen airspace, he was singing the national anthem and falling into his soup. Then he decided he was going to declare war on Haleklind. Fortunately he passed out just before we landed, so we’re spared an international incident at least.’
‘Yes, but what do we do?’ the Mayor asked. He looked and sounded panic-stricken.
Pyrgus glanced around again, moved even closer to the Mayor and aimed his words into the waiting ear. ‘In my experience he’ll be out cold for the rest of the day and most of the night. I’d suggest you reconvene the reception committee late tomorrow afternoon to be on the safe side. He should be fit to make the visit then.’
‘But what happens if he wakes up early? Won’t he be insulted if there’s no one here to greet him?’
‘You have a point there,’ said Pyrgus. ‘Tell you what: I’ll lock the flyer. He’ll be quite safe inside. I’ll do a little sightseeing, look up some old friends, and I’ll be back in time for the official reception tomorrow afternoon. If he does wake up early – I don’t think he will, but if he does – I’m the one with the key, no one else can let him out. It’s entirely my responsibility, then, and since I haven’t told you specifically where I’m going, there is no way you can trace me.’ Pyrgus gave him the benefit of a broad smile. ‘You’re completely off the hook, Your Worship.’
The Mayor was frowning. ‘But won’t you get into trouble then? If he wakes early, I mean?’
Pyrgus shook his head vigorously. ‘We pilots have a very strong guild,’ he said. ‘Besides, he won’t want any accusations of prejudice against a Faerie of the Night – it’s still a very sensitive issue in the Empire.’ He shrugged. ‘But he won’t wake early, if my experience is anything to go by. He takes it by the gallon.’
‘Right,’ said the Mayor decisively, ‘you lock up the flyer, I’ll reconvene the committee for five tomorrow afternoon. That suit you OK?’
Pyrgus twiddled his Nighter spectacles. ‘Admirably,’ he said.
Although he was fairly sure he’d not be followed after the nonsense he’d spoon-fed the Mayor, Pyrgus left the airport by way of the visiting pilots’ restrooms, where he hired a private cubicle. Once the securities were set, he stripped off his uniform, wig and glasses and stored them in an invisible locker. Then he unzipped the filament suitcase in the waistband of his undershorts and drew out the plainest of the suits stored there. Without the glasses and wig, he reverted back automatically to a Faerie of the Light, but the suit transformed him into a nondescript one. He looked, if anything, like a travelling salesman, one of the horde who flocked through Haleklind each year peddling parts for wands and reconditioned spells. He rummaged in the filament suitcase again and slid the Halek knife into the back of his belt where it was hidden by the jacket of the suit. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but it was always best to come prepared. Hael, who was he trying to fool? He was expecting trouble. Trouble always seemed to find him on a mission like this. But that was an even better reason to come prepared.
Creen City was a curious mixture. The district immediately surrounding the airport was arguably the most spectacular on the planet. Here the wizards had built to impress, using some of the most ingenious spells ever created. The result was, to say the least, magnificent. There were buildings floating on clouds. There were galloping herds of fantastical beasts that appeared and disappeared at random. There were advertising hoardings that tugged your arm as you went past and hypnotised you into buying stuff you didn’t want. Most noticeably of all, there were the gigantic ghost-like sculptures of the ruling Table of Seven that smiled down benignly from beyond the rooftops, dominating everything, instantly obvious, yet so insubstantial that they interfered with nothing. It was all very garish, very tasteless, very much what one might expect from wizards with more power than sense.