Free The Faerie Lord by Herbie Brennan

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.

Chapter 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