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.
But beyond the airport district, beyond the tourist havens and the glittering illusion palaces, there was a different Creen. Pyrgus, who’d been visiting the country since before the revolution that brought the Seven into power, took one of the least-known walkways from the airport, a narrow, dingy, ill-lit track that held out the promise of threatening alleyways, simbala dens, dope deals, muggings and cut-purses. But the promise was deceptive, for, after a short rooftop walk, a humming distortion created a Mobius shape that bent the path back to the instant it began, allowing Pyrgus fresh entry; and now the walkway was an open avenue that led into the Old City.
The Old City dated back to the foundation of Creen, close to a thousand years ago, and Pyrgus loved it. The streets were narrow, but the timber-inlaid buildings that overhung them were enormous – structures that defied the laws of engineering with the help of spells so ancient no one now knew how they worked. At the precise geographical centre of the Old City lay its suk, a vast, open maze of market stalls, bathed in perpetual sunshine, that offered magical artifacts, ingredients, spare parts, potions, powders, clothing, weapons and machinery unlike anything found elsewhere in the Realm. Haleklind was the magical capital of the planet, known to its citizens by its traditional name, Creen. Creen City was Haleklind’s capital, Creen Suk its beating heart. It was in the suk that Pyrgus once bought a prized possession, his first Halek knife. It was to the suk that he was going now.
Despite the teeming crowds, he found the secret walkway without difficulty, although mounting it unseen was so problematical that he wasted almost half an hour pretending to examine a selection of copper vessels designed to capture djinn. But then the crowd thinned suddenly and he made the transition. The walkway swept him outwards, then downwards into the subterranean labyrinth beneath the suk. When it emerged, he was standing outside a derelict factory plastered with Unsafe Building notices.
Pyrgus climbed on some disused spice drums to look through the dusty windows. He couldn’t afford to risk the possibility of a security breach, but the interior was a deserted ruin with the only things of interest some scraps of rusting machinery, and the only signs of life the remains of a camp fire that had once warmed squatters. He tossed a pebble through a broken pane and listened as it echoed on the stone-flagged floor. A small stream of dust cascaded from cracks in the ceiling.
He climbed down, glanced around to make sure he was not being watched, then leaned on the broken pillar to one side of the boarded entrance. The spell coating recognised his DNA and sucked him inside.
The receptionist was a dark-eyed female demon, one of the very few he’d ever seen permitted to work outside of Hael. She glanced into the crystal ball set on her desk, then smiled at him. ‘Crown Prince Pyrgus,’ she acknowledged. ‘What can the Society do for you today?’
‘Is Corin still alive?’ Pyrgus asked. There was considerable wastage in the Haleklind Society for the Preservation and Protection of Animals: the wizards hunted down its members without mercy.
‘Yes,’ the demon told him pleasantly. She looked at him expectantly. Literalism was a Hael characteristic. The demons never seemed able to interpret what you said, never got a jump ahead (without creeping into your mind, of course, which Blue had made illegal) so they reacted to every question a sentence at a time.
‘Is he still your Executive Secretary?’
‘Yes, Crown Prince Pyrgus.’
‘Is it possible for me to see him?’
‘Yes.’
After a moment, Pyrgus added, ‘Now?’
‘Yes, of course, sir,’ said the demon enthusiastically. Her long, graceful hand reached towards a symbol inlaid in her desk.
‘It’s just Pyrgus Malvae,’ Pyrgus told her. ‘I don’t use the title any more.’
‘Of course, Pyrgus Malvae.’ The smile was quite pleasant despite the sharpness of her teeth. The outstretched hand touched the symbol. ‘May your Gods walk with you.’
The transition to Corin’s office was instantaneous. Corin himself was rising from behind his desk, smiling broadly, hand outstretched. ‘Pyrgus, dear boy, how good to see you! How is the lovely Nymphalis? Have you two had children yet? No, of course not: far too busy for that sort of thing. So little time and so many animals in need, eh? And I believe you’re making wine now – some excellent vintages, from what I understand.’
Pyrgus took the hand and grinned at him. ‘I’ll send you a bottle or twelve. Meant to bring one with me, but I left home in a hurry. Bit of an emergency, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Corin said, waving him into a seat. He was a small, balding, rotund middle-aged Haleklinder, who looked as far distant from hero material as you could possibly imagine. Yet he was probably the bravest man Pyrgus had ever known. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘My manticore’s escaped,’ Pyrgus told him bluntly.
Corin’s eyes widened. ‘The prototype? The one you liberated?’
Pyrgus nodded. ‘I don’t know what happened. She was perfectly happy for more than eighteen months, then suddenly she broke out and took off.’
‘She’ll have come on heat,’ Corin said. ‘She wasn’t eating John’s wort, by any chance?’
Pyrgus looked at him in surprise. ‘She was, actually. I don’t know who fed it to her.’
‘Nobody, would be my guess. A full-grown manticore is perfectly capable of manifesting a few choice leaves of anything she fancies – the wizards built in magical capabilities. There’s nothing they fancy more when coming into heat than John’s wort.’
‘I didn’t know that: about manifesting,’ Pyrgus said. ‘She never did it before.’
‘Probably didn’t have to. They only manifest when they need something. It’s a credit to you, Pyrgus. Shows she was happy with you. Shows you gave her everything she needed. Until she came on heat, of course. She’d be off like a rocket then, looking for a mate. And more John’s wort.’
For the first time since Nymph told him the news of the break-out, Pyrgus felt something relax in his stomach. He’d come to his old friends in the Society hoping Corin might raise some manpower to help him track the manticore, but now it was beginning to look as if he might not have to. ‘I thought she might head for the lab. The place where they constructed her.’
‘What, try to get back at the wizards? Revenge for the pain they caused her?’
‘Something like that,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Vengeance is a manticore characteristic.’ He looked soberly at Corin. ‘Actually, I wasn’t so much worried about the wizards as the manticore. If she did attack the laboratory, they’d kill her. They’d have to and they wouldn’t hesitate. I thought the only chance would be to head her off – that’s why I came here. I was hoping you might loan me some men.’
Corin gave a faint smile. ‘Let me show you something.’ He pressed an inlay on his desk and a viewscreen emerged out of the floor behind him. As it rose, Pyrgus noticed it was one of the newer models with three-dimensional immersive capabilities: the Society must have robbed a few banks lately. Corin made a small adjustment to the inlay and the screen flared into life.
The immersive spells pulled Pyrgus in at once. He knew he was still seated in Corin’s office, of course, but he still experienced the sensation of standing outside, on a small, grassy hillside with a breeze ruffling his hair as he stared down on the ruin of a distant building, now reduced to a heap of rubble, still smoking slightly.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Corin’s smile widened. ‘The laboratory. We blew it up.’
Pyrgus snapped out of the illusion and gave him a startled, delighted look. ‘I heard nothing about that!’
‘The Seven kept it quiet: complete news black-out. It was their main research centre after all. Very bad for their image to admit they couldn’t protect it against a ragbag of misguided elements, which is how they like to portray us.’ He looked at Pyrgus benignly. ‘The one thing you need have no worries about is your manticore attacking the laboratory. The laboratory doesn’t exist any more.’ He pushed his chair back so he could look at the picture on the screen. ‘We used null-energy explosives so they can’t build again for years: magic won’t work there for the remainder of this century.’
‘Casualties?’
‘Oh, come on, Pyrgus, you know us better than that. The attack was at night, after the staff had gone home, and we moved all the animals out before we set the explosion. The only person hurt was one of our own operatives, and he cut his finger on one of their ghastly vivisection instruments.’
Pyrgus was frowning. ‘I suppose she might still go there. I mean, she doesn’t know you’ve blown it up.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘I wouldn’t want her recaptured. Heaven knows what they might do to her, even without their precious lab.’
‘She won’t go there if she’s on heat,’ Corin said. ‘Believe me, revenge will be the last thing on her mind. And actually even if she isn’t on heat there’s not much chance of her getting near the place. It’s been a while since you visited Creen, hasn’t it?’
‘Nearly two years – why?’
‘A lot’s happened in two years,’ Corin said. ‘Let me show you something else.’ His fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the surface of his desk and the picture changed.
For an instant, Pyrgus found himself hovering high above the ground. Below him was a sweep of plain and forest. Then suddenly he was dropping thousands of feet until he could see the details of the plain. It was teeming with game, a vast herd of… of…‘What are they?’ But before Corin could answer, the scene went into close-up. ‘Good Gods!’ Pyrgus exclaimed. ‘Those are manticores! Dozens of them!’
‘Several hundred in that herd, actually,’ Corin told him calmly. ‘It’s one of the biggest.’
‘How?’ Pyrgus asked. ‘When I stole mine, there were only four in the entire country.’
‘The wizards made two more prototypes, then switched from building to breeding. They’re fertile creatures, are manticores. Get yourself a breeding pair and it doesn’t take you long to knock up a herd. That lot are roaming the plains around where the laboratory used to be. If she’s headed in that direction, she’ll join them – it’s in her nature. And if she isn’t, she’ll join another herd: they’re dotted all over the country now, a score here, fifty there.’
Pyrgus felt a wave of relief so profound he felt like curling up and going to sleep. ‘So I can stop worrying about her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can just…’ He made a helpless, delighted gesture with his hands, ‘… go home?’
‘Yes.’
A hint of the earlier frown crept back. ‘I want to make absolutely sure she’s all right, make sure she joins a herd and goes back to the wild.’
‘We’ll do that for you,’ Corin said. ‘We monitor the herds as a matter of course. Shouldn’t be too difficult to spot since she’s an early prototype. Soon as we catch sight of her, we’ll let you know.’
Pyrgus felt like hugging him. ‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully. ‘That’s taken a huge weight off my mind. Thank you, Corin.’