‘Simbala?’ Corin suggested. ‘There’s a nice little parlour just around the corner.’
‘I should be getting home,’ Pyrgus told him unconvincingly.
‘A small one for the road?’
Pyrgus grinned. ‘Oh, go on, then! But only one, and only if I’m buying.’
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Corin said.
They left the Society headquarters through a back door and emerged into an alley redolent with rubbish. ‘Sorry about that,’ Corin said. ‘The smell keeps people from investigating this side of the building too closely – cheaper than spells. Just hold your nose and we’ll be out of it in a minute.’
‘How is the political situation?’ Pyrgus asked. ‘Are you still facing as much persecution?’
Corin shrugged fatalistically. ‘More than ever. It’s not that the wizards have anything against animals particularly – it’s just that they treat them as property. It’s the old scriptural attitude. Once you think you own the world, it’s your Gods-given right to treat animals any way you want to, exploit them, whatever. They’re not even supposed to experience pain, so you can cut them up in labs without feeling guilty.’
‘Well,’ Pyrgus said. ‘It’s not just Creen: we have the same attitudes at home. Maybe not as widespread, but…’
They emerged from the alley, walked down a narrow street.
‘Actually, that’s not really the problem any more,’ Corin said. ‘I mean we were making some headway in the old days. Not as much as we’d have liked, but some. We had a good propaganda machine. It carried the message and people were starting to listen. Who knows where it might have gone.’ He took Pyrgus’s elbow. ‘We cross over here.’
They crossed the street to the opposite pavement and Corin stopped beside a narrow flight of stone-flagged steps winding downwards to some hidden basement. ‘No, the real problem is the Table of Seven. Gods know, the old Wizards’ Council was bad enough and I’d be the last one to tell you it wasn’t corrupt to the core, but the Seven are ten times worse.’
They started down the steps with Corin in the lead. ‘I thought they were against corruption?’ Pyrgus remarked to the top of his head. ‘I thought everybody welcomed the revolution?’
‘Oh, we did. Even I did. Tell you the truth, Pyrgus, and I’m ashamed to admit it, but I actually helped the Table’s cause. Small cog, admittedly, but still… They talked about animal rights in those days. The thing was, once they came to power, it went to their heads.’
‘Often happens.’ Pyrgus nodded.
They reached the bottom of the steps, which led on to a small cobbled courtyard. Corin headed across it to a narrow wooden doorway set behind an arch. ‘They want to take control of everything and if you’re not actively working for them, you’re against them. You must have noticed how tight the restrictions are now when you’re getting in and out the country.’
‘Yes,’ Pyrgus said without elaboration.
‘It was only when the Haleklind Society for the Preservation and Protection of Animals refused to become an official government agency that the Table of Seven outlawed us. Did you know that?’
‘No I didn’t,’ Pyrgus told him. He grinned. ‘I thought you’d made them cross by blowing up their vivisection labs.’
Corin pushed the door and the heat and chatter met them like a wave. ‘We only did that afterwards,’ he said. He snorted cynically. ‘When they decided to make everything illegal and anything that wasn’t illegal was made compulsory. Slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean.’
They walked into the gloom of the simbala parlour. It was a very basic set-up. The walls were covered with maroon acoustic drapes while the range of bottles behind the bar was noticeably limited. But the chairs and couches were well laid-out and very comfortable.
‘Is this place legal?’ Pyrgus asked.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Corin told him.
Pyrgus grinned. ‘Grab somewhere to lie and I’ll get us the music.’
He ordered half-hour shots from the barman, decided that was mean and changed the order to doubles. Carrying the humming glasses back on a small tray he handed one to Corin, who was already reclining on a couch. Pyrgus pulled an armchair to the head of the couch so they could chat and took his first sip of simbala. The music trickled down his throat like liquid gold. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as the symphony gently filled his body.
Corin asked casually, ‘Do you still have contacts in the Realm Government?’
It was an odd question, oddly phrased. Pyrgus opened his eyes a slit and said, ‘Queen Blue is still my sister, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Yes, I know. But you don’t have anything to do with day-to-day politics since you abdicated, do you? I mean, you’re not in regular contact with her advisors, or anything like that?’
‘She doesn’t have many formal advisors – pretty much runs the show on her own: she’s a born bossy-boots. Why do you ask?’ The music, as it always did, wrapped around his words, giving them melody and tone. Out of the side of his eye he saw Corin drain half the contents of his glass in a single gulp. The volume inside his body must have been deafening.
‘There have been rumours that the Table are on the edge of something major. I was wondering if Queen Blue’s security service had heard anything about it.’
‘What sort of something?’
‘I don’t know. Some sort of crackdown, maybe? I’m obviously concerned about my own organisation. But it may not even be internal. Just before you arrived, I had word that the Table were holding two outerlinders who claim to be representatives of the Empire.’
‘At what level? Are they saying they’re diplomats or a trade delegation, or what?’
‘I don’t know. But if the Seven are holding them, they obviously suspect something else.’
‘Spies?’ Pyrgus asked. The Table of Seven was paranoid, but that didn’t always mean their suspicions were wrong: Madame Cardui was quite capable of sending agents into Haleklind, even though it was supposed to be a friendly neighbour. As was his little sister.
‘I suppose so.’
Despite the music, Pyrgus frowned. ‘Any names?’
The music must have been taking hold of Corin’s bloodstream because he was smiling a little, like someone without a care in the world. But he caught himself quickly and the smile faded. ‘Only one,’ he said. ‘Do you have a spy called Chirotentia?’
Pyrgus shook his head. ‘No, but I don’t know the names of all our spies. In fact I hardly know any of them. Even when they were preparing me to be Emperor, the identities of secret agents was on a need-to-know basis.’
‘Camelia Chirotentia?’ Corin persisted. ‘Or Camelia Kissotentia? Something like that? Might even be Camilius. My source has a cleft palate.’
Pyrgus shook his head again. ‘Rings no bells with me, but as I said -’ He stopped, as a sudden thought struck him. It was silly. She was back in the Purple Palace and even if she wasn’t, there was no way she was making a visit to Haleklind. And if she was making a visit to Haleklind, it would be a proper State visit properly arranged with all the formalities. The Haleklinders would never hold her. They wouldn’t dare. It was against protocol. Unless, of course, she came into the country illegally, in which case she was an international incident. Which he’d have heard about, so it hadn’t happened and was hardly worth thinking about; but all the same, Pyrgus couldn’t stop thinking about it, or, more accurately, couldn’t stop thinking about the things Blue used to get up to when she was still a teenager. That sort of wildness was often hereditary. But what sort of wildness would take a kid to Haleklind illegally? And how would a kid get into Haleklind? Corin had just reminded him how tight the border restrictions had become. No, it couldn’t have happened.
‘No,’ he said aloud.
‘No what?’ Corin asked.
‘It wasn’t Chrysotenchia, was it?’ Pyrgus blurted.
From his place on the couch, Corin frowned. ‘Could have been, I suppose…’
‘Culmella Chrysotenchia?’
Corin sat up abruptly. ‘The Crown Princess? Oh, I wouldn’t think so.’ He stared at Pyrgus. ‘It’s not possible, is it?’
‘It’s not likely…’ Pyrgus said. Blue used to dress up as a boy and get into all sorts of trouble. ‘But it’s possible.’ He grabbed Corin’s arm. ‘Come on!’
‘Where are we going?’
Pyrgus headed for the door. The sudden adrenaline rush had flushed most of the music from his system. ‘Back to your headquarters so you can ask your source if he meant to say ‘Culmella Chrysotenchia’. If he nods his head, I think my niece may be in a heap of trouble.’