‘And when am I likely to be in danger?’
‘When the god manifests.’
Well, that was straightforward enough. But the god would manifest in the Spicemaster, using his body, so it wouldn’t exactly be an attack by a raging bull. If it happened at all.
To distract him, she asked, ‘How do you want me to help you in the ceremony?’
‘Majesty, I shall need your assistance to cloak. Beyond that, I would require you to play a drumbeat as I enter the labyrinth.’
And that seemed straightforward as well. She held his coat for him and played a drum. Not that you’d think he needed assistance for any of that, but even simple ceremonies had their formalities.
A thought struck her and she said, ‘I’ve never played a drum.’
‘It’s no more than a heartbeat,’ said the Spicemaster obscurely. He looked distracted. ‘Majesty, are you certain -?’
Blue said yes and watched his resolve finally collapse. He didn’t want to, but he was going to do it.
He said quietly, ‘Take this, Majesty.’
For an instant she didn’t realise what was happening, then saw he was holding out a small transparent packet of orange-yellow spice, little larger than a coin.
‘What’s this?’ she asked as her hand closed around it.
‘Mutated spikenard – it may offer you some protection.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Shall we begin, Majesty?’
The cupboard turned out to be a wardrobe, and the cloak hanging in it was magnificent. It was a full, floor-length garment, made from the feathers of some exotic bird that would have put a peacock to shame. Even under the dim glowglobes, the colours danced and shimmered. A cloak worthy of a god, she thought, and wondered how the twisted old Spicemaster would look wearing it.
But it was a small, rather battered, wooden hand-drum he took from the wardrobe. ‘Dragonskin,’ he murmured as he passed it to her.
Blue glanced down at the worn green surface. ‘Did you say dragon skin?’
‘A small piece only, Majesty. The beast was in no way harmed when it was taken.’
Blue continued to stare at the drum. She couldn’t imagine how you extracted a piece of skin from a dragon without harming it… or getting yourself devoured, come to that. Perhaps he was lying. Dragons had been protected for years and the penalties for killing one were severe. But she had other things on her mind at the moment. She looked up at the Spicemaster.
‘What do I do with this?’
‘If Your Majesty would care to sit on the chair and -’ he managed to look concerned, nervous and embarrassed all at the same time, ‘place the drum between Your Majesty’s knees…’ Blue did so without fuss, pushing down her skirt to make a lap. ‘Now, Your Majesty, tap the drum gently: one-two.’
Blue tapped the drum with the tips of her fingers. For such a small instrument, it made an astonishingly loud, resonant note. She looked up at the Spicemaster.
‘ Gently, Majesty,’ he emphasised. ‘Let the dragon-skin do the work.’
She tapped it again, more gently this time. The note still sounded loudly, but the Spicemaster appeared satisfied.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘one-two, like the beat of a human heart.’
Blue reached out to stroke the dragonskin. It looked smooth, but there was a coating of very fine green hair beneath her fingers. Tap-boom. She looked up at the Spicemaster. Tap-boom.
‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Like that. Exactly like that and at that speed until I reach the centre of the spiral. Then slower and more softly. Do you understand?’ He blinked and added, ‘Majesty.’
Blue nodded.
‘Now, Majesty,’ said the Spicemaster, ‘if you will leave the drum on your chair for a moment and help me with the cloak…’
She was completely unprepared for the cloak. Although bulky, it was made from feathers so she expected it to be light, but the moment she tried to take it from the hanger, it writhed and twisted like a live thing and proved so heavy she needed all her strength to hold it. Glory only knows how the Spicemaster was going to manage.
‘Fight it!’ he commanded urgently. ‘There’s no real danger, but it will try to strangle you!’
How could there be no real danger if something was trying to strangle you? And why hadn’t this silly little man mentioned the damn cloak if he was so concerned with her safety? But she fought the struggling garment gamely.
‘My shoulders!’ shouted the Spicemaster. ‘Put it on my shoulders! It will quiet down once it gets hold of me!’
If I put it on his shoulders it will crush him to the ground, Blue thought. The thing felt as if it weighed a ton. But he was wriggling into position and the cloak was now so violent it almost wrenched itself out of her hands. Suddenly it was across his shoulders. The Spicemaster staggered a little, his knees buckled, but he managed to hold himself erect. The cloak, as predicted, settled down at once.
‘Thank you, Majesty,’ he said.
Blue sat on the leather seat, one hand absently caressing the dragonskin. It was almost like stroking a cat. The skin vibrated gently as if purring. But her eyes were on the Spicemaster, now at the entrance of the labyrinth. He looked magnificent in the cloak, far more magnificent than a man of his height deserved. The garment had changed him, lending him huge authority and presence. For the first time she found herself wondering if it might not, after all, have been a good idea to bring a guard with her. But she pushed the thought aside. Whatever the illusion of bulk, he was still the same frail little man underneath. She was perfectly safe.
He poured the contents of the liquid vial – was it water? – into the copper bowl, then unstoppered the second vial. At once a heady scent of nutmeg filled the air. Yet the spice wasn’t nutmeg: she knew that instantly. There were citrus undertones and a heavy hint of musk that carried with it a curious note of corruption. The Spicemaster emptied the vial into the liquid and mixed the two together with a spatula. He glanced back at Blue.
‘Drumbeat, please, Majesty.’
Blue jumped slightly, then tapped the drum. In one quick movement, the Spicemaster drank down the mixture in his bowl and stepped into the labyrinth.
Four
If he’d been prepared to admit it, Pyrgus was afraid.
As Crown Prince, he’d never been allowed to visit Yammeth City – or anywhere else in the Cretch for that matter – and even when he’d run away, some natural caution kept him clear of the place. But he was here now; and he didn’t like it.
The city wasn’t at all what he’d imagined. It was cleaner, for one thing – far cleaner than the capital, which every Faerie of the Light touted as a shining example to the Realm. It was also – he hated to admit it – better laid out, although that wasn’t surprising since it was a newer city. The capital was nearly two thousand years old. Yammeth City had been built no more than four hundred years ago, when the Cretch was ceded to the Faeries of the Night after the War of Partial Independence. They’d built it from scratch, with the help of demon labour, and laid it out, some said, to mimic the soulless metallic sprawls of Hael.
Maybe that was what made him nervous. Or maybe it was the level of the light.
Pyrgus was used to dark alleys. (Light’s sake, he’d lived in one before his father’s guards found him.) But this was different. Even the main streets of Yammeth were dim. And not just dim: the glowglobes in the street lamps gave out a blue-green illumination that left everything looking as if it was attacked by fungus. The lenses made it worse. Everybody here wore lenses, including Pyrgus, as part of his disguise. But the Faeries of the Night needed theirs because of their light-sensitive eyes. For Pyrgus, all lenses did was make things darker still. He’d already tripped twice, and tried to walk through a plate-glass door. He must have been mad to come here.