The Purple Emperor

Pyrgus took the document with a heavy heart. Somehow he knew, he just knew, what it would contain. He looked at Comma for a moment longer, then glanced down at the parchment. His eyes skimmed the writing with a sense of horrid expectation.

'What's it say?' Blue asked quietly.

Pyrgus took a deep, rattling breath. 'It's an official authorisation for Comma to become next Purple Emperor with Lord Hairstreak acting as Regent until he comes of age.'

'Little git!' Mr Fogarty grunted explosively. Presumably he meant Lord Hairstreak.

'See who signed it?' Comma shouted. 'Read out who signed it, Pyrgus!'

Pyrgus said quietly, 'It was signed by our father.'

'You see? You see?' Comma asked no one in particular. He looked shrewdly at Pyrgus. 'It's no good tearing it up, Pyrgus – I have other copies and so does Lord Hairstreak.'

Pyrgus dropped the paper to the floor.

Blue said, 'Comma, Daddy doesn't know what he's signing now. This is all Lord Hairstreak's doing and he only wants you to be Emperor so he will become Regent.'

A thought occurred to Pyrgus. Hairstreak could kill Comma before he came of age. Certainly Hairstreak would never relinquish the throne once he became Regent.

'He told me you'd say that,' Comma said. 'He told me you'd try to stop me becoming Emperor.'

'Of course you can't become Emperor,' Blue said firmly. 'There's no question of your becoming Emperor. Can't you see what Hairstreak is up to? Can't you -'

'He told me you'd say that as well, Blue,' Comma said. 'And he told me what to do about it. Are you going to let me be Emperor, Pyrgus?'

Pyrgus started to shake his head. 'Comma -'

Comma darted to the door and jerked it open. 'Quickly!' he called excitedly.

General Ovard stepped into the room. Behind him marched a full contingent of Palace Guards. Pyrgus noticed Ovard was wearing formal uniform as if dressed for a State occasion. The old General looked pained but determined. He glanced sternly from one face to another.

'They won't let me be Emperor,' Comma shouted, his voice high. 'I showed them the Order. Pyrgus just threw it on the floor!'

General Ovard focused on Pyrgus. 'It's a properly executed Order, Crown Prince. Signed by your father, stamped with the Imperial Seal.'

'It's a plot by Hairstreak,' Mr Fogarty sniffed.

'I don't like the bit about Hairstreak becoming Regent any more than you do, Gatekeeper,' the General said. 'But I swore an oath, and if that's what my Purple Emperor has ordered, that's what's going to happen.'

'The Purple Emperor is dead, Ovard. You saw the body.'

'I saw a body in stasis,' Ovard said. 'Alive or dead, they all look much the same like that. But he looked alive enough to me when he handed me the Order.'

'Daddy's still here?' Blue exploded. 'Here in the palace?'

'He was at the barracks. Lord Hairstreak was with him. I don't know where they are now, but I do know this is a legal Order, Serenity.' Ovard seemed troubled, despite his words, but determined.

'I don't want any more talking!' Comma shouted suddenly. 'No more talking, any of you. You have to listen to me now, and do what I say!'

Pyrgus glanced at the ranks of soldiers lined up behind Ovard.

Comma caught the look and started to smile slyly. 'I'm Emperor Elect now and this is my first proclamation. Lord Hairstreak said if you tried to stop me, I was to put you all in prison and have you executed. But I'm not going to do that. You're my half-brother and half-sister. You're my family. So I'm not going to do that, whatever Lord Hairstreak says. But I can't have you making trouble and arguing with everything I say, so I am going to send you into exile. All of you – Pyrgus, Blue and you, Gatekeeper. I'm going to give you half an hour to get your things and leave the palace. General Ovard, I order you to see they do!' He tossed his head grandly and marched from the room.

There was a long, grim silence. Eventually Mr Fogarty said, 'Can he do that, General?'

'He just has, Gatekeeper,' said General Ovard.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

'Perfect!' called the Facemaster excitedly. 'Look, look, look at yourself in the mirrors!'

Chalkhill didn't have to. He knew he was walking like Lord Hairstreak now. Not just walking, but carrying himself like Hairstreak, making gestures like Hairstreak, even sounding like Hairstreak when he spoke. But there was a price.

His bottom was on fire, for one thing. His nose itched perpetually. His limbs were stiff and out of control, as if he were a puppet pulling its own strings.

But the worst of it was the voice in his head.

'Strictly speaking,' it was saying in a grating, high-pitched tone that was irritating beyond belief, 'we are no longer separate entities, but a fusion. Yes, a fusion of body and mind, some would say of spirit as well, spirit or soul, if those two are different, but here we enter into the realm of theology, don't we, since there are those – the Halek Clans, for example – who deny the spiritual dimension altogether. Thus we -' And on and on and on interminably.

Do be quiet, be quiet, be quiet! Chalkhill screamed inside his skull. The worm had talked non-stop from the moment it was inserted. If it went on very much longer, he was going to go mad. 'Why won't this thing shut up?' he asked the Facemaster.

'The worm? They do that, I'm afraid. Most people get used to it eventually.'

'Most people?' Chalkhill echoed. 'What about the ones who don't?'

'They usually hang themselves.'

'Which creates an interesting legal dilemma,' said the worm in Chalkhill's mind, having clearly eavesdropped on the spoken conversation. 'Should one bring a charge of suicide or murder? There are those lawyers who hold that the symbiotic relationship creates, in effect, a new entity, in which case hanging must be deemed an act of suicide. But there are others who would argue that the two sentient entities – wangaramas wyrm and faerie – remain distinct, if interlinked, in which case the suicide of one involves the murder of the other. In Jessup v. Trentonelf, however, Lord Justice Bedstraw ruled on the possibility of collusion by the wangaramas, which raises the spectre of assisted suicide, an offence in itself which, while carrying a lesser penalty than first degree murder, will nonetheless -'

'Can't they just have the worm removed?' asked Chalkhill, desperately ignoring the inner monologue. 'Can't I just have the worm removed?' He could just possibly survive until he slaughtered Pyrgus at his Coronation, but after that he wanted the worm out again within the hour.

'I'm afraid removal is a little more tricky than insertion. The procedure takes about six months.'

'Six months?' Chalkhill exploded. I can't have this thing rabbitting inside my head for six months!'

There was a small commotion at the door of the Practice Hall as a messenger in Hairstreak livery pushed arrogantly past the guards.

'All this, of course, represents the situation from the faerie perspective,' the worm was saying, 'but we may gain fresh insights by examining the other side of the equation, so to speak. At the recent Wangaramas Grand Convention, or WGC as it is more conveniently known, there was a fascinating debate -

Facemaster Wainscot contrived to look sympathetic. 'Six months is actually a conservative estimate,' he told Chalkhill. 'But the only viable alternative is surgery, which I'm afraid kills one host in three. Not something to be recommended.'

'Which one of you is Chalkhill?' asked the messenger loudly.

'He is.'

'A simplistic question, but one which opens up what we wangarami refer to as a "can of men". What is at stake here is the necessity of defining identity, which may appear straightforward at first blush, but -

'I am.' What now, Chalkhill wondered. What else had Hairstreak got in store for him?