The Scarlet Star Trilogy by Galley Ben

Author:Galley, Ben [Galley, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: BenGalley.com
Published: 2016-06-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter XIII

A TRAITOR’S BOY

6th July, 1867

London sang to the tiresome tune of constant, dripping rain. It had a heavy sky for company, grey and wet, drenching the world with every incessant, endless raindrop it had to offer. Everything had a sheen to it, splashed and soaked. Even the airships had given up, letting the storm hold sway over the city.

Prime Lord Dizali was not often seen walking alone, but on a day like this, with a low-brimmed hat, an umbrella, and one of his older greatcoats, he could pass for any fool braving the weather to go about their business. There were plenty of them. This was Britannia after all. They were used to rain.

Dizali tucked his hands deeper into his coat and breathed hot air into his scarf to keep his face warm. The rain was cold, and the breeze from the north did not help matters. At least that was slowly dying away. A classic summer’s day, he thought. They had been due a storm or two, with all the fierce weather they had been having.

Dizali’s mind was full of the past hour, and the words he and the queen had shared. It was at times like these he liked to wander, to order his thoughts and correct his clever path. The rhythmic purpose of his walking had the same effect as sipping whisky at the window, or steepling his fingers on his polished desk. It allowed his doubt to undergo its catharsis.

Dizali let the shudder of his steps fill him and thought long and hard about his visit to the Palace of Ravens.

*

Two hours earlier.

‘Prime Lord, this way please,’ the queensguard beckoned to him. Dizali swept from his carriage, his cane clicking on the steps and his top hat held tightly on his head to stop it from escaping. The breeze was fierce in the palace’s open grounds, even behind its sharp walls and fences.

Prime Lord Dizali had been summoned. That was all there was to say. There had been no explanation by the messenger from the palace itself, just the demand for attendance, forthwith. Well, of course, he was compelled to acquiesce and, knowing the queen, instantly.

Dizali wore the same face now as he had when the messenger had been ushered into his study: unimpressed, displeased, concerned. He tried to wipe the latter from his stern countenance as he strode up the spiralling steps, heading towards the high throne room.

He scratched at his neatly-trimmed goatee and wondered why the queen was demanding his presence. She was becoming agitated, it seemed. Madder still. That did not bode well. The queen was supposed to let the Prime Lord carry on as he saw fit, not harangue him at every turn. It set his face to snarling.

Or maybe she was onto him. Dizali stowed that thought away.

At long last they came to the doors, and the Prime Lord waited to be announced by a hollering servant in frilly garb.

‘Your Majesty. Prime Lord Dizali.’

‘In,’ echoed her voice, stern and harsh, like the cackling of crows.

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