THE WOODEN DOOR creaked as Newton pushed it open, and the cold evening air made him shiver. Governor Skelmerdale stood on the battlements in a heavy coat, gazing out over the rooftops of Wyrmwood Manor.
‘Evening, your honour.’
The governor beckoned but didn’t turn round. Newton crossed the flagstones, his old leg injury aching from the climb up the spiral staircase.
As he reached the battlements he was buffeted by wind and his head swam with vertigo. Wyrmwood Manor was high enough as it was, even without the stomach-churning drop down the cliffside below, to Port Fayt. The town slumbered, quiet and still beneath the deep blue star-flecked sky. The first lanterns had been lit, sending streaks of soft yellow light glimmering across the dark water. At the mouth of the harbour the Wyvern rocked at anchor, just where he’d left it. And a little way beyond it, the ghostly shape of the Justice bobbed among the waves.
Newton braved a glance at the governor. His short white hair rippled in the wind, and his eyes were watering, but he didn’t turn away. He looked so stern, it seemed as though his face had been carved from the same grey rock as the walls.
Tomorrow, the Duke of Garran would come to Wyrmwood Manor. Newton had sent fairies ahead with the news, but he didn’t know how the governor had reacted. This silence wasn’t especially reassuring.
Of course, he wasn’t thrilled about it either. The thought of the League’s butchers so close to all the most defenceless Fayters had haunted his dreams the night before. The mothers and the fathers. The children and the elderly. Tabs and Joseph.
He’d wanted to go looking for them as soon as he came ashore, but a squad of blackcoats had been waiting at the docks to meet him and bring him straight here. He just hoped Old Jon was right and they could look after themselves. Old Jon was generally right about most things. If only he was here now … But the governor had insisted that Newton come alone.
An imp appeared at Newton’s side, wearing the purple velvet livery of the Cockatrice Company and an enormous powdered wig. He held onto the windswept wig with one hand and offered up a silver tray with the other, bearing two delicate glasses of transparent liquid.
‘Firewater,’ said the governor briskly. ‘I’ll have none of those fancy Old World wines Governor Wyrmwood was so fond of. I like things plain and simple.’
Newton took a glass and sipped. It scorched his throat, but he held it down. The governor took the second glass, and the imp bowed and hurried away, still clutching his wig.
Skelmerdale knocked back his firewater in one gulp, without so much as a flinch. He fixed his piercing dark eyes on Newton.
‘Plain and simple. And this – bringing the Duke of Garran here, into our harbour – this is neither plain nor simple.’
‘My apologies, your honour. The man gave me no choice.’
‘What does he want?’
‘To discuss terms.’
‘Bilge.’ The governor suddenly drew back his arm and hurled the glass, sending it spinning out into the night. There was a smash as it struck some unseen part of Wyrmwood Manor.
Newton waited silently for the rage to pass.
‘You have heard of this man?’ said the governor at last. His voice was calm again.
‘Aye.’
‘And what do you know of him?’
Too much.
He knew how the Duke liked to set hungry griffins on his prisoners. How he’d once had an elf nobleman strung up in his courtyard and torn apart by magicians. How he wore a red coat to fancy society balls – dyed with the blood of trolls …
There were plenty of stories about what the Duke of Garran had done, but none of the man himself. They said he didn’t drink. Didn’t gamble. Had nothing to do with women. Had no interest in anything besides the persecution of demonspawn.
What did it take to turn a man into such a monster?
And what would such a man do, if he took Port Fayt?
‘A little,’ he said.
The governor snorted. ‘A little. More than a little, I do not doubt. Everyone has heard of him. And I have had the misfortune to meet him too. Make no mistake, Mr Newton. The Duke of Garran appears soft and round and harmless, but it’s mere play-acting. On the inside he is a devious, vicious sadist. And you have brought him here. So I will ask you one more time …What does he want?’
Newton gazed out at the Justice and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry. I wish I knew.’
The governor looked for a moment as though he wanted to push Newton over the battlements. Good luck with that, your honour. But finally he relaxed and turned back to the town.
‘Tomorrow, then. We will find out tomorrow.’
‘Aye. Tomorrow.’
Newton didn’t like it any more than the governor did. But what choice did they have?
At least we’ve bought Joseph and Tabitha some time.