Bloodmoon (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

for his dislike of dalliance.
    Gavisham hit the courtyard running. He leapt up Clovenhall’s steps and went inside. Dizali followed at a more leisurely pace, his long black coat billowing around his booted ankles. The drizzle had now stopped, leaving a humid haze behind, and Dizali found himself sweating. Damn this Britannia weather.
    Clovenhall was calm and still, just how he liked it. The servants went to and fro about their errands, swiftly but silently. Only the butlers spoke, and they hissed like lizards as they chased the other servants, checking and reprimanding. Their hushed tones washed over Dizali as he strode through his house.
    ‘You’ve forgotten to dust the wolf head, I believe, young lady.’
    ‘There, to the left, no, back I say!’
    ‘ Under the vase, not atop it, stupid man.’
    Dizali soon found himself in his office, uncorking a decanter of dark red brandy. He strode about, glass in his hand, staring out of his vast windows at his even vaster estate. He looked at the huge spires of London prickling the horizon, grey and smudged by the drizzle that still drenched the inner city. Smog too, rose on the breeze, belching from chimney stacks. Cranes swung about lazily, building London ever higher and grander.
    Dizali turned his eyes to the crooked towers of the Palace of Ravens, which dominated the western centre of the city. He frowned, and took a deep swig of his brandy. The Master of the Emerald Benches would not be needed until this afternoon; he had time to brood and glare. There was plotting to be done, and nothing stokes a mood for scheming and self-preservation like a slug of blood-red brandy.
    The Prime Lord swept away to sit at his desk and shuffle his papers, then steepled his fingers and stared at the door. He let his mind tumble and fall over ideas, reeling in the threads of possibility to see where they led.
    The Emerald Benches and the Crown had been keeping a steady truce. Victorious had been forced by the people to allow their voice to be heard in a parliament several centuries ago. And since then the queen had been raised constitutionally ever-upwards, like a grand but useless weathervane, as the Benches ruled the Empire from beneath, toiling feverishly. They leeched power from her tiny morsels at a time, wrapping up rules and spinning their webs of power to lock her out, one line of law at a time. For just a handful of words can topple a throne when used in the right way. That, and a dash of madness. Dizali had been brooding over one handful in particular since Hark had found his way onto the slab: the Clean Slate Statute.
    The Prime Lord let his mind drill down into detail and fall away to see countries and colours clashing, one by one, until he had them in the order he wanted, until he had the fate of the world entangled between his fingers, like a cat’s cradle, and he was busy flicking the strings.
    The door shuddered under an eager knock, and Gavisham strode into the room. He had barely changed. The dark grey bowler hat was still wedged onto his shaved head, covering the spiral scar he had received in the war with Francia. He still wore the red tie he always insisted on, and had simply added a long grey coat while a small hog-leather bag hung at his side. If Dizali was not mistaken, the hint of an eager smile hovered on the manservant’s lips.
    ‘Are you ready?’ Dizali questioned, over the rooftops of his fingers.
    ‘And raring, Milord,’ Gavisham fired back.
    ‘Show me.’
    Gavisham set his bag on the floor, and unbuttoned his coat. He held it wide, showing off the myriad of bottles and vials that hid within. Each sat in a pocket of its own, fastened into place with a little loop of twine, ready to break when needed. Each one flashed a different colour, mostly red, but some faint blues, browns, and yellows for good measure. Dizali’s eyes roved over them, losing count.
    ‘Fine,’ said Dizali, leaning back in his leather chair. ‘To the docks with you then. Have your