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THE RISE OF THE IRON MOON
STEPHEN HUNT
‘Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.’
Rabindranath Tagore
Contents
Epigraph Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Epilogue By Stephen Hunt Copyright About the Publisher
Purity Drake tried to struggle as the long needle of the syringe sank towards her arm, but the leather straps on the restraining table were binding her down too tight.
‘Try not to move,’ ordered the civil service surgeon operating the blood machine. ‘We really do need to take a clean sample this time.’ He looked across at the official from the Royal Breeding House. ‘She can talk, can’t she?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the breeder. ‘Her family madness comes and goes, but when she’s not fitting, she’s actually quite well-spoken, for one of them.’
Talk? Surely that was a hypothetical question right now. Purity wanted to swear and scream, but the restraining table was fitted with a rubber sphere that inserted itself in the prisoner’s mouth. After all, the civil service’s surgeons didn’t want their deliberations on bloodwork and which pedigree lines to crossbreed to be interrupted by abuse. She thrashed and tried to yell as the needle sank into her arm with a flare of pain, the glass tube of the syringe slowly turning crimson. She had been feeling faint enough before, on short rations for waking up the guards with her nightmares and her cries – and her rations really hadn’t been that generous to start with.
‘We’re under a lot of pressure to give this one a clean bill of health,’ said the breeder.
The Greenhall surgeon shrugged and tapped the transaction-engine drum rotating in the steam-driven blood machine. ‘I can only give you back what the machine says. How you choose to act on that information is up to you.’
‘Come on,’ pleaded the breeder. ‘You know how thin on the ground we are for fertile females. She’s just turned sixteen, we can’t afford to let—’
The surgeon tapped the vial of blood, making sure every last drop cleared into the siphon on his machine. ‘I can see precisely how thin on the ground you are. This family’s history of lunacy would never have been allowed to breed down another generation in the old days.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers. She’s the last one of her house; we can’t afford to let an entire royalist bloodline die out. Not now.’
The surgeon absently rubbed Purity’s black hair as if she was a cat. ‘Ah yes. The invasion.’
Ah yes. The invasion. Purity’s eyes welled with tears at the memory of it; the carnage in the Jackelian capital and the charnel house that the Royal Breeding House had been turned into by the invading troops. The choice her mother had been forced to make by the foreign soldiers from Quatérshift, between Purity and her half-brother. Which of the royalist prisoners was to be allowed to survive. No choice at all, you always went with a fertile female; they were almost guaranteed to be forced to have children, to continue the family line. Purity tried to close the memory off. Her mother and brother being marched into the Gideon’s Collar, the chack-chack-chack of the Quatérshiftians’ notorious killing machine, each report a bolt through the neck.
‘Pity about her madness, then,’ sighed the surgeon. ‘She’s pretty enough, all things considered. Very unusual to see eyes this pale and blue. Green used to be the most common colour for the royalists’ eyes, you know. A little piece of trivia. I collect them.’
Behind them, the blood machine began to rattle as a tape spool printed out its results.
‘Is she fit to be taken to stud?’ asked the breeder.
Purity struggled at the terrible thought of it, trying to break her bonds. Let her still be sick, with whatever illness was stopping them from treating her like a prize mare in season, even the fever of the family madness that had gripped her so tightly.
The surgeon shook his head, confused. ‘No, it’s another partial match for her. Less distinct than last time. Very odd. I can’t even confirm her identity against her house records, let alone declare her clean for your use.’
‘Your machine isn’t working,’ spat the breeder.
‘It was working well enough for the duke’s son I had in before,’ said the surgeon. ‘And I wager it’ll be working fine enough for the children I have in tomorrow.’ He rubbed the wound on Purity’s arm with a swab, a brief sting of alcohol. ‘What’s going on in inside you, eh? Your precious royal blood. We’ll do it the hard way, then. I’ll get her sample sent over to the department and they’ll check her bloodwork for diseases and the like. We don’t want the next prince to have six fingers, now do we?’
The breeder snorted. ‘We’ll need another massacre over here before the likes of her would be used to sire a prince. The royal family are mad enough already from inbreeding without throwing this one into the mix. No, any children we squeeze out of her will only be used to diversify the royal breeding pool around the edges. Hopefully we’ll be able to screen the worst of the lunacy out of her children if we can find her a suitable stud.’
Looking out through bars across the window, the surgeon folded the test results into his pockets. They were old-fashioned
