Raven's Edge

by Alan Ratcliffe

  In the centre of the plaza a rudimentary stage had been erected. It was little more than a short series of steps leading to a few rough planks, the main purpose of which was to allow a speaker a raised platform from which to address a crowd.

  One did so now.

  A man ascended the steps and stood a moment gazing out across the sea of upturned faces. His own wore a stern expression which, together with gaunt, hangdog features and a large, hooked nose, gave him the appearance of a morose eagle. He wore the sober, charcoal-grey clothes of a civil servant of some kind, while upon his head was perched an officious square-sided black hat. In his hand he clutched a roll of parchment, which he now unravelled and began to read from.

  As his words, delivered in a disinterested drone, rolled over the crowd, two more figures climbed the steps. The rearmost one wore the uniform of the ducal guard. Ahead of him he pushed a woman. Her hands were bound in front of her, and from the redness of her eyes it was clear she’d been crying. She wore nothing aside from a plain cotton undershirt, not even shoes. At first glance it was hard to even tell this forlorn figure was female, for her head had been shaved.

  She stood at the top of the platform, bare feet upon the rough wooden boards, quaking in fear as the city official read out a list of charges of which she’d apparently been found guilty. It seemed she was a fortune teller from Strathearn, though half the allegations made it sound as though she’d sprung from the depths of hell itself to wreak demonic havoc among the citizenry... and the menfolk in particular, many of whom were said to have been placed under her spell. Raven couldn’t help but note several pinch-faced women in the crowd nodding as this accusation was read aloud.

  When the litany of charges came to an end, the guardsman shoved the woman towards a second construction, the one that had already told Raven the nature of this gathering. It was a tall wooden pole, around the base of which a tall pile of branches and wooden logs had been stacked. The top of this pile was level with the stage, with a long plank acting as a bridge between the two. The pair made their way across the plank, before the guard lashed the now weeping woman to the stake.

  With that done, the guard rejoined the official on the stage, and the plank was retracted. Further figures appeared at the base of the pile of wood with lit torches, and as these were thrust within, the woman atop them began to wail and plead with the crowd. She appealed to one man near the front, who was apparently her neighbour, but as smoke began to waft up from the pile Raven saw him turn away, his face ashen.

  She pressed her way through the crowd and made her way hurriedly across the bridge towards the rows of opulent manor houses. She started up the wide, paved road that led towards the castle just as a shrill scream pierced the air.

  Raven grimaced and strode onwards with fresh determination. Kester wasn’t the only one in need of saving.

  * * *

  “You! Girl! Yes, you. Come over here. Look lively.”

  A girl in the plain garb of a castle servant shuffled forward from the dark alcove in which she’d been attempting, unsuccessfully, to hide. The housekeeper scowled at her approach. A formidable woman with steel-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun, she’d been in the duke’s employ for over thirty years and ruled the bustling, cavernous rooms beneath the castle with an iron fist.

  Among the many things to raise her ire was shirking, and most of the maids and scullery wenches that passed through her hands had at one time or another received either a figurative or literal ear-bashing for slacking off from their chores. The specimen standing sullenly before her now was, in her considered opinion, one of the laziest she’d ever encountered and had spent most of that morning lurking in various corners trying to avoid catching her eye. That’s quite enough of that! she thought.

  With a triumphant gleam in her eye the housekeeper slapped a stack of folded sheets into the girl’s hands, so high that they came to just beneath her chin. “Take those to the linen closet upstairs,” she barked. “And once you’ve done that, you can strip and remake all the beds. Every one, mark you! And I shall be along presently to check.”

  She’d expected complaints or excuses – and in all her years in the duke’s service she’d heard them all – but the girl said nothing. Instead she stared at the housekeeper with eyes as blue and cold as chips of ice, before moving around her wordlessly and disappearing up the stairs.

  The housekeeper’s smile faltered then faded entirely, her earlier exultation draining away. There was something in the girl’s eyes that had sent an icy chill up her spine. She thought about calling her back and chastising her for insolence, but just then from the back of the kitchen came a mighty crash of crockery and she stalked off to investigate, all thoughts of the black-haired maid flown from her mind.

  * * *

  Raven turned a corner and let out a groan of frustration. Another dead-end. Or rather, a small recess with a window-seat offering what she would, in other circumstances, have thought a delightful view across the city far below. But at this time all it did was further inflame the simmering anger that had been growing steadily throughout the morning.

  She still carried the stack of sheets, which seemed to grow heavier with each turning and had, over the preceding twenty minutes, come to two realisations: firstly that she had no idea of her way around the castle and, furthermore, she was now hopelessly lost. Not knowing where the linen closet was or even on which of the four above-ground floors of the castle it was to be found didn’t help either.

  Faced with little alternative, Raven retraced her steps, took a different turning and a few moments later found herself in a short passageway bare of any doors save one leading to a small spiral stair. She swore under her breath and aimed a kick at the wall.

  She’d been so pleased with herself when she’d snuck back into the castle and found herself in a laundry room containing servants’ clothing. It had been the work of but a few moments to peel off her own worse for wear garments and disguise herself as one of the battalion of young maids in the duke’s employ.

  It had all seemed simple enough in principle. She now knew that the insidious poison (despite what she’d learned from the apothecary, for simplicity’s sake in her own mind at least she continued to refer to it as such) reducing the once larger than life Kester Maccallam to a pale wraith was being administered through his food. Which meant there were only two possibilities – either the Dreamer’s Kiss was being placed in his meals in the kitchen as they were prepared, or the dishes were being waylaid on their way to Kester’s bedchamber. Her plan, then, had been to lurk around the castle kitchens until she saw Kester’s food being readied. If nothing untoward occurred, then she would follow behind as it was taken up to his chamber.

  It hadn’t taken long for her plan to fall apart. The kitchens were the first problem, with a heavy emphasis on the plural. Meals for the duke’s household and staff were prepared in a series of huge adjoining rooms, each one a seething mass of flustered, shouting cooks, bustling porters, roaring fires belching smoke and cinders from within banks of ovens, steaming pots the size of barrels and all manner of clamour and din.

  Then there was her disguise which, although it had allowed her to blend in, had meant that rather than being able to stand and observe, she’d been summoned from pillar to post to carry this, fetch that and scrub the other until it left her head spinning.

  In short, it had been impossible to determine which food was meant for Kester, let alone discover at what point in the process it was being laced with poison. And now, thanks to an over-zealous housekeeper she was even further from her goal.

  The anger simmering within bubbled up at last and Raven dashed the stack of sheets to the ground. Then she swore again, more loudly this time and with feeling.

  “You’d better not let Mister Craddock catch you saying things like that,” came a timorous voice.

  Raven nearly leapt from her skin. She turned and saw a young chambermaid kneeling on the floor, a scrubbing brush in her hand and a bucket of so
apy water at her side. Her view of the girl must have been obscured by the pile of sheets as she walked past.

  The chambermaid straightened. “Sorry if I scared you.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Raven attempted a smile but, embarrassed that someone had witnessed her outburst, it became a grimace. “I just didn’t see you there.”

  “I wish the steward and Mrs Possett had the same trouble.” In contrast to the sheepish expression on Raven’s face, the girl’s smile was kindly. “Are you new?”

  “How did you...?” Raven followed the girl’s eyes to the sheets lying strewn about the passage. “Is it so obvious?”

  “On my first day I got lost trying to find my way out of the cellars. I might still be down there if one of the other girls hadn’t heard me sobbing.”

  “I was told to take these to the linen closet,” Raven said.

  “Which one?” She saw Raven’s puzzlement and tutted. “Well, that’s typical. There’s one on each of the upper floors, you see. Was it Mrs Possett?” Raven nodded. “And did she ask you to change the beds after?” Another nod. “Well, you’re on the right floor at least for the bedchambers. Just on the wrong side of the castle.”

  Raven sighed, then bent and began to pick up the linens she’d flung to the ground. After a moment the girl joined her to help. As they folded sheets, it occurred to Raven that this might be the opening she was waiting for. After all, who knew the comings and goings of the castle better than the servants?

  “Of course, she can’t have meant all the beds,” she said airily.

  “If Mrs Possett said all she means all,” the girl replied firmly. “You’re braver than me if you cross that one.”

  “But what about K-” Raven stopped herself in time, and tried to think how the duke’s staff would refer to his heir. “The young master, I mean,” she went on. “The one who’s taken so ill.”

  The chambermaid thought a moment. “Well, p’raps not that one,” she conceded. “No-one’s to go in there ‘cept the duke, Lady Niamh and that doctor. Such a sad business.”

  Raven nodded solemnly. It was a sad business, and for a great many people more than just Kester Maccallam. She’d felt the tension at the burning in the plaza. The persecution of innocents was driving divisions across the north, causing scars many had thought healed to tear open anew. Some revelled in the violence, using it as a means to get revenge for long-held grievances or simply for the joy of seeing others punished, while others chafed against the injustice. A town such as Firbank, close to the duchy’s border, was close to open rebellion, any mention of the duke’s name met with open hostility. As distracted as she’d been by her hunt for first Aggy and then her mysterious adversary, even she’d sensed it. The north was a mass of kindling and the spark that would ignite it was edging ever closer.

  “Surely you don’t mean no-one at all,” she said. “Who brings him his meals?”

  “He doesn’t eat much lately. But once a day he’s brought a tray. I’ve done it myself. You’re to knock on his door, loud enough to be heard but not so loud as to disturb him, then wait until whoever’s inside takes it in. Usually it’s m’lady.”

  That got Raven’s attention. “You’re sure? And nothing happened on the days you carried the tray to his room?”

  It was the girl’s turn to be puzzled. “Happen? What could happen between the kitchen and his lordship’s chamber?”

  Careful. Don’t push too hard. Raven shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. “Nothing, I suppose. I just wondered if something might be getting in his food that’s making him sicker. Like maybe if you’d dropped it and not told anyone...”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Heavens, no! Nothing like that, I swear. As soon as he arrived, the doctor came down to the cellars and told us we had to take extra care with everything that’s brought to him, and that’s just what I done.”

  “Doctor Burbage takes a special interest then in Kester’s meals?”

  Raven cursed herself inwardly for the slip, but the chambermaid was so flustered she didn’t notice. “You must be new,” she said, “or else you’d know already.”

  “Know what?”

  “That the doctor prepares all his lordship’s food himself. Said he has to be given special broths that aren’t what everyone else gets, and that he didn’t trust anyone but himself to do it properly. Cook was right het up about that, but His Grace said we was to follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter, whatever he asked, so while he grumbles about it he don’t interfere.”

  “I didn’t see the doctor while I was in the kitchen,” Raven said.

  “Well, you wouldn’t, not if you didn’t know where to look. There’s a small room off to one side that he uses, with a door only he has the key to. He don’t come out unless it’s to hand the tray to one of us.”

  “But I thought the doctor isn’t here all the time? What happens when he’s not in the castle.”

  The girl gave her a sharp look, and for a moment Raven thought perhaps she’d gone too far. The esteemed doctor’s comings and goings were unlikely to be public knowledge, certainly for one who purported to have arrived in the castle just that day. “He gives the key to His Grace when he has to leave. He cooks his broth in batches and stores it in an urn. His Grace sends old Craddock down to the kitchens, and all he has to do is warm it through and give it to one of us to bring up.”

  “A great responsibility,” Raven observed. “And His Grace trusts Craddock?”

  “Of course!” The girl seemed shocked at the suggestion it might be otherwise. “He served the duke’s father before him, practically raised him, he did.”

  Having met the steward herself Raven shared the girl’s doubts. Nevertheless, she stored the information away for future reference. You never know, she thought. There seemed little more to learn here, so she placed the last folded sheet upon the pile and raised it up once more. “All done. Now where did you say that linen closet is?”

  The chambermaid gave her directions, but Raven was only half-listening. As she went to leave, she turned back. “Doctor Burbage, he’s staying in the town, isn’t he? The King’s Head, isn’t it?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, he’s got a room in the castle, just round the corner from the closet as it happens. Another one we’re not to go in, or so Mrs Possett says.”

  Raven smiled. “Less work for me then. Thanks for the help.”

  Around the next corner, Raven found an open window overlooking a tidy, well-kept garden. When she was sure she wasn’t being watched she threw the stack of sheets through it with great satisfaction, then stalked off in search of the good doctor’s chamber.

  * * *

  It proved surprisingly straightforward. By the time she’d followed as many of the chambermaid’s instructions as she could remember, Raven happened across a page hurrying down the passage in the opposite direction, who guided her the rest of the way.

  She’d feigned nonchalance, of course, but it hardly mattered. The page had no reason to suspect any untoward motive, and was too occupied with whatever errand he’d been given to care.

  That was as far her good fortune went, however.

  The page was barely out of sight before Raven discovered, by trying the door and finding it barred, that her hastily conceived plan had failed at the outset. She’d thought that she’d once again be able to slip inside to snoop around, hopefully discovering incriminating evidence that would prove the doctor’s involvement in Kester’s illness beyond all doubt. But while a distraction had been enough to enter Kester’s chamber, it seemed Doctor Burbage was more security conscious.

  What are you hiding? she wondered.

  Raven pressed her ear to the wood of the door and listened intently. She remained there a few moments, straining her ears for any sign of movement, but in the room beyond all was silent.

  She straightened and was just considering her next move, when the sound of approaching footsteps reached her ears. Hurriedly she pulled the maid’s linen headpiece down as far as
it would go to obscure her features and, head bowed, walked towards the sound.

  When she was less than ten feet from the next turning a strange figure emerged from around the corner, and so bizarre was its appearance that at first Raven’s mind couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. The figure was tall and slender, wearing a long dark cape around its shoulders. But it was what sat atop these shoulders that caught her by surprise. For where the figure’s head should be was a pale mask, featureless apart from two dark, hollow discs in place of eyes, beneath which protruded a narrow, pointed beak almost the length of a man’s forearm. Above this nightmarish countenance was a black, broad-rimmed hat that somehow made the figure’s appearance even more bizarre.

  Raven was so startled she stopped dead in her tracks, but for its part the outlandish figure didn’t so much as glance in her direction. It was only when the figure had passed her that her brain finally recognised it for what it was. Perhaps it was because she’d only heard about such a thing and never before seen it with her own eyes. It was said that physicians in some cities, particularly those in which sickness was rampant, had taken to wearing such a garb when treating patients during serious outbreaks of disease. The cloak and mask, the nose of which was stuffed with straw, herbs and scented oils, were designed to protect the wearer from the miasma surrounding the afflicted.

  There was only one man in the castle – in probably the entire city – who might wear such a costume. The elusive Doctor Burbage.

  The duke did say he was an eccentric, Raven thought. She doubled back and peered back around the corner, just in time to see the back of the doctor’s cloak disappearing through his chamber door. There was a thunk as the door closed and the heavy click of a key turning inside a lock.

  Raven smiled. Any lingering frustration at her lack of progress that morning was replaced by a wave of triumph. It was a familiar feeling, one she’d felt many times on the road... that after long hours, even days, spent tracking and pursuing her quarry, the end was in sight at last.