The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “The sky’s bigger here,” Pod nodded. “Up north it’s a streak between roofs. Down here it’s another world vaster than the one where we walk.”

  Now they were back on the river and followed the mighty bend of the Corn where it swirled up out of the gorge through its underground grotto and into its wide lake-like shallows, flowing south east now instead of south west, as if desiring to explore whatever it could find before surrendering to the estuary and its final suicide into the ocean.

  Stopping overnight wherever they found a welcoming doorway, their progress was neither fast nor sluggish, and they learned to love the Southern Wilds. Night was often cold, as though the westing sun carried all warmth away with it as it sank below the dunes, but while it rose high into the blue glaze, the heat blazed like flames, a dry sizzling heat that energised and delighted.

  Far, far deeper into the wilds, Lacrimanzer, like the City of Eden, straddled the Cornucopia. But here there was no bridge, nor islands, no city wall nor locked gates, and few meandering wherries. “We cross by camel,” Pod said, and since neither Hawisa nor Freya knew what a camel might be, this sounded highly exciting.

  Now the heat was flaming. Dawn had surged through the stars only moments before, but already the sun blazed its reflection across the Corn’s waters. The cart sat plump and ready as everyone stared. At the division of the sand covered road where it entered the town, was a great pillared archway of white stone, and to either side rose the sand dunes in a golden eternity. Through the archway the camel caravan was winding, a slow and peaceful setting out into the sands, the camel gait as elegant as the rhythm of the tap – the tap of the leader’s stick against the little bell on his own camel’s neck, leading the way out from sand to more sand.

  A hundred camels wound their contemplative meander, each following the one before, none roped nor haltered, simply fulfilling the continuous drift of their lives.

  The cart entered Lacrimanzer through the same archway as the last camel plodded past, the cartwheels almost silent while sinking in sand. The shuffle of that sand through the streets, beneath feet and beneath shoes, beneath wheels and beneath hooves, hushed all noises except the whine of a hot wind. People in the streets smiled, some waved, one elderly man stopped to ask if he could help, and a woman joined him, saying, “I don’t know you, ladies, nor the gentleman. Are you searching for a place to stay? Or a place to eat? Or do you hope to leave poor Lacrimanzer as soon as possible?”

  Feeling too lost to have any idea what she wanted, Freya sat and smiled in silence, while Hawisa, accustomed to being the servant, looked towards Pod. He said, “We need a place to live. We’re a theatrical troop. We’ll be taking the tears out of Lacrimanzer.”

  The man laughed. “You got any money, lad?”

  “Not much yet, but I’ll not be sleeping with the camels. Mind you, I’ll maybe need to buy one sooner or later, or swap with the horse.”

  “Not an easy bargain, master.”

  “My horse plods on sand just as a camel does, but the cartwheels need hefty pulling.”

  Hawisa leaned forwards. “This is a lad who can sing like the gods.”

  The man pointed, still laughing. “Other side of the Corn you’ll find the Pit. Stage – storehouse – audience seats – and the actor’s camp. All the paraphernalia of the theatre and you don’t pay a dumb farthing. But you have to earn your keep.”

  “I’ll do that with no trouble,” said Hawisa. She smiled towards Pod. “And he’ll do that even easier.” Then she grinned at Freya. “Maybe the pretty lass too. We’ll see how it goes.”

  Blushing slightly, Freya looked down at her sand crusted toes, and didn’t answer. The cart trundled on, slowly down the shallow banks of the Corn and through the chug of the gleaming waters. On the other side they followed the road up the slope towards a sprawling campground surrounding three sides of a brick-built pit, with a welter of cabins, tents, tiny sheds and low warehouses at the back. “This,” said Pod, “is home.”

  It was noisy. A dozen feet crashed on boards balanced over sand, while in the background of whining winds, some were singing, someone was shouting, someone crying, but stopping, only to cry again, then asking, “Does that sound better?”

  There was no luggage in the cart for no one had anything to bring. Beneath the cover of Freya’s cloak lay only Pod’s drum, his lute, his guitar, and his fancy pointed shoes. Hawisa had brought only herself. Clambering down, Pod crossed to a man half asleep in the sun while leaning back against a painting of a leaping lacine, and a fence of bamboo.

  Pod asked, “You looking for actors, master? Singers? Cleaners? Someone to make the scenery? A woman more beautiful than most? Another as strong as an ox? And a horse with a cart that’s travelled from north to south without a broken wheel?”

  “Sumpter and cart?” The man nodded. “That’s always useful. Beautiful woman? We have a circus full. A strong woman? Can she scrub and sweep? Good. And a singer? Oh yes, he’ll be the prize.” Then he looked up and noticed Freya. His small smile became wide. “And she’ll be the prize amongst prizes.” Pod introduced them all, even the horse, and the man said, “I’m Soffo. The leader, the writer, the director and the manager. You want something, you ask Soffo.”

  “Then we want beds,” Hawisa said.

  Behind the stage was the long storeroom and here, amongst piles of costumes and a jumble of wooden swords, banners and flags, pots of paint, chairs and tables, were mattresses of leaking feathers, straw pallets, lumps of materials and sand filled sacks. “Grab what you can,” a woman waved carelessly at the rumpled beds. “We drop where we want and there’s no bed belongs to anyone. Every bloody mattress is as bloody uncomfortable as every other.”

  “And,” asked Hawisa, “what’s happening on stage? Have you a play in production?”

  “Not a bloody thing,” said the woman. “Two sandstorms ruined the last one and folk laughed even though t’were a bloody tragedy. Now Soffo’s writing another.” She snorted. “Usually takes a month. Any of you good at nicking food off the market barrows?”

  “Me,” said Hawisa, “but I ain’t ending up in prison for gents I don’t even know yet.”

  “I’ll put on a show and earn the money instead,” Pod told her. “They’ll pay well to hear me. I’ll walk the streets first and tell them I’ll be in the theatre next day. I sing my own, but I’ll sing what they ask for too.”

  “Then,” said the woman, “I’m bloody glad to meet you.”

  “But I’m a queen,” she sniffed. “It’s not fair to throw things at me.”

  Frink said, “You’re no queen. You’re the king’s consort. Without me you’d be a beggar girl.” He sniggered. “Not a girl, of course. A haggard old crone.”

  “Well-nigh fifteen years younger than you.”

  Frink regarded his wife. “Men age better than women. Shame is, your damned sons take after you.”

  “They take after you,” she insisted. “Same noses. Same eyes. Same colouring. And I was young and pretty back then. You were old already.”

  Standing beside the single throne, Denda was dripping pottage from her hair to her shoulders and held nothing to wipe it off. She looked for a cloth or a kerchief or a towel but found none. Instead she grabbed up Frink’s loosely held glass of rich red wine and drank it in one rather loud gulp. “That’s better,” she said. “Now I’ll go and change. And don’t even consider following me for a battering, since I’ll scream the palace down, and everyone will know you’re a pig.”

  “They do anyway,” muttered Frink. “And who cares? That damned pottage was vile.”

  Her majesty replaced the precious blue glass cup on a table and swept out, heading for her own apartments, being at some discreet distance from the king’s quarters. Her personal maid was quick to leap up as she heard her mistress approaching, quickly hid the letter she had been reading under the cushion and curtsied deeply.

  “Oh, my lady,” she said with a hiccup, “you’re not, well, that is, not exactly… Was it his maje
sty again?”

  “Who else would it be?” demanded the queen. “You think the stable boys throw their dinner at me?”

  “I’ll order water boiled for a bath, your majesty.” She hurried away and Denda sank onto the bed, closed her eyes, and began to giggle. The cold pottage started to seep into the pillow.

  His majesty King Frink turned to the expressionless guard standing at the far door. “Send in the next,” Frink waved three fingers.

  The man who strode in was well dressed in black with red lace at his neck and cuffs; he was nearly as aged as the king himself, and his hair beneath the black feathered hat was as white as the king’s grandson’s. Within three steps of the king, the man stopped, bowed very low, and waited.

  “His lordship, Sir Logon,” roared the guard.

  Logon remained where he was, staring down as the king stared at him. “You.”

  “Me.”

  Eventually walking forwards, Logon said, “Did you know I was held in that damnable prison on the island for years and years and fucking years? And you did not a fucking thing to try and get me out.”

  “You were safer inside.” Frink paused before saying, “no, I didn’t know you were in there until your cell mate’s woman came and told me. She’s a relative, of course, so I pretended to care about her husband locked away for sod all. But when I heard you were there too, that was the seal. You got a fucking procession. What more do you want?”

  “My fucking life back.”

  “It was King Chas that had you arrested,” Frink shook his balding head. “I’d wondered where you were a few times but assumed Shamm – some island – deep into the south – or dead. There’s been plenty wanting to kill you.”

  “Including you, my dearest monarch?”

  “As it happens,” the king said softly, “not me. You were useful. Even good company. It was that moral prude Chas who wanted you dead, and locked you away hoping you’d oblige by dying.”

  “I have a cottage in Bog Dock,” he answered, “and it’s a shit-hole. I want a place at court.”

  “You’re a knight of the realm if I remember correctly. So I can do that,” Frink said, “if they can find an empty wine cellar or a box over the stables. Have you a woman? Brats? Or still alone?”

  “I’m alone, but I don’t intend to stay that way,” Logon said. “So at court I get free food and board. But that’s not enough.”

  “You want a job as an assassin?”

  “I want a well-paid job,” Logon said. “Or be well paid for doing nothing. Not killing since that got me in prison before. You’re an old fustian and you’ll die soon. I’ll not have the next king chucking me back on that vile island.”

  “Think of something you could be useful at. Scrubbings floors. Fucking my wife.”

  “And where have you hidden Fraygard? Years in prison together made a damned fine understanding. I need to see him.”

  “He’s also at court.” Frink stood, strode to the doorway at the back of the room, and swung aside the patterned curtain that hid it. “Come with me. I’ll shout at a few people. It’ll be sorted out soon enough.”

  Raani snuggled, purring. With Udovox, she purred twice as loudly.

  Symon stood with his back to the cramped room. He stared through the rough mullions of the window, but it was not the river below or the sky above that he saw. Toby was draped around Symon’s shoulders like a shawl, or a neck brace. The hound’s ears were alert, but he was sucking gently on one of Symon’s ears and the faint slurp competed with the lacine’s purr. Yet what Symon saw was a low building of white stone, built on the riverbanks and not upon some half sinking island. He turned abruptly. “Right,” Symon said. “Wot d’ya reckon on that? Don’t cost so much on Bog Dock but if tis right on the Corn, it ain’t like one o’ them slums.”

  Tom scratched his beautifully combed hair, and Udovox held the lacine a little tighter. Tom said, “My dear friend, there is nothing there.”

  “Well, o’corse there ain’t,” Symon said with considerable impatience. “We ain’t built it yet, ‘as we?”

  “Since we aren’t clever enough to see it before it actually exists,” Udovox explained, “you will have to describe it to us, I’m afraid.”

  “Real big,” Symon said, drawing patterns one fingered in the air. “That stone wot shows up all white. That’s gonna stand out different, ain’t it. More or less round. Different, like showing up again. Inside tis more round about. We don’t need no roof right over, but some of it do. Too much poxy rain and snow. Wot d’ya reckon.”

  “Looks beautiful, my dear,’ Tom smiled into empty space. “But may I remind you that Bog Dock is a place of deprivation and poverty. Our palace should be built elsewhere.”

  Shaking his head with sufficient emphasis to dislodge his soggy ear from the dog’s mouth, Symon explained further. “We builds this in the top end, reckon we gotta build even finer n’ even grander. There’s naught gonna show up agin over places even bigger n’ better. We build sommint wot don’t show up anyways, and it costs twice as bloody much. But we builds in Bog Dock, costs half and shows up double. Though must be on the banks so folks sees it from the Bridge an’ the river, and both sides an’ all.”

  Tom and Udovox stared back at him. Finally, slowly, they both nodded. “Very clever, my clever friend.”

  “Stark white?” Udovox breathed. “Pillars? Round? A roof of flowers?”

  Tom twisted to look at his lover with faint surprise. “My dearest, flowers would die rather quickly.”

  “Not,” the other told him, “if they are properly planted. A layer of earth spread over metal roofing, and plants – well – planted.”

  “Bloody big trees?” Symon imagined a willow, its branches hanging low.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Udovox. “That would require too great a depth of soil. But jasmine, perhaps, and trailing succulents.”

  “Peaches?” hoped Tom.

  Udovox ignored him. He lifted one eyebrow and smiled at Symon. “We might be able to afford that. Now, so much for the outside, my friend. But what in the name of buggery do we do inside?”

  “Now that,” grinned Symon, “be summint else entirely.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “A big burly female, my lord,” the boy sniffed. “But I didn’t look too hard. My ma told me never to go to wicked places like that.”

  “Quite proper,” said Jak. “So don’t tell her I sent you. But since, strangely enough, I was once your age myself, I know perfectly well you had an extremely close look. Stop lying and tell me what you saw.”

  “There were folk running up and down the stairs,” admitted the boy. “And lots of ladies, my lord.” He hiccupped. “Some of them didn’t have any proper clothes on.”

  “But I’m more interested in the woman who accepted my letter,” Jak told him. “And any other young female who seemed to take a particular interest either in the letter or in yourself.”

  “No one took no notice of me at all,” said the boy sadly. “This muscly madam took your letter, my lord, and said as how she didn’t want it. She gives it back. Says to give it to you. People kept pushing me out the way, so I left. That’s all there was to it.”

  Sighing, Jak leaned back in the chair. He had twice visited the Pearly Webb brothel on the Bridge, but to see Tom, Udovox and Symon. He had also been welcomed by Edilla, the madam in charge, Jak supposed. And now he had asked each one of them if Freya had ever worked there, or lived there still.

  “My lord,” Symon had said as though affronted by the supposition,, “we now knows the lass to be of the bloodline . Special, that is. Freya wot I used to know, she weren’t the type to be a whore.

  “Nor the Freya I once knew,” Jak agreed. “But sometimes we are all forced by circumstances to do something we don’t wish to.”

  “Like digging tunnels on islands, ready for invasions?” Tom had grinned.

  “There’s no lass here called Freya,” Udovox had assured him.

  And Jak did not think they would li
e to him. But he had asked Edilla. “My lord, no,” she had told him. “And may I point out that no girl is ever forced to work here against her will.” Which Jak had accepted. But Kallivan had been adamant, and although that was a man who would lie without compunction, it had been a taunt, as though true indeed.

  So Jak had sent his page with a brief letter. Edilla had accepted the folded paper, but passed it back. “No lady with such a name here, boy. Take it back to your master.”

  There were a hundred brothels in Eden City, more on the Corn’s southern banks, and perhaps thousands across the country north and south. But Jak knew of no other addresses, and knew only that the Bridge Stewe was known as the pinnacle of bordellos, the most honest, the cleanest, and the most luxurious. They employed only the best.

  Unsure as to what meant best amongst whores, Jak at least had no intention of exploring any other brothels, wash houses or Bog Dock street corners. And now, with the acquaintance of Tom, Udovox and Symon, he had expected a considerable degree of honesty.

  He returned to the Council Chambers, and received the flowing cloak, hooded and lined, all in the deep green of woven tumbleweed. Although every man at the table had seen him arrive and fling the cloak around his shoulders, Jak dutifully raised the hood and sat at the far end where the number ten was painted in large white letters, stretched his legs beneath the table, and looked around.

  Honesty, he smiled to himself, was immediately redefined, now being shrouded in secrecy. No lies, but simply the absence of absolute truth. He wondered if the answers of his new friends Symon, Tom and Udovox regarding Freya slipped into the same category. He had, his memory reminded him, played the same game with his father when he had been a child running and exploring instead of practising the martial arts. “I have been busy, Papa. So busy, that now I’m tired out.”

  “Good, good, my boy, So you’ve been at the archery target, or the mock charge?”