“I am honoured, my lord.” Pentaggo said quickly, the fear at discovery almost fading, “and will be proud to remember these words. Yet you bring up one more question, saying that the man Kallivan is the – supposed – grandson of the king. You therefore suspect his parentage?”
“Certainly,” said Jak, and now he was laughing, “his true father is the one-eyed man you’ve seen with him, rape, I expect, of the wretched Ross’s wife many years ago. His name is Thribb, and Kallivan knows him as father.”
“I once thought,” Pentaggo sighed, but the smile growing, “that I was a master of rumour and not only discovering the truth but knowing truth from lie. Now I realise, my lord, that you have greater skills than my own.”
“Although I dislike rumour,” Jak added. “And listen to no gossip. But I know character, personality, and how probability works, or not. Simply that. And where Kallivan is concerned, I am happy to speak. With others, all others, I will say nothing. Including concerning yourself.”
“I thank you, my lord,” Pentaggo said gently, beginning to move away, the young boy directly behind him, “and hope to see you again very soon.”
It was as the steward strode off over the grassy riverbank and up to Banks Road, that Jak turned and stood so still that he had forgotten he could move at all. He stared at the sky over the river and remained gazing. Above him the lights shimmered, swooping and wheeling as though the sunshine had also been powered by steam, wishing to fly in painted murals, and promising Jak everything he had ever wished for.
Like a rainbow in a windmill, a hundred shades of blue merged, entwined, and separated. A rosy violet sprang into the higher clouds and then sank like dye in a bucket, twisting the blues into pinks, the lilac back into blue, and a startling dash of furious red into purple wings.
Jak saw Freya’s colours, intermittently interrupted as though she had sunk, then risen, then sunk again. He saw, for the first time, a billowing cloud interspersed by black arrow points, which then fell away, and fluttered meekly as if turning to feathers.
As it began to rain, a small silvery drizzle without force or thunder, Jak wondered if he had imagined the nonsense, having seen only rain clouds. But then, like a madman, he heard singing. He did not recognise the tune nor the voice, but it was mournful and yet beautiful, and he remained still, wanting to listen.
Then the music and the singing both faded, but in their place he once again saw colours. But this time it was Freya’s blue alone, streaking across the sky at speed, and carrying with it a thousand tiny specks of colour in its train.
For some years Jak had forgotten colours. He had forgotten magic. He had even come close, by choice, to forgetting Freya. Then, with the colours everything else had returned and now Freya danced through his dreams each night. Life was changing entirely.
Chapter Forty
The old house stood on the city limits, in Upper Eden, but without parkland or hedged gardens. Yet its greenery was the growth over its walls, cut away to keep the polished glass windows bright, but smothering lintels, buttresses and the old tiled roof. It seemed almost as though this was a forested home where the people might live amongst squirrels, birds and even the fairies.
Knowing that fairies did not live in her parent’s house, Stilla approached with knotted fists and two knives hidden in her belt, a forked iron in her central front pocket, and a secret supply of long hat pins keeping her curls tidy beneath the humble white cap.
“Tis a right gorgeous old home,” a woman mumbled as she passed. “You works there, does you, mistress?”
“Once I did.”
And would again. As the elder sister everything had been left to her when her parents both died, and she had offered, as was the proper thing, to share some with little sister Marable. But Marable had little interest in a smaller share, nor in sharing at all, and had Stilla committed to the Madhouse.
Stilla stood on the doorstep, breathing in the perfumes. The scent of wisteria mingled with the stronger fragrance of the jasmine, its white flowers darting between the drooping fantasy of the lilac wisteria. Other climbers crawled and sprang, jutting out where they had been cut back around the windows, and spreading across the old walls so thickly that the stone slabs were no longer visible.
She rang the bell, clutching at the pulley. The golden metal jangled without tune, but loud enough to wake a sleeping magpie. Immediately she heard the rustle and murmur from inside, and the quick footsteps of the butler. He opened the door and stared out. Stilla had not expected to recognise him, but she did from all those months before, and was delighted that the same man worked at the house. She had changed and thought she must now look twenty years older, for thirty months in the lunatic asylum withered and wrinkled everything and whatever managed to escape was not the same as had entered. Humanity aged twice as fast, whether crazed or sane, and embittered into madness those who had entered sane. Yet the butler also recognised her. His smile grew and covered his face like the jasmine on the walls.
“Oh, mistress,” he said, opening the door fully for her to hurry inside, “how glad I am to see you. I welcome you home, Mistress of the house, Madam Stilla, and the lady I most respect. Please, come into your own home, and take up the residence you lost two years and more ago.”
Smiling back at the smiling butler, she murmured, “Oh, Drymber, please, get me a cup of wine. I am thirsty fit to bust.”
There was new carpet beneath her feet, and a badly painted portrait of Marable hanging directly opposite the front door.
“Mistress Marable,” the butler spoke softly as he closed the door behind her, “is not presently at home. May I inform you, mistress, that she has a beau, ab important gent, and hopes to wed. She therefore spends much time at his home rather than here.” He hurried off and returned with the cup of rich crimson wine. Stilla had wandered into the wide doored salon, hoping not to find it much changed. It was not. Only the very old chair she had once loved had gone, replaced by something shoddy and barely cushioned.
Drinking wine and talking to the old friend Drymber did not take her thoughts from what she longed to see most and within just moments of finishing the drink, she tottered up the old staircase and hurried to the second door on the right of the long wide passageway. At first it was too dark, but she lit two candles and unshuttered the window. Now she was at home.
This bedchamber, once her own, had never been used by another for it rested beneath dust as though a layer of protection had been blown across her possessions. Stilla sighed and sank down on the bed. A puff of stagnant age billowed up as she sank down. It smelled stale and yet somehow warmly familiar. She leaned back and the pillow responded. The mirror opposite gave no reflection since only grime was visible, the chair she had always loved was covered by a stained sheet, the bed curtains were fleeced in dust and the great hearth still held the ashes from its last fire so many months before. But Stilla crossed her hands over her bundled chest, allowed her hat to tip over her face, closed her eyes and drank in the nostalgia.
She was asleep when her sister arrived home later that evening, and Drymber, cold faced, informed his mistress that Stilla had returned home and had now unpacked her belongings in her childhood bedchamber. He did not mention that her belongings had fitted into one small felted bag, but he smiled as though expecting one sister to welcome the other.
Marable rushed up the stairs, flung open the door of this unused chamber, stood a moment in the doorway, then opened her mouth wide and screamed, “You!” Stilla awoke, lurching upwards. The noise had brought back the sensations and expectations of the asylum. Then she stared at her little sister. Marable was not as she remembered her. Stilla had grown flabby without hope of moving for two years, but she was desperately thin, and her face was haggard. Now Marable was fat as a well-loved piglet, her face was round with cheeks like bread rolls from a hot oven, and she wore the silky brilliance of fashionable clothes. When Stilla managed to sit, she showed off the rags, which were all she had to wear. She had no money except th
e two pennies given by the asylum manager, now already spent on food and minor weapons of protection, for Marable had taken everything.
Stilla was armed as best she could and was ready, and most willing, to fight. But she first attempted friendship. “Marable, my dear, I have been pronounced sane and released from the Island without threat of return. Indeed, I’m delighted to see you. I won’t rant or rave, and I hope we can live in comfort together. I’ll try to earn coin myself, but in the meantime, I want only my bed, and a share of the food supplied within the house.”
Pausing, Marable’s colour could be seen rising. Eventually she squeaked, stamped one foot, and managed to keep her voice low while saying, “By no means, you wretch of a sister. This is my home now, my property, my capital, my furniture, mine in every place, including the kitchens and the pantries. And if you’re thinking of complaining to the law courts, then forget it. I am engaged to be married to one of the best solicitors and lawyers in the city, who also signs the papers for those sent to the asylum. And I shall ask him tomorrow morning to send you back there by the day after.”
Feeling sick, her head spinning and the pictures in her head of the place she thought the most vile and miserable in the country, Stilla grabbed one hand to the knife in her pocket. “You might as well kill me,” she answered softly. “You never visited that place, but it’s a true hell. Worse than any nightmare you’ve ever imagined. I won’t ask for anything except food, if you allow me to stay. I’ll stay in my room. I won’t interrupt when your fiancé visits. You can continue your life exactly as before. But I beg you, Marable, not to try sending me back to the asylum.”
“You prefer death?” Marable smiled, and her many chins quivered. “Very well, my dear,” she said. “I’m a merciful woman. Come here,” and she drew out a carving knife she’d grabbed from the kitchen block. It was three times longer and sharper than the knife Stilla clutched, and holding this up, Marable advanced.
The first day of Forge, being the last of spring and the first of Mandell, brought Eden’s party season, and the king, now conscious of the lighter side of ambition, announced his own celebration. The royal gardens were alight with towering foxgloves, Mandell-tubers, black tulips and huge fronded irises in every shade of blue, purple, orange and red. The little wild flowers all along the Corn’s banks were fading but amongst the thorn bushes, the roses were beginning to sprout, white and creamy with their rich perfumes rushing out over the water and disguising the last rancid smells of death and dirt.
The royal dining hall was alight with guests rustling their party-best. Frink crowned the chief cook with a garland of cornflowers from the Corn banks, bowed to him as the king of roasting, and plumped himself down on his grand chair at the head of the gold rimmed table. His wife sat to his left, and a very small child, bolstered with a high legged chair and a dozen cushions, sat to his right. Three servings of food, luscious and plentiful, were brought out on silver platters, the roast beef and pork were oozing dark juice, spices and herbs, while smaller platters held junkets and jellies, cakes and tarts, many layered trifles and curds in whey. Laximan waved his spoon, banged it on the table in front of him, and gurgled rather like the hot gravy around the roast lamb.
Once the food had been demolished, and any scraps left over returned to the kitchens for distribution to the poor and beggarly who would be bound to queue outside, those invited to Frink’s celebration wandered off to sit next to the fire, talk to each other, or waste their money. The king’s minstrels sang heartily while the courtiers played at dice and chess, and the ladies sat in small chattering groups beside the blazing fires, working at their crewel and the gilded filigree of paper curling while keeping an eye out for the pretty young Lord Lydiard to pass by, when, eyes downcast, they would inhale deeply and bite their lips to make them full and pink. But Jak kept to the shadows. The land was peaceful and prosperous, yet the dangers of travel and fighting he had discovered were nothing at all compared to the dangers of the royal court at play.
Unneeded as the mild Mandell evening darkened, the fire still spat its flames up the huge chimney, and its heat was a cuddle of loving welcome. But Jak, being accustomed to the wild winds in the north, did not need extra heat and he sat away from the fire, talking to his friends around a small table where the wine jug took central importance.
Long legs stretched, Lord Lydiard appeared at ease. In reality, calf muscles flexed, he was alert. “Suffering sesame seeds,” Mereck grinned, “What are you thinking of now, Jak? This is a party. Try smiling.”
“Some tiresome female has been flirting,” Verney laughed. “All females perhaps. It’s you they all fall for, Jak.”
The opposite table, where three men had been playing dice, their wives meekly watching in silence at their sides, was the reason for Jak’s studied gaze. Now, throwing a pair of twos, Sir Kallivan yawned, staring back at Jak. “It is hardly an unusual situation, my dear father-in-law,” although he ignored his wife. “Women have always chased a handsome man, a strong fighter and a titled nobleman. I suffer the same harassment myself, though I prefer females of an age before they begin to bleed and procreate.”
Reyne blushed, looking away. The other two on Kallivan’s table scowled, and the wife of one stood immediately, pushed back her chair with a clatter, and left the table to join another. “My dear boy,” said the husband, “that’s not the sort of remark we expect to hear with our wives present, and in the royal quarters.”
“Your wife is no longer present,” Kallivan smiled, “and I have always enjoyed the unexpected.”
“As no doubt,” Jak said, looking across, “you enjoyed the unexpected loss of your left hand.”
Kallivan neither blushed nor raised his mangled arm. “An interesting experience indeed,” he answered. “And one I have every intention of avenging.”
“I am delighted to hear that,” Jak said softly. “There is too little amusement in life.”
Another chair scraped back as Reyne rose and walked away to the group of women around the blazing hearth. Her mother followed her, and so did her sister. Verney and Mereck remained sitting with Jak. Verney refilled the cups with the highly superior wine. Jak raised his cup. “I drink to the death of our enemies,” Verney called.
“To pretentious protagonists,” Mereck drained his cup in one gulp but waved it high, saying, “Merciful mangroves, Jak, my poor wife and sister-in-law cry at night over this bastard.” It was Kallivan he was watching. Then Verney bent towards Jak and whispered, “My little girl is expecting again, I’m afraid. It’s Kallivan’s brat unfortunately. She’s not displeased, but the last child disappeared. This one must be able to survive. Now – if something happens to Kallivan within the next six or seven months –,”
“He doesn’t know yet?” Verney shook his head.
He had heard nothing, but Kallivan’s next words were as usual unexpected. turning from his own diminished table, he called, “And when, friend Jak, do you plan to marry and spawn your own brats? “
Although at a distance, the fire spangled the great hall with its dancing reflections, and Kallivan was drinking heavily bringing the colours of the flames to the crimson liquid in his cup, while the fire’s reflections lit the wavering lack of focus in his colourless eyes.
“You may know, one day,” Jak replied, “when I can be bothered speaking to you once more.” He leaned back in his chair and turned to Mereck.
“Ungrateful pimp,” glowered Udovox. “And what of my saving your miserable hide last time, and of me who proved my mettle, and of you who damned near breathed your miserable last? And since this is my father’s money, we all need to join in humble partnership.”
Tom flung himself into his lover’s arms and begged forgiveness, bent to one knee and kissed his unshaven cheeks, took his hand and agreed with the long building they had all chosen. Tom had wanted grander.
Sossanna said, “We got a cheap rent and I reckon that’s the proper start. I’s happy ter clean up and paint a wall.”
“Tin
ted glass in these broken windows.”
“No Maggs,” Udovox grunted. “We save our money until we start making some.”
Again Tom shook his thick dark hair. “Business, my beloved, works the other way around. Pour money in, and then you’ll make some back. Invest, invest, invest, just as we expect our customers to do.”
“The locked boxes will be upstairs. There’s four levels here.” Edda reappeared down the stairs. “It’s ever so dingy up there, but I don’t mind scrubbing.”
“Ground level for business. Big desks and chairs.” Tom waved his hands to various parts of the room. “A fire in winter. Then upstairs we got two levels for the locked chests. Up again, top floor with a great view over the river, we have our own rooms. There’s space enough for a salon where we share our thoughts.”
Now Udovox was enthusiastic. “One for Tom and Raani and me. One for our three beautiful women. And will Edilla join us? Will Symon? As usual we don’t even know where he is.”
“And Freya?” demanded Sossanna, “wot about our special lass? T’wer all about her at the start.”
“She’s been gone too long,” Tom sighed. “She could be anywhere now. Dead. Rich and famous. Married a king in Shamm. And besides, our precious girl is a skilled apothecary, not a boring banker.”
“I know we’ll see her again one day,” Maggs said. “But in the meantime, we have to look after ourselves.”
“We got Jak’s monies too,” Sossanna reminded them. “And I reckon his part were only ‘cos he were thinking o’ Freya. He still wants her, y’know. I reckon that grand lord be as much in love with her, as she were with him.”
Edilla had been wandering the upper floors. when she entered the lower chamber r once more, she was smiling widely, exhibiting the lost front tooth, the sad reminder of her brothel’s destruction. “I can imagine just how it will look here. Bed chambers, banking stores, the common room and salon, Of course, we originally planned a special clinic for Freya, but this idea is far better for all of us.”
The Mill Page 44
