“A new age dawns, my friends! A new beginning!” There were tears on Curnsbick’s cheeks. “The Great Change is at our backs and before us lies a vista of prosperity such as mankind has never looked upon before!” They were already on their feet. Whooping, clapping, weeping. An almost religious rapture. Curnsbick struggled to scream his final words. “Progress, my friends! Progress!”
Savine stood to clap herself. “Well said!” Zuri was already offering a handkerchief so she could dab a tear from the corner of her eye without compromising her powder. “Well said.”
A considerable crowd had gathered beneath the two great chandeliers and the stump where the third had once hung, the air hot with excited chatter, dense with talk of rebuilding and renewal, grand visions and vast opportunities. Knots of brightly dressed gentlemen split and merged, sucked into dizzying currents and whirlpools, the ladies pale dots on the flood.
Her own white nursing dress was everywhere, her own modest lack of jewels, her own wigless, clipped hair and, mercy, did she even see a woman with a scar like hers painted on? Savine had taken pride in being at the forefront of fashion, but this slavish imitation was something new. Something at once gratifying and slightly troubling.
“The Lady Regent!” someone almost screamed.
The talk stopped instantly. Every eye turned to her.
For a moment, Savine felt a sucking of terror. As if they might see through her, to all the secrets, and the guilt, and the things she wished she had not done. As if they might denounce her on the spot and drag her to the Tower of Chains.
Then Curnsbick stepped forwards. “Your Highness,” he murmured, lowering himself to one knee. As if it was arranged, every man and woman, several hundred of the richest and most talented in the Union, sank down with him, bowing, curtsying, competing viciously to get closest to the floor.
Savine liked to think she had changed. She had taken a beating in Valbeck. Reeled through the year afterwards, finally put herself back together, then taken another beating at Stoffenbeck. Everyone had taken a beating in the Great Change. Then she had spent six months hiding, giving herself up to her babies, to her husband, to her charity, and finally taken yet another beating in the Court of the People and on the roof of the Tower of Chains. Though there, it had to be said, she had given far worse than she got.
Savine liked to think she had changed. Come through her ordeals a better woman. But perhaps she was like a leaf of steel, bent by great pressure into new shapes but, given the chance, springing all too quickly back. In the warm draft of the foyer the embers of ambition flared up again as hot as ever. There was no denying the satisfaction she felt to see every man and woman not only seeking her money, not only seeking her approval, not only envying her, but kneeling before her.
Savine liked to think she had changed. But who dislikes being knelt to?
She left them kneeling long enough to know she could have left them kneeling all night. Then she smiled her sweetest smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, everyone. Please rise.”
She swallowed that horrible, lovely pearl dust bitterness and swept down the steps into the foyer. Her foyer. Once she had fought battles here. Now she reigned over the place as the unquestioned victor. The dozen armoured Anglanders who followed her everywhere she went were something of a clattering nuisance, and more had been posted at the theatre’s every doorway. She did wonder, in her more suspicious moments, whether Leo sent them to watch her as much as to protect her, but she supposed great figures must have an entourage. There was a wave of bowing heads, a rustle of curtsying skirts, a wake of awestruck respect wherever Savine passed.
“One could get used to this,” murmured Zuri, sliding her pencil from behind her ear, and she was right, as always. All Savine had to do was smile to bring them rushing forwards like pigs at feeding time.
“My surveys show there is room for three thousand thoroughly modern houses in the burned areas of the Three Farms alone. Thoroughly modern, Your Highness! Running water!”
“New ships, Lady Regent. Towering ships. Cities on the salt, bristling with cannon. Blow anything those Styrian bastards have out of the water. The Union will rule the seas again!”
“Have you had the opportunity to consider my designs, Lady Regent? Better statues on the Kingsway that celebrate the new while harking back to the glory of the old!”
“A new and improved patent office must be the priority, Your Highness, everything is in turmoil, new standards for the new age…”
Zuri was, if anything, more skilful than ever, her pencil moving with almost inhuman dexterity, noting anything worthwhile in the book shorthand, scoring in the appointments, chopping the coming days into slices of opportunity, assigning a worth to every sliver of Savine’s attention and not allowing a crumb to be wasted. It was very much like old times, only better. Savine had missed the fan, like a wounded warrior might his sword, and back on the battlefield, she wielded it with twice the savagery.
“Cannons are the thing, now, Lady Regent! With my new casting techniques they fire at twice the speed, thrice the range, ten times the reliability!”
“Rails are the thing! The potential, Your Highness, a woman of your vision cannot be blind to the potential…”
“Roads on top of roads, can you imagine?”
“Just a moment of your time, Your Highness! Just an instant!”
One by one, she brought them forwards with their schemes, their dreams, the light of certainty burning bright in their eyes. Her slightest smile lit their faces with delight. The hint of a frown doused them with horror. When she ended each interview with a snap of her fan she thought of cringing through the streets of Valbeck, hiding in the woods after Stoffenbeck, standing helpless in the dock before Judge, and revelled in her power.
“The one thing I need is the support of the state!”
“A word from you would make all the difference!”
“A moment with the Lord Regent!”
“The one thing I need!”
“Curnsbick!” droned Savine, offering her hand.
“Your Highness,” said the Great Machinist, leaning down to kiss it. “And Zuri, as radiant as ever. When the hell are you coming to work for me?”
“One minute past never,” she said, quickly checking the golden watch that had replaced the silver one around her neck.
“It was a truly moving address,” said Savine. “I do believe it might have been your best ever.”
“All from the heart, you know, all from the heart.” Curnsbick put the gentlest hand on Savine’s elbow, drew her to a conspiratorial distance. “We came through all right, didn’t we?”
“We did,” she said, patting his knuckles. “Even if… the things we had to do might trouble us from time to time.”
“We did.” The king of inventors had a somewhat nauseous look. Perhaps thinking of his hoist up the Tower of Chains. Or his automatic hanging machine. “But many did not. Sometimes I think… I should have done more. But my old partner Majud always told me a man of business stays neutral.” He cleared his throat, shook off the sombre mood, looked to the future. “I am planning to lay a rail route up to Valbeck, you know! With a bridge by your friend Master Kort. I expect excellent returns for my investors.”
“You have never disappointed your investors, but I have other business to attend to.”
“Doubtless. The ground is already broken on your grand new orphanage, I hear.” He leaned close to murmur, “And I understand you bought up half the Three Farms for next to nothing. That might yet turn out your best investment of all.”
Savine would not have been surprised if it turned out one of the best in history, especially since she’d bought up half the Arches, too. “For the sake of the tenants, you understand. Most of them are paying less than half rent.” For the time being, at least…
“I always knew you had a generous heart.”
“I remember you saying something of the sort. I may have a gift for you, in fact.”
Curnsbick peered at her over h
is eye-lenses. “Why do I imagine you will want something in return?”
“Because you know my generous heart pumps blood to a calculating brain. It is a chair.”
“I am not quite ready for retirement, Your Highness.”
“No fear of that. The chair is a decidedly uncomfortable one.” Her turn to murmur, shielding her mouth with her fan. “On the Closed Council.”
He tried to stay calm, but she noted the eager twitch of his fingers. “Who else have you asked?”
“You are my first choice, of course.”
“Then you would want to approach me with some friends already in place.”
Savine smiled. “Perhaps you know me too well. I have approached Vallimir and Kort.”
“And they said yes?”
“Can you imagine either of them refusing me before I was Mother of the King? Now?” She glanced across the foyer stuffed with breathless sycophants desperately trying to catch her eye and laughed. “Please.”
Curnsbick glanced towards her heavy-handed bodyguard, lowering his voice. “And… your husband has given his permission?”
Savine did not like the word “permission.” It galled her that people might think she had to ask for it. “He will not object.”
“Are you sure? I hear the easy manners of the Young Lion are not very much in evidence lately. He is proving to be far from agreeable when it comes to sharing power, and as vengeful as Glustrod at any hint of a slight—”
“Let me worry about my husband.”
Curnsbick looked less than convinced. He looked, in fact, rather scared. “Can I refuse?”
“Of course. But I know you too well, and you could never pass up the chance to shape the future. I will let you know the terms.” And, favouring him with a touch of her fan, she drifted on. Her eye had been caught by someone loitering near the wall.
Selest dan Heugen was, for once, not trying to make an exhibit of herself. In her efforts to fade into the background, indeed, she had done everything short of wear a dress that matched the wallpaper. But Savine was not about to let her slip away so easily.
“Selest!” she called. “I hope you aren’t trying to avoid me.”
Her curtsy had something of the cornered animal about it as Savine bore down with her phalanx of guards. “Only… because I’m afraid to face you,” she said, which was honest, at least. “Your Highness, I have to apologise—”
“It might be a good idea.”
“I… always liked to think of myself as fearless.” Selest looked down
at the floor as though she was blinking back tears. “But the truth is…
faced with real danger… I was an utter coward. It is… a hard thing to learn about oneself.”
“If the Great Change taught us anything, it is that the vast majority of us are cowards the vast majority of the time.”
“Not you.”
Savine smiled. Is there anything finer than seeing an enemy humbled? “I have my moments. But we are all offered a new beginning, now. A chance to make ourselves afresh. You may not have covered yourself in glory in the Court of the People, but you emerged alive. You are ruthless, ambitious, clever and persistent. Qualities I could make use of, if you were willing to serve His August Majesty.”
Selest swallowed. “I am eager to serve him, of course.” She looked up nervously from under her lashes. “Or Your Highness.” Which was getting closer to it. “Only… tell me how.”
Probably she feared she would be sent as emissary to distant Thond or put into service in the palace as a carpet. Savine was somewhat tempted. But one must work with the tools one has, as her father had once been fond of saying.
She made Selest’s distress last just a little longer, then tossed it out as if it was nothing to remark upon. “On the Closed Council.”
“But I…” Selest looked as if a fan’s waft could have knocked her over. “Women, surely, are not permitted—”
“I was very careful over the language in the Grand Declaration. The gender of the Closed Council’s members was nowhere specified. We did not get where we are by having too much respect for tradition, did we? I mean to be there, I promise you.”
“Lady Savine… I hardly know what to say.”
“Say nothing, then.” Savine leaned close. “And let your loyalty speak for you.”
“Loyalty is so important, isn’t it?” Savine frowned around to find that stooge of the First of the Magi, Yoru Sulfur, much closer to her than she would have liked.
“Your Highness,” he said, with a stiff little bow. “I have been seeking an audience.”
Savine gestured to the eager crowd pressing in around them, though Zuri seemed to have faded into the background. “I see who I wish to, Master Sulfur. For the rest, no amount of seeking will make the slightest difference.”
She flicked out her fan to bring the conversation to a close, but Sulfur did not take the hint. “Do you imagine that you have won?” he asked.
She smiled at the foyer full of smiles, queen in all but name. “It looks rather like it.”
“Looks can lie.”
“Almost as proficiently as magi.”
He did not like that at all, different-coloured eyes angrily narrowed. “My master will be satisfied,” he said, an edge of menace on his voice. “There is no hiding from him.”
“Who’s hiding?” asked Savine, lifting her chin. “The Breakers did their worst in Valbeck, and here I am. The cannons did their worst at Stoffenbeck, and here I am. Judge did her worst on the Tower of Chains, and even so, here I am. You tried your very best to destroy me, too, as I recall, blabbing my ugliest secrets around town, and it only made me more powerful.”
“Your power is borrowed.” He pronounced each word with furious care. “And as any banker will tell you, what is borrowed must be repaid. With interest.”
As he leaned forwards to hiss the last word, one of Savine’s bodyguards stepped smoothly in front of him. “Is this man bothering you, Your Highness?”
“Not really,” said Savine. “But throw him out anyway.”
Two guards seized Sulfur under the arms and marched him towards the door, his feet scarcely brushing the ground. The constant presence of armed men can be a little harsh on the nerves, but they certainly have their uses.
“You will hear from us!” he called as he was dragged through the crowd. “My master will be satisfied!”
“Your master wants something from me?” Savine turned away with a snort. “He can get in line.” And the mocking laughter of the crowd followed the magus to the door.
Savine had not made society a snake pit. She had simply determined to slither to the top of it.
Who could deny that she had?
Not for the Prizes
The vast banners of Angland and the Union covered the fronts of the warehouses entirely, billowing faintly with the sea breeze. The ranks of dark-uniformed soldiers stood to stiff attention. The buglers blew an awkward fanfare. The threadbare crowd gave scattered cheers as Lady Finree stepped to the quay, a few dozen seasick worthies of Angland in her wake.
Leo limped forward, his one working arm out to embrace her. “Mother!”
You couldn’t have said he was used to his wounds. The pain, the shame, the seething frustration. But they’d become familiar. Routine. Seeing the ill-disguised horror on his mother’s face was like looking at himself in the mirror, mutilated, for the first time.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said. “Curnsbick made the leg for me. So good I’m thinking of having him replace the other one! And I’m getting some movement back in the arm now, too.” He waved his left elbow about as much as he could, trying not to let the pain show and hoping his limp hand didn’t flop from his jacket.
“Leo.” She brushed a speck of fluff from his uniform, and held him tight, very clearly trying to fight back tears. “I thought I might never see you again.” And she pressed her head against his chest. Her hair had much more grey in it than the last time he saw her. By the dead, could it really b
e less than a year ago?
“I’m… glad you were wrong.” He could’ve stayed there all day, holding her. But people were watching. A sentimental attachment to his mother might look well. A desperate need for her support would not. He cleared his throat, and stepped away, and gave her a moment to dab her damp eyes. “Your carriage awaits.”
He did his best to walk smoothly, open the door, help his mother up. But his iron foot slid on the step as he followed and the heel got caught. “Damn it,” he snarled, twisting it, pulling it, getting worse tangled in his frustration.
“Leo, let me—”
“No need!” he snapped, finally heaving himself free and twisting back into his seat, teeth gritted against the pain.
He thumped at the door and the carriage lurched off towards the Agriont. He didn’t like the dismay in his mother’s eyes, so he frowned out of the window at the honour guards riding to either side, harness polished to gleaming mirror-brightness, and wished he was riding with them. He listened to the hooves pounding the cobbles and thought of the charge at Red Hill. The Young Lion, riding to glory.
“I always thought you hated carriages,” said his mother.
“I do, but…” But it hurt him to ride, he was in more pain than he could stand and the thought of more made him sick. “Anything for you. Did you bring more soldiers?”
“Another regiment should arrive tomorrow. I swear there’s hardly a man under thirty left in Ostenhorm.”
“I need every loyal Anglander,” said Leo. “To keep the peace. To keep order. To keep the people… safe.”
His mother looked even more dismayed at that. “I remember what your father used to say… about the founding principles of the Union.” She had always thought Leo’s father was a fool, and he was starting to think she had been right. “You can have too much order, Leo. People need liberty.”
The Wisdom of Crowds Page 49
