Gilded Cage

by Vic James

  Kyneston’s master had hauled Luke from the destroyed ballroom. Dragged him to the library and tied him to a chair. There, Crovan had dug about in Luke’s skull with what had felt like knives, but was actually Skill. Digging for memories that weren’t there. Memories of murdering Chancellor Zelston.

  Luke remembered walking into the East Wing, four champagne bottles on a tray. He remembered the yapping dog; Abi with a clipboard; the Equal girl in the gaping gown. Then . . .

  Nothing until an upraised scarlet hand and what had felt like the end of the world.

  Then Lord Jardine, bloodied and dirtied and incoherent with rage. A body on the floor, that Luke only belatedly recognized as the Chancellor. Accusations he didn’t understand. Terror. Pain. So much of it that he’d passed out.

  But now it was over. He was safe in a soft bed. Luke snuggled beneath the coverlet. The mattress moved under him strangely. Almost rippling. He ducked his head to look.

  It was too dim to see much, but he seemed to be lying in a spill of liquid. It was warm. Had a hot-water bottle burst? He snaked a hand down to check. When he drew it back up, his fingers were red.

  Blood. He was lying in a pool of blood.

  Panicked, he tried to throw back the coverlet to yell for help. Which was when he noticed it wasn’t a coverlet at all. It was a dress. The wide floating skirts of a red dress. Or a dress that had once been some other colour, but was now sopping with blood.

  Luke gasped. It didn’t drag nearly enough air into his lungs. Hot, salty liquid trickled down his throat. Blood. Blood everywhere.

  Then he was pulled up bodily. Pulled up and out.

  A voice roared in his face: ‘Stop it!’

  He was struck so viciously he was amazed his head didn’t snap right off its thin stalk of spine.

  ‘Every five minutes,’ the voice continued, still shouting. ‘He’s doing it every five minutes. Thrashing about and yelling. I’ll kill him if he does it again.’

  ‘Get your hands off my brother!’

  Luke swung back and forth. He was held up by a fist bunched in the front of his shirt, like a doll in the grasp of a resentful child that wants a better toy.

  ‘Let him go, Gavar.’

  A third speaker, level and calm. Who was that? Luke was released and fell heavily back onto the bed.

  A hand touched his temple and lightly thumbed up one eyelid. A blurry, indistinct face loomed in his vision. Was it Abi?

  ‘Luke? Luke, can you hear me?’

  ‘Don’t touch him. What were you thinking of, bringing her here, Jenner?’

  Luke’s other eyelid was pushed up gently, but Abi’s tone was savage.

  ‘He can’t even tell it’s me. What have your father and Crovan done to him?’

  ‘Jenner, you know Father’s orders. Get her out, or I will break your neck then bodily throw her out. Now.’

  ‘Luke, can you hear me?’

  One of Abi’s hands gripped his firmly. The other tipped his face sideways.

  ‘Blink, Luke. Focus. You’ll be tried tomorrow. Lord Jardine has postponed the wedding. Instead, parliament will sit as a court. You’re accused of murdering Chancellor Zelston. I know you didn’t do it, Luke. But I don’t know how we’re going to prove that before tomorrow. Whatever happens, be strong. We’ll work something out.’

  A trial. A court. Murder.

  The words floated through Luke’s head. They seemed very far away. Why wouldn’t Abi let him sleep?

  ‘He can’t even follow what I’m saying,’ he heard Abi say, a sob catching the corner of her voice. ‘You can’t put someone on trial in the state he’s in. It’s a travesty.’

  ‘It’s a foregone conclusion,’ said Gavar Jardine. ‘There were five hundred people in the room when he did it. My mother was standing right next to him. You both need to go now. And Jenner – think carefully about what you’re doing. We won’t be able to keep her family here after this. She and her parents will be gone by the time he is.’

  What was any of this to do with him, Luke thought? He was in a bed – a huge, sumptuous bed. Not a cell, or a kennel. So they’d worked out he hadn’t done it.

  Someone had even tucked him in under a soft, crimson coverlet. And it was so warm.

  Luke closed his eyes. And slept.

  When he woke, everything was muted. The window was a light grey rectangle on a dark grey wall. A faint seam of light stitched the curtains together and fell across the floor. Luke’s head turned to follow it.

  On the far side of the room the light traced the outline of an armchair. In which someone sat watching him.

  ‘Good morning, Luke,’ the watcher said, before pausing. ‘Though it’s not quite morning, and if I’m honest, I doubt it’s going to be good.’

  Luke knew that voice. Was he going to get a visit from all of them – all the Jardines? Some to beat him up; some to sit by his bed. Maybe Lady Thalia would be up soon with his breakfast on a little silver tray with a tiny cup of tea.

  ‘I thought you might appreciate the rest while you can get it,’ said Silyen Jardine, lowering himself casually onto the edge of the mattress. ‘Who knows what kind of a house Crovan keeps up at Eilean Dòchais, but I doubt he torments the Condemned with eight hours of undisturbed sleep.’

  ‘Crovan?’

  And it all came flooding back. The cruel Scottish Equal and Lord Jardine digging in his head. Abi’s voice in the night. Parliament. A trial.

  As the confusion of his interrogation and the dark hours that followed it lifted, Luke saw with horrifying clarity what would happen next. He would be tried and Condemned for a crime he couldn’t remember.

  ‘I’m curious,’ said Silyen Jardine, ‘about who Silenced you. Because I’d wager that whoever it was could tell us a few things. For example, why you pureed the Chancellor in the middle of Mummy’s ballroom.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Luke insisted, desperate to make at least one of the Equals understand.

  ‘Oh Luke, of course you did. But who hid your memory of doing it, and why? Who was the real target: Zelston, or my father? There are other questions, too, like did you agree to it, or did they compel you? But I’m afraid no one’s terribly interested in a detail like that.’

  ‘That’s not a detail,’ said Luke. ‘That’s the only thing that matters. I’ve no memory of . . . of what everyone’s saying I did. There’s just a gap there. A black hole where my memories should be. Someone used Skill on me. That proves I was made to do it.’

  Silyen Jardine actually tutted. ‘It proves nothing of the sort. They could have asked you and you said “yes”. Then the Silence would be just a convenient way of concealing both your complicity and your co-conspirator’s role.’

  ‘Who in their right mind would agree to assassinate the Chancellor with the whole of parliament looking on?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. Maybe a hot-headed teenager, angry at the system that’s torn him from his family? A boy who’s been radicalized in a slavetown that’s been in upheaval for months? No, that doesn’t sound very plausible at all.’

  That was when the full extent of how he’d been used sank in. He was like a gun wiped clean of fingerprints. He was merely the murder weapon – but would be punished as the murderer.

  ‘You said you wanted to know who Silenced me. Can you do that? Can you lift it?’

  ‘The only person who can lift a Silence is the person who laid it, Luke, as your sister Abigail could tell you – no, no, it was nothing, don’t fuss.’ Luke’s fists had clenched furiously at the thought of his sister being interfered with by this freak. ‘But I do have a little trick that’s all my own. I can discover who did it. And sometimes, knowing who wants a secret kept is as good as knowing the secret itself.’

  ‘Do it.’ Luke got to his feet, stood there, arms at his side, like he was daring Silyen Jardine to hit him. ‘I don’t care how much it hurts. After what your father and his friend did to me . . . I can take it.’

  ‘Aren’t you brave?’ Silyen Jardine said indulgently. �
�That’s just as well, considering.’

  But it didn’t hurt at all. Just that queasy combination of intimacy and insubstantiality. Luke’s very self was soft sand running through Silyen Jardine’s fingers. For a moment, he felt as though he didn’t have a body at all. Then it dawned on him that he didn’t need one.

  A wave of nausea brought him back to himself again, and he was standing in front of Silyen Jardine just as the sun was breaking through the curtains.

  ‘Well, that was unexpected.’ The Equal smiled. ‘I love it when people aren’t who they seem. It makes life so much more exciting, don’t you think?’

  ‘Tell me,’ Luke demanded.

  ‘Tell you? No, I’m not going to tell anyone. Secrets are like nasty vases or vintage cars, or all the other trash people like my mother and father collect. The rarer they are, the more valuable they are. I think I can get a good price for this one.’

  ‘You can’t! I’ll be Condemned. You’ve helped Dog, and he deserved his punishment. I don’t deserve this, so why won’t you help me?’

  ‘Oh Luke, it’s nothing to do with deserving, surely you can see that? Dog is useful to me free, and you will be useful to me where you’re going. And what I’ve just discovered will be useful, too. It’s been a good night’s work, even if I say so myself. And I haven’t even had my coffee yet.’

  As Silyen Jardine turned away, Luke lashed out. But his fist never connected with a single unkempt hair on the Young Master’s head. Instead he was slammed backwards through the air as if struck by a collapsing gantry.

  Luke crumpled against the wall, dazed by the impact and by his own fury and despair. A pair of scuffed riding boots walked slowly into view, then stopped. A moment later, black eyes met his as Silyen Jardine crouched down.

  ‘Honestly, Luke,’ the Equal said. ‘Remember the binding? I need you to do better than that where you’re going. Much better. Because I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long way.’

  The back of Luke’s neck prickled. He shouldn’t be misled by Silyen’s bizarrely casual manner. This wasn’t – and never would be – a fair fight.

  The door opened.

  ‘Have you learned anything, Silyen?’ barked Lord Jardine. ‘Who moves against me?’

  The Young Master straightened and turned, looking his father full in the face. And he must have a backbone of steel thought Luke, even as he seethed with hatred, to be able to lie so easily to this man.

  ‘Nothing of use to you, Father.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll speak no more of this. Whoever my enemy is, we don’t want to alert them to our suspicions. Let’s get this done quickly then Crovan can apply himself to discovering what we need to know. Gavar, bring the boy.’

  When he was led into the East Wing, Luke wondered if he was losing his mind. Or perhaps he’d been unconscious or overwhelmed by Skill for days – or even weeks. Because he had last seen the vast structure exploding into thousands of deadly fragments.

  Yet here it was, no more than twelve hours later, intact and immaculate. Outside was a bright, light-rinsed morning. High cloud was casting strange shadows on the expanse of glittering glass. The whole thing reeked of unnatural power.

  Or perhaps that flowed from the people assembled here. The sight of them took Luke’s breath away. Nearly four hundred Equals sat in eight ranked tiers, each lord or lady with their heir beside them. There were two empty places in the centre of the front row, presumably for the Jardines. Their absence gave Luke a clear view to the seats directly behind. Sitting there was a stunning blonde woman who looked strangely familiar, and a gargantuan man with a mane of ivory hair, who must be her father.

  Where had he seen her before? Luke racked his brains before realizing that she was Bouda Matravers, Heir Gavar’s bride-to-be. Her beautiful face was taut and angry – and no wonder, she’d been robbed of a wedding. He let his eyes roam back and forth across the first few tiers of seats. He saw curiosity in some faces, but sympathy in none. He stopped looking after that. There was no point.

  Lord Jardine sat in the Chancellor’s Chair. Luke stood to one side, hands clasped, head down, heart racing. Behind him, Gavar Jardine stood ready in case Luke tried to bolt.

  He wouldn’t be running. He knew exactly how Heir Gavar could stop him, and besides, where was there to run to?

  Should he tell them that Silyen Jardine knew – or claimed to know – the identity of whoever had Silenced him? But Silyen had already denied that knowledge to his father, and would simply do so again. It would set the Jardine father and son against each other, but how would that benefit Luke?

  He didn’t have enough time to figure it all out. Then the cupola bell sang out a high, bright nine, and he no longer had any time at all.

  Lord Jardine began speaking, and Luke realized that he wasn’t here for a trial. Only a sentence.

  ‘My own initial questioning has found no evidence of Skillful influence,’ the lord of Kyneston said, his leonine head turning to survey the assembled Equals. ‘Neither has examination by my fellow member of the Justice Council, Arailt Crovan. It seems likely that the boy is a lone-wolf attacker, radicalized by his time in Millmoor slavetown, incited by associates there as yet unknown.’

  Luke’s heart roiled within him. Associates in Millmoor. They would rip apart his mind and find everything about Jackson, Renie and the club.

  His choices became clearer. Delaying tactics here at Kyneston would simply result in further Skillful interrogation by Jardine or Crovan, which would inevitably betray his friends.

  If the games he’d played in Millmoor had taught him one thing, it was that action created unpredictability and opportunity. Being handed to Crovan would mean a long journey to Scotland. That would offer opportunities for escape – assuming the man didn’t lead him out of Kyneston on a leash.

  ‘The boy’s guilt is beyond doubt. Almost all of us were present at his heinous murder of our former Chancellor. Many of us were unfortunate enough to witness it with our own eyes. I therefore move that the sentence of Condemnation to slavelife be passed immediately. The criminal will then be consigned to Arailt Crovan for reformation.’

  Lord Jardine surveyed the chamber. Luke couldn’t imagine anyone being insane enough to raise their voice. There was no friend for him here, in this Parliament of Equals.

  But someone spoke.

  ‘He’s innocent. You must let him go.’

  At the very back, someone stood up. The voice – and the face – were impossibly familiar.

  ‘Heir Meilyr?’ Lord Jardine was frowning in a way that boded no good for the speaker. ‘You claim this boy is innocent?’

  ‘I do.’

  The man – the Equal, Heir Something-or-other – was descending from the high tier in which he had been seated. And Luke wanted to shout at him to shut up, to sit down. To stop saying what he was saying, because this man’s identity was impossible and too awful to be true.

  He wasn’t an Equal. He was Luke’s mentor and friend, Doc Jackson.

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Because I know him. For the last year I have been living in Millmoor slavetown working as a doctor. I met this boy when he was brought to me as a patient, following a brutal beating by Security. Millmoor’s rebellious actions over the past months have been my doing. My attempt to show all Equals the unjust conditions forced upon the common people – by us.’

  Luke couldn’t believe it. He cringed away from this person who wore Jackson’s face and spoke with Jackson’s voice, but who was an Equal.

  ‘Your attempt has failed.’ Lord Jardine’s voice was ice. ‘Was this boy your last throw of the dice? You told him to commit this final atrocity, or he did it of his own accord under your influence – there is little difference.’

  Lord Jardine’s words crawled into Luke’s ears. Was this what it had all been about – the Doc’s resolve that Luke should come to Kyneston? Was this why he had been recruited for the club? A walking weapon, ready for Jackson – this Equal – to use.

&nbs
p; To use – and then Silence. Was it this man whose Skill Silyen Jardine had detected? The person who wasn’t who they seemed?

  But that wasn’t the story the Doc was telling.

  ‘Luke had no part in Zelston’s murder. I can tell you exactly what he did in Millmoor: acts of kindness and deeds of bravery. There is no need for you, or that man’ – Jackson turned and pointed to Crovan – ‘to rip up his mind for useless knowledge. The Chancellor’s death must have been a personal grudge; Luke the innocent tool used by the murderer. It could have been anyone here in this chamber. Even you, my Lord, who have gained most by Zelston’s death.’

  The East Wing of Kyneston exploded for a second time in twelve hours, though only with shock this time. The uproar of Equals talking and yelling was deafening.

  In the back row, an older woman was on her feet frantically calling out, ‘Meilyr, no! No!’

  Gavar was staring at the Doc like he was seeing him for the first time.

  ‘The detention centre,’ Gavar said. ‘The escape. I knew it was Skill. That was you.’

  But Jackson was looking only at Luke.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you who I was,’ he said, urgent and low. ‘And I’m so sorry this has happened. We’ll make it right, just as we did for Oz. Trust me.’

  The doc’s face was as full of passionate sincerity as it had ever been. But how could Luke believe him now? How could you trust someone you’d never really known?

  ‘Enough!’

  Lord Jardine’s voice had the same effect as his heir’s Skill in the MADhouse square that day, just minus the agony and the puking. The parliamentarians were instantly subdued.

  ‘At the conclusion of yesterday’s session, you, my Equals, voted to remove Chancellor Zelston from office. A decision that, incidentally, means I have no possible motive – despite Heir Meilyr’s insinuations – to wish the man dead.

  ‘That vote also approved an emergency administration, vested in me. I remind you that emergency powers include the ability to make executive decisions on law and order. The ability to move swiftly to put down enemies of the state.

  ‘In coming here today to pass sentence on one such enemy, we have uncovered another hiding in our midst. One who has freely confessed – should I say, boasted – of sowing sedition, violence and open revolt against our Equal authority.’