The Midnight Charter

by David Whitley

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE DANCE

  ‘Mr Mark, you look spectacular!’

  Mark was not quite so sure. His new dress coat, so covered in golden thread that it almost shone, certainly caught the eye. But it had been measured for him months before and it was already too short, not to mention hot on this heavy summer’s evening, on top of the starched shirt and embroidered waistcoat. He tugged in vain at the scarlet cravat round his neck that seemed determined to strangle him. The tricorne hat perched neatly enough on the top of his head, but he wasn’t looking forward to adjusting it all evening as it slipped down. He was glad now that he had kept his hair short – the fashion for men was to wear it long and tie it back with dark ribbon, as Laud did on formal occasions – but he didn’t want it lashing his eyes. The mask, at least, was a simple, white eye-mask – he had been worried that he would need to balance a mass of sequins and feathers on his nose until midnight. Still, he thought, looking at himself in the proffered mirror, he certainly couldn’t be mistaken for just anyone.

  Gloria swam into view, smoothing down tiny creases and flicking invisible fluff from his sleeves. Ever since Mark had hired her and her brother as his publicists, soon after his rise, she seemed to have adopted him. Laud had mentioned that she had cared for him and their sister, Benedicta, when they were younger, and Mark had certainly never felt more like a child than when Gloria was flitting around him. She seemed more fidgety than ever tonight, although it would have been hard for most people to notice. It was only because he had been around her for months now that he could see the tell-tale signs: the anxious tugging at the sleeves of her second-hand dress, the nervous flicker of the eyes.

  ‘Have the guests arrived, Gloria?’ Mark asked, keeping all apprehension out of his voice. He had become better at that lately. He had needed to.

  ‘Many of them, Mr Mark,’ Gloria said, peering out through a gap in the canvas of the marquee. ‘But not the most important ones yet. Remember, Laud suggested…’

  ‘Not to make an entrance until I can be seen by the best people, yes, Gloria, I remember.’ Mark twisted a starfish-shaped button on his sleeve. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Gloria shifted to one side, and Mark put his eye to the gap.

  Through it, crouching in the private marquee, he looked out on to a part of Agora that still made him gasp whenever he saw it. Before him, the gardens of the Leo District stretched out: rows of ornamental trees and flowers, elaborate trellises and elegant sculpture. Beyond, beneath the grey mass of the city walls, he could see the agricultural fields of the neighbouring Cancer District where small fields of wheat and corn, ripening in the late summer heat, rippled in the breeze. The Leo District was called the soul of Agora, and Mark had hired its most beautiful garden, the very centre of the district, to hold his ball.

  It had not been cheap. Mark still remembered wincing as he sealed the contract with the garden’s keeper, but this was too good an opportunity to ignore. The chance to hold a ball in the Leo gardens, and in the month of Leo too – the symbolism alone oozed with success. As Snutworth had said, it was an investment worth making. A better investment than this jacket, Mark thought, as he felt the sleeves begin to creep up his arms again. His tailors were some of the best in the city, but they were not used to making clothes for their customers to grow into.

  In the distance, he heard the voice of Laud, his customary tone of cynicism masked in grand, respectful formality, announcing the guests. It had been particularly difficult to hire both Gloria and Laud for the evening. They spent most of their time nowadays working for the Almshouse. Mark’s heart sank as this thought reminded him, yet again, that another month had passed without him being able to visit Lily. Despite dozens of plans to meet up, they had not seen each other since Mark had begun his rise, nearly a year ago. There was just so much to do, he barely had time to write their weekly letters. Although, to be fair to himself, she sounded even busier and probably wouldn’t have had the time to see him. Mark was just wondering if she had received his last letter, along with the invitation folded inside it, when Laud’s latest announcement caught his attention.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I announce the great Signor and Signora Sozinho, the angels of golden song, to bless our revels this evening.’

  Gloria smothered a laugh.

  ‘Laud’s on good form tonight,’ she said, adding mischievously, ‘I made a bet with Ben that he would get through more than fifty “greats” and thirty “goldens” before the end of the evening…’

  Through the gap, the singers came into view and Mark watched them mingle with the other guests. Masked and bewigged, covered in finery of every hue, the cream of Agora drifted around the garden in packs, stopping every now and then to take something from a silver platter. The first time he had been to one of these gatherings, Mark had wondered whether the really successful ever ate anything more than these tiny pieces of food. As one group of ladies passed the marquee, he recoiled from the power of their perfumes, trying to prevent anyone from hearing him cough.

  ‘Sir…’ Gloria began nervously. ‘I think I should go and see to the flowers, and the band will need to be briefed as to when to start the music. So if you don’t need me…’

  ‘Of course, Gloria,’ Mark said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Here, have a good time.’

  He slipped a tiny glass bottle into her hands, Miss Devine’s finest. Her eyes lit up.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mark. Always so considerate.’

  Discreetly, she retired to the far corner of the marquee, where Mark saw her pulling out the stopper and breathing in. When she returned, her eyes were shining.

  ‘I just know this will be the best ball that Agora has ever seen, Mr Mark!’ she enthused, grabbing his hands. ‘Not even the skies can limit you! Not even the skies…’

  With that, she pirouetted through the canvas flap and disappeared into the evening. Mark frowned, pacing nervously. He had to time this just right. He’d put a lot of his property into making the evening a success. He’d hosted a couple of dances before, of course, but nothing on this scale. If this worked out, Snutworth assured him, his influence would rise like never before – not just with his ‘astrology’ but with all of the newer businesses. It had been Snutworth’s idea to expand his interests beyond the stars, and success had followed success. By now, Mark had barely any idea of how many things he dealt in one way or another. But so much still rested on reputation – he couldn’t afford to make a fool of himself.

  He heard the sound of Laud clearing his throat and hurried back to the gap in the canvas.

  ‘Will you welcome, please, Matron Angelina of the Future Workforce Trust.’

  Mark grimaced. He could hear the edge in Laud’s voice this time, although hopefully no one else would. Ever since he had sat by, open-mouthed, while Laud enthusiastically advertised a group of landlords, the very same ones who had nearly evicted him from his own house in payment for his rent, Mark had come to recognize when Laud was being sincere. It was usually when he was being scathing, and always behind closed doors. Mark was quite sure that, since his rise, Laud had thought up a few things to call him behind his back. Gloria said that this was just his way, a reaction to the constant stream of praise he had to come up with all day for his clients. But Count Stelli and Mr Prendergast had been right about one thing – Laud was the best to be found. So when Mark could tell that he didn’t like the person he was announcing, it signalled trouble.

  Mark resumed his nervous pacing back and forth, pulling down his sleeves. He should be out there, directing the party. At the last one, just a couple of weeks ago, he had really been on form. It had helped that Snutworth kept the older businessmen talking while Gloria directed the right people his way, but it wasn’t as if everyone else didn’t do it.

  ‘Snutworth… what are you doing out there?’ Mark muttered. He was twisting his fingers almost as badly as Gloria now.

  Then a murmur passed through the crowd outside and he heard Laud,
his voice oozing respect, call for silence.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honour and privilege this evening to introduce Agora’s most respected lawyer. A man of judgement, honour and unimpeachable integrity… please welcome our Lord Chief Justice, Lord Ruthven.’

  Mark breathed a sigh of relief. Now his prize guest had arrived, he could make his own entrance. There had been rumours all day that Lord Ruthven wouldn’t be coming. After all, the only reason half Mark’s guests had come was to meet the man who had the ear of the Director. Ever since Mark had inadvertently helped him to defeat Count Stelli, it was rumoured that his political power had increased, and few doubted that to have him as a guest was a major achievement.

  Nervously, Mark straightened his mask, plastered on a smile and, trying to look ten years older than he was, and twenty more than he felt, strode out of the marquee.

  ‘Lord Ruthven,’ he said, ‘how good of you to come to my gathering.’ He bowed slightly, just enough to show deference without being humbled. He’d practised that movement for hours back at the tower, trying to get the inclination just right.

  Lord Ruthven, resplendent in his robes of state and a sparkling mask that depicted the sun emerging from behind the moon, acknowledged the bow. Then, to Mark’s delight, he returned it, and in everyone’s sight.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Mark,’ Lord Ruthven replied warmly, ‘the pleasure is mine.’

  Mark straightened up. Was it time to press for a little more? To be seen starting a conversation? He cast a glance over to Lord Ruthven’s right. Sure enough, Snutworth was there, unmasked, as was appropriate to a servant. He smiled, but gave a fractional shake of the head. Mark understood: now was not the time.

  ‘I hope to speak to you later, My Lord,’ Mark said, rushing a little with relief. ‘But for now –’ he turned to nod to Laud – ‘let the dancing begin.’

  Mark waited until Lord Ruthven’s party had drifted away, towards the sound of stringed instruments being tuned, before sidling over to Snutworth.

  ‘Enough?’ he said.

  Snutworth beamed.

  ‘Perfect, sir. Naturally our work is far from over, but as an opening gambit… exquisite.’

  Mark relaxed, his formal poise dropped for a few blissful moments. He’d been doing this for months now and knew how to act among the wealthy – deferential, with just a hint that there might be more to him than met the eye. He’d put up with those who talked at him as if he had been in business for years, and learned not to recoil when some of them, usually the older women, chose to adopt him for the evening as if he were a brat of seven summers. He had to be all things to all people, but Lord Ruthven was the most important and he did not want to waste this opportunity to be seen in his company.

  ‘Can I stay out of it for a moment?’ Mark asked. ‘I don’t much fancy mingling just yet. Those old ladies over there look like cheek-pinchers to me…’

  Snutworth laughed.

  ‘I think you may leave it to Mr Laudate and Miss Gloria to direct the proceedings for a while. That is their field of expertise.’

  Mark looked over to where Laud was instructing the conductor of the string quartet, while bowing graciously to the guests who passed. Lord Ruthven’s group received an extravagant sweep of the hat and a bow so low that Laud’s nose nearly touched the floor.

  ‘Isn’t he going over the top?’ Mark muttered, but Snutworth shook his head sagely.

  ‘Do not assume that Lord Ruthven believes him any more than Mr Laudate means it. It is a game we must all play.’

  One of the servants came past with a silver platter. Mark didn’t feel hungry, but Snutworth plucked off a couple of savouries and popped them into his mouth, crunching discreetly. Mark was too preoccupied with the crowd that had gathered around Lord Ruthven to even notice.

  ‘Who are those people?’ he said warily. ‘Laud didn’t announce them.’

  ‘I believe they may be members of the Libran Society, sir,’ Snutworth ventured. ‘They have a tendency to turn up unannounced, particularly when Lord Ruthven makes an appearance.’

  ‘Again?’ Mark said. ‘That’s the second time this month they’ve appeared. I don’t like it.’

  ‘They appear to be harmless, sir. A little secretive perhaps…’

  ‘Secretive!’ Mark muttered. ‘No one seems to know anything about them! Even the new head of the Astrologers’ Guild goes quiet when I ask. Don’t you remember Count Stelli talking about them? Telling Prendergast they were responsible for dreadful crimes –’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Snutworth said, cutting him off with unusual sharpness, ‘I would not have thought that you, of all people, would trust the words of the vanished Count.’

  Mark shivered. Thinking about the Count still made him uneasy. It wasn’t that he was a threat. Not having been found, he had been officially declared dead months ago. He would have no right to reclaim his property now. It was more that, despite everything, Mark could not escape a lingering sense of guilt. However justified he may have been, he had still indirectly sent an old man fleeing from his only home.

  ‘I know that,’ he continued awkwardly, ‘but those Librans still make me uneasy…’

  ‘The best guess of my associates,’ Snutworth said, ‘is that they are dealers in secrets. That would certainly explain their expertise in concealing their own. Then again, a surprising number of known members are grain merchants and there can hardly be too many wheat-based conspiracies…’

  ‘Look, Snutworth,’ Mark said, lowering his voice. ‘Maybe you should put a mask on so you can get nearer to him, see if you can overhear anything.’

  ‘Mr Mark,’ Snutworth said, raising an eyebrow, ‘far be it from me to correct you, but masks here are nothing to do with hiding one’s identity. Trust me, I shall be far more invisible without one.’ He smiled. ‘Meanwhile, your guests await you. I think they expect you to lead the dance.’

  In the distance, the band began to play a gavotte.

  Mark winced.

  The dance began.

  It was the same as always. Mark shuffled along to the steps, trying to look poised. There was nothing complicated about the dance itself. It seemed to him to be entirely made up of walking in time and trying not to bump into people, and by now he barely paid attention to his feet. His attention was drawn to faces. To the parade of leering, grinning masks that spiralled around him, amidst the sea of colour, and the muffled words and thoughts that lurked behind. With practised ease he nodded to one, laughed politely at a joke, invited an older lady to dance with a gracious bow. Even so, he often felt like their pet. He was now nearly as tall as the grander businessmen, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being cast in the role of the jester, the mascot, the little boy playing at business.

  Still, let them think it, he mused, as he took the hands of a plump, elderly woman whose fortune lay in flowers and who liberally displayed her wares in her wig. He glanced across the garden. Over by the marquee he saw a coterie of old astrologers picking at his food. He continued to receive twice the number of requests for personal readings that any of them did and, unlike Count Stelli, he was only too pleased to oblige. It was the source of all his success, all his power.

  When he thought about it now, it seemed so obvious, so simple, but it had taken Snutworth to explain it to him at first. He had shown Mark how the wealthy businesses lived in constant fear of uncertainty, of shifts in the never-ending market. That was the danger of contracts – no matter how valuable you thought your wares, they were never worth any more or less than what you were willing, or able, to trade them for. One moment a merchant could be on top of the world, and then a single dissatisfied customer, or smear on his reputation, could make his precious wares fall from grace, changing hands for a pittance. In an attempt to protect their friends from misfortune the wealthy formed guilds and business consortia, but everyone knew, no matter how powerful they were, that tomorrow could bring disaster.

  That was where Mark came in. People wanted security
, they wanted to be able to predict what the future would hold, and trade only with those on whom fortune would smile. And if the stars happened to point customers in their direction, lightly veiled in mystical language of course, they were usually very grateful. The kind of gratitude that had to be kept in a vault.

  At first, Mark had relied on Snutworth’s guidance to suggest whom to support, but he had soon learned to read the web of alliances that held the city together. It was no different from this dance – bowing to some, passing by others and being careful not to tread on the toes of anyone who could cause him harm. When he had begun, Mark had felt guilty about making his living from elaborate, mystical lies. He found himself unable to sleep at night, fearful that the stars would turn against him for twisting their prophecies and making them say whatever he wanted. But, as the grand deception met only with success, Mark found himself less and less concerned about the way he lived. Either the stars approved of him, or they truly were nothing more than specks of light in the sky. As Snutworth often said, everyone in Agora made their way by seeming more powerful and important than they were. Anyone who did not would be trampled into the dust, and Mark was not about to let that happen to him. He had escaped from the gutter. He was never going back.

  As Mark changed partners, he caught a glimpse of Snutworth, in quiet conversation with a representative from the Tanners’ Guild. Mark smiled. By tomorrow, he knew that the arrangements would have been made, and some of his surplus wealth would have been traded for an advisory seat on the guild. Another position of influence, another group of merchants who would listen to him. He had been in business for less than a year, and already he would never have been able to keep track of all of his dealings on his own. Snutworth had proved himself invaluable a thousand times over – he had devoted his every waking moment to Mark’s success.

  Of course the older merchants all pretended that Mark was little more than an amusing mascot for their guilds, the latest bright spark who would soon fade. No one liked to admit how far this thirteen-year-old from the slums had come, or how much power he held. But Mark knew better. Shifting his gaze, he saw the furniture-maker, one of the best, who had decked out the tower in its new finery, particularly pleased to help after Mark had joined his consortium. All around him, weaving through the dance, he recognized the insignia of merchants dealing in meat or fish or gold and jewels. Half of them were already woven into his own business interests, the other half only waited on tonight to sign him up. Who cared if the whole city thought him their monkey? How many monkeys could afford a party like this?