I had never been to Faustina in my whole life. I had only ever seen pictures of it and, of course, heard my stepmother’s endless stories of how much more elegant and grand and wonderful Faustina was compared to Ashberg. I’d always shut my ears to her nonsense but now that I was here in the midst of the great city, it was hard not to be impressed. Even Central Station was enough to take one’s breath away; with its enormous, echoing marble hall; its soaring, glittering glass-domed roof and gilt fretwork; its hordes of people and rows of massive trains coming in from all parts of the empire and abroad.
But that was nothing compared to the wide boulevards lined with grand government buildings, charming mansions and beautiful shops, including a stately department store so big that it was like a hundred Ashberg shops put together. There were a good many parks and gardens, too, much more showy and grand than those of Ashberg. It was only when I came through the largest of these parks and emerged into a sweeping avenue and saw the golden gates of the Imperial Palace that I was really struck dumb.
For there, behind the golden grilles, behind the sentries in their boxes, was my target: a vast sprawling building, beside which Ashberg Castle looked like a mere country cottage. Built from massive blocks of white stone, it boasted marble pillars in reds and greys and hundreds of decorated windows, while all around it stretched acres of gravelled paths and formal gardens with fountains and statues.
There were knots of tourists gawking through the closed gates and I crossed the road to go and gawk with them and eavesdrop on their conversations. They were Faustinians from the countryside by the sound of them. All of us in the empire learn Faustinian as schoolchildren – our own languages are only spoken at home – and though their country accent wasn’t quite what I was used to, I easily understood everything they said.
One man said, ‘Look, the flag’s flying. They’re in.’
‘And the Crown Prince,’ replied his friend, ‘is obviously back from Ashberg – look, there’s his standard up there.’
There on the roof, fluttering in the breeze, were the imperial standard and Prince Leopold’s flag that incorporated the arms of Ashberg.
The first tourist mused, ‘I wonder why he is back so soon? Maybe Ashberg wasn’t to his liking.’
I pricked my ears up at that, but all his friend said was, ‘I heard a rumour that his father the Emperor had been taken very ill so he had to return. But there’s been nothing in the papers about it, so I don’t know how true that is.’
Not true at all, I thought. It was weird to be so close to the place I’d seen in Thalia’s book and my heart beat fast at the thought that very soon I must go through those gates and carry out my task. And to do that I’d have to use my wits. There was no way I could get in through those gates as an ordinary person. And I could not bust my way in; the unmoving sentries might look like giant toys in their plumed hats, red uniforms and boxes but I knew that they were very far from harmless and that any would-be intruder would soon find themselves dead. And Thalia had told me that I couldn’t use magic. Somehow I had to contrive to be invited in through those gates as a guest. If the image I’d seen in The Book of Thalia reflected the future faithfully, I would have to be every inch the fine lady.
I left the palace and went back towards the busy centre of town. There was so much traffic, both wheeled and on horseback, and the streets were so wide that it seemed like you’d be risking your life just to cross the road. And it was so noisy! Chatter and church bells and street sellers’ shouts combined with the clank of machines and the rumble and clatter of vehicles, creating a cacophony that set my ears ringing. Of course, we had those noises in Ashberg too, but nowhere near this level. There were so many smells, too – horrid ones from the stink of drains to the smog of coal fires; and good ones, like the mouth-watering smells coming from bakeries and roast-meat stalls . . .
I had no money, for I’d left the few coins we had with the others. But I did have the twig. And though Thalia had said its magic could not be used for getting into the palace, she had not forbidden other uses, or why tell me to bring it at all? I put my hand in my pocket. The twig felt warm and tingly. I could feel the bumps of new buds, though there were still no leaves yet. Perhaps it would work anyway, I thought. Keeping my hand in my pocket, I scraped off a bud with a fingernail, and holding it in my closed palm, silently visualised a coin. At once, the bud moved and swelled, changing in texture and weight. I opened my hand and found not one, but several coins – good silver pieces, not copper nothings either.
I couldn’t help feeling pleasure at the sight, not just because I’d now be able to buy a hot pork bun and a cup of coffee and plenty more besides; it was also because, unlike before, I felt in control of the magic. It was a bittersweet pleasure because I knew full well the magic was obeying me for its own reasons – or rather, Dremda’s reasons – for I had to survive in Faustina till I could carry out my mission.
Funny how the human mind can find frivolous things to fasten onto to distract it from dark things! It is shameful to relate but I confess that as I sat in the bakery swilling the hot fragrant coffee and munching the delicious pork bun, I began to feel a little excited at the prospect of what I might do with the magic twig. It would only last for a short while, probably no more than a few days, as Thalia had said there was very little time. But while I had it, before I had to face the moment of reckoning, I thought I might as well take pleasure in what I could, for it would stop me from being afraid.
I had to find somewhere to stay and as it would be a good deal easier for a respectable young woman to impress a landlord than a ragged boy, I needed to return to the appurtenances of my gender. But I had to do it discreetly, in stages. I most certainly could not walk into some fine shop and buy good clothes, not to start with anyway. A small, unfashionable shop was called for first, perhaps even a second-hand dealer. There were more than a few of these in Ashberg in the poorer districts, and I assumed it was the same in Faustina.
I walked around for quite a while till I found, in a back-street that was considerably more shabby than the wide boulevards of the town centre, a crammed little shop whose window was filled with the sorts of clothes once-genteel people pawned when they were down on their luck. It was the kind of place where the shopkeepers are so used to stories of hardship that they don’t ask questions at all. I went in and, for three or four silver coins, bought a plain grey woollen dress, a shawl of a slightly darker grey, a simple black bonnet, and a small black velvet handbag with drawstrings. I explained it was all for my sister, who was not very well, to the indifferent shop assistant who wrapped it all up in brown paper.
Now to find a place where I might change without attracting attention. I walked around for a bit before accidentally hitting on a solution: the deserted gatehouse of a quiet graveyard. I could see the caretaker raking leaves on the path some distance away, and hoped he’d be occupied enough to give me time to change.
Scrambling out of the coat and shirt (I had no time to change the trousers), I quickly flung on the dress and shawl and shoved my hair up under the bonnet so that it would look like it was in a bun. I couldn’t do anything right now about the clumsy manlike boots, but the dress would cover them and I hoped no-one would wonder at my odd gait. I just had time to wrap the coat and shirt back in the brown paper when the caretaker turned up and asked me, with a little frown, what I was doing in his gatehouse.
‘I was just looking for you to ask if there was anywhere nearby where I could buy flowers to put on my uncle’s grave,’ I said, smiling sadly at him.
He told me he didn’t sell flowers but that there was an old woman nearby who did. He then asked for my uncle’s name but I pretended not to hear, just thanked him for his help and left, with my parcel under my arm.
I found the right sort of place in a pleasant little district not far from the city markets, an area of little coffee houses, modest restaurants and a great many small hotel
s and boarding houses of all sorts. I chose a place for students because they offered much shorter stays – you could pay day by day there whereas in the other places it was for the week or even the month.
Nobody asked me questions. The owner, a big blowsy woman, hardly even looked up from the novel she was reading. She just took my money and pointed me up the stairs to a tiny attic room. It was cold and dusty with a lumpy, narrow bed and a dressing table with a cracked mirror as the only furniture. But all I cared for was that the door locked with a bolt so I could have my privacy. Sitting on the bed, I unwrapped the parcel and took out the twig from the coat pocket. There were more buds on it now, and one of them had unfurled into a leaf.
Gently, I picked the leaf. I held it in my palm then gently closed my finger over it. If a simple bud had given me a fistful of silver then maybe a leaf would give me the gold I needed for my next transformation. I closed my eyes and visualised a purse of gold, enough to set me up with all the needs of a fine lady. But when I opened my eyes and my hand, I saw instead a slip of paper, with a name and address written on it: Finasera, 25 Wilhelm Street.
It meant nothing to me, but by now I knew I could not take anything for granted. Poking a hole in the thin cover of the mattress, I slipped the twig inside where it would be completely hidden from sight, and drew the covers over it again. I put the parcel in the drawer of the dressing table, picked up my bag, and went out, closing the door firmly behind me.
I didn’t want to ask the blowsy woman for directions to the address I’d been given – she had been thankfully incurious and I wanted it to stay that way – so I walked to the markets and asked one of the stallholders, a butcher’s assistant, if he knew where Wilhelm Street was.
‘A fair walk from here,’ he said, and gave me directions.
The day had turned from chilly to grim and it looked like it might start to rain at any moment by the time I got to Wilhelm Street and realised that the place I’d been sent to was in the heart of the financial district and, further, that number 25 was a bank! In fact it was a branch of the Bank of Ashberg.
Now I had to go in and ask for – who was it again? Finasera, whoever that was. Not a native Faustinian by the look of the name, it was more like a surname from my country, at least from the forest lands, though not quite right because . . . I suddenly realised what I should have seen before if I’d had my wits about me: ‘Finasera’ was actually an anagram of ‘Serafina’! Then, I thought, it was unlikely I had to ask for someone by that name, rather, that was the name I should give.
Shaking my head wryly over the tricky impudence of the thing, I went inside. The bank was quite small, with only a couple of tellers at desks behind screens, a few customers lined up before them. I joined one of the queues and waited for my turn, not knowing quite what I would ask for until the moment I stood in front of the grey-haired teller. He had ink-stained fingers and wore spectacles and a fussy cravat. ‘Good morning, Mademoiselle. How may I help you?’
‘I’ve come to make a withdrawal,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘The name is Finasera.’
‘Very good, Mademoiselle,’ the man said, without surprise. I noticed he had a slight Ashbergian accent himself. ‘Please wait a moment.’ He pulled a fat ledger out from under his desk and started leafing through it. ‘Finasera, Finasera – not here . . . not there . . . Mademoiselle, I don’t think that it is this bank where you –’
‘And I’m quite sure,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you’ve looked well enough.’
He looked up at me with his faded, disapproving blue eyes. He frowned, pursing his lips. And then quite suddenly I saw the expression in his eyes change. He went pale and whispered, ‘Fina . . . Fina . . . sera – I recall seeing the name somewhere, someplace . . .’
I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. His eyes were still fixed on me and I was sure that he had grasped the significance of the name. He was from my country after all. What would he do now, call for help? Get me thrown out? Call for the police?
He did none of these things. Instead, he ran his finger down one of the pages of the ledger and said, ‘Ah, yes, here it is. Finasera. Deposit made a few years ago, in trust for you, Mademoiselle. Forgive my inattention, I missed it previously.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said blankly. ‘I . . . I quite understand.’
‘Would you like to withdraw it all, Mademoiselle, or only partially?’ The teller’s voice was steady now but his fingers less so.
‘Er, all, please.’
‘Very good, Mademoiselle. Will you wait a moment, please?’
‘Certainly,’ I said, though I felt less than certain. He got up and disappeared out the back. I waited there in a perfect fever of anxiety, wondering what was going to happen and whether I should make a run for it while I still could. Fortunately, I’d been the last in the queue with no-one behind me. The other teller was busy with his customers so no-one took any notice of me. I could see the open ledger from where I was, upside down, but I could plainly see there was no deposit in Finasera’s name written there. It was odd and just as I had decided I had to leave, back came my teller, carrying a fat white envelope. No longer pale but red and sweating, he pushed the envelope across the desk to me.
‘That’s all I could . . . that’s all of it, Mademoiselle,’ he caught himself, smoothly.
‘Thank you,’ I said, putting the envelope into my reticule. Even without opening it I could see that it was stuffed with banknotes. ‘You have been most helpful.’
‘Only doing my job, Mademoiselle,’ he said, mechanically. There were red spots in his cheeks and a strange look in his eyes, as if he could hardly believe what had just happened. I could hardly believe it myself – I could hardly take in the enormity of the fact that a respectable, elderly teller had made up an imaginary deposit and stolen money from his own bank for me.
I said, gently, ‘You are from Ashberg, sir, like me.’
‘No, Mademoiselle,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I am from a much smaller place. You probably have never heard of it. Its name is Smutny.’
We looked at each other. And suddenly in those faded blue eyes behind the spectacles, I caught a faint resemblance to someone I’d met.
‘I’ve heard of it, but never been,’ I said. ‘Do you still have family there?’
‘A brother, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘My elder brother. We don’t get on. Haven’t seen each other in years.’
No, you wouldn’t, I thought, remembering the bitter old jackal of a man back in that decaying village. He and his brother were like chalk and cheese.
I said, softly, ‘Sometimes our nearest are not always our dearest.’
He nodded with a sad smile. Then as a customer approached, the teller said, quickly, ‘If that will be all, Mademoiselle, I wish you good day.’ His voice dropped and he added, ‘And good luck.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. ‘And I hope that all will be well for you and that there is no –’
‘Very good, then, Mademoiselle,’ he interrupted me, with a fixed, artificial smile, and I knew then that I should go, that he would not welcome further effusions.
As I walked out of the bank, I felt a strange mixture of elation and anxiety. Thanks to the old man’s brave presence of mind, I now had plenty of money – real money. There was no danger of its withering into dead leaves. Oh, the hazel-tree magic had worked in a wonderful way indeed this time!
And yet anxiety nagged at me. Not for myself so much, but for the teller. Eventually, it would be discovered that the money was missing. How long would it be before suspicion fell on him? And if it did, it wasn’t just his career that would be ruined, it was his very life. He would go to prison at the very least. And for what? Not for me, a random stranger, but for a memory; for the honour of the forest lands, and a name from long ago. For Serafina, the rebel who had raised the moon-sisters’ standard against the
ruler of the very city in which he now lived. And yet he could have no idea what I planned. Not only that, he hadn’t wanted to know. It was both very moving and very confusing. How strange and unexpected people were!
On the way back to the boarding house, I bought a large piece of roast chicken, a cake, a bottle of ginger ale, and a couple of newspapers. Safely bolted in my room, I had my meal and counted the money. There was more than enough to see me set up very comfortably. I then combed the newspapers for the details of any upcoming palace functions. Remembering the picture I’d seen in The Book of Thalia, I thought it shouldn’t be a ball or a dinner or a garden party or anything of that sort, but something more businesslike as there’d been diplomats, officials and councillors at the event I’d seen.
There were several events of that kind but I finally settled on one which would be held in four days’ time. It was to be a general audience, a meet-and-greet affair involving diplomats from minor countries, provincial officials and businesspeople from far-flung regions. What was perfect about it, though, was that unlike many of the other functions, you could actually apply to be part of the guest list by presenting your credentials to the Palace Protocol Office which would then issue you with a ticket.
I’d need a useful cover story to present myself as hailing from a place obscure enough that I could say just about anything I wanted. And it was while I was skimming the rest of the newspaper that I happened upon the perfect thing. Yet, at first sight it hardly seemed like that, for it was an advertisement for a herbal elixir ‘made from the finest mountain plants and mixed with the essence of ground Green River pearls from the fabled eastern land of Pandong, refined into a truly miraculous elixir that will cure all your ills’.
In an old geography book of Mama’s, one of the few I’d rescued from Grizelda’s rubbish heap, there had been a short article about Pandong. It had mentioned that a hundred years before, some merchants from Faustina had settled in Pandong’s capital, Menglu, to trade in just those Green River pearls. Eventually, so many families moved there that their quarter was nicknamed ‘Little Faustina’. It was an exotic story but it was also an obscure community that was hardly known at all.
Moonlight and Ashes Page 19
