“Prayers can be long in the answering.”
“You’re right, I should make better offerings.”
That wasn’t what Daniel had meant, but he held his tongue. “You’ll think of something, you always do. You’re a man of property, you’ve kept honest trade.”
“I’ve never adulterated, or sold gone-off as fresh.”
“Exactly. How many millers can say that? Let alone around here?”
“All I want is to be able to look after my family.”
“I know.”
Jon exhaled lengthily, combed his hair with his fingers.
“I’m going to meet the Peacock.”
Daniel’s face soured. “Why?”
“He used to be fond of Anna.”
“Don’t borrow from him.”
“I won’t.”
“I know times are hard, but people like that, they can’t help us. Once they have their hooks in, they never let go. Wait a while. When I’m ordained I’m going to sort this neighbourhood out. I’ll make things better for the both of us.”
“You’ll fight the gangs and I’ll fight the factories.” Jon was humouring him, and that hurt a little.
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. I’m going upstairs to see Mother before I leave.”
She was sleeping peacefully in her room, the same as always. Her face was drawn, skin paper thin, but she looked happy. Daniel wiped a few crumbs of dried pap from the side of her mouth and kissed her head. She had been like this for so long. He wondered if she would see out the baby’s naming and said a prayer for her comfort. He realised his cheeks were damp and wiped them dry. It would not do, for a censor to appear weak on the streets.
Back downstairs Daniel strapped on his weapons and wrapped his cape about his shoulders. Jon was slouched over the dining table, head on oak, counting out the baker’s coins for a third time. Daniel let himself out.
Evening had turned to night and the air was brisk. If he ran back to the seminary, Daniel reckoned he could fit in another hour of training before they locked the dormitory doors.
A strange and curious girl
“Ladies must wait outside. Who do you attend?” shouted the doorman who defended the Exchange building’s portico.
Miranda could barely hear him over the cascades of rainwater that spewed from the mouths of the granite griffins overhead. Their fierce aspects perfectly expressed her growing anger. She was young, but clearly no longer a girl. Her immaculate attire and freshly cut hair, onyx black and scented with ambergris, made her pedigree obvious. A man of her position would be getting more respect.
“I attend no one. This is my invitation.” Miranda snatched a card from her handmaid and flapped it in the doorman’s face. She jabbed at its extravagant print with a white-gloved finger. “Miranda, Ward of the Duchess of the Wrekin and the North. I am she. Ayrday the 63rd, Malchus III, I think we can both agree is today.”
Naming the emperor was a little absurd, but she was trying to make a point.
She jabbed a finger at the ducal crest embossed on the coach-and-four parked behind her. “My maid will wait with my governess in that carriage if she is not permitted entry.”
The horses fidgeted in the downpour.
The doorman shook his head, as if she had asked him a question. His behaviour was extraordinary. She wondered if he couldn’t hear her or simply chose not to do so. “This is no use at all,” she said. “I would fare better in a conversation with the statuary.”
The broad brim of Miranda’s hat had begun to droop. Equipped with a swan-plumed umbrella, wholly inadequate for the task, her handmaid was failing in her duty to keep it dry. The hem of her silk and velvet skirt would be next. Everything about the situation was unacceptable.
Miranda snatched the umbrella from her maid and shoved it in the doorman’s face. As he wrestled with it, she stepped around him and marched into the building.
The Exchange’s ornate interior looked like a palace but without the history. Later in the day, it would be crowded with men trading saffron, lead and tin. For now, the merchants were outnumbered by statues of guildsmen heroically wielding ledgers and hand scales. The clattering of Miranda’s fashionably heeled shoes turned heads as she sought the meeting room. The doorman chased behind her leaving a wet trail on the marble.
“Milady, the rules of the Exchange are clear and strict.”
“Then you are doing a particularly poor job of enforcing them.”
“Please desist,” he whined.
She turned to face her irritant. “My invitation came directly from Chairman Gleame. I would know your name, sir!”
The doorman mumbled something inaudible.
“I shall mention that to him when I am done,” she declared.
The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Come with me, milady. I’m sure I can resolve this misunderstanding.”
Miranda followed him down corridors lined with austere paintings of unremarkable-looking, middle-aged men. They arrived in a room decorated with fashionable tapestries displaying stylised images of mechanical marvels from the Convergence and the cunning at work. A trio of young men, students judging by their tasteless suits, waited nervously on small chairs beside a tall oak door. A giant of a coachman in a silver-lined greatcoat watched them discreetly from a corner. His garb was expensive but unkempt. A shortish sword, the width of her arm, hung by his side.
“This must be the place,” Miranda said.
The doorman scowled and engaged the coachman in a heated conversation, punctuated with exasperated gestures in her direction. The coachman deflected his rage with nonchalant shrugs. Eventually, tired of the agitation, he drew some coins from his purse and pressed them into the doorman’s hand. He left the room without a glance in Miranda’s direction. Ignoring the snub, she bade him farewell with a victorious nod and waited to be attended, as poised as a temple dancer. The gazes of the waiting boys crawled her body as the coachman ambled towards her.
“They don’t allow ladies in the Exchange,” he said, and her heart sank, “but that doesn’t bother me any. Big Albert, at your service. May I see your invitation?” He spoke with the thick accent of a Nor-Wester. Miranda thought his smile charmingly rural.
She presented the elaborate card with both hands and the barely discernible dip that she reserved for men of uncertain station. He handed it back with the speed of an accomplished reader and she curtsied more deeply.
Albert gestured towards the row of seats and the three students stood for her all at once, moved away and began a conversation amongst themselves. Judging from their glances it was about her. She smiled at them prettily and tried to appear confident. She guessed they were hopefuls, like her. Only a select few were invited to apply to join the Honourable Company of Cunning each year, the very brightest in the Unity, and even those who received employment would only retain it if they could master the cunning arts. The process was intimidating and humiliating, but for those who succeeded came wealth and power. Not that it mattered to boys like these; they were rich already. Their lives overflowed with choice.
The oak-panelled door opened and a young man exited, clutching a velvet cap in both hands. He looked as pale as if he had eaten bad meat and he left the antechamber without a courtesy. Big Albert took instruction from behind the door and then invited Miranda inside. Surprised not to have to wait her turn, she composed herself and entered.
It was some kind of council room, designed for the long-winded discussion of matters of business. A long walnut table set with silver inkpots and leather writing pads ran its length. The men who decorated its walls looked as unexceptional as those in the corridors, but their portraits were much larger. On the other side of the table sat an odd fellow wearing a silver skullcap and dressed in a richly gilded maroon suit. A thick gold chain dangled between his breast pockets, and he looked exhausted. His lids drooped dark and hea
vy over bloodshot eyes.
Miranda’s head fizzed like a migraine, but without the pain. Specks of light seemed to dance in the air before her, like a swarm of golden midges.
The man stood and bowed, offered a place with his palm. “My name is Master Somney. Please be seated.”
Miranda stood trembling, befuddled by the delusion.
“Are you unwell?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“The business with the doorman – please forgive him. The Exchange has its rules so you can understand his confusion. I didn’t realise the invitation… I forgot...” Somney seemed to lose track of his words. “Shall we press on? You are aware that no woman has ever…”
Miranda sat. “Been given the opportunity to interview for the Honourable Company.”
Somney seemed a little flummoxed by her interruption so she flashed him a gracious smile.
“Very well then. Let us begin.” Somney lifted from the table a thick compendium and opened it to a picture of a monolith notched with a thousand tiny marks. “I don’t expect you to know what these squiggles are.”
Miranda squinted at the etching. “The romance of Tanit and Baal-Hammon from ancient Qart-Hadath. Unusually it has been transcribed from the original Oenic into Omek. I must say, it is a very beautiful illustration.”
Somney stared at her, expressionless.
Miranda scrabbled for something cleverer to say. “I believe this stone now resides at the pleasure palace of Rabat. The sculptor made three errors in translation. Don’t you agree?” Still nothing. “I possess five languages, you see, including both of the greats –ancient and archaic. I had to teach myself Omek, but it’s relatively straightforward. You start with Eyalet and work backwards.”
She walked her fingers along the edge of the table. Somney didn’t seem as impressed as she had expected.
“Let us move on to matters more conventional.”
“Of course.”
“Astronomy. What is your opinion of the heliocentric model?”
“That only a man could conclude the planets revolved around himself. The new theories are far superior. Epicycles are an inelegant solution.”
“The distillation of botanicals. What is the preparation for plague water?”
“Um… according to Hieronymus Hogg there are… two recipes?”
Somney pounced on her hesitation. “Yes, yes, but what are the details?”
“Let me think. Dr Burges’s is a handful of sage and rue boiled in two, no, three pints of muscadine, then stained and fired.”
Somney’s face fell. “Enough! Let us turn to matters geographical.”
So it continued. Somney quickened his pace. Miranda answered his tricky questions as best she could. Whenever she tried to elaborate or use a clever analogy, Somney interrupted or changed the subject. He switched without warning from geography to grammar, between mathematics and metaphysic, architecture and astrology.
There was a knock at the door and it opened a crack. Big Albert’s substantial head emerged and then disappeared as rapidly. Miranda had no idea how long the interrogation had lasted. It felt like mere minutes.
Somney harrumphed. “What do you believe was the impact of pre-war morality on the development of cunning in the Unity?”
Miranda thought the question dull, like something from an examination paper. “I don’t think it made any difference. The godsworn did not prohibit magic for moral reasons. That was just an excuse. Cunning put power into the hands of individuals in a way that threatened them. If men can be like gods, then why make offerings or pray?”
Somney’s eyebrows twitched. “An interesting theory, but you present it as a fact. If that is the case, how do you explain our current state of affairs? The existence of the Honourable Company?”
“Cunning is tolerated, for the time being.”
“Tolerated!” Somney spluttered. “For the time being!”
“Because the masters are discreet. Because the Convergence is remote. Mainly because the ministers of the Wise Council see how much money there is to be made from magic and so shape our laws accordingly.” Somney’s sternness finally crumbled. He chuckled and blinked.
“Then I have nothing to fear, because that will never change. It seems we have run out of time. I must admit, you answered my questions superbly. I cannot fault your intellect. What about your judgement?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are a beautiful young woman, a ward of the duchess.”
“We are her sorrow and her joy.”
Somney coughed uncomfortably. “Indeed. No doubt you have many excellent suitors. Why pursue a career at the Verge?”
Miranda bit on her cheek. Society considered the hundred adoptive daughters of the duchess to be wedding fodder, delicious awards for the greatest artists, merchants and foreign diplomats. Little more than candied fruit. It was foolish to suppose that Somney thought differently. Besides, it was a question that she had asked herself many times. Most of the ward-daughters enjoyed the prestige, the easy life. Some even found love.
“I think my intellect would be of greater service to the Unity at work in the Convergence than listening to a husband discussing the price of sheepskins over dinner.”
“Why do you believe that the Convergence is a proper place for a woman?”
“I think that the proper place for a woman is wherever she chooses to be.”
“Ah ha! You have a rebellious mind.” Somney wrung his hands and grimaced at her. Anger balled in Miranda’s throat. She coughed it out.
“I would have thought you’d consider that a positive – after all, it was only thirty years ago that censors were burning the Cunning alive for their rebellious minds.” Somney’s bloodshot eyes bulged. “With all due respect, Master Somney, you seem to be more interested in my circumstances than my capabilities.”
“You are an orphan, yes?”
“You have already noted that I am a ward-daughter of the duchess. Of course I am an orphan.”
Somney laced his fingers and stared at them. “Your birth mother abandoned you to the street and now you seek to abandon the flower of your youth to a career. Isn’t that a little selfish? What about children?”
“Master Somney, if I may be so bold, that question is so personal and so ridiculous, I must assume that its sole purpose is to dissuade me from applying for this position. If that is your intention then please do me the simply courtesy of saying so. If not, then allow me to ask you a question.” He sullenly invited her to continue.
“What happened in the air when I first saw you?”
“What? You saw that?”
It wasn’t really a question. She could see he was shocked, though he tried to hide it. He went to the latticed window that overlooked Exchange Square and stared unfocused into the distance, played with his gold chain. Miranda waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts.
“Actually you didn’t see anything. The phenomenon was mental – imagined but also entirely real. In simple terms, you saw magic. My magic. I cannot explain that to you here. You will learn about it at the Convergence.”
“I will?”
“If you choose to go. My questions were not intended to dissuade you from attending, although my presumption was that you would prove incapable. I had assumed that your presence here was solely due to Chairman Gleame’s desire to remain in Her Grace’s favour. Something to do with our licences.” He let out a long sigh, but returned to the table a happier man. “I had not expected you to be so...” He flapped his hands in place of an adjective. “I will not deny talent where I see it, though I will have to suffer some painful explaining to my colleagues.”
Miranda tried to sound grateful. “Thank you.”
“You are a clever girl and it appears you already have a sensitivity to magic that few possess. Far fewer than you might suppose. You should
understand that, if you accept a position as a demi-master, many at the Convergence would wish to see you fail. They may do their best to ensure it. Moreover, as a woman, you will be utterly alone. I would think carefully before deciding.”
The door opened and Albert’s head appeared briefly again.
“I cannot spend any more time with you. Here is a letter confirming my offer of a position. Whether you accept it is entirely up to you. Thank you for your attendance.”
***
Miranda was glad of the rain that soaked her face as she crossed the street to her carriage; it hid tears of anger. Her handmaid, appalled that she had not waited for assistance, was nearly run down by a patrol of horsemen as she rushed to shield her mistress with the useless umbrella. Inside the coach, her governess had laid a lace mat over Miranda’s bench to keep it dry. She slumped miserably down upon it.
“That was just awful,” Miranda said.
“I was afraid of that.”
“I argued with the master.”
“Oh dear.” Her governess rapped on the ceiling of the carriage and it set off towards the duchess’s embassy at a pace. “Not to worry, child. Her Grace feared it might prove impossible. If you would like to choose a different gift…”
“The Company offered me a position.”
Miranda revealed Somney’s letter and handed it over. Her handmaid screeched and clapped in delight, drawing a disapproving look from her unflappable superior.
The ducal carriage rolled through the obelisk-lined streets of Lundenwic. The monoliths were new; the style of the First Empire was all the rage, now that people could afford it. Ramshackle half-timbered houses and shops along the river were being torn down by rope and hook, and replaced with symmetrical slab-faced buildings clad in yellow stone. Miranda wondered how many centuries of progress the Unity had squandered under the leaden rule of the godsworn, and how quickly things had changed in the thirty years since their overthrow. One day soon, some mill owner or trader would have the means to commission a pyramid of his own. She considered how odd it would look, towering over the rainy city that the ancients had believed to be the last before the edge of the world.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 3
