Miranda smiled wryly. “Surely it’s better for everyone if the smartest can devote all of their time to artifice and research?”
Albertus fixed her with a hard gaze. “Well, getting some real work in early didn’t do Gleame any harm.”
Chairman Gleame, the founder of the Convergence. The only man Miranda had heard Her Grace describe with true admiration. Meeting him should be her first priority.
When they reached the foot of the causeway the tide was low and the sky had cleared. The Convergence squatted boldly in the distance, a brooding dolerite in the dark waters of Seascale Bay. It seemed to Miranda that a haze was rising from the stone, as if it were heated by a desert sun.
Censor Corbin parted ways with Somney and led his horse to the stables that marked the end of the highway. Somney returned to the party, and cheerlessly ordered his chaperons to sort the youthful party into a single file.
They marched briskly along the causeway. Miranda did not need to be told to hurry; after many days of dreary travel the sight of her destination was a tonic. She felt a little afraid as well. The tide was low, but the wind seemed calm and the waves on either side of the causeway unnaturally placid.
At first, the stronghold did not seem to grow any closer. Miranda knew that was simply the illusion of its enormous size, but the effect was startling nonetheless. The Convergence could not really be described as a building; its architecture defied symmetry and its construction seemed beyond the capability of any mason. Its stones looked like the black teeth of giants, and its gigantic teak doors were the height of a temple’s dome. Miranda had never seen a construction so huge. Even the duchess’s Fortress-Capitol in Ebarokon was less imposing.
Etiquette demanded that a lady, a ward of the duchess, should cross the threshold first, but she insisted on waiting, claimed that she wanted to savour the view of the mainland a while longer. Miranda watched and listened as her colleagues, her rivals, stepped through the small wicket door in the corner of the gates, to be swallowed one by one. The rowdy banter of the boys faded away. Soon only she and Albertus remained.
“It’s quite a thing,” she said.
Albertus took off his hat, tilted back his head. “Yes it is. Sometimes I forget. Are you going to go inside, young miss?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been bringing youngsters to the Verge by the waggon-load for a dozen years now. Every year we have a little sport. The night before we arrive, the chaperons place bets on who will become a master. You wouldn’t be the only one to have faulted at the first hurdle.”
“I presume you’re telling me this because you bet on me?”
Albertus raised a finger to the side of his nose and winked. “I got good odds.”
Miranda breathed deeply, lowered her head and went inside.
Lions led by donkeys
Canal Street was an hour’s walk away, on the other side of town. It would be dark before Jon got there, so he took his lanthorn and his iron-cleated walking stick, and dressed warmly against the cooling autumn air.
He ventured into the labyrinthine alleyways that surrounded Bromwich Market. As he crossed Bell Street, he passed a corner-man of Wylde’s gang protecting the locals from unauthorised extortion. The gangs had been on good terms lately and Jon felt oddly reassured by the enforcer’s presence. He tipped his hat and the gesture was returned in a friendly fashion.
“Where you headed, Jon? I’ll tell the pickpockets to lay off.”
“Very good, Andro. I’m going down the docks.”
“Not sure that’s a good idea, mate. I heard some idiots are trouble-stirring.”
I have an appointment with a dealer in unlicensed magical artefacts, Jon thought. Trouble and idiocy are the order of the day.
He wended his way between passing shoppers to the edge of the great bazaar, found himself somewhere between the spicers and the beast market. It was still bustling, but the traders, shopkeepers and assistants were starting to outnumber customers. The laziest of the stall keepers were already packing away goods. He checked that his purse was secured deep inside his jacket, and made his way through the throng, swiping his stick from side to side to ward away urchins and beggars.
Dusk began to flicker across the rooftops, light to dark and back again. That meant the sun was setting behind the swooping sails of the elephantine manufactories that lined the southern edge of the city. After the long summer, it was easy to forget how tightly the sun held the horizon as winter approached. He reached the centre of the square. Directly ahead of him the gilded spire of the temple of He-who-lights-the-way glowed a magnificent amber.
Nowadays there were men lazy and foolish enough to call Him ‘the Sun God’. To name a god after a mortal conception was no longer considered schismatic, not even blasphemous, though Jon’s grandmother would have swooned to hear it; but why any sane man would take the risk was beyond him.
“They shall have no names.” Jon repeated the catechism three times as a penance for the wicked times in which he lived and implored He-who-lights-the-way to protect him on his journey. Then he made the sign of the greater circle, just to be safe.
He achieved the city end of Canal Street unmolested and started into the commercial district. The working day was long over; the loudest noise he could hear was the rasping of hobnailed boots on the cobbles as tired dockworkers made their way back home to Coldbath and Smallbrook. Some tipped hats, mistaking him for a foreman. For no reason he could discern Jon began to feel that maybe, for once, the wheel of fortune was spinning in his favour.
A stone’s throw from Stanizlav’s bonded warehouse, a handcart was parked by the side of the road, surrounded by a small assembly of workers. A fresh-faced young man dressed in labourer’s clothes, red-cheeked and curly-haired, was using it as a platform, brandishing a manifesto and pontificating. Beside him, a woman with flowing auburn hair was trying, with little success, to press pamphlets into the hands of the rambunctious crowd. Her simple green gown lay modestly on her immodest body. She was the most comely woman Jon had seen in a long time – far more interesting than the dull sermonising. A weasel-faced man, standing like a bodyguard, but too slight to be taken seriously, guarded the cart.
“New chains and stronger cages!” the pamphleteer cried. “Cunning and machines will be your undoing. What of work for honest men?”
Jon frowned at the polemic. There was more of this flavour of nonsense on the streets every day. And not only talk.
“Listening to you is bloody hard work,” a wise-cracker riposted, and the crowd chuckled with rowdy meanness. Jon approved. The dissenter was very foolish or very brave. A crowd could turn quickly on a man like that; he had seen it happen and dockers pulled no punches. Then there was the town guard.
The snippersnapper prattled on.
“The Wise Council misrules this distressed nation. Who possesses more wisdom than the common man? What better rule than by the agreement of the people?” A few of the mob murmured approval. “You toil for pennies while the rich fill overflowing coffers with effortless coin produced by wicked machines. The duchess and the southern barons…” There were boos from the crowd.
“Leave the duchess out of it – that’s sedition that it is.”
Jon approved of the loyalists’ outrage. It was good to know that even in the docks men still had sense. What Bromwich needed was more jobs, not an excuse for every man to down tools and rob his neighbour. There had been riots in Brightstowe and in the marshes south of Lundenwic. What good had they done? Jon set his mind to tell Daniel about the disturbance, or a watchman if he passed one.
“Heed his words,” the young woman yelled, “the time of the common man is at hand.”
“Show us yer tits,” a pot-boy shouted, and the crowd laughed and then dispersed, leaving only a handful of desperate-looking men. The firebrand jumped down from his handcart and began to address them, handing out small p
arcels of bread and cheese.
***
The bonded warehouse on Canal Street had a steel-plated door and small arched windows that had been shuttered against storms and thieves. As far as Jon could tell, the building was deserted. There was no obvious knocker or bell pull, so he hammered on the metal with his meaty fist. He was starting to fear a wasted journey when a heavyset doorman emerged and eyed Jon suspiciously down a broken nose. Jon stated his business, and at the mention of Stanizlav’s name, the doorman feigned uninterest and pointed upstairs. Jon reckoned two things: firstly, he didn’t look much like one of Stanizlav’s customers; secondly, the usual customers didn’t much like questions.
He lit his lanthorn with his scissor-flint and climbed five flights of broad and windowless brick. The stairs ended at a stout oak door pierced with a tiny spyhole that shone from within. Jon knocked and after a few seconds heard the sound of shuffling.
“Numbers,” a muffled voice requested.
“Two, one, seven,” Jon replied. He’d been worrying about this meeting for days, and the code was branded in his memory. He was ushered inside and the door was bolted behind him.
He had expected to enter a dusty warehouse, to be greeted by a majestic warlock assisted by a snivelling hunchback, so he was astonished to find himself in a drawing room, finely furnished with paintings and porcelain and overlooking a neatly hedged garden. His first thought was that he had been magically transported to an imperial palace in some distant sunny state.
A tall, eagle-nosed gentleman, formally attired for a stroll in a pleasure garden, greeted him with a haughty demeanour and curling bow. The popinjay flicked back his long curled wig, raised a monocle to his eye and squinted disdainfully.
“The miller, I presume? Not much silk on you, is there?”
“Is that a problem?” Jon asked, eyeing the man’s fitted coat, white stockings and court shoes. “I wasn’t told to dress for the occasion.”
“I doubt that your wardrobe would have been up to the task. I have spoken to our mutual acquaintance, and we have made an arrangement. Come with me.”
Jon followed Stanizlav through a panelled door and, anticipating a parlour or garden, was amazed to find himself in exactly the kind of dusty warehouse he had originally expected. He looked back over his shoulder and realised the drawing room was an elaborate prop, the garden landscapes were lamp-lit paintings.
“You keep a pretty shop.”
“Smoke and mirrors,” Stanizlav said. “I never cease to be amazed by how many clients are more impressed by the pretence of magic than the real thing.”
He led Jon on a winding path between arcane objects and precariously balanced crates. Everywhere there were curiosities that begged for an explanation. As he gazed around in wonder, Jon’s foot caught on a dust cover, pulled it from an onyx-framed mirror.
Jon faced his reflection. He was immediately struck by how handsome he looked. His sharp cheekbones and proud chin spoke of strength and authority. His muscles rippled under his clothes. His azure eyes sparkled in a way that would make any woman feel wanted and safe.
Stanizlav pulled him away.
“What you see is not real. Magical mirrors flatter with cliché. The largest are fabulous aids for lovemaking but most serve as slaves to vanity in dressing rooms. One day they will be produced in thousands, if the Convergence has its way.”
“You disapprove?”
“They can be a danger to certain types. Put a weak person in front of a strong mirror and they may do nothing but gaze at themselves to the point of dissipation.”
“Never,” Jon laughed.
“The previous owner of this mirror was thought gone abroad. A strange smell led his neighbours to report mischief to the censors. When they broke into his room they discovered him sprawled naked upon a chaise longue, starved to death.”
“Really?” Jon said. “That sounds too good to be true.”
“All of my stories are true, or at least partly so,” Stanizlav replied, and led Jon deeper into the stockroom.
It seemed that the further they progressed into the attic the more morbid its contents became. Animated paintings, impenetrable caskets and glowing trinkets were succeeded by iron maidens, scold’s bridles and other instruments of torture. If there was magic in those things, Jon did not want to know how it manifested. They came to a series of tall cages, like those in an asylum, doors bound fast with chains. Jon paid no more attention to them than to what had come before, but as he passed the last he heard a faint sobbing. He paused and peered into its dark interior. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out a thinly scattered carpet of straw, and beyond that, tucked into one corner, a heap of grey woollen bedding. A small foot poked out from under the blankets, dirty and trembling.
“What’s this?” Jon shouted after Stanizlav.
The dealer returned and shone his light deep into the cage. The foot jerked back under the covers.
“Show yourselves,” he commanded, and two tiny faces emerged, blinking in the lamplight. “Songbirds. Pretty, aren’t they?”
“What will happen to them?” Jon said, and discreetly made the sign of the Mother, for their protection.
“They will be sold.”
“To whom?”
“Those who can afford them. Men of status. Princes, bankers and so forth. Now, stop dawdling by the merchandise.” Jon bristled with anger. He wanted to leave.
They ascended an iron spiral staircase into the very top of the rafters. Stanizlav was the first to fill the uncomfortable silence.
“I sense that you are still thinking about my caged beauties. I am not surprised. They are an addictive vice.”
Jon thought of Dahlia and his stomach knotted with wrath. “It’s somebody’s daughter in those cages,” he said. Stanizlav looked at him sharply.
“You should not begrudge me my trade. Those girls are strays. If their families did not care enough to keep them safe, then what should you mind? Besides, it is your friend Matthew who rescued them from the streets, so in a roundabout way those songbirds have paid for your salvation.”
A man so laden with sin was a fool to speak of salvation, Jon thought. Stanizlav would discover that for himself, when the Devourer swallowed his soul.
The peak of the warehouse formed a high-ceilinged room. A few prize possessions hung from the walls: the stuffed heads and horned skulls of large animals that Jon could not name, magnificent portraits, many different masks and a gilded cage, five-foot high and draped with a red velvet curtain. In the centre of the room stood a large wooden crate balanced on top of a trapdoor.
Stanizlav rapped a small gong and the room filled with the beautiful wordless singing of a castrato. Jon wondered if Stanizlav kept a catamite, and shuddered.
“Have a drink.” Stanizlav conjured a decanter of amber brandy from a liquor cabinet and filled two crystal chalices. Jon didn’t want to accept the man’s hospitality – but he needed it. Stanizlav sipped his drink and sighed in appreciation of the liquor’s quality. “Now to business. I reveal the solution to your worries.” He seized a crowbar and prised open the crate with abandon.
Straw. That was all Jon could see. Stanizlav stepped forwards and pulled aside the packing to reveal a statue of a horse, the size of a wheelbarrow, made of white enamel and painted with swirling patterns of red and gold.
“What the fuck is that?”
The dealer ignored Jon’s expletive. “A toy. An extraordinarily expensive one intended as a gift for the Frankish king. His son was born deformed, you see; too feeble to ride a real pony. He wanted to play carousel, a new game from Arabia. The unfortunate died before it could be delivered. I was able to service the family who commissioned it by relieving them of this embarrassing memento of their grief.”
“What are you talking about? How can that thing help me save my mill?”
“The horse is designed
to walk in circles. It would do so forever if you allowed it. It requires no food, no care, and by my calculations should run for at least one thousand years, or until it wears through your floor. It is powerful, much stronger than a real horse or pony. Certainly strong enough to turn a grindstone.”
Convert the windmill into a horse mill? That’s insane. John stroked his beard. If it worked he’d never have to worry about being downwind of the factories again. No bastard could interfere with my business. I could run the mill all night if I wanted to. Jon leaned forwards and examined the horse more closely. “Do all of your goods bring death to their owners, or just the two you mentioned?”
“Oh, this toy isn’t cursed. Items that guarantee death are far too valuable for the likes of you.”
“It’s not what I was expecting.”
Jon spotted a place on the horse where he could use a short shaft to attach it to the spur wheel, stepped back and inspected the angles.
“You know what, Stan, it might just work.”
“I did make it to the Convergence, you know.”
“Does it come with papers?” Stanizlav laughed aloud. Jon frowned at his disrespect for the law, and then at his own guilt. Even if there were a licence, it would cost a fortune to have it reassigned. He would have to content himself with knowing that it was the laws of the gods that mattered in the final reckoning, not the scribbled legislature of men.
The horse glowed gold and red in the torchlight.
“There’s another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Getting it back to the mill.”
“You could ride it,” Stanizlav suggested.
“Don’t be a soggy bollocks. Hold on, I’ve got an idea.” Jon opened a window and looked down into the street. “Put it back in its box and ready the winch.”
Jon left the building as quickly as he could, his mind spinning with the mechanics of the mill. He trotted across the road to where the dissenters were still gathered and shouted out to them.
“Oi, you lot.” They glanced at him nervously over shoulders. A few got set to run. “You say there’s no work to be had for honest men. I have work. I need a cart and men to pull it, to bring some equipment back to my mill in Turbulence. I’ll pay a shilling a man.” That was three days’ pay for a pauper. They accepted without question.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 7
