“But I feel something,” Daniel said.
“Me too,” Corbin said, “though I hate to admit it. And my intuition’s let me down many times before. Let me think.”
Daniel grinned broadly and got to his feet, sauntered over to his horse and returned with a bottle. Its contents glowed amber in the firelight. He threw it to Corbin who caught it overhead, one-handed. “I knew you’d see reason. Eventually.”
“What’s this?” Corbin knocked the wax stopper from the neck of the bottle with the ringed pommel of his sword and savoured its aroma. His eyebrows leapt. “Cruithin’s finest. Ten years old, and from a maple barrel to boot. Where’d you find this beauty?”
“The Verge has many secrets; its wine cellars are not one of them. I find myself well paid as a demi-master, a man of means.”
Corbin took a swig and let out a hearty sigh. It was time to make peace.
“That’s a gallows sword, isn’t it? Good choice for a prosecutor.”
Corbin laughed. “In Dalriadan ‘gallo’ means foreign. My ancestors were mercenaries, from Erdin. The people of the Six Kingdoms called us galloglashes, foreign warriors. It’s got nothing to do with hangings.”
“How did you become a censor?”
“The Brotherhood had eyes on my da for years. They tried to recruit him even before he was a hero. There was good money in fighting back then, so he said no – died on the end of a lance in the War of Covenanter.”
Daniel thought of his own father, red-eyed, drunk and despondent.
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. He wasn’t a good man, but I learnt the art of the sword from him, as he was taught before me.”
“And the Brotherhood?”
“I didn’t hesitate when they asked. Battle’s changed. It’s all pikes, culverins and grenadoes now. In a fusillade, a poet of the blade gets slaughtered as quickly as a farmhand.” Corbin stood, unsheathed his sword. The sound of singing steel sent a shiver of pleasure up Daniel’s spine. “Have a look.”
Daniel took the weapon, balanced it on the crook of his arm, careful not to let his oily fingers stain the blade. It was a marvel, perfectly balanced and lighter than it looked.
“What’s it like in the Six Kingdoms?”
“Always raining. The food’s a horror. It’s famous for its songs and banter only because there’s nothing else to do, aside from fight and fuck.”
Daniel suppressed a laugh. The men from the Kingdoms whom Daniel had met in Turbulence were touchy about their homeland – touchy and belligerent. He decided to be conciliatory. “The Kingdoms have a troubled past.”
“Bollocks,” Corbin said, still smiling. “It’s a miserable little island about as far from the centre of things as you can get. Too poor to be worth conquering. How many times has the Unity been invaded? Eight? Nine? It’s happened to us once, but we talk as if we’re the great oppressed. When we can’t find an oppressor, we fight each other. All our legends are dust-ups – cattle raids and shagging the neighbour’s wife. That’s why we take our religion so seriously; it’s a good excuse to kill each other. How can an island that small have six kings? Its fecking ridiculous.” He took a swig from the bottle. “Still, the violence keeps me busy, and at least it’s not Erdin. This investigation is almost a holiday for me.” Corbin passed him the bottle. Daniel rubbed a tear of mirth from his eye. “Enough about me. Tell me about the demi-masters.”
“They’re strange. They seem to think they live in a world beyond harm. They’re full of confidence and certainty, but for no reason that I can fathom. They’ve never been tested.”
“It’s a common failing. They confuse their success at school with being clever.”
Daniel shrugged. “I don’t see what harm it does them. If they fail at the Verge they’ll go home to rich families, live easy lives.”
“Don’t envy them. Most will end their days angry and bitter.”
“You must be joking,” Daniel said, imagining life in a palace.
“The world will never recognise the greatness they see in themselves, and because they aren’t clever, they’ll never understand why. It drives them mad.” Daniel laughed again. Corbin shook his head. “Well-educated fools are no laughing matter; they’re the most dangerous people in the world.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they rule it.”
“You’re a good sport, Corbin,” Daniel said, looking for another piece of rabbit to eat. It was all gone. He sucked the scraps from a gnawed leg. “What have you got against Lang?”
“That man is a chameleon; he shows all colours but white.”
“You’re wrong, he’s midnight blue all the way through.”
Corbin grunted. “What do you make of the duchess’s ward? I’ve seen her about with you; all long legs and copper skin.”
“Miranda – she believes me her friend.” Daniel thought about the accident and frowned.
“Believes, is it? I heard about what happened. How does she fare?”
“I don’t know. Something struck her in the cavern. It looked bad, but they made us leave before I could get a good look. I tried to visit her in the infirmary, but they won’t let me see her.”
“Don’t worry, lad; if she was badly injured there would have been repercussions. We’d all know by now.”
“She’s that important?”
“Don’t be doltish; she’s prize property of the duchess.”
Daniel nodded. “She’s better than the others. I mean she has the most talent.”
“So how do you find her?”
Corbin was a persistent bastard, Daniel thought. “She’s not like the girls from Bromwich.”
“Got all her teeth, has she?”
Daniel grinned. The banter reminded him of long drinks with his brother.
“It’s not just the clipped accent. She talks too quickly. I can’t understand half of what she says. When she’s concentrating, she carries her body like an afterthought. When she knows she’s being watched, you could balance a cup of tea on her head without spilling it.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
Daniel thought about her properly for the first time. “She’s funny.”
“And easy on the eye. Perfect mouth. She probably wants to know what’s in your pants, even if she doesn’t realise it yet. Keep it tucked away, that’s my advice. It’d be a shame to disappoint her.”
Daniel took a greedy gulp and threw the bottle back to Corbin overarm. “What about you? Got a wife back home?”
“Careful, son. Spilling this would be a crime.” Corbin said, waving the question away with his hand. “So what do you hope to get out of all of this?”
“To become a censor,” he replied without hesitation.
“For sure? It’s a lonely life. Makes you think differently. You start to see guilt in everyone. Even when you don’t, people act as if you can. You see some horrible things. Moreover, there’s the sight. After a while, it begins to leak into your dreams. You lose track of what you’ve seen with your own eyes.”
Daniel wondered why Corbin tried to dissuade him. “The place I come from, it’s a mess. You can’t live a good life. People are killed – go missing for no reason. Nobody notices or cares, not even the Brotherhood. I want to protect my family. Do you know what will happen to me if I don’t get ordained? I won’t join a gang and they’ll bleed me for refusing. They’ll bleed me anyway for trying to join the Brotherhood. I go home with a badge on my chest or not at all.”
Corbin nodded respectfully and they watched the fire burn out together.
“I guess I could give you a chance to prove yourself. First off, it’s pleasant enough meeting under the stars, all these souls smiling down on us, but we need an easier way to talk.”
“Let’s stick to bottles,” Daniel said, sloshing the dregs of the whisky. “I’ll
put this in a private locker in the wine cellar, give you a key, and leave my reports inside.”
Corbin thought awhile. “You reckon yourself a censor. Then prepare to receive your instruction.”
Daniel leaned forward in anticipation. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to start calling in the masters for questioning. They’re a devious bunch, won’t trust me one jot. I’ll send a summons to Bolb, but he won’t be the first. I want him nervous, not running. Your job is to watch him, close as you can.”
It was a familiar gambit. Daniel had seen how the prospect of a meeting with a censor could make guilty men do foolish things.
“Sounds solid. But I won’t be able to follow him into the Masters’ Quarters; it’s not allowed.”
“Do what you can.”
Corbin went over to his horse and pulled a mandolin from the saddlebag.
Daniel looked on in horror. “You’re joking me. The gods wept.” Corbin tuned the instrument and strummed a few chords to test it. Then he broke into a battle-camp song, his voice rich and warm.
“In the ground, there lives a king,
Who sits upon an iron throne.
Wears a cloak of bended wing,
Waits in the double-dark alone.
Cold and rot don’t bother him,
He wears a crown of coffin nails.
When you leave this rotten life,
He’ll listen to all of your tales.
Stack your deeds upon the scales,
Grand or small, he’ll make no pause…
Just measure how the balance tips,
And cast your soul into his jaws.”
“That was a little less painful than I expected,” Daniel said. Corbin’s pupils glowed red in the firelight.
“Being a censor is a serious business. You put your life at risk to serve justice, even when no man wants it. Our mission is divine. The bastards in the Convergence think they live beyond our power. This is our chance to prove them wrong.”
The undertaking was the sort of adventure Daniel had dreamed of as a child.
“What if I get caught?”
“That’s easy. Don’t get caught.”
“Lang said something about pretending to be a spy, an execution.”
“Sounds severe. It’s the politics, probably.”
“Does the Brotherhood really expect me to sacrifice everything? To die just to keep a secret?”
“Maybe it’s unnecessary,” Corbin said, grinning mightily, “but don’t let my gentle manner and good humour deceive you. I’m the coldest bastard you’ll ever meet. I would take your head from your shoulders in an instant, and gladly, if it pleased justice.”
“Cheers,” Daniel said, raising the bottle. The sweat on his brow had turned cold. He took another swig. “And thank you for trusting me.”
“I’ll leave at dawn,” Corbin said. “You tidy up the campsite.”
That which remains
Miranda is a goddess. She floats resplendent in the void with a star cupped in every palm of her countless hands.
The world revolves beneath her feet.
Gripped by a terrible vertigo, she dwindles to a mortal form and plummets earthwards to land heavily on hands and knees. Fetid swamp air permeates her body and she retches. Men dance around her to the rhythm of drums and the bestial wailing of women and children. The quaggy soil swallows her whole and she is drowned in cold mud.
Reborn, she gazes from the bottom of the sea through unblinking eyes, waits aeons in the lightless depths. Gradually she becomes aware that she is dreaming other lives, and in that revelation, her dream becomes lucid.
Swirling clouds of magic surround her, guide her forwards to a distant future.
They bring her to a woman, much like herself, sitting in a cubicle amongst hundreds, crouched over an ugly glowing screen that displays a game of cards.
The woman casts nervous glances over her shoulder, afraid that she might be spotted by her foreman. She has been playing the same game all day, convinced that if she wins in exactly the right way, the man who has said he no longer loves her will change his mind and return home.
It is a mad thought and the woman is talented, the last of her kind – though she does not know it, so her ritual has some power. A small tear appears in the fabric of reality, and from that tear, a single speck of magic emerges.
It is beautiful.
A sad resignation overtakes the woman and she closes the game, returns to her work. Miranda watches the magic, cast adrift and half formed, hovering in the air, restrained by the possibility that the woman may return to the game that is also a spell.
Finally, starved of control, it fades into otherness.
Miranda feels an infinite sense of melancholy. The last spark of true magic has left that grey world. From that moment onwards, its every outcome will be subject to the unbending, tyrannical laws of nature.
She follows the speck through place and time, feels streams of magic join the race, twist and spiral alongside her, like dolphins chasing a wake. Her heart is filled with joy. The shadows of figures tower above her, looming beyond scale.
They are watching her.
The tides of magic draw her ever faster towards a finite point that she can sense but cannot see. Her stomach lurches with the acceleration.
She sees it at last, a fractured disc of inestimable scale, sucking the magic from a billion realities. She hurtles towards it, covers her face in anticipation of the collision. There is a whip-crack noise and she is spat, soaked in brine, into the empty cavern of the Convergence.
The air fills with the sound of screaming.
***
Miranda sat bolt upright with a gasp. Pain lanced from her foot to her thigh. She howled and howled, then yelled for help. There was no reply. She screamed again and damned the world a whore, tried to open her eyes, failed, apologised to the blackness, sobbed, fell backwards and passed out.
The second waking was easier.
First, she caught the scent of the sea, and felt a warm light upon her eyes that resolved into sight as her lashes slowly unglued. She saw a plain, bright room. White linen curtains billowed in tall windows, and gulls circled in the cloudy sky beyond. A nurse sat silently at the foot of her bed, and when she saw that Miranda had woken she dashed from the room, leaving her unattended.
The pain returned, this time as a dull ache in her legs.
I was wounded, in the explosion.
The calico bedding smelled fresh. There was no deathly hint of infection. Miranda sighed. It took a while to gather enough courage to draw aside the bedsheets, to raise the simple gown in which some stranger had dressed her. Her thighs were mottled blue. She gingerly tensed her right thigh, and was relieved to see it rise a fraction, though the pain of the movement brought tears to her eyes. She tried the other side and tipped, rolled sideways in agony and then realised. Her left leg. The knee and below. It was gone.
“My leg! Someone has stolen my leg!”
She screamed and screamed again.
The nurse returned. “For the pain,” she said, and pressed a vial against Miranda’s lips. The liquid smelled of ginger. Miranda downed it frantically. It had the consistency of gruel. Her terror faded and the room slowly took on a sparkling hue. The concoction was powerful. It wasn’t that the pain and horror had passed; simply that she had stopped caring about them. Miranda noticed that the gown she was wearing was embroidered with lilies and giggled inanely.
***
Gleame entered the room accompanied by two guards who waited patiently at the door. He shooed away the nurse and took her place at the foot of the bed. He had brought flowers and a long walnut box like a gun case.
Miranda could see crystalline tendrils of magic trailing from him in all directions.
His eyes flicked over her. “My poor, dear girl.
How do you fare?”
“I feel fantastic,” she burbled merrily.
Gleame inspected the empty vial by her side. “That potion is a powerful one, but its effects are short-lived.”
“I had strange dreams. Wonderful dreams. I danced with magic.”
“The apothecaries of the Verge specialise in concoctions that alter perception. Some are used for research… Miranda, it’s your well-being that matters to me.”
Because of your precious licences, Miranda thought, your monopoly.
“What day is it?”
“Ayrday.”
“Ayrday was yesterday.”
“You’ve been asleep for a week, recuperating. Her Grace has been informed of your injury.” Gleame seemed to be talking to the flowers. “I don’t know what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“Lucky me.”
“I promised Her Grace that I would keep you safe. She insists on speaking with you as soon as you are capable.”
Miranda marvelled at the jewels on Gleame’s walking stick. Their glister seemed to fill the room. “Where does magic come from?”
Gleame frowned. “Many places. You have worked the henge. There are institutions in other lands with similar facilities and, I imagine, many smaller ventures unknown to me. What do you remember of the accident?”
“No, before then, before people.” Miranda tried to focus on Gleame’s face. She noticed how smooth his skin was.
“Miranda, please! The accident?” Miranda felt the clammy grasp of fear. She remembered the explosion and her chest tightened.
“Stop the screaming!” she yelled.
“Screaming?” Gleame looked around, confused, waved for the nurse.
“The men around the box.”
“Ah. The technicians.” Gleame nodded gravely. “That was unfortunate. We lost one when the container sundered. He was struck by one panel, you by the other.” Another vial of medicine was poured down Miranda’s throat, and her chin stopped trembling, the remorse washed away. “A most regrettable incident. Do not worry, Miranda, the Convergence looks after its own. His family has been well compensated.”
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 21
