The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy

by A. M. Steiner

“I’m so sorry.”

  He pulled his chair alongside her bed. “Dear Miranda, the fault was not yours. There is nothing wrong with your construct. It is magnificent. The holding device was simply not strong enough to contain it. The technicians underestimated its power, and one of them paid the price.”

  Miranda wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m tired.”

  Gleame stood. “I have spoken for too long. I should let you rest.”

  He couldn’t wait to be gone, Miranda realised. “What’s in the wooden box?” she asked.

  Gleame lifted its lid. Inside, nestled in a cushion of silk, lay a leg, life-sized and sleek, obsidian black, crafted from metal, wood and leather. Its surface was as smooth as lacquer, but cold to the touch. A vein of silver marquetry ran down its side.

  They mean for me to wear it, Miranda thought, and knew that she ought to be horrified. She tried to be, but she couldn’t. The leg was perfect, beautiful.

  “It is the least I can do.” Gleame put the half limb clumsily back inside the box. He looked genuinely upset.

  Miranda rested her head on her pillow and retreated into darkness.

  ***

  The next time, Miranda was better prepared.

  “How many days?” she asked sleepily, to put him off his guard.

  “Two,” Gleame said. “The nurse says you slept like the Dreamer.”

  “I should return to my studies,” she said, so that he would know that she did not intend to leave.

  “Miranda!”

  “And I wish to discuss the accident,” so that he knew he was not forgiven.

  By now, he could tell that she was trying to manipulate him, he just didn’t know why.

  “It seems your faculties are intact, and let us thank the gods for that, but you should be resting, not worrying yourself.”

  “I made a construct.”

  “An understatement,” Gleame said.

  “And it holds?”

  Gleame nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  “How?”

  “Master Somney foresaw the danger of its power. He had the presence of mind to shield your construct within a simpler one of his own. It was a temporary solution, but it bought us enough time to save the magic you captured. Somney hates to leave money on the table.”

  “You sold it?”

  “The device commanded an enormous sum. The bidding was a marvel.”

  “To whom?”

  “An overseas buyer.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Northmen seek to establish a forge at Giron. There is iron in the hills there, but precious little forest. In winter the sun barely crests the horizon, and then only for a few hours. Your construct is to power the bellows of the forge and the glow-stones of the town and mine. It is a fascinating project. I negotiated a share of the profits in addition to the price.”

  “We sell devices to Northmen now?” Miranda said, imagining a raiding ship powered by magic.

  “The Wise Council believes that if their minds can be turned to industry it might curtail their enthusiasm for war.”

  “Really?”

  “Let us focus on the most important matter – your health.”

  Miranda swung her legs, the real and the artificial, over the side of the bed and tried to stand. She balanced on her real foot, grasped the mattress with both hands.

  “That which remains of me is in rude health.”

  “The duchess wishes to hear it from you, directly.”

  Miranda let the contraption attached to her left thigh slowly take her weight, nervous that the inexplicable suction that held it in place would not be strong enough. It was, and the pressure on her wound did not hurt as much as she had expected. She gasped in surprise at the coldness of the floor, felt through toes that were not of her body.

  “I will inform her that I have grown rich from Northmen’s gold.”

  Gleame coughed uncomfortably.

  “What?”

  “It’s not so simple. All of the work you do here is the property of the Convergence.”

  “What!”

  “The Honourable Company is a partnership. The masters alone share in its profits.”

  “I get nothing?” It was barely a question; the answer was so predictable.

  “Most demi-masters struggle to cover the cost of their wages and lodging. The matter never arose before.”

  “I’m not sure which will offend Her Grace more, the carelessness of this establishment in allowing my injury, or this further insult.”

  Gleame flinched. Miranda’s reproachful gaze invited a better offer.

  “I cannot change the rules of the Convergence, only a Convocation of Masters could do that, and then not retrospectively.”

  “What do they think of this state of affairs?”

  “We have an interesting debate on our hands. It appears you have broken the system. Master Somney thinks you are genius, on the brink of developing a completely new type of cunning. I am sure he would be willing to give you his share of the profits.”

  “What about Talon?”

  “Talon thinks you are a threat to our traditions, a liability. So does Gahst.”

  “The others?”

  “Most want to know more about you, to see your work first-hand. Many do not believe what happened, or suspect luck rather than skill.”

  “And what about you, Chairman?”

  His eyes lit up. “Our approach has always been to become more like magic, unworldly. Your approach is very experimental, not at all what I expected. I always assumed that female magic would be homely, but it works magnificently. That is all that matters. I established the Convergence to allow magic to develop unfettered, free of rules and regulations. You are a vindication of my approach.”

  “A vindication?” Miranda winced as she manoeuvred back onto the bed.

  “I would see you overcome this mishap. I would see you set on the fastest possible path to greatness. I would move you upstairs. Assign you a master’s chamber. Afford you dedicated staff. Unrestricted access to the library.”

  “All of the trappings of a master but not the position,” Miranda clarified, as if those things could make up for an amputation.

  “Miranda, achieving the position of a master takes years. Decades. Not a few weeks.”

  “I accept your offer.”

  “Excellent,” Gleame warbled, unbalanced by the speed of her response.

  “On one condition.”

  “A condition?”

  “Adrian Lavety.” From the look on Gleame’s face, she realised that she must have said his name with a little too much spite.

  “His father is a dear friend of mine,” Gleame said defensively.

  “Of course, yet the Convergence is far from his father’s demesne.”

  “The Lavetys are an important family,” Gleame said warily.

  “Almost royalty, but not quite. Not like the duchess.” Though I cannot be sure that she would support what I am about to say.

  “What do you expect of me?”

  “I simply want to be sure that the rules of the game are fair.”

  “What game?”

  “You have seen that I am the most capable of the demi-masters.”

  “You are very talented.”

  “And have made the greatest sacrifice of us all. When the time comes, when a seat comes free on the Convocation, it should be the most talented whom you propose for the vacancy. We can both agree on that, surely.” Gleame stared at her and then his face cleared and she knew a veil had been lifted, and that he saw her clearly for the first time. You could almost say that he looked proud of her. “The idea that I have been gravely injured, chasing only an illusion, would distress my mother deeply,” Miranda added, and then worried that she had overcooked it.

  “What if the duc
hess insists on your return to Ebarokon?”

  “We cannot allow her to hold this unfortunate incident against the Company, to use it as an excuse to revise the terms of our licences. I will not let that happen. I will set her mind at ease on all matters.”

  Gleame pursed his lips.

  “I cannot guarantee your election. That is a matter for the Convocation of Masters. I can only make the proposal.”

  “Of course.”

  Gleame’s cane tip-tapped on the ground as he thought. Then he smiled a narrow smile and bowed sharply, from the neck, as befitted a powerful man.

  “Good,” Miranda said. “I will let the duchess know how well I am treated, as soon as I am well enough.”

  Gleame signalled to the nurse that Miranda was free to be discharged and left with his guards. The pain in Miranda’s thigh returned as the steady click of his cane receded, but it could not prise the smile from her lips.

  Making amends

  A fist hammered on the mill’s door.

  Jon stared deep into the fire dancing in the hearth. His fingers clawed around the arms of the chair in which he’d sat all night, praying and thinking of what to say to Anna. The words still hadn’t come.

  The fist hammered again, authoritative and implacable. It isn’t Peacock’s men, or the door would already be off its hinges. Anna sighed and wandered over from the pantry, dressed for temple and cradling the baby. She opened the door to a pair of censors. It was all that Jon could do to turn his head.

  The taller was fair and wiry, chisel-faced with a scar that travelled from brow to jaw. His companion was dark and stout, in a hard way, with a chest like a brandy barrel. They were sweltering in their heavy uniforms and iron hats, and looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

  “Mistress Miller,” the stout one said, “I am Brother Norbury. Will you have us in?” Before Anna had a chance to answer, his companion pushed past her and made a quick reconnaissance of the hall.

  “Brother Josephus,” he said, and with equal certainty. “You know why we’re here.” Anna shook her head a little too quickly.

  Norbury said, “Brother Nielsen left the seminary last night. Came here to drop off some effects. The property of a Daniel Miller.”

  Josephus bent to look under a piece of furniture. “He left a note in the logbook. Immaculate handwriting has Brother Nielsen.”

  “He didn’t return.” Norbury removed his helmet and ran his hand across his shaved head. He stared at Anna until she turned her face away in fear, then searched Jon’s for an answer. “We are investigating.”

  “Tell me what happened between yourself and Brother Nielsen.”

  Anna started to babble incoherently. Norbury raised his hand to slow her. She gulped and calmed herself. “It was like you said. He came by, dropped off Daniel’s things, then left.”

  “That all?”

  “We talked awhile. I asked for his advice on a private matter.”

  “Private, eh? What about you, Mister Miller? According to our reports, Brother Nielsen had a run-in with you a few days back.”

  Jon had nothing to say.

  “He was out all night – drinking,” Anna said.

  The lanky censor stood over Jon with crossed arms. “Look at you, all covered in sweat. You must be the only man in Bromwich with a fire lit.”

  Anna mimed the draining of several flagons.

  “Big night, was it? Care to tell me where you were?”

  Before Jon had a chance to answer, the beanpole chortled and returned to his companion’s side. “I’ll take confession, you be beholder.”

  “Is there to be an inquisition?” Shock and fear fought for control of Anna’s face.

  “We haven’t the time, nor the men to spare,” Norbury said. “A convoy was ambushed on the road to Baembra this morning. Men were shot and gunpowder stolen. We’d best be out looking for it. Nevertheless, there are rules to be followed when a brother disappears. A quick confession will be enough. Where was it that you spoke to Brother Nielsen?”

  Anna pointed and the censor drew a symbol on the floor with a chalk from his pouch.

  Jon had never seen a confession taken before. He decided that he needed to leave the room, and quickly.

  Jon called after Josephus in a cracked voice. “You’ll need keys, for the padlocks, and help moving the equipment in the mill tower.” The censor summoned him with a wave and he followed up the stairs.

  The censor searched the bedrooms first, made his apologies to Mother Miller, though she made no reaction when he came into her room.

  Jon’s fists were locked and his mind raced. As they got closer to the mill tower, the smell of blood flooded his nostrils and he wondered why the censor could not smell it also. He fought to keep his breathing steady and his heart still. Daniel had said the censors were trained to notice these things.

  Censor Josephus ducked under a low beam and slid down the steps to the loading bay. Jon sucked in air noisily as the censor began to work his way around the room, peering inside bags and under canvases. Soon he stood over the pile of sacks in the loading bay.

  “Give me a hand with these.” The censor grinned mercilessly. Jon started to lift them slowly to the side.

  “Not very fit for a miller, are you?” The beanpole tossed them as casually as street urchins into the back of a prison carriage. To Jon the empty bags seemed to weigh two hundred pounds. The censor shifted aside the last of the sacks and saw lumps under the canvas. “She seems a little nervous, your wife.” He grasped the double sheet by the corners.

  “She doesn’t know anything about anything,” Jon blurted, and inwardly cursed at the implication that he did.

  “Is that right?” Norbury flung the sheets aside and the phantom stench of slaughter returned to Jon’s mind. The censor dug his boots into the piles of straw which lay beneath. He looked disappointed. “Why don’t we have a peek upstairs?”

  Jon looked up at the trapdoor in the ceiling through which he had hoisted the bodies and prayed to the Father for the courage to continue.

  They went up to the stone floor. The censor talked as he searched.

  “I knew a man once, lived off Slainey Street. His wife was a wash maid, none too bright, but loyal as a dog.”

  “Right,” Jon said, unsure where the story was going.

  “He had a limp, or feigned one. Liked to wear a half mask. I’d see him hanging round the square in front of All-Saints, late at night and looking shifty. When things went missing from the great bazaar or a lady’s purse was snatched, more than often the man they described was the same. Thing was, I could never prove it was him – make the connection. No matter how many times I forced him to empty his pockets, I never found anything on him. His wife complained to my superior about ‘harassment’. Claimed he was an honest man.”

  The beanpole stood tall, levelled eyes with Jon.

  “Now I don’t like that kind of thing – people wasting my time and making me look stupid, so I made an effort. One day, I saw him pass his wife in the street; she was bringing some dirty linen from High Town to the laundry. He gave her a hug. The next day, same thing happened. That time I followed her, searched the basket after she dropped it off. Know what I found?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Jon was getting a migraine.

  “Coins. A diamond earring. A cufflink made of gold.”

  “Justice Advances,” Jon said.

  “Exactly. She swore blind she didn’t know a thing about it and so did he, but I can’t say I didn’t smile when I hanged the both of them.”

  The censor stood by the misshapen, canvas-wrapped lump that rested against the millstone, the only object on the stone floor whose purpose wasn’t obvious. Jon wondered if the censor was biding his time on purpose, to compound his misery.

  “What have we got here?” Josephus drew a knife from his belt and lifted the edge of t
he canvas.

  “Anna doesn’t know.”

  The carousel horse seemed to glow with delight at being discovered. The censor turned on Jon triumphantly.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got a licence for this? Paid the taxes, have you? Didn’t think so. I could smell it on you, the guilt. I have a nose for it.”

  Norbury shouted up from downstairs, “I’ve taken confession, seen all. It’s as she said. Brother Nielsen spoke with the wife and then left.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve found up here, Brother. It reminds me of that time we found the missing racehorse at the knacker’s yard.”

  Josephus gesticulated at Jon with his knife. “I can’t imagine what the fine for this will be. Substantial, I warrant. Let’s hope it’s not stolen. I’ll be back soon, for further investigation. Don’t even think about absconding – I would consider that a prevention of justice.”

  The censor hopped backwards and slid like a sailor down the stair rail.

  Jon lifted his chin and stared at the trapdoor to the cap room, behind which the strongbox of coins lay next to the bodies of Kareem and the censor, entwined in a rotting embrace.

  The gods had been merciful. He had been spared.

  He patted the carousel horse on the forelock, and it seemed, as he lowered himself down the ladder, that in some indefinable way it was smiling at him.

  ***

  Anna was in Mother’s bedroom, stripping bedclothes and giving her a bed bath.

  Jon embraced her. For a while they just stood, brow on brow, his hand cupped behind her head, the baby between them. Then she pulled away gently.

  “That was terrifying,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “The tall one said they’d be back. What did he mean? Did you tell them about the Peacock?”

  Jon wiped the sweat from his brow. “You did well, Anna. You’re my rock.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  He shook his head.

  “I can’t help if you won’t talk to me. You scared me this morning, in that chair. You looked like a corpse.”

  He saw himself as she had seen him, useless and despairing and his mouth filled with the black taste of self-disgust. He wanted to tell her everything, about the dead bodies in the cap, the cache of Freeborn’s money, to show her the mark that Barehill burnt into his chest. His conscience dared him to. He saw Kareem dying. The censor dying. Laila’s advice came back to him: It’s better if she doesn’t know. The murderess was right.