“Go to temple, keep praying for us.”
“What if it isn’t helping? What if it doesn’t work?”
“Don’t lose faith. Dance for the gods. Listen with your heart. You know it helps.”
She ducked her chin to hide her face. “I know.”
“Never give up, Anna. Never let them beat us.”
“My Lion.” Her soft embrace took his breath.
Anna went downstairs. Jon sat on the edge of Mother’s bed.
“What am I to do?” he asked her.
Mother had nothing to offer but wheezing.
Protect Anna and the baby. That was the most important thing. Jon finished cleaning Mother’s face. Then he stuffed some soapy rags into his nostrils, went up to the cap room and tried not to look at the sacks that held the bodies as he counted out coins from Barehill’s chest.
***
The heat of day was fading fast when Jon reached the Bell Jar. He eyed the changed tavern mistrustfully. There was a queue outside. Dishevelled men of all ages held weapons, makeshift and antique, and a new sign hung above the door – an orange-painted board, marked in the upper quadrant with a peacock feather trailed by three diamonds. It was the flag of a militia, newly formed.
“Wait your turn,” shouted a dirty-bearded peddler. Jon ignored him, and pushed his way inside.
The Bell Jar was the busiest he had ever seen it. Harriet dashed madly from table to table. She winked at Jon without pausing in her work. Raymond the innkeeper scowled from behind the bar as he dried a flagon with a grey-stained cloth. The tables had been rearranged like a royal court, and Peacock Matthew was its prince.
The bright feather of his hat bobbed excitedly as he conferred with a pair of censors. Norbury and Josephus! Jon made to exit but Big Shark jabbed a tattooed finger in his direction that fixed him to the spot. The censors turned and stared.
“Wait your turn, Miller,” the Peacock shouted imperiously. Whatever was happening, it looked suspiciously friendly for a meeting between censors and a gangster. Jon slouched over to the bar and ordered a half pint that he couldn’t afford.
The end of the bar had been requisitioned by a dour-faced man who wore the ribboned cap of a recruitment clerk. Jon watched as he took the names of ragged men, inspected their armaments and handed them a wedge of cheese and a pint in return for a signature. He wasn’t turning anyone away.
When the censors had finished with Matthew they shook his hand, which was the unlikeliest thing that Jon had ever seen, and then they came over to him. They pressed their knees into the back of his own, pinned him painfully to the bar.
“We’re watching you, Miller,” Josephus said and shoved him in the back.
The tavern door banged closed behind them.
“You can’t be everybody’s friend,” said Raymond the landlord.
“If you’d be so kind as to join us,” Peacock shouted, and ordered a round of gin petards. Jon picked up a stool, sat opposite Matthew and the Sharks.
“I’m sorry to hear about your lack of customers,” Matthew said, “but I’m afraid the week is up. I assume you’ve brought the keys to the mill. Hand them over and we can be friends again. I might even have a job for you now that you’re out of business. I’m in need of big men.” He grinned mischievously.
Jon swung his arm and the coin sack crunched onto the table.
“Are you taking the piss?” Big Shark said in a voice of gravel and broken glass.
“Five pounds.”
“In pennies and tuppences?” Matthew asked.
“Yes, as it happens.”
“Bugger me.” Matthew gazed at the bulging sack in wonder. “Been prising up floorboards? Mugging beggars?”
“Count it,” Jon demanded.
Even the Sharks shrivelled at the prospect. Peacock spun his hand in the air dismissively.
“Why bother. You’re an honest man. That’s your thing, isn’t it? Like my hat.” Matthew rocked back on his stool and flicked one of the cap feathers up so that it balanced above his head like an exclamation mark. “So where did you get it, then? All this lucre?” He searched Jon’s face for an answer. Jon could not tell if the villain was more amused or disappointed.
“I’ll be going now.” Jon rose to his feet, as Harriet set down the tray of gins with a wry smile.
“Sit down, Jon. A deal is a deal. I’ve no complaints. I’ll buy myself something nice with these coppers. A timepiece maybe.”
“A couple of censors?”
Peacock smirked. “Have some faith. You can’t buy justice in this land. Funnily enough, though, it turns out justice can buy me.”
“What did you tell them about the horse?”
Peacock feigned indignation. “You mistake me for a snitch. No sir, I have become a gentleman.”
Jon laughed aloud and took up his drink.
“I jest ye not. I have taken a commission from the Brotherhood of Censors to raise a company of double-armed men. I am now the colonel of the Trained Band of Turbulence.”
Jon almost sprayed his liquor. He choked on it instead.
“These excellent fellows by my side are my captains.” Big Shark pointed at the orange ribbons newly looped around his tattooed biceps. Littleshark waggled an orange cravat.
“The world’s becoming ridiculous,” Jon said, still coughing gin. “I expect it’ll be raining frogs by the end of the week.”
Matthew’s eyes twinkled. “We are living in dangerous times. The streets are plagued by gangs. Dissenters prowl at night, working mischief. There has been rioting in Lambourne, a manufactory damaged in Brightstowe.” He leaned forwards confidentially. “In Turbulence itself, a censor has gone missing. This is a time for patriotism, not jokes.”
Jon jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the wastrel recruits. They reminded him of Barehill’s men. “These men don’t care about the Dowager Duchess or the Unity any more than you do. They fight for bread and their families. What do the censors think you’re going to do with your infirm army anyway? Keep the peace?”
“I’ll admit I’ve a few scores to settle. Wylde’s gang has been encroaching. I’ve been meaning to make an example of him for a while. If there is trouble, it will only go to show how badly the Brotherhood need me.” For a moment, Matthew’s eyes took on a faraway look.
“Get too big for your boots and Gordon might get upset.” Jon had set that barb to rile, but Matthew just shook his head.
“Gordon’s a money man. We have an understanding.” He shot back his drink, reclined in satisfaction. “Let’s have another to celebrate your first payment and my promotion.”
Jon downed his shot and wiped his beard dry. “I’ll be going.”
“Don’t fancy the company? Don’t tell me our friendship is about nothing but money. I thought we had so much in common.”
Jon stared at him balefully. “You have my money, Matthew. I hope you enjoy the spending of it.”
The Peacock shrugged. “Money, luck, love. It all runs out, eventually.”
The mother of invention
Whispers and stares followed Miranda from the infirmary to Chairman Gleame’s chambers. The black shift she wore over her hospital gown could not hide her limp or the orderly who walked beside her, holding her elbow discreetly. Miranda hated being helped, but it would be worse to be seen to stumble or fall. She cursed the stiff, weak flesh of her uninjured leg that burned with every step, while its obsidian twin supported her weight with an effortless assurance.
Gleame’s guards, the same fellows as before, saluted her smartly as she entered his magnificent office. Fluted pillars, spiralled with quotations from important texts, supported its roof. Gilded sculptures of lions and goddesses were positioned tastefully around the room, deadlocked in a perpetual game of hide-and-seek. The seaward side, once a colonnade, had been sealed with a broad expanse of latticed glass. Playf
ul waves tapered towards a distant horizon.
Set before the panoramic window were two high-backed chairs, black and gold, and between them a drinks table. Gleame sat in one of them, contemplating the horizon and swirling a cerise wine in gold-lipped crystal.
“Miranda, Ward of the Grand Duchess of the Wrekin and the North,” the orderly intoned with calculated deference. Miranda signalled for him to leave and approached the grandmaster gingerly. The pain in her thigh flamed.
“Quite a spectacle,” she said.
“On a clear day you can make out the peaks of Ellan Vannin.” Gleame set down his glass and pointed seaward. Either his eyes were sharper than Miranda’s or she was looking in the wrong direction.
“I’ve heard the island is beautiful.”
“I considered it as an alternative for the Convergence, many years ago. How are you feeling, my dear? Is the device comfortable?”
“I’m getting used to it.”
He rose from his seat and took Miranda’s arm, led her between his antiquities to one of the many small alcoves that lined the walls, and drew aside the fur-lined curtain that screened it.
A full-length portrait of Her Grace hung inside. The duchess smiled gamely from a bucolic garden paradise where white harts frolicked with unicorns and scarlet birds with trailing tails sailed across a cloudless sky.
Miranda leaned closer, tilted her head from side to side. “Such a likeness is impossible. It’s as if I look upon her reflection. Is this a painting?” She reached to touch it.
Gleame stayed her hand. “Please. It’s a tapestry, woven from your mother’s hair and extremely fragile.”
Miranda looked more closely. It was true. The sheen of the weave shifted like water.
“What is it for?”
“Communion.”
“Like a hekamaphone?”
“The hekamaphone is designed for the modern world. This is ancient cunning. Unique. In many ways totally impractical.”
“It’s beautiful,” Miranda said.
“That too,” Gleame said with a hint of nostalgia.
He took a candle and small pair of scissors, plucked a wispy white hair from his brow and without asking snipped a raven one from hers. Fascinated, she did not think to complain. He twisted them together into a tiny braid which he burnt in candle flame, captured the smoke in a douter and sucked it into his cheeks. The room filled with a sickly sweet aroma as he puffed his cheeks and blew onto the tapestry with pursed lips.
A moment of hanging stillness, then the surface of the tapestry writhed and whispered, made an itchy, rustling sound as the countryside image of her mother was lost in a confusion of colour. Miranda gasped in wonder as it resolved into an image so lifelike it seemed more like a portal than a vision.
Miranda had never been invited inside it, but she immediately knew from the golden hue of the masonry and the beautiful objects all around that what she saw was Her Grace’s private office.
In its centre stood Her Grace, dressed in her full finery. The ribbons in her hair, rosette at her bust and abundance of pearls that edged her collar battled ambitiously for attention. She also wielded a sizable fan. Her demeanour seemed that of a potentate being kept from an important negotiation, but she always had that look about her. The sounds of a party could be heard in the background, gay laughter and the chinking of glasses, but Miranda could tell she had the duchess’s full attention.
Miranda’s governess, dressed in simple black and white, stood in the background, anxiously twisting a handkerchief.
Miranda curtsied formally, though the movement brought tears to her eyes. “Your Grace.”
“My dearest Miranda, thank the gods. It is such a joy to see you with my own eyes.” The hairs of the tapestry made a dry sound as the duchess’s lips moved, adding a breathless quality to her voice.
“I am honoured,” Miranda said.
“Tell me the truth of what happened. Leave out not the slightest detail.”
“I caused an accident. The injury that I sustained will serve as a reminder to be more careful in the future.”
“Injury! What happened to you is a disgrace! Show me the wound.”
Miranda coughed pointedly and Gleame turned away as she raised the hem of her gown to her knees. Her governess blanched. What a squeamish woman, Miranda thought.
“Gustaf Gleame, what have you done?” the duchess thundered. “You promised me that Miranda would be safe.”
Gleame’s face writhed as if every feature was trying to avoid the duchess’s gaze.
“Your Grace,” Miranda said, “if anyone other than myself was at fault they have already paid in full. A man was lost to the Convergence as a result of my error.”
The duchess’s pearls twitched irritatedly on her chest. “Lost or killed? What kind of a man? Assure me that you were never in such danger.” She fluttered her fan furiously.
“Never. The grandmaster holds my safety amongst his highest concerns.”
“I am profoundly distraught by the whole affair,” Gleame said.
“So you should be. This whole incident strikes me as very peculiar. And Miranda – it is so unlike you to be involved in trouble.”
Miranda caught her governess’s eye and the woman winked at her. Miranda turned back to her mother, confused by the familiarity. The duchess’s eyes narrowed.
“We must get you home at once.”
“If it pleases Your Grace, I would prefer to serve you here,” Miranda said, and was shocked by how miserable the mere suggestion of leaving the Convergence made her feel.
The duchess nodded approvingly then turned to Miranda’s governess. “You have seen that she is safe. Unless Miranda has something she wishes to say to you now, return to your duties.” Miranda stared at the duchess, nonplussed and shrugged. The governess bowed deeply and, as she departed, blew Miranda a kiss. Astonished, Miranda wondered what the woman was thinking.
“Gleame tells me that you are very talented, says that you may become a master in time.”
Miranda dragged her attention back to her mother. “That is certainly my ambition. If it serves to please.”
“Then focus on your work. I expect great things.” The duchess turned to the chairman. “Gleame – do not disappoint me again.”
“Never,” he declared.
“Now, if you will excuse us, I require a moment alone with my ward.” The chairman nodded sagely and patted Miranda on the shoulder as he left the antechamber. The duchess beckoned. “Daughter, come nearer.”
Miranda leaned close to the tapestry, squeamishly afraid that its wriggling hairs would tickle her face. “Mother,” she whispered.
“Finally we can talk like human beings.”
“Thank the gods.”
“How are you truly? Is it all as you described?”
“I look like a plum under this gown. I suppose I was lucky to avoid worse.”
“And yet you protect Gleame’s reputation. I wager you’ve made an arrangement with him, you clever girl. Tell me more of your work.”
“It’s exciting, interesting. They ask a lot of me, but I am capable.” More than capable, she thought. “I am developing a new form of cunning.”
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s changing the way I conceive of the world.”
“Are you lonely? Should I send your handmaiden?”
“Gods, no.” They both laughed.
“How about your governess? You have always been so close.” That was true, as far as Miranda could remember, but the intimacy seemed inappropriate now, childish.
“I have grown out of her, I suppose.” Miranda knew why, and felt a sudden need to change the subject. “Mother, how does our cause proceed?”
“The Wise Council does nothing but bicker and delay. The ministers know that they need a leader but the southern barons begrudge
the power of the North. My spies are hard at work, changing minds. I will be appointed before the year is out. The endless politicking bores me.”
Miranda smirked; her mother loved politics more than any other vice.
“Tell me about your liaisons. I understand the eldest of the younger Lavetys is at the Convergence also. Have you spent much time with him?”
The word ‘Lavety’ provoked a cold unease. The events of the past week had pushed Adrian’s vendetta from Miranda’s mind completely, but now the images of blood and gore rushed back. She needed to be cautious. Mother had asked the question for a reason.
“We have little in common,” she said hesitantly.
“Nonsense. You went to Alchester together, and you are both from important families. What matters more than that? One day a Lavety could be your husband.”
Miranda swallowed the vile response that had leaped into the base of her throat. “I have dined with him, Your Grace.”
“Good. The Lavetys are important allies. Keep in his favour. Anyone else?”
“There’s a boy I like, but I think he just wants to be friends.”
The duchess snorted in amusement. “An armiger? Of good blood?”
“New money, but I find value in his company.”
“He’s handsome, then?”
“Practically burnished.”
Her Grace bellowed. That was her true laugh, rarely heard. “I trust you’re being careful.” Miranda thought of her leg and laughed as well, raising one of Her Grace’s finely plucked brows. Miranda grinned broadly.
“How about you?”
“Young lady! Your impudence is astounding. You know I have no time for the petty nobles of the Unity. Now pay attention, what I said to Gleame was true. If you were to gain a seat on the Convocation – that would be of great value to me.”
“I know. I will do my best, as I love Your Grace.”
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 23
