He kicked the door of the abandoned townhouse, sending it sliding across splintery joists to tumble into a half-exposed basement, and capered across a treacherous framework of rotting floorboards to the remains of the manor’s staircase. He climbed cautiously, grasping at newels, wedging his wide feet between the balusters.
Storey by storey the smell of smoke grew stronger. He clambered onto the roof through a gaping hole and shuffled across loose red tiles to gain a vantage point beside an unsteady chimney.
One of Bromwich’s gigantic manufactories was ablaze. Gouts of flame jetted from its tall windows. Its sails made great wheels of fire in the sky and around them scraps of blackened cloth, peeled from the rigging, swirled in the air like a flock of monstrous starlings.
Jon stood slack-jawed, paralysed by wonder and terror.
A crowd of hapless men, ant small and silent in the distance, threw buckets of water at the inferno. Futile, Jon thought. Taming such a blaze was impossible. The manufactory crested a ridge, and the magical breeze that had once powered its sails now acted as a bellows, making an oven of the building.
He heard a distant crack, like a rifle shot, as a top-floor window exploded and sent a cascade of glass showering onto the crowd below. The heat of the fire, Jon thought, but then a man leapt from the aperture, his arms flailing as he plummeted. Another followed. Then a couple appeared at the precipice and joined hands. Jon shouted at them to stop, that the fall was certain death. They leapt before his words had finished and the pair disappeared from view.
Nobody deserved to die like that. Jon’s anger reached for someone to blame. He raged at the unknown fool who had caused the fire. The manufactory owners might have ruined him, but he had nothing against the men and women who worked for them. Then he remembered the firebombs he had seen in Barehill’s secret base, and vomited over the roof tiles.
A ragtag gang of ruffians awaited Jon on the street. They were armed with picks and staves, wore the orange ribbons of the Trained Band of Turbulence. Bill was their prisoner. He glanced nervously at Jon from their midst. A muscle-bound militiaman held Jon’s sack of coin.
“What do you lot want?” Jon shouted as he picked his way out of the crumbling townhouse.
The patrol’s portly captain waved his antique crossbow in Jon’s direction.
“That sack of coin belongs to the Peacock,” Jon said.
“Damn right it does, and you can help us deliver it. You’re coming with us, to Temple Place.”
“For what reason?”
“Partly because Colonel Peacock requires your audience. Mostly because huntress here says so.” The captain slapped the stock of his crossbow carelessly, and Jon flinched, half expecting the quarrel to shoot into his guts.
Chains of command
The creak of floorboards overhead informed Daniel that he was no longer alone. He kept his breathing shallow and silent, watched from inside the timber framework as a man descended the long stairs to the rough earthen floor of the wine cellar, and hoped that his long wait was over.
Shadows danced on the walls as a lanthorn swayed in the visitor’s hand. Its light receded into the rows of casks and stills, was raised to head height to the locker whose brass plaque was engraved with the name ‘Edmund Sutton’. A shadow unlocked its cross-hatched door and took out a bottle, squeaked free the cork, tipped out the tightly rolled scroll hidden inside.
It has to be Corbin. Daniel clicked his tongue in mimicry of a drip. The flame was extinguished with a sharp puff and, in its dying light, Daniel saw the shadow duck and roll aside. He grinned in the darkness. It felt good to have caught the devil unawares. He clicked his tongue once again, louder, to let Corbin know exactly where he hid. The bastard tapped him on the back of the shoulder.
“What are you doing, boy?” Corbin whispered.
“Master Bolb – he tried to kill me.”
“Has your cover slipped?” Daniel thought he heard a blade being drawn. He shook his head and then realised that the gesture was invisible in the dark.
“He didn’t see my face.”
“So why are we meeting?”
“We have to change the plan. It’s too dangerous.”
Corbin chuckled gently. “I warned you it would be like this. You’re afraid, that’s all.”
“No I’m not,” Daniel lied.
“One day you’ll recognise this sort of fear as your best friend. It keeps the mind sharp. More importantly, it means we’re on the right track. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Bolb’s working with someone else.”
“How do you know?”
“He met with another man. Someone old.”
“Old? For fuck’s sake, boy!”
“They talked about your summons. He’s guilty, Corbin.”
“What if he is? I still don’t know of what, or why.”
“I’d bet my life on it.”
“You did that already.”
“I can’t follow Bolb again; he’ll be looking. We have to try something else.”
Daniel waited, heel to haunch, while Corbin considered his options. “Alright then, change of plan. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll interview him late at night. Be polite and boring. Kill him with detail. Take hours. I won’t learn a thing, of course, not from the likes of him. Not without knowing what I’m looking for.”
“I don’t understand.”
“While I’m questioning him I want you to burgle his room.”
“Burgle?” Daniel squeaked.
“Search it. And no one can know, not even Gleame.”
“What about Lang?”
“Fuck Lang.”
“You want me to burgle the master who constructed the mechanical owls that watch the border with Erdin?”
“That was him, was it?” Corbin sounded impressed.
“Why don’t you just perform an inquisition?”
“Of a master’s room, on your hearsay? Bolb would make it political. Insist on a warrant. By the time I had one, he would have removed the evidence and I would be left looking an eejit. My plan is better. It’s a good plan. Don’t allow fear to cloud your mind. Focus.”
Daniel twitched as Corbin patted him on the shoulder. Patronising bastard. You aren’t the one risking your life, he thought, and felt his scorched and torn hand throbbing in the dark. “I’m not afraid, but Bolb has machines that move and kill. Anything could be waiting for me in his chamber. He knows that he’s watched. The risks are too high.”
“You asked for my trust, Edmund, now earn it.”
Daniel felt nothing more than a fleeting breeze as Corbin’s presence dissolved into the darkness.
***
“What should I do?” Daniel said.
The magistrate’s words susurrated in the hekamaphone’s horn. “You have done well to gain Corbin’s confidence. He seems keen to take risks. Reckless even. This investigation is more than sensitive. One might almost imagine that he puts our good relationship with the Honourable Company at risk deliberately.”
“Corbin seems determined to expose the guilty at any cost,” Daniel said.
“That is his way,” Lang said, as if in agreement. “I cannot overrule him in this investigation without good reason, especially on a matter I am supposed to know nothing about. Be careful. Do not underestimate Bolb’s power, temporal or arcane. He is a very clever man, one of the Convergence’s founders. I wish I had more helpful advice to offer.”
Daniel remembered the eyes of Bolb’s creations searching for him in the underworld. “Have your investigations uncovered anything?”
“There’s nothing in our files on Bolb, but I do not have a file on everything,” Lang said. “From what you say it seems more and more likely that there are traitors within the Verge, but, as I have said, Bolb is a powerful man. We cannot move against him without evidence that is…
puissant.” Lang emphasised the foreign-sounding word. Daniel guessed that it meant the good stuff.
“Then maybe Corbin is right; it would be best to search Bolb’s room before we make an accusation.”
“Only if you don’t get caught. Only if there is something to find.” Lang’s hesitation betrayed his deliberation. “Your bravery is not in question, Daniel, but this is a task that would challenge the most skilled of brothers.”
“I will not fail,” Daniel said, and immediately regretted it.
“It is a grave thing you will attempt.”
“I know.”
“If you find anything of importance then I must learn of it first.”
“Yes sir.”
“I should have equipped you with poison. It was a foolish oversight.”
“Poison?”
“You told me that Corbin refused the pistol I sent him with the dispensations. I want you to take it with you.”
“Surely you don’t want me to take up arms against a master?”
“Don’t be absurd – it is for your own sake. I would not like to see you suffer unnecessarily. I’m sure it won’t happen, but if capture becomes unavoidable, a shot to the head would be best. Do not fire the gun inside your mouth – that cripples as often as it kills. Aim for your temple or the bridge of your nose. Escape will be painless that way.”
Up the beach
Miranda wandered between the piles of books and randomly placed furniture that filled her new room. She was fully absorbed by a soapstone covered in small triangular scratches almost invisible to the naked eye, but clear and crisp through the long-handled magnifying eyeglass that she wielded in her rune-decorated glove. The script was well preserved and mostly legible, simple and beautiful.
She cast the stone onto the glowing coals of her altar and watched the offering blacken as it surrendered to the flames.
She considered the unfinished luxury of her new chambers while her experiment unfolded. The air was thick with the smell of varnish and lavender. Mirrored tiles glittered on the walls like seams of jewels. A voluminous bookshelf, an alchemist’s brewery, a draughtsman’s easel and a sacrificial altar, the prices still chalked on their sides, waited for arrangement according to her instruction.
Her attention snapped back to the stone on the altar as a geyser of wild magic burst from the flames. Miranda selected one of the sparkling motes, studied it as it drifted aimlessly across the room like a dandelion seed. She adopted a mystic pose and compelled the magic to submit to her will, holding it motionless in the air. She made it dance awhile and then released it with a finger-shake and a word, watched it fade into some other realm.
She grinned like a fool.
Edmund was right. Cunning was her calling. A cackle of delight burst unbidden from her throat – the laugh of a mad old lady. She covered her mouth in horror and hoped that nobody had heard.
A polite cough informed her otherwise. Her factotum and maidservant had returned. She ignored them and tried to remember in which of the Verge’s tomes she had seen a similar phenomenon described. Was it Ghayat Picatrix? Sefer Raziel?
She retrieved the stone from the fire with a pair of tongs. Just as she had expected, another script had appeared upon its surface; the letters glowed a dull red.
She waved her magnifying lorgnette in the air absentmindedly. “It is an amulet – for protection and good fortune, dedicated by a wealthy lady to a soldier. Probably her son.” Her staff smiled pleasantly. Vacantly. I might as well be talking about the weather, she thought, and set the tablet aside with a sigh. “It is so very wonderful, you see.”
“Milady, if I may…” her factotum began.
She shushed him. It was the first time she had seen them wearing the uniforms she had designed, sharp-cut, grey-black and lined with red brocade. He was very handsome, the equal of any courtier in Ebarokon, stood with a bandmaster’s poise. Her ward-sisters would be terribly jealous. The maidservant was a head-turner as well. Tender. She blushed demurely as Miranda smoothed down her lapel. They made a startlingly pretty pair, exactly as Miranda had hoped. Beautiful twins would have been even better, but none were available.
“The Verge’s tailors deserve their reputation. Is my robe ready?” she asked as if she didn’t care, though frankly she couldn’t wait to see it. The factotum presented a ribbon-tied box and awaited her instruction. “Leave it on the settle by the door. I’ll try it on later.” He clicked his heels together. Miranda flapped at his feet with irritation. “Less of that.”
She hobbled quickly to her easel, more from habit than the slight pain in her leg, and signed a scroll that hung from it. “This is a list of books I require from the library.” The young girl took the paper and curtsied with a grace that testified to endless years of practice, swollen ankles and sore knees. Miranda remembered it well. “And the room is still a little bare; it needs more flowers. I want roses.”
The maid chasséd from the room. Miranda thought that she would like to watch her dance. She would ask her to sometime.
“Milady…” the factotum started again.
“What is the rarest drink in the buttery?”
“Merret.” Miranda didn’t recognise the appellation, and raised an eyebrow for more information.
“It is a recent invention, milady – a scientific beverage, popular at parties.”
“Why so?”
“It’s terribly expensive.”
“Is that all?”
“The bottles make a report when opened, and it has bubbles.”
“How delightful. Buy all of it, and the next shipment in advance. Induce a drought of Merret.” The factotum nodded his approval. “One other thing – no visitors without appointments.”
“Milady...” The man would not be denied.
“What is it?”
“Does that include Master Sutton?”
She surprised herself with a blush. “Why do you ask?”
“He awaits downstairs.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Tell the guards to permit him to the Masters’ Quarters... No!” She scampered for the dress box by the door. “Make him wait ten more minutes – fifteen.”
She dashed to her bedroom, injury forgotten.
***
“How do I look?” Miranda pirouetted as best she could, and her robe spun charcoal, silver and red.
“Beautiful.” Edmund Sutton spoke flatly, his hat in one hand, an unremarkable bouquet of flowers in the other. His blond hair was a mess. The bottom button of his high-waisted doublet was undone. For some reason he was wearing gloves.
“Pathetic,” Miranda snapped, and stormed over to him, a flapping fury of new silks. “I don’t care how much you drank last night. Pay me proper attention and try again. And avoid clichés.”
His brow furrowed in concentration. “Magisterial?”
That was better than she had expected.
“And how do you like it?”
“It’s slightly terrifying. It makes you look like a master.”
“Precisely. This is a statement of intent.” She beamed with joy and ran her hands down her sides. He looked confused. “Attire so magnificent that my promotion becomes inevitable. Creating the right impression is half the battle won.” She stood coquettishly, hands on hips, inviting him to inspect her. There was no doubt in her mind that he was impressed.
“I won’t ask what it cost.”
“Nothing compared to this.” She went to her new altar, taking her weight on her enchanted leg and kicking back her heels to show off a pair of new crocodile boots. “A stele from the Tophet of Qart-Hadath.” She drummed on the dark-stained rock with her hands.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Edmund said. He was adorable sometimes. If only he were a little smarter. “I see you’re limping a little. I feared worse.”
Annoyed that he had noticed
, Miranda waved the comment away.
“Would you like some Merret? I have some coming.”
“Are we celebrating something? Your recovery?”
“I made a breakthrough this morning. In translation.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Edmund inspected the broad parchment that hung on her draughtsman’s easel. He read from it. “Ambergail of Thurwell. Charlotte Mouser. The rain it doth rain.” He half sang the song’s title. “I know that one. Louise Smith. It’s all gibberish.”
Miranda wondered how frequently he embarrassed himself with foolish comments and shook her head in an attempt to forestall another. It didn’t work.
“I know! You attempt to describe a dream. But then why are some of the phrases crossed out?” That wasn’t quite so dim-witted a guess, she supposed, but still utterly wrong. Miranda ushered Edmund aside and covered her writings with a linen sheet.
“They are ideas to base constructs on. For my demonstrations.” He didn’t seem to understand. “It’s a list of memories that I can live without.”
“I hope I’m not on there,” Edmund said.
“Not yet,” she said gaily. “The tally includes friends who do nothing but criticise. Melodies that I loathe but cannot forget. Heartbreaks. Dead pets. New Year’s presents. You would be in poor company.”
“You dislike getting presents at New Year?” Edmund said, his mouth upturned in wry amusement.
“Always. I never know what I want, and I’m terribly disappointed when I don’t get it.”
He laughed at that, and it was a lovely laugh, deep and honest. “You’re using memories to trap magic. Instead of shapes.”
“Emotions are powerful and complex. Described accurately, even more so. Imagine the mathematics of love. The map of a friendship.”
He mulled the concept over and turned serious, quizzical. “When you turn these memories into constructs, do you forget them? I mean the moments and people, entirely?”
“Oh no. They just become disassociated.”
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 25
