She forced herself.
“The rocks.” They looked like countless jagged teeth, the greedy jumble of a shark’s black maw, sucking her down.
“That which frightens you distracts you from the real danger. Do you want to know what frightens me?” She nodded stiffly, as if the movement of her chin might cause her to lose control and fall. “The causeway. It has been flooded and no explanation has been given as to why. Not even to the Convocation. There are rumours. Last night there was some kind of commotion in the Masters’ Quarters. Do you see what I’m driving at?”
She didn’t. All she could think about was the drop, but she nodded anyway, eyes clamped shut.
“And today, out of the blue, you show me that little scroll. The danger is not down there, you see. It is in here.” He tapped his staff gently against the back of her head.
“I understand,” Miranda said, praying for the ordeal to end. Somney led her back from the brink and guided her to her seat. She sipped at her tea, hands shaking.
“Do you still want to know what the fragment is?”
“I feel that I must.” It was hard to tell if the look on Somney’s face was disappointment or admiration.
“The text is an excerpt from an inventory. I saw fragments of dates, quanta, partial descriptions of devices. Beyond that I cannot help.”
That was interesting, but gave little to work on. Miranda put down her glass and placed her hands around Somney’s, warmed them with gentle strokes. He blushed a little.
“You said it wasn’t your speciality. Whose speciality is it? Please.”
“Riven Gahst is the most advanced theoretician in the Verge, but his ideas have become more and more unconventional.”
“In what way?”
“He does little profitable magic any more. Many of the masters see him as a troublesome burden.”
“Riven Gahst.”
“Miranda, please do not pursue this matter any further. I fear it may be greater than either of us.”
Miranda stood and pecked Somney on the cheek. He blushed fully this time. He was a decent man, and not half as world-weary as he pretended. He must have known that his plea was pointless.
Part Four
The horological bombard
Two of Barehill’s men stood guard inside the mill’s door. Another two knelt on the gallery, arquebuses primed.
If Norbury and Josephus show their faces today, we’re all fucked, Jon thought, as his attention drifted back to Barehill and the plan he had laid out on the dining table.
“A horological bombard,” Barehill repeated.
It was hard to focus. Jon’s head pounded and his gut was raw from the booze. There was something else as well, a certain nagging feeling that he had or hadn’t done something he was supposed to. He tried to remember what it was.
He had woken in the bin room, lying on the floor. That much he knew. His mouth had tasted like a war – still did, and there was a pain in his head that exploded his view with stars whenever he coughed. A big bruise as well.
I must have fallen over in my stupor, he thought. Hit my head on a beam.
“Go on,” Laila said. He knew she was involved somehow. Every time he looked at her, she wrung her hands or stared at the table. I must have said something when I was drunk, fought with her. She was talking to Barehill as if he wasn’t there. He prayed to She-who-reflects-his-glory that he hadn’t done something worse.
“I’ve been working on this idea for a long time.” Barehill produced a stub of a white wax candle and wedged it into a bejewelled hoop of brass and oak that looked like a sorcerer’s napkin ring. He tapped an opal on its side with the stem of his pipe. “The placement of this gemstone determines the hour at which the candle ignites.”
“Cunning, and stolen, no doubt,” Jon half belched, his mouth sour and dry. Barehill ignored him and rotated the marker a fraction. The wick snapped alight. It was a clever trick.
“Place this in a container loaded with black powder, and at the appointed hour.” Barehill drew apart his hands as if to describe the bursting of a balloon. “Boom.”
“You’ve invented a cannon for cowards,” Jon said.
“We did not start this war.”
“How many people have you killed this week?”
“Do you know what was made in that manufactory?” Truth be told, Jon didn’t. He resisted the temptation to shake his head. “Weapons. Everybody who worked there knew that. Guns and pikes and cannon.”
“People have a right to defend themselves.”
“To be loaded with grapeshot and used against women and children. Have you heard what happened at Lambourne? The so-called ‘riot’. It was a massacre of innocents! Last night the patrols rounded up three of my men for posting bills. They will never be seen alive again. We must strike back.”
Jon shook his head. “The duchess hopes to be made the head of the Wise Council. She must be seen to be strong. If you start a rebellion in Bromwich she will put it down, hard and fast.” He cast his voice around the room. Barehill’s men shifted uncomfortably. “You can’t fight her like this. You don’t stand a chance.”
Barehill’s fist slammed down on the table. “I am not here to politick. The Bell Jar is going to burn tonight. It needs to be done.”
“The Bell Jar?” Jon was incredulous.
“It is the centre of oppression in Turbulence. Their symbol of power amongst the poor. The people of Bromwich need to see a demonstration of our power. Just imagine it. Peacock the usurer shredded by the very coins he has tried to extort from you.”
“It’s not extortion,” Jon said. “I agreed to his terms.”
“No more Bell Jar. No more militia. No more Peacock. All of our problems solved in one swift blow.”
“Murder and madness.”
“You’re the only one of us who can get into the Bell Jar without a fight,” Laila said.
“I’m not one of you.”
“There’s not another soul in Bromwich who believes that,” Barehill said.
“There are no greater sins than murder.”
“Yes there are,” Laila said sharply.
“I will not kill innocents,” Jon shouted.
Barehill’s face went taut with anger. “There are no innocents. There are the Freeborn, there are the enemy, and there are collaborators.” He dragged his fingers across his forehead in exasperation. “Laila, leave the room. Report back in an hour.” She did not shift from her seat. Barehill roared in anger. “That is an order, Captain. And take your men with you.”
Laila stood, cast a pained look at Jon and hurried to the loading bay.
Barehill glared across the table. A vein pulsed on his temple and he drummed the table with his fingers. Jon regarded him with contempt. He considered vaulting the table and strangling the man. If only he had a gun or a knife.
“Do you understand what has begun, Jon? What a civil war is compared to your little problems.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You must think of your family.”
“I am. Anna was right. I’ll join her in Aldergrove, leave this afternoon. The mill is practically yours already. Let me take Laila with me. She won’t survive this.”
Barehill’s eyes widened in amazement. “I can’t decide which you are most: brave, insane or stupid. I took you for a weakling the first time I met you. Gods know where you get your confidence from, but you misunderstand the situation. Your family is not in Aldergrove – Anna has seen too much for that. I have had her taken to a safe place. She’s under my protection.”
Horror bubbled in Jon’s stomach. Suddenly he was sweating again. There was no point in telling George Barehill what kind of a man he was; they both already knew.
“Mother preserve them.”
“They will not come to harm if this thing is done. But I will not guarantee their s
afety unless I know that you are with me.”
“You’re holding them hostage.”
Barehill said nothing.
“Haven’t I done enough already?” Jon asked pointlessly.
“We must all make sacrifices.”
“And what if I say no?”
Barehill dismissed the question with a shrug.
“Too many have died in this struggle for one more family to make any difference.”
Entrapment
Gleame and Corbin ducked into an alcove; Daniel continued alone. Albertus had taken a different route and was already standing at the far end of the corridor, sword drawn. Torchlight glinted in his eyes and played on his broad blade. He waited until Daniel had seen him, and then moved to a position concealed in shadow.
You want me to be afraid, don’t you? Daniel thought, and checked the dagger strapped behind his back.
The entrance to Bolb’s chambers was exactly as he remembered. A tangle of iron machinery, impenetrable and forbidding. The glass and gemstone orbs that studded the door’s surface seemed to bear a greater malice than before. The bell pull beside it dangled like a hangman’s noose.
Remember to breathe.
Daniel was afraid, of course, but not only of the danger. This was his final chance, his moment. Lang was watching from afar, expecting greatness. Corbin really was watching. Gods knew what he expected. Daniel signalled to the prosecutor that he was ready and felt his throat tighten.
He rang the bell, half expecting a fusillade of poisoned darts to bury themselves in his flesh. Nothing happened, which was better than a death by frothing convulsions. The pressure in his blood made his wounded hand throb. He squeezed the bandages and waited for a response.
The grotesque magnification of an eye blossomed within one of the precious stones.
A shrill facsimile of Bolb’s voice piped from some hidden place. “You! I will have you flayed, you wretched piece of…”
Daniel jutted out his chin, flexed his chest. “I have the hand,” he said.
The eyeball blinked a few times and then disappeared. Silence. Does he prepare a defence? Daniel wondered. Does he set his machines to kill? There was solitary click, then another, then a cavalcade. The multitude of cogs, gears and latches that formed the surface of the door whirled and jerked. There was a thin whistle of sucking air, and then the door cracked down the middle and swung open.
Bolb stood before Daniel, moon-faced, nostrils flaring. His robes rattled in fury. Is the fat man going to strike me? Daniel widened his stance in preparation but Bolb stepped aside. Daniel breathed deep and re-entered his lair.
The room seemed smaller than before and less cluttered. It had an oily, freshly cleaned smell to it. Daniel was amused to see that Bolb had already fitted makeshift bars to his windows. Bolb withdrew an ornate key from the now closed door. Daniel tried to note which keyhole had been used, and realised that he could not recall, though he was sure that he had seen it as clear as day. The image in his memory was imprecise, corrupted. The trick stank of cunning.
No escape for either of us then, until this matter is settled.
“The hand. Show me it,” Bolb said.
“Do I look like a fool?” Dan held out his empty palms. Bolb ignored the bandages.
“Where is it?”
“In a safe place.”
“No place on earth is safe for that device.”
“Then you should have been more careful with your invention.”
Daniel took a bauble that was half compass, half timepiece from Bolb’s worktop and rolled it between his fingers.
“Why should I believe you?” It was pathetic, how Bolb’s mind sought an escape from the obvious truth, or maybe Bolb was just fishing, attempting to discern how much he knew. Daniel bluffed.
“I have it, and the censor’s glove. That is all you need to know.”
“How much do you want? Five thousand?”
He mistakes me for a blackmailer. Daniel held the silence, to see how far he’d go.
“More?” Bolb wrinkled his nose in disgust or confusion. “Ten thousand?”
“Your money isn’t enough,” Dan said, trying not to be distracted by the idea of ten thousand pounds.
Bolb stared at him, appalled. “What else then?”
Daniel’s self-assurance grew. He knew from his training that a suspect who asked questions was trying to convince himself that he still had the power to escape his fate. Such confidence betrayed a deeper weakness.
“Plans, designs, the secrets of its making.”
“Why?”
Daniel let Bolb’s bauble roll from his fingers. It shattered on the floor, leaving a wet stain. “A man in your position does not ask the questions.”
“What you ask is impossible. The plans are in my head. Even if I had written my part down…” Bolb gulped himself into silence.
“Your part?” Daniel said pointedly.
“Who are you? What are you?” The fat master was sweating profusely. Another good sign.
“Who I am is none of your concern. I want the plans and the money. Then I’ll leave you in peace. I promise.”
“How do I know you haven’t already copied the message? That you won’t betray me anyway?”
A message! Daniel thought triumphantly. “Don’t you trust me?” he said, and borrowed Corbin’s evil wink.
“No, and you will not leave this room alive unless I allow it.” That was a surprise. Cornered Bolb suddenly seemed braver.
Daniel shrugged. “I got in without your say-so. If I die, the censors will get involved. We don’t want that, do we? Me dead and you swinging from a yardarm.”
“I will pay for the hand, but drawing up plans will take time.”
“And I want the name of your accomplice.”
“You change your terms already!”
“His name.”
“Murderous leech.”
Daniel laughed, dry and hollow. “I don’t recall a master of that name.”
Bolb stuttered in disbelief at the joke.
“You have already betrayed your position, the Honourable Company, the Unity; why stop there?” Daniel asked.
“I have betrayed nothing. You are the villain here. That is plain to see if you look at the facts of the matter.” Bolb seemed to be talking mostly to himself now, lost in a fantasy of forgiveness and redemption.
Dan stepped right up to his face, barked at him, showering him with spittle. “Lose your position. After a censor’s death. After delivering your machine into the hands of the Evangelicy.”
Bolb staggered as if Daniel had caught him with a left hook.
“The Evangelicy?” Something in Bolb’s face changed. A righteous fire burned in his eyes and Daniel had the withering sense that he had lost control of the conversation. “Foul servant of Abjemo – now you shall know me better – as a master of the cunning arts.”
Bolb cast his arms wide and a cruel curved dagger appeared from his sleeve, jewelled and jagged-edged. Bewildered by Bolb’s declaration, Daniel stepped back into a fighting stance and snatched his dagger from behind his back, ready to defend himself.
The master did not advance, but turned slowly, in a dancer’s whirl. The bells of his robe began to shiver and chime in discord, like a band tuning its instruments before a symphony.
Daniel leapt forwards to tackle the master as his back was turned, but mid-stride a noise like a million hornets swarming knocked Daniel to his knees. He felt light-headed, as if he had risen too quickly and the blood had rushed from his head.
The edges of Bolb’s robe became indistinct and the sound of his bells grew to a whine. The whine became shrill and the room became a blur. Daniel’s eyes trembled in their sockets. He dropped his dagger and clutched at his head trying to hold it steady, covered his ears. It made no difference. Cold vomit reared in his
stomach. The pitch went higher still. Noise became indistinguishable from pain.
Through his tears, Daniel could see Bolb’s mouth gurning, a black triumph welling in his eyes. He was saying something. Whispering? Shouting? It was impossible to tell.
Against all sanity, the vibrations grew stronger. Bolb seemed edged by darkness, as if the room were fading around him. The muscles of Daniel’s torso could no longer hold him upright. He fell onto all fours, clutched at the ground just to stay upright. The bones of his body shook like the levers of a broken machine. His teeth chattered hard enough to break. He opened his mouth to save them and watched a thin stream of bile pour onto the floor.
Bolb drew closer. Daniel could see the sickle edge of his blade dangling low. The cacophony was unbearable. He tried to retreat to the calm place in his mind, to escape the squealing pain that racked his body. Some feeling returned to his left arm – enough that he could lift it. He held it outstretched, tried to keep Bolb at bay, as hopelessly as a drunken vagrant.
Bolb hopped from foot to foot twirling in a mad spiral. Daniel felt the bones in his head cracking.
The door sundered in a spray of metal and precious stones.
Daniel could not hear the explosion, but he felt the gearwheel that slashed across the top of his cheek. Bent scrap scattered across the floor. From where he was curled, he saw legs rush into the room, two pairs of boots, brown and midnight blue.
Bolb’s bells chimed in unison, and every glass object in the room turned to sand. Corbin slumped sideways to the floor, his eyes rolled back into his skull, his hands rigid on the haft of his longsword. Albertus fared worse, landed badly on his face. His hanger skated away from his open palm, spinning across the floor.
Gleame strode into the room. His robes and body blazed with a cold, white light that bleached all colour from the room. Daniel closed his stinging eyes and whimpered.
A new noise emerged over Bolb’s deafening buzz – words spoken in a voice so low and terrible that the foundations of the Convergence itself seemed to tremble. Gleame became so bright that Daniel could see his outline in blurred blood red through his closed eyelids.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 32
