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

by A. M. Steiner

  In the centre of the room, a blonde and a brunette had draped themselves over a young courier, a man handsome enough that Jon wondered at his need to pay for favours. The girls cooed at him and coaxed him, exchanged rancorous looks above his head. An older lady, raven-haired and silk-stockinged, caught sight of Jon and began to apply a gloss to her lips in a way that invited trespass. The lurid attention disgusted him, and he scowled at her. He thought of Anna and where she might be, and felt helpless. Suddenly the madam was at his shoulder again.

  “Come with me,” she insisted.

  Jon followed her up a curving flight of stairs. As they climbed, Jon’s blood flowed colder. He began to sweat. She left him at a door, guarded by men like those who had greeted him outside. They searched him efficiently and finding him unarmed, let him into a chamber no larger than a watchman’s booth, where another guard searched him again. Then a door was swung open and he was ushered through.

  The walnut panels of the study he entered glowed softly with the light of an open fire. A suite of green leather faced the hearth. The air was warm and languid. Empty, Jon thought, relieved, and wondered how long he would have to wait.

  A voice with the faintest hint of an Erdin accent, too soft to startle, bade him sit down. Jon obeyed.

  “Jonathan Miller. Let us review your affairs.”

  Gilbert Gordon held a green binder spread wide across his lap. He read from it as if Jon were not there, every so often pursing his lips or taking a sip of water from his glass. Jon kept his counsel. If it were possible to know how a soul feels as its sins are weighed on the scales, Jon thought this was that moment. He was startled by the crack of a burning log and jumped in his seat.

  “I see you are ahead on your payments to the Peacock,” Gilbert said without a trace of emotion. “That is unusual.”

  “Thank you,” Jon said, with absolute sincerity. Jon had heard that Gilbert Gordon had bad debtors’ balls cut off and fed to his dogs. That he sometimes took repayment in blood, and watched hope fade as life drained.

  Gordon spoke again, nose deep in the documents. “It seems you are a reliable man, Mister Miller, or at least you were, until tonight. I did not anticipate dealing with you directly. Why are you here?”

  “I came for a woman.”

  “Most do. Yet you enquired after me.”

  Jon swallowed hard. “I was after the Peacock. He has the woman I want.”

  Gilbert’s face twisted into an approximation of a smile. “I was led to believe the opposite was true.”

  “The woman I want has been taken captive by him.”

  “Captive?” The threat of impatience crept into Gilbert’s tone.

  “Tonight.”

  “Ah – that woman.” Gordon closed the binder softly, laid it on the arm of his chair. He looked at Jon directly for the first time. Jon dropped his gaze.

  “Her name is Laila,” Jon said, staring at his fingers.

  “I believe we are keeping her in the cellar.” Gordon rang a handbell. One of his black-garbed men came into the room. “Matthew is required. Immediately.” Then they were alone again. As he watched the fire, Jon could tell that Gilbert was observing him.

  “I knew your father well,” Gilbert said. “He was not a reliable man.”

  “True,” Jon replied. There’s no arguing with that.

  “At one stage he owed me a considerable sum of money.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “We came to an arrangement.” Gordon raised an eyebrow in invitation. Jon simply nodded, to show that he understood.

  Peacock Matthew bounded into the room, buzzing with sweaty excitement. He was wearing a butcher’s apron. “By the gods, this one’s hard work. The Sharks haven’t been able to get a thing out of her, not even a shit.”

  “Her name is Laila.” Gordon offered the information with an upturned palm, as a gift.

  “Well, that’s something to start on. Still they’ve…” Peacock noticed Jon and stopped dead. “What the fuck is that cunt doing here?” He produced a knife from out of nowhere, raised it like a pick, advanced on Jon, eyes wide and fixed. “I’m going to gut you like a fish, you fucking traitor.”

  Jon stood and balled his fists like coconuts. “You’ll need more than a knife, Matthew.”

  “Stop,” Gordon commanded with an icy hiss, and slapped the arm of his chair.

  “I’m going to fucking fillet him,” Matthew said, temples bulging.

  “No, you are not,” Gilbert said, as cold and hard as a dagger between the ribs.

  Matthew stayed himself, lowered his hand jerkily. Jon brought his fists down to his sides but they stayed clenched.

  Gordon sighed. “Please mind your language, Matthew.”

  “Sorry, Mister Gordon.”

  “Turned torturer, have you?” Jon asked. The Peacock just glared.

  “The miller asked you a question,” Gordon said. Matthew looked at him for further direction. None came, so he shrugged and told the truth.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it torture. Not the bit I do, anyway.” He bundled his crotch in his hand and shook it vigorously.

  “I want you to give her to me,” Jon said.

  “You’ll be joining her soon enough.”

  Gordon observed the two men like a jaded critic. “I don’t think that is the miller’s intention, Matthew.”

  “What? No, sorry. Don’t get it.” The Peacock searched Gordon’s face.

  “I owe her a debt,” Jon said.

  The room exploded with Matthew’s laughter. “Like your meat red, do you? Have you fallen in love again, you bellend? You sure know how to pick ’em.” Matthew opened his mouth to speak again, and then stopped to think. His eyes flicked back and forth. “Wait a tick. How did you know she was here? Followed me, did you? After what you did? You’ve lost your wits.”

  “An excellent point, Matthew,” Gordon said. “Mister Miller is a reliable man. A reliable man in his position would not come here expecting to leave alive. Not unless he had something to offer in exchange for his life.”

  Peacock’s fingers fidgeted on his knife. Gordon spread his hands.

  “Please explain, Mister Miller. What have you brought for us?”

  “What’s he got that I want?” Peacock ranted. “I’ll tell you that for free. Fuck all. I have his money. I’m taking his mill. I’ve even had his fucking wife.”

  “Pig! Liar!” Jon roared and raised his fists again.

  “Sorry, mate, I thought you knew.” The Peacock grinned evilly, bounced from foot to foot in readiness for a sudden move.

  “This is not helping,” Gilbert said wearily. “Mister Miller, what do you propose?”

  Jon glared at Matthew.

  “Mr Miller!”

  “I offer revenge. The Freeborn. I know where they’re hidden.”

  “And how would a respectable man of Turbulence come to know a thing like that?” Gordon asked.

  “I doesn’t matter.”

  The three men stared at each other in silence.

  “There’s a passageway near the mill,” Jon said. “Another in the Temple District. Both lead to their base. It’s called the Holt. I can mark the way. A godsworn serves them, a soft man. I can tell you what he looks like. He’ll show you the way if you force him.”

  “Why shouldn’t I just beat the living shit out of you till you tell us what I want to know?” Matthew said.

  “Because I’d never tell you.”

  Gilbert Gordon raised his hand. “Enough, Matthew. Mister Miller, why do you suppose that I care about dissenters? They are the Brotherhood’s concern, not mine. We are paid well enough to assist in their suppression. I have no special desire for this conflict to end.”

  Jon hoped that he had judged correctly. “George Barehill leads the Bromwich rebels. If your militia were to deliver him
to the censors, you would never need fear them again.”

  Gordon’s face twitched.

  “And there’s a reward.”

  “A substantial one. Let me consider.” He placed his hands together in a triangle, as if in prayer to the Devourer, held his fingertips to his lips. Matthew and Jon watched him intently as he deliberated. He came to a decision.

  “Very well. If your information proves correct, I will permit you one day of protection. After that, you will be outlawed, fair game for any of my men, and we will inform the censors of your crime against the Bell Jar. In return you will provide us with your sworn testimony regarding these dissenters, and sign over to me the mill and all of your possessions.”

  “And you will let me leave – with Laila.”

  “I will have my men escort you back to the mill. Matthew, prepare the militia for action. Ready the Sharks. Bring me Barehill. But before any of that, fetch the woman.”

  “They have my family. My wife Anna, my baby, held hostage,” Jon said. “I don’t know where.”

  “That is not my concern,” Gordon said.

  Jon turned to the Peacock. “It matters to Matthew. I know you care about her. If she’s their prisoner, you must save her.”

  Matthew said nothing, but the look in his eyes as he left the room told Jon he had been understood. Gilbert drew a blank sheet from his binder.

  “He’s a liar. He never had my wife.”

  The small man raised his eyebrows and readied his pen. “In my experience, people will do or say almost anything to protect the ones they love. Now, tell me everything you know. I want to hear it all.”

  ***

  An hour later Jon and Laila left The Kennels by a side door. He supported Laila by the waist, with her arm around his neck. It was the tenth hour of the night and dawn was yellowing the sky. It was not cold enough for frost but the vacant streets were slippery with dew. Laila’s eyes kept closing, and she was having trouble walking. He saw that they had taken her shoes. Jon asked one of the militiamen who accompanied them to help carry her. The armoured goon spat in his face but did not strike him. He knew, then, that they were safe for the time being. It was odd, he thought, that the gangster Gilbert Gordon kept his promises, while Barehill the idealist did not. Jon hoisted Laila over his shoulders. She weighed less than a wheat sack. She moaned incoherently as he carried her up Swan Alley towards the mill.

  As it came into view, Jon thought he saw the momentary movement of a shadow on the rigging deck. He stumbled to his knees deliberately, as if under the strain of the load, to avert the militiamen’s attention. One of them laughed and kicked him on the thigh.

  “Get up.”

  He grunted back to his feet.

  The mill hall felt abandoned. There was a little smoke, but no warmth, coming from the fire. The militiamen did not wipe their feet when they entered.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Jon said, and carried Laila towards the stairs. One of the militiamen made a start for the pantry.

  A gun bellowed from the gallery, filling the hall with blue smoke. The militiaman pirouetted and crashed down flat on his face. Another boom and the militiaman standing beside Jon dropped to one knee, clutching at his shoulder. The door of the mill slammed shut to reveal a Freeborn hidden behind it who drove a rapier into the kneeling man’s back. Jon saw the front of his shirt stretch out and then the sword’s sharp tip emerge through the cloth in a spray of blood.

  He gripped Laila tightly on his back and ran for the stairs. Swords clashed behind him. He ducked his head at the sound of another gunshot, heard the grunts of punches taken, and a terrible gurgling scream.

  “Get him,” someone shouted.

  Jon didn’t know if they meant him. By the time he had reached the top of the stairs, it was over.

  Gordon’s four militiamen lay dead on the floor with a Freeborn beside them. The rapierist who had waited in ambush had taken a cut to the thigh, deep enough to accommodate a finger. Jon turned to the young arquebusier who stood at the top of the stairs. The boy surveyed the scene, wide-eyed with shock. Jon guessed that he had not killed before. His companion, another arquebusier, had just finished reloading. The man was Jon’s age, maybe a little older. His face shone with admiration.

  “What’s your name?” Jon asked.

  “Haythorn, sir.”

  “Haythorn, where’s Barehill?”

  “In the cistern, sir. We heard about the wrecking of the Bell Jar. Barehill saw it from the tower, left when you and Laila did not return. He waited some while.”

  “They captured Laila,” Jon said. “Tortured her. The orange militia are headed for the Holt. You must defend Barehill. Take your men, all of them, and go there quickly. Use the tunnel.”

  An urgent fear replaced the pride on Haythorn’s face. He saluted and hurried away.

  Jon took Laila to his room and laid her down on the bed. The journey home had taken a lot out of her and she was barely conscious. He wiped the blood and dirt from her feet and gently rubbed some warmth into their calloused soles, tucked her under the sheets. The mill had become quiet again. There was no point in moving the bodies from the hall. He stepped over them as he made his way to the pantry to fill a bowl with cold water from the butt. He returned to Laila, knelt by her side and dabbed at the bruises on her face.

  “What are you doing?” she murmured at the touch of his cloth.

  “For the pain,” he said softly. “Lie still.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” Laila begged.

  “It’s over now,” he reassured her. “It’s me, Jon. You have to tell me where Anna is.”

  “Bastard!” she screamed, and her hips twitched as if to kick him in the guts. Delirious, Jon thought, and laid the cool rag on her brow to calm her. “Scum,” she whispered. She looked as if she would emerge from her stupor; her twisting became faster and more vicious. He put his arm across her body, held her still. It was surprising how delicate her body felt beneath the thin material. Childlike. She went rigid and her eyes deadened as her soul retreated to some safe and distant part of her mind.

  “Rest,” he said, “we’ll be leaving soon.”

  Laila wasn’t going anywhere, but Jon didn’t have much time to act. He had made his decision. Gordon wasn’t going to take the mill. Neither was Barehill. No bastard was.

  He scampered up the ladders to the top of the mill, and broke open the pitchers of lamp oil that were stored in the cap. He poured some over the spare rigging and filled a bucket with the rest. As he made his way back down again, he doused everything that looked flammable. He stopped in front of the carousel horse that had brought him so much misfortune and stared into its dull eyes. There was something in them, a look without intelligence or compassion. He wondered whether magic things could burn, and what might happen if they did. He laid a canvas over it and soaked it through. Then he started on the mill-house.

  Questions and answers

  “It’s not exactly a uniform, but it will do for now.” Corbin lifted the white stole over Daniel’s head and tugged its tasselled ends until it lay evenly across his shoulders. Daniel shivered as the luxurious silk brushed the nape of his neck.

  Corbin smiled knowingly as he smoothed down the mantle. “Cold? It will pass. The vestments of a beholder suit you. Ready, son?” He gripped Daniel above the elbow, gave a reassuring squeeze.

  Daniel replied with a grunt. He didn’t know if Corbin’s newfound warmth was real, nor was he sure if the old dog knew that this was his first inquisition, but he saw no reason to say so. He clasped The Book of Inspection in his wounded hand. It was bound in fine leather, bright red and unmarked, the first he had seen with a virgin spine. Its thick pages awaited Bolb’s confession, which Daniel would transcribe without annotation or abridgement. He would make as true a reckoning as the weighing of a soul. Later, at the trial, his duty would be to read from it and, after Corbin had passed ju
dgement, to enter the verdict and the punishment and then seal it with silver wire using the special knot sacred to the Brotherhood. It would not be reopened until it was in the hands of the copyists at Tiburn.

  A decrepit old man who Daniel recognised as one of Gleame’s servants led them down dusty corridors that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. Corbin looked the very figure of justice, holding his longsword before him like a battle pennant or a shepherd’s crook. His boots caught the lanthorn light and Daniel wondered if he had polished them himself. For hours, probably.

  The guard spoke to break the silence. “This was a dungeon before we made it into a bakery. Now it’s a dungeon again. Funny that.” Nobody laughed. “We used to keep experiments down here. Vicious ones. Masters as well, if they had an episode.”

  Corbin ignored the old man.

  Daniel thought about the task ahead, about the taking of a confession.

  He had witnessed fragments before, had jostled with aspirants at peepholes for a better view of interrogation chambers. Once or twice, he had even assisted, fetching buckets of salt water and cleaning manacles.

  The public were given to understand that the censors’ orthodoxy did not allow for torture. That was half true. It was disdained, but not forbidden; considered a failing, a sign of incompetence. After all, if the gifts of sight and logic could not determine guilt, then what was the point of the Brotherhood? Anyone could apply a pair of pliers or hot coals.

  Daniel had roughed up a petty criminal once or twice, even participated in a punishment beating. Those were street rules. This was a superior matter. He hoped to learn much from Corbin today.

  Albertus awaited them by the fireproof door of an oven – a circle of iron the height of a man with a porthole riveted into its centre. His hand cannon rested beside it, a smoking taper knotted around its haft.

  “All’s been prepared, as you instructed.”

  Corbin took the lanthorn from Gleame’s man. Daniel wiped the dusty glass of the porthole with his sleeve and peered inside the makeshift cell. Bolb slouched on a stool in his yellowed nightgown, held a small wooden cup in his hands. A pitcher of water and a cloth rested on the table before him. His lips moved, silent through the glass. Daniel was familiar with the mumblings of the guilty. He had witnessed the babble of men before the gallows at first hand, heard their trembling calls from the stocks. He wondered if Bolb was preparing a confession or rehearsing a defence. Maybe he wrestles with his conscience. It was of no consequence. Corbin would find the truth.