The Peacock hailed him in his usual good humour. “Jonathan, you terrible cunt. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”
Jon smiled. “Bad luck for you then.” The Peacock took off his hat to shield his eyes against the bright sky. His greasy hair gleamed in the sunlight. Jon quickly counted the militiamen. There were nineteen of them.
“I’ve had a busy night,” Matthew said. “Been in the sewers, drowning rats with my friends.”
“Where you belong then.”
“You’ll never guess what we found in their nest?”
“Anna?” Jon leaned forward to catch the answer, prayed that Matthew had protected her.
“A shitload of flour. Know anything about that, would you?”
“Did you find her?” Jon said desperately.
“Nah, mate, I was too busy wading in porridge.”
“Did you even look for her?”
Peacock shrugged indifferently. “Where are Gordon’s men?”
“Where you belong.”
“I guessed as much. You know what – you’re starting to sound like your old self again. A proper ruffian. I missed that after you got married. Tell you what; throw me down the keys to the mill. I promise I’ll look after your wife when you’re gone.”
“What does that mean?” Jon said, more confused than ever. “Is she alive? What about the baby?”
“I’ll tell you if you surrender.” Jon considered it. Even if Anna were alive, knowing would make no difference unless he survived. One look at Peacock was enough to know that if he surrendered, he would not.
“You should have brought more men,” Jon said.
“Something’s crawled up the pipework, has it?”
Jon spat over the railing.
“Mr Miller, an associate of the Freeborn. Well, I never. You’ve been playing us all for fools. A greater mountebank I never knew. Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I’m my own man.”
“That you are. Do they know who betrayed them yet? Or are you saving that for later?”
“Now,” Jon hissed under his breath, and reached back for the arquebus. It didn’t come. “The gun,” he hissed through the corner of his mouth. Ignoring him, Barehill stepped onto the rigging deck, leaned over the railing and took aim at Peacock below.
“You will pay for your crimes against the people,” he proclaimed.
“Fire!” Jon yelled, too late. Littleshark brought up his elongated arquebus and it flashed blue thunder. The shot ricocheted from the railing and thrashed the rifle from Barehill’s hands.
“And who might you be?” Peacock asked, puffing out his chest now that the danger was past.
“A freeborn man!” Barehill shouted defiantly.
Peacock twirled his hat to his feet. “Mr Barehill, I presume. Your marksmanship is as impressive as your writings. I mean to have a chat with you, about what you’ve done to my pub.” Matthew stared at Jon with a look of wry amusement.
“You will never take this mill, Peacock,” Jon shouted, as Barehill reloaded behind him.
“Let’s test that.” Peacock fired his blunderbuss into the air to rally his men. “Up and at them!” he bellowed, and they charged the mill.
***
Jon heard the crash of the battering ram against the loading-bay doors. He opened the trapdoor in the floor of the bagging room and looked down. Two of Barehill’s men were waiting in ambush below, bodies half hidden behind the thick oak pillars that supported the mill. One wielded a rapier, the other a thick oak quarterstaff. Barehill angled his arquebus and fired blindly through the loading door. A scream of pain and a roar of consternation echoed from the men outside.
It took Peacock’s men several swings to buckle the heavy lock. The door broke open and two militiamen rushed inside, to find the way blocked by Jon’s upturned cart. The Freeborn with the rapier jumped up and lunged over it, but the point of his blade slid harmlessly off a militiaman’s helmet. The other Freeborn had more luck. He plunged his quarterstaff through the gap and it caught a militiaman on his chinstrap, knocking him out cold.
Peacock appeared in the breach for a second and his blunderbuss scorched the room. The staff-man dropped his weapon and staggered backwards, clutching at his face. Blood oozed between his fingers. Pikes were thrust towards him through the slowly spinning spokes of the handcart’s wheels. One missed his shoulder, the second pierced his hand and mouth, smashed his teeth and passed clean through the back of his skull. The Freeborn’s body did not fall, rather hung transfixed on the shaft, like a roaster’s chicken. To Jon’s astonishment, Barehill vomited through the trapdoor.
“Quick,” Jon said, and slammed the hatch closed, clamping a padlock around the thick iron of its latch. They ran to the minstrel gallery. The main hall was smoggy and acrid with the smell of burning powder. One of Peacock’s men lay face down across the threshold. Haythorn waited patiently in the gallery, his rifle resting on the balustrade, trained on the mill’s entrance. His young lad was reloading his discharged rifle.
The bulk of Peacock’s men huddled just outside the door. They outnumbered the radicals three to one now, but none dared enter the mill and fall prey to Haythorn’s sniping or the Freeborn who waited inside; two halberdiers, a swordsman and the wounded youth who sat by the edge of the door, loading a pistol. When he was done, he reached over and fired into the tangle of legs outside. A militiaman yelled and fell, blood spurting from his groin. A mace swung around the doorframe in reply, and tore a chunk out of the wall above the pistolier’s head, showering him with plaster and splintered laths. Before the arm could be withdrawn, one of the broad halberds struck it off, and it flopped onto the floor like a pig’s trotter.
“Fall back!” Jon heard the Peacock shout, and he felt hope. Then a grenado came spinning into the room, its fuse showering sparks like a firework. The oil-soaked bodies on the floor burst into flames and the halberdiers turned to run towards the stairs. Jon and Barehill threw themselves into the bedroom, the young lad to the floor. Haythorn ducked behind the newel post. The Freeborn who sat by the door didn’t bother to shield his face. Maybe he had not seen a grenado before. Maybe he was hypnotised by its fearful beauty. Either way, the blast shredded him like a rotten apple.
The orange militia poured into the smoke-filled room. Haythorn killed the first man with a shot that made a tunnel of his face. The Freeborn halberdiers and swordsman did what they could. For a moment, they kept the militiamen at bay with their blades. The young lad in the gallery passed Haythorn the spare arquebus and he felled another with a crashing roar. Then the Sharks entered the room. Big Shark flicked a silvered dagger into the throat of one of the halberdiers, who collapsed, scrabbling at his gorget. Littleshark shot the young lad on the gallery through the eye, splattering his brains against the wall.
“Save yourselves,” Haythorn said, drew his sword and charged down the stairs. Barehill stumbled out of Jon’s bedroom, carrying Laila. Jon took her too, and, one under each arm, they rushed her into the mill tower. Jon barred the door.
“Up,” Barehill insisted. Men were hammering at the trapdoor to the loading bay. It was nearly over, Jon realised. They manhandled Laila up the steep ladder to the bagging floor, sliding her body along its rails. When they were through, they shut that trapdoor too. The room stank of lamp oil. Jon reached for the padlock but it was not in its proper place. A crash below signalled that Peacock’s men were upon them.
Barehill took a lanthorn from the wall and handed it to Jon. “It’s time to fire the mill,” he said. The lanthorn was not lit and Jon had neither a rush nor a fire striker to hand.
“Hand me your gun and your bandolier.” Barehill obliged, laid Laila down on a bed of straw, and stepped out onto the reefing stage. Jon emptied one of the little wooden tubes of black powder onto the corner of an oil-drenched sack. The pyramid of tiny crystals sparkled darkly in the sunlight. He cocked the firing mecha
nism of Barehill’s gun and laid it against the black grains.
There was a faint whimpering behind him, like the crying of a child. Laila sat up, her arms limp by her sides. She was crying. Jon did not try to understand her pain; it would be over soon. He squeezed the trigger. The gunpowder burnt brightly for a second, and then the whole of the sack began to flame, filling the room with smoke.
There was a crash and Big Shark vaulted acrobatically through the smashed trapdoor. A feathered hat and a blunderbuss followed after. Peacock poked his head above the boards and trained his blunderbuss on Jon.
“Oh no you don’t, you bloody arsonist. This is my mill now.”
Big Shark grabbed the burning bag. Flames licked at his arm as he carried it nonchalantly to the bagging rail and tossed it over the edge. Peacock saw Laila sitting dumbly on the straw. He lifted her chin so that she could see him clearly.
“Hello pretty,” he said.
Littleshark called out from the reefing deck, “Found him.”
Peacock waved Jon onto the reefing deck with his blunderbuss. Jon wondered where Barehill had gone, and followed Big Shark’s gaze upwards. The leader of the Freeborn was halfway up the curved cap of the mill tower, nearly at the brass finial that crowned its peak.
“Where are you headed?” Peacock called. “There’s nothing up there but the gods.” Barehill did not reply, just maintained his perilous ascent, his hands and feet scrabbling on the wooden slats. Littleshark raised his gun. Peacock whispered something in his ear, and he adjusted his aim.
“Don’t let’s play silly bollocks. You’re worth far more to me alive than dead.”
Barehill continued to climb. He had nearly reached the top of the dome. Littleshark’s long gun roared and punched a hole through the polished brass, an inch to the side of Barehill’s head.
“It looks like someone’s going to have to fetch him,” Peacock said. Big Shark grunted and, despite his bulk, began to scale the mill cap as surely and rapidly as a mountain bear.
Barehill reached the apex. He grasped the finial that topped the mill’s spire and raised himself uncertainly upright.
“I was born a free man and I will die a free man,” he proclaimed. His voice echoed across Turbulence’s empty rooftops. A few distant runners turned and stared.
“Wrong on both counts,” Peacock quipped. They all knew what would come next. Barehill hurled himself from the top of the mill. He’ll never clear the deck, Jon thought. Maybe he didn’t mean to. Peacock and Littleshark dived for cover. Jon caught the look in Barehill’s eyes as he fell, defiant to the last. Then his head clipped the railing. Jon heard the frightful crack as his neck broke and watched as his body cartwheeled to the street below.
Second sight
Daniel admired his reflection in the tall window of the Voyeurs’ Gallery. Midnight blue. The tailor in the atrium had used a heavy-duty thread for the coat and gloves, stitched in the ThriceCrossed Swords overnight, and done it well. Impressive work. The bucket boots were made from the waterproof skin of seals caught in Seascale Bay. The brothers of Bromwich would consider the uniform fancy, but he could already picture the looks on the faces of the maids he passed on his patrols. Behind him a handful of Gleame’s guards, directed by Corbin, barred doors and ushered the perplexed and curious bystanders away.
The morning sun caught the metal on Daniel’s chest. Without thinking, he raised his hand to touch the newly minted badge, the Thrice~Crossed Swords. It was cold to the touch. Corbin had pinned it in place without ceremony or congratulation, just a warning not to lose it.
“Brother Miller,” Corbin called.
Daniel adjusted the sheath of his mortuary sword so that it hung more comfortably and let his focus pass through the window, inspected the decrepit instruments of torture in the Flagellant’s Garden. Maybe Corbin was right, maybe they should never have allowed this place to be built, he thought. It seemed to bring out the worst in people. Especially those who wanted power and cared little about how they got it.
He shrugged. Although his work was not yet done, he already felt a distance from the vagaries of the Convergence. Some part of his soul was already halfway to Bromwich, and glad of it.
Corbin had taken a seat in the pews and was waiting patiently. Daniel admired his new uniform for a final time and then chose a spot that would give him a good vantage of the high-vaulted room. He drew the necessary sigil expansively on a patch of bare wall. Last night he had worried that Corbin watching would make him nervous, but he did not find it to be so. The chalk felt different in his hand this time, his grip stronger, his strokes surer and more deliberate.
Completed, the strange symbol seemed to remain a part of him – an extension of his will rather than a copy of something learnt. He knelt facing the room, raised his hands, closed his eyes and let his mind slide through time. A sense of the room formed around him in smoky translucence. As he groped into the past, the space became crowded with ghostly figures that mingled silently around him, walking and sitting. He even saw his own phantom pass by, living a moment he no longer remembered. He moved time backwards, stretching the presences into flickering trails.
Daniel focused the vision on the evening of Brother Adelmus’s death. He found the crucial moment, and watched it play out in shadow. Riven Gahst entered the gallery and hid behind a pillar. Soon after Bolb entered alone, his nervousness clear from his posture. The two masters conspired together. As they spoke, Brother Adelmus strode into the room and confronted the masters. He demanded the hand with a gesture; Bolb surrendered it. Then he exited through a trapdoor and the masters slunk out of the room. Daniel watched the scene play out twice more, just to be sure. He dwelt as best he could on the misty blue figures, sought an expression on a face or some other sign of intent. It was hard; it had been dark and none of them had carried a torch. Bolb seemed afraid. The expression on the censor’s face was unreadable. His mind exhausted, the vision faded and Daniel was returned to the present and a blinding headache.
“Did you see what you needed?” Corbin asked.
“Yes,” Daniel said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Does it change the case?”
“No.” Everything was exactly as Lang predicted. Nevertheless, Daniel couldn’t escape the feeling of something missed. It pecked at his conscience.
“What’s the matter?”
“Adelmus confronted the two masters. He took the hand from them and departed through the trapdoor.”
“To the small dock, no doubt.”
“They didn’t offer much resistance.”
“To do so would have been fatal. Adelmus was of the old school. He had no compassion for the Cunning.”
“We are missing something. The story is incomplete.”
“It’s unsatisfactory, for sure. We’ll likely never catch the villains who fought and killed Brother Adelmus. They are still at large, or returned to the Evangelicy. Nor have we been afforded the opportunity to punish Gahst. But at least we have determined the men responsible.”
“I guess you’re right,” Daniel said quietly and rubbed his chin. “What if Bolb speaks the truth – that he was misled into being Gahst’s accomplice?”
Corbin shrugged his shoulders. “The law is the law. That is a matter for the trial. Write what you have beheld. I need to prepare.”
Corbin motioned to Gleame’s guards as he left the gallery and they unbarred the doors. The ghosts that had surrounded Daniel were replaced by the bodies of the living. A few passing demi-masters recognised him and stared at his uniform in astonishment. He ignored their glances. He was no longer one of them.
***
She keeps me waiting on purpose.
Daniel had made it clear to Miranda’s smug factotum that he was visiting on a matter of justice, not society, but he appreciated that even the law was weak compared to a lady’s temper. It was ironic though. While he had been occupi
ed with bringing Bolb to justice, a small pile of notes had assembled themselves in his chamber, all from Miranda, all requesting his presence. Now she didn’t want to see him.
Is she in love with me? he wondered. That would be tricky. If she were not already aware of his elevation, her servant would be explaining it as he waited. She would be impressed, no doubt. Angry that he had kept secrets from her. Even so, the delay grew irritating. He was no longer playing the bumpkin and did not expect to be treated as one. He began to wonder whether her tardiness was simply a rebuke, or whether she had something to hide. He hammered forcefully on her door. The dainty maidservant who opened for him wiped the martial scowl from his face with a flutter of her long lashes.
“My lady will see you now,” she said, and led him into Miranda’s laboratory.
She waited amongst her papers and alembics, her back turned pointedly towards him. She was dressed in a forbidding dress of black and crimson that clung to her figure everywhere except where it flared around her shoulders. The sight of her bare neck made him smile, an expression he tried to suck back into his face as she turned on him with furious eyes.
“How dare you!”
“Miranda,” he beseeched, and gestured at the maidservant who was staring demurely at the floor. Miranda accepted his point and dismissed her with a wave. Disappointment flooded the young girl’s face as she shimmied into an antechamber. I’d bet my badge she’ll listen from behind that closed door, Daniel thought, and hoped he wouldn’t be needing to call her as a witness.
“Is that your real voice?” Miranda asked.
“Yes.”
“Your name isn’t even Edmund, is it?”
“Daniel, milady. Daniel Miller.”
“A miller from Bromwich. With an actual mill?”
“Yes.”
“Gods help me.” Miranda buried her face in her gloved hands. The best you’ll ever have, Daniel thought, and allowed himself a wry smile while she could not see. She had enjoyed her time with him more than enough when she thought him a nobleman. He saw a certain justice in the discomfort that her snobbery brought upon her now.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 39
