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

by A. M. Steiner

  Miranda stood again. “Please, let him live.”

  “The man is a disgrace to the Honourable Company; he should feel the full force of the law,” Adrian shouted imperiously, drawing applause from across the room. He stared at Miranda as he said it. Maybe he suspected her pleading was part of some deal with Gleame. Maybe he’d said it just to spite her. In the end, it didn’t matter either way.

  “Silence,” Corbin shouted. “Enough of your sentiments. Such talk is an affront to justice. Now hear my verdict.” He took up his longsword and moved to the front of the stage.

  “I was called to the Convergence to investigate a murder; the killing of Brother Adelmus. I knew the man well. He devoted the whole of his life to a single cause: the preservation of the law, the maintenance of the peace and order that you enjoy. He was a man willing to risk his life to defend any one of you, from any crime, no matter how unworthy of his protection you might be.”

  His gaze travelled across the audience of masters, demi-masters and those who served them.

  “Without law and order there could be no Convergence, no Honourable Company. Without the Brotherhood of Censors, men would know nothing but chaos. You might have thought that you were safe, here on your island, with all of your wealth and all of your power. These things can sway a man’s mind; make him believe that he lives beyond harm, by different rules. Now you know differently.”

  Even as he trembled in fear, Bolb looked at his colleagues accusingly, as if they were responsible for what would follow.

  “I came to the Convergence to investigate a murder,” continued Corbin. “I will leave having achieved something far greater, something that would make Adelmus proud. I will have reminded you that you are not beyond harm; that laws do not bend for the powerful; that there is no greater force than justice.”

  With that, he rapped the pommel of his longsword hard upon the stage. “Master Pendolous Bolb, you have shown yourself to be a base villain. A man who thinks only of himself. You may not have intended to be a traitor, but your actions have made you one. They have threatened the security of not only this place, but the entire Unity. Furthermore, your crimes led directly to the death of Brother Adelmus. You are found guilty of all charges. The punishment is death.”

  There was a roar from the crowd and a fist-fight broke out amongst the demi-masters. The masters sat in shocked silence. Bolb fell to his knees and wailed like a demented child.

  Abattoir blues

  The rope trailing behind Jon switched like a rat’s tail, chafed a layer of skin from his wrists every time it caught on a piece of rubble or refuse. Peacock and the Sharks made him walk ahead, like a slave, or a prisoner of war. He kept his head bowed and prayed to the All-seeing that the blood and bruises that swelled his face would spare him from the shame of recognition. The Sharks look impassive, bored even. Matthew marched triumphant, his blunderbuss loaded and readied. Jon could sense it trained vaguely at his back.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  “To meet a friend,” Peacock said. “Keep moving.”

  “What does this friend of yours want?”

  “That’s up to him.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I will return to my brand new mill and attend to some unfinished business.” Peacock’s bravado lacked enthusiasm. He had always enjoyed the chase more than the prize, Jon thought.

  He imagined Gilbert Gordon coming at his balls with a pair of scissors and surreptitiously increased his pace, looking for an alleyway to dive into as the Sharks marched mechanically towards their destination.

  His arms were wrenched backwards and he was forced to a halt in blinding pain. Peacock had planted his heel on the rope. “There’s no point in running, Jon. After what you’ve done, the censors would catch you anyway, as certain as your next birthday.”

  “More certain,” rumbled Big Shark.

  “A point well made,” Littleshark agreed.

  “Settle,” Matthew snapped. He wasn’t in the mood for joshing.

  “You’re turning me in, then? Not taking me to Gordon.”

  “The brothers have got a book with your name on it. They want to make sure they know everything about… about everything they need to know.”

  Jon nodded and they began to walk again, more slowly.

  “Once you’re on the books you never come off,” Littleshark said.

  Jon knew that already, Daniel had explained it to him many times. There was no prison in the seminary, only stocks, branding irons, chopping blocks and scaffolds. You were received. They took your confession. You were judged. Punishment or freedom followed. Mercy did not enter into it. According to the censors, mercy was a betrayal of justice. Do I even deserve mercy, Jon wondered, after all I’ve done?

  Peacock kicked a discarded bucket to the edge of the kerb. “I still can’t take you for a rebel. Bombing the Bell Jar; that’s a thing of wonder to me. You might even have got away with it all if you hadn’t fallen for that tart. Still no man can choose who he falls in love with.” He sucked air through his teeth.

  “True,” Big Shark said.

  “I used to think about that a lot when Anna was sucking on my prick.”

  Was it true? Had she done that to keep Matthew at bay? To save the mill? Maybe when she was supposed to be at temple. Jon stopped his mind. He didn’t want to know. He wasn’t even angry. None of it mattered any more.

  “Look after her, if she comes back,” he said.

  Matthew didn’t nod. He didn’t make a joke either.

  The streets to the north of Turbulence had taken the worst of the rioting. The charred beams of the houses looked like the stumps of a forest cleared by fire. Remnants of families, soot-faced, coats peppered with ash, collected their broken pottery and burnt sheets from the rubble and piled them into barrows and carts. Peacock’s militiamen claimed anything of obvious value in return for safe passage.

  “This isn’t the way to the seminary,” Jon said.

  “Not to worry,” Matthew replied.

  “Not far now,” Littleshark offered.

  They passed through the edge of the city into the desolate countryside beyond. Jon didn’t venture there often; he was surprised how empty the highway was, how barren the fields. There was nothing but road dust and insects. They walked under a pallid sun for half an hour, and then turned down a narrow lane that circuited a field. It was edged with stinging nettles and a rickety fence overgrown with blackberries. Peacock picked a handful and passed one to Jon. He burst it between his teeth and let its sweet juice pool under his tongue.

  The path led to a small hut, thatch-roofed and wicker-walled, sheltered by a broad oak that had mysteriously escaped the woodman’s axe. Its door was chained, which was a joke – a grown man could kick it through in seconds.

  The Sharks untied it and bundled him inside. The Peacock followed a moment later, and closed the door behind them. It was hot and dark despite the gaps in the wicker walls, which allowed thin beams of light to enter. There was a musty smell. Hooked chains hung from the ceiling. This place had been a slaughterhouse once, or a slave pen. Its rough earthen floor was littered with segments of chain, stained black with the blood of past visitors.

  Outside a crow cawed.

  “What now?” Jon asked.

  “We wait,” Matthew said.

  A soft voice issued from a shadowed corner. “No need to wait.”

  “Magistrate Lang.” There was a nervous edge to Peacock’s voice. Jon peered into the dusty gloom, saw the jagged outline of a man.

  “Colonel Peacock, have you done as I commanded?”

  Matthew cleared his throat. “The raid was victorious. The man who claimed to be Barehill is dead. And I have taken his lieutenant prisoner.”

  “Who?”

  “Jonathan Miller, a very wicked man.”

  “Present him to me.” The
Sharks pushed Jonathan forward. Now he could see to whom they spoke. The man wore a shepherd’s cloak, huge and grey, a peek of midnight blue underneath the rags. It made him look like a child in adult’s clothing.

  There was something odd about the man’s stare, Jon thought. His eyes flitted from side to side and when his gaze held it seemed too intent, as if his point of focus was just behind Jon’s eyes. Lang inspected him, questing for something, and Jon imagined a cold breeze wending through the crevices of his mind. Lang’s lips curled in detached amusement. Jon sensed that he had recognised something in him, but he could not imagine what he saw.

  “Wicked indeed,” Lang said, “and captured by these rugged-looking gentlemen, the famous Sharks.”

  “Barehill was my work; I struck the fatal blow,” Matthew said.

  “Of course.” Lang addressed the Sharks directly. “You are the gentlemen who served me in the North.”

  “Yes,” Littleshark said.

  “And you have told nobody of your actions.”

  “Not even Gordon,” Littleshark said.

  “You should have told us he was a censor; I nearly got caught out,” Big Shark drawled. Littleshark hissed at him to be quiet.

  “Be patient. Your reward will be forthcoming. Now let us deal with the matter at hand, the infamous Mr Miller. Gentlemen, please untie him, but hold him fast, just in case.”

  Am I to be judged here and now? Jon wondered. The Sharks cut the rope from his wrists and forced him to his knees. Each held up one of his arms, twisted it up behind his back so that he was pinned down. Lang raised his arms into the air and the sleeves of his cloak rolled back to reveal a pair of long pistols, double-barrelled and brass-hilted.

  “Jonathan Miller, you now stand trial. I accuse you of the murder of Brother Nielsen, of acting as quartermaster to the traitorous Freeborn, of orchestrating the massacre at Bell Street. Will you make your confession?”

  Jon nodded. Lang lifted Jon’s chin with the barrel of a gun and stared deep into his eyes. He felt the cold draught in his mind again, but stronger this time, as if Jon’s memories were a storybook and the gods were turning the pages. Lang released his chin. The drop of his head jolted him back into the room.

  “How do you plead?” Lang asked.

  Jon stared at him defiantly. “I did what I had to do.”

  Lang levelled his guns at Jon’s forehead. “As do we all, and you will pay for your actions. I pronounce my sentence.”

  I’m sorry, Anna, Jon thought, for everything. He heard the double click as the pistols’ hammers fell, then the deafening roar of their discharge. The small hut was engulfed in blinding light.

  Jon fell to the ground deafened, clutched his hands over his ears. Big Shark landed beside him, his face mangled, grey eyes no deader than before. Littleshark fell across his legs.

  Matthew brought up his blunderbuss and fired wildly in Lang’s direction. The shot tore a hole through the wicker wall the size of a fist. Sunlight poured into the hut. Matthew blinked in confusion. Jon saw Lang standing behind him, outlined in the smoky brilliance.

  Lang pressed the barrels of a pistol to the back of Matthew’s head.

  Peacock’s body went stiff with fear. The smoking blunderbuss slipped from his trembling hands. Jon watched his lips move.

  “Please,” he seemed to say, then he spoke some more, but Jon could not follow the words for the ringing in his ears. A tear rolled down the Peacock’s cheek.

  There was another flash, and Matthew tumbled forwards. His body landed heavily and his brains spilt out across the floor. Jon watched mutely as Lang moved calmly around the room, crouching to check that each man was dead. After a couple of minutes, he felt ready to speak.

  “What did you do?” Jon said.

  Lang stood, satisfied with his work. “I take no pleasure in killing. The death of even the wickedest man weighs heavily upon my heart. I do only that which is necessary for justice to prevail.”

  Jon got to his knees. His ears still hurt, but strength was returning to his arms. Lang levelled his pistol at Jon.

  “If you have been keeping count you will know that I have one shot left. I’m afraid it is meant for you.”

  With a leonine growl, Jon leapt forwards. His roar was drowned out by the discharge of the pistol.

  It hit his head with the force of an anvil. I’ve been shot, Jon realised, as his body spun around. Am I dead?

  Engulfed in a wave of pain, he awoke with a gasp, lying on the ground. Lang was leaning over him, slapping his face with somebody’s ear.

  “You should be more careful, Jonathan. You nearly caused an accident. But the gods smile on both of us today.” Jon focused on the ear. There was a scrap of skin hanging from the side of it, a tuft of blond hair. He tried to think who the other blond in the room might be. He put his hand to the side of his head and the delicate touch swamped him with nausea. His hand came away wet with blood. “You would be bleeding less if you had held still,” Lang said. “But you’ll live.”

  The magistrate offered his hand, and Jon took it reluctantly. The man was half of Jon’s weight, but he pulled him to his feet with ease. Jon surveyed the massacre all around him. The week before, it would have shocked him.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” he asked.

  “Because justice has need of you. If you prove half as capable as your brother you will serve me admirably.” Jon could not suppress a laugh. It made the whole of his face roar with pain.

  “You call this justice?”

  “A path to justice.” Lang pointed his ornate pistols at him, checked their mechanisms and the alignment of the barrels, then flipped them around and held out the stocks. “These are yours now. They’re good pieces, worthy of a hero of the Freeborn.” Jon took them. “You defeated the Peacock and the Sharks single-handed. When you return to Turbulence, you will be a hero of the Freeborn. Every radical and malcontent will want to share his or her secrets with you. You will allow it and, in turn, you will pass those secrets onto me.”

  “What’s the point? Barehill’s dead.”

  Lang shook his head sadly. “Every unhappy city in the Unity has a man who claims that name. If there really is a Barehill, if he is anything more than an idea, and of that I am uncertain, he is definitely not the man who died at your mill.”

  “Dan’s alive then.”

  “Your brother prospers. You will see him again, no doubt, but that is not your immediate concern.” Lang drew his shepherd’s cloak close around him. “You have had a lucky escape, Mr Miller. Understand that if I ever have cause to shoot at you again, you will not live.”

  Lang stepped out.

  Jon looked at the corpses that lay all around him. He spat on the Sharks, took their coin purses. The key to his mill hung from Matthew’s belt. He took that as well. The Peacock’s red beaver hat lay crumpled under his body. He straightened it out, closed the Peacock’s eyes and placed it over the remains of his head.

  “Goodbye Matthew,” he said.

  Lang was right. It was time to go home.

  Justice

  Daniel slung his travelling sack over his back and made his way to the Convergence’s tall teak gates. The individuals he passed moved aside and stared. Groups huddled and whispered comments. He felt no nostalgia. The strangeness of the Verge no longer provoked wonder in him, only a mild distaste, and his mind was already on Bromwich and his family. The only thing he would miss was Miranda.

  She was waiting for him by the wicket door. At the sight of her, his breath caught in his throat. She was still dressed in the black and red gown that she had worn at the trial. Not a hair was out of place on her beautiful head, but she looked worried. It was clear that she meant to speak to him one last time before he left for good. He halted before her and dropped his baggage to his feet.

  “Direct to Bromwich?” she asked.

  “There has bee
n rioting there, some kind of crisis. My family might be in danger.”

  “So that’s it. You were going to leave without a word.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to speak to me.”

  For a moment, he wished that he could still be Edmund Sutton, the adorable oaf. He sought the words to make things right, to make her understand that his loving hadn’t been an act, even if he hadn’t realised it at the time.

  “I’m sorry, Miranda, about what happened. How it happened, not that it happened. I will treasure that memory forever.”

  Her expression was impossible to read.

  “What about the final matter?” she said. “Corbin left with Bolb an hour ago.”

  “He went to administer the lesser punishments, said it was a mistake to try to do everything the first time.”

  Miranda’s eyes opened wide with shock. “Corbin means for you to do the killing?” Daniel tried to stand tall. He looked out across the bay towards the dunes.

  “He thinks that I’m ready for it.”

  She took his thick-gloved hands in hers, and drew him close. “If there is anything you can do to stop this madness, do it.” Her emerald eyes bore deep into his own. “Do it for me, your family, for everyone.”

  It was so like her to try to save Bolb’s life. Her head might be in the clouds, but her heart was gentle and caring. It pained him to be the one to disappoint her.

  “There’s nothing that can be done,” he replied sadly.

  “Bolb isn’t a traitor.”

  “He might not have intended treason, but that doesn’t change what he did. You saw the mood at his confession. If we hadn’t taken Bolb away, someone would have lynched him there and then.”

  He wished that she would stop thinking about the case. It was such morbid talk. What he wanted was the opportunity to say exactly the right words to make her understand how he felt without making himself look foolish. He smiled and shook her hands to change the mood.

  “You will prosper here, I can tell. You’ll be a master the next time I see you.” He pulled off his glove and showed her the livid scar that ridged his left hand. “I will remember you every day, whether I want to or not. Will you speak to me in Bromwich as you promised? If I can’t use a hekamaphone, you could write to me at the seminary. I really can read, you know.”