The Madness Project (The Madness Method)

by Bralick, J. Leigh

  “No, of course not. For once,” she added, the corner of her mouth fighting a smile. But then she hesitated a long moment, unsettling me. “Things are changing, Tarik.”

  She stood abruptly and I mirrored the motion by habit, watching her drift around the desk to stand in front of me. Her hands reached up to take my face, her eyes searching mine, sad and dark.

  Then she pulled my head down to kiss my brow, but when she spoke, all she said was, “Go and dress for dinner, love.”

  I bowed and took my leave.

  Another interminable walk brought me to my own apartments, high on the third floor at the farthest north corner of the Ward. I found Zagger brooding in a chair by my study fire, bent over his knees and fiddling with the cuffs of his uniform sleeves. He didn’t move as I came in, so I just ignored him and went on into my bed chamber.

  My valet Liman was there waiting for me with my dinner suit already set out—charcoal grey with thin white pinstripes, and a silk waistcoat in dark blue. I grimaced. That was Father’s favorite style, and I wasn’t my father. But I didn’t complain, just let Liman help me out of my damp clothes and into the suit, listening to him fret about me catching ill from the cold.

  He kept up a steady stream of conversation the whole time it took him to make me presentable for dinner—smoothing out my collars, buttoning my cuffs and fixing my pocket watch, returning my rain-murdered hair to some semblance of order.

  “I’m surprised Mother hasn’t ordered you to have my hair cut again,” I remarked, staring blandly at my starched reflection in the armoire mirror.

  He smiled as he applied another remedial dose of groom to my already over-slicked hair. I made a face at him in the mirror.

  “You’ll want your royal hairs trimmed before tomorrow’s gala, I’m sure,” he said.

  I could imagine away my hair and go out as bald as you if I wanted, I thought, and said nothing to his taunt.

  But I wondered if it was true. I hadn’t tried Masking my face since that day when I was five years old. Was a magery gift something one would forget through disuse, like a language or the steps of a dance? Or was it always there, dormant, but natural as breath?

  I stared at my reflection again. Some part of me—the troublesome, rebellious part—wanted desperately to try, but not even I was brazen enough to do it with Liman there at my shoulder, examining his handiwork.

  He kept at me for only a few more moments before he stepped back and bowed.

  I checked the time, sighed, and headed down to dinner. The rest of the party had already been seated when I arrived, but only just; no one blinked when the footman announced me. My mother smiled at me, but in the middle of it she narrowed a pointed look at the small man seated to her right. Batar, Minister of the Court.

  I winked at my mother just to horrify her, because I knew exactly what she meant: Behave yourself.

  “Sorry,” Griff said as I took my seat beside him. “Abso-lute-ly forgot that we were coming.”

  “I figured as much,” I said, receiving my napkin and a bowl of pumpkin cream soup. I glanced at Minister Farro and whispered, “What did your father say about the crash?”

  “Ah,” Griff said, laughing faintly. “I haven’t told him yet.”

  I tapped a finger to my lip and nodded gravely. Across from us, Minister Batar was launching into his regular ecstasy over the menu.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, tapping his fingertips together as his own bowl appeared in front of him. “Oh, how p-p-positively shplendid! P-p-pumpkin bisque.”

  Griff cocked an eyebrow at him, but Batar was too engrossed in observing the exact orange-cream hue of the soup to notice. The man was an insufferable idiot, but half of Brinmark worshipped him as the final arbiter of all things cultural and refined in Cavnal.

  His looks dressed the part of the fool too. Tonight he had his flame-red hair slicked flat onto his head, all but the little tufts over his ears that had been groomed to stand out in stiff wisps. Intentionally-mussed, he had informed my mother on one occasion. Because it was, after all, possible for one to look too perfect.

  “My dear P-p-prince Tarik,” Batar said eventually, between dainty sips of soup. “How delightful to celebrate your b-b-birthday tomorrow! I hear it is to be an especially shpectacular event, is it so?”

  I said stiffly, “I must wait for your judgment, Minister, to say if it’s so.”

  Batar’s pasty face erupted into a magnanimous smile, and he even flourished his hand in acknowledgement. I glanced at my mother and almost grinned—her expression wavered somewhere between approval and barely stifled amusement.

  “Your Majesty,” Batar said, turning to my father. “Will the royal family be arriving in the new motor-carriage for tomorrow’s fes-fes-tivities? Gad, it will make such a shight!”

  Griff snorted soup—into his napkin, luckily, and not onto Batar. But my father just leveled a cool gaze on the Court Minister and gave him his smallest courtesy smile before turning back to his conversation with Minister Farro.

  “I believe so,” Mother said, graciously sparing Batar the embarrassment of being ignored. “His Majesty wishes the people to see the vehicle more often, so we have scheduled a morning driving tour through the city.”

  I stifled a groan. That was the first I’d heard about it.

  “South…” Griff whispered. “Getaway?”

  I speared him a dangerous glare and didn’t answer. My father and Minister Farro seemed to be discussing Rivano, and I desperately wanted everyone else to quiet down so I could listen. But the way my father kept glancing my way, I couldn’t tell if I’d annoyed him by listening in, or if he wished to include me. In either case, his attention made me dreadfully nervous.

  “Oh, oh,” Batar said, catching a drift of my father’s conversation. “You’re not talking about that b-b-beastly Rivano fellow, are you? Gad, seems to be all anyone talks about these days. Well,” he added, with a little weaving of his head, “you know. People. People who know. P-p-positively exhausting. What’s all the bother about him, anyway? Some dark, gloomy fellow preaching end-times fairy stories or some such? I never can tell.”

  “Oh dear,” Griff said under his breath, “that sounds p-p-positively dreadful!”

  “No, no,” I countered. “Shplendid, my d-d-dear Farro…fellow. Shplendid.”

  Batar didn’t notice us mocking him, but Griff burst into laughter and that silenced everyone at table. Minister Farro scowled fiercely at his son—a look I never envied—and my mother gave me a pointed glance. My cheeks warmed, and I dropped my gaze to study the exact texture and composition of my broiled duck.

  “It’s more than just preaching now,” Minister Farro said. He had a rather high voice for a man, rasping around the edges with a wolfish snarl. “Some people are saying he’s thrown in with the anarchists, though who can say why.”

  “But what does the dreary fellow p-p-possibly want? He’s in no danger! He can believe as he chooses, even if he is shtuck in ancient history. Gods and thayoi and tazimy…what a b-b-bother.”

  I couldn’t hide a snort of laughter, because no one really talked about daemons or dragons any more, but Griff said, “Sure, he can believe what he likes. In private.”

  I glanced at him in surprise. Griff never seemed to care much about politics, or about much besides himself for that matter, but he leaned forward now, eyes bright and challenging.

  “In p-p-private, of course,” Batar said, smiling beatifically across at us. “Every man’s house is his castle, I dare say.”

  “Except those who don’t have a house,” I blurted—and this time I surprised myself, because my mind flashed back to the Jixy girl’s muddy face and startling dark eyes.

  “What a thing to say!” my mother exclaimed.

  “I only mean that those who live in the streets don’t have that luxury. Everything they say is in public.”

  Batar nodded, his eyes half-closed. I knew that look. Pure condescension, because in his eyes I was still a child who couldn’t possible have a
meaningful opinion on the matter. I bristled.

  “Of course, you know he’s right,” my father said, eyeing Batar coolly.

  I bit my tongue in surprise.

  “Well,” Batar said, after an awkward moment passed. “That may be. But what are his p-p-plans?”

  “Plans?” My father snorted. “I doubt he has much planned besides riling the people up for no reason.”

  Farro shook his head. “Whatever he intends, he won’t get anywhere if he can’t unite the Jixies, and they’re not exactly the submissive type.”

  “Any word from the north?” Batar asked.

  “Not a noise,” my father said. “Istia is sending an ambassador in a few weeks, but I have no hopes for it. Especially not after the death of Godar Eyid. Bunch of damned stubborn wildings, that lot.”

  “What’s going on in Istia?” Griff asked me.

  “The mainland kingdoms want them to sign an accord,” I said. “Something about legislating restrictions on Jixies, I really don’t know. But you know how they are. They’ll never sign.”

  “What about that Eyid fellow?”

  My father eyed Griff over the rim of his wine glass. “He was their First Chief and head of their Parliament. Basically the Istian equivalent of a king, but the Godar is a religious figure too. And they’re accusing us of assassinating him.”

  Griff’s eyes lit up. “Oh? How did he die? Did we do it?”

  “Honestly,” my mother said, her face rather grey. She speared a stern look at my father. “Are we discussing a murder at the dinner table? Politics and intrigue are bad enough, but murder is simply not a topic for polite conversation.”

  My father nodded with a wry smile. “True enough. No more talk of assassinations.”

  “Quite a horrid place, Istia,” Batar said. “Regulate Jixies? Never! They actually honor the b-b-beastly creatures. The Godar was a f-f-filthy Jixy himself.” He let his spoon clatter into his bowl, fluttering his fingers in agitation. “It’s p-p-positively monstrous!”

  “Not your idea of civilization?” I asked.

  “Oh, gracious, no,” he said. “Murderers and conspirators, that’s all that island amounts to.” He gave a little shudder and turned to Griff. “I hear you are f-f-flying aeroplanes now, Mr. Farro, at long last. Is it true?”

  Griff nodded with a lopsided, if somewhat pale, grin.

  “Any chance your father will be granting you a commission in the P-p-patrol anytime soon?” Batar asked, nodding in Minister Farro’s direction.

  “I’m a better flier than anyone else in the skies,” Griff said hotly. “I always tell him it’s a shame to waste a good machine.”

  Batar smiled. “Indeed. D’you know, I heard Dr. Alokin believes he can mount an auto-firing gun onto your aeroplanes. Isn’t that socking?”

  I almost choked on my broiled duck. Batar had mastered not only an affected stutter on top of society’s habit of sh-ing their s’s, but he’d reversed it too. I’d never heard anything quite so stupid.

  Griff didn’t seem to notice, for once. Get him talking about flying and flying machines, and he wouldn’t notice if your hair was blue. I made a mental note to try it some time, if I ever got the nerve to use my skill again.

  Somewhere between dessert and aperitifs, I made my escape. As I headed out of the hall, I heard Griff excuse himself from Batar’s conversation to follow me. Of course he would. Griff could stomach only so much of the Court Minister, even discussing aeronautics.

  I made my way to the Queen’s Parlor and headed for the balcony which, like most balconies in Brinmark, was covered to ward away the worst of the inconstant weather. An attendant followed me all the way to the double doors trying to offer me a fur wrap, but I waved him away and faced the frigid night in just my suit jacket. A thin mist shivered down over the city, blurring everything below so that even the street lamps seemed to rain light. Every now and then I heard the sharp scrape and hiss of sleet on the roof and stone balustrade.

  “What d’you know,” Griff said, strolling out onto the balcony, hands in his pockets. “You might get snow for your birthday this year.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Ah, look, I can see the lights of the Station from here.”

  “Remarkable,” I said. “They’re in the same place they were last night.”

  “Don’t be such a bore,” Griff said, sniffling. “Beastly cold.”

  “If I hear you call something beastly again, Farro, I’ll throw you off the balcony.” I slanted him a sidelong glance. “Next thing you know you’ll be saying b-b-beastly.”

  “Bah. What a p-p-preposterous idea.”

  I smiled.

  “Gad, Tarik, you’re in a foul mood,” Griff said after a while. “Was your duck overcooked or something?”

  I glared at him, but didn’t care to reply. Anxiety wormed through me—thinking of my father’s attention at table, anticipating the talk he wanted to have with me. I dreaded that more than anything, but couldn’t come up with any sort of plan for escaping that didn’t involve fleeing to South Brinmark.

  I sighed and dragged my hand through my hair, ruining Liman’s careful work with rather murderous intent. Griff dropped his elbows on the rail and leaned out until the rain attacked him.

  “I can still call for the horses, you know.”

  “Really, Farro? You think that’s what’s got me bothered?”

  “Well, how the hell am I to know when you won’t tell me anything?” Griff cried, reddening. “I don’t understand what’s got you so unscrewed. When’ve you ever declined a dance in the dark?”

  I stared at my hands, white from the cold. How could I explain my terror of going among the Jixies, when any chance bump could betray my secret to the world?

  “Why not go somewhere else?”

  “The usual places?” He made a little noise, all annoyance and boredom. “How p-p-positively boring. You’re getting boring in your old age. Weren’t you supposed to be off somewhere today?”

  “Zagger intercepted me, or believe me, I wouldn’t be standing here right now,” I said, gloomy. I straightened up and said, stern now, “But southside is a no. It’s not a discussion.”

  He rolled his eyes and mocked a bow. “Yes, Your Highness. Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

  I shot him a dark look and said nothing.

  “Sometimes…” he started, then scowled, kicking at the stone railing. “Feels as though I hardly know you these days.”

  I eyed him, curious. I’d never imagined he had enough awareness of his surroundings to notice. Maybe I wasn’t the only one changing.

  “Pardon me, Your Highness.”

  We both turned as a footman stepped out onto the balcony behind us. He gave me a formal bow, then turned to Griff.

  “My lord, your coach is waiting for you.”

  Griff arched a brow. “Already? Well, that’s different.”

  “Maybe your father said something annoying. A family trait, possibly?”

  Griff clenched his fist, but he knew better than to slug my arm with one of my servants standing right in front of us. He wagged his finger reproachfully at me.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and disappeared into the palace.

  I turned to the footman. “Yes?”

  “Your father wishes to see you, Your Highness.”

  Chapter 7 — Hayli

  One of the new kids sat perched up on the gate post when I slunk back to the Hole, just as I’d hoped. I’d seen him around before, but he didn’t know me much. We knew each other’s faces and I sort of thought he might be a mage like me, but he sure didn’t know I was. And he couldn’t possibly know where I’d been, or what it meant that I’d come back all alone.

  I tipped my cap as I passed and he gave me a gappy grin, his hands round his knees and his newsboy cap twisted halfway wrong to the side. He was wraith thin and no bigger than a wee chipmunk, and I didn’t imagine he could ward off an ounce of danger even if he wanted to. Luckily, guard duty was mostly just a way to keep t
he wee skitters out of mischief for a bit, because no one ever really came by unless they had reason to.

  Not all of South Brinmark was as dead and quiet as our little corner, but I imagined Kantian had picked this old factory for our headquarters for just that reason. It wasn’t much to look at. Windows all knocked out, dead ivy whispering and chittering against the walls as the wind blew in hard from the north. Electric lights hadn’t come this far south yet, so we just had one sputtery gas lamp inside the front enclosure that sometimes went out. Tonight it oozed a greasy red light over the cobblestone drive that didn’t show much, just the faded edges of the factory’s name written in weathered paint.

  If folks ever looked twice at the old place, they probably just thought it was a factory with a vasty storage basement like all the other factories had. They had no notion that it was like a little army base down underground. And so many people. Between the Hole—our half of the building—and the Clan’s headquarters on the other end, you were never really alone. Maybe that’s why I stuck to the streets much as I could.

  Nobody paid me any mind as I crept down into the Hole and headed toward the barracks. I’d got all the way past the mess hall and the infirmary and had my bunk in sight when a hand landed on my shoulder, ending my run of good luck.

  Large. Calloused. Ring on the second finger.

  “Hullo, Link,” I said, not turning.

  The hand fell away. “How d’you always know it’s me?”

  I turned around and grabbed his hand, holding it up by the ring. “Gives you away every time.”

  He grinned, his mop of dark curls sagging across his broad face. “Say, what’re you doing back, Hayli? Did you and Jig get inside the palace?”

  I dropped his hand and scatted the last few steps to my bunk. Like all the girls’ beds, it backed onto the mid-room partition and had an itty bit of privacy—just a raggedy grey curtain strung up on a wire, like a glorified insect net for driving off the boy species of pest. I’d strung mine with chains and broken bits of gears so they rattled nice and loud whenever the curtain moved. I liked my privacy. And in the Hole, where everyone was always in everyone else’s business, the privacy of my bunk was sacred.