by Ben Galley
‘Thank you, Madam,’ he smiled and then began to pack the things away into the small bag he had slung over his shoulder. Somehow he even managed to con her out of a canvas sack for Calidae. She just stood by and watched, inwardly smiling at it all.
When Gavisham was done, he offered the woman a very profuse round of thank-yous, and made for the door. Calidae turned to follow him, but she hesitated when she heard the woman tapping on the counter with her nail, like a woodpecker giving a tree what for. Calidae looked up questioningly, and saw the woman slide up her sleeve to bare her arm. Calidae walked forwards to see the faint twisted cobweb of a burn scar. She did not know what to say. Neither did the woman it seemed. If she was hoping to offer some sort of affinity, Calidae did not care for it. In fact, she was just about to inform her so when the woman pulled out a small wooden pot from her pocket and held it forth.
‘It helps,’ the woman said, eyeing the right side of Calidae’s face. ‘It does.’
‘I don’t have anything,’ Calidae started, but the woman shook her head. The little container was slid across the counter and into her hands. The girl removed the lid and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. It smelled like fish with lemon.
‘Trust me. It helps.’
‘Erm, thank you,’ Calidae nodded, slowly peeling away from the counter and rejoining Gavisham at the door. She looked back several times and each time the woman just waved.
‘What was that about?’ Gavisham asked, when they were back in the sunlight.
‘Gave me some ointment, I think.’ Calidae held it up for him to see.
‘Kind of her.’
Calidae nodded.
Gavisham pulled a face. ‘Almighty! That reeks.’
‘I’m aware of that. You’re not the one was told to put it on your skin.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s true. Maybe you should apply it once I’ve gone to sleep. I don’t want to have to eat dinner smelling that. Neither do you.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Calidae muttered.
Gavisham winked a blue eye at her. ‘It’s a habit of mine.’
Calidae just rolled her eyes and kept walking.
‘Now, let’s go see a man about a horse.’
*
Gavisham led them a roundabout route back through the town and past the locomotives in the station, which were still hissing and whistling away. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and besides, he had somewhat of a soft spot for steam and clockwork.
One of the great machines was just about to leave, heading west for the frontier. A gang of whimpering wives and significant others were standing on the platform, waving at soldiers inside the carriages. The gun-metal grey locomotive shuddered, its angular frame catching the sun as its overlapping plates along its flanks flexed with clockwork clicks and the hissing of steam. This was no worker train on the way to the frontier, chuffing away, a pile of welded shapes on wheels. This was a military transport. It was armoured to the gills, its two, round smoke-stacks raised like two fingers at the open track before it. Steam leaked from its glowing vents. Water dripped onto the steel rails beneath it like the beast’s saliva.
Gavisham led Asha back through the cantankerous crowd. Everybody was pushing and shoving. It seemed space was in short supply on the locomotives, and there wasn’t enough room for the panic. There was shouting and bawling, and coin shoved under noses as if that would matter. Gavisham tutted, sucking his gold tooth once again. Wars are made of all manner of weapons, but fear is always the sharpest.
To their groaning disappointment, every stable in the town was empty but for the steeds of the sheriff and his men. With the railroad jammed up by the war, anything with four legs and an aptitude for a saddle had been snatched up. Gavisham didn’t relish the idea of being a horse-thief, and so they consented to trying again in the next town, wherever that lay.
Once they had broken out into the open desert, free from Cheyenne and its strife, Gavisham broke out some of the packets he’d bought. They ate as they walked, not speaking, just chewing. Asha seemed to be wolfing the dried meat down, hardly bothering to chew.
‘You’ve got an appetite on you,’ he said from one corner of his mouth. The other was busy masticating a shard of tough dark meat.
‘Hungry,’ Asha said between gulps. ‘Got any water?’
‘I do,’ Gavisham replied, reaching into his bag and pulling free a flask, beaten and scratched. It had a time-worn crest on it. Something that looked old and naval. Asha took it and washed it down. She would have drunk half the flask if he hadn’t snatched it from her. ‘Easy,’ he warned her. ‘We’ll need every drop we’ve got to make it to the next town. It’s a long walk into Nebraskar.’
Asha sniffed. ‘That’s why we need a horse or two.’
‘Horse thieves aren’t very welcome around here, and word spreads quickly even across empty desert. Steal a sheriffsman’s horse: get hunted for miles. I don’t want the attention. I’m only here for one person, and that’s it.’
He could feel it coming, like a clock-hand twitching towards its next notch—inevitable.
‘And who’s that?’
‘Not going to tell you is who,’ Gavisham grunted. Every time.
‘Maybe I know him. Know where he is,’ Asha said, still not deterred. ‘The Serpeds used to have all sorts at their table.’
Gavisham turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised as if he had just realised he left the gaslights burning at home, a mere four and a half thousand miles away. ‘Really now?’
‘Really,’ Asha nodded, still picking slivers of meat from the packet and shoving them into her mouth. The girl was ravenous. ‘All sorts.’
‘Who exactly? Give me some names.’ He spoke lower, as if the desert had ears.
Asha snorted. ‘That’s not very fair. I’m not allowed to ask questions, but you are.’
‘I’ve been sent here to ask questions, miss. That’s what I do. You, however, are just tagging along. Give me some names.’
Asha took her sweet time in thinking up the first one. ‘Lord Tibbish, from Kaspar.’
‘Mhm.’
‘And his mistress, Esmeril.’
‘No,’ Gavisham sighed, noticing that Asha was smirking. ‘Never mind, let’s keep walking. No more questions.’
A small church sat just outside the town, a white-painted building that was missing half its modest spire. Their path curved to its door before snaking off into the shimmering heat of the dying day. The two of them walked in silence, each examining the church’s tumbledown features. A small boy sat on the dusty steps, playing with something shiny. An old woman stood in the doorway, eyeing the strangers with a curious face, as wrinkled as a prune.
Gavisham felt it polite to tip his hat, and so he did. The old woman nodded and the boy waved before going back to his toy, something made of glass, like a tiny bottle. Asha just stared. Gavisham stared down at the gravestones and tried to pick out the names carved there, already scorched by wind and dust. He knew none of them, but still he read on, until he came to the final one.
There was a little falter in his step. It was plain and obvious. Asha had noticed it, and her eyes followed his down to the gravestone. She clenched her jaw and snapped her head forward. Gavisham saw it. He held his lips tightly together, knowing that any word would betray him. Asha knew what the Star meant. Gavisham began to feel that horrid itch again, the one he could not scratch to save his life. It was fiercer now. If this girl was a maid, he was a clown.
As they walked on, not a word passed between them, not until the church was but a dull smudge in their wake. Only then did Gavisham break the silence, which had been solely occupied by the crunching and thumping of boots and tired legs until now.
‘Getting dark,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better find a place to camp.’ Gavisham looked up at the bruised sky, slowly slipping from blood red to coal black. A few bold stars were already daring to pierce the epic canvas. There was no sign of the moon. It would be a dark night tonight.
He
looked down at Asha and found her shrugging, staring right back at him, eyes hopping from one eye to the other. People always do that, as if they can’t ever decide which one they like more, he thought. But there was a curiosity in them, a suspicious glint, and Gavisham already knew he shared the same quality in his eyes.
‘Well, get on with it then,’ she said, and they broke. Gavisham aimed for nearest craggy hill, hoping for a hollow or a cave. Asha walked by his side in silence, occasionally whistling to add a little something to the silence, like a child will when its hand has been in the biscuit tin.
Gavisham listened to her tuneless warbling, letting the jumbled notes wrap around his thoughts, harmonising with them perfectly as he went over the fractured possibilities in his head once again. Tap-tap went his teeth, gold on enamel, every few seconds or so.
*
Calidae was drumming her fingernails on the rock. It looked to be driving Gavisham absolutely mad. That probably was why she enjoyed doing it so much.
A few more minutes, and he cracked. ‘Right!’ he hissed. ‘No more of that, Asha, or I’ll tie all your fingers together.’
Calidae smiled sardonically. ‘I’d like to see you try,’ she muttered, goading him just a little more.
Gavisham laughed hard and harshly, before going back to the stick he had been angrily whittling. ‘Don’t test me, girl.’
‘Yeah? What makes you so special?’
His mismatched eyes shot her a look that simmered with meaning. Calidae sat up and jabbed a finger at him. ‘I knew it,’ she hissed. ‘I knew you’d seen that gravestone.’
Gavisham hacked at his stick a few more times, obviously peeved that one of his secrets had been tugged from him. ‘And that means you know it too, don’t forget. We both need to start spilling some beans before we go pointing fingers, or sharp sticks,’ Gavisham made a show of miming a stabbing with the carved stick and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I want to know how you know of the Star.’
‘It’s the eyes,’ Calidae told him. ‘Like Lord Serped’s manservant.’
‘So you knew Suffrous.’
‘No, but I saw him around,’ Calidae lied, trying not savour it too much. She had been knitting this yarn together for several hours now. ‘And I knew what he was.’
‘And what exactly is that? Do tell.’
‘A rusher, like you.’ Calidae said it, plain and clear. Then she propped herself up against a rock and watched him wedge the knife into the stick and snap a chunk off. ‘Lady Serped told me of it once, when she was drunk as a fart one night.’ Thank Almighty for eavesdropping on those maids, she thought momentarily. ‘I’m right aren’t I?’ she asked with a cheeky smile, albeit a little crooked with the scarring. She could feel it in her cheeks.
Gavisham winked. ‘Right you are, miss. Bet you’ve been keeping that in for a while, haven’t you? It did cross my mind when I found you. So what of it? I ply my trade, just as he did. Work for a living, like him. I’m good at what I do.’
‘I bet you are,’ Calidae murmured, wondering where she could take this. ‘So I imagine it’s a lord who’s sent you here,’ she guessed.
Gavisham wagged his finger and shifted closer to the fire so he could burn the end of his stick as he spoke. ‘Now when I was a young lad, living in a place I guarantee you’ve never heard of, let alone know how to pronounce, I had three masters. Three wise old men with plenty of knowledge to share, and who were generous with their beatings too. They each had just one golden rule, you see, one they insisted must be obeyed. On the last day before I left, I was sent to each one in turn, to learn their rules. Now the first was pretty easy. Comes with the territory really. The first master took me aside and said, “Arrid, I have only one rule, and that is to never to abuse the blood.” I, of course, said yes Master, thank you Master, and took my leave. The next was a little trickier. “Arrid, my boy, I have only one rule. That is to never slay a man you can’t collect the coin for.” Yes, Master, of course, Master, I said. The third master had always been the cruellest. Tell you the truth, I half-expected the final rule to be a fist to the jaw and a kick out the door. But no, he sat me down and towered over me. And he said, “Arrid. There is but one rule. That is to never piss in the hand that feeds you. Keep your bloody mouth shut.” I, of course, said yes, Master, I’ll remember that, and took my leave. And you know what? I’ve lived by that rule ever since. It’s kept me alive, and it’s seen me good. Do you know what that means, Asha?’
Calidae was curious what the point was of his story was. She sighed. ‘No, I don’t.’
Gavisham fixed her with a cold stare. ‘It means don’t go shouting your employer’s name around. Even to little girls. I’m paid for my skills and my discretion, not for naming names. Now stop asking.’
‘I’m not a little girl,’ Calidae hissed, leaning forwards again. She felt the heat of the fire on her face and flinched.
‘Yes you are.’
The two fell silent and let the flames crackle and the knife bite at the wood. Calidae took a moment to sniff and pick at the dried sauce on the edge of the pan, which was sitting near the fire. ‘So you knew him, then?’ she asked. ‘Suffrous Gile?’
Another moment, though this time it was his. ‘I did,’ he replied.
‘How well?’
Gavisham kept his eyes on his stick. ‘Like a brother. We were raised together. Shared everything. The masters, the training, the skills. There were three of us. The Brothers Seventh. The oldest met his end years ago. Now Suffrous. I’m the last one.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Calidae offered her condolences, watching his face for any flicker of emotion, some tell-tale hint that she was getting somewhere.
‘Don’t be,’ Gavisham grunted. He twirled the knife in his hands and plunged its blade into the sand with a crunch. ‘Feel sorry for the one who killed him. The one I’m going to skin alive.’ The words were hard, and the way he kept his hand on his knife left no doubt in her mind he was serious.
Calidae felt the heat in her cheeks, the clenching inside her chest. ‘And who is that again?’
Gavisham snorted, but stayed silent. He stared at the flames. For a moment Calidae thought she had hit another wall in the conversation, but then the man spat out a name. A name that she had chewed on for hours on end to the music of trudging of boots. A name she had whispered to the cold night more times than she cared to wonder at. A name she had held close to her chest and strangled to death, over and over again in her thoughts.
‘Tonmerion Harlequin Hark, that’s who.’
Calidae could only nod. For one of those rare moments in her life, she did not trust herself to speak.
Gavisham fixed her with a look. ‘Was he one of the ones sat at the Serpeds’ table?’
Calidae nodded again. ‘I remember the name. Though I didn’t see him. Who is he?’ she asked, to bide her time, and gain a few moments to drown in the fact of the matter. This man had been sent west to steal her vengeance from her grasp.
‘The son of the late Prime Lord. Surely you’ve heard of him?’
Calidae shrugged, playing nonchalant. ‘It paid to keep your head down in the Serped house.’
The knife poked at the embers of the fire. ‘Well, he’s a traitor and a murderer. And he’ll get what’s coming to him.
‘So you’ve been sent here to kill him?’ she asked. Calidae needed to hear it.
Gavisham waggled his blade, black-tipped and smoking. ‘Let’s just say that some things in this world have an odd habit of becoming entangled, getting themselves tied and twisted. Entwined is the word. Such as inevitability and revenge, in this case. This time they just happen to paint the same target on the back of the same boy.’
‘Mmm,’ Calidae murmured, before making a show of yawning. ‘I’m tired. Wake me when it’s light,’ she said, in a quiet voice, almost strangled in a way.
Gavisham did not notice and made no reply. Only the schnick, schnick of his knife on his stick bid her a good night.
Calidae rolled over and
made a hollow in the warm sand. She rested her head on a spare shirt from Gavisham’s pack, bundled up into a pillow, and stared sideways out into the dark, moonless desert beyond the rock walls of their culvert.
She ground her teeth as she thought. She dug her fingernails into her palms as she dared to ponder the worst, and let it spill out of control in her head. She let the worry chill her, let the indignation rise, the fervour. She felt cheated. One brother did not equal a father, a mother, and a life. This would not do. Not one bit. Merion was hers to destroy, not Gavisham’s. And it would stay that way. She had killed to escape. Nothing said she couldn’t do it again for necessity.
Chapter XIII
A TRAITOR’S BOY
6th July, 1867
London sang to the tiresome tune of constant, dripping rain. It had a heavy sky for company, grey and wet, drenching the world with every incessant, endless raindrop it had to offer. Everything had a sheen to it, splashed and soaked. Even the airships had given up, letting the storm hold sway over the city.
Prime Lord Dizali was not often seen walking alone, but on a day like this, with a low-brimmed hat, an umbrella, and one of his older greatcoats, he could pass for any fool braving the weather to go about their business. There were plenty of them. This was Britannia after all. They were used to rain.
Dizali tucked his hands deeper into his coat and breathed hot air into his scarf to keep his face warm. The rain was cold, and the breeze from the north did not help matters. At least that was slowly dying away. A classic summer’s day, he thought. They had been due a storm or two, with all the fierce weather they had been having.
Dizali’s mind was full of the past hour, and the words he and the queen had shared. It was at times like these he liked to wander, to order his thoughts and correct his clever path. The rhythmic purpose of his walking had the same effect as sipping whisky at the window, or steepling his fingers on his polished desk. It allowed his doubt to undergo its catharsis.
