by Stephen Hunt
Admittedly she had been working longer than anyone else realized – her monitorarium logs doctored between shifts to make it look like she had been taking her restoration cycle breaks. Most surveillants could last a week or two without sleep – she had done her first four days without even sipping at the potions in her drinking tube; just using the Court’s worldsinger techniques. If she had joined the order on the ground she would have made them come up with a new tattoo scheme to accommodate the number of flowers they would have had to etch on her forehead.
It was no accident they had chosen her for this duty. She was the best of the best, better perhaps than even her furtive masters realized. She put aside the temptation to watch the lashlites at play and dialled up the power of the telescope, the rubber of the viewing hood disconcertingly cold in the unheated monitorarium. There it was! Exactly what she thought she had glimpsed in her wide sweep before the skrayper had blocked the sight.
A little green pinprick in the night. Increase the resolution again, wait for the Court’s transaction engine to catch up with the focus. A pile of powder burning in the darkness, giving off a queer green energy that nearly scorched her eyes. Before the Court’s training she could have had her boots standing in that fiery powder and she would not have noticed it burning. Now, at this resolution, it was like staring into the face of the sun.
She noted the location. A church roof in Shadowclock. Her masters would be pleased – although this was one report that would not be passed through the official channel of the monitors. Her testimony would be given verbally, in some distant corner of the Court; a secret within a secret. The runaway wolftaker had been rumbled. The dangerous, disreputable Harry Stave was being tracked once more and this time the devious jigger would not slip away from her scope.
Prince Alpheus looked at the doctor. Even to his unseasoned eye the man did not seem worthy of the low standard of the Middlesteel College of Surgeons; his hands were shaking so badly that he could barely prepare the syringe.
‘If this is a show of concern for my health,’ said Prince Alpheus, ‘it’s rather late.’
Flare watched the greedy eyes of the two Greenhall functionaries who had accompanied the doctor to the palace. They stood like vampires waiting for the vial of royal blood to be handed over.
‘It is a security issue,’ said the Captain of the Special Guard. ‘They want to make sure you have the markers of the house royal in your blood.’
‘Given they bred me like a damn spaniel I would think that wasn’t in doubt.’
‘His Highness is most probably unaware of the Prince Silvar affair,’ said one of the Greenhall mandarins. ‘Where three royal guardsmen from Quatérshift tried to swap the heir-apparent with a doppelgänger supplied by the caliphs. A failed attempt to create a monarchy in exile and destabilize parliament. That was before the shifties had their own revolution of course.’
‘But of course,’ said the prince. ‘I suppose I can only guess at the warmth of the welcome the Commonshare would extend to me today. But Hoggstone can count his lucky stars, because my unlucky ones have not yet managed to allow me to slip his choke-chain. It is the genuine article you will be dragging through the towns and shires of Jackals.’
‘We all but serve,’ said the official.
‘Yes, but some of you get to keep your arms attached to your body while doing it.’
The doctor withdrew the syringe from the prince’s arm and handed the crimson-filled vial to the officials. They slipped it inside a velvet-lined case and then sealed the container shut by pressing Greenhall’s arms deep into a bead of hot wax.
‘Thank you for your time,’ said the more senior functionary, placing the box under his arm. ‘Your ratified certificate of royal breeding will be presented to the surgeon before the coronation ceremony culminates in Parliament Square. A quick blood machine test will be repeated there to verify your identity.’
‘I may go now?’ said the prince.
‘Of course,’ said the official. ‘I am sure you have a full diary.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said the prince. ‘It’s a constant effort to fit in all the feasts, dedications and bridge openings in between the stonings.’
‘We all but serve,’ the two officials chorused, bowed towards Captain Flare and the Special Guardsmen, and departed.
Flare watched Prince Alpheus leave after the two functionaries had been escorted from the palace. Hardfall moved closer to Flare. It was an oddly intimate gesture, but the Special Guardswoman was wary in case the order was surreptitiously listening in to their conversation in the chamber. Their worldsinger minders had become skittish in the last few days, almost as if they suspected that the normal order of things was not being followed; they would be right of course – but not for any reason they could guess at.
‘Greenhall will find out,’ said Hardfall. ‘After they run the blood machine test.’
‘They may not notice,’ replied Captain Flare. ‘They may not even care if they do. Half a royal is better than picking some non-entity from the royal breeding house to be king. The penny sheets are too used to Alpheus as prince. His face is familiar to the voters.’
‘It’s the other half of our young princeling that worries me,’ said Hardfall, brushing her cape back. Her pistol rode high on her hip, slung provocatively. Not that she needed it with her fey gifts.
‘The other half can’t be traced back to me,’ said Flare. ‘Only the mist can make us feybreed – there are no markers in the blood, no gifts that can be passed to our children. If we could breed pure and fey, we would have freed ourselves centuries ago.’
‘Yes, I suppose we would have,’ said Hardfall. ‘And if our blood ran mist-true the order’s fey-finders would have noticed years ago that the prince is your son, not King Julius’s.’
‘Alpheus is a hamblin,’ said Flare. ‘Whatever else he is, he is normal.’
‘For a royal,’ said Hardfall. ‘But then haven’t we all been marked by fate? You will tell him, when all this is over?’
‘He’ll find out.’
‘He might be more cooperative if he knew now.’
‘Or he might not,’ said Flare. ‘He wants his freedom as much as we want ours. I think we can leave it at that for now.’
‘As you will, my captain,’ said the Special Guardswoman. She watched him leave with sad hungry eyes. ‘As you will.’
It was odd. Now that Oliver was packing his knapsack after a week in Shadowclock’s church, saying goodbye to the preacher was like a leave-taking from his uncle. It was as if some link existed between them – far more than a few days’ hospitality coerced by the disreputable Stave’s blackmail should have warranted. There were still a few workers outside in the street, tending the gas mines even in the small hours of the night. Why not? It was always night in the shafts and channels underground.
‘You don’t need to stay up so late,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s not as if you signed on to help us voluntarily.’
‘I never get tired at night, boy,’ said the reverend. ‘It’s the most peaceful time of the day.’
Oliver checked his canteen for water. ‘I know what you mean.’ And by the Circle, he did know. Last night he had only slept two hours and rather than feeling tired, he felt as though he had rested for a month in one of Middlesteel’s finest hotels. More than that, his bones seemed to vibrate in the sleeping hours, his blood racing to the call of the moon. He ached to go outside and feel the beauty of the darkness on his skin, slip through its cleansing purity. And his dreams – they had become compressed bolts of images, dense memories of past lives – hundreds of them, all different and all the same.
The preacher saw Oliver about to strap the boatman’s gun to the side of the pack and reached out to stop him. ‘It’s time to open that parcel I gave you.’
‘Your book of Circlelaw, it’s over here.’
‘It’s not Circlelaw,’ said the reverend. ‘I still have some use for that.’
Oliver unwrapped the case from the faded old blanket
and flipped the box’s double latches. As he pulled up the lid a silver glow illuminated his hands, the lunar light reacting with its contents like alchemy. Inside a brace of identical silver-plated pistols, ivory handled, every inch etched with scenes – eagle wings and duels, warring regiments and the silhouettes of man-beasts. On the ivory of each handle lay the scrimshaw of a lion that looked familiar, very nearly the lion from the crest of Jackals. A more primitive form, though, raw and snarling, not pictured in the gracious repose from the nation’s coat of arms.
‘These were yours?’ asked Oliver.
‘You might say they have been passed down the family.’
There was a double holster in the top of the case, plain black patent leather. The kind that was meant to be shoulder slung and worn concealed under a greatcoat.
‘But then you should leave them to your children,’ protested Oliver. ‘That’s real silver leaf on the metal. They must be worth the contents of a counting-house vault.’
‘A long time ago I had hoped my oldest daughter might be interested in them. But it turned out I was wrong,’ said the reverend.
Oliver pointed to the old bell-barrelled weapon from Loade and Locke. ‘I can just about hit something with that. Surely these are a duellist’s guns, meant for a marksman or an officer in one of the regiments.’
‘Pick them up,’ said the preacher.
Oliver lifted them out of the case – the guns felt warm, comfortable, part of his arm – why had he even entertained any doubts about accepting the gift? They were perfect.
‘It’s strange,’ said Oliver, ‘I—’
‘The trick,’ interrupted the preacher, ‘is to know when to pick them up and when to put them down.’
Oliver’s hands shook after he placed them back in the case, shook the way he had seen ferrymen shake when they had gone into Hundred Locks’ taverns with a thirst that only cheap jinn could quench. He would not reject the gift now. What a fool the preacher’s daughter must have been.
‘I’m putting them down,’ said the preacher, adamantly.
‘I won’t need the boatsman pattern pistol any more,’ said Oliver.
‘No,’ said the reverend. ‘But you should keep the knife.’
‘I don’t remember telling you—’
‘You didn’t have to,’ said the reverend. ‘It’s a good knife. The kind I wish I had owned many years ago.’
Oliver looked out of the window. The call of the night was stronger than ever before. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘Boy, with that wild blood of yours you may be the best of us.’
‘I should keep the knife in my boot.’
‘That’s what I would do,’ said the preacher.
Downstairs, the hex Harry had traced in the air was fading away. So, it had not been a waste of time listening in on the old goat. What was the reverend playing at? He was up to some mischief, of that much the wolftaker was certain. Up to now the churchman had kept his end of the bargain, staying in retirement and out of the way in the mining city. As the keeper of so many secrets himself, he hated for the old fool to have something over him. That was not the way he intended the great game to be played – if there was skulduggery to be had in Jackals, far better that it be the hand of the disreputable Stave to be found on the tiller.
Without the breezes of the day to carry away the engine smoke, Shadowclock was subject to the same foul-smelling pea soupers as Middlesteel. Thick engine fogs rose up with the night, reducing the full moon to a smudge of silver behind their haze.
Oliver looked down at the cobbles of the steep streets, his boots moving invisibly below the soup, the damp of the cloud making his socks itch. They could hear patrols along the high walls calling out to each other, see the occasional flicker of a bull’s-eye lantern. They were keeping an eye open for night constables or the combination’s bullyboys, but the ruffians were saving their vigilance for the city battlements. For all his large bulk, Steamswipe could move near silently, his helmet-like head swivelling, the grill of his voicebox vibrating as he emitted bursts of sound pitched beyond the human ear. The steamman swore he could navigate the fog that way, pick out the combination enforcers and the governor’s men. He obviously possessed the talent, as he managed to lead them across the maze of tall deserted streets without coming across anyone else, in twisting turns which always led them up the hill, towards the governor’s own aerostat field.
What Oliver did not say to his friends was that he could feel the presence of the enforcers too – could see how well the steamman knight was leading them around the armed patrols. He could feel them all, little candles of wickedness burning in the night. Not just the patrols either – the drunken gang master four streets away beating his wife as she tried to shield their children from his rage; the roof angler who had forced open a skylight and was rummaging around in a darkened room for a key to the locked cabinet, a knife in his belt in case he was disturbed; the governor in his mansion clapping in drunken amusement as his soldiers beat to death one of the miners who had tried to escape the press gang. Each ember of malice smouldering in the darkness.
‘Oliver!’ Harry helped the boy off his knees. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I can feel it, Harry.’
‘Feel what?’
‘The evil. I can feel the evil in them.’
‘You’re sweating like you’ve got the pox,’ said Harry. ‘And talking like you’re trying to scare up a crowd for a séance.’
‘Less noise. We must go on,’ said Steamswipe. ‘This night may be the last aerostat run from Shadowclock with miners.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Oliver. ‘The sweat will pass.’
A row of small lights lit up along the side of Lord Wireburn, holstered on the back of the steamman knight. ‘It is as if the Loas ride you, Oliver softbody. But I detect no presence here, just the press of great events. Curious.’
‘I am here, Keeper of the Eternal Flame,’ said Oliver. ‘Just me. And Steamswipe is right; this is our last chance to hitch a free ride courtesy of the governor. We go now.’
The aerostat field was at the top of the hill, behind the walls of the governor’s mansion. An airship was sitting on the retraction rails in front of a hangar. She was a ship of the merchant marine, no gun ports or fin-bomb hatches to pock her hull. No doubt Thaddius or one of the other boys back at Hundred Locks could reel off her class just from looking at her silhouette. To Oliver she looked just like any of the aerostats that had slid past them in the sky on their journey to Shadowclock. The vessel had been winched in close to the ground, boarding stairs pushed up to her belly gondola.
‘It is too open,’ said Steamswipe pointing to the box lanterns lined up along the hill. ‘Too little cover and too many crew around the hangar.’
Harry rested his spine against the wall. ‘I can fix that. We head for the big expansion engine, port at the nose; I can get us in there. If anyone spots us, you use your voice on them.’
‘My voice?’ said Steamswipe.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me, old steamer. I saw Master Saw ring a bell from the other side of a practice hall using just his voicebox. You can set a wicked old vibration ringing through our blood, I warrant.’
Harry took the knight’s silence for agreement and sat cross-legged, mumbling in the tongue of the worldsingers. As he mumbled the mist swirled around their feet, climbing up the hill and settling over the field. A weather calling. Oliver could feel the tendrils of the worldsong beckoning the fog higher, thicker, the hill thrumming with the power of the land. The fog was so thick already; the currents of earthflow so strong underneath Shadowclock, that the pea souper needed little encouragement to settle higher.
The fey energy inside Oliver bristled at the feel of the world-song. He could see within himself now, as if a veil had been lifted and the complex springs of his own mist-given powers lay visibly unwinding. It was like watching worms burrow through the corpse of someone he had once loved. Too painful to observe, but too gruesome for him to tear h
is gaze away. They were a part of him, but an alien part – a part that by rights should not be able to occupy this fleshy sack of meat and water and bones, should not be able to walk in this realm of solid geometries and limited dimensions. They churned within him and Oliver could not believe he had not seen them before. Could not believe that he had actually sat opposite worldsinger fey-finders and inquisitors and had the cheek to protest his humanity.
The fog seemed to be thickening about Oliver’s heels faster than the adjacent ground, corkscrewing around his legs – even Harry looked surprised at how quickly the summoning was becoming localized.
‘It’s alright,’ said Oliver. ‘I like the fog.’
‘We have our cover,’ said Steamswipe.
Oliver looked across to the mist-wrapped leviathan of the air. The steamman had not needed to say they also had the element of surprise. Most of the able-bodied workers in Shadowclock were in hiding to avoid being transported on this aerostat. The guards were bargaining on any sane minds avoiding the governor’s mansion and their press gangs. As usual, their path was plunging them headfirst into peril.
Steamswipe took five steps back then ran at the wall, vaulting it with ease. Harry cupped his hand, boosting Oliver up. Once on the top of the wall, Oliver lowered a hand for the disreputable Stave, then the three of them were in the mist. The fog distorted the sounds of the ground crew and their conversations on the other side of the field carried across to the three adventurers as if they stood mere feet away.
‘—ballast is loaded.’
‘—never seen a smog come down like that.’
‘—so he said, talk to the first mate. First mate, says I, it’s him who bleeding needs to talk to me.’
Oliver nearly walked into the propeller. Wrought metal blades and an expansion engine assembly as large as a house, its curved lines had been cast by the airship foundry in the image of a giant lion’s head, cold steel eyes locked forward, teeth snarling. Harry ducked under the propeller and pulled himself inside the metal housing’s mouth, feeding himself to the metal cat.
‘There’s a maintenance hatch in here,’ he whispered.
