The door that opened into the room was wide and heavy. It had five locks on it and in the centre carried a sigil which looked like nothing so much as a child’s stick-drawing of a horned man. Despite its simplicity, Lucy found it strangely ominous, but had little time to ponder why this was so as the old lady pushed it open and beckoned them in.
Whatever Lucy had been expecting, it had not been this. Other than plain unpainted tongue-and-groove lining and a brick hearth in which a welcoming fire was crackling, the four walls were entirely lacking in ornament.
The floor was bare wood, unpolished but well scrubbed, and a wide circle of plain wooden chairs was arranged around what was clearly a meeting room.
The only other piece of furniture was an ornate mirrored closet in the far corner of the room, a design Lucy recognised immediately, having seen the Murano Cabinet in the Safe House in London. The familiar object in the unfamiliar surroundings was both unsettling and something to think about when she had time: right now there were more pressing novelties to compute, not least of which were the many pairs of eyes scrutinising her.
Many of the chairs were already occupied with a haphazard collection of seemingly ordinary men and women who appeared to have nothing else in common other than their shared location and a fascination with the two newcomers.
The most palpable and unnerving thing about the assembly convening around them was that they clearly all had “abilities.” The kick of the supranatural was strong and all-encompassing, a tang so thick that Lucy felt she could smell it coming off them in waves. Yet despite the fact she was in a confined space with more people who shared her kind of abilities than she had ever been in her life, it was a peculiarly lifeless and undynamic feeling, especially when she compared it to the exhilarating crackle that had always been in the room when she had sat with The Smith and Cook and Hodge and Charlie Pyefinch. Contrasting the feeling generated by this score or more of people with the five of them, she was surprised to find that it felt like constraint, not dynamic potential.
“Say nothing,” said Cait quietly as they were shown to two adjoining seats facing the fire. Lucy nodded.
“Rings and watch fobs,” added Cait and looked away.
Lucy kept her face disinterested as she let her eyes drift over what seemed curiously like a congregation shuffling into position as the remaining figures entered the room and began filling up the rest of the chairs. She saw that the men who were sufficiently genteel or affluent enough to wear watch chains all had similarly shaped pendants dangling from them. Those who seemed more of the artisan or working class in their dress wore rings. The women wore smaller rings.
Seated as they were, directly facing the blazing fire, Lucy and Cait had the distinct disadvantage of not being able to really see the faces of those opposite them, while also being unable to keep track of those to either side. Instead they were both conscious of the light and heat playing on their own faces which were clearly the object of universal scrutiny by the stony visages ranged around them.
The Proctor sat down next to them, and Lucy lowered her eyes and looked sideways, trying to discern the design on the fob of his watch chain while ignoring the pistol he kept pointed at her waist.
“My, but that’s a splendid old fireback,” said Cait, stepping meaningfully on Lucy’s foot as she did so.
“Came with the house,” said the old lady, who was the last to sit, taking a seat just to one side of the blaze.
Lucy looked into the grate and tried to make out the design cast in relief on the iron slab behind the flames. It was a shield of some sort, and though she could not make out what was on it because of the intervening fire, she saw, with a jolt of recognition, that a lion and a unicorn reared up on either side, as if supporting it.
“Now,” said the old lady, who suddenly didn’t look so little, or so much old as timeless. “I’m the Guardian. There’s no need to be gallied; all are welcome in this circle.”
“Gallied?” said Cait. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Means frightened or confused,” grunted the Proctor. “Everybody knows that.”
“Not where I come from,” said Cait.
“And where do you come from?” said one of the women sitting to their left, her voice betraying a recognisably Irish flavour.
“Skibbereen,” said Cait.
“You’ve the sound of it,” said the woman. “Mayhap you should have stayed there.”
“Sister Lonnegan,” said the Guardian sharply.
The room went silent except for the crackling of the logs in the grate.
“Good,” said the old lady. “Now we shall have a few minutes of silence. I should explain to our two guests that this is common practice with us. It enables us to tidy our thoughts and calm our tempers for any deliberations to come.”
There was a clearing of throats and a general shuffling of bodies as those around them settled in their seats and lowered their heads, preparing to be still. It all had the unwelcome air, for Lucy at least, of a religious meeting. It reminded her of the convent she had been imprisoned in as a child. She did not bow her head. Neither did Cait.
As the silence progressed, Lucy made use of it to examine the bowed heads around her. It was, as she’d first thought, a varied selection of ages and sexes, but there were none as young as she, or even Cait, and they all seemed to have chosen their clothing with an eye to excluding as much colour as possible from it. Greys, blacks and the most lifeless browns clearly constituted the acceptable range of the palette. The only exceptions to this were two men sitting on the left-hand quarter of the circle. They could not have looked more different to the rest of the group or in fact to each other, one being tall and the other short, the taller having a thick head of steel grey hair, his neighbour with a high forehead presently swathed in a bandage which dipped lopsidedly over his left ear. The taller man wore a long and travel-stained buckskin coat with long fringes on the hems and arms which gave a kind of extra ragged and somewhat wild aspect to his appearance, especially when contrasted with the bright red waistcoat he sported underneath. The shorter also wore a buckskin coat of a darker hue and less flamboyantly fringed, and sported trousers that were, given the uniform drabness of every other leg in the room, shocking in the violence of the yellow and green check of which they had been woven. Both also wore well-worn riding boots. Other than the contrasting splashes of colour that they added to the room, Lucy noticed them because they alone, among the rest of the group, seemed to be observing everything with a controlled amusement rather than a sense of solemnity. They carried themselves differently to the others, as if they were comfortably of the majority, yet simultaneously also observing it from the outside. The shorter one caught Lucy looking at him and winked good-naturedly at her. She found the cheeriness strangely unsettling given the circumstances, and looked away.
The silence seemed to drag on so long that it turned from the simple absence of sound into an actual presence, with a stifling quality all of its own. Lucy squirmed in her seat and wanted to shout. Instead she bunched her hands inside her gloves and bit her lip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cait nod in approval.
And then finally the old lady opened her eyes and spoke.
“So, ladies, what are you?”
“Fiagaí, you’d call me,” said Cait. “And she’s a Glint that I have the training of.”
“And you’ve come here to take the child from Prudence Tittensor,” said the grey lady. “Just like that?”
“Yes,” said Cait. “Just like that.”
“By what authority?” said a man sitting to their right.
“I need no more authority than doing what’s right,” said Cait. “The child was stolen from the Factor and his wife at Skibbereen. I’ve sworn to return it.”
“Your oath has no currency, and you have no authority,” said the Irishwoman who had spoken earlier, her voice sharp and hostile. “That’s not how we do things here.”
“We cannot help you anyway, sister,” shr
ugged the old lady, her voice gentler. “The child is gone.”
Cait leaned forward in her seat.
“Gone, you say?”
“Nor can we allow you to work … unregulated,” said the Guardian.
“Where’s the baby?” said Cait.
“The child is in good hands, and safe. And far, far from here by now,” said Prudence Tittensor, who had taken a seat close by the old lady.
“You’ll be wanting to explain that one for me,” said Cait. Lucy noted a deepening edge to her voice, a dark undertone that she had not heard before.
“I did take the child from the woman in London,” said the captain’s wife, head cocked defiantly. “We’d wanted a child for so long but none had found any purchase within me. And yes, I knew she was a changeling, the woman that was selling her, but they being notoriously careless of the lives of the ones they steal, I thought the child would at least be safer with me than her. To my mind, had I not been there, the changeling was as like to just decide to ditch it somewhere, like off the end of an empty dock.”
“Oh, so it was a charitable act?” said Cait in a voice that said it was anything but charitable.
“No,” said the old woman, reaching a hand out to stop Prudence Tittensor from replying. “It was a desperate act, and a mistake. But Sister Tittensor is one of us. When she became pregnant, when this new child found that purchase in her womb that had been so repeatedly denied to its stillborn predecessors, she told us what she had done and what she wished to do to make amends. And so we came to an arrangement.”
“And what arrangement was that?” said Cait.
“There was a young couple from just across the bay here. Name of Graves. Fisherman families on both sides for three generations,” sighed the Guardian. “The wife had lost a child in a butcher’s shambles of a birth, and in consequence of that misfortune was not able to have another. It was a family beset with misfortune. It was decided in this circle that the child should be given to them.”
“Now if we’re concerning ourselves with authority, that is something you had not a whit of by which to do as you’ve done,” said Cait, her eyes locked on Mrs. Tittensor’s face. “None at all, and see now there’s another family to be hurt when I take the child home to its true parents.”
“You’ll not be doing anything of the sort,” said one of the men sitting to their right. “We can’t be having every wash-ashore running wild and thinking themselves free to do as they please. We have order here. We have a balance.”
“You’ll do nothing the circle does not approve of,” said the Guardian before Cait could reply. “Brother Lee there is right. We order things differently here. We cannot have anarchy. It was decided a long time ago that whatever balance between natural and supranatural pre-existed among the natives of this land before the arrival of the first settlers should be maintained.”
“And how’s that going?” said Cait, looking around the room. “For I only see white faces and no red men or women in your precious circle.”
“Imperfectly,” said the Guardian, “but it is not for want of honest effort on our part.”
“Who are you?” said Lucy. She had to speak. She was feeling claustrophobic and powerless. Everything about their situation was making her feel itchy and uncomfortable.
“I said I’d do the talking,” said Cait, shooting her a look of irritation.
“We are The Remnant,” said the Guardian.
“Remnant of what?” said Lucy.
“The Oversight,” said Cait. “Now hold your tongue, girl, for the adults are talking.”
The words and the look that they came with stung Lucy like a lash.
“The Oversight of London, yes,” said the Guardian.
“But how can you be a remnant?” said Lucy, ignoring Cait. “I mean, isn’t there still an Oversight …”
“We are The Remnant of the true Free Company that was destroyed in the Catastrophe of 1661,” said the Guardian. “The Great Fire of London. What they were charged with, the burden of patrolling and balancing the margin between the natural and the supranatural, we are sworn to do here in this newer territory.”
“Wait … you think The Oversight was destroyed by the Great Fire of London?” said Lucy.
Cait mashed her heel into her toes.
“No,” said the Guardian. “It was the other way round: London was all but destroyed by The Oversight.”
“What?” said Lucy.
“The Oversight were disordered, poorly regulated and they lost control of the Wildfire and nearly obliterated the very thing they were sworn to protect,” said the Guardian.
“But—” said Lucy.
“Another word and I’ll slap you so hard you won’t talk for a week,” said Cait. And her face said she meant it. Lucy’s face couldn’t have flushed redder if she had hit her; outrage sent hot itchiness prickling all over her. She felt her fingers, almost working without conscious thought, peeling her gloves off. Even though the fire kept the room warm, her skin immediately felt cooler as the leather slipped off and her hands came in contact with the outer air.
“There was a schism among the surviving members of the Free Company. We, or rather our forebears, have been here ever since. Governor Winthrop of Connecticut brought us over. A great man,” explained the Guardian, smiling at Lucy. “My great-grandfather, as it happens. As great a man as John Dee in his way. He brought us here, and we ordered ourselves anew, as you see, a community of equals—”
“Yes, well, begging your pardon, but what I see is a bushel of folk who should know better—seeing as how they know the truth of things—brothering and sistering each other and aping a prayer meeting like a cart-load of Quakers,” said Cait.
“Our forebears saw much virtue in the habits of their friends who had faith,” said the Guardian. “We benefit from their habits of calm and self-regulation without sharing their credulity and religious belief.”
“Well, this is lovely, but I didn’t just cross the ocean for a history lesson,” said Cait.
“You are impatient,” said the Guardian.
“I told you. I want to know where the child is.”
Cait scanned the room; no one looked away from her gaze, nor did anyone speak.
“What?” she said. “Sure now, but I thought we did the silent bit already. Where is this fisherman?”
“Gone,” said the Guardian.
“Gone where?” said Cait.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the Guardian. “The circle came to a decision.”
“I don’t accept that, no matter how often you say it,” said Cait. “I have a prior duty.”
The old lady shrugged and spread her hands wide.
“Sorry, child. But you have no standing on these shores. We do not allow free agents here who act alone. History and sorely won experience has taught us that disaster lies in that direction.”
“And just because you set yourselves up as in charge, you think you can forbid anyone else in the same line of work from—” began Cait.
“You are not in the same line of work,” said the Guardian. “You have told us you work alone. You are condemned out of your own mouth. People in our line of work are those belonging to other groups like ours, working under sworn charters. We are not unsympathetic to foreign requests: we have co-responding relationships with groups like Die Wachte or the Paladin. We even maintained cordial relations with the rump of the old Oversight in London until a generation ago when they suffered a further disaster, after which communication became intermittent and then stopped entirely. But we will not, we are sworn not to allow free agency. That way anarchy lies. The old Oversight all but destroyed London with too much freedom. And we will not countenance that kind of destructive entropy. This is a land of boundless opportunities: the potential for unlimited abuse is equally present. Just as these new United States are bound by a rational, written constitution instead of the old unwritten tyranny of monarchy, so did our forebears in The Remnant decide we would bind ourselves with firm, g
ood rules for the good of all. Freedom through regulation is our watchword.”
“Freedom through regulation?” snorted Cait. “Joining two opposite things together may sound clever to you and your brothers and sisters here, but you know what it sounds like to me? Sounds like this pious old bastard with a farm next to my brother’s at Killahangal who was a great one for beating his poor wife like a drum, then telling her he loved her. Sounds just about as convincing as that.”
“It would sound like that to you, being unreconstucted fiagaí,” said the Guardian with her well-armoured smile of seemingly imperturbable gentleness. Lucy could see that the more she smiled, the more irritated Cait became. “The process of regulation would open your mind to the sense and rightness of our chosen path. There is a strength in being part of a circle that vastly exceeds solitary, arbitrary action. And what shape is smoother and more perfect than a circle?” She waved a hand at the ring of chairs. “Regulation is not a bad thing. It is not something to be feared. We would encourage you to perhaps embrace it. We would make you welcome here.”
Cait’s jaw worked, but she said nothing. Lucy, watching her, became aware that the general colourlessness of the Guardian and her companions was matched by a muffling effect that seemed to be sapping the energy out of the room. She saw Cait was struggling against something, like a candle being deprived of oxygen. And now that she saw it happening to Cait, Lucy realised it was tugging at her too. The circle was pulling at them. Maybe it was just the effect of being surrounded by such an unusually large concentration of gifted people, but it was a sapping, dampening sensation that she had not felt before. She had always heard the voice of her own mind, clear as a bell, different to the world outside. Now it was as if there were a chorus of other voices becoming ever louder, threatening to drown her out. Lucy did not know if it was conscious assault on her individuality and her will, but she certainly felt the tidal pull in the room. It was not malicious danger, for most of the faces were neutral or smiling with a similar impenetrable kindness to the Guardian’s, but it was danger nonetheless. And realising the peril, she saw that Cait was going to do something, like a guttering flame which flares brightly the moment before it fails. Even as the thought was occurring to her, she saw that she held the key to this dilemma, that in fact it was easy and obvious, and that had she not been deadened by the atmosphere in the room she should have acted on it already. Of course Cait’s sharp words had further muddled her thinking. She shook her head as if to clear it of the cloying tangle of thoughts and then, as she opened her mouth to speak, it was too late and Cait had taken the first step, standing so abruptly that her chair fell backwards and clattered on the floorboards.
The Remnant Page 10
