‘Good choice.’ Ferdy placed a tankard under the barrel. ‘First is always on the house.’
The stranger offered a hand, the fingers tapered, nails well kept. ‘The name is Geryon Wynter.’
Ferdy continued to draw the beer. He had been part of the company opposing Sir Veronal Slickstone and had hosted the late-night meeting at The Journeyman’s Gist after Finch’s abduction. He had heard Ferensen’s account of the primordial impact that had formed the Rotherweird Valley, Lost Acre and the gateways between them, as well as the delivery of the Elizabethan prodigies into the care of Sir Henry Grassal, who had later been murdered by the young Slickstone. He knew about Wynter’s seizure of the Manor, the terrible experiments in the mixing-point and Wynter’s execution after Sir Robert Oxenbridge had returned to the valley to rescue those he could. He knew too that Professor Bolitho, or Fortemain, as he had once been, had opposed Wynter; that the Eleusian women had escaped the fate of their male counterparts and some at least had lived on, and that Wynter’s resurrection had long been prophesied.
However, Ferdy had been on the fringe in recent months, and Ferensen’s disappearance had not helped.
The stranger appeared to read his misgivings. ‘You may have heard talk of me, Mr Ferdy, but, rest assured, I have been misunderstood. All I ask is a chance to correct the record.’
Wynter, if it was truly him, spoke easily, assured rather than arrogant. He sat in the Senex, eyes fixed on the fire, fingers running from table to glass to cheek as if rediscovering the rich variety in the feel of surfaces. He did not turn when Scry and Strimmer entered.
Connections, sensed Ferdy. Strimmer’s default expression of bored disdain had given way to intense interest in the new arrival. Half of him whispered, Kill the conspiracy now, but he lacked the wherewithal, and in any case, the other half was deeply intrigued. He cast a fly instead.
‘We have a visitor to Rotherweird. Meet Mr Geryon Wynter.’
As Wynter stood up and turned to the new arrivals, Scry swayed, her arms clutching at space, her eyes glassy with tears. She tottered towards the newcomer as if to a lovers’ reunion.
Wynter took a hand and kissed it. ‘Estella,’ he said.
‘Apple brandies for all,’ murmured Strimmer to Ferdy.
‘Geryon . . . Mr Wynter . . . you’re untouched, you’re . . . as you were,’ Scry mumbled.
Wynter turned his hand over, palms up. ‘My lifeline resumes,’ he said.
Scry blinked. Was Wynter aware of her new profession? But how could he know? She dismissed the remark as coincidence.
‘And this is?’ asked Wynter.
Ferdy delivered the brandies. Scry, after a sip, recovered her composure. ‘Hengest Strimmer. He is a scientist with modern talent. You will like him.’
Wynter placed a finger on Strimmer’s brow. ‘Head of the North Tower, no less.’
Strimmer pushed Wynter’s hand away and said angrily, ‘How dare you, an outsider, come waltzing in here as if you own the place!’
The older man smiled, as if the insult were a compliment.
‘Your sentiment is admirable, Mr Strimmer, and rest assured I share it. Rotherweird is for Rotherweirders. Only one fact is wrong. I lived here long before you – before Estella, before Slickstone.’
The reference to Slickstone reined Strimmer in. Sir Veronal had been peculiarly reticent about his age and Wynter had that same timeless quality. Nonetheless, he judged it important to sound incredulous. ‘Really?’ he said, eyebrows raised.
‘Congratulations are due,’ replied Wynter. ‘You have fulfilled a prophecy: He will be mocked at dusk and believed in the morning. It’s carved in Latin on the top pediment of the left column in the portico of Escutcheon Place.’
Strimmer, intrigued but also infuriated, could not restrain himself. ‘What do you know of Slickstone’s Recipe Book?’
‘First, it’s not his. Second, as you clearly remain sceptical, on the third page you’ll find the red circle furthest right and the blue circle furthest left.’ Wynter seamlessly changed subjects. ‘The curfew must end tomorrow at dawn. I was explaining to the good Mr Ferdy here how we have been sorely misunderstood. We’ll summon the town to Market Square at half past ten and make good.’
‘Where have you been?’ stammered Scry.
‘Where I told you I’d be – in Death’s dark vale,’ replied Wynter, drawing up two chairs to the fire. ‘Now, let’s talk of ordinary things.’
*
Half an hour later Oblong burst in. He had with difficulty negotiated admission through the South Gate, where the regular guard had been displaced by an Apothecary.
He had expected The Journeyman’s Gist to be heaving with customers and post-election analysis. ‘My dear Ferdy, what is going on?’
Ferdy raised a restraining arm as Oblong spotted Strimmer, his old enemy, sitting by the fire with Estella Scry and an imposing elderly man whom he did not recognise.
‘There’s a curfew,’ hissed Scry.
Strimmer smirked. ‘Did you hear that, Oblong? Scram.’
Wynter rose again to his feet. ‘It’s never wise to exclude a historian from history. I am Mr Geryon Wynter.’
Oblong shook his hand without thinking. ‘Where are you from?’ he mumbled, also without thinking.
‘Death’s dark vale,’ intervened Strimmer.
Wynter, ignoring him, continued, ‘Unfortunately, the law against studying Rotherweird’s past allows rumour and charlatans to flourish, but for the moment we must obey it.’ He smiled. ‘You look in need of a drink.’
‘I need to check my rooms,’ replied Oblong limply. ‘They’re rather high up.’
‘You do that,’ muttered Strimmer.
‘Until tomorrow morning then,’ added the stranger, ‘when the people of Rotherweird will decide their future.’
Oblong left befuddled. Sir Veronal Slickstone had exuded menace, but Geryon Wynter had been charm itself.
*
Denzil Prim greeted his new charges like long-lost relatives, with arms akimbo and a cordial grin. Having been handsomely paid by the Apothecaries, he had worked hard at the script. ‘A red-letter day,’ he crowed, ‘a Mayor and a Town Clerk. Welcome to Prim Hall. What’s the offence, gents? I bet it’s somat colourful?’
‘Rotting the fabric of state,’ barked Thomes.
Impatient to return to the greater game, the one Scry and Strimmer were busy playing, he commandeered a rickshaw and hurried back to the Hall of the Apothecaries.
3
A Guest of Honour
Thomes’ humour did not improve when he entered his private rooms to find the table in his library-cum-dining room had been set for five with the Apothecaries’ finest: silverware and crystal, silver-gilt candle sconces flying on slender silver stems and decanters inscribed with the Apothecaries’ motto: The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law.
‘Who ordered this?’
‘Miss Scry, Master.’
‘She does not decide my guests.’
‘She said you would approve. She said tonight is the night the Apothecaries rise.’
Thomes looked closer. At least the Master’s goblet still marked his place at the head of the table.
‘Whom am I asked to approve?’
‘Miss Scry, Sister Prudence, Mr Strimmer . . . and one other.’
‘What other?’
‘Your guest of honour. He’s in the Hall, Master, with Miss Scry. He’s found all sorts of hidden letters in our carvings. He’s extraordinary, Master, a stranger who knows everything about everything.’
‘We’ll soon see about that,’ growled Thomes, stalking from the room.
In the Great Hall he found Sister Prudence perched on a ladder among the carved parables. She was waving a torch behind the Good Samaritan’s cloak.
‘An unmistakable “s”,’ she announced before turning to Thomes. ‘It’s quite extraordinary, Master! That message in the Founder’s portrait – levamus, which you’ll remember Miss Scry translated – it’s also
recorded in our oldest carvings. Mr Wynter knows where every letter is, he’s been right every time.’
An austere figure stepped from the shadows behind the blazing fire.
‘Mr Geryon Wynter,’ said Scry, ‘Master Thomes.’
Thomes ignored Wynter’s proffered hand. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Wynter’s sibilant voice imposed despite its quietness, respectful, but laced with menace. ‘It means this prophecy is as old as your Founder.’
Sister Prudence climbed down the ladder, took Thomes by the arm and showed him the letters. The man must have an accomplice on the inside, Thomes decided, not wanting to admit that the letters looked as old as the carvings which held them.
‘If you’re so damned knowledgeable, Mr—’
‘Wynter, Geryon Wynter,’ reminded Scry, a warning tone in her voice.
‘Tell me why the Apothecaries rise?’ continued Thomes aggressively.
Wynter moved to the Great Hall’s central doorway. The architrave was decorated with a vine, rooted on the right, with tendrils reaching through the leaves and grapes on the higher stems; true to life. Here the letters lacked any shyness: This was carved on one side, Vine on the other, with Me in the middle.
‘I am the true vine, you are the branches, for without me ye can do nothing,’ intoned Sister Prudence. ‘John, Chapter Five.’
‘Then it should be I, not me,’ chipped in Strimmer. ‘And “I” would surely look better over the door.’
Wynter’s forefinger followed the letters of the three words in a different, unnatural order.
A new arrival
‘H . . . i . . . e . . .’ muttered Strimmer, but Scry was ahead of him.
‘Hiems venit,’ Scry cried in tones of near-ecstasy. ‘Hiems venit: Wynter comes!’
Thomes and Sister Prudence exchanged glances. The vine appeared on the Guild’s earliest bookplates with the same words interwoven. Both had a vivid memory of the moment when the First Chord, the opening firework of the Vulcan’s Dance celebrations, had rearranged its fiery letters high in the sky, from Fatherly Wonder to Herald of Wynter.
Thomes hesitated. For an impostor, Wynter had uncanny connections with past and present. He watched Strimmer watching Scry. He’s playing a waiting game, thought Thomes, and so must I.
Scry laid the ground for the next scene in Wynter’s return. ‘I have taken a liberty, Master, confident that you’d approve. I’ve arranged an evening meal in the library in the Elizabethan style.’
‘I know you have,’ said Thomes, attempting a graceful smile.
‘Ah, a First Supper,’ added Wynter.
Scry allowed Thomes to lead the way.
The gaslights in the dining room had been extinguished. An echo of Sir Veronal, mused Strimmer, and another clue pointing to Wynter being more than the fraud suggested by first reactions. When the grossly improbable is the only solution, embrace it. Sister Prudence’s dislike of the ostentation on view was palpable: Apothecaries did not indulge in Mammon. But she could hardly challenge the Master in front of his guests.
Thomes sat at the head of the table, waving Scry to his right and Wynter to the left. Strimmer and Sister Prudence took their places opposite each other. Thomes probed Wynter’s scientific knowledge, followed by Strimmer, then Sister Prudence. Scry chipped in with supplementary questions.
His command of theory, the sequence of discovery and the current uncertainties from the multiverse to an elusive unified ‘theory of everything’ reconciling general relativity with quantum-field theory dazzled, the more so for a sprinkling of personal anecdote which leavened the deep science. He gave the impression of having known many of these travellers on the road to truth. Conversation hummed; Thomes and Sister Prudence, initially sceptics, succumbed.
As the plates were cleared, Wynter raised a hand, and this time, everyone paid attention. ‘I thank you, Master Thomes. A good supper should engage four of the five senses, as this one has.’
‘All five, if you include the tinkle of silver,’ added Thomes, intent on maintaining his place in the conversational hierarchy.
‘Might I compliment the cook?’
‘She’s not one of us and not very interesting,’ Thomes muttered.
‘In the best cooking, the sum of the parts exceeds the whole. That is both arithmetically interesting and worthy of congratulation.’
Minutes later, apron sagging around her waist, Bomber entered. She sensed peculiarities: the stranger had the ascendancy; Scry, a hard woman, in her experience, appeared to be besotted and even Strimmer was looking mildly subservient.
‘Mrs Fanguin? I am Geryon Wynter.’
Scry registered a further example of a recurring puzzle: nobody had mentioned the cook’s name.
‘Eggs and bullock’s cheek: your fricassee shows both delicacy and skill. Thank you.’
Bomber, untrained in the receipt of compliments, executed an action unperformed since childhood. She curtsied.
Scry took over. ‘Recent events, Mrs Fanguin, require an explanation which only Mr Wynter can give. Please help spread the word: he will address the Parliament Chamber at half past ten tomorrow morning.’
‘They’ll be there,’ added Wynter, no trace of doubt in his voice. ‘It is written.’
*
Thomes accommodated Scry’s wish to stay the night; she was an honorary member, after all.
As midnight chimed, Scry, near anonymous in an Apothecary’s black night robe and white nightcap, tiptoed down the dingy passage which held the guest bedrooms. She knocked and, receiving no answer, lifted the latch and entered. Light from a single candle bathed Wynter’s face. He sat facing her, hands resting on his knees, eyes shut, fingers playing his kneecaps. He was awake.
She had never liked Sir Henry Grassal, with his feudal airs and graces. Here was her father figure, her inspiration. She wanted to touch him, to feel this skin which had cheated death.
‘You were masterful,’ she said.
He rose, went to the open window and inhaled. The breeze ruffled his silver hair.
‘You left me with a request,’ she added.
‘I prefer the word labour – the language of legend.’ Wynter smiled. ‘How did Fortemain die? You would not come to admit failure.’
‘A trap.’
Wynter opened the word out, added decoration. ‘A mechanical device of fiendish design. Be so good as to describe it.’
‘I used sharpened hoops of silver steel, held back by springs and triggered by a pressure plate.’
Wynter laughed. ‘A moleman-trap! And dear Fortemain always thought himself so superior. To think he could elude me . . .’
Scry hesitated. Wynter’s last remark rang false. Fortemain thought himself so superior . . . To Bole, maybe, but surely not to Wynter.
‘I actually came to ask about old friends,’ she said.
‘Calx joined me in death, and you will never see Nona again.’
Scry struggled to contain her triumph: Bole, the foul Potamus, had fallen and she, only she, would be Wynter’s acolyte. ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered.
‘I know,’ he replied.
He knew, he always knew.
‘Who carved the prophecies in the Hall downstairs? Who—?’
‘Mr Bole’s life-work – I trust you admired his artistry.’
How? Scry wondered. The Potamus had clumsy hands, crude and fleshy, like the rest of him. But the wretched man was dead and she must rise above envy.
Wynter sat down before continuing, ‘About tomorrow in the Chamber: I want a few children of an adventurous age near the aisles, spades by the outside door and a ladder against the portico of Escutcheon Place.’
‘Spades?’
‘And a pick or two.’
Scry did not further question these requests; indeed, she found their oddness reassuring. Wynter had retained his cryptic playfulness. ‘Thank you, Mr Wynter.’
‘Thank you, Estella.’
Only on the way back did the northeasterly view from the passage wi
ndow catch her eye. On the town’s highest prominence stood a large octagonal building.
The church had vanished.
4
Decision Time Fanguin suppressed his anxieties by devoting meticulous care to the spreading of Bomber’s rich, dark marmalade. In the ‘no’ corner: he hated the Apothecaries, a secretive puritan clique embedded in the town’s fabric; he deeply disliked Strimmer, and Estella Scry was a suspected Eleusian changeling, a Fury in human disguise.
But in the ‘yes’ corner . . .
‘Last night Estella Scry called me Doctor Fanguin. Twice. And she asked my opinion.’
‘I thought there was a curfew.’
‘Don’t open it!’ Fanguin shrilled as Bomber’s hands closed on the specimen box on the sideboard.
‘You’ve not used that in months. Don’t tell me you’re actually in work.’ She peered through the glass. The balled vegetation looked unfamiliar. Beneath it, an equally unknown captive stirred.
‘I’m to report to the Apothecaries at nine. Shall I, shan’t I?’
‘Shall. You’re being unusually dainty with that knife, Fanguin.’ Bomber put her elbows on the table and awarded him a broadside stare. He knew what that meant: he had missed something obvious. Not a haircut, no new jewellery . . .
‘Is my evening ever a worthwhile topic?’ she asked frostily.
‘You were, ah yes, working.’ Fanguin grimaced as a Rotherweird penny dropped. ‘Working despite the curfew – don’t tell me, cooking for the Apothecaries?’
‘And why not? I fashioned an Elizabethan dinner from The Good Housewife’s Jewel – a recipe book from 1585, as you were no doubt about to ask.’
‘Sorry . . .’
Her need to share her garnered praise overcame her anger. ‘I was complimented.’
He frowned. ‘Not by that skunk Thomes?’
‘By a stranger – only I’m not sure he really was. He talked deep science and seemed to know all there is to know about the town.’
‘And the name of your admirer?’ he asked.
‘Wynter: Mr Geryon Wynter.’
Fanguin choked on his marmalade as an Apothecary passed along the street, attempting to mimic the Crier’s gift for rhyme, if not metre: ‘Sound the trumpet, Beat the drums, Ten-thirty in the Chamber Wynter comes.’
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