Lost Acre

by Andrew Caldecott

  Scry’s resentments bubbled on. ‘Persephone took Madge Brown’s place at the Council meeting – it should have been me.’ She was gambling now, presenting suspicions as fact. ‘And I do know who Persephone is.’

  A palpable hit – and Wynter did not take issue. Instead, he defended the move. ‘I have to keep the Apothecaries at a distance as they alienate everyone else – and you’re an honorary member. It’s for appearances, and not for long.’

  Scry paused. She had to know. ‘Just tell me how it was done.’

  ‘Dead men tell no tales.’ Wynter pulled a face of deep despair. ‘My skin was used in the mixing-point.’

  ‘And then Bole killed you?’

  ‘I believe so. Maybe he thought he could control me, but he was wrong.’

  His candour restored Scry’s trust. Wynter had Bole’s knowledge, but nothing more. She must cement her position to keep Nona at bay.

  ‘Mr Wynter, I’ve something to show you, but not here. I don’t find this room congenial.’

  She led the way down from Bole’s bedroom. On the table in the bare white room she pulled out a velvet bag, unwrapped the escharion and handed it to Wynter. Long ago, Wynter had collected and sold ancient artefacts, everything from coins to torcs to arrowheads, but he had never seen the like of this instrument before.

  ‘Old,’ he said. ‘It’s older even than us.’ He weighed it, felt it, read the letters. He mustered an uncertain smile. ‘It’s the last prophecy coin – will it signal my triumph, or my doom?’

  ‘Both: your triumph and the doom of our enemies,’ said a new voice.

  Her dancer’s feet had brought Persephone up unheard. Scry spun around and Wynter took a pace back. In his first life, these two had been inseparable, if competitors too.

  ‘Who asked you here?’ snarled Scry.

  Persephone, beaming, spoke with a menacing calmness. ‘Geryon did, didn’t you, Geryon? We thought a petty forger might be at work.’

  Scry knew Nona was addressing her; Wynter had as good as confirmed it. Dr Obern’s sanatorium must have provided the wherewithal.

  Her rediscovered trust in Wynter evaporated. ‘Why tell her?’ she asked Wynter.

  ‘She happened to be there – she recognised Hieronymus Seer’s writing. She was concerned for my safety.’

  ‘So I was,’ added Persephone while examining the escharion. ‘Pretty. So pretty.’

  Scry seized the escharion back. ‘You’ve been tricked, Mr Wynter, taken over. She and Bole planned this from the beginning.’

  The accusation touched a raw nerve in Wynter, already needled by the tower’s focus on Bole’s multiple personalities. ‘I am Geryon Wynter and I speak for myself. You serve me, both of you, as did the late Calx Bole.’ He repacked the escharion. ‘We’ll assess this new discovery back at the Manor – where you’ll drink to each other, and I to you.’

  ‘We should examine the roof as we’re here,’ said Persephone. ‘There are retractable rungs in the wall.’

  She could only know that if she’s been here before, concluded Scry.

  Wynter also sounded wary. ‘After you, Persephone,’ he said, ushering her up to Bole’s reconstructed bedroom.

  She was right: rungs set in the wall pulled out to form steps to a barely visible trapdoor. Persephone led the way; Wynter and Scry followed less nimbly.

  Stars ducked in and out of a torn sky. An erratic breeze ruffled their hair. Only a carved balustrade shielded them from the edge. Rotherweirders had been admiring from below the abstract intricacy of the carvings with the aid of a variety of optical instruments. Yet here, on the inside, abstraction yielded to elaborate real-life scenes. Persephone produced her own globe-light. On closer examination, the carvings portrayed the destruction of mankind, its habitations and inventions. Tiny faces, riven with horror and despair, screamed while houses fractured, ships sank and aeroplanes spilled passengers into space. Scry found a collapsing mine in one corner. In another, mountains heaved and sundered.

  ‘I dreamed of this,’ said Wynter. The globe on Bole’s workbench and the word Doomsday, scribbled by him in sleep, mirrored the theme.

  ‘Why would Bole bring you back for this?’ asked Scry, moving towards him.

  ‘An enigma, I agree, unless—’

  He broke off as a thump and rattle brought his crouching acolytes to their feet. A long, low, iron-banded trunk resting against the balustrade had moved of its own accord. A single shaft through an iron hoop alone secured the lid. The trunk jumped again.

  Scry, the closest, took a pace back. ‘What the hell’s in there?’ she asked, glaring at her rival.

  ‘Best not to open Pandora’s box,’ warned Persephone, a red rag to Scry.

  ‘Move right back, both of you,’ said Wynter.

  The trunk went quiet.

  ‘Go closer, Estella,’ he ordered.

  Scry edged forward apprehensively. The trunk shook violently until she bravely placed a hand on the lid and it settled, as if calmed by her touch. She looked at Wynter and at his nod, opened the lid, releasing an aura from the other place. She rummaged inside before brandishing her trophy.

  ‘A staff – finders keepers!’ she cried.

  Wynter instantly coveted the dark, twisted wood. Tyke had his; Destiny was offering him a counter-weapon.

  ‘Let me hold it?’ he cried, extending a hand, only to withdraw it as shoots sprang from the wood, twined around the parapet and Scry’s legs and started dragging her backwards.

  ‘Help her—!’ yelled Wynter.

  ‘Take it,’ screamed Scry, ‘for God’s sake, take it.’ More shoots burgeoned, pinioning her wrists and ankles. Persephone could not break the iron grip, even with Wynter lending his strength to the struggle.

  Scry clawed at the carved balustrade, trying to cling on, but the shoots ripped her fingers away and propelled her body towards the edge.

  ‘Geryon . . . Geryon,’ she cried, ‘it’s Bole – Bole and her—’

  She desperately ducked her head forward, having lost control of her arms, but to no avail. With a shriek, she disappeared over the edge.

  Wynter peered over, waiting for Scry to transform and soar, but the dull thump of body on stone said otherwise.

  Estella, there from the first, weaver of his legend and most loyal of servants, was dead.

  ‘No,’ mumbled Wynter. ‘That was not meant to be.’

  The shoots disentangled at a startling pace and receded into the staff. Moments later, it lay on the floor beside them, harmless as a walking stick.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Persephone gently, handing the staff to Wynter. ‘It’s yours, Geryon: it will protect you and see us through. It’s sentient, you see. It knew. It’s a gnarl.’

  ‘It’s a what?’ said Wynter fiercely.

  ‘A gnarl: a rarity from the other place. It attaches itself to kindred spirits and then protects them to the last. I found it for you.’

  ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘I’ve had centuries to probe Lost Acre’s secrets, but this was among the most obvious. It grew up the tree by the mixing-point.’ She paused. Should she tell him? Would it help or hinder? Yes, she would. ‘As did Tyke’s staff; they’re mirror opposites.’ Persephone moved to even more delicate ground. ‘Estella would have killed Bole sooner or later, even if that meant killing you. Maybe that’s what she planned for tonight – why else go to such trouble to forge the invitation? Why choose a place nobody else can enter?’

  Wynter did not respond. Grasping the staff and the escharion, he followed Persephone out.

  The body lay sprawled at the base of the tower, part transformed. Scry’s cheeks had turned grey; her face had a pinched look. Half-clawed toes had pierced her shoes. The shoots, now hardened to wood and binding her limbs like ligatures, had fatally stalled the metamorphosis.

  Persephone frisked the body and found a short stiletto in a cloth sheath. The dulled silver blade had been smeared with thick green paste.

  ‘See?’ said Persephone.

&nbs
p; Old Wynter, hard Wynter took over. ‘Leave the body. We’ve quite a mausoleum now – Strimmer, Snorkel, Carcasey Jack, Estella – but show me a death which doesn’t bestow opportunity. We enforce the curfew. We weed out the dissenters. We harden the sinews of the loyal. We find a new Town Crier.’

  Persephone removed the magnets from the door. The mechanism reset and the door merged once more with the tower wall.

  ‘And there’s a world to be punished,’ added Persephone with a smile, ‘with our new science: Apocalyptics.’

  ‘Or is it the science of mistletoe?’ whispered Wynter with a smile.

  ‘Part transformed’

  3

  Taking Advantage

  ‘A minute’s silence, ladies and gentlemen, for the late lamented Hengest Strimmer, Head of the North Tower, lost to us by an unexplained accident of fate,’ said Gorhambury, opening the first Council meeting after the party with the precise language of The Coroners’ Verdict Regulations.

  Gorhambury, Wynter and the Guild Masters bowed their heads. Persephone Brown, sitting alone, pad on knee, did not react at all.

  Exactly sixty seconds later, Gorhambury raised his head and reset his pocket watch. ‘A minute’s silence for the late lamented Estella Scry, owner of The Clairvoyancy, lost to us by an unexplained accident of fate.’

  This was news to many; heads turned to face each other before dipping again.

  Persephone Brown made a marginal amendment to the minutes.

  Gorhambury’s head and pocket watch repeated the sequence. ‘A minute’s silence for Carcasey Jack, head gaoler, lost to us by an unexplained accident of fate.’

  With each name the Council members’ reaction became more perfunctory, but this time Wynter interrupted. ‘No, no, no,’ he said sternly, ‘these are no accidents. They’re killings from outside. Vigilance must be our watchword: we must improve our armoury, double the guard and enforce the curfew more strictly.’

  ‘What happened to Miss Scry?’ asked the Master Baker.

  Persephone Brown answered as if to spare the Mayor. ‘One of the guards found her at the base of the tower in Market Square. There was a rope. She may have climbed.’

  ‘What about the tower? Suppose that’s where they hide – shouldn’t we burn it down? We’ve had nothing but trouble since it arrived,’ said the Master Tanner, calculating that the proposal would appeal to the Mayor.

  ‘Mr Snorkel’s balcony was in sight of that tower,’ added the Master Mixer.

  ‘The mechanicals stopped right by it,’ added another.

  Persephone watched the giveaway places on Wynter’s face: the corners of the eyes, the lower lip, the cheek lines, all fluttering. Bole and Wynter were facing off in a fight for control: Bole to preserve his shrine, Wynter to erase it.

  Fennel Finch entered, followed by two servants bearing silver trays laden with filled coffee cups. She delivered Wynter’s while supervising distribution to the others.

  ‘Be strong,’ she whispered.

  The memory of Fennel’s embrace ousted Bole’s entreaties. Be strong indeed.

  ‘We take no risks,’ Wynter said. ‘We’ll burn it to the ground.’

  The Master Woodworker vacillated: he disliked the absolutist trend of Wynter’s rule and feared a scouring of the town, a division between politically acceptable carvings and the burning of any which did not conform. Like Gorhambury, he knew the power of precedent. He muttered his Guild Master’s oath:

  ‘Best wood cheats decay and Death;

  Give it life, and give it breath’

  before raising his voice. ‘I have, your Worship, examined the tower through various optical devices and I assure you the carvings are truly exceptional.’

  ‘Do you recognise the hand?’ asked Wynter.

  ‘I’ve asked around. He or she isn’t one of ours and there’s only one countrysider who could achieve that quality.’

  Wynter’s ears pricked up.

  ‘He’s called Gabriel.’

  ‘How quaint,’ said Wynter. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Near Westwood.’

  Wynter ruminated. Gabriel, an archangel’s name, living close to the entry to the other place? He smelled trouble, but for the moment he returned to the matter in hand. Having won his duel with Bole he felt a need for compromise. ‘Very well, burn the tower, after saving any detachable carvings for further consideration.’

  Persephone read out the next item on the agenda: Desirable Distractions.

  Wynter explained, ‘The people need cheering up, so we’ll give them a Great Equinox Race to remember. Polk – you’re the coracle expert. Find a new spin. Gorhambury will rework the rules as necessary. On the morning of the Race I shall lead a small expedition to probe the countrysiders. That should avoid my absence causing any unnecessary panic.’

  Boris noted the peremptory tone of Wynter’s contributions. Disturbances in Lost Acre had to date occurred on Midsummer Day and the Winter Solstice. Did Wynter’s expedition herald another? But he could hardly refuse, even though Wynter’s next decrees only hardened his suspicions.

  ‘We’ll take Miss Brown to record every incident and ensure a full report. In the permanent absence of Mr Strimmer, I’ll take Master Thomes and a few select Apothecaries to meet any scientific challenges. Apothecaries, as we know, do not dirty their hands with the Great Equinox Race. They’ll not be missed.’

  Nobody dissented; the corrupted mechanicals and the mantoleon had bestowed a potentially terminal edge to the notion of scientific challenges. The Apothecaries made welcome guinea pigs.

  ‘Excellent suggestion,’ said the Master Mixer.

  ‘That’s what I call leadership,’ swooned the Master Tanner.

  ‘And quiet funerals for our three deceased,’ added Wynter. ‘They were unattached, after all.’

  Again, nobody dissented. The power bases of the departed trio – the prison, the North Tower and The Clairvoyancy – shared a shadowy feel. Snorkel’s position as former Mayor had merited a torchlight procession, but not theirs.

  ‘Record time,’ said Wynter as he closed the meeting, holding back only Bendigo Sly.

  So much for Council meetings, thought Boris as he departed. A performance for multiple roles has shrunk to an extended soliloquy to a captive audience.

  Wynter, ever fastidious, called for the floor to be swept and the papers cleared. Aggs managed the operation while Wynter ushered Sly to a corner.

  ‘This Gabriel who lives near Westwood? He’s inconveniently placed. He might interfere. I want him dealt with.’

  ‘You should see his work, Mr Wynter – he can’t have any time for troublemaking.’

  Wynter’s face held its expression like stone.

  Reading the looks of your masters was a cardinal rule of survival. ‘What exactly should I do?’ Sly added hastily.

  ‘Burn the place down.’

  ‘With him inside?’

  ‘Oh yes. If he must award himself grand titles . . .’ Sly’s puzzlement showed and Wynter elucidated. ‘Gabriel is an angel – angels have fiery swords. So, let’s play the biter bit. Use Thomes’ machine and do it by night. We need a test run.’

  Snorkel’s driving force had been petty and comprehensible: self-aggrandisement protected by patronage and, thanks to Gorhambury, efficient administration. Wynter’s vision had a wild, elusive edge. It made the ride more exciting; if only he knew more about Journey’s End. ‘Your slightest wish is my command,’ replied Sly, inclining his head as he identified another difference: Wynter inspired deference; Snorkel had not.

  *

  ‘Work to do,’ said Boris, guiding Gorhambury in the direction of Vlad’s, home to all beverages save beer. A light mizzle swept through the town. Few showed, and those who did hurried on their errands across the glistening cobbles with heads bowed as if in mourning.

  Having never sought entertainment, Gorhambury had no feel for providing it. ‘We could do coloured hats,’ he proposed, sipping his herbal tea, ‘or striped coracle poles at a stretch.’
<
br />   As Boris waited for his mulled wine to cool, the air between them grew rich in competing flavours and prompted a thought. ‘Right, it’s always been singles or pairs, with no institutional edge. This year we’ll have teams: Guild against Guild, with some extras so nobody’s left out.’ Boris inhaled; nutmeg and cloves jostled for supremacy over Gorhambury’s lemon and ginger. ‘We’ll add the Scholastics for the School, the Ricketeers for the rickshaw drivers, the Misfits for the miscellaneous.’

  Amendment and deletions to the Regulations and the Rulebook jostled like coracles in Gorhambury’s head. ‘The Staff for the municipal staff?’ he chipped in.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gorhambury, jazz up! How about the Pen Pushers? That’s what they do, after all. Each team is allowed one foursome and two doubles to defend or harass. Colours must be chosen and registered.’

  Gorhambury put his foot down. ‘The Municipals. I insist. We are more than mere scribes, Mr Polk.’

  In the deeper workings of Boris’ febrile mind, a reservation about his proposals fluttered, failed to articulate and died stillborn.

  Gorhambury, by contrast, was warming up. ‘We could have team songs.’

  ‘Bold idea, Gorhambury, I’ll add it.’

  *

  By noon that same day Gorhambury had accomplished his task; by two in the afternoon the Great Equinox Race (Guild) Amendment Regulations, signed by the Mayor under his emergency powers, graced the Municipal noticeboard; by four this radical departure from tradition was the talk of the town and by five, two stacks of queries and protests (the ticked on the right; the crossed on the left) forced Gorhambury to post the Great Equinox Race (Guild) Amendment Regulations (amended).

  The opening provisions reflected a welter of suspicion.

  Stations (i.e. the assignment of the eastern or western streams as the river divides) shall be the subject of a random draw by the Town Clerk, to be witnessed by the assembled Guild Masters. Stations thus assigned shall be final.

  Any new technology must be declared to the Umpire and certified to ensure a level playing field (i.e. river).