Lost Acre

by Andrew Caldecott

  Rhombus Smith spluttered, ‘Fanguin?’

  ‘He’s getting on,’ Jones conceded, ‘but he’s a master strategist. He skippered last year’s joint-winning coracle – and he’s back in political favour. I’ve checked the new Rules: “staff” includes former staff.’

  Rhombus Smith blinked. Jones had never shown interest in small print before. He conceded gracefully. ‘Fanguin it is, then.’

  ‘Thank you, Headmaster, jolly good of you to understand.’

  For once, the bonhomie rang false. Rhombus Smith sensed change, as if his protégé had suddenly taken the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. He drew no comfort from Jones’ closing words.

  ‘Up the School! I’ll be with you in spirit – and I’ll say farewell before I go.’

  Au revoir or adieu? the Headmaster wondered. It felt uncomfortably like the latter.

  *

  ‘I say,’ said Fanguin, ‘this is a turn-up.’

  ‘You’re the biologist. What goes around comes around.’

  ‘Or joins the dodo.’

  They stood in the Headmaster’s study. Swabs of green and fresh silver flecked the roses and lavender: a new beginning. The invitation to lead the school crews, though welcome, had presented Fanguin with an acute dilemma. Records seen by Orelia in Bolitho’s observatory and reported to Fanguin by Oblong suggested a final crisis in Lost Acre at the Spring Equinox. Accompanying Wynter might also allow him to study the fauna of this parallel universe – but Fanguin the Contrarian liked to do the unexpected, even to the point of flouting his own objectives. Other factors weighed too: Rhombus Smith had been a staunch supporter in the dark days following his dismissal by Snorkel and was owed a favour. Nor would his good friend Gregorius Jones go absent without a pressing need. Aggs the expert eavesdropper had confirmed that several important players would be remaining in town, including Persephone Brown, Fennel Finch and Sister Prudence. It threatened to be a fight on two fronts.

  He clicked his heels, the gesture designed to indicate both acceptance and a need for military precision. ‘You will recall the Fanguin rotator technique?’ he asked, adding in response to Smith’s blank look, ‘based on the movement of the Bolivian water beetle: the most revolutionary development in coracle propulsion in centuries. But it requires balance, stamina and practise. I will need time with the crew.’

  ‘All evening classes have been suspended. I’m told the Guilds are closing early too.’

  ‘Have all hopefuls report to me at five in the gym.’

  The Headmaster had one further piece of bad news. ‘You won’t have your friend Oblong either, I’m afraid. He too has another engagement.’

  *

  Boris addressed the Fireworkers, packed into their Hall, coffee mugs in hand, in a different vein. ‘We exist to entertain, not to win. I want a firework finalé.’

  ‘Even a firework commentary?’ suggested Boris’ head boffin, predictably known as Sparks.

  ‘We’re working on word rockets.’

  A question came from the floor. ‘How do we keep them hidden and dry?’

  ‘False bottom for the coracles,’ replied Boris, ‘and waterproof casings for the fireworks.’

  ‘Working on it,’ said Sparks, scribbling notes on his cuff.

  *

  A contrary philosophy prevailed in the Tanners’ Hall.

  ‘We’re in this to win,’ the Master announced, ‘as well as to advertise our hides and impress our new Mayor.’ He introduced a frogman in watery camouflage, brandishing a trident. ‘Our friend from the North Tower will explain.’

  The late not-so-lamented Strimmer’s weaselly colleague did so, explaining his curious attire at the same time. ‘I’m wearing our “Poseidon” suit: the eye-pieces filter out bubbles and mud. The breathing tube is disguised as a piece of driftwood. The trident is extendable and will puncture all known hides.’

  ‘Including our own?’ queried a crewman nervously.

  ‘Our coracles will have a luminous cow’s head painted on the underside.’

  ‘And if he’s caught?’

  ‘He’ll say he’s working for the Bakers,’ said the Master, rubbing his hands.

  The frogman turned to reveal a bagel emblazoned on his back.

  *

  Elsewhere, plans of varying eccentricity and moral colour were debated with like vigour; some sank and some floated. Only in the Town Hall, headquarters of the Municipals, did stasis prevail.

  Jeavons, whose stock had risen since taking custody of the prophecy coins, chaired the first meeting. His body, no friend to exercise, housed not a single sporting bone. Banging a gavel to call the meeting to order, he announced, ‘I propose we number each seat so everyone knows where they sit. That should confer an immediate advantage in what, judging by past form, will indubitably be chaos.’

  ‘How do we order the numbering?’ asked an Assistant Clerk.

  ‘By seniority, obviously,’ replied Jeavons.

  ‘Am I senior to a Committee Secretary?’ asked the Assistant Clerk.

  ‘No,’ said a Committee Secretary, ‘we’re both Grade 2B.’

  ‘But I’m paid more.’

  ‘And I get a better pension.’

  ‘Really? How disgraceful.’

  ‘Let Gorhambury decide,’ suggested another Committee Secretary, but the Head Stationer shook his head.

  ‘He’s the Umpire, he’s conflicted.’

  The meeting adjourned seat numbering for other problematic details.

  ‘I propose a standard pole-length,’ suggested a statistician, ‘based on the average height of the crew for ease of recovery in the event of collision.’

  An avalanche of contentious alternatives followed – should it be an average height for men and another for women? Or the average height of past winners? Or should there be a separate average height for each coracle? – and so on, and so on, ad nauseam.

  *

  As the day approached, a disturbing new rumour filtered through the town. Apothecaries had been seen mapping the Rother’s pools and shallows.

  Surely not . . .

  4

  Last Things

  On the eve of the Spring Equinox, Geryon Wynter entertained Fennel, Persephone, Sly, Master Thomes and Sister Prudence to dinner in the Great Hall, in part repayment for the feast the Apothecaries had provided on the night of his surfacing, as he now liked to call the day of his return to town. Slickstone’s best had been set out on Flemish lace-edged linen: ormolu candelabra, Meissen plates, ivory salt and pepper pots, Bohemian cut glass and gilded crystal decanters and goblets. In the centre of the long table, in pride of place, rested the escharion on a red velvet cushion.

  Port and brandy dispensed, Wynter tapped his glass with a spoon.

  ‘Out there,’ he said with a flamboyant sweep of the arm, ‘they have lost respect for the air they breathe, the water they fish and the land they till and build on. I shall cast them into darkness. We shall start again. I offer a new covenant.’

  ‘New legends too,’ added Persephone.

  Thomes smelled more than a whiff of madness. He was glad he had made contingency plans with the fetching Persephone, who was clearly humouring the Mayor. ‘By “they”, I take it you mean the countrysiders?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no, countrysiders are of the valley; they’ll be brought to heel and made use of. I refer to the rest of the world.’

  Listen, you fools, he means it, Persephone thought, but did not say.

  ‘So where are we bound tomorrow?’ asked Thomes.

  ‘We’re bound for the other place. You’ve never been there, but it’s home to the monsters who have plagued us.’

  ‘Won’t the countrysiders interfere with whatever it is we’re going to do?’

  ‘They’re skittled already. I lent Persephone a weapon.’

  Persephone liked the lent. If only he knew. She supported him quietly. ‘They’re walled up in their fastness. The more they try to escape, the tighter the lock becomes.’

  ‘My Guild h
as invested a lot of time and effort in this project, Mr Wynter, and we have had very little detail in return. I shall not take failure kindly.’

  Persephone caught Thomes’ eye and made a slight grimace. Don’t overplay it.

  ‘Best not to question Mr Wynter’s judgement. What he predicts happens.’ Fennel Finch had acquired a new manner of speaking, laconic and quiet, but also ferocious. ‘I for one will be here to welcome him back to our brave new world.’

  ‘Perhaps this is your weapon?’ said Thomes, less abrasive now, caressing the escharion’s silver skin with his forefinger.

  ‘We will see what we will see,’ replied Wynter.

  The silent make the best observers. Sister Prudence instantly concluded that neither Wynter nor his henchwomen knew what the instrument did – nobody at that table knew.

  ‘It’s the last prophecy coin,’ mused Thomes mischievously.

  ‘But what can a fancy pipe do?’ asked Sly.

  The thought came to Sister Prudence so suddenly that she could not resist voicing it. Her theory fitted Wynter’s talk of damnation and renewal.

  ‘Gabriel’s horn,’ she said. ‘He blows it at the last trump to signal the death of the damned and the resurrection of the blessed.’ She mouthed a few words from Paradise Lost by way of corroboration, ‘Perhaps once more to sound at general doom.’

  A surge of excitement seized Wynter. The escharion did fit his vision and destiny. They – indeed, he – had truly been prophesied.

  Persephone pursed her lips. She disliked the idea of a player unknown even to her.

  Wynter raised his glass. ‘You are our Sybil, Sister Prudence. You interpret and prophesy.’

  Sister Prudence did not respond. She sensed the devil abroad.

  Thomes, glowering at the compliment to a lesser functionary, reasserted his authority. ‘All is ready, Mayor. When should we expect you?’

  ‘By nine o’clock the riverbank will be awash with people. We shall give them a brief but stunning display, then head for the other place. Expect me for breakfast at eight. Mr Sly will accompany me while Persephone and Fennel hold the fort here.’

  Wynter relaxed. Persephone had taken her absence without complaint. Since Scry’s unexpected death, he had regarded her with a degree of suspicion. Bole, once her friend, had never mentioned her in his nocturnal messages, but he remained unsure as to whether to treat that omission as reassuring or disturbing.

  5

  The Double Address

  ‘It’s no single feature, it’s the general cragginess. There’s so much to work with.’ Ember Vine tipped Finch’s chin slightly to the left. ‘Shadow and light.’

  Finch lay swathed in blankets on a sofa in Vine’s front room. He ignored the remark not out of rudeness but inexperience. He had not received a physical compliment in years. ‘Miss Vine . . .’

  ‘Ember, please – the name fits me these days. I used to have fire like my daughter; now it’s just afterglow.’

  ‘I have to get back to Escutcheon Place.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, at least not unaccompanied.’

  The antivenom had checked the poison just in time, but the wound, still septic, inhibited Finch’s mobility. His skin had the pallor of parchment.

  ‘You’re not allowed in Escutcheon Place,’ he responded.

  ‘The words not allowed, Mr Finch, are a red rag to a Vine. Anyway, you’re not allowed in either: there are guards front and back.’

  Finch reflected on his dilemma. In his present condition he could barely lift the vast volumes he needed to consult, let alone dispose of a guard – and yet the law was the law. Unless . . . Hadn’t Gorhambury said something about exceptions in extremis? ‘I’ll need light in the dark,’ he said, ‘and a diverting diversion.’

  Finch’s mannered speech had to be a form of defensiveness, Ember decided, part of the shell of a lonely man: another wound for her to mend, but deeper, in its way.

  ‘Ah, so we’re to enter the tunnels! Excellent. Now how are we going to get you on the move?’ Ember’s eyes lit up, a mix of amusement and satisfaction. ‘I have it! You’re going to master Amber’s scooter, Mr Finch.’

  *

  The guard at the basement steps was youthful, male and pleasant-looking; characteristics which inspired a bravura performance from Amber Vine. At the mouth of the adjoining lane, she yelped and fell forward, spilling assorted vegetables across the cobbles.

  ‘Heels and cobbles don’t go together,’ she squeaked, waving the fractured shoe.

  Examine the heel. Sigh. Pick up the vegetables slowly, examine for damage. Encourage small talk. Clamber to your feet – mixing evident discomfort with grace. Feign a twisted ankle.

  Vine and Finch on his scooter had ample time to reach the steps and descend. A hacksaw quickly disposed of the padlock. They slipped into the former site of The Journeyman’s Gist Underground.

  ‘If you could get me a bandage, I’d be so grateful,’ Amber cooed. ‘I’ll guard your door for you.’

  As the chivalrous guard scuttled off to the nearest chemist on Aether’s Way, Amber replaced the broken padlock with her own.

  Mission accomplished.

  *

  ‘So, this is where Wynter lived,’ said Ember as Finch led the way in the gloom, the scooter now replaced by a stick.

  ‘Poppycock and boloney! Only I ever came here – which is how I know the route like a bee to his cell.’

  That explains a lot, thought Ember.

  When they entered the archivoire together, Finch did not dwell on the enormity of the moment – a non-Herald in the inner sanctum breached Rotherweird’s most fundamental laws. In extremis, needs must. He lit the slow candle.

  Ember could only admire. Little else in town, save perhaps the interior of the Apothecaries’ Hall, could match the quality and ambition of the carving. As for the books, she dared not imagine what forbidden history lay behind those ancient spines. She suspected a resemblance to Finch’s mind, even his character: banks of arcane and unused knowledge accessible only to him; affections channelled to care of his books; a lack of warmth, company and sunlight.

  ‘That shelf,’ he said, pointing. He had visited this bay before to identify the properties acquired by Bole in his various guises over the centuries, but this time he had a different quarry.

  Finch commanded, delved and examined while Ember retrieved. She said nothing beyond the occasional whispered request for clarification; to her, it felt like being in a church.

  As details cohered, Finch interspersed his requests with a running commentary on progress to date. ‘Ah yes, Madge Brown is indeed the key . . . she buys Myrmidon Coil twelve years ago, when she arrives in Rotherweird . . . she buys it fully furnished . . . she takes it over from someone called Nona. She . . .’

  After working through a second pile of books, he paused. ‘This is really odd. We must go back to the beginning.’ He gestured at a low shelf. Without complaint Ember carried more tomes to Finch’s desk.

  ‘Hm . . . yes. I see: Nona then, Nona now. No new owner has been registered since the building’s erection in 1693. How rum is that?’

  Ember rested her arm on his shoulder. ‘How is the wound?’

  ‘It liked the scooter better.’

  Ember translated: Bloody agony after the long and twisting walk.

  ‘I need to think. Just give me five minutes. Why not have a wander? A quiet wander.’

  Finch was caught up in his documents: the claws of duty and bureaucratic toil. On a table in the bay near the archivoire’s only visible exit lay a messy pile of post. Instinctively, she leafed through, until one letter caught her eye, as much for its elaborate script as the tell-tale red skull stamp declaring a particular feature of the Delayed Action Service: To be delivered on the sender’s death.

  ‘This is not the handwriting they teach nowadays,’ commented Finch before reading the letter aloud.

  Dear Mr Finch,

  I choose you as a man who may understand the joins between old and new. K
now that I loved Mr Wynter. He showed us untold mysteries; he kept us exceptional; he defied convention and aimed for the stars.

  But know too that we Eleusians are not all we appear to be. In the new Mr Wynter lurks another who would destroy you all. Beware Calx Bole; beware Nona; beware the hedge-priest. Nona will have everything to herself.

  I fear for my safety, and the town’s. There is talk of the Spring Equinox.

  Should you receive this letter, light a candle for my tormented soul.

  Yours in Rotherweird,

  Estella Scry

  He reread the letter to himself, not without sympathy for Scry. Wynter had polluted her being and had kept her alive for centuries, only to treat her – and her devotion – as disposable.

  He focused on certain words: loved (not love), the new Wynter, the lurking character within: layers on layers.

  ‘Who are these people?’ asked Ember, who only had her conversation with Oblong in The Journeyman’s Gist to work with.

  Finch gave a potted summary, culminating in Orelia’s account of Wynter’s resurrection in the presence of Madge Brown as relayed to him by Oblong. He ran a finger over Scry’s warning about a hedge-priest. ‘The tunnels and waypoints were here long before Wynter and Bole,’ he said. ‘If there’s a survivor from way back then, God knows what his agenda might be, or what he might do with the mixing-point. At least with this Nona we know we’re on the right track: she’s one of Wynter’s Eleusians and she must be in the here and now to threaten Scry . . .’

  ‘Nona and Madge Brown are the same person, surely?’ prompted Ember.

  Finch rapped the table with his fist. ‘And Persephone Brown too! Why else would Madge Brown leave now if she’s who we think she is?’ Finch rubbed his forehead. ‘They talk of the Spring Equinox – that’s March 20 – and in the myth, that’s when Persephone begins her rule.’

  ‘And it’s also the day after tomorrow, the day of the Great Equinox Race,’ added Ember.

  Finch returned to the older volume. ‘Listen to this: “Today there was a naming of streets.” And they list who chose which name. Benedict Roc, the Master Carver, chose Myrmidon Coil.’