Labyrinth Gate

by Kate Elliott

  “Then for goodness sake,” said Chryse, trying to brace up her voice even as she grimaced at the pressure of Maretha’s grip, “you’ll just have to make it clear to him that he’s better off making it a pleasure for you than a—than otherwise.”

  “Can it be?”

  “Of course it can! It can be glorious. It can be uncomfortable for the woman at first, but if the man is gentle and if you—ah—convince him to take as long about the first part as possible, before—” She realized that her face was flushed, but Maretha was still looking down. “—then there is no reason it shouldn’t be pleasurable. And Maretha, all else aside, remember that in one respect at least it could be worse. He is attractive.”

  Maretha’s hands relaxed and she raised her head. “He’s beautiful,” she breathed, and then blushed to the tips of her ears.

  And as if that admission alone broke the tension, they both sat back and laughed. A little unsteadily, true, and with perhaps a touch of resignation, but it was laughter.

  “Well.” From across the room, Lady Trent lifted her grey head from the plate Charity was exclaiming over, “If you two have nothing better to do than gossip and laugh over frivolities, then you had better join us here in choosing some gowns.” But her gaze met Chryse’s for a moment and she gave a little nod, in approval.

  “Thank you,” Maretha murmured as she and Chryse rose. “Whatever course I choose, I need to remember that despair only leads to defeat.”

  “I think it’s something we all need reminding of.”

  “Then I shall resolve to be resolute,” replied Maretha, with a sweeping gesture of one hand, a parody of bad dramatics that almost tipped over a vase. She and Chryse both giggled, but composed themselves quickly when Lady Trent cast a stern glance in their direction.

  “Now,” Aunt Laetitia demanded as the two younger women seated themselves on the sofa next to her, “you will of course want a gown in the traditional green—”

  “If I may,” ventured Charity, a little hesitant, “Maretha’s coloring has never taken well to the greens.”

  “Nonsense,” declared Aunt Laetitia. “Girls these days feel free to take any liberty they please with honorable traditions.”

  Charity colored immediately, and shrank back into her chair.

  Chryse laughed. “What do you want, Maretha?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a hairshirt like my namesake was said to wear when she went to her martyrdom.”

  “Good Lady,” said Aunt Laetitia. “I have never understood why a woman of Saint Maretha’s obvious intelligence would wear such an uncomfortable garment under armour.”

  “But she was a saint, Aunt Laetitia,” said Chryse. “I’d never heard that saints were concerned with comfort.”

  “One would, however, expect them to be concerned with practicality. She was a Knight of Our Lady, and surely it behooved her to uphold Our Lady’s honor by wearing apparel most conducive to victory in martial endeavors.”

  Maretha laughed suddenly. “Of course you are right, Lady Trent. I’m sure we can find a suitable pattern, and a shade of green that will suit even my coloring.”

  “Of course,” said Lady Trent decisively. She gave Chryse the barest of winks as the four women settled themselves in for the task at hand.

  They had provided, on paper at least, Maretha with bridal clothes and an additional wardrobe fit for a countess, and Charity with an attendant’s dress and a handful of other gowns, by the time Sanjay arrived. He had Julian and Kate in tow.

  “We have good information,” he said after greetings had been made all round, “that one of these so-called correspondence societies is meeting this evening at the Crusader, an inn in Hutment,” and that two of the people Professor Farr has worked with in the past will be there.”

  “Just as I’d hoped,” said Maretha.

  “What?” asked Julian. “Are you really going to hire those radicals, Miss Farr? Isn’t that dangerous? I was almost caught in one of their emancipation riots. They’re hot-headed, proud of it, and don’t seem to care a whit that their activities could bring them a stiff prison sentence. I’d think it would be a chancy proposition.”

  “That very pride you mention makes their work all the better,” answered Maretha. “And don’t you agree that there is some substance to their grievances, and to their demands?”

  “Certainly not,” said Aunt Laetitia with feeling. “I say that that kind of hooliganism is what comes of wasting education on classes unable to absorb it rationally.”

  “But Lady Trent,” said Kate. “You yourself insist that your servants be taught to read and write.”

  “So they can read the Bible, Miss Cathcart. I’ll have no truck with these radicals—they are merely a wild rabble, inspiring mobs to violence.”

  Chryse leaned towards Sanjay. “Correspondence societies?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Working-class people, usually craftsmen, the sort who have had a bit of education, who write to their professional counterparts in other cities and towns.”

  “That’s all?”

  “—I can see,” Maretha was saying, “that it is a subject we cannot agree on, Lady Trent, so I won’t say any more. But the expedition must have workers, and supervisors to oversee them, and these men are experienced. They worked with my father at Eppot-Staw.” She rose. “Only Monsieur Mukerji and I need to go on this business, but any of you are welcome if you are interested.”

  “I certainly am.” Chryse rose as well.

  “I certainly am not,” said Lady Trent with asperity.

  But Kate and Julian, applied to, proved eager to go, and Charity quickly, with less enthusiasm but a surreptitious glance at Julian, followed suit.

  “Hmph,” said Aunt Laetitia when Julian, the last to leave the room, had paused to take his leave of her. “Young people these days have no respect for the law of the land. Lawless and unruly mobs who have not a scrap of permanent property interest in the land cannot be allowed to rule. It is unseemly to hold such notions.”

  “Are you speaking of Miss Farr, Aunt?” asked Julian. He smiled.

  “A good sort of girl, but no daughter of mine was ever allowed to cherish such radical leanings. She ought not to have them.”

  Julian raised his eyebrows, giving him a musing look. “I don’t suppose she will, much longer.” He paused. “She is marrying the earl, after all. You can’t imagine he has any tolerance for even the mildest of reform politics.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Aunt Laetitia, looking now concerned rather than outraged. “I hadn’t thought of that. Poor girl.”

  “Indeed,” said her nephew. With a bow he left the room.

  It was twilight by the time the carriage pulled up outside the sign of the Crusader, a large inn in the district of Hutment. The wooden sign, its bright colors dimmed in the gathering dusk, depicted a knight in medieval style riding his caparisoned horse towards a distant and faintly-seen city, shield hung by his leg, sword in his free hand.

  Lights showed through shuttered windows. Two nondescript men paused to stare at the rich carriage and went into the inn.

  Inside, a pall of smoke from the two great hearthfires hung over the room. Many glances turned their way as the party entered to stand as unobtrusively as possible in the back of the room. The speaker, however, did not falter.

  “—and at the trial of Mr. John Hardin for distributing pamphlets, the Justice herself asked “What right have these ignorant country people, these lower classes, to representation? A Government,’ she said, ‘should be just like a corporation—and in this country, it is made up of the landed interest, which alone has a right to be represented.’ Then she sentenced Mr. Hardin to ten years in prison. I ask you, citizens, is it for this that we sweat and toil and starve?”

  A general clamor rose from the seated and standing listeners. The speaker, raising one hand, quieted them.

  “We have been abused in the Parliament, calumniated in public, persecuted in private, and forced out of public houses, ye
t we continue to meet, we continue to receive addresses from new societies of working folk in other cities, new correspondence from others who have combined as we have—for our rights—”

  “Hear, hear.”

  In the resulting chorus of approving response, Maretha leaned toward Sanjay. “There, just to our left: the middle-aged woman in black and the young man beside her. Those are the two we want to speak to.”

  He nodded, whispering back. “I think our party is too conspicuous. I’ll get the others outside; perhaps you can bring those two out there.”

  “But let me ask you for yourselves, the question.” The woman at the front of the room continued, once the shouting had died down. “The question, which is the only requirement of admission to membership in our order, of which we are agreed that the number of members shall be unlimited.” She was dark-haired, small and vital. Sanjay, looking from the young man of the pair Maretha was now moving toward to the woman speaker, saw at once the family resemblance—an older sister, perhaps. “Are you thoroughly persuaded that the welfare of these kingdoms requires that all adult persons, in possession of their reason, and not incapacitated by crimes, should have a vote for a Member of Parliament?”

  In the tumultuous acclaim that followed this query, Sanjay herded the rest of the party out.

  “I can see,” said Chryse in an undertone to her husband as they came out into the cold evening air, “that you and I had better not enter into any political discussions, all things considered. What a good deal we take for granted.”

  “To be sure,” agreed Sanjay, squeezing her hand.

  “Now I understand,” said Julian, “why the Regent and her cabinet are so set on outlawing the correspondence societies.”

  “Of course.” Charity added quickly in her small, agreeable voice, “They had better go back to their work and let those who are qualified to know the laws make the laws.”

  “That isn’t quite what I meant,” said Julian gently. “Frankly, as long as I have enough income to support myself and my dependents, I don’t particularly care who votes for Parliament.”

  “But Julian.” Kate grinned. “How are you to maintain your income if your own tenants can vote for members who might institute radical changes?”

  “Quite,” said Julian.

  Charity lowered her eyes to gaze at her hands and said nothing.

  “Here is Maretha,” said Chryse.

  She came up to them with two companions. “I’ve persuaded them to listen to our proposal.” She stopped by Sanjay. “Lord Vole, may I present Madam Thorwell and Mr. Southern.”

  Julian inclined his head slightly.

  The elderly woman, a broad-faced, sharp-eyed individual, dipped a brief curtsey, but Mr. Southern merely narrowed his eyes and inclined his head in return. Julian frowned, looking for a moment very much the displeased aristocrat, but said nothing.

  “And Miss Cathcart and my cousin Miss Farr,” Maretha hurried on. Kate tipped her hat, insouciant, to which Mr. Southern offered an ironic sketch of a bow. But for Charity he bowed indeed, and when she tentatively extended her hand, he took it and brought it to his lips. Chryse noticed with some surprise that Charity did not flush, but rather kept her eyes a moment longer on Mr. Southern’s face before gently pulling her hand away.

  “I am Monsieur Mukerji.” Sanjay extended a hand to both individuals. “I am Professor Farr’s secretary. This is my wife, Madame Lissagaray.” Chryse shook their hands as well. Mr. Southern had a firm and confident grip. “We’ll both be accompanying the expedition.”

  “So there is to be a new expedition.” Mr. Southern turned to Maretha. “Begging your pardon, Miss Farr, but how does the professor mean to finance this one? We came as close as ninepence to not having the funds to pay the day labor at Eppot-Staw.”

  “Yes, there is a new expedition, Thomas.” Maretha’s voice was quiet but forceful. “The professor has acquired the funding from an interested party for the site of Pariamne.”

  Mr. Southern raised a hand to brush at his black hair. He had an air of suppressed vitality about him, as if he were holding in a great store of energy. “That’s unexpected, miss.”

  “Glory be saved,” exclaimed Madam Thorwell. “An’ he’s got his heart’s desire at last, has he, missy?”

  “Yes,” replied Maretha in a constrained voice.

  “We’ll be needing experienced foremen,” said Sanjay. “And we intend to hire a small force of laborers here in Heffield, to supplement those we take on at the site itself.”

  “And just where may that be?” asked Thomas Southern quietly. “I’ve my ideas, based on a few conversations with the professor. And unless I’m missing my guess, you’ll need to do a great deal of convincing to get a good complement of steady and reliable workers.”

  “That may be true.” Maretha looked from Southern to Madam Thorwell. “That is why I have approached you two first. You have the experience to recommend laborers and to suggest a fair wage for them, and to convince workers to hire on.”

  “Where is the place?” asked Madam Thorwell. “If it’s a fair wage in these lean times, you’ll not be wanting for workers. Midlands ain’t so bad, even with them factories.”

  Julian coughed slightly and he and Kate moved away from the group, ostensibly to examine the horses.

  “North,” said Maretha in a low voice. “At the border, in the highlands—the area sometimes called the labyrinth gates.”

  A small cart laden with vegetables trundled past, slopping through half-frozen puddles. From the inn behind a chorus of sudden shouts rose and then ebbed into a confusion of voices that trailed back into quiet. The shop fronts around were all dark; an occasional light showed through shutters in the stories above.

  “I see.” Thomas Southern’s face bore a fragment of a smile. “You’ll have to offer very good conditions indeed to attract any honest help.”

  “You’re crazy,” snapped Madam Thorwell. “There isn’t an honest laborer would take gold to work up there. Everyone knows those parts are haunted—labyrinth gates, indeed. And next to their lands, to boot.”

  “Their lands?” Chryse glanced at Mr. Southern. “Who do you mean?”

  Southern flashed a surprised glance at her, but Madam Thorwell was well begun now. “Them barbarians, with their cruel sorceries. Strange and awful things of their making haunt those borders, and especially the gates.”

  “Why is it called the labyrinth gates?” asked Chryse.

  “Well may you ask,” muttered Madam Thorwell darkly. “All those as wander in the hills called the labyrinth gates, whether for good purpose or bad, are lost and never be seen again. It’s said the worst of it lies underground, where by rights no building should be, but wicked magic builds in wicked ways. Ay, it’s a cursed place, whether or not the lost city of Pariam rests there as well, with its own ghosts of plague and treachery and death. A cursed place that guards the border to a cursed land. It’s sheer foolishness to stir up trouble in a nest of vipers.”

  “Oh come now,” said Maretha. “In this day and age haven’t we risen above such superstition?”

  “Call it superstition if you will.” Madam Thorwell’s expression was fixed. “An’ you’ll be as dead as the ghosts an’ the other creatures—which I shan’t name for it’s bad luck—that inhabit those hills. They may be just tales, of what’s hidden beyond and below the gates, but my father allus told me, where smoke rises you’re sure to find fire. I shan’t be going, not for any price, and neither shall you find laborers.”

  “Not even for two pounds a week for you, with meals and lodging in sturdy tents? And the same food and living, at five shillings a day for the common laborers.”

  Thomas Southern whistled. Even in the lamplight, one could see his eyes widen. “Those are handsome terms.” He turned. “Come now, Madam Thorwell, not for such wages, and perhaps even a chance to find the lost treasure?”

  “Treasure!” She snorted. “Any treasure will be sick and bitter with tainted magic, let me tell you, young m
an. What use are wages of any sort to a dead fool? I’ll have no truck with this expedition.” With a final contemptuous lift of her head, she disappeared back inside the inn.

  “So, Thomas,” said Maretha. “I suppose we’ve lost you as well.”

  “By no means, Miss Farr. I don’t disbelieve the tales, but I have faith in Our Lady to protect me from the tricks of the Daughter—and faith in Her Son to grant me the mercy of a quick and painless death if I should be overcome. And I’ve family to support—younger siblings, mother and father both ill from the mines, and my sister’s work with the correspondence societies.”

  “Yes,” said Maretha quickly, “but I advise you to keep that particular interest quiet for now.”

  “Yes, miss,” he agreed, not at all meek. “I can find plenty of honest men and women who are desperate enough for any wages that they’ll hire on despite their fears. These are hard enough times. But the wages must be met regular, and the living conditions hold good. And good wages for the local help, though I wonder how many you’ll find living up there willing to work so near the border.”

  Maretha considered. “It’s poor country up there. Poorer than here, I’ve read.”

  He nodded. “But I must know, miss, two things. Who is this benefactor? I must have some surety that the people I hire will get their wages.”

  Maretha’s gaze faltered a moment, recovered. “The Earl of Elen.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he crossed himself. His expression took on a look of intent calculation, somewhat at odds with the usual openness of his mien. “I see.”

  “What is the other thing you need to know?” Maretha asked quickly, not wanting the silence to stretch out.

  It was a moment before he spoke. “The workers will need a guarantee, Miss Farr. A wage guarantee, that wages will be set at the same rate, and regularly, from hiring until the completion of the expedition.”

  Maretha blinked. “Be reasonable, Thomas. The wages being offered are excellent. A guarantee … that is radical talk, indeed.”

  The laborer shook his head. He had a fine-boned, handsome face, but Chryse saw now that the cut of his jaw lent it obstinacy. “Not when the workers may be at risk of their lives.” He turned unexpectedly to Sanjay. “What do you say, Monsieur Mukerji?”