Gilded Cage

by Vic James

  ‘You were left in a bad way, sobbing with the pain of it. So Jenner – my poor useless, Skilless brother – went looking for me or my mother to make sure you were all right. Unfortunately for you, he found Mama first. She performed some inept healing, made another frankly pitiful effort to fiddle with your recollections, and told Jenner that you should never have been there in the first place. Then she gave strict instructions that he was to cease any unprofessional contact with you immediately. Yes. That’s about it. You must have had a headache for a week.’

  Abi prickled all over with betrayal, though she shouldn’t have expected any better from Silyen Jardine, with his weird, bright friendliness and his utter lack of scruples.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t be looking at my memories.’

  ‘Abigail, you wound me.’ Silyen pressed a hand to his heart – or the place where one should have been. ‘I didn’t look at anything. I know all that because about an hour later, after walking you home, Jenner came and told me the whole story. He was practically bawling with guilt. I told him to get a grip. I mean, it’s not as though he shot you. I’m beginning to think my brothers aren’t terribly good with women.’

  Silyen shuddered delicately, like a cat offered dog biscuits.

  Abi stared at him, disbelieving. She was gripping the arms of the Chancellor’s Chair so hard she might rip them off. Should she laugh – or cry?

  Or should she go and find Jenner Jardine, tell him to stop being an idiot, and kiss him?

  19

  Gavar

  Father was planning a debate. Silyen was planning a resurrection. And Gavar was planning a wedding.

  There was so much wrong with that, Gavar didn’t know where to start.

  He rattled the ice in his glass and scowled when no footman hurried to top up his Laphroaig.

  He could start with Millmoor. He’d handled that well. Even Father had said so. Soldier-boy Grierson had started shooting into the crowd, which might have put an end to that day’s riot but would have stored up worse trouble for the future.

  Gavar’s intervention had avoided that – while giving the commoners a little reminder of who their true masters were. So there had been pats on the back from one and all when he’d returned to London, and deservedly so.

  But was it childish of him to want more than that? In fact, the only person who’d said ‘thank you’ to him for anything was the slavegirl Daisy, who’d begged him to get her brother out of the place. That had been easy enough to arrange, once he’d found some brute that knew what the boy looked like.

  So much gratitude from her for such a small thing, and such scant acknowledgement by everyone else for what he’d achieved: peace in Millmoor. Or quiet, at least. There had been no further incidents since that day.

  Gavar took another swig of the single malt, watching the bustle in Kyneston’s Great Hall from his vantage point by the massive marble hearth. He could hear the rain sheeting down outside, yet even at this late hour and in such dire weather the house was still filling up. All day long parliamentarians had been arriving. Lords, ladies and their heirs, coming through the gigantic door without a drop upon them, while drenched slaves carried in their luggage.

  There was the footman who usually supervised the drinks cabinet, sulkily heading for the service corridor leading Speaker Dawson and her smarmy son, who was supposedly some sort of adviser to the OPs. That was one thing Dawson had learned from her Equals: the fine art of nepotism.

  Gavar snorted and raised his glass as they passed to salute her hypocrisy. The son – who was about Gavar’s age – saw him do it. He didn’t look chastened, though. In fact, there was something dangerously close to contempt in his pretty-boy blue eyes. Gavar’s hand itched for his riding crop, though he supposed it’d be a bad start to the celebrations to thrash a guest who was barely through the front door.

  Not to worry. There’d be other ways to repay the man’s insolence.

  At the door, Mother was doing her best to keep a smile plastered to her face as she welcomed Crovan. Gavar stepped a little closer to the roaring fire as he watched. The man’s appearance might be immaculate – his hair swept back, his golden tiepin gleaming in the candlelight, the vicuña overcoat tailored to his tall, austere form – but he gave Gavar the horrors from all the way over here.

  Silyen presumably had the man on the guest list for his curtain-raiser tomorrow morning: the awakening of Aunt Euterpe. Crovan would find it fascinating. Maybe he’d ask for a ringside seat. Imagine waking from a twenty-five-year sleep, and the first faces you saw were Sil and Lord Weirdo. Aunty Terpy’s sanity would run gibbering back to whatever cracked little corner of her skull it had been occupying all these years.

  The debate and the Proposal Ball were the day after, and Crovan always voted and attended. But surely the man wouldn’t then stick around for a third day, for the Wedding of the Century? The event was going to be unspeakable enough as it was.

  Mother called a slave forward to take Crovan’s case, and Gavar saw it was the boy he’d sprung from Millmoor. Daisy had pointed him out one day as they’d been walking with Libby, an angry-looking kid with a bag of tools slung across his back. He hadn’t seemed exactly thrilled to be here. Another ingrate.

  Or so Gavar had thought. But when he’d run into the boy again several weeks later, he’d had some kind of attitude transplant. The kid had looked at Gavar like he’d not only bailed him from Millmoor but had driven the van himself, then thrown a Welcome to Kyneston party complete with strippers. He’d offered some unfeigned thanks, and said that if there was ever anything he could do for Gavar, he would.

  ‘Anything at all,’ he’d said expansively. As if there were plenty of things the heir of Kyneston might need that a seventeen-year-old slave could supply.

  Gavar tipped back the last of the malt. He should go easy on it, he knew. He didn’t want to end up like Father. But lately he’d been feeling the need for a little pick-me-up. He was still getting the headaches that had been plaguing him ever since Libby was born. That was one thing they never told you about fatherhood: the constant worry, and the toll it took.

  Across the hall, the Millmoor kid was holding Crovan’s bag. Mother looked to be describing at great length where Lord Creepypants would be staying. Probably the boy had never been inside the house before.

  But then Sil came ambling out from under the west arch towards the trio, and to Mother’s evident disapproval he took Crovan’s bag and led their least welcome guest away. The kid watched them go, unimpressed. He actually rolled his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

  Good for him. Maybe the boy had been worth rescuing.

  He banged his empty glass down on the mantelpiece, where it would doubtless sit until some harried slave spotted it in the morning. He was done with his hosting duties. Three more nights left as a free man and he intended to make the most of them. One of the border lords had recently succeeded his father and the estate’s new heir – attending her first ever debate – looked worth checking out. Gavar thought she might enjoy a rigorous induction into the big bad world of politics.

  Everyone knew the Jardines were good at that sort of thing.

  The girl turned out to be gratifyingly eager for his lessons. But Gavar went back to his own room to sleep, then came down early to breakfast the next morning to avoid crossing paths with her. He’d upheld the family reputation handsomely and repeatedly, but was worried she might get demonstrative. He didn’t want the hawk-eyed harpy he was marrying to notice. The girl wouldn’t be getting up early, Gavar was quite sure of that.

  Breakfast, whenever Kyneston was en fête, was held in the Long Gallery. An immense table was laid down the length of it, layered with stiff linen. As Gavar entered the room, he scanned up and down. There was no sign of either his new friend (he’d have to ask Mother her name) or his wife-to-be, which was a relief.

  A few heads turned as Gavar sat down. Well, let them stare. One day he’d be lord of this house, and this would be his table. Libby would be
beside him in her rightful place, even if she could never be his legitimate heir.

  Although was that impossible? Gavar remembered the day, late last year, when he and Daisy had sat by the lake and the boat had drifted towards them.

  Not drifted. Been drawn.

  He had turned it over in his mind often since then. He had been convinced, at the time, that his daughter had summoned it by Skill. In the following weeks, he had watched her avidly for further Skillful signs, but none had come. Perhaps it really had been just a chance breeze, a snap of the boat’s moorings. Or perhaps it had been Gavar himself, his own Skill working unconsciously to delight his child.

  But he wasn’t ready, just yet, to give up the idea that it had been an early, spontaneous showing of ability. Yes, it was unheard of that a child of mixed parentage could be Skilled. But it was also unheard of that a child of Equal parentage could be Skilless, yet look at the walking absurdity that was Jenner.

  If Libby was Skilled, she could inherit, illegitimate or not. Though Gavar’s wife-to-be would doubtless have something to say about that.

  The thought of Bouda drew him unwillingly back to the present and to the Long Gallery. Some share of the conversation up and down the breakfast table would be gossip about the wedding. But Gavar suspected most of it was speculation about this morning’s opening act, for which almost none of Kyneston’s guests would be present.

  The audience for Aunt Euterpe’s awakening – or Silyen’s failure – would be small. Besides family, and Zelston, there were just ten official witnesses. Half of them had known the two sisters when they were girls, and were chosen by Mother. The other half were parliamentarians, invited by Father.

  Those picked for the latter group were a puzzling selection. When Gavar had asked why that five in particular, Father had told him to figure it out himself.

  Slaves were hovering with trays, dishes and napkin-covered baskets of every conceivable breakfast delicacy. Having loaded up his plate with toast and bacon, Gavar felt equal to solving the puzzle.

  The five weren’t Father’s intimates, but they were well disposed towards him and each commanded the loyalty of a number of lesser estate-holders. It struck Gavar that they were people who could be converted from admirers into allies with a sufficiently spectacular demonstration of Jardine family power.

  Such as Euterpe Parva’s almost-resurrection.

  Gavar frowned and called for more coffee. The slave with the silver pot couldn’t have moved faster if he’d been poked with a fork, but Gavar suspected that Silyen never even had to call. The stuff was scalding, just how Sil liked it. Gavar let it sit there and cool.

  Could that really be what Father was scheming? The man had some nerve. And figuring out the plan presumably proved that Gavar was worthy of being in on it. Another test.

  Well, Gavar had passed this one.

  He left his coffee untouched and headed back to the upper east corridor and the family quarters. Gavar hammered on the largest door and Father opened it a short way, unsmiling. His dressing gown was knotted loosely at the waist and he held a glass in his hand. A faint perfume seeped around the door.

  ‘Worked it out, then?’ Father said. ‘That’s a relief. I would have disowned you otherwise, and I’m running out of passable sons. We’re all meeting in my study at four this afternoon, after Silyen’s attempt.’

  The door closed again. Gavar looked at it in disgust. For a moment he considered kicking it.

  But no, he had a better solution these days. He’d go for a run then swing by the slave cottages. Libby would be glad to see him and he’d released Daisy from house duty, despite Jenner’s all-hands-on-deck policy. The pair of them always acted as if a visit from Gavar was the highlight of their day.

  In his more ridiculous moments, he wondered if it was the highlight of his, too.

  Daisy made him a cup of tea and together they watched Libby bottom-shuffle on the rug, playing with coloured blocks. When Gavar realized he had to get back for Silyen’s showtime, Daisy said they’d walk over to the house with him, and hurried to find a coat and carrier for Libby.

  ‘You can’t,’ Gavar called, as he heard her rootling among the clothes pegs in the hall. ‘Father said she mustn’t be seen.’

  Daisy stuck her head back round the hallway door. She looked outraged.

  ‘The pig!’

  Gavar couldn’t agree more. His anger had blown out several panes from the Small Solar window when Father had told him. But the man had repeated his threat to strip Libby of the Jardine name. Gavar had clenched his fists so hard he wondered if it was possible to break your own fingers, or if being an Equal meant your Skill would protect you from yourself.

  He scooped his daughter up from the floor and held her close, smothering her face with kisses. The baby squirmed and giggled.

  ‘She knows her daddy is so proud of her, though. Don’t you, Libby? Daddy loves you.’

  ‘Dada,’ Libby agreed, reaching out a pudgy hand and patting his cheek. ‘Dada.’

  And there, thought Gavar – right there, in his child – was more magic than Silyen would ever be capable of performing.

  Surprisingly, though, Sil didn’t make a big production of waking Aunt Euterpe.

  They’d all crowded into the bedchamber, just as arranged. Sil had indeed brought Crovan, who folded himself into the furthest corner by the window. Gavar was next to Jenner, both of them standing behind Father. Father had his hands on Mother’s shoulders, every inch the supportive husband.

  Gavar wondered whose perfume he had smelled that morning. Poor Aunty Terpy would have a quarter-century of gossip about her sister’s marital woes to catch up on.

  Zelston looked like a man close to death. His whole body was trembling, and sweat stood out on his forehead. It would be ironic if the man had a heart attack the minute before his tragic beloved woke up.

  What must it be like, to have wanted something so much, for so long, and be finally about to receive it?

  Silyen stood beside the bed, one hand steady against the table. Despite himself, Gavar watched with fascination as his brother’s eyes rolled up, their blackness replaced with blank whiteness.

  Silyen’s relationship with his Skill was something Gavar had never understood, or recognized within himself. Gavar’s own Skill felt like a barely contained force, one that blew straight through him with little or no direction or control.

  He assumed that was how it was for most of them, although he’d never really asked. It wasn’t polite to go enquiring about other people’s ability, just as you’d never pry about the contents of their bank vault. Skill was exactly like money in that respect. You didn’t need to ask, to know who had lots of it.

  Except Silyen’s Skill wasn’t a strongroom stuffed with bullion. The boy himself was pure gold. Right now, Gavar could almost see him shine.

  Zelston made a noise like a wounded creature, and Gavar realized his mother was crying.

  Aunt Euterpe had opened her eyes.

  It all became rather embarrassing rather quickly after that.

  Zelston appeared to be having some kind of full-on breakdown. He’d taken Aunt Euterpe’s hand. It was small and pale, cupped in his large brown palm like a tiny fledgling in the nest, too weak to fly just yet. The Chancellor’s other hand was stroking her hair.

  ‘You’ve come back to me, my darling,’ Gavar heard him say. ‘You’ve come back. And I’ve waited.’

  It seemed to Gavar that no one should be here watching this. No one but Mother and the Chancellor – the two people who’d been with Aunt Euterpe when she’d first gone under. But Father had his reasons. This wasn’t only about showing off Sil. When Zelston broke apart, he wanted as many people as possible to see it.

  The Chancellor was doing his best to oblige. Tears were coursing down the man’s face, soaking the coverlet. Aunty Terpy’s last bed bath. It looked like he wanted to get up beside her and take her in his arms and never let her go again.

  A whisper came from the pillow, so faint it se
emed to reach them from very far away. A quarter of a century away, he supposed. His aunt had lain asleep for Gavar’s entire life. A tiny part of him envied her. Twenty-five blameless years in which she hadn’t made a single mistake or disappointed anyone.

  ‘Winter?’ said a voice no louder than the rustle of sheets. ‘Tally? I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long. I’m back now. Silyen’s explained everything.’

  Her head turned and looked for Sil. And would you believe it, he received her first smile. Something uncertain but full of familiarity, as if spotting an old friend by chance in a foreign country. Silyen smiled back.

  They knew each other, Gavar realized, the back of his neck prickling. Wherever Aunt Euterpe had been all these years, Silyen had been there too.

  A few of Mother’s invited guests were openly weeping. There was Lord Thurnby, who’d been a great friend of her parents, elderly now but his face full of wonder that he’d lived long enough to see this. Cecilie Muxloe, a childhood playmate of both girls, was staring at her old friend as if she was a child’s beloved toy, misplaced then retrieved long after it was believed lost.

  Euterpe was struggling to sit up, and the Chancellor did rise from his seat, then. He sank into the yielding whiteness of the bed and put both arms around her. Everyone in the room saw the fleeting, electrifying moment when the Skill coursed from him to her, strengthening and reviving. It was the most intimate act there was.

  ‘I think we’ve all seen quite enough,’ someone said loudly. ‘We should leave them to it.’

  It was only when Father turned, his face purpling, that Gavar realized the speaker was him.

  Father’s mood had revived by the time of the afternoon meeting. No Skill was required to pep up Lord Whittam, just the prospect of conflict – and victory. All through his childhood, Gavar had thought that fights and arguments just happened around Father. It had taken him this long to realize that the man created them: one face-off after another, after another, because he knew he would win every single time.