Gilded Cage

by Vic James

  He was going to win this one, too.

  The study’s glittering windows looked out across the Long Walk. But by ten to four, it was impossible to admire the view because the room was packed with people. All the usual suspects were there. Father’s favoured cronies, Gavar’s soon-to-be wife and humongous father-in-law, their perpetual hanger-on Lord Rix and Bouda’s little clique. All five of those who had been present at Aunt Euterpe’s awakening were there too. Several more besides. Father had been a busy bee.

  Gavar rested his backside against the heavy leather-topped desk and made some calculations. By his reckoning, the people gathered here were enough to carry with them the necessary two thirds of parliament.

  Father was going to pull it off.

  Gavar foreswore the Laphroaig that night – he wanted a clear head for what tomorrow would bring – though he did have a few more lessons for the new heiress. Rowena, wasn’t it? Or Morwenna?

  Then all too soon, he awoke to his last day as a free man.

  The din in the Long Gallery at breakfast was even louder than before. Equals were in high spirits, talking of an afternoon to be spent horse-riding, shooting or fishing after the Proposal had been quickly quashed. Gavar wondered how long Father’s ‘any other business’ would take.

  Father was there at the head of the table, and Mother at the foot. He was magnificent; she was exquisite.

  The Jardines – first among Equals.

  Gavar kissed his mother’s cheek, nodded acknowledgement to his father, and drew out a chair in the middle of the table. The three of them remained in place until the very last parliamentarian had eaten and departed, some two hours later.

  The Third Debate was held in the East Wing, one of Kyneston’s two immense glass flanks built by Cadmus the Pure-in-Heart. The West Wing was domestic. Jenner had filled much of it with an orangery. Mother liked sitting in there to read or do needlework, while Silyen had an array of telescopes assembled. But the East was used solely for social events – chiefly, the annual debate and the Proposal Ball that followed.

  And tomorrow’s rather special one-off: the heir’s wedding.

  Gavar’s thoughts shied away from the occasion. As he walked in, he was relieved to see that it wasn’t tarted up with flowers and white ribbons already. The slaves had worked for hours erecting tiers of seating to match the configuration within the House of Light. The message was quite clear: this, also, was parliament.

  Under the household roof of the Jardines.

  The glass chamber was mostly empty as Gavar took his place next to his father’s seat, front and centre, directly opposite the Chancellor’s Chair. The great carved chair was brought to Kyneston each year, though never to Grendelsham or Esterby.

  Gavar had heard all the jokes about the Jardines’ favourite seat in the House. What would it feel like to sit here and see Father enthroned in it before him once again? His chest felt tight, as if his waistcoat had become two sizes too small for him overnight.

  All around, Equals filed in and took their places. Here came Bouda, his not-so-blushing bride, arm in arm with her father just as she would be tomorrow. Gavar closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.

  He opened them again when he sensed the chamber falling quiet. There was Crovan, stalking his way to the far end of the first tier. The heir’s chair beside him was empty. At least the man was childless. The question of who would inherit Eilean Dòchais was occasionally a subject for dinner-table speculation. Personally, Gavar thought the place should be burned to the ground. And why wait till Crovan was dead to do it?

  The man was mad and the rumoured punishments he meted out to the Condemned were disgusting. Those who committed a crime should answer for it with their lives. A bullet to the back of the head should suffice, not a dragged-out half-life of torment and humiliation. It simply wasn’t decent. Perhaps that was something else Gavar could rectify when he was Chancellor.

  Assuming Father ever gave up the chair, once he’d reclaimed it.

  After an uneasy moment, chatter resumed. Only a few would have marked, as Gavar did, the arrival of Armeria Tresco. Walking deep in conversation beside her was her heir, Meilyr.

  The prodigal son had returned. Presumably to lend his mother’s doomed cause his meagre vote. Because that would make so much difference.

  Wherever Meilyr had been, it hadn’t done him much good. His tan had faded and he looked tired and drawn. Gavar devoutly hoped there wouldn’t be any scenes with Bodina tomorrow – no noisy tears and accusations.

  The chamber was almost full when Father came in, and there was a momentary hush. More noise than ever followed in his wake, voices bouncing and echoing off the glass walls and vaulted roof. Gavar checked the heavy watch on his wrist; it was five minutes to the hour.

  A few belated Equals scurried in and hastened to their places. Old Hengist, slow but upright, made his way to the hammered bronze doors. High up in the cupola of the main house, the Ripon Bell rang out: eleven peals that shivered the East Wing’s steel skeleton.

  After the ritual knock and response, the Observers of Parliament filed in behind Speaker Dawson and occupied their benches.

  There was nothing for them here, thought Gavar. Only a moment of surprise as the Silence was lifted and they learned of the Proposal, swiftly followed by disappointment as it was voted down.

  Everyone was seated. A hush fell as they waited for the Chancellor.

  And waited.

  It was nearly quarter past by the time the trumpets sounded and Zelston appeared.

  Gone was the sobbing, broken man of yesterday morning. The Chancellor was a thing exalted. The sun had come out after days of rain and the glass panes of the East Wing formed tesserae of pure light, but the brightest thing in the entire chamber was the face of Winterbourne Zelston.

  The man wouldn’t even care about what was to come, Gavar realized. And he felt a secret, vicious pleasure at the thought of Father being deprived of at least that small part of his victory.

  With the Chancellor’s introduction, and the lifting of the Silence, the Third Debate commenced. When those in favour of the Proposal were invited to speak, Meilyr Tresco got to his feet. As Gavar listened, he wondered why Meilyr was so worked up on behalf of these people he had never met.

  ‘Families of four are living in single rooms,’ Tresco said. ‘There is no educational provision whatsoever; wholly inadequate medical services; a diet devoid of any nutritional value; and six-day working weeks of often backbreaking labour. All performed under the watch – and the upraised batons – of brutal supervisors.

  ‘If this House won’t vote to end the slavedays, then at least let us acknowledge our common humanity and amend them. Such cruelty is entirely needless. We Equals, who have power, should have compassion.’

  ‘Sedition,’ said Father, rising to his feet. ‘Rebellion. Arson. Destruction of property and flight from justice. This is the reality of the slavetowns. What you call compassion, I call leniency. Worse – foolishness.’

  Gavar craned round and looked up at Meilyr. He had once regarded him as a friend and future ally, when it had looked like they’d each be marrying a Matravers girl. Meilyr was wearing that thoughtful expression he sometimes had, and looking right at Gavar with what seemed oddly like regret.

  Armeria chipped in with her usual pieties about freedom and equality. Then a resounding silence greeted Zelston’s call for further contributions from the floor of the House in favour of the Proposal. He turned to the OPs’ benches.

  Speaker Dawson’s contribution was eloquent, for something impromptu, given that she’d been ignorant of the Proposal until the Silence was lifted. Probably every Commons Speaker had a diatribe against the slavedays tucked up their sleeve for just such an occasion.

  Pity it wouldn’t get her anywhere.

  Dawson paused, perhaps to send her argument in another direction, when Gavar heard Bouda’s voice cutting in. She was motioning a move to a vote. There were cries of ‘hear, hear!’ from her goons, and s
oon the entire chamber was full of catcalls and hoots of derision. Dawson looked furious, but eventually sat down, and only then did quiet return.

  The vote was as unsurprising as it was overwhelming.

  The Elder of the House tottered to the centre of the floor. In his spindly voice, Hengist Occold announced that by a margin of 385 to 2, the Parliament of Equals had voted against the Proposal to abolish the slavedays.

  Not merely a ‘no’ – a ‘no chance, ever’.

  Gavar looked at his watch. After everything that had happened – the debates at Esterby and Grendelsham, the Justice Council meetings and his trips to Millmoor, the fugitive prisoner and the riot – the finale had taken less than half an hour. Zelston’s eyes were already on the bronze doors.

  Except it wasn’t quite over yet.

  Father rose to his feet. With slow deliberation he turned right round until his back was to the Chancellor and he faced the ranked tiers of the chamber.

  ‘My honourable Equals,’ Father said. ‘This debate should never have happened. This Proposal should never have happened. For reasons that none of us can fathom, Winterbourne Zelston made a Proposal that has jeopardized the peace of our entire country. We of the Justice Council have weekly contended with serious unrest and disturbance. With the threat of open rebellion.

  ‘Make no mistake, the peril to this realm has been real and substantial. It is still real and substantial. And it has been brought about by the recklessness of one man. A man who has shown himself unfit to hold office.’

  Father turned on the spot and pointed an accusatory finger right at Zelston. You could always rely on Lord Jardine for a touch of the theatrics.

  ‘I therefore lay before you a proposal of my own: a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Winterbourne Zelston. This will remove him from office and institute an emergency administration under the guidance of the previous office holder.’

  You, thought Gavar, as the chamber erupted into uproar.

  You, you rotten-hearted bastard.

  And he watched as one by one those who had met in Father’s study raised their hands. As others followed them. As the vote was carried.

  As Lord Whittam Jardine took control of Great Britain.

  20

  Luke

  From the high curve of the hill, Luke could see the whole of Kyneston spread beneath him.

  A ring of illuminated windows encircled the cupola, crowning the house with light. On either side, the great glass wings stretched away. The western one was unlit and almost invisible in the twilight. The east was a blaze of candles and chandeliers, its steel frame caging a galaxy.

  Should he stay here?

  Should he hold fast to those few words of Jackson’s, and trust that the club wanted him at Kyneston for a reason?

  Or did the Doc, Renie and the rest consider him lost to the cause? Because the only way he could prove them wrong would be by breaking his parents’ hearts and ripping his family apart a second time – by escaping to Millmoor.

  Luke Hadley. The only person in history to try and get back into a slavetown.

  It felt like time was slipping away for his decision. The Proposal Ball began in less than an hour. Tomorrow was the wedding. The window of bustle and traffic in which a boy might slip away unnoticed would close soon after.

  But he could make plans anyway. And whatever Luke chose, there was Dog to think about. He and Abi had argued about the man’s plight. She was fair, but firm. She wouldn’t be party to any escape plans until they knew what crime the man had committed.

  Luke was confident he could get Dog out on his own if he had to – he’d managed rather more in Millmoor, after all. But he and his sister were in this together now. He didn’t want to do it without her. And besides, she was right. They needed to know.

  Dog was curled on his side in the pen. The stench was even worse than usual. There was no lavatory pail. Not even a litter tray. The man was expected to use a thin pile of straw in the corner, which didn’t look as though it had been changed for days. Luke’s gorge rose, but he crouched as close to the bars as he could bear.

  ‘The guests have all arrived. I saw your jailer,’ he said, watching Dog’s reaction. ‘Crovan.’

  ‘My – creator,’ Dog said, making that noise which sounded like the world’s worst cough, but was actually laughter. He seemed to save it for the least amusing things imaginable.

  ‘What did you do to get sent to him? Why were you Condemned? Please, I need to know.’

  The laughter stopped. Dog contorted himself into a bow-backed squat, the attitude of a beaten creature. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his forehead, as if trying and failing to erase the memories it contained.

  ‘They killed – my wife.’

  Luke had been expecting something like that. But nothing prepared him for the pain on Dog’s ravaged features. The man screwed up his face, willing the words to come more than two or three at a time.

  ‘We wanted – a family. So we chose – an estate. At first, we were happy – so happy. She became pregnant. That’s when . . .’

  The man’s fists clenched.

  ‘That’s when – it changed. It happened. She got – confused. I saw the bruises. Thought pregnancy was – making her clumsy. It wasn’t. He was – raping her. Silencing her – with Skill. Hurting her – in every way.’

  Dog’s rasping voice dragged over Luke’s skin like the unwanted touch of fingers.

  ‘Who was he?’ Luke demanded.

  ‘He was my Great-Aunt Hypatia’s grandson, the heir of Ide,’ a voice said from the doorway. ‘Her favourite.’

  Luke’s entire body went cold. Terror tingled in his fingertips like frostbite. He’d been so intent on Dog’s narration he hadn’t heard anyone approach.

  Silyen Jardine walked over to the pen, then flapped out the tails of his riding jacket and sat down on the concrete floor. Luke scrambled backwards. The Equal didn’t seem to notice – or didn’t care, if he did.

  ‘Do carry on,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Luke’s desperate to know what happens next.’

  ‘Next,’ Dog said, ‘my wife – hanged herself.’

  He fixed Luke with eyes that were bright with tears and shone with madness.

  ‘She was tiny but – heavy with – the baby. Nearly due. I found her. Neck snapped. Both dead. The next bit – was easy. I was a soldier – before. Before I was – a dog. I killed – him first. Then – his wife. Then – his children.’

  The bottom dropped out of Luke’s stomach. Had he heard that last bit right? Please let him not have heard it right.

  ‘Children?’ he whispered to the man in the pen.

  ‘Three of them,’ said Silyen Jardine. ‘All under ten. And it gets worse, because we’re not talking a nice soft pillow over their faces.

  ‘You’ve heard of Black Billy’s Revolt, haven’t you, Luke? The blacksmith who defied his masters? They made him forge the instruments of his own torture and killed him with them. Well, that all happened long ago at Ide, but my dear relatives there always kept those tools. A little memento. Let’s say our resourceful canine friend found a new use for them. Isn’t that so?’

  Dog looked at Silyen for a long time.

  ‘Yes,’ he rasped. ‘Worked well. Wish I – still had them.’

  Luke thought he was going to puke.

  This world was sicker and more rotten than he’d imagined. Who could have thought he’d be nostalgic for the days when Kessler was beating him black and blue on the storeroom floor? There was nothing like a bit of honest thuggery.

  ‘Anyway,’ the Equal said, ‘don’t let me interrupt. I doubt you were discussing a joint wedding gift for my brother and his bride. Escape plans, maybe?’

  ‘No,’ said Luke. ‘I was just bringing him medicine.’

  ‘Because the Dog,’ Silyen continued, bizarrely conversational, ‘and you, Luke – and all our slaves – are bound to this estate. None of you can hurt us, or leave us. Not without my permission. In a nice bit of irony, Father had me devis
e the binding soon after the events at Ide, to ensure nothing like it could happen here.’

  ‘I’m not helping him escape,’ Luke said. He felt somehow, furiously, that Dog had made a fool of him. ‘He’s a child-killer. I thought he was a victim, but I was wrong.’

  ‘That’s rather narrow-minded of you, Luke.’ Silyen Jardine got to his feet, brushing down his jeans. ‘Aren’t you all victims? But have it your way.’

  The Equal looked at Dog.

  ‘Luckily some of us keep our promises. I’ll wake the gate at 3 a.m., like I said. Wait for me in Kyngrove Hanger, the high beech wood.’

  Silyen Jardine reached down to the padlock that secured the cage and plucked it off. No key. No fuss. The Equal opened his fingers and a dozen broken bits that were once a padlock tinkled as they hit the floor. He nodded at Dog, then walked out of the kennel.

  Luke nearly keeled over with relief that the nightmarish conversation was finished. He leaned against the adjacent pen, keeping a wary eye open.

  ‘Silyen Jardine promised to help you escape? Why? You can’t seriously believe him. It’s a trap. It must be.’

  Dog shrugged.

  ‘Possibly. But what trap – could get me anywhere – worse than this? As for – why. Perhaps to spite – his great-aunt. Perhaps – for trouble. Perhaps just – because he can.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for what happened to your wife,’ Luke said awkwardly. He stood. Dog made no move to quit the cage, which was a small mercy. ‘But that doesn’t excuse what you did. I really did want to help you, before I knew. Anyway, it’s not like you need me now. Good luck getting out.’

  He hoped his voice didn’t betray exactly how unlikely he thought that was. Dog stared.

  ‘You have to – hate them,’ the man grated out. ‘To beat them.’

  ‘I don’t hate them enough to kill children,’ Luke said, with no hesitation.

  ‘Then you don’t hate them – enough.’

  Luke didn’t have an answer for that. To the accompaniment of Dog’s hoarse laughter, he ducked through the doorway and didn’t look back.