Fair Rebel

by Steph Swainston

  ‘Does he know who I am?’ said Saker.

  ‘He hasn’t a clue.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But he knows me, and word’s already gone to Spiza.’

  The guard approached, offering pairs of leather shoes. He looked with extreme consternation at the two packed quivers on Saker’s saddle and the new rifles’ beautifully-tooled holsters.

  ‘Look after Balzan,’ Saker smiled.

  We walked through the complex of small buildings, each behind grassy earthworks designed to buffer any blast, and thick double walls filled with soil and covered in ivy. Behind the lake, with its fleet of swans and screen of chestnut trees, stood the saltpetre refinery, a long, low building issuing steam.

  This was nothing like Hacilith. Only the Awian eye for aesthetics could design something this functional to be so idyllic. The lake supplied the solvent water and the woods had been planted for blast protection. Wagons on rails were carrying flaky salt crystals out of the refinery to the drying sheds.

  ‘Where do they mix it?’ said Saker.

  ‘Way over there.’ I pointed to the river. ‘In the little buildings with the waterwheels. You heard the millstones grinding.’

  ‘Yes. Right then, that’s where I’ll start.’ He set off to the plantation.

  I followed the earth track to the manager’s office, which was neat Avern stone with white-rimmed windows. As I scraped mud off my shoes on the step, a small boy opened the door. I walked straight in past him to the office where a paunchy man with feather dandruff resided behind an immense desk covered in ledgers.

  ‘Are you Spiza?’ I said.

  ‘Yes … Comet.’

  ‘The manager?’

  ‘Yes. To what do I owe—?’

  ‘All the barrels you supplied were short of powder. By as much as a third. Sand was packed in them instead. We lacked six hundred tonnes, Mr. Spiza. Sand sadly does not explode as readily, so Thunder’s charge at Mine Twenty failed. We had to call off the advance and seven thousand men got killed.’

  All the colour drained from his face.

  ‘Seven thousand men sacrificed themselves, Mr. Spiza. A thousand Awians and nearly Lightning and your king. If it wasn’t for a few Eszai holding the Front a swarm of Insects would be closing on Rachiswater this very moment.’

  He sagged, like a deflating tyre.

  I said, ‘The Emperor relies on you to supply the powder he paid you for.’

  ‘But we did!’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Every barrel leaving here is full to the brim! We weighed them … fifty kilos weight per barrel! The quality is checked five times and proofed. I check it myself!’

  Sweat was spreading through the armholes of his fat waistcoat. He pulled out a handkerchief and padded his brow. I motioned he should keep talking.

  ‘Sand …? We don’t have any sand. Please, tour our facility. See the magazine, it’s all checked to your standard … Comet … oh, please do sit down, won’t you?’

  ‘No. These full barrels, are they sealed when they leave?’

  ‘Of course. A waxed cover and a tamperproof seal. They’re perfect when we ship them. Maybe it’s Grough Mill—’

  ‘They had your stamp.’

  He stuffed the outsized kerchief back in his pocket, fanned out his wings and composed himself. ‘Comet, the ten thousand barrels you commissioned from us were perfect. We know the Castle’s work depends on it. I’m loyal to the Emperor and to Thunder … and to the King and Queen, and my Lady Governor Tern. The war is our business.’

  ‘So where has six hundred tonnes of blasting powder gone?’

  He left the chair and went to the window, looked out at punts sliding past each other on the narrow canal. Then he returned to the desk and pushed a pile of ledgers towards me. ‘You accuse me of fraud? Here. See, we bought sulphur and nitrate. So having bought it, we need our returns. Why wouldn’t we mix it? Every gram is accounted for … All up to date and above board. I employ a hundred honest men. Why would I risk our livelihood?’

  ‘Has anyone ever stolen powder?’

  ‘Not a pinch. When they leave they change clothes. They carry no bags. Every mill is secure.’

  In the end I had to agree that the accounts looked sound. On paper at least, Spiza had not lost a grain of powder. Neither had he lost his indignation, nor fear. He puffed up and down, repeating variations of: ‘We work for the Empire, against the Insects.’

  I closed the last tome. ‘When you have a full shipment, who takes it?’

  ‘The Wrought Wagon Company took yours to the Front. The powder we’re making at the moment will be stored in the floating magazine.’ He opened yet another account book, turned the page and ran his finger down the names for each shipment. The same few names appeared again and again in random order.

  ‘What’s this one? It’s hard to read.’

  ‘Nell.’

  ‘A lady?’

  ‘A lady of sorts. She has tattoos. Roses like cauliflowers everywhere.’ He made a gesture as if block printing his arms. ‘And all these little pictures between them.’

  Roses on her arms. ‘So she must be a Litanee?’

  ‘Oh yes. The Litanee gypsies. They’re incredibly good. They work very hard … it’s humbling to see.’ Out came the handkerchief again and he wiped his hands on it. ‘To be honest it’s difficult to find anyone in Awia who’ll work that hard, with such a good attitude … for such a low wage.’

  ‘Ah.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Coffee, coffee! …To be honest, nothing’s rolling on the highway these days that isn’t in some way dependent on Litanee. They’re so incredibly efficient. You may have noticed.’

  ‘They carry a lot of the Castle’s supplies.’

  ‘Well, really I think Awia would grind to a halt without them. And Lowespass – begging your pardon.’

  ‘These other names: Fullam … Allen …’

  ‘Are in Nell’s company.’

  ‘It’s all the same company?’

  ‘Yes, well, she bid lowest.’

  ‘I see. And they shipped the ten thousand barrels of gunpowder?’

  Spiza raised round shoulders in agreement. ‘They took the last shipment of triple-F musket powder north yesterday. They’ll be on the Broad Road by now.’

  ‘Well, I’ll catch them up and ask them.’ I shook his hand: his palm was moist to the touch. He bowed like an ex-fyrdsman and gratefully showed me the door. ‘And please, Comet, remember to check Brolga’s mill in Grough. If anyone sold you short I do believe he—’

  ‘Thanks, Spiza.’

  Outside, Saker was standing by the porch column watching the swans. Spiza’s expression melted into a blend of astonishment and apprehension as he recognised who it was. Saker smiled mildly at him and we walked to the guardhouse.

  ‘Did you find anything out?’ he asked.

  ‘Six hundred tonnes of blasting powder really is missing. It’s serious. I’ll telegraph to the Emperor. I need to know who has it, why, what the fuck they want with it. The Litanee are my next port of call.’

  ‘All the Litanee?’

  ‘Just one troupe. One of the names, Tressel, was the same as the cannon team.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But it isn’t a rare name.’

  We collected our horses and thanked the guard, and the gate swung closed behind us. ‘What about you?’ I said. ‘Enjoy the tour?’

  ‘Oh. Musket powder smokes appallingly because of the black charcoal. That’s what we need to change. I urged them to think about it.’ He stepped up into Balzan’s saddle and slipped his foot into the far stirrup.

  ‘I’ll fly. Here.’ I passed him Favel’s guide rein. ‘Take her back to Wrought. I’ll do the nearest three mills and meet you at the manor house. Wait there, enjoy yourself, shake Raggy up a bit. Raid the cellars.’

  ‘All right.’

  Saker cantered off with my thick-coated mountain horse lurching behind Balzan. I ran, leaned into the wind, and with strong wing beats pulled myself high into
the air. Wrought unfolded below me. There, the dark green fields gave way to buff-coloured sedge fringing the salt marsh, where acres of reedbeds prickled and chuckled as the sea fingered between them. The breeze cut up the smell of brackish brine, dried and rotting bladderwrack. It carried the sound of a factory bell from the direction of the steelworks. I leant on the salt-and-iodine wind and turned towards the washy scent of saltpetre. A pine plantation bristled below me, riven by ditches in the poor, soggy soil, and the tiled roofs of Brolga’s Mill showed beyond it, with a glimmer of its own canal and low ships sliding out to the great tarred hulks chained motionless in the river.

  Brolga’s Mill and Kingfisher Mill protested their innocence and their records seemed above board. Blasting powder had been carried out of each one by a different company, on wagons or by barge, but always by a person with Rose tattoos. What would the Litanee want with six hundred tonnes of blasting powder?

  I’d no idea, but I was going to find out.

  CHAPTER 14

  Wrought Manor: Sacrament

  The breeze blowing from the saltings broke into unpredictable, peculiar eddies around the elaborate roofscape of Wrought. I landed lightly on the main hall ridge, surrounded by thin, black stone chimneys, glided down to the grass and bounded with sheer energy through the door of the North Tower.

  I could hear Saker pouring his heart out via the grand piano, and when I entered the hall he stopped playing. It was about nine p.m. I threw my leather jacket onto the back of a chair. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Yes, well the damp has affected it.’

  I sat down at the table and Raggiana, Tern’s Steward, brought me beer, steak and potatoes, and took away Saker’s used plate of the same. More basic fare than he’s used to, I suppose. Tern’s fashion house makes most of her money these days. All the weapons her factories produce go straight to the Front. Wrought never sees any profit from them, but at least it doesn’t have to send fyrd.

  ‘The powder mills look sound,’ I said.

  ‘If you believe them.’

  ‘If we believe them. But Litanee gypsies carried the powder from all three.’

  ‘Litanee carry everything,’ Saker said, and paused in his playing to make a note on a manuscript.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you going to look for them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His saddle bag sat on the chair, flopped open and full of manuscript books; a sheaf of handwritten score lay on the table, its edges curled by use. I realised it was the same one he’d taken from Swallow’s desk in her manor house last year.

  ‘The Litanee do our dirty work,’ I said.

  ‘Well, god knows what they gain from it.’

  ‘A living.’ I selected an apple and took a bite. ‘They don’t have much choice. They go from one short-term job to another.’

  ‘Oh, does that appeal to the Rhydanne in you?’

  ‘You don’t have to work at all.’

  He glanced at the window without taking his fingers from the keys. ‘When does a king stop working? When he’s dead … There’s a certain kind of bliss in going unnoticed,’ he added dreamily. ‘Like in the powder mill this morning. It’d be worth doing the gypsies’ rootless jobs to have their freedom.’

  ‘Don’t romanticise.’

  ‘Come on, Jant. How many times have you drafted them?’

  I shrugged. You do see gypsies in the fyrd, but not often. They usually have a harder life than soldiers, who at least know the Castle will feed them.

  Saker started playing again, consulting the manuscript in one hand and repeating very deliberately a sequence of notes.

  ‘What are you doing, anyway?’

  ‘Reconstructing Swallow’s symphony.’

  ‘Her unfinished symphony?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sheaf of paper in front of me had been carefully tagged with placeholders. He was holding some pages from it, and copying down Swallow’s furiously-fermenting scrawl into a foolscap notebook. ‘She liked big noise and high drama, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘It whirls along. There are more tympani in this than I can right well get a grip on.’ He put the manuscript down and looked at me directly. ‘It’ll take years. She was better than me … of course. She was so damn good.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Saker.’

  He reached out. ‘Pass me the rest of it. There’s a pattern here somewhere.’

  I picked up the dog-eared papers, uncovering a green diary beneath, and took them to him. Tern’s grand piano stood in the window bay and, through the quatrefoil stone-mullioned windows, you could see the servants’ children playing on the lawn outside. They were running down a slope with their wings spread, and gliding the last few metres before they hit the grass. Waiting in the queue to glide, a girl beat her wings vigorously and drew herself up onto the tips of her toes. In a year or so she wouldn’t be able to do that.

  You could hear their giggles faintly behind Saker’s broken music. The clear, late daylight fell across the piano, and left arched shadows on the walls, coloured circles from the roundels of armorial glass with Tern’s family’s martlet device. A split staircase at the far end rose to the rosewood and wrought iron balcony, which with its torchières and brass jardine stands with dark-leaved plants, led to Tern’s master bedroom.

  Beside me, on the long wall below the balcony, and half in its shade, hung a long tapestry in maroon and gold of the Castle’s amphitheatre, with Saker in the foreground teaching me to fight Insects. Beyond it, the shadows of the staircase fell on an older, threadbare tapestry depicting Tern’s father, Francolin, leaving on exile to Lowespass Fortress. He had stirred a rebellion against the king, back in 1891, causing me to chase Shira Dellin all over Carniss, and the king exiled him. Tern never saw her father again. Francolin’s treason bankrupted his manor, which is why, after haunting Wrought alone for a year, Tern decided to marry. She put herself up for marriage, and soon money and gifts flooded in from her suitors. Tern gradually unwrapped Wrought from its winding sheets, and set the spiky-roofed pad on firm foundations again. She tested my dedication as a suitor so much she drove me to drugs for the first time, but I won her, with my gift of the gab, my prowess in bed and my link to the Circle.

  I finished the beer, and picked up the book that had lain under Swallow’s symphony. It was calfskin-bound, with gold-edged pages and secured by a clasp. I opened it and immediately recognised Swallow’s frenetic, cuspate handwriting. This was her diary. Saker was carrying her diary. But it wasn’t this year’s; it was printed for ten years ago and half the pages were blank.

  20 March 2030

  C filled my dressing room with wildflowers and came to see me after the show. Me in front of the mirror, taking off pan stick!

  Collect tuxedo

  Brent is sadly lacking, bassoons fall behind time.

  1 April 2030

  I will join the Castle! I will, I will, I will! The Castle owes it to me. Pretend to be hard enough and you become!

  Don’t be tired. Never be tired! Push yourself! The Emperor will see!

  2 April 2030

  All I’ve achieved, all I do, and they still see me as a little girl! Either they want to sleep with me, or they assume a fatherly attitude. Some don’t even believe a woman could have composed all this music. They try to discover which man had written my symphonies!

  Swallow’s self-urging and orchestral notes were all brief apart from the last entry, which flowed over so many pages she’d scribbled out the dates. I poured another beer and read on:

  Sunday 27 June 2030

  Today the Trisian arrived. Crowds packed north quay since Jant had advertised the arrival of Thunder’s Challenger for weeks. Everyone was curious to see him.

  It was drizzling and drops splattered the ensemble every time the wind flicked the pennants. They stuck like ropes around the flagpoles.

  Jant flew in, a cross-shape against the clouds. He made an exhibitionist (but slippery) landing on the quay, to a little tentative applause, and ran to meet me. I was supe
rvising Brent’s band.

  The music in my mind has been growing bolder. I am nearly ready to birth my symphony. At first I heard single notes which, like echoing bells, rang with mysterious meaning. I also heard long runs of quavers chasing up and down an invisible keyboard in my head. I always have music in my mind. I can’t get rid of it, I have to channel it, exorcise it by writing it down, trapping it on paper. The five bars of the manuscript become a five-barred gate or wire fence to snare the notes. Sometimes I sing to release them, quivering like cage birds. I strolled the quay, composing in my head, since I needed a symphony as somewhere to record all those sounds, and clear them from taking over my mind.

  The basso continuo was tumultuous because the smash of the waves was being incorporated in it. The recitativo was peculiar because the babble of the crowd resounded in my ears. Then, while I conducted the ninth and tenth recitals of Brent’s band, I began to improvise an aria to be sung by a girl Challenger, who deserved immortality but was pushed into the background, as other men won it ahead of her, with the eyes of the crowd upon them.

  Chorus of sobbing, reverberation of note in mid-scale. I paused and the sobbing continued. It was the slap of the wind on the topsails of a massive clipper.

  Captain Wrenn sailed his ship Cormorant into harbour. Being the ex-Swordsman, he makes a great deal of money teaching men and boys swordplay, ‘Enough to Challenge the Swordsman’. But he makes a greater fortune from this clipper Mist gave him.

  The Trisian philosopher stood at the prow, taking it all in. He didn’t let Wrenn fly any flag. He disembarked and Jant welcomed him at the gangway.

  This man Capelin, is nearly bald, with a trimmed beard. He wore an odd robe gathered with a rope belt, and has a self-assured tenor voice – he could play the Lord of Lazulai in ‘The First Insect’.

  Jant said Capelin used to be a serious artist, who depicted people with great realism on the walls of the Amarot. And he’s thrown it over to Challenge the Artillerist! Do you see how the Castle warps people from their calling and destroys art? This man is a painter! Well, then, he should be a painter, not an engineer of war!