A Face Like Glass

by Frances Hardinge

  ‘The Childersins have been dosing on it for seven years, getting bigger and better and brighter, while everybody else gets paler and duller and further out of clock. It’s the Childersins’ secret golden medicine, and they want it all to themselves.’

  The confusion in the audience was escalating into uproar. News of the Grand Steward’s assassination had shocked them, and set them desperately rethinking their alliances. But this revelation was a different matter, arousing their personal wrath, envy and outrage. There was a treasure that had been hidden from them, something that could have been theirs. The burgundy patch that was the Childersins had now formed a neat spearhead, driving its way towards the nearest exit, whilst beleaguered on all sides.

  ‘This court is in disorder! I demand a recess!’ shouted Childersin, and before anybody could react, he marched out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Guards!’ Treble bellowed. ‘After him! Detain him!’ She turned back to Neverfell. ‘Tell me of this smuggled medicine. Where is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ Neverfell declared meekly. ‘And that’s not what you should be worrying about right now anyway, Enquirer. You see, there’s about to be a lot of chaos . . .’

  Another recollection unfolded before Neverfell.

  She was sitting next to the Kleptomancer on a narrow ledge over a dark abyss, whilst bats whirled around them like tea leaves in a stirred cup.

  ‘You know a lot about the Court, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Secrets you found out through stealing things and watching the ants scurry. People’s schemes and plans.’

  ‘What is it you need to know?’ responded the Kleptomancer.

  ‘Lots of things. And it doesn’t matter what they are, as long as nobody is supposed to know them. We need a big distraction, don’t we? Lots of chaos. We want the Court too busy squabbling to stop us. So I guess I want to take lots of cats and throw them in among as many pigeons as possible.’

  The Kleptomancer was unreadable, but Neverfell thought that somewhere inside he might be smiling. ‘Cats,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I think I can manage cats.’

  ‘. . . because right now the Lossbegoss family are planning to murder the Quelts by sneaking poison into their soap,’ Neverfell explained enthusiastically, ‘and the Quelts are too busy to notice because they’re preparing to invade the Brittlecrag district, which isn’t really full of diamond seams the way people say because that’s just a lie put about by the Tarquin Alliance. Oh, and there’s probably going to be a huge battle between all the unguent makers as soon as they find out where old man Tobias really hid his huge stores of Millennia Oils just before he died. Um, they’re inside the great clock at the Chiselpick Crosspath, by the way . . .’

  Uproar had escalated into anarchy. All truce had dissolved.

  ‘Order!’ shouted Treble. ‘You, girl – this evidence is not relevant to the case! The medicine! Tell me about this illegal medicine!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Enquirer, but I can’t. And I’m pretty sure I’ve said everything I came here to say.’

  ‘You are hardly in a position to hold out on us, girl!’

  ‘Enquirer,’ Neverfell said slowly, ‘do you really think I would have walked into this court if I didn’t have a way of getting out again?’

  ‘What? What way?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Neverfell gave Enquirer Treble an enormous smile, as bright and mad as a sun souffé. ‘Do you like surprises, Enquirer? I do. Just as well, really.’

  It is fair to say that what happened after that was a surprise to everybody in the courtroom, including Neverfell.

  Somewhere high above in the shadowy, stalagmite-fanged ceiling, a trapdoor flipped open, revealing a darkened hatch. From this darkness a coil of wire whispered down, unravelling and unravelling as it fell, until the bottom end brushed the dais on which Neverfell stood. Then with a singing, metallic whine, a stocky figure in a gleaming metal suit and goggled mask dropped out of the trap and slid down the wire, to land with a jolt beside Neverfell.

  ‘Seize . . .’ began Treble.

  A metal-scaled arm was thrown round Neverfell’s middle. An armoured hand flicked two belt levers.

  ‘. . . that . . .’

  With a lurch, Neverfell was dragged aloft as the armoured figure whizzed back up the wire, carrying her with it, the whine of the mechanism rising to a screech. The dais dropped away, and she was staring down at a receding sea of frozen, upturned faces.

  ‘. . . girl!’ finished the Enquirer in a deafening yell as both soaring figures disappeared upward through the hatch. The court vanished from Neverfell’s view as the trapdoor flapped shut.

  Neverfell found herself in a cramped, musty passage, filled with dusty, criss-cross timbers. Her sudden rescuer released his crushing grip round her middle, and unfastened his belt clip from the wire.

  ‘It’s you!’ Neverfell squeaked as she recovered her breath. ‘Is it you?’

  ‘What answer are you expecting?’ The voice that echoed from inside the goggled mask was muffled and reverberating, but unmistakably that of the Kleptomancer.

  ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘You say a lot of pointless things.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘A passage built by the Grand Steward.’ A soft voice by Neverfell’s ear made her jump and look round. There were three palace servants close by, one of whom was bolting the trapdoor. ‘As we told you before, he set up many precautions – including a secret escape route from the Hall of the Gentles should he ever be overthrown and find himself on trial for his life.’

  ‘I can’t stay.’ The Kleptomancer stepped forward, and shook Neverfell by the hand. ‘Everything is happening according to schedule. If I am to take full advantage of the distraction you have given me, I need to leave now and attend to my plan. Good luck with the rebellion!’

  ‘Er . . . thank . . . thank you,’ whispered Neverfell. Then as the Kleptomancer vaulted over the nearest beam and sprinted away into the darkness his words penetrated. ‘Wait – rebellion? What rebellion?’

  ‘Explanations take time,’ murmured the nearest servant. ‘You had better drink this.’

  Neverfell was passed a tiny corked bottle of smoky, churning Wine. There was a label in her handwriting.

  DON’T WORRY. DRINK ME.

  She downed it, and for a moment the world convulsed. Then new memories came out like the stars.

  ‘O-o-o-o-oh. That rebellion.’

  Enquirer Treble stormed back towards her headquarters in the palace, flanked by two purple-clad bodyguards. As far as she could tell, she was the only person trying to work out what was happening and make it stop.

  After the startling disappearance of Neverfell, the Hall of the Gentles had emptied in no time flat. All the different factions and families had surged out, some to escape the anger of their peers, some to pursue those fleeing, some no doubt to seize what advantage they could during the confusion, some to follow private vendettas and some to hide until the whole thing was over.

  Neverfell’s string of revelations had caused more chaos than if she had hurled a dozen bombs into the listening assembly. Such words coming from anybody else could not have had the same power, of course, but everybody looking at the girl’s face had known that she was telling the truth . . .

  ‘She did it on purpose,’ hissed Treble. ‘I know she did. But why? Why expose Childersin, and then cause so much chaos that we cannot pursue him properly? I know him. Even now he will be looking to turn all this to his advantage. Men – be alert. He will probably try to have me assassinated any moment n—’

  Enquirer Treble had a good set of instincts. Two faint, metallic scraping sounds caught her ear, one to her left and one to her right, and before her mind had even registered them as the sound of drawing swords she had already flung herself to the ground. Looking up, she saw that her two bodyguards had managed to impale each other, whilst stabbing at the place she had been a moment before. They crumpled to the ground, one even managing a surprised Face
before he expired.

  ‘Not again,’ snarled Treble as she clambered to her feet. ‘Core of the Earth! Is there anybody working for me who is actually working for me?’

  She strode on alone, dabbing a touch of Perfume behind her ears and on her wrists as she went. This was not one of the soft, serpentine scents that many in the Court used. This was a Perfume meant to terrify, to subdue.

  Out of my way. I am Death in purple. I look through you, and see the lies squirming in your heart like worms in an apple.

  ‘Enquirer Treble!’ Another Enquirer sprinted to meet her, and showed signs of panic as he came within range of her Perfume.

  ‘What is it, Mellows?’

  ‘It’s the drudges!’ faltered the new arrival.

  ‘The drudges? What about them?’

  ‘They’re rising. Hundreds of them, surging up out of the Undercity. They’ve overrun Pale Point, Gammet’s Groove, Whichways and the Squirms. Last seen, they were making for Spoons . . .’

  ‘They’re heading for the palace,’ muttered Treble. ‘So that’s it – that’s why that girl set us all at each other’s throats! She wanted us distracted, to give that stinking rabble a chance to rise up against us. Secure the palace! And all the stores! They must not capture any True Delicacies, or they will be the very devil to subdue.’ Pursuing Childersin would have to wait.

  She reached the palace, only to receive abundant confirmation of the news. The long-docile, patient, phlegmatic drudges were rising, boiling out of cracks and chutes like so much dirty water. Treble tore around the palace, terrifying all the courtiers and guards she could find into common sense and unity, forcing them to ready themselves for siege.

  However, there was worse news. The water pipes that usually nourished the whole of Caverna were now empty. Messengers sent from the purification departments near the surface soon brought an explanation. The rotating belts that usually hauled water up from the Undercity’s deep-running rivers had ceased to move. Drudgery had cut off the Court’s water supply.

  Before long, the encroaching drudge tide could be glimpsed from the palace gate. Hundreds, not thousands, just a fraction of the population of Drudgery, but still an army of dangerous size, and all wearing cloth nose-guards so that Perfume could not affect them.

  Never in her life had Enquirer Treble so wished that gunpowder was permitted in Caverna. She understood why it was banned of course, and had worked hard to confiscate and destroy all samples of it that had ever been smuggled in. However, just for a second or two she did imagine what it would be like to be able to repel an army with weapons that smoked and roared and sent dozens of metal missiles into enemy flesh at once.

  On the other hand, she was considerably better prepared than the enemy, most of whom appeared to be armed with little more than rocks and labouring tools. They showed no fear, however, and as the Enquirer peered through a spyglass she realized that every drudge confronting the gate was doing something odd to their face. They were using their fingers to pull down the skin below their eyes, and tug out the corners of their mouths.

  Each on its own looked grotesque and a bit comical, but there was something alarming about seeing a hundred faces distorted in that way, and Enquirer Treble’s excellent instincts told her that she was looking into the Face of revolution.

  Then we shall show them the Face of authority, with a frown they will never forget.

  ‘We cannot hold out against a long siege without water,’ she said aloud, ‘so we must break their will fast. Rout them by any means necessary, then pursue and set up barricades so that they cannot flee back to Drudgery to gather strength or supplies. Trap them in unfamiliar tunnels without food or water, and they will make terms in no time. Look! Here they come!’

  With a roar, the drudges began a surge towards the gate, hurling rocks and shards as they went. Their charge was brought up short, however, amid a rain of crossbow bolts, ballister shot and a splattering of hot oil. It seemed that the attack had barely started before it was abandoned, the drudge horde routing.

  ‘They are fleeing into the Painted Parades! Perfect! Block up the passages behind them! We will trap them in the Samphire District and the Octopus!’

  Forth charged her guards, hastened with spice, and tunnel after tunnel was hastily blocked with wooden barricades.

  ‘They’ll negotiate when they see that they’re stranded without supplies,’ muttered Treble, allowing herself a second to wipe her brow, ‘and Drudgery will come to heel when they find we have several hundred trapped hostages’. Her plan had succeeded. It had been easy. She fought against a nagging worry that it had been too easy. ‘You there – go and ask the servants whether the palace has sustained any damage.’

  And this, as it turned out, was not easy. The palace servants were not to be questioned, or for that matter found. During the chaos of the attack and rout, every single one of them had disappeared.

  The Childersin family arrived out of breath, having ridden their carriage ponies into a lather. Not one of them had suggested waiting for Maxim Childersin. If anybody could survive alone and on his wits, it would be their patriarch.

  ‘Seal the doors behind us!’ shouted the uncles to the servants as they stormed in. ‘There is a howling mob not five minutes behind us! We must prepare to hold siege.’

  ‘Yes, sirs!’ called Mistress Howlett. ‘Miss Zouelle told us what had happened. We have been making preparations.’

  ‘Zouelle came back here?’

  ‘Why yes, she arrived half an hour ago.’

  Glances were exchanged. It had not crossed the mind of any of the family that Zouelle would come back to the townhouse. It was plain to all of them that Neverfell must have been given the wrong Wine, and that the fault must lie with Zouelle. While a few suspected her of deliberate treachery, the rest assumed that she had used another concoction by mistake, then realized her error and fled before the rest of her family could find out. None of them harboured any kindly feelings towards her, however.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I believe she went down the passage towards the laboratories and the Morning Room, sir. She said she had some work to do and should not be disturbed.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  A moment later, the massed Childersin uncles were stamping their way down the passage. No conference had been needed. It had occurred to them that if they were to rid themselves of Maxim Childersin’s tiresome little favourite, there could be no better time. Maxim himself was absent, and the girl had blotted her copybook badly enough that they could surely be excused for taking action against her. Zouelle’s golden days were over.

  ‘If she had any sense,’ one of them murmured, ‘she would have fled to one of our rivals, instead of heading into a deadend set of tunnels and leaving herself with nowhere . . . to . . . go.’ His voice trailed away.

  They had just turned a corner, and were now gazing down the stretch of tunnel that included the doors to the laboratories. Every single one of these doors was now open. Half a dozen barrels stood in the corridor, and the floor was a cat’s cradle of criss-crossing and interlocking lines, sigils and circles, hastily drawn in chalk.

  The Childersins stared as their vintner minds struggled to grasp what they were seeing. All their pet projects, minor, major and misbegotten, had been rolled out into the corridor. All the Wines were awake and feral, the scruffy sigils barely holding them in check, and already they were sensing each other and bristling. The air was thick, and rasped against the Childersins’ cheeks like paper. A careless step into this danger zone might be enough to set all the Wines lashing out blindly, and if half a dozen True Wines started to fight they would tear holes in reality like cats in a paper bag.

  Beyond the barrels and the curtain of quivering light, they could just make out the kneeling figure of Zouelle, adding some finishing touches in chalk.

  ‘Zouelle!’

  She looked up, scrambled to her feet and fled, just in time to evade a crossbow bolt that chipped the wall behind her and ri
cocheted down the tunnel.

  ‘ZOUELLE!’

  Zouelle did not stop running until she reached the Morning Room. There she fastened the door behind her, and took a moment to recover her breath.

  She had made good use of her half an hour, but had been hoping it would take the rest of the family longer to get home. However, her efforts in the corridor would hold them back for now. Her only worry was that Uncle Maxim would manage to evade the Enquiry and return to the townhouse. He would have a much better chance of undoing the damage she had done, and taming the Wines.

  Hurry, Neverfell, she thought. Hurry.

  Meanwhile, Neverfell herself was making all haste through the Grand Steward’s secret escape route, while her escorts helped fill the gaps in her memories.

  ‘So Master Grandible is alive?’ Neverfell could barely speak for relief.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed one of her companions. ‘He used a hidden exit to escape – I believe it was one that you discovered.’

  ‘The rabbit hole,’ whispered Neverfell. ‘That wonderful rabbit!’

  The twisting route led at last past a dusty brocade throne, next to a great bottle of water, and a chest of provisions worth a king’s ransom. Evidently these were laid down in case the Grand Steward had found himself hiding for some time.

  Beside them had been placed a rough cloak with a hood and a pair of good boots in Neverfell’s size. These were handed to her and she donned them quickly.

  ‘Take this as well.’ The nearest servant opened the chest and pulled out a small teardrop-shaped vial. ‘Perfume, just in case you need to win somebody over in a hurry. It will irresistibly draw people to you.’

  ‘Though they might wonder why I’m holding my nose,’ whispered Neverfell, but pocketed it anyway.

  The passage ended in a hatch, and once she and her three guides had dropped down through it they found themselves in a little-used thoroughfare, the horse dung on its rough road stale and dry.