The Midnight Charter

by David Whitley

  She breathed deeply, trying to control her urge to hurl the mortar at the wall. But it was expensive; they couldn’t afford to trade for a new one. Besides, she had to finish her work. Benedicta was coming round later to find out how the orphanage visit had gone and Lily had to look as if nothing was wrong.

  Her friend was having a hard time this week. Signora Sozinho’s wedding anniversary was approaching – the day of the festival – and thinking of her mistress was the only thing that seemed to banish Benedicta’s usual cheerfulness. She was so very fond of the Signora, and Lily couldn’t help but share her affection and her sadness. The Signora had once been loved by the whole city, but now she drifted through life like a ghost and there was nothing that either Ben or Lily could do about it.

  What if Theo was right?

  Savagely, Lily seized the mortar and pestle, and began to pound away again, grinding more herbs into dust.

  Pound…

  She saw herself in her mind’s eye, aged seventy, still standing at this table mixing medicine. Helping with the same diseases.

  Pound…

  She looked just like Theo – caring, concerned and defeated.

  Pound…

  She would not be defeated. Theo was wrong.

  Pound…

  He had to be wrong.

  Pound…

  There had to be a way to show the city that she was right. To open everyone’s eyes.

  Pound…

  And perhaps…

  Pound…

  Lily stopped, an idea beginning to form in her head.

  Perhaps there was.

  Chapter Nine

  THE FUTURE

  ‘Best of fortune, Mark. Do us proud.’

  That had been the hardest moment so far, having to hear Mr Prendergast’s remark, complete with a good-natured slap on the back. At least the Count had been his usual self, giving him looks as if he were worth less than the dust that was kicked up as they rattled along in the carriage to the Central Plaza. It was strangely honest – the Count had never pretended to like him. But Mr Prendergast, reeking of perfumed oil, continued to smile his jowly smile and Mark was forced to return it. If they suspected a thing, they would cancel his appearance and, having spent months preparing him for it, the Count was not likely to be forgiving.

  Mark squirmed in his seat, trying to see through the crowds that surrounded the astrologers’ platform. Old men pressed in around him on every side, eager to talk to the Count, who sat stony-faced beside him. Mark had never seen the Count in daylight before. He seemed frailer, physically. His descent from the Observatory had been achingly slow, and the few steps he walked from the carriage to his throne at the heart of the astrologers had wavered, but only Mark had noticed this. In public, the Count wore his years like armour. He walked upright, refusing all offers of support, and, as his fierce gaze fell on those around him, they parted to let him through. Mark felt almost in awe of him. It was hard not to be swept up by the majesty of the occasion.

  Seeing that the Count was deep in conversation, and Mr Prendergast had disappeared into the crowds, Mark got up and pushed his way to the edge of the platform. He leaned on the ornamental rail, so highly polished he could see his reflection in it. For a moment, as an unfamiliar face stared back at him – clothed in ceremonial royal-blue coat and hat, his starfish signet gleaming back in gold from every button – the whole thing struck him as funny. How many of the Count’s possessions had been traded for these fine clothes? The sleeves were so soft, they had to be trimmed with satin; even his stockings were of silk. And all for one day, all to prove a point and ruin another man’s reputation.

  Mark gazed out at the spectacle around him. He had never been allowed to go to the Grand Festival, not even as a little child. His father had been too busy to take him and his mother had thought it was full of thieves and con men. Probably it was, but looking out now at the colourful banners, the weaving processions, the noisy, bustling liveliness of it all, he couldn’t help feeling an urge to run out there among the vendors and lose himself in the celebrations.

  Then he remembered the scroll of predictions, clasped firmly in one of his gloved hands, and his heart sank again.

  Mark had heard the other astrologers as they made their predictions for the year ahead. He’d listened intently to the generalized warnings, the nebulous suggestions, the promises of good fortune that could apply to almost anyone. That was what astrologers were supposed to do, that was the lesson that Snutworth had taught him as they were preparing the day before – keep it vague and the audience will fill in the gaps.

  No chance of that, Mark thought, thanks to the Count. His master had practically dictated the prophecies himself. He’d pretended to be giving guidance, of course, pretended only to be pointing out which of the stars seemed most significant. And, despite everything he knew, Mark had been forced to smile and look grateful.

  There were only three. As the youngest astrologer, he was required to make only three prophecies. But these were the most risky of all – predictions written and circulated days ago, predictions about the festival itself. Even now, the important festival-goers would be reading their copies and waiting.

  Silently, he mouthed the familiar verses to himself again:

  The Glory of Agora this day will shine

  And prophecies three shall encompass the sign.

  The hour will be marked with double the joy

  And bells ever ringing their sweetness employ.

  The stars will be falling for that which would rise

  The whole then will crumble, the small win the prize.

  And lastly the lonely will silence amaze

  And hymning her happiness rise up in praise.

  And with these three signs removed to the past

  The Glory of Agora ever will last.

  He had tried every trick he could think of to make it easier. He tried to ignore the influence of the more difficult planets, took the most conservative interpretations he could find, even made it rhyme in order to pad it out. The only thing he had discovered from that was that he was no better at poetry than he was at astrology. He couldn’t seem to get the feel for the mystery.

  In his mind, Mark had seen it play out. The awful silence as he read them aloud, his voice quavering. The deathly hush as they waited for something, anything, to happen. Then the laughter began, the whole crowd erupt -ing into hoots and giggles, as he jumped down from the platform and pushed his way through the crowd, losing himself in a sea of bodies, publicly shamed forever.

  As he mused, he caught sight of a black-suited figure slipping quietly through the revellers towards the clock tower in the middle of the Central Plaza, his face concealed from the platform by the angle of his tricorne hat. No one else would have paid attention, but to Mark it was a sign of hope. Snutworth was on his way. Everything depended on him. What he was doing was dangerous, of course, but part of Mark longed to be with him, anything to get away from the platform and the curious eyes of the astrologers. Not for the first time, he wished that he had told Lily about what he was going to do. She was probably out there somewhere in the throng, waiting for the celebrations to truly begin. But the Count still read his letters and secrecy was vital. In any case, Mark considered with a shudder, the last thing he wanted was to drag Lily down with him, and not just because she was his friend. If he failed today, she and the doctor might be the only people in the whole of Agora who would take him in.

  As he turned back to look at the other astrologers, he saw the cluster around the Count part. The Count had risen, slowly, and bowed to a new figure who was approaching him. This man, elaborately dressed in powdered wig and gown of purple velvet, and bearing a golden chain of office, seemed to command as much respect as the Count, and lesser astrologers stepped away hastily. The two powerful men stood face-to-face, talking politely, but even Mark could feel the crackle of tension between them. Then, to his concern, the Count raised a withered finger and beckoned Mark towards them. Keeping his eyes lowe
red, he shuffled closer.

  ‘Where are your manners, boy?’ the Count snapped. ‘Greet the Lord Chief Justice as is his due.’

  Mark scraped a bow, then felt a gloved hand grasp his chin, and his face was turned upwards for inspection. The Lord Chief Justice was old in Mark’s eyes, but of a younger generation than the Count, and his grasp was firm and strong. His gaze appraised Mark swiftly.

  ‘So, Stelli, this is the boy about whom I have heard so much.’ The Lord Chief Justice’s voice was deep and restrained, as if he could say anything he wished, but chose not to. ‘He is certainly young to be making his first predictions, even for an apprentice. I trust you have taught him well.’

  ‘The very best tuition, Ruthven,’ the Count replied, and Mark felt his throat go dry. So this was Lord Ruthven, the ‘rival’ the Count and Mr Prendergast had spoken of. The Lord Chief Justice himself! They said he was only one step down from the Director, and was his public face, because the Director never left his office.

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Stelli,’ Lord Ruthven said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. ‘Nevertheless, as the whole of the city’s elite talks of our wager, and of my apparent support for the lad, a demonstration would be appreciated.’

  ‘Naturally, My Lord,’ the Count replied, his disdain palpable. ‘Mark, what is the significance of the house of Virgo?’

  Remembering the lessons drumming this into his head, Mark gabbled, ‘Work, sir. At the present time, as the sun is leaving the house, it signifies a fall in profits for some, but tempered by a larger celebration as Mars is in retrograde and Jupiter is in conjunction with –’

  ‘Enough, enough!’ Lord Ruthven gave a smile and withdrew his hand. ‘The boy has clearly had his head stuffed with all of your precious science. You must forgive me for my concern over so trivial a matter, Stelli.’

  ‘Not at all, Ruthven,’ the Count rumbled, with polite malice. ‘It is entirely understandable, especially considering that much of the city believes our wager to be rather more than trivial. Some might even say that our reputations rest on the boy’s predictions.’ He paused, then added pointedly, ‘I am pleased that he lives up to your expectations of my noble art.’

  ‘I believe you overestimate the boy’s importance.’ Ruthven’s voice grew colder and quiet, so only the Count and Mark could hear. ‘Look at this crowd, Stelli. The rabble do not know of any wager. All they will see is the Count’s prodigy. I wonder whose reputation they will link to his success or failure?’

  The Count smiled icily. Mark had the impression that the two old foes had forgotten that he was there, or perhaps they both thought him so ignorant that he would not understand what they were talking about.

  ‘Come now, Ruthven,’ the Count said. ‘We are not men who care about the common herd. Everyone who matters, who holds power, knows that the battle lines have been drawn.’

  ‘Nothing but rumours,’ Lord Ruthven replied, his composure beginning to crack. ‘No one will ever believe that I had anything to do with –’

  ‘You are the politician, my lord,’ the Count rejoined, fixing Lord Ruthven with a steely glare. ‘Would you claim that rumours have no power?’

  Lord Ruthven did not respond, but Mark felt certain that if such a thing were possible on this warm autumn day, frost would have formed in the air around him.

  ‘Now, surely you are required elsewhere, Ruthven?’ the Count continued, loud enough for others to hear, putting his hand on Mark’s shoulder in a parody of fatherly concern. Mark could feel the old man’s fingers digging in like claws. ‘Mark needs to prepare for his recitation.’

  ‘On the contrary, Stelli, I consider it my duty to stay and observe.’ Lord Ruthven made an expansive gesture, all traces of his coldness vanishing too rapidly to be genuine. ‘Today is a day when all differences should be set aside in the wonder of the occasion. We are celebrating nearly twelve grand cycles since our city entered its golden age. One hundred and forty-one years of prosperity. Surely that is worth more than petty arguments?’ Lord Ruthven beamed, placing his hand on Mark’s other shoulder.

  Mark grunted, suddenly wishing more than anything that he had grown taller over the past months. Between them, the two men seemed determined to force him into the ground.

  ‘In any case,’ Lord Ruthven continued nonchalantly, ‘as you say, I have taken a personal interest in the boy, so I feel it is only fair that I witness his first predictions.’

  Mark’s spirits sank further still. No matter how much he wanted to believe that Lord Ruthven would protect him if he failed, he could not. Indeed he knew that if he was disgraced today, the Lord Chief Justice would be the first to condemn him. Lord Ruthven didn’t need his name linked to that of a failure. Even he could become damaged goods if the whole city saw him as a fool.

  Looking out over the sea of stalls, Mark watched as the people buzzed and swirled before them, while the vendors called their wares. Ribbons and banners hung from every awning. In the distance, the twelve bridges and the arches gleamed from their recent polishing. The sun shone down remorselessly, as if determined to be indifferent to his fate. By rights, there should have been a sinister shadow at the very least, giving an inkling that something was about to go horribly wrong. But the weather ignored his inner storm.

  Mark glanced up to the clock tower at the centre of the plaza. He was due to read his predictions at midday and now it was nearly…

  The first chime rang out.

  He felt his world contract. He barely noticed the two men release his shoulders, propelling him forward to the podium on the ornate balcony from which the astrologers addressed the crowd.

  The second chime and Mark was aware that the crowds had begun to grow quiet. How many people knew about this?

  The third and he stepped to the podium, holding up his scroll.

  The fourth.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw Count Stelli and Lord Ruthven sit down to one side, watching.

  Fifth… sixth…

  Now the whole crowd seemed to be looking up to the astrologers’ platform.

  Seventh… eighth…

  Mark felt sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He unrolled the scroll.

  Ninth…

  He scanned the crowd, trying to pick out the tiny black-clad figure. Snutworth had to be out there. He couldn’t let him down now.

  Tenth… eleventh…

  Mark cleared his throat.

  Twelfth…

  This was it. The moment.

  The crowd held its breath.

  Thirteenth… fourteenth… fifteenth…

  Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Mark was hidden behind his scroll, so no one saw his face split in a huge grin of relief. He’d done it!

  Even as he cast his eyes down the predictions, he remembered slipping the copy to Snutworth at their last meeting. Remembered the servant studying them and then wincing.

  ‘Not the easiest to achieve, Mark,’ he had muttered. ‘Still… just make sure you draw out the reading as long as possible and I’ll deal with the rest.’

  And now he had. Even as Mark watched a distant, shadowy figure slip out of the base of the clock tower, he recalled his first prophecy:

  The hour will be marked with double the joy

  And bells ever ringing their sweetness employ.

  Every single note of the second twelve peals was the sweetest sound Mark had ever heard. Finally, on the twenty-fourth chime, they stopped.

  He forced himself not to turn, even though he so desperately wanted to see the expression on the Count’s face, to watch him realize that his ‘talentless’ pupil’s first prediction had come true. Who cared that Snutworth had been fiddling with the works of the clock? Even the Count would have to agree that it fitted perfectly. But instead Mark swallowed hard. The most difficult part was still to come.

  He lifted his scroll and, in a voice that shook only slightly, he began to read:

  ‘The Glory of Agora this day will shine

  And propheci
es three shall encompass the sign.’

  He grimaced. In the midst of everything, he wished he hadn’t used the word ‘encompass’. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant and if even part of this prophecy was wrong the whole scheme would collapse.

  ‘The hour will be marked with double the joy

  And bells ever ringing their sweetness employ.’

  A pleasing buzz greeted those lines. Mark looked around the crowd. Was Snutworth in position yet? Had he found the right place? Mark took a long pause and tried to look mystical.

  ‘The stars will be falling for that which would rise…’

  The buzz grew louder.

  ‘Come on… come on…’ Mark muttered under his breath.

  Nothing. The crowd seemed to be losing interest.

  ‘The whole then will crumble, the small win the prize.’

  A shriek went up.

  Mark craned his neck with everyone else. At one of the central stalls a man was holding something up. Mark couldn’t quite see. Was that the baker’s stall? It had to be if the next prophecy was going to work, but for some time the prophecies were forgotten in the new excitement.

  ‘Dreadful business… dreadful…’

  Mark spun round. Panting and wheezing, the round shape of Mr Prendergast was ascending the steps up to the platform, one hand firmly gripping the rail.

  ‘Trouble, Prendergast?’ Lord Ruthven asked, pointedly not getting up to help the lawyer.

  ‘Indeed, My Lord, most appalling,’ he wheezed. ‘I understand from my contacts among the receivers that the baking competition, a little piece of harmless low-life amusement, has been ruined. A rat was found burrowed into the centre of the winning loaf. It could signal the end of that poor baker’s career, such a public humiliation, and to think he had such ambitions…’

  ‘A baker indeed,’ Lord Ruthven mused. ‘Isn’t bread, when baking, said to “rise”?’