The Midnight Charter

by David Whitley

  ‘I had no idea that Your Lordship was so interested in cookery,’ Count Stelli growled, giving Mark a vicious look.

  Mark could see the veins standing up on the back of the Count’s hands as he gripped the arms of his chair, his eyes twitching back and forth at the astrologers who swarmed around him, as if challenging them to comment. Lord Ruthven seemed unruffled, however.

  ‘I was just considering how very apt the boy’s words are at this moment, “The stars will be falling for that which would rise”, and of course the rat, that is, the smallest creature, could be said to have triumphed –’

  ‘Thank you, My Lord,’ Mr Prendergast interrupted with an air of irritation. ‘I think we are all capable of drawing our own conclusions. It is a shame that my servant, Snutworth, is not here. He is a man who delights in word games. However, I doubt that he will be joining us for a while. That was a bad business indeed.’

  It took a moment for Mark to realize what Prendergast had said. When he did, however, all caution deserted him.

  ‘Bad business? What bad business?’ Mark said, a little too loudly.

  Mr Prendergast turned his attention to him. For once, his eyes held no friendliness, not even falsely. But his mouth continued to smile.

  ‘Quite sad really. It seems that his envy finally got the better of him. I found, this morning, that my priceless silver-topped cane had disappeared. I live alone and keep very few servants. There was only one person who had the opportunity.’

  Barely were the poisoned words out of Mr Prendergast’s mouth before Mark remembered something he had glimpsed that morning amidst the panic of preparation: the lawyer had forgotten his cane and sent Snutworth to fetch it for him. For a brief instant, he wanted to shout that out, to reveal how he was twisting the truth in the hope that someone would believe him instead of the old fraud. But the words froze in his throat. There was something more urgent to know now. He heard the Count ask the question.

  ‘Have the receivers caught him?’

  ‘Fortunately, yes,’ Mr Prendergast said, his eyes never shifting from Mark. ‘They found the cane on him, of course. Strangely, they found him over at the animal pagoda. He seemed to be prising loose the lock on a cage of rare solitaire doves.’ Mr Prendergast shook his head. ‘He probably intended to create a diversion.’ The lawyer turned back to Mark, his words slow and significant. ‘It is remarkable what the criminal will do to cover his tracks.’

  Mark felt his hands shake. Solitaire doves. He didn’t know much about other languages, but only the day before Snutworth had told him what this word meant: alone.

  And lastly the lonely will silence amaze

  And hymning her happiness rise up in praise.

  It wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t enough to get two out of three.

  ‘Come now, Mark,’ Mr Prendergast said softly. ‘You must finish your pronouncements. I’m sure we cannot wait to see your triumph.’

  Mark looked around. Mr Prendergast seemed to be taking pleasure in his words. The Count was impassive once again, but in his eyes Mark could see glowering hatred. An expression of curiosity crossed Lord Ruthven’s face, but he was hardly stepping forward to help. And all around them the astrologers muttered to each other, passing notes back and forth, glaring in his direction. As their eyes flitted towards the Count, looking anxiously for his approval, Mark felt something else stir inside him. His mind heard again their ‘prophecies’, each one a vague promise of rising fortunes or auspicious signs, so empty that they could mean anything. Why should they succeed when all they did was shadow the Count and feed off the respect he was accorded? The respect given to a man who used his apprentice as bait in a political game.

  Determined now, Mark turned back to the crowd. Maybe he would fall this day, but at least he had found his own voice. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s puppet any more.

  ‘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.’

  Mark finished and held his breath. The crowd remained silent.

  Nothing. There was no chorus of cooing doves, miraculously released despite Snutworth’s capture. Not a sound broke the air. Mark looked out over the endless shifting of the crowds, a mass of people all looking to be told something they could believe. He felt his legs tense, ready to jump into their midst, to scurry and push his way through and vanish, running from the Count and his politics, for even he could foresee that there was no future for him there.

  He put down his scroll.

  And he heard the first note.

  It was a pure, clean sound, rising out of the crowd. A single note, crisp, bright and high.

  Mark was the first to see her. A woman, her black hair streaked with silver, ascending the musicians’ platform on the far side of the plaza. From here, he could not make out her face, nor that of the man whose voice mingled with hers, sounds of darkness and light resonating and trilling together.

  But he could make out the word. The one word they were singing over and over again, rising in runs and twirls of notes, filling the plaza.

  ‘Glory… Glory… Glory be to our city fair…’

  He heard a rustle and Lord Ruthven was beside him, leaning on the rail. He looked out to where the crowds were gathering around the platform.

  ‘It has been so long since I heard Signora Sozinho sing. I had thought her voice was lost.’ Lord Ruthven spoke with a trace of nostalgia. ‘Sozinho, of course, is an ancient name. I believe it means “alone”.’ He turned to face Mark and smiled, satisfied. ‘Truly a miracle, young man.’

  And Mark listened. Listened as the murmurs and shouts from the plaza seemed to echo with the music, watched as the people turned from the singers back to him, cheering, and felt the old astrologers jostle around him, suddenly suspiciously keen to show their support and shake the hand of their newest, brightest star.

  It was much later before anyone noticed that the Count and Mr Prendergast had vanished into the crowd.

  Chapter Ten

  THE SONG

  Half an hour earlier and on the far side of the Central Plaza, Lily tipped five round white pills on to a counter. ‘Is that enough?’ she asked.

  The vendor peered at them and gave a nod.

  ‘Since it’s you, Miss Lily. Always good-quality pain-killers.’

  Lily absently stamped her seal on the contract. She had been overcharged, of course. Theo had warned her that at the festival everything was traded for twice what it was worth and under normal circumstances she would never have bought the rather sickly and unpleasant-looking sweetmeats, but she needed something to distract her. The eleventh hour was already past and still no sign of either of them.

  For the fiftieth time she went over the wording of her letters, trying to remember if she had given offence or told too much. If one of them did not turn up, then her grand idea would come to nothing. She wished she could have gone over the plan with Theo, but he was too busy making ends meet. He now had twelve patients under observation in the cellar alone. Besides, she couldn’t bear to see his sad smile as he helped her, sure that what she was doing was foolish but trying his best anyway.

  Even Benedicta had not been convinced when Lily had first explained her idea. But being Benedicta, she had not hesitated for a moment once Lily had asked for her help, even though if something went wrong it would be a disaster for her. Lily didn’t want to admit it, but at that moment Benedicta’s faith in her was all that was keeping her from abandoning her plan. The longer she stood there, the more hopeless it seemed.

  Nervously, Lily popped one of the sweetmeats into her mouth and winced. It tasted not unlike the medicines she had been mixing out of river weed earlier that morning, stuffed with something sticky and vaguely alive. She shuffled away from the stall, pushing through the mass of revellers, choking on the smells and noise of the markets. Grimly, she made her way past a pile of discarded flo
wers and fallen bunting that was already being trampled underfoot and glanced up at the clock tower.

  Half-past eleven.

  She frowned. The musicians’ platform was still empty. He was supposed to be here by now. His butler had said that he had been commissioned to compose and sing a new work for the midday celebrations. It was said that the Director himself would be listening from the tallest tower of the Directory.

  She walked back and forth, scanning the people around her. Every now and then she thought she saw faces that looked familiar, but they continually faded away, returning to the mass of humanity around her. She had never been to the festival before. Although she had been given leave to go with the rest of the workers at the book-binder’s the year before, the arrival of her signet ring that very morning had changed everything. For one blissful hour, she had been so happy, so thrilled to finally own herself, to face Agora Day as an independent person. Then the chief bookbinder had called her into his office and told her that she was to be thrown out of the only home she had known since the orphanage. It seemed that everyone had been celebrating on her title day apart from her.

  She knew that Mark would be here, of course, but she was sure that he would be even more nervous than she was. She would have to make sure to catch his appearance at the astrologers’ platform, although he hadn’t sounded as thrilled as he usually did the last time he had written. She had not had time to tell him of her plan, and in any case he would probably have laughed at her. Standing here in the middle of the crowd, every passer-by totally absorbed in the festivities, her own resolve began to falter. Of course she believed that what she planned to do was worth doing in its own right – just as she had said, an act of kindness that brought her nothing in return. But at the same time the thought gnawed at her that she did want something out of it, desperately. She wanted it to be seen, to show everyone around that there was another way to live. And she wanted to prove to herself that it could be done.

  Someone in the crowd jostled her. She turned, annoyed, only to see a black-suited stranger slip past. He made an apologetic gesture, but kept on towards his target, which seemed to be the clock tower. Curious, Lily turned to look after him, and froze.

  There, just next to him, was the man she had been waiting for. All thoughts of the stranger went out of her head as this new figure approached. His coat long and flowing, his black hair touched with grey, there was no mistaking him – his face graced most of the woodcut pictures pinned up on the musicians’ platform.

  ‘Signor Sozinho!’ Lily called out, pushing her way through the throng, dropping the bag of sweetmeats to the ground. ‘A moment, please, Signor…’

  Airily, Signor Sozinho glanced over in her direction, a look of irritation playing over his features.

  ‘A child,’ he said, looking down at Lily. ‘And a scruffy one at that. I hope that Miss Lilith keeps more servants than you, girl. The great Signor Sozinho does not grant an interview to just anyone. As I recall from her letter, your mistress said that she would meet me personally.’

  His voice was rich and musical, but there was something strange in its overtones. As though every word was followed by a ghostly echo. Lily stuck out her hand, trying to act a great deal older than she felt. It was time to own up.

  ‘Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time, Signor.’ She paused, noticing that her hand was still stained from the morning’s work. Embarrassed, and feeling younger and more hopeless with every second, she wiped it on her apron. ‘I am Miss Lilith.’

  The man looked down at her, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘You must get someone else to write your letters. They are surprisingly well written,’ he said, withdrawing his hand with a flinch, as though she had dirtied it. ‘Still, a good joke, so I shall not be angry. Perhaps if you are very good, I shall give you an autograph, but only after the performance. Now, I have more pressing matters to –’

  ‘Signor, please…’ Lily jumped into his way again. ‘It will only take a moment, if you will just come with me.’

  ‘Girl, I do not have time,’ Signor Sozinho snapped. And there it was again, louder this time, an echo to his words, higher than his own voice, almost feminine. Angrily, he pulled a bundle of manuscript sheets out of his pocket, waving them in Lily’s face. ‘This work has been commissioned by Lord Ruthven himself, to be performed at midday. I must prepare and study my notes…’

  ‘You don’t know it by heart?’ Lily said thoughtfully, a desperate plan forming in her mind.

  The great singer sniffed.

  ‘When one composes every day, one can scarcely be expected to recall each note with perfect accuracy, if that is any concern of… What are you… Let go of that! Stop! Stop, thief!’

  But Lily was already plunging through the crowd, the manuscript clutched to her chest.

  ‘Not my best plan ever…’ Lily gasped to herself as she hurtled onwards.

  Already she could hear the sounds of the receivers gathering at Signor Sozinho’s outraged shouts as he followed her. But there were so many people and Lily could slip between them, while Signor Sozinho had to push them out of his way. Ahead, she could see the elegant curve of the Virgo District bridge, and beyond that the Virgo archway, decked with its statue of a maiden among the clouds. If she could just get that far, hide from the receivers until the others arrived, then maybe she wouldn’t end this day in prison.

  She reached the bridge, panting as she hurried up its steps, and risked a glance back. Receivers in their midnight-blue uniforms were beginning to cut through the crowd, but Signor Sozinho was nearer, his face red from exertion. She dashed on, down the steps on the other side of the bridge. The shadow of the archway loomed up before her. She stopped, glancing around.

  A hand closed on her shoulder.

  Lily froze, turning as slowly as she could. Signor Sozinho’s expression was grim.

  ‘I shall not ask for my music, girl,’ he said, his tone menacing. ‘I want the receivers to see that you are holding it when they arrive. I do not know what you mean by this, but it matters little. You will be given the maximum penalty for stealing my work.’

  Lily bowed her head, cursing herself and her stupidity. So much for her grand ideas. Then she stopped. Something had caught Signor Sozinho’s attention behind her.

  A flicker of hope stirred inside her, but she didn’t dare turn round. Not yet.

  ‘It has been a long time,’ Signor Sozinho said, his voice flat, no longer talking to Lily but to someone behind her. ‘A lifetime.’

  Lily smiled, shook herself free of his hand, now slack, and turned.

  Standing in the shadows of the great archway, her eyes cast down, her hands clasped before her, was Signora Sozinho. Beside her, half-hidden behind her mistress, stood Benedicta. Lily walked over with an encouraging smile and Benedicta nodded back, her attention fixed on Signor Sozinho.

  Slowly, cautiously, the great singer walked closer to his former wife. In the shelter of the archway the Signora had found a refuge on the edge of the noise and rush. Even the pursuing receivers, Lily was pleased to notice, seemed to have lost them without the Signor’s shouting to guide them. Nothing, not even a breath of wind, disturbed the air between the couple. Eventually, the Signor raised a haughty eyebrow.

  ‘Strange to see you accompanied by girls. I thought young men were more to your taste.’

  Lily winced. The Signora stepped forward, her hands gesturing before her expressively, her mouth moving soundlessly. Meekly, Benedicta translated.

  ‘She says, “There was only ever one young man for me.”’

  Signor Sozinho sneered, ‘Your lawyer made that clear at the time.’ He glanced around. ‘What happened to him?’

  Signora Sozinho made more signs. Benedicta paused, a wistful smile on her face, before translating.

  ‘He grew old. We still sang together, but the music was gone.’ The Signora raised her eyes to meet those of her former husband and continued to sign. ‘I tried to find that music again. In the end, I tried
to find it with someone else. But it never came back…’ Benedicta frowned. ‘I think she says “carissimo”. It’s an old language.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think it means “dearest”.’

  ‘I did nothing wrong,’ Signor Sozinho muttered. ‘The court found in my favour, a wronged husband. I never betrayed our life together.’

  ‘Not in your acts,’ Benedicta said, her eyes fixed on the Signora’s fluttering hands, ‘but in your eyes, and in your heart. You took everything from me. My life, my voice… I gave my name away for you and took yours.’

  ‘Enough!’ Signor Sozinho shouted. The echo was clear this time: it was a woman’s voice, rising within his own like a half-heard duet. ‘I will not listen to your lies any more. You broke everything we had and you will not have it back. You will not sing for anyone else, even if I have to listen to your voice for the rest of my life…’ He broke off, turning away, and Signora Sozinho turned too, her face ashen.

  Lily exchanged an anxious look with Benedicta. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. From what her friend had told her about the pair, she had thought that just seeing each other again would be enough. Instead, she seemed to have made things worse. Behind them, some of the people in the passing crowd had stopped and were watching, whispering to each other, seeing the opposite of what Lily had wanted to show them. With no clear plan in her head, Lily stepped forward and asked the only question that she could think of.

  ‘Why did you keep her voice within you all this time?’

  ‘It is no business of yours, girl,’ the Signor snapped, but Lily pressed on, her mind whirring.

  ‘Didn’t you have the choice to have it bottled? That’s normal, isn’t it?’

  ‘You are correct, girl.’ The Signor turned baleful eyes on his former wife. ‘But that was not my desire. Call it a reminder never to trust again.’

  Softly, hardly sure where the words were coming from, Lily spoke again.

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  The Signor turned on her, his voice scornful and bitter.