We were still in Gravengate, because every now and then I saw the great pilothouse across the water as we passed an opening onto the riverfront. The tide was out, and there was mud under the jetties; seagulls wheeled over our heads.
“In here,” said one of the soldiers. They guided me toward the back door of a tavern that stood on the edge of a black canal.
“Here?” I said, confused.
For answer they pushed me inside, urgently but not ungently. Then they crowded in behind me and shut the door.
We were in some sort of lobby at the back of the building. From behind a door facing us came the deep roughness of male voices and the clash of pewter; the air was thick with the stale smell of stingoe, the peppered beer. A dilapidated flight of stairs led upward.
One of the soldiers nudged my back. “Up you go.”
There was only one flight. At the top was a landing with two closed doors. The man behind me pushed me forward and opened one of them, keeping hold of my arm as he led me inside. Then suddenly, bewilderingly, he let me go; the door was slammed behind me, and I heard the key turn in the lock on the other side. They were still somewhere near—perhaps in the next room; there was the sound of voices raised in argument, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.
The room was small, furnished only with a pallet on the floor and a couple of shabby chairs. The floorboards were littered with old stubs of nero leaf rolls and stained orange with the dried spittle of mastigris. A cracked window looked out onto the canal below. A single swan had appeared, sailing along on the black water. It looked so pure in the filth of the city.
But what Significance could it have for me now? I thought; and if I’d not been so frightened I would have cried for my lost hopes. I had no chance of True Love now, or use for any Messenger. I could only wait to hear my fate.
My heart beat faster. Footsteps were approaching the door. The key turned in the lock, and the two men came in, filling the tiny room. I was still at the window and I pressed against it, my heart in my throat.
“My name is Titus Molde,” the first man spoke abruptly. He was in his early thirties perhaps, well-built, meaty; his jerkin strained across his chest. Beneath it he carried a slight paunch, surprising in a soldier. He looked me all over. “We’ll not hurt you. Sit down.”
I had to sit down anyway, for my legs were trembling.
He sat down too, although the chair protested. Closer, he had a blunt face and frown marks engraved on his forehead. Like all soldiers, his bright gold hair was cut almost to his scalp: a prickly crown. He did not look pleasant.
The other man stood with his arms folded across his chest. He was youngish also, lantern-jawed, with dust-colored hair.
“You have led us a merry dance,” said Titus Molde. “All the way from Murkmere. It seems we have succeeded in finding you at last. But I need to check a few details. Show me your arm.”
It was a brusque command, not to be disobeyed. I held out my arm, the one with the brand, for I knew that was what he wanted to see. He leaned closer; he smelled of sweat, like raw onions. He gripped my forearm in his callused fingers and turned it over to study the scar.
“Number 102 and the Gravengate symbol.” He drew in a breath of satisfaction. “See, Flint?”
The other man peered closer and nodded. “You were right. She’s the one.” He looked at me in a sort of awe, as if one so young could yet do something so wicked.
“Better make double sure,” said Titus Molde. He nodded at the bag on the floor. “Have a look in there, Flint. See if there’s anything to identify her.”
My precious mahogany box was brought out and opened. Flint squinted inside. “Toiletries. A comb, soap. Ah, this looks more like it.” He brought Miss Jennet’s letter out and passed it across.
Titus Molde broke the seal and scanned it swiftly. “We already know this girl was at Murkmere. So—she can cook, she can clean, she can sing too. No relevant information.” He turned to me and his eyes raked my face. “Tell me, do you remember your name?”
“Scuff, Sir,” I faltered. “That’s what they called me at Murkmere.”
“You were purchased at the Gravengate Orphans’ Home by the late steward of Murkmere, Silas Seed. Is that correct?”
I nodded.
“Do you remember being called by any other name before that?”
I shook my head.
“Do you remember where you were before you were in the Home?” He was impatient and having difficulty keeping his voice hushed; it was by nature loud and domineering.
“I was still in the Capital,” I said. “We lived in a cellar below the streets, Sir.”
“‘We’? Who was with you?”
“A woman. She looked after me. She told me”—my voice trembled—“to call her Mother.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“What happened to her?” said Titus Molde.
“She died. I was hungry. I went above, and that was the day they caught me for the Orphans’ Home.”
His face was grim. “But before the cellar?”
I shook my head again. I was puzzled that he didn’t ask about my crime. “I don’t remember,” I whispered.
“Is the number enough to convince them, Flint?” Titus Molde stood up and began to stride around restlessly in the cramped space, going from window to door and back again, and all the while staring at me. The reek of onions grew stronger.
The other man stood back, staring at me also. “They’ll take your word for it Titus.”
“I don’t think so. There’s too much to prove, too much riding on it.”
Titus Molde came back and sat down.
“I want you to tell me everything, anything you can remember.” He sounded as if he would not stand for any waste of words.
My mouth was very dry. “I committed a crime, Sir, as you know. I do admit it. It was a long time ago.”
A quick look passed between the two men.
“Recount it, then,” said Titus Molde impatiently. “It may help.”
I wrung my hands together. “I know I committed a terrible blasphemy. I was young, Sir, and very hungry, that’s all I can say in my defense.”
“Stop havering and tell us.”
And so I confessed everything.
30
That evening, Titus Molde ordered some food and candles from the tavern below, and he and Flint took them in to the girl, Number 102. She was crouched on the pallet in the fading light, and started as they came in.
Flint lit a candle and stuck it on a platter. The girl took no notice of the bread and meat, but snatched up the cup of watered wine and gulped it down.
Titus Molde examined her critically, kneeling beside her and bringing the candle so close she flinched, though she did not move away. He wasn’t aware of how he must appear to her by the same flickering light: a burly young man in the sweat-stained jerkin he’d stolen from a soldier, no pity in his face, and the light of madness in his eyes.
She was a pretty girl beneath the dirt, he thought, though too small and scrawny for his own taste. She had her mother’s striking dark blue eyes, her father’s nut-brown hair. She would inspire awe in his group when he chose to show her. She had the blood of the legendary leader Robert Fane in her veins: she might be a brave girl. She was what he, Titus Molde, needed to become the next leader of the rebels, the man who would one day take command of the country. He would use her to advance his own ambitions. Hadn’t his voices told him to do so?
Titus Molde had been listening to the voices in his head for a while now.
Even before Robert Fane’s death they would whisper to him how he, Titus Molde, would make an even greater leader. When Robert Fane died, the voices rose in such a buzz of excitement that Molde had to shake his head to clear it. They had chosen him, they were saying; they would help him. Now was his chance.
Titus Molde told no one about his voices, not even Jed Flint. If he did, they might go away and help someone else.
Since the girl had
confessed her “crime” to him earlier that afternoon, the voices had suggested an extraordinary idea to him—an idea that, if it worked, would open the way to his taking over the rebel leadership without opposition.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said to her, trying to keep his voice calm though excitement filled him. “You have confessed to me, and you know your punishment is most likely to be the death penalty. Stealing from the Almighty Himself is the most heinous crime of all, punishable by death.”
She gazed at him with eyes that were filled with despair and said nothing. It helped that she seemed to assume he and Jed Flint were soldiers.
“If I said to you I had the power to grant you life and freedom on one condition, and would do so if you fulfillled it, what would you say?”
She looked at him in astonishment and frowned, as if she did not believe him. Jed Flint stirred, raising his eyebrows in question at Molde, who ignored him.
He repeated, “What would you say to that condition?”
She croaked out, “Why, yes. I’d say yes.”
He paused to shake his head, then took a deep breath. “You would have to stay here for a few days until I’d made arrangements. You’d have all you needed—food and warm clothing—and I would ensure you were safe in the meantime.”
She looked around her. “Here?” she faltered.
“It is the safest place for you. It would be a secret agreement between us. Only my trusted colleague Jed Flint here will know.” He watched her carefully. Excitement burned like a fever in his blood. He had to speak loudly above the voices. “Do you still say yes?”
She nodded again, large-eyed.
He did not want to frighten her immediately, so he smiled; he did not know he had a brutal mouth. “You do not know what the condition is yet.”
She shook her head fervently, as if she did not care—as if it did not matter to her and she would do whatever was asked of her. She appeared increasingly amazed—confused—and that was good. Lucky for him again that she had spent so much time in a cellar and was easily duped.
“You will swear on the Divine Book?” he said.
For a moment she seemed anxious. He waited, regarding her face without compassion. So young and smooth, so innocent. Then, as he knew she would, she nodded, as if swearing on the sacred scriptures were reassuring to her and could not involve her in anything wrong.
Flint, looking bemused, brought in a leather-bound book from the other room, where it was often used for the swearing-in of new members to the cause. The girl put her hand on it and said in a tiny voice, “I swear.”
“Good,” said Titus Molde. “And now I shall tell you what you must do.”
“Holy Wings, Titus, what have you made her agree to?” said Flint in admiration and horror.
It was a short time later, and he and Titus Molde had left the tavern and were returning to their lodgings in the meanest and cheapest part of the city—among the summer plague pits. They kept to the shadows along the riverfront, in the direction of the Gravengate. It would be dark soon, and dangerous for Titus Molde of all men to be out after Curfew, in case he was discovered by the Capital’s Lawmen, commonly known as the Enforcers.
The two men moved quietly past the deserted warehouses, their heads together, talking low while they smoked their nero leaf rolls. The entwining wreaths of smoke behind them dissolved almost immediately into the damp air.
Molde’s boot sank into a deep pool of mud, and he pulled it free with a curse. But inside he was jubilant, still simmering with excitement. He wondered how far he could trust his old ally, Jed Flint, or whether he would have to kill him in the end to ensure his secrecy. The voices would advise him.
“That girl’s the figurehead that could draw the splits amongst us together, Jed,” he said. “She could unite the rebel factions all over the country—with my help, of course. She needs to prove to our own men that she possesses the legendary courage of her father. Then they’ll accept her. The other group in the Capital, the old guard in Seacoal Lane, won’t have any choice. We’ll ride roughshod over them. It will be her and me together, and they’ll have to agree to it. They won’t get her unless they accept me—for leader.”
“I’ll back you in anything, Titus, as you know, but this is profoundly risky,” said Flint carefully. He looked at his leader’s face in the dusk, but through the nero leaf smoke he could see only his eyes glittering with dreams of the future. Sometimes he wondered if Titus Molde were going mad. “We’ve found her, yes, but to deliver her straight into the wolves’ lair…?”
“The only risky part is getting her into the Palace,” said Molde. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke out through his nose. He needed to relax. He could feel his whole body tensing itself for action that would not come for a while yet.
“We’ve never had anyone in the Palace before,” said Jed Flint.
“The Messenger—he gets in all the time, doesn’t he?” Molde said dismissively.
Flint stared at Molde with incredulity. “But murder—assassination! Using Robert Fane’s daughter to kill the Lord Protector’s son! The Messenger will be appalled by the plan.”
Molde rounded on Flint in the shadows and caught him by the collar of his jerkin. “He won’t know! You won’t say anything to him when he returns to the Capital, you understand?”
“Right! I understand right enough, Titus,” spluttered Flint. Molde released him, and he found he was trembling.
“You know you can trust me. Haven’t I given you my support all these years?” He straightened his collar reproachfully. “When do you propose to tell our men we have her? Before the Seacoal Lane lot get to hear, I take it?”
“I’m not telling them,” said Molde shortly.
“What? You mean you’ll keep her secret?”
“No one else must know any of this,” said Molde heavily. “Not yet, not until she’s killed the boy. If she fails, they may not accept her. Besides, it’s too dangerous. If it gets out, the three of us could die: the girl, you, and me.”
“The girl’s likely to die anyway, isn’t she?” Molde gave a short laugh. “If she succeeds once she’s in the Palace, then it won’t much matter. Good for me if she doesn’t die, good for our cause either way—that’s how I see it. The assassination will put an end to the Protector’s dynastic ambitions and throw the whole of the Ministration into a frenzy of horror and confusion.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then, while the Protector is in deep mourning for his dear son, the rebels will strike and I will lead them!”
“You think the girl will pull it off?” said Flint. “Succeed in killing Caleb, I mean? She’s scarcely more than a child and seems so innocent of worldly ways, so gullible. Hardly surprising, I suppose, given those years she spent protected by the woman in the cellar.”
Titus Molde blew out a ring of nero leaf smoke and watched it curl up toward the holding column of the Gate. They were now almost opposite the pilothouse on the far side, close enough to the opening to see between the dripping chains into the wheel room itself, where the slumped, resting figures of the turning-men were silhouetted against the burning lamplight. On the facing around the outside walls, the engravings of the Birds of Night were silvered by the rising moon, wings raised, bills stretched forth to strike.
Molde was not afraid of the Night Birds: he admired their cunning and ruthlessness. He knew his voices did too.
“She’ll kill Caleb,” he said. “Unless the Palace guards kill her first.”
31
I was so terrified, I would have said yes to anything.
A simple little word that would make me a murderess, but save my life. But which of us was worth saving for the other—Caleb Grouted or me? Was one life ever worth more than another?
Shut up in that tiny room I had time to regret what I’d said a million times. But I had sworn to kill Caleb on the sacred texts. If I broke my oath I would be damned.
I was trapped.
I didn’t have the courage to ask why Titus Molde wanted Caleb�
�a fellow soldier and son of the Lord Protector—dead. Some kind of military rivalry, I thought. I must have sensed Molde was ambitious; I knew he was dangerous.
As the days went by, marked by the tolling of the Curfew bells morning and night, I tried to pray. My knees grew red from kneeling. Sometimes tears would run down my face, and I couldn’t stop them. I knew there was no escape, either from that room or from what lay ahead of me. My task, Titus Molde called it.
The tavern keeper’s wife brought me food and drink and emptied my chamber pot, but she never spoke to me, merely looked frightened when I tried to speak to her. I thought that she must have been forbidden to do so by the soldiers, Molde and Flint.
Molde came to visit, while Flint lurked by the door. The visits were brief, as if he merely wanted to check I was still alive; and he was brusque. If I asked a question he would brush it aside as a problem of little consequence.
“How will I get near Caleb?”
“I’ll tell you when the time comes.”
“How will I get into the Militia’s headquarters? Will you take me in, Sir?” I had a picture in my mind of him marching me in as a prisoner and then releasing me secretly in order for me to carry out my task. By now I had imagined it many times.
He stared at me irritably and then shook his head as if a gnat whined around it. “Caleb isn’t at the headquarters any longer. He’s on long leave, in his father’s Palace.”
“The Palace of the Protectorate?” The picture jolted.
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