Ambergate

by Patricia Elliott

  “We’ll plan to get you in there. Caleb’s about to get married to Leah Tunstall of Murkmere—as soon as she agrees.” He glanced at Flint by the door. “The Protector’s working on her.”

  “Won’t be long, then,” said Flint with a grin that stretched his lips.

  I’d taken in but one thing. “M-Miss Leah is in the Palace?” I stammered, staring at them both. “But she’ll remember me from Murkmere most surely.”

  “The girl has a point, Titus,” said Flint.

  Molde shrugged impatiently. “We’ll disguise her, if necessary. It’s not a problem.”

  Early on the morning of the second day, Molde came alone, when I was walking around the little room, stiff after lying on the pallet. The bells for the raising of the night’s Curfew had rung only recently.

  He pressed something cold into my hand.

  “Get used to the feel of this,” he said. “It’s what you’ll use. I want it to become part of you.”

  I looked down. It was a dagger.

  I would stand at the window for hours, fingering the handle of the dagger, hoping to see the single swan gliding below me. If I saw it, it would be a symbol of hope to me, of redemption. But it did not appear again.

  On the morning of the third day both men came together. Flint was awkwardly carrying a bundle of clothes, which he flung down on the pallet.

  “You’re to have a bath this morning,” said Molde. “The woman downstairs will take you into the kitchen and stay with you. Flint will be outside the door, so don’t try anything. Then you must dress yourself in these garments.”

  He held up a dress between his finger and thumb. It was made from coarse, dark red wool and had long, tight sleeves. On the pallet were other garments: a bodice, petticoats, white stockings, a black shawl. A pair of wide kid boots. And a black felt hat with a half veil.

  Molde saw my eyes widen at the veil. “You’ll wear the hat as well this afternoon,” he said. “And thereafter. You caught the plague last summer but recovered. The pustules left bad marks on your forehead, so you veil yourself.” He came closer and looked down at me. “That is your story. Repeat it to me.”

  I did so, my voice trembling.

  “And you must never lift the veil, you understand? On no account must they see your eyes.”

  I nodded, bewildered.

  “The dress should fit you well enough.”

  “Whose is it, Sir?” I faltered.

  His face hardened. “That doesn’t concern you. She is dead now. She was of a similar height and build. You must never, ever, roll up the sleeves, of course—never show your scar—in case someone sees it and realizes you are from a Home. That would jeopardize your task. You’ll find the boots wide enough to hold the dagger.” He looked at me meaningfully.

  “I’m making arrangements to get you into the Palace. Never forget that I’ll be waiting for you to carry out your task.”

  I shook my head.

  “This will be your last morning here. When I return this afternoon I’ll be bringing a visitor with me. Be dressed and ready. Do you understand?”

  I nodded. “I-I am to go, then?” I stammered, unable to believe that freedom lay ahead at last.

  Titus Molde glanced back at me as he left, and nodded. “The little songbird shall fly her cage.”

  He was a blasphemous man.

  32

  I had to have a bath under the curious eyes of the tavern keeper’s wife. I knew Flint was outside and would come into the steam-filled kitchen on the slightest provocation, so I dared not complain. I washed with the dried-out chip of soap she had handed me, and tried to pretend she wasn’t there. Afterward,, I dried myself as best I could on a rough woolen cloth that was already none too clean, and dressed in the clothes of the dead woman.

  The skirts of the dress were a little long, and the boots a little big, but I was used to that. I had worn secondhand shoes all my life: my toes were bent and curled from them. In any case, I was glad to be rid of the black shift and yellow stockings at last.

  In the stuffiness of my room, my hair soon dried. The last two days had been warmer; the heat in the little room would grow unbearable with the coming of summer.

  I combed my hair with the tortoiseshell comb and tied it back with one of the faded ribbons. I put on the hat and veil and pulled them well down, then I looked at myself in the mirror from the box. Many women in the Capital wore veils to hide their wrinkles, so I would not look too out of place. It felt odd to have the scratchy net against my forehead, and beneath it my face looked strange to me too: peaked and apprehensive, my eyes robbed of color.

  I put the comb and mirror back in the box, on top of the reference from Miss Jennet. Last of all, I slipped the dagger in its sheath down the inside of my right-hand boot. It was a short, straight dagger; I could feel it there, like a splint. I waited, and my heart seemed to beat out each second heavily in my ears.

  I heard the key turn in the lock on the other side of the door. Flint opened it and stood aside so that his visitor could enter.

  He was a boy, a little older than I, and well dressed in a jacket and waistcoat of fine green wool, his ruffled shirt open at the neck to show an amulet of green jasper stone, his curly hair shiny and clean. He looked exceeding wary, but he had an honest face. He was certainly not a soldier; I couldn’t tell who he was. He was carrying a ratha, cradling it, I should say, as if it were the most precious thing on this earth to him; and the wood had a glow to it, as if it were loved.

  He stared at me, and then at the room in all its shabbiness and squalor. “Why is she locked up?”

  “For her own protection, Master Kester,” said Titus Molde. He’d put on a solicitous deference quite unlike his usual dominant manner. “We don’t trust the landlord here. The Saggy Bottle tavern is frequented by a rough sort. We thought it safest to lock her in and keep the key. She’s not been in the Capital more than a few days. I knew her father and like to take care of her, don’t I, Mr. Flint?”

  By the door Flint nodded. “He’s a good guardian, Master Kester, the best.”

  Such lies! I almost choked. I looked imploringly at the boy, but he couldn’t see my eyes. Take me away.

  He stared at me again, uneasily. “She can sing, you say? I’d like to judge her voice for myself.”

  Molde jerked his head at me. “Go on then, girl, show the young gentleman you can sing.”

  “Now?” I had no desire to sing in this dreadful place, which had been my prison.

  Molde frowned at me warningly; my heart sank.

  “Please, Miss,” said the boy. I thought I saw sympathy in his expressive face, some understanding. He gave a half-smile of encouragement. Titus Molde sat down on a chair and folded his arms; Flint stood in the doorway, watchful.

  And so I did my best for the boy, though my voice was thick and trembled. There was not enough air in the room. I sang “I Left My Love by the Amber Gate.” After I had sung a verse or two, I faltered to a stop. “I remember no more, Sir.”

  The boy was looking exceedingly interested. “That’s an old song, is it not, Miss? What do you know of the Amber Gate?”

  Caleb Grouted had asked the self-same question at Madam Anora’s. “Nothing much, Sir,” I said hesitantly. “No man knows whether there is such a thing or no. I heard the song as a child.”

  “Don’t we all wish we could find the Amber Gate?” said Titus Molde, winking at the boy. “Wealth beyond dreams, eh, Master Kester?”

  “But it has some sacred importance, hasn’t it, Sir?” said the boy, and frowned. “If there is indeed such a thing, it shouldn’t be desecrated.” He turned and regarded me gravely. “I’ll take you on, Miss. I can tell you have a sweet soprano voice, which will improve with practice and good food.”

  “Your master will approve, you think?” said Titus Molde.

  The boy covered his laughter with his hand. “My master’s not musical, Sir. It is his guests who will appreciate her singing. But her songs may soothe his temper and therefore be good
for his health.”

  The two soldiers glanced at each other. “He’s unwell, Master Kester?” said Titus Molde solicitously.

  “His physicians fear for his choler from time to time. They prescribe the playing of music to calm him. That’s why I’m there.” The boy smiled ruefully. “But though I play music, I sing like a saw on wood. That’s why I was so fortunate to meet you and hear about…” He gestured at me. “What is your name?”

  I hesitated. “In my last employment they called me Scuff,” I whispered. “It’s a kind of silly nickname, Sir.”

  The boy held out his hand. “Nate, please, not Sir.” He shook my hand in a warm, friendly way. “You know your master is to be the Lord Protector?” I nodded. “Come, bring your things and we’ll go.”

  He gestured down at the bag that contained my box. I picked it up, but he took it from me courteously and slung it over his shoulder, all the while moving to the door as if he could not wait to get away; as, indeed, no less could I.

  “Thank you for your introduction,” he said to Molde, and blushed. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing to reward you with—no money in my pockets.” He gestured at his clothes. “It’s all show, I’m afraid. My master provides these fine garments so I don’t disgrace him.”

  Titus Molde smiled and clapped him on the back so that he almost fell. “Master Kester, I need no reward for helping my dearest friend’s daughter! Good luck to you.” Then he patted my hand in an affectionate-seeming gesture. “And I’ll look forward to hearing of your progress in the Palace, child.”

  He stared at me with narrowed eyes as he said those last words, as if to make sure I understood that I’d never be truly free until I’d done what he asked of me. Both men watched silently as I followed Nate Kester down the stairs, almost tripping over my long skirts in my hurry.

  All the time, deep in my boot, I could feel the dagger, unyielding against my ankle.

  The Palace

  33

  There is a dark shadow that hangs over every child in the Capital. It is the shadow of wings.

  In the streets, ravens and kites peck and scatter the heaps of stinking refuse, filling the air with their harsh tumult. By the river, the gulls cry forlornly, swooping low over the masts of ships at dock. On every street corner, there are the soot-blackened statues of the Great Eagle on their plinths.

  That afternoon when I emerged at last from the Saggy Bottle tavern with Master Nate Kester, the chains of the Gravengate had been wound up across the river. Above the lethal net of links the sun flickered on the metal facing of the pilothouse so that the engravings of the Night Birds seemed to move. I could almost hear their foul screeching and cawing.

  Panicked, I pushed at my veil, forgetting why I wore it. I was in a stranger’s clothes. Who was I?

  Nate Kester looked at me in concern. “Are you faint? We’ve a long walk ahead.”

  I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Perhaps you are anxious about working at the Palace,” he said kindly. “My father was Keeper of the Keys to the Capital and worked in the Palace all his life, so I suppose I’m used to it.” He made a wry face. “I’ve been Boy Musician several years now. In return I get my keep, as will you.”

  We were walking along the riverfront, passing large houses, each with its own gilded water gate. Gulls flashed and wheeled above the oily shingle and squabbled among the muck and weed. The sun was hot on my back, holding the threat of summer, the return of the Miasma.

  “I’ve only a reference, no identification papers,” I faltered.

  “So your guardian said. Stolen from you your first night.” Nate shook his head, watching me. The ratha under his arm gleamed in the yellow sunlight. “The pickpockets are appalling in the Capital.”

  I was sure he didn’t believe the story. “How will I get through without them?” I said, nervous. “Will they search me?”

  “I’ve briefed one of the guards, a friend of mine. He’s on duty in the security office today.” Nate smiled; he had an open, engaging smile. He’d have many friends.

  He stared at me. “If you removed your hat and veil, it would give you more air.”

  I pressed my hat down more firmly, worried he might take it from me himself, he looked so concerned. “I have terrible scars—on my forehead, you know—from the Miasma. Last summer, it was.”

  Now he looked at me in astonishment and respect. “You survived the Miasma? You must have a strong constitution.”

  “Like an ox,” I assured him.

  “Strange. You look so fragile. There’s no telling, is there?” He peered closer. “You were lucky not to be scarred on your cheeks and chest. They are still—perfectly smooth.”

  “Tell me how you heard about my singing,” I said quickly.

  “I was in a tavern not far from the Palace.” He blushed again. “It’s a respectable place, I do assure you—the Dancing Bear. I go there from time to time and I suppose people know I play a bit. Someone asked for a tune, so I obliged.” He stroked his ratha. “Then one of those men with you asked for a song. I explained I’d no voice for singing, and we fell into conversation. It ended with him offering me the opportunity to hear his own little ‘songbird.’ I was curious, I suppose.” He hesitated. “When I saw you, I knew I had to rescue you, however ill you sang.”

  “Rescue me?”

  “You looked so distressed. Something wasn’t right. That room—locking you in like a prisoner…. They kidnapped you, didn’t they?”

  I shook my head.

  He sighed. “You look frightened again. At least they didn’t try to sell you. Did they harm you in any way?”

  I tried to keep my voice steady. “They did nothing to hurt me.”

  We walked on in silence. We had left the river and the tall brick houses that we passed now had once been elegant, but had fallen into disrepair and ruin long ago. Their marble front steps were chipped and broken; the wrought-iron railings and imposing porches broken or hidden by thick fronds of ivy. On one balcony a woman in a tattered silk dress, grubby wig perched askew on her head, tried to hang sacking over a broken window.

  It was difficult to breathe beneath my veil. I felt dizzy with heat.

  Nate looked at me. “Why don’t we break our journey at the Cathedral? It’s close by. We can rest there.”

  We walked across a square of cherry trees toward the great West entrance.

  I have been here before—once, long ago.

  Wings of stone grew out from the walls of the Cathedral and threw shadows at our feet. Above us rose a magnificence of gables and pinnacles and long columns. The windows were decorated with stone tracery as delicate as lace; the spire dazzled like silver in the sun, and in the ribbing live ravens perched as motionless as the stone birds around them. I looked up and clutched my amber, then I saw that Nate was not afraid.

  On all sides of us people streamed over the grass.

  “This Protector has little time for churchgoing,” said Nate. “But my father told me that in the old days the Protectors used the Cathedral on great religious occasions. They always had the Ceremony of Anointment there, and state weddings and funerals. It’s falling into ruin now, but there’s still some kind of folk memory that brings the people here from all over the city”

  Prayer mats were spread out beneath the pale pink cherry trees. I lingered longingly by the religious icons displayed for sale, for they were such pretty things: the five Birds of Light, each intricately carved in wood, and stone eggs painted to represent the World Egg.

  “Come,” said Nate, looking warily around. “There are thieves about here.”

  I’d noticed a tiny wrinkled man staring at us from beneath a tree where a stack of Legend sheets were displayed. When I looked back next he was nowhere, had vanished into one of the shadowy alleyways off the square, perhaps. There’d been something strange about him: he’d not been dressed in rags but feathers.

  Nate steered me beneath an arched gable; the stone was crumbling, the doors long rotted. I touched the
stone as I went through, feeling the cold strike my fingertips. I remembered the feeling of the carved grooves in the stone, the feeling that the place was entering me through my flesh and bones.

  We stood in the nave. All around us, in the central aisle, men and women with careworn faces murmured their prayers, their desires and fears rising up into the high vaulted roof with the ravens that flew in through the open entrance. The sun glowed through the colors of the stained-glass windows, so that it seemed the kneeling figures had been sprinkled with rose petals. They looked in supplication toward the stone statue of the Great Eagle on the altar, while their small round-eyed children perched on the edges of pews like rows of starlings.

  We sat down in an empty pew. I was glad when Nate moved a little way from me. I closed my eyes and felt the Cathedral breathing its chill breath all around me.

  This is where I committed my crime.

  That morning long ago I’d managed to escape from the Home before we left for the weaving factory. Finally, I must have wandered into the square. It was early, the Cathedral almost empty.

  But someone saw me as I ran away afterward, my mouth covered with blood, the lump of undigested sacrifice heavy in my belly—the Bird-Scarer, who is employed by the vergers to wave the ravens away from the sacrificial meat. He pointed at me; he had a loud, accusing voice, and I was frightened. The ravens flew up in a black, croaking cloud.

  I ran and ran, all the way back to the Home. It was the only place I knew. They whipped me. They didn’t know what I had done, only that I had given them the slip that morning. Then I was sick over their boots.

  I had nightmares for weeks afterward. Krak-krak-krak.

  I’d dropped my handkerchief in the Cathedral. It had my number sewn into it. Number 102.

  When I opened my eyes I saw there was a different Bird-Scarer now up in the chancel by the altar, a gangling youth with a pockmarked face. He looked scared to death himself as he flapped the big black birds away from the meat.