He looked more apprehensive still, and puzzled. “I don’t understand! You could escape. We’ve left the Palace.”
“I’ve sworn a sacred oath—I must keep it. I owe the Eagle that much this time. I’ll be safer in the Cathedral. They’ll be busy with the nuptials.” But as I looked at Nate’s nonplussed face, my heart was beating fast and my mouth dried, so that I had to keep swallowing.
A small crowd had gathered in the Cathedral square. A row of Enforcers and armed guards stood by the entrance, ready to deal with any sign of disturbance, but after yesterday the people were subdued, their faces sullen and wary. It would not be long before the Curfew would drive them away, if the heat did not do so first. The late afternoon sun seemed to fill the whole sky, staining it a thick, dark orange; the air was so dry it seemed to crackle.
Before we left the coach Nate passed me a plague mask. “There have been more deaths in the last few days. Wear it until we’re inside again.”
He wanted to carry the mahogany box for me, but I wouldn’t let him take it and alighted with it under my arm. I felt most uncomfortable at the prospect of passing before those miserable, ragged people in my fine silk dress. And the first person I set eyes upon was Titus Molde, hat well pulled down, hunched over a stick like an old beggar, with a bulging sack on his back.
He looked up briefly, and gave me such a look it chilled my blood, even in such heat. I could not mistake the menace in that look in the rolled white of his glinting eye. I thought he would confront me, but he turned away, his silent message of threat delivered.
I’d scarce had time to recover when a woman jumped out of the crowd and tried to snatch the mask from my face. Her face was greasy, her tattered dress marked with sweat. “It’s us needs protectin’, not you grand folk from the Palace!” she shouted.
Around her, others started muttering. The guards, alerted, moved forward; to my horror, one cracked his pistol butt against the woman’s cheek. She staggered back, her hand to her bloody face.
Titus Molde had disappeared.
Nate took my arm and almost pushed me inside the entrance of the Cathedral. It was dark inside today, as if the light was too thick and heavy to penetrate the windows; the air was almost icy against my hot face when I pulled off the mask. The altar was brilliantly lit with candles, but the aisles and chapels were full of shadows, and in the shadows, the black lines of the empty pews and the lurking soldiers, ever watchful.
A small, chittering figure capered up to us from the darkness and touched my skirt. “Gobchick!” A huge relief filled me that he was safe. For a moment, I hugged him; I could feel his heart thudding in its cage of bones. Then he peered up at me, his eyes mournful, frightened, as if he knew what I had to do, and ran off.
One of the soldiers saw him. “Shall I go after him?” he said to his companion.
The other gave a contemptuous laugh. “He’ll not harm no one. He’s naught but the Protector’s lunatic fool, with a head full of fancies.”
The musicians passed us, on their way to set up their stands: elderly men and women, somber-faced and shabby. Nate went to speak to the Master Musician about the program. I sank down in a pew, the box at my feet, and tried to compose myself.
What can I do? I thought. Both inside the Cathedral and out, I was beset by enemies.
Besides, it was too late to escape. From outside there came the muffled tolling of bells. The Curfew was beginning; soon the guests would arrive.
Ambergate
44
Chance sat with Mather in the stifling heat of their coach as it led the way down the Parade. He was still fuming, although he had managed to brush his uniform clean before they left. He’d seen the look of irritation Mather had given him, the smirks on the faces of the guards. Now he’d be a laughingstock, unless he managed to redeem himself first.
Behind them, watched impassively by the rows of Eagles on their plinths, a long slow-moving line of black coaches stretched all the way back to the Palace, surrounded by mounted Militia. The soldiers had pistols on the pummels of their saddles and were wearing the new black gauze plague masks; behind the masks their faces were grim, their eyes flicked over the dusty road ahead, across the brown parkland, checked the dying shrubbery. There was no flicker of life in the baked landscape; no breeze to lift the papery leaves. Overhead, the early evening sky had turned as livid as a welt.
Although they had the windows of the carriage open, Chance was sure he could smell the swanskin, which was lying rolled up in a linen cloth on the opposite seat.
Earlier that morning, on the Protector’s orders, he had gone with Mather to the room where it was kept. The Protector himself was there to oversee the opening of the cabinet and removal of the skin.
Mather had gestured to him impatiently. Chance had had to lift the swanskin from the case by himself and was forced to use both hands; he had been unable to touch the amulet at his neck, his iron locket. He cringed at the memory of the smooth slide of feathers against his fingers, the stiff yet springing shafts, a bony network dividing the softness.
“Gently, boy, gently,” growled Porter Grouted.
Why don’t you do it yourself? thought Chance, screwing up his face in fear as he gripped the feathers and started to lift the swanskin out. For an extraordinary moment he had wanted to touch the feathers to his face, to stroke his cheeks with their softness and beauty. But then the fear and horror had come back.
There was so much of the swanskin, much more than he expected: the cloth was scarcely large enough to cover it. He had had to carry it out, and it was so much heavier than he could have imagined, as if it held the weight of water, like a memory.
And now it was filling the coach with its stink, he was sure of it. That stink of wild, weedy, watery places, of oily secretions and horrifying alien blood. He couldn’t think why the Lord Protector didn’t throw it straight back at Miss Leah, and good riddance. And today it was to be hoist on a golden pole in pride of place over the altar, like some sort of sacred trophy.
He noticed Mather was looking at it with equal dislike. “When we reach the Cathedral,” Mather said, “you will carry that thing in and give it to the two soldiers who are to bear it up the nave at the head of the procession. I won’t be handling it myself, you understand? I have to check the security arrangements before the arrival of Miss Leah.”
“Do you want me to help with hanging the skin, Sir?” At least it would be a chance to walk in the procession, to be seen performing an official duty by all the men and women of the Ministration.
“I’ve men to hang it,” said Mather irritably. There was sweat on his upper lip. “Just get it inside, will you?”
Never any thanks or recognition, thought Chance sullenly. To Mather he was merely a lowly servant. But soon things would be different.
That white face at the carriage window. There was someone who was frightened of him, over whom he had all the power in the world. The girl. Number 102. He had let her escape too many times. Her time was up and his was just beginning.
“Sir,” he said, careful to get the tone of his voice right: responsible, yet urgent. Sweat broke out over his body; he clenched his hands. “Sir, I’ve not mentioned this to you before in case I was mistaken, but I’ve been doing some thinking and I reckon it’s worth further investigation, Sir. I reckon the new girl singer at the Palace is Number 102, Sir.”
Mather frowned, skeptical. “You must be absolutely sure, Corporal.”
“When her coach left for the Cathedral earlier, I knew I seen her before, certain sure. Remember I was that close to her in Poorgrass, held her wrist that time? I saw the brand mark! You remember, Sir?”
“Sacred flight!” Mather stared at him.
Chance nodded. A gleeful excitement was rising inside him. “It’s the same girl, Sir, I’m sure of it.”
“Certainly worth investigation, then, if nothing else.” Mather sucked his cheeks. “We must lay our plans carefully, then, Chance. We don’t want to frighten her.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t we, Sir?”
“If we do, she will escape yet again. Before we do anything else, we must make double sure all possible escape routes are closed to her. That will be easy enough, today of all days.” He leaned back against the padded leather and cracked his knuckles. “We shall trap our little songbird right there in the Cathedral. I shall speak to the Lord Protector as soon as we arrive.”
“And me, Sir? I’ll be in this too, won’t I, Sir?”
“You?” said Mather vaguely, deep in his own thoughts. “Of course, Corporal. We’ll need your earlier statement as proof.”
Chance stared out into the street, where small children were cowering back from the rolling wheels of their coach: scummy children with starving faces, just as he had been once.
He was smiling to himself.
Porter Grouted and his son occupied the second carriage a little way behind; it was splendidly picked out in gold, as appropriate for the Lord Protector of the country himself.
Porter Grouted, resplendent in his rich purple robes, lounged at ease, his muscular body scarcely stirred by the jolts of the carriage as it went over the paving stones of the Parade. The sallow dome of his bald head glistened with sweat, but he hardly noticed the heat, as with satisfaction he surveyed his son on the opposite seat. He had not put on the ceremonial Eagle mask yet, and it sat next to him, glaring blankly ahead.
Caleb Grouted looked petulant. Every now and then he pulled at the yellow silk of his cravat as if it choked him. “I wish I was marrying the little maid instead of Leah, Pa. Leah doesn’t care for me and I don’t care for her.”
“What’s that?” A faint frown marred the Protector’s complacent expression.
“That girl, that little maid who sings—I wish it was her I was marrying, Pa.”
Grouted sat forward, a menacing bulk. “Damned nonsense. Most unsuitable. With Leah as your wife you’ll fulfill the prophecy—establish our line for the future. That’s your job now, son, and don’t you forget it.”
Caleb subsided into sulky silence as the carriage swung into the streets near the Cathedral and began to lurch over the uneven cobbles. But his father had not finished with him. Unexpectedly, he gave a sudden chuckle.
“So you fancy that little hussy, do you? And on the eve of your weddin’! Grouteds have always had plenty of red blood in their veins.”
Caleb looked up. Keeping a wary eye on his father in case he should suddenly erupt into one of his unpredictable and powerful tempers, he said, “That girl—she looks like Mama.”
There was a pause. From outside came the dull tolling of dozens of church bells; it was time for the earlier Curfew. The Lord Protector narrowed his eyes. “What are you talkin’ about?”
Caleb flinched from the lidless stare; he clenched the plague mask lying on his lap. “I mean—she looks just like Mama does in the portrait.”
The Protector opened his mouth to speak. Before he could do so, his eyes rolled back and he gave a loud sneeze.
Father and son stared at each other in sudden fear.
“It’s nothing,” said the Protector. “A summer cold.” But as he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, his fingers shook very slightly. In an instant he had mastered himself.
“Tell me again—tell me about the girl, son,” he said softly.
Looking over the Master Musician’s shoulder in the Cathedral, Nate saw the gleam of pale silk as the Messenger approached Scuff. He saw her stand up, give the Messenger a box; it was the box she’d brought with her in the coach.
Jealousy suddenly coiled in Nate’s breast, surprising him. He knew Scuff loved the Messenger, had known it all along. What he hadn’t realized until now was what he, Nate, felt about her.
Behind him the musicians were starting to tune up: he could hear the dolorous drone of the ecclesiastical woodwind. He winced; he’d always hated it. The mournful notes echoing through the Cathedral sounded like a dirge—as if someone were about to die.
The Lord Protector broke the news about the girl swiftly and bluntly to his Chief Interrogation Officer. They stood talking in hurried undertones in a patch of shadow by the great west entrance of the Cathedral.
“I want nothing to disrupt the wedding ceremony itself, understand, Mather?” the Protector said. Close by, a soldier kicked away a sleeping beggar. “Let’s get my boy married first.”
“Right, My Lord.” Mather’s hands twitched; he longed to get them on the girl. Another carriage rolled up and set down a member of the Ministration. When Curfew had sounded, the crowd hurriedly dispersed, and now the square was dotted with figures in dark claret robes, the bird heads tilting to each other.
“But as soon as the service is over and the nuptial agreement signed by the couple, you can move in and arrest her.”
“Right, Sir.” Mather rubbed his twitching hands together.
“And, Mather, dispose of her without any undue bother, will you?”
Mather hesitated. “Do I understand what you’re saying, Sir?”
“You do, Mather.”
45
I bent to touch the dagger hidden in my boot, beneath my green skirts. From where I sat in the pew I looked around for Erland. At first I couldn’t see him, then I saw he was sitting alone in the darkness of the Chapel of the Lark, across from the chancel. His head was bowed; he was waiting too.
Already the minor officials were beginning to assemble before the Facilitator on either side of the altar: the clergy in their white vestments, slashed with scarlet; the scribes with their parchment and quills; the page-turners for the Divine Book, who went to stand beside the lectern. Vergers brought in a table for the Bird Cages and another for the signing of the nuptial agreement. Finally, a pair of padded, gold silk prayer mats were placed with reverence on the lowest step before the statue of the Eagle.
Then the choirmaster came in, chivvying his pinchfaced, meager flock into the carved wooden choir stalls. In the shadows behind the arches, armed soldiers watched silently.
I felt Nate tug on my arm.
We were to wait in the darkness behind the Great Eagle on His altar, then move forward to stand on either side of Leah and Caleb as they took their nuptial vows before the Facilitator. We would then perform a motet while they knelt before the Eagle for the Contemplation. That would be the moment I would act.
But I could not think about it.
We passed the musicians peering at their music in the half-light of the transept, then the choir stalls with their rows of ghostly faces. We ducked beneath the banners of the Birds of Light and the long golden pole that hung before the altar, and climbed the altar steps into the chancel. Nate held his ratha as if it were his salvation. My heart beat light and nervous as we stopped in the shadows cast by the altar screen.
They were beginning to come in.
The bodyguard, Chance, walked with another soldier, ahead of all the guests. Between them they carried a long rolled bundle, wrapped in a cloth. There was a swagger about Chance, a cocky air; his ceremonial sword swung jauntily at his hip. Behind them filed the members of the Ministration in a long, silent procession, the candlelight gleaming on the feathers of the bird heads, outlining the sharpness of a beak, catching the glint of an eye. A moan arose from the choir stalls, quickly quelled by the choirmaster.
The Ministration filled the pews to almost halfway down the nave. They sat motionless; the bird heads scarcely quivered.
Chance and the soldier came up to the chancel and climbed the altar steps. The soldier began to crank a handle hidden to one side. The gold pole came down in jerks, was lowered almost to the floor.
The Lord Protector entered, wearing his ceremonial Eagle head, to a roll of drums from outside. He was followed by various minions—bodyguards, footmen, soldiers—who melted away as he strode up the nave. I drew in my breath, for he seemed to have become the Eagle Himself in that moment, as his majestic purple robes swept along the stone to the front pew and the great head glared about. The musicians bowed their heads, touched their amu
lets; the choir murmured in fear. The bird heads of the Ministration bowed to him as he sat down.
Caleb Grouted came next, a sneer—or perhaps it was a smile—twisting his handsome face as he looked to left and right, acknowledging the bows of the Ministration. He made an obeisance and sat beside his father in the pew.
Chance and the soldier unrolled the bundle lying before the Eagle. I knew what it was immediately. It was a swanskin, like the one I had seen months ago in Gadd’s shelter. But this was Leah’s swanskin, and soon she too would see it. The two soldiers fastened the swanskin to a cord that ran the length of the pole, with an arrangement of gold clips. They began to hoist the pole over the first step of the altar, where Caleb and Leah would kneel for their vows.
There was a drawing-in of breath from the pews as the swanskin was revealed. Surely it was sacrilege to display the skin of one of the avia in the Cathedral?
My own hand went to the amber beneath my dress. From where I stood I had the back of the swanskin to me—the gray skin—but as it hung, it rippled and turned in the down-drafts from the vaulted roof, a banner of glistening white feathers, each tipped with gold as it caught the candlelight. This was the Protector’s cruelest trick: to hang the swanskin so tantalizingly close, yet beyond reach until Leah had taken her vows. It would be the first thing she’d see on entering the Cathedral.
The musicians struck up the nuptial march.
It was difficult to see Leah at first: she was hidden by a gray mass of bodyguards. It was only when she reached the Lord Protector’s pew, and Caleb stepped out, that the bodyguards dispersed and I saw her white, clenched face beneath the pearled snood, her dark eyes staring up at the swanskin, her hands twisting and twisting together over her cream satin skirts.
The Facilitator came down the altar steps, and Leah and Caleb stood before him, their heads bowed. The Facilitator’s white gown had moth holes in the hem. My heart thumping, I stared at the back of his head, at the ruff of gray hair that ran around his pink scalp. It had become very dark in the Cathedral, as if a storm brooded above us. The windows high above the glowing candles were dull and opaque.
Ambergate Page 27