Caleb began to scream.
47
“I’m going to get my ratha case,” Nate whispered in Scuff’s ear. “Don’t move!”
All around there was a confusion of milling bodies. Someone must have extinguished the other candles in the Cathedral. In the darkness, he could hear officers trying to control the panic, trying to usher people in the right direction, toward the north door. Caleb had stopped screaming and was shouting for his father.
The darkness seemed to lift a little; his eyes were adapting, but the air was filling with a fug of smoke. The back of his throat stung; his eyes smarted. As he fumbled for his ratha case on the floor of the chancel, he heard Scuff cry, “Where’s Miss Leah?”
His hands touched leather; thankfully, he fitted his ratha inside, and held the case to him. He looked around for Scuff. She had found Miss Leah; in the choking semidarkness they were struggling down the altar steps to join the people crowding to the north door.
That was when the main doors blew in.
There was a huge explosion of flame and smoke, a roar. Sparks flew halfway up the nave, as if someone hurled burning stars. Heat blasted through the Cathedral, hotter than the sun. In a second the pews nearest the doors had caught fire. A snake of flame coiled through the pews in the Chapel of the Wren. A soldier beat at his head, where his hair was alight; a tongue of fire licked down the back of another man’s jacket.
The bird heads of the Ministration fell to the ground and were crushed. People were shrieking, choking. They scrabbled their way to the north door, their hands to their throats, coughing, pulling up the necks of their ceremonial robes to cover their mouths, making strangulated cries for air. It was now almost impossible to breathe.
“Open the door, for God’s sake!” shouted a voice somewhere in the smoke, and others took up the cry.
“The rebels are outside! We’re surrounded!” came another shout, despairing.
A tall figure was beside Nate, the lapels of his white frock-coat pulled up around his face. “Get the girls! Get them down to the crypt!”
Nate stared up and made out the deep-set eyes of the Messenger. “But—the guards!” he gasped.
“They’ve run, left their posts. The stairwell’s clear. The air’s clean down there.”
“Won’t we be trapped?” protested Nate, but the Messenger had already vanished into the shimmering, spark-filled air.
With a crash the north door was opened, and as fresh air fed the flames, the fire inside the Cathedral intensified. The crowd pressed forward to escape, then swayed back in a panic-stricken body as the sounds of a fierce battle outside echoed into the Cathedral over the crackling of the flames. Gunshot and a clashing of weapons, the shouts of men, and from somewhere—outside or within the doorway—a horrible, muffled screaming.
“Quick, Nate!” Scuff had grasped his sleeve, was pulling him with her; beside her Miss Leah still gripped the ruined swanskin.
Nate came to himself, tucked the ratha case more securely under his arm. “Not that way—to the crypt!”
He caught Scuff’s hand, and she caught Miss Leah’s, and the three of them ran from the turmoil. In the apse the air was fresher, the area deserted. Nate blinked away tears: his eyes were streaming. Beneath the arches, oil lanterns burned in readiness for the showing of the crypt. He let go of Scuff’s hand, seized a lantern, and made for the stairwell. “Come on!”
The lantern light moved over the narrow stone walls and the steps leading down into darkness. Miss Leah hesitated and clutched the torn swanskin to her. “What is this place?” she said wonderingly, her voice hoarse. “I smell water.”
Nate could smell nothing but the smoke still in his nostrils and clinging to his garments.
“Is it far down?” said Miss Leah. Her voice trembled a little. “I don’t like enclosed spaces, Master Nate.”
“But Nate, there’s no way out below!” Scuff said. “The Amber Gate is locked, and you’ve no key.”
The two girls were hanging back from the dark hole, white-faced. In desperation Nate said, “Do you want to be burned alive or slaughtered by the rebels? The air will be clean down there, the Messenger said so!”
“The Messenger?” said Miss Leah.
“He said to go down.” He felt a momentary pang at how the Messenger’s name seemed to persuade them both to move at last.
He led the way down, holding the lantern high, and stepped out into the crypt. The three of them stood in the lamplight, looking silently around at the alcoves closest to them, where candles had already been lit, and at the shadowed arches beyond. The air was cold and fresh, and as a tiny draft stirred against his hot cheek, he too could smell water.
Behind them, footsteps slipped down the stairwell: not the ring of boots, but shoes, soled with soft leather. The Messenger emerged, holding a hemp bag in one hand and the wooden box Scuff had given him beneath his other arm. He’d found his way down without a light, Nate thought. He must see in the dark like a wild creature.
Miss Leah ran to him at once and put her hand to his cheek without speaking; she showed him the ruined swanskin. Nate could not see Miss Leah’s face, but he saw the Messenger’s expression as he set down the bag and box and took the swanskin from her. He was trying to hold the rents together as if he could somehow mend them with his fingers for her, and all the time she clutched his arm as if she’d never let go.
Nate saw that they loved each other. He wondered if Scuff had seen it too, and felt painfully for her.
The Messenger kept hold of the swanskin and clasped Miss Leah’s hand with his free one. “The Militia will overpower the rebels soon,” he said urgently, looking around at the three of them. “There are few rebels and many soldiers. I couldn’t see what had happened to the Lord Protector, but no doubt he has survived. We should wait down here until the fire burns itself out in the Cathedral.”
“You could have left with the Protector,” Nate blurted out, almost aggressively, and he saw the grave eyes focus on him. “You could be safe outside in the open air by now. The Militia would have guarded you. Why come back to us?”
“Does it need explanation?” said the Messenger quietly. He turned to Leah, as Nate felt a flush rise to his cheeks. “Take my bag; there’s a water bottle in it. We could all do with wetting our throats, I think.”
They passed the stone water bottle around. Nate watched Scuff as she drank, her eyes on the Messenger. While he tried not to gulp more than his fair share, desperate to relieve his parched throat, he wondered if she would ever look at him in that way, or trust him enough to tell him what she’d been through. When this was all over, he’d compose a romance, play it to her on his ratha.
Slowly they all sank down and sat on the cold stone in the pool of lamplight. The Messenger opened the box and took out a feather, running his fingers idly over its softness, his eyes narrow as he looked into the darkness beyond the arches. Leah stuffed the bottle back into the hemp bag. She dragged off her pearl snood and flung it down, shaking her hair free. They stared around at each other, taking stock of their red-rimmed eyes and blackened faces, the drooping, bedraggled wedding finery, the once-beautiful silks and satins scorched from the smoke. We look like a gang of street urchins, thought Nate as he settled his ratha case against him. He felt unutterably weary.
There wasn’t a sound except the drip, drip of water and their quick breathing. The stones waited, stolid, unmoving. Time stretched. Nate’s heart slowed. They were in another world from the tumultuous hell above.
“Look above you,” said the Messenger’s voice softly. “Do you see the swans, Leah?”
When Erland came into the crypt, his eyes went straight to Leah. I minded that, but I think I expected it. But then Erland looked at me, and there was something in his gaze that made me happy.
We sat down finally, for there was nothing else to do. We knew we would have to wait a long time before it would be safe to go back up into the Cathedral, and none of us could bear to think of what might follow then.
<
br /> “Look above you. Do you see the swans, Leah?” Erland said. Above our heads the colors glowed; the gold leaf glinted in the candlelight.
“Do they have a meaning, I wonder?” she whispered, staring up. Nate beat a tiny tune on the leather of his ratha case. “Can you tell me, Nate? Your father was Keeper of the Keys, I believe, and knew much about the city’s history.”
He cleared his throat and began a little bashfully; even in the lamplight I could see him blush at being the center of attention.
“My father always said this was a mystical ceiling, of great importance to the city, Miss Leah. Do you see that in each panel the swan wears the crown? The Protector chose to interpret that as a prophecy, to suit his own ends. He thought he could present himself as the begetter of a dynasty through your marriage to his son. He knew it would stop any members of the Ministration from plotting to overthrow him and his son after him, if they thought Caleb was ruling by divine providence.”
I looked at the elegant circlets of gold. “But the swans wear the crowns around their necks, Nate. What does that mean?”
“Power is a responsibility,” Erland murmured.
“It’s a yoke,” said Leah. For a moment she looked frightened. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Erland laid his hand on hers.
“But perhaps the crowns and swans mean something more than earthly power alone,” said Nate thoughtfully. “That’s what my father always said. Perhaps the Protector was nearer the truth in his speech this evening than he realized.”
I could not recall now what the Protector had said. At the time I had been too agitated to understand his meaning.
Leah was impatient, fretting. “What now, though? Is there no way of escape from here? If we stay until the fire has burned out above, the Protector will have soldiers posted back around the Cathedral. He’s determined on this marriage. We’ll be caught as we leave! I’d rather starve to death down here than be captured again.”
“I’ll stay with you,” I said quietly. I was still the girl whom Mather and Chance were after: Number 102.
“I’m going to look at the Amber Gate,” she said restlessly.
We were all recovering in our own ways, but Erland still looked weary. So Nate took a candle and went with Leah, for he was always courteous, and I sensed he was eager to see it for himself—this marvel of which his father had spoken so often—but I wanted to stay with Erland, to have him to myself for a moment.
We saw the candle flicker as Leah peered into nooks and crannies on the way, searching for any means of escape. Their voices echoed back to us, their exclamations of wonder as they found the Gate.
Erland leaned toward me. “There is something I must tell you.”
But even as he spoke we heard Leah call in sudden excitement, “I see a boat!”
I could see her trying to push against the gold branches.
“There’s no boat, Miss Leah, and there’s no key to the lock either,” I heard Nate say despondently.
“There is a boat. Look, there!”
Erland and I glanced at each other, and he picked up the lantern. In spite of our weariness we almost ran.
With more light we could see what Leah said was true. As I looked between the golden branches, there was a boat stirring softly with the dark water, touching the brick platform beyond the Gate. It was a long, flimsy craft, with oars stowed in the hull. “Perhaps the tide has drawn it through the tunnel,” said Nate, puzzled. It seemed magical—miraculous—to see such a thing, as if it had floated to us in answer to our desperate need.
“If we could reach it—unlock the Gate…,” said Leah. I saw her face was lit with longing now she saw the possibility of a new life so close. “Can’t we think of something?”
Nate shook his head. “There may have been a key once, an age ago…”
“Amber Gate…,” I whispered to myself. I looked up at the curving branches, the birds surrounded by luxuriant fruit: the gate of plenty, the gate to Paradise. Amber and gold…
A memory flicked into my mind. Long ago I had played with treasures—his treasures—and he had let me. “Gobchick!” I said. “Where is he?”
We called his name, to no avail. His den was empty, his blankets in a heap. We took candles into the darkest alcoves behind the arches, where the shelves of coffins were, the jars of skulls, the stone boxes of bones. I was nervous at being so close to dead men, but I knew I had to find him.
“You are brave these days, Scuff,” said Erland, in a low voice, when I had come out into the open from another alcove.
“Only on the outside.”
“That is all anyone ever is.”
“What was it you wanted to say to me?”
“Later—when this is over.”
There was a tiny sound of movement, so near it chilled my blood. But it was not one of the skeletons come for us, but Gobchick, curled up in an empty coffin that was only half pushed into a bottom shelf and stuck out over the stone floor. He was whimpering quietly, and when I held my candle close he put his little hands over his eyes like a child.
“Why, Gobchick,” Erland said gently. “Why are you in here? Were you hiding from us?”
He shook his head. I saw with pity that he was trembling.
“There are no soldiers down here; don’t be frightened.” Erland held his hand out and Gobchick took it and climbed out stiffly, as if his joints pained him. This was too damp a place for an old man.
“Gobchick,” I whispered, “will you show me your treasures, as you used to do?”
He looked at me with eyes that were as sorrowful as a dog’s; yet he did his little shuffling walk hand in hand with me back to the den that we had searched already.
“Are they here?” I looked doubtfully at the tumble of bedding on the bare stone floor.
For answer he let go my hand and disappeared in the blink of an eye. I had no notion where he had gone. But he wriggled out of the bottom shelf between two coffins with a little sacking bag, the kind that usually contains church money. “May I look?” I said.
He nodded.
I knelt down with him beside me and I poured the contents of the bag out onto the stone. The others kept back and did not press us, so it was we two crouching on the floor with the candlelight glinting on Gobchick’s hoard of treasures as I ran my fingers over them, turning them over, separating them. I knew what it was I looked for.
I could hear him crooning over them: gilt buttons of all shapes and sizes, a foreign coin of tarnished silver, a baby’s pewter teether much bitten, colored beads, a broken ivory comb, part of a gold locket, three pearls. Sharp-eyed as a jay, he had picked them up from the floor of the Cathedral and lovingly stored them away.
How long had he had some of them? Did I remember playing with any of them? I didn’t know. I was bitterly disappointed. My head drooped. “I thought there might be a key. Did you ever have a key, Gobchick?”
A curious sound came from him. When I looked at him I saw he was weeping: tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks. I could not bear to see him cry. “Why, what is it? You’ve lost the key, is that it?”
He ducked his head. I knew suddenly that he still had it.
“Please, Gobchick. If we stay here, we shall all die, most like.”
“You, little one?” he said, with a wistful look. “That is certain sure.”
At once he put his hand into his feathers. When he brought it out again he held a key. When I took it from him it was solid gold and heavy, and it held the warmth of him.
“This is the key to the Amber Gate,” I said with great excitement, for I knew it must be; and he nodded and a tear splashed on the stone.
“Was it you that brought the boat, Gobchick?” I was amazed, for I did not think he had such strength in him.
He nodded again. “From Paradise.”
“Paradise?”
“Now you will go,” he moaned. “Leave Gobchick again.”
I could not speak for a moment. I understood why he’d hidden the key. Yet part o
f him wished to help: he had brought the boat for us. “Come with us.” I said, saddened by his misery and worried for his state. “You can’t stay here.”
“Gobchick keeps Ambergate safe. Must say goodbye to his little Clem.”
“What did you call me?” I said, scarcely breathing.
He looked at me with his bright eyes. “Clemency. Gob-chick’s little Clemency. You are darling baby of the Lady.”
And at that self-same moment, as I gazed at him in shock, there came a clatter of boots down the steps outside the crypt, and a voice shouted: “Have you the girl singer there? She is under arrest by order of the Lord Protector!”
48
Gobchick must have vanished at once. Erland was the first of us to come to his senses. We were all too shocked to move. “This is the Messenger,” he called back, his voice firm. “She is under my guard. There is no need to concern yourself, whoever you are.”
“You are a traitor,” came the voice, boldly confident. “The rebel Molde has confessed. We know everything. You too are under my arrest.”
It was Chance who burst into the crypt, brandishing his ceremonial sword. His face was smeared with smoke stains but triumphant as he eyed us all, not in the least taken aback to find himself outnumbered. He knew none of us was armed. His red-rimmed eyes glittered dangerously in the candlelight, and so did his sword.
“Quite a little catch!” he said, and he made a mock bow to Leah. “Your uncle will be most pleased to find you safe and well, Miss Leah.”
“Safe, but distinctly unwell on seeing you, bodyguard,” she said, her lip curling.
“No thanks for someone who brought that ruddy great swanskin of yours all the way to the Cathedral today? Evil heavy it was too.”
Leah said nothing, so Chance turned his attention to me. “And you, Number 102,” he said slowly. “Clemency Fane by your given name. You look so took aback I see you’d no notion of your true identity. Yes, you’ve rebel blood in you, my sweet. You are the daughter of the late Lady Sophia and of her own true and secret love, Robert Fane. They carried on right under the Lord Protector’s nose—until he found out, that is.”
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