The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy

by A. M. Steiner

Miranda thought that self-evident and could not think of a reply. They faced each other in silence, eyes locked. Gleame seemed to be searching for something to say. Eventually he just nodded. “Is there anything you would like to ask me before you begin your career?”

  Why am I the first, when the legends are full of wise women and witches who used cunning to heal and charm? Miranda had hundreds of questions, but her years at court had taught her that powerful men preferred deference to challenge, particularly when they claimed otherwise.

  “Any advice would be helpful.”

  “Of course. I’ve never been in quite your position...” He waved his cane at her dress. “But I can try to imagine. I was just an apprentice once, you know, and even less before that. Maybe you should give the men some time to get used to the idea of a woman being in their midst. Don’t rock the boat. Begin by focusing on areas where the fairer sex have excelled in the past. Healing, love potions, amulets to ease childbirth and so forth.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Work hard, and don’t let others take credit for your ideas.” Gleame said it profoundly, as if in appreciation of a wisdom hidden deep within the comment.

  “Master Somney suggested that some of the masters oppose a woman in their midst.”

  A frown flickered across Gleame’s brow. “Did he now? Somney exaggerates, but forewarned is forearmed I suppose. Master Talon is supremely talented,” Gleame chuckled, “but he can be a little rough. Try not to antagonise him. You should be fine as long as you remain discreet.”

  You mean so long as I keep my mouth shut. Miranda curtsied and forced a smile.

  Carousel

  The leader of the dissenters cupped his ear and looked up.

  “What now?”

  Jon leaned over the curved iron railing of the reefing deck that ringed the mill’s bagging floor, pointed to the loading-bay door thirty feet below and hushed the youth with his finger. That didn’t stop his ragged followers from puffing and groaning as they wrestled with the creaking handcart. Its wheels had buckled on the two slow miles from Stanizlav’s warehouse. Jon observed with worried eyes. A breakage would wake the neighbourhood.

  Inch by inch, the handcart reversed into the mill. Jon watched the folding doors slide closed behind it and took a moment to savour the empty silence of the street. He looked to the north, across the rooftops of Turbulence and beyond to the occasional lights of Bromwich’s outskirts, and wondered where his brother might be.

  Daniel would never flee without a parting word or a message of explanation. Failing the grading would have been hard on him, especially after his boast about fighting the gangs, but to run away? That made no sense. Dan was family, loved and needed. There had to be more to the matter than Jon knew. For now, a quick prayer for safe travel to He-who-sails-the-wind was all that Jon could offer. He hoped it would be enough.

  Sailcloths cleaved the air perilously close to head height. For once, Jon had a breeze when he needed one. He ducked instinctively as he entered the mill and climbed the stepladders to the mill’s peak two rungs at a time, first into the stone room where grain chutes fed into the well-worn grindstone, then to the bin room where two huge empty hoppers sagged forlornly like the tits of a crone.

  He inspected the mass of spinning shafts and wheels in the cap room with a glance, pulled and released a gear lever to disconnect the grindstone and switched the drive to the sack hoist. A tug on the rope that hung from the ceiling opened trapdoors on every level of the mill, creating a vertical shaft the height of the building. Peering down it, Jon could see the handcart and its cargo, positioned perfectly, five floors below.

  He lowered the hoist chain until he heard the hollow thump of its heavy hook landing on the crate, then slid two-handed back down the stepladders. He paused at the storage floor, listening at the door that led from the tower to the mill-house, but heard only the riotous snoring of his mother.

  If anyone’s going to wake the neighbourhood now, he thought, it’ll be her.

  Holding the rope that controlled the hoist in one hand, he lowered himself through the final trapdoor to balance on top of the wooden crate.

  The handcart cracked horribly as it took his weight. He looped the hook through the ring of the crate’s lifting band and heaved the crate a few inches into the air. It swung slightly to one side and he heard the unmistakable thwack of wood on flesh. A man swore loudly. Jon rapidly raised the crate to just above the level of the storage floor, hopped off it with the ease of a disembarking sailor and descended to the loading bay.

  The red-headed woman was holding a wet cloth to the forehead of the weasel-faced man. “What happened?” he asked woozily, and then vomited spectacularly over the loading-bay floor.

  Jon had bumped his head enough times in the mill to know how much a knock like that could hurt. He felt sorry for the man, but he still resented the mess he had made.

  The youthful leader of the dissenters laid the injured man down while redhead made a pillow of a folded cloak and tucked it beneath his head.

  “The crate rattled your brains,” she said plainly. “You’ll be back to yourself in a few minutes.”

  “I should have warned him. Let me help,” Jon said.

  “Don’t worry yourself, goodfellow,” the curly-haired leader replied. “Laila is a capable physician.” As if to prove the point, Laila tore an even strip from the cloak with practised ease and bandaged the injured man’s head. As she wrapped, the youth took a long clay pipe from his jacket, stuffed it with blackwort, and sparked it with a rubbing flint.

  “Kareem will live to fight another day. We all will, thanks to you. I don’t know why you saved us, but I’m sure you had your reasons. You seem like an honest man, and an educated one. I sense you have some sympathy for our cause.”

  Jon was incredulous. Could the youth not see the mill that he was standing in? That Jon was a man of property.

  “You are in my house because I paid for your help. I have nothing to say for your cause,” Jon said. Laila’s nose wrinkled in disapproval.

  “The Wise Council misrules the land. The people have had enough. The system buckles under the weight of its tyranny. There are men like me in every town preparing. When the time comes, every man will have to choose a side.”

  The man was a pompous goose. His prattle would be boring if it wasn’t so extraordinarily dangerous. Jon looked around nervously. It wasn’t simply that he disagreed; who knew which of the poor men from the dock might be a spy or informer for the duchess?

  “I don’t want such talk in my house,” he said. “It’s well past midnight – time you made your way back to whatever you call home.”

  The youth was unperturbed; he smiled in the way men do when they have you at a disadvantage and are about to tell you something that you do not wish to hear.

  “I know your name but you don’t know mine,” he said. “George Barehill, at your service.”

  Jon looked at him and the woman called Laila in disbelief. Everyone in the Unity had heard tales of Barehill the Breaker, the sworn enemy of machine and magic. Fools said he operated from a secret camp in the Thelney Marshes, or a pirate ship, or a flying castle. Jon had believed the man a myth. The idea that this beardless youth with his red cheeks and curly hair could be the most hunted dissenter in the land was laughable.

  Then again, the censor had said that the reward was ‘substantial’.

  Jon looked at Laila, her thin pale lips and eyes as brown and light as ginger wine, and wondered if such a woman would fall for the nonsense of a charlatan.

  The man who claimed to be Barehill leaned forwards and confided, “When you wish to speak with me again, tie a red cloth around the railings of your mill, and I will send someone.”

  His men opened the folding door and they dragged their lopsided cart outside. Laila whispered something into Barehill’s ear and closed the door behind them as they trailed
outside. She faced Jon alone, her hands clasped behind her back, chest proud.

  “You should listen to what George says. He’s a visionary.”

  “He’s a lunatic. Your man will be hanged before the year is out.”

  “He’s not my man and I’m not his woman. We are the Freeborn. We believe that no man or woman belongs to another.” Jon was confused; did she declare herself a whore? “What George is doing is important.”

  “Fighting the rich to feed the poor? Then what? After the factories are broken and the prisons emptied?”

  “You could help us.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re brave; I saw that today.”

  He looked at her with pity. He could tell by the way she spoke and held her face that she was not from the streets. A rich man’s pretty daughter had been lost to rebellion and licentiousness. It was a terrible waste, and the law was harsh on wayward women. When she was caught, she would be put to the flame and the cheers of a mob of fools would drown out her screams as her beauty burnt away.

  “Just leave,” he said.

  She stepped up close and whispered, “I know you’re a good man; you saved us for a reason,” then pulled herself against him, her chest flattening against his, and kissed him lightly behind the ear. He was speared like a fish, left gasping for breath. In that instant, he was aware only of the musky smell of her perfume and the feeling of her hands on his back.

  Laila ran to the folding door, turned with a smile, and slipped out into the night.

  Jon’s anger was tinged with shame. What Laila had done was disrespectful to Anna and himself. He would not let himself be drawn into some madman’s schemes like a child tempted with candied ginger, but he could still feel her kiss on his skin.

  He made the sign of the crescent and prayed that Mother Moon would guide his mind to virtue. Then he made himself busy.

  It was bad practice to leave the crate hanging from the sack hoist, dangerous and hard on the pulleys, though the chain could take the weight and more. As he checked the hook and clasp, he heard the door to the mill-house open behind him and turned to see Anna in her nightgown, shielding a candlestick in her hands.

  “What’s the noise, Jon? Who were you talking to?” she muttered drowsily.

  “I got what we needed, but Dan – he’s gone north.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought I heard a woman.” He worried then that the conversation would end in an argument and a flood of tears, no matter what he said.

  “It’s late, flitter-mouse. Just give me a few minutes to finish up, then I’ll come and explain.”

  Anna held out the candle and peered around. “What’s in the box?”

  Jon stepped into the mill-house to block her view and took the candle from her.

  “Something from the docks. It’s part of my plan.”

  She yawned. “Well, at least you didn’t wake the baby. Come to bed and tell me about Dan.”

  “Yes, love,” he replied, amazed to have survived the conversation and kissed her cheerfully. Her body went rigid.

  “That woman I heard below. You stink of her.” She raised a palm to slap him, then her face flooded with tears and her arms dropped.

  “You’ve got the wrong idea,” Jon said, and rubbed his temples tiredly. “You’ve got it all wrong. Just go to bed.” Anna’s face twisted. The baby cried out. She stormed away.

  Jon glowered. He would have to wait for her to fall asleep before he attempted to share the bed. He was too angry to sleep anyway. Trying to keep the family fed and all Anna can think about is other women. Anna only got jealous when she was miserable, and then there was no stopping it. Had she always been this way? He’d had his fun as a lad, but it wasn’t as if she’d been a wallflower before they’d married. He couldn’t remember, and there was no point talking to himself in her stead. He said a quick prayer to He-who-sits-upon-the-mountain for forgiveness, and got back to work.

  He activated the sack hoist and stood atop the crate as it rose through the mill, guided it by hand through the trapdoors. When it reached the stone room, he swung the heavy container into the room and bumped it clumsily to the floor, grabbed a crowbar and attacked the side of the box, violently levering planks away, revelling in the noise of splintering wood. The side of the crate off, he took handfuls of straw and dumped them through the trapdoor. A few well-aimed kicks sent what was left of the crate crashing down the shaft.

  The carousel horse stood exposed. He dragged it from the crate, set it on the floor and wondered how an object that weighed no more than a man could possibly power his mill.

  The horse’s eyes were red-veined quartz, with a lustre that looked almost wet. Its billowing tail and mane were gilded, as was the star on its forehead. Its white enamel body was as smooth as ice and patterned with red and gold ribbons of paint that reminded Jon of snakes or smoke. He blinked and had the eerie sensation that the pattern had moved a fraction. He shut his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them again, the ribbons had rearranged themselves around the animal’s body. It didn’t bear contemplating.

  A brief illustration of how to activate the strange device was tied to its saddle. Jon placed his finger on the horse’s forehead and circled the golden star clockwise. The cap room filled with a soft hum and the horse’s eyes began to glow with a dull amber light. Jon had never really doubted that the horse would work – the oddity of Stanizlav and his lair had been perversely reassuring in that regard. Even so, to feel magic actually operating in his mill was a fearful thrill. He traversed the circumference of the room with comically obvious steps, and although the horse’s eyes did not move, he could feel them following him. Finally back beside the horse, he tapped the star on its forehead once again.

  The carousel horse shuddered, lowered its head and raised a jointless foreleg. It took a step forwards and its wooden hooves clacked onto floorboards with surprising heft. Jon had expected that the horse would float through the air, as was only natural for something magical. He laughed in childish amazement as it began to trace the path that Jon had walked, moving more stiffly than a real animal but with the same thumping gait.

  Running behind it, Jon grabbed its tail and dug his heels into the floorboards. He weighed two and a half hundred pounds, but the horse dragged him as if he were a silk ribbon. He laughed again, this time with joy. It would power his mill with ease. He let go of the horse’s tail and straddled it. He looked ridiculous, a man well over six feet tall riding a toy made for a crippled child. His feet dragged along the ground on either side of him, but the carousel horse did not slow or buckle. Satisfied with his purchase he tapped the gold star on its forehead once again and the beast shuddered to a halt. Jon applied the brake blocks to the mill’s sails. He would probably let them turn in the future, just for show, but their working days were over.

  He returned to the reefing deck to catch a minute of solitude before facing Anna. She would worry about the risk of using magic without a licence, but she knew how few choices they had left. Now that the anger had passed, he pitied her misunderstanding about the perfume. Circumstances had been precarious for so long that he could not blame her for being on edge. He looked at Mother Moon and thanked her for the wisdom. Maybe the gods did listen, sometimes.

  He glimpsed a flash of light, a hand lanthorn swinging gently in the street below. Its bearer was walking purposefully towards the front door of the mill-house. Jon was halfway down the stairs when the hammering began on the front door.

  “Daniel?” Jon called out and flung the door open.

  Peacock Matthew stood on the threshold flanked by his shark-eyed thugs. They had pickaxe handles in their hands.

  “Hello, Jon. I thought I’d drop by and see how you were getting on.”

  “It’s not a good time.”

  “Never is for you, is it?” Matthew stepped past Jon and sat in his chair by the fire. The Shar
ks took position on either side.

  “You know this town has turned into a right shithole since we were kids,” Peacock declared. “This afternoon, one of Gordon’s patrols caught a young lad scratching slogans into the wall of All-Gods.” Peacock mimed a knife stabbing into the temple’s stone. “Smash the rich, smash the machines, smash this and smash that. Not very witty. Turns out it was one of Barehill’s mob. Must have come up from Lundenwic.”

  “What did they do to him?” Jon asked.

  “Took him to the bridge, beat him. One of my lads fucked him with a stick before they threw him over the side. Made sure everyone got a good look. I don’t think we’ll be seeing any more troublemakers for a while.”

  Peacock’s thugs laughed meanly.

  “You’re in a talkative mood tonight.”

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about. Care to bring me up to date about your brother? I’ve been hearing stories.”

  “Then you know as much as I do. When I heard you knocking, I thought it was him.”

  “Well, it wasn’t him, was it? If it had been, he’d be of no use to me anyhow, seeing as how the boy marvel failed his grading. Family of losers, you Miller boys are. Lose, lose, lose...” The Peacock conducted the brief melody with his fingers. “I’ve no idea what Anna saw in you. You were handy at sports, mind.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Jon asked, staring at the floor.

  “Suggest? I suggest that you are in the shit. I suggest that you pay me two thousand notes to put this right.”

  Two thousand pounds. Jon had never seen that much money in his life. In a good year, when there were good years, the mill had made less than three hundred.

  “I’ll give the horse back,” Jon said, his heart sinking. “I’ll get it ready.”

  “No you fucking won’t. Stanizlav doesn’t take returns. I don’t take returns. That wasn’t the deal. The deal was for Daniel, but I’ll take two thousand. I’m giving you the chance to pay me back. You should be grateful.” Peacock Matthew grinned as if he was retelling the best joke he had ever heard. So did his men.