“What do you mean?”
“Indistinct. Matters of no importance.”
“Eventually you might run out of memories you don’t care about.”
That was almost astute, Miranda thought, and felt a tug of melancholy. There was a sadness about forgetting, even forgetting the worst of things. Some of the older entries in her diaries were beginning to read like a stranger’s fiction. On the other hand, maybe that was something else, just the natural consequence of growing up.
“I’m sorry,” Edmund said, seeing her frown. “I didn’t visit to turn your mind to work.” He twisted his hat in his hands. “I plan to walk the bay later this afternoon.”
Miranda thought it a most peculiar thing to bring to her attention. “What of it?”
“I was hoping that you might accompany me, if you’re feeling strong enough.”
Miranda clapped in delight. “I shall bring a bottle of Merret.”
***
Wet shingle crunched under their heels and the taste of salt hung in the air. Edmund had dressed gallantly in doublet and breeches. A russet cloak patterned with tiny slashes hung rakishly from his shoulder and a dress sword swung at his hip, an affectation Miranda usually disliked, but today somehow made her feel safer. Miranda wore a bodice and stomacher over a green gown, superficially rural but heavily embroidered with the most fashionable patterns. A small picnic hamper swayed by her side. They walked arm in arm.
“You won’t be able to enjoy this for much longer,” Edmund said. “There will be no escape from the misery when winter sets in.”
Miranda looked up at the turbulent sky. He had said it archly, but it was true; the North would be grim in winter and Hardknott impassable once it snowed.
“It’s getting easier,” she said, “now that I have staff to keep me company.”
“I cannot believe you reside here happily.”
“I have my books,” she said sharply. “I didn’t travel all the way from Lundenwic to make friends.” Gods’ breath, she thought, must I criticise everything he says? He’s trying to be kind, even if he’s wrong.
She looked out to sea. The Convergence glowered on the horizon. Truth was, its strange presence was a comfort to her. It was becoming home. She thought of her new rooms and decided to invest in a chaise longue, deep quilted and embroidered with roses.
“You don’t understand. You have land and responsibilities. My alternative to this place is a dull husband.”
“You’re a ward of the duchess.”
“Exactly. If I were her son, it would be a different matter entirely. Anyway, it’s more complicated than that. I don’t hate it here. Sometimes I love it. Even the worst of them. Take Talon, for example – he’s a pig, but he has a prodigious mind. His contribution to the efficiency of cunning has been immense.” She bit the inside of her cheek. Must I always bring the conversation back to the serious? In compensation, she gave him a honeyed smile. “Besides, the Verge is not so different to the Royal Orphanage. Here at least my enemies are open in their hatred. Girls can be much crueller.”
“The pillow fights must have been dreadful.”
“That’s all we ever did. Day and night, in our small clothes – or naked. The feathers got everywhere.”
He laughed, a little embarrassed, which served him right. “Tell me truly, what was it like?”
“They wanted us to be perfect. There were rules for everything: how to walk, how to talk, and when and where and to whom. We were taught to think in straight lines, like dogs or small children.”
“Rules aren’t childish; most exist for good reason.”
Now Sutton was being too serious. “Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to be completely free,” she said.
“That is the prerogative of the dead,” he replied.
They walked awhile in silence.
“Is there anyone you miss? From home?” he asked.
“Nobody special.”
“What about the duchess?”
“I love her with all of my heart, but I see far less of her than I would like, excepting the portraits and statues. There are many ward-sisters and she is a busy woman.” Edmund picked up a pebble and threw it skipping across the water, absurdly far into the bay. “Enough about me, Mister Mystery. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you miss someone?”
“My family.”
“You have a family!”
“Not like that. I miss my brother, and his wife. My niece-to-be.”
“All of them? That’s unusual.” He smiled, but from the look on his face, she knew it was true. “You know I just realised, I know next to nothing about you. What about your parents?”
“My father passed to judgement a long time ago. You won’t find him amongst the stars. My mother, I haven’t spoken to in years. There was a sister once.” A spasm of distress crossed his face, and he fell silent. She took his hand.
“Enough of the past. Talking with you is easy Edmund – I’m glad you’re here.” By the gods, now I sound like a besotted maid, she thought, but she did not release him. “I mean, most of the men here treat me like a curiosity, or an imposter. Even the ones who tell me I am a prodigy.”
“You’re different to the others. They can all see your skill.”
“Men rarely see women as equals. What did Merbal say? ‘The glory of the Father burns the eye. The Mother reflects his light in greater beauty. But when the moon obscures the sun all becomes darkness and men are fearful.’”
“Poisonous crocodile bile,” Edmund said. “That’s the only Merbal I can remember. The murder of the twelve godsworn or something.”
“Merbal is delightful.”
“I had a bad teacher, the kind of man who calls a window an embrasure. He seemed to revel in being not understood.”
“Sweet.”
“What?”
“Poisonous crocodile bile is sweet,” she said. Then she decided to be brave. “I meant talking with you sweetens the time.”
He smirked. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be at the Verge.”
Of course, why didn’t I think? He has yet to structure a simple cube, and his parents are passed away. If his brother’s older, he’ll inherit next to nothing. If he’s the elder, he will need to return to his estate before winter. It’s a wonder that he’s here at all. Miranda’s heart sank. “Maybe I could help you with your studies,” she offered anxiously.
Edmund guffawed. My offer has insulted him, Miranda thought, and tried to read his face.
“Then I suppose we should make good use of what time we have,” she said.
Without warning, Edmund scooped her from the ground and sprinted towards the tall grasses in the dunes. Too surprised to feign shock, Miranda squealed in delight as the sand flew.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mister Sutton?” she giggled in his arms. She had never imagined that he would be so bold or impetuous. When they reached the waving marram grass, he spun her by the waist and lowered her gently to the ground. She turned to face him, prepared for a kiss.
Edmund lay beside her, flat on his chest, and peered out through the stems.
“I don’t think he saw us.”
“What?”
“Bolb,” he hissed, as if that were a reason for concern. Miranda rolled flat and parted grass to make an opening. The fat master was wading, out on the shingle. She slid back onto the sand and began to loosen her frock. “Are we breaking a rule? I wasn’t aware the Convergence had any restrictions on romance.”
Edmund was transfixed, and not by her.
“What’s he doing?” he whispered.
She crawled back up the sandbank, wondering what could possibly be so intriguing. Some sand slipped inside her bodice, which was exceedingly annoying. Master Bolb stood in the grey waters, dowsing the surf and sand wi
th a device that looked like a horned lanthorn chained to a pole. Waves lapped around his ankles and each splash sent a faint chiming across the shoreline. She had never seen a man look so forlorn.
“Cockle picking?” Miranda jested. “What’s so interesting about Bolb anyway?”
“He’s looking for something.”
“That’s funny. I never imagined him as the out-of-doors kind.”
She wondered if Edmund’s fascination with Bolb was an evasion. Maybe, under all of that bravado, in the final moment, Edmund Sutton was shy of girls.
She was not as innocent as society demanded that she pretend. She rolled onto her back and tried to pull him down into the dunes. He was too strong for her, held himself above her like a plank, hands pressed hard into the earth, neck arched. He’s paying more attention to Bolb than to me, she thought. It was vaguely insulting. Before she came to the Convergence, she would have feigned outrage and stormed off, terrified of rejection. Not any more.
She wrapped her hands behind his back and felt the power in his body, leaned forward and kissed him. His resistance crumbled. He kissed her in return. She closed her eyes and gently bit his lip, stroked his thick hair, breathing him in. He ran his lips down her neck, butterfly light. Then it stopped.
“What is it?” she asked dreamily.
“Miranda. Will you do something for me?”
“Maybe,” she said, and held her mouth a little open.
“Use your cunning.” She opened her eyes. Sutton’s back was arched again. He was staring intently into the distance. “Use it to see what he’s doing? Please.”
By the gods! She moved reluctantly back to her peephole. Bolb had moved to the shore and was using the pole of his lanthorn to sift through the sand and shingle. Occasionally he drew an arrow or a stranger symbol in the ground.
She became intrigued, despite the annoyance and the steam in her body.
“Your whims are harder to follow than Riven Gahst’s theories,” she said, but the pleading look in Daniel’s eyes was almost as hard to resist as the opportunity to show off. Miranda settled down into the sand and concentrated, prepared a ritual. She spread her palms and focused on the rune-laced fingers of her sable-trimmed gloves, crossed her wrists in front of her eyes, then cast her arms aside as if throwing away the world. The air around her became tense, and Bolb’s magic crisped into view. Gouts of it burst from his lanthorn in short tentacles, twisted and probed the ground around him.
One of the tendrils sensed Miranda. It reared like a spitting cobra and raced across the sand towards her presence. Bolb’s device sought magic, she realised, and broke her spell with a double click of her fingers. The magic retreated as quickly as it had come, but Bolb’s head snapped in her direction.
Sutton buried his face in her neck and covered it in kisses, and she hooted in surprise. Then he was looking at Bolb again.
“He thinks us lovers,” Edmund said.
“He’s more convinced than I am.”
“He’s leaving. What did you see? What was he doing?”
“Edmund Sutton, this is disgraceful. I did not come here to assist you in some strange adventure.” She stared at him defiantly. “You have not earned the right to use me so.” She moved her knees apart, let the silk of her gown slide down the insides of her legs. “Show me.”
Lust flared in his eyes. He placed her arms above her head and took her mouth with his. His lips seared hot and his heart beat hard. She took in the smell of him and the sea air, made a feast of his mouth. He caressed her breasts through her bodice, then lifted one of her black boots by the heel and rolled her skirt carefully down her leg. His hand travelled slowly along the inside of her thigh, touched metal. He paused, eyes wide with surprise.
“Does it bother you?” He shook his head, kissed her deeper. She took him by the hair, grabbing his head roughly with both hands. She felt his tongue between her lips. The sun broke through the clouds as a tingling warmth filled her body. He reached down and her belly tightened like a board. Too soon.
“Lie back, Mister Sutton.” He did as she commanded and she straddled his waist, felt the hardness between his legs. She rocked gently back and forth then settled on him, letting him take her full weight.
There was a fearful crunch. He howled in pain and rolled aside, pitching her into the sand.
“What did I do?” she cried as the floaty lightness fled from her body. Edmund clutched at his back, tears in his eyes. She looked at the ground where he had lain. Something protruded, man-made. She brushed away sand. “A shovel. My poor gallant.” She laughed hysterically, wrapped her arms around him, pressed herself against his back.
“Let me see.” Edmund clutched his side with one hand and brushed away sand with the other. Curiosity replaced the pain in his voice. “It’s not a shovel. It’s a paddle.” He began to dig faster. She watched him work, strong, tireless and completely preoccupied.
“Have we found buried treasure?”
He clawed furiously at the soil, and then used the paddle to dig faster.
“Now this is becoming strange,” Miranda said. She perched on the slope of the dune and straightened her skirt. There was something about watching him work that she liked.
He stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow. “It’s a coracle.”
“What’s so exciting about an abandoned boat?” she asked, slightly disappointed. Then she remembered the bottle of Merret, sealed with its peculiar plug of wood and wax. Twist or pull?
“It’s not been abandoned. Look at the position of the rocks – under the sand. How the oar is laid. It was hidden. Buried.”
He seemed certain. She looked at him curiously. “Playing censor again? I don’t think that’s your strongest suit.”
Edmund flashed her a scowl, hauled the small craft from its hole and emptied the last of the sand from it. He ran his thumb along its thin gunwale, discovered something and stopped. With immaculate timing, Miranda popped the stopper of the bottle sending it flying overhead. A fountain of fizz flowed from the bottle and she mouthed the foam. It was delicious.
“You’re right. It’s just a boat,” Edmund said, but Miranda saw the fire of revelation in his eyes.
“I was hoping for something a little more exciting. Let’s celebrate anyway.” He collapsed beside her. He looked so happy it was impossible to be angry with him. She held out the bottle to him. “Are we going to row back to the Convergence in that thing?”
He took a deep swig from the heavy bottle and kissed her fiercely. “You are my lucky charm, Miranda.”
His mouth tasted sweet. You are an enigma, Mister Sutton, Miranda thought. She laid back and didn’t care at all.
Froth and splinters
The dusty patch of disputed territory in front of All-Gods was normally a place where duels were fought, where lover’s wine and temerarious oil were trafficked openly, and stolen valuables found new owners. It also happened to be the temple where Jon and Anna had got married.
The captain of the patrol jabbed the tip of his crossbow into the small of Jon’s back, pushing him towards it.
A few hundred of Turbulence’s grumbling denizens had been corralled into that dusty space, surrounded by a thin ring of shabby enforcers who wore salvaged breastplates and archaic helmets, scarred by the damage of old wars and adorned with the orange scarves, caps, ribbons and bands of the newly formed Turbulence militia.
The ring of men parted at the captain’s command and the patrol and Jon and Bill were shoved deep into the rabble.
“My coins,” Jon shouted at the backs of the patrol, but they paid him no attention. The ring of enforcers hefted weapons and dared him to try to follow.
Jon looked around. He hated crowds at the best of times, and the shoulders that pressed around him here were tense and hostile, the babble of the strangers angry. No one seemed to know why they were there. Some brawlers from Gordon’s
gang watched from the periphery, and there were curious lookouts from across town, from Wylde’s gang, the Blinders, the Sloggers and the Damned Crew.
More of Peacock’s men stood on a platform freshly erected in the square’s centre. The ensign of the militia – an orange flag, six foot square – flapped proudly above their heads. Whatever was about to happen, the Peacock wanted attention.
For now, there was nothing to do but wait.
Jon looked up at the peeling gilt and broken crenulations of the temple and wondered why the gods had allowed such a magnificent building to fall so far from grace. He remembered Anna making her wedding oaths. The single bronze coin that had been her dowry. Dan pelting them with cinnamon and flour afterwards. The Old Faithful, the wrinkled old women who had been temple girls before the Great Cleansing, sweeping clean the steps and offering blessings for pennies. Today the crones were nowhere to be seen, and the temple’s ochre doors were barred. Jon thanked the gods for his great height and looked for Anna’s shawl in the throng.
Gilbert Gordon, the black heart of all Turbulence business, appeared on stage. He was a small man with a shaved head and hard-to-recall features. Inconsequential-looking. He preferred it that way. He got what he wanted through leverage and deceit. Some of the audience didn’t know who he was. Those who did feared and hated him in equal measure. Gilbert took a place at the rear of the stage and observed.
The Peacock’s men cheered as their louche leader mounted the platform. He was wearing an orange doublet, decorated with second-hand medals and as gaudy as a baboon’s arse. A freshly minted medallion of office lay on the oily skin of his hairless chest. He carried a blunderbuss.
So that’s how he decided to spend my money, Jon thought. He bought himself a toy.
Littleshark trailed behind Peacock, dragging a youth by a chain. The young man was shackled by the neck, gagged with canal rope, his wrists bound behind his back. He stared at the crowd with wild eyes. Big Shark followed. He rolled a barrel of the Bell Jar’s finest onto the platform and tipped it upright. Peacock levelled his blunderbuss and blew its lid off, showering the crowd with froth and splinters.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 26