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

by A. M. Steiner

  Miranda dangled her quill loosely and stared at the numbers in disbelief. It was the third time she had completed the calculations and she was beginning to worry. Understanding Gahst’s antilogisms and at the same time performing complicated magimatical calculations was a challenge, but she was getting better at it and could see no mistakes. She palmed her eyes.

  She had worked the numbers three times and the result had been the same. The amount of magic that the Cunning had drawn from the Convergence was far greater than the amount that had been created within it. Not just a little greater, many times more. It didn’t make sense. It was madness even to try to calculate such a thing. How could you begin to estimate the amount of magic created by the breaking of a mirror or the hanging of a horseshoe? It was like trying to quantify love.

  Gahst had done it anyway.

  Her mind groped towards a conception of magic as Gahst had described it in their brief meeting; a sea of power that encircled the universe, born from the minds of all thinking beings. Dreams borrowed and shared. The sum of the difference between what was real and what was not. Gahst seemed to believe that this pool contained a life, or lives, of its own, if ‘lives’ was the right word for such things – celestial consciousnesses with a beautiful, terrible power.

  Why did I look for that hand? she thought. Why did I take it?

  So stupid.

  If his numbers made sense, it had to be his assumptions that were wrong. Maybe they were based on old cunning and wild magic, not the modern ways. She started over, reworking the numbers.

  ***

  Miranda’s maidservant pinched out the dwindling candles on her desk, scooped the spent wax out of their flowery holders and replaced them with fresh ones.

  “You should sleep, mistress. At least let me fetch your nightwear.”

  The girl was right. Miranda was exhausted and her attempts to refute Gahst’s work were getting increasingly desperate. His theories were far-fetched but not impossible, and his calculations were starting to feel elegant. Elegant was bad. Elegant meant they might be correct.

  “Have I received any messages? A reply from Mister Sutton?”

  “No, milady.”

  Miranda let her mind drift as the young woman undressed her and gently brushed her hair. What does it mean, if Gahst is right? she wondered. If there is some imbalance or deficit in the magic of the Verge?

  Gahst was an eccentric even by the standards of the Convergence. If anything, his obsessions had discredited the study of magical theory, lessened the analysis of its risks. That was not sensible. The Convergence should be seen to be taking every precaution. As a member of the Convocation, she would have the resources to make a proper investigation, and the power to act on its findings.

  “Have you been working all day, milady?” It was unusual for the maid to speak out of turn, but Miranda needed the distraction and so she let it pass.

  “I haven’t stepped outside my room.”

  “Then you haven’t heard about the arrest.”

  The skin on Miranda’s face prickled with fear. “A demi-master?”

  “It’s supposed to be a secret. When I went to fetch fresh candles, I tried to take the shortcut through the old bakery, but it was guarded, and they wouldn’t let me pass. They weren’t rude though. I got one of the old porters to tell my why.”

  “What?” Miranda snapped, annoyed by the tease.

  “They’re using it as a prison, for Master Bolb.” The maid let his name roll in her mouth like a sweetened truffle.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? They make all the bread in the kitchens now.”

  “Why was Bolb arrested?”

  “I bet that censor Corbin was behind it. I don’t trust him. His eyes are always smiling but he has a cruel walk.”

  Why the silly woman supposed that she might care for her opinion of the prosecutor Miranda could not imagine.

  Bolb had been arrested. It was because of the hand, of course. Because of what she had done. Her fears ran riot. She imagined Corbin questioning her in a dark cell. How did you come to know of the hand? How did you come to find it? What were you doing on the night of the disturbance? She tried to remember exactly what she had said to Gleame, what she had omitted, what could be considered a falsehood. I must get my story straight, she thought. I must talk to Edmund. Confront him. The possibilities of that conversation filled her with dread.

  She would talk to Mother first. Mother always knew what to do.

  ***

  Miranda blew the acrid smoke over the tapestry of her mother with a kiss. She understood the magic now, could see it curling from her mouth to mingle with the woven tresses. The tapestry was old; Mother’s hair had not been that colour for many years, but it was still connected to her by strands infinitely stronger than those which had once graced her head.

  The surface of the tapestry tightened at the touch of the smoke, contracted like skin under a needle. The perfect image of a countryside idyll blurred and reformed into the duchess’s Office of State. The duchess looked serious. To most people she looked serious all of the time, but Miranda could see the smile in the corners of her eyes. She was dressed in a purple and white robe, her wig glamoured with diamonds and onyx studs. Seeing a man later this evening, Miranda reckoned.

  “Your Grace,” she said.

  “You’re dressed like a master,” the duchess observed. Miranda twirled, sending the crimson hem of her dress spinning to her knees.

  “But I am not a master yet.”

  “Gleame tells me that the day draws close.”

  “There are many left to persuade.”

  “You leave nothing to chance.”

  “As you taught me.” Miranda showed her happiest smile.

  “He tells me that no student has achieved mastery in so short a time.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Lavety boy also covets promotion. We need to discuss that.”

  “We do?” Miranda hadn’t thought of Lavety since he had made his threats. Certainly not since finding the hand.

  “Yes. There are things I would like to discuss with you once your promotion is assured. What value it might have if used in the right way, to influence the Lavetys. I have a list...”

  “Mother, there is something I need to ask you.”

  The duchess started at the interruption, but did not bark. “About the Lavetys?”

  “A more important matter.”

  “Really?” she replied sardonically and adjusted her wig. “Well, don’t be shy. There should never be secrets between us.”

  “It is important, complicated. I discovered something terrible.”

  “Oh. That.” The duchess seemed so unconcerned that Miranda would have assumed she had been misheard, if it were not for the fact that the duchess never missed a thing.

  “You know?”

  “That you found the hand of the censor – you of all people. Gleame told me. Truly the gods were at work when you were delivered to my door.”

  Miranda laughed with surprise, but it was a cold laugh.

  “My discovery pleases Your Grace?”

  “It does not please me at all. If I had imagined for one moment that you would be caught up in such a dreadful businesses, I would never have permitted you to travel to the Convergence in the first place. Thank goodness the matter has been resolved.”

  Miranda gave her that look.

  “Am I wrong?” the duchess asked. “Am I missing something?”

  “The hand had a message in it.”

  “Gleame told me that you delivered the hand directly to him,” the duchess said.

  “I did.”

  “Then the matter is resolved.”

  “I understand a great deal about magic now, Mother, the theory and the practice.”

  “Of course you do.” Mother had put on her
expression that signalled the end of a conversation. Miranda shuffled her feet uncomfortably.

  “I think the hand was meant as a warning, about the Convergence.”

  “A warning to whom?” Mother looked deadly serious.

  “I don’t know, but if there is some merit to the warning, shouldn’t I be investigating it for you?”

  “Do you think you know better than Gleame?”

  “Maybe I do,” Miranda said under her breath.

  The duchess’s cheeks reddened, which was her version of rage. “What did you say?”

  “Gleame is a great man, Mother, but I have a different perspective, that of an outsider.” Moreover, I am smarter, she thought, even than him. She looked at her feet to hide her thoughts. It didn’t help.

  “What have you done?”

  “I decoded the message of the hand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I… before I gave the hand to Gleame, I made a copy of the message it carried.”

  “You stupid girl. By the gods, what were you thinking?” The duchess’s face was drawn tight with anger, her voice a hiss. Miranda had never seen Mother like this. It felt like being stabbed. Miranda began to tremble, could not meet the duchess’s gaze. She bit her lip, tried to blink back her unbidden tears.

  “Destroy the papers immediately.”

  “But Mother, I think maybe there might be some truth in them.”

  “I did not ask you what you thought.”

  “I…”

  “I did not bid you to speak. Know your place.” Mother’s fists were clenched, her pearlescent nails digging deep into her palms. “Destroy your scribblings, and do not tell a soul. That is my command.”

  Miranda’s chest bucked and she coughed uncontrollably as she tried to swallow her tears.

  “Hush – be quiet girl,” the duchess said soothingly, her mood changed in an instant. “This is for your own good. You have nothing to fear.”

  Miranda nodded mutely.

  “The censors that Lang sent to the Convergence have caught the traitor behind the plot. They are on the trail of his accomplice. The matter has been resolved. Promise me that you will never mention it again.” Miranda sobbed, ashamed of her weakness, and fought to bring her face back under her control. “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  The duchess put on her best impression of a motherly smile, and Miranda returned the gesture in spite of herself. “Then all is well. You are still my favourite. I will wait for the news of your offer of promotion. When it has been confirmed I would like you to return to Ebarokon, to stay with me for a while. We shall hold a ball to celebrate. You will dazzle my useless courtiers with your cunning and your beauty. Then we will decide what to do next.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Miranda curtsied, turned to leave. Then suddenly she felt dizzy. “Mother. You said there are censors at the Verge.”

  “What of it?”

  “There is only one censor here. Prosecutor Corbin.”

  The duchess laughed, birdlike.

  “A secret for a secret then. There is another: a young man from Bromwich who operates in disguise. Even I don’t know his name. A commoner, but very resourceful, from what I have heard.”

  ***

  Miranda hurried back to her room in a daze, the clattering of her heels distant and dim, lost behind the buzzing in her ears. A dark bubble of self-contempt swelled inside her. Her Grace was right, she thought, I am stupid. Stupid to allow these men of the Verge to humiliate me. To manipulate me. To fuck me. Stupid to talk to her as if we are equals. Why do I insist on calling her Mother? Why does she even allow it?

  Miranda recalled the many times she had called Her Grace ‘Mother’ in front of strangers, and every recollection made her wince with embarrassment. She imagined how they must have laughed behind her back. It was shameful. Miranda was an orphan, street litter. It was not the duchess’s benevolence that had been her salvation, rather her guilty conscience. Miranda’s borrowed life was a penance, not an act of love.

  Then the bubble burst open, flooding every corner of her mind with its black ooze. Miranda became angry. The duchess knows nothing of magic, and I did not choose to be low-born. Why had Her Grace not told Miranda about Edmund? Did she already know that he had fucked her? Had she kept that a secret too? If there were to be an inquisition, how long would it be before the dalliance was known to everyone? How low would her bride price sink then?

  Her humiliation was complete. Did she even want to become a master now? What was the point? She did not need to wait to be summoned back to Ebarokon to be married off to a Lavety, or worse. She would have her servants pack her backs and then hand in her resignation.

  She rocked back her head and screamed at the walls. Ten steps and she had changed her mind about everything. Use your brain, woman. You are the smartest person you have ever met. This pain is just a feeling, a transient thing. It does not matter. You can use it to make something. Think about the now.

  Mother was right about the papers, the writings of the hand. If there was to be an inquisition, she might be investigated. They had to be destroyed. That would be no loss. Miranda already understood what they said; nothing she didn’t know already. That people took power from where they could find it and worried little about the consequences. Magic and money. Politics and families. It was all the same.

  Her whole body lurched and her vision exploded like a golden firework. She fell to one knee and her hand touched the ground. The glow-stones that lit the corridor flared abruptly and a palpitation in the rhythm of the Verge coursed through the stonework into her fingers. She ran to a window and focused her mind, searched the sky for magic. The tendrils that trailed in every direction from the Verge quivered, like fishing lines in fight. She looked at her hands. Tiny motes of magic swarmed around them, like clouds of mist.

  Wild magic.

  What is happening?

  She racked her mind for an explanation, every thought of her life’s problems gone. She ran to the other side of the corridor and looked upon the Verge’s atrium, waited for the sounds of action and panic.

  She heard nothing but wave song and the lonely sound of distant footsteps. She could not be the only one. Others must have noticed. She looked at her hands, and saw that they were shaking violently. What is wrong with me?

  The Kennels

  If any of the old mansions on the outskirts of Turbulence retained their original grandeur, The Kennels was not one of them. From Peacock’s boastful descriptions, Jon had imagined the place to be a palace, but the tall black palings that defended its grounds like a row of pikemen had long surrendered their oily sheen to peel and rust. The yellowing walls beyond were thick with ivy.

  Jon crept to the impenetrable ironwork and peeked over its mossy brick base. The narrow space between the fence and Peacock’s bawdy house was patrolled by beardogs and bloodhounds, the grass tinged bloody by the crimson light from its half-shuttered windows. These things were not intended to appear forbidding. The Kennels admitted any man with the means to enjoy a few hours of immoral entertainment. The security was to stop the merchandise from absconding.

  A pair of doormen, dressed in black – smart for Turbulence – and sporting short truncheons, saluted Peacock’s small party as it passed through The Kennels’ gate. They didn’t even glance at Laila, her tied legs bucking over Big Shark’s shoulder. Jon thought how terrified she must be, and wondered how many other girls had passed through the gates in that way. He sat on his haunches and gathered his courage.

  A pair of dogs approached, sniffing the air and straining at their handlers’ leashes. One scented something, faced in Jon’s direction, growled through bared teeth. Then a moan came from an upstairs window, an obvious fakery of pleasure or pain, and the guard dogs turned and howled in response. The gods are watching closely, he thought. Aiding me. The omen was clear. The omens w
ere everywhere, if you looked for them hard enough.

  He stood tall and approached the doormen. They leaned nonchalantly against the gateposts like town criers on a slow news day. Statues of winged beauties smiled benevolently down upon them from the gateposts. There’s some irony in that, Jon thought. The doormen nodded at him hospitably, but their eyes were like pools of mud.

  “A customer approaches,” one said.

  “How may we be of service?” said the other, looking him up and down.

  “I’m here for a lady.”

  “Right you are, sir. It’s a shilling for admission.”

  “Price of entry,” his colleague drawled.

  “That’s rich.” Jon reached into his purse for the coins. The doorman inspected them quickly, slipped them into his pocket.

  “There are no threepenny uprights at The Kennels, only beauties, all of them fresh.”

  Jon crossed the short gravel path to the mansion’s double door. It was newly painted and hung with the brass face of a winking satyr, a laurel-wreath knocker looped between its teeth. Before he had a chance to use it, the doors swung open. A robust madam, all powder, wig and thrusting bosom, greeted him with a smile as thick and false as her make-up, and ushered him in with a shameless compliment.

  “By what name should I know you?” she asked.

  “Take me to the boss,” he said.

  The smile vanished. She told him to wait and then stepped behind a heavy velvet drape. A young lad in a loose-fitting toga offered Jon a glass of greenish wine to pass the time and he drained it without a thought.

  The interior of The Kennels was a little tidier than its facade. Old wallpaper hung loosely from the walls. Anywhere else in Turbulence, it would have been cut away and sold. The gaudy chandelier that illuminated the expansive lobby was ringed with expensive wax, though the candles at its core were tallow. The few men who dotted the sparse interior were seriously outnumbered by the ladies who were meant to serve them. A gaggle of youngish women in chemises and corsets gossiped in a huddle near the fire. No wonder, Jon thought, they must be cold, dressed only in their small clothes. He made a quick prayer to the Mother for their souls.