“What do ye want to be doin’ with ’im, then?”
“Do with him?” Marten repeated stupidly.
“Ye gonna call the law?”
Before he could speak, another voice answered.
“I think not.”
Marten turned around. Edgar stood in the doorway looking severe. Behind him were four meaty men.
“You see, someone might suspect you of committing the murder,” Edgar explained softly. “There are witnesses who will say they saw you come in, and that you were covered in blood when you left—”
He abruptly flung his arm up, tossing the contents of a crockery jar at Marten. The liquid was thick and sticky and cold. It spattered his face and chest. Marten looked down and saw that it was blood. He raised his head, mouth slack with disbelief.
“What is this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s Master Truehelm’s blood. You came here and attacked him, wanting revenge for beating you so badly.”
“You killed Jordan?” Marten asked in disbelief.
“No, Marten. This is your doing. I may have been the weapon, but you wielded it. You didn’t think I wouldn’t have you watched, did you? Because of you and your obsession with Lucy Trenton, young Captain Truehelm started asking questions in inconvenient places. These matters are too delicate and too important for me to allow anyone to upset them. I told you there would be casualties.” Edgar glanced at Jordan’s body. “He’d be alive now if you hadn’t ignored my advice. And now you must pay a price as well.
“I would prefer not to have to turn you over to the Crown Shields and have you tried for murder. But it will be your choice. You can step up in front of the lord chancellor and explain how you murdered his son, or you can don the iron collar. Your markers have been called, your properties seized, and you have been found in arrears. If you cannot produce the funds owed immediately, then you will be sent to the auction block. I will purchase your contract; you need have no fear of being sent to haul slops on a back-island pig farm. If you behave, I will even allow you to go to sea from time to time.
“But, Marten, understand this. If you step even slightly out of the bounds I set for you, I shall not hesitate to turn you and your bloody clothing over to the Crown Shields. It is your decision. The Bramble or the iron collar.”
“You cocksucking son of a whore,” Marten swore. “I’ll not let you get away with this. Jordan was my friend.”
“And I am your brother. I am trying to help you. Consider your choice well. Do you want to see what becomes of you during the full fury of the Chance storms?”
Marten didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was trapped and he knew it. The Bramble was certain death. Or worse. If he submitted to the collar, he might still find an opportunity to help Lucy. He hung his head, his mouth twisting.
“I’ll do it.” The words caught jaggedly in his throat. He swallowed, the tendons in his neck straining.
Edgar nodded, unsmiling. “Good. We’ll go to Chancery now and you can surrender yourself.”
“What about Baskin?”
“You can keep him. Have him fetch your things. You’ll spend the night in Fargate. I’m sorry for that, but the law requires it. Don’t worry. Serving me won’t be terribly onerous; it may even be an improvement on your standard of living.”
Marten burned with humiliation as he slowly stripped down to his smallclothes and re-dressed himself with clothing that Edgar had brought with him. They were his own, filched from his house. His lips compressed tightly. Not his house anymore. He had nothing. Less than nothing. He dressed quickly, stamping into his boots and buckling on his sword.
“Put those bloody things back in the duffel. I’ll hold them as collateral against your good behavior. Better wash your face. We don’t want to raise suspicion.”
Marten did as told, moving arthritically. Every muscle was coiled tight, but he dared not do anything. When he’d cleaned away the spatters of blood to Edgar’s satisfaction, his brother gestured toward the door.
“Come on, then. No sense wasting time.”
Edgar put a warm hand on Marten’s shoulder and squeezed sympathetically. Marten’s shoulder twitched, but he did not shake him off. He must play this part if he hoped to help Lucy.
“We can’t just leave him here like this,” Marten rasped, looking down at Jordan’s body.
“We must. He’ll be found soon enough. Let us go quickly now. We haven’t much time.”
Edgar’s affable manner grated on Marten like metal filings. But he could do nothing. He nodded, shame turning his blood cold. Bracketed by the four men, Marten followed Edgar down the back stairs, Baskin trailing behind. At the end of the alley, another of Edgar’s men waited with a hack.
The journey to Jabry Inn seemed to take only a few grains. Contrary to its name, it was neither an inn nor a single building. It was a sprawling network that included schools, dormitories, dining rooms, teahouses, law chambers, offices, courtrooms, stationers, and a hostelry. The High Court of Chancery convened here, in an imposing two-story building located at the center of the sprawl. There were also two grassy parks and a formal garden hiding within the expanse known as Jabry Inn. Here was the financial heart of Crosspointe, where laws were made and disputes resolved.
The hack pulled up outside a smaller square building with a domed roof and spires on each corner. The wind had picked up and clouds scudded across the sky. The temperature was dropping, promising more freezing rain, or possibly snow. Edgar left three of the bullyboys outside and led the way up to the bronze doors. Carved in the archivolt were the words LET ALL WHO COME HERE BLESS THE GODS THAT YE MAY SERVE AND BE FORGIVEN OF YOUR DEBTS. Marten swallowed hard and went inside. His legs felt clumsy and numb, and he stumbled over the threshold. Every part of him wanted to turn and run. He forced himself to walk forward, his steps slow and halting.
Inside was a small vestibule with red tiled floors and plaster walls painted with yellow and white stripes and hung with paintings of ships. It contained a desk and a clerk. The woman wore a dark brown robe with belled sleeves over her dress. A pin at her throat showed she was an articled clerk of Chancery law. She looked up as Edgar approached.
“Master Wedling, if you please. He is expecting me. I am Edgar Thorpe.”
“Yes, sir. If you will wait just a moment?”
She stood, tucking her hands into her sleeves, and withdrew. A few moments later she reappeared.
“Master Wedling will see you. If you would step this way.”
They walked down a short hallway and through a bull pen of copyist desks arranged in long lines, down another hallway, and into a spacious office. The walls were entirely covered in bookshelves holding massive leather-bound volumes printed with gilt lettering on the spines. There was a small sitting area with comfortable couches and, at the other end, an ornate desk with brass fittings and several straight-backed chairs opposite it. A balding blond man sat behind the desk. He was examining a document, a book open beside him.
Edgar ordered the two bullyboys to remain in the hallway and motioned Marten inside. Master Wedling stood. He wore the dark green robes of the senior Chancery officials. The cuffs of his sleeves hung nearly to the floor and were embroidered heavily with yellow thread, as were the edges of his robe. A gold chain of office lay along his collar. The pendant was enameled with Cross-pointe’s thirty-two-rayed compass rose in black with a set of sylveth scales inlaid in the center.
“Commissioner Thorpe, I am pleased to see you again. And this is your brother?”
“This is Marten. Is everything in order, Master Wedling? I’m afraid I have a pressing engagement. But I’d like to see my brother settled before I go.”
“Certainly, Commissioner. Please sit. I must read through the documentation and have Captain Thorpe sign. As soon as he does, we can apply the collar and have him taken to his cell. We can publish the announcement in the morning’s Sentinel, and put him on the block by noon on Hurnday.”
“That’s the soonest? I had hoped for to
morrow.”
“Yes, sir. It is the law.”
“Then it will have to do.”
He might as well be a ham that a butcher and a housewife were haggling over. Marten’s gorge rose.
Edgar and the Chancery master sat. Neither suggested that Marten should follow suit and he had no inclination to do so. Instead he stood rigidly as Master Wedling ran down the list of his debts. The list was tediously complete. Edgar had purchased all his markers, from the baker and grocer to the cobbler and the chandler. There was no direct reference to his gambling losses, which were vaguely cataloged as unpaid services.
“Do you agree that this is an accurate and complete inventory of your debts, Captain Thorpe?”
“Yes,” Marten said, his teeth clicking together.
“And can you remit them at this time?”
“No.”
“Very well. You will be sold at auction into indentured service until such a time as you expiate your obligation. Your total monies owed amounts to nine dralions, two Hurn’s eyes, six glyphs, two crescents, and four coppers. The sale of your house and belongings, the value of which Commissioner Thorpe has provided me, reduces the total by seven and a half dralions. The standard contract pays you one and a half Hurn’s eyes per annum, plus room and board, one set of clothing, and one pair of boots per year. You are also entitled to one half day free per sennight, and one dram of grog per sennight. Other expenses that your employer suffers on your behalf will extend the life of this contract, so long as the cost is documented and presented to this office within two years of the calendar year in which they were incurred. The extension of the contract will be calculated according to the going rate for indentured servitude during the year the documented costs are reported.
“Additionally, you will be required to pay the costs of your confinement here and for the auction, as well as for filing the papers. This amounts to…” He scratched some figures on a paper, rubbing one finger down a column of numbers on another page and scratching again. He set his quill aside. “The Chancery costs amount to five crescents and six coppers. This will be added to your total debts, making it one dralion, seven Hurn’s eyes, six glyphs, and eight crescents. At a rate of one and a half Hurn’s eyes per annum, your term of service will be…” He paused again to calculate. “Eleven years and eight months. Does this sound satisfactory to you, Captain Thorpe?”
Marten’s throat worked, but he could say nothing. He could earn the same in a single season at sea. But Edgar wasn’t going to give him the opportunity. Instead he was going to spend nearly twelve years in the collar! He couldn’t do it. He shook his head adamantly.
“Be advised, Captain Thorpe, that you are not required to sign the contract. However, it substantially increases the Chancery costs if you do not. The matter will require secondary interviews and a more extended stay. The delay would at least triple your costs, if not more, adding months to your term of service.”
Marten closed his eyes. He couldn’t do it. And yet—Edgar had his balls in a vise. There was nothing he could do. If he turned recalcitrant now, he’d only hurt himself. His stomach churning, he nodded.
“Very good. Then I will have you sign here. Also, it appears that you have suffered recent injuries. Please document those on this page. Your new employer will pay for reasonable medical expenses incurred while performing any assigned duties. However, he will not be responsible for injuries sustained prior to taking possession of you, nor shall the office of the lord chancellor. These expenses must be borne by you and will add to your service contract.”
Marten’s hand shook as he signed the proffered documents. When he had, Master Wedling went to a wall vault, withdrawing an iron collar. It looked like two half circles hooked together by a hinge. There was a loop on one side, as if to allow a chain to be attached. He set one curve of the cold metal around the back of Marten’s neck. It was all he could do to stand still. The Chancery official pushed the other half of the circle under Marten’s chin until the collar closed. He went rigid, his head feeling swollen and hot. It was hard to breathe. Hard to swallow. He thrust his arms out, snarling.
“Easy, now. It’s a shock at first, but you get used to it. Give me a moment and it will be all over,” Master Wedling said.
Marten forced himself to stand still, every muscle quaking with the effort. Sweat dribbled down his ribs and his cock curled up between his legs.
“By your debts you are bound to serve so that you are not a burden to your family or society. Serve well. Your employer deserves all your skills, your mind, and your talents. Give your best to him and you shall know you are a man,” Master Wedling intoned. And then he muttered something under his breath. Suddenly the collar heated and just as quickly turned icy cold against Marten’s skin.
The Chancery official stepped back. “Done! All right, then, everything’s in order. I’ll send the notice to the paper tonight and on Hurnday at noon, Captain Thorpe will stand at auction.”
“Excellent,” Edgar said, rubbing his hands together. “Then I shall leave my brother in your capable hands. Good night, Marten. I shall see you the day after tomorrow.” He put his arm around Marten, pulling him close and speaking low in his ear so that Master Wedling could not hear. “Take this time to think about your new situation. So long as you behave, I will be a fair master. But impose on my good nature again, and I won’t hesitate to chain you like a dog.”
He put his finger through the metal loop on the iron collar and gave a gentle jerk to reinforce his point. The edges of the collar bit into Marten’s neck and he grunted.
“Think hard, Marten,” Edgar advised, standing back. He glanced at Master Wedling, whose back was turned, obliviously sorting the paperwork at his desk. Edgar’s gaze was bleak as he reached out to grip Marten’s cods, twisting viciously. Marten gasped, his gorge rising and filling his mouth with bile. Gray film clouded the edges of his vision.
“I love you, little brother. But never forget I have your balls in my hand, quite literally. If you so much as think about crossing me again, I’ll lay you out and cut them off myself.”
Chapter 20
It was well past midnight. Lucy sat at Keros’s kitchen table, her leg propped on a chair, waiting for the majicar to return home. She’d slipped on the ice in her frantic flight from Sweet Dreams. Her ankle throbbed heavily, so swollen that she’d been unable to remove her boot. She’d been sitting there for hours, her mind tangled in the memory of the stranger, of his hands on her throat, of the meaty smell of his breath. He was her blackmailer; she was certain of it. It was too coincidental to see him at Sweet Dreams and right now. Had he been on his way to meet Marten? She shivered, feeling time draining away. But she had the contract—could they proceed with their plot without it? Of course they could. The Jutras were in Crosspointe. Whatever the plan was, it was well begun. To hope to stop them, she had to get inside Sweet Dreams. But how?
She was still brooding over the question when Keros wandered in, smelling of ale, smoke, and a faint odor of bloodweed.
“Good night! Why are you still awake?”
“I seem to have hurt myself.” Lucy looked meaningfully at her leg, her mouth bending stiffly around the words.
Keros probed gently with his fingers. She yelped and slapped at him.
“Stop that! And don’t you dare ask if it hurts.”
He shook his head. “At least it’s your ankle this time. Good of you to heed my advice and avoid damaging your hands.”
“Wasn’t it? And I still have stones to pay you with.”
He came and knelt down beside her. “I’m going to have to cut off the boot.”
“You smell like bloodweed.” Her lip curled and she leaned away.
He lifted the front of his shirt and sniffed. “So I do.”
“You don’t smoke it. Your tongue doesn’t show it. I’d have noticed. Unless you’ve just begun. Which would be stupid. How stupid are you?”
“I’m hiding a fugitive who began a majickal fire that’s burne
d a third of Salford Terrace, who illegally hoarded true ciphers, and who has been accused of smuggling and stealing blood oak. And, not to forget the minor details, has been attached by a true cipher and could annihilate me at any moment, even if she didn’t want to, though I think just at the moment she might like it very much. Stupid doesn’t begin to describe what I am. Now hold still.”
He cut away her boot, trying not to jerk her ankle. Lucy wrapped her fingers around the arm of her chair, her knuckles turning white, her body going clammy.
“How are you doing? That cipher isn’t about to start fires in my hair or some such, is it?” Though his tone was cheerful, Keros’s skin was pale, strands of his curly dark hair clinging to the sweat dampening his forehead and cheeks.
Lucy glanced down. The sylveth disks pulsed white and faded to gray. The pulsing continued, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. Her arm tingled, but nothing seemed imminent.
“It’s fine for now.”
“For now,” Keros repeated with a wince. “All right, this next bit is going to hurt some. I can’t help but move your foot as we remove the boot, and I’ve cut it away as far as I can.”
“And you can’t use majick.”
“I’m saving my strength, don’t you know. Besides, the pain might remind you to take better care of yourself. Though you do seem to be something of a masochist. Come on, then, ready?” He spoke lightly, but Lucy could hear the worry beneath.
“Do your worst,” Lucy said, holding her breath.
“That comes later,” he said, and then slid the boot free.
Lucy grunted and squeezed her eyes shut. The throbbing in her ankle turned vicious. She moaned softly.
Keros cut her sock open and peeled it away. Her skin was the color of sun-ripened plums. The majicar stroked his fingers over her swollen flesh, probing gently and muttering.
“It’s probably broken. What did you do?”
“I ran. I fell. I ran some more.”
“You really ought to try to be more careful.”
The Cipher Page 24