Cold Angel Days (Dica Series Book 4)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Prescinda’s hair stood on end as Geran answered, “Oh, and when have you ever been there, my Dear,” only to catch her breath and turn and stare. Falmeard, though, said nothing more.

  As she was about to speak to Geran, Prescinda noticed a faded red flag on the far side of the road. It marked a steep turn down between an old primary school and a long-deserted greengrocers. Seeing that flag made her peer ahead, down the left hand side of the broad avenue, but she could still see no sign of the tree and serpent, certainly no dome.

  “Are we going back to Blisteraising Farm, Geran?” Falmeard asked, but then looked about, startled. “What ... what are you doing here, Prescinda?” Nobody spoke, least of all Geran for her words had caught in the back of her throat.

  Prescinda frowned but then noticed the tree. “Master Drainspoiler?”

  “Aye?”

  “Would you mind stopping for a break soon? I ... I think I could do with stretching my legs.”

  “We’re not that far from Foundering Wall but if thee really can’t wait then I’ll pull in to t’Royal College, it’s only a minute or two away. Be nice to see t’place again. Been a while since I were last there.”

  He explained how the Chancellor had an eye to taking the place on, although Drainspoiler thought it far too large for their current needs. “It were originally meant to serve t’whole o’ Dica, so it’s bloody huge, far bigger than Yuhlm’ll need for a long time yet. They’d end up rattling around t’place like peas in a drum!”

  Prescinda at last saw the yellow serpent and then the green-tinged dome beneath it. When the terraced properties to their left abruptly gave way to a vast paved square, she remembered their last time here and its recuperative effect on Falmeard.

  He himself now laughed, adding, “Thought it was odd when Leadernac pretended he didn’t know the place.”

  The sisters stared at each other, nonplussed, but he said no more. His eyes, though, seemed a little more alive.

  Drainspoiler’s contraption bumped across the gutter, over the pavement and came between the college gateposts. The shaking they’d become accustomed to now gave way to a smoothness lent of age-worn paving slabs.

  “I’ll show thee around if tha’d like?” Drainspoiler said. “Could do wi’ checking up on a few things seeing we’re here.”

  “That would be kind of you,” Prescinda replied and turned to Falmeard to ask, “What was that you said about someone trying to fool you?”

  They came to a halt at the foot of the great sweep of steps, Falmeard having not yet replied, but as they helped him from his seat he blurted out, “Bugatti!” They stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “Bug what?” Drainspoiler asked as he came around to help.

  “Bugatti,” Falmeard repeated. “Although I’m not sure they ever did them in red. Think their colours were more blues and blacks but I could be wrong.” Then he smiled at them all, quite disarmingly.

  34 A Chill Hand

  Like most places in the realm, the Royal College had never been secured, even in its heyday. They therefore simply wandered in through its massive double-doors - the hinges not even creaking. They found themselves in an unbelievably large space at the far side of which the college grounds stretched away, framed by an enormous and seemingly ever-rising window.

  Innumerable panes of ancient, crystal-clear glass spanned more than fifty feet of the furthest end of the nave, its shadows darkened yet more by the window’s contrasting glare. Where Prescinda and Geran now stood - open-mouthed - the cold light of greys and greens and white-streaked blues from the view beyond stained the stagnant air.

  Far up beneath a domed ceiling, perhaps five or six storeys above their heads, sunlight flooded in through hidden windows. It streamed down sumptuously painted walls, its warmth cooling as it mingled with the great window’s own tepid light. It gathered upon an almost liquid marble floor, golden pillars appearing to wick its burnished lustre aloft, returning it to the dome above.

  By such rare circulation, richly depicted scenes of the realm shone out the more from pigment and plaster, an overpowering chaos of colour and shape. Prescinda slowly began to see some semblance of order as she studied the depictions more closely. She saw an entwining motif run through it all, one with a story to tell.

  The base of the walls was thick with dark and earthy hues. Gnarled roots spread their frames about countless elemental things, both manifest and imagined. The grubs and insects she’d expected, but not so the icons of hate, of love and service, of jealousy and envy and joy and wonder - and further, more obscure depictions.

  What meaning had the entwining crystal spheres, the intersecting triangles and squares and plain set circles, the scratched lines that bounced from one to another - twisting and coiling? What meaning held the plethora of undulating serpents and worms, each close-woven about the other? Serpents? Worms? As Prescinda noticed their ochre hue, Drainspoiler called over.

  “I’m not sure Master Falmeard should be left on his own.”

  She tore her gaze away from the walls and saw Falmeard on the first landing of a flight of stairs she’d as yet barely acknowledged, despite their broad and grand climb up those very same walls. She was soon beside him.

  “Falmeard?” but he seemed not to hear. “Where are you going?” Unheeding, he carried on along the landing to the next flight, up which he steadily and silently climbed, Prescinda now close on his heels.

  She followed him past the broad rising boles of ancient trees, their detail painstakingly depicted in pigment on plaster, leaf and lustre on lath and lime-fill. Between their stately march, long-brushed vistas drew her passing gaze to bounty and beauty, to prestige and power and monumental might.

  Only when they’d risen to the canopy did Falmeard slow - high enough here for Nature’s chance to coalesce to a single Certain Power, and life to fly beyond this one true world as gilded birds upon the pastel-painted air.

  Falmeard stopped at last when he came against the highest landing’s balustrade, against its hefty wooden rail. From here he stared out through the upper panes of the window’s great glass rise.

  “Much is strange to me in this your world,” he said, “much that makes no sense at all.” He looked behind himself to where she’d hung back for fear of the height, but soon returned his gaze to the view without.

  There, an avenue hinted at a distant scene despite its aim long overgrown. The ragged swathe it cut across the campus, through the ramshackle rise of a district beyond, still pointed out an exposed cliff.

  “I know you,” he said, lifting the hairs at the nape of Prescinda’s neck. “Know you but not why I do.” He seemed sad for a moment, drawing her nearer despite herself, her eyes to his but his only seeking the distance. “What’s over there?” he asked, a small lift of his brows and nod of his head directing her own gaze.

  “Over where?” Her eyes flicked across the crust of decaying dwellings.

  “Beyond where the sun’s shadow now lifts a star-studded eye from that far cliff. I can hear voices; tales of old, wants and fears, loves and longings, lasting laments. I can see so many bygone ages long filled with hope.”

  “But can you remember who you are?”

  Although he’d not moved, his sparkling eyes now devoured her, drank her in, savoured the sight of her plainly lost look.

  “Oh, I know who I am, my dear, that I know all too well.” He grinned. “I am the bringer of dusk’s own inky choir, a dark choir here to chase aloft dawn’s most pitiful ire.”

  The hand he now placed on her shoulder felt deathly chill, as though in earnest of being carried abroad now that Cold Angel days had truly begun.

  35 Half Hailed Tidings

  “Something’s not right,” Penolith cast back in answer to Nephril’s questioning look as she swept into her chamber. “The pitch in the air’s all wrong, as though it’s wavering.”

  She stopped and absently stared up at the library. “Did we do the right thing, Nephril? Were we right to entrust it all to those sisters, and Drain
spoiler of all people?”

  “He is reliable, Penolith, always has been. I would stake mine own life on him, and he understands our need. He also, more importantly, knows his way around those regions.”

  “Well I don’t like it.”

  “Come on, mine dear, Melkin hast been content with him for many a year now. The Steward be no fool. And anyway, I have known him mine self for decades. Who else could we have got at such short notice, who that would not balk at finishing off the deed, as I suspect he may still have to do?”

  “But they should have got there by now, or almost, so why’s Leiyatel suddenly feeling so out of kilter? Even when Falmeard was here in Galgaverre she never once sounded this strained. I don’t like it, Nephril, I tell you, I don’t. Something’s wrong!”

  “The trouble is we none of us really know what to expect. Nothing can guide our course for this be...”

  A bell rang and Penolith jumped. She looked up at a light. “That’s Layostler. I’d better go. I won’t be long,” and she hurried from the room.

  Nephril rose to stretch his legs but then thought he heard voices.

  When he drew the door open slightly, Layostler’s voice carried to Nephril’s eavesdropping ear. The man was part way through announcing a message from Master Drainspoiler. Indeed, a message intended for Nephril himself. It revealed that Mistress Prescinda had been insistent they stop at the college, and so delaying them.

  “The college?” Nephril wondered. “What in Leiyatel’s name would they want to go there for?” He realised he’d missed what came next, but nearly fell over when Penolith unexpectedly barged in through the door.

  “Nephril? What are you doing... Never mind. Come with me. Layostler’s heard from...”

  “I know. I overheard.” Rubbing his arm, he followed her down the corridor.

  They turned into a reception room containing a couple of sofas and a low table. Layostler, the Guardian’s amanuensis, stood just inside the doorway.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Penolith told him, and Layostler did just that, although he looked uncomfortable. “Don’t worry, Lord Nephril needs to hear this too,” and she too sat down.

  Layostler stared at her, uncertain until Penolith ordered him on. The connection with Drainspoiler had been poor, he explained. “I didn’t want to risk losing him, Ma’am, in the event of calling for you.” He leant forward and placed a piece of paper in her hand, although speaking from memory the words it held.

  “The bossy one wanted a piss so I had to stop at the college, but...”

  “Be that where Drainspoiler had hailed from?” Nephril asked, Layostler affirming it to be so.

  “But,” Layostler continued, “Master Falmeard began behaving oddly, as though his memory was coming back.”

  Both Nephril and Penolith stared at him in silence, expectantly, but Layostler said no more, not until Penolith asked, “And?”

  “Err, and nothing, Ma’am. We lost contact then, and we haven’t been able to re-establish it since.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Only fifteen minutes, Ma’am. I came here as soon as we were sure we’d not get him back.”

  “The college?” Nephril kept repeating to himself, quietly.

  “Was that all then?” Penolith demanded.

  Layostler assured her it was but then looked surprised and added, “Oh, I nearly forgot. As we lost Master Drainspoiler, I heard the Monitors in the next room suddenly yell out. Apparently they’d witnessed Leiyatel’s largest perturbation yet, enough to make even the oldest hands amongst them look as white as sheets.”

  Layostler’s use of allusion worried Penolith the most. So out of character, she thought, and felt a bit sick. The look on Nephril’s face didn’t help, how he appeared so much greyer than usual, as though the pitch of his own weft and weave had wavered.

  36 No Time to Lose

  Not long before Falmeard stepped onto the glassy marble floor at the foot of the stairs, Drainspoiler had emerged from a door beneath, his hands raising clouds of dust as he frantically brushed at his clothes. He didn’t at first notice Falmeard, nor Prescinda coming down behind him, not until they both stood in his way, clearly surprised.

  “Eh?” Drainspoiler queried, blankly, until he looked down at his hands. “Oh. Aye, well, ‘tis a bit filthy down there.”

  “Whatever have you been doing, Master Drainspoiler, and ... and where’s Geran?” Worry crept onto Prescinda’s face. “Where’s she got to?” She darted a look at the shadowy door still ajar behind Drainspoiler.

  “Did you want me, Sis?” Geran called out, stepping through an archway across on the other side of the hall, bringing relief to Prescinda.

  “I’m told you’re likely to be knowledgeable about something that now intrigues me,” Falmeard said to Drainspoiler, somewhat obliquely and cutting the sisters dead, “at least according to this woman.” He indicated Prescinda before asking, “What’s ... what’s beyond the cliff at the far end of the avenue?”

  “What d’ya mean what’s beyond it? Anyway, what sort o’ question’s that?” Drainspoiler’s expression was unusual for a son of Yuhlm, one more expected of those with whom they dealt. He looked wary, but not wary enough.

  Falmeard shot forward, grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him across the floor to the base of the great window, Drainspoiler’s feet hardly touching the floor, his face now almost up against the glass.

  “What of note,” Falmeard levelled in a menacing tone, “occupies a place at or beyond that cliff face - there?” He pointed with his free arm, frost crazing outwards from where his fingertip now touched the glass.

  The sisters drew nearer as Drainspoiler squealed, “There’s nowt but t’carving in t’cliff ... well, not ‘til thee gets much further up, not ‘til t’Towers o’ t’Four Seasons!”

  Falmeard slowly released his grip, sliding his fingers down Drainspoiler’s lapel in way of saying, “Stay there.”

  “Towers of the Four Seasons, eh,” Falmeard repeated, as though to himself, his thoughts clearly welling behind his slowly clouding eyes. “Just what that bastard Leadernac said,” and cruelly mimicked, “I really am looking forward to seeing those towers. I wonder.”

  Drainspoiler had slunk beyond Falmeard’s immediate reach, away to one side, the sisters now close in behind him. Clarity had returned to the windowpane, however, for Falmeard’s finger now stroked absently at his chin.

  “Take me there!” he finally barked at Drainspoiler who jumped and became flustered. “Come on, man,” Falmeard chivvied, “get a move on. You’re the one with the Bugatti, even if it is painted red. Speed me there, NOW!”

  Drainspoiler dashed from the chamber and out through the double doors, Falmeard close on his heels, the sisters not far behind. Prescinda threw out an arm to steady Geran as she stumbled down the steps, delaying them, but by now Drainspoiler had already cranked the Bugatti into life.

  It rocked erratically from side to side - not yet having caught its breath - until Drainspoiler leapt in and pushed a lever. It coughed a great grey cloud of smoke from its rattling vents before the engine rose to a scream, then grated heavily as Drainspoiler connected the wheels.

  Falmeard looked set to jump in but it roared off, leaving him standing; shocked and staring, quietly fuming. Prescinda realised how much when she came by his side.

  She noticed his eyes were now slits through which he watched Drainspoiler arc widely around the square, turning the Bugatti towards the gate. Like a snatched open oven door, Prescinda almost felt the heat of Falmeard’s anger rip past her, reaching out across the flags. More ominously, she heard him take a long, deep breath through his tightly clenched teeth.

  “GO BACK,” Falmeard roared, speckling the air with spittle and venom.

  Prescinda blinked a number of times, but each time the Bugatti remained empty, coasting past the gate towards a straggle of bushes behind which she suspected a wall lay hidden. The Bugatti seemed intent on finding out but for being brought to a rapid halt by the shru
bs.

  Whilst Prescinda could only stare, Falmeard strolled across to the stricken carriage, Geran almost skipping along beside him. Now feeling alone and confused, Prescinda ran to catch up only to find Falmeard already in the driving seat, Geran at the side egging him on. Drainspoiler, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Come on Falmeard, the bushes ain’t that big,” Geran jibed, bobbing back and forth, all the time squinting into the mess made of the shrubbery.

  Prescinda heard Falmeard mumble, “Ah, of course,” and the Bugatti immediately jerked backwards. With a sharp lurch, the contraption, several large branches and a trail of earth and weeds all shot out to sully the flagstones.

  Ignoring the sisters, Falmeard quickly fiddled with the Bugatti’s controls until it lurched forward again. His arms now worked at the wheel to bring it onto a huge circle, back to the gate.

  Realising he intended leaving them behind, Prescinda growled, “You bastard!” but it was Geran who acted. She took off like a whippet, straight towards the gate, outstripping the Bugatti’s wrongly-geared gait and so coming between the gateposts well ahead. With a fast sinking heart and disbelieving eyes, Prescinda watched her stand there - feet apart, hands on hips - as the Bugatti thundered ponderously on towards Geran.

  “Oh, by the Certain Power!” Prescinda screamed. “What in Leiyatel’s name are you doing, Sis?”

  Prescinda had by now found movement, but the air about her legs felt like syrup. She kept shouting, “Move!” at Geran but her sister foolishly stood her ground. Falmeard, however, just stared ahead down the Bugatti’s long engine chest, clearly seeing only some other world as he blindly bore down on Geran.

  37 A Man for All Seasons

  Despite the whole world seeming to have slowed, Prescinda still had problems quite remembering exactly what had happened. One minute she was staring at a resolute and wilful Geran, the next at an expression of profound terror. That expression confronted the thundering might of the Bugatti, now unstoppably mere feet from her sister’s slight frame.