The sundering hours, p.31
The Sundering Hours, page 31
“I can offer much more than financial aid. The cliffs surrounding this island make it a natural stronghold. Here you may take shelter, make use of my guard force, even my ship if you so desire.”
“And if there’s a war?” Daniel said. “That won’t be enough to stop an army!”
“Especially not one full of Entrian soldiers!” Margaret added.
Seherene stopped pacing, awaiting Blackwood’s answer. He chewed his next bite of cake thoughtfully, his eyebrows drawn together, then raised his eyes to Martin again.
“Mr. Whistler. In your experience, how many people have some sort of debt attributed to their name? Of the general population, I mean.”
“I would say most do. At least seventy percent, if not more.”
“Seventy percent,” Blackwood echoed with a nod. “Here in the East Country, it is even higher. And to your knowledge, Mr. Whistler, are there any banks or established financial institutions in this part of the world?”
Martin’s face darkened. “Not since the Separation Decree.”
“That is correct. There were two Entrian banks up until that time—one in Turesia, the other in Varapalia. When the High Council forced their people west, they were abandoned. This, more than anything else, was the making of my career. I saw an opportunity, a great need to be filled, and I came out here to fill it. As a result, the vast majority of debts in the East Country and its islands are owed to me. Most remain unpaid, of course, such as the times are. But this gives me the prerogative to call in favors any time I wish. Of any sort. At a moment’s notice I can have this island teeming with armed men, tens of thousands of them, and every inch of the coastline surrounded by ships. Along with your skills, my lady, and a few other resources of my own, we can make Northcliff an impregnable stronghold.”
“An army of bandits?” Ink said. “Slavers and pirates and criminals? You really think they’d fight for you?”
Blackwood folded his napkin neatly besides his plate. “Believe me, Mr. Featherfield, there is no man in the East Country who would not rather fight than have his debts called in.”
Daniel frowned. “If a war is truly in our future, better you take that guard force to the mainland. Try to join up with others preparing to fight. We stand to be obliterated unless every willing hand joins together.”
“He’ll do no such thing.”
Martin’s words were spoken with such anger, such utter condemnation, that the entire party’s attention turned to him.
Chapter 21
The Night the World Changed
Martin sat back in his chair, staring across the table with a seething glare. Blackwood did not shy away from his gaze, but lifted his pale chin with an air of amused interest, as though daring the one-armed Colonist to continue. Martin was more than willing to oblige.
“He would never directly involve himself in anything that might put his precious security at risk. Certainly not a war, though he’s probably quite eager for one. War makes crime both more feasible and more lucrative—the smuggling and kidnapping and theft. With all attention turned west, pirates can push into the Northern and Southern seas before anyone realizes it. Bandits and slavers can move further inland. And with both hands in the black market, he must also have the monopoly on weapons, which the Assembly will be desperate to make use of.” Martin’s face began to flush. “I’ll wager men like Mr. Blackwood pray every night for hardship and misfortune. What better way to drive the prey into their webs?”
“Martin,” Chester said in a warning tone. “I think you’ve insulted our host enough—”
“You made such clever use of the Separation,” Martin continued. “And the Great Ruin after that. The Battle of Damiras, too, no doubt, when the Entrians were desperate for any aid that could be sent their way. Isn’t that right, sir?”
Blackwood didn’t answer, but his small smirk of amusement remained. Martin clenched his hand into a fist.
“Fear means profit for our insatiable kind!” he cried. “Chaos and devastation bring reward to the clawed hand quickest to snatch it up!”
Margaret reached a hand towards him. “Martin—”
He pounded his fist on the table. A vein bulged in his neck.
Chester turned to Blackwood. “Please forgive my emotional friend, sir. I’m afraid he tends to become excitable—”
This was interrupted by a sound of pained rage through clenched teeth and breaking glass. Martin had wrenched himself away from the table, clutching at the stump of his left arm and felling a wineglass in the process. Ink, Margaret, and Daniel all jumped to their feet. Seherene rushed back to the table.
“Mr. Whistler?” Daniel said.
“Are you all right?” the Entress asked.
Margaret hurried to the far end of the table and tried to help Martin to his feet. “He’s having a reaction. Some kind of allergy. We still don’t know the cause but the symptoms have become quite severe.”
Martin doubled over in pain and tried to twist out of her reach as he cried again in anguish. “Not here! Not now! Not for him! God!”
Blackwood and Chester rose to their feet. The guards in view of the tea party had snapped to full attention, waiting for the first signal from their master to jump into action. Blackwood glanced at them but made no such sign. Seherene grasped Martin firmly by the arm.
“Come on, Mr. Whistler. Let’s get you inside.”
Ink and Margaret helped to support him as he struggled to keep his feet. His breaths were shallow. Sweat rolled down his face. Halfway to the back door, he suddenly dropped to a knee, reeling and biting back another roar of pain. Daniel hurried forward to help. As he got a closer look at Martin’s face, his own slackened in dismay.
“Bloody hell.”
Ink tugged at his sleeve. “Come on, Martin. You can make it. Just a little farther now. A few steps is all.”
Once he was back on his feet, Margaret glanced at Daniel. “Stay with Captain Ramm. We wouldn’t want him left alone with our host.”
Daniel nodded. By this point, they were practically dragging Martin across the lawn. As they neared the back door, Blackwood signaled to the guards, who promptly opened it for them.
Once inside, Ink led the way to the nearest open room. A guard stood at the window and turned in surprise at their arrival.
“It’s all right. Your boss let us in,” Ink said to him. “Our friend’s taken ill. Give us some space, will you, mate?”
The man frowned and glanced around. A second guard had followed the group into the hall and nodded his approval. Only then was the first persuaded, finally withdrawing and closing the door behind him. No footsteps followed, which meant both remained just outside.
The next moment, Martin wrenched free of their grasp with a curse and fell to his knees, knocking into a table and toppling a silver candelabra. Seherene rushed to help him again but he staggered away with another roar, spewing flecks of saliva.
“Stay away! Just stay away!”
The Entress looked at him in utter shock.
“If you can help,” Ink said, “best do it from a distance.”
“She can’t help!” Martin bellowed. “No one . . . ! No one can ever help!”
He picked up the candelabra and hurled it across the room. It crashed into a metal grate over a large stone hearth. Red and purple veins twisted up his neck and over his jaw. He curled inward and raked his fingers over his face as if to tear his skin away.
Ink felt a lump form in his throat. “Steady on, Martin. It’s gonna be all right.”
“Give him time,” Margaret said. “He can get through it himself, but he doesn’t want us staring at him. We can wait in the next room.”
But before she’d finished speaking, Seherene picked up the hem of her cloak and knelt before the raging man. She lifted a hand towards him, splaying her fingers, then shut her eyes.
Martin’s tormented gasps came hoarse and rasping, as if every breath threatened another cry of pain and rage. Suddenly, he lunged forward and seized the Entress by the arm. Seherene opened her eyes again but didn’t pull away. Ink and Margaret rushed towards them.
“Stay back,” she warned, halting them both.
“Why doesn’t she end it?” Martin said between clenched teeth. “Why doesn’t she bloody end it? What more can she want of me? Hasn’t she . . . hasn’t she taken enough?”
He winced and hung his head but kept hold of her arm. Ink watched closely, ready to jump in at the drop of a hat. Margaret had already pulled the pistol from beneath her cloak. After a deep breath, Seherene laid her free hand gently over Martin’s. He suppressed another cry and turned his head away. Ink thought he saw the air shimmer between them for a moment.
A minute passed. His breathing slowed. The twisting veins began to fade from his face and neck, now thoroughly slicked with sweat. With a final choked cry, he released his hold on her and clutched the stump of his left arm. Slowly, he shifted to one side and sat slumped on the rug. Seherene copied the motion, moving from her knees to a seated position.
They were quiet for a long time. Ink finally convinced himself to stop holding his breath. Margaret replaced the pistol in her belt. Seherene studied Martin’s face.
“Was it only Blackwood who made you so angry?” she asked.
He lifted his arm to wipe his brow, then shook his head, avoiding her gaze.
“Even a man . . .” His voice was hoarse. He paused, shut his eyes, and took another deep breath before continuing. “Even a man like Blackwood can’t build something out of nothing. He, uh . . . he sent letters to the bank—my bank—shortly after the Separation Decree, wanting initial investment funds. Seed money for his new business. It was part of my duties to grant or deny such requests. When it . . . when it came to my desk I saw enough ominous indications to know what sort of man he was. What kind of activities he intended to conduct.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took another deep breath. “I refused. Denied his request. But the letters didn’t stop. And soon enough he began sending representatives to make it clear to me—in no uncertain terms—that denial was not an acceptable answer.”
Seherene frowned. “He threatened your family, didn’t he?”
“And those of my colleagues. At first I put no stock in his threats. Thought them nothing more than empty words. Until I found one of his . . . representatives . . . standing on my own front doorstep as I came home one night.”
Ink exchanged a glance with Margaret, who looked equally disturbed.
“I signed the papers then and there,” Martin continued. “And of course I justified it as best as I could. Tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t amount to anything. That Blackwood would get himself killed by bandits or thrown into prison. And as I never heard his name again, I thought that’s what happened.”
“So he remembered you,” Margaret said. “Remembered how you tried to stop him. That’s why he wanted to see you. Why he only smiled as you got angrier.”
Martin nodded, then put the back of his hand to his mouth.
Seherene shook her head. “I’m sorry we ever came here. I’d hoped Blackwood might be able to help us somehow. Help Isaac at the very least. But it was all an ill wind. And as for signing those papers, Mr. Whistler . . . no one in their right mind would have done any differently than you did. No one.”
Martin rubbed a hand over his face again, then dared a glance at her. His eyes were wet. “I didn’t mean to hurt your arm.”
“You haven’t. Don’t worry about that. Are you still feeling any pain?”
“No. Whatever you did worked fast. Thank you.”
A calming enchantment had done it. Ink had seen it before, used to soothe the frantic chickens on Riverfall. He wondered why she hadn’t first tried to deaden his limbs. Then again, such an act probably would’ve only made things worse. Like blocking all the vents of a boiler ready to burst.
A knock came at the door. Ink, who was standing closest by, hurried over and leaned towards it. “What d’you want?”
A muffled voice answered. “Mr. Blackwood has sent for his physician. He should be arriving soon.”
Martin shook his head. “I don’t want to see a doctor.”
“But maybe it would help,” Ink said. “You ain’t been properly looked at since it started happening. This could be your chance!”
“It’s nothing any doctor can fix. It’s the bloody Mistress.” He scoffed. “All this time, I’ve been thinking she was doing this to me for her own sheer amusement. Now—with her fancying herself some kind of all-powerful judge—I realize it’s my own personal punishment for bowing to Blackwood all those years ago.”
Margaret stepped to the sofa and rested a hand on the back of it. “Does Harriet know?”
“Of course not.”
“I think she should.”
He looked up at her with a new gleam of anger in his eyes. “Why? So I can prove myself an even worse husband than I already have been? An even greater fool and coward?”
“‘Cause she’d want to know,” Ink said, remembering Seherene’s own words to him. “‘Cause she cares about you.”
Martin didn’t reply, but looked thoroughly unconvinced.
Seherene glanced down for a moment, hesitant. “Mr. Whistler . . . does it bother you to hear about the night you lost your arm?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Hear about it? That almost sounds as if you were there.” The curious frown on his face deepened. “You weren’t, were you?”
“No. But I . . . did find Isaac later that night.”
Martin’s frown softened. “Oh, yes?”
She nodded. “I was passing through Sedgewick Glen that day, heading south with a few fellow biologists. We stopped at an inn well after dark, where it happened that Isaac had also been staying. I went to his room as soon as I could break away from the others. I knocked. No one answered. Then I found the door was unlocked.” She turned her gaze to the hearth, her eyes giving way to a distant stare as the memory flooded back. “He was sitting on the floor against the wall. There was blood everywhere—on his shirt, his hands, the rug. I saw he was conscious but in a daze. Naturally I panicked and rushed to him, assuming the worst. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak to me at first. He was . . . utterly shaken. Catatonic, in fact.”
Martin bowed his head again.
“It took a long time for him to tell me what had happened,” Seherene continued. “Of course he’d confronted dozens of Spektors before, and he’d always been well aware of the dangers of bearing the Key. But it wasn’t until he met you that he began to realize it was about so much more. That the true cost would be borne by those with little defense, without armor, possibly without any knowledge of the Spirit World at all. He said he was entirely humbled by you.”
“What? By me?”
“By your faith and courage. Your willingness to lay down all your doubts and defenses in such a perilous situation, and before a complete stranger. He said he couldn’t have done it himself if your places had been exchanged. That you and your wife had a strength to which he could only aspire. He felt everything would be different from then on. That his whole world had changed irrevocably. And if he did nothing more with the rest of his life than stand between Spektors and people like you, then it would be a life well-lived.”
Martin shook his head, awed by the declaration. “I never knew he felt that way. And I certainly never thought he would be so disturbed afterward. He was so confident throughout the expulsion. So self-assured. Of course he kept apologizing for the arm, but I told him it was a small price to pay for keeping my life, and that I would never hold it against him. Perhaps he mistook the tears in my eyes for grief and pain. But it was joy. Pure joy. The Spektor was gone. I was free. That is . . . until these attacks started flaring up.”
She nodded. “It seems there is always some remnant left behind, even when the worst is over. Scars, memories, nightmares. It’s part of their insidious cunning. I’m sorry I can’t be more help to you.”
“If you ask me,” Margaret said, “it’s only a matter of dealing with the source. And just because we haven’t had any luck so far doesn’t mean we stop trying. We’ll find a way, Martin. For you, for Caradoc. For everyone.”
Ink tipped his hat back on his brow. “If anyone one can do it, we can. After all, we’re experts in impossible things by now.”
Martin tried to smile. “I won’t disagree with that.” He looked to the Entress again. “I appreciate what you’ve told me. It means a lot.”
She nodded. After another deep breath, he braced himself against the carpet and attempted to stand. Seherene moved to help him and ensured he stood steady on his feet.
“Well,” he said, tugging down his coat. “I suppose we ought to be getting back.”
“Personally, I wouldn’t mind hiding in here a while longer,” Margaret said. “All this talk about what’s been going on . . . the world falling even deeper into madness . . . it makes me think the fugitive way of life is really the most sensible approach.” She folded her arms with a grim look of disquiet. “War is another darkness that’s supposed to stay in fairy tales and not come true. What kind of person looks into our past and present pains and decides there hasn’t been enough blood shed? It’s unthinkable. And I’m sorry about the Elders, for your sake. That must be a terrible shock.”
These last words were directed at Seherene, whose entire bearing spoke to a heavy heart. Her answer came so quietly Ink almost didn’t hear it.
“It seems we are to take the nightmares all at once. Without respite.”
Another knock came at the door. Ink hurried to open it, revealing a well-dressed man with a curly beard and a large medical bag.
“Clear off, you nosy git!” Ink cried, then shut the door in his face.
Martin bit back a smirk, then picked up the silver candelabra and fixed the grate he had knocked askew. “Well, that probably lost us whatever hiding time we had left.”
“No, no.” Ink went to the nearest window facing the garden and looked out. “They’re still talking out there. Not paying attention to us. We can stay as long as we like. Oh, hang on . . .”
