The wickwire watch, p.32
The Wickwire Watch, page 32
“The Spektors have been around for two thousand years,” she replied. “I am not sure anyone can say anything absolute about such creatures unless they had been there from the beginning. For all we know, they are stirring up new evils all the time that we have not yet heard of.”
Drystan glanced down at the billiards table with a troubled frown. “That is a logical conclusion. Terrifying, but logical.”
Pallaton rounded the table and studied the trajectory of his next shot. “Well . . . despite my perfectly reasonable doubts, I do hope you’re right about all this. Nine years is far too long to be chasing anything without regular success.”
Drystan nodded. “I wonder how the Mourning Processions were received. That was six days ago. There should be some word of the results by now.”
“Fortunately, Mr. Spindler has answered this as well,” Seherene replied. “He was in Burgess Valley six days ago and witnessed a procession first-hand. Apparently it was done to great effect. He says he never saw so many people so quickly roused to grief and anger all at once. There were eight new recruits to the Colonist-hunters’ ranks. Daily prayer gatherings specifically for the cause were established in the local temple. And the warrant list now hangs in at least one window in every house across town.”
“Fine sentiments,” Pallaton said. “I only wonder how long they will last.”
“Perhaps we ought to go and see for ourselves,” Drystan replied. “It’s only been a few days since we sailed past Burgess Valley. By the time we return to it, we might be able to get a good sense of the effect’s longevity. Decide if it is an approach worth continuing.”
“No objections from me,” Seherene said. “But I’m afraid you may have a difficult time convincing our friend Pallaton. Every moment east of the Lockhorns is a torment for him.”
And of course, she would not say how very eager she was for any opportunity to delay their return to Ciras.
“I do not deny it,” Pallaton said with a sigh. “But I have also been in the legal profession long enough to know that there is a time to fight and a time to bite one’s tongue—most especially whenever outnumbered.”
“Speaking of the legal profession,” Drystan said, “did you ever consider the field yourself, Lady Seherene? You held your own very well against us just now. I think I should like to see you making a case in the inner ring of a court some time.”
She laughed. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’d much rather go the way of the pirate queen before then. Honestly, if it were up to me, I would have a profession as far away from law and judicial matters as humanly possible.”
“What?” Pallaton said with a teasing scoff. “Are you trying to tell us that your highly-honored position with all its great power and influence, all its boundless glory and distinction, is entrusted to you against your will? Now that I could never believe.”
She maintained her smile until he glanced away, then let it fade until all that remained was a half-hearted expression of geniality, signaling her unwillingness to continue the subject. Fortunately, she was soon aided by the entrance of another attendant who had come with his hourly offering of drinks and sandwiches.
“Ah, perfect timing,” Drystan said to him. “Would you fetch your captain to come and speak with us? We require a change of course as soon as possible.”
The attendant acknowledged this and offered a small bow before retreating to fulfill the request.
As Pallaton and Drystan once again gave their full attentions to the game, Seherene returned to her letters. She had been relieved by Mr. Stone’s, heartened by Mr. Spindler’s, but disconcerted by the third. She would not share it with the others, not least of all because it would likely prove to be a conspicuous flaw in her defense of the Cassrians.
The letter was from Deputy Commissioner Frederick Coram. Most of it consisted of cordial pleasantries and flattering encouragements of her continued success. At its conclusion, however, were two small lines which gave the message its only real worth.
As to the woman who begged your assistance on the steps of the Great Hall, I can now give you complete assurance that her claims of having no trial were entirely false and that her guilt over aiding the Colonists was confirmed in a fair and legal hearing. She serves a thirty-year sentence.
Reading it a second time, Seherene felt her sense of disconcertion turn to anxiety. She had seen no lie in the desperate woman’s eyes. Heard nothing of it in her voice. But in Coram’s letter—though they were many miles apart and she could not reasonably assert her suspicion—there was an air of falsehood. It was nothing very specific, and certainly nothing she could make either one of her lawyerly colleagues see or support her by. It was only a feeling. A vague hunch. But one so persistent that she hoped—with all her might—that she was terribly, terribly wrong.
Chapter 32
Margaret’s House
The good citizens of Burgess Valley were not as disgruntled as the Colonists had expected to find them. The Mourning Procession had laid a heavy air of grim sobriety over the town, and finding they’d been robbed in the self-same hour did nothing to ease that ill-feeling. But their collective outrage died away almost as soon as it had begun. No one could help but be pleased by the gifts left at their back doors, and many declared that the crates of high-quality wine far outweighed the value of the stolen goods. The pub owner in particular was thrilled to receive his generous share at the cost of only a few bags of coal. The chief constable even declared the crime spree to be nothing more than a “well-orchestrated act of mischief”, though many attributed this leniency to the half-dozen crates left at the station house.
By now, everyone had made the connection between the robberies and the smooth-talking showman who’d passed out ‘free samples’ with his opera-singing assistants. But no one in their wildest dreams suspected the Colonists were to blame. Not in their town. Not when arrest warrants were now hanging on every lamp post and in every window. Not when sketches of the poor kidnapped orphan graced the front page of every newspaper. They had even gone so far as to hang a huge banner over the main road that read BRING ANTHONY HOME.
“Well,” Simon said, pulling his cap lower over his eyes, “whatever we might think of the Entrians’ new strategy, it was certainly an effective one.”
They were back in disguise, this time dressed to look like common workmen searching for jobs in town. Ink, Simon, and Caradoc retained the false names from their last visit, and Abner and Evering had become Walter Fleck and Charlie Watkins—the latter of whom finally bore a full beard on his face with the aid of an adhesive. They carried three lanterns among them, hidden inside knapsacks.
After receiving directions to the boarding house, they started down a street which led them out of the main part of town and toward a collection of smaller houses set apart by swaths of pasture. The workday was fast coming to an end. Farmers brought in their cattle from the fields. Children were called in to supper. Sheds were locked and barns latched. It was time to rest. Time to put aside all worries for another day.
If only the same could have been true for the Colonists. They were nervous wrecks, each busy imagining all the terrible and frightening things that could go wrong during the impending expulsion. Abner kept mopping his forehead with his handkerchief. Simon was rigid with tension, his eyes constantly darting around for signs of trouble. Evering was even paler than usual and walked with his eyes fixed on the ground, clenching his hands inside his jacket pockets. Ink kept adjusting his fake spectacles and fidgeting with his cap. After seeing his name on the kidnapping notice, he hadn’t hesitated to don a complete disguise this time. He even allowed himself to suffer the indignity of wearing a wig, though the curly locks kept falling into his eyes. At least it distracted him from the rising collective fear.
Well . . . nearly collective.
“Oh, look at this!” Caradoc said, bounding back to them from the side of the road with a small pink flower in his hand. “These are called Stag’s Heart. They’re the only wildflowers in this part of the country to survive all year round. Even under a foot of snow. Amazing little things.”
He’d been like this all day, pointing out minute details in nature with great delight, complimenting a flower seller on her hat, even rejoicing in the lowered prices of cotton in the business section of the paper. He whistled snatches of merry tunes as they walked along and tipped his cap with a friendly smile to anyone who looked their way. The others couldn’t comprehend how a man who would soon risk death at the hands of a Spektor could be in such high spirits. Yet here he was, marveling at the wonder of a tiny pink blossom.
“We should try to grow some in the village,” he said, putting the flower into his waistcoat pocket. “We’ll have to pick up a few seeds the next time we go for supplies.”
“What—by all that is holy—is going on with you?” Simon said, unable to bear it any longer. “Yesterday you were acting as though you wouldn’t live to see another sunrise. Now you’re behaving like we’re on the way to a garden party. You’re not cracking up, are you?”
“It’s that neckerchief he’s wearing,” Abner said. “Cutting off the blood to his brain.”
“Aren’t you nervous at all?” Evering asked.
“What’s there to be nervous about when you’re all here with me?” Caradoc answered with a grin, putting his arms around Simon and Evering.
“Oh, no,” Simon said with an expression of dread. “Please, please tell me you didn’t decide to do this drunk.”
Caradoc laughed and took his arms down from their shoulders. “Not this time.”
Ink shook his head and hit Simon in the arm. “Forget the lunatic for now. Have you got the password down? You remember what you’re to say? And what answers to wait for?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“Best go over it again now,” Abner said. “Just to be sure.”
Simon nodded. “All right. When we get in, I’m to say, ‘I understand you’re in need of a house carpenter’. Then, if we make it past the first test of scrutiny, we’re presented to the owner of the place. The widow. What’s her name?”
“Margaret,” Ink said, pushing the wig out of his eyes again.
“Margaret. Right. Then she’ll say, ‘Well met. It’s been a long time since I last saw you.’ Then I say, ‘Well met, ma’am. Uh . . . I’ve been at sea, on errand to’ . . . where was it?”
“King’s Island.”
“King’s Island . . . where I might have stayed . . . but . . .” He narrowed his eyes and twisted his mouth. “Oh, what’s the rest?”
“But I missed my loved ones too much,” Ink finished.
Simon nodded. “Yes. I missed my loved ones too much.”
“How sweet,” Caradoc said.
Simon ignored him. “Then she’s to say, ‘It’s good to have you back again.’ And then she lets us through to the gambling room.”
“And remember,” Ink said, “if she changes that last line, it either means you screwed the whole thing up too horribly, or it’s not safe to go in.”
“Right.”
“And another thing. The exact order of words ain’t important. Just key phrases and meanings. Like that ‘well met’ bit at the beginning.”
“Blimey, Ink,” Evering said, “you could give lectures on password strategy.”
Ink tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Who says I haven’t?”
The shadows reached out over the fields as they continued down the lane. Hearths and lanterns blazed to life inside parlors and dining rooms, and still they hadn’t seen the house. It had been described as a two-story residence, painted white, with a sign at the front gate. But as time wore on they began to wonder if they hadn’t misheard the directions.
A little while later they passed by an old man sitting outside his front door, smoking a pipe. He nodded to them and called out. “You boys looking for Margaret’s place?”
“We are,” Abner called back.
“Almost there,” the man answered. “Another six houses down. On your right. Just be sure to head for home before your pockets run dry.”
As they continued down the road, the feelings of nervous anxiety began to build again.
“Ink,” Simon said, “what else did that man at the pub say about this Margaret person? What else do you know about her?”
Ink shrugged. “Just that she’s an old widow, and that when boarders weren’t bringing in enough money to pay her debts, she turned to the gambling business.”
“If we lived in a decent world, they’d cancel widows’ debts,” Abner said. “Shame she had nowhere else to turn. Shame the banks wouldn’t help her. And what if she gets caught, the poor woman?”
“Doesn’t seem like much of a secret,” Caradoc said, glancing back at the man on the porch.
“And did you see the look that woman gave us when we asked for directions back in town?” Evering said. “Practically turned her nose up at the mention of the place.”
“Yes, well it’s all too easy for the so-called ‘good folk’ to judge,” Abner answered. “Especially the ones who’ve never been close to losing everything they’ve got.”
In another minute, the house came into view. They stopped in front of the fence, noting the sign posted on the gate:
Margaret’s Boarding House
Rooms to Let
Simon looked at Caradoc, who was staring at the house with a thoughtful expression.
“Anything?” he asked.
Caradoc nodded. “Oh, yes.”
An air of dread fell over them all.
“I can’t tell how many,” he continued, “but the anchor’s been set here at least a year. Maybe longer.”
He pushed through the gate and started towards the house. The others began to follow, but froze the moment they set foot past the fence line. The world had gone silent. There were no crickets chirping in the tall grass. No night birds making calls from their roosts. No wind through the trees. It was as though a heavy blanket had suddenly settled over everything, muffling all sounds of life. They were used to this kind of quiet on Riverfall, but down here, it was outright disturbing. They started forward again with cautious steps. Evering’s hands shook so badly the lantern rattled inside his knapsack.
“Damn,” he said. “I was hoping there’d be nothing to find here.”
Ink glanced back at him. “But you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“With free-rein Spektors, yes. Those that go where they please when they please. Expulsions are like . . . hunting a lion. If it’s out in the open, you can run and hide if it comes after you. You can keep watch on it from a distance. But this . . . this is like going after a lion in its own den. That’s an entirely different game altogether.”
Ink felt his mouth go dry. Why did he have to keep asking questions?
“What if she recognizes you by your hand?” Abner asked Caradoc as they neared the front door. “It’s described in all the warrants.”
“We’ll just have to risk it on the fact that most people don’t usually read the fine print. Especially a widow who’s got more pressing matters to worry about. You ready, Simon?”
“As ready as I can be.”
Caradoc stepped onto the porch and turned back to them. “The rest of you keep watch here. Space yourselves out so you can see anyone approaching from any direction. And try to look casual, at least until we’ve got the house clear. Don’t light your lanterns ‘til then, either.”
“Don’t worry about us. We’ve got it handled,” Abner said. “Just make sure the two of you come out again in one piece.”
“Ink,” Caradoc said, “the Spektors here are fixed on the people inside the house. As long as you don’t draw attention to yourself, they won’t know you’re here. Stay near the others, but if anything goes wrong, you yell for us. Scream your bloody lungs out. Understand?”
Ink felt like curling up into a ball and hiding, much as he’d done in the rundown shack near Edgely Hill. But this time, he swallowed past his fear and nodded. Caradoc stepped up to the front door and put a hand on the knob.
Suddenly, what little daylight remained went dim, as though a veil had been drawn over the sun. A vibration went through the air like an electric shock, pricking up the hair on the backs of their necks. The air became so thick and heavy it was harder to breathe. The foundations creaked and shuddered as a slow, deep groan issued from the house.
“Well,” Caradoc said, raising an eyebrow, “someone knows I’m here.”
The next moment, the world went back to normal. The air lightened. The dark shadow passed away from the sun. Everyone could breathe again. Ink’s heart raced in fear, and he wondered how fast he could run back to the Drifter.
“Oh, look!” Caradoc said as he pushed through the front door. “She’s got Stag’s Heart growing around the house here. Isn’t that lovely?”
“I feel safer already,” Ink muttered.
Once inside, Simon and Caradoc found themselves in a quaint, well-kept place full of decorative touches which lent an air of easy familiarity. Simon felt as though he’d just set foot in his old family home again and half-expected to see his mother come rushing towards him from around the corner. They stood at the front of a long hall set with doors on either side. A tidy little parlor room was visible through an open door on the left. To their right, a small desk sat near the foot of a staircase. They stepped forward, removing their hats.
“Hello?” Simon called out.
A girl emerged from one of the doors farther down the hall. She approached them with her hands folded in front of her.
“Good evening, gentlemen. How may I help you?”
Simon cleared his throat, his mouth twitching up into an uneasy smile. The test had begun. He worked to control his nerves, determined not to make a mess of it.
“Will you be wanting a room?” the girl asked when he did not answer right away.
