Ambergate (17 page)

Instead, he looked between the statues, at the green lawns of the pleasure parks beyond the Parade, where daffodils were in
flower. He imagined himself taking off his boots and stockings, feeling the grass between his toes. His eye followed the paths
that ran into the shrubberies; he pictured himself wandering between the weeping willows on the edges of the ornamental lakes,
where swans glided on the glittering water and white pavilions rose from little manmade islands.

It was a peaceful scene in the spring sunshine. But that wasn’t surprising. Except for a knot of gardeners in the far distance,
the parks were completely deserted.

The Protector’s people were hard at work, and those that had no employment—the countless homeless, the sick or elderly, the
criminal underbelly—lay low in daylight hours. And away from here, there were plenty of places to hide in the reeking slums
and narrow waterways of the old city. Once, Chance thought, he might have had to do that too—if he had never managed to escape
from the Gallowbrook Home.

Mather was regarding him coldly from the opposite seat.

“You will leave all the talking to me, Chance. Understand?”

Chance nodded.

“I have reported exactly what you said to me: that you saw the kitchen maid from Murkmere in Poorgrass four days ago, being
manhandled onto a barge named
Redwing
, bound for Gravengate. That is correct? You are absolutely sure you saw the brand mark on the girl’s forearm?”

“Yes, Sir,” stammered Chance. “It was full moonlight and her arms were bare and all.”

Mather gave him an odd look. “A good deal to observe from afar, Corporal.”

“I saw the brand real close, Sir,” said Chance earnestly. He had had time to perfect his story. “I went to rescue her, ‘cos
I thought she were a damsel in distress, but these ruffians kept pullin’ her one way and I pulled the other way, and then
I thought they’d turn on me. They had knives, Sir, and I was unarmed, bein’ off-duty and all. Then one of ’em pushed me violent,
and I fell on the quay and they had her on the barge. By the time I’d fetched the Lawman, the barge had sailed. A spritsail
barge, it was, Sir, with a square topsail.”

“So you said. They are two a scathing on the Eastern Edge.”

“Lucky I’d made particular note of its name and destination, Sir.”

“Indeed.” Mather frowned. “And all the time Lieutenant Grouted was too incapacitated by drink to help.”

“Or maybe frightened, Sir,” said Chance, making the most of his story.

“The Protector won’t countenance any defamation of his
dear son,” Mather said sharply. “I’ve reported merely that you saw the girl and recognized her from Murkmere.” He sighed in
exasperation. “How that barge gave the Ports Lawmen the slip, I can’t imagine. Still, it should arrive at Gravengate tomorrow.”

He looked out of the coach window and cracked his bony fingers. “Nearly there.” He glanced back. “And—well spotted, Corporal
Chance.”

“Thanks a lot, Sir,” said Chance modestly. He felt a glow of pleasure flush his cheeks.

At the end of the Parade there was a turning circle, with a vast black statue of the Protector himself standing triumphant
before the gilded wrought-iron gates of his Palace. His eyes—made from the same marble as that set in the Eagle heads—watched
their coach slow and turn. It entered between the gates and came to a stop before one of the many pillared entrances.

Chance followed Mather in, trying to look nonchalant. Mather seemed to know where he was going. As he made his way through
each antechamber, footmen bowed low to him, and Chance noticed the quick flicker of fear in their eyes. The Chief of the Interrogation
branch of the Militia was well known in the Palace.

The mechanical clocks in the Palace were chiming the eleventh hour in mellifluous harmony as Mather and Chance were ushered
into the presence of the most powerful man in the country.

The Lord Protector, Porter Grouted, was seated at a desk in his elegant morning room, wearing a silk dressing gown
over his breeches and sipping a small glass of fortified wine. He was surrounded by papers. Next to him, on a marble pedestal,
a gold bust of the Eagle gleamed dazzlingly in the sunlight from the long windows. Two rows of bewigged courtiers sat bolt
upright on ornate chairs placed a discreet distance away and watched the Protector warily. There was a tense atmosphere in
the long room, but there was nothing unusual in that.

The Protector rose as a footman announced Mather’s arrival. He waved his courtiers away with an irritable, blunt-fingered
hand.

Mather did his obeisance to the Eagle as was proper, then saluted the Protector; Chance copied him clumsily. There was the
sound of hasty shuffling behind them as the courtiers retreated in relief, but Mather did not turn; he kept his eyes on Porter
Grouted.

Though Chance did not dare stare directly at the Lord Protector, he had the impression of a short, bull-like man emanating
a terrible power and energy. The Protector’s bald head gleamed like a round polished stone; his body was stocky, but well-muscled.
The silk dressing gown did nothing to soften him.

“Ah, Mather. You’ve taken your time gettin’ back, haven’t you?” It was a harsh voice, and the displeasure in it sent a chill
through Chance.

“It’s always four days by road, My Lord,” said Mather coolly. It took a brave man to stand up to Porter Grouted, but Mather
had had long experience of dealing with him; the
Lord Protector recognized and respected someone who liked control as much as he did. “We must do something to improve our
roads from the Eastern Edge.”

Grouted snorted. “What, and make things even easier for the rebels? We’ll have ‘em bangin’ on the gates of the Palace before
we know it.”

“I think not, Sir,” said Mather. “They seem in disarray since the death of Robert Fane. My spies tell me they cannot decide
on a new leader. We found little organized resistance against us in the Eastern Edge, and where we did, we dealt with it.”

The Protector gave an unpleasant smile. “I’m sure you did, Mather. I wish I could say the same thing about the rebel movement
here in the Capital. I need you here, man—I shall grant you new powers. That firebrand, Titus Molde, has been stirrin’ things
up since Fane’s death. He could become the next leader. That would be bad, very bad.” He strode to one of the long windows
and inspected his perfectly manicured lawns. “Rumblin’s of rebellion—I sense ‘em all the time, in the secret places of the
city. I’d like to trap Molde like the sewer rat he is.” He sucked at his lower lip.

Mather shifted position. “You have read my report, My Lord?”

“Ah, yes. The girl, Number 102, the real purpose of your trip to that benighted part of the country.” Porter Grouted returned
to his desk and pulled a parchment from the heap. “We certainly don’t want the rebels gettin’ hold of her, since, accordin’
to what you say here”—he tapped the parchment
with a thick forefinger and jerked his head around to stare at Mather—“she didn’t die after all!”

A pulse flickered in Mather’s hard gray cheek. “When we returned to Murkmere the day after our initial search, we discovered
the girl had endeavoured to escape in the old flying machine.” He cleared his throat. “A group of men had frightened her,
according to two footmen.”

Grouted frowned. “A group of men? Your soldiers?”

“No, Sir. We believe they may have been rebels, mustered both from the Capital and the Eastern Edge. I fear Titus Molde was
behind it.”

The Protector’s eyes bulged. “Molde! You mean he was in the area?”

Mather nodded grimly. “For Robert Fane’s funeral, I assume. We were unable to discover anything about the funeral—or, indeed,
Molde’s whereabouts—from the villagers, though we used all the usual methods of interrogation. The footmen themselves were
unable to furnish us with any descriptions of the men. It had been too dark, they said. The fools mistook the rebels for the
Militia!”

“And the girl?”

“At first we believed the flying machine had crashed in the Wasteland and that the girl had died. That is, until she was sighted
in Poorgrass by my Corporal.”

Grouted gave a furious laugh. “All in all, not a lucky trip for you, Mather.”

Mather did not flinch. “I had the Wasteland searched, of course, but it is not an easy area, as you know yourself.”

“Too much damned bog,” muttered Grouted. He pursed his lips and stared at the report; his lips were fat and sensual, and made
a slight sucking sound in the silence. “Well, at least we now know the girl’s bound for the Capital. You’ll give the necessary
orders, Mather? Post men at the city docks? We could even close the Gravengate itself if the barge
Redwing
is seen on approach.” He hit his fist against the parchment and it crumpled to the floor.

“You need have no worries, My Lord,” said Mather calmly. “We will be waiting for the girl, and this time at least we shall
know she is dead.”

“It was my bodyguard here—Corporal Chance—that identified the girl,” said Mather, leaning back in his chair and stretching
out his legs. He had been granted permission to sit down, and the footman had given him a glass of the sweet wine. It had
clearly made him feel in generous mood.

Chance stood behind Mather’s chair and felt his knees quiver as the Protector looked him over with a flick of his almost lidless
eyes. “You’re younger than my son, but you know him, do you?”

“Yes, My Lord.”
All too well
.

“Fine boy, my Caleb,” the Protector said fondly. “Better-looking than his old pa too. He can get a little overexcited from
time to time, but that’s his age. He’ll settle down.” He chuckled to himself, then gave Mather a sharp glance. “He’s doin’
all right, ain’t he—Caleb? Provin’ himself a natural soldier, no doubt?”

“He is—a natural, certainly, My Lord. And he has attended interrogation sessions and shows potential in that area.”

“Good!” The Protector slapped his knee. “Give him a few years and he’ll be Commander in Chief of the Militia. I’ll appoint
him myself if necessary.”

“He may have to quell his fondness for the bottle, Sir,” Mather said drily.

The little eyes went gimlet hard. “What are you sayin’, Mather?”

There was a sudden silence; Chance hardly breathed.

“My boy likes a drink—like his pa,” growled the Protector. “No harm in that. He can hold it too. Understood?”

“Of course, Sir. I was certainly not implying —“

Porter Grouted brushed his words aside impatiently. “Enough. Something important has come up. I need to talk to you alone,
Mather.” He looked at Chance. “You can scarper until you’re needed.”

“Yes, Sir.” Chance stepped back from Mather’s chair.

“Wait a minute, sonny,” said Grouted unexpectedly. “I think we’ll let you have a special treat, since you’re a friend of my
lad’s. Shall we let him see the skin, Mather? I like to show it off—my prized possession.” He grinned to himself. “I take
a look at it each day to remind myself I’ve got it. Now, where’s the key to the room?” He began to thump among the papers
on the desk. “Blasted thing, where is it?”

There was the sound of a scuffle at the double doors. The Lord Protector raised his head and bellowed down the room, “Is that
you, Boy Musician? Eavesdroppin’ again? Get those useless pins of yours down here!”

The guards by the door stepped back in shock as a youth dodged through them and came skidding over the floor to stop just
short of the group by the desk. His wild, curly hair was long, as was the artistic fashion, and he had a stringed ratha tucked
under his arm, like a small, glossy pet.

He looked terrified. Chance couldn’t blame him but he felt some contempt: he was adept at hiding his own fear.

“You wanted me to play, My Lord?”

“You think this is a time for music, sonny?” Grouted gave a snort of derision. “I have a secret matter of state to discuss
with Officer Mather in complete privacy. Take this young soldier off and show him the swanskin. Entertain him for the next
half-hour. Here’s the key to the door. Don’t lose it. If you do”—he paused—“I will kill you personally.”

“What’s your name?” whispered the boy once they had left the morning room. He was still trembling, Chance noticed. He himself
had stopped shaking as soon as they were out of the Protector’s presence.

“Chance,” he said tersely. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“Nathan Kester—Nate,” said the boy. He had an open, eager face. He stuck out his hand in a friendly way and Chance, nonplussed,
found himself shaking it.

He followed Nate Kester through a paneled antechamber and up some steps into a passage lit by burning lamps. Two guards stood
watching them suspiciously from the far end.

“What’s this skin thing, then?” Chance asked Nate.

Nate shifted the ratha under his arm and slowed. He kept his voice low, looking warily at the guards, and moved into the shadows
between the lamps. “It’s a swanskin. Haven’t you heard? We’ve the daughter of the late Master of Murkmere here in the Palace.
It belongs to her.”

“I was there—at Murkmere—myself a few days ago,” Chance said loftily.

“Really?” said Nate. He looked impressed. “On business?”

Chance nodded. “Secret mission.” He paused for the importance of that to register, and then said, “Miss Leah says she’s one
of the avia, doesn’t she? That she’s a swan girl? Did she go crazy while she was wanderin’ the streets?”

“She might not have been wandering the streets,” whispered Nate. “She was found, soaking wet, on the banks of one of the ornamental
lakes. And the swanskin was in her arms.”

Chance shivered in spite of the heat of the oil lamps. “Don’t believe in ‘em, the avia. No one can be half-bird, half-human.
It’s just an old story. What’s goin’ to happen to her, then?”

“The Protector’s waiting for a medical report.”

Chance nodded. “Sick in the head, that’s what she is.”

Nate frowned. “The medical specialists know what they must say if they value their lives. The Protector wants her passed as
sane so he can take her around the country to show what happens to those who think themselves on the same level as the gods.
He says he’s keeping the swanskin so she won’t fly away. I think he’s joking, but I’m not sure.”