Ambergate (27 page)

The Protector’s eyes glinted. “We shall have it in the Cathedral, Mather, where else? The Amber Gate crypt must be on show—that’s
the whole point. The guests must see the ceiling.”

“Clearing the remains of the blockage and work on the steps may well take another couple of months, My Lord.”

“I scarcely think we’ll be prepared for such a great occasion in
under
two months, man!” The Protector sipped his brandy and licked his lips. “The Cathedral façade must be cleaned, new doors fitted
at the West entrance. No one must be able to get in—or out—until the service is over.”

“You refer to Miss Leah?”

“Particularly Leah. I don’t want her doin’ a last-minute flit. But it’s also the rebels I’m thinkin’ about—keepin’ ‘em out,
providin’ proper security for our guests.”

Mather cleared his throat. “Speaking of guests, Sir, how do you think the Ministration will take this betrothal?”

“No need to be delicate, Mather. You saw their faces. But they’ll accept it, they’ll have no choice. I shall quash any quibbles
personally. Besides, once they hear about the prophecy, they’ll see which side their bread is buttered. They’ll be imprisoned
for treachery if they don’t.”

Mather plucked at his papers. “The weather is growing warmer, Sir. If we have a heat wave again this summer, the Miasma will
rise over the Gravendyke and the canals of the Capital, and we’ll have plague stalking our streets.”

Porter Grouted shrugged. “So? We’ll be in covered carriages, we’ll not catch it ourselves.”

“The foreign dignitaries will keep away.”

“Let ’em. Makes your job easier, don’t it?” Chance saw the Protector smile evilly at his right-hand man; his pate glowed in
the sunlight like smooth, tanned hide.

Mather pursed his lips. “It will cost, Sir—shall we be able to raise yet more credit? You need ready money, I fear.”

“Taxes will have to be raised, that’s all,” said the Protector impatiently. “I’ll tell the Treasury fellows at the Council
meetin’ this afternoon. We can’t touch the Amber Gate yet.”

Mather was expert at interrogating tax-dodgers. Chance could not see his face but he knew that his expression would be one
of cold calculation mixed with secret pleasure.

“I believe there is no tax yet on property, Sir. You could investigate that possibility with the Ministration treasury. There
are many dwellings in the Capital, slums or no…”

“An excellent idea, Mather.” The Protector drained the
balloon glass and put it down. “To Council, then. And first of the celebrations, Mather, will be an official prenuptial reception
to introduce my son and his young wife-to-be to the members of the Ministration—a small supper dance, I think.”

He popped a freshening lozenge into his mouth and leapt to his feet, thoroughly invigorated by his discussion. “The Boy Musician
can play his wretched instrument, and that pretty young chit he’s brought in can sing. I’ll get him to compose somethin’ special
for the occasion—what do you say, Mather?”

Chance hurried behind his master and the Lord Protector.
Always hurrying
, he thought to himself resentfully.
Always at someone else’s beck and call—no chance of glory
.

The sunlit courtyard outside the building that housed the Council Chambers was full of activity. Members of the Ministration
in the long black Council robes and white wigs, their hats under their arms, were scurrying across or stood talking in small
groups outside the pillared entrance of the building. When they saw the Lord Protector, they stood aside respectfully for
him to enter.

The Protector paused, and spoke in an undertone to a tall young man standing in the shadow of a pillar. Chance knew who he
was. He was the mysterious, secretive person they called the Messenger; he had spotted him a few times himself, slipping through
the Palace buildings and courtyards.

Grouted’s voice carried easily to Chance’s sharp ears. “You’re givin’ us your latest report, ain’t you, my boy? You’ve already
heard the news, I take it? You wouldn’t be any good at your job if you hadn’t.”

“The engagement between Miss Leah Tunstall and your son?” The Messenger stepped from the shadows and his fair hair caught
the light. “Congratulations, My Lord. You must be very pleased.”

“Oh, I am, my boy, I am.” The Protector winked at Mather. “It will secure the longevity of my line.”

“Indeed, My Lord?” the Messenger said politely.

In great good humor, the Protector tucked his brawny arm in its silken sleeve into the young man’s. “I’ll shortly be makin’
a special announcement to the Ministration, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you first—eh, Mather?”

Heads bent in conversation, the three of them entered the Council Chambers together.

Chance knew he must remain outside with the guards. Sulkily, he kicked at a loose pebble. That was what he wanted—to have
that sort of recognition and esteem. To be like the Messenger, whoever he was. Now that would bring power all right.

“We must rehearse,” Nate said to me. “Let’s amaze them at the supper dance with our music-making!”

He shook his head over my untrained voice. He made me do breathing exercises every day and sing scales before we began rehearsing
the song cycle that he had written himself with much labor and head-scratching. He tried to teach me to read the squiggles
on his sheets of music, but I was a poor scholar. He had to lead me through it himself in his gruff, growling voice and play
the notes for me to copy.

I could understand why he’d never sung in company.

Once, at the end of a long day in the music room, he put his head in his hands. “What’s the matter?” I said anxiously. “Is
it my singing?”

“It’s not you, Scuff,” he muttered. “Never you. I can only strive to write music that is halfway worthy of your voice.”

“What is it, then?” I said, concerned, for it wasn’t like him to be low.

He lifted his head, and his face was bitter, quite unlike the cheerful, enthusiastic boy I thought I knew. “It’s him! He owns
my soul and doesn’t value it!”

I was shocked by his talk of souls. “You mean—the Protector?” I said in a low voice, for I didn’t think our elderly chaperone,
drowsing over her tapestry stitching in the corner of the room, should hear. “But he’s the Lord’s Anointed, isn’t he? The
Lord Protector, Nate—doesn’t he have a right to our souls if anyone does?”

“No one does,” whispered Nate, quick and fierce. “Not any man, least of all him. Haven’t you seen the poverty and misery in
our streets? And that’s surely echoed in the country. I hate him, Scuff, not merely because he has no music in his
heart, but because of what he is. He sent my father, who was Keeper of the Keys, to his death. He ordered him—an elderly man—into
the plague-ridden streets to lock up all the public buildings. He was forced to drive out the homeless sick sheltering inside,
and it broke his heart. Soon afterward, he died of the Miasma himself.”

“I am so sorry, Nate,” I whispered back, appalled. “But why do you work here if you feel this way?”

He dropped his head back into his hands. “The truth is, I’m the most contemptible coward, Scuff!”

“How so?” I was taken aback by his misery.

“If I were brave, I’d leave—escape. Or I’d have confronted the Protector when he ill-treated Miss Leah, his own niece. And
now he’s arranged this marriage for her—to his son who is a deranged animal—and I can do nothing, only compose music in its
honor! There’s terrible irony in that, don’t you think?”

I had a sudden understanding.
He loves her, and he knows it is hopeless
. I touched his hand gently.

“Listen, Nate. If you are a coward, then so am I. You are braver than you think: that is what someone said to me once, and
I say it to you. The time may come when you have to make a brave choice.”

He ran his hand through his curls so that they stuck out wildly. “I’m trapped here, Scuff. There will be no choice. It’s a
livelihood, and, God knows, it’s hard enough to survive in the Capital. I could never find another position where I was allowed
to play music all day”

And play he did, sometimes like someone possessed. Day after day, as the weather grew warmer, we rehearsed in his rooms in
the Palace. Outside, blossom drifted from the trees and tender green shoots curled open. Grass sprouted in the square in the
courtyard, was cut, and grew again. Flowers pricked through the neatly hoed beds and opened out in frills of pink, white,
and yellow. Sometimes ravens would fly down and strut through them, crushing their petals into the earth.

Nate would be cross when I’d wander over to the window. “We’ll never succeed unless you concentrate, Scuff.”

“I’m sorry,” I said meekly. “It’s only that summer’s coming, and I long to be outside.”

“You won’t soon,” he said gloomily, “not when the Miasma comes. This place becomes a fortress then.”

Indeed, the Palace already felt like a fortress to me—reassuringly so. I felt secure, for although I could not get out, nor
could Titus Molde reach me, I’d been given a stuffy bedchamber with a tiny wig closet. It was outside Nate’s apartment, a
maid’s chamber, but Nate had no maid.

I’d been presented with a set of garments more appropriate for my new position than the old red dress I’d arrived in; but
though I wore the fine dresses and undergarments, I didn’t wear the slippers. I kept on my veiled hat and my wide, too-large
boots, and most horribly hot they were.

At night I took the dagger from my boot and slid it under my pillow. Sometimes I’d creep with it into the wig closet and curl
up in the darkness among the moldering wigs on their stands. It made me feel safer—as if I were back in the cellar long ago—but
I still couldn’t sleep for worrying how I’d
ever arrange to be alone with Caleb and fulfill my task. I’d not come across him yet, for he had his own grand set of rooms
next to the Protector’s.

One day when sweat was prickling under my hat and I was trying not to yawn through my singing, there was a knock on the door
of the music room. A guard stuck his head in.

“Miss Leah wishes to attend your rehearsal, Master Nate.”

Nate went white with shock. He nodded curtly.

My heart sank. I tugged the veil down and bent my head as I stood at the music stand; my hands clenched themselves into anxious
balls. But why should Leah recognize me after three years? She would never expect to find the little kitchen maid from Murkmere
here at the Palace. Most important of all, she didn’t know I could sing.

Miss Leah swept in and the chaperone drew out a velvet chair for her to sit on, in the corner of the room.

I looked across at Leah from under my veil. Although her silver-fair hair was dressed with ribbons and shone like glass, her
yellow dress did not suit her pale complexion. She was shockingly thin and looked unhappy; her eyes had dark rings beneath
them as if she could not sleep for weeping. She clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap. Yet I remembered that fierce
gaze, those dark gray eyes that could destroy a strong man in seconds, or so it had seemed to me once. Surely her spirit hadn’t
died?

“Sing something to cheer me,” ordered Miss Leah. She arranged herself in the chair, large feet sticking out from beneath the
taffeta skirts, her back very straight. “That’s what I long for. I am bored, so bored. Give me something merry.
Remind me of happiness. It is possible it still exists, somewhere?”

Nate went pink to the roots of his hair. “Er, the song cycle we’re rehearsing is reasonably merry, Miss Leah.”

“Is it religious?” she demanded.

“Why, yes, it is,” he said eagerly. “It tells of the first great wedding in the celestial skies, between the Robin and the
Wren. ‘All’s Right in the Heavens,’ it’s called.”

She made an impatient movement of her hand. “If it’s the tosh you’ve been asked to compose for the supper dance, then think
again. Give me something that speaks of”—she thought a moment—“of sap rising, earth warming, waters beckoning. You must have
something in your repertoire?”

Nate shook his head, crestfallen. He appealed to me. “Do you know anything that might please Miss Leah?”

I saw her tight face, her desperation. I sensed his wounded pride, his desire to please her above everything. I found myself
nodding.

I began to sing “When the Sweet Curlew Calls O’er the Marshland.”

She relaxed. A tiny smile plucked at her lips. She began to tap one of her large feet.

“I remember that song,” she said, when it was over. “I thought it was only sung on the Eastern Edge. I’d never expected to
hear it in the Capital.” She looked keenly at me. “You have a pretty voice, girl. I might come again.” She smiled graciously
at Nate. “With your permission, Boy Musician? I should like to hear more of your ratha playing too, of course.”

Nate blushed again, and gave a funny little bow.

“Incidentally,” she said to him, as if she had only then remembered it, “I believe my uncle, my dear father-in-law-to-be,
wishes to see you at once to discuss your composition for the supper dance.”

Then she went out, with the chaperone fluttering beside her and the guards leaping to attention. Nate left too, almost running,
in her wake. I breathed a huge sigh of relief; I was alone in the room. I stretched my arms; flexed my fingers; twirled, carefree.

And she was there right beside me at the music stand, noiseless in her slippers, looking down on me, for she was a tall girl.

“Show me your music,” she said sweetly.

I bent my head and passed the music over. My hand holding the sheet of parchment was quivering.

But she had not recognized me. She took the music without another glance at me. “I see I’ve left my wrap on the chair over
there,” she said vaguely. “I should take it back with me. Fetch it for me, would you?” She looked down at the music.

I was glad to leave her. I went across to the chair, picked the wrap up, and brought it back. I made to move away, but she
grasped my wrist.

I gasped and looked at her. With a shock, I saw her eyes were full of tears.

“Scuff? It is you, isn’t it?”