~ IAN ~
“What do you think?” Chris led the way with a broad smile on his face. “Isn’t it splendid?”
They were there to see the tower of the Lord Constable, newly completed. This was four stories of bespoke architecture, stone-and-wood walls with ornate balustrades and winding windows, roofed with oaken slates and thatching. Master Holden had called it his proudest work yet, and with good reason. It was better by leaps and bounds than the generic tenements surrounding it. Behind it, a huge willow tree stood tall at the heart of a grove of thick vegetation. Further on were the valley’s slopes.
The Lord Constable was there with them. He was pleasant enough, though his face was ratty and his eyes shrewd. A day’s grey stubble coated his chin. By rights, his proper address was still ‘Captain Mannam’. The Lord Constable was just a ceremonial alternative. He walked flanked by two soldiers in the Constabulary’s green and yellow.
Ian had brought only Sergeant Pratley for escort, while Chris had a handful of grimy tough-bods. The Hookbill, also there, had chosen to come unaccompanied. He’d overdone it on the perfume today. Everywhere he went, he left behind an imprint of lavender in the air.
At the base of the tower was a set of shallow marble steps. The steps widened as they reached the top; where the lower few were wide enough for no more than four people to walk abreast, at least a dozen men could be squeezed together at the top. Gleaming metal handrails reflected the sunlight and threatened to burn the hands of any who dared touch them. Ian learned that the hard way.
“Is this really a priority?” The Hookbill sounded less than impressed.
Captain Mannam hurried to the defence of his new position. “The Constabulary is a vital part of a functioning society. How else can we maintain law and order?”
“You don’t need a tower for that.”
“It’s also a gaol,” said Chris. “You’ll notice how we had to climb to the foot of the tower. There are cells beneath our feet—I’m told they are a relative luxury, as cells go.”
“Not to mention secure,” said Captain Mannam. “The gaol’s been carved into the very earth we’re walking on. These cells can keep in anybody.”
Chris nodded. “You’ll be thankful for them when there’s war on. And have no illusions, war will come. “
He sounded so sinister when he said that that Ian yelped involuntarily. “War?”
“This is a colony built to last. Mankind will be here for centuries, millennia. I’m sure there’ll be a war one day, Ian—it’s human nature. Our children’s children will thank us for such a fortress then.”
The Hookbill shook his head. “What good will a fortress do? Have you been in war, Governor? A real war, not slaughter as Tol Manase was. Do you know the difference between a fight in the field and a fight on the tower? When you lose in the field, you can run away. I’ve seen what happens in a fallen fortress. The screams. The cries. The rape of the womenfolk. I wish it on nobody.”
“I’ll be sure to send the women out first,” Mannam laughed. “I would like to see this great enemy you fear rape a woman who’s already dead.”
“There must be some confusion,” said the Hookbill coldly. “I was under the impression I was talking to the Lord Constable. Evidently I was wrong. A man of such stature wouldn’t make tasteless jokes.”
Mannam’s lip twitched. For a second he looked like retorting, but—no doubt thinking better of it—bit his tongue and turned away.
Ian dropped off the pace a little, allowing the others to go on a few steps ahead of him. He was suddenly given over to wondering. What war had Prendergast fought in? The atrocities on Tol Manase were the only thing resembling a war to have struck the Unity in near fifty years. And while Ian had missed the fighting, he knew well the stories. No fortress had ever fallen at Tol Manase. Not on the Unity side, at least.
The look he got from Sergeant Pratley—accompanying him because he had ‘nothing better to do’—suggested he wasn’t the only one confused.
“Forgive me, Governor, but what about bedchambers?” This was one of Captain Mannam’s soldiers speaking, the broken-nosed woman who’d guarded Edmote Wenderwind’s body. She looked lost in an oversized uniform. “The Lord Constable suggested that there would be accommodation on site.”
“It’ll be limited, I’m afraid,” said Chris. “Not that you’d really want to be confined to a single tower for the rest of your working life, day and night—you’re not a princess, after all.”
“I could be,” pouted the soldier. Chris didn’t acknowledge her failure to address him properly. Instead he continued to speak as though she hadn’t interrupted him.
“As for when the bunks will be fit for habitation, one of the Lord Constable’s officers will have to take up the matter with Master Holden. The particulars of the construction are his area.”
The soldier nodded, seemingly satisfied.
“How many people will this place accommodate? Ten? Twenty? Half a dozen?” Captain Mannam asked, but before Chris could answer there was a raucous scuffle from a little way behind them. Ian spun on his heel in time to see a nearby tree shaking violently, and a humiliated figure on the ground beneath it. It was that woman, rubbing her head as she sat in the dust.
Sergeant Pratley was on her in a few seconds. He hoisted her to her feet and frogmarched her to Ian. She almost took a tumble when her legs got tangled beneath her, such was the pace that Pratley made her keep. “Right,” said Ian, as Pratley held the woman before him, “it’s time you did some explaining.”
He was aiming to be severe, but for some bizarre reason she started to giggle, like she was only a child. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. He glanced at Sergeant Pratley, who shrugged.
“Who are you?” When she didn’t look at him, he shook her by the collar. That stopped the giggling. She looked afraid.
“Emily. Emily Farmer. People call me Millie. I’m a seamstress.”
“Well, Millie, you should know that I don’t appreciate being followed around.”
“No, of course not, Master Fitzhenry.”
“How do you know my name?”
She froze. “You just told me, sir.”
Sergeant Pratley pushed her in the back. “No he didn’t. Start being truthful.”
Millie Farmer blushed then. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s embarrassing. You’re something of an idol of mine, Master Fitzhenry—can I call you Ian?”
His face was firm. “What do you think?”
“Sorry, Master Fitzhenry, it’s just... Oh, I wanted to meet you, desperately, but I didn’t know what to say. So I thought if I just followed you around... perhaps if I saw you up close, that would be enough to... to satisfy me.”
Ian had never expected anybody to call him an idol. “How do you know who I am?”
“I saw you at the theatre,” she said. “‘The Tragedy of Tembenel’, at the Dangellar showhouse.”
He did remember seeing Tembenel. It was a favourite of his wife’s, so they always went along when it came to town. But it didn’t come to town very often, and the last tour had passed them by completely because the showhouse was being refurbished. “I haven’t seen Tembenel in—”
“Four years. I know. I was there with my boyfriend. I tripped coming out of the toilets and fell into you—you nearly fell over, Master Fitzhenry—and then I said ‘sorry’ and you said ‘that’s quite alright’, and I just died right then. An actual officer of the Unity fleet, and he’d spoken to me. So I left my boyfriend at the showhouse and I went and joined up the next day, and then they sent me here and I found out you were here, and oh I’ve been watching you ever since.” The more she spoke, the more flustered she seemed to get, and the more flustered she got, the faster she spoke. By the end of her story she was babbling, and it was an effort for him to understand what she was saying.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Slow down, take your time.”
Millie Farmer took a few deep breaths, then started to speak again. “I’ve fucked it, haven’t I? You’re going to tell me to keep away.” Incredibly, she began to sob. “I just really wanted to be worth something to you. I wanted to be your girl.”
He reached forward to pat her shoulder. It felt like a patronising gesture, but she seemed to calm. Chris was still behind him, he knew, and Captain Mannam. They must have heard her. “I have a wife,” he said, loudly, so they’d definitely hear.
“I’d do whatever you liked,” she said, between the weeping. “I’d be quiet. Nobody would ever know I came to you. Not your wife, not nobody.”
She was right about that much. Elise would never know anything he did. And he hadn’t left her in the dead of night just so he could still be beholden to the words he’d said to her when she was still young and pretty. He let Millie Farmer sob into his shoulder, softly rubbing her back. She was young enough. “My man will find you later, and arrange a meeting,” he whispered. “We can talk then. Don’t follow me again, or the arrangement’s off.” Sergeant Pratley marched her away. She went without protest.
When they were gone, a pin could have been heard a mile away. “You have a stalker, Master Fitzhenry,” said Captain Mannam, the first to speak. “I’ll have a man look into it for you.”
“I don’t think that needful, Captain. She’s just an infatuated girl.”
“Master Fitzhenry, I really think—”
“No.” He was firm. Mannam was a Bradshaw stooge at heart. Ian had Sergeant Pratley, and that was all he needed. Even if Millie Farmer turned out to be a threat.
And that hardly seemed likely.
For an hour or two that night, Ian played the role of the barfly. He sat at the Tavern nursing a single flagon of cider, as well as a constant supply of juice in a similar colour, provided surreptitiously by the little blonde piece who worked behind the bar. This was a battle of two opposing goals. He wanted to belong, to blend in—it would be awkward to be the one bloke sitting alone and teetotal in a booze den—but he didn’t want to get drunk.
Chris was due to meet him here, at some point in the afternoon. His wife would be with him. Ian could not be drunk while Caroline was about. He’d tell her things he wished he didn’t have to tell. No doubt he’d be kind enough to fill her in on everything that had happened with Dani at the lake, recount every lust-filled night he’d spent in his adolescent shame, dreaming of that feather-light flame falling on his pillow.
She was with Chris, and happy about it. It was what she’d always wanted. He’d done a lot to give it to her.
Too much.
That face crept back into his thoughts. He’d already banished her once today, as he banished her every day. Dani, you’re not welcome. I won’t face your ghost today.
Sergeant Pratley had waved at him when he entered the Tavern. Pratley was well into his own tankard, drinking with Harry Gorman and a couple of soldiers Ian didn’t know. All wore their uniforms, and proudly so. Even the one with the beer stain down his front seemed oblivious to the fact that his clothes weren’t pristine.
The soldiers had all left a long time ago. Still neither Chris nor Caroline had made an appearance. Where were they?
“Another?” Áine the waitress was there, brandishing a big bottle full of the amber vilsa juice. He shook his head. No, thank-you. She put the bottle down, and gestured towards the wooden cask at the back of the bar, sweet droplets of cider dripping from its tap.
“I’m alright,” said Ian, waving her away. She nodded and moved off to find somebody else to serve. He tipped back his head, thinking to finish what little he had left and then make his exit. As he did, he saw a shadow fall over him, and caught a glimpse of flaming orange. “Caroline.” Hers was a face he’d always known well; the skin might have been stretched a little more thinly over those smiling emerald eyes and that dimpled jaw, but it was the same skin. She was the same woman. It was her he’d searched for in the crowd, as he stood on the altar beside his new bride. He’d not seen her then, nor for a long time since—not until she came with Chris to Ian’s doorstep, to talk of business and the Essegena colony.
It was even longer since they’d been friends.
“Where’s Chris?”
Caroline shook her head, and he saw something tighten behind her eyes. “He isn’t coming,” she said. “He just can’t spare the time.”
Ian wondered if that was true. Had Caroline even seen her husband today? He’d been spending a lot of time engrossed in his work of late, staying in his room in the council chambers until the small hours. Sergeant Marris was always stood guard outside the door, or another soldier in the same russet kepi with the gold-ring-and-dagger marque that denoted Chris’ personal security. According to Sergeant Pratley, some nights the guards never left.
Caroline, at least, had come. Of course she would. She’d said she’d be here, and Caroline’s word was gold.
“Are you getting me a drink?” she said, a smirk on her face. “Or do I have to buy my own?”
He shrugged. “I’ve just told the girl I was done. I can’t go looking indecisive.”
Caroline pulled a face and took a seat beside Ian, leaning across the bar to try and woo the waitress over here.
Why had he wanted to come here today? Why had he sat here waiting for Caroline to show up—and late as well? He should have taken the excuse granted him and gone. This was wrong, all of it. There was a spectre here with him, casting its shadow on Caroline’s cheerful form. It was the spectre of Death, and she was a woman.
“I picked these for Chris. Lily-of-the-valley. They’ve such a darling smell—go on, sniff it!” He could hear every crippling word as though it was being said for the first time, dancing off a light tongue with some sweet melody of innocence. And they did smell delightful. Somehow that ambrosial scent always heralded her arrival.
“We haven’t spoken in a long while.” Caroline brought him back to reality. She had a deep green concoction in her glass, something that looked sickly. It matched her eyes.
Ian kept his own eyes focused on the bar. The wooden countertop was polished, with sticky patches already from unwiped spillages. He forced himself to stay rapt on one such mark. He’d have to look up otherwise. “I looked for you, you know. The day I got married. I wanted to see you.”
“I had other engagements. I didn’t think you’d mind—we were never close.” Caroline clutched tight to her drink.
“We used to be.”
She looked at him. “Why is that? You left Borrowood, and it’s like you forgot about me.”
Ian gritted his teeth. “We weren’t children anymore. None of us were. We were drifting apart even before...”
“Dani.” Caroline whispered her name with a quiet reverence. “That didn’t mean you had to sever ties. Everyone went away, Ian. I was all on my own.”
He hadn’t come here to talk about Dani. “It wasn’t about you, Caroline. That whole town was rotten, you must have seen it. The best of us were taking flight, and anybody who stayed behind was being sucked down.” The shadows filling Borrowood had lengthened when Freya Warlin died, and they’d twisted after Dani. Every little corner, every funny quirk of the architecture, was a mocking testament to the better men who had built this village so far removed from anybody’s dreams. The gargoyles in the churchyard knew his sins, just like they knew everybody else’s. They began to wander at night. Oh, everybody swore it was impossible. Nobody else would ever admit to seeing them. Ian knew they came for him. He could hear them laughing at him outside his window. “If I’d stayed any longer, the place would have killed me.”
“I survived,” said Caroline.
Yes, you did. You, who was so innocent, so naïve, so pure. The shadows couldn’t touch you. Caroline brought colour to the town. She gathered bouquets of flowers for all the graves of all the long-dead. Every week, she’d have a fresh batch. If she’d stuck to the churchyard, the picture of the world might have been a different one. But she hadn’t. She’d picked some flowers to take to Chris, to profess her love for him, and those same flowers had been left behind in Ian’s bedroom after he’d comforted the broken-hearted girl. They wilted in time, just as Caroline had wilted when the man of her dreams turned her down.
“And what about Elise?” Caroline’s hands had migrated to her hips. “If it was so hard for you to face Borrowood again, how did you end up marrying her?”
How had he ended up marrying Elise? He remembered little of their year of courtship. It was a broken leg and a failed love-affair with a feisty redhead from Albentore that had brought Ian back home, discharged from Unity service until the leg had healed. Elise had been a friendly face. Most of all, she’d been there. That was all there was to it, really. They’d fallen into marriage, and the love had come afterward. No wonder they hadn’t lasted. They’d been running on fumes since the start.
“It was different demons that took me to her,” he said.
They sat together a while without saying anything. Caroline drank from her drink, and Ian clutched his empty cup and pretended he was drinking too. What was there to say?
“You said Chris still loves me,” said Caroline, suddenly. “How can you be sure?”
“He says it. And I believe him. I don’t think he knows that he upsets you sometimes. He’d act differently if he realised.” Chris had to love Caroline. Theirs had to be the perfect marriage, forever and ever. Nothing else would go far enough in justifying the things Ian did. He refused to accept that he might have burdened his soul for a short-lived flame.
Caroline was looking at Ian. Really looking at him, like she was trying to bore into his spirit.
“What?”
She placed a knowing hand on his shoulder. “Elise doesn’t know, does she?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You ran.” He opened his mouth to deny it, but Caro shook her head. “You don’t have to justify it to me, Ian. You don’t have to justify anything. We’re friends. We were friends, anyway. That has to count for something, I think.”
Her hand was still on his shoulder, electrifying his whole body. This close, hers was an intoxicating perfume, and it was making him drowsy. He could feel the baser parts of him coming to rise, pressing against their housing. If he closed his eyes... It would only take a second. Chris need never know.
Caroline backed away. “I’ve thought about running, sometimes. When Chris has really got me down.”
“So why haven’t you?”
She drank from her cup. “Where would I run to? My whole life’s on Chris. Without him I’m no-one, with nothing.”
Ian leaned forward. “You could run to me. If you felt you had to get away, I’d be there for you. I’d be the friend you could turn to.”
Caroline laughed, though it was a sad, hollow laugh. “We’re not friends anymore. I wish we were, but we’re not. All we have to talk about is our tragedies.” He screwed tight his eyes, because Caroline was speaking the truth and he didn’t want to hear it. He wouldn’t believe it. “That’s not a friendship, Ian. That’s not anything.”
“How do we get back to where we were?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think we do.”