~ IAN ~
Late last night in the old stone fortress
Where our forebears would die to save us
There I saw, dancing free and careless
Was a girl come wand’ring
The voice of the singer carried far, even amongst the noise of the crowd. The valley had become something of a festival ground, and this feeling had only been enhanced by the morning’s heat. Later on the throng would start up towards the church. For now there was only the fun and song. Chris had called today a holiday, a pause in the work to celebrate the consecration of the church, and the bringing of the Gods to Essegena. And a day to forget about the tragedy of the hospital.
They were still locked up, the doctors. Master Stockton, having recently passed the lockdown, had reported a macabre state of affairs. Caroline was dead. Even thinking it made Ian feel sick. And it never felt real, no matter how often it was repeated, but it was one point on which Stockton was quite certain. He’d been quarantined for two days before he was allowed to leave the hospital, and confined to his quarters for a further week.
But the sickness hadn’t spread. Day and week went by and no cases emerged in the valley. Those businesses in the plaza which had shuttered their doors in fear were beginning to open them again. Mary Snyder was done with cowering in the walls of her dressmakers, and at last Millie was free to leave. Ian had spoken with her last night. She’d been too happy to be free, and forgotten her capacity for drinking. Ian and Sergeant Pratley had carried Millie home between them. This morning she’d been unresponsive, so Ian had left Sergeant Pratley outside her door.
Later, they’d meet.
In the heart of the plaza, people had gathered to watch as two teams played a rough game of hurney. Ian recognised his guard Corcoran as one of eight in powder-blue jerseys battling over possession of a small round ball. Amongst the men of Ian’s guard, Corcoran stood out as the weakest, but here amongst regular people he seemed a physical titan. As Ian moved such that he’d get a clear view, Corcoran received the ball from a ratty woman. He threw the ball such that it curled in the air, sailing over the shoulder of the green-and-yellow opponent closest and landing a direct hit on the rear of the three scoring posts. The post was wrenched from the ground and fell amid cheers.
“Bravo,” Ian applauded. While the post was returned to the ground, he turned his attention away from the game.
The Hookbill was sat in the shade cast by a huge willow, the tallest tree in the park. It poked hard at the sky, and down at its foot it was as dark as night. Still, somehow, the Hookbill was playing with his cards. Ian had seen him from time to time out of the corner of his eye. The cards never came into the council chamber of Government Hall, but elsewhere he was never without them.
Ian found himself heading towards the Hookbill, and as he got closer he realised that the Speaker wasn’t trying his hand at another round of solitaire. He held the cards in his hands as he looked over them one by one, a mournful look on his face.
“You and those cards, you’re inseparable.” Ian sat himself down on the grass beside the Hookbill. Hot as the sun was, it hadn’t touched the willowshade. He winced as lingering dew soaked into his trousers. “Put them away, Master Prendergast. Enjoy the festivities.”
The Hookbill looked at Ian, the cards momentarily forgotten. “I don’t see that there’s anything worth celebrating.”
Ian raised his hands to the bright sky. “Look at this weather. What more reason do we need?”
The Hookbill shook his head. “If only you knew. You might think you’re worldly wise, Fitzhenry, but you have a strange way of showing it. No, don’t look at me like that—I know all about you and Daniella Carrigan. It isn’t a secret.”
“It is to people who aren’t you,” said Ian through gritted teeth, his light mood suddenly darkened.
“True,” the Hookbill nodded. “But I have the misfortune to be people who are me. A lot of poets like to pretend that the weather is changeable, that it can somehow come to reflect the day. Thus people celebrate the sun, because what bad could happen on a clear day like this? Those same people will wish away the rain—the life-giving rain, without which we’d all die—out of some misguided belief that the rain is for the bad days.”
“In my experience, it holds true enough,” said Ian.
“Does it? Tell me about Daniella Carrigan’s last day.” The Hookbill peered close into Ian’s eyes. “I think we can both agree that it counts as a bad day.”
“You know everything you need to know already, Master Prendergast. Don’t try to make me to relive my worst day. I’ll not dwell there.”
Prendergast swung himself around, leaned in closer to Ian. Their faces were just a foot or so apart when the Hookbill whispered: “Tell me.”
And by some strange compulsion, Ian spoke. “She was head over heels, talking all about Chris and how they were going to be married. And that wasn’t right. Chris was supposed to marry Caroline—that’s what Caro wanted, and what Caro deserved. How could I let Dani Carrigan win? Caro was crushed when she found out about Chris and Dani, and every time she heard them talking about their nuptials it was just another boulder on her. She was about to break—this beautiful girl, this clever, funny girl—and nobody could see it. So I went to Dani. I told her Chris had sent me. He wanted to meet her up on the Irdingley Hill. A lie of course, Chris didn’t know anything about it.”
He paused to take a breath. All those old emotions were back with him, and somehow worse now that Caroline was gone. She’d been the cork bottling them away, the reassurance that things were alright in the end. Without her all the darkness spilled out. He heard the song Dani had sang as they walked up the hill. He saw the fear on her face when she saw Chris wasn’t there. He felt the wet hair on his hands as he held her beneath the surface. The day played out in flashes—Dani’s clammy face, blue and unmoving, as he begged her to wake up; Mistress Carrigan howling in her husband’s arms as the watchman carried their daughter into Borrowood; Caroline’s face when she heard the news, the grief for a friend and yet the unmistakeable flicker of relief behind it.
That was the day he’d let Caroline go. He’d lost her, too, just as he’d lost Dani. And all he’d gained was an unending weight on his heart, which was slowly pressing the life out of him.
“It was raining, of course,” said the Hookbill. “Being a bad day.”
“What difference does it make? Yes, probably.” But no. No, it couldn’t have been raining. Dani had worn only a little dress and no jacket. She’d have been soaked, if it was raining. “No, it was sunny,” said Ian. “It was a bright, sunny day, just like this one.”
The Hookbill nodded. “The bright sunny days have a way of being the worst of all. I had a good friend—Hetty, her name was. It was a bright sunny day when she died, just like this. She was murdered, Fitzhenry, for loving the wrong person.”
“Harsh penance,” Ian muttered, his voice hoarse.
“It was long ago. Why dwell on the past?”
Dani’s face swam into Ian’s thoughts. “Because sometimes the past is all we have,” he said.
He made the long walk up to Skerrett’s church while the sun was at its apex, the noonday heat toasting him and drawing sticky sweat out of his feet. Millie met him outside Hultry’s stables. She looked resplendent, wearing a ceremony gown of bright blue and gold that hugged tightly to her figure. “If I wear something frumpy, they might think I want to join them,” she explained.
There was no Sergeant Pratley today. Ian had promised not to pry into his past, but damn it if he wasn’t curious. Whatever had happened between Sergeant Pratley and the church, its effect had been powerful. The man would not even entertain the prospect of accompanying them. When Ian reminded him that he was an employee, and his refusal to go where asked could constitute grounds for termination—not as a way to threaten Pratley but out of curiosity as to what lengths the Sergeant would go to stay clear of the church—Pratley shrugged and said he’d rather be fired.
Playing the Sergeant’s part today were a pair of low-level guardsmen, burly bearded Harry Gorman and acne-ridden stick Harry Lappeter. The Harries had been hand-picked by Sergeant Pratley to come to the church today. There wasn’t a man alive who was better than the Sergeant at what he did, but two of them combined was almost equal.
Ian said little to Millie during the walk. It was time for his thoughts. To her credit, she seemed to understand not to interrupt. Ian was the highest authority today, divine ones excepted—the government’s representative at the ceremony. Chris would not be there. He’d not left his chambers since he heard of Caroline’s death.
Ian had never had the chance to grieve. Caro was married to Chris, not to him. She was not his to mourn. And somebody must be there to carry on even after the loss of a dear friend. That was all Caro was to him, a dear friend. He’d been disavowed of any pretences at something more when he was still a boy. He was always the one she came to when she needed to talk, when she was scared. He would have killed for her. He did. But she was not his to love, then or ever. He’d married Elise to escape that love for Caro, and he’d come here to escape that marriage. He thought the love had gone.
The past week had been an alien experience for him. Everything was faded and dull, like he wasn’t really living it. As best as he was able, he had tried to fill Chris’ weighty shoes. The Council was more than shouting matches. But Ian couldn’t be certain he’d actually been there. His memories were of somebody else, a stranger occupying his body. Twice already Millie had found him alone in his bedchamber, hours after he got home, without even having taken his shoes off. Apparently she was now such a familiar sight that the guards were happy to just let her in.
She kissed him, the first time, to cheer him up. But his mind had been occupied by his grief, and the guilt—the absurd guilt—that he felt for daring to feel that grief.
The second time, she’d sat with him, and listened while he told her all his childhood stories. All except that one. That one he’d never tell. He felt better when he’d said it all. Less of a fool. He returned to occupy his own body, and once more he was really there. Only in the evenings, when he was alone, did he stop to think of lost things.
Millie squeezed his hand as they wound their way up the west hill.
They were greeted at the top by none other than Molly Bradshaw, dressed in a robe of pure white, and with her face painted almost an equal shade. An escoffion trimmed with gilded beads adorned her head. She ran to embrace Millie, like the two of them were long-lost friends. “Mils. You came.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
Ian watched their excited gabble with wry amusement. They spoke as though Molly Bradshaw was a blushing bride awaiting her wedding. And just as suddenly, they parted. At once Molly’s tone became that of a professional damsel, courteous and respectful and brimming with brevity.
“Welcome, Master Fitzhenry.” She offered a hand for him to shake, and he did so. He watched her face closely. The lie had to fall away at some point, give way to some tell. Nobody could keep up this pretence forever. But she only stared at him, with a resolved frown that said ‘I know you know, and I won’t give you the satisfaction of evidence’.
As expected, Molly’s father wasn’t long in arriving. Mark Bradshaw had cleaned up for a change. He looked a respectable statesman in well-fitted clothes, a brown tailcoat and matching boots of leather, shorn of the half-beard he always had. His face was a smile. He hugged his daughter as soon as he saw her, lifting her off the ground. “My sweet girl, I’m so proud.”
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“Daddy, I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“You’re my little fréa. There isn’t a mountain or a monster or a stubborn policymaker could stop me from being here to see you.” General Bradshaw turned to Ian. “My Molly’s been chosen. The Lightness says she’s the most devout he’s ever seen.”
“You must be so happy for her.”
“Oh, I am.” Bradshaw shook his head. “It’s not the path I imagined for her, but then she always listened to her mother more. You know what it’s like.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Ian. “I’ve never had any myself.”
Bradshaw pointed a finger at Millie. “You want to get busy then. That one’s prime breeding stock, she’ll give you headstrong babes. Oh, there’s nothing better than watching them grow.”
“Where’s Megan?” Molly Bradshaw looked suddenly worried. “Is she here?”
“I wouldn’t hold out any hopes, Molly. You know how your sister is. She knows her own mind, better than you. If she’s not already persuaded, there’s no persuading her.”
Molly cast her eyes to her feet. “I hoped she’d come.”
“There, there.” Mark Bradshaw consoled his daughter. “I’ll save a seat for her, just in case she’s on her way. And afterwards, Molly, we’ll go to the Clearwater and you can tell me all about today. How does that sound?”
Molly nodded. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
General Bradshaw smiled and squeezed his daughter’s hand. “I’ll see you inside, I suspect,” he said, with a glance, to Ian. And both Bradshaws walked away.
Millie was scowling as she watched them go. “Breeding stock? Does he think I’m cattle?”
“Sir.” One of the Harries stepped into view. They’d been keeping their distance effectively until now, and Millie jumped upon seeing him. “Captain Clifford wants a word.”
“Captain Clifford?”
Sure enough, David was there, talking to the other Harry. He nodded his head to Ian.
“David! I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m as religious as you are, Fitz,” David laughed. “But the Constabulary’s here as security today. I’m on business.”
So will I, thought Ian. And I’ll get to do my business from a comfortable gallery, in the company of a pretty girl. So I win. David had always countenanced a career at arms. “That’s where the ladies are. They open themselves for soldiers.” The evidence borne of the last twenty years didn’t follow. Nobody had ever seen David in the company of a gushing girl. Today, he’d be standing in the swelter. Today wouldn’t be his breakthrough.
Ian could have said any of this, but he chose not to. “I don’t believe you’ve met Millie Farmer. Millie, David is a long-standing friend of mine.”
“Charmed,” David grunted. “Look, Ian, your guards are going to have to go.”
“I beg your pardon?”
David sighed. “Don’t be difficult. You heard me plain. There will be plenty of security here from my Constabulary, I don’t need private squads confusing things.”
Ian wasn’t the most enamoured with his personal security, but he had a curious condition whereby his resolve to keep something hardened when he was told to give it up. “My soldiers aren’t yours to dismiss.”
“Chris insisted—”
“Did he?” He didn’t recall the last time he was angry at David. It was probably a long time ago, in greener days, over a forgotten matter between children. Now again the serpent rose in a surge of fire. “Chris has impressive foresight, it seems. He’s shut himself away for a week, David. A week. So tell me when he insisted.”
He felt a tugging at his arm. Millie. “Leave it,” she implored him.
“Don’t cause a scene, Ian. I know you’re prone to temper.” David looked at him coolly. “Dani is testament to that.”
“You leave Dani out of this. Especially if you’re going to lie about her.” It was a lie, wasn’t it? He didn’t go up that hill with a temper. He didn’t come back down with one either. “Fine. I’ll concede. But I won’t hear Dani’s name from you again.” He didn’t know what he would do if David did decide to talk about Dani, but he suspected the temper remark might be borne out by reality.
He hooked his arm into Millie’s, and gently eased her along.
“Oh. Are we going inside already?” She trotted gamely alongside him.
“If we want to get good seats.”
He’d expected a fair turnout, but he hadn’t expected it to be as packed as this. At least a thousand had turned up, from all creeds and corners of the colony. The lower stalls of the church were packed to bursting; some were standing tucked against the columns at the edges of the room. The upper gallery was less filled, but even there the seats were limited. Ian spotted two unoccupied front-row seats and sidled into them. It was only after he’d sat down that he noticed Mark Bradshaw in the seat beside him. By then it was too late. It would be poor form to move now.
From up here, he had a great view of proceedings. Acolytes had positioned themselves in a crescent around the central dais; some were milling around the edges of the church, hanging censers on every dangling surface. Lightness Skerrett was nowhere to be seen.
“I thought General Bradshaw was saving his daughter a seat,” said Millie, her voice a whisper. Ian nudged her in the side, to beg silence. The General was close enough to hear every word she said. Ian didn’t want him souring on her. But he still stole a glance to his right. There was no empty seat beside Bradshaw; he was sandwiched between Ian and Junius Morningay, whose wife was a reeve.
“What’s the capacity on this place?” said Arthur Mannion, sat a little way behind Ian.
“They shouldn’t be letting anybody else in,” said Oliver Wrack beside him. “They want guards at the doors, turning people away.”
“And ruin the Governor’s big event? Pah.” Mannion spat onto the ground.
From up in the gallery it was impossible to see the main door, but a sudden hubbub told Ian that the Lightness had arrived. The crowd parted with an absence of decorum to let Skerrett through. Those who had failed to find seats, and who were consequently stood between the rows, squashed up against the filled benches, where they were pushed back by those who had already taken their seats. Flashes of green-and-yellow were dotted here and there. A couple of David’s Constabulary guards, positioned close enough to intervene if the throng turned nasty, were looking nervously in the direction of the benches.
“Look at them,” Bradshaw said, his voice bitter. “There’s not a spine in them, you can see it in their faces. They’re not a patch on my own people. If Clifford’s going to insist on having only his men here, he should make sure they’re up to the task.”
“They don’t want to interfere,” said Ian.
“They’re afraid to interfere. They won’t do a thing unless they need to, and then they’ll be far too slow. What if we have a crush on our hands?” Bradshaw shook his head and muttered something about ‘amateur disgraces’.
Luck was on the side of the Constabulary today. Nothing happened beyond a few bad-tempered but ineffectual shoves. Lightness Skerrett passed by the crowds, and everything spilled back into shape behind him. Some of the aisle-dwellers, once they were free to move again, shuffled to the back of the church with their tails between their legs. Others remained, stood on tip-toes to try and see properly.
Skerrett moved to the middle of the platform, directly beneath the highest point in the church. From there, the light of the sun shone on him. “Today is our escape from the tyranny of the Unity,” he said, the last fragments of chatter dying as he began to speak. His voice boomed, bouncing off the walls. “They saw fit to dictate to us how we should worship, how we should convene with the Gods. Ways which the Faithful have followed for tens of thousands of years were deemed immoral.” He chuckled as he said this. “How can it be immoral to follow the wishes of the Gods? No, what is immoral is the conceit a man needs to apply his view of the world to a power higher than he can hope to achieve.”
Millie frowned. “I didn’t know there was going to be a sermon.”
“My friends,” Skerrett continued, “today we say ‘no more’. The Foundational Council are in agreement with us on this issue—it is not the place of the secular man to speak for the Gods. Their commands are clear, and they are written for us in the Nineteen Books. They are the rules by which mankind lived as it grew to rule the stars. As once it was, so shall it be again. And we all will bear witness as a volunteer of the Faithful brings this church into the house of Nameth, the bosom of Fréreves, the safe realms of the Gods.”
At the back of the church, a dozen or so congregants were sat on a flimsy bench. In the middle, her black hair contrasting with the pearl-white dress she wore, was Molly Bradshaw, sans her escoffion. She was very clearly the chosen one. Next to the rest of them, with their murky brown tunics, she was a gleaming pearl.
“Come to the front, Molly, dear.” Lightness Skerrett gestured to her. Those on either side of her turned and looked. Beside Ian, Mark Bradshaw was beaming, craning his neck to get a better view of his daughter. She rose slowly, and trembled as she walked towards the pulpit. Skerrett took hold of her hand as she reached him. He whispered something in her ear, and her cheeks flushed red.
Skerrett turned to face the crowd again. “Molly here has been a part of our congregation for many months now. She has prayed faithfully. It will be her honour to become our devotee, to mark this site as holy in the eyes of the Gods.” A general smattering of applause rang out. Bradshaw clapped the loudest. Skerrett smiled at Molly, then stood back, leaving her alone in the limelight. She seemed shy at the centre of attention, but she smiled nonetheless. She raised her hands in a half-hearted wave, then—apparently thinking better of it—let them hang limp by her side.
There was a certain girlish elegance to her. Ian had hated her for her father’s sins, mistrusted her for her father’s lies, but to see her there, bathed in the soft firelight of the church’s many lanterns, that seemed unfair. Now, she was no more than a child in his eyes. And yet she could grow to be much more. Bradshaw had said she was destined for great things. Ian could agree with that. By the time she was her father’s age, Molly might be a governor. In times of yore, she’d have been the shy girl at the ball who drew the eye of the prince.
“I love you, Moll!” She looked up in response to her father’s cry, waved at him.
Forth then came Silent Jen, in her hands a silver crown. It was little more than a tiara, encrusted with lightly shimmering gemstones. Silent Jen placed the crown upon Molly’s head while the girl watched with a nervous twitching of the eyes. Skerrett nodded his approval. Silent Jen bowed her head and returned to the amassed congregation.
Bradshaw was beaming, Ian saw. His chest was puffed out with pride. Down on the dais, Molly had her hands to her head, touching gently the silver tiara, getting a feel for exactly how it was fitting.
“She looks so pretty,” Millie murmured.
“I can get you a crown, if you want,” said Ian.
Millie shook her head. “I’d look terrible in a crown. And anyway, it’s only pretty because of the honour.”
Lightness Skerrett was moving forward again. Two more of the congregants were flanking him, lengths of rope clutched in their hands. Their faces were stony, expressionless.
Millie nudged Ian. “What do they need rope for?” she whispered. A good question.
Molly only seemed to notice Skerrett as the old man reached her. As she turned to him, so one of the acolytes grabbed her arms. She jerked her arm as if to pull free, but the acolyte’s grip was too firm. This wasn’t something she’d expected. She squealed and squirmed. Skerrett, hands locked together in front of him, shook his head. The two acolytes forced their rope around her wrists. They bound her arms tight together, hands clasped at the small of her back, then spun her roughly around to face the crowd. Even from the gallery, Ian could see that her cheeks were damp.
Bradshaw was sat in his seat, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were bright white. He shook his head faintly.
“In accordance with the teachings of our faith,” Skerrett said, “we must anoint our church in the light of the Gods. A darkness is coming, and when it comes this temple must be a haven. There can be no quarter given for those who would undermine us.” He grabbed Molly from the acolytes, who scurried off to the back of the church. “This girl has no faith. She comes to us to spy, to sow discord and disunity.”
“No,” Molly wailed. “It’s not true. I swear it.”
“Recall the sad lesson of Berengue of the lilacs. An innocent girl she was, perhaps, but a faithless one, and ignorant of her appointed role in this society of mankind. Recall how she bled, and how in her death she cleansed the ground upon which that blood fell.” Skerrett’s preaching was growing ever sinister. A heavy pit had formed in Ian’s stomach, a knuckle squeezing itself ever tighter. Something’s wrong.
“What’s going on?” Millie whispered.
“This isn’t right,” said General Bradshaw. “Somebody stop this.”
“The fruit gone bad cannot be allowed to spoil the rest,” Skerrett said. “But we can still be enriched by its juices.” In a single deft movement, Skerrett pulled from the pocket of his tunic a small steel dagger. “In death, she can bring us salvation.” He flicked his wrist. The dagger’s blade slipped inside Molly’s soft belly. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a gasp escaped. A strangled gasp. A growing wave of red stained the white fabric of her dress. Her hands grasped for the wound as if she meant to hold herself together. Fingers scraped at the cotton, blood spilling through them, and then slipped weakly away. Still the blood fell.
Behind Ian, a woman cried out. He looked to see Oliver Wrack holding tightly onto his wife, who had buried her face in his bosom. Mark Bradshaw was whispering his daughter’s name, over and over again, until it didn’t feel like a real word. Down below, cries and shouts blended into a strange caterwauling. Those green-and-yellow shapes were not moving.
Molly whimpered as Skerrett pulled the dagger out from her. Blood gushed onto the polished wooden floor. He grabbed her roughly by the arm, held her before the congregation. “It is the will of the Gods that we consecrate our church with a maiden’s blood,” he yelled over the crowd. “Even ill intent cannot sour the blood of a virgin. The girl will die, and in return so shall we all survive.”
Blood was beginning to come from Molly’s mouth, streaming like twisted raindrops down her face. Each drop was sadistically engrossing. She openly wept now, and the tears met the blood in morbid congress. There on that platform, before the massed crowd, the martyr bled. Her eyes flickered upwards. Called for her father. For help.
Down in the throng, David stood to one side, watching proceedings coldly. A couple of the Constabulary guards had taken up a perimeter around him, but none moved towards the dais. All over, none of them moved.
“Captain Clifford,” Ian heard himself saying—screaming, even. “Why aren’t your soldiers stopping this?”
Bradshaw was in no fit state to step forward and order them along. He seemed to be frozen in shock, staring at his daughter. Molly’s flesh was as pale as her dress had been this morning. She met her father’s gaze with lifeless eyes, desperate eyes. And her father, like the whole church, watched, enraptured. Even as Skerrett stabbed her again, even as he thrust his dagger into each breast in turn. Even as the life left her. Molly tumbled to the wooden ground, deathly still. “Let her blood run thick into the earth,” Skerrett boomed, his eyes and hands looking up into the high tower, into the sky. “And let us see that this house is now in your protection.”