Ambergate (18 page)

“Sounds as if you believe it yourself,” jeered Chance.

Nate shrugged, noncommittal. “He’ll put Miss Leah on trial for blasphemy. She’s condemned herself out of her own mouth, poor
thing.”

Poor thing? You are soft
, Chance thought.

“She looks so desperate, so unhappy. The Protector keeps her prisoner, you know—his own niece!”

Chance wasn’t interested. “Let’s see this swanskin, then.”

They approached the guards, who recognized Nate and let him pass. They stared at Chance as he followed; he felt uneasy in
spite of his uniform.

“This is the room,” said Nate. He stopped outside an iron-studded door and briefly explained about the key to the guard on
duty.

“Be quick about it, then,” the man said reluctantly. “You’d better not be having me on, young Kester, or it’ll be more than
your life’s worth.” He moved a little way off. Chance looked at the door in astonishment: the Protector certainly had the
skin well guarded.

“It’s got a room all to itself,” whispered Nate as he turned the key.

All there was in the room was a glass case, shining in the light that came from a single high window. They moved across to
it and stared down at the swanskin, lying inside the case on a backing of black velvet.

Chance drew in his breath. The skin was a dazzling white against the black; each perfect feather lay snugly upon the next.
At that moment he longed more than anything in the world to touch the swanskin, to force his hand through
the glass and sink his fingers deep into its softness. He’d break the case, smash it to smithereens if Nate wasn’t there,
then he’d grasp up all the beauty of the skin and press it against his face. But at the same time, the sight of it filled
him with revulsion and fear. He remembered the swans on the Eastern Edge, the attack on Caleb Grouted.

He shuddered. What was he thinking of? He hated swans. He turned away, and found himself shaking. “Let’s go.”

Nate was still staring down. “You know the Significance of swans?”

“Don’t believe that stuff no more. Had enough of it rammed down my throat once.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Nate didn’t question him. He murmured to himself, “True Love… Messengers…”

“Messengers from where?” scoffed Chance.

“From the spirit world, perhaps.”

To Chance’s relief, Nate led the way out of the room then, locking the door behind them. The guard nodded at them grudgingly
as they left.

The double doors to the morning room were still firmly shut, so they had to wait in the antechamber outside. It was impossible
to talk privately here: a swarm of guards eyed their every move. They perched on hard gilt chairs; Chance bit his nails, Nate
strummed a few idle notes on his ratha.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the adjoining antechamber, and a stout man came in, red in the face and mopping his brow in an
agitated way with a large silk handkerchief. One of the guards brought in a sturdier chair and he sank into it,
breathing fast. He glared at Nate, who said politely, “Good morning, Doctor.”

“Nothing good about it in my view. That girl threw her slippers at me just now. She really is exceedingly vexatious. Wouldn’t
let me examine her. Foul-mouthed too. Called me…” He thought better of it and shut his mouth primly.

“Are you talking about Miss Leah?” said Nate, looking interested.

“Who else?” said the doctor wearily.

“Is she mad in your opinion, Doctor?” said Nate innocently He nudged Chance.

“It is certainly difficult to establish her sanity while she behaves like this. Any more of it and we shall have to use a
straitjacket.”

“Isn’t that—a little extreme, Doctor?”

“Are you questioning my methods?” The doctor glared harder.

“No, no, of course not.”

“It’s for her own good. She’s dangerous.” The doctor felt his nose tenderly. “A straitjacket is the answer. I’ve used them
in the madhouses to great effect. I’m here to suggest such a measure to the Protector.”

Nate was silent; he stared down somberly at his long musician’s fingers.

A moment later they were called in to the morning room, leaving the doctor fuming impatiently outside. The Lord Protector
and Mather were standing by the windows deep in conversation that cut off abruptly as the boys came in. The
Protector held out his square hand for the key and locked it away in his desk. He didn’t ask Chance what he thought of his
precious exhibit; indeed, he seemed distracted, in a mood of suppressed excitement. His eyes gleamed; he chortled to himself.
Evidently the private discussion had gone well.

“So that is all for now, Mather,” he said, beaming at his Chief Interrogation Officer. His teeth were even and yellow. “But
we will have much to plan in the next few weeks, eh?”

“Yes, indeed, Sir,” said Mather thoughtfully. “It’s certainly an unexpected and interesting development.”

“A very interesting development, Mather, and we shall use it to our greatest advantage,” said the Lord Protector, and he gave
another of his unpleasant smiles.

I didn’t dream of Erland again.

As I lay in my bunk, I’d picture us leaving the Capital, setting off together for the long walk back to the Eastern Edge.
In my imagination the sun shone, blackbirds sang among the white may blossom, and the candle flowers of the chestnut trees
shimmered above our heads. Yet though I thought of Erland every night, he never came again to me.

All the way down to the Gravendyke estuary, the
Redwing
had hugged the coast, passing sandbanks that stuck out like drowned fingers where the water was shallow. The bargemaster
had ordered a fine supper when we reached the Capital in a
few hours; I wouldn’t be able to cook it until we arrived, but thought I’d busy myself with preparing the vegetables meantime.

I’d scarce picked up the knife when the bargemaster, Mr. Butley himself, came down the ladder into the tiny galley unexpectedly.
I had the sleeves of the boy’s jacket that I’d worn all voyage rolled up over my wrists, and wasn’t fast enough to cover my
scar.

He had sharp eyes, Mr. Butley. I didn’t like the way he was always staring at me; I didn’t like being alone with him. Usually
Shadow was there, thieving food from under my nose, but today he was busy on deck.

“You have your sea legs now, little maid,” Mr. Butley said, giving me his glint-eyed look. “You’ve settled well to the life
of a ship’s cook.”

“I’m grateful for my safe passage, Sir” I said politely. “It’s the least I could have done.”

He straddled his sturdy legs to the shifting of the boat. “How old are you, Miss?”

“Fifteen, I believe, Sir.”

“No parents?”

I turned back to the carrots on the wooden board. “No, Sir.”

I could sense him looking me up and down. “A comely girl, slender but strong, straight-legged, and in good health,” he murmured
to himself, as if listing my assets. “An excellent cook, a willing worker. In addition, one amulet—amber, very fine.” Then,
louder: “What will you do in the Capital?”

“Find employment, Sir.”

Suddenly he was behind me, breathing into my ear. “What other talents do you have, little maid?”

I twisted around, holding the knife casual in my hand; I let him see I had it there. “I can sing a bit, Sir.”

He pretended to look downcast. “Nothing more than a song to reward your generous skipper? Not a kiss or two?”

“I will come on deck and sing for you now, if you will let me pass, Mr. Butley,” I said firmly. “You won’t be disappointed.
It’s all I can offer, but I know by your kindness to me that you are a gentleman.”

He stared at me a moment, then his eyes dropped. “Very well, but you must sing loud to drown the gulls.”

And so I put down the knife and climbed up after him, and found myself on deck for almost the first time.

At first I was dazzled by the sea light, the brightness of the water flowing on every side until it merged with the sky. It
was alive, I was sure of that, because it never stopped moving; but I couldn’t work out where such a vast watery body would
keep its soul.

Shadow came up with a grin as I emerged, a coil of rope in his hand. “Good afternoon, Miss Scuff!”

The bargemaster put his hard hand on my shoulder. “Miss Scuff is going to sing for us. Give those damned birds some competition,
girl!”

He lifted me onto the cabin roof before I could protest. Mister Plush was up there already, curled into a tight knot, drawing
any warmth from the wood. I felt alarmingly high up, with all that space around me. My hair blew in the damp breeze, the great
rust-colored sails creaked above my head,
and there were only the mizzen shrouds to hang onto until Shadow came to perch beside me.

After I had sung and the bargees applauded, it began to drizzle. Mister Plush stalked away to slink under a tarpaulin. Shadow’s
face was pinched with cold, but his eyes were bright. “I’m lookin’ forward to me supper,” he whispered. “What shall I do when
yer gone, Miss Scuff?”

“Shall you miss me then, Shadow?” I said, teasingly. “Me, or my suppers?”

“Put yer arm around me, Miss Scuff; pretend yer me big sister this once.”

It gave me a strange, tender feeling—to put my arm around his bony little back and have him nestle against me. We sat there
in the damp, sharing our warmth between us.

“But where’s the river?” I said.

“Why, we’re at it. See the markers?”

On the port side I heard doomy clanging, like a call to judgment. It was the bell-buoy swinging with the surge, and now I
could see it clear as we rode the waves and passed between it and a tall stone rising from the water on the starboard side.

The skipper bellowed, “Look to the depth, boy!”

Shadow scurried to the bows and threw out a lead line; he chanted the depth back until we were safe through the sandbanks
and had a channel of withy sticks to guide us. The estuary of the Gravendyke lay all around: mudflats and marshes; a gray
landscape blurred by mist.

Mr. Butley’s brother, the mate, peered behind the mizzen mast. “That spirit bird again,” he muttered. “Appears out of
nowhere. I swear the same swan has followed us from Poorgrass!”

Mr. Butley was checking off each withy on the chart. He didn’t turn. “Look to your sails, not to swans, for omens, brother.
We’ll never reach the Capital unless we harden up!”

From the galley porthole I could see ramshackle cottages, huddled together behind little quays. A child with a bucket waved
to us. Cows wandered along the bank or stood foolishly, hock-high in water, as if transfixed by our ghostly appearance from
the mist.

I didn’t look for a while after that, for I wanted to leave the galley tidy. It was a surprise when Shadow put his head through
the open hatch. “We’re on the outer reaches of the Capital, Miss Scuff!”

We were passing houses that teetered tightly together to the very edge of the mud, some half-drowned by water already, the
river lapping up their walls. Between them were crumbling landing-stages and jetties, stone quays and docks. Beyond the mud,
the banks were crowded with vast brick warehouses and wharves, and almost hidden by the forest of masts that stuck up from
the moored boats.

Above my head came shouts of warning and command, the flapping of sails as boats changed course. When I scrambled halfway
up the ladder to look out through the hatch, boats surrounded us. They covered the scummy surface of the river like a million
water beetles. There were other barges like the
Redwing
, then all the smaller boats winding their way
between us. Chalk boats trailed a film of white dust through the black wash of coal boats, which were laden with filthy sacks
and black-faced men in aprons. Scavengers slid by, piled with stinking rubbish; corpsers, with their grisly cargo. They were
all tossed about and half-sinking in the turbulence from the larger schooners and sloops. And the smell came to me, the smell
I remembered all too well: the river stink of mud and rot that hung over the whole city.

As the first of the prison islands loomed out of the murk, I was filled with dread.

“How far upriver will we go, Shadow?”

“Through the Gravengate to the trading basin, most like,” Shadow said, coming down into the galley after me and pinching a
piece of raw carrot from under my nose. He peered out of the porthole and shook his head. “Nay, seems we’re holing up in Sowerditch
tonight. The skipper must be thinking there’s too much traffic around the Gate and he’ll not get a berth to unload. He’ll
leave it to the next high tide.”

The Sowerditch wharf was full of dirty water, bordered by leaning houses with windows on the same level as the
Redwing
. We could see straight into the squalid rooms, and the people inside could stare back at us. Shadow amused himself by pulling
faces at an inquisitive red-faced trollop until she snapped her shutters together. There were shouts and thumps as mooring
ropes passed between us and the next boat, the long rattle of the anchor chain being let out.

We ate our meal as the afternoon wore on. Shadow sat tight by me on the bench; Mister Plush was on his lap, green eyes fixed
on the herring roes I’d put on a platter. The bargees
ate heartily, their faces shiny with grease in the light of the oil lamp. Mr. Butley kept plying me with toddy, which I tried
to refuse.

“It’s only a couple of hours until Curfew,” I said, nervous. “I must leave soon.”

“No one keeps Curfew in this part of the Capital,” said Mr. Butley, chewing on a lamb chop. “They’re a lawless lot. Shadow
and I will deliver you safe to a respectable boarding-house for the night, where they’ll lodge you in return for kitchen work.”

I did not trust the bargemaster. I shook my head. “I’ll manage, thank you.”

When the meal was finished and I had cleaned up as best I could—for we had no water left in the bilges—I felt a shy tug at
my skirt. I knew it was Shadow and I must say goodbye to him.

I turned from the sink and he presented me with a canvas bag on a long strap. When I looked inside I saw the mahogany box.
“Take it back,” he whispered. “It’s yours.” And he put his finger to his lips to show that Mr. Butley mustn’t hear.