Ambergate (35 page)

Besides, it was too late to escape. From outside there came the muffled tolling of bells. The Curfew was beginning; soon the
guests would arrive.

Ambergate

C
hance sat with Mather in the stifling heat of their coach as it led the way down the Parade. He was still fuming, although
he had managed to brush his uniform clean before they left. He’d seen the look of irritation Mather had given him, the smirks
on the faces of the guards. Now he’d be a laughingstock, unless he managed to redeem himself first.

Behind them, watched impassively by the rows of Eagles on their plinths, a long slow-moving line of black coaches stretched
all the way back to the Palace, surrounded by mounted Militia. The soldiers had pistols on the pummels of their saddles and
were wearing the new black gauze plague masks; behind the masks their faces were grim, their eyes flicked over the dusty road
ahead, across the brown parkland, checked the dying shrubbery. There was no flicker of life in
the baked landscape; no breeze to lift the papery leaves. Overhead, the early evening sky had turned as livid as a welt.

Although they had the windows of the carriage open, Chance was sure he could smell the swanskin, which was lying rolled up
in a linen cloth on the opposite seat.

Earlier that morning, on the Protector’s orders, he had gone with Mather to the room where it was kept. The Protector himself
was there to oversee the opening of the cabinet and removal of the skin.

Mather had gestured to him impatiently. Chance had had to lift the swanskin from the case by himself and was forced to use
both hands; he had been unable to touch the amulet at his neck, his iron locket. He cringed at the memory of the smooth slide
of feathers against his fingers, the stiff yet springing shafts, a bony network dividing the softness.

“Gently, boy, gently,” growled Porter Grouted.

Why don’t you do it yourself
? thought Chance, screwing up his face in fear as he gripped the feathers and started to lift the swanskin out. For an extraordinary
moment he had wanted to touch the feathers to his face, to stroke his cheeks with their softness and beauty. But then the
fear and horror had come back.

There was so much of the swanskin, much more than he expected: the cloth was scarcely large enough to cover it. He had had
to carry it out, and it was so much heavier than he could have imagined, as if it held the weight of water, like a memory.

And now it was filling the coach with its stink, he was sure
of it. That stink of wild, weedy, watery places, of oily secretions and horrifying alien blood. He couldn’t think why the
Lord Protector didn’t throw it straight back at Miss Leah, and good riddance. And today it was to be hoist on a golden pole
in pride of place over the altar, like some sort of sacred trophy.

He noticed Mather was looking at it with equal dislike. “When we reach the Cathedral,” Mather said, “you will carry that thing
in and give it to the two soldiers who are to bear it up the nave at the head of the procession. I won’t be handling it myself,
you understand? I have to check the security arrangements before the arrival of Miss Leah.”

“Do you want me to help with hanging the skin, Sir?” At least it would be a chance to walk in the procession, to be seen performing
an official duty by all the men and women of the Ministration.

“I’ve men to hang it,” said Mather irritably. There was sweat on his upper lip. “Just get it inside, will you?”

Never any thanks or recognition
, thought Chance sullenly. To Mather he was merely a lowly servant. But soon things would be different.

That white face at the carriage window. There was someone who was frightened of him, over whom he had all the power in the
world. The girl. Number 102. He had let her escape too many times. Her time was up and his was just beginning.

“Sir,” he said, careful to get the tone of his voice right: responsible, yet urgent. Sweat broke out over his body; he
clenched his hands. “Sir, I’ve not mentioned this to you before in case I was mistaken, but I’ve been doing some thinking
and I reckon it’s worth further investigation, Sir. I reckon the new girl singer at the Palace is Number 102, Sir.”

Mather frowned, skeptical. “You must be absolutely sure, Corporal.”

“When her coach left for the Cathedral earlier, I knew I seen her before, certain sure. Remember I was that close to her in
Poorgrass, held her wrist that time? I saw the brand mark! You remember, Sir?”

“Sacred flight!” Mather stared at him.

Chance nodded. A gleeful excitement was rising inside him. “It’s the same girl, Sir, I’m sure of it.”

“Certainly worth investigation, then, if nothing else.” Mather sucked his cheeks. “We must lay our plans carefully, then,
Chance. We don’t want to frighten her.”

“Don’t we, Sir?”

“If we do, she will escape yet again. Before we do anything else, we must make double sure all possible escape routes are
closed to her. That will be easy enough, today of all days.” He leaned back against the padded leather and cracked his knuckles.
“We shall trap our little songbird right there in the Cathedral. I shall speak to the Lord Protector as soon as we arrive.”

“And me, Sir? I’ll be in this too, won’t I, Sir?”

“You?” said Mather vaguely, deep in his own thoughts. “Of course, Corporal. We’ll need your earlier statement as proof.”

Chance stared out into the street, where small children were cowering back from the rolling wheels of their coach:
scummy children with starving faces, just as he had been once.

He was smiling to himself.

Porter Grouted and his son occupied the second carriage a little way behind; it was splendidly picked out in gold, as appropriate
for the Lord Protector of the country himself.

Porter Grouted, resplendent in his rich purple robes, lounged at ease, his muscular body scarcely stirred by the jolts of
the carriage as it went over the paving stones of the Parade. The sallow dome of his bald head glistened with sweat, but he
hardly noticed the heat, as with satisfaction he surveyed his son on the opposite seat. He had not put on the ceremonial Eagle
mask yet, and it sat next to him, glaring blankly ahead.

Caleb Grouted looked petulant. Every now and then he pulled at the yellow silk of his cravat as if it choked him. “I wish
I was marrying the little maid instead of Leah, Pa. Leah doesn’t care for me and I don’t care for her.”

“What’s that?” A faint frown marred the Protector’s complacent expression.

“That girl, that little maid who sings—I wish it was her I was marrying, Pa.”

Grouted sat forward, a menacing bulk. “Damned nonsense. Most unsuitable. With Leah as your wife you’ll fulfill the prophecy—establish
our line for the future. That’s your job now, son, and don’t you forget it.”

Caleb subsided into sulky silence as the carriage swung
into the streets near the Cathedral and began to lurch over the uneven cobbles. But his father had not finished with him.
Unexpectedly, he gave a sudden chuckle.

“So you fancy that little hussy, do you? And on the eve of your weddin’! Grouteds have always had plenty of red blood in their
veins.”

Caleb looked up. Keeping a wary eye on his father in case he should suddenly erupt into one of his unpredictable and powerful
tempers, he said, “That girl—she looks like Mama.”

There was a pause. From outside came the dull tolling of dozens of church bells; it was time for the earlier Curfew. The Lord
Protector narrowed his eyes. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Caleb flinched from the lidless stare; he clenched the plague mask lying on his lap. “I mean—she looks just like Mama does
in the portrait.”

The Protector opened his mouth to speak. Before he could do so, his eyes rolled back and he gave a loud sneeze.

Father and son stared at each other in sudden fear.

“It’s nothing,” said the Protector. “A summer cold.” But as he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, his fingers shook
very slightly. In an instant he had mastered himself.

“Tell me again—tell me about the girl, son,” he said softly.

Looking over the Master Musician’s shoulder in the Cathedral, Nate saw the gleam of pale silk as the Messenger approached
Scuff. He saw her stand up, give the Messenger a box; it was the box she’d brought with her in the coach.

Jealousy suddenly coiled in Nate’s breast, surprising him. He knew Scuff loved the Messenger, had known it all along. What
he hadn’t realized until now was what he, Nate, felt about her.

Behind him the musicians were starting to tune up: he could hear the dolorous drone of the ecclesiastical woodwind. He winced;
he’d always hated it. The mournful notes echoing through the Cathedral sounded like a dirge—as if someone were about to die.

The Lord Protector broke the news about the girl swiftly and bluntly to his Chief Interrogation Officer. They stood talking
in hurried undertones in a patch of shadow by the great west entrance of the Cathedral.

“I want nothing to disrupt the wedding ceremony itself, understand, Mather?” the Protector said. Close by, a soldier kicked
away a sleeping beggar. “Let’s get my boy married first.”

“Right, My Lord.” Mather’s hands twitched; he longed to get them on the girl. Another carriage rolled up and set down a member
of the Ministration. When Curfew had sounded, the crowd hurriedly dispersed, and now the square was dotted with figures in
dark claret robes, the bird heads tilting to each other.

“But as soon as the service is over and the nuptial agreement signed by the couple, you can move in and arrest her.”

“Right, Sir.” Mather rubbed his twitching hands together.

“And, Mather, dispose of her without any undue bother, will you?”

Mather hesitated. “Do I understand what you’re saying, Sir?”

“You do, Mather.”

I bent to touch the dagger hidden in my boot, beneath my green skirts. From where I sat in the pew I looked around for Erland.
At first I couldn’t see him, then I saw he was sitting alone in the darkness of the Chapel of the Lark, across from the chancel.
His head was bowed; he was waiting too.

Already the minor officials were beginning to assemble before the Facilitator on either side of the altar: the clergy in their
white vestments, slashed with scarlet; the scribes with their parchment and quills; the page-turners for the Divine Book,
who went to stand beside the lectern. Vergers brought in a table for the Bird Cages and another for the signing of the nuptial
agreement. Finally, a pair of padded, gold silk prayer mats were placed with reverence on the lowest step before the statue
of the Eagle.

Then the choirmaster came in, chivvying his pinchfaced, meager flock into the carved wooden choir stalls. In the shadows behind
the arches, armed soldiers watched silently.

I felt Nate tug on my arm.

We were to wait in the darkness behind the Great Eagle on His altar, then move forward to stand on either side of Leah and
Caleb as they took their nuptial vows before the
Facilitator. We would then perform a motet while they knelt before the Eagle for the Contemplation. That would be the moment
I would act.

But I could not think about it.

We passed the musicians peering at their music in the half-light of the transept, then the choir stalls with their rows of
ghostly faces. We ducked beneath the banners of the Birds of Light and the long golden pole that hung before the altar, and
climbed the altar steps into the chancel. Nate held his ratha as if it were his salvation. My heart beat light and nervous
as we stopped in the shadows cast by the altar screen.

They were beginning to come in.

The bodyguard, Chance, walked with another soldier, ahead of all the guests. Between them they carried a long rolled bundle,
wrapped in a cloth. There was a swagger about Chance, a cocky air; his ceremonial sword swung jauntily at his hip. Behind
them filed the members of the Ministration in a long, silent procession, the candlelight gleaming on the feathers of the bird
heads, outlining the sharpness of a beak, catching the glint of an eye. A moan arose from the choir stalls, quickly quelled
by the choirmaster.

The Ministration filled the pews to almost halfway down the nave. They sat motionless; the bird heads scarcely quivered.

Chance and the soldier came up to the chancel and climbed the altar steps. The soldier began to crank a handle hidden to one
side. The gold pole came down in jerks, was lowered almost to the floor.

The Lord Protector entered, wearing his ceremonial Eagle
head, to a roll of drums from outside. He was followed by various minions—bodyguards, footmen, soldiers—who melted away as
he strode up the nave. I drew in my breath, for he seemed to have become the Eagle Himself in that moment, as his majestic
purple robes swept along the stone to the front pew and the great head glared about. The musicians bowed their heads, touched
their amulets; the choir murmured in fear. The bird heads of the Ministration bowed to him as he sat down.

Caleb Grouted came next, a sneer—or perhaps it was a smile—twisting his handsome face as he looked to left and right, acknowledging
the bows of the Ministration. He made an obeisance and sat beside his father in the pew.

Chance and the soldier unrolled the bundle lying before the Eagle. I knew what it was immediately. It was a swanskin, like
the one I had seen months ago in Gadd’s shelter. But this was Leah’s swanskin, and soon she too would see it. The two soldiers
fastened the swanskin to a cord that ran the length of the pole, with an arrangement of gold clips. They began to hoist the
pole over the first step of the altar, where Caleb and Leah would kneel for their vows.

There was a drawing-in of breath from the pews as the swanskin was revealed. Surely it was sacrilege to display the skin of
one of the avia in the Cathedral?

My own hand went to the amber beneath my dress. From where I stood I had the back of the swanskin to me—the gray skin—but
as it hung, it rippled and turned in the down-drafts from the vaulted roof, a banner of glistening white feathers, each tipped
with gold as it caught the candlelight.
This was the Protector’s cruelest trick: to hang the swanskin so tantalizingly close, yet beyond reach until Leah had taken
her vows. It would be the first thing she’d see on entering the Cathedral.