Guns of the Dawn (12 page)

‘But wasn’t the Ghyer involved?’ asked some of her listeners.

‘He was,’ Alice replied, unperturbed. ‘The treacherous villain was in league with the Denlanders.’

‘But Denlanders aren’t swarthy,’ Emily once put in, though Alice ignored her entirely. Just as she had ignored Emily’s role in her rescue, for that matter.

Emily herself had taken longer to recover.

Back home, she had told Mary all: from their botched attempt at a rescue to Mr Northway’s unexpected intervention, to her ensuing conversation with the man and the thoughts it had awoken
in her.

‘And this morning, before dawn, I was awake with the sound of gunfire in my ears and the sheets soaked as though I had a fever,’ she finished. ‘I feel as though I should have
put it behind me. Am I letting the family down?’

‘You were only thirteen when our father . . . died,’ Mary said unhappily. With their mother dead bringing Rodric into the world, she had been left to bring up her three siblings
after the suicide. ‘It was a terrible time to become a parent, although I suppose the experience has been useful.’ She looked down at little Francis, asleep in her arms after some
early-morning hysterics. ‘All you knew, at the time, was the loss.’

‘And that Mr Northway was responsible,’ Emily put in almost desperately. ‘That he drove Father to it.’

Mary gave her a level look.

‘Mary why else have I been hounding the man all these years? Why else have I been his most determined enemy in Chalcaster? We have all of us placed the blame for it at his door, myself
more than anybody, but . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘But he was not the only one to blame.’

For a long time Mary regarded her silently, but then she managed a short nod. ‘I know. I hated myself for it, but I blamed him too. But do not forget that Northway is guilty, as
well.’

‘Without a doubt, guilty as any man ever was,’ Emily agreed. ‘All the heroes have gone to war, after all. What can we be left with save villains? He should be the toast of
Chalcaster, of course.’ But behind the bitterness there was a mixture of feelings. When she had ridden to town soon after the rescue she had expected to see bunting and cheering, and toasts
drunk to the health of Mr Northway, but the Mayor-Governor was closeted in his office still, and would not see mere well-wishers. Any advantage he could have made of the situation was leaching away
whilst he dealt with each new problem the war effort handed him. Most did not even guess that he had anything to do with the Ghyer’s defeat.

Can it be possible that the war will actually make an honest man of him?
The idea was almost enough to make her laugh.

After that, perhaps she should have made a visit to Chalcaster, if only to assess her old enemy and see where his new weak points were, and whether his razor-edged wit had
dulled after their adventure. But the ball was coming on apace by then, and Mrs Shevarler had the dresses brought to them for their final fitting, and suddenly there was more to do than Emily had
time to cope with.

And anyway, she had been expecting him to darken her door in his mourner’s black. Surely he would come to exploit his newfound leverage, to barter the rescue of her sister into some usable
currency. She was ready for the clash and had marshalled her arguments against him, ready to resist any blandishment he should employ. And yet he stayed away. Perhaps his work as mayor kept him
busy. Or perhaps he himself was not sure how to approach this new stage of their rivalry.

And all too soon Emily and Alice were embarking for Deerlings, leaving Chalcaster and its problems behind them.

*

The approach to Deerlings had been planned two generations back to waste no opportunity of showing off the house or the splendour of its grounds. Now their buggy wound its way
through ever-ascending slopes of lawns and fountains and exquisite topiary: even with winter just a day away, and the chills of the year’s end creeping in with the gathering dark, there were
flowers still in bloom, each bed carefully seeded so that as one harvest of colour faded, another was awakening.

Emily had visited here once before when she was no more than eight, for her father to receive some honour from Lord Deerling. Her impressions were of massive high-ceilinged rooms finished in
gilt, of mirrors and polished floors that showed her reflection equally well, of a host of soft-footed servants who were always there to keep an eye on the curious child. Alice had come more
recently as the guest of one of her well-born friends at a party four years ago. In that gentler age on the eve of the war her eyes had been drawn not to the furnishings but to the people. During
their two-day buggy ride Emily had already heard from her sister a list of the great and the good who had attended, with especial attention to the eligible young men in their new coats of red.

‘Really you must marry soon, Emily, while I am still in the flush of youth,’ the girl fretted.

‘And whom do you suggest I marry?’

‘Oh, what do I care? After all, Mary married a tradesman, and you could hardly do worse than that.’

‘I apologize for spoiling your chances, sister, but I’ve no mind to marry any time soon,’ Emily said.

‘I know what it is,’ Alice said slyly. ‘It’s because the Ghyer called you a man. You needn’t worry. In a good gown like that you’re practically presentable.
And even if you don’t possess my gifts, your birth should stand you in good stead.’

‘Why thank you, sister, for your educated opinions,’ Emily replied somewhat tartly. ‘Do note that our parentage is not going to open many doors for us here at Deerlings. We
will be counted amongst the lowly.’

Alice sniffed disdainfully as though to indicate that her personal charm and beauty would make up for any deficit in pedigree.

Their little two-horse buggy was a shabby affair compared to most of the opulent carriages already drawn up outside the stables of Deerlings. Alice was too busy to make that
comparison, though, intent on ticking off coats of arms and looking for the intertwined herons that were the King’s. Grant helped Emily step down, and she paused and took a good look at
Deerlings House.

She had expected the giant edifice of her memory to be diminished now, no longer seen through the eyes of a child, but Deerlings remained the grandest building she had ever seen: a vast winged
front of regimented windows flanking a colonnade, which framed great front doors that alone seemed as grand as all of Grammaine. A pair of statues faced each other across the doorway: a near-naked
spearman with arched eagle’s wings menacing a coiled and barbed serpent in whose mouth glowed real fire.

‘Will you be all right, Grant?’

‘I’ll find my way, ma’am. I’ll put the horses to rest first, and then I’m sure the kitchen will have a bite for me.’ He chuckled roughly. ‘I
shouldn’t say it to you, ma’am, but I’ll wager the kitchen girls’ll have time for a word even for an old’un like me.’

Emily found herself smiling, where only a season before she would have been shocked beyond all reckoning – or at least feigned it – to hear the old man talk like that. Nor, she
guessed, would he have risked the words back then. Their escapade against the brigands had brought them closer through mutual peril. Now he was less formal with her, and she fonder of him.

‘I wish you well of them,’ she replied. ‘Come, Alice, we must go and present ourselves.’

*

‘Miss Emily Marshwic and Miss Alice Marshwic.’ It was announced in a piercing voice by a woman in footman’s garb, but neither of them really noticed. After a
year and a half of war, deprivation and worry, this was like coming home.

The great ballroom of Deerlings had a gleaming floor that scattered light and colour in mother-of-pearl reflections from wall to wall. The walls themselves began with gilded skirting wrought
into the form of waves, and rose up through spiralled pillars to merge into the ceiling’s spreading golden vistas of marine life. The first Lord Deerling had been a coastal man, and
subsequent generations had elaborated on his original theme, so that here could be seen fishing ships hauling in their nets, while there a kraken, many-armed and twisting, broke the water to do
battle with trident-wielding sailors. There were mermaids with their lyres, and schooling fish of silver and red and blue, and here the ancient sea king in his armour of shells, and each vignette
was separated by coiling gilded plaster moulded into the shape of sea wrack.

Beneath, and multiplied back and forth by the mirrors hanging on two walls, were the great and the good, the young and the beautiful, the wealthy and the powerful of all Lascanne. Two score
ladies of quality, from the stately Lady Deerling herself in pearls and white lace and satin, to pretty aristocratic girls a year younger even than Alice, each the centre of her own world. Their
gowns were a kaleidoscope of hues and patterns, for the scarcity of society gatherings prevented any consensus on the season’s fashions. Each had chosen her very best and, seeing them, Emily
knew that her own gown, made at such expense, was coarse and provincial. Some of these ladies probably dressed their servants in better. She did not care: she was here, and
here
at least
was somewhere bright and lively. Here was somewhere her worries could not follow her.

If only Mary had come, she would have loved to see this.
There had been no persuading her.

‘To think, I had almost forgotten what a man looked like,’ Alice declared, for amongst the throng of beautiful plumage there were men, perhaps one for every three of the ladies. They
were all of a piece in their colours, of course. Who, with an invitation to Deerlings, would not have his dress uniform ready, resplendent in gold and red? Emily recognized but a few of them: there
was Mr Markworthy, now a captain by the look of him. His head was cocked back, laughing, and he had three ladies half his age hanging on his arms. She spotted one of the Brossade brothers –
the younger she thought – with a monstrously broad and moneyed widow entreating him to something. The woman tugged at his cuff, and Emily saw that the hand of his that she took was of
polished brass, marvellously jointed.

She found Lord Deerling without effort; he was back from the Couchant front for this night only, or so rumour said. He was a tall man, not short of Poldry’s age, his thin face dominated by
a silver moustache. A younger officer was recounting something to him, but his attention was mostly on his lady wife, clasping her arm in his own. Behind him in mute attendance stood two hulking
men in feather cloaks: savages from some distant land.

‘But they’re all so old,’ complained Alice, having assessed each face in the room in only seconds. ‘Not one of them is under thirty, I’m sure.’

She was right, of course. These were the senior officers, the lords: those whose influence had wrested them away from the war for this.

‘Oh, look who it is!’ Alice exclaimed, pointing across the room and causing a few heads to turn. Emily followed her finger and saw a dark and shabby figure lurking by a statue. If
she had not recognized the face, or the clothes, she would have taken him for a bailiff.

‘Mr Northway,’ she said softly. He looked resentful and ill at ease, and the people around him were doing their best to ignore his presence completely.
Hateful little
man
’ she told herself,
like a black cloud of misery set to spoil the night for us.
But, in spite of herself, she found some sympathy for him. He was a public servant, a man of
papers and underhand action, and here he was adrift in a sea of gentry and gallantry.

Alice was tugging at her again, though, sounding breathless as she said, ‘Look, Emily, look!’

‘Is it the King?’

‘Almost, look!’ A group of men had entered the ballroom by the far doors, and the glittering crowd of the well-to-do eddied away from them to allow a better look. One was
silver-haired, Lord Deerling’s years at least, an elegant gentleman with a cane and a great red patch, like a birthmark, across his face. The others were of an age with Emily, or even
younger. What marked all of them out, though, was their dress. Their jackets were blue – but the deep blue of an evening sky on the cusp of night. The garments were cut longer than
greatcoats, falling in great sweeping folds to the floor. There was silver piping at their shoulders, tracing the outline of twin herons across their breasts. They bore no swords, unlike the bulk
of the officers and noblemen there, nor even a dirk at their belts, but each wore a chain of white gold secured on the left side with a sunburst inset with blue stones. There were other details
that Emily could not make out clearly across the breadth of the room, but she knew them already. She had seen that uniform before.

‘Warlocks!’ breathed Alice. ‘Wizards of the King!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘And young as well! What joy!’

‘And every other eligible young woman will be thinking exactly the same, and most will make a better match, and they will not be aiming so wildly beyond their estate,’ Emily
warned.

‘Oh, hush to you,’ Alice told her. ‘“Love cares not for privilege”,’ she quoted from somewhere.

‘You cannot have love at first sight, sister, until the gentleman has actually looked upon you,’ Emily chided her, but Alice, she felt, would make a fool of herself no matter what,
and so why say more? She watched as the elder wizard accepted the greetings of Lord Deerling and his lady. The younger men’s eyes flicked around the room, from face to face, and Emily felt
that they were mostly as overawed by the prestigious gathering as she was.

‘Oh, Emily, look!’ Alice cried again, but at the very room this time. The door through which the wizards had entered was now closed, but the wall it was set into was moving, opening
outwards to reveal a mirror-image room beyond: a doubling of the ballroom; another swathe of gilt and paint and silvered glass that the guests dispersed into. Dominating the far end of this
extended room was a magnificent staircase, carpeted in deep red with the fighting stags of Deerling heraldry embroidered on each step. Either side of these stairs was arrayed the orchestra.