Retribution Falls

Eighteen

The night was warm, and the air shrilled with the song of insects. Lush plants hissed and rustled in the tropical breeze. Electric lamps, hidden in the foliage, lit up an ancient stone path that wound up the hill, towards the lights and the distant music. Northern Vardia might have been frozen solid, but here in the Feldspar Islands winter never came.

Crake and Jez disembarked arm in arm from the luxurious passenger craft that had shuttled them from the mainland. Crake paused to adjust the cuffs of his rented jacket, then smiled at his companion to indicate his readiness. Jez tried not to look ill at ease in her clinging black dress as they made their way down from the aircraft. They were greeted at the bottom of the stairs by a manservant, who politely asked for their invitations. Crake handed them over and introduced himself as Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts, whom he’d recently made up.

‘And this is Miss Bethinda Flay,’ he said, raising Jez’s hand so the manservant might bob and kiss it. The manservant looked at Crake expectantly for elaboration, but Crake gave him a conspiratorial wink and said, ‘She’s rather new to this game. Be gentle with her, eh?’

‘I quite understand, sir,’ said the manservant. ‘Madam, you are most welcome here.’

Jez curtsied uncertainly, and then the two of them went walking up the path towards the stately manor at the top of the hill.

‘Small steps,’ murmured Crake out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t stride. Remember you’re a lady.’

‘I thought we agreed that I was a craftbuilder’s daughter,’ she replied.

‘You’re supposed to be a craftbuilder’s daughter trying to be a lady.’

‘I am a craftbuilder’s daughter trying to be a lady!’

‘That’s why the disguise is flawless.’

Crake had spent the last week coaching Jez in the basics of etiquette. She was a fast learner, but a crash course in manners would never convince anyone that she was part of the aristocracy. In the end, Crake had decided that the best lies were those closest to the truth. She’d pose as a craftbuilder’s daughter—a life she knew very well. He’d play the indolent son of a wealthy family who had fallen in love with a low-born woman and was determined to make her his bride.

‘That way, they’ll think your mistakes are naïve rather than rude,’ he told her. ‘Besides, they’ll feel sorry for you. They’ve seen it all before a dozen times, this breathless romance between a young aristocrat and a commoner. They know full well that as soon as it gets serious, Mother will step in and you’ll be dumped. Nobody’s going to waste a good marriage opportunity on a craftbuilder’s daughter.’

‘What a charming lot you are,’ Jez observed.

‘It’s an ugly business,’ Crake agreed.

It was an ugly business, but it was a business Crake had known all his life, and as he made his way along the winding path through the restless trees towards Scorchwood Heights, he felt an aching sorrow take him. The feel of fine clothes on his skin, the sound of delicate music, the cultured hubbub of conversation that drifted to them on the warm breeze—these were the familiar things of his old life, and they welcomed him back like a lover.

Seven months ago, he’d taken all of this for granted and found it shallow and tiresome. Having an allowance great enough to keep him in moderate luxury had permitted him to be disdainful about the society that provided it.

But now he’d tasted life on the run: hunted, deprived of comfort and society. He’d been trapped on a craft with people who mocked his accent and maligned his sexuality. He’d stared death in the face and been witness to a shameful act of mass-murder.

The world he’d known was for ever lost to him now. It hurt to be reminded of that.

‘Do I look okay?’ Jez fretted, smoothing her dress and patting at her elaborately styled hair.

‘Don’t do that! You look very pretty.’

Jez made a derisive rasp.

‘That ruins the illusion somewhat,’ said Crake, scowling. ‘Now listen to what I tell you, Miss Bethinda Flay. Beauty is all about confidence. You actually clean up rather well when you change out of your overalls and put on a little make-up. All you need to do is believe it, and you’ll be the equal of anyone here.’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Besides, the competition will be weak. Most of the women in this party have been inbred to the point of complete genetic collapse, and the others are more than half horse.’

Jez snorted in surprise and then burst out laughing. After a moment, she caught herself and restrained her laughter to a more feminine chuckle.

‘How kind of you to say so, sir,’ she managed in an exaggeratedly posh accent. She wobbled on the verge of cracking up, then swallowed and continued. ‘May I compliment you on the sharpness of your wit tonight.’

‘And may I say how radiant you look in the lamplight,’ he said, kissing her hand.

‘You may. Oh, you may!’ swooned Jez, then she hugged herself to his arm and followed him jauntily up the path to the manor. She was beginning to have fun.

Scorchwood Heights was set amid a grove of palm trees, its broad porticoed face looking out over a wide lawn and garden. It was a place of wide spaces, white walls, smooth pillars and marble floors. The shutters were thrown open and the sound of mournful string instruments and Thacian pipes wafted out into the night.

The lawn was crowded with knots of society’s finest. The men dressed stiffly, many in Navy uniform. Others wore uniform of another type: the single-breasted jackets and straight trousers that were the fashion of the moment. They laughed and argued, loudly discussing politics and business. Some of them even knew something about the subject. The women showed off in daring hats and flowing dresses, fanning themselves and leaning close to criticise the clothes of passers-by.

Crake felt Jez’s good humour falter at the sight of so many people, and he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Now, Miss Flay. Don’t let them intimidate you.’

‘You sure you couldn’t have just come on your own?’

‘That’s just not how it’s done,’ he said. ‘Deep breath. Here we go.’

Flagged paths meandered round pools and fountains towards the porch. Crake led them through the garden, stopping to take two glasses of wine from a passing waiter. He offered one to Jez.

‘I don’t drink,’ she said.

‘That doesn’t matter. Just hold it. Gives you something to do with your right hand.’

It was a little cooler inside the manor. The high-ceilinged rooms with their white plastered walls sucked some of the heat out of the night, and the open windows let the breeze through. Servants fanned the air. The aristocrats had gathered in here, too, bunching into corners or lurking near the canapés, moving in swirls and eddies from group to group.

‘Remember, we’re looking for Gallian Thade,’ Crake murmured. ‘I’ll point him out when I see him.’

‘And then what?’

‘And then we’ll see what we can find out.’

A handsome young man with carefully parted blond hair approached them with a friendly smile. ‘Hello there. I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, offering a hand. He introduced himself as Barger Uddle, of the renowned family of sprocket manufacturers. ‘You know! Uddle Sprockets! Half the craft in the sky run on our sprockets.’

‘Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts,’ said Crake, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘And this charming creature is Miss Bethinda Flay.’

‘My father used to use your sprockets all the time,’ she said. ‘He was a craftbuilder. Swore by them.’

‘Oh, how delightful!’ Barger exclaimed. ‘Come, come, I must introduce you to the others. Can’t have you standing around like wet fish.’

Crake let this puzzling metaphor pass, and soon they were absorbed into a crowd of a dozen young men and women, all excitedly discussing the prospect of making ever more money in the future.

‘It’s only a matter of time before the Coalition lifts the embargo on aerium exports to Samarla, and then the money will come rolling in. It’s all about who’s ready to take advantage.’

‘Do you think so? I think we’ll find that the Sammies don’t even need it any more. Why do you think the last war ended so suddenly?’

‘Nobody knows why they called the truce. The Allsoul alone knows what goes on inside that country of theirs.’

‘Pffft! It was aerium, pure and simple. They fought two wars because they didn’t have any in their own country and they couldn’t stand buying it from us. Now they’ve found some. Bet you anything.’

‘We shouldn’t even be trading with those savages. We should have gone in there and flattened them when we had the chance. Mark my words, this is only a lull. They’re building a fleet big enough to squash us like insects. There’ll be a third Aerium War, and we won’t win this one. New Vardia, that’s where I’m going. New Vardia and Jagos.’

‘The frontier. That’s where the money is, alright. Get right in on the ground floor. But I think I’d miss the society. I’d just shrivel out there.’

‘Oh, you’ve no sense of adventure!’

After a while, Crake and Jez excused themselves and made their way into an enormous drawing room. Here was the source of the music they’d been hearing ever since they arrived. A quintet of Thacian women played delicate folk songs from their homeland. They were slender, olive-skinned, black-haired, and even the least attractive among them could still be called pretty. They wore coloured silks and held exotic, exquisitely made instruments of wood and brass.

‘Listen,’ said Crake, laying a hand on Jez’s shoulder.

‘Listen to what?’

‘Just listen,’ he said, and closed his eyes.

In the field of the arts—as in science, philosophy, culture and just about everything else—Thacians were the leaders in the known world. Vardic aristocracy aspired to the heights of Thacian achievement, but usually all they could manage were clumsy imitations. To hear real Thacian players was a treat, which came at a hefty price—but then Gallian Thade wasn’t a man known to be short of money. Crake allowed himself to be swept away in the tinkling arpeggios, the haunting moan of the pipes, the counterpoint rhythms.

This was what he missed. The casual elegance of music and literature. To be surrounded by wonderful paintings and sculpture, perfect gardens and complicated wines. The upper classes insulated themselves against the world outside, padding themselves with beauty. Without that protection, things became ugly and raw.

He wished, more than anything, that he could go back. Back to how it was before everything went bad. Before . . .

‘Excuse me.’

He opened his eyes, irritated at the interruption. The man standing before him was taller than he was, broad-shouldered and bull-necked. He was fat, but not flabby, bald-headed, and sported a long, thin moustache and expensively cut clothes.

‘Sorry to spoil your enjoyment of the music, sir,’ he said. ‘I just had to introduce myself. Fredger Cordwain is my name.’

‘Damen Morcutt. And this is Miss Bethinda Flay.’ Jez curtsied on cue, and Cordwain kissed her hand.

‘Charmed. I must ask you, sir, have we met? Your face seems very familiar to me, very familiar indeed, but I can’t place it.’

Crake felt a small chill. Did he know this person? He’d been quite confident that nobody who knew his face would be here tonight. His crime had been kept out of the press—nobody wanted a scandal—and the Winter Ball was simply too exclusive for the circles Crake had moved in. Invitations were almost impossible to secure.

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t quite recall.’

‘Perhaps we met on business? At a party? May I ask what it is you do?’

‘You may well ask, but I’m not sure I could answer!’ Crake brayed, falling into his role. ‘I’m sort of in between occupations at the moment. Father wants me to go into law, but my mother is obsessed with the idea that I should be a politician. Neither of them appeals much to me. I just want to be with my sweetheart.’ He smiled at Jez, who smiled back dreamily, bedazzled by her rich boyfriend. ‘May I ask what it is that you do?’

‘I work for the Shacklemore Agency.’

It took all of Crake’s control to keep his expression steady. The news was like a punch in the gut. Suddenly, he was certain that Cordwain was watching for a reaction from him, and he was determined to give none.

‘And what does the Shacklemore Agency do?’ asked Jez innocently, though she must have already known. Crake silently thanked her for the distraction.

Cordwain favoured her with a patronising smile. ‘Well, Miss, we look after the interests of our clients. We work for some very important people. My job is to deal with those people, keep things running smooth.’

‘Hired guns and bounty hunters, that’s what they are,’ sniffed Crake. He was quick on his feet in social situations, and he’d already decided on the best tactic for getting away as fast as possible. ‘I must say, I find it very distasteful.’

‘Damen! Don’t be rude!’ Jez said, appalled.

‘It’s alright, Miss,’ said Cordwain, with an unmistakable hostility in his gaze. ‘There’s some that don’t understand the value of the work we do. The law-abiding man has nothing to fear from us.’

‘I say, sir, do you dare to imply something?’ Crake bristled, raising his voice. People nearby turned and looked. Cordwain noticed the attention their conversation had drawn.

‘Not a thing, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘I apologise for disturbing you.’ He bowed quickly to Jez and walked away. The people around them resumed their conversations, glancing over occasionally in the hope of further drama.

Crake felt panicked. Had there been a warning in the man’s tone? Had he been recognised? But then, what was the point in confronting him? Was it just monstrous bad luck that he’d run into a Shacklemore here?

The warm sensation of being surrounded by familiar things had faded now. He felt paranoid and uneasy. He wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

Jez was studying him closely. She was an observant sort, and he had no doubt that she knew something was up. But she kept her questions to herself.

‘Let’s go find Gallian Thade, hmm?’

Crake found him shortly afterwards, on the other side of the room. He was a tall, severe man with a hawk nose and a deeply lined, narrow face. For all his years, his pointed beard and black hair had not a trace of grey. His eyes were sharp and moved rapidly about as he spoke, like an animal restlessly scanning for danger.

‘That’s him,’ said Crake, admiring their host’s stiff, brocaded jacket.

Thade was in conversation with several men, all of them stern and serious-looking. Some of them were smoking cigars and drinking brandy.

‘Who’s that with him?’ murmured Jez, looking at the man next to Thade.

Crake studied Thade’s companion with interest. ‘That’s Duke Grephen of Lapin.’

Crake knew him from the broadsheets. As ruler of one of the Nine Duchies that formed Vardia, he was one of the most influential people in the land. Only the Archduke held more political power than the Dukes.

Grephen was a dour-looking man with a squarish build and a sallow face. His eyes were deeply sunken and ringed with dark circles, making him look faintly ill. His short blond hair was limp and damp with sweat. Though he was thirty-five, and he wore a fine uniform with the Lapin coat of arms on its breast, he looked like a pudgy boy playing at being a soldier.

Despite his less than formidable appearance, the others treated Grephen with the greatest respect. He didn’t speak often, and never smiled, but when he had something to offer, his companions listened intently.

‘Bet you never thought you’d see him when you came here tonight,’ said a voice to their right. They looked over to see a gaunt man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, flushed from alcohol and the heat. He was wearing a Navy uniform, his buttons and boots polished to a high shine.

‘Why, no, I hadn’t imagined I would,’ said Jez.

‘Air Marshal Barnery Vexford,’ he said, taking her hand to kiss it.

‘Bethinda Flay. And this is my sweetheart, Damen Morcutt.’

‘Of the Marduk Morcutts,’ Crake added cheerily, as he shook Vexford’s hand. Vexford wasn’t quick enough to keep the fleeting, predatory glitter from his eyes. Crake had already surmised what was on his mind. He was after Jez, and that made Crake his competition.

‘You know, ferrotypes don’t do him justice,’ Jez twittered. ‘He’s so very grand in real life.’

‘Oh, he is,’ agreed Vexford. ‘A very serious man, very thoughtful. And so devout. A credit to his family.’

‘Do you know the Duke very well?’ Jez asked.

Vexford glowed. ‘I have had the privilege of meeting the Duke on many occasions. The Archduke is also a personal friend of mine.’

‘Perhaps you could introduce us to Duke Grephen?’ Crake suggested, pouncing. Vexford hesitated. ‘We’d be honoured to meet him, and offer our thanks to the host. I know Bethinda would be very grateful.’

‘Oh! It would be a dream come true!’ she gushed. She was getting to be quite the little actress.

Vexford’s reservations were obvious. You didn’t introduce just anyone to the Duke. But he’d talked himself into a corner, and he’d seem foolish if he backed out now. ‘How can I refuse such a beautiful lady?’ he said, with a hateful smile at Crake. Then he laid his hand on Jez’s back, claiming her as his prize, and led her over towards the Duke’s group without another look at her ‘sweetheart’. Crake was left to follow, rather amused by the Air Marshal’s attempt to snub him.

Vexford’s timing was perfect. The conversation had lulled and his arrival in the group caused everyone to take notice of the newcomers.

‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘may I introduce Miss Bethinda Flay.’ After a pause long enough to be insulting, he added, ‘And also Damen Morcutt, of the Marduk Morcutts,’ as if he’d just remembered Crake was there.

On seeing the blank looks of his companions, someone in the group exclaimed knowingly, ‘The Marduk Morcutts, ah, yes!’ The others murmured in agreement, enough to imply that the Marduk Morcutts were indeed a fine family, even if none of them knew who the Marduk Morcutts actually were.

Jez curtsied; Crake bowed. ‘It’s a great honour, your Grace,’ he said. ‘For both of us.’

The Duke said nothing. He merely acknowledged them silently with nods, then gave Vexford a look as if to say: why have you brought these two here? The conversation had fallen silent around them. Vexford shifted uncomfortably and sipped his sherry.

‘And you must be Gallian Thade!’ Crake suddenly exclaimed. He took up Thade’s hand and pressed it warmly between his palms, then gave the older man a companionable pat on the hip. ‘Wonderful party, sir, just wonderful.’

Vexford almost choked on his drink. The others looked shocked. Such familiarity with a man who was clearly his social superior was unpardonable. The worst kind of behaviour. Nobody expected such oafishness in a place like this.

Thade kept his composure. ‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,’ he said frostily. ‘You should try the canapes. I’m sure you would find them delicious.’

‘I will!’ said Crake enthusiastically. ‘I’ll do it right now. Come on, Bethinda, let’s leave these gentlemen to their business.’

He took her by the arm and marched her away towards the canapés, leaving Vexford to face the silent scorn of his peers.

‘What was that about?’ asked Jez. ‘I thought you wanted to find out what Thade was up to.’

‘You remember this?’ he said, taking a tiny silver earcuff out of his pocket.

‘Of course I do. You showed the Cap’n how they worked. He didn’t stop talking about them for two days. I think you impressed him.’ She watched him affix it to his ear. ‘Looks a bit tacky for this kind of party,’ she offered.

‘Can’t be helped.’

‘Where’s the other one?’

Crake flashed her a gold-toothed grin. ‘In Thade’s pocket. Where I put it, when I patted him on the hip.’

Jez was agape. ‘And you can hear him now?’

‘Loud and clear,’ he said. ‘Now let’s get some canapes, settle down, and see what our host has to say.’