‘
What?
’ A chorus of outrage.
‘It’s the only way to keep the whole inheritance together. It will be run as a vassal concern, but we’ll be alive.’ There was a thoughtful silence.
Neverfell did not understand everything she was hearing, but the important parts were all too clear. Maxim Childersin was not coming back. Her one simple, silly action had murdered him. And now
one of his nephews was selling the family out to a rival vintner family.
‘The Ganderblacks won’t take that mildly.’ Another of Zouelle’s aunts, sounding uncertain. ‘They hate us – they’ll want their pound of flesh.’
‘If they want a sacrificial lamb, we’ll give them one,’ replied the nephew with a tone of smug malice. ‘What about Maxim’s maddening little pet? It’s all her
fault, after all.’
Neverfell gasped silently. Yes, the whole thing was her fault, but it was a different matter to hear somebody else say so, and with such chill poison in their tone. Worse still, there was a
murmur of consent from the others.
‘Agreed, then,’ declared the eldest nephew. ‘Clapperfand, lock the silly blonde brat in her room. We don’t want to lose track of our lamb.’
It took a few heartbeats for Neverfell to understand what she had heard. They were not talking about her at all. They were speaking of Zouelle. It had never occurred to Neverfell that charming,
clever, beautiful Zouelle might not be loved by everybody. In fact, it had not really occurred to her at all that the denizens of the good-natured, brilliant Childersin household might not all have
each other’s best interests at heart.
She could hear small cries of protest. Pushing the storeroom door a little further open and peering round the corner, she could just see Zouelle being manhandled down the passageway by one of
her uncles.
‘Wait.’ It was the sharp-voiced aunt once more. ‘When you wrote to the Ganderblacks, who did you say would be running this vassal Childersin concern for them? Not
you
by
any chance?’
The brief truce collapsed. Most of the Childersins surged for the front door, nearly bursting it off its hinges in their haste to get out, so that they could head to the Ganderblacks and make
their own claim before the others. A moment later yells, horse whinnies and the clang of blades could be heard from the street. To judge by the words shouted, the Childersins were fighting over the
available horses.
It was at this point, with the door still hanging open, that Neverfell took her courage in one hand and a bucket in the other, then sprinted from cover.
The uncle dragging Zouelle down the passage was not expecting to be hit on the back of the head with a bucket. The blow was not heavy or well-aimed, but it startled him enough that he lost his
grip on Zouelle’s wrists. Neverfell seized the moment and one of Zouelle’s hands, then sprinted for the open door, dragging the blonde girl with her into the street.
‘Hey!’
Neverfell did not look back to discover which of the Childersin aunts and uncles were now in pursuit. She continued to run, hearing Zouelle’s ragged breaths behind her, and wishing she had
her old boots back instead of satin shoes.
It took her a moment or two to realize that there was an errand boy running alongside them, his bare feet keeping pace with her easily.
‘Turn left!’ snapped a familiar voice, and Neverfell obeyed. ‘Now right! Now duck down here through the crack!’ A dozen or so turns later, he finally slowed in a small,
craggy alley, halted and listened.
‘Lost ’em,’ he muttered, and turned at last to face Neverfell.
The errand boy was Erstwhile.
And how had Erstwhile happened to be in this particular illustrious street? The truth was he had been there, on and off, for some time. He had known that his loitering would
not be remarked upon. His betters had seen only his drudge clothes, his messenger satchel and his fly-pouch, and known he was a tool. They had noticed nothing else about him.
He had known Neverfell was within the house, and when at last she had erupted on to the street there had been no mistaking the red of the hair, the rapid, ungainly run. Now as they recovered
their breath beside a wild trap-lantern, however, Erstwhile saw her properly for the first time.
There was no mask. There was no mask at all. Even after hearing the rumours Erstwhile had not been prepared.
Eyes too big, too many freckles
, that was his first thought. Then
Neverfell’s features did things and went places and he nearly fell over from the shock.
Across her features, anxiety, resolution and remorse were being swamped by a surge of recognition, affection and surprise. Seeing her smile was like being hit in the face with a big, gold gong.
Then, almost immediately, he could see the smile fade a little, become diluted by hurt. She was looking for some reaction from him, some sign that he was as pleased to see her.
Erstwhile had exactly five expressions. Polite but stony calm with eyes lowered, for slipping discreetly past his betters. Respectful attentiveness for receiving orders. Keen alertness when
expecting or inviting orders. Humble remorse and fearfulness for receiving criticism or punishment. And just one smile, for those times when an employer had a right to expect a show of
gratitude.
This was not a day for smiles, and none of the others would fit. So he stared at her, with a blank, respectfully attentive Face, and could give her nothing more. It made him feel shabby, stupid
and angry.
Neverfell’s blonde companion had dropped down to sit on a boulder, lowering her face into her shaking hands. Erstwhile cast a suspicious glance over her burgundy court dress, then took
Neverfell by the arm and dragged her out of the other girl’s earshot.
‘So. It’s true, then.’ It sounded like an accusation. ‘About your face.’ He could hardly bear to look at her. Her expressions changed so fast they made him feel
sick. They shimmered and shifted and shone through one another. It was broken, it was all wrong.
Furthermore, the unquestioning faith and respect in Neverfell’s face when she looked at him made him self-conscious. It was like seeing his own shadow stretching away from him sized out of
all proportion, like that of a giant.
So that’s what I look like in Neverfell’s world. A giant.
‘Yes . . . I . . . Listen, Erstwhile—’
‘You never told me your face could do that,’ he muttered fiercely. ‘I listened to your nattering for hours. For years. And the one interesting thing about you? You never
mentioned it. Not once. Didn’t you trust me?’ He found that he was really angry. Neverfell wasn’t supposed to have Faces! Just that one velvet mask-Face, which had always made him
feel better about only having five.
‘I didn’t know!’ protested Neverfell. ‘Master Grandible never told me – there weren’t any mirrors – how was I to know I wasn’t just wearing a mask
because I was ugly?’
‘Dropped me fast enough, though, didn’t you? All these years, I been making myself late for my other errands, hanging around your parlour answering your dopey bloody questions, cos I
felt sorry for you, and knew you were lonely and a bit crazy. But the moment you got yourself some Craftsmen friends you can’t spare two minutes to talk to me, even when I’ve got an
urgent message. No, then it’s “Miss Neverfell sends her regrets, but has an engagement and is busy with her toilette”.’
‘What? You . . . you came to the house to see me?’
‘They didn’t tell you?’ Erstwhile sighed. ‘No. I should have guessed.’
In the kaleidoscope that was Neverfell’s face, he could see her thoughts dance with shocking vividness.
The Childersins hid things from me. Oh, no, they can’t have done. Perhaps
they forgot to tell me about
–
But they
are
all different from what I thought . . . perhaps they really . . . oh no, no, I can’t believe it . . .
‘Oh, shut up and believe it!’ he hissed, answering the unspoken thought. ‘They been keeping you in a box, and the last thing they want is you getting messages from old man
Grandible! That’s why they kept sending me away!’
‘You’ve brought a message from—’
‘Yeah, Master Grandible’s been worried sick about you. Been writing to the Enquiry to overturn the indenture and get you back as his apprentice.’
‘No!’ Neverfell twisted her hands together. ‘Tell him he can’t! I did something terrible at the banquet, and I’ll just bring trouble on anybody in charge of me!
Maxim Childersin was kind to me and now he’s probably being executed, and Zouelle over there was going to be a sacrificial lamb, and now the rest of the family are turning on each other.
Erstwhile, I don’t need rescuing! Everybody needs rescuing from me!’
‘Stop!’ Erstwhile took hold of Neverfell’s shoulders and did his best to meet her eye, while her expressions moved like flames. ‘You listen to me. This is what’s
really
happening. Everybody in Caverna has heard about you knocking over that Wine, and everybody’s trying to guess who got you to do it. Most of them think it was a distraction to
help the Kleptomancer steal the Stackfalter Sturton.’
‘
What?
’
‘Didn’t you know? Yeah, he found a way to steal every crumb. But nobody blames
you
. Because that would be like blaming a hat. Or a stick. Or a chess piece. To them,
you’re just a thing. A new thing that’s got everybody talking. And you know what? Right now half the Court is quarrelling about who gets to
buy
you if the Childersins go
under.’
‘But it is my fault.’ Again Neverfell’s face became painful to watch as her thoughts started their crazy carousel again.
Faces shouldn’t do that
, thought Erstwhile
furiously.
You’re supposed to see ’em, not feel ’em.
‘Nobody told me to spill the Wine.
I
brought all this trouble on them. Just me.’
‘You sure? You don’t know what Courtfolk are like.’ Erstwhile gave up and dropped his gaze. Looking at Neverfell was just too jarring. ‘They pull people about like puppets.
Particularly the older ones. Don’t trust anybody over a hundred and fifty years old, particularly if they look thirty. Anybody who gets that old in Caverna loses something, and they
don’t get it back. They can’t feel properly any more. They’re hollow inside, and all they got left is a hunger – a hunger to feel. They’re like . . . great big
trap-lanterns, all blind gaping need, and thousands of teeth, with decades to come up with tricks and schemes.
‘That goes for your precious Master Childersin too. You think he took you in out of kindness? He didn’t. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s playing, mark
my words. Nobody here is being kind to you.
Nobody
.’ He could not help glancing across at the blonde girl just out of earshot. ‘You got to get clear of ’em
all
, then
cut and run. Head back to Grandible. Or hole up somewhere, and send a message to me at Sallow’s Elbow if you find yourself in a spot.’
‘Erstwhile.’ Neverfell’s voice was very small. ‘I can’t. I . . . I have to go to the palace. So I can save Master Childersin.’
‘Have you gone Cartographic?’ exploded Erstwhile. ‘If you go to the palace, they’ll have your head on a block! Who came up with that plan – the Childersin
girl?’
‘No. It’s my idea.’ Neverfell’s voice sounded somewhat tremulous. ‘Listen – I can tell the Grand Steward that Master Childersin had nothing to do with me
spilling the Wine. And everybody will have to believe me, won’t they? Because my face shows what I’m thinking. I can’t lie. And then Master Childersin can go home and stop his
family tearing each other apart—’
‘Stop it!’ spat Erstwhile. ‘You don’t owe this Childersin family anything, don’t you understand that? It’s their own juice they’re stewing in. Have you
listened to a word I’ve said? What’s wrong with you? Don’t you believe me?’
‘I . . . I do . . . I know you wouldn’t lie to me.’ Neverfell sounded miserable and distressed. ‘All these years . . . you’ve been my best friend. My only
friend.’
Erstwhile heard the sad, numb little confession, and dug his fingernails into his palms.
‘Don’t be such a puddle-head,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve lied to you. Lots of times. You asked me about things I didn’t know and I made things up. I made things up
about me too. Hundreds of them. And you got no idea which bits were the lies, have you?
‘I lied to you and it was easy, because you believe everybody means what they say. Everyone’s lying to you, Neverfell. Everyone. And you can’t tell, because you’re just
not very bright when it comes to people. Brighten up fast, or you’re done for.’
He did not look at her. He did not need to. Over the years she had built a special palace of the mind for him, and he had helped lay every brick. Now he could feel its golden walls tumbling. If
he looked into her face, he would see hurt, bewilderment and the painful, necessary birth of doubt.
He turned away before she could answer, and was soon running off down the labyrinth of tunnels. Drudge boy running an errand, eyes obediently lowered.
Of course I lied to you all these years
, he told Neverfell in his head.
For the same reason I had to tell you the truth just now.
You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had, you stupid little hen.
In the heart of Caverna, the thronging thoroughfares at last yielded to a broad avenue of marble, flanked by well-guarded colonnades. At the far end of this could be glimpsed a
vast door with matching portcullis, the only entrance into the elite labyrinth of courtyards and pleasure rooms that formed the Grand Steward’s palace.
Towards this portcullis walked two girls, one a straight-backed blonde girl in a torn burgundy dress, the other red-haired, jittery and fretting at her green silk sleeves.
‘Are you ready?’ asked Zouelle in an undertone. She seemed to be having some trouble meeting Neverfell’s eye.
‘What if they show me in to see the Grand Steward?’ whispered Neverfell.
‘They won’t,’ Zouelle declared, and then hesitated. ‘And if they do . . . call him “Your Excellency”. Remember that if the Grand Steward’s right eye is
open, he will be cold but fair, but if his left eye is open that is a time when people fall in or out of favour. If both eyes are open, then you are of especial interest to him.’