A Face Like Glass (25 page)

Green eyes. Green eyes like hers. Green eyes like mine. Could it really be? Could Madame Appeline be my . . .

But I’m an outsider and she isn’t! It doesn’t make sense! Unless . . .

‘You said Madame Appeline came from nowhere, didn’t you? Could she . . . could she have come from outside Caverna?’

She turned to find that the two sisters were no longer listening to her. They were both stooped over the scattered sketches, each directing the occasional, rapid glance at Neverfell.

‘No, no, no use at all, all the changes far too fast to capture . . .’

‘. . . like a butterfly’s wing . . .’

‘. . . yes, just as much chance of preserving . . .’

Both halted as if struck by the same thought, then locked gazes for a few seconds. Slowly they turned back towards Neverfell, wearing identical, motherly, reassuring smiles.

‘Ye-e-es,’ purred Simpria. ‘I think perhaps . . .’ She straightened, and reached out a curious hand to touch Neverfell’s jawline. ‘About here, would you
say?’

‘It would have to be done ve-e-ery carefully,’ Snia spoke softly as if Neverfell were an animal they were wary of frightening away. Something about her tone sent a tingle through
Neverfell’s legs, and clouded her head with thoughts of running. ‘Mounted on a cork board, do you think?’

‘And then we could find out how it all functions,’ murmured Simpria, tilting her head on her long neck to regard Neverfell’s forehead. ‘Why it is so different. What makes
it jump and change so . . .’

Neverfell flinched away from their reaching fingers and leaped to her feet.

‘You want to peel my face off to find out how it works!’ she shrilled.

Both sisters rose, carefully and slowly, perhaps still hoping they could calm Neverfell into sitting with them. Neverfell was suddenly aware of the folds in Snia’s toad-like neck, and the
strong look of Simpria’s large hands.

‘Oh tish, tosh, tiddle,’ wheezed Simpria gently. ‘Not now. Not while you have a use for it. Not while you’re alive.’

‘Get away from me!’ Neverfell backed off and dodged behind one of the great, man-shaped pillars.

‘We could do so much for you,’ wheedled Snia, edging softly forward. ‘All we want in return is a signature on a piece of paper, leaving your remains to us when you die. Not
even the whole body. Just one little head . . .’

Glancing round the pillar, Neverfell could see that the shouting had drawn the attention of Lady Adamant and her two male companions, and that all three were gliding in at speed, the
lady’s dress chiming like a war of tiny cymbals.

Neverfell ran. She took a wild zigzag from pillar to pillar, and heard the pursuers curse as they slithered on the smooth flags, trying to change direction. She darted, dodged, skidded then
sprinted flat out for the arch, ignoring the screeches of bewildered monkeys. Just as she reached it there was a sibilant tinkle to her left, and she dodged just in time as Lady Adamant leaped out
with cobra-like speed and made a snatch at her sleeve. The silver glove closed on nothing, and Neverfell made it through the arch.

Neverfell careered down the nearest arcade, saw a fountain too late and splashed through it, before sprinting on her way, leaving great damp prints behind her. Too late, she realized that she
had just made herself incredibly easy to follow. Panic added to her speed, but left her even more clumsy.

‘Aargh! Sorry! I’m so sorry!’ She accidentally jostled a passing servant, knocking his bowl of dried damsons to the floor. Neverfell faltered, but could not stop. A few steps
later she stumbled, rucking a rug and nearly losing her footing. At the next archway she set a collection of wind chimes ringing, and startled a caged cockatoo into a screaming fit.

She could not stop to correct anything. There was no time. She continued to run, her heart beating in her head like pursuing steps.

Unbeknownst to Neverfell, however, something magical was happening in her wake. By the time Lady Adamant and her colleagues arrived half a minute later, there was no sign of
the chaos Neverfell had caused. The mosaic floor was dry, the spilt food gone without trace. The rug was immaculate. The chimes were still, the cockatoo was silently and happily chewing upon a
rusk, and the only sound was the meek lapping of the fountain’s disturbed water. Furthermore, the corridor seemed to be a dead end. The far arch was curtained, and a couple of food tables
placed before it.

Lady Adamant summoned a white-clad servant over with an imperious silver finger. ‘I am looking for a friend of mine,’ she explained, letting her features ease into Face No. 96, Slow
Dawn Seen through a Glass of Honeydew. ‘Could you tell me if a young red-haired girl in a taster’s sash ran through here just now? I am afraid she might get lost.’

‘I am sorry, ma’am, but there has been nobody here of that description. Could I assist you with anything else?’ The servant looked up at her with the same Face that all his
fellows wore, bland and blank as a clean napkin. Lady Adamant dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and stalked off, only the fierce rapidity of her steps giving away her annoyance.

A short while later, however, a different set of feet trod that same corridor, more slowly and carefully than Lady Adamant had done. A different set of eyes slid over every detail, noticing the
motion of the water, the cockatoo’s dropped feathers in the cage, the slight crookedness of the hastily placed tables.

The girl had passed this way, and somehow the way had closed behind her. No matter. He had arranged for something to be stolen from her, something that could be used to reach her, and she had
already forgotten its loss.

There were many who called the Court a jungle, and with good reason. It had a jungle’s lush and glittering beauty. The people who dwelt in it, in their turn, were not
unlike jungle creatures. Some were like iridescent birds and long-tailed butterflies dripping with colour, lavish, selfish and beautiful. Others laboured tirelessly, diligent and unnoticed, like
great ants bearing hulking burdens across the leafy floor. Then there were bush babies and lemurs, hugging branches, their bulging night-eyes missing nothing.

There are many dangers in the jungle, but perhaps the greatest is forgetting that one is not the only hunter, and that one is probably not the largest.

The guards at the tasters’ quarters made no comment at seeing the youngest taster belt in past them, her sash loose and her face as red as her hair from running.

Dashing back to her own chamber, Neverfell locked herself in, then sagged into a chair with a long release of breath. Remembering her letters to Grandible and Childersin, Neverfell pulled back the
mattress and found, to her satisfaction, that they had gone. All that remained was a single folded note, which she opened with some excitement.

We cannot tell you who we are. If we did, your face might reveal it to everybody else and put us in danger.

Be careful. You were followed during your walk today. We believe the man to be an assassin.

Neverfell spent a full minute staring at the word ‘assassin’. She had thought she was being careful in the courtyards, and had tried to keep an eye out for anybody
following her. She had noticed a lot of stares, but had observed nobody shadowing her. She felt a pang of cold in the soles of her feet, as if belatedly sensing the assassin’s tread following
in her own tracks.

Worse still, she could not even be sure why this particular killer had dogged her steps. Perhaps he had been sent by someone from her past who feared that she might remember some terrible
secret. For all she knew, though, he might be in the pay of the family whose Wine she had spilt, or somebody else she had unintentionally offended.

Every step she took seemed to show her a new danger. Talking to strangers could kill her. Failing to remember table etiquette could kill her. Ignorance could kill her. And now it seemed that
stepping outside the tasters’ chambers for a stroll could kill her.

But it didn’t
, answered the newly rebellious part of her mind.
I went out to investigate, and I discovered things. For once I did something that was my idea – just mine
– and it worked.

She sat up and considered everything she had learned during her outing. If Simpria and Snia were to be believed, about seven years ago Madame Appeline had been buying clothes for a little girl.
Perhaps the child had been a niece or the daughter of a friend, but then why would she need to be so secretive about it? And why would the Facesmith spend money she could not afford on nice dresses
unless they were for her own child, her very own secret daughter?

She must have loved her very much.
If the de Meina sisters had meant to make Neverfell think less of their rival by telling the story of the dresses, they had failed. On the contrary, the
tale had filled Neverfell with sympathy, curiosity and hope.

In spite of all her fears, Neverfell could not help wiggling her feet in her satin shoes, as silver caterpillars of excitement writhed round each other in her stomach. She ran her fingertips
over her own face.
Do I look like Madame Appeline?
She could still recall her reflection in the mirror.
Not much
, she conceded.
I’m not beautiful like her. I’m tall for
my age, too, and she’s quite short for hers. But we both have green eyes.

There was that influenza outbreak. Perhaps that happened because an outsider broke into Caverna somehow and brought it in with him. Perhaps he was my father, and he came to the Doldrums, and
he met Madame Appeline and they fell in love, and . . .

Neverfell’s imagination stumbled mid-gallop.
No, that doesn’t make sense, because then the little girl would have to be born after the outbreak, wouldn’t she? And she
wasn’t; she was already at least five years old by then and having dresses bought for her. So . . . perhaps Madame Appeline sneaked out of Caverna somehow, secretly got married and had a
baby, and then later sneaked back in again with her daughter . . . But how?

Neverfell hesitated then frowned, biting her lip. She was trying to force her theory to make sense, but there were some annoying knobbly facts getting in the way. She had the uneasy feeling that
she was thumping mismatched jigsaw pieces together to make them fit.

Neverfell needed more information, and if there were an assassin waiting for her in the courtyards it would be madness to run out there alone again. She needed an ally fast. Snatching up a piece
of blank paper, Neverfell sat down and penned another note.

DEAR ZOUELLE,

PLEASE WRITE AND LET ME KNOW THAT YOU ARE WELL AND IF YOUR FAMILY HAVE STOPPED TRYING TO STAB EACH OTHER AND LOCK YOU UP. I AM FINE AND I DO NOT THINK
ANYBODY WANTS TO ARREST ME AT THE MOMENT WHICH IS A NICE CHANGE.

CAN YOU COME TO THE PALACE? I REALLY WANT TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT SOME THINGS I FOUND OUT ABOUT MADAME APPELINE. YOU KNOW MUCH MORE ABOUT COURT THAN ME AND YOU ARE GOOD AT
COMING UP WITH PLANS. ALSO DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT A PLACE CALLED THE DOLDRUMS?

ONLY SEND LETTERS BACK TO ME THROUGH THIS MESSENGER OR THE ENQUIRY WILL GET THEM.

NEVERFELL

Once the letter was tucked under her mattress, Neverfell hugged her knees once more and sat in thought. There were new ideas in her head and new feelings. For the first time,
she was not hidden in a corner or feeing from one emergency to the next. This time she was the hunter, tracking down the past . . . and Madame Appeline.

Needless to say, it was a very different hunt that was being discussed all over Caverna. The Kleptomancer’s scandalous theft of the Stackfalter Sturton and the Grand
Steward’s challenge were the gossip on every level of the labyrinthine city. Perfumiers brought out novelty fragrances called ‘Thief of Hearts’ and ‘Stealth of the
Cat’. Artists drew up a hundred imagined figures of the Kleptomancer, most of them tall, suave, caped and absolutely nothing like the stumpy, begoggled, metal-suited figure that had last been
seen leaping off a cheese plate and diving into a lagoon.

Meanwhile, a hundred measures were afoot to catch the scurrilous Stackfalter-snatcher. Such a powerful and prodigious cheese generally had a powerful and prodigious smell, and this was no
exception. Those perfumiers who worked for the Enquiry were stalking the caverns, scenting the air for the slightest hint of its mossy aroma. Others were scouring the tunnels using harnessed
glisserblinds, in the hope that the tiny blind snakes’ miraculous sense of smell would detect a trace even the perfumiers had missed.

The Cabinet of Curiosities now drew more curiosity than ever before. Hundreds flocked to survey the oddities there, and in particular the lanky cameleopard. The visitors noted the increase in
guards, but there were many new security measures that they did not see. They were oblivious to the unseen watchers who peered through hidden slits in the walls, their senses sharpened with
spices.

In the hope of finding out how the theft would take place, one Enquirer even decided to turn to cheese. In spite of all warnings, he risked taking several small nibbles of the infamous
Whispermole Mumblecheddar, famous for revealing flashes of the future, and also for tasting like rotting slug juice on fire. Cheeses, however, are not meek and slavish foods, and their visions not
so easily commanded. The Enquirer did indeed see glimpses of his own future, but learned only that his second son would be born with a squint, that his own nose would some day be broken by a
penguin-shaped paperweight, and that he would spend the rest of the day being miserably ill due to eating food far too rich for him.