‘You’ve changed,’ Zouelle said, inadvertently speaking her thought aloud.
‘Have I?’
‘I think so. A little. Your expressions . . . they’re bolder. And less . . .’ Zouelle fought back the word ‘half-witted’. ‘Less dazzled-looking.’
‘I think you’re right. I feel different.’
‘So what is all of this about? I got your letter – why this interest in Madame Appeline?’ In truth, Madame Appeline was the last subject Zouelle wanted to discuss, so soon
after the disastrous audition plan. Her very name was a reminder of Zouelle’s own mistakes, Uncle Maxim’s quiet displeasure and the price he had probably paid to persuade the Facesmith
not to pursue the matter.
As it was, Zouelle was forced to listen as Neverfell launched into a rambling, badly ordered explanation. She talked of a strange feeling of connection to Madame Appeline, a mysterious Face that
had tugged at her heart, a moment when she thought the Facesmith might have recognized her, a vision she had experienced after Maxim Childersin’s Wine and finally information gleaned from the
de Meina sisters. Zouelle had forgotten how tiring it was listening to a Neverfell at full pace, like being bludgeoned with exclamation marks.
‘You went out into the palace walks by yourself? Neverfell – do you have any idea how dangerous that was?’ Zouelle was torn between horror at Neverfell’s recklessness and
a sense of acute unfairness. Somebody as clumsy and clueless as Neverfell should not have wandered around the Court and escaped unscathed. Somehow the younger girl rampaged about, more like a young
animal than a human being, and survived things that would see anybody else dead.
On the positive side, it sounded as if some other courtiers had tried to establish an acquaintance with Neverfell and mishandled it badly. With luck, this might make Neverfell wary of such
overtures, and more inclined to turn to the Childersins instead.
‘But I had to find out about Madame Appeline!’ protested Neverfell. ‘I think I might be . . . related to her. A . . . a close relation.’ There was another word that
Neverfell clearly could not quite bring herself to use, but it might as well have been written on the air between them.
‘Oh dear.’ Zouelle could not help sighing at the pathetic hopefulness of it all. ‘Neverfell, you really haven’t thought this through at all, have you?
Of course
you felt a sense of connection when you saw that Face at the cheese-tunnel door. You felt what you were meant to feel. There is a set of motherly Faces from the Tragedy Range that Madame Appeline
wears all the time when she’s dealing with her Putty Girls, because it wins them over and leaves them doting on her. She wanted to get you on her side, so she used one of them on you.
‘Besides, all you recognized was the Face she was wearing, Neverfell. Not her, just the Face. And seven years ago the Tragedy Range was all the rage. Scores of people were wearing them.
Well, maybe when you were little you did know somebody who was good to you and who wore that Face, but that doesn’t mean it was Madame Appeline.’
Neverfell’s face fell, but did not stay fallen. Her brow puckered, and her lip protruded mulishly. A previously unsuspected pot of stubbornness was simmering away there, Zouelle realized,
and in its depths she glimpsed, just for a moment, a startling little diamond splinter of anger.
‘There’s a link,’ Neverfell said, a little defensively. ‘There’s a link between me and Madame Appeline. I know it, and I know that doesn’t make any sense.
Something in me woke up when I saw her. Everything started to move, to break open. It’s as if all these years there have been things waiting to happen, like a machine ready for somebody to
pull the first lever. And that first lever was me seeing her. I know her, Zouelle. And I know I have to push on until I remember why.’
The red-haired girl did seem more awake. The nervous energy that had previously been stuttering out of her in fidgets and frets appeared more focused now. If anything she seemed less tame, less
manageable.
Zouelle took a deep breath, and then released it. ‘All right, then. I’ll help you push.’ Neverfell, who had obviously been bracing for an argument, looked at her in surprise,
and Zouelle gave a small, elegant shrug. ‘Well, I had better – if only to stop you running around the palace by yourself.’ She smiled, deciding upon Face 57, the Willow Bows
Before the Gale.
Out came the blinding Neverfell grin again, and next thing Zouelle knew she was being hugged so hard that she had to beg the younger girl to stop.
‘Anyway, I asked a few questions about the Doldrums since you seemed so interested in them,’ Zouelle went on, once she had recovered her breath. ‘Apparently the whole district
is still walled up and sealed off, even after all these years. Back before the epidemic it was a bit of a slum, by all accounts. Dingy and dripping. Worst of all, seven years ago there was a lot of
excavation going on all around it – at that time they were still digging out the tunnels that became the Samphire District and the Octopus. The sounds of mining and drilling were deafening,
so nobody of quality was interested in living there.’
Neverfell rubbed at her temples.
‘I can’t remember. You would think I’d remember something like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘What it does mean,’ Zouelle continued patiently, ‘is that pretty much anything could have happened down there, and none of the neighbours would have heard a thing.’
‘What about Madame Appeline? What do you know about her? You said that your family don’t get on with her. Why not?’
‘I don’t really know. I think she and Uncle Maxim just fell out over something years ago.’ Zouelle shrugged. ‘Her feud with my family and that business with the valise
does make it rather hard for me to get close to her without causing suspicion. Don’t worry, though, I have a better idea.
‘Do you remember Borcas? Well, she passed the audition, and she’s working for Madame Appeline now. I suppose Madame Appeline never
did
find out that she was a close friend of
mine, otherwise I don’t think she would have taken her on. Of course, Borcas has been avoiding me like the plague ever since the audition to make sure her employer never
does
connect
us, but I’m sure I can talk her into helping.’
‘What about me?’ asked Neverfell. ‘What can I do?’
Zouelle took hold of both her hands and looked her straight in the eye.
‘Stay safe,’ she said in her best firm, big-sister voice. ‘Oh, Neverfell, you’re just not made for undercover work. You can’t lie, my dear, and I can. Leave Madame
Appeline and the Doldrums to me. Stay here and keep your head down.’
‘I . . . I don’t know if that’ll help,’ said Neverfell hesitantly. ‘Even here. Zouelle . . . I keep feeling like I’m being watched.’
‘Neverfell, you
are
being watched. All the time. By everybody. Haven’t you noticed? You’re the latest spectacle.’
‘But there was this note that told me . . .’
Zouelle could see that the younger girl was hovering on the edge of telling her something.
I can trust Zouelle
, was written across her face as clearly as on any page.
Oh, but I
probably shouldn’t tell anybody. And there’s no harm in keeping it a secret.
By the looks of things, Neverfell was trying to protect somebody again, so there was no point in trying
to wrestle the truth from her. No doubt it would come out in time.
‘Wait!’ A new thought had evidently paralysed Neverfell. ‘If there’s a killer out there who doesn’t want people looking into my past . . . won’t investigating
put you in danger?’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a Childersin. I’m very good at covering my tracks. Because even when I do make a mistake I remove it.’
‘Remove it?’
‘If nobody remembers a mistake, it never happened. So wherever I go I carry this.’ Zouelle delved into her pocket, and drew out a small corked vial. ‘If I do or say anything
really regrettable and there’s a witness, I just slip this into their drink, and they forget the last hour. I’ve used it dozens of times.’
The younger girl did not look exactly reassured. ‘You’ll be careful, though, won’t you?’ demanded Neverfell.
‘Of course! And I’ll be back soon, when I’ve found out more.’
Neverfell’s wide-eyed look of consternation stayed with Zouelle as she left the tasters’ quarters, and began her tense glide back to the exit of the palace. Did Neverfell even
remember from one moment to the next that she herself, and not Zouelle, was the assassin’s target? Neverfell was a blundering puppy, blind to all the dangers, blind to the offence she caused
with every step.
No, nobody would ever call Neverfell ‘my lady’. She was still a ‘miss’ all the way – misunderstanding, making mistakes, getting into misadventures. Zouelle
swallowed down an unexpected surge of envy, and tried to focus her mind, to think like a Childersin.
That went well. Neverfell still trusts me more than anybody else. None of the other Court factions have won her over yet. I’m in a game against the big players now, and when they notice
me they’ll start making moves against me, but at the moment I’m winning.
I can do this. I can do all of this. I’m the best actress in the Beaumoreau Academy.
All over Caverna clocks were ticking, each earning more than their usual share of glances. If the Kleptomancer were to meet the Grand Steward’s challenge, he had a mere
three hours to do so. It was decades since the Court had known such excitement.
In secret, wagers were made on his success or failure. The errand boys made a thriving business running hotfoot to and from the Cabinet of Curiosities to report on whether a daring theft had
taken place. Some nobles who had been particularly bored over the last century decided upon a vigil, and could be seen picnicking in their palanquins in the neighbouring courtyards, their monkeys
running to and fro laden down with silver plates of crystallized fruit.
The Grand Steward refused to join them, all too aware that this would give far too much opportunity for assassins whilst his security forces were focused upon seizing the ingenious and notorious
thief. Besides, a personal appearance would only inflate the Kleptomancer’s reputation and ego.
Most of the tasters were immune to the general excitement, drugged by the soothing smoke of their long pipes. Neverfell, however, lay painfully awake in her bed. Her trap-lantern was still
grumpily snapping at the scoopful of grubs she had brought it from the fresh barrel in the corridor, but even when it quietened Neverfell’s thoughts still ground and sparked.
More than anything else, Neverfell knew that she needed to sleep. She had slept badly the previous night, and tomorrow she would be attending upon the changeable Grand Steward for eight hours.
Which would it be, Right-Eye, exacting, intolerant, waiting for her to make a slip? Or Left-Eye, mad, silent and unguessable? Either way, she needed to be as alert as possible. She also needed to
be sharp enough to watch out for assassins seeking her blood.
She lay there with her eyes closed, as if sleep were a shy creature that might venture out if she played dead. But every time it seemed to be drawing closer, some loud thought would crash and
blunder through the undergrowth, putting it to flight.
And then there was the Kleptomancer. It was only two hours until the final moment of the Grand Steward’s challenge. Would the plan work? And if it didn’t, what would become of her?
It was partly her idea, after all.
She was so tired she could have cried. At last she sat up and glared down at the relentless fatness of her mattress. How did people sleep on these things? Too soft and too hard at the same time.
Something tickled her forehead and made her start, but when she looked up she saw nothing threatening, only the fringed tassels hanging from the upper frame, and the swell of the cloth canopy that
hung like a little ceiling over the bed.
An idea came to her. It would all be all right. She would be able to sleep after all.
It was forty minutes until the hour of naught.
In a cobbled square not far from the tasters’ quarters, a great clock told out each minute with ponderous disdain. Beneath the clock quailed a man that nobody was inclined to see. He was
fairly tall and of middling years, but he stooped slightly like an old man, perhaps from the weight of the briefcase in his hand. His heavy jowls wobbled when he blew his nose, and he squinted at
the world through Face 92, the Lamb Before the Butcher, an expression of pained pleading. Every time somebody passed through the square he called out to them in quavering tones and hobbled towards
them a few steps.
‘Ah, great ladies, I wonder whether I might call upon your gentle assistance . . . or perhaps you, sir, there is a plea that I would wish to be placed before the Grand Steward . . .’
The ladies’ fans opened with cracks like pistol shots, and were held up to block the stranger from view. The men invariably snapped on the most aloof Faces in their repertoire, and strode
firmly past, leaving him bowing in their wake. He was obviously just another pathetic, fallen courtier, desperately trying to find friends to help him claw his way back into favour. Nobody would
look at such a man in case the disfavour he suffered was contagious.
This was, in some respects, something of a pity. Had anybody actually taken the trouble to examine the man with any care, they might have noticed a number of oddities. First of all, while he
often proffered his briefcase towards promising-looking parties, he never opened it. Second, every few minutes he cast an eye on the clock behind him. Third, when he hobbled forward, his feet did
not make the slightest sound on the mosaic floor.
Now the trickle of passers-by had slowed to almost nothing. After all, it was now thirty minutes until the hour of naught. Outside the Cabinet of Curiosities, the crowds would be swelling. Here
there was almost nobody, except the pleader and a few guards. Here there was hardly a sound, except for the ticking of the clock, the echo of voices from the direction of the Cabinet, and the faint
sounds that were always present in Caverna, the dim reverberation of gongs far below, the faint, tinny sound of water pipes and, behind it all, the hollow boom of vast, unseen winds above playing
the mountain like a flute.