Authors: Kate Elliott
In the tumultuous acclaim that followed this query, Sanjay herded the rest of the party out.
“I can see,” said Chryse in an undertone to her husband as they came out into the cold evening air, “that you and I had better not enter into any political discussions, all things considered. What a good deal we take for granted.”
“To be sure,” agreed Sanjay, squeezing her hand.
“Now I understand,” said Julian, “why the Regent and her cabinet are so set on outlawing the correspondence societies.”
“Of course.” Charity added quickly in her small, agreeable voice, “They had better go back to their work and let those who are qualified to know the laws make the laws.”
“That isn’t quite what I meant,” said Julian gently. “Frankly, as long as I have enough income to support myself and my dependents, I don’t particularly care
who
votes for Parliament.”
“But Julian.” Kate grinned. “How are you to maintain your income if your own tenants can vote for members who might institute radical changes?”
“Quite,” said Julian.
Charity lowered her eyes to gaze at her hands and said nothing.
“Here is Maretha,” said Chryse.
She came up to them with two companions. “I’ve persuaded them to listen to our proposal.” She stopped by Sanjay. “Lord Vole, may I present Madam Thorwell and Mr. Southern.”
Julian inclined his head slightly.
The elderly woman, a broad-faced, sharp-eyed individual, dipped a brief curtsey, but Mr. Southern merely narrowed his eyes and inclined his head in return. Julian frowned, looking for a moment very much the displeased aristocrat, but said nothing.
“And Miss Cathcart and my cousin Miss Farr,” Maretha hurried on. Kate tipped her hat, insouciant, to which Mr. Southern offered an ironic sketch of a bow. But for Charity he bowed indeed, and when she tentatively extended her hand, he took it and brought it to his lips. Chryse noticed with some surprise that Charity did not flush, but rather kept her eyes a moment longer on Mr. Southern’s face before gently pulling her hand away.
“I am Monsieur Mukerji.” Sanjay extended a hand to both individuals. “I am Professor Farr’s secretary. This is my wife, Madame Lissagaray.” Chryse shook their hands as well. Mr. Southern had a firm and confident grip. “We’ll both be accompanying the expedition.”
“So there is to be a new expedition.” Mr. Southern turned to Maretha. “Begging your pardon, Miss Farr, but how does the professor mean to finance this one? We came as close as ninepence to not having the funds to pay the day labor at Eppot-Staw.”
“Yes, there is a new expedition, Thomas.” Maretha’s voice was quiet but forceful. “The professor has acquired the funding from an interested party for the site of Pariamne.”
Mr. Southern raised a hand to brush at his black hair. He had an air of suppressed vitality about him, as if he were holding in a great store of energy. “That’s unexpected, miss.”
“Glory be saved,” exclaimed Madam Thorwell. “An’ he’s got his heart’s desire at last, has he, missy?”
“Yes,” replied Maretha in a constrained voice.
“We’ll be needing experienced foremen,” said Sanjay. “And we intend to hire a small force of laborers here in Heffield, to supplement those we take on at the site itself.”
“And just where may that be?” asked Thomas Southern quietly. “I’ve my ideas, based on a few conversations with the professor. And unless I’m missing my guess, you’ll need to do a great deal of convincing to get a good complement of steady and reliable workers.”
“That may be true.” Maretha looked from Southern to Madam Thorwell. “That is why I have approached you two first. You have the experience to recommend laborers and to suggest a fair wage for them, and to convince workers to hire on.”
“Where is the place?” asked Madam Thorwell. “If it’s a fair wage in these lean times, you’ll not be wanting for workers. Midlands ain’t so bad, even with them factories.”
Julian coughed slightly and he and Kate moved away from the group, ostensibly to examine the horses.
“North,” said Maretha in a low voice. “At the border, in the highlands—the area sometimes called the labyrinth gates.”
A small cart laden with vegetables trundled past, slopping through half-frozen puddles. From the inn behind a chorus of sudden shouts rose and then ebbed into a confusion of voices that trailed back into quiet. The shop fronts around were all dark; an occasional light showed through shutters in the stories above.
“I see.” Thomas Southern’s face bore a fragment of a smile. “You’ll have to offer very good conditions indeed to attract any honest help.”
“You’re crazy,” snapped Madam Thorwell. “There isn’t an honest laborer would take gold to work up there. Everyone knows those parts are haunted—labyrinth gates, indeed. And next to
their
lands, to boot.”
“Their
lands?” Chryse glanced at Mr. Southern. “Who do you mean?”
Southern flashed a surprised glance at her, but Madam Thorwell was well begun now. “Them barbarians, with their cruel sorceries. Strange and awful things of their making haunt those borders, and especially the gates.”
“Why is it called the labyrinth gates?” asked Chryse.
“Well may you ask,” muttered Madam Thorwell darkly. “All those as wander in the hills called the labyrinth gates, whether for good purpose or bad, are lost and never be seen again. It’s said the worst of it lies underground, where by rights no building should be, but wicked magic builds in wicked ways. Ay, it’s a cursed place, whether or not the lost city of Pariam rests there as well, with its own ghosts of plague and treachery and death. A cursed place that guards the border to a cursed land. It’s sheer foolishness to stir up trouble in a nest of vipers.”
“Oh come now,” said Maretha. “In this day and age haven’t we risen above such superstition?”
“Call it superstition if you will.” Madam Thorwell’s expression was fixed. “An’ you’ll be as dead as the ghosts an’ the other creatures—which I shan’t name for it’s bad luck—that inhabit those hills. They may be just tales, of what’s hidden beyond and below the gates, but my father allus told me, where smoke rises you’re sure to find fire. I shan’t be going, not for any price, and neither shall you find laborers.”
“Not even for two pounds a week for you, with meals and lodging in sturdy tents? And the same food and living, at five shillings a day for the common laborers.”
Thomas Southern whistled. Even in the lamplight, one could see his eyes widen. “Those are handsome terms.” He turned. “Come now, Madam Thorwell, not for such wages, and perhaps even a chance to find the lost treasure?”
“Treasure!” She snorted. “Any treasure will be sick and bitter with tainted magic, let me tell you, young man. What use are wages of any sort to a dead fool? I’ll have no truck with this expedition.” With a final contemptuous lift of her head, she disappeared back inside the inn.
“So, Thomas,” said Maretha. “I suppose we’ve lost you as well.”
“By no means, Miss Farr. I don’t disbelieve the tales, but I have faith in Our Lady to protect me from the tricks of the Daughter—and faith in Her Son to grant me the mercy of a quick and painless death if I should be overcome. And I’ve family to support—younger siblings, mother and father both ill from the mines, and my sister’s work with the correspondence societies.”
“Yes,” said Maretha quickly, “but I advise you to keep that particular interest quiet for now.”
“Yes, miss,” he agreed, not at all meek. “I can find plenty of honest men and women who are desperate enough for any wages that they’ll hire on despite their fears. These are hard enough times. But the wages must be met regular, and the living conditions hold good. And good wages for the local help, though I wonder how many you’ll find living up there willing to work so near the border.”
Maretha considered. “It’s poor country up there. Poorer than here, I’ve read.”
He nodded. “But I must know, miss, two things. Who is this benefactor? I must have some surety that the people I hire will get their wages.”
Maretha’s gaze faltered a moment, recovered. “The Earl of Elen.”
His eyes narrowed, and he crossed himself. His expression took on a look of intent calculation, somewhat at odds with the usual openness of his mien. “I see.”
“What is the other thing you need to know?” Maretha asked quickly, not wanting the silence to stretch out.
It was a moment before he spoke. “The workers will need a guarantee, Miss Farr. A wage guarantee, that wages will be set at the same rate, and regularly, from hiring until the completion of the expedition.”
Maretha blinked. “Be reasonable, Thomas. The wages being offered are excellent. A guarantee … that is radical talk, indeed.”
The laborer shook his head. He had a fine-boned, handsome face, but Chryse saw now that the cut of his jaw lent it obstinacy. “Not when the workers may be at risk of their lives.” He turned unexpectedly to Sanjay. “What do you say, Monsieur Mukerji?”
Sanjay shrugged. “I don’t think it unreasonable, but I have no say in these arrangements. I doubt if the earl would agree to it.”
“Then the earl can go to the prisons for his workers. He’ll hire no decent folk unless he has me or someone like me to do the hiring. You know that’s true, miss.”
Maretha sighed. “Both the professor and I respect your judgment in workers, Thomas. That’s why we came to you. But there’s nothing I can promise. The earl is not—” She hesitated. “—not an easy man to deal with. I will do what I can.” She extended a hand. “Can we consider you hired then, Thomas?”
He nodded and, with great seriousness, shook her hand. “You have always dealt fairly with us, miss. That’s the only reason I agree.”
“Come to Farr House tomorrow, and you can discuss with the professor and Mr. Mukerji the number and skills of the workers that we’ll need.”
“Very good, miss. When will we be leaving Heffield?”
But to this Maretha could not, for a moment, reply.
“The week after equinox,” said Sanjay quickly. “After the holiday of—” He glanced at Chryse.
“Sower’s Day,” she supplied with a slight grin. She leaned toward Sanjay. “That
is
what they call the spring equinox here,” she whispered.
“It’s a very auspicious day for a wedding,” said Charity.
“Charity!” Maretha’s tone was sharp.
“I beg your pardon,” murmured Charity.
Thomas Southern looked a trifle mystified by this exchange, but he shook hands with Sanjay and Chryse, and bowed again over Charity’s delicate gloved fingers. “Tomorrow,” he said. “And be assured,” he added, “that Madam Thorwell and I will keep this business as quiet as possible. I’m sure that will prove best for the expedition.”
“Good evening, Thomas.” Maretha nodded, and he went back into the inn. Voices raised into song as the door shut behind him, a lively tune about “planting the tree of liberty.”
“Well,” said Chryse. “That’s what I call an interesting young man.”
Sanjay looked at her. “Ah, well.” He grinned. “Too bad you married me.”
“I don’t know,” retorted Chryse. “Perhaps polygamy is allowed here.”
Maretha laughed. “He is a nice-looking young fellow, and well read, really.”
“For his class,” said Charity. “I can’t imagine he’s really
well
educated. And laborers soon lose their looks, I’ve heard.”
Maretha shook her head. “Doubtless because of poor food. Do you know, he once told me that his dearest wish was to become a clergyman—not one of those wandering itinerant preachers, but a real, vested clergyman. Of course he has neither the birth nor the education
nor
the fortune to get a place in the church. But he’s a very godly man.”
“Then he’ll enjoy working with the earl,” said Julian, coming up at that moment with Kate, “for a more ungodly man than Lord Elen I have never met. Though this fellow I thought a trifle impertinent.” He stopped suddenly, seeing Maretha’s stricken expression. “I beg your pardon, Miss Farr.” His voice was now soft. “It is not my place to speak of your fiance.”
“No, no.” Maretha turned away to go to the carriage. “It was nothing.”
Chryse hurried up beside her, taking her by one arm. “I did have one question, though.” She made her voice bright. “Who are these barbarians that Madam Thorwell was so horrified to contemplate?”
Maretha’s hand tightened gratefully on Chryse’s arm, a brief squeeze. “The northerners. You’ve seen the maps. The far northwest is their country. The region is called Herelf Ismor-ef, the Forgotten Lands.”
“But surely, on an island like this, that would have been—well, if nothing else, conquered by now.”
“Oh, it’s never been conquered, though many have tried.”
Chryse shook her head, pausing to let Maretha climb into the carriage before her. “Then the men and women living there must be terribly fierce, or have as powerful a magic as Madam Thorwell implied.” She mounted the steps and settled herself by Maretha. The interior was dark, Maretha’s face shadowed. By the door, Charity had paused, waiting to let Julian hand her in.
“Oh, they’re not human,” said Maretha in a soft and matter-of-fact voice that penetrated the darkness easily. “They’re elves, or what’s left of them. I don’t really know. But it’s quite true what Madam Thorwell said—people no longer go there, to the gates, and those that do don’t come back.”
“H
AVE IT BROUGHT BEFORE
Parliament as soon as they convene,” said the Regent to one of her cabinet ministers. “I want these correspondence societies outlawed and participation in them punishable as sedition. As treason, if possible. This rabble is absorbing influences from across the Channel that must not be allowed to proliferate in this country.” She frowned and swept the sheaf of papers in front of her to one side with an impatient movement. “The notion is in itself ridiculous, in any case. Our Holy Mother ordained our stations in life. We must be content with what She has seen fit to gift us.”
A general murmur of assent ran round the long table. The Regent eyed her ministers with a gaze both penetrating and tinged with contempt. The look faded when her scrutiny came at last to rest on her niece.
The heir sat at the far end of the table. The girl, dressed neatly and soberly, stared thoughtfully at a paper laid on the table before her. Her eyes, the best feature in an unremarkable face, lifted to return her aunt’s gaze. The Regent recognized at once the girl’s disapproval, but the small mouth merely tightened and the clear eyes dropped again to peruse the document.