A Face Like Glass (26 page)

The Grand Steward, meanwhile, had designed the guarding of the Cabinet with extreme care. He had done everything in his power to make sure that the protection surrounding it was almost
impenetrable. Almost. As a matter of fact, that ‘almost’ was critical. He had ensured that there was one tiny chink in the armour that only a very careful and brilliant thief would
spot, a route through the main palace water pipe that only a madman or a prince of audacity would even consider. He had no doubt that the Kleptomancer
would
spot the flaw in the defences,
and hoped that he would mistake it for an oversight on the part of the guards. If it worked, if the Kleptomancer did try to worm his way in through the prepared chink, the Grand Steward’s
forces would be ready and waiting for him.

And if the trap failed? The Grand Steward smiled. If it failed, there were other traps ready and waiting. He thought it all too likely that the Kleptomancer’s strange, all-covering
metallic suit would protect him from darts, poison fumes and Perfumes, but he had asked for something special to be designed for the occasion. The stuffed body of the cameleopard itself was no
longer as safe as it had been when Neverfell put her arms round it. Mixed with its sawdust there was now a powerful mixture of ominous powders, just ready to release their vapours if the
cameleopard was jogged or manhandled.

These vapours would not choke away the breath or addle the mind, but they had the virtue of rusting metal with supernatural speed. The Grand Steward felt a thrill of scientific interest as he
waited to see the results. He doubted that the Kleptomancer would be quite so spry and speedy with every slat of his armour rusted solid.

Across the room, a venturesome spider swung from a gleaming thread, its legs curling and fiddling against each other like the fingers of a hand, every motion illuminated by the garish green
light immediately below. It lowered itself an inch and another inch, tempted by the slick bead of the dead fly below, laid out on its glowing cushion. It dropped one more inch and then suddenly
vanished as the jaws of the waiting trap-lantern snapped shut around it, fine teeth meshing and allowing no escape.

In the dreaded Hall of the Harps swaggered a small figure, chattering and chirruping softly to itself. Now and then it glanced about, the whites showed at the edges of its
wise, sad, cocoa-coloured eyes, but it did not seem unduly alarmed. Meringue crumbs clung to its pink, jutting pout. In the very centre of the hall where a little light pooled unwillingly, it
settled comfortably on its haunches to sniff at the red hairs it still gripped in its clever little hands, tweaking and plucking at them like a housewife teasing out wool threads for her spinning
wheel.

At last it pushed out its lips like an old man drinking soup, then raised itself up and continued its casual lollop to the far wall, where it tugged back the edge of a tapestry to reveal a tiny
rope ladder. It began to climb, only a rising bulge in the tapestry revealing its position. At the top of the ladder it reached a tiny arched window, concealed by the tapestry, and clambered
through.

The room on the other side was somewhat lighter, and filled with a rather different music from the Hall of the Harps, mostly snores and chitters. The monkey drew itself up and tottered daintily
across the tabletop with both hands raised and spread like a fastidious duchess, past a cage with a snoring wolverine, a glass case of cave spiders and a tank of fish humbug-striped in crimson and
cream, dozens of banded, spine-like fins floating around them in a halo. It ignored them all, and instead leaped upon an arm, then scrambled up to a shoulder, and pouted coyly as a finger scritched
the fur next to its jaw.

‘Bravo, Marcel.’ The fistful of red hairs was gently taken from its grasp, and held up to the light. Marcel accepted a shelled Brazil nut, turning it over and over in his tiny hands,
before pushing it into his cheek and chewing on it. ‘Well done.’

Meanwhile, his master took the frail red hairs over to a box next to a lantern. The box was fashioned from the finest mesh, for its occupants would have been quite capable of sliding out through
the holes in any ordinary cage. Within, it was just possible to see a slick, slate-grey tangle that now and then stirred sluggishly, like a long abandoned knot trying to undo itself.

Marcel’s master picked up a wooden object resembling a pepper grinder. Holding it over the cage he gave it a few turns, with the confident care of an expert chef seasoning a stew, and from
it fell a fine pinkish dust. This was not pepper, however, but finely ground Tommyreek, a spice famous for sharpening the sense of smell. At once the knot inside the cage gave a start. Blind
tapering heads raised themselves and mouths opened to taste the air.

Gripping one of the hairs with a pair of tongs, he lowered it until it spooled in through one of the holes in the mesh. The blind mass within began to writhe in good earnest, shivers of electric
blue shimmering down the glossy, slender forms as they strove against each other. The solitary hair was tugged from the tongs, pulled away by a dozen small, snapping mouths which then gaped again,
looking for more.

Marcel pulled back his lips in a grin like a yellow zip.

To pass safely through a jungle, one must walk either with stealth or confidence.

Zouelle recited this mantra of her Uncle Maxim as she trod the intricate mosaics of the Court for the first time. She had made her debut and been a guest at one of the Grand Steward’s
banquets, and thus had now won the right to enter the public walks of the palace, but she knew that rights alone would not keep her skin whole. If she flinched or showed a hint of uncertainty,
others would notice her, and start to see her as a victim or an opportunity.

Even with the three palace guards accompanying her, she was sure to keep her stride steady, her face locked in a smile of radiant smugness and anticipation. She counted in her head, forcing
herself to breathe slowly. One, two, three, in, four, five, six, out.
I am a Childersin
, she told herself.
I am a Childersin. I am one whisker on a great lion. When they look at me, they
see the lion.

I can do this. I can do all of this. I’m the best actress in the Beaumoreau Academy.

They had reached an arched door, presumably the entrance to the tasters’ quarters, and to her surprise Zouelle found her apprehension increase instead of diminishing.

This is silly! It’s Neverfell, remember? Just Neverfell. But . . . so much has happened now. What do I say to her? And what have other people been saying to her? Does she realize
she’s the talk of the Court?

Zouelle was sure that many courtiers were already bargaining and battling for introductions to the Grand Steward’s notorious and fascinating new food taster. Neverfell was not only
elevated, she was fashionable, and there was much status to be gained just by being seen with her. Zouelle had a head start on her rivals since Neverfell already regarded her as a friend, but if
she did not press that advantage she would doubtless be crowded out as others jostled their way into Neverfell’s warm and impressionable heart.

When Zouelle had shown Neverfell’s letter to her Uncle Maxim, he had made it clear that his niece
should
press her advantage.
Yes, you should go and see Neverfell, or she will
turn to others with her problems and questions. Be a friend to her. A confidante. When she looks for somebody to trust, we want her to come to us.
Zouelle thought she understood why. The
Childersin family had rocked on its pedestal recently and nearly tumbled. At this moment it needed to increase its influence, and in her new position Neverfell could be a useful contact.

‘If you would not mind waiting, my lady,’ murmured the nearest guard. Zouelle gave a small nod of consent, and the man disappeared through the door, leaving her attended by the other
two. So she was ‘my lady’ now, not ‘miss’. That was what she had always wanted, wasn’t it? Why did the words chill her? There was something so cold and final about it,
like the click of a door closing behind her. Her childhood was over, and now there was only her place in the ‘great game’, and whatever role Uncle Maxim had chosen for her. There was no
going back.

The door before her, on the other hand, burst open barely a minute later.

‘Zouelle!’

The blonde girl was nearly thrown backwards off her feet by a high speed red-headed hug. ‘You’re alive and not locked in anywhere! Are the rest of your family safe? Are they
here?’ Evidently Neverfell’s etiquette training had only achieved so much. One reunion, and everything she had been taught about proper greetings had fallen from her mind, like
precariously placed trunks from a runaway cart.

‘Steady! No, it’s just me here.’ With difficulty Zouelle extricated herself, and held Neverfell by the shoulders to examine her at arm’s length. ‘Uncle Maxim sends
his regards, but thought it would look less suspicious if I came alone. And don’t worry, the family are all fine. We’re all . . . fine. It . . . your plan worked.’ Remembering
Neverfell’s suicidal, hell-for-leather gallop into custody to save the Childersin family, Zouelle could not help letting her gaze drop for a moment. ‘And you, how are you?’
Neverfell’s grin was like an explosion, and at first it was hard to see anything past it. However, when Zouelle looked the younger girl up and down, she noticed swellings, bruises, reddened
punctures raked by scratch-marks. ‘You look . . . Has it been bad? What did they do when they questioned you? Did they hurt you?’

‘Oh.’ Neverfell rubbed ruefully at a spider bite on her neck, and shrugged. ‘Well, they set spiders and snakes on me for a bit and blew me up and there was this really scary
cake, but it’s mostly all right now, I think. Except I don’t ever want any more cake. Look!’ Neverfell held up her hands to show the steel thimbles on the edge of each of her
fingers. ‘I have to wear these so I don’t bite my fingernails. I don’t really mind, but they clink on my teeth a bit.’

‘But the Grand Steward?’ Zouelle made a desperate grab at the trailing rein of the conversation before it could run away again. ‘You have his favour? His protection?’

‘Sort of.’ Neverfell bit her lip and leaned forward to whisper in Zouelle’s ear. ‘His left eye seems to like me, anyway.’

‘Good.’ Zouelle glanced about, aware that many at Court took Paprickle spice to help them eavesdrop. ‘We should sit down somewhere quiet and talk.’

Zouelle was not allowed into the main tasters’ quarters, but it turned out that there was a little secluded parlour set aside for visitors, so they retired there to speak in private. The
ubiquitous palace servants opened the door for Neverfell as she approached, and Zouelle was suddenly stung by the thought of the guards perhaps calling Neverfell ‘my lady’ the same way
they had addressed her. Immediately the honour of that title cheapened in her mind, like a piece of tinsel that had adorned the neck of a puppy or piglet.

Once they were alone, Zouelle came straight to the point.

‘Neverfell, it’s not enough to be favoured by Left-Eye. You urgently need to win over Right-Eye.’

‘Urgently? Why?’

‘Because Right-Eye looks kindly on the Enquiry, and the Enquiry are not on your side. I know for a fact that Enquirer Treble distrusts you, and has suggested to His Excellency more than
once that her people should be allowed to put you to the question. Neverfell, on no account let yourself fall into the hands of the Enquiry, or you will be tortured into confessing all kinds of
things.’

‘But I thought they’d finished with me!’ Neverfell looked distraught. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because our family has spies among the Enquirers,’ Zouelle responded smoothly, then laughed at Neverfell’s expression. ‘Don’t look so shocked! Anybody who is
anybody at Court has agents in the Enquiry. They’re riddled with infiltrators. That’s why it’s so hard to work out who tried to have you killed in the Enquiry cells. It was
probably an Enquirer, but they could have been secretly working for
anybody
.’

Neverfell was full of questions about the Childersins’ welfare, so Zouelle hastened to bring her up to date. Mere hours after Neverfell had been taken into the Grand Steward’s
custody, Maxim Childersin had returned to his townhouse, somewhat haggard but unharmed. He had effortlessly seized the reins of the family once again, just in time to stop his relations tearing
each other apart.

‘And since then we have all been pretending none of it ever happened.’ Zouelle gave a small breathless laugh as Neverfell boggled at her. ‘How else could we face each other
over the breakfast table every day? Uncle Maxim will punish some of the family for the things they did when they thought he was dead, but he won’t do it openly, and he won’t do it yet.
Everybody knows that.’

As Zouelle expected, Neverfell’s face went into a whirligig of surprise, consternation, disbelief. This time, however, these did not ebb into confused acceptance. Like a monkey with a nut,
Neverfell was turning over a thought, holding it to her eye, testing her teeth against its shell. Zouelle suspected that she was thinking hard about Maxim Childersin, perhaps trying for the first
time to see him clearly past the golden glow of her own loyalty and gratitude.