Spring (52 page)

‘The Peace-Weaver was there because it’s her job to be where she needs to be and anyway she was looking for her successor the Shield Maiden, who of course she found, but more of that in a moment. Brunte was there because he was accompanying one of the Sinistral clan and it was they who caused the accident under cover of violent weather. But you know some of that already . . . ?’

Jack nodded grimly.

‘Things didn’t go according to plan. They were trying to kill you but you didn’t die and what’s more you saved Katherine which, strangely or not as the case may be, fulfilled a prophecy about a giant and a maid, or seemed to, that Beornamund had made. Brunte did not know any of that then, but he did glimpse the Peace-Weaver and he saw the pendant of Beornamund and, in that moment, to his hatred of the Sinistral was added a desire to one day possess the Sphere, a desire shared by Slaeke Sinistral the Second, head of the dynasty.’

‘Why did they want to kill me?’

‘They feared that you would find a way of stopping them recreating the Sphere.’

‘You mentioned the Shield Maiden . . .’

‘Yes, Katherine . . .’

‘That’s ridiculous, she’s just Katherine. There’s nothing special about Katherine except that I . . .’

‘Except that you what?’

He coloured but said nothing. He did not need to. His love for Katherine was obvious enough.

‘One way or another the High Ealdor and Igor Brunte, though hardly bosom friends, colluded to keep your continuing existence a secret. The Sinistral assumed you were dead because Brunte had the sense to tell them so. As for Katherine, no one knew her importance and it was best left that way. The one human who knew for certain about the Hyddenworld was Katherine’s mother, because she remembered us being at the crash and the help we gave.

‘Most of us have made the journey to Woolstone through the years to place mirrors and chimes in her garden to protect Katherine from the Fyrd. They confuse them.

‘We guessed, as did Brunte, that the Sinistral had finally worked out about you and Katherine being alive and that when Clare was gone Katherine would be vulnerable and through her you would be too. Slaeke Sinistral sent Meyor Feld, one of his more experienced Fyrd, and some colleagues to investigate Brunte and take you – though for what reason we can only guess.

‘Probably he thought that one way or another you would lead them towards finding the lost pieces of the Sphere. Brunte succeeded in winning Feld to his point of view about the Sinistral. If he had not done so you would probably be back in Germany by now.

‘We were not sure he would keep his word to Brunte, so we came to Woolstone to keep an eye on things and offer what protection we could. One of the reasons we wanted you to make an appearance in Brum was so that people would know for certain that you exist. Brunte’s takeover of the city is only the beginning of what is likely to be years of revolt against the Sinistral dynasty.

‘You, Jack, are a giant-born and, we think, born to be leader of a global revolution against the Sinistral.’

Jack shook his head in disbelief.

‘Sounds like Brunte’s the leader, not me,’ he said. ‘All I want to do is get Katherine to safety and normality.’

‘That’s all we want for now, and for Brum folk to know you exist. Once they know something about you, it’s up to you to do the rest. But that will not be for a few years yet.’

‘Like what?’ said Jack doubtfully.

‘It’s in your wyrd that something will happen.’

‘Humph!’ said Jack.

‘It’s also in a giant’s wyrd that a great deal that is unpredictable will happen,’ observed Bedwyn Stort.

‘Which is where we come in,’ said Pike. ‘We’re here to keep an eye on things.’

‘When you say the problem is getting us out of Brum, what’s wrong with the way we came in?’

‘Brunte will not let that happen. He’s imposed what’s called a Seal, claiming it’s against the floods. There won’t be floods, not this year. But the Seal’ll remain in place until he gets you.’

‘What will he do with me and Katherine if he does?’

‘We don’t know. Keep you close-guarded until you lead him to Beornamund’s artefacts – and we don’t want him to get his hands on those. Or maybe he’s curious about Katherine being the Shield Maiden. We don’t know for certain. But what happens in Brum this week, next week, next year, is not your concern. The prophecy says . . .’

‘What exactly?’ said Jack dismissively.

‘That you’ll be back in about six years’ time,’ said Stort. ‘When you are fully of age.’

‘Back to do what?’

They shrugged.

‘Have to wait and see,’ said Stort.

‘Just so,’ agreed Brief.

‘Now . . .’ said Stort, getting up, ‘I have to go and work on Jack and Katherine’s exit strategy . . .’

‘I’ve only just got here.’

‘As Mister Pike explained, that’s all we ever wanted for this first visit, that you’re seen,’ said Brief. ‘Ideally you’d actually do something as well, but that’s not something we have any real control over. Eh, Mister Mallarkhi?’

‘That be how it always is,’ came the reply. ‘But time to end this good talk, the Bride’s Feast be nigh!’

L
ord Festoon’s twenty-fifth birthday party officially started at noon, but did not get going until a little later because of delays to arrangements and guests caused by the floods.

Two hundred of Brum’s great and good, along with the not-so-great and the definitely bad, were now crammed into the Orangery, enjoying food and drink, the conversation, and watching the myriad entertainments their host had so lavishly provided.

Subterranean though it was, and without benefit of direct sunlight, the great architect ã Faroün, composer and lute player, blessed be his name, had succeeded in directing light into the huge chamber by way of mirrors and reflective tubes energized by a simboul, or sounding board, composed of vibrating rods of timla wood, so that oranges could grow there in abundance, their fragrance delicious in the sweet-flowing air.

A good time after things had started, the Master of Ceremonies clapped his hands and the guests fell quiet, waiting now for the procession of musicians, acrobats, clowns, circus acts, japery, jesters and dancers which traditionally preceded the presentation of the birthday cake. This was the moment when the citizens of Brum honoured its High Ealdor with a gift of the supreme art of one of the many patissiers employed in the kitchen of Parlance, Master of Cuisine.

The procession wove snakelike among the guests, so that they could feast their eyes and ears on all that was on display while helping themselves to delicacies, both sweet and savoury, offered by the Sisters Chaste, as the younger members of the Order of Sisters of Charity were known. On this special occasion these girls were dressed in the alluring diaphanous garments of Chastity in order to signify their untouched and unblemished state – to the delight of all, including themselves.

Among them was Katherine herself, looking just like a dozen others.

Her face was caked in bleached chalk, her eyes lined with mascara, her mouth turned into a sugared cherry by the expert application of bright red lipstick, her cropped hair now hidden under a black wig, her pale robe of floaty silk suggestive but not actually revealing.

From the beatific smile on her face it might have seemed she was thoroughly enjoying herself, and in a way she was. The anointing of her body with seductive oils and potions by the Sisters had proved a very pleasant and relaxing experience, her mood already carelessly dreamy as a result of the mildly hallucinogenic elixirs with which she had been plied since her capture.

There was also an infectious excitement about the occasion and a sense of camaraderie among the younger Sisters which made it very tempting for Katherine to enjoy the present and not worry about the future. Finding the will to fight back and clear her brain for the second time that day was proving difficult. But even so she had already begun looking for a way to escape.

L
ord Festoon’s birthday party was the one annual function in Brum which it was obligatory for the entire Council of Ten and their senior staff to attend. Any absences were taken as an insult to the office of High Ealdor, and therefore to the city as well. There was even a city statute, going back nearly two hundred years, which decreed that such non-attendance should incur an ‘Admonishment’ by the Sub-Quentor, subject to the Quentors’ say-so, the nature of that Admonishment being ‘at the discretion of the Sub-Quentor’ himself.

But Brum being a free and easy sort of place, there had been no Admonishment for more than a century. The Statute had continued to be ignored ever since the Fyrd took over the city, because their senior hierarchy, especially those who were also Councillors, had as little interest in festivities as they had in old statutes.

Sub-Quentor Brunte, however, like so many power-seekers before him, recognized that old and half-forgotten statutes could serve their purpose for those who knew how to exploit them to legitimize actions that others might otherwise object to. All he needed therefore was an ‘Order of Admonishment’ from the Quentors.

Brunte had three habitual offenders regarding this statute to attend.

The first and most important on the list was General Elon, the city’s Administrator, who was responsible for maintaining the civilian and material security of Brum. He had no time for Festoon and his self-indulgences, and he was adept at finding excuses not to attend, some better and more plausible than others.

The rain and rising waters of the past days and the previous night’s decision by the Ten to impose a Seal provided the perfect excuse for the apology he had given. He was more than content to stay in his quarters, where he could get on with some work, receive reports, and keep a general eye on things with the help of junior staff, while his senior people attended the illustrious celebrations.

The only one of these high-rankers who elected not to go was Lieutenant Backhaus, a taciturn officer who Elon liked to keep near by him because of his great efficiency and ability to make logical decisions quickly.

A second habitual stay-away was Freddy Wick, commodity trader and the richest hydden in all Englalond, who, having genuinely ricked his back twenty years before, had ever since found it the perfect excuse to avoid doing anything he did not wish to.

The afternoon of Festoon’s party had become the occasion for a little tradition of his own: having an athletic time in the arms of his mistress in his nuptial bed. It was a secret ritual which gave him strength to put up with his loathsome and self-centred wife, who would not have missed Festoon’s celebrations for anything.

The third and last stay-away among the Ten was Transport Director Dowty, whose lack of personal skills and nitpicking obsession for rules had caused his demotion from the same job in Berlin three years before. It was a slight he had taken badly at the time, yet he had ended up happier. For Brum had worked its magic on him and, thirty-six months later, he knew how to control things to enhance the traffic flow of this complex city better than anyone, including even his human counterparts in the Upperworld. A sworn enemy of Elon, and indeed of most of the other Fyrd hierarchy, because he so much disliked their general air of superiority, he had never been once to the High Ealdor’s party – and would never go, even if it became a sacking offence.

His usual excuse was that his timetable did not allow it. Which was the absolute truth, for he was obsessed by time-keeping, so that every minute of his day was scheduled and prioritized, with the result that he never wasted time on what he considered unimportant matters. In fact his life was an arid desert, devoid of any of the pleasures that delight others, whether of the spirit, the mind or the flesh.

Dowty lived alone because that meant he was not subject to others’ domestic inefficiency. He preferred simple food, generally eaten raw, because cooking and washing-up absorbed valuable time. He had no leisure activities, because he thought they served no purpose. He would never use two words if one would do, and often he used none at all. Though not totally devoid of normal mortal impulses where matters of the heart and flesh were concerned, he suppressed them as being mere time-wasters.

Yet Dowty had friends, though not many, mainly people like himself who were wedded only to efficiency and finding strategies to improve it. One such soul mate had been Brunte’s late predecessor, Finial Fane, who had shared with the transport manager an obsessive love of numbers and efficiency. It was through him that Brunte had met Dowty and learned that he possessed an extraordinary, perhaps unique, natural gift: he could tell the time without reference to a chronometer. In fact he could
count
the time with an accuracy greater than any chronometer.

It happened that Fane, before his death, had asked his friend about the source of this gift in Brunte’s presence. Dowty could only suggest that it was like tuning in to a universal clock, though not one which possessed a tick or any mechanism. Rather, he said, it was an inner rhythm, as if by some freak chance his body had been aligned or attuned to the rhythms of the Universe itself.