certificate of royal breeding will be presented to the surgeon before the coronation ceremony culminates in Parliament Square. A quick blood machine test will be repeated there to verify your identity.’
‘I may go now?’ said the prince.
‘Of course,’ said the official. ‘I am sure you have a full diary.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said the prince. ‘It’s a constant effort to fit in all the feasts, dedications and bridge openings in between the stonings.’
‘We all but serve,’ the two officials chorused, bowed towards Captain Flare and the Special Guardsmen, and departed.
Flare watched Prince Alpheus leave after the two functionaries had been escorted from the palace. Hardfall moved closer to Flare. It was an oddly intimate gesture, but the Special Guardswoman was wary in case the order was surreptitiously listening in to their conversation in the chamber. Their worldsinger minders had become skittish in the last few days, almost as if they suspected that the normal order of things was not being followed; they would be right of course — but not for any reason they could guess at.
‘Greenhall will find out,’ said Hardfall. ‘After they run the blood machine test.’
‘They may not notice,’ replied Captain Flare. ‘They may not even care if they do. Half a royal is better than picking some non-entity from the royal breeding house to be king. The penny sheets are too used to Alpheus as prince. His face is familiar to the voters.’
‘It’s the other half of our young princeling that worries me,’ said Hardfall, brushing her cape back. Her pistol rode high on her hip, slung provocatively. Not that she needed it with her fey gifts.
‘The other half can’t be traced back to me,’ said Flare. ‘Only the mist can make us feybreed — there are no markers in the blood, no gifts that can be passed to our children. If we could breed pure and fey, we would have freed ourselves centuries ago.’
‘Yes, I suppose we would have,’ said Hardfall. ‘And if our blood ran mist-true the order’s fey-finders would have noticed years ago that the prince is your son, not King Julius’s.’
‘Alpheus is a hamblin,’ said Flare. ‘Whatever else he is, he is normal.’
‘For a royal,’ said Hardfall. ‘But then haven’t we all been marked by fate? You will tell him, when all this is over?’
‘He’ll find out.’
‘He might be more cooperative if he knew now.’
‘Or he might not,’ said Flare. ‘He wants his freedom as much as we want ours. I think we can leave it at that for now.’
‘As you will, my captain,’ said the Special Guardswoman. She watched him leave with sad hungry eyes. ‘As you will.’
It was odd. Now that Oliver was packing his knapsack after a week in Shadowclock’s church, saying goodbye to the preacher was like a leave-taking from his uncle. It was as if some link existed between them — far more than a few days’ hospitality coerced by the disreputable Stave’s blackmail should have warranted. There were still a few workers outside in the street, tending the gas mines even in the small hours of the night. Why not? It was always night in the shafts and channels underground.
‘You don’t need to stay up so late,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s not as if you signed on to help us voluntarily.’
‘I never get tired at night, boy,’ said the reverend. ‘It’s the most peaceful time of the day.’
Oliver checked his canteen for water. ‘I know what you mean.’ And by the Circle, he did know. Last night he had only slept two hours and rather than feeling tired, he felt as though he had rested for a month in one of Middlesteel’s finest hotels. More than that, his bones seemed to vibrate in the sleeping hours, his blood racing to the call of the moon. He ached to go outside and feel the beauty of the darkness on his skin, slip through its cleansing purity. And his dreams — they had become compressed bolts of images, dense memories of past lives — hundreds of them, all different and all the same.
The preacher saw Oliver about to strap the boatman’s gun to the side of the pack and reached out to stop him. ‘It’s time to open that parcel I gave you.’
‘Your book of Circlelaw, it’s over here.’
‘It’s not Circlelaw,’ said the reverend. ‘I still have some use for that.’
Oliver unwrapped the case from the faded old blanket and flipped the box’s double latches. As he pulled up the lid a silver glow illuminated his hands, the lunar light reacting with its contents like alchemy. Inside a brace of identical silver-plated pistols, ivory handled, every inch etched with scenes — eagle wings and duels, warring regiments and the silhouettes of man-beasts. On the ivory of each handle lay the scrimshaw of a lion that looked familiar, very nearly the lion from the crest of Jackals. A more primitive form, though, raw and snarling, not pictured in the gracious repose from the nation’s coat of arms.
‘These were yours?’ asked Oliver.
‘You might say they have been passed down the family.’
There was a double holster in the top of the case, plain black patent leather. The kind that was meant to be shoulder slung and worn concealed under a greatcoat.
‘But then you should leave them to your children,’ protested Oliver. ‘That’s real silver leaf on the metal. They must be worth the contents of a counting-house vault.’
‘A long time ago I had hoped my oldest daughter might be interested in them. But it turned out I was wrong,’ said the reverend.
Oliver pointed to the old bell-barrelled weapon from Loade and Locke. ‘I can just about hit something with that. Surely these are a duellist’s guns, meant for a marksman or an officer in one of the regiments.’
‘Pick them up,’ said the preacher.
Oliver lifted them out of the case — the guns felt warm, comfortable, part of his arm — why had he even entertained any doubts about accepting the gift? They were perfect.
‘It’s strange,’ said Oliver, ‘I-’
‘The trick,’ interrupted the preacher, ‘is to know when to pick them up and when to put them down.’
Oliver’s hands shook after he placed them back in the case, shook the way he had seen ferrymen shake when they had gone into Hundred Locks’ taverns with a thirst that only cheap jinn could quench. He would not reject the gift now. What a fool the preacher’s daughter must have been.
‘I’m putting them down,’ said the preacher, adamantly.
‘I won’t need the boatsman pattern pistol any more,’ said Oliver.
‘No,’ said the reverend. ‘But you should keep the knife.’
‘I don’t remember telling you-’
‘You didn’t have to,’ said the reverend. ‘It’s a good knife. The kind I wish I had owned many years ago.’
Oliver looked out of the window. The call of the night was stronger than ever before. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘Boy, with that wild blood of yours you may be the best of us.’
‘I should keep the knife in my boot.’
‘That’s what I would do,’ said the preacher.
Downstairs, the hex Harry had traced in the air was fading away. So, it had not been a waste of time listening in on the old goat. What was the reverend playing at? He was up to some mischief, of that much the wolftaker was certain. Up to now the churchman had kept his end of the bargain, staying in retirement and out of the way in the mining city. As the keeper of so many secrets himself, he hated for the old fool to have something over him. That was not the way he intended the great game to be played — if there was skulduggery to be had in Jackals, far better that it be the hand of the disreputable Stave to be found on the tiller.
Without the breezes of the day to carry away the engine smoke, Shadowclock was subject to the same foul- smelling pea soupers as Middlesteel. Thick engine fogs rose up with the night, reducing the full moon to a smudge of silver behind their haze.
Oliver looked down at the cobbles of the steep streets, his boots moving invisibly below the soup, the damp of the cloud making his socks itch. They could hear patrols along the high walls calling out to each other, see the occasional flicker of a bull’s-eye lantern. They were keeping an eye open for night constables or the combination’s bullyboys, but the ruffians were saving their vigilance for the city battlements. For all his large bulk, Steamswipe could move near silently, his helmet-like head swivelling, the grill of his voicebox vibrating as he emitted bursts of sound pitched beyond the human ear. The steamman swore he could navigate the fog that way, pick out the
