“TK’s got me doing some… unconventional work. I can’t say much about it.”
“Suppose you’re seen in the street—”
“People see what they expect to see.”
That was a truth he had learned from Wingfield.
“It could affect our reputation, Donald.”
“Nothing I do for TK can affect our reputation.”
“Well I don’t know about that, Donald. I’m picking up some mighty strange stories.”
“From whom?”
She gave him the back of her head asking the maid for a fresh pot of tea.
“You’ve been seen on a turnpike walking towards Brent Cross industrial asylum,” she resumed.
Donald affected a patient frown.
“No. I have not been seen on any turnpike, be it towards Brent Cross or anywhere else.”
Privately, he wondered how on earth that rumour had started. Perhaps a servant on some acquaintance’s household staff had spotted him? It was always a risk. Potentially there must be several hundred servants who might recognise him outside the Central Enclave. Fortunately, Lavinia did not appear to take it seriously, as she changed the subject.
“It’s TK’s Advent Dinner a week on Sunday. I hope you’ve remembered to get a suit.”
He bit back a curse, for he had in fact forgotten about it. His eldest daughter, Marcia, would be playing a piano duet with Suzannah Krossington, one of TK’s granddaughters. His mood quickened just thinking about it. Even at the weekends, when his daughters were back from school, he saw little of them. They were always off with Lavinia at this or that house party. During school holidays, they were mostly out of reach at Laxbury Manor estate in the Lands of Krossington.
“Have you?” he retorted, buying time. Lavinia was always indulgent concerning what she was going to wear and how much it had cost. He did not bother to listen closely, he merely waited for the price tag. Slightly shy of a hundred ounces of gold. She had spent day after day at Clarissa’s, trying it on bit by bit as they made it.
Donald may have allowed a glare of contempt to escape onto his face. He saw the blasted bodies at Brent Cross. He saw the courage of the honey men, digging out a septic tank. He saw the hauling teams, doomed to stoop for a living, in return for enough gruel to stay alive. It would take Sarah-Kelly eighteen months to earn a hundred ounces—and she would probably struggle to save a tenth of it. Not for an instant would Lavinia pause to reflect upon the workshops of ill-paid seamstresses creating her plumage stitch by stitch. How could a society elevate such revolting frivolity, whilst relegating proper work to serfdom?
In that moment, he made up his mind; it’s not just this spoiled bitch I’m going to get rid of.
Chapter 15
Tom Krossington chaired the Household Cabinet meeting every Tuesday morning. It met in what had been the dining room of a village pub back in the Public Era. The room was on the first floor under the rafters of the thatched roof, with diamond-paned windows looking onto Castle Krossington’s main street of half-timbered shops and terraced houses. The five men and two women never paid much attention to the view. Under TK’s brisk and it must be said occasionally brusque direction, they worked through the business of the lands of Krossington in two sessions of two hours, with a half-hour break. TK was strict about time limits. That focused attention and discouraged pontification. In attendance this day were: TK, Wingfield, who headed up internal security, the head of foreign affairs, the (newly appointed) chief demographer, the first officer of the treasury, the commander of the Krossington marines and finally the Land Council representative.
The agenda followed a well-established routine, starting with matters most geographically distant and working closer, finishing up with Land Council matters. Today’s meeting was dominated by two items: discharges to the drains, and the alarming spread of the National Party. Wingfield and the chief demographer clashed again and again. The latter wanted more discharges. All available information pointed to a mild, damp winter and a poor harvest. Wingfield presented charts of how the National Party was gaining members in the glory garrisons of the Lands of Krossington. The charts showed an obvious lagging correlation between heavy discharges to the drains and rising National Party membership by glory officers.
It took quite some time for TK to manoeuvre the discussion towards a compromise that would at least get them through the next few weeks. It was therefore quite late on in the meeting when an item came up that startled the Cabinet, as it came from a quarter that had never been cause for concern in the past. It was a business that yielded rent of twelve thousand ounces of gold per month from what would otherwise have been barren wasteland. That flow of gold had sprung and flourished over the decades without the slightest input from the Household Cabinet.
“I’ve received news from within the Value System of Nightminster,” Wingfield said. “There’s been an escape. Two so-called value—two slaves—fled on Saturday night, they have not been recovered.”
The Cabinet waited, not clear as to what manner of risk this was.
“One head of value was a very large brown spay, totally bald, with large breasts.”
The Cabinet absorbed this, in sober silence.
“Are you certain it’s Pezzini?” TK found it hard to picture his punctilious, forty-seven-year-old former chief demographer wading out of the wilderness.
“Nightminster obscures identities by the use of tags. My source did not know the true identities of either of these value.”
“Any details on the other value?” TK asked.
“He was white and blond, about six foot two, with a scarred chin and a reputation as troublemaker, although he worked hard, so he got away with it.”
TK stared at his note pad thinking things that were not welcome to him. The hard case matched Lawrence Aldingford. If he escaped and was not recovered, it would be a severe setback. Donald would have to go. All the effort and gold TK had expended to resolve Donald’s situation would be wasted. The prospect of having
