Gilded Cage Page 7

Rebecca Dawson, a dark-haired woman in her fifties, led her group to their allotted place: the back bench along the west side of the chamber. It was opposite the tiers of estate seats and behind the Chancellor’s Chair. She held herself perfectly upright, despite wearing towering Brazilian heels. The Speaker and Bodina could probably spend hours talking about shoes, Bouda thought. Shoes and abolition. Both equally pointless topics.

  As the OPs settled themselves the air thrummed again, to trumpets heralding the Chancellor’s approach. The sound thrilled Bouda as much now as it had the very first time she’d heard it. The current, unworthy incumbent of that great office swept into the chamber, and with a final gesture from the Elder of the House, the doors closed.

  Bathed in coruscating light that streamed through the south end window from the shimmering world beyond, the black-and-white figure of Winterbourne Zelston ascended the steps to the chair. He unclasped his heavy ermine and velvet robe and swept it into the waiting hands of the Child of the House, the youngest heir present.

  The Chancellor sat. Parliament was in session.

  Before the Proposal came the regular business. Usually, Bouda took a keen interest in the routine affairs of state, but today she was distracted by thoughts of the coming announcement.

  Down on the chamber floor Dawson was up on her hind legs, yapping away. She was objecting to a perfectly logical scheme to assist the long-term unemployed by returning them to slavery for twelve months’ respite. So Bouda tuned her out and gave the matter further thought. Could Silyen really do as he had promised, and revive Euterpe Parva? Could Zelston still love the woman so much that he would risk his position with such an insane Proposal?

  And this was hardest of all to understand: why, given that the Proposal would surely fail, would Silyen ask for it?

  She turned over what she knew of the boy, and to her surprise found that it wasn’t much. Silyen was rarely present at Kyneston’s social events – the garden parties, the hunts, or Lady Thalia’s interminable chamber opera evenings. He would occasionally turn up for family dinners, eating sparingly and offering sly, barbed remarks. These were usually at the expense of his eldest brother, and Bouda had to repress her urge to laugh. The family all maintained that Silyen was powerfully Skillful, but Bouda had never seen any direct evidence.

  Although there had been moments. Feelings. She’d never been able to put her finger on one, but sometimes at Kyneston she’d experienced small sensations of wrongness. Conversations that she couldn’t clearly remember. Objects that didn’t feel entirely right in her hand. Even the taste of the air felt off sometimes, static and heavy.

  She usually put it down to Gavar’s generosity with the contents of his father’s wine cellar. She’d even wondered if it was due to the charge crackling through Kyneston’s vast Skill-forged wings.

  But she couldn’t be sure.

  When the recess bell sounded, Daddy levered himself up to head for the Members’ Parlour and its cake trolley. His disappearance gave Bouda the opportunity to have a long-overdue conversation. She looked for her quarry. Sure enough, Lady Armeria Tresco was there, in the furthest row of seats. Alone.

  The Tresco seat in the chamber matched the location of their estate of Highwithel: peripheral. Had Highwithel’s heir not broken her sister’s heart, Bouda might one day have found herself a frequent visitor. She was glad this was no longer likely. The Tresco estate was an island at the heart of an archipelago: the Scillies. They were the southernmost point of the British Isles, off the tip of Cornwall. Beyond Land’s End.

  That was quite the best place for feckless Heir Meilyr and his ghastly mother. If only they’d stay there.

  Lady Tresco looked up as Bouda approached. She had been rifling through a worn leather handbag. Possibly for a hairbrush, given the woman’s dishevelled appearance – though then again, it seemed unlikely she owned one.

  Armeria gave Bouda a pleasant smile, closed her bag, and placed it on the adjoining heir’s chair. The conspicuously empty heir’s chair.

  ‘Meilyr’s still not with you, I see,’ Bouda said. ‘Any word from your prodigal son?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid,’ replied the older woman. ‘Believe me, your sister would be the first to know. But he’s been gone more than six months now. Bodina must be over the worst of her disappointment, I hope?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Bouda. ‘Quite over it. He could long since be back at Highwithel for all she cares. I was only asking on my own account, as I’ll be sending out the wedding invitations soon. Just the one for the Trescos, then?’

  ‘You never know,’ said Lady Tresco unhelpfully. ‘So that’s happening soon, is it? Congratulations. Your star really is rising.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It was an automatic response. ‘And yes, at Kyneston in March, after the Third Proposal Debate and the vote.’

  ‘The Third Debate? How fitting for such a politic union. Well, I shall see you before then at Esterby for the First.’

  And with that, Armeria Tresco retrieved her handbag and recommenced sorting through it.

  Bouda stood there a moment, astonished. Had she just been dismissed? It appeared that she had. At least no one had seen it happen. But still. She felt her cheeks flame as she turned away and descended to the second tier. She would look as florid as dear Papa.

  At least she’d gleaned a little information for Dina. Or rather, had no news – which was most definitely good news, in Bouda’s opinion. Her little sister’s passion for Meilyr Tresco had been quite genuine, but sorely misplaced. Meilyr was an affable creature, but of the same absurd political persuasion as his mother, and Bouda held him chiefly responsible for filling DiDi’s head with abolitionist enthusiasm.

  Even the way he’d broken things off with Dina had been vague and unsatisfactory. He’d simply told poor DiDi that he wanted to go and ‘find himself’, her heartbroken sister had confided. With Meilyr out of the picture, a more suitable husband could be found for her. Dina needed someone solid and reliable, who understood the family’s interests. Bouda had a few possibilities in mind.

  Papa was back at their seat, an emergency, napkin-wrapped slice of cake stuffed down the side of his chair. Greedy Daddy! She pinched his cheek indulgently and whispered in his ear.

  ‘From what I heard from Lord Jardine earlier, this could be interesting.’

  Then the trumpets again; the Chancellor again. The chamber fell expectantly quiet.

  Zelston walked to the chair, but remained standing. His expression was grim, and clutched in his hand was a single-sheet order paper. He launched straight in.

  ‘It is my prerogative as Chancellor to introduce for the House’s consideration a Proposal of my choosing. You will all be aware that a Chancellor’s introduction of a Proposal does not necessarily signify that he supports it. It may simply be a matter that he believes merits discussion. That is the case with my Proposal today.’

  This disavowal brought jeers and catcalls from some of the more troublesome Members. ‘What an endorsement!’ yelled one, from his place on the sixth tier. ‘Why’d you bother, then?’ mocked another, from somewhere rather closer to the seat of power.

  The Chancellor didn’t dignify them with a response. He looked around the chamber, level and composed, though Bouda saw the paper tremble in his hand.

  ‘At the conclusion of this session the Silence will be laid upon all Observers, and the Quiet accepted by all Members.’

  There were murmurs of surprise and displeasure from the assembled Equals. Bouda sat forward in her seat, tense and excited. She had never seen the two ancient acts of Silence and Quiet bestowed publicly.

  Of course, to call it ‘Silence’ was misleading. The act didn’t really silence a person; it hid their own memories from them. It was forbidden to lay the Silence on one’s Equals – though practice obviously couldn’t count, Bouda had long ago decided, or how would anyone ever master it? All Chancellors had to be able to perform it, so from childhood Bouda had practised on her sister. Darling DiDi hadn’t minded.


  The only permitted use of the Silence was within the House of Light, when it was laid upon commoners – the Observers. They were sometimes privy to Proposals or other business deemed too sensitive, too incendiary, to become common knowledge. Once the Chancellor had bestowed the Silence, the OPs would remember nothing of his Proposal until he lifted it again.

  The parliamentarians themselves, the Equals, would accept the Quiet. This was a lesser act, but still effective. You retained your memories, but could not speak of or otherwise share them with those outside the sanctioned group – in this case, the Members of Parliament. Rumour had it that many a family secret was protected by hereditary Quiet.

  Speaker Dawson looked like she wanted to protest. Bouda rolled her eyes. Historically, of course, the Silence had been used in ways that were perhaps less than desirable. Possibly it still was. Gavar and his pals had acquired a reputation at Oxford for parties attended by commoner girls that guests found strangely unmemorable the following day. But here in the House of Light, both acts were perfectly legitimate.

  The Chancellor stood impassive until the hubbub had died down. Then he took a final look at the order sheet in his hand, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was written there.

  Bouda watched eagerly, one hand pressed to her mouth. Even her father had hauled himself upright and was listening with interest.

  Zelston spoke.

  ‘I Propose the abolition, entire and immediate, of the slavedays.’

  6

  Luke

  It was amazing how much you could do in ten minutes.

  Luke checked his watch – a cheap plastic thing stamped with the gaudy BB logo, Millmoor standard issue for all slaves – then slid into the shadows on the side of the hangar and upped his speed to a jog. Although tools-down was brief, the movement of workers throughout Machine Park made it the perfect opportunity for all sorts of activities best conducted unnoticed.

  He’d learned that, and a lot more, under Renie’s tutelage. After he’d delivered the glasses for her, the kid had come back a few days later with another request. Then another. And Luke found that no matter how bone-meltingly knackered he was after his shifts in the components shed, he could draw on some last reserves to accomplish what she asked.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve worked off any favour you think I owe,’ he’d told her after taking some bits to fix a busted air-conditioning unit in a skanky block over in West, where the residents’ pleas for repairs had gone unheard and people were developing breathing problems. Breathing the air inside the building had been like sucking an exhaust pipe. Luke thought he’d coughed up a bit of lung just making the delivery.

  ‘Course you have.’ She grinned gappily. ‘Now you’re doing it ’cause you like it.’

  And Luke had found that he was.

  As far as he could see, Renie-Rhymes-With-Genie was indeed in the business of granting wishes. Or not wishes, so much as simple, everyday needs that Luke couldn’t believe weren’t being met by Millmoor’s authorities. Yes, she was operating outside official channels. But Renie sourced a lot of her info on what folk needed from a Millmoor doctor, which must make it halfway legit. And for all Ryan’s warnings, it surely wasn’t as though they’d slap you with slavelife for taking people medicine, books and food.

  He’d reached the canteen. Six and a half minutes remaining. Three to find what he needed, then three and a half to get back to Williams at their workstation.

  Luke had laughed when Renie had issued his latest task – liberating food from the Zone D stores. He could just about choke down the canteen’s offerings without hurling. Surely the only ones to benefit from him taking the stuff would be the Zone D workers who no longer had to eat it.

  ‘It’s got extra calories and protein,’ she’d explained. ‘To keep you heavy-labour guys going. You should see what people get fed in the other zones. Just as nasty, but only half as filling. An’ you know the junk in the dorm kitchens. People get scurvy in here, Luke. I’m not kidding.’

  Luke had wondered about Renie herself. Even for a thirteen-year-old she was tiny – scrawny and hollow-cheeked. Her dark skin didn’t hide the even darker circles round her eyes. She looked malnourished in a way that shouldn’t be possible in Britain today. Had she come to Millmoor aged ten? Was this what three years of life here had done to her?

  And as he had many times in the month since their separation, Luke gave silent thanks that none of his family was here in this nightmarish place. Especially not Daisy.

  He ducked into the storeroom. The shelves rose above his head. Each was labelled, but not arranged in any obvious system. There were so many boxes; so many cartons. He jogged along one row looking up and down, scanning the labels.

  Then slammed forward against the shelf edge as something smashed into the back of his skull.

  Luke crumpled to the floor, half blind with pain. Had something fallen on him from a high shelf behind?

  A steel toecap dug under his shoulder blade and turned him over.

  The strip of fluorescent ceiling light threw off throbbing coronas. One of them formed a queasy, technicolour halo around the head of the figure that stood over him. Luke blinked to try and steady his vision. What he saw wasn’t an improvement.

  ‘Taking a little stroll, Hadley E-1031?’

  The boot nudged beneath his chin. Luke’s gaze followed the leg up to a barrel chest, a bull neck, a square head crowned with writhing light.

  Luke’s very own angel of pain: Kessler.

  ‘Feeling peckish, were we?’ Kessler continued, looking around the shelves in the food store. ‘Are we not feeding you to your satisfaction here in Millmoor, E-1031? Disappointed you’re not eating roast swan with your betters at Kyneston?’

  The tip of his baton thrust deep into the soft space beneath Luke’s ribs. Work in Zone D had been layering muscle onto Luke’s abdomen, but it was inadequate defence against Kessler’s jabs. The baton angled up, probing – the man’s grasp of anatomy was as good as Mum’s – and thrust again, and Luke’s body jackknifed as he curled onto his side and coughed up the lumpy remains of breakfast.

  Luke moaned, and wiped sticky strings from his mouth with the cuff of his boilersuit. Even that small movement made his head yammer with hurt. He remembered Mum crouching over Dad on the driveway. What had she yelled out? Something about blunt force. He closed his eyes.

  ‘I hope you’ve not been stealing anything, E-1031,’ Kessler continued. ‘Because Millmoor doesn’t approve of stealing. Years on your days, that can be. I’ll check, shall I?’

  Rough hands pawed at Luke’s limbs, patting down the overalls, tugging at pockets. Just when he thought it was over, the guard pincered Luke’s chin between finger and thumb, forcing his mouth open.

  ‘I like to do a thorough job,’ Kessler said, thrusting the index and middle fingers of his other hand into Luke’s mouth. Luke gagged, and as saliva welled in his mouth he tasted soap and sharp antiseptic. Were Kessler’s hands the only clean thing in Millmoor?

  Kessler pulled out his fingers and wiped them down the front of Luke’s boilersuit.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been a good boy, E-1031. But it was careless of you to trip and fall while moving around the Machine Park. That can be dangerous in a place like this.’

  ‘Trip?’ Luke croaked, anger welling up as nausea ebbed. ‘You hit me, you bastard.’ He coughed, hoping for a bit of bile to take away the taste of Kessler in his mouth.

  ‘You tripped,’ repeated Kessler. ‘Clearly you need a little lesson on being more careful in future.’

  The baton reared up, light flaring along its length.

  It can kill, Luke remembered, in an instant. Blunt force trauma can kill, if the brain swells.

  But the blow struck lower. Luke heard something – several things – crack, and gasped. He inhaled knives. Saw needles.

  Blacked out.

  When he came to, the antiseptic smell was still there. But on opening his eyes, Kessler was nowhere to be seen. Luke had been dumped in a
chair in the corner of what looked like a medical waiting room.

  The core of his body was one jagged mass of pain, as if all his organs had been taken out and replaced by broken glass. He leaned forward unsteadily and threw up again on the floor. There wasn’t much of it this time, and it was pinkish. Spotted with red. It was hard to breathe.

  ‘How did this happen?’

  A voice nearby. Low. Angry.

  A shape squatted down at Luke’s side and a palm reached up to his forehead. Luke cringed away, but there was nowhere to go.

  The touch was cool, the hand gentle, and Luke let his head sag forward against it with a sob of relief.

  ‘I’m Doctor Jackson, and I want you to try and stand,’ the voice said. ‘Don’t think about it hurting, and maybe it won’t. Come with me.’

  And unbelievably, Luke found that he could. Leaning on the medic’s white-coated arm, moving as if someone had just added a nought onto his age, he shuffled down the corridor. The doctor led him into a small room and directed him to lean against a gurney.

  ‘I’m going to take a look at you. I’ll be as careful as I can. May I?’

  He gestured towards the buttons on Luke’s overalls, and Luke nodded. He studied the man, to distract himself from the agony that was surely coming. The medic had a short-sided haircut and a neat beard. His face was tanned, and laughter lines at the corner of his eyes stood out pale against his skin. ‘Jackson J-3646’ was embroidered in blue on the breast pocket of his coat. He looked almost too young to be a doctor.

  He must have started his days straight after uni, Luke decided. Abi had told him that wasn’t unheard of among medical graduates with more ambition than scruples. You’d be thrown in at the deep end in the slavetowns and acquire loads of experience, with nobody minding too much about any mistakes.

  But this guy knew what he was doing. His hands lightly pulled up Luke’s T-shirt, carefully lifted his hair for a look at his skull. With each press of fingers Luke anticipated a detonation of agony, but all that came was a dull throbbing.