A Face Like Glass (3 page)

The cosy antechamber that Grandible used as a reception room was the only place into which visitors were ever permitted. Here at least the reek of cheese was slightly fainter than in the rest of
Grandible’s domain. As Neverfell showed her in, the Facesmith drew herself up and changed manner completely. Suddenly she was grandiose and glittering, and seemed to have gained a few inches
in height.

‘Cheesemaster! I had heard rumours that you were still alive. How delightful to be able to confirm them!’ The Facesmith swept delicately into the room, the longest feathers of her
headdress kissing the roof of the antechamber. Peeling off her yellow gloves, she settled herself on the appointed guest chair, a carefully judged eight sword-lengths from Grandible’s great
wooden seat. ‘After such a dramatic and complete disappearance, half my friends were convinced you had despaired of life and done something ghastly to yourself.’

Grandible examined the cuff of his long, grey greeting-visitors coat. His expression did not change, but perhaps for a second it deepened a little.

‘Tea,’ was all he said. The cuffs did not respond, but presumably they knew the instruction was meant for Neverfell.

It was agony leaving the conversation at such a moment, just as it seemed Neverfell might finally learn something of Grandible’s reasons for withdrawing from Court. The only aristocracy of
Caverna were the Craft, the makers of true delicacies that crossed the invisible line between the mind-blowing and the miraculous. As a maker of True Cheeses, Grandible was a member of the Craft
class, but he had never told Neverfell why he chose not to take up his rightful place at Court.

In their rocky little kitchen, Neverfell hauled on a wall lever to summon hot water. Somewhere far above in the furnace caverns a little bell would be ringing. After a minute or two the water
pipes started to hum, whine and judder. Neverfell tugged on her protective gloves and turned the grey and scaly tap, releasing a torrent of steaming water into the teapot.

Neverfell made tea, scalding herself in her haste, and by the time she re-emerged guest and host were mid-conversation. When Neverfell placed a cup of peppermint tea and a plate of dates on the
table beside Madame Appeline, the latter paused mid-flow to flash Neverfell a small, sweet ‘thank you’ smile.

‘. . . an extremely good customer,’ the Facesmith went on, ‘but also a close friend, which is why I promised to try to help him. You can understand his worry, surely? This is
such an important diplomatic occasion, and the poor young man does not want to disgrace himself in front of the Grand Steward and the rest of the Court. Can you blame my friend for wanting to make
sure that he has all the right Faces prepared?’

‘Yes.’ Grandible’s blunt nails tapped at the arm of his chair, near the catch for the hidden compartment. ‘I can. Fools like that keep the Face market running, even
though everybody knows that two hundred Faces are enough for anybody. Damn it,
ten
would do.’

‘Or . . . two?’ Madame Appeline narrowed her long slanting eyes. Her smile was knowing, but there was a hint of warmth and sympathy beneath the mockery. ‘Cheesemaster, I know
that it is almost a matter of principle with you, but you should actually be careful wearing the same Face day in and day out. It marks the countenance. Some day you may want to use one of your
other Faces and suddenly realize that your face muscles can no longer remember them.’

Grandible stared at her, his face dour as a gibbet. ‘I find this one very suitable for most situations and people I encounter.’ He sighed. ‘I fail to see why you want to talk
to me, Facesmith. If this whelp wants a hundred new expressions so he can react differently to every shade of green he sees, then go ahead and sell them to him.’

‘If it was a matter of shades of green, then, yes, that would be an easy matter. Mock all you like, but In Contemplation of Verdigris and An Apprehension of Apple Boughs are very popular
right now. No, the problem is the banquet. If he wants to prove he is a true judge of all that is fine, he must be able to react the right way to every dish. Are you getting a glimmer of my motives
now, dear Cheesemaster?’

‘More of a glint.’

‘I already have him primed with the right Faces for all four Wines, the songbird jelly, the soup, the pie, the cordial, the ices and each of the sugared fruits. But your Stackfalter
Sturton will be making its
debut
. How can I devise the right Face for something that I have never experienced?’

‘That particular cheese was commissioned by the Grand Steward. It is his property.’

‘But there are always broken cheeses?’ persisted Madame Appelline. ‘Failed cheeses? Scraps? Spills? Crumbs? My friend would only need the tiniest crumb. Would you not be
willing to spare even that? He would be most grateful.’

‘No.’ The answer was very soft and final, like a candle dying. Madame Appeline was very quiet for a long time, and when she spoke again she sounded very serious. Her smile was
melancholy.

‘Dear Cheesemaster, has it never occurred to you that some day – however improbable it may seem to you – you might wish to return to Court? That you might
need
to come
back to Court? Hiding out here may feel safe, but it is not. It offers your enemies a thousand chances to move against you, whisper in the right ears. It makes you vulnerable, and if you lose your
standing some dark hour you will not be safe even here. And you have posterity –’ she directed a fleeting glance at Neverfell – ‘to consider.’

‘I’m sure you mean something by that.’ Grandible’s hands were fidgeting on the arms of his chair, and Neverfell suddenly realized that he was nervous, more nervous than
she had ever seen him.

‘I mean that sooner or later you and your protégée are going to need allies, and for years you have been doing your best to push away everybody who tries to make friendly
overtures. What if you have to deal with the Court again? How will you manage with no friends and two Faces?’

‘I survived last time,’ muttered Grandible.

‘And perhaps you could again,’ Madame Appeline continued quite calmly, ‘or you could let me help you. I know a lot of people, and could make introductions. I could even make a
“new look” for you, to make the whole thing easier.’ She put her heart-shaped head on one side, and scrutinized Grandible through her long, green eyes. ‘Yes, I think a touch
of Twinkle or Wry Charm would suit you very well. Or perhaps World Weary, with a Hint of Sadness and a Core of Basic Integrity. Perhaps even Amused Shrewdness, with a Well of Deeper Wisdom?
Cheesemaster, I know that you have a prejudice against my trade, but the truth is I can be a good friend, and I am really quite a useful person to know.’

‘Biscuits,’ said Grandible with venom.

In the kitchen, Neverfell’s haste tripped her on a rug-edge, sprawled her over a chair and forced her to spend maddening extra minutes picking the spilt biscuits up from the floor and
flicking the specks off them. She arrived back in the antechamber just in time to see that the conversation was over. With a sting of desperation she observed the Facesmith gliding back towards the
great door with its thirty-five bolts, her expression a mild glow of wry amusement, regret, sympathy and resolution.

Breathless, Neverfell ran to catch up with her, then dropped her deepest bow. She felt the Facesmith’s smile tickle over her as gently and iridescently as the headdress feathers had
touched the ceiling. Neverfell’s heart lurched at the thought of breaking her orders from Master Grandible, but there would never be another chance to speak with a Facesmith, and this chance
was slipping away.

‘My lady!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Wait! Please! I . . . you said you could make Faces that would make Master Grandible look good, and I just wanted to know . . .’ She
took a deep breath, and asked the question that had been buzzing around in her mind for months. ‘Could . . . could you make a Face for somebody that has none worth the name? I mean . . .
someone so ugly they must be hid?’

For a few seconds the Facesmith regarded Neverfell’s mask, her expression perfectly motionless. Then it softened into a gleaming sweetness, like a droplet welling at the tip of a thawing
icicle. She reached out a hand towards the mask, apparently intending to remove it, but Neverfell flinched back. She was not yet ready for this beautiful woman to see whatever lay beneath.

‘You really won’t let me see?’ whispered Madame Appeline. ‘Very well, then – I have no intention of upsetting you.’ She glanced up the corridor, then leaned
forward to whisper.

‘I have had many people come to me who were called ugly, and every single time I have been able to design them a Face that makes them pleasant to the eye. It is never hopeless. Whatever
you may have been told, nobody
needs
to be ugly.’

Neverfell felt her eyes tingle, and had to swallow hard. ‘I’m sorry Master Grandible was so rude. If it had been up to me . . .’

‘Thank you.’ There were peacock-coloured flecks in Madame Appeline’s eyes, as if two green gems had been carefully fractured a hundred times. ‘I believe you. What was
your name again – did Master Grandible call you Neverfell?’

Neverfell nodded.

‘Good to meet you, Neverfell. Well, I shall remember that I may have one young friend in these cheese tunnels, even if your master is determined to distrust everyone that belongs to the
Court.’ Madame Appeline glanced back towards the reception room. ‘Look after him well. He is more vulnerable than he thinks. It is dangerous to lock oneself away and lose track of what
is happening outside.’

‘I wish I could go out into the city and discover things for him,’ whispered Neverfell. Her reasons were not completely unselfish, though, and she knew the yearning in her voice had
betrayed her.

‘Do you never leave your master’s tunnels?’ Madame Appeline’s black eyebrows rose gracefully as Neverfell shook her head. Her tone was slightly scandalized. ‘Never?
But why on earth not?’

Neverfell’s hands moved defensively back to her mask, and the unloved face it hid.

‘Oh.’ Madame Appeline gave a soft sigh of realization. ‘Do you really mean to say that he keeps you locked up in here because of your looks? But that is terrible! No wonder you
want a new Face!’ She reached out one yellow-gloved hand and gently stroked the cheek of Neverfell’s mask with a faint rasp of velvet. ‘Poor child. Well, do not despair. Perhaps
you and I will turn out to be friends, and if so perhaps some day I will have a chance to make a Face for you. Would that make you happy?’

Neverfell nodded mutely, her chest full to bursting.

‘In the meanwhile,’ the Facesmith went on, ‘you can always send a message to me. My tunnels are not far from the Samphire District, where Tytheman’s Slink meets the
Hurtles.’

A bell rang in the reception room, and Neverfell knew that Grandible was becoming impatient. Reluctantly, she unbolted the door again and heaved it open, so that Madame Appeline could drift
out.

‘Goodbye, Neverfell.’

In the fleeting second before the door closed between them, Neverfell glimpsed something that made her heart stumble in its pace. Madame Appeline was watching her with a Face she had never seen
before. It was unlike anything from the many Facesmith catalogues Neverfell had treasured over the years, nor was it smooth and beautiful like the other Faces Madame Appeline had worn during her
visit. It contained a smile, but one with a world of weariness behind the brightness, and sadness beyond the kindness. There was something a little haggard around the eyes as well, that spoke of
sleeplessness, patience and pain.

Next instant the image was gone, and Neverfell was left staring at the door as it clicked to. Her mind was crazed with colour and jumbled thoughts. It took her a moment or two before she
remembered that she should be throwing all the bolts.

That last extraordinary Face had sent a throb through her very soul, like a breeze shivering the string of a harp, and she could not account for it. Something in her heart cried out that it was
familiar. Without knowing why, Neverfell had come very close to flinging the door open again, throwing her arms around the visitor and bursting into tears.

Neverfell realized that she was in trouble the moment she removed her mask. Grandible’s grey gaze settled upon her and hardened like frost.

‘What is it?’ One of his broad, rough hands cupped her face, whilst his other raised his lantern so that the greenish traplight fell upon her cheek. ‘You are hiding
something!’

Faced once again with her master’s uncanny ability to guess her thoughts, Neverfell could only stutter and stammer.

‘What did you do?’ Above all else, it was the hint of fear in Master Grandible’s voice which threw Neverfell off balance. ‘You spoke to her, didn’t you?’ he
demanded hoarsely.

‘She . . .’

‘Did you take your mask off?’

Neverfell shook her head as best she could with her chin in Grandible’s calloused grip. His eyes slid to and fro across her face as though somebody had etched answers there.

‘Did you tell her anything about yourself? Anything about me, or the tunnels? Anything at all?’