A Face Like Glass (53 page)

So busy was she with such hollow thoughts, that she almost did not notice the twist of paper. It was woven into a thin plait that was half-hidden by the dank rats’ tails of her hair. When
a comb was hastily dragged through her tresses, the twist pulled free and fell to the floor. Glancing down at it, Neverfell made out greyish streaks and shapes on it that looked slightly like
letters.

Nobody else had seen it. She covered it quickly with her heel, and then when she was sure that no one was looking discreetly nudged it behind one foot of the bath.

‘Come on, my dear.’ Neverfell was guided into the bath, where she was scrubbed and soaped, and dye washed from her hair until the water ran purple. All the while her mind kept
straying to the twist of paper, and expecting somebody to notice it, exclaim in surprise, stoop to pick it up. She could only be grateful that the servants were so squeamish about looking at her
face. One good glance would have shown them that she was hiding something.

When they helped her out and towelled her, she pretended to stoop and scratch her toe, scooped up the twist and hid it in her hand.

Only when she had been dried, dressed and combed was she allowed a fleeting moment alone. With shaking hands she untwisted the greying fragment, and held it close to a lantern to make out the
few faint words scrawled on it.

The handwriting was her own.

It soon became clear that Neverfell would have no more moments alone. Dressed in a green dress and green satin shoes once again she was walked firmly back to the sedan, and
locked inside it once more. As it bounced along, she sat twisting and untwisting the little message.

Everything will be fine. Trust yourself.

What did it mean? How could everything be fine? Trust herself to do what?

Neverfell ran through scenario after scenario in her head. The Childersins were going to give her Wine. Perhaps she could knock it out of somebody’s hand, or spit it out, or make herself
throw up before it could eat her memories.

The sedan stopped. ‘Ah, there you are, miss. She’s inside.’

Neverfell heard the locks unfastened, and as the door opened a crack she threw herself against it, hoping to burst it open and make a bid for freedom. The guards outside, however, seemed to be
ready for such a move and seized her, wrestling her to a standstill, her kicks made useless by the satin shoes. Her wild glares alighted immediately upon the girl standing a few yards away from
her.

Looking into the face of Zouelle Childersin, Neverfell felt her faith crumble. There was no pity there, no pallor, no sign of conflict at all, only the small, confidential smile that always
suited the blonde girl so well. There was a small corked vial in her hand.

‘You’ll need to hold her mouth open,’ said Zouelle. ‘And keep her steady. We don’t want drops of Wine on the green silk.’ Neverfell was pinned to the side of
the sedan, and her nose pinched shut to force her to open her mouth. Zouelle stepped over, carefully and daintily. Her dress was made of the same silvery fabric that her uncle had worn.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Zouelle. She did not sound sorry. The words were just cold, melodic noises, like the notes from a glockenspiel. ‘But you’ll forgive me, you know.
In just a few minutes you won’t blame me at all.’

Neverfell tried to struggle as the Wine was poured on to the back of her tongue, but her mouth was held shut until she had no choice but to swallow.

Back in the sedan Neverfell doubled up, spluttering and knowing it was too late to spit out the Wine. Its taste was opening and spreading on her tongue like a hundred
waterlilies. She could feel it blowing like sparks across her memories, and feared every moment to feel them burning away.

‘Name!’ A barked demand from outside.

‘The food taster Neverfell, due to testify . . .’

‘Ah, the taster! She’s due in there now, the proceedings have been halted to wait for her arrival. Quick, through there!’

Don’t forget
, Neverfell willed herself as the sedan lurched into a jog.
Don’t forget. Maxim Childersin killed the Grand Steward. Remember it. Remember it.

The door was flung open, and a couple of attendants in palace white leaned forward and plucked her out of the sedan, hurrying her along a grand hallway so that her feet barely touched the
ground.

Just hold on a little longer
, Neverfell begged herself.
Just long enough to tell everybody the truth.

Mahogany doors ahead were swept open by eager hands, and she was half led, half carried into the vast Hall of the Gentles. It was brighter than on her previous visit, and she could see it more
clearly. It was shaped like an amphitheatre, with stepped seating sloping up on all sides. She was at the lowest and most focal point, standing on a small, brightly lit stone dais, with a wooden
rail all around her that made her feel caged.

It seemed to her dazzled mind that the entire Court had turned up to watch her. A sea of Faces surrounded her, half-hidden by raised binoculars or opera glasses. There was a faint scent that she
recognized as the smell of singed Paprickle. Evidently those towards the back of the vast hall were using the ear-enhancing spice to avoid missing a word.

Her hands shook as she leaned against the rail, and her vision misted. There was a burning sensation in her head. She clenched her eyes shut, but there was nothing she could do to hold out
against it. The Wine took effect, and something in her mind was peeled away.

When she opened her eyes again, everything looked different to her. Suddenly there were no purple spirals, no conflicts, no doubts. She slowly relaxed her death grip on the rail and looked
around her. To the left, on a black iron platform adorned with briars, stood Enquirer Treble, her face still bulldoggish but her hair now startlingly white. A matching platform on Neverfell’s
right supported Maxim Childersin in his silver coat. Looking out across the ill-lit, lavishly dressed assembly, Neverfell could make out a patch of burgundy, doubtless the Childersin family
attending en masse.

‘Neverfell the outsider,’ intoned the Enquirer. ‘Are you ready to testify?’

‘Yes,’ said Neverfell. ‘I’m ready now.’

‘Very well.’ The Enquirer raised herself up, and leaned forward, everything in her bearing designed to let the witness know that her story was about to undergo trial by fire and
bombardment. ‘Two months ago, you gave a statement to the Enquiry. You told them that while working as a taster for the Grand Steward you could not possibly have been fed a poison antidote.
Correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, my first question is—’

‘Yes,’ Neverfell interrupted, ‘I did say that. But I was wrong.’

The murmur of confusion rose to a roar within seconds. At the back of the amphitheatre, Neverfell could see the various courtiers who had taken Paprickle clutching their ears in pain as the
noise levels increased to unexpected levels.

‘What?’ exclaimed Treble, in astonished tones.

‘I was tricked. By Maxim Childersin and Madame Appeline. I found out afterwards what they had done, which is why I ran away, because I knew I couldn’t hide from them how much I
knew.’

Maxim Childersin’s Face of kindly encouragement had frozen there and been forgotten. He turned his head to peer off towards his seated family, and Neverfell guessed that he was scanning
their ranks for Zouelle. Neverfell, however, was quite sure that he would look in vain for the distinctive blonde plait and silver dress. Zouelle would have made herself scarce within minutes of
delivering the all-important Wine.

Neverfell’s heart was beating so hard she could hear its velvety thump, and yet she had never felt so strong, so serene. Her memories were sparking red and gold where the Wine’s
influence had touched them, but they were not burning away, they were faring back into life. She was not forgetting. She was remembering.

A recollection opened before her like a flower. It was a memory of a conversation with Zouelle, held a few weeks before in a closed sedan.

‘So you really want to go ahead with this?’ Zouelle fretting at her own gloves, white-faced. ‘Letting Uncle Maxim catch you?’

‘It’s the only way. If I want to speak to everybody in the Court all at once, it has to be at the hearing. And if I want to reach the hearing alive it has to be because your uncle
thinks I’m there to testify for him. And since we can’t let him get wind of our plan that means I can’t afford to know about it myself, or he’ll read my face. I have to
blank out two months of my memories, at least for a while.’

Zouelle sighed. ‘All right. I’ll do my part. Uncle Maxim thinks I’m working on a Wine to make you forget you ever suspected him, so that he can give it to you when he
catches you. I should be able to switch it for a reprise Wine at the last moment, something to bring back the memories you need to testify. Timing will be important, though. We only want you
remembering the plan just before you testify. So you can’t afford to get captured until the very last moment.’

‘Thank you, Zouelle.’ Pause. ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry if I say anything cruel to you while my memories are missing. I’ll probably think you betrayed me
to your uncle.’

‘Neverfell?’ Zouelle asked in a small voice. ‘How do you know I won’t?’

Shrug. ‘I just do.’

I still don’t have all my memories
, thought Neverfell.
But I’m sure there’s a reason for that. I trust myself.

And I know exactly what I have to say next.

Hardened veteran though she was, it took Enquirer Treble three whole seconds to struggle through her sense of shock. Ever since the death of the Grand Steward she had been
facing setback after setback. A ‘set-forward’ of this magnitude left her reeling.

She could never be sure what Maxim Childersin’s plan was. However she was about a thousand per cent certain that this latest development was not part of it.

‘Halt these proceedings!’ he was shouting. ‘This child clearly believes what she is saying, but her mind has suffered – her recent ordeal in the hands of drudge
kidnappers . . .’ Treble saw one of his hands creep up to adjust one of his buttons, and her presence of mind returned to her in a rush. Perhaps it was a harmless gesture, but more likely a
signal to some assassin to end the child’s life before she could say more. His tool had turned against him and would cut him if it was not cast away.

Treble tapped twice at the balustrade, giving a signal of her own. She had arranged certain precautions to protect the witnesses. Now she would probably find out whether they had been
enough.

‘Let the witness speak!’

‘. . . but I didn’t really guess until Borcas, one of Madame Appeline’s Putty Girls, came to find me and told me that she had found my thimble somewhere else
in the tunnels. And then the shoes thing just confirmed it. And then when I ran away and started investigating . . .’

Neverfell was speaking fast, trying to ignore the way that Childersin and Treble from time to time made small, meaningless motions of their hands. She guessed all too well the nature of their
silent battle.

She flinched as a vicious-looking feral wasp appeared before her face, sting curved to attack. A second later a large bat swooped before her with the grace of a pendulum’s swing. After its
passing, the wasp had gone.

Treble gestured again, and somewhere in the heart of the audience there was a wooden thunk, followed by a thin and plaintive scream.

‘Continue,’ snapped Treble.

‘Well, I’ve actually found out quite a lot over the last couple of months,’ Neverfell went on, as memory after memory opened in her mind like books. ‘The hardest part was
tracking down samples of the poison. It was tried out on some drudges, who ran off and killed their loved ones, but of course they died or were executed and nobody kept the bodies. But, as it
turned out, the poisoners threw away some of their leftover samples down the nearest waste chute, so we just had to find a place among the waste heaps where all the rats were killing each other.
We’ve saved you some of the killer rats, Enquirer, though they’re a bit dead. But you might still find some of the poison in them.

‘There’s more, though.’ Neverfell took a deep breath and launched into her last assault, even as a poison dart whistled past her ear. ‘I know the Childersin secret. The
reason his family are growing up taller, stronger, cleverer and never out of clock. Master Childersin has been giving them something magical and special, something he had to smuggle down from the
overground. And he didn’t tell anybody, so his family would have an advantage over everybody else. He even killed people to keep his secret.

‘The Childersins have been dosing on it for seven years, getting bigger and better and brighter, while everybody else gets paler and duller and further out of clock. It’s the
Childersins’ secret golden medicine, and they want it all to themselves.’

The confusion in the audience was escalating into uproar. News of the Grand Steward’s assassination had shocked them, and set them desperately rethinking their alliances. But this
revelation was a different matter, arousing their personal wrath, envy and outrage. There was a treasure that had been hidden from them, something that could have been theirs. The burgundy patch
that was the Childersins had now formed a neat spearhead, driving its way towards the nearest exit, whilst beleaguered on all sides.