The Rending
During the carriage ride back, Neverfell was so tired, hungry and thirsty that she wanted to cry. She could feel her face crumpling with the exhaustion of it, in spite of all her efforts. When Zouelle spoke, her voice was a hum, a bumblebee mumble with the occasional word in it. Her mind kept flapping shut like a book.
‘Neverfell!’ She was jerked out of her stupor by her own name. ‘We’re back at the palace! Look – we’ve made good time. Go quickly and get some food before the Grand Steward calls you.’
‘Is my face—’
‘It’s fine. It really is. It’s much, much better. All mended. You don’t need to worry.’ Zouelle gave her a blindingly confident smile.
Neverfell hugged her quickly to hide her own expression. I know you’re lying, she thought. I know you’re lying to help me, so I won’t have worry all over my face.
Attendants led Neverfell back to the tasters’ district, where Leodora ran an eye of scrutiny over her.
‘Better,’ she muttered. ‘I think it’s better. Let’s hope it’s good enough. Come and eat! Quickly! You have half an hour!’
In the dining hall Neverfell drank several jugs full of water and forced down some fennel casserole with rice. She had barely finished when her escort arrived to take her to the Grand Steward’s tasting. It was larger and better armed than any that had accompanied her before. Clearly the Grand Steward did not intend to see his most prized taster stolen more than once. The horse might have bolted, but the stable door behind it was being very carefully secured.
I just have to get through the next three hours, she told herself, and then I can sleep as much as I like. She imagined the three hours as a space of rough gravel over which she had to hobble, and everything beyond it as rich, thick, kindly carpet.
Left-Eye watched as massive desserts were brought in on palanquins with the exotic pomp of eastern queens. His left fingers slowly tapped at the arm of his marble throne, and he gave long slow blinks to clear the crusts from his strange, glassy lashes.
His one eye glided over the glittering confections designed for his pleasure. The first was a mighty green jelly in a cone shape, from the apex of which burst a candied flower. The sugared roots of the plant could be seen winding their way down through the translucent jelly. The second was a castle three feet high fashioned entirely from sugar and crystallized fruits, complete with a tiny spun-sugar portcullis. Third came a vast cake covered in real gold leaf, and with crunchy pearls mixed in among the nuts.
Ash, said his mind. Ash and dull wool. He needed his new taster. He needed to see her taste these masterpieces so they became real to him.
Here she came at last, a small figure amid her escort. As she approached from the shadows of the doorway, the light fell upon her face.
He felt a shudder of annoyance and distaste pass through the depths of his soul. The stain on her expression was reduced, but it was not gone. It was not reduced enough. The disappointment was bitter and maddening. How could he enjoy anything through a sour countenance like that? It would be like eating delicacies with a dirty spoon.
And then, just as he was about to make the small gesture that would doom the girl and those who had failed to mend her to a sharp and sudden demise, the girl’s brow cleared and brightened a little.
His hand stilled. Perhaps the stain was not as bad as he had thought. She would do . . . for now at least.
It’s Left-Eye! The one who always liked me!
That was the thought that had struck Neverfell at the critical moment, flooding her mind with relief and causing her expression to brighten. Little did she guess that her smile had just saved her from execution. The Grand Steward gave a slight nod of approval, and she took up her place on a small velvet seat a few feet from his throne, hardly believing her luck.
The first pudding was brought forward, and was introduced by its creator in such glowing and detailed terms that Neverfell had a hazy feeling that she should probably curtsy to it. She watched as a tiny silver knife was used to carve a small piece of green jelly and candied flower for the Grand Steward, and an even tinier piece for herself. Letting that little blob of jelly melt on her tongue was like suddenly running down into a glowing green valley against the wind. Somewhere a trapped flower was singing, with all the beauty and pathos of an imprisoned princess.
With difficulty Neverfell steadied herself, and managed not to fall off her stool. The little bowl of moth biscuits came past, and she took a tiny fragment of one and let it settle on her tongue, dulling all flavour. She pinched her nose hard, and managed to smother the inevitable sneeze.
Neverfell did not raise her gaze, because she knew that every eye would be upon her. The knowledge made her feel scraped, like a fruit rind raked by too many eager spoons.
It was only after sampling the Melodia Orchid Jelly, the Chateau Caramel, the Imperial Pineapplerie and the rest that Left-Eye became aware of something tickling at the back of his mind. Truth be told, he was rather surprised to find that he had a back of his mind at all, since his thoughts were so soft, loose and all-enfolding. It was blundering and bothersome, like a bat in the jaws of a lamp, and he could not see it properly.
Flap. Flap-a-flap-flap. What was it?
Something was wrong. The Kleptomancer had not yet made a bid to steal the desserts. He might of course attempt to snatch them after the tasting, but what lustre was there in a meagre challenge like that? The desserts would still be unparalleled, but they would be past their best. Months of calculation had gone into ensuring that they would be presented to the Grand Steward whilst at their very peak.
If the Kleptomancer’s thefts really were designed to cause disruption, which the thief could study to understand the plans of others, what better way to create chaos than to undermine the Grand Steward? And what better way to do that than another audacious theft so close on the heels of the last? It would be a boldness akin to madness for the Kleptomancer to steal one of these desserts in such a dangerous situation, and for this very reason Left-Eye found himself growing ever more certain that the thief would be unable to resist doing so. Thus he himself had to be missing something simple and colossal.
His hand halted in its drumming. He had it. He understood. Another small gesture, and all the puddings were brought forward again so that he could examine them.
He could not be wrong. The Kleptomancer would not miss an opportunity to steal one of these puddings at their best, but the sampling itself had occurred without incident. Which could only mean that the Kleptomancer had already stolen one of the priceless desserts and replaced it with an exact replica.
It was so obvious now that he wondered why nobody else had worked out the truth. But then everybody else’s minds did baffle him by sluggishly dragging themselves in straight lines.
Or, then again, perhaps some of them had guessed. Indeed, some of them must already know, must have noticed the change, or even helped with the theft. Which ones? And which of these puddings was an imposter?
And could it have been poisoned? He glanced across at the red-haired girl who sat nearby. She looked sleepy, but noticeably alive, and any poison capable of harming him would have killed her as soon as it touched her lips. Her face at least was clear as fresh-drawn water. She was not one of the conspirators, but anybody else in the room might be.
Which pudding? It seemed to him suddenly that the melody of the candied flower in the emerald jelly had been a little mocking in its tone. Yes, doubtless, that was the false dessert. How had the theft been managed? Its creators must have been negligent at best, complicit at worst.
One small gesture of his hand, and his guards were in motion.
Neverfell missed the moment. She was rubbing her eyes during the instant that tense calm suddenly tipped over into blood and chaos. There was a horrible shortened sound, not even a cry, more like a thin slice of a cry, and some soft thuds. When she opened her eyes, she found that the men who had proudly borne in the flower-adorned jelly were buckling to the floor, dark diagonal gashes opening in their chests. Their palanquin hit the ground with a lopsided crash, and the silver platter lurched off sideways, its edge chiming against the floor, the jelly upending with a sodden murmur of melody, like a music box sinking into a well, the roots of the flower waving in the air.
She could only stare aghast and nonplussed at the red blades of the guards, hardly understanding what had happened. Next moment she realized that they were watching the Grand Steward’s china-pale left hand for further instructions.
Before she could recover her senses, the hand was in motion once more.
Left-Eye knew that he had to move fast. In order to make the substitution, the Kleptomancer must have had many accomplices, among the guards, the confectioners, even the Enquiry. Why go to so much trouble just to replace a thing with its double? There could only be one answer. The Kleptomancer had intended Left-Eye to notice the switch. It was designed to throw him off balance, bewilder and madden him, throw his entire understanding of the world into disarray.
But why do so? Who would want to do anything of the sort? Left-Eye reached for a pattern that would explain it all . . . and found one.
The Kleptomancer was nothing but a cat’s paw. Left-Eye saw it all now. The thief was a tool in the hands of one who wanted to distract Left-Eye from his own plans, to keep him confused, obsessed, helpless. And who would know that the Kleptomancer’s game would have such an extreme effect upon Left-Eye? Only one person.
With a series of quick signals, Left-Eye gave the order for all Right-Eye’s remaining advisors to be executed.
Right-Eye must have been plotting against him for years, nursing dark and resentful thoughts from his half of the skull. No doubt he had hidden all his schemes amid those tiresome reams of dull thoughts and schedules that he knew Left-Eye would never examine properly. Now Right-Eye was weakening him, ready to strike, so Left-Eye had no choice but to strike first.
The first advisor was neatly decapitated before anybody really realized what was happening. The second had time to offer up a scream and plaintively raise his hands before he was cut down. When the Grand Steward’s left hand made the same gesture a third time, however, and pointed at Enquirer Treble, she leaped back in time to draw her sword and defect a blade with her own.
‘Hold! That’s an order!’ The tone of authority was enough to make the guards hesitate, confused into forgetting for a moment that Treble was not in their chain of command, and had a good deal less authority whilst Left-Eye was awake. She took advantage of the moment to pluck a pouch from her belt and throw it to the floor where it burst, white powder spattering the tiles.
The guards jumped back in alarm, suspecting some attack, and a moment later everybody’s eyes were streaming.
‘Your Excellency!’ called out Treble. ‘Your advisors appeal to you!’
As the stinging scent of the spilt powder reached the throne, the Grand Steward’s right eye flicked open.
There was none of the usual easing into consciousness, sliding on his body like a glove. Instead Right-Eye was suddenly rudely awake and aware that he was under attack. He was not alone in his own skull, and the other thing in there with him was no longer recognizable as a part of him. Rather it seemed like a vast, maddened bat, beating at him with black wings of unreason and dragging claws across his thoughts.
His guards were attacking Treble, who was defending herself as best she could. What were they doing?
‘Stop!’
They halted, looking utterly bewildered. They were staring towards his left-hand side, and he realized that his left hand must be signalling orders to them. He looked down, and was infuriated by the fact that, as always, he could only see his right side, not the actions of his left. He reached across and seized his left hand to stop it gesturing.
‘Stand down! All of you! Enquirer Treble, your report . . .’
But Enquirer Treble was given no opportunity to deliver her report. Before anybody could do anything, the Grand Steward’s left hand escaped from his right, and the next moment he felt a searing line slashed across his right knuckles. It took Right-Eye a second to realize that his left hand had triggered the secret mechanism in its ring, and used the needle that sprang out to attack his right hand.
That needle was one of the few weapons sharp enough to pierce his skin, which centuries of carefully applied oils had left dragon-scale-tough. He was immune to the poison that tipped it, and the pain was nothing, for he had long since exhausted pain’s power to distract or enthral him. What shocked him was the sudden, twisting realization that Left-Eye had gone completely mad, and had to be destroyed.
‘Guards! Your bows! Aim for my left side! My left eye! The left side of my throat!’
Neverfell tumbled backwards off her chair, numbly staring at the Grand Steward, her skin not so much crawling as sprinting. Everything was wrong with him now. The two halves of his countenance seemed to be striving for different Faces, his mouth lopsidedly agape, his eyes struggling to look in different directions. As she watched, his left hand clawed open a secret panel in the arm of the throne, and pulled out a bodkin that seemed to be made of pale gold. A moment later both china-white hands were gripping the hilt of the bodkin as the Grand Steward wrestled with himself, writhing on the throne like a seizure victim.
The audience chamber spent a few seconds agape, and then collapsed into chaos. There had always been a crack running down the middle of the Grand Steward’s personal guard and coterie of advisors. Now, without more ado, this household broke neatly in two. The guards who had attacked Enquirer Treble ceased to do so, but instantly had to defend her from another three guards who were still trying to obey Left-Eye’s last orders. One of Right-Eye’s favoured advisors produced an illegal garotte from a bracelet and made a spirited attempt to strangle one of Left-Eye’s interpreters. Suddenly an uneasy alliance had dissolved. Now was the moment to settle all grievances.
Whilst everybody was screaming orders and counter-orders, a crossbow bolt hit the Grand Steward in the left shoulder. It did not bury itself deep, but did cause him to jerk and fall off his throne. An instant later two more hit, this time in his right leg and just below his right collarbone.
‘Stop it!’ screamed Treble. ‘Are you all mad? Stop shooting at the Grand Steward!’
‘Which one?’ called a guard, gripping a loaded and trembling bow.
‘Either of him!’ bellowed Treble. ‘Put your bows up! All of you! Everybody stop killing everybody!’
The Grand Steward was on the ground amid the wreckage of the jelly, rolling over and over as he fought himself. He had spent centuries developing defences against attack, and he knew his way past all of them. He knew all his own tactics, the weak places in his armour, the creases where his toughened skin was most susceptible to a blade. When at last the bodkin fell from his hands and skittered away, he pummelled himself, each hand clawing at the opposite side of his face, pulling loose fistfuls of glassy hair.
‘Stop him!’ shouted Treble, her cry echoed by a number of others.
But nobody could stop him. Nobody could go near him, for none of them trusted each other with him any more. Anybody who took a step towards him was instantly the focus of a dozen bows, and found their vista glittering with sword tips. Besides this, the Grand Master’s thrashing had triggered half a dozen traps, all designed to prevent enemies from getting too close to the throne and its occupant. A curtain of metallic gauze had fallen between him and the furore, its poisoned barbs gleaming in the pearly light. Some parts of the floor fell away, gleaming tiles tumbling into the blackness below. Steel pendulums swung from side to side with a sound like tearing silk and venom-tipped darts thrummed from one wall to the other.
Beneath the Grand Steward a pool began to spread, but at first not everyone guessed it was blood, for it was translucent and gleamed like glass. At last he collapsed on to his back, his struggles weakening, both frost-like eyes fixed upon the ceiling. He was shuddering, and appeared to be going into some kind of a fit, as if the two halves of his nature had given up on their physical fight and retreated inside his head to continue their battle.
‘Physicians! Bring in the physicians!’ But both halves of the Grand Steward favoured different physicians, and as a furious debate broke out over which could be trusted swords were drawn again, and the fight resumed.
So it was that only one person actually approached the Grand Steward during the confusion, for she was on the right side of the swinging traps, and of neither faction.
In the ash-filled labyrinths of the Grand Steward’s mind, a war raged. One half felt that it was fighting a terrible, ice-cold, logical monster that strangled it like a boa constrictor, its monstrous scales rattling dully like chains. The other half knew only that it battled a phantom of shadow and madness that knew no shape and melted in his grasp.
And then suddenly, deep in the core of him that was both Right-Eye, Left-Eye and neither, it came to the Grand Steward that he was dying. The body he had known for so long was cooling, numbing, passing from his control, like a demoralized army deserting in dribs and drabs under cover of night after a lost battle. No, sighed that greater soul as his two halves wrestled, mad with hate. Must it be this now? Must it be this forever? An unending, slow numbing in a dying mind?
There was still some sight in his eyes, but everything was hazy now. Staring up, he found that his view of the ceiling’s delicate carvings was blocked by a blot. A blot with red hair and a pale, thin face.
Small hands were trying to staunch his wounds. They were not doing it very well. They had made a knot out of a taster’s sash and were pressing it hard against the worst wound in his flank.
Her face was upside down, but he could still make out her expression, and it filled him with a pang of curiosity. It was so long since he had seen such an expression that it took a while for him to recognize it as pity. Yes, it was true pity, without superiority or disdain. Just pain felt for pain. How strange it looked!
For a moment, he felt a sting of the same for her. Pain for pain. Pity for everything that would inevitably happen to her after his passing.
The world before his eyes fogged and extinguished, but now the maze of his mind was less dark than it had been. For the first time it seemed to him that he was not alone in there, that there was something gambolling at his side now like a monkey, something that was not the two great beasts of his consciousness, weakening under each other’s claws. It prattled and had a face that changed like flame, and it led him to a room where he was to be tested.
In the great audience chamber he stood before an empty throne of marble, and stared down at the box he was challenged to open. He knew from long experience that such boxes only held horrors, but the capering companion at his side whispered that there might instead be miracles. He knelt, lifted the box and opened the lid the tiniest crack to peer inside.
Through that narrow aperture he glimpsed, not skulking, stale nightmares, but blue eternities. Suddenly the song of the trapped flower was in his ears again, but now it no longer sounded mournful and imprisoned but free and jubilant.
In an instant he saw the delusion of his five hundred years. He was not looking into a box; he was looking out of one. All these centuries his mind, his body, his world had been a box of horrors.
He took one last breath, then pushed open the lid of his prison and escaped.