Trust Yourself
‘. . . taking effect?’
A hand was waved in front of Neverfell’s face. She blinked hard, startled by the blurred collage of light and looming faces. Reflexively she reached up to bat away a lantern that was almost touching her cheek. Stony faces regarded her without a smile or flicker, the lanternlight picking out their chipped teeth, the pockmarks on their skin, the pale ticks and squiggles of scars. Hands gripped her shoulders and arms, holding her still.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered. They glanced at each other, their faces shifting not a hair. Drudges, she thought. They’re all drudges. But who are they?
And where am I? How did I get here? The last thing I remember is talking to the Kleptomancer . . .
‘They’re here already!’ somebody was screaming. There was a terrible battering sound from somewhere nearby, and bellows demanding admittance.
‘We have to go,’ snapped a man who was holding her by the collar. ‘Now!’ Half a dozen hands abruptly released her, so that she almost lost her balance, and her strange captors sprinted as one to a small door on the opposite wall. They vanished into it, a couple of them casting glances over their shoulder at Neverfell as they departed, then slammed the door behind them. Neverfell could hear four or five bolts being thrown.
Before she could react to this, a larger door a few yards away from her suddenly burst open, and the room filled with armed men. Neverfell backed away, almost tripping over a stool, but there was nowhere to flee or hide.
‘There!’ The leader of the new arrivals seized her by the arm, and held up his lantern next to her face. ‘Yes, look! It’s her. We’ve found her. At last. Secure the area! See if you can find the others! Break down that door over there, and see where it goes.’
‘What’s she got in her hand?’
Neverfell stared down, and noticed that she was gripping a tiny wooden cup, the inside stained dark. There was a dusky taste in Neverfell’s mouth as well that seemed familiar.
The cup was snatched from her grasp, turned over, sniffed. ‘Damn it! She’s drunk something. Let’s get her to a physician quickly in case it’s poison. Childersin will have our hides if he loses her to death just when he needs her.’
Childersin. That word was enough to penetrate her stupor. These men worked for Childersin. She had been captured by Childersin’s men. Stunned by this realization, she heard titbits of the conversation around her.
‘Looks like they cleaned out, took everything. I guess they gave up and abandoned her at the end.’
‘All right, everybody out! The rest don’t matter. We’ve got what we came for.’
There was a sword in every hand. There was nowhere to run. She was grabbed under the armpits and dragged out of the room down passage after passage.
Why am I here? Neverfell tried to remember but slid off a sleek blankness in her memory, like a cat failing to scale a wall of polished marble. Her hands were grimier than she had ever seen them, their nails broken, the skin covered with nicks and scars she could not recollect. Her hair was still dyed black, but now it almost reached down to her waist. There was a tangled bracelet of twine round one wrist.
‘Quick! Get her out of here. The Enquiry are coming. The last thing we want is them trying to grab her from us. Go!’
The group burst out on to a Drudgery thoroughfare, and Neverfell made a belated and doomed attempt to break free. She felt sick and unsteady. When she closed her eyes to blink, she could see purple spirals rising and rising against the darkness of her eyelids.
Without ceremony, she was bundled into a closed sedan, not unlike those used to transport Cartographers. She heard locks turn and chains jingle, and the door resisted her attempts to barge it with her shoulder.
I was talking to the Kleptomancer, Neverfell thought desperately. She could recall only the first half of the conversation, after which her memories simply faded out. Even the part she could remember felt strange and flat. She could recollect everything she had said and done, but not her reasons.
I had the start of a plan – I know I did. That’s why I went running off to find the Kleptomancer. And I was trying really hard not to think about it . . . and now I don’t know what it was.
What was the plan? And how did it go this badly wrong?
‘Hey!’ She thumped the inside walls of the sedan. ‘Hey! Call the Enquiry! It’s Neverfell! I’m in here!’ Her voice sounded hoarse and rough, and she doubted anybody heard. Although she knew that if she fell into the hands of the Enquiry things would probably not go well for her, she was suddenly gripped by a wild desire to stop Maxim Childersin winning, by any means necessary. But nobody answered.
It was a hasty ride, and she was jolted so badly that she probably would have thrown up if there had been anything in her stomach. At last the door opened, and she was pulled out into a crisp white room. The friezes looked familiar, and she guessed that she was probably somewhere in the palace.
Here she was pulled about by panicky physicians, who examined her eyes, tongue and ears, and tutted over the fleabites on her skin, before poking her gently with needles to make sure she could feel them. They gave her emetics that made her retch hopelessly, then forced water into her mouth through a funnel, so that she ended up spluttering with her clothing drenched.
When she finally recovered her breath, she realized that there was another figure in the room, watching discreetly from a chair by the wall. She wiped the water from her face, pushed back her hair and defiantly tried to straighten, so that she was less of a crushed, grubby wreck. The time for trying to hide her face was over. She was tired of games.
‘I’m very glad to see you, Neverfell,’ said Maxim Childersin. He was wearing a silvery, high-collared coat that glittered and made Neverfell think of the Grand Steward. ‘I never would have guessed that you would lead us such a merry chase. It has to be said that Drudgery was not my first guess for your hiding place.’
‘How did you find me?’ croaked Neverfell.
‘Ah.’ Maxim Childersin reached into his pocket, and pulled out a few letters. ‘That is rather easily answered.’ He unfolded one of them and held it up for her to see. The writing was a charcoal scrawl, but was unmistakably in Neverfell’s own hand.
Neverfell’s eye strayed to the top of the page, and her heart plummeted into a well that had no bottom.
DEAR ZOUELLE, began the letter, IF YOU ARE REALLY IN THAT MUCH DANGER, OF COURSE YOU MUST FLEE AND HIDE WITH US. READ THIS LETTER CAREFULLY AND BURN IT AFTERWARDS. I AM HIDING OUT IN THE STOREROOM OF THE GRUB-GRINDING MILL IN THE FLOTSAM DISTRICT . . .
Neverfell could not remember writing the letter, but it was definitely in her own handwriting.
‘Loyalty,’ Maxim Childersin said quietly. ‘It always was your greatest weakness. And your strange compulsion to trust your friends, over and over again.’ He folded the letter and put it away. ‘But you must understand that Zouelle is also loyal, and at the end of the day her loyalty to her family will always win out.’
He’s lying, thought Neverfell desperately. I don’t believe it. Zouelle didn’t trick me into telling her where I was so she could betray me to him. He stole the letters. It’s a lie.
Maxim Childersin watched her face, his impassivity coloured by a hint of sympathy. But, thought Neverfell suddenly, why should she think that sympathy was real? It was just another lie, something he had put on like a hat.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and sounded as if he meant it. ‘But as Zouelle’s friend you should at least be happy that she made the right decision in terms of her own career. I have now officially named her as my heir.’ The little smiles came and went in his mouth, like moray eels peering out from a crack in search of prey. ‘It must be some consolation, though, that Master Grandible remained loyal to you till the end.’
‘The . . . the end?’ whispered Neverfell.
‘Yes. I suppose you know that he did everything in his power to make everybody think that you were hiding in his tunnels? I daresay he must have been trying to protect you by drawing attention away from you. He held out against the Enquiry’s forces far longer than anybody expected, and even when they finally broke in he refused to be taken alive. We don’t know which combination of cheeses he used to blow up the support pillars and collapse his own tunnels.’ He sighed. ‘The Enquiry are still digging through the rubble.’
Neverfell felt her throat tighten, and her hands close into fists. I tried so hard to protect Master Grandible, but I still brought destruction on him after all . . .
‘Ah.’ Master Childersin glanced at the clock. ‘I fear I cannot stay to talk for long. After all, we both have less than an hour to prepare for the grand hearing, do we not?’
‘What?’
Neverfell could only think of one hearing Maxim Childersin could mean, and that was the hearing to decide once and for all whether the Grand Steward’s death had been foul play. But the hearing’s two months away – it can’t be today. Because if it is today . . . I’ve lost two months. Forgotten them completely.
‘I was genuinely worried, you know. I thought you might actually succeed in evading me until after the hearing was over. But it seems you were let down by your allies. Your huddle of drudge friends abandoned you at the last moment, didn’t they?’
Neverfell gritted her teeth. Erstwhile wouldn’t abandon me. What happened to him? Please don’t let anything have happened to him . . .
‘I wish we had more time to talk,’ Childersin was continuing. ‘There are lots of things I would love to know. Was it you who was trying to order several dozen pairs of smoked glasses, the tripod, the spirit level, the crossbow and all that rope? And is it true that you were seen talking to the Kleptomancer? They . . . found his body at last. I expect you heard about that.’
Neverfell felt herself blanch and start shaking.
‘Ah. It would seem you had not. So you really did manage to ally with him? I must say I’m impressed. If it makes you feel any better, I am having him embalmed and placed in the Cabinet of Curiosities. A master of his talents deserves no less.’
‘You wouldn’t dare let me testify.’ Neverfell felt calm, warm and full of light. She was very, very angry, and her fears melted away like wool in a furnace. ‘Not now.’
‘Oh yes, I would. Why not? You will walk into that hall before the entire Court and you will tell them – with all the conviction of sincerity – that there is no way you could possibly have consumed an antidote whilst working as a taster for the Grand Steward. You will tell them you ate and drank nothing at Madame Appeline’s, and that nobody could have dosed you during your sleep because you had locked the guestroom door from the inside. You will confirm everything I have been saying all this time.’
‘So you’re going to Wine me, aren’t you?’ Neverfell said flatly. After all her struggles to defend her memory, the inevitability felt particularly cruel.
‘Yes. I am afraid I must. You will forget everything that has happened since the day of the Grand Steward’s death. We will need a story to explain such extensive amnesia, of course. Let me see . . . no doubt the kidnappers who have been holding you for the last two months must have decided to wipe your memories of your captivity, so that you could not identify them, but underestimated the strength of the Wine they forced on you. When you were rescued, you were in a state of shock, so that you only came to your senses just before the hearing . . . Does that not sound plausible?’
It did. Neverfell swallowed drily.
‘To tell the truth,’ continued Childersin, ‘I am reluctant to do this. Over a relatively short period you seem to have developed into rather an interesting and formidable young person. The Wine is being brought over now, and after you drink it you will go back to being sweet, trusting, helpless . . . Well, you remember how you were. The person you are now will cease to exist. So I wanted to drop by one last time, just to say goodbye.’ He smiled sadly, and turned to leave.
‘I see.’ Neverfell’s chest felt tight. ‘Master Childersin?’
Childersin paused mid-stride on his way to the door, gloves draped over his hand.
‘What is it, Neverfell?’
‘You won’t win, Master Childersin. I won’t let you.’
‘You don’t have a plan,’ Childersin said very gently. ‘You don’t have any allies. You don’t have your freedom. And very soon you won’t even remember why you might want to cause trouble for me anyway.’
‘I am going to stop you, though.’ Neverfell felt heat rising from her chest to her face, and with it a wash of strange strength. ‘I will, somehow. Look at me, Master Childersin. Look in my face and tell me I’m bluffing.’
Childersin looked at her for a long moment. He did not tell her she was bluffing. He did not tell her anything. In the end he shook his head slightly, and left without a single word.
After Childersin and the physicians had departed, a group of female servants in Childersin livery entered, bearing a ceramic bath, buckets of soft water, and crumbly cakes of soap wrapped in pink leaves. Neverfell watched them peel off her clothes with an odd sense of distance. It was so much like her first arrival at the Childersin household, and so different. Back then she had felt as if she were being rescued. Now she saw exactly what was happening. The Childersin family were cleaning and polishing a tool. Soon they would wash her memory as well, and there she would be, innocent, doe-eyed and grateful to all of them.
The Childersin maids were not meeting her eye, she noticed. Whenever their gaze touched her face by chance, they physically flinched and looked away. She could only assume that her face was currently too painful to look at, just as it had been when she was first thrown into an Enquiry cell.
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.
Everything will be fine. Trust yourself.
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.