Chapter Three

“All safe houses have at least three Guardians in residence at all times—a junior, a senior, and one whose duties are composed solely of the maintenance and preservation of the house and its safety.”

—A Handbook for the Recruit

Two days later, still sane, I jolted awake to a thunderous knocking on the door. Six thirty in the morning, according to my watch. I rolled over, reaching under my pillow for my revolver. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t some sort of raid. I should hate to be arrested in my smallclothes. I listened.

As the door wasn’t broken down, Madame’s ancient flintlocks did not fire, and the National Guard didn’t come pounding into my bedroom, I assumed there was no immediate emergency and returned the revolver to its place under my pillow. It took me a while to gather the will to dress, shave, and make myself presentable. Whoever it was, they should know better than to frighten us so.

I still had plenty of spleen to vent by the time I came downstairs, though I made an effort to compose myself before looking over at our guest, a tall, lanky man with brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile so wide I immediately dismissed any possibility of his being honest.

“Mister Lambert,” he said, a deep, cheerful voice that mutilated my last name, turning it into ‘Lamb-Burrt’. He reached to take my hand, and I fought to keep myself from wincing as his handshake nearly crushed my fingers.

“I’m your new superior, at least for now.” He handed me his card, and I looked it over. To my intense dismay, it was legitimate. Ivan Williams, Senior Guardian, Second Class.

“Why are you here?” I asked, handing it back.

“I need your assistance with freeing an incarnation. She’s one I’m responsible for—a second tier manifestation of Truth.”

Oh, he’d been responsible for her and he let her get caught, had he? He didn’t look as if he’d put up much of a fight at all. My opinion of the man went down a bit more.

“Of course,” he continued, “the other reason I’m here is the Council wants a more senior Guardian than you in charge of things, especially since the powers of the new incarnation you found are uncertain, and you are, well, rather young. Better experience, and all that.” He smiled an indulgent smile. “Nothing personal, just orders,” he added, sounding as if he would be disappointed if I weren’t offended.

“I understand entirely,” I responded, mustering up a smile even more insincere than his. Harold’s expression declared it an absolute failure.

“Good, good!” Mister Williams pressed his hands together, still grinning. “I’m sure it will be a pleasure to work with you, Mister Lambert.”

“Likewise,” I managed, and then the yawn I’d been fighting for the last three minutes got its way, and I covered it clumsily with my hand. Mister Williams’ expression went entirely offended.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I have not slept much of recent days.” That, and six in the morning was not a civilized hour to call on anyone.

“Ah, of course. I can imagine the sort of stress you’ve been under. Looking after an incarnation in her first stages is quite hard on the nerves, especially for someone with your inexperience in the matter.” He made no mention of any of the other circumstances. Had he missed the entire coup? Maybe the newspaper was reading material too difficult for him. Maybe he had underlings to read it for him.

“Who is it?” asked Justice, feeling her way down the stairs with the aid of the railing. I closed my mouth, which probably saved my career, as Mister Williams turned and said, “Ah, Justice! Well, now.”

Justice nodded in the direction of his voice, and, once she gained the bottom of the stairs, held out a hand. “Good to meet you, Mister…?”

“Williams,” he said, not taking the hand. “I’m sorry, my dear, I can’t have you read me. Too much classified information.” He smiled again. He probably thought it made him look attractive. It didn’t.

He was a senior Guardian, one so senior he wasn’t to be read. Now wouldn’t that be an absolute pleasure. I spent a moment wondering how he’d gotten to such a rank. He had to be slightly less stupid than he looked, or he’d be dead, but it was hard to imagine.

Justice hesitated, favoring him with a very doubtful expression, then nodded and stepped back. Williams acted as if he hadn’t even noticed her reluctance. Perhaps he hadn’t, I thought, folding my arms.

“No wings yet,” he said jovially. “That probably means you’re not a first-tier incarnation, my dear, and a good thing too. It would be far more dangerous that way. Of course, Mister Lambert has already told you this.” I winced inwardly at the repeated mutilation of my name.

“Mister Williams—” I started, but he interrupted me.

“Please, Mister Lambert, if we’re to be working closely together, we might as well use our Christian names. It’s Ivan.” Then he looked at me expectantly.

I hesitated. Certainly, it would mean he’d cease mistreating my name, but the familiarity galled me. I gritted my teeth, and said, “Julian.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Ivan, and then smiled. “I’m expecting quite a lot from you, Julian. The reports have made much of your abilities, despite your youth.”

“Have they?” He’d managed to make ‘youth’ sound like an embarrassing disease.

“Indeed! I expect it will be a delight working with you.” This time, he had the nerve to clap me on the back. I tried to move away from him as unobtrusively as possible. “To have risen as far as you have must have taken a great deal of resourcefulness. I hope to see you in action soon.”

“Now, Julian, Mrs. Eavers,” and he mutilated her name as well, “I want you to show me around this house, show me what sorts of protections you have up, all of that. You’ll need some additions now you’re caring for a young incarnation.”

* * * *

If I disliked him before, the time we spent going over the house made me wish I could throttle him. He was snide about some things, condescending about others, and dismissive of any suggestion that didn’t come from him. Even Madame’s patience was beginning to fray, and her responses became briefer and sharper. Ivan didn’t notice, and at last Madame lost her temper entirely and, with a comment about getting dinner finished, vanished.

This left me to deal with Ivan. I suppose I managed well enough, all things considered, as he didn’t take noisy and immediate offense. I finally managed to pass him off to Harold, and retreated back to the kitchen to speak with Madame.

Her first words to me were, “The things in the sink need washing.” I knew better than to argue. She was in astounding ill temper, and would make it an order if I hesitated. I set about the task and tried not to appear reluctant.

“Our new guest seems to have made a similar impression on you as he has on me,” I said at last.

“Indeed—he has even fewer manners than you do.” A loud clang, as a pot was put down rather too hard.

“You could say we need to preserve one of the rooms for the incarnation he’s lost, and give him the china closet.”

She snorted. “Leaving all the poor china at his mercy? It’d be Harold who would have to move.”

I sighed and contemplated the pot scrubber, startlingly vicious for its innocuous employment. “Then I’d have to deal with him at close quarters.”

“Have you done anything recently that would vex the Council?”

I bit back my irritation that she assumed Ivan’s arrival was due to a lapse of my manners. “Nothing of the sort.”

She snorted, but, to my relief, did not press the matter. I finished the washing in silence, and made for the door before she could give me another task.

“There’s something for you in the cupboard there,” she said before I crossed the threshold. I turned, blinked at her in incomprehension and she jerked her chin at the one closest to the door. I opened it.

There, in a little square of paper, was a fat, very pink, very tiny marzipan pig.

“You are a goddess among Guardians, Madame,” I said, and picked up the pig, being careful to keep the paper between it and my damp fingers.

“Teach you to lend a hand about the place more often,” she said. “Besides, you dealt with him longer. Thought you deserved it. Now get out.”

Cradling the pig in its paper, I did as ordered. I found the parlor unoccupied and settled down in an armchair, regarding my present with great pleasure. I had a fondness for the stuff bordering on the absurd—I first encountered marzipan when I was fourteen, in a decoration on a cake, and had adored it since. It wasn’t as if I had enough of an income of my own to afford it on a regular basis, so it remained a rare treat.

I took a bite of the pig, enjoying the mild sweet graininess of it. I could almost imagine a faint flavor of peppermint to it, overshadowed by the almond. I had nowhere I had to be immediately, so I made it last, taking only tiny nibbles, just enough to keep the flavor fresh in my mouth.

When there was nothing left of it, I tucked the paper in my pocket and went upstairs.

There I found Justice earnestly endeavoring to pick the lock on Ivan’s door with a hairpin. She was not succeeding, and didn’t notice my approach until I was directly behind her.

“You shouldn’t do that,” I said. She started, hid the hairpin in her sleeve, and scrambled to her feet.

“I—” she started, flushing. A wave of guilt washed over me—who was I to be lecturing Justice on right and wrong? She certainly knew what she was about. She could not make a mistake.

“Stop that,” I said, and the guilt subsided. “Lock-picking is useful and may save your skin someday, but you should not be trying to spy on a Guardian. If you were to be taken, your captors would know everything you do about us.”

I didn’t have to finish. Its meaning sank in quickly, and she flushed again and fidgeted.

“Fine,” she said after a while, almost petulant, “but I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him, and I think he’s hiding something.”

She was newly manifested. I’d been told they could take strange fancies in the early stages. “I don’t either. We have to put up with him.”

She snorted. “Fine. Do you have anything else I could practice on, then?”

“I could leave my door locked, if you’d like.” It wasn’t as if I were in the habit of keeping things of importance there.

She cocked her head to one side, then nodded. “Thank you. What about the sword?”

“What sword?” I felt a fool the moment I said it, as it was rather difficult to forget nearly losing my head. “Oh. Ah. Harold might be better at teaching that.” Swordplay had been in our training, but it hadn’t seemed immediately useful, and I had paid it little mind at the time. I’d never had cause to regret it before now— truncheon and revolver and knife had always been sufficient. Harold, on the other hand, was a gentleman.

“I asked,” she said. “He refused.”

Harold also had a gentleman’s sensibilities, damn him. “I’ll have a word with him. In the meantime, you can practice on my door and ask Madame if she has any tricks she’d like to teach you.”

She nodded. “Thank you.” She tucked the hairpin back in her hair and turned with a rustle of petticoats. There was some hesitation to her movements—after several days, she still wasn’t accustomed to weighty and cumbersome skirts.

“You shouldn’t encourage her,” said Ivan, as she vanished down the stairs. I flinched, startled. “Incarnation or no, you should still consider her feminine sensibilities.”

“The hunters won’t,” I told him, angry I hadn’t noticed his approach. “Everything she learns makes our jobs a little easier, and gives her a better chance at escape should we fail.”

“Her mind is that of a child. She’s only three days old. You shouldn’t frighten her so.”

“Did she look frightened to you? If I were in her position, I should find it a comfort.”

He snorted, and my hackles went up at his derision. “You’re very idealistic.”

I took a breath, and said, “Excuse me. I need to speak with Mister Carlton.”

A moment as he connected first and last names. “Oh. Harold. Understood.”

“Indeed.” I turned my back on him, half-expecting an objection for my rudeness. None was forthcoming.

I approached Harold with some trepidation. I didn’t want to insult him, and maintaining his good opinion was all the more vital with an incompetent superior—under Ivan’s command, our lives were in more danger than ever before.

“Harold?”

“Yes?” Harold leaned back in his chair from the book he’d been reading. Judging by its girth, it was either the Bible or a book of practical medicine. I hoped the latter—it had a far more immediate application.

“Do you think you could teach Justice to use that sword of hers?”

“If you think it appropriate.” I didn’t like the note of caution in his voice.

“I’d prefer that she be able to defend herself. Liberty could.” It was a bit of protocol our handbooks were maddeningly mum on. “Besides, she almost had my head off the other day. I’d prefer to avoid a repeat.”

“If you insist,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, and with that good deed accomplished, retired to the drawing room to read all the bits of the handbook having to do with new incarnations, and wish I hadn’t eaten the marzipan so quickly.

* * * *

I didn’t have to deal overmuch with Ivan until the next morning. It was after breakfast, and I was concerned—Justice had staggered off, sat abruptly in an armchair, and fallen deeply asleep, in a position that must have been terribly uncomfortable.

“It’s quite normal for the young incarnations to sleep a great deal. I should have thought you would be familiar with it.” Ivan shrugged. He glanced at Justice, who mumbled something and turned over.

“Oh.” Well, yes, incarnations were supposed to sleep a lot in the first week or so, but I had only read about it, and never imagined it being so drastic. She had only just woken up, after all.

“She’s likely to dream a lot, too,” added Ivan. “About past wrongs, and all that. It’s likely to be unnerving.”

I’d read about that as well—we’d all read about it. There was no need for him to tell me in that supercilious tone of voice, as if he expected me to have slept through all my classes.

A feathery thump outside made us both look out the window. A mechanical pigeon flopped around in the mud as its clockwork wound down. Wondering exactly what the Council wanted this time, I went out to collect it.

I got buffeted by a wing for my pains. Ivan’s amusement was clearly audible through the door. I wrestled its wings back into place, gritting my teeth, wishing I could throw it at him. It smelled as if it had flown through several smoke stacks on its way here, and smudged soot and mud all over my cuffs. On closer examination, I found one of the little glass eyes had fallen out, exposing the gleam of the metal skull. I wondered again at how the Council had managed to create something even stupider than a real pigeon.

Once the clockwork’s struggles ceased, I pried open the little container on its leg, removed its contents, then put the machine back in the coop. Ivan was waiting for me at the door of the house, along with Madame. He held out a hand for the little roll of paper, and, irritated, I gave it to him.

He read it. His eyes widened, and he read it again, his lips moving slightly. Then he handed it to Madame, whose eyebrows rose as she scanned the paper. At last, she gave it to me.

My reaction was, I fear, much the same as Ivan’s. I had to read it twice for the meaning to sink in, and then I looked up at Madame, almost certain she would say it was a joke.

“So you’re her permanent Guardian,” said Madame, raising her eyebrows. Ivan turned and left the room without another word.

“I suppose so,” I said, allowing the surprise to creep into my voice. “I would have thought they’d assign her to Ivan. He does have more experience…”

“Where do you think he got that experience?” she asked. She was wearing what was as close to a smile as she ever got.

“I…suppose you’re right,” I said.

“In any case,” said Madame as she folded her arms, “it seems you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

I nodded again. “We all will.”

“Hm. It’s good Harold is here.” Madame took the orders, flicked them open again, read them through, nodding every so often.

“Julian’s been assigned as her Guardian?” asked Harold, coming down the stairs, Ivan behind him. I nodded. Harold opened his mouth to say something.

Justice sat bolt upright, tears dampening her blindfold. All four of us jumped at the sudden movement.

“They shot him!” she cried. Then she folded up into sobs, her shoulders shaking hard. I went to her, and took one of her hands in mine. So this was what they meant by nightmares. I swallowed, unsure of what to do. I felt Ivan’s eyes on the back of my neck. That didn’t help.

“They shot him,” she repeated. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong, just his duty, and they called him a traitor and took him and shot him.” She turned her bandaged eyes to me as her hands tightened around my fingers. “You wouldn’t let that happen to you, would you? Would you?”

“Of course not,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’m your Guardian, and I’ll always remain here. I’ll always be here if you need me—that firmly excludes being shot.”

“I wasn’t there,” she said, distracted. “How do I remember this? I wasn’t there…”

“You’re a new manifestation. It’s to be expected.” I kept my voice soft, as if I were talking to a frightened animal. I tried patting her hand, feeling this was expected.

She didn’t respond, flopped over again and went back to sleep.

“Poor thing,” said Madame. I extracted my hand as best I could and rose, wondering if we should take her back up to her room.

“At least she’s not a first-tier incarnation,” Harold said.

“A good thing she isn’t,” I said. Especially since Justice, unlike others such as Wisdom or Fortitude, was supposed to be quite active once fully manifested. If the lock-picking was any indication, our incarnation was certainly living up to expectations.

Being active, she was all the more valuable. We’d be far more likely to fail simply because of the number of people trying to capture her. They would only have to be lucky once.

All of us had a particular horror of the fate in store for a captured incarnation, a dread stronger even than that of our own deaths. Marking, agonizing and, if botched, fatal, had to be done while the victim was conscious.

“There are three of us here,” Ivan said calmly, examining his nails with little apparent interest. “Even if Justice were a first-tier incarnation, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

* * * *

“‘It wouldn’t be a problem’,” I spat, much later that day, having escaped the house with Harold on a walk. “Our friend the senior Guardian says it ‘wouldn’t be a problem’. The man never ceases to astound.”

“He might be right,” said Harold, tentatively, watching his boots. The weather had taken a turn for the unpleasant, so we didn’t have to worry about eavesdroppers as we went. “He must have attained that rank somehow.”

“Yes, by sitting behind a desk.”

“I think you’re too critical of him.”

“If anything, I’m being too lenient. He’s a useless, preening idiot.”

Harold shivered as the wind rose, tucking his coat more firmly around himself. I didn’t—the wind didn’t bother me. “He had the gall to leave a book on manners on my place at table. An entire section on table etiquette. As if I could afford a banana, much less figure out how to peel one with a knife and a fork.”

“Manners,” said Harold sternly, “have a purpose, Julian, and as much as I dislike to admit it, yours certainly are lacking. Even with your background, it’s inexcusable.”

“Better a boor who can do his duty than a preening fop who wouldn’t know Justice from Liberty,” I snapped back. “Are you suggesting I neglect my obligations to soothe Ivan’s offended sensibilities?”

“No, but he does have some reason in it. What if you had to pose as a gentleman?”

I snorted. “I’d find something else. No matter what Ivan says. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem’.” It wasn’t a very good imitation, and made Harold sigh.

“It doesn’t matter,” he pointed out. “We have to help him. It’s our orders, and our duty.”

“I know that,” I snarled, and rammed my hands deeper into my pockets.

“What rotten weather. I’ll be glad when we get home. Whatever possessed you to want to take a walk now, Julian?”

“I like it.”

“You’re a fool,” he replied, stopping at our door and fumbling at the lock.

“Not half as much a one as Ivan.”

“We have to deal with him.” Harold sounded as if he were talking to a child. I shoved past him into the house, only to be immediately confronted by Ivan.

“Good news,” he told us. “One of my informants has just located the nest where Truth’s held.”