“HOW ARE YOU, YOUNG FELLOW? Rooms to your liking? Henry looking after you? Sleep all right?” Lord Charles came in without knocking and paced about Tom’s room. “Good, good. Sorry I had to leave you last night. Had to write up yesterday’s events and get the paper out. Breakfasted? Excellent.” He smiled. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ve been reading this.” Tom held up a book that he’d found on the shelf next to his bed.
THE HISTORY OF
THE YOUNG MEN
From Their First Settlement to the Present Time
by JOHN BUD, ESQ.
He’d started reading, hoping to find out more about this place and how it had come about, but he’d just become more and more confused.
“What do you make of it?” Lord Charles asked.
“Not a lot, to be honest.” Tom frowned.
“That’s because Bud wrote it. Can’t write for toffee. My own volume will be far better—when it’s finished, that is.” Lord Charles sat down. “What do you want to know? The Founding Story changes depending on who is doing the telling,” he went on before Tom could answer. “But all agree that Glass Town was founded by the Twelve, a group of bold military men who sailed from England to establish a new land. After many adventures, they ended up here. Conquered the natives hereabouts and established the Glass Town Federation. They divided the territory between them into different kingdoms: the Duke, of course, in Wellingtonsland; Sneachie in Sneachiesland; Ross and Parry in Rossland and Parrysland. Together, they built the Great Glass Town where we are now.”
“And where exactly is that?” Tom asked.
“Why, Africa!” Lord Charles exclaimed, as though that was obvious. “We are at the mouth of the Niger River.”
That explained the heat and humidity, the tropical plants and trees. It did not explain why not more than two days’ ride from here you could be in Yorkshire.
“What about Parrysland? That’s nothing like Africa.”
“Ah, no. That’s true. The different lands take after their Founders and that’s what Parry prefers. I spent a week there once. Cold and damp. Utterly dreary.” Lord Charles shuddered. “Never again. Sneachiesland is even worse. Something of the Highlands about it. All mountains and moors.”
None of it made any sense. Even the bit that was supposed to be like Africa wasn’t really like Africa; it was like someone’s idea of Africa. As for the rest—that must be someone else’s idea…
“Don’t worry.” Lord Charles smiled. “All fearfully complicated. Our history is always changing. Facts and dates, people and places have ways of mutating so even I find it hard to understand. You know…” He leant forward, his blue eyes clouded with sudden doubt. His customary poise gone. “I sometimes think that none of it is, well, real. Glass Town and all of its people, myself included—we’re mere ideas in someone else’s brain. Part of some other creature’s game…” He looked up with a sheepish smile. “I dare say you think that nonsense.”
“No. Not at all.” Tom wouldn’t say that. He understood exactly. That was how he felt himself.
“Enough wool-gathering.” Lord Charles stood up, suddenly anxious to get going, confidence returning. “Time I was on my rounds. Come on, young fellow. I’ll show you something of the town.”
“I was planning to go and see Augusta,” Tom said. He might get more sense out of her.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Lord Charles shook his head. “Augusta is in purdah. Armed guards outside her door.”
They left the palace and crossed the wide piazza. The tall buildings, blinding white in the morning sunlight, the colonnaded walkways, doors and windows in sharp shadow.
“How did they build all this?” Tom asked.
“With the help of the Genii,” Lord Charles said, as if that actually explained anything. “The Jinn. They can be forces for good as well as bad. Build as well as destroy.”
“What about the other people—the ordinary people? Where did they come from?”
“Some came with the Twelve,” Lord Charles said vaguely. “Others came later, as colonists and settlers. The Duke brought thirty thousand veterans with him after he defeated Napoleon.”
“Right.” Tom nodded. “I see.”
Thirty thousand seemed an awful lot, and defeating Napoleon—did the Duke sail back to do that? But there was no point in questioning. This was a fantasy and Tom was in it. He had no choice but to accept it, to play his role.
He looked around for something else to talk about. They were walking through one of the lesser squares. Men in livery were setting out tables, stringing flags and bunting. There appeared to be no trace of the recent disturbances. Everything was swept clean.
When he remarked upon it, Lord Charles shrugged.
“This is Glass Town. The Duke likes to look out at an Ideal City. Now it’s Fiesta. He wants the people to join him in celebrating the coming betrothal of his firstborn to the lovely Lady Augusta. To share in his joy—as I’m sure we all do.” The look he gave Tom was sharp and amused. “I see you don’t approve. She must marry. It’s been her destiny since childhood.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder. “This is Glass Town—it’s how things are done.”
Tom shook his head. It might have been how things were done here, like in the old days with arranged marriages, but it still seemed wrong to him. She should have been free to choose.
“Who she marries should be her decision,” he said. “If she marries anyone.”
“I dare say that’s so where you come from.” Lord Charles’s look became sharper. “Where do you come from? I am a man of great curiosity—you may well have noticed. Us newspapermen have to be. So I am bound to wonder where you were and what you were before you came to our dear Augusta. Are you her creature? You certainly are not one of ours. Did she conjure you, I wonder? And, if so, how did she do it? Where did you spring from?”
Tom didn’t answer, just smiled.
“America, we were thinking,” Lord Charles probed further. “By your way of speaking. Or perhaps the Colonies?”
Tom kept his smile non-committal. That would do. “We?” he questioned.
“Johnny Lockhart and I. We are journalists. Inquisitiveness runs in our blood, along with printers’ ink. He’s waiting for us at Bravey’s.”
They were approaching the inn now.
“Bud, Tree,” Lord Charles greeted two acquaintances as they entered. “Author and publisher of that history you were reading, and rivals to me,” he whispered to Tom. “Best to keep a wide berth. Ah, the good doctor. Mind if we join you?”
Dr Bady grunted without looking up from his copy of the Young Men’s Magazine.
“Busy night?” Lord Charles enquired.
The doctor grunted again. “Morgue’s full to bursting. Sit down, if you’re going to. Brandy.” He nodded to his empty glass.
“A large brandy for the doctor,” Lord Charles said to the girl who came to serve them. “A jug of punch for me and my young friend here.”
He sat down and took out his notebook. “These unfortunates in the mortuary. Of what kind? What ilk?”
“Working men. Women, too.” The doctor showed no hint of sentiment. “Won’t be needing the resurrectionists for a good long while.” He went back to his paper as the drinks arrived.
“Rum punch!” Lord Charles poured two glasses. “Just the thing to set you up in the morning. Drink up, young fellow. Drink up!” He drained his glass and poured them both another. “Now, young sir, you were just about to tell me all about yourself.”
“That punch is strong.” Tom looked up to see Johnny Lockhart. He put a hand over Tom’s glass. “Designed to loosen tongues.”
“Johnny!” Lord Charles did his best not to seem put out. “Didn’t see you come in.”
Lockhart sat down. “I was at the bar.”
“Ah, I was just making some enquiries of this young man: his origins, his country, the nature of his involvement with the lovely Augusta—”
“I dare say you were.” He turned to Tom. “Be careful what you say to Lord Charles. Even he doesn’t know what side he’s on.”
The words were light but Johnny Lockhart wasn’t smiling. He was delivering a warning.
Tom passed on the punch.
“I say, Johnny! That’s unfair! Who’s talking of sides here? What’s this I’m hearing?” he added, quick to change to subject. “Carnage on the streets of Glass Town?”
“I’ve just finished my piece for the Intelligencer. I dropped in to see who might be about.”
Lord Charles looked around, reading the room. “Or not?”
“My thinking exactly.” Johnny Lockhart nodded to an empty corner. “No Young Soult and his cronies.” He glanced towards the bar, where Bravey was polishing glasses. “None of Rogue’s rare lads.”
“Probably plotting elsewhere,” Lord Charles supplied.
“My very thought.” He got up and turned for the door.
“Come, young fellow.” Lord Charles drained his glass and they followed him out.
Johnny sniffed the air. “I can smell it. The tension.” His fine nostrils flared. “Hot and dry. Like the air when the wind comes from the desert.”
Lord Charles nodded his vigorous agreement. “The place is asmoulder. The fire still there but under the surface.” He spoke with excitement and anticipation, making a running motion with his fingers. “Stamp it out in one place and it’ll break out somewhere else in even greater conflagration.”
Johnny Lockhart looked at him quizzically. “You sound as if you almost want it to happen.” He laughed. “As long as you can watch from the sidelines making notes, eh, Charles?”
“Of course not.” Lord Charles looked affronted. “Where are we going, by the way?”
They were heading down, away from the Duke’s Ideal City to a different part of town altogether. Away from the main thoroughfare, into crooked alleys hung across with washing, with pavings broken, cobbles uneven, the central gutters clogged and littered with rubbish. There were more people here: poor people who walked warily, heads bent, as though afraid to look at those passing. Beggars stood on street corners or sat, slumped in doorways; among them were soldiers in dirty uniforms, some on crutches, or sporting filthy bandages.
They came to a crossroads and Lord Charles peered about warily as noise and shouting gusted from a nearby tavern.
“This is Rogue territory.”
“Indeed it is.” Johnny Lockhart didn’t seem the least bit apprehensive. “Rogue’s men, his ‘rare lads’, have clubs here, places of assembly,” he said to Tom. “That inn, the Crossed Hands, is one of their places.” He pointed to a crude sign: two hands making one fist. “The Duke has banned them, ordered their premises closed, but to little effect.”
“What are we doing here?” Lord Charles asked.
“I have something in mind. A plan,” Johnny answered. “We’re known but Tom is not. He can find out what’s going on.”
A group of men came past, bottles swinging, and armed to the teeth. They looked like Scotsmen in belted plaids, dirks in their hose, long knives and basket-hilted swords swinging from their belts.
“Sneachieslanders!” Lord Charles said, aghast. “What are they doing here?”
“Arrived with their lairds to celebrate the coming nuptials,” Johnny answered. “There’s a whole swarm of them camped outside the northern gate.”
Lord Charles shrank back as more of them reeled past. He took out his pocket watch. “Good Heavens, is that the time? I really must be off. Articles to write. A newspaper to get out.” He caught hold of Tom’s sleeve. “Think twice before you consent to one of Johnny’s madcap schemes.”
With that, he was gone.
“Madcap schemes?”
Johnny laughed. “Oh. I’m famous for them.” He looked after Lord Charles hurrying away. “He ever was a coward—he rarely ventures down to the Lower Town. It’s good he’s gone. He likes to be on the winning side. The difficulty is: which side will that be? The city is on a knife’s edge. You are a soldier, I understand. A military man?”
Tom nodded.
“Good, then you will be perfect.”
“For your madcap scheme?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that.” Johnny laughed again. “What I’m about to propose is foolhardy, dangerous and possibly suicidal.” He fixed Tom with his ice-blue eyes. “Augusta thinks you brave and trustworthy. That’s what she said to me. ‘I’d trust him with my life, Johnny. My life.’” His eyes grew darker, drained of their usual bright humour. “And it may come to that.” He frowned. “Indeed, it might. And not just her life. Many others, besides. There’s a deadly game being played here and I fear Augusta is the prize.”
Put like that, how could Tom refuse? Besides, the faith she’d put in him made him stand taller. He would live up to that, whatever was asked of him.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Good man.” Johnny clapped him on the shoulder. “See him?” He pointed to a man in a stained uniform, leaning on makeshift crutches, dirty hand cupped to catch the begging money. “There are many of his kind down here. You’ve seen them. Turned off from the Duke’s army. Surplus to requirements now the war is over. Forced to beg. But a soldier is still a soldier—all the more dangerous if he’s not being paid. Here.” He dug in his pocket. “Give him five guineas and swap your coat with him.”
The old soldier was already struggling out of his red jacket. He grabbed Tom’s coat and the money then dropped his crutch and ran before they changed their minds.
“Put it on,” Johnny Lockhart instructed.
It was none too clean; stained and tattered, the armpits bleached pink and stiff with sweat. Nevertheless, Tom did as he was told.
“I can’t go much further.” Johnny drew him into a doorway. “But you can go freely, just another soldier. Follow the Sneachieslanders into the Crossed Hands. Find out what they are about. Find out what you can. You better have some money.” Lockhart took out more coins. “And this.” He handed Tom his pistol. “Double-barrelled Blissett. The very latest model. Primed and ready. Do your best. Anything you find out will help Augusta. I’ll see you back at Bravey’s.”
“How do I find my way back?” Tom asked. Glass Town was like a maze.
“Keep going up and you won’t go far wrong. Good luck.”
Tom stuck the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, at the small of his back under his jacket. He was being used as a spy, a clean skin, but he was OK with that. It was good to be doing something. Foolhardy, dangerous and possibly suicidal? Bring it on.
The Sneachieslanders had turned in at the Crossed Hands. Tom followed, head down, heart beating faster.
The inn was crowded, noisy and smelt of spilt beer, sweat and tobacco smoke. The Sneachieslanders were at the bar being welcomed like old friends. Tom elbowed his way closer. The chief among them, a big man with shaggy red hair, finished his pint in one gulp and whipped his hand across his bushy beard.
“Call that pish ale? Gis another.”
“You with us?” The man next to him signalled for the barman to fill his tankard.
“That we are and there’s more tae come. Our laird may be up with the Duke in his palace but he’s pledged his allegiance.” He raised his filled tankard. “Tae Rogue and revolution!”
“To Rogue and revolution!” All around him men raised tankard and glass and roared out the toast.
Tom had seen enough. He began to shoulder his way to the door.
“Where are you going?” A burly man grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t look like any Sneachieslander. Soldier, are you?”
“Aye.” Tom nodded. “With the Duke’s army until I got a ball in the shoulder. Then he had no use for me.” He spat to show his contempt.
The man’s broad face creased with sympathy. “You ain’t the only one. Many a good lad turned off wi’ nowt. Crying shame the way you was turned off. Come wi’ me. We’re offering free drink and regular pay to any who join the Revolutionary Guard.”
Tom followed him along a narrow passage pungent with urine and out into a large yard full of men lining up, ready to sign their name or make their mark. Once signed, they were marshalled into rough lines. Boxes of guns and ammunition and crates of cutlasses stood stacked next to the barrels along the wall.
Tom signed with an “X”, like most of the rest. He collected his shilling and stood with the others at a rough approximation of attention, eyes front.
The monstrous bulk of Pigtail stepped out to address them. “Whatever ye was before…” he looked them up and down, “ye’re now members of the Revolutionary Guard!”
A ragged cheer went up, led by the Sneachieslanders.
Pigtail raised his lead-weighted blackjack. “That’s enough.” He began to walk up and down the lines, beating the blackjack into his palm. “We’ll have discipline here. We’ll be moving shortly to a place of assembly. Ye’ll stay there until the order comes through. That won’t be ’til tonight. Once in place, there’ll be no more drinking!”
A groan went up, spreading through the ranks.
“We were promised drink aplenty,” one of the Sneachieslanders shouted, to a disgruntled mutter of agreement.
“After, milads. Afterwards. You’ll be drinking the Duke’s best claret and fine brandy in his very own palace.”
A cheer went up.
“And think of all them pretty ladies!” Pigtail grinned, revealing a mouth full of blackened stumps and empty spaces. “It’ll be worth the wait!” As he spoke, he paced the lines. One of his men walked behind him handing out blue jackets and tricolor cockades.
Tom kept his eyes averted, hoping the big man would not stop at him—that he wouldn’t recognize him from yesterday. He was just thinking that maybe he’d got away with it, when Pigtail turned.
“Don’t I know you?” he said. “Ain’t I seen you before?”
“Who, me?” The man next to Tom looked up, terrified. Tom could feel him shaking.
“Not you.” Pigtail brought the blackjack up under Tom’s chin. “You.”
“Not me, Cap’n,” Tom said. “Only just got ’ere.”
“That so? I could’ve sworn I seen you, keeping fancy company, and you weren’t in no poor soldier’s rig.” He turned to the assembly at large. “We got a spy, boys! Impersonating one of yer own! What shall I do wi’ him?”
“Shoot him!” Shouts rang out all round. “String ’im up!”
“There. The citizen comrades have spoken. Either one more ’n you deserve. I got something special in mind for you.” Pigtail jabbed the blackjack up harder. “But that will have to wait ’til later. Now we got other business. Scroven, Laury, take ’im to the vaults.”
Tom was hauled out of the line by two of Pigtail’s cronies.
“Have fun,” Pigtail called after them. “But not too much. I want ’im living and breathing come tonight.”
Tom felt the point of a cutlass dig into his side.
“Hands behind!”
He was roughly tied and pulled into the back alley that ran behind the inn, then marched along by the two men, one in front and one behind.
“Make way!”
The main body of the Revolutionary Guard was wheeling right out of the yard. The way was narrow. Tom and his captors had to flatten themselves against the wall as line after line of men filed past.
“Where are they all going?”
“Cox’s Yard,” the smaller of the two men told him.
“Don’t tell ’im!” the other snarled. “’E’s a spy! Didn’t you hear ’tail say?” He shook his head. “You got cloth ears and nowt between ’em.”
“Who are you calling cloth ears?” the little one objected. “What’s the difference? He ain’t going to be telling anybody, is he? Like as not he’ll have no tongue!”
They both laughed.
Still the men were marching past. Tom didn’t need to count them. He’d already made a rough estimation. He had his back against the wall, hands hidden. The knot was badly tied; he already had one hand loose. They hadn’t bothered to search him. Johnny Lockhart’s gun had two barrels, both of them primed.
Once the last of the marchers had passed, the taller man prodded him on.
“Wait a minute.” Tom’s head fell forward. “I don’t feel so well.”
“We ain’t got time for the vapours.” He pushed Tom harder.
Tom lurched, retching, as if he was about to spew.
Both men instinctively took a step back. By then, the pistol was in Tom’s hand.
The two men looked at each other, as if sizing up whether to rush him.
“I wouldn’t advise it. Two barrels, see?” Tom pulled back the hammers. “One each. Walk in front of me.”
There was an outhouse across the way. Tom directed them towards it. “Open the door.”
The small shed smelt like it had once housed a pig.
“Inside, both of you.”
Tom dropped the outside bar on them and ran.
“Keep going up and you won’t go far wrong.” Johnny Lockhart’s words rang in Tom’s head as he took worn and narrow steps two at a time.
Every now and then, he stopped to rest, hands on knees, and to listen, but there was no hue and cry. His captors must still have been in the pigsty. Tom slowed his pace. He was leaving the crowded houses and crooked alleys. A turn to the right took him to a street he recognized. Bravey’s Inn was just up ahead.
Johnny Lockhart was sitting by the window, anxiously scanning the street.
“Glad to see you safe.” Lockhart put a brotherly arm round his shoulder.
“Indeed!” Lord Charles stood to welcome him. “Bravey! A jug of your very special punch over here.”
“We don’t serve soldiers.”
“Since when?” Johnny Lockhart demanded. “That’s Douro’s regiment. This man and others like him were wounded in the late wars. Is this any way to treat men who have served loyally?”
“We don’t want a row.” Lord Charles put a placating hand on Johnny’s arm. “Nonsense, Bravey,” he called to the landlord. “You’ve served him before.” He turned to Tom. “Perhaps remove the jacket?”
Tom looked down. He’d forgotten he was still wearing it. He felt a surge of sympathy for the man whose coat he wore. He was a soldier, after all. Why should he take it off? He kept it on.
He was glad of the punch, hot and very strong. The fumes were enough to make you light-headed. Tom drank deep.
“Now, tell us all.”
Lord Charles and Johnny Lockhart listened carefully to what he had discovered about the recruiting of the Sneachieslanders and others to the Revolutionary Guard.
“They are being mustered at a place called Cox’s Yard.”
“Cox’s Yard?” Johnny Lockhart frowned. “I know it. Down by the docks. A big place. Room for hundreds. What then?”
“They are to wait for a signal. It’ll be tonight.”
“Well done, my boy.” Lord Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “More punch?”
“Not at the moment.” Tom looked round in some discomfort. “I need…” He didn’t quite know the word for it.
“The jakes.” Johnny Lockhart grinned. “Out back.”
Tom found the outhouse with some relief.
“Now it’s our turn, soldier boy.” Strong hands seized Tom by the shoulders. “See how you like this.”
Tom felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. He was hauled away, half stunned, legs buckling. Up steps and down steps, passed off as a drunk as he dangled between the two men like a string-cut puppet. They halted at one of the fountains and pushed his head under until he was nearly drowning, before dragging him out and pushing his head under again.
Scroven laughed. “That ought to wake him up a bit.”
Tom shook the water from his eyes, his head clearing.
He was marched on across the square and down a side alley. The men stopped in front of a low, iron-studded door. Laury took out a big bunch of keys and unlocked it. Steep stone steps led down into darkness.
Scroven pushed him and Tom fell forward. He was picked up at the bottom and dragged along a stone passageway lit with flickering torches set in sconces, barred cells on either side. Tom caught glimpses of ragged, skeletal bodies chained to walls. The stench had him gagging: clogged drains, rotten rushes, human excrement added to the onion stink of his captors’ sweat.
“Gipping like a maid, are we?” Scroven jeered. “You ain’t had anything to puke about yet.”
An iron door creaked open and Pigtail threw him through it. Tom landed in a heap of filth and looked up at the tall, spare, black-clad figure of S’death.
“Chain ’im up.”
Iron manacles snapped round Tom’s wrists and ankles and round his neck.
He was in a proper torture chamber; chains hung on the walls and from the ceiling. A brazier glowed in the corner, presided over by a big man, his upper face obscured by a leather flap with two rough eye holes cut into it. He wore a greasy jerkin and a thick apron over his breeches, the various pockets filled with hammers and pliers. Sweat gleamed on his bald head and the thick rolls of fat on his neck as he stirred and adjusted the various irons protruding from the coals.
S’death stepped forward. “Meet my man, Gregory.”
The man looked up and grinned, revealing a gaping hole where his teeth should have been.
“He don’t talk. Tongue ripped out for a previous transgression but he’s learnt the error of his ways. Ent that right, Gregory?”
The big man grunted and nodded his head.
S’death went over to the brazier and selected an iron with his gloved hand. The letter “R” at the tip glowed deep ruby red as he brought it close to Tom, then closer. Tom could feel the heat on his cheek. He flinched away but his head was held fast by the iron clasped round his neck.
“We have other instruments—other irons in the fire, shall we say.”
Gregory grinned his black grin and S’death snickered slightly at his own joke.
“Even the humble poker has its uses. Gregory is inventive. Ain’t that so, Gregory? And he do love his work.”
The big man gave a leering laugh and nodded vigorously.
“You can’t imagine what he’d do with it.”
S’death smiled as Tom struggled against his fetters—he could imagine it only too well.
Struggling was futile but Tom couldn’t help it. It was an automatic response.
“Or maybe you can. Eyes for a start, and other tender parts.”
S’death returned the branding iron to the brazier and selected a long, smooth iron instead. Tiny red and gold sparks ran up and down the shaft as he walked round Tom, feinting towards him, like a fencer.
“So, where to begin? Why don’t we start by you telling me everything you know. Then maybe we won’t need to use any of these things.”
Gregory’s face fell at the prospect.
“Ne’er mind, Gregory. There’ll be others. Dungeons are filling by the minute. We’ll soon have more than even you can handle.”
S’death waved the iron under Tom’s nose, the cherry-pink tip so close he could smell singeing.
“I don’t know anything!”
“No! Don’t know ain’t good enough. We know you been spying. And who for. What we don’t know is what you been telling ’em. Gregory, gimme the branding iron again. It should be good and hot.”
“Enough.” Pigtail came into the chamber. “He ain’t to be damaged.”
“Who says?”
“Orders.” Pigtail showed him a paper.
“Whose orders?”
“My orders.” Johnny Lockhart stepped into the room, a pair of pistols trained upon them, with more in his belt. “Release him.”
Gregory released Tom’s manacles, whimpering his reluctance.
“Hurry up, or I’ll blow your head off!” Lockhart demanded.
“No hard feelings, young fellow.” Pigtail hauled Tom to his feet. “We’ll meet again later,” he whispered in a gust of foul breath. “We’ve got something very special in mind for you.”
Once Tom was free, Johnny slammed the cell door on them and locked it.
“Very special,” Pigtail was shouting. “An honour, you might say!”
The accompanying laughter echoing after them suggested that it would be anything but.