Prisoner of State

By Susan Ruth

After years of civil war, the people of The Isles cried, “Peace at any price!” But the price was unimaginable. A mysterious barrier has shut off half a nation.
Now two people plan to reunite The Isles. Felix Skryker – scholar, war-hero, spy - flies through the barrier to Deva, the northern capital, to become Mercia’s unlikely Minister of State Security. Xanthe Chance, fugitive Prisoner of State, searches for the star-gazer who once saved her life. Last of the Chances, heir to fabulous wealth and heretical knowledge, Xanthe is convinced the barrier is linked to Chance secrets.
But Xanthe has also inherited her family’s enemies, and in Deva all too often hopes are dashed, loyalty traded and innocence sold. Xanthe goes astray and is lured to the wrong door; while Skryker, now aware his ministerial responsibilities include that most mediaeval of things – a Prisoner of State – has no idea where she is.
What are the odds they will find each other?
Time... Chance... Hope... What hope?

Prisoner of State is a novel blending fantasy and realism set in an alternative Britain. Here is a world for readers to escape to: a world of thrilling adventure, with compelling characters, and a cause worth fighting for. And where the stakes couldn’t be higher.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Ruth
• Release date: Sep 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310510236

Book preview

The Chronicles of Deva: Book One

Prisoner of State

by Susan Ruth

Designed by: Lee O’Connor leeoconnor.com

Edited by: Tim Bugler valeriavictrix.com

Research by: Joan Woodbury valeriavictrix.com

Copyright 2014 Susan Ruth

To my mother and father

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: A Beach on Hryggeskerry

Chapter 2: The Dislocation Barrier

Chapter 3: The Lost Heir

Chapter 4: Return to Hryggeskerry

Chapter 5: Guard and Ward

Chapter 6: No-one Expected a Girl

Chapter 7: The Strange Incident at St Fidelma’s

Chapter 8: Dame Boudicca March

Chapter 9: Stella and Virgil

Chapter 10: The Crouching Tiger

Chapter 11: The Assassin

Chapter 12: Xanthe’s Ghost

Chapter 13: Rifle, Flight Machine, Girl

Chapter 14: Sirius

Chapter 15: Inigo Chance’s Fantastical Creatures

Chapter 16: A Dark Night

Chapter 17: A Vat of Perry

Chapter 18: Containment

Chapter 19: The Aftermath

Chapter 20: The Midsummer Girl

Chapter 21: Woodhall

Chapter 22: The Autumn Equinox

Chapter 23: The Blue-Checked Cloth

Chapter 24: A Gala Dinner

Chapter 25: A Knock at the Door

Chapter 26: Ashton Mire

Chapter 27: A Sudden Death

Chapter 1: A Beach on Hryggeskerry

The astronomer never meant to go to the haunted beach. Yet here he was where sea met strand, gazing at the great granite fortress that gave Hryggeskerry its dark reputation.

He could not account for the weird Jacky-lantern lure that had impelled his steps. Each step south-east to the seal colonies and bird rookeries veered north-east across more even ground. And here he was, where he had never meant to be. Where were the endless seas and boundless horizons? All he could see was a cramped vista — a narrow beach and high cliffs — and the political prison of Hryggeskerry sprawling across its northern headland and swallowing up the sky.

Despite the autumn sun, the astronomer shivered. Thrusting gloved hands into his pockets, he stamped his feet and walked along the tide-line. Sea-polished pebbles scrunched underfoot. Gulls cried with an uncanny human edge. Seaweed lay in heaps like dead creatures. Jellyfish swirled across his leather boots in a tangle of grasping tentacles. A piece of driftwood advertised the virtues of Olsen’s Dried Herring of Bergen.

Later the astronomer would wonder why he didn’t walk away. All he could say was he was waiting: that this was a stage setting and he, fortress, gulls, seaweed, jellyfish and the Bergen dried herring were waiting. He toyed with the idea a stolen heartbeat might turn him into another wraith to walk this eerie strand.

A gunshot jolted him.

Springing back to the shelter of the cliff, he tried to locate the shooter. Two women ran across the beach just ahead of him. A man carried a child. Another shot rang out. The man fell, and the child leapt like a cat to stand before one of the women.

There was a third shot, and a woman collapsed.

The other gripped the child and edged to the cliff. She was a thin plain creature, yet her rose-pink clothing looked fine and well-made. As she tried to lift the child, he saw misshapen hands in lace gloves. This was no fisherwoman.

The child, a girl of about six in a blue dress and cardigan, slipped out of the woman’s unsteady grip and stood before her, arms extended. Above the girl’s fierce, protective gaze, the woman’s eyes pleaded with him. She pointed to her mouth, trying to say something, but the sound was swept away on the wind.

With a surge of strength, she seized the child about the waist and flung her against the astronomer; then, without another word, she raced across the beach. Stunned, the astronomer held the shocked girl. The woman ran into the water, pink skirts rising higher and higher as she fought through the tide. A red-sailed ketch rounded the southern headland. A rowing boat came closer, almost in reach of the woman in the sea.

The astronomer saw the explosion that destroyed the ketch, a second or so before he heard it. Later, during the Civil War, he would think back and recognise that sound: a field gun on the cliffs had fired a large shell. At the time, feeling the air throb with sound and the earth shake, he reacted instinctively.

With the girl clamped to him, he shrank against the cliff, feeling the welcome scrape of rock against his back. She fought hard to see, but he tucked her into his coat and held her tight.

The second explosion was equally sudden and shattering. The rowing boat vanished in a great fountain of smoke and water rising from the sea. Then a machine gun spat from the cliffs, raking sea and sand.

As he watched, the water in the cove ran bright with blood. Seawrack, ruined wood, a red tide.

Body parts, marine timbers, spars and sails came in with the sea, joining the jellyfish, the seaweed and the broken packing crate of Olsen’s Dried Herring. The woman with the crippled hands washed up to lie like a broken doll only feet from him, eyes wide, drenched pink skirts rucked up above her thin legs.

The astronomer, realising the child in his arms would look — and see something he vowed she wouldn’t — wedged her against the cliff and bound his handkerchief about her eyes.

Forgive me, mistress. I can’t say this is a game. Let me introduce myself. I’m an astronomer from Valerian College working at the Observatory here.

She fell still. She whispered Mama? Then, startlingly, Valerian? Deva? The Dark Faculty? What do you study?

The links between stars.

The links binding them together? Like binary stars? Like Algol, the Demon Star? That’s no longer… What’s the word? Hesery? Hearsay? Heresy?

The astronomer was tempted to uncover this strange child’s face to check who or what — some changeling? — he had in his arms, but he caught the terror in her voice. The Demon Star? Finding out about it’s no longer heresy. Mind you, that could change. You seem young to be interested in heresy, mistress.

I’m not! It’s the stars I’m interested in. Only people want to know what I’m doing and whether I should be doing it. What are you doing at the Grey Tower?

I’ve been sent to dismantle the Cassini star-glass and ship it back to Deva.

The girl stiffened against him. A sob tore from her throat, but she said nothing.

Crouching down, the astronomer sat cross-legged on the sand. He sheltered her, pressing her face against his shoulder and his knees against the cliff. Feeling her shudder against him, he felt for his backpack. She drank from his flask, then accepted sultanas and nuts and squares of chocolate.

Time passed, yet no-one came. He told her stories he thought she might know to create some shred of normality. Stories of the stars and the constellations: of the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades; of the Great Bear and the Lesser Bear; the tale from the Cathay Empire of the Weaver and the Herd Boy who came together just once a year across a bridge of light. He checked his watch. His plan was to wait for dark and slip away. He didn’t want to risk the child seeing her mother. In the end, he spoke about his doctoral thesis on Beta Persei, the Demon Star.

The changeling knew about the Demon Star. That’s a variable star. It comes and goes. I lost it one night and someone made it come back for me. We went to see its return at the Grey Tower, through that big star-glass. Her voice broke. Mama… Mama…

He held her close, but she fought hard against tears.

Why are you taking it away? It’s not fair. Unexpectedly she slapped his shoulder.

The astronomer caught her hand, saying mildly. It’s against the rules to attack the hero, princess. He wondered whether to tell her the true reason: that The Isles was on the brink of civil war, that South was about to fight North, and something as fragile and beautiful as the Cassini star-glass needed a safe haven. He frowned at the body of the woman in pink, edging back and forth scant feet away,

You’ve hurt yourself, the girl said, touching a scar on the back of his hand.

Apart from being assaulted by a little star-gazer?

She gasped, apologising and rubbing his shoulder.

The other’s an old climbing injury. A rock and I had a disagreement. I lost. Ah! No! We’re about to disagree ourselves, mistress. He held her as she resisted and retied the blindfold.

He waited for the question he did not know how to answer.

Do you have a name, mistress? he asked to divert her.

No, she said lifelessly. I was given several names to begin with, but no-one’s supposed to use them. I don’t know why.

Startled, he uncovered a little of her face. The sun revealed a tear-stained cheek and a fall of silky fair hair spilling from the blindfold. He tangled the fine hair in his fingers, watching the light glint on it.

I’ll call you Sunlight.

May I have a name for you, my lord? Not your real name. This is Hryggeskerry.

For several more seconds neither spoke.

She felt again for the scar on the back of his hand, reached to touch his shirt cuff and his hair. "You came out of nowhere, sir, like a ghost. Your coat’s black. Your hair’s black too. I’ve read about the black ghost dogs of Mercia. That’s where my father’s family comes from. They can be friendly or unfriendly or both together. I feel safe. You didn’t hit me back, but you were fierce when I tried to see. One of the names for the ghost-dogs sounds like sky, which is good for an astronomer."

Skryker? he said, amused, saying it slowly for her. Skr-eye-ker.

Yes, Lord Skryker. I did think of Sirius, the brightest star of all. But I prefer someone here on the ground, not in the sky. She began to cry very quietly. Or the sea.

He heard her forlorn voice saying Mama several more times. Reaching again for his rucksack, he gave her water and more dried fruit and nuts.

I’ve something to keep safe. Will you take it, pray? She struggled to reach her own small rucksack, which was tangled in her cardigan.

The astronomer had plenty of room in his pack and he stowed hers away. Then, on a whim, he took out his notebook and tore out a sheet. Sunlight, if we get separated, this is who I am. This is my address near Deva in Mercia. There’s an address in London too, as well as Deva itself, but this place, Woodhall, is where I like to live. Keep it safe. He wrote carefully in his customary blue-black ink, shook the paper dry, then folded it into the shape of a flight machine.

The child took it. I’ve got a secret pocket in my petticoat. She wriggled against him, pulling up her skirt to hide the paper away. They’ll come soon. Leave me, please. I don’t want you hurt, Lord Skryker.

Hey, I’m being the guard dog here. If you ask me to leave you by yourself, I may grow fierce. Guard and ward, that’s what the black ghost dogs do.

Curious, she wanted to know the difference.

It’s a fine line: guarding is keeping something safe, warding is doing something to stop a threat. Have some chocolate.

But her voice was no more than a thin thread. Guard and ward. Mama… Mama… The strength went out of her and she laid her head against his shoulder. He’d hoped to keep her safe until dark and take her back to the observatory. Wondering at the likelihood of this scheme and whether they might be intercepted, he changed his mind and decided to conceal her backpack. She helped him bury it in the sand under the weathered strata of the cliff.

And come they did, as he had feared. Sooner than he wished. They came with the setting of the sun, motioning him out of the scant shelter with rifles. At least they had the decency to let him carry the blindfolded child past the dead exposed body of her mother and on up the beach.

Then, from the fortress of Hryggeskerry, a band of heavily armed men appeared, tramping across the scree and down onto the beach. A tall caped man came to the front.

Conscious of the other group of armed men at his back, the astronomer considered his options. He was unsure how many, if any, he had. So many dead on this lovely afternoon — including this child’s mother — and no reason why. He gripped the girl to him.

The sun was in his eyes, but he could make out uniformed men in front of him with levelled rifles. A heavy blow to his back made him cry out and fall to his knees. The still blindfolded girl clung to his side, shielding him as best she could.

Let me see, she whispered.

He unbound his handkerchief.

She gave him a frightened smile and spoke out loud as steadily as she could. This is my friend. He’s a star-gazer from the Dark Faculty in Deva. He’s my friend. He knows about binary stars. That’s important. I haven’t had time to ask him properly about eclipsing binaries…

The astronomer heard the sound of a rifle being cocked behind his head. With a shriek, the child clambered onto his back, her arms wound around his neck, her hair falling over his shoulder.

The lowering sun lit up the face of the kneeling man and that of the fierce ardent child behind him.

Eclipsing binaries are important! The child cried, her limbs tight around the astronomer. Stars tied together! Like Algol, the Demon Star!

The tall man in the cape gave an audible sigh. A strange encounter indeed. We appear to be at an impasse, gentlemen. He spoke over the astronomer’s head. Stars tied together. It’s both or neither. What is it to be?

From behind, the astronomer heard footsteps falling back.

The man in the cape spoke again, this time to the child. It’s time to come in, my dear. It’s getting dark. You’ve been out too long.

The child was insistent. My friend the star-gazer. You’ll let him go? He’ll be safe?

Yes! Come in, and your friend will be safe. You have my word.

There was a pause.

The girl hugged the astronomer hard. Thank you, Lord Skryker. With the air of one repeating something overheard from adult conversation, she added, Time. Chance. Hope. Possibilities in play. Who knows? With obvious reluctance she moved away. Suddenly she turned back completely to face him. I read a story about remembering a smile, not tears. She smiled a swift, unforgettable smile.

The astronomer found the courage to smile back at the child. She turned and walked away without looking back.

A moment later, he flung himself to the sand as a bullet sounded above him. He heard a shriek from in front, and then a heavy blow plunged him into blackness.

It was full dark when the astronomer came to on the Hryggeskerry beach. The tide was half out. By the light of the solar torch from his rucksack, he searched the beach. Once again it was empty, deserted, with no sign of human presence other than his own footprints and the broken packing case of Olsen’s Dried Herring.

There was no trace of the bodies of the woman in the pink dress or of her companions; no sign of those others who must have died on the ketch or the rowing boat; no indication either vessel had been blown out of the water.

The astronomer looked up at the dark mass of Hryggeskerry fortress.

In the end, he made his way back to the observatory to think things over.

The next day, with the freighter south still delayed, he began to search for the girl. For answers. There were none. No, he was told, nothing had happened on the beach below the prison. Nothing at all.

As for the girl? At his insistence, Hryggeskerry unexpectedly revealed its secrets. A senior official was assigned to deal with him.

No, my lord, there’s no child of that description on the island.

A parade of sullen crofters and fisher-folk pushed forward their children for him to see.

No, my lord, there’s no child at that house.

He was shown through a comfortable residence that showed no sign of a child’s presence.

No, my lord, we don’t confine children in the prison. Search by all means.

And search he did. The astronomer searched for three days before giving in.

If the child was still on the island, she was not to be found.

The astronomer did not forget her. Not even in all the horrors of the Civil War and the pain of personal heartbreak. He did not forget her because he never found a reasonable or rational understanding of what happened that day on the beach on Hryggeskerry.

He did not forget her because the child Sunlight visited him in dreams when things were at their worst: smiling her brave smile, her glossy hair escaping its plait, singing lilting folksongs of The Isles. Despite the horror of their meeting, she’d become a dream of a fairer place.

Occasionally he wondered if he had stumbled into an alternative universe to live, too briefly, the drama of another life. There was a certain ironic attraction in the parallel world idea: there he could arrange events so he could get Sunlight to safety.

And yet Sunlight had existed.

That night on Hryggeskerry, he found a deep blue hair ribbon caught up in the handkerchief he used to blindfold her.

He had more evidence. On the last day at dusk, he went to the beach to uncover the child’s backpack. Inside was a bundle of objects wrapped in a large beautifully knitted lacy shawl: an old copy of a once popular romance; a long, badly knitted blue scarf; several children’s toys — a doll, a fluffy grey tabby cat, a caped rider on a horse. All showed signs of a fierce loving. There was also a bundle of papers. There was no light to examine everything carefully, and the freighter was leaving on the tide.

The astronomer, on his way south to Deva in Mercia with the Cassini star-glass to deliver safely and his call-up to the army to negotiate, realised he had run out of time to read the densely worded legal and scientific documentation. Perhaps he should have started with this, not the search on Hryggeskerry. In the end he bundled everything back together and placed them in a safety deposit box at his bank in London.

There they stayed for well over a decade.

The name Skryker he took as his own, when he decided to hide his real name.

Chapter 2: The Dislocation Barrier

Six years later

The tiny flight machine flew directly from the south into the vast black cloudbank marking the Dislocation Barrier dividing The Isles. Whatever this thing was, the pilot reckoned its effects were fierce and unpredictable. He had flown from a clear winter’s day into a hellish gloom, all within a matter of seconds. His flight machine ducked and dived through tens of yards, only to be picked up by a chancy wind and tossed violently from side to side. The thick windscreen first iced over and just as quickly grew clear. Then clammy, fat water droplets trickled sluggishly down the glass.

Where are we, Colonel, sir? asked the man in the passenger seat via the communication system.

The Deity only knows. I’m going to gain height and keep due north into Mercia.

"I’m keeping my eye on the compass, sir. We’re still heading north. As for up? How far?’

Half as high as Mount Chomolangma. Aren’t you pleased we ducked in to the Royal Geographical Society in London and found out about bottled oxygen?

The other man laughed. I thought you were more interested in getting a go at that mountain.

Chomolangma? No, I’ve other things to do. He glanced across. Put your mask on and check the flow again. I can’t have you passing out, Beeston.

Wind-tossed and pelted by rain and hail and sleet, the flight machine climbed steeply before levelling and heading into an area of unexpectedly calm dark sky. Below, a black shelf of air was far from peaceful. Bolts of lightning streaked from side to side. Immense clouds of glowing particles were thrust upwards, fountain-like, only to be swept back down. A rainbow appeared in the dimness: a malefic arc of ashy-dark colours with a mirror twin beside.

The layer of air through which the flight machine was slowly and perilously making its way north appeared tranquil. But the pilot watched as a curtain of icy grey light materialised. A phosphoric aurora snapped into view, swirling and swaying in the murk. Other strange phenomena emerged from the gloom: clouds of glowing particles, misshapen balloon-like lights, broken refractions of the dark spectrum.

Glancing at his instrument panel, the pilot hoped they were heading where he wanted to go. The compass said so. They were maintaining altitude. They’d taken off in broad daylight and the pilot hoped to be flying into daylight on the other side of whatever this was. More importantly, he hoped where he wanted to go was still there.

What if we’ve made a mistake, Colonel, sir? There was a hint of fear in the other’s voice.

We didn’t, said the pilot calmly. Not at the start. If we’re on the flight path we planned, we’ll be fine. Unless we find the landing strip’s been dug up, in which case we’ll land on the high road. Ah! Is that light, Beeston? Are we through, do you think?

Almost. It’s like drifting curtains of black. Sol Invictus preserve us, it’s daylight, Colonel, sir. And I’m starting to see ground below.

That’s always a help.

Yes! I think we’re where we should be. There’s Old Cop, Colonel, sir. And the Wimberie Minster.

The pilot noted the steep rocky outcrop to his left and the Middle Range beyond. He saw other familiar landmarks. The weather was fine. The time was eleven fifteen in the morning. He began to descend in steep wide circles. In a few minutes, the flight machine flew low over a wide but almost disused high road running north–south through the flat broad wintry landscape of southern Mercia. Banking to the right, the pilot brought the flight machine down over cottages and farms, then over one small village and another. An oratory tower came into view. Trees and hedgerows traced the landscape. The willow-lined course of a stream could be seen. The bare earth was broken by wide swathes of snow and drifts of slush.

The landing strip looks fine, Colonel, sir.

Check for signs of ice.

Finally the flight machine circled an old, half-timbered, many-chimneyed house with eccentric towers, hidden from the road by a tall hedge of holly and rose. People had come out of the house to stare up at the sky.

The landing on the airstrip behind the house was far from smooth, but the passenger gave the all-clear about ice and the pilot brought the flight machine down safely. Flinging off his oxygen mask, Beeston got out and rushed to an excited group of waiting people.

We’re in a rush to Deva. I’ll bring him back soon. He’s in one of his moods.

The pilot, who was making all safe with his machine, showed no sign of being in any mood except one of quiet amiability. Removing helmet and goggles, he greeted everyone with a smile and a quick comment. He embraced a weather-beaten old man and asked how the almonds in the walled garden were doing. Sweeping an older woman off her feet, he laughed as she wept and scolded him for staying away so long and threatened what she would have done if he were twenty years younger.

I’m back, Mistress Edge. For the present I’m off to Deva, but I’ll be home later. Beeston, where’s the solar carriage? I fly. You drive. That’s the deal. He looked around. "Can someone put the flight machine away and look after her? She’s called Sunlight and she’s seen me through interesting times. Nothing quite like today, though."

A few minutes later, with the flight machine in the big barn, the pilot, now carrying a rifle, clambered into the back of a big black official-looking solar carriage. The older woman came running out of the house with a basket containing a flask of rationed tea, pasties straight from the oven, cheese and shiny red apples. With a quick gramercie the pilot shut the door and Beeston drove away.

The road north to Deva passed through the same bleak landscape. Wintry light, snow-covered ground and bare trees gave their own desolation. As they approached built-up areas, they came upon a dereliction that was human in its dimension.

Deva had escaped major damage in the Civil War. Yet damaged it was. Boarded-up buildings, broken way-lamps, cracked pavements; shivering people in worn clothing; thin pale children not in school; beggars, too many maimed or harrowed. People looked in surprise at the sleek black solar carriage driving up Northgate, one of the main thoroughfares of Deva.

The carriage turned into the Oratory Close and stopped outside the main entrance to the Archbishop’s Palace. The pilot got out, grabbed his rifle and would have rushed inside. His driver forced him to stop.

Put this on, Colonel, sir. Beeston held out a long strip of bright colour.

Taking the row of medal ribbons, the pilot glared at him.

Don’t be difficult, Colonel, sir!

The pilot walked up the steps, his great black cloak sweeping behind him, struggling with his rifle and what he was supposed to do with pins in his sueded-leather flying jacket. In the end, with the strip secured across his fleece collar, he waved to Beeston and flung open the great wooden doors. Inside he went unchallenged. Surprised, he walked down the three interconnecting Chambers of State and into the high Octagonal Hall.

Here some dozen or more people were meeting with the Archbishop of Deva, the Head of State of Mercia since the Republic of the Isles broke apart. This was the Star Council, the interim government. These were older individuals in sumptuous robes of office sitting in high chairs about the hall. All looked in surprise as the pilot came in unannounced.

He stood silently in the centre of the hall, rifle in hand, and glanced around. Seeing the startled Archbishop sitting in his wooden throne on a low dais opposite, he walked over. Laying the rifle flat on the floor, he got down on one knee, placed his right hand over his heart and bowed his dark head.

Well met, Hallowed One. Forgive the delay, I have been in Austronesia and the South Polar Region. Your letter caught up with me in Austronesia where I was at a conference.

Well met, said the Archbishop, studying the medals of gallantry on the stranger’s coat. I am glad you have arrived safely.

Several others began to mutter. The muttering grew as the stranger got up and took up his rifle. He began to speak.

Pray be silent. I was asked, I have answered my summons, and I am here. I have a proposition. If you say no, I’ll be on my way. Pray, don’t interrupt, mistress, I’ve come a long distance to say this. This is my proposition: you’re in a mess, I can help, you need my help. With your agreement, I will attempt to bring safety and security to Deva, to Mercia as a whole.

There was an outcry. More than one demanded what right he had to come walking into the Star Chamber.

Exactly, said the pilot. I walked in right in, with a rifle. I could be anyone. If there’s any security here, they’re asleep.

Members of the Star Council searched anxiously for non-existent guards.

Collecting herself, a stern woman with iron-grey hair glared. What right do you have to disrupt our proceedings?

The pilot leapt up onto the dais to stand in front of a second wooden chair on the far side. By what right? He looked about him with energy. By this right! By right of friends dead and lost on both sides of the Civil War! By right of those dead of poison gas or plague or hunger! By right of children dead who were sent to fight! By right of two hundred and fifty thousand dead on the battlefields of East Anglia! By right of these and other unknown dead. I claim this right on behalf of the dead.

There was a taut silence. Each repetition of dead lay heavy on the air like the toll of a passing bell.

He turned to the stern-faced woman, amusement in his voice. What proceedings am I disrupting, pray? Without waiting for an answer, he continued, his voice quieter but no less compelling. Deva is in ruins. No light. No power. Broken roads. The elderly look hungry. Children look hungry. I’ve seen too many beggars, young and old. You lot look alright. There’s no evidence anyone here’s going hungry. Perhaps you’re happy. I think you could do better. I can help.

The stranger sat down in the wooden chair, stretched out his legs and let his cloak fall back. You have my offer. I won’t be cheap, I warn you. You have five minutes. If I fly back south I want to do it in the light. So, pray… er… proceed. He leaned back and stared at the high vaulted ceiling several storeys away.

There were various bombshells in this speech, and the Star Council began to discuss them: the powerful rifle — a restricted weapon after the Disarmament; flying and the meaning of ‘south’; the stranger’s audacity, indeed his identity; the proposal that a flight machine could be confiscated so people might flee Mercia. Namely people from the Star Council.

The pilot waited for several minutes, then sprang to his feet. Time’s up! I’m off. May Sol Invictus be with you, now and in the days to come.

The Archbishop stood. Sir, we’re used to a roundabout way of coming to joint decisions. I’ll make this a personal decision as Mercia’s Head of State. We have no-one to head our Ministry of State Security. Indeed, to organise such a Ministry. The position is yours.

Another older woman spoke up, this one with a fine figure and lustrous dark hair. She glanced admiringly at the pilot. If it comes to a vote, Archbishop, I will be in favour.

Various others began to nod.

The Archbishop steepled his hands. Very well. And… um… You did not mention a figure.

Surely we need to know who this person is first. And some debate. This was another brightly robed individual with a velvet hat embellished with a tassel. His eyes were hard.

The pilot shrugged. Some of your colleagues may remember me, sir. Yet, what I do matters more than who I am. He looked about the chamber. As for the figure: five thousand gold sols each year. Paid quarterly in advance.

There was a gasp from everyone.

An old man of middling height peered over half-moon glasses. I think the Bank of Mercia can manage that.

Very well, said Mercia’s new Minister of State Security.

Who shall I make the bank draft out to?

Felix Skryker.

Chapter 3: The Lost Heir

Felix Skryker had been back in Mercia for over a year when the man with the half-moon glasses — the Director of the Bank of Mercia, Halcyon Chance — looked at him over a heavy ledger and asked a favour.

I know it’s late, Minister, but there’s a private matter I’d like your opinion on.

Skryker suppressed a yawn, poured more perry and tried to look interested. Two in the morning was late, especially after a marathon session debating whether to shift the currency of Mercia from the gold standard to better manage inflation. And Skryker had another meeting at nine o’clock; yet another dispiriting session where he would find out what he already knew: that the Dislocation Barrier had split Mercia off from the rest of The Isles. That it remained absolutely, stubbornly, inexorably in place. That there was no safe way through and back.

He looked at the older man. His passion for roses aside, the banker had never once raised any matter concerning his private life, and Skryker was interested. Halcyon Chance was one of the last surviving members of a notorious family. On the surface, the banker seemed to be of a moderate unassuming disposition, but Skryker had worked closely with him for over two years and had learned to respect the older man’s fierce intensity. The banker’s individuality showed in small ways. He was beautifully dressed, with a neatly tied cravat, usually in a clear bright colour. He invariably wore a rose in his buttonhole — fresh or carefully dried.

Halcyon Chance followed as well one of Deva’s occasional crazes — the wearing of a miniature automaton about his person. Tonight he had a yellow rose in his coat, and an exceedingly life-like bronze-coloured lizard automaton coiled around his sleeve, red eyes gleaming, green tongue flicking. Watching it, Skryker blinked, convinced he’d seen the creature breathing a haze of gold.

Rubbing his eyes, Skryker turned to Halcyon Chance. I’ll do whatever I can.

"It came to me when I was going through some documents a while ago. I don’t see how I could have overlooked it — overlooked her. Yet I’ve been so busy on other matters. And I fear I made assumptions, which is never wise." Halcyon Chance took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with his handkerchief.

"Her?" Skryker asked neutrally.

I mean what was I to do? Seven generations and more of Chances. All male. No-one expected a girl! Certainly not me, and I was in Hesperia at the time. Halcyon Chance was rubbing his bald spot with his handkerchief. His face, usually full of animation, faded into acute sadness. A girl! And I’ve lost her. I’ve lost the heir to the Chance Estate. I’ll be needing her signature. I’ve written and written to Hryggeskerry. He peered about the wood-panelled room, as if the lost heir was hiding in the shadows.

This was unexpected, thought Skryker, who was still searching on and off for his own lost girl, Sunlight. However, he wondered if the meticulous, brilliant, eccentric, life-long bachelor was more concerned about the missing signature than the missing girl.

The next words disabused him. I’ve realised what I’ve missed. A child about the house. Hair ribbons, pretty dresses, piano lessons, kittens. Anyway, given this silence I started looking elsewhere, just in case. From what I’ve learnt, she’s not in the White Tower, or that place on the moors. There was a rumour she might have been taken to Königsberg at the start of the Civil War. That was around the time I’d come back from working at the Bank Imperial in Trimontaine.

Skryker held up his hand and stared at his notes. He decided to leave the infernal silence for the present. Shaking his head, he got up to examine the large globe over from the desk. Königsberg? Sea-citadel? Great fortress? Across from the Danemark. Muskovy? Why in the name of all that’s wonderful… He traced a possible journey.

Königsberg. But I don’t believe she’s there. Halcyon Chance looked severely at Skryker over his half-moon glasses. She’s a Prisoner of State, poor child. And I believe she’s still on Hryggeskerry. Surely you can lay hands on her. That’s your area.

Skryker blinked. Me? A Prisoner of State? This isn’t the Dark Ages! I don’t have any Prisoners of State.

The banker shook his head. The legislation still exists and has been used quietly from time to time. It’s used to imprison someone who represents a threat in some way or other. Look into it. Believe me, it still exists. She is my brother Germander’s daughter, the first female Chance in seven generations. Mind you, that’s hardly sufficient for such a fate. There’s a mystery about the child, but I’ve been unable to work it out. As I said, letter after letter I’ve written to that damned island, but nary a useful reply.

A thousand counter-arguments flooded through Skryker’s mind.

Halcyon Chance went on. Now I’ve remembered her, I miss her. Even though I’ve never met her. I want to see her. And not just for the Chance Estate business. He waved an agitated hand. One of my roses was bred for her — the Light of the Isles. Perhaps you know it.

Skryker smiled. This lovely rose, a heavily perfumed white rose edged with gold, was wildly popular despite its other characteristic: fierce thorns. It grew happily at Woodhall, his country house near Haslington. He opened his notebook. I need details, sir, if I’m to find her.

A few minutes later, looking at the scant details, he said optimistically. Well, that’s a start. Her name is Xanthe Chance. She turned twelve last Midsummer’s Day. You believe she was born on Hryggeskerry and that’s where she’s likely to be? The image of the fierce, ardent Sunlight swept into his mind. Was he searching for two girls or one?

The banker was looking in concentration at his bronze-coloured lizard automaton.

Skryker had come up against a potential problem or two. Forgive me, sir, we’ve been through difficult times. What evidence do you have your heir is still alive?

Halcyon Chance looked at him with a slight smile. Oh, she’s alive. Call it a Chance thing. The bronze lizard stirred on his wrist, flicking out its tongue. The smile faded; his face looked haunted. She’s alive, but she’s not happy. I hear her calling.

Skryker said nothing. Many in Deva heard the lost calling them — the war dead, usually. Her mother and father? Would they have more recent news?

No. My brother Germander’s gone too. I believe she’s his daughter, but others say she’s the child of one of his sons. I’ve no idea who her mother is. As I said, no-one expected a girl! But she’s a Chance. I want her found and brought back. Will you help? Halcyon Chance ran his finger along the back of his lizard. You have a flight machine.

Of course. Skryker, already looking for one girl last seen on Hryggeskerry, decided another would not make much difference. He decided not to tell the banker there was a chance the mysterious Sunlight could be his missing heir. But at least this was another lead. He had searched on Hryggeskerry for Sunlight towards the end of the civil war and again the preceding year. Unsuccessful searches that left him feeling he was missing something. If Sunlight was the missing Xanthe Chance and a Prisoner of State, then, he reasoned, there was a greater motivation to keep her hidden.

Halcyon Chance looked up from his lizard. When we find her, she’ll need to stay a Prisoner of State.

Why? Skryker was astonished.

We Chances have many enemies. And that way we can use the Chance Estate to prop up the Mercian economy. I checked the laws: there are some horrendous medieval penalties for escape, but any property is held in trust by the state. Believe me, Minister, I not only need to find my heir, but we need her for the sake of Mercia itself.

Skryker gazed coolly at the banker. You’re asking me to find this girl only to lock her up again?

Yes. That Ministry of yours can be made safe.

What about the child about the house? The kittens and the ribbons and the music lessons?

Halcyon Chance looked sad. A dream. It was never going to happen, was it?

#

Felix Skryker had chosen a long, rambling, abandoned building on the edge of the walled part of Deva to house his Ministry of State Security. This was in the oldest part of Deva where once a Roman legion, the Twentieth, the Valeria Victrix, was garrisoned to protect this part of The Isles for nearly four centuries. The Ministry, which was situated against a corner of the original Roman fort, had been built, rebuilt, renovated and added to extensively over time.

Apart from two notable features it had limited architectural value. The first feature was a fine high stone observatory tower built in the late Middle Ages. The second, steeped in legend, was a row of dungeons and punishment cells dating back to Roman times.

Skryker had explored every part of the Ministry buildings from roof-top to cellar, and he maintained the Roman dungeon story was nonsense. Certainly there was Roman stonework beneath the more recent buildings, but no dank cells where masked prisoners languished. In any case, he said, he refused to interrogate any suspect in a hole in the ground; he preferred light and air and at least a veneer of calm.

Over his first weeks as Minister, Skryker put the word about that he was looking for staff. A number of people who served in his flying outfit during the war answered his call. Too many had died, but there was a core of willing personnel.

One person decided not to respond: Lukas Fafnir, Skryker’s one-time lover.

Really, Felix, why would I? Lord Fafnir was an engaging, good-looking man with fading gold hair. He stared at the smoke spiralling from his Sobranie. Will you be there to hold my hand?

No. It’s not that sort of invitation.

We’ve established that. You had a rival, Felix, an engaging harlot if ever there was one. I’ll sit out this venture.

Harlot, Lukas?

Mistress Di. This was the drug diamorphine; Fafnir