Текст книги "Rook"
Автор книги: Sharon Cameron
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
It wasn’t long after that Sophia was opening the door to her own rooms, on the other side of Bellamy House, having seen nothing worse than three more jackets in the style of the gold one, shirts, breeches and pants, various articles of underclothing, reserves of hair powder, two razors, a book of questionable Parisian poetry, and some very dull correspondence. Nothing to connect him with the crimes of his city or his cousin. Or the Red Rook. René was a prat and that was all. The revelation made her both relieved and unhappy.
St. Just the fox barked once as she shut her door, his sharp ears pricked while he sniffed her skirts. She patted his head, and then Orla was there, reaching up for the heavy dark hair. She had it off Sophia’s head in an instant, setting it aside on the dressing table before spinning her round to unlace the bodice. Orla had been her nurse as a child, somehow going on with those duties long after Sophia had outgrown them. Mostly, Sophia supposed, because no one had ever told her to stop.
She relaxed, both from the relief at the lack of weight on her head and Orla’s ministrations. Her room, at least, felt unsullied. She pulled out hairpins one by one while St. Just completed his investigation of her shoes, approved, and returned to his basket.
“Your Banns was tolerable, then?” Orla asked.
“Intolerable, I’m afraid.”
“And Monsieur?”
“My father’s choice of business partner is very handsome, knows it, and does not possess an intelligent thought. And he has some very nasty relatives.”
“Your father or your fiancé?”
“Very funny, Orla.” She felt uncharacteristically close to crying. “He brought one of his cousins to visit me tonight. Would you like to guess who was just downstairs?” She caught sight of Orla’s questioning face in the mirror. “Albert LeBlanc.”
Orla’s fingers paused on the laces. “And he came as a relation, I suppose? Family duty?”
“I think not.” Sophia watched worry press down on Orla’s mouth. “Well, at least now we know why the Hasards haven’t lost their heads to Allemande. Or their business. It’s good to have friends in high places, don’t you think, Orla?”
Orla didn’t answer; she was too busy frowning. Sophia pulled the last pin from her hair and ran a hand through the damp, thick curls, shaking them all out once like a dog. The sight made a little line appear between the paint on her eyebrows. Jennifer Bonnard had been so young when Sophia saw her last, with those wide eyes and that freckled nose. Sophia wouldn’t have dreamed Jennifer would recognize her, dressed in a man’s clothes and with her hair cut like a boy’s. The other Bonnards certainly hadn’t.
“And what else has happened?” Orla asked. St. Just lifted his rust-colored head and whined once from the basket. He knew her moods as well as Orla.
“I think Jennifer Bonnard might have recognized me last night. She … It’s very possible that she knows who I am.” The Bonnards were half a mile away, and LeBlanc had walked right into her house.
“Are they safe?” Orla asked.
“For tonight. Spear is making certain.”
“And where is LeBlanc?”
“He said he was going back to the city, I would guess on the ferry that leaves at highmoon. Tom was watching, and Cartier will follow. We should know where he goes, and when he leaves.” Sophia grimaced. “It’s all quite lovely, isn’t it? A dream come true. Perhaps René and I will send the children to spend their summers.”
Orla ignored the bitter tone. “Well, I suppose you’ve had a relative or two with a bad name, child, if you’re wanting to cast stones.”
“There haven’t been any thieves in the family for two hundred years, Orla.” Sophia rolled her eyes. Three centuries earlier, every Bellamy in the Commonwealth had been a pirate, before they stole enough to turn to more civilized trades. “Or not the bad sort of thief, anyway. So I hardly think that counts.”
“You know best,” said Orla, in a voice that meant the opposite.
Sophia shook her head. Orla really could be too practical. She put a finger beneath the edge of her dressing table and a drawer that had not been there before sprang out from the decorative carving. It disappeared again with a soft click, the ring from her forefinger and the silver key with it. The bodice finally fell away, and Sophia breathed deep.
“Now, then. I’ve left your newspapers on the table and your breeches on the bed,” Orla said. “And you can be shaking the sand out of them yourself this time, if you please. I plan to be in my bed when you come back. Where decent people ought to be by this time of night.”
Being excluded from Orla’s definition of “decent” made Sophia smile in spite of herself. “And what makes you think I’m going down to the beach tonight?”
Orla had a sharp face, a sharp nose, and now a voice to match. “Just what do you think I’ve been up to for the past eighteen years, child? Do you think I don’t know you at all?”
The highmoon was rising above the secluded cove, making a pale, undulating path across the surface of the sea. A dense growth of bushes and salt-stunted trees made the cliff edge hard to find, the narrow strip of sand below almost hidden by overhanging rock and jagged rows of tumbled stones. Over the rolling surf and spray came a faint clang on the wind, steel on steel, and a silver flash that was the glint of metal catching the light. Parry, thrust. Parry and thrust.
“She works on her parry, Benoit,” said René, his Parisian very quiet. He was flat on his stomach, surrounded by the thick branches, holding an eyescope trained on the beach below. Benoit sat beside him, a small man, nondescript, dressed as a servant, elbows balanced on knees. “The room was searched?” René asked.
Benoit nodded. “Very neatly done, nothing out of place. But the thread across the doorway has been broken.”
“The lock was picked?”
“No scratches.”
“Ah. And the hinges oiled before we arrived. That is excellent planning.” He passed the eyescope to Benoit. “Tell me what you think of the brother.”
“He trains her with the arms only, as he should,” Benoit said after a moment. “But the leg, it changes its stance some, I think?”
“Perhaps it pains him?”
“Or pains him not at all. Who can say?”
René took the eyescope and turned it back to the beach, where he watched Sophia expertly relieve her brother of his sword. He smiled.
“I think we should follow Cousin Albert’s advice, Benoit. This Miss Bellamy seems a much more interesting fiancée than I had first thought.”
Spear Hammond stepped down out of the landover, looking left and right, making certain there was no one else on the road. A slate-colored sky hung low over the trees, and the wind gusted, tearing at his long coat, air whipping past with the feel of a storm on it. He didn’t like this plan; it was risky, more so than usual. But he also didn’t have a better one. He left young Cartier in the driver’s seat of the landover, holding tight to the nervous horses, and hurried across the A5 lane, approaching a structure that had at one time been called a bungalow. Now it was a ramshackle tumble of stone and scavenged concrete, the roof caved in on one side.
The doorway of the ruin stood black and empty, but when Spear reached it, the tip of a sword appeared from one side of the darkness, just touching his chest. He paused and held out his hand, palm open, showing a single red-tipped feather. The sword lowered, and the face of Ministre Bonnard appeared in the opening, a frightened boy peeking out just behind him.
The Bonnard family was herded quickly into the landover, the door shut, the window curtains closed, and Cartier cracked his whip over the heads of the horses. Rooks cawed from the treetops, protesting the noise. Spear watched the wheels of the landover rattle fast down the lane, toward the turning to the Caledonian Road, where the buildings and fields of the Rathbone farm sprawled out along the banks of a wide river. He shook his head, promising himself again that this would be the last time. He knew he wouldn’t keep that promise. Sophia would only have to ask him again. When the road was empty, he walked away past the bungalow, taking long, fast strides down the A5.
Sophia Bellamy took leisurely strides down the A5, away from the Caledonian Road and the Rathbone farm, picking her way around the massive ruts that were the result of dozens of landovers parading to her Banns the night before. Before the printing presses were taken, most of their friends would have been able to walk to Bellamy House. Now the road was lined with deteriorating bungalows.
Brown leaves blew past as she peered up, gazing at the steel sky beyond the oak trees, one hand holding a straw and ribbon hat on her head. The wind was sharp. She wondered if she could smell a storm, or if the rooks could. They were making an unholy noise. She adjusted the basket on her other arm, and then she paused, seeing what was disturbing the peace of the rookery. There was someone else on the lane. Her hat came off, dangling by the ribbons as she waited for the man’s approach, one hand held near the filigree belt she wore around her waist. The rooks screamed.
“Monsieur LeBlanc,” she said when he stood before her. She made her face look pleasant. “I thought you were sailing back to your city last night.” She’d thought it because Cartier had followed him all the way to the ferry in Canterbury.
LeBlanc bent over her hand, allowing Sophia to study the odd streak of white hair in the natural light. He wore a large signet ring on his smallest finger. “Good day, Miss Bellamy. I had meant it to be so, but while on the boat I inquired of Fate and the Goddess most unexpectedly directed me to stay in the Commonwealth.” Sophia felt one of her eyebrows rise. “Do you walk alone? Is that wise? Where is René?”
Sophia forced a laugh. “Your cousin is likely flat on his back with an aching head, Monsieur. And I often walk here alone. This is my land.”
“Your father’s land. Is that not so?” When she did not answer, LeBlanc said, “I believe I saw Monsieur Bellamy’s landover drive by a few moments ago. You do not take the landover?”
“No.” She kept her smile neutral while her pulse picked up its pace. “It was going to the smith for repairs, I believe. And I like to walk.”
“And where do you walk to, Mademoiselle, when the weather threatens?”
“I’m bringing a basket to one of our neighbors.” She lifted the arm with the basket slightly.
“And which neighbor is this?”
“Mr. Lostchild,” she lied without hesitation. “He’s very old, and one of the few we have left. We like to take care of him.”
“And what do you bring him?”
“Cake. Left over from the Banns.” Sophia tilted her head. “Would you also like to know exactly when I left the house?”
LeBlanc laughed very softly. Sophia hid an involuntary shiver. “You will forgive me for being so inquisitive, Miss Bellamy. It is my nature to ask questions. Would you allow me to walk with you to see this Mr. Lostchild? It would ease my mind if you were not alone.”
Sophia inclined her head, trying to hold an agreeable expression while every muscle in her body rippled with tension. They began walking down the A5 together, Sophia keeping one hand unobtrusively behind her basket, near the filigree belt.
“I am surprised to hear that you bring food to your elderly. Does that not go against your Commonwealth doctrines of self-reliance, Mademoiselle?”
“Only if Mr. Lostchild is liable to become dependent on cake, Monsieur.”
LeBlanc gave her a sidelong glance, as if trying to decide whether she’d meant to be impertinent. She had. “May I say you look very well today, Miss Bellamy. I think I prefer it to your more formal attire.”
He was approving of the ringlets in her hair and the neckline of her shirt, which was significantly higher than her Banns dress. Sophia said, “I take it the fashions of the Commonwealth offend your Allemande tastes? If so, then your cousin must be a puzzle to you.”
“It is true that in the Cité de Lumière we do not prefer the new ways.”
“You mean the old ways that have become new again?”
He nodded, acknowledging the reference to his words the night before. “In the city, we do not see the need for excess. We prefer sensible dress and the honest work of the human.”
“And yet machines are the work of humans, aren’t they, Monsieur?”
LeBlanc’s smile was once again indulgent. “Machines take away the means for the poor to earn their bread. And eventually, as it did with the Ancients, dependence on technology takes away even the most basic of skills, like the ability to find one’s own food. That is not something Premier Allemande can condone.”
No, he just condones cutting off the heads of those with the money to fund such technology, Sophia thought. Whether they had ever thought of funding it or not. She wondered just how often Premier Allemande found his own food.
LeBlanc was frowning. “You speak like a technologist, Miss Bellamy, as if you would see the world go back to the weaknesses of the past. Has your father or your brother been teaching you this?”
Sophia gave him a pretty, false smile. “Oh, no, Monsieur. Technologists are not popular here at all. I think the Commonwealth dislikes proponents of machines even more than the Sunken City does.” She watched LeBlanc’s expression smooth back to tranquility.
“I am glad to hear you say so. René has gone rather wild of late, as young men often do, and his mother hopes for a marriage that will tame him. Are you … how do you say it here? Are you ‘up for the job’?”
She laughed again, but did not answer.
“It is a gamble, is it not?” LeBlanc continued. “We hope that you will teach René his responsibilities and bring strong blood to the family, while you hope the Hasard fortune will save the Bellamys from ruin.”
Sophia stopped their stroll and turned to face LeBlanc. Behind him, across an overgrown yard, stood a ruined bungalow with half a roof and an empty front door. “Exactly what do you want to say to me, Monsieur?”
LeBlanc’s smile spread slow across his face. “I would like your help, Miss Bellamy.”
She waited, the hand that was behind her basket on the filigree belt buckle.
“I want information on the man known in my city as the Red Rook.”
Sophia smiled, and then she said, “Are you also looking for landovers that drive by themselves? The Rook is only a story.”
“The Red Rook is not a myth, Mademoiselle. He is a man, and …” He lowered his oily voice. “… I know he is near.”
Sophia blinked. “You interest me. Go on.”
“I know that he has landed two boats within three miles of this estate, boats I believe to have been filled with traitors to Allemande. I know he speaks two languages, for how else can he blend so well into the people of our different cultures? I believe that he is a man of some wealth, or that he is supported by one, so that he can come and go as he pleases. I believe he has a group of men around him that will obey without question. And your father’s estate, Miss Bellamy, must be near where such a man might live on this isolated stretch of coast.”
A small silence followed this speech, interrupted only by the cawing from the high branches of the oak trees. Sophia smiled.
“I believe your imagination has run away with you, Monsieur.” She took a step away, but LeBlanc reached out like a striking snake and grabbed her arm.
“You do not understand me, Miss Bellamy. When I said I wanted information from you, I was not making a request.”
Sophia pulled her arm away and stepped back, the basket now hiding the small knife that had been secreted in the filigree of her belt buckle. She held it loose in her hand. LeBlanc’s smile spread.
“Let me explain to you. Your father is in need of the ten thousand quidden your marriage to a Parisian will bring him. But perhaps you do not know that the Hasard fortune is not at all secure? Premier Allemande does not like such inequalities of wealth in his city. The Hasard money has only remained intact because of his … benevolence.”
Which meant that LeBlanc had made sure it stayed intact. For himself.
“I can ensure that the goodwill of Allemande continues,” said LeBlanc, “but I will wish to receive something in return. Give me the Red Rook, and you can be certain that René will bring your family a marriage fee, and that your father will not see the inside of a debtor’s cell.”
Sophia stood stock-still on the road, wind whistling through the rubble of the empty building, the smooth handle of the knife in her concealed hand. “You would have the fortune of your own family confiscated?”
LeBlanc shrugged. “We have never been close.”
“Monsieur LeBlanc,” she said, “I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I know nothing of this matter. I have nothing to give you. Nothing at all.”
“But I think you do. Or that you very soon will. You will see. You will discover. You will listen to the talk in the kitchen. Women can do these things. Succeed, and you will have your marriage fee. Fail, and you will lose your father and your home. I trust that these instructions need no more explanation?”
When Sophia said nothing, he bowed his head slightly and turned to walk away down the lane.
He was several steps away when Sophia called, “Have you spoken to your cousin about this?” LeBlanc spun slowly back around.
“Do you believe in Luck, Miss Bellamy? I do, most fervently. Luck is the handmaiden of Fate, and I think I will try my luck with you.” He began to walk again down the A5, calling over his shoulder, “You will find me at the Holiday, Mademoiselle. For one week. That is all the time I can spare!”
Sophia watched LeBlanc’s retreating back, wind stirring little tornadoes of dirt and fallen leaves, waiting until the rooks had hushed and the lane was empty again. Only then did she slide the knife back into her belt, its handle part of the buckle’s decoration. The trees behind her rustled, and she turned her head.
“You heard?” she asked as Tom came limping out from the undergrowth.
“Yes,” he replied. “Enough.”
He stood beside her as they both stared down the empty road. “I’m thinking misdirection,” Sophia said quietly. “You?”
“Yes, possibly. But we are going to have to play a very careful game, my sister.”
“Do you play, my love?”
Sophia glanced up at René standing beside her father’s chess set as if he were posing for a portrait titled Parisian Rake. She went back to stroking St. Just’s head, the fox settling deeper into the gauzy pink of her gown. It was full dark outside, the storm that the wind had promised now lashing for its third day at the windowpanes. Bellamy slumped in his chair—he never stayed awake for long after dinner—while Spear and Tom sat on either side of the fire, Spear reading a legal newspaper, Tom thumbing through his illegal Wesson’s Guide. Tom’s interest in Wesson’s was less about clothing and more about what the subjects of the copied drawings might be doing, and where they might have been doing it. Proving the theory that Wesson had copied Ancient paintings in abandoned London before it was lost was Tom’s constant pastime.
Sophia wanted a pastime, or at least one that could be done in a sitting room, where sword fighting was frowned upon. Three days of torrential rain had left her cooped up and testy. René Hasard had been haunting her steps, paying her unearned compliments, stating his opinions on music, magazines, Parisian actresses, and, most memorably, an endless dissertation on his particular preferences in nursery carpets. Tom had nodded sagely while listening to this, asking her fiancé such detailed, serious questions that Sophia thought holding in the laughter might actually kill her. And if she did manage to be without René’s presence for the odd moment or two, up he would pop unexpectedly, full of a restless, boundless energy and incessant talk that, good looks or no, stretched her patience to the limit.
St. Just lifted his head from her lap, sniffing at her foul mood. René’s suggestion of a game was not appealing, but then again, Sophia wasn’t certain he could have suggested anything that was. Her father snorted, startling belatedly from his doze.
“What?” Bellamy said. “What? Play my Sophia, Mr. Hasard? Oh no, I don’t advise it. I’ve been playing her since she was ten years old, and the child has trounced me every time.”
Tom smiled from his armchair, adjusting the cushion beneath his leg. “You’ll make Hasard afraid of our Sophie, Father.”
“And you think that a bad thing, Tom?” Sophia said sweetly. “Do go on, Father. What were you saying?”
René laughed, a little too loud, a sound that grated across every raw end of her nerves. He said, “And now I must insist on the game or be thought a coward.” He turned back to Sophia. “Or you shall.”
She set her mouth, put St. Just on the carpet, and marched over to the chessboard. Spear’s newspaper lowered, and she could feel his eyes following as she sat herself down at the game table. René was in the green coat tonight. She found a silver button, the second one down, and fixed her gaze there.
“White first, my love,” René said.
“I prefer black.”
He turned the board while St. Just settled his bushy tail over her feet. They played in silence, she taking her time and with her attention on the board, he with quick, haphazard moves and his face turned toward the rest of the room. Sophia moved her sheriff and stifled a yawn. She was six moves from taking his king.
“My cousin says that he walked in the lane with you the other day,” René said loudly.
“You’ve been to see Monsieur LeBlanc?” She glanced once at Spear. He and Cartier were supposed to have been watching, making sure René didn’t leave the house. Spear almost imperceptibly shrugged a shoulder.
“Oh, yes,” René said, “I went to see him early, before breakfast.”
“In the rain?”
“It was a refreshing journey. But my cousin made me quite jealous.” René ignored her sheriff and unwisely moved a pawn. “Perhaps you might like to walk with me next time, when the weather improves?” When she remained silent, René said, “Do none of the young women from your Banns ever come to walk with you? I would not mind seeing Mademoiselle Lauren again. I thought she was very … pleasant.”
Oh, Sophia thought. So that’s what sort of husband he would be. She supposed it shouldn’t matter to her. She tried to imagine strolling down the A5 with Lauren Rathbone and failed.
“Bellamy has invited my cousin to dine with us tomorrow,” René went on. “That was thoughtful of him, yes?”
Sophia looked over at the armchair, where her oblivious father was again snoozing. She lowered her voice. “I am surprised that Monsieur LeBlanc stays in the Commonwealth. What can he possibly have to do here?”
“I believe that tonight he was intending to ride the coast.”
“Really? An impractical plan. Why would he want to do that in this weather?”
“I wish I could say he was riding out to have his hair dyed,” René sighed. “That streak is not in fashion.”
Sophia stared at the water streaming down the window glass. Sometimes it was hard to believe the man sitting across from her could possibly be serious. And then she did believe it, and it was depressing.
“But Cousin Albert does not share his reasons with me,” René continued. “I only saw his horse being saddled.”
“He’ll have found somewhere else to stay, I would think. In Forge or Mainstay, if he got that far.” For once she let her gaze rest briefly on René’s face. “If the weather holds, maybe he won’t be able to come to dinner after all. Maybe he’ll have to go straight back to where he came from.”
René laughed, again much too loud. “What a teasing little minx you are!”
This remark carried to the fireplace, earning her a surprised glance from Tom and a long look from Spear. Sophia felt a bit of heat rise to her cheeks. René had made it sound as if she was flirting with him. It threw another log of fuel on her smoldering temper.
“Such a shame Mrs. Rathbone couldn’t come eat with us tonight,” Sophia said to the room in general. “What did she say she had to do again?”
Spear immediately shifted in his chair, ready to accommodate her, but Sophia could see by the line of Tom’s mouth that he disapproved. Still, she couldn’t help it. She was ticked.
“Mrs. Rathbone mentioned something about a few unexpected duties that had come her way,” Spear said. “Five of them, I think.” He grinned, a thing of beauty and symmetry in the firelight. “And she mentioned old Mr. Lostchild. You did hear that he was no longer with us?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry for it,” Sophia replied. Tom had assured her that Mr. Lostchild’s death appeared to be from natural causes; he’d been very old. But the fact that she’d said his name to LeBlanc three days beforehand did not sit well with her. “Such a nice man,” she continued. “Always a cookie to spare when we were children. But I had hoped Mrs. Rathbone might come. She was telling me the oddest story at the Banns, about how the Bonnards had escaped prison on the very night of their execution. Was there anything about it in the newspaper, Tom?”
“I’m not certain.” Tom was frowning now.
Spear leaned his large frame back into the chair, his white shirt crisp and unblemished. “I saw something about it. They say it was the Red Rook. Isn’t that what they call him?” This last had been to Tom, but Tom did not respond.
Sophia said, “Yes, I’ve heard of him. He’s done things like this before, hasn’t he, Spear?”
“I believe so. The Parisians seem to think he’s some kind of ghost.”
“They say he is a saint sent by God,” said René unexpectedly. “Or at least those who do not believe that Allemande is God say it.”
Sophia blinked once before she said, “Mrs. Rathbone said he was the talk of the Sunken City. If he’s not a ghost or a saint, then who do you think he could be, Tom?”
“Whoever he is,” Tom replied, eyes on his book and his words measured, “I think he is getting too bold.”
Spear winked at her conspiratorially, but Sophia looked down at the board, supposedly to move her rook, really to absorb the shame brought on by the remonstrance she’d heard in her brother’s voice. It was one thing to give in to temper in the sitting room after dinner; it was another thing entirely to disappoint Tom. St. Just whined, stretched his back, and exchanged Sophia’s slippers for René’s buckled shoes. What a little traitor.
“Do you believe that?” René asked. Sophia’s eyes darted up, but he was speaking to Tom. “Do you believe Le Corbeau Rouge grows too bold? Do you think he will be caught if he tries his tricks again?”
Tom lowered his book, his brown eyes regarding René with interest. “I’m sure I don’t know. But if Allemande would stop murdering his own people, then I suppose he wouldn’t have to.”
“You are against the revolution, then?” René said, moving a chess piece with barely a glance. “You believe the rich have the right to fund technology and build their own machines?”
Sophia met Spear’s eyes, frowning a little. LeBlanc had asked her something very similar in the lane, whether or not she was a technologist. Tom folded his hands across the book in his lap.
“I’m not against the building of machines, Hasard, if that’s what you’re asking. Spain has broken the Anti-Technology Pact, as has China, and the Finnish Confederate. The loss of trade with those countries is crippling the Commonwealth. But I suppose that whatever your city does about technology is not really any of my business.”
“But you are a student of the Time Before,” René countered. Sophia looked up sharply from her queen. René’s voice had lost just a bit of its Parisian sophistication. “Do you not believe that machines made the people weak, that the Great Death, as you call it, came about because the Ancients were dependent on technology, and did not know how to survive when they lost it? That making heat and light, traveling, fighting, that these things were impossible for them, because of their dependence?”
Tom tilted his chin. “There is some truth in that, though I could argue that the wealthy of both our cultures are becoming weak and idle without any machines at all. But I believe the Great Death was caused by shifts in our planet just as much as technological dependence. Did you know that in the Time Before, north was what we would now call northwest? That has been proven with archaeological finds. At the university in Manchester they teach that when the magnetic poles of the earth shifted, the protective layer around the earth was damaged, allowing the radiation of the sun to destroy the technology that the Ancients depended on. What I think, though, is that this same solar radiation caused the first wave of the Great Death. Sickness killed the people first, technological dependence second, that’s what I believe.
“But that was more than eight hundred years ago, and the Anti-Technology Pact our two countries signed has far outlived its time. I think it more than possible to use machines without making the mistakes of our ancestors. That we could build a clock or a mill or play a piano without losing our ability to survive without them.”
René leaned forward and spoke, still in the lower, less Parisian voice. “And the fact that your Parliament has taken the license for the printing press, does this affect your opinion?”
“The entire South Commonwealth would be better off if the Bellamys still had the license to print. We were putting books in every chapel and school. Instead Parliament reserves that power for themselves, controlling everything we read and driving one more industry to the undermarkets.”
Sophia knew her brother thought Parliament was actually hoarding technology, using a much larger, more complicated printing press than was allowed by law. They were producing too many newspapers, and too quickly.
“But whatever I think,” Tom continued, “I would never say that I don’t obey the laws of my land. Or yours.”
Sophia moved her rook across the chessboard, setting the next prong of her attack. Tom was helping her disobey those laws every day. He just wouldn’t be so stupid as to say so, of course. Their father snored softly from his chair, and René moved a sheriff, his mind obviously elsewhere.
“And what about you, Hasard?” Tom said, turning the tables. “Do you agree with your city’s revolution? Do you think technology will make the poor poorer, and the rich richer? Do you think the people of the Upper City are being executed for funding the return of technology at the expense of the Lower City, or for merely having the money to do so and owning property your government wants? Or is it because of their religious beliefs, because your cousin wants to replace the chapels with a cult? Or are they being put to the Razor because they do not agree with Allemande’s absolute power, and the way he executed your last premier?”
