The room’s latticed windows were kept latched open. They overlooked a small formal garden. The tops of tall hollyhocks and bobbing agapanthus brushed the sill, and wisteria wound around the casement as if trying to pull the great house down. Beyond was the orchard. Pear trees were espaliered against the red-brick wall, limbs spread as carefully as those of a knifethrower’s assistant.
A side table held an array of bottles and a porcelain ewer and basin. Beside the table was a single straight-backed chair. Zelston lowered himself heavily into it, as if his body were the most burdensome thing in the world. The covers were drawn up to the sleeper’s chest, and one nightgowned arm lay on top of the bedcovers. As Silyen watched, the Chancellor seized the exposed pale hand between both of his and held it tighter than any nurse would have permitted.
‘You received my letter, then,’ he told Zelston’s bowed head. ‘You know what I’m offering. And you know my price.’
‘Your price is too high,’ the Chancellor replied, not releasing Aunt Euterpe’s hand. ‘We have nothing to discuss.’
The man’s vehemence told Silyen everything he needed to know.
‘Oh please,’ he said mildly, walking round the bed to stand in Zelston’s line of sight. ‘There’s nothing you wouldn’t give for this, and we both know it.’
‘It’d cost me my position,’ said the Chancellor, condescending to meet Silyen’s gaze. ‘Did your father put you up to this? He can’t take the Chancellorship a second time, you know.’
Silyen shrugged. ‘Which is the greater tragedy: a lost career or a lost love? You strike me as a better man than that. I’m sure my aunt thought so.’
The room was still. The only sound was a buzzing, then the audible knock of a pollen-drugged bee against the windowpane.
‘She’s lain like this for twenty-five years,’ said Zelston. ‘Since the day Orpen Mote burned to the ground. I’ve tried to bring her out of it; your mother has tried, and even your father. Those most Skilled at mindwork have attempted it, and failed. And you stand there, a seventeen-year-old boy, and tell me that you can do it. Why should I believe you?’
‘Because I’ve been where she is. All I need do is lead her back.’
‘And where is she?’
‘You know that.’ Silyen smiled. It was his mother’s smile – which meant that it was Aunt Euterpe’s, too, given the close family resemblance. Zelston must hate that. ‘She’s right where you left her.’
Zelston surged from the chair, which fell to the ground with a bang loud enough to wake the dead – though not, of course, the woman in the bed. He grabbed the worn velvet lapels of Silyen’s riding jacket, which was an unanticipated development. Silyen heard the fabric tear. He was overdue a new jacket anyway. The Chancellor’s breath was hot on his face.
‘You are vile,’ the man spat. ‘The monstrous child of a monstrous father.’
Zelston thrust Silyen back against the casement, and the rattle of his skull hitting the leaded glass sent birds startling from the trees.
‘I’m the only one who can give you your heart’s desire,’ said Silyen, annoyed at how reedy his voice sounded, though a man’s fist around your windpipe would do that. ‘And I don’t ask for much in return.’
The Chancellor made a noise of revulsion and released his grip. As Silyen straightened his ripped collar with dignity, the older man spoke.
‘The Chancellor’s Proposal allows me, each year, to set one new law before our parliament for discussion at the three Great Debates. And you ask that this year, I abuse that prerogative by proposing the abolition of the slavedays, the foundation of our country’s social order. I know that a handful among our Equals believe that the days are somehow wrong, and not merely the natural order of things. But I would never have thought you one of them.
‘You must know that such a Proposal would never pass. Not even your own father and brother would vote for it. Them least of all. And such a Proposal wouldn’t merely ruin me – it risks ruining the country. If word gets out to the commoners, who knows what might happen? It could shatter Britain’s peace.
‘I will give you anything within my power. I can have one of the childless appoint you their heir. As heir of an estate, then lord, you’d have a seat of your own in parliament and a shot at the Chancellorship one day – something you’ll never achieve as Lord Jardine’s third son. But this makes no sense. No sense at all.’
Silyen looked at the man in front of him. Zelston’s dark face was shiny with sweat, his immaculate white silk cravat askew. It was remarkable how much emotion the Chancellor was displaying. Was that a politician’s habit, all for show? Or were some people really subject to such constant storms of feeling? Gavar was, Silyen supposed. It must be exhausting.
He gestured to the overturned chair by the bedside and it flipped back onto four legs. Gratifyingly, Zelston took the cue and sat down. The Chancellor bowed his head and ran his fingers along his knotted braids. His posture suggested prayer. Though praying for what, or to whom, Silyen couldn’t imagine.
‘Here’s a question for you, Chancellor: what is Skill?’
He knew that Zelston had been a lawyer. This was before his elder sister’s early death elevated him from spare to heir, at which point an unsuspected political ambition revealed itself. Lawyers liked questions – and even more, they liked supplying smart answers.