Pullinger ignored the jibes. What do you have to fear, Oliver? You are normal physically. You wouldnt end up with the broken gibbering things at Hawklam Asylum, I can promise you that.
I would serve.
Yes, Oliver. You would serve. In the Special Guard your powers would be put to the service of the people. You would be a hero, Oliver. No longer something unknown, to be feared and loathed. But a champion of the state protecting your countrymen from our enemies abroad and at home.
With a torc around my neck, said Oliver. Controlled by someone like you.
For all our powers, Oliver, the order is still human. Trusted to contain those who clearly are not. The torc is our insurance in case a feybreed goes rogue or insane. How many fey are ever executed by torc? None so far this year.
Oliver shook his head. Im more human than your friends in the Department of Feymist.
I know you think you have been treated badly, Oliver. But thats the self-centred perspective of a young man who has seen nothing of life or the world. This is for your safety and ours. You have not seen the things we have in the Department. You could go fey one night and wake up in the morning with as much in common with us as you have with the insects in your garden. You could decide to turn your uncles body inside out just to see what it looks like. You could walk through Hundred Locks setting people alight with your mind just to hear the difference in their screams. I have seen that happen, boy.
I would never do that.
People fear the feymist, Oliver. They fear it when whatever is behind the curtain seeps its poison across Jackals, changing its victims. They fear an abomination that hasnt been tested and submitted to the peoples control.
But I am normal, Oliver nearly shouted. Im the same as the rest of you.
You cant be the same, Oliver. Not after four years inside the feymist curtain. You are the only one who has been inside and lived to return.
I dont remember those years.
What life is it here for you, Oliver? Your neighbours and friends terrified of your torcless neck, terrified youll wake up one day fey and rogue. Show me what you really are and let me conscript you into the Special Guard.
Hundred Locks is my home.
Its your prison, Oliver. You would be happier among your own kind. Captain Flare would welcome you into the legion like a brother. Bonefire and the other champions of the guard would make you into a hero.
Oliver remained silent.
The common herd worship the Guard, Oliver. There wouldnt be a tavern in the kingdom you couldnt walk into and have Jackelians falling over themselves to stand you a drink. And the women, Oliver. You havent seen how the women drool over the Special Guard; hang on their every word. You would have Dock Street writers penning your adventures in the legion into myth. All that, and what do you have here?
My freedom, said Oliver, quietly.
A curious sort of freedom, said the sorcerer. And it has come very cheap for you, so far. But the day may not be far off when you find the price of it rises.
I am normal, Oliver protested, the words sounding hollow even as he said them. Normal.
Pullinger and his Department stooge made ready to leave. Youll slip one day, Oliver. Lose control and reveal yourself. When you do, well be there to bind you. Or stop you.
Sergeant Cudban shook his head as the two sorcerers left. A row of polished cutlasses and rifles lay on the table in front of him. I admire your spirit, laddie. But are you doing yourself any favours?
You think I should give him what he wants?
Cudban shrugged. I de nae know if theres an ounce of fey in your bones, laddie, but that four years inside the feymist curtain is a life sentence as far as theyre concerned. Theyll keep you on the county register till your hair is silver and youre walking with a stick. Its no life for you.
Its not fair.
I knew a Ham Yard detective, laddie; once he took it into his head that you were guilty, you might as well confess to the doomsman and take a shorter sentence, innocent or no. Either way theyd take you.
Even if Im not fey?
Especially if youre nae, laddie. Just tell them that old Isambard Kirkhill is sending you messages from beyond the grave let them put a suicide torc around your neck and stick you in the Special Guard. He wasnt lying about that. They live like Guardians down in Middlesteel. A bit of light duty protecting the people from the King. Let the heavy crushers like Captain Flare
do any real fighting that parliament orders your way. Ill be reading in The Middlesteel Illustrated about what a fine young champion of the state you are before midwinter.
But Oliver was not thinking about the Special Guard. He was thinking about Hawklam Asylum; the sibilant venom-words of the Whisperer; what it would be like to be ensnared for the rest of his years in a dark airless cell next door to the inhuman dream walker.
Maybe it was a sixth sense something within him finally fulfilling the Department of Feymists expectations but Oliver knew something was wrong the moment he opened the back door to Seventy Star Hall. Everything in the lumber-room was as it should be, the jumble of rakes, earthenware pots and old garden boots, the dusty cloth-covered round table.