Gallian Thade and Duke Grephen stood on the other side of the room. Crake listened. It was hard to concentrate on two conversations at once, but luckily he needed less than half his attention to keep up with either. Jez was fielding the Aerium Brothers, and Thade and his companions were saying nothing of any interest. Their talk consisted of possible business ventures, witticisms and pleasantries. He was beginning to wonder if Frey had been wise to believe Thade might give something away.
‘We should go elsewhere,’ he heard Thade murmur, through the silver earcuff. ‘There are things we must discuss.’
Crake’s eyes flickered to the host, who was talking to the Duke. Grephen nodded, and they excused themselves and began to move away across the ballroom. This was promising.
‘Miss Flay!’
It was Vexford, the rangy old soak who had taken a fancy to Jez. He gave Crake a poisonous glare as they made their greetings. He’d not forgotten his recent embarrassment at Crake’s hands. It hadn’t embarrassed him enough to keep him from trying to steal his adversary’s sweetheart, apparently.
‘Air Marshal Vexford!’ Jez declared, with false and excessive enthusiasm. ‘How good to see you again!’
Vexford puffed up with pleasure. ‘I was wondering if I might have the honour of this dance?’
Jez glanced uncertainly at Crake, but Crake wasn’t listening. He was concentrating on the sounds in his ear. Grephen and Thade were exchanging greetings with people as they passed through the ballroom towards a doorway at one end. The greetings were getting fainter and fainter as they moved out of range.
‘Damen?’ Jez enquired. He noticed her again. ‘Air Marshal Vexford wishes to dance with me.’ Her eyes were urgent: Save me!
Crake smiled broadly at the Air Marshal. ‘That would be fine, sir. Just fine,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, I must attend to something.’ He slipped away with rude haste, to spare himself Jez’s gaze of horrified betrayal.
He made his way towards the doorway Grephen and Thade were heading for, glancing around nervously as he went. He was searching for a sign of Fredger Cordwain, the man who worked for the Shacklemores. Crake hadn’t spotted him since their conversation earlier, and it worried him deeply.
When he was a child, he’d been afraid of spiders. They seemed to like his bedroom, and no matter how the maids chased them out they always came back. But frightened as he was, he found their presence easier to bear if he could see them, hiding in a corner or motionless on the ceiling. It was when he looked away, when the spider disappeared, that the fear came. A spider safely on the far side of the room was one thing; a spider that might already be crawling over the pillow towards his face was quite another. Crake wanted Cordwain where he could see him.
The sound of Thade’s voice strengthened in his ear as he drew closer to them. They passed through the grand doorway at the end of the ballroom and away. Crake followed at a distance.
Beyond was a corridor, leading through the manor to other areas: smoking rooms, galleries, halls. Guests were scattered about in groups, admiring sculptures or laughing among themselves. Crake was sweating, and not only because of the heat. He felt like a criminal. The casual glances of the doormen and servants seemed suddenly suspicious and knowing. He sipped his wine and tried to look purposeful.
‘Where are we going?’ Grephen said quietly to Thade, looking around. ‘Somewhere more private than this, I hope.’
‘My study is off-limits to guests,’ Thade replied. He halted at a heavy wooden door with vines carved into its surface, and unlocked it with a key. Crake stopped a little way up the corridor, pretending to admire a painting of some grotesque aunt of the Thade dynasty. Thade and Grephen stepped inside and closed the door behind them.
He waited for them to speak again. They didn’t. Wait: was that a murmur in his ear? Perhaps, but it was too faint to make out. The study evidently went back some distance into the manor, and they were right at the limit of his range.
Spit and blood! I knew I should have made these things more powerful, he thought, fingering his earcuff in agitation.
He looked both ways up the corridor, but nobody was paying attention to him. He walked across to the door that led to the study. If anyone asked, he could just say he got lost.
He tried the door. It didn’t open. He tried again, more forcefully. Locked.
‘I don’t think you can go in there,’ said a portly, middle-aged man who had spotted his plight.
‘Oh,’ said Crake. ‘I must be mistaken.’ He lowered his voice, and moved close to murmur: ‘I thought this was the lavatory. It’s quite desperate, you see.’
‘Other end of the corridor,’ said the man, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
‘Much obliged,’ he said, and hurried away.
His mind was racing. If Thade had anything worth hearing, he was saying it right now, and Crake was too far away to listen. This whole excursion would be wasted if he couldn’t get back in range, and quickly.
Just then he passed the foot of a staircase. It was relatively narrow and simple, with white stone steps and elegant, polished banisters. A manservant stood on the first step, barring entry to guests.
And suddenly Crake had an idea.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Would you mind terribly if I had a nose around up there?’
‘Guests are not allowed, sir,’ said the manservant.
Crake grinned hugely. His best grin, his picture-grin. His gold tooth glinted in the light of the electric bulb. The manservant’s eyes glittered like a magpie’s.
‘I’d be most grateful if you could make an exception,’ he said.
The corridors upstairs were cool and hushed and empty. The gabble of conversation and music from the ballroom were muted by the thick floors. Crake could hear a pair of maids somewhere nearby, talking in low voices, giggling as they prepared the bedrooms.
He chose a direction that he judged would take him towards Thade’s study chambers. Despite the awful thrill of trespass, his limbs were beginning to feel heavy. Using the earcuff, and now his tooth, had sapped his energy. Years of practice had trained him to endure the debilitating effect of employing daemons, but the sustained, low-level usage had worn him down.
A man’s voice joined the women’s. A butler. Chiding. Get on with your work. The three of them were up ahead, just around a bend in the corridor. They might step into view at any moment, and Crake would be seen. He could feel his pulse throbbing against his collar. His palms were clammy and wet with the terror of being caught doing something wrong. He marvelled at how people like Frey could flout authority with such ease.
Then, a murmur. The faintest of sounds. The daemon thralled to his earcuff was humming in resonance with its twin. He was picking up the conversation again.
Stealthily, holding his breath, he moved down the corridor. The butler was issuing instructions as to how the master wanted his guests’ rooms arranged. His voice grew in volume. Frustratingly, Thade’s didn’t. Crake was skirting around the limit of his earcuff’s range. Somewhere on the floor below him, Thade and Grephen were discussing the secret matters he’d come here to learn about. He had to get closer.
Crake crept up to the corner, pressing himself against it. He peered round. The butler was in the doorway of a nearby bedroom, a little way inside. His back was to the corridor, and he was talking to the maids within.
Crake took a shallow breath and held it. He had to do this now, before his nerve failed him. Soft-footed, he padded past the doorway. No voice was raised to halt him. The butler kept talking. Unable to believe his luck, Crake kept going, and the conversation in his ear grew audible.