Read Online Mainspring by Jay Lake - Free Book Online

services to the viceroy. Some matters of governance are best not put in the hands of younger sons of powerful lords sent over here from Mother England to wait out their various disgraces.” Phelps’ eyes positively glinted. “Have you spoken in confidence to any women recently, young Master Hethor?”
    â€œI … how did you know my name?”
    â€œMy Specials,” said Phelps. “At least one of whom took you very seriously indeed. The message came to me, along with you, though your story as it was passed to my ears would bring laughter to the lips of any Rational Humanist who heard it. And I might add Rational Humanism is quite the fashion this season in the viceroy’s court. They talk far more of the Clockmakers than they do of God.”
    â€œI am a clockmaker’s apprentice,” Hethor said. “And I have something to tell the viceroy.” He picked his next
words carefully. There would be no more chances after Phelps, Hethor knew that with a certainty. “It is a critical matter.”
    â€œTell me,” said Phelps, his voice soft but urgent. “I am the viceroy’s ears in many things. Sometimes his hands. Even more rarely, his voice.”
    He had no other choices. Not in a locked room in the basement of Massachusetts House. And this was, after all, the path upon which Librarian Childress had set him.
    So Hethor recounted his tale of the visitation from the archangel Gabriel. Under further questioning, he told of the steps he took, from Pryce Bodean to the library and being turned out, on to the journey to Boston.
    â€œA DIFFERENT man might have begged forgiveness,” Phelps said, pouring the last of the lemon squash into another tumbler.
    â€œI did no wrong,” Hethor insisted. Telling his tale had raised his anger all over again. The tiny room, dark now except for a candle Phelps had taken from the desk, seemed hot and close as it had not earlier in the day.
    â€œWrong is most often in the mouth of the accuser.” Phelps sipped the squash, made a face. “Were you to call His Lordship a liar, you would be lucky only to be whipped out of hand. Were His Lordship to call you a liar, you would be lucky only to be whipped out of hand. The material facts are not at issue.”
    â€œAs I have learned,” Hethor muttered darkly, wishing a terrible fate on Pryce Bodean. “I had a duty.”
    â€œAnd so your falling out set you on the road here.” Phelps waved his arm, taking in the little room. “Closer to the viceroy in miles, perhaps, but for the moment bereft of your freedom. I must put a question to you, Master Hethor.”
    â€œJust Hethor. I am master to no man. What do you wish to know?”
    â€œI for one find you sincere. You clearly believe your story as you tell it. That being said, I am not prepared at
this moment to judge the objective truth of your tale on its own merits, but I will offer you a choice. Would you prefer to take the story to the viceroy as you are, roughshod and uncultured? Or would you prefer to recount it again to an amanuensis, take some coaching in deportment and manners, and have one or another pliant gentleman of the court deliver your report in a few weeks’ time, with you decorously under that gentleman’s apparent sponsorship?”
    The very thought of being puffed and powdered and paraded about made Hethor’s skin crawl. Pryce and Faubus had communicated to him a newfound allergy to gentlemen and all their works. Besides, Gabriel’s visit and the archangel’s warning about the Key Perilous were his story to tell.
    â€œI must do it myself,” Hethor said, “and trust to the viceroy’s wisdom to see through my unsophisticated veneer.”
    â€œUnsophisticated veneer indeed,” said Phelps with a small smile. “He will see a rustic countryman and not hear any words at all, I am afraid. Nonetheless, it is your story. And I seem to have made it your