by Gisèle Baxter (with apologies to David Bowie)
Note: Actually, this should be quite clear from the conversation between Steerpike and Prunesquallor, but some time after the doctor discovers Fuchsia is still alive, several members of the former secretary's staff, perhaps even less happy working for the poet, attempt to organize a rebellion. They end up kidnapping Fuchsia, whom they capture while she's out doing the endless amount of scavenging she seems called upon to do while Steerpike amuses himself drawing maps and writing in his notebooks.
The doctor reached the point in the south wing where the corridor was largely blocked, and realized he would have to climb up over the debris of broken stones then through what seemed like a very small gap high up on this wall. He put his spectacles carefully in his pocket, braced himself, and made the climb with little noise and a lot of effort. The day was rapidly fading; there was almost no light left in the corridor, and despite the cold dampness of the stones, he was drenched with sweat and his fingers were covered with dust and blood. Finally, he grasped what seemed to be a ledge, a reasonably smooth space about a foot wide, though he had no idea how tall. Shifting his weight, he hauled himself up, thrust himself forward, and promptly realized he was stuck. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, which made it difficult to listen for other sounds. Calming himself as much as possible, he put his spectacles back on with the greatest of care, and surveyed the corridor ahead. Rubble had been piled deliberately against this other side of the barricade, presumably to facilitate climbing down. There was very faint light from some narrow windows high up in the mossy walls. About twenty yards ahead there was a turn, and the beginning of a flight of stairs. That was his destination, and it might as well be on the moon. He struggled still more, but only managed to wedge himself more painfully.
There was only one thing for it, and clearing his throat, he called out as hopefully as he could, "Hello?"
In the apartment's main room, Steerpike was asleep, on the rug under the window where he had been reading. He sat upright and blinked several times to adjust his vision to the twilight more quickly. He could not remember dreaming but had the echo of a voice in his head, and then the voice repeated itself: "I said, hello!" He frowned, drew his sword carefully out of the scabbard on the wall near where he normally slept, and ventured out into the corridor. By now he could see clearly, and he made his way down the stairs silently, then rounded the corner and twenty yards away saw Prunesquallor trapped in the barricade.
The doctor waved his white handkerchief. "I'm completely alone and unarmed," he said with some effort. "I'm also quite stuck."
Since he had recognized the doctor's voice, Steerpike was not surprised to see him, and so his expression was calm.
"What are you doing in this part of the castle," he asked, quietly and reasonably, though he kept the sword up.
"Before I tell you," the doctor said very carefully, despite his position, "you need to trust me on something: you have not been betrayed. There are only two living souls in all of Gormenghast who know you are alive, and I was not actually told until it became necessary. But you have not been betrayed."
Steerpike digested this information without any visible change in expression. Then he put the sword back against one shoulder. "All right then: now tell me why you're here."
"Will you let me down?"
This required a little shifting of rocks and an awkward climb down the makeshift ladder of stones. While the doctor brushed some of the dust from his coat, Steerpike gazed through the gap, replaced a couple of the larger rocks, then jumped down gracefully and directed Prunesquallor towards the staircase.
The doctor had not quite known what to expect, but had imagined something considerably less adequate than what was really by now an attractive room. The various tapestries and rugs and cushions had been beaten and repaired and put to use; there were a few odds and ends of old furniture, also repaired; a low shelf contained a small collection of brass and ceramic dishes and a few stacks of books and writing supplies; there was a small fire in the enormous hearth. The most interesting element of decoration was the number of large sheets of paper affixed to the dark stone walls: these had been drawn over, partly with maps of the castle and its grounds, partly with fanciful illustrations of dragons and flowers and birds. A crimson velvet dress was draped over one chair with a little carved-wood sewing box on top of it. Steerpike watched the doctor take all this in; he watched him go over to the broad window and lean outside to look at the available view.
"So why are you here?" he persisted, making no invitation for his guest to sit down, but simply standing his ground in the middle of the room, arms folded.
And Steerpike himself, Prunesquallor reflected, with equal amazement: he was much thinner than the doctor remembered, and had the pallor of someone who has not been outdoors in a long time. His hair had grown longer and was simply tucked behind the ear where it still grew; he felt no hesitation in revealing his scars in this hiding place. Otherwise, he took the same care of his appearance he always had; his clothes had been repaired and brushed and pressed.
"I'm here on Fuchsia's behalf," the doctor began.
One eyebrow might have arched slightly. "How is she? She told me she was going out scavenging about a week ago; I assumed she'd gone back to her mother."
"Not at all," the doctor said emphatically. "There's been an attempted rebellion in the castle; those involved were hiding among the outer dwellings and when one of them overtook her in the forest, he had no idea who she was until he could look at her closely. He and his companions are holding her for ransom."
There was something too dangerously quiet in the way Steerpike asked, "Then why did he overtake her in the forest?"
Prunesquallor could not trust himself to answer this.
"And was she -- "
"No. She can hold her own in a fight; perhaps she has you to thank for that. She stabbed him with a little dagger she was carrying; he broke her arm. That turned out to be a lucky break, since when negotiations commenced I was able to gain permission to see her. I had to beg her to tell me where you were; I guessed fairly early on she was protecting you. They will kill her if their demands aren't met. If she's accepted that, I haven't, and if you can't or won't help, then I will rescue her myself."
There was a sort of relief in the way Steerpike laughed at this. "Odd how disaster brings out the best in us, isn't it? She's also a very good doctor, and I assume she has you to thank." He unbuttoned his shirt enough to point out his scar. "She saved my life, for whatever that's worth. Now tell me everything you know about this rebellion and where they're holding her. Are they in the castle? They must be; even Gertrude's army could get them in the outer dwellings."
As the doctor provided the narrative, Steerpike detached a couple of the large parchments from the wall and laid them on the floor. He lit the lamps in the room, then beckoned Prunesquallor down into a crouch overlooking these intricately detailed maps. The doctor indicated the tower where Fuchsia was being held; Steerpike crossreferenced this part of the drawing with an inset detail drawing and with some text in one of his numerous notebooks, then was intently silent for a long time, mostly motionless, sometimes scribbling in the margins of his book, sometimes tapping the pen against his teeth. Finally, he drew a long breath that ended in a whistle and drummed the pen on the tower sketch.
"All right: this is manageable. I suppose the countess has considered a raid?"
"As a last resort," the doctor said. "At the moment the tower is under siege, but it's still an open question of whether they will blink first."
"I can't do it alone," Steerpike said firmly. "There's not just the problem of getting her out; there's the problem of diverting them so she can get out. Only two people really need to go into the tower with what I think could work, but the main exits need to be fired. I could give you a plan to take to Gertrude, but the timing on this has to be precise, and there's an element of this I'm best placed to handle because it depends on knowledge of the castle that so far only I have. By the way, how did the countess take learning her daughter was still alive?"
"I find her very difficult to read," Prunesquallor said diplomatically. "She's determined to have her rescued if at all possible, if that's any help."
"Then I shall return with you."
"I somehow think her reaction to your still being alive will be quite different."
Steerpike made a few annotations to the map, rolled it up neatly and hunted up a piece of ribbon to secure it with. "Then that's the risk I shall take," he said quietly. "It will make no difference; I'll very likely be killed in the raid, and at any rate, Fuchsia will have to return to her mother."
"I'll go into the tower with you," the doctor offered.
Steerpike nodded. "If you do exactly as I direct you, you should be safe and the two of you should be out of the tower before she has a chance to realize what's happening. Tell her afterwards. If I survive, I want to ask one thing of you."
"And what is that?"
The younger man looked briefly and intently at the floor, then returned his hard level gaze to the doctor, and said, "Gertrude will have me put to death; she has that right. If you have any influence with her, please ask her, however much she might want to make a big castle spectacle of it (she has that right too), to do so quietly and privately, and you tell Fuchsia I was killed in the raid. And protect her. You are her friend; she trusts you."
"I love her," the doctor said simply. "Not in any specific way, not as a lover, not as a father, just unconditionally, for herself. If you're fortunate in anything, you're fortunate in her having loved you. If I were in your position, I would not want to die as much as you seem to."
At this, Steerpike almost smiled, but very tightly. "I don't want to die. You know that. But it's not a matter of choice now."
**********
The poet-secretary's wedding had been postponed and again his office was a war room. Gertrude waited there, several of her cats in attendance, serene, beyond thought of how she would react at Prunesquallor's return, if in fact he returned. When the captain of guards entered to announce his arrival, she was consequently both surprised and prepared. She rose, gathering her velvet shawl around her shoulders, and her chief negotiator approached. His suit was immensely dusty, frayed and torn; she wondered if he had been in a fight of some sort with Fuchsia's captors but kept her expression to a sternly quizzical frown. The doctor bowed deeply and looked up with an expression that was hard to read. He seemed to be shaking, but he also seemed to be hiding something behind his back and was not displeased with himself in being able to do so. He carried a large roll of parchment under one arm.
"Out with it, then," she said.
"This requires a little context, Ladyship," the doctor began.
"A very little, I hope."
Prunesquallor cleared his throat and managed something between a grimace and a smile. "First the report: your daughter, Lady Fuchsia, made an attempt to escape and in a struggle had her arm broken. This gained me some close access to her, which proved critical. Her captors have not softened their line. Your first assessment, that she can probably only be rescued by some sort of raid, seems unfortunately to be the case. I apologize for my failure, Ladyship." And again the doctor bowed.
"Well, I expected you to fail in that. So what?"
"We may have a way in."
Gertrude's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "How?"
Breathing out quickly through his teeth, Prunesquallor twisted his mouth back into its odd expression, and although his intestines were rapidly and vigorously knotting themselves, went on, "It is here the context becomes important. During her, shall we say, elected absence, your daughter was not alone."
Gertrude froze, and for a moment the doctor had dreaded, a glow spread over her face: "She knows where Titus is!"
He shook his head. "I am sorry. She has no more idea than we do. No, I'm afraid her companion has not been her brother."
"Well, she's found a man, then. About time. Who, then? Even if he's outside the castle, if he has any brains or strength, we might be able to use him. Is that your point?"
"In a way, Ladyship; you see, the man in question is -- "
Gertrude had grown tired of waiting. Seizing the doctor's lapels in her powerful hands she shoved her face towards his and bellowed at him in a voice that made his teeth rattle and everyone else in the room inwardly jump, "SQUALLOR WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?" But she knew what he was saying. Her face lost all its colour. She involuntarily clapped one hand to her mouth. The secretary rushed to push a chair up behind her but she waved him away. Her voice dropped to a cracked-eggshell whisper. "He's alive?"
"Yes, madam," Prunesquallor replied. "In fact, he's outside."
"He planned this," said Gertrude, her voice rising again and all her force and grandeur flooding back. "This is his doing, all of it, and the only way I'll see him is if his head is separated from his shoulders first. Not otherwise."
This was said so loudly the doctor visibly cringed, with a sideways glance towards the door. But he thought of Fuchsia, and cleared his throat again, and half bowing managed to keep his eyes fixed on Gertrude's, despite her flaring nostrils, and he said as calmly as possible, "Ladyship. With all due respect, I have your daughter's own word that this is not the case, and I believe her. I would vouch for her with my life. She has behaved honorably, and with a compassion and generosity that only does credit to the line. And again, she has sworn and I will vouch for her, that he has not harmed her, in any way. Surely whatever we can do, whatever we have to do, to get her safely back, we must do. We must."
"He's a traitor," said Gertrude, but at more reasonable volume. "He's under sentence of death."
"He realizes that." This, as far as Prunesquallor was concerned, was as close to a trump card as he had. Either it worked or it didn't. He tried to smile but his jaw was frozen.
Gertrude raised one eyebrow very slowly, scratched the head of the cat she had just picked up, then inclined her head very slightly in the direction of the door. Prunesquallor let out the breath he was holding, tried to ignore the fact that his intestines were now wringing themselves inside out, and went to the door to open it and make some sort of nervous gesture inward. Steerpike came in under guard, halted at a safe yet respectful distance from Gertrude, and made a deep, precise bow, then lightly clasped his hands behind his back and kept his head inclined. Gertrude approached him deliberately; she circled him, as if trying to read some sort of runic stone without an adequate guide. Finally, she halted directly in front of him, so close that the broad hem of her skirt rested on the tops of his boots.
"Look at me," she said quietly.
Steerpike raised his head and stared at her squarely but expressionlessly. She remained perfectly calm, but said, in the same quiet voice, "I have lain awake at night imagining having done to you things that in the worst of your evil imagination you could not conceive. You're too young. I have my daughter's word via the doctor, whom I trust, that you have not harmed her. Otherwise, you would not be in this room, and you would shortly be dead, and I would personally see to it that the job was done with no hope of your rescue and recovery. I am simply saying that I offer you no guarantees. Do you understand?"
"With all due respect," Steerpike began, in his familiar flat official voice.
"Never mind the formalities," Gertrude interjected. "You don't work here now. Yes or no, do you understand?"
"Yes, madam," said Steerpike, with the slightest inclination of his head, never letting his eyes leave hers.
"Then what is your motive in this?" Gertrude demanded.
"My motives are only concerned with your daughter's safety and best interests," Steerpike said levelly. "Not with mine. For once, I might add, since we're not standing on formality. And certainly not with yours."
Reflexively, Gertrude raised her hand, and seemed about to strike him; he flinched just perceptibly, but she caught the doctor's eye and withdrew the gesture. Her voice remained calm, but acquired a sort of choked smouldering. "Very well. Then please explain what possible use you can be in this."
"I need to show you a map, which the doctor has. With your permission. I'll need a fairly large table."
At Gertrude's direction, and at only the mildest and most ineffectual gesture of protest from the poet-secretary, who was trying to make the copious amount of notes he appended to the Book every day, the Book was removed from its table near the window by two assistants. Prunesquallor handed over the parchment roll, which Steerpike spread out on the broad surface. It was a detailed, perfectly scaled map of part of the castle, drawn in pencil and ink, scrupulously annotated. Gertrude immediately recognized the tower where Fuchsia was being held, and drummed her index finger on it: that's where she is.
"I know." Steerpike asked one of the assistants for a red pencil, and drew a circle around the tower. "This tower is one of the very oldest parts of the castle; there is nothing in Gormenghast's recorded history about its construction, and the conjecture is that it probably predates the castle-state as you know it. This structure was built for defense: the scope of observation from its top is immense. The entire outlying community could be brought into the lower part in case of attack. This means two things: it can neither be approached nor attacked easily. According to the doctor, Fuchsia -- pardon me, your daughter, is being held in a room near the top of the tower. I know all of them; I could have told you they would not negotiate."
"Would they negotiate with you?" Gertrude asked coldly.
"I dislike negotiating; they are despicable and I refuse to propitiate them. What I propose is this: the tower is linked to the castle in two places, dating to its incorporation into the main structure of Gormenghast. One is here, approximately halfway up, and the other is here, near the base. They would know about these, and presumably have them guarded or watched. But there's a third way in, from the roof. It's very narrow, very dangerous, and up till now, no one has known about it except me. The room could be approached from there. The difficulty is that until the room is entered, there's no way of knowing exactly where she is in it, and she has to be ready to go the second the room is breached."
"This plan is very complicated so far," Gertrude commented.
"It isn't. It requires that both known entrances be guarded and fired if necessary. But it only requires that two people actually go into the tower."
"Well, you and who else?"
"The doctor."
In the moment it took Gertrude to decide who to vent a blast on, Prunesquallor interjected, "I can go in as her physician, if not as negotiator. Someone has to be with her so that she's kept away from them, and can be ready to go."
"And will you get out safely?"
When he had agreed to do this, the doctor decided the only way to deal with the numerous risks was to pretend they didn't exist, so he actually managed an echo of his old irritating laugh, and replied, "Of course."
"So then you're all in this secret passage, I assume, which now they'll all see and know about." Gertrude began pacing and fuming. "I don't like this plan. I don't like anything about it. How, then, pray tell, do you get my daughter out of the tower? You'll have nowhere to go but the roof, and that's a long way above anything else."
"We don't go back up. We go down to one of the legitimate exits, probably the one at the base, or rather, the doctor gets her down there and your guards had better have it clear."
"And what do you do at that point?"
"Keep back whoever's actually in the room with her."
"But if the exits are to be fired, once she's out, you've destroyed your own chance of escape," Gertrude said, and actually spoke softly. "My God, you are insane. I always thought you were."
Steerpike smiled very thinly but did not look up from his red-pencilled emendations to the map. "Oh, I intend to get out."
"And when do you propose we start this operation?"
"No time like the present."
[The actual rescue takes place here. I do want to write this and if I can find a moment to do so will insert it.]
Gertrude could no longer bear to be in the war room, and retreated to her own sanctuary, among her cats and birds. She sat serenely in her big chair, and waited to be called. She refused to eat, and refused to allow herself to move even when she heard what sounded like a massive explosion, though her heart nearly stopped. Finally, she heard a rustle of skirts and a clatter of rapidly approaching footsteps, and Melora (hair untidily falling in her face) looked in and said breathlessly, "Ladyship, you must come quickly." Gertrude rose, gathered up her velvet skirts and followed the girl out to the grand courtyard and an uproar such as she had never witnessed. The tower was burning, and in partial collapse; the entire Gormenghast guard seemed to be rushing people away from it, except for one large contingent that escorted three figures towards her. She saw Fuchsia first. She wore Steerpike's coat over her shoulders, and the sling on her arm was coming unravelled, and her face was very badly bruised and scraped. Prunesquallor was on a stretcher. She did not immediately see Steerpike, but there he was, among the guards, and he seemed to be bleeding from one eye. Fuchsia did not quite know how her mother would greet her; she had never been quite convinced her mother really wanted her back, and mostly felt she would be infuriated. She was unprepared for this large, stolid woman with masses of dishevelled red hair to wordlessly wrap her large arms around her, for the first time in Fuchsia's memory. It was an awkward embrace, and brief, then Gertrude stood back and stared very hard at her daughter.
But for the moment she said nothing, since she knew everyone was waiting to see what she would say. She glanced around the courtyard, found her regal voice, and said, "I want that fire out and I want the district cordoned off if there is anything at all unsafe in that structure; the engineers will decide tomorrow if the tower has to come down. What happened to the men who did this?"
"All dead," the captain of guard said wearily.
"Very well." She approached the stretcher. "Squallor, what happened to you?"
The doctor provided an expression somewhere between a wince and a grin, and replied, "I think I broke my ankle in an attempt to be heroic. This did put a slight wrench in the plans because then I had to be rescued, or rather there was a general consensus that I should be rescued, and I have to admit a certain gratitude..."
"Shut up," said Gertrude affectionately. "I would never have agreed to this if you weren't to get out. But if you broadcast that you'll be baling hay in the outer dwellings."
Fuchsia watched her mother with some bewilderment, and felt unexpectedly lost, even amidst people and surroundings she knew so well. She instinctively moved towards the doctor and held his hand, but stared at her mother's broad back and mane of red hair as she made her inevitable way through the guards to Steerpike, who stood calmly, although he was still breathing very heavily and shivering in his shirtsleeves. He met her even gaze fiercely: now what?
Gertrude had never seen the actual damage to his face. She was not shocked; she had long ago bypassed the possibility of shock. She withdrew a large handkerchief from a pocket of her skirt and gave it to him to press against his hideously swollen, bleeding eye. He glanced towards Fuchsia, then resumed his staredown with Gertrude, who did not blink or alter her expression.
"You go with Prunesquallor," she directed. "Have his apprentice look at your eye when he's seeing to the doctor's injuries." To the doctor, she said, "I want both of you in the secretary's office at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
Fuchsia glanced around with even more bewilderment, not sure if she was supposed to go along to the doctor's house as well, but then her mother nodded to her, and directed her towards the castle. She bent and kissed the doctor, then returned Steerpike his coat, and briefly brushed the back of one hand against the back of his hand that held the now quite red handkerchief against the top of his scarred cheekbone. He returned the pressure very subtly, then she turned to join her mother and re-enter the castle proper.
Gertrude led her up to her own room, which Fuchsia had seen very few times in her life. Melora followed them in. She and Fuchsia stared curiously at each other.
"This is Melora Fyfe," the Countess explained. "She's engaged to marry the secretary so I've brought her into the household as my lady-in-waiting. So far I think she'd rather be hidden away reading, she's far too timid for public life, but she is improving day by day and I am beginning to find her quite indispensable. She's also beginning to find me somewhat less terrifying, isn't that right, Melora? Well. Please have me called at six tomorrow; call Lady Fuchsia no later than seven. And please try to find some suitable gown for her; there are some left in that cupboard in her old room. Go to bed now; tomorrow will be a long day."
"Yes, Ladyship." Melora bobbed up and down in a nervous curtsey, made another towards Fuchsia, and escaped.
"Sit down," the Countess told her daughter, indicating a couch. Fuchsia shifted a pile of books, a shawl, and two cats, then did so. "Do you need any attending to right now?" Gertrude went on. "I can wash your face and retie your sling, but I can also ring for one of Prunesquallor's apprentices."
"I'm fine, thank you, Mother," said Fuchsia in a small voice.
Then the pressure broke. "How I could have had children like you and Titus is completely beyond me," said Gertrude. "I'm not going to bother asking for an explanation of whatever the hell you thought you were doing pulling this disappearing act. At least Titus had the decency to say he was going out to see the world. And I'm certainly not going to enquire about your domestic arrangements over the last few months; I can do without the nightmares, thank you very much. You're very fortunate it was Prunesquallor who found you out, though it does explain his odder than usual behaviour."
Fuchsia listened patiently to this tirade, though she fidgeted with the beads on her vest. At a pause for breath, she interjected, "Are you really sure you wanted me rescued?"
Gertrude's face froze, and she struggled to keep it that way. "How can you say that. I'm your mother."
"I didn't know where I was going or what I was going to do when I decided I just wanted to leave, I wanted to get out of here, I never wanted to see anyone even remotely having to do with this place again." Fuchsia had never said so much at a stretch to her mother, who stood still, staring down at her through her mask of composure. "Of course I couldn't even make it as far as the castle wall before... well. Oh dear. I suppose you despise me."
"I don't despise you." Gertrude's voice was low, very quiet. "I can't despise my own blood. When I found out you were alive I felt as if I were waking up. And I knew I would do anything, and I mean anything, to have you rescued. And so I did." Gertrude drew a deep breath and began unhooking her gown and loosening her hair. "I want you to sleep in here tonight. You'll feel safer."
"And what happens now?" Fuchsia asked.
"We'll sort that out tomorrow," said Gertrude noncommittally.
At the doctor's house, the apprentice was packing up his bag and heading home. The doctor was settled in an easy chair, and contemplated the cast on his leg which meant that for several weeks mobility would be a bother. Oh well. He was, at any rate, alive, and he had not yet sat up with a start in bed, so this whole preposterous thing must actually have happened, which meant of course that Fuchsia was safe and sound inside the castle, which was what he had wanted all along. Used to treating the aches and injuries of others, he was not himself accustomed to feeling (how had she described falling from her horse?) as if every bone in his body had been broken. He had never had the pleasure of being thrown forward by the force of an explosion, and really could have done without it, just as he could have done without trying to run down long flights of narrow steps at top speed in the dark, which is how he ended up in this state in the first place.
"I never," he vowed, "ever -- ever -- want to do anything like that, and I mean even remotely like that, again."
"Yes you do." On the other side of the room, in another armchair, Steerpike was half asleep, still holding a bag of ice over his eye. The apprentice had been impressed by the injury: the depth and cleanliness of the cut, and the fraction of a hair's breadth that separated it from the optic nerve and other sources of consequential damage.
"Well, I didn't do too badly."
"Couldn't have done it without you."
"All right, you've held the ice there long enough. You don't want to fall asleep holding it, or rather you shouldn't. Come over here and let me have a look at it."
Standing up took a considerable amount of effort, but Steerpike crossed the room and sat down again, gratefully, on a broad stool facing the doctor's chair. Prunesquallor opened his own bag, took out a magnifying lens and peered into the inflamed eye while his patient sat remarkably still.
"On a scale of one to ten, one being mild and ten being excruciating, how would you describe the pain?" the doctor asked.
"Fifteen," Steerpike replied evenly.
"Do you want something stronger than my assistant gave you?"
"No. I want to be alert tomorrow."
"I see. Well, I don't think there's any risk of infection in the cut. The pain will diminish. And your eye will look dreadful for a few days but your vision is safe."
"Dreadful, will it. And will I get to see it return to something, let's just say, less dreadful?"
Prunesquallor said nothing, and the question was dropped.
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Copyright 2001-04 by Gisèle Baxter; all rights to original narrative, characters and characterizations reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.
Last updated 2 August 2003 by G.M. Baxter.