Page 9 of The Deadliest Candidate

“Keep it close, Fern. Keep it close, my dear Fiddlehead, and keep your wits about you. I know you can look after yourself, but I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t afraid for you. I know how much you want this, and I understand why. Carthane is the greatest arcane archive in the world, it will be your greatest professional achievement yet—but remember, that does not comewithout a cost. Nothing ever does. Trust nobody once you get there, especially not the other candidates.”

Fern’s eyes searched Oscar’s grave expression. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Only what I’ve been able to piece together from gossip and rumours. I know that one of the candidates is the most powerful pyromancer in the world, another is affiliated with the Bloodspire cult, and two are renowned alchemists from the Poison Tower of Santa Velia. Every great power in the world is seeking to make their way into Carthane, Fern. Even the Lautrics are making a direct play.”

A prickle of ice traversed Fern.

She was intimately familiar with the extent to which the Lautrics would go to get what they wanted. Her hatred of them was vivid and visceral; she suspected she might hate them about as much as they hated her.

She swallowed. “Carthane has remained free of outside influences for centuries. They would never allow a Lautric within their walls.”

Oscar shook his head. “And yet they have. Who knows what pressures the Grand Archivists are under, Fern, what dilemmas might dictate their choices and what forces might influence their decisions. They’ve endured a long time without yielding to powerful patrons, but power and independence isn’t cheap, and we do not know what price Carthane may be paying. This time, though, the rumours are true. One of your fellow candidates will be the youngest son of Anatole Lautric himself. You know what this means.”

She did.

It meant that after decades of coveting the powerful knowledge contained within the walls of Carthane, the Lautrics had finally managed to make their way past Carthane’s defences.

It meant that Fern would not only be contending against outstanding candidates for the post of Grand Archivist, but she would be directly contending with one of the world’s most powerful houses. It meant that the Lautrics, who had so often sought opportunities to get rid of her, would finally be brought face to face with her.

It meant that to succeed in her candidacy, Fern would first need to survive it.

Chapter five

The Village

When Fern arrived inEast Hemwick, the sun was setting and the village was half-sunk in mist. It was little more than a collection of buildings with moss-eaten wood and crooked roofs—the last village in the United Kingdom.

The ocean’s influence was everywhere: encrusted salt glittered on the surface of building walls and in the cracks of the cobblestone pavements, molluscs grew like gleaming black scales along the pillars supporting the jetties and stilt houses, and heaps of coiled rope lay amongst wooden crates and barrels like listless snakes.

The East Hemwick train station was not so much a station as an old wooden cabin with a bench next to it. It was so devoured by rot and moss that it seemed to defy the very laws of physics by still standing.

The crash of the ocean was deafening, and the brackish wind made Fern’s lips taste like salt. Suitcase in one hand, Inkwell’s wicker carrier in the other, she crossed the small wooden bridge to the other platform and climbed the rickety steps up to the street.

Though the sun was barely setting, the village was deserted.

Near the train station, the small town square was empty; even the newspaper and cigarette kiosk was closed. Pinching her salt-dried lips, Fern frowned to herself and considered her options. She could make her way by foot straight to Carthane, but this would require a long and unsteady climb up the cliffs through tangled, soggy moorland. Or she could stay the night in East Hemwick—but something about the village made her feel ill at ease.

A hand on her elbow startled her so much she almost dropped Inkwell’s carrier. She turned, taking hasty steps back, raking her mind for a helpful incantation, anything she might defend herself with since the dagger Oscar had given her was tucked away in her suitcase.

“Who are you? What business do you have here?”

A man stood, ankles in the swirling mist, holding a lantern high over Fern. His face was deeply marked by wind and sun, and both his beard and hair were long and grey. He wore a peaked cap and a heavy raincoat upon which a Brunswick star was embroidered, the threading loose at each of the star’s points. Despite the man’s shabby appearance and unfriendly expression, Fern sighed in relief.

“Good evening, constable.” Setting down her luggage, she reached into the pocket of her own coat and produced her papers. “My name is Fern Sullivan. I’m passing through on my way to the Carthane Athenaeum, where I’m seeking a position. Do you know if it might be possible to hire a hansom there?”

The constable, after scrutinising Fern’s papers, lowered his lantern and shook his head.

“You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone around here who would dare venture up to the Library, Miss,” he said. “You’ll have to make your way on foot like the others, only nobody’s allowed to leave East Hemwick for now. Ostary’s orders.”

An uncomfortable shiver ran through Fern at his words.

“An ostary?” she asked before she could stop herself. “In East Hemwick? Why?”

Ostaries were the priest-enforcers of the Reformed Vatican. Their training was thorough, their faith close to zealotry. They were the symbols of the Reformed Vatican’s power, brandished like a flail over those who had dared to defy the church.

A small fishing village such as East Hemwick would be little more than a microscopic fleck to the eyes of the Reformed Vatican, so what could possibly have happened that they should send an ostary here, somewhere so remote and unimportant?

At her questions, the constable’s eyes narrowed. Fern sensed him closing against her as surely as if he’d slammed down iron shutters between them.

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