Quillifer Page 2

  “Pearmains!”

  The grocer smiled with crooked teeth. “Ay, the first pearmains have come down the river. And you know how your mother dotes on them.”

  “Can you send two baskets to the house?”

  Mrs. Vayne nodded. “I’ve already set them aside.”

  I leaned over a tub of cresses and kissed Mrs. Vayne’s cheek. She drew back in mock surprise.

  “A forward creature you are,” she said. “But for all that, you may have a forelle.”

  I picked the spotted pear from the greengrocer’s hand and took a generous bite. I chewed with great pleasure and dabbed at my lips with the faded sleeve of my doublet.

  “Best send a basket of these as well.” I took another bite, and my free hand snaked a pearmain from its den of straw. Mrs. Vayne saw and pursed her lips in disapproval. I made my wheedling-infant face, and the greengrocer shrugged.

  “The gages should come in two or three days,” she said.

  “Then I shall return in two or three days.” I kissed her again, and she wiped pear juice from her cheek.

  “You’re not dressed for Dacket’s office,” she said.

  “It’s a sea dog I am today. I’m going sailing.”

  Mrs. Vayne crooked an eyebrow. “Does your master know?”

  “I am on my master’s business. Which I should no longer delay.” I raised the stolen pearmain, inspected it, and took a bite of the white-green apple. I crunched the pearmain happily, smiled, and said, “Best make it three baskets sent to my mother.”

  “They will keep all winter,” said the pleased grocer. “Provided you keep them in a cool room.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw a pair of broad-shouldered men striding through the crowd. Was it Greyson livery they wore? And were they bearing cudgels?

  It was time to depart. I gave a wave, kicked away a pig that was investigating the beetroots, and continued my walk, eating from either hand as the fancy took me.

  Royall Street opened into Scarcroft Square, with its fountain surrounded by marble allegories, and the glory of Ethlebight brickwork shone bright in the clear morning sun.

  Ethlebight, sitting on its swampy delta, had an excess of clay, with more delivered every spring by the flooding river; and the merchants of the town had made the most of this bounty. The city produced bricks, millions every year—plain red brick for plain buildings, but also bricks of mellow gold, of blue and purple, of black and brown. Some bricks were glazed with bright colors, pinks and yellows and green.

  Scarcroft Square was a fantasia of masonry, all built of the brick that formed the town’s main industry. The ivy-covered town hall, the guild halls, the grand mansions of the burgesses and the local lords, the Fane, the Court of the Teazel Bird, the New Castle, the Grand Monastery of the Seven Words of the Pilgrim . . . all blazed in the morning sun with color and light, red bricks and gold, black bricks and blue, pink bricks and green, all the glazed, bright hues. These colored bricks were laid in patterns, rose in spirals to support upper storeys, or twisted high to hold aloft the chimney pots. The square itself was paved in brick, set with spirals, quincunx patterns, or pictures of fabulous animals—mosaic done in enormous scale, with bricks instead of tiny tesserae.

  We also produced glass, and the glazier’s art was fully displayed: leaded glass, glass stained to produce triumphalist pictures of the city’s history, glass cut into cabochons or faceted like gems, glass opalescent, etched, and enameled. The result was a square that glittered in the morning sun and winked sunlight from a thousand faceted eyes.

  A temporary theater was being built on the square, to support the players during the Autumn Festival, and it was the only wooden structure in sight.

  Another impermanent structure was the effigy of our much-married King Stilwell. His statue stood on a plinth, and he wore armor and carried a sword, looking like the young warrior that had triumphed in his wars against Loretto.

  It was a tribute to the city’s burgesses, who counted every penny, that the King’s statue had been made of some kind of plaster, then painted to look like marble. There was no point in cutting a figure in stone, or casting it in bronze, when the King would sooner or later die and the image be replaced by that of the next monarch. I had to admire the canny sense of thrift displayed by our aldermen.

  In fact, I delighted in everything I saw. I felt my chest expand at the sight of the square, straining the fabric of the borrowed tunic. I had spent all my eighteen years in Ethlebight, with only a few trips to other cities, and I adored the city that had raised me, and also admired the bustling inhabitants who lived within its walls.

  Scarcroft Square was magnificent, but I knew I was seeing it at its height. The city was fading, doomed by slow strangulation as silt choked its harbor. I pictured it fifty years hence: the grand houses empty, windows empty, roofs sagging, colors faded, the square filled with windblown trash . . .

  It could not be prevented. Best not to think about it.

  I tossed the remains of my pear and my apple onto the street for the pigs, then crossed the square to a tall, narrow building with a crow-stepped gable. The glass in the tall, arched windows was stained with figures of a warrior battling a dragon, this representing Lord Baldwine, an ancestor of the current Duke of Roundsilver, who owns the building. Roundsilver is a wealthy peer, and owns a great many buildings around the city, as well as his own grand house on the square. He spends little time there, devoting his time to being at court along with all the other great nobles.

  I admired the stained glass, with Baldwine holding up the severed dragon’s head, and went up a tall, narrow stair to a cramped office that smelled of paper, dust, ink, and vellum.

  Lawyer Dacket, my master, stood in the center of the room, a paper in either hand. Dacket was a spare man with a pointed beard, a melancholy, lined face, and the black fur-trimmed robe of his profession. He wore a velvet hat like mine, but with gold tape and a gold pompon to show that he practiced before the bar.

  “Pearmains are in!” I said in joy.

  My pleasure seemed only to deepen Dacket’s gloom. “That would account for the juice on your chin,” he said. I hastily wiped it with my sleeve.

  “Mrs. Vayne was generous with her samples,” I said.

  “You are dressed for holiday,” observed Dacket. “I wish you joy of it, and of your apples.” The planes of his face shifted slightly. “May this office then hope you shall not return?”

  I put on my learnèd-advocate face. “Loath though I am, sir, to stand in an abnegative posture and contradict my learnèd colleague in any way,” I said, “I desire the jury to observe, inicio, that while your humble apprentice shall be absent today, that he is not in absencia, for though my mind may be absent, my corpus shall absent be on the business of the court, videlicet, preventing Sir Stanley Mattingly from being absent at the Assizes, and that absent evidence of jurisdiction, I pray the jury to declare evidence of dereliction absent, and the Crown nolle prosequi.”

  This is an example of what my father would call “flaunting my knowledge like a vainglorious peacock,” forgetting that peacocks have no knowledge to flaunt, vainglorious or otherwise. Yet I find that I must continually remind people of my gifts, for they are inclined to forget my education and acuity. I expect it’s because I am not impressive in my person: granted that I am tall and have broad shoulders, and long dark hair admired by the ladies, but I am not handsome like my schoolfriend Theophrastus Hastings, or as rich as the Duke of Roundsilver, or possessed of any degree of fame like the Emperor Cornelianus when he was called to the throne. My father is a Butcher, which causes some people to discount me. And of course, I am young and have not the authority that comes with age, like that of Judge Travers.

  And so I must offer my gifts to the people, and offer them continually, and without cease, so that I may be something other than a nullity in their eyes.

  My master, Dacket, listened impassively to my appeal. “The plea would receive a better hearing were there not apple skin be
tween your teeth,” he said. “And what is this of Sir Stanley?”

  Dacket’s office had been pursuing Sir Stanley Mattingly in an attempt to serve him with a writ to bring him to the Autumn Assizes, which would begin in two days. But Sir Stanley was not to be found at his town house, or at his house in the country; and unless the writ were served, Lawyer Dacket would be unable to prosecute him on behalf of his client, Mr. Morton Trew.

  “And yet,” I said, “Sir Stanley cannot be far away, as he stands as honorary master of the Guild of Distillers, and must ride on their float in the Autumn Festival that follows the Assizes.”

  “You have found his bolt-hole?” Dacket inquired.

  “I remembered that Sir Stanley’s sister is married to Denys Buthlaw, and—”

  “Buthlaw is moved to the capital, and his house here is closed. There is no guest lodged there; we have investigated.”

  I raised a hand. “But sir, Buthlaw has another house, on Mutton Island.”

  Again the planes of Lawyer Dacket’s face shifted. “Is that so?” he murmured.

  “Remember that Sir Stanley is known as a great hunter and is ever trampling the fields of his own tenants in pursuit of the fallow deer. And bear in mind also that Mutton Island is connected to the mainland at low tide, and that directly across the channel is the Forest of Ailey, in which Sir Stanley could ride and hunt to his heart’s content.”

  A tenuous gleam appeared in Dacket’s eye. “You have evidence that Sir Stanley is on the island?”

  “Nay, sir. But Mutton Island seems worth exploring, if you can but provide me with a writ and spare me for the day.”

  All traces of pleasure vanished from Lawyer Dacket’s countenance. “Spare you for a day of sailing.”

  “On Kevin Spellman’s boat. And I shall bring Kevin along to serve as a witness, should I find Sir Stanley.”

  Dacket adopted an air of saturnine amusement. “I could do with a day on the sea. Perhaps I should venture to the island on Goodman Kevin’s boat.”

  I acknowledged this possibility with a gracious nod. “The sea air would serve to balance the humors,” I said, “and bring an attractive pink flush to your ears. But I urge your worship to bear in mind Sir Stanley’s history of violence—he is a dreadful man when his choler is up, and if you find him with his hounds, he may incite them against you, not to mention what damage he might do with his whip or his gun.”

  “Nay,” said Dacket. “I applaud your devotion to justice, so great you are willing to fall beneath the fangs of a pack of ravenous hounds. And yet”—holding out his hands with the papers in them—“there are so many writs and other documents that must be copied before the Assizes.”

  “You have a clerk,” I pointed out.

  The clerk in question, bent over a desk, lifted his head to give me a basilisk stare from beneath his skullcap.

  “Goodman Dodson is fully occupied,” said Dacket. “As am I.” With a sniff, he viewed one of his papers, then waved it in my direction.

  “You may begin with a draft of a plea,” Dacket said, “the formal plea for mercy on behalf of Alec Royce, who cut a fern tree in the Crown Forest. Cutting the King’s timber calls for death, but if the judge is merciful, we may hope for prison or a fine.”

  I considered this. “Did you say it was a fern tree?”

  “Ay.” Dacket’s attention had already moved on, as he browsed through a stack of through papers.

  “Then there is no need to plead for mercy,” I said. “The charge is baseless.”

  “Base-less?” Dacket mouthed the word as if he were tasting something foul.

  “It’s a new word. I invented it.” Which, for the record, I had.

  “We have a perfectly fine phrase, ‘without foundation,’ which will serve—and if it won’t, we have as well ‘unfounded,’ ‘unsubstantiated,’ ‘unproven.’ There is no need for this base-less.” Dacket gave me an austere look. “I advise you not to use these neologisms before a judge.”

  “Sir, I shall dispunge these innovations.” Dacket gave me a suspicious look, and I spoke more quickly. “Sir, our client is innocent.”

  Dacket’s gaze firmed. “Royce has admitted the charge,” he said. “He has been in the cells of the New Castle for two months. There are no facts in dispute.”

  “Save whether the King’s timber was cut at all,” I said. “Timber is defined in law as ‘that sturdy vegetable matter which may be used in construction, to-wit: in a house or other structure, a bridge, a boat or ship, a stile, a fence, et cetera.’ A fern tree is too small and weak to be used in construction, and therefore is not timber in the meaning of the law. The fern tree was mere superfluous growth, like a vine or a periwinkle, which Royce removed in order to allow a proper tree to grow in its place.”

  Dacket remained motionless for several seconds, then spoke slowly. “I believe your argument may serve,” he said.

  “If you desire,” I said, “I will undertake the defense myself, under your supervision.”

  “Before Judge Travers?” Dacket waved a hand thoughtfully, a paper still in it. “I think not. To put such an argument before Travers requires more tact than I have yet observed in you.”

  I put on my dutiful-apprentice face and bowed. “As ever,” I said, “I defer to your wisdom.”

  Dacket nodded. “You may have the day for Mutton Island,” he said. “But tomorrow, you will apply yourself to your pen.” He added the paper to a pile, then put the pile on a black, ancient desk already covered with documents. “Tomorrow, you will not leave this office until you have copied every item on this desk.”

  I nodded. “Of course, Master.”

  Dacket opened a narrow drawer and produced a sealed paper. “Your writ, signed by Justice Darcy. Do not lose it: I would not vex the justice on the eve of the court by asking for another.” He raised a hand. “And don’t get pear juice on it!”

  I bowed. “I shall in all such matters obey.”

  “Then be off,” said Dacket. “And if you are rent by a pack of dogs, you will have only yourself to blame.”

  * * *

  “So, what is this case about?” asked Kevin Spellman.

  “Theft,” said I. “The theft of a body of water.”

  “One can steal a lake?” Kevin asked. “I hadn’t ever considered the matter.”

  Kevin was a sturdy, fair-haired youth, a friend of mine from our days at the grammar school. He was dressed in brilliant blues and yellows, and gems winked from his fingers. He wore a broad hat with the brim pinned up by a silver medallion, and an ostrich-feather plume. Even at leisure, even on his boat, he wore the splendid clothing that befit his status, as the son and heir to a Warden and present Dean of the Honorable Companie of Mercers.

  The Mercers traded up and down the coast, and often abroad, delivering the wealth of Ethlebight and the River Ostra to the rest of Duisland and to the world. Ethlebight’s bricks and glass made up much of their profit, but by far the most valuable cargo was wool.

  The flatlands of the Ostra were ideal grazing country, and the river’s headwaters ran through mountains where sheep browsed in high meadows throughout the summer. Thanks to arrangements made in antiquity between the craft guilds, the wool was bought from the shearers at a fixed price by the Worshipfull Sodality of Washers, who washed the raw wool in the waters of the river. The Washers sold their product to the Honorable Companie of Carders and Combers at a price arranged centuries ago, and the Carders and Combers sold to the Benevolent Sorority of the Distaff, a guild composed entirely of women, who spun the yarn in their homes, after which the wool found its way to the Dyers, the Clothmakers, the Fullers, Scourers and Stretchers, the Nappers, the Burlers, the Drapers, and the Taylors, and so on—but unless the product was sold locally, it all made its way to the Mercer, who—unlike all the others—sold it for whatever the market would bear, provided they sold it to another Mercer.

  Kevin’s father, Gregory Spellman, was the owner or part owner of eleven companies or corporations, which in turn owned barg
es, ships, warehouses, and the piers at which the ships and barges moored. And thanks to the profits of wool, the elder Spellman lived in one of the most brilliant houses on Scarcroft Square, and was able to keep his son in the brightest, most fashionable clothing, a walking advertisement for his wares.

  “Water is a commodity like any other,” I said. “It may be hoarded, sold, lent, and of course stolen.”

  “And Sir Stanley Mattingly is alleged to have stolen—a lake?”

  “A river. And there is no ‘alleged’ about the matter; he did steal it, though there exists a bare possibility he may have stolen it legally.”

  With practiced tread, Kevin and I avoided wash-water hurled from an upper floor, then turned onto Princess Street, where we danced around the barrow of a gingerbread-monger. We passed, and then Kevin, enticed by the odor of the gingerbread, returned to buy a loaf.

  While the transaction went on, I eyed the street for men in Greyson livery, and continued my exposition. “Sir Stanley Mattingly,” I said, “sold a piece of grazing to a gentleman named Morton Trew. The transfer was in livery of seisin—seisin in law, yes?—wherein the two parties went to the land together, and Sir Stanley performed the rite of turf and twig in sight of two witnesses.”

  Kevin paid for the gingerbread and turned down the street. “Sir Stanley actually gave the man a stick and a clod of dirt?”

  “He did.”

  Kevin looked dubious. “I’ve never heard of anything like that, and I’ve been present at any number of transfers of property.”

  “These rites are not common in the city,” I said. “But in the country, folk hold with old traditions in transferring a freehold.”

  “And in the country, apparently they steal rivers.”

  “They do. Or at any rate, Sir Stanley does—because when Mister Trew came later to his field, he found that his land no longer had the river that had originally flowed through it. Sir Stanley had dammed the river and turned the water into a leat to power his new stone-cutting mill. As grazing land is worth little without a source of water, Mister Trew desires to take Sir Stanley to court to overturn the sale.”