Then she laughed. It was so simple! If Fel had possessed the registration, then all she had to do was get one for herself. She just needed to find his and see the requirements. She was nowhere near as talented as Fel, but she could manage most of the plants, and could answer almost any question he threw at her. If he had trained her, and he was licensed, then surely she could pass any test that the Keepers would require.
Her dinner forgotten, she strode to his room, her steps now confident. She knew more about Fel’s trade than anyone else in the city, she thought to herself as she opened his door, then stepped into the room, breathing in the musty scent as she headed towards his desk. She could walk the layout of his garden with her eyes closed. Opening the topmost drawer, she rummaged through it, but found nothing aside from fancy pens and bottles of ink. Reciting the major distinctions between herbs was something she could do backward, and she could identify all by taste, scent, or sight. Opening the next drawer, she dug until she came upon a stack of papers, and shuffled through them. Besides, she knew her numbers and her letters, and hadn’t the last few months shown that she could run the front end of the shop as well? A sliver of paper stuck out from the side of the pile, more sturdy than the others, and she removed it, immediately spotting the word registration across the top, accompanied by the Keepers’ seal.
She started to read, her fingers tracing underneath the words, sounding them out. Letters, to her, were far more difficult than numbers. Where numbers flowed and made sense, letters could fit together in all sorts of conglomerations that seemed as random as the stars in the night sky.
By the decree of the Keepers, it is to be known that the descendants of Agnosti are hereby licensed for the distribution and manufacture of secondary essential materials. As it is granted to him, and to his children in perpetuity by blood. As his plants live on from seed to seed, so too shall this decree.
Clarence, High Keeper
A list of names filled a neat column beneath the signature—six in all, each filled in after the decree.
Agnosti
Wellis
Dianti
Bernice
Fel
Abigail
Chills ran through Merrill as she reread the document, a single phrase leaping up at her from the document. In perpetuity by blood. Then there was the registration number at the top, a figure all too familiar to her from his checkbooks.
Fel had died a rich man, but kind as the old man’s heart was, he had not left behind a suitable will. For days Merrill had searched through his estate to find it, tucked away in the drawer just above the one she accessed now, an envelope that cracked rather than tore when she opened it from age. The document it released was official, notarized by the Keepers, the signature of a legal aid accompanying Fel’s at the bottom. On that document, written over ten years before, he bequeathed everything to Abigail—his house, his accounts, and even his plants. When Merrill first discovered this, she’d slept on the information for two full nights before deciding her course of action, hanging a large closed sign at the front of the shop for time to think.
Fel had no other relatives in the city, and he had made it abundantly clear to Merrill that he was but a lonely old man. If he did have blood relatives, he had never spoken of them, and none of his contact books bore their information. By Keeper law, therefore, his belongings would move to the possession of the state. Merrill would be turned out of home, the plants confiscated, and all accounts seized.
But if Fel hadn’t died, well, none of that would happen. So long as there weren’t too many questions, she could continue business as usual, or at least as close to it as possible. There was no reason anyone else needed to know, as far as she was concerned. Or so she thought until the lenders showed up.
Merrill knew that Fel used loans for the purchase of materials, such as seedstock for his more regular plants, or special blends of soil that required rarities such as golden flakes, high level kernels, and more. His payments on the principle and interest always came up on the same day of the month, the fifth, this time occurring only one week after his death. As usual, Merrill had roused herself that morning and donned an ornamental dress combined with diamond studded earrings, bracelets of pearls, and shoes that cast glittering sparkles upon the walls. Then she entered her foyer with a broad smile, her walk purposeful as she shook hands with the three lenders, and opened up the files containing the monthly sums.
"When it comes to lenders, you must remember one thing: They care for their money—both the stability of it and the growth of it," Fel had told her one day after she had appeared disheveled at a lenders meeting. "The lender is suspicious of us. After all, we hold their money, their treasure. When a lender leaves, they must always depart more confident than they arrived. They must believe that even if the sun does not rise, and the wind does not blow, and every one of our plants dies from locusts, they will still walk away each month with full pockets. Keep them confident, and they become a resource of immense wealth. Give them a reason to doubt you, and they become a pack of hungry dogs biting at your heels."
Merrill opened the meeting by speaking to the three, opening her arms wide.
“I apologize, but Fel will not be attending this meeting. He is preoccupied today with viewing another property for expansion. The harvest has been bountiful this year, and he seeks the Keepers' permission to double the size of our production.”
At the words "production" and "expansion," the lenders’ eyes shined with interest, and Merrill poured them each a cup of hot tea. The leaves were rare, something that even Fel couldn’t coax to take root in his garden and splurged to keep once a month for the lenders' arrival. Each of those cups were worth several of the pearls upon Merrill’s wrist, but she poured them full and without care, as if they were nothing but water.
“A disappointment not to see him in person,” said one lender, the leader of the other two, as he closed his eyes upon the first sip. ”But a minor setback, since he has left you here. Our business this month is straightforward. I suspect we will be finished with that before I am with the tea.”
They’d launched into discussion then, Merrill producing figures and charts, describing everything from the predictions of weather for the coming season to the increase in city taxes. After ten minutes, the lender was satisfied, leaning back in his chair and staring at her through thick spectacles. Even in the heat, he wore a dark overcoat, the sharp angles of it matching those of his nose.
“I see Fel has trained you well,” he said, as Merrill shuffled away the papers. “That is good. Contingency is always important for business, especially in trying times. Now, all we have left is the matter of payment.”
“Of course, of course. Can’t forget about that one!” said Merrill to their polite fake laughter. She pulled out a stack of checks from the files, as well as Fel’s pen for the occasion, the bright red ink filling in the details to the agreement. At the bottom right was the verification mark, a rune half filled out already with ink, that she would simply need to complete with the pen, as a final seal of approval. She gripped the pen tightly, as she had always seen Fel do, gasping slightly as a small needle in the center of the shaft pierced her palm. Then she traced the rune, but ink refused to dry, trickling off it as if she were trying to write on metal, then soaking into the paper nearby.
“Ah, I see Fel’s training wasn’t absolutely complete,” remarked the lender, as Merrill tried again, the pen scratching grooves into the paper in her frustration, then ripping completely through. “That rune was written in blood, girl—Fel’s blood. Only his blood can alter it, therefore, only he can approve. That pen won’t work for you, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Merrill, and let the pen drop, the wood thunking to the desk with the same thud as her hopes. “Fel–”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” said the lender as he rose. “Fel has never been late before, and I am satisfied with your numbers. He’s trained you well enough to represent the truth, but t
o represent an accounting lie, well, that takes more skill to pass my eyes.” They laughed, and Merrill joined in, a tad too late and praying they did not sense the strain in her voice. “One of us shall stop by tomorrow. Have Fel produce the note then. A small late fee will apply, but nothing out of the ordinary. To the morrow, then.”
They departed, and Merrill clutched the checkbook. Three more times she tried signing the seal of approval, all three times the ink refusing, her own blood starting to trickle down her palm as more needle holes pierced the skin. Then she dug through Fel’s desk, finding an old check he had never used but had instead voided. With mortar and pestle, she ground it down, then added water to the mixture before straining, rehydrating his old blood. Dipping the pen in, she tried to refill the rune- and while it stuck better, it looked splotchy and incomplete, not at all like the ones he had completed. Without his seal, or his presence, the banks would absolutely refuse access to his accounts. Merrill returned then to the checkbooks, calculating out the exact amount she would need the next day. Then she began her hunt around the house, collecting any spare cash she could find. She added her jewelry to the pile, then rifled through Fel’s possessions- Fel had warned her never to sell any of his plants in the market, on the risk of bringing undue attention to his garden. So instead, she scrounged together what else she could: the gold foil Fel shredded for some soils, the silverware, then some of Fel’s clothes hanging in his closet. That night, she took to the market, negotiating each item for what she could, and returned home to count her liquidation.
She had reached two thirds of the way to the due amount, so she began her process anew, selling the fine jewelry Fel had provided her to wear before the Keepers in the very early hours of that morning. When she rushed back to the gardens, the city was just starting to awaken. Carts trundled down the streets in front of her that she had to dodge to the side of, early messenger boys dashed through allies, and there was more sound from vendors setting up their stalls than shouting their wares. When she arrived back, she tousled her hair—after the stress of the last few hours, it took little to give her the appearance of someone hard at work. Then she rubbed soil up to her elbows, and waited in the garden, ears listening for the opening door.
“Coming!” she shouted when she heard it creak, and rushed from the garden to stumble into the foyer. In her hands she held her heavy duty shears and two fresh clippings, silverdale and goldleaf. To the untrained eye, carrying the stalks was like walking into the room carrying bags of gems. Their material was of precious metal, intertwining as if worked by a smith, seeming cold and lifeless from the outside. Rubies and sapphires sparkled instead of flowers, and their scent was that of saffron. Left out on the windowsill, they would quickly fall prey to wandering hands, but the experienced gardener knew the materials of the flowers were near worthless—the coating of gold and silver was highly impure, and only a thin shell, and the faux stones they produced would rot in two weeks. They were often sold instead for their properties that aided in deception and illusion.
Merrill was counting on the lender to be unfamiliar with the exotic plant, and his wide eyes as she cast it down on the table as if it were worthless confirmed her guess.
“Oh my, I completely forgot you were coming!” she exclaimed, trying to scrub the dirt from her arms and straighten her hair. “You’ve caught me in my work clothes! I was just in the middle of a harvest, and you know how time flies with work.”
“A harvest?” he asked, leaning in. “You mean you have more of those? Those grow?” He asked the question as if he had just seen money growing on trees. In his eyes, he had.
“Oh of course. My apologies, I’m sure you aren’t interested in something so mundane as these. I’ll clear them away for you, I didn’t mean to take up the table. And as for your payment, I have it here.”
She lifted a small case up to the tabletop and opened it, revealing neatly sorted notes authenticated by the Keepers within. It was more money than she had ever held in her life, and the lender stepped back in surprise.
“Young lady! You should hardly carry that amount about. That is what the checks are for!”
“I’m so sorry! Silly me!” Merrill said, and snapped the lid shut, reciting the story she had practiced the night before. “It’s just that the deal with Fel and the new property owner went sour. You see, there was an infestation of mites in the soil. Had he not known, it would take a small fortune to clear them out. Those mites would rip through our roots, and the pesticides that kill them wreak havoc on some of our more fragile specimens. He likely would have had to cart away the entire top layer of dirt, then apply... Oh, well there I go again, back to the boring details that I’m sure you aren’t interested in. Anyway, the deal went sour, but the owner wanted cash for the down payment, so we had this ready for him. Turns out your payment is similar in value. Can you accept it?”
“Of course I can accept it. I shall simply return with a guard. I pray you or Fel did not walk with this through the streets!”
“Heavens, no. The bank delivered it.”
“Wonderful. You nearly stopped my heart. I will be back within the hour, and until then, I advise you to keep your doors locked,” he turned to go, then paused, his eyes drawn once again by the metallic flowers.
“I am sorry again for bringing you into my work,” Merrill said, and forced a blush. “I know these aren’t perfect, but they would look wonderful on a windowsill. If you wish, of course, I wouldn’t want to offload them on you.”
The lender’s hands moved faster than she would have thought possible, graceful as he swept the flowers off the table and inspected the rubies at the top. Already, he was probably trying to determine how to plant more of them. Little did he know, the gold concentration required in the soil far exceeded the value in the plant. And if he did plant them in normal soil, all that would grow was a plant as brown as the dirt, with buds that smelt of dung.
“I’m sure my wife will love them,” he said, and he bowed. “Our thanks again to Fel. Indeed, he is a valued customer.”
“And our thanks to you! Your resources are what give us the ability to raise such marvels,” said Merrill as the lender left.
Fel had completed the financials for that month, and when the lenders arrived, the numbers had been immaculate. But for the next month, it would be up to Merrill, and she pored over his accounting records, discerning how the numbers blended to make the totals. She could almost feel the numbers. When they combined in the right way, it left her with a sort of satisfaction, something completely different than the arduous task of reading the text next to them. When the lenders arrived the next month, and she showed them the figures she had prepared, they left happy. In that time, she had just enough from the merchants to nearly pay them in full, and only had to sell a small portion of Fel’s possessions. Knowing that they would not last forever, she ate and lived as frugal as a low commoner, while living among some of the greatest treasures in the merchant side of the city. She’d taught herself to cook in that time, discovering a heap of Fel’s recipes tucked away in a drawer. Many of the ingredients were in the garden, and she’d throw in handfuls at a time, tasting after each alteration until they resembled Fel’s original preparations.
It was while crawling through the accounting statements that Merrill discovered the number that was at the top of Fel’s registration. There was no explanation for it, except for a valuation which was taxed every year by the Keepers. Though he had been gifted the registration, he still had to pay a percentage of its worth or lose the permit. Before she knew what it was, that valuation had drawn her eye like a magnet. It was more than the inventory, the house, and the yearly revenue combined. She could save for ten years of profits and barely have enough to pay half of it!
Back in Fel’s room, the registration in her hands, Merrill carefully set the document on the desk now that she realized its worth. She sighed heavily, her head falling into her hands as she considered her options.
She was no blood relative to
Fel, so collecting his registration would be not be possible.
With Gervis returning soon, and demanding for answers, finding enough capital to buy a new registration would be numerically impossible.
She could come clean and tell Gervis, but already she could feel him trying to trap her. That would not end well for her, and would likely result in a dark and cold dungeon, for hells and heavens know however many years. And there were always the people that the Keepers took that never returned, or worse, returned in body, but not in mind.
She could run with the seeds and leave the garden behind, but if she were caught, not only would the Keepers punish her, but the lenders would be at her throat when the payments were incomplete. If Fel did not have enough money in his account to pay them, she would feel their wrath through the hands of the Keepers.
Then there was one final option. One that made her heart beat slightly faster within her chest as she considered it. One that might just work, and if it failed… Well, could she really put herself in any more trouble than hiding Fel's death, impersonating him, selling contraband, and defrauding both the lenders and Keepers?
“Abigail,” Fel had called her when his mind had started to dwindle. Abigail, who he had said had fallen at the hands of the Keepers.
Abigail, who had inherited the registration.
Chapter 24: Merrill
During the first three months of Fel’s absence, Merrill could barely afford food. Her meals consisted of rice that she bought in bulk, second rate vegetables from the market, and the excess cuts of pork once a week that no one else would buy from the butcher, all spiced with the garden ingredients she had grown more confident with, using her own measurement system consisting of fingernails to palmfuls. Every time she brought aerlicks to the market, she held a figure in her head—what she would next owe the lenders, the amount stashed away in the hole at the back of the garden under a particularly foul smelling compost pile. She knew at this rate how long it would be before she could buy new clothes to appear before the lenders, which varieties of tea would be too pricey for her when she could afford them, and what trajectory she would need to maintain to buy the appropriate amount of seeds from the merchants.
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