Stranger to the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  A man dressed in law-speaker’s robes emerged from an almost invisible door at the far end of the dais. He was followed by Faraday, also in law-speaker’s robes and looking cranky as ever. Elspeth’s heart plummeted.

  The first man approached Elspeth and handed her a sheet of paper covered in very neat handwriting. “The docket, your Majesty,” he whispered. Faraday took a seat next to Elspeth and scooted the chair to where he could speak to her without whispering.

  “You read the first line aloud, and the guards will escort in the involved parties,” he said in a low voice. “They will present their case, and then I will tell you how to rule.”

  Elspeth nodded, too grateful to have help to be angry at his usurpation of her responsibility. “The case of Emberlin Arnot and Ganden Thorp,” she read in a clear voice that didn’t tremble at all.

  Doors at the back of the room opened, and guards marched in, flanking an elderly woman dressed in what had to be her best clothes, though they weren’t fancy, and a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and the beginnings of a paunch. They were followed by a couple of men in matching coats bearing some insignia Elspeth couldn’t make out.

  The little group approached along an aisle dividing the chairs in half and halted in the open space between the chairs and the desk. The woman stood proudly, but her hands were clenched, and Elspeth guessed she was actually extremely nervous. The middle-aged man by her side looked as if his stomach was bothering him as much as Elspeth’s was her. The other men looked like they wanted to be anywhere but where they were.

  Two men in questioner’s scarlet robes rose from the front row of chairs. “Your Majesty, a judgment,” the man on the left said. “Mister Thorp protests the removal of the Merchants’ Guild seal from his store. The Count of Olontor deemed the matter one demanding the attention of the Crown.”

  “The Merchants’ Guild is free to award its seal wherever it wants,” Faraday said. “That’s not a matter for the Crown. It’s barely a matter for a provincial lord.”

  “Your Majesty, may I speak?” the middle-aged man asked, stepping forward. The old lady cast a nervous glance at him, then returned to staring at Elspeth.

  “Go ahead,” Elspeth said, after waiting half a breath to see if Faraday would overrule her.

  “I sell sundries,” the man said. “Have done for fifteen years. Been a member of the Merchants’ Guild all that time. But a year ago my neighbor, Mistress Arnot, she comes to me and says as she’s taken up soapmaking and would I be willing to sell them in my store? And I says, why not? They’re just little things, your Majesty. Soaps in the shape of flowers and bees and the like.” He cleared his throat. “But now the Guild is saying they want my Guild seal back on account of Mistress Arnot not being a Guild member. That means business will go down ‘cause of people wanting the Guild stamp on their wares. I say it ain’t fair.”

  “But that—” one of the men wearing a coat began. The nearest guard glared at him. “I mean, begging your pardon, your Majesty, but may I speak?”

  Elspeth nodded.

  “I’m Erik Danvers of the Merchants’ Guild,” the man said, “and we haven’t demanded anything but what we expect of all our members. Guild fees are reasonable and help protect the public against shoddy workmanship. If Mistress Arnot will pay the fee, there’s no problem.”

  “But I can’t afford it!” the elderly woman cried out, undeterred by the guard’s glare.

  The questioner on the right said, “The case is simple. The Merchants’ Guild agreed to abide by the Crown’s decision because that decision will set policy for the future. Your Majesty, we ask that you deliver justice.”

  “It’s a clear cut case,” Faraday murmured in her ear. “The law says all guilds are free to assess fees and award their seal of approval according to their own guidelines. We rule in favor of the Merchants’ Guild.”

  Elspeth looked at each of the plaintiffs in turn. “Does the Merchants’ Guild have control over every item made in Tremontane?” she asked.

  Beside her, Faraday went rigid. The two Merchants’ Guild representatives exchanged glances. “Ah…over anything sold under the Merchants’ Guild seal, yes. The seal means quality we vouch for.”

  “But if I decided to sell cakes to my neighbors, you wouldn’t control that, would you?”

  The two men looked as if the possibility of the Queen of Tremontane selling anything out her back door had never occurred to them. “The quality of those cakes—” one said, then shut up.

  “I understand. The point is, the Merchants’ Guild doesn’t have the resources to monitor every sale that happens. Sellers benefit from the relationship with the Guild, and I imagine so do buyers.” Elspeth turned to the old woman. “Is there a reason you have to sell your soaps in a shop, Mistress Arnot?”

  The old woman’s face went white. “Your Majesty,” she said faintly. “I…suppose not?”

  “If you can’t afford the Merchants’ Guild fees, I imagine that means you don’t make much off those sales. Your neighbors probably know what you can do and appreciate your wares. You’d likely do well selling to them directly. I’m sure you have strong young grandchildren to help with moving your product.”

  Elspeth turned her gaze on the middle-aged man. “And Mister Thorp. What made you decide to sell Mistress Arnot’s soaps in your shop?”

  Thorp firmed up his chin. “I like her soaps, and she’s an old friend. It’s certainly not for the profit.”

  “So you’d be just as happy if she was successful without needing your support?”

  “Of course.”

  Elspeth didn’t dare look at Faraday, who hadn’t moved since she began talking. “I don’t think this is a case for the Crown at all,” she said. “Gentlemen of the Guild. If Mistress Arnot removes her soaps from Mister Thorp’s shop, would you allow him to keep his Guild seal?”

  “Of course, your Majesty,” Danvers said. “But Mistress Arnot—”

  “Mister Faraday,” Elspeth said, turning to the statue beside her. “Does the law permit a guild to extort fees in exchange for membership? That is, are people required to join a guild to ply their trade?”

  Faraday said, through clenched jaw, “No, your Majesty. Guild membership is meant to be a benefit, not a weapon.”

  “Mister Danvers,” Elspeth said, “your ambition is laudatory, and I choose to believe you want to help Mistress Arnot rather than harass her. But if she decides to sell her goods on her own, that is her business and none of yours. I think, though, that we can resolve this amicably. Don’t you?”

  She smiled at Danvers, who looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His companion said, “Yes, your Majesty, the Guild is satisfied.”

  “What about you, Mister Thorp? Mistress Arnot?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” Thorp said. The old woman just nodded.

  “Then—I think that’s all. You’re excused.” Elspeth looked at the paper in front of her. “The case—”

  Faraday put his palm flat on the paper, covering the next line. “Your Majesty, that was completely irresponsible,” he said in a low, harsh whisper. “I am an accredited law-speaker, and you are supposed to listen to my advice when it comes to legal matters!”

  Elspeth met his gaze unflinchingly. “Mister Faraday,” she said, “I don’t know much about the laws of Tremontane. But I do know how people think. I chose to use a little common sense rather than apply the law like a side-ball bat. And now everyone is happy, except maybe that Mister Danvers, who I think must have the soul of a miser if he wants to wring profit out of an old lady who just wants to make a little extra money.”

  “And what if your common sense violates the law?”

  “If it does, then maybe the law is wrong.”

  “That is not something you’re competent to judge!”

  “Mister Faraday,” Elspeth said, “I am, for good or ill, your Queen, and you will treat me with respect. I promised to heed your advice, and I will listen to you when you tell me what the law is. But I am the one
whose name is on these judgments, and if I think I need to intervene more directly, I will do so. If you have a problem with this, find me another law-speaker who won’t.”

  They glared at each other. Righteous fury filled Elspeth. She was the Queen, damn it, and she was not going to let this self-involved, self-righteous git ride roughshod over her.

  Faraday’s lips thinned in anger. “Your Majesty,” he finally said, “you are correct. It is your duty and your responsibility, not mine. Shall we continue?”

  She was still ready to murder him, especially since he hadn’t apologized, but she nodded curtly and read off the next case. As she waited for the people involved to approach the desk, she wondered how much of that fight had been audible. Not much, given that the audience didn’t have that avid look people got when a public brawl was imminent.

  Her anger drained away, leaving her feeling—not guilty, it wasn’t her fault, but cold and uncomfortable. Faraday seemed intent on controlling her, and she wished she knew why. If he’d had as much influence over Francis as he tried to have over her, he might be used to pulling the monarch’s strings. That wasn’t power anyone might easily give up. Well, if he tried pulling her strings, he was going to get a surprise. Elspeth North might be Queen in name only, but that wasn’t going to last.

  8

  At ten ‘til twelve, the final case was over. Faraday was off his seat and headed for the door almost before Elspeth had dismissed the guards. She stood, stretched, and with her escort went to, not the north wing, but the east wing for dinner. The Tremontane soldiers traded silent stares with the east wing guards in North colors, making Elspeth wonder how much rivalry there was between the two groups. What determined which guards went where, for that matter.

  After her meal, she met with Catherine Elwes, the seamstress, who turned out to be a lovely woman with long, agile fingers and a pleasant smile. Elspeth liked her immediately. They had a short conversation about Elspeth’s favorite colors, and Catherine had measured her with a long tape that whipped around Elspeth as if it had a life of its own, and it all left Elspeth feeling calmer than she had in days.

  The meeting with her prospective lady’s maids went less well. Elspeth knew it was to be expected, but the fact that none of the women Merete introduced to her were willing to meet her eyes made Elspeth uncomfortable with all of them. Finally, she exclaimed, “Am I a monster, then?” and picked the one woman who giggled, a girl named Honey who was barely an adult. To Merete’s warning comment that Honey wasn’t likely to know everything a Queen’s maid ought to know, Elspeth said, “She can learn with me. And you must trust her, or you wouldn’t have recommended her.” Merete had to agree.

  Elspeth returned to the north wing feeling more cheerful, a feeling that evaporated when she saw Simkins waiting for her outside her office. “The small audience chamber, your Majesty, where you will meet the candidates for head of Transportation.”

  The small audience chamber was thirty feet long, inspiring Elspeth to wonder what the large audience chamber looked like. Its parquet wooden floor absorbed Elspeth’s steps, making her sound like a cat pacing after a mouse. The ceiling, strangely low by comparison to the room’s length, was covered with thousands of little copper plates like overlapping scales and made Elspeth think of snakes’ bellies and dragons’ hides. The lamp Device lights reflected off the copper plates in ripples, like the sun striking the Kepa River in Haizea, but warm rather than glass-cold. She wished there were a graceful way for the Queen to lie on the wooden floor gazing up at the ripples.

  The unusual room contained nothing but a single wooden chair without cushions, heavily carved with the triple peaks of Tremontane atop its back. Elspeth didn’t like the idea of forcing everyone else to stand, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  Simkins disappeared through the far door, which was plain and short, no taller than six feet, which meant at least a few people would have to duck to enter. Elspeth settled herself in the chair and waited.

  Presently, the door opened, and Simkins ushered in the first candidate. “Mistress Annabel Jersey,” Simkins said.

  Annabel Jersey was a stolid-looking woman in her fifties, with her light brown hair pulled sharply back from her face. She wore workman’s clothes, coarse trousers and heavy boots and a white woven shirt, so when a patrician accent escaped her lips with her “Good afternoon, your Majesty,” Elspeth felt embarrassed about the assumptions she’d made.

  “Good afternoon, Mistress Jersey,” she said. “Would you tell me your qualifications to head the Transportation department?”

  “I was employed on the message route for ten years,” Jersey said. “Five of those years I was in charge of the route from Olontor to Silverfield. I’m familiar with the system and I understand the needs of the post riders.”

  A promising start. “So would you say Tremontane needs to improve its post routes?”

  “Not at all, your Majesty. Tremontane is superior to Eskandel and Veribold already.”

  Not really what I asked, but all right. Elspeth leaned forward. “Mistress Jersey,” she said, “if I needed to get a message from Aurilien to, say, Haizea, what would be the best method?”

  “Post horse from Aurilien to Ravensholm, then runner to the border at Westholm,” Jersey said promptly. “Hand off to a runner on the Haizea route. It should take no more than three days for a message to reach Haizea.”

  “I see,” Elspeth said. “Thank you, Mistress Jersey, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you.”

  Jersey looked a little taken aback—the whole interaction had lasted less than five minutes—but she bowed and let herself out. Shortly afterward, Simkins opened the door again, saying, “Miss Penelope Dawes, your Majesty.”

  Elspeth interviewed five candidates, all of whom, for some reason, were female. That probably said something about Hardison. They were all well-spoken, intelligent, experienced women, but Elspeth didn’t warm to any of them. And all of them answered her question in the same way.

  Her rapid-fire interviewing technique meant she was done before two o’clock. “Tell me again what meeting I have at 3:15,” she asked Simkins when the last candidate was gone.

  “The Magister of the Scholia,” Simkins said. “Him, you may see in your office.”

  “Actually, no,” Elspeth said. “I’m going to visit the Royal Library. Please send him to meet me there—I’m sure he knows the way.” She left Simkins sputtering in her wake and hurried to the north wing, where she hoped to find a guide. The Royal Library was definitely not something she felt comfortable finding on her own.

  Her guide was a page dressed in North livery, not Tremontane colors—that was a question that had started to bother her—who for a miracle didn’t seem overawed by her Queen. She was even willing to answer questions. “The Scholia’s far too big now, miss—I mean your Majesty,” she said. “You’ll see when we get there. Used to be mostly Devisers, but now it’s all manner of scholarly subjects, mathematics and geography and rhetoric and the like. There was talk of making it two Scholias like they have so many of in Eskandel, one for scholarly stuff and one for Devices, but they decided not to. Wish I could be a Deviser, but I can’t sense source.” She said the last more cheerfully than Elspeth thought the girl’s dashed dreams warranted.

  The door to the Library looked more like a broom closet than the door to the largest library in Tremontane. Elspeth’s guide opened it for her and bowed her in. Elspeth stopped inside. The high ceiling swallowed the light from the narrow windows, filling its farthest corners with clots of darkness like spilled ink. Plain wooden desks with Device lamps mounted on frames above them stood in three rows at the center of the room, and a couple of low cabinets leaned against the far wall. That was all the furniture there was. “But—where are the books?”

  “This is just the Scholia, or used to be,” the girl said. “The Library is this way.”

  Elspeth followed her to an enormous double door, one with ornate brass hinges shaped like oak leaves and mat
ching latches. It definitely looked as if something magnificent lay beyond it. The few people in the room paid them no attention; most of them were seated at desks, reading, and there was a woman at the far end of the room taking something out of one of the cabinets that looked tacked on to the rough stone walls. Elspeth shivered with cold. This was a room that needed half a dozen brass Device boxes.

  Her guide pushed on half of the door, which swung open soundlessly. Elspeth walked through and found herself on a stone landing high above a vast room that rivaled much of the Jaixante in size, though not in quality of craftsmanship. What she could see of the floor was irregularly paved with stones of random sizes, the windows were high and small and didn’t let a lot of light in, and it was even colder than the Scholia room.

  But what mattered were the books.

  Bookcases taller than Elspeth could reach filled the room, some backed against the walls, others standing free, making aisles that turned the room into a maze. Every shelf was full of books, some bound in ancient leather, newer ones in buckram of all colors. It reminded her of the small library in the embassy, though that was old and rarely used and this was clearly a working library, with hand-lettered signs indicating what books might be found where and books stacked on small tables at the end of rows, ready to be shelved. The heady scent of leather and glue filled the air.

  Awestruck, Elspeth made her careful way down the stone steps, aware that only a slim rail prevented her from falling, possibly to her death. Her guide had disappeared, but Elspeth didn’t mind; she’d already made up her mind to live here forever. She took a few steps and stopped to look at the books. One of them had a cherry-red binding that drew her eye. She pulled it off the shelf and opened it; it was one of the new books, the ones printed with movable type instead of engraved plates. Fascinating.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said. “Excuse me. Are you a student?”