by Dave Duncan
Fizz was still cuddling close to him, as if she wanted to climb onto his lap.
He said, “Cleaver?” and pouted for a moment. “I was expecting an older man.”
“I am just two moons short of twenty-one years, Your Grace.” Niall waited patiently, praying to all the spirits that he would be sent away so he could give Stalwart his apologies, and having made him eat the enchanted scabbard, ride off and join the Royal Guard.
“It would be unfair to refuse you a trial after you have come so far,” Neville conceded. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Very good, thank you, my lord.” The days were long and the nights too short.
“Your handwriting is certainly impressive. Hedgebury said you can also tally numbers.”
“I can, Your Grace.”
“Fizz, dear, show him that report that was bothering you yesterday. Perhaps Master Cleaver can solve the problem for you.”
The suggestion was about as subtle as a blow to the back of the head with a two-foot mace—Master Cleaver was about to be tested. Fizz walked around the back of the throne and then along the window side of the table, thus keeping it between her and the dangerous stranger. Halfway along she located a sheet of paper and pushed it across to him.
“The wethers don’t balance!” she said.
Niall had no idea what wethers were, or why they ought to balance, but he pulled the sheet closer and studied what at first glance looked like double-entry bookkeeping, written in the wandering hand of someone barely literate. He soon saw that the numbers did not represent money, but sheep, distinguished by age and sex: lambs, ewes, wethers, rams... There were several herds involved, and individual animals suffered various fates. Fortunately, the numbers were more legible than the writing in the column titles. He was five years out of practice, but in his banking days he had been able to run a finger up a long column of numbers and ink in the total. He discovered that this was a technique that one did not forget, like swimming.
“There it is,” he said. “This column should total 1,787, not 1,796.”
“I counted it three times!” Fizz protested shrilly.
“But this number, 76, should be 67, to make the cross-total match. The 1,787 is correct.”
“How’d you do that so quick?”
“The most common mistake people make is to write the correct digits, but put them in the wrong order. Every number has to be put in twice just to check for that.”
She lit up like a bonfire. “Oh shit! He’s as clever as he’s beautiful. Hire him, Daddy, hire him!”
Niall turned to face his prospective employer, keeping his face as straight as an icicle. He was fairly sure now that Fizz was about the same age as Danark. The Marquis was short a secretary, so why had the daughter been put to work as substitute, and not the son? Because that was menial work. Danark was a nobleman. Fizz, as she had said, was not a lady. She might also be unbalanced, for that had been a very sudden reversal of her attitude to the newcomer. Or was that his doing? Had his Earth dominance taken over from Death?
Neville continued the interview without commenting on the sheep problem. “I never met the baron, but I know of him, of course. How is he?”
“In good spirits, sir, but his gout torments him.”
“How many letters like the one Hedgebury sent me can you write in a day?”
“A dozen, maybe twice that. The baron never needed to send that many, so I can’t be sure. It would also depend on whether you dictated it or just told me to word it myself.”
“As I said, I would prefer an older man. Your predecessor, Tom Twelvish, walked out on us without notice, and left us in a frazzle. But I’ll give you a two-moon trial, and if you don’t give satisfaction, five crowns severance.”
“Your Grace is generous. I would never let you down like that.”
“At that time, we can decide on your regular wages. In addition to my correspondence and checking my manors’ monthly reports, like the one you just saw, your duties will include managing the Royal Mail. This room is the most northerly post office in Chivian. You will have to swear an oath of loyalty to the Queen.”
Niall felt a great surge of relief. That meant that he could exempt his loyalty to Malinda from any other oath he might be required to give. His worst fear had dissolved, and he was going to be hired. He would not have to face Stalwart and admit failure over what the old rascal might consider a foolish scruple.
“Another reason for preferring an older man,” said the Marquis, “is that I will not tolerate any molestation of the servant women, in spite of your youth. There is a room down in the Commons which you may visit twice a week for an hour or so. It is vulgarly referred to as the Rabbit Hutch. The women there are employed for that purpose. There is no charge for their services.”
Niall said only, “I understand, Your Grace.” What he wanted to say would result in his instant dismissal.
“How many languages do you have?” the Marquis asked.
“Only Chivian, sir.”
“Well, if you need help, just ask Fizz. Polyglottism is her hobby.”
Fizz, who had gone back to looking at papers, was probably not supposed to be listening. Without looking up she said, “Wyldish, Baelish, Isilondian, and Nythian.”
Niall’s opinion of Fizz kept changing faster than her opinion of him. Now he wondered if she might be a mile or two smarter than she pretended. Her childish guise could be a shell to hide resentment at being treated as a servant. “I am truly impressed, miss.”
“Anything else, Cleaver?”
“One question, Your Grace. I rode north on a horse Lord Hedgebury had taken south as his spare, a fine young mare, and this morning he actually gave her to me. I suspect that Baron Whinscar may have—”
For the first time, the Marquis displayed a hint of emotion—he frowned. “That is not an indulgence I normally extend to servants. However, the Royal Mail must be taken to Swaid every day, and in-coming mail collected there. Any local mail needs delivering. We have a roster of seven men who take turns. Add yourself and your nag to the list, use your own horse when your name comes up, and I shall allow this exemption, at least during your probation. Inform Marshal Lonard of my indulgence.”
Niall thanked the pompous jackass with as much humility as a Blade could muster. It wasn’t easy.
The Marquis rose. “Fizz, dear, swear him in.”
She wiped her quill and jumped up. “I should hope so! I knew the moment I set eyes on him that he was just perfect. Here, Neal, read this out in that lovely deep voice of yours.”
His Death dominance had been forgiven, it seemed.
So Niall swore a long, formal oath of allegiance to Queen Malinda, promising to serve faithfully and honestly as a postmaster. No problem there. Next Fizz handed him a briefer text, swearing loyalty and obedience to Neville, and that was no problem either, because it already included a clause, “excluding my duty to Her Sovereign Majesty the Queen.” Done it! He had sworn to both Queen and Marquis without perjuring himself. His father would likely have called that quibbling lawyer talk, but his own conscience was satisfied.
Neville headed for the door, then paused as if he had just remembered something. “Um... Welcome to Thencaster. It’s almost dinner time. I’ll have you named in the hall, so you are known. Fizz, show him around and answer his questions. Meet me back here after dinner, Cleaver, because I have some letters to dictate.” As the Marquis left, Fizz blew a kiss to his back.
Danark said, “Father?”
Neville stopped and frowned at him as if he had forgotten his presence. “Yes?”
“Master Cleaver said he thought that Fizz might be what he called a sensitive. Do you know about those?”
The Marquis knew enough not to like them, judging by his scowl at Niall. “Frauds, fairground tricksters!”
“Perhaps some, Your Grace, but I was thinking more
of the White Sisters, who serve the Queen, protecting her from evil magic as the Blades defend her from mundane threats. Lord Hedgebury took me to meet some friends of his, Sir Fury and his wife, Lady Emerald. She is a former White Sister, who served King Ambrose mightily during the Monster War. Some of her children have inherited her talent, and one of her younger sons, on first meeting me, reacted by shouting out that I stank! Maiden Fizz was more tactful, but—”
“I didn’t smell anything,” Fizz protested. “You looked dark, is all. Sort of shadowy. Menacing!”
Niall nodded. “Each sensitive reads the spirits differently, she says, but the school at Oakendown teaches them how to handle their gift.”
“Oo, Daddy! Do you think that I?...” Fizz’s tone suggested that she knew what answer was coming.
“White Sisters are greatly honoured around the palace,” Niall hinted.
“It does not sound like suitable employment for a woman of noble lineage,” the Marquis decreed, and swept out the door.
Niall had already concluded that his new employer was a bombastic narcissistic aristocratic knucklehead.
Chapter 12
Your duties will include managing the Royal Mail
neville Marquis of thencaster
“Catch!” Fizz tossed Niall a bunch of keys, reminding him of the day he arrived at Ironhall and Grand Master had tested his agility. He hadn’t lost that—he snatched them out of the air left-handed.
“Oh, well done!” She held up a similar bunch. She seemed to have lost all her fear of him and was back to clumsy efforts at flirting. “This one is for this room, which must be locked all the time, except when one of us is in here. Or Daddy, of course. This one is for the postal closet.” She went over to what had to be the postal closet, because of the emblem on the door. “You write the outgoing mail yourself, but sometimes visitors have some to go. You keep it all locked in here until the day’s courier comes for it, right after noon dinner. He signs for it—makes his mark, more often—in this book. And he gets this sword to wear...”
Then she explained what visitors had to pay, where the account ledgers were kept and how they worked, and so on, and on. She spoke very fast, but he never had to ask a question.
Then— “I think we’ve got time to nip up to your bedroom.” She rolled her eyes to emphasize the double meaning, then led the way out, watched while he locked the door. She marched over to the old man sitting at the top of the stair. “This is Chancellor Barden. He guards the way into the Palace. He’s much more dangerous than he looks, aren’t you, Bardie? Meet Master Cleaver, Marquis’s new secretary.”
Niall bowed to him. “But I’m much less dangerous than I look.”
Fizz whirled around to face the row of boys on the bench, five of them now. “You got that, you lot? What’s his name?”
In chorus: “Master Cleaver.”
“Good. Tell the others. And if you’re looking for him, he’ll be in the Post Office or the Owl Room. This way... Master Sexetary.” Two of the boys sniggered, as expected.
She went to another door and waited for Niall to open it for her. Beyond it was another staircase, leading upward. In keeping with her nickname, she kept bubbling like a boiling kettle.
“The castle’s divided into three parts—Fortress on the bottom, Commons in the middle, Palace on top. The office we’ve just left is on the Business Floor, the lowest floor in the Palace. Above that is the Quarters floor, where gentry and important visitors sleep. Family are above that. You’re classed as gentry, being literate and so handsome. I’ve never seen eyes as grey as yours.
“The Commons includes kitchens, dining hall, living quarters for staff and garrison, the octogram, and more. Below the Commons is the Fortress, with slit windows, oil-boiling, stables, and other nasty stuff.”
How old was she? Thirteen? Sixteen at most. The Marquis was more than twice her age, recently widowed. So at least once in his marriage he had taken a mistress. There would be nothing unusual in a rich man doing that, and Neville could certainly afford one, but he was grossly hypocritical when he forbade his employees to do what he had done, and also when he favoured his sons over his daughter. That was assuming that Fizz always spoke the truth—an improbable assumption. Her mind seemed to jump around like a flea, and yet she was obviously clever. Polyglottism did not come either cheap or easy. Learning languages required either long and expensive tuition, or even more expensive conjuration, and many sensitives could not tolerate any magic at all.
At the top of the stairs they emerged onto an open balcony, which seemed to be hanging in space with nothing below it. It was windy, but supplied that same breathtaking view of the Frail estuary.
His guide continued her chatter. “You can see that the cliff bulges out here, but none of the rooms have fallen off yet. Do heights frighten you?”
Heights had terrified Niall in his childhood, but they had never bothered him since the day he rescued Cat, and the balustrade was massive marble. Doors were set in alcoves along the opposite wall, each raised two or three steps, so that passersby could not peer in the windows.
“Nothing frightens me.”
“Not even modesty? Dragons? Hordes of crazy Wylds?”
“I suppose being alone with a beautiful girl does. Something’s making my heart race, anyway.”
“Stop that! You heard what Daddy told you.”
“He warned me not to molest servant girls. You’re not a servant girl.”
“I might as well be. I’m going to be an elderly spinster soon. But look at Stanesh! He’s off touring the whole nation, inspecting possible brides, finding out how much their parents will bribe him to take her off their hands.”
“The polite word is ‘dowry’.”
“And my dowry if I ever get one won’t buy a stale bun.”
“Stanesh is your eldest brother?”
“Eldest half-brother. Then Kranith, then Danark. Danark’s all right, but he can’t grow a beard yet. Why do boys become so horrid after they grow beards?”
“That’s why I shave every day—to keep me so nice.”
She chuckled at that. “You’re strange! At first, I saw you as shadowy, evil, dangerous. Then, when you started talking to Daddy, you began to glow, all sunny and warm.”
“I’m told I take a little getting used to.”
Fizz continued to fizz. “We call this corridor the Perch, because every door is marked with a bird. Some are done in paint, but it’s mostly faded, because they face west and get the evening sun. Some are picked out with coloured stones, like this one. That’s called mosaic. And a few are done with pieces of wood of different types.”
“That’s called marquetry.” Niall’s mother had collected examples—all gone and scattered now, alas.
Fizz ignored that. She would rather teach than learn.
“Most rooms on the Perch are reserved for guests, and the rest are for senior unmarried staff. You have to get Daddy’s permission to marry. Look at this great auk. It reminds me of Chancellor Bardie. Here’s yours, with an owl. I s’pose that means you’ve gotta work all night too. This was Tom Twelvish’s room, also. He was very short, almost a dwarf, but I like big men like you.”
As he inspected his keys, she added, “Find one with a square handle.”
He did. It turned in the lock and he let her precede him up the steps.
“Oo, musty!” she said. “I’ll get it cleaned and aired for you. And fresh bedclothes.”
He could not complain about his future home. The room was easily up to Golden Jug standards, and included the spectacular estuary view at no extra charge. A roomy bed, a table, two comfortable chairs... But when he opened the closet door, what he found shocked him.
“Master Twelvish must have left in a hurry,” he said. “He seems to have abandoned his entire wardrobe.”
Not that his selection of dress had been very large: three
doublets and two pairs of shoes, all about half the size of Niall’s own. Twelvish had been a small man, as Fizz kept saying.
Or had the secretarial vacancy that Niall was now to fill been created by an over-zealous Lord Hedgebury? Had Twelvish’s desired departure been effected by a cat’s eye sword? No, it was impossible to see Stalwart as an assassin.
Fortunately, Fizz had no reason to follow that line of reasoning. “I’ll have it all cleaned out. His stuff won’t fit you. He wasn’t half your size, with a face like a dried apple. You have baggage down at the gate? What’s your horse called? One day soon we must go riding and I’ll show you the countryside.” Lips moving, she scanned the room. “Nothing missing... Except a lantern. I’ll tell housekeeping to put this place in order. Ah, there’s the dinner bell... I’ll show you where the dining hall is. You won’t keep those muscles for long if you never eat...”
She was a flighty, scatterbrained chatterbox, yet she seemed to know what she was doing.
Down many stairs to the Commons.... The great hall was indeed great, several times the size of Ironhall’s, with more and longer tables. There was less formality, though. Diners coming in took a wooden platter and then passed along a line of carts, helping themselves to whatever they fancied from a wide selection. After that, they could sit anywhere they liked and could find room. The food was not up to Golden Jug standards, but it put Ironhall’s to shame.
Barden, the ancient chancellor Niall had met earlier, rang a bell for silence and called him forward, announced his appointment, and hung a red and black ribbon around his neck. Niall was back in his seat before his food had had a chance to grow cold.
Soon after that, the bell rang again, and everyone rose to honour Neville’s entrance. He escorted an older man whom Niall could not place but found oddly familiar. He was seated in the place of honour on Neville’s right, and so was likely a guest. Behind them came Danark and another youth, presumably the middle son, Kranith. He did have a passable beard. No Fizz. No women at all at head table.
