The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  The Captain aimed to make his way past them when the lean, lounging man in the lace remarked, “Now, Captain, what would you be abroad for on so vile a night?”

  The Captain looked across his shoulder. “Have a care, Matty Tolliver: I know you.”

  “And we know you,” said Tolliver, with an insolent yawn. “You have made a precious spectacle of yourself, charging up and down the lanes. You must have quite wore yourself out with exertions. Now, why don’t you make yourself comfortable, instead of troubling the company?”

  The Captain appeared to consider this proposition, while his lean frame pivoted and aligned itself with his stare. “Don’t get prosy with me, Tolliver. I’m not here for your company, nor to wait on any man’s pleasure.”

  Tolliver put down his knife delicately. “Now, that would be a contrarian attitude. I should say you are well out of your way, Captain. As a steady gentleman, you ought to show more discretion.”

  “I’m going by,” said the Captain. “Do not to test me.”

  “That is likely to cause a disturbance,” remarked Tolliver, glancing at his companion, who scowled and, speculatively touching the hilt of the blade implanted in the table, offered the opinion: “Let’s gut ’im for a fractious cully.”

  Without the slightest interval between stillness and action, the Captain drew his sabre in a great sweep, and in the same arc cut flat across the loaded table before the two ruffians. Plates and tankards, candlesticks, salt-cellars and pepper-mills, platters and bones, knives and forks and bottles went spilling and tumbling and smashing to the floor, with such a crashing and ringing as the earth will open up with when the bells toll the Last Day of Judgement and Resurrection. Turning as a bird turns in flight, the blade came swift to rest at the point before Tolliver’s throat and stirred the lace there.

  Tolliver’s companion whimpered in dismay, for the dagger buried in the table was sheared off at the point. Silent consternation, perfect stillness ruled among the rogues and whores and shoremen.

  “Now,” said the Captain, in the same dry and impassive manner as he would arraign a murderer or check a drunkard on the street, “I am going up those stairs, and if you have a mind to hinder me, speak it directly.”

  Tolliver was obliged to clear his throat, and with both eyes on the gleaming edge of the sabre said, “No, sir—not the least objection.”

  The Captain’s sabre traced a section of the room, and those it passed winced visibly. “There will be no mischief done in here, while I am within.”

  No one seemed inclined to dispute this. The Captain returned his sabre to its scabbard, and the dull click of steel was all that was heard. He mounted the stairs. Behind him, a plaintive voice complained, “That were my best knife, that was,” but no one dared sympathize.

  THERE WERE MANY doors along the balcony, but only one had remained closed in the course of the commotion, and this the Captain opened. The least questionable room in the place lay beyond: wide, with scrubbed wooden planks. Curtains were drawn across the bed at one end. A small fire smouldered in a grate, and by the shuttered window a heavy man in an unbuttoned coat with no hat or wig perched at a heavy desk, poring over a leather-bound ledger and counting out coins in piles.

  He looked up when the Captain entered, and betrayed no surprise or dismay. “’Tis the Master of the Watch. Found a window unlatched?”

  “Abel Brock. You are dedicated to your calling, for there is no thief in Airenchester that could not say where I might find you.”

  Mr. Brock turned in his high chair. “What is your business, Captain?” he barked. “For I am at mine.”

  “And a nice business you make of it, at this hour.”

  Brock rubbed his pate with his palm. “You ought to know that a man who would catch rogues must keep rogues’ hours.”

  “And their company, I should say.”

  “Aye, I am met with informants here.”

  “And do you memorialize them in that book?” enquired the Captain.

  Brock glanced ruefully at the pages before him. “It must be kept square and plain: the fees and bribes, gratuities and rewards. I’m an old cully and likely to make a muddle of it; but it is the fashion in business these days: it must be kept square.”

  “A dire burden,” remarked the Captain unsympathetically.

  “We are practical men: state your business.”

  “I must have necks to stretch.”

  Brock closed the ledger and smoothed the cover with a flat hand. “It is late to commence business.” He glanced towards the sideboard, “But will you stop for a glass of claret?”

  “I will not.”

  “Will you take a seat?”

  “I will not.”

  “You are a stiff-necked man,” said the thief-taker. “And for such a studious fellow, you have sown a full measure of discord and uncertainty tonight.”

  “You heard that, did you?”

  “I did. And to what purpose, I ask myself?”

  “So that you know I have it in my power to cause much more discord and uncertainty if I am not satisfied,” said the Captain, with a grim precision.

  The thief-taker grimaced. He slid from his desk and chair, and cast another glance up and down the Captain of the Watch.

  “And what, if I may ask, sir, will satisfy? What will you lay out for each neck?”

  The Captain raised his chin. “What do you know of the Steergate Murder, and the case made against Mr. Thaddeus Grainger these five years ago?”

  Brock shrugs. “What should I know?”

  “You brought in the witnesses and could have brought in a parcel more, I’ll hazard.”

  “One arrogant young rakehell stabbed another in a quarrel over a common girl,” returned Brock with a sneer. “That is all I should know.”

  “And you had no part in this prosecution?” pressed Captain Grimsborough.

  “The dead one’s mother set out a generous reward, and I turned my hand to it. Come, sir, you are on the watch: you know the trade.”

  “I know your trade, Master Brock. And what prompted you to meddle in a highborn’s murder—besides the reward?”

  Brock narrowed his eyes. “You are wide of the mark with these questions, Captain. I don’t believe you are here on the business of the city.”

  The Captain leaned close to Brock and said, “Ahh, but this night I was at the mayor’s house, and he invited me to dine.”

  Brock signaled no surprise; his flat, dour face was as massive and expressionless as always. He did not speak at once but held his hands behind his back and considered his reply. “You are a long way from the mayor’s table here.”

  “I have my duty,” returned the Captain.

  “Aye, and you should know the limits of your duty. The city watch cannot pass outside the city precincts nor enter any honest man’s abode without his leave. You can arrest for the night any man who cannot give good account of himself. So you call the hours, watch for fires and unlocked doors, and see to drunkenness, riot, and vagrancy—when you are minded. Have a care, Captain.” Brock wagged an admonishing finger. “You are treading on the edge of your warrant here.”

  The Captain looked around and sniffed, “This is no honest man’s abode.”

  “This obstinate humour, Captain, is a damned mystery to me.”

  “I told you: I’m looking for villains to dance a measure in the air.”

  “I keep a stock in villains and rogues at hand, for whatever you propose.”

  “I daresay there’s a collar to fit every crime,” allowed the Captain.

  “There is.”

  “And there’s always one as can be made to fit—piece-work done to order, as it were.”

  “Quite so.”

  “And where there are stolen goods, and goods to be returned, and rewards to be taken, then you have your hand in it, as a middleman who can see that the right thing is done to all parties,” continued the Captain.

  Brock nodded.

  “And if you had a hand in the thieving in th
e first place, why, that’s only easing the trade,” concluded the Captain.

  “No one has made that charge against me,” said Brock coolly.

  “To be sure.”

  “Come, sir, our professions are not unalike,” said Brock. “We must set the watch and pass in doubtful places, so that the fat townsman can count himself safe with his wife and servants behind his iron gate. We are not bedeviled by the niceties of the law as long as the form is observed.”

  The Captain grunted. “I am no hypocrite. I see the law broken and bent every day. I mend the parts of it I can. But I make no pretence for the sake of good form.”

  This sat sourly with Brock. He gestured, as if to imply, state your case or begone.

  The Captain eyed Brock as he spoke: “By my warrant, I will have Dirk Tallow for a thief and murderer.”

  “That’s bold, Captain, but precious folly. Dirk Tallow ranges twenty miles away. You cannot touch him.”

  “And who are you to tell me who I may not set upon?” demanded the Captain.

  The thief-taker shrugged. “Tallow is useful. He keeps the others in line. They fear him, and they won’t cross him. Better to have one wolf in the fields than a pack of starveling hounds at our door.”

  “He’s been fattened on pride and violence. He scoffs at the law, and the ballads make a hero of him. I don’t care what he’s done—killer or thief—but I will have him.”

  “Taking in Tallow would be bad for trade.”

  “I don’t give tuppence for your trade!” bellowed Captain Grimsborough. “I know your trade. You were ’prenticed in perjury, Abel Brock, when you lied to keep your master from hanging. And you plied your trade in The Steps in deceit and foul deeds. And you ply it still, for at every turn in the Steergate Murder, you have been there. Your mark is everywhere about it.”

  A man like Abel Brock, hardened to his craft in betrayal and force, does not flinch or reveal his thoughts, save that his fist clenched and his voice sounded dull when he replied: “Wild charges are not to your temper, Captain. Be wary, for if you cross me, you cross many others besides, who have the means to accomplish your ruin.”

  “I shan’t be made a fool of. Bring me to Dirk Tallow, I say. I give thee a taste of where I go and what I’ll dare this night. I know every pickpocket, burglar, and dip you rely on from here to Haught. I know your fences and your warehouses, your rag-pickers and usurers. But it’s not the law I’ll bend thee to, but thy trade I’ll break, if you defy me. Lay that before your masters, if you will.”

  A dog barked in the street. A woman’s voice called sleepily from the covered bed.

  There was a sour gleam in Brock’s eye, as if he would gladly lay his fist against the Captain’s skull, but the Captain, tall and straight and motionless, held his hand loosely on the snarling pommel of his tempered sabre.

  “Are we concluded?” asked Brock presently.

  “You know my mind on this matter.”

  The Captain was not inclined to speak again, but made for the door. When he came onto the landing he found, starting from the lowest step, a glaring, shuffling, muttering, villainous mob.

  “Clear a way, you curs! This here is the stalwart Captain of the Watch, and a finer man than any of ’ee!” cried a voice behind him. It was Brock, come out from his rooms and bellowing over the rail.

  The path cleared. The Captain’s boots thudded on the boards of Gadger’s Hole.

  MRS. WENRENDER was accustomed to late calls, but the house was asleep when this caller knocked, and the drowsing butler answered with a taper drooping in his hand. The hour would not suit, but the caller was determined. The guest was taken to the drawing-room. The lady of the house was roused, her maid summoned—but turned aside at the drawing-room door.

  Nevertheless, Cassie lingered in the cold, dark hallway, for the second voice, the hard growl of a man, was familiar to her. Mrs. Wenrender and Mr. Brock shared this discretion, in that they never raised their voices, and Cassie could make out only a handful of distinct words—risk, house, call, brothers, taken, him—which in themselves mean nothing. But whatever Mr. Brock proposed, Mrs. Wenrender opposed.

  Presently, Mrs. Wenrender exclaimed, “Then go yourself, and be damned for it. He won’t hear you.” At the same time, Mr. Brock opened the parlour doors.

  His face was dark. So Cassie, lingering in the shadows of the stairs, under a portrait of Mrs. Wenrender, saw him. She read wrath there, and confusion also, and in one usually so self-possessed, the contrast was striking.

  Mr. Brock tugged on his coat. He strode to the street-door, forced it open, and descended into the night.

  With no hesitation, Cassie followed. Brock walked heavily, but with a swift, rolling gait. The cold air burned Cassie’s throat. Little fragments of light winked behind one or two shutters along the streets, and a sardonic sliver of the moon drifted in the glimmering night sky, but the way was dark, and Cassie often slipped and lost her footing. Brock knew his course and held true to it, but it occurred to Cassie that she was no hunter but rather unarmed, and on the trail of a dangerous and volatile man, and that by one misstep she could betray herself, and then his anger would be directed against her.

  Haught was left behind. They skirted the grim, grey Cathedral, crossed the river—vile and black—and then Brock turned towards The Steps. Here Cassie’s fear caught in her throat, for she was well-dressed and a woman alone. Up they went, by the old winds and walks, and around them the denizens of The Steps prowled and squabbled, like ragged packs of hungry cats slinking among the rooftops. Cassie kept to the darkest side of the paths, the deepest shadows, arches, and doors, but Brock was intent on his goal and did not look back. Up they went, through paths that only a child of this district could know or walk with surety, up through the devious lanes. And by and by they came within the shadow of one great wall.

  Brock mounted a stone path, narrow as a mountain track, that cut beneath the flanks of the prison. Feeling his way along the wall (for no light entered here), the thief-taker stopped before a grate covering one of the wide drains that cut through the rock below the Bells. Cassie, lingering behind, heard the grind of a key turning, and then the thief-taker was gone. The grate, no taller than a child, closed again.

  Cassie shivered and drew her wrap closer. She turned, and a light flared before her in the narrow passage, startling her, and touching the black and slimy stones. A tall figure loomed, but in a moment it was revealed: Captain Grimsborough, uncovering his dark-lantern.

  “So the old heap has a sally-port after all,” the Captain remarked.

  “Are you behind all this business?” asked Cassie sharply.

  The Captain nodded. “I may be reproved for my folly. I have never favoured disorder, but I have roused the dogs up, and now we shall see which way they run.”

  Close in conversation, they walked down the infirm stairs.

  A CROWD HAD gathered in the Bellstrom yard and affected a festival air, for the intelligence of the gaol, confirmed by the turnkeys, was that a new clutch of prisoners would be brought up and that among them featured no less a worthy than Dirk Tallow on a hanging offence. Thaddeus Grainger chatted with Mr. Tyre in one corner of the yard. It had rained earlier, and was apt to rain again, but this did not cool the interest of the gathering, who started forward at every chance opening of the little gate and, with their fixed attention, quite unnerved a lone washer-woman passing through.

  Soon enough, iron-bound wheels were heard in the passageway, and the doors of the prison heaved open. The labouring horses were led into the yard before the prison-cart, and the gaolers and constables contended with the prisoners and held them back. Dirk Tallow came out first, and cheerfully raised his hat (which was very fine), at which a few in the crowd applauded. Tallow was inducted into the lodge and returned bearing the six-pound shackles, a garland which raised a bold cheer. Tallow crossed the yard. His companions waited for him at the tap-room doors and held a tankard prepared for him. Tallow took up the tankard with both hands (the chain
s were an impediment) and drank deep. The crowd roared.

  Grainger happened to look up from his conversation with Mr. Tyre. Mr. Ravenscraigh tarried at the margins of the crowd, most knowing and detached, as if all comings and goings in the prison were but a shadow-play on a theme that had grown stale through the years. Brock, who had come in with the cart, stood a little behind Ravenscraigh. Dirk Tallow also saw Ravenscraigh and raised his tankard in a gesture both mocking and respectful, to acknowledge the Eminence of the Bellstrom Gaol. Brock spoke, frowning, to Ravenscraigh. By the slightest gesture, a twist of the corner of the mouth, a shake of the head, Ravenscraigh replied. Grainger observed this, also.

  “Master and servant,” muttered Grainger to himself. “And master and servant still.” No one heard him over the din and antics of the prisoners.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  Execution.

  THE SUN SLIPPED INTO the wintry fogs and clouds behind the last house on Gales Square, and the fatal tree remained, disconsolate, with only a few quarrelling crows for company. The gallows had not been in use this day, nor the last, and the carrion birds found little to engage them. But it would repair its idleness in full on the morrow: this indefatigable servant of the Black Act, designed to correct so many petty crimes against property through terror, and therefore mitigate the inconvenience of the privileged few with the obliteration of the striving many. For all those who quicken the path to the gallows hoist Death above Justice, and in the name of that same petty idol, foreshadow an age of rational slaughter.

  THAT NIGHT, in the strongest lockup in the gaol, Dirk Tallow, condemned to death for crimes actual and speculative, caroused with his closest companions. And yet, however sweet the wine, however delicate the meats, however pretty a whore’s cheeks to kiss, however fine her cambrics between the fingertips, nothing is ever sweet enough, nor delicate enough, nor pretty enough, to satiate the yearning senses that know only and truly their imminent cessation. More wine was called for, and the gaoler obliged. Candles were lit, and would have touched fire to the straw had they toppled. Three Irish vagrants sang ballads of Jack Sheppard in the corner. The quality came and went, some to giggle and some to sneer, and some to stand sombre at the fate of the infamous villain. Edgar, the younger Swinge, conducted prayers in the other corner, turning a baleful eye towards the musicians. And yet, measure by measure, the wine soured, the players sagged, the harp lost its tone, the shrieking girls hid their faces to weep, and the company grew sullen, while Dirk Tallow glared about him.