Whiskeyjack

by Victoria Goddard

  The quiet man was unmoved. “I am Cornelius Quent, Detective Inspector on the Flying Murder Squad out of Yrchester. And you, young man, are charged with the murder—”

  On these words the door banged open again. I looked away from Inspector Quent to see quivering in the doorway a vision of late Astandalan aristocratic privilege in all its glory. Mrs. Etaris stepped out of the way without losing her smile.

  She was not tall, was rather thin, and had probably never been particularly beautiful, but the Marchioness of the Woods Noirell had presence.

  “Who are you and what are you doing with my grandson?” she demanded with no preamble whatsoever.

  “I am Inspector Quent, ma’am,” said Inspector Quent again, with commendable patience. “This young man is charged with the murder of Fitzroy Angursell in the form of a dragon.”

  He said it with no indication he had noticed the absurdity. I could not see his face clearly, so I watched the audience, whose number was even now being swelled by the arrival of Hal, who went over immediately to stand next to Mrs. Etaris, out of the way of my grandmother’s exceedingly wide skirts. His ankle must not have been sprained at all, I realized, merely twisted, if he was wandering around town without apparent discomfort.

  The Scholars all appeared half-amused, half-shocked; Mrs. Etaris and Hal were entirely amused; I could not see my father behind the bulk of Dominus Lukel; and my grandmother lifted her elaborately coiffed head and stared gimlet-like at the Inspector.

  “And what authority have you?”

  “I am a Detective Inspector on the Flying Murder Squad out of Yrchester, ma’am.”

  His voice was still polite; I was impressed.

  “Rondelan police?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you are three times a fool.”

  He did blink at this round condemnation; I’d decided to watch him instead of the audience. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “One cannot murder a dragon. It is in the laws.”

  Why, I wondered, did both my grandmother and my uncle know this fact? It hadn’t even occurred to me to look it up, let alone that there would be some sort of precedent in the laws to deal with the (in fiction, at least) heroic slaughter of supposedly mythological monsters.

  I was never going to make a good lawyer.

  “Moreover, that dragon was not Fitzroy Angursell. It was drawn from the wild lands to test my grandson for his suitability as my heir.”

  That was what the dragon had said. It seemed a likelier thing for my grandmother to know. Inspector Quent’s face was discomposed. I sympathized. An elderly gorgon dressed in a wild late court style from her iron curls to her be-panniered incarnadine skirts was not what anyone expected.

  “And third, and by far the most important: as a Rondelan policeman you have no authority to lay hands or charges on a person of Imperial rank.”

  For the first time Inspector Quent appeared genuinely perturbed. “Mr. Greenwing is not—”

  “Mr. Greenwing is not his title, Inspector,” said my grandmother with enormous majesty. “He is the Viscount St-Noire, and he is not to be touched by the likes of you.”

  I had no idea if that privilege still held after the Fall, but the mere thought of it made my blood boil.

  “One moment,” I began.

  “Now is not the time for radical politics,” Hal said firmly, and with even more splendid grandeur stepped forward in his full ducal mode and swept a court bow to my grandmother. “Marchioness.”

  Everyone stirred and rearranged around this new figure, like iron filings on the introduction of a magnet. I caught a glimpse of my father’s smile as Dominus Lukel shook his head (Hal, I feared, had never been one of his favourite students). It was hard to tell whether amusement or disbelief was foremost in anyone else’ minds.

  My grandmother unbent enough to produce a taut, but perfectly correct, curtsey. “Duke.”

  The general rearrangement had brought Baroness Temby into my grandmother’s line of sight. The Marchioness, to my awe, managed to rise to a still greater height of offended pride.

  “If you have come on an errand to marry off that daughter of yours, rest you assured that I will never grant the Viscount my blessing to court her.”

  To my even greater astonishment, Baroness Temby actually blushed. Behind her my father raised a hand to his mouth to hide his expression. Inspector Quent’s face was a study in professional composure and human amusement. I decided I liked Inspector Quent, even if he let go of my wrist but did not move away from his position, which kept mine firmly behind the counter.

  I decided it was time to add a stir to the pot. “My lord duke has mentioned that his aunt Honoria has been compiling a list of eligible ladies.” I presented this without further comment, and was delighted by Hal’s subsequent fight to retain his equilibrium.

  “Honoria Leaveringham always was a great snob,” the Marchioness said with great satisfaction. “I am pleased to hear you taking an interest in your duty, Viscount. I came into town today to discuss your coming-of-age ball.”

  The only thing that occurred to me to say was the truth: “My birthday isn’t until February, Marchioness.”

  “What of it? To do things correctly takes time. It is all too unfortunate that you cannot be presented at the Imperial court.”

  She made this sound as if it were my fault. I wondered briefly what she would make of my father’s reappearance, and rather looked forward to that revelation when it came. I gave her a half-bow, as I was still obstructed by the counter. “I comprehend, Grandmama, and am grateful for your solicitude, but perhaps we might discuss it another day? The Chancellor of Morrowlea has come with her fellow Scholars to see the dragon, and I would feel most remiss in courtesy to keep them waiting even for so, er, joyous a cause.”

  If I recalled my lessons correctly, the Chancellor of one of the Circle Schools was of equal rank to an Imperial Count, and rumours at Morrowlea had made our elegant Chancellor to have been originally a Ystharian princess of very high degree and delightfully scandalous activities.

  “The sentiment does you credit,” my grandmother said at last.

  I remembered something my mother had once told me, that some people loved nothing so much as having others indebted to them. Knowing that I would probably regret it in future, but fairly sure that my grandmother was one of that number, I smiled as winningly as I could. “Grandmama, did you by any chance come in your coach?”

  “Of course I did. I am not some flighty young debutante to ride!”

  This was said with a glance at the Chancellor, whose smile now was faintly appreciative. The stories passed down from student to student at Morrowlea had the Chancellor escaping an arranged marriage to run off with a troupe of acrobats, which was surely not entirely true.

  “It would be most gracious and generous of you to permit us to borrow it, as the dragon is in Dartington and I’m sure the Scholars will have certain tools with them.”

  I larded on the compliments for—I swear—several minutes. Eventually I persuaded her to come herself (for she was not going to let her carriage go off without her, and dismissed the idea of visiting any of the townspeople with a magnificent snort of disdain) to see General Ben, whom she recalled from the year they had been presented at court, some time in the halcyon days of the Empress Anyoë.

  Everyone finally filtered out but myself still behind the counter, Inspector Quent still blocking my exit, and Mrs. Etaris holding the door. She shut the door behind my father, who contrived to give the impression that he’d been stuck in the corner as an uninvolved bystander that whole time, and looked at me. “May I expect you tomorrow morning, Mr. Greenwing?”

  “Presuming I am neither waylaid nor arrested, yes.”

  “You need only send me a message if another claim on your time appears.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Etaris.”

  Inspector Quent said, “You are quite certain, I presume, Mrs. Etaris, that the dragon was not an enchanted human being?”
>
  “I am no wizard, and certainly no expert in such metamorphosis, but insofar as can be reasonably adjudged, then yes, I am quite certain.”

  “Not even Fitzroy Angursell?” The inspector pulled out a leather-bound notebook from his pocket and made a note in it.

  Mrs. Etaris hung up her coat on the hook behind the door and pulled out a long hatpin from her millinery. I eyed the eight-inch spike with respect. Now there was a usefully hidden weapon. It wasn’t needed for a man’s tricorner, alas, unless it was as liberally bestowed with feathers as the one Violet had sported on her visit. Mrs. Etaris’ confections seemed to need the spike to balance. The question occurred to me whether she favoured the abundance of decorations in order to warrant the hatpin.

  “I can’t imagine why you should think that would make a difference, but I am convinced it was not the infamous poet: the dragon demonstrated no indication of a sense of humour beyond dry irony, which was hardly Fitzroy Angursell’s style.”

  “I do defer to your literary judgment, Mrs. Etaris, as you know. Mr. Greenwing, will you permit me to accompany you on this scholarly mission to examine the dragon? Quite apart from completing my assigned task—which is to see justice prevail, I assure you—I am curious.”

  Mrs. Etaris seemed to know him, and moreover, like him; even respect him, if I read the look in her eyes correctly. I smiled and half-bowed. “I have no objections, Inspector, though I fear there will be insufficient room in the carriage.”

  He was not quite composed enough to hide his relief. “I shall fetch my horse from the hotel stables. You go towards Dartington?”

  “It’s in the old granary at the edge of the five-acre field,” I said.

  Mrs. Etaris nodded and promised to give directions. Inspector Quent laughed and said he might prefer a map, if past results were any indication. I left Mrs. Etaris laughing, and wondered what their shared past was for a few pleasant moments before the complicated present once more overwhelmed me.

  THERE WAS NOT ENOUGH room in the coach for everyone, for all that it was an antique falarode drawn by six horses and theoretically seated ten.

  The male Scholar was not a small man; neither (for the opposite reason) was Dominus Lukel; and one glance at the Marchioness’ pink skirts was sufficient to know she wasn’t going to share her seat very well.

  “I shall ride with the coachman,” I announced. Jack had already made his unobtrusive away around the horses’ heads to speak with him.

  “What, like a commoner?”

  I was ready for this. I gave my grandmother my best court bow, in the form appropriate for heir to incumbent of an imperial title between count and duke, which I had practicing under Hal’s tutelage for just such an occasion. Hal’s lips twitched; so did the Chancellor’s.

  “Madam, it will be an honour to guide such a noble assemblage on its way. A Duke Imperial—a Marchioness Imperial—the Chancellor of Morrowlea—three Scholars of three of the most superlative universities of the Nine Worlds—there is, I assure you, nothing common about it.”

  “Harrumph,” said the Marchioness, but Hal was a good teacher (as had been the Etiquette Master at Morrowlea), and in morbid curiosity I had looked in the books to determine where my putative rank stood in relation to the rest. I had not yet come of age, nor been officially recognized by the law in my title, and under those conditions Scholars of the Circle Schools outranked me.

  Hal made a face at me as he climbed the stairs after the Chancellor. I wished him well of the monologue my grandmother would likely inflict on them, shut the door, and climbed up on the box seat.

  The coachman spoke morosely. “I am surrounded by Greenwings, one not to be called by that name, and t’other ought not be.”

  The coachman had, in my opinion, some relation to the Good Neighbours whose boundaries were folded through the Woods like the cream in a blackcurrant fool, and seemed to take great (if somewhat subterranean) delight in gnomic pronouncements and strangely-obtained knowledge. “Mr. Fancy, can your horses bear eight?”

  “Eh, they’ve had a long rest. Ain’t had a full load since your mother’s marriage.”

  “Isn’t that the time everybody but the wedding party got lost?” Jack said.

  “Eh, I wasn’t coachman,” replied Mr. Fancy, flicking his long whip to start the horses off. I glanced at my father, but his face was uninformative. Perhaps the whip bothered him; perhaps it didn’t. “How’s your driving, young sir?”

  I watched as he took a far tighter corner than I would ever have tried with six horses and a falarode. Several pedestrians scattered; more stared after the monstrous assemblage. Jack slouched and tugged down a shapeless felt hat. I settled mine on my head, wished for Mrs. Etaris’ hatpin, and found a discreet handhold. “Not good enough to drive a coach-and-six through town, Mr. Fancy.”

  “Not many as can,” he replied complacently, and touched the horses up to a rolling trot. We had to go directly down the centre of the road, as there was no room for us otherwise.

  The horses (I guessed) saw a relatively open route ahead of them—occupied as it was merely by a handful of schoolchildren, several women with baskets, Mr. Kim the fishmonger’s assistant with a barrow, said barrow full of fish and what must have been either the last or the first ice of the season; someone’s wandering rooster; a small white dog; and a flock of pigeons. Apparently disdaining all these as obstacles, the six black horses set forward at a dead run down the slope towards the old humpback bridge over the Rag that all the waggoners complained about.

  “You’re, er, not going to try the humpback bridge, surely?” I asked.

  “Eh, it’s not exactly the Leap,” said Mr. Fancy, and sprung the horses.

  I gave up on remonstrance and looked for something to hold on to.

  The carriage hit a small bump before the bridge and launched itself into the air. It landed on the crest, bounced up again to miss the entire awkward dismount of the bridge, and the horses, encouraged by Mr. Fancy, cantered on up the hill to the highway.

  “That’ll clean out the cobwebs,” said my father. He was grinning in wild delight: and my heart clenched at the way that his face was lit like the portrait of him as a young man.

  “Too right,” said Mr. Fancy. The horses settled down to their rolling trot again, a plume of dust from a sudden gust of wind catapulted me into a series of all-too-familiar sneezes, and my father laughed aloud. The coachman carefully put his whip into its holder. “Now then, lads, tell me the news from outside the Woods. I heard tell as the young lord was found naked as a babe in a barrel at the edge of the Forest?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Anatomy of a Dragon

  “We shall have to go back into the Forest,” my father said.

  I nodded, unable to speak through convulsive sneezes no less odious for being familiar. I had recovered from the dust, but then we had turned onto the main highway and into a cloud of thick smoke from someone’s bonfire.

  “We shall have to consult the Wild Saint, if we can find him. There’s the Hunter in Green to consider.”

  I nodded again through my sneezes, though I was mystified. Was it possible they were the same person? But I could not speak through the smoke, and my father moved on to chat with Mr. Fancy: old stories of when Jack had been courting my mother the Lady Olive, and battle stories, for Mr. Fancy had, it appeared, gone on one of the shorter campaigns for an ‘adventure’, which he seemed to have more than found.

  I watched the road unspooling ahead of the six black horses and sneezed intermittently and felt physically awful and emotionally down. The edge of doubt was still there, though now directed to my father’s views of my life.

  It was as irrational to dread his ability to comprehend as it was to dread his imposture. The repeated inward argument did not melt the suspicions or worries. Too many times I sneezed and caught him looking wonderingly at me. It might have been a trick of eyepatch, hat-shadow, dark beard, that made those glances seem tinged with disdain, dismay, disapproval, dislike.

  It mig
ht have been: but the cold sludgy doubts would not let me rationalize those fears away.

  So I watched the highway with blind eyes, and sneezed, and shivered, a felt a deep malaise very much only partially physical. I was glad withal when Inspector Quent cantered up to join us just before the White Cross and the Dartly Road.

  I turned away from the waystone, hoping the movement was masked by the need to grab hold of the seat-back as the coach made the turn. My father reached at the same time along to grab the rail and clasped my hand instead.

  For a moment I felt an almost physical pain as my heart tried simultaneously to leap with joy and congeal with horror. Then we were around the turn, and Jack let go to resettle himself, and Mr. Fancy asked me for directions to the old granary, and I tried with all my might to be the aloof and nonchalant young gentleman I ought to have been.

  IN DEATH AS IN LIFE the dragon was compelling.

  The old granary was on the edge of the five-acre field given over to the Harvest Fair. It had been the tithe-barn for the region back when Ragnor still gave its taxes to the Empire in the form of grain and other produce. That practice had ceased with the development of better forms of agriculture and the annexation of better grasslands. Dartington and the rest of the barony had come to pay their taxes in gold and their tithes in art and service, and the old granary was thenceforth used for extraordinary surplus, for winter assemblies, and for occasional musters or other storage.

  The dragon lay outstretched down the centre of the room. It was a wooden hall, with a beautiful hammer-beam roof, exalted as a church and far lovelier than the baron’s new one. It had a band of windows the whole length of each wall, high up under the eaves. It was not far off midday when we arrived, and even the low November sun slanted down golden as summer, catching thousands of dust motes sparkling.

  The air smelled of bitter saffron and honey of the Woods and the rich warmth of the hay that had been in here last. There was no hint of corruption to my nose, for all the dragon had been dead a month.