Whiskeyjack

by Victoria Goddard

  The Black Priest shoved me with all his strength. I staggered back, lost sight of those on the bank, and as my head snapped back I saw bright spots in the air—

  Boom went the drum.

  A horn sang out.

  It was a hunting horn, the kind fox-hunters used to sound out the hunt. It sang out sweet and loud and penetrating:

  Too-ra Too-ra Too-ra

  It echoed off the cliffs until its sound seemed to shake the bridge with its power.

  Too-ra Too-ra Too-ra-ra-ra

  I knew that call. Roald Ragnor had gone on about the county fox-hunting calls for a full half-hour a week ago. He had been drunk, and witty, and I had drunk enough to encourage him to imitate the horn-calls in his own not-very-good singing voice.

  Too-ra Too-ra Too-ra-ra-ra

  That was the warning-call for a flooding river.

  It was my turn to use all my strength to swing the Black Priest around. I could not force his arms back, could barely hold him away from my face, but I could turn us both until I could see upriver, up the gorge, up the Gate of the Strid.

  All I could see was white.

  The Turning of the Waters—

  First the red foam of algal bloom as Crimson Lake came down.

  Then the water dropped through a sinkhole or something that was opened once every seven years, when the cult priests wanted to do their rituals on the Bridges into Shadows.

  And then the waters turned white, white as the Lady of Winter whose season started tomorrow. White for winter, for innocence, and for hope.

  White for wool, or mountain clouds, or the wool pulled over your eyes.

  White for purity, for divinity, and for death.

  White for the full flood of the Magarran river thundering down like a lightning bolt into its Strid.

  White for the knife the Black Priest was even now using my distraction to thrust straight at my face.

  I DROPPED INTO A PLACE as far beyond the world of terror as the dream of my mother.

  I dropped down into a crouch, knowing that the water had plunged down into the depths of its gorge and was even now leaping up to fill its cataracts to the fullness of their flood.

  The Black Priest had to twist his body slightly so that he could correct the trajectory of the knife to my new position.

  Knowing exactly what it would mean, understanding for the first time why my father could have stood there at the Gate of Morning knowing there would be no relief, glad that I had had this week of knowing him—

  As the knife came down against the pressure of my hands I kicked back against the stone and flipped the Black Priest over my head and myself over my heels off the bridge.

  THE BLACK PRIEST HIT the water and tore immediately from my grip into the grip of the river.

  LIKE SO MANY ASTANDALANS before me—for I was a child of the Empire, whatever the new order might be—I had entirely forgotten the possibility of wild magic.

  I HIT THE WATER AND skidded across the surface like a stone across a millpond to fetch up at the feet of Mr. Dart.

  MY FATHER REACHED DOWN and grabbed my hand to pull me up the three feet to what was now the top of the bank rather than the top of the gorge.

  I stood there, catching my breath and my realization that I had not just died in the Strid.

  I stared at Mr. Dart, whose eyes were as white as the water.

  Far away on the top of the peak the horn-player was now sounding out the triumphant notes of the end of a successful hunt.

  “It’s the Hunter in Green,” Hal said, pointing up. I realized that it was, and that he was shielding Mr. Dart, and that no one else knew who had performed that act of magic.

  I took a deep breath, and then another. Mr. Dart put his outthrust hand back into his pocket, blinking until his eyes were once again blue. My father said: “And just what do you think you were doing, young man?”

  He was still holding my hand. I smiled weakly at him. “I was hoping we might be able to have some lessons on tactics, Ja—Papa.”

  “You’re alive,” said my uncle, staring at both of us. “You were alive the whole time. You’re alive.”

  My father reached up with his free hand to ruffle my hair. “Yes.” And he smiled at me. “Yes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Last Will and Testament of Benneret Buchance

  My uncle had been made Acting Chief Magistrate when Justice Talgarth had been encouraged to take a hiatus while the legal situation with his wife (who had permitted her sister to grow wireweed on their premises) was resolved.

  No one was very clear on all of Sir Vorel’s crimes, but as he had somewhat piteously asked the Chief Constable to arrest him as soon as he had recovered his ability to speak after crying on my father’s feet for a while, it was apparent he was in no fit state to oversee the Winterturn Assizes.

  Mr. Etaris, the Chief Constable, made these announcements from the stairs of the town hall at the stroke of ten o’clock on the first morning of the Winterturn Assizes. There was a very good crowd to hear him, bigger even than was usual for the first day of the Assizes. A great many rumours had flowed out of the Forest along with us.

  Dressed in a mostly-completed winter-weight suit (I had begged the tailor almost in tears the night before to make sure I had something fit to wear for the morning; he had finished everything except the waistcoat and a few parts of the coat lining), I stood next to Hal and Mr. Dart. Mrs. Buchance and her daughters stood on my other side, with most of the Embroidery Circle close by to give support, and two men in Charese clothing who must have been my stepfather’s business partners, here for the Fiellanese portion of his estate; Ben, the Chancellor, and my father stood with Master Dart and Sir Hamish on the other side. It was cold, with the odd snowflake drifting down. I wished the gloves had been ready at the haberdashers’.

  For a wild moment I feared that we would not be able to finish the probate of my stepfather’s will after all. Then the Chief Constable turned to gesture at Mr. Tey, who stood close by the bottom of the stairs. Mr. Tey floated up the five stairs to stand next to Mr. Etaris, his every movement languid and delicate. Mr. Morres stumped up more normally beside him.

  “I am Mr. Tey of the Kingsford Chancery,” he said, and gestured delicately at Mr. Morres. “This is my colleague, Mr. Morres.”

  Mr. Morres nodded. I could see that everyone appreciated his less rarefied approach (and more distantly audible voice) immediately. “We were sent to oversee several cases at the Assizes here, most notably those concerning the inheritance of the Marquisate of Noirell, whose heir had been listed as missing since the Fall, and certain items to do with the new whiskey tax, as well as to conduct some investigations whose results will come with time. We were therefore granted considerable authority by the King. We have consulted the law books and our mandate and are pleased to announce that we may appoint an interim Magistrate for this session. We have therefore chosen Master Torquin Dart, commonly known as the Squire of Dartington.”

  Master Dart made a harrumphing noise that did nothing to disguise how pleased he was and strode up the steps to stand beside the lawyers. He spoke with them briefly, nodded, and turned to the crowd. “We will follow the order of cases set by the town council. The first item is the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Benneret Buchance, a merchant of Chare who lived and died in this barony. Clerk of the Court, will you please hand me the document?”

  A bony woman in the dark green and white robes of the Assizes presented him with it. Master Dart held it up to demonstrate to the audience that the seals were intact. Then he said, “It is the law in Fiellan that a Will may be read only in the presence of all parties named within it. I shall read those listed on the envelope and request that those so named gather together at the bottom of the steps so that we may go into the court together. Do you all agree and abide?”

  There was a rumble of agreement through the crowd. Not very many people had left the square yet, even though the drama should (please the Lady) be through now that Master Dart had be
en appointed. Surely everyone knew by now that I’d come back to town?

  “Mrs. Elinor Buchance. Misses Lauren, Sela, Zangora, and Lamissa Buchance. Mrs. Elinor Inglesides. Mr. Jakory Inglesides. Mr. Harry Zuraine. Mr. Artorin Palaion. Major Jakory Greenwing. Mr. Jemis Greenwing.”

  He lowered the envelope again. The snow was coming down harder, but that didn’t obscure the puzzled expressions. The murmurs and whispers started when my father (still with his eyepatch, still dressed like a barely-solvent gentleman) walked with his head high and a small smile on his face away from Sir Hamish and joined us at the stairs. He clasped me on the shoulder, which I knew was partly for the benefit of the crowd and partly for his own comfort, but which I took for my own, too. I had no idea why my stepfather should have mentioned my father in his will.

  MASTER DART HAD READ out the names in the order in which they were listed in the will.

  We sat in the small room given over to such meetings. It had some historical paintings of indifferent artistry on the walls, uncomfortable wooden chairs, and a large desk with a throne-like seat behind it where the Squire sat. The Clerk of the Court sat at a smaller desk to one side to record matters, and we had Mr. Morres present as an outside witness, and another lawyer who turned out to be Mr. Buchance’s there for corroboration of any details.

  Master Dart harrumphed. “We shall not drag out this process; you have all waited long enough.” I squirmed a little, but not much because all my muscles were horribly sore, and because although I terribly regretted not writing and thereby missing the news and the summons, I no longer felt quite so guilty.

  “Mr. Safford, will you please give as an account of the writing and witnessing of this will?”

  Mr. Safford was an elderly man who looked as if he’d been dried out on a slow fire. I contemplated him, and Mr. Tey and Mr. Morres, and even Master Dart’s pleasure at being named Chief Magistrate.

  I had absolutely no desire to sit in any of their places.

  If I could not be a soldier of the Empire, what then? Perhaps I could work in the bookstore ... we had all the necessary material to prove my father’s innocence, which meant he would take over the management of the Arguty estate.

  He had lost his factor, for Harry Hagwood had been swept away by the flood.

  Mr. Safford cleared his throat. I jumped and looked guiltily at him. He sucked on his teeth for a moment, as if to be sure he held all of our attentions, and then spoke. His voice was a great contrast to his appearance, being as fruity as a Winterturn pudding. “As was his custom, on the birth of each of his children Benneret Buchance revised his will. Upon the birth of his last daughter, Lamissa, which coincided with the commencement of the last year of his stepson’s minority, he requested me to do a full rewrite of the will. Mr. Buchance wished to ensure that everything would be as he wished it should there be any sad misfortune, as indeed there was. The will’s revision took several iterations before Mr. Buchance was happy with it, as he was required to complete several transactions in Chare before all of his points could be assured. The final version was witnessed by myself and by Mr. Farquhart of my offices in May of this year.”

  After he had come to see me at Morrowlea on his way back from one of those business trips to Chare. He had asked me what I planned to do with myself after I graduated. I had spoken vaguely of sensible plans, although my mind was fragmenting with the latter stages of wireweed addiction and the devotion to Lark that would soon turn to betrayal. Mr. Buchance had told me he would see I would never starve: a turn of phrase that immediately pricked me, echoing as it did what my uncle had said to my mother and me when he had kicked us out of Arguty Manor.

  I had been proud, I supposed, and foolish, and perhaps truthful to my inner heart when I had told him I expected nothing from him but that he would treat his daughters by my mother equally with those by the second Mrs. Buchance. He had pressed me until I told him that I kept my father’s name and kept his inheritance—

  I had left him, smarting and angry at myself for hurting him, for I knew how badly he had wanted a son to carry on his name and business and family. And as I had climbed up the hill towards the towers of Morrowlea I had met Lark, who had tilted her head back so she could look at me from under the wide brim of her hat, and she had said, “Oh, let us be rebels, Jemis my love. Tell me about your family.”

  And I had.

  And she had taken that confession, that confidence, and written it as the arguments in her philippic for why Jakory Greenwing should not be admitted into the House of Fame ... and if I were correct in my surmise, she had also used it to hire Jakory Lindsary as the basis of Three Years Gone.

  “Mr. Greenwing?” said Master Dart. “Are you attending?”

  I flushed and bowed in my seat. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

  He nodded magisterially. “Then we may begin. Here is the Last Will and Testament of Benneret Buchance, born in Hillcrest, Chare, in the thirteenth year of the reign of the Emperor Eritanyr, died this eighth year after the Interim on the twelfth of July.”

  To my wife Elinor, the rents from my properties in Chare [an appendix is provided]; the full ownership of the house on Woolsack Lane and all of its contents except those specifically named below; the third portion of the income from my businesses in Chare [these were also to be found in the Appendix, said Master Dart].

  That was a splendid widow’s inheritance, especially since I was fairly sure she would also get (as a matter of course) all those moneys not otherwise apportioned out. I did not know the details of either the properties in Chare nor what the third portion of income from his businesses there, but all throughout the kingdom of Rondé (and, I was sure, far beyond its borders) people used the containers devised and produced by Benneret Buchance to store all the foodstuffs that in the past had been preserved with magic.

  To my daughters Lauren, Sela, Zangora, and Lamissa: to each a portion of one hundred and fifty thousand bees, to be allotted to them half upon their majority at 21 and half upon their marriage or their attaining the age of 27.

  That made them exceedingly wealthy heiresses. I was pleased that my soon-to-be-confirmed status as Viscount St-Noire might be of some assistance in launching them into society, though I felt that my best efforts in those lines would probably come from cultivating the interest of Hal’s Aunt Honoria.

  To my brother- and sister-in-law, Jakory and Elinor Inglesides, the outright title to those properties at no. 8 the Square and in Ragglebridge, and a gift of one hundred and fifty thousand bees to be divided up evenly among their children.

  How kind of him to think that Mrs. Buchance might not want to see her children’s cousins so far removed from her station. The boys would be able to start businesses or travel or go to universities they might otherwise be unable to afford; and if Mr. Inglesides himself rented rather than owned his bakery, that was all to the good.

  To Harry Zuraine and Mr. Artorin Palaion, the two portions of the income from my businesses in Chare. To Harry Zuraine also the library of books in my study at Woolsack Lane. To Artorin Palaion the library of books held in my offices in Chare.

  The two men stirred and smiled when this was read out. They had clearly expected the incomes; equally clearly the libraries meant something to them.

  To Major Jakory Greenwing (deceased).

  Master Dart paused here to look at Mr. Safford and the others present. “Having learned earlier this week of Major Greenwing’s, ah, status, to wit that he is alive and that it is provable he was framed as the traitor of Loe, I consulted with Mr. Morres and Mr. Tey with regards to this Will as well as the many other matters that will need to be sorted as a result of his unexpected happy return. While the law naturally makes a great deal more of those parties named in a will who predecease the one who named them, there is precedent in Fiellanese law for a party named as deceased within the will who turned out subsequently to be alive. In that case the money intended to go for a memorial was granted to the living person as a legacy.”

  Mr. Safford
nodded. “Indeed, the infamous case of Margery Cox. A very clear and apt parallel to this case.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Safford.” Master Dart turned back to the will. I realized I was growing nervous again.

  To Major Jakory Greenwing, in memory of the wife beloved to both of us and to the honour of the son whom we both love dearly: fifty thousand bees, to be used as Jemis Greenwing directs for the restoration of his good name and the subsequent exhumation and re-internment of his remains.

  “Oh,” said my father softly, looking much struck. We were sitting next to each other, so I could reach over the touch his hand. He smiled at me.

  And finally, to my stepson Jemis Greenwing, who expects nothing and requests nothing of me but my fairness to his sisters; who is in all ways a son to be proud of; who will believe my gift to his father’s memory sufficient: knowing that a son who has never faltered in loving and honouring his father’s name will never fail to honour this gift from his stepfather and use it to the best of his ability, which is considerable: with no requirements or conditions, I leave the remainder of my fortune.

  I opened my mouth.

  Mrs. Buchance was smiling at me.

  Mr. Zuraine and Mr. Palaion were also smiling at me.

  Mr. Safford said, “Mr. Buchance did ask me to make one condition, should he pass on before he had spoken with you about your future.” I stared at him. He smiled. “He asked me to ask you to reflect on the power of compounding interest before you make any plans to give it all away.”

  My father was smiling at me.

  I closed my mouth. There was no one to bow to, so I settled for saying, “Thank you.”

  At least it solved the problem of how to get the villagers of St-Noire through the winter.

  About the Author

  Victoria Goddard is a fantasy novelist, gardener, and occasional academic. She has a PhD in Medieval Studies from the University of Toronto, has walked down the length of England (and across that of Spain), and is currently a writer, cheesemonger, and gardener in the Canadian Maritimes.