Quillifer the Knight

by Walter Jon Williams

  “This is not in a monastery,” said Floria, “and it is called a squint.” She raised her head to scrutinize me. “Though sometimes I wish this were a monastery. I might better be able to preserve my ladies’ virtue. You have corrupted Mistress d’Altrey, and now your engineer seems to have won the heart of Mistress Ransome.” She made a scoffing sound. “Pilgrim’s toes, she must be twice his age!”

  “I think the gap is not so great,” said I. “But in any case, I would be hard put to speak against a true meeting of mind and heart.”

  Floria narrowed her eyes. “If it were only minds and hearts meeting, that could more easily be borne. It is ill enough that Marcella is forever being mistaken for a courtesan—but as it now stands, I could be accused of running a bagnio.”

  “Highness,” said I, “I would challenge anyone who made such an accusation.”

  “I will take in that what comfort I may,” said Floria. “Still, it is my business to see my ladies well married if that is what they desire, and I will not stand in their way.”

  “I’m sure Mistress Tavistock is grateful.”

  “She will marry a rich and titled man,” said Floria. “But what are Mistress d’Altrey’s prospects? Will you marry her, Sir Quillifer?”

  This question was so surprising that I had to take a moment to recover my wits. I had come, after all, to talk about a canal.

  “You would promote the marriage of a butcher’s son with the niece of a marquess?” I asked.

  “That niece comes without a penny but what I give her,” said Floria. “And I am surprised you disparage yourself in those terms.”

  “I know full well what I am,” said I. “I have heard ‘butcher’s son’ often enough from those who resent me, and no doubt I will hear it for the rest of my life.”

  “If Mistress d’Altrey is to marry,” said Floria, “it must be to a rich man, and I believe you are wealthy. But such a marriage, Quillifer, will bring nothing to you, for her nearest kin are dead and cannot use their influence on your behalf, and the family money and property are gone.” She lifted her chin and directed a thoughtful gaze at me. “Will your ambition permit a connection that brings so little?”

  “Mistress d’Altrey is so well born that the connection cannot help but raise me in the public estimation,” said I. “But such a marriage might debase her in that same estimation.”

  “Well,” said Floria. “Any debasement is up to Mistress d’Altrey, I suppose. But what of Mistress Ransome?” Floria picked up a jeweled box and toyed with it. “Where is this Mountmirail from? What prospects has he?”

  “His father is a gentleman from Dun Foss, near the border.”

  A dry laugh escaped Floria’s lips. “Any gentleman of Dun Foss might more properly be called a sheep farmer,” she said.

  “And Master Mountmirail’s prospects,” I said, “include becoming the chief engineer of Her Royal Highness Floria’s Ethlebight Canal.”

  Floria smiled. “That prospect may be a little premature.”

  “I hope not, Highness.”

  “Mistress Ransome tells me that he has not yet begun work on his antihydraulic mortar.”

  “I think that term has too many syllables, Your Highness,” said I. “It is too complicated for the average investor, who prefers his information in dainty bites. May I suggest ‘caement,’ from the Aekoi caementicium, which is what the ancients called their mortar.”

  “That is a fine, classical name for a thing that does not yet exist,” said Floria. “But I would call it ‘water-proof,’ which is a small enough morsel for these investors of yours, and more to the point besides.”

  “The royal sponsor of a canal,” said I, “may call an element of that canal anything she desires.”

  Floria offered a thin smile. “Well,” she said. “I see you have brought a folder of papers. Perhaps we should view them.”

  We spent a pleasant half hour discussing the canal and its prospects, and then Floria’s steward said that the Marquess of Sylcaster wished to pay his respects.

  “Pick up your papers, Quillifer,” said Floria. “For Sylcaster is so ancient that I must see him before he drops dead.”

  “As you wish, Highness.”

  Sylcaster, I knew, had been King Stilwell’s privy seal. Perhaps he was hoping to regain his office under a new administration.

  I picked up my papers and made my way to the door. Floria touched my arm.

  “If you see Mistress d’Altrey,” she said, “you may tell her that I will not need her till tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Highness.”

  I took my leave and bowed to Sylcaster as we passed each other in the parlor. He was indeed very old, and to keep himself warm wrapped himself in a robe of sable fur. He wore thick spectacles tied over his ears with black ribbon, and leaned on a stick. Yet it was ambition, I thought, that had brought him here, a decrepit half-ghost grizzlepate come to pay court to a princess.

  You also I found in the parlor, garbed in splendid black satin with beads of jet, and I passed on Floria’s message.

  “I am dressed to entertain the highest of the realm,” you said, “and may not wear these clothes in your galley. I will ride to your house in an hour.”

  “Mistress.” I kissed your fingers and made my impatient way from Wenwyn Hall.

  As we pulled away from the quay, I began to think how Floria had eased our meeting, even though she complained her ladies might bring her scandal. I thought there might be purpose behind this leniency, and that she wanted the two of us together, perhaps so that she could pass messages to the outside.

  I rejoiced in this idea, for not only did I have leave to see you, but through you I might have knowledge of some of the great doings of the realm.

  * * *

  “The King of Loretto and Duisland is less than a year old,” you said. “There will have to be a regency council in both realms, and Floria intends to have a place on that of Duisland, and make her voice heard through the realm.”

  “Will Fosco even allow it?”

  “It may not be up to Fosco. If the peers unite, he will have no choice but to submit.”

  “The last time the peers tried to unite, two of them went to prison.”

  We were in my parlor, you leaning on my shoulder as we shared a couch before the hearth. You were dressed in the riding clothes you had worn on your horseback journey to Rackheath House, and we drank from goblets of warming hippocras that tasted of cinnamon and spice. In the kitchen, Harry Noach was making our dinner.

  “Fosco cannot arrest every noble in the realm,” you said. “For one thing, the nobles of Loretto would begin to wonder if they were next, and that would make trouble their realm cannot afford.”

  “I fear your optimism,” said I. “And Floria’s. Fosco and Edevane are united in their fear of her.”

  You raised your head to look at me, your black eyes intent. “And if Her Highness fails against Fosco? What will you do? Can you help Floria in some way?”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “What can I do without money?” I turned to the fire and took a sip of the hippocras. “If only I could cash that letter of credit from the Oberlin Fraters Bank.”

  “You have money in that bank?”

  “I do, but little. But I have a letter on that bank for a fortune, and no way to cash it.”

  I explained that the letter of credit was in the name of Charles Morland, which was a name used by the bandit Sir Basil of the Heugh. He had deposited his loot in that bank, which had branches abroad, and intended to carry the letter of credit to Steggerda, where he would begin his life over. But ill fortune brought him to Longfirth, where I had tried to arrest him and killed him instead. I had found the letter of credit in his boot.

  “That letter is for over fourteen thousand royals!” said I. “That is enough money to build a ship of six hundred tons, or buy this house from the Count of Rackheath. But I am not Charles Morland, and I know not Morland’s passwords, nor do I have his seal, and without these I cannot hav
e the money.” I looked at you. “This is exactly the sort of action that would stir you, for Sir Basil was the strong man who plundered others, and I am the stronger man who plundered him—but alas, I am thwarted by a set of clerks in a counting-house. If I only knew the bank’s secrets, I could fill my pockets with gold.”

  I saw the deep calculation moving behind your eyes, and I knew you were contemplating some bold action, and I felt my heart throb in anticipation.

  “I believe I know—a person—at that bank,” you said. “He is a kinsman of mine.”

  I kissed your lips in gratitude and adoration. “Can you sound him out?”

  You pressed your lips together in thought. “May I show him this letter of credit?”

  “I don’t keep it here.”

  You frowned a little. “He will award himself a fee, to compensate for the danger.”

  I waved a hand. “If the fee is not extortionate, I have no objection.”

  There was a soft knock on the door. You detached yourself from my person and sat up straight, so as not to shock the servants with a scene of intimacy.

  “Yes?” I said.

  A footman opened the door. “Supper is ready, master, an it please you.”

  “Thank you.” I rose from the couch and helped you to your feet. I was half-dizzy with the thought of the evening to come: a fine supper, an evening of pleasure with you that might stretch on into the morning, and the possibility of riches dropping into my lap like a rain of gold from heaven.

  Surely, I thought, sure in your love I was the most fortunate of men.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Again I walked through the room filled with clerks and their papers tied with blue and scarlet ribbon, and I waited by the door of Edevane’s office for the page to call me in. My breath smoked in front of my face, and for warmth I wore my old cheviot overcoat with my wool boat cloak over it. A slow winter storm had crept over Howel the night before and dusted the ground with snow. The sun was now doing its best to turn the snow to mud, but the freezing temperature was obstinate and would not rise. Gems of frost spread themselves on the windows, and there had been tiny ice crystals floating on the surface of the lake.

  At last the page beckoned me in, and I walked into Edevane’s office, which was rosy with the blaze on the hearth. He wore a white ruff over his black velvet doublet, and gems I had sold him glittered on his fingers. His dead-fish eyes rose to mine.

  “What have you to report, Lord Warden?” he said.

  “My deputy Peel has reported from Longfirth, your lordship,” said I. “He is aboard the pinnace Able, and by now will have sailed to Fornland, where he will spend the winter exterminating the kitlings.”

  Edevane’s look betrayed his impatience. “I care not about kitlings, Sir Quillifer,” he said. “I have asked you to report on Her Highness Floria.”

  “Her Highness seems willing to sponsor the Ethlebight Canal.” And then, seeing his frown, I added, “Though to speak truth, I know not whether in the current state of affairs this will aid the canal, or hinder it.”

  He tapped the fingers of his right hand against the fingers of his left. “There is only one way for this canal to be built,” he said in his soft, toneless voice. “And that is if the government moves the bill through the Estates, and if the viceroy gives his assent.” He nodded. “I can have this bill passed at any time, but other business must take precedence. Her Highness Floria, for example, must be secured from the influence of Duisland’s enemies.”

  “How can I help your lordship in this matter?”

  He placed his hands on his desk. “Who visits Her Highness?”

  I raised my hands. “I’m sure you have a more complete list than I, my lord. But I have seen Lord Sylcaster; Lord Chancellor Oldershaw; Baron Berardinis, who held Longfirth for Queen Berlauda; the Count of Culme; and Viscount Drumforce, Lord Scutterfield’s son.”

  “Drumforce,” said Edevane. “He preaches sedition, like his father.”

  “He preaches it not in my hearing,” said I. “They are all very grand people, and they do not speak to the likes of me.”

  “What matters is not what they say to you,” said Edevane, “but what they say to Her Highness.”

  “She speaks to them privately in her study,” said I. “Her ladies guarantee propriety, by watching from the next room through a hagioscope.”

  “You mean a squint?” Edevane’s corpse eyes fixed mine, as cold as the frost on the window. “You must find me evidence of this treason, Lord Warden.”

  I composed myself carefully, and donned my learnèd-advocate face. “Do you wish me to perjure myself?” I said.

  Contempt twitched at the corner of his mouth. “That is hardly necessary, if you are clever enough. Find me a letter. Overhear a conversation. Offer to join a conspiracy. Say you will bear messages. We know the treason exists, we need only find proof.”

  “Of what,” said I, “does this treason consist?”

  “There is a plot by powerful men,” he said, “to supplant King Aguila and to place Princess Floria on the throne, then rule the realm through Floria and the Council.”

  This, I thought, was even possible—though if the conspiracy existed, it underestimated Floria.

  “I will do my best, my lord,” said I. “But, as I have said, these grand folk do not speak to me.”

  “You are an expert at insinuating yourself into the company of men grander than yourself,” Edevane said. “Exercise your talent. And if you bring me what I need, the Ethlebight Canal will flow.”

  It could not be put more plainly than that. At the cost of Floria’s freedom, my prostrate city of Ethlebight would rise again to prosperity.

  “I am your servant,” said I. “But, my lord, do you know of anyone else in Floria’s household that I could trust? Two might work at this better than one.”

  Again that contemptuous turn of the mouth. “You whispering in corners with a servant? It would attract notice.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “Hold yourself ready for the Estates to meet in two days. The warrants will go out later today.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  I made ready to leave and wrapped my boat cloak about me. Edevane raised a hand. “And if what you find for me is good,” said he, “you will secure one of the monopolies.”

  * * *

  I made my way out of Edevane’s domain with my head spinning, and I found myself wandering Ings Magna half in a daze, wondering where and how to proceed from this moment. By chance I encountered Coronel Lipton, who was scowling his way down the grand marble staircase toward the palace entrance. I hailed him.

  “You look not well, youngster,” he said.

  “I confide I am at a loss,” said I.

  “I will drink a glass of wine with you,” said he, “and either the wine will settle your wits, or it will send them entirely astray, and either way you will be in better case than you are now. But you will have to lay down the silver for it, for the pay of my regiment is five months in arrears, and I have just applied for it to the exchequer, and been rebuffed.”

  We went to the officers’ mess, drank hock, and enjoyed a mess of eels taken that morning from the lake. I could not speak frankly to him of my problem, for others in the mess might overhear, but from the conversation I understood that the officers of the artillery were greatly discontented. The artillery, requiring an abundance of technical skill, did not attract lords or rich men, but instead clever officers of humble backgrounds who had to live on their pay. Now they were all at the mercy of moneylenders, and the interest rates were high.

  “And the Queen’s Own Horse, and the Yeoman Archers? For the officers may have money, but the ordinary soldiers do not.”

  Lipton sighed. “They do not starve, but neither have they got new clothes or shoes, and their pay is as far in arrears as mine. Perhaps it will be better when Lord Barkin returns with his companies from Loretto. Barkin may know someone near the viceroy who can shake loose our money.”

>   “I will be right glad to see Lord Barkin again,” said I. “And we of the Burgesses are trying even now to root out your pay from wherever it lies hidden. Yet I am surprised that you are not all marching to the fighting in Thurnmark.”

  “We guard the monarch. But now the monarch is dead, and we guard the viceroy instead.”

  “The Pilgrim send you better employment.”

  Lipton informed me of the circumstances of King Priscus’s death. He and King Henrico had determined to besiege and take Seaux-en-Laco, but the siege began late in the season, and before the city fell, it was time for the army to seek its winter quarters. But as the army was well supplied where it stood, and since the previous winter’s campaign had been such a success, the decision was taken for the army’s winter quarters to consist of its own siege camps. Which worked well, apparently, until the fever began to rage through the trenches.

  “For siege camps are unhealthy places, youngster,” said Lipton, “and we soldiers always pray to be delivered from long sieges. And now both kings are dead, and what remains of the army is dragging itself home.”

  “I feel as if Howel itself is under siege,” said I. “And I fear that a fever may soon rise.”

  Lipton’s face was grim. “That it may,” said he, “and I hope we are both spared.”

  * * *

  Afterward I went to the house of Her Highness, and after waiting a while in the parlor, I was called to an interview in Floria’s study. She had been writing, for I saw ink on her fingers and a bottle of Q Sable on the desk. I saw your lovely face through the squint, and saw you were reading a book, or pretending to.

  As briefly as possible I told Floria of my interview with Edevane. “He says that he wishes to protect you from harmful influence,” said I, “but I hardly think he will stop at anything short of placing you under arrest, or possibly on the scaffold.”

  “This is not precisely news to me,” said Floria. “Yet I do not know how to evade that gentleman’s malice.”