Contents
Blurb
A Dozen or So Years after the Fall of Astandalas
Magic is out of fashion.
Good manners never are.
Jemis Greenwing returned from university with a broken heart, a bad cold, and no prospects beyond a problematic inheritance and a job at the local bookstore.
Ragnor Bella is a placid little market town on the road to nowhere, where Jemis’ family affairs have always been the main source of gossip. He is determined to keep his head down under the cover of his new employer’s devastating mastery of social etiquette, but falls quickly under the temptation of resuming the friendship of Mr. Dart of Dartington—land agent to his older brother the squire and beloved local daredevil—who is delighted to have Jemis’ company for what is, he assures him, a very small adventure.
Jemis expected the cut direct. The secret societies, criminal gangs, and cult to the old gods come as a complete surprise.
Book One of Greenwing & Dart, fantasies of manners—and mischief.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2016 by Victoria Goddard
Book design copyright © 2016 Victoria Goddard
ISBN: 978-0995027015
First published by Underhill Books in 2016.
Underhill Books
4183 Murray Harbour Road
Grandview, PEI C0A 1A0
www.underhillbooks.com
Dedication:
To my family, for all their support this year. Thank you.
Chapter One
The market town of Ragnor Bella in south Fiellan is generally considered a bucolic backwards sort of place, the sort of hometown you leave as soon as possible.
I left at eighteen to go to university; I hadn’t been planning on ever coming back.
Ragnor Bella’s major claims to fame, in the views of the one travel writer who discusses it, are the house of Chief Magistrate Talgarth, which is one of the finer examples of Late Bastard Decadent Imperial architecture in Northwest Oriole; the unparalleled and undefeated racehorse Jemis Swiftfoot, which was personally commended by Emperor Artorin; and the strange and disturbing history of Major Jakory Greenwing, who was also personally commended by Emperor Artorin, and subsequently arraigned as one of the worst traitors in Astandalan history.
As a result of a lost bet I was named Jemis after the racehorse, and the late Jakory Greenwing was my father, but I’d never had much to do with either the Talgarths or their house until I returned from university and, against all plans, preferences, and public advice, promptly acquired a job in the local bookstore. It probably tells you all you need to know about Ragnor Bella that we only have one. It’s run by one Mrs. Etaris, the Chief Constable’s wife.
It had been a beautiful summer, but by the time I got to Fiellan in September the autumn rains had set in in earnest. Friday morning, my first day of work, was no different, and although there were a few customers, none of whom I knew and all of whom ignored me, not very many people were havering for books.
“There’ll be more tomorrow,” Mrs. Etaris said to me, when I peered out the window at the rain and lack of custom in the square. At my blank look she added, “Market day.”
I dropped the curtain aside and petted the cat absently. “Oh, of course.”
“I generally close early on Friday, and open during the market.”
“I see.”
“Tomorrow should be quite busy, as certainly people will be interested to see you back in town.”
Since returning to town on Tuesday, I hadn’t seen anyone to speak of besides my family. Stepfamily. Stepfamily’s inlaws. “Mm.”
Mrs. Etaris smiled. “Why don’t you get us some coffee and nibbles from the bakery, Mr. Greenwing? Here’s a bee.”
It was raining when I left the bookstore, so I turned up the collar of my old coat, put on my new hat (bought in Leaveringham when seeing off Hal—or rather, since in Fiellan, as Mrs. Etaris informed me that morning, we do not follow the radical southern fashions of Morrowlea—his Grace the Right Honourable Duke of Fillering Pool), and dashed across the square with only a sideways glance at the pigeons pecking disconsolately at the ground outside the bakery.
I’d begun my studies at Morrowlea reading the History of Magic, and always liked the idea of haruspexy, divination by way of birds. That was a magic system that entered the Empire from somewhere far away from Northwest Oriole, and if it ever worked at all, it certainly didn’t now.
Not that it would be a good idea to try it, since my reputation was on shaky enough grounds as it was and magic was even more out of fashion in Ragnor Bella than first names. Not to mention that I had no gift at magic. Or that I changed subjects after that first course on divination. Or that—
Anyhow.
The pigeons were ruffled and damp, and fluttered away as if glad for the excuse when I neared them. I sneezed at a gust of wind full of woodsmoke, an even surer sign of autumn than the rain, and hastened inside the bakery.
Mr. Inglesides was just putting out a tray of cinnamon buns. I’d known him since my mother married Mr. Buchance and we came to live in town, and then got to know him better after my stepfather remarried, since the second Mrs. Buchance was his sister.
By the Emperor, my family confounds me sometimes. Three years at Morrowlea ignoring it hasn’t helped much.
“Mr. Inglesides,” I said, sketching an elaborate bow complete with heel-click I’d invented during the summer.
He stopped, tray held aloft.
After a moment wondering if he didn’t recognize me, I realized that probably young gentlemen oughtn’t make elaborate bows to bakers, convoluted relationship or not, but even if the summer had stripped away a number of my illusions, I wasn’t prepared to abandon all my principles just yet.
He set down the tray on the counter. “My sister mentioned you were back in town. I’m sorry about your stepfather.”
No one had made a hurry to offer me condolences, six weeks after the event, not when I’d been so gauche as to miss the funeral. I nodded awkwardly. “Thank you.”
“I hear you’re going to be working at Elderflower Books now. Mrs. Etaris sent you out for coffee?”
“And cinnamon buns, if you please.” I put the bee on the counter and he counted out a handful of silver pennies in change. A couple were shiny-new, but when I looked at them they had Emperor Artorin’s bald and benevolent head on them.
“He’s still High King, at least until we hear otherwise,” Mr. Inglesides said.
I looked up at him, startled. He smiled with a slow and sly pleasure, as one realizing that I’d gone to Morrowlea, famously the most radical of the Circle Schools—possibly the most radical of all the continent’s universities—and ready to show me he was a kindred spirit.
I would never have suspected that.
He waggled his eyebrows. “Not that some people don’t want a bit of change.”
“I’ll just take this for now,” I said with a grin, for the door had opened again. I turned to see who it was, half-expecting a total stranger (for it had been three years since I was last in town), and was quite astonished to see Dame Talgarth sailing in.
If ever there were people who don’t want a bit of change in Ragnor Bella, the Talgarths were them. They were famous for keeping to pre-Fall standards in their country house, which must cost a pretty penny in these days without magic—as must their house, Late Bastard Decadent Imperial architecture not being noted for its efficiency. Dame Talgarth comes from money in middle Fiellan, or so they used to say, and as Chief Magistrate of Ragnor Bella, Justice Talgarth must make a good income to add to his rents—which are probably extortionate.
“Dam
e Talgarth,” I said politely, with a bow. She looked me once up and down, and I saw puzzlement change to astonishment, and then she gave me the cut direct.
Well, that answered the question of whether a scholarship to Morrowlea might have changed the local gentry’s views on me, I thought, and smiled pointedly at the woman with her. She was dressed in a Scholar’s black robes, the trim on her hood proclaiming her a professor, at Kilromby probably from the plaid.
She ignored me without, however, any of the venom displayed by Dame Talgarth; she appeared to be ignoring everything but some invisible specks floating in the air in front of her.
Dame Talgarth spoke with an air of superb condescension she must have been practicing for years, keeping her gaze fixed well above Mr. Inglesides’ head. “Half a dozen loaves of the best white. The maid will pick it up on her way home from her half day.”
“Of course, Dame Talgarth. Good morning, Domina Ringley.” Mr. Inglesides smiled at the strange woman. She was wandering vaguely around the store, taking slow, deep breaths. She looked around the same age as Dame Talgarth, fifty or thereabouts, though where Dame Talgarth was stout and corseted under her old-fashioned cloak, she was all bones and angles under the black robes, the skin on her face drawn tight as a drum.
I hovered near the end of the counter, watching the coffee drip into the clay jug the baker had placed under the percolator. A waft of flowery perfume from one of the women made me sneeze. I fumbled for a handkerchief while Dame Talgarth gave me a look of cold dismissal.
Mr. Inglesides seemed to be speaking at random while he collected the loaves. “It’s lovely you’ve been able to have your sister’s company all summer while Justice Talgarth has been in Ormington. Will he be returning soon?”
Dame Talgarth glanced impatiently at her sister, who continued to stare myopically at the air. “Any time now. Perhaps even this weekend.”
“Will you want anything else for your dinner party on market-day, then, ma’am? I’ve a lovely pear-and-walnut cake. The coffee’ll just be a moment, Mr. Greenwing.”
Dame Talgarth looked as if she wished to complain at the impertinence of addressing me, but since that would have required acknowledging my existence, she contented herself with a pointed withdrawal to the other end of the counter and a bored tone of voice. “The buns are more than sufficient.”
“It’s stopping raining,” Domina Ringley said suddenly, pointing out the window.
Her voice was high and breathy, and she began to cough immediately. Being prone to sneezing fits myself, I was sympathetic, and I guided her to the bench Mr. Inglesides had placed along the side wall.
The baker fetched her a glass of water. Domina Ringley batted away the water and fumbled instead in the sleeves of her robe. She pulled out a narrow black bottle and took a large sip.
A sudden overabundance of intense lilac perfume made me to sneeze vigorously. With some difficulty I fetched out another handkerchief for her from my coat pocket. She made a face and stoppered the bottle tightly again, and accepted the handkerchief.
“Are you all right, Domina?” I asked between sneezes, drinking the water myself. Both Mr. Inglesides and Dame Talgarth stared at me as if this were quite the rudest thing ever. I sneezed one last time and sighed with aggravation.
“This cough,” she said carefully, rubbing her throat with one hand. She glanced up at her sister, who was frowning in concern. “I shall have to talk to my attendant physicker about it. I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. —?”
“Mr. Greenwing, lately of Morrowlea,” I replied, with my little bow.
She smiled in approval. “Morrowlea, indeed? Are you connected to the Arguty Greenwings?”
“No,” said Dame Talgarth, a lie so blatant my breath caught.
I lowered my handkerchief, about to retort, when Mr. Inglesides caught my eye. He hastily put my packet of cinnamon buns on the counter and set the coffee jug beside it. “Here you go, lad.”
I can take a hint when it hits me over the head, so I shut my mouth, bowed to Mr. Inglesides and Domina Ringley, ignored Dame Talgarth (and no doubt that would come back to haunt me), and went out into the square, furious and embarrassed.
I had—or had had, anyway—friends who would have been able to correct her with devastating aplomb, but all I could think of was blunt crudities.
No connection to the Arguty Greenwings. Indeed. The bitch.
I paused a moment in the middle of the square to let the fresh air cool my face. Domina Ringley had been entirely wrong about the rain stopping.
I covered coffee and cinnamon buns with my hat, and stood with my head tipped back and eyes shut to the rain, hoping no one was looking, knowing that my family situation was never going to become less complicated, and that I would have to make the best of things as I found them.
And I was grateful to Mrs. Buchance for arranging and Mrs. Etaris for giving me a job—truly I was. There was little enough work elsewhere in the kingdom, and rumours of war outside of it. I’d seen that over the summer. And after the spring term—and my stepfather’s death—I was going to have to reassess everything, and having a bit of extra money would help, and surely I could stand this for a season. It was just—
“Seeing visions, young sir?”
I opened my eyes and jumped back. There, very much too close in front of me, was a thin predatory figure dressed in a shabby Scholar’s robe, the orange and blue trim proclaiming Fiella-by-the-Sea. I recognized Dominus Gleason after a moment, and bowed to make up for my instinctive recoil. “I beg your pardon?”
He watched me shake out my hat and put it back on, the package of cinnamon buns slipping as I did so. He reached out and caught the parcel, but then as he resettled it into my grasp he let his own hand linger far too long on mine.
“Come now, Mr. Greenwing,” he said, smiling oddly, “I do believe you heard me.”
Dominus Gleason was known for several things: a scholarly interest in the Good Neighbours, a former career as a professor of magic, and an easily-accessible library full of illicit books where most of the boys of Ragnor Bella had first learned about sex and treason.
(It was where I’d first learned about sex: my father’s career had already taught me about treason, and not of the picturesque kind.)
Dominus Gleason smelled of aniseed and glue. I swallowed and pressed my lips together, trying to step back. His grip tightened around my hand. I stopped moving, unable to think clearly through the desperate need not to sneeze in his face.
“There are benefits, you know,” he said softly, pale eyes boring into mine, “to being considered not quite the thing.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I said stupidly.
Still holding my right hand with his, he turned my hand over to run a horny yellow fingernail up and down the old scar on my palm. I shivered, and he smiled with disquieting satisfaction. “And here I’d always thought you were a most gifted young man.”
The tingling triggered my sneezes, and as I lost control I turned instinctively, reaching for a handkerchief. Behind the Scholar I saw a figure in a grey cloak huddled over the fountain.
“Hoy!” I exclaimed, as much to break free of Dominus Gleason as out of any concern.
The person in grey half-turned, saw us, and after a moment of hesitation picked up its long skirts and fled. It was quite androgynous: the hood had covered the face, and the dark skirts could as easily have been a woman’s dress, a Scholar’s robe, or a physicker’s gown.
I crossed to the fountain, wondering if the person had made a mess in the water. He, she, or it hadn’t. Where the figure had been bending, however, there was a pie.
Well, I supposed it was a pie. It had a crust, at any rate.
And fish heads.
Chapter Two
When I came back in, Mrs. Etaris had just put another piece of wood into the stove that heated the bookstore. Her welcoming smile didn’t falter when I sprinkled water into the middle of the store when removing my coat; instead she took the jug of coffee so I could pu
t the cinnamon buns down on the parcel table. She did blink twice at the pie.
“Thank you, Mrs. Etaris,” I said when I’d sorted myself.
“Thank you, Mr. Greenwing.”
At times that day I’d thought she must be the person behind the “Etiquette Questions Answered” column in the New Salon. It was not that she was so excessively starchy—she was not, thank the Lady, Dame Talgarth—but she was so very devastatingly polite.
To my considerable relief, since I did need to keep the job until the Winterturn Assizes at least, she went on. “I hadn’t realized Mr. Inglesides had started making, ah, savoury pies.”
We both stared at the pie. I sneezed twice, and fished in my pocket for a clean handkerchief. Sniffles had become the background of my days after a bad cold last winter and a worse relapse in the spring, and I’d taken to carrying spares.
There were seven fish heads sticking out of the pie. The fish seemed to be grinning at our discomfiture.
“I didn’t get it at the bakery,” I responded after a moment. Fish heads! “Someone left it on the side of the fountain.”
“Indeed? Whyever did you bring it in?”
I started sneezing again out of sheer embarrassment. I felt beet-red at the mere thought of Dominus Gleason. And Dame Talgarth putting me in my place—my new place. I supposed I’d have to get used to it.
I shook my head vigorously and returned to my purpose in going out, and set the cinnamon buns onto the counter beside her. “I’m afraid I sneezed on it. Here’s your change, Mrs. Etaris.”
She accepted the coins with a sudden air of distraction. “Did you indeed, Mr. Greenwing?”
“I thought I shouldn’t leave it there,” I muttered, “and I didn’t know what the person bending over it was doing.”
“Oh? Oh!” She laughed, obviously entirely unconcerned about possible random acts of poisoning. “How curious!” Mrs. Etaris poured out the coffee, but just as I joined her in the comfy chairs she jumped up again and strode over to the shelf of cookbooks. “I’m sure I’ve read about this sort of pie. You didn’t see who left it there, did you?”
Stargazy Pie: Greenwing & Dart Book One Page 1
