Lightspeed Magazine Issue 32

by Judith Berman

  “Don’t know,” Mrs. Wells said, wringing her hands in distress, “but he looked … well, here it is, Mr. Neddelsohn. This is the letter he left for you.”

  The envelope she thrust into his hand was the color of buttercream, smooth as linen, and thick. The coat of arms embossed upon it was Lord Iron’s. Olaf started at the thing as if she’d handed him a viper.

  Mrs. Wells simpered her apology as he broke the wax seal and drew out a single sheet of paper. It was written in an erratic but legible hand.

  Mr. Neddelsohn—

  I find I have need of you to settle a wager. You will bring yourself to the Club Baphomet immediately upon receipt of this note. I will, of course, recompense you for your troubles.

  The note was not signed, but Olaf had no doubt of its authorship. Without a word, he pulled his jacket back on, returned his hat to his head, and stepped out to hail a carriage. From the street, he could see the faces of Mrs. Wells and his fellow boarders at the window.

  The Club Baphomet squatted in the uncertain territory between the tenements and beer halls of Stonemarket and the mansions and ballrooms of Granite Hill. The glimmers behind its windows did little to illuminate the street, perhaps by design. From the tales Olaf had heard, there might well be members of the club who would prefer not to be seen entering or leaving its grounds. The service entrance was in a mud-paved alley stinking of piss and old food, but it opened quickly to his knock. He was bundled inside and escorted to a private sitting room where, it seemed, he was expected.

  Of the five men who occupied the room, Olaf recognized only Lord Iron. The months had not been kind; Lord Iron had grown thinner, his eyes wilder, and a deep crimson cut was only half healed on his cheek. The other four were dressed in fashion similar to Lord Iron—well-razored hair, dark coats of the finest wool, watch chains of gold. The eldest of them seemed vaguely familiar.

  Lord Iron rose and held his hand out toward Olaf, not as if to greet him but rather to display him like a carnival barker presenting a three-headed calf.

  “Gentlemen,” Lord Iron intoned. “This is the cambist I mentioned to you. I propose that he be my champion in this matter.”

  Olaf felt the rictus grin on his face, the idiot bobbing of his head as he made small bows to the four assembled gentlemen. He was humiliated, but could no more stop himself than a puppy could keep from showing its belly to beg the mercy of wolves.

  One of the four—a younger man with gold hair and ice-blue eyes—stepped forward with a smile. Olaf nodded to him for what must have been the fifth time.

  “I am Simon Cole,” the gold-haired man said. “Lord Eichan, to my enemies.”

  At this, Lord Iron raised a hand, as if to identify himself as one such enemy. The other three men chuckled, and Lord Eichan smiled as well before continuing.

  “Our mutual acquaintance, Lord Iron, has made a suggestion I find somewhat unlikely, and we have made a wager of it. He is of the opinion that the value of anything can be expressed in terms of any other valuable thing. I think his example was the cost of a horse in lemon mints.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Olaf said.

  “Ah, you agree then,” Lord Eichan said. “That’s good. I was afraid our little Edmund had come up with his thesis in a drug-soaked haze.”

  “We’ve made the agreement,” Lord Iron said pleasantly. “Simon, Satan’s catamite that he is, will set the two things to be compared. I, meaning of course you, will have a week to determine their relative worth. These three bastards will judge the answer.”

  “I see,” Olaf said.

  “Excellent,” Lord Iron said, slapping him on the back and leading him to a chair upholstered in rich leather. It wasn’t until Olaf had descended into the chair’s depths that he realized he had just agreed to this mad scheme. Lord Eichan had taken a seat opposite him and was thoughtfully lighting a pipe.

  “I think I should say,” Olaf began, casting his mind about wildly for some way to remove himself from the room without offending either party. “That is, I don’t wish that … ah …”

  Lord Eichan nodded as if Olaf had made some cogent point, then shaking his match until the flame died, turned to face Olaf directly.

  “I would like to know the value of a day in the life of His Majesty, King Walther,” Lord Eichan said. “And I would like that value described in days of life of an inmate in the crown’s prison.”

  “A day in the life of the king expressed in days of a prisoner’s life?”

  “Certainly you must agree that life is valuable,” Lord Eichan said. “You wouldn’t lightly part with your own.”

  “Well, certainly—”

  “And you can’t suggest that the king is the same as a bread thief.”

  “No, I wouldn’t—”

  “Well, then,” Lord Eichan said. “It’s settled.”

  “Come along, my boy,” Lord Iron said, clapping Olaf on the shoulder. “I’ll see you out.”

  “One week!” Lord Eichan said as Olaf and Lord Iron stepped from the room and into the corridor. Lord Iron was smiling; Olaf was not.

  “My lord,” Olaf said. “This is … I’m not sure I know how to go about something like this.”

  “That’s why I got you a week to do it in,” Lord Iron said. “The rat-licker wanted to limit it to three days.”

  “I don’t know for a certainty that I can accommodate you, my lord,” Olaf said.

  “Do your best,” Lord Iron said. “If we lose, Simon, Lord Eichan is going to kill me. Well, and you, for that.”

  Olaf stopped dead. Lord Iron took another few steps before pausing and looking back.

  “He’s what?”

  “Going to kill us,” Lord Iron said. “And take five hundred pounds I’ve set aside in earnest as well. If we win, I’ll kill him and bed his sister.”

  Olaf, unthinking, murmured an obscenity. Lord Iron grinned and pulled him along the dim corridor toward the back of the club.

  “Well, you needn’t bed his sister if you don’t care to. Just do your best, boy. And be back here in a week.”

  With that, Lord Iron stepped Olaf out the door and into the cold, bleak alley. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind him that Olaf realized Lord Iron hadn’t recompensed him for the carriage ride.

  In the morning, the whole affair had the air of a bad dream. Olaf made his way to Magdalen Gate as he always did, checked the ticker tape, updated his slate. What was the value of life, he wondered. And how was one life best to be measured against another.

  And, behind it all, the growing certainty that Lord Eichan would indeed kill him if he couldn’t find an acceptable answer.

  Twice before noon, Olaf found he had made errors in his accounting. After bolting down the snowy street after a woman who had left with ten pounds fewer than she deserved, Olaf gave up. He wrote a note claiming illness, pinned it to his shuttered window, and left. He paused at the tobacconist to buy a pouch and papers.

  In his room at the boarding house, Olaf sketched out every tack he could think of to address the issue. The most obvious was to determine how much money the state spent to keep His Majesty and how much to run the prisons. But objections to that arose almost immediately; was that a measure of the worth of life or of operational expenses appropriate to each career? He considered the relative costs of physician’s care for king and prisoner, but this again was not a concern precisely of life, but health. Twenty years coughing and twenty years free from illness were still twenty years.

  For three days, he ate little and slept less. He ventured out to the library to search among the stacks of books and periodicals for inspiration. He found nothing on which he would have been willing to stake his life. Lord Iron had done that for him.

  On the morning of the fourth day he rolled the last pinch of tobacco into the last paper, wet it, rolled it, and sat on his bed unable to bring himself to the effort of lighting the thing. Despair had descended upon him. He saw the next three days stretching before him in a long, slow sleep.

  It was how
he imagined the prisoners felt who had so occupied his thoughts. But he, at least, could go out for more tobacco. And beer. And good, bloody beefsteak. If he was to live like a prisoner, he might at least eat like a king. It wasn’t as if he’d give himself gout in three days’ time, no matter how richly he ate or overmuch he drank.

  Something stirred at the back of his mind, and he found himself grinning even before he knew why.

  All that day and the two after it he spent in a whirl of activity, his despair forgotten. He visited physicians and the budget office, the office of the prison warden and the newspaperman who most reported on the activities of the king. The last day, he locked himself in his rooms with an abacus, a stub of pencil, and sheaves of paper.

  When he came to the final accounting, his heart sank. He went through his figures again, certain that somewhere in the complexity of his argument, he had made an error. But the numbers tallied, and as little as he liked it, there was no more time. Putting on his best coat, he prepared the argument in his mind. Then, papers tucked under his arm, he went out past his silent fellow boarders and the stricken countenance of Mrs. Wells, down to the wintery street, and hailed a carriage to carry him back to Club Baphomet.

  The furniture of the sitting room had been rearranged. A single table now dominated the space, with five chairs all along one side like an examiner’s panel. The three judges sat in the middle with Simon, Lord Eichan on the left and Lord Iron on the right. Lord Eichan looked somewhat amused, but there was a nervousness in his movement with which Olaf identified. Lord Iron looked as relaxed as a man stepping out of a sauna; the wound on his face was visibly more healed. Glasses of wine sat before each man, and cigars rested in onyx ashtrays when the gentlemen of the club weren’t making better use of them.

  A straight-backed wooden chair faced them, a small student desk at its side. Olaf sat and arranged his papers. The eldest of the judges leaned forward and with a smile more at home on the lips of a procurer spoke.

  “You may proceed, sir.”

  Olaf nodded his thanks.

  “I will need to do just a bit of groundwork before I present my analysis,” he said. “I hope you would all agree that a man who decries embezzlement and also diverts money into his private accounts is not actually opposed to the theft?”

  The judges looked at one another in amusement.

  “Or, similarly,” Olaf went on, “a woman who claims to embody chastity and yet beds all comers is not, in point of fact, chaste?”

  “I think even Lord Eichan will have to allow those to stand,” the eldest judge said. “Your point?”

  “My point, sirs, is that we judge people not by what they claim, but what they do. Public declarations of sentiment are not a fit judge of true character.”

  “You are preaching,” the youngest of the judges drawled, “to the choir. There is no group in the nation more adept at saying one thing and doing another.”

  Olaf smiled awkwardly.

  “Just so,” he said. “I will move forward. I have come to the determination, after careful consideration, that a day in the life of His Majesty the King equates to nineteen and three-quarter hours of a prisoner of the crown.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Simon, Lord Eichan blinked and an incredulous smile began to work its way onto his countenance. Lord Iron sat forward, his expression unreadable. One of the judges who had not yet spoken took a meditative puff on his cigar.

  “I was never particularly good at sums,” the man said in an unsettlingly feminine voice, “but it seems to me that you’ve just said a prisoner’s life is more valuable than that of the king?”

  “Yes,” Olaf said, his belly heavy as if he’d drunk a tankard of lead. The eldest judge glanced at Lord Iron with a pitying expression.

  “Let me also make some few observations,” Olaf said, fighting to keep the desperation from his voice. “I have met with several physicians in the last few days. I am sorry to report that overindulging in strong liquor is thought by the medical establishment to reduce life expectancy by as much as five years. A habit of eating rich foods may reduce a man’s span on the earth by another three to four years. A sedentary lifestyle by as much as eight. Indulging in chocolate and coffee can unbalance the blood, and remove as many as three years of life.”

  “You have now ceased to preach to the choir,” said Lord Eichan. And indeed, the judges had grown more somber. Olaf raised a hand, begging their patience.

  “I have used these medical data as well as the reports of the warden of Chappell Hill Prison and the last two years of His Majesty’s reported activities in the newspapers. I beg you to consider. A prisoner of the crown is kept on a simple diet and subjected to a mandatory exercise period each day. No spirits of any kind are permitted him. No luxuries such as coffee or chocolate. By comparison …”

  Olaf fumbled with the sheaves of papers, searching for the form he had created. The eldest judge cleared his throat.

  “By comparison,” Olaf continued, “in the last two years, His Majesty has taken vigorous exercise only one day in seven. Has eaten at banquet daily, including the richest of dishes. He regularly drinks both coffee and chocolate, often together in the French style.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Lord Eichan said. “His Majesty has the finest physicians in the world at his command. His life is better safeguarded than any man’s in the realm.”

  “No, sir,” Olaf said, his voice taking on a certainty that he was beginning to genuinely feel. “We say that it is, much as the embezzler claims honesty and the wanton claims virtue. I present to you the actions, as we agreed. And I would point out that His Majesty’s excesses are subject only to his personal whim. If he wished, he could drink himself insensible each morning, eat nothing but butterfat and lard, and never move from his seat. He could drink half a tun of coffee and play games with raw gunpowder. Unlike a prisoner, there is no enforcement of behavior that could rein him in. I have, if anything, taken a conservative measure in reaching my conclusions.”

  A glimmer of amusement shone in Lord Iron’s eyes, but his face remained otherwise frozen. Simon, Lord Eichan was fidgeting with his cigar. The eldest judge sucked his teeth audibly and shook his head.

  “And yet prisoners do not, I think, have a greater lifespan than monarchs,” he said.

  “It is impossible to say,” Olaf said. “For many criminals and poor men, the time spent in the care of the crown can be when they are safest, best overseen, best clothed, best fed. I would, however, point out that His Majesty’s father left us at the age of sixty-seven, and the oldest man in the care of the crown is …”

  Olaf paused, finding the name.

  “The oldest man in the care of the crown is David Bennet, aged eighty. Incarcerated when he was sixteen for killing his brother.”

  He spread his hands.

  “Your argument seems sound,” the eldest judge said, “but your conclusion is ridiculous. I cannot believe that the king is of lesser value than a prisoner. I am afraid I remain unconvinced. What say you, gentlemen?”

  But before the other two judges could answer Olaf rose to his feet.

  “With all respect, sir, the question was not the value of the king or the prisoner, but of the days of their respective lives. I was not asked to judge their pleasures or their health insofar as their discomforts are less than mortal.”

  The effeminate judge lifted his chin. There was a livid scar across his neck where, Olaf imagined from his knowledge of men’s adventure, a garrote might have cut. But it was Simon, Lord Eichan who spoke.

  “How is it that a king can be more valuable than a prisoner, but his days be less? It makes no sense at all!”

  “There are other things which His Majesty has,” Olaf said. He had warmed to his topic now, and the fact that his own life hung in the balance was all but forgotten. “A prisoner must take his exercise; a king has the power to refuse. A prisoner may wish dearly for a rich meal or a great glass of brandy, but since he cannot have them, he cannot exchange pleasure
for … well, for some duration of life.”

  “This is a waste of—”

  “Be quiet,” the eldest judge said. “Let the man have his say.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Simon.”

  Lord Eichan leaned back sneering and gripping his wine glass until his knuckles were white.

  “It’s a choice every man in this room has made,” Olaf went on, raising his arm like a priest delivering a homily. “You might all live as ascetics and survive years longer. But like the king, you choose to make a rational exchange of some span of your life for the pleasure of living as you please. A prisoner is barred from that exchange, and so I submit a greater value is placed on his life precisely to the degree that strictures are placed on his pleasure and his exercise of power.

  “Gentlemen, ask yourselves this: If I had two sons and saw that one of them kept from drink and gluttony while letting the other run riot, which of them would you say I valued? The prodigal might have more pleasure. Certainly the king has more pleasure than an inmate. But pleasure and power are not life.”

  “Amen,” said Lord Iron. It was the first time he had spoken since Olaf had entered. The silence that followed this declaration was broken only by the hissing of the fire in the grate and rush of blood in Olaf’s ears.

  “Your reports were accurate, Lord Iron,” the drawling judge said. “Your pet cambist is quite amusing.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if you gave us a moment to discuss your points,” the eldest judge said. “If you would be so kind as to step out to the antechamber? Yes. Thank you.”

  With the blackwood door closed behind him, Olaf’s fear returned. He was in the Club Baphomet with his survival linked to Lord Iron’s, and only an argument that seemed less and less tenable with each passing minute to protect him. But he had made his throw. His only other hope now was mad flight, and the door to the corridor was locked. He tried it.

  What felt like hours passed, though the grandfather clock ticking away in the corner reported only a quarter-hour. A pistol barked twice, and a moment later Lord Iron strode into the room. The door swung shut behind him before Olaf could make sense of the bloody scene. His gorge rose.