by Hilari Bell
“We learned a few things,” said Fisk. “We learned that somebody bribed Ren Clogger for something. I’ve never met a gambler who won big—or lost big—who wouldn’t tell everyone he met each turn of the card or roll of the dice.”
“Hmm. And whatever it was, it happened only weeks after the hearing. But it doesn’t add up to much.”
“We’ve just started. Maybe if we track down whoever planted that forged ledger in Max’s study, things will start to add up.” Fisk grinned. “I still think Judith did it.”
“And what motive might she have?” I asked with elaborate patience.
“General meanness. When I was, oh, five or six I think, she put pepper into my custard for almost a week. Pepper. And she told me we were economizing on spices and I had to eat it all and not complain or I’d hurt Mama’s feelings.”
I laughed. “And what was her motive for that? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
Fisk suppressed another grin. “It wasn’t my fault. Or at least, it wasn’t deliberate.”
“I suppose she was bigger than you were, too.”
“She still is,” said Fisk. “Father always said that Anna got his eyes, Judith got his height, and I got…”
“What?”
“His brains,” Fisk finished coolly.
We had passed from the big market square into another square, much smaller. The shops here were older, and the shoppers wore rough, even ragged clothes. ’Twas only the crossing of one street that made the difference, but I took a closer grip on my purse and Fisk saw it.
“The council’s been talking about tearing down the old market for years,” he commented. “They say it’d cut crime in the Oldtown by half, but I think they’re being naive. All tearing down this market would do is force the poorer folk to shop in the slums—they’re just across Trullsgate Bridge,” he added informatively.
“And Trullsgate Bridge is beyond Trull’s Gate?” I was only trying to orient myself, since it seemed we’d be in Ruesport for some time, but Fisk grinned again.
“No, Trullsgate Bridge is by Sutter’s Gate.”
I sighed. “When the council pulls down the old market, mayhap they should consider renaming some things.”
“Saying ‘when the council pulls down the old market’ is like saying ‘when pigs fly,’” said Fisk. “They’ve been planning to do it for decades, but the guilds can’t agree on what to build in its place. Half want a university and half want a hospital. The whole city is divided into university wishers and hospital wishers, so here the market sits.”
“Which side are you on?” I asked, though I’d already guessed the answer. Fisk’s education and love of learning have often surprised me.
But he surprised me again. “Hospital. It’d be more useful to more townsfolk, and the only reason they want a university is because Fallon has one.”
We went up a straight street where the guildhalls were, which for a wonder was actually called Straight Street. Then we passed out of Crowsgate over Newbridge into the spread of shops, work yards, and houses on the other side of the Yare. Ginny Weaver’s family dwelled toward the southern end of town, where the buildings began to thin into large gardens and farmed fields. As we approached it was easy to see why, or rather to smell why, for no one wants to live too near a tannery.
Ginny Weaver’s daughter, who opened the door to us, didn’t seem to be aware of the stench. She was in her thirties, a trim woman with red hair tucked into her cap and flour on her hands and apron.
We apologized for interrupting her baking, and Fisk once again introduced us as knight and squire. I was still wondering what ailed the man when he persuaded Mistress Skinner to let us in, for she seemed to want to settle the matter on the doorstep. Indeed, I think ’twas the interested face of a gray-haired lady peering through a window across the street rather than Fisk that finally convinced her to admit us. Her husband, Den, was working. The grubby seven-year-old hunched over a slate of staggering sums was Ricky, the wide-eyed toddler clinging to her skirt was Sara, and she asked us to call her Lenna. She didn’t introduce the baby in its basket near the stove.
It took some time to convince her to go on working while we talked, but finally we settled at the kitchen table, sipping hot tea in thick mugs, and she went back to mixing dough.
“I don’t know what I can tell you. Ma’s dead now. So’re those men. Like Den says, nothing can change that.” Her eyes filled, and she blinked back the tears. The boy, Ricky, laid down his slate and departed.
“She felt bad about being so sick, what it cost the family. She was a fishmonger. Worked all her life, and she hated using money instead of bringing it in. Den told her not to be silly, she’d done lots for us, but she still hated it.”
“Medicine comes high,” said Fisk. “Especially magica.”
Lenna shook her head. “She said not to waste it on her; she knew she was dying. But sometimes magica was the only thing that could stop the pain. Her guild helped out, and the tanners’ too, so we were getting by. It’s not like—”
She turned away abruptly, dumped her dough onto a floury cutting board, and started to knead, composing herself.
Fisk looked around the room, and something in the way his eyes narrowed made me look, too. I saw nothing extraordinary.
“Lenna, do you really believe your mother would send two innocent men to their deaths for money?” Fisk’s question was so blunt that I winced, but Mistress Lenna only shrugged.
“That’s what her note said. And I can’t see her lying when she was about to die.”
“You think she wouldn’t lie to you, but she’d help hang two innocent men because she felt bad about costing her family?”
Lenna spun. “I told you—”
The door opened and a dark-haired man in a tanner’s apron came into the kitchen. “These men bothering you, Lennie?”
So much for introductions. The boy, Ricky, tagged at his heels.
“No.” She wiped her eyes swiftly, leaving flour smudges on her cheeks. “They just came to ask a few questions about Ma. They’re trying to help Jud—Master Maxwell.”
The man scowled. “That murdering bastard doesn’t deserve help.”
We had both risen and I grasped Fisk’s arm, but not in time to silence him. “It seems he had several helpers, your mother by marriage among them. I’d think you’d want to clear her name, along with his.”
Skinner stepped forward, clenching his fists.
“We’re leaving,” I told him hastily. “Come on, Fisk.”
He let me pull him out to the street, which I did quite firmly. “Well, that was tactful. What were you thinking of, badgering that poor woman?”
Fisk smiled. “They kept the money.”
“What?”
“You saw that kitchen—even the stove was new. The children’s clothes, the dishes…they couldn’t possibly afford all that after a long illness in the family unless they kept the money.”
“But a bribe is ill-gotten gains. The judicars would have awarded it to the hanged men’s families.”
“Ah, but you’re forgetting, old Max was never convicted. Never even went to a hearing. How can they take away the bribe if they don’t convict the briber? No wonder the Skinners aren’t talking. If we clear Max, if the truth comes out, they’ll probably have to give it back. And they’re already spending it. They must be delighted with the way things worked out. I’ll bet our investigation gives them nightmares.”
I considered this. “They may have accepted the way things turned out, but I don’t think they’re delighted. I think Mistress Lenna would rather see her mother cleared.”
“Maybe,” said Fisk, “but she’s still wearing new shoes.”
We strolled between the busy work yards in silence.
“There’s another thing that comes to my mind,” I said after a time. “Have you noticed how many tanners are involved in this? The killers, one witness, another witness’s son by marriage. All tanners.”
Fisk frowned thoughtfully. “If Ginny We
aver saw it from her window, the crime must have taken place near a tanner’s yard, but still…I don’t know what it means.”
“Me neither. I just—” A clear, mellow bell pealed, and Fisk looked startled.
“Mid-meal already? We’re going to be late. I hope they save us something.”
“What are you going to do after mid-meal? Track down your old acquaintances, or start looking for the servants?”
“I’m going to take a nap,” said Fisk. “Or try to. My old acquaintances are nocturnal types. I’ll be up half the night looking for them, so I’ll probably sleep late in the morning, too.”
“’Tis no matter. I’ll start tracking down the servants tomorrow. This afternoon I’ll buy some feed for Chant and Tipple and give them a brush. Trimmer did his best, but…” When I’d looked into their stalls this morning, I’d been relieved to see that Trimmer had attended to the horses, and I appreciated his efforts. Still, ’twas not his work, and I’d resolved to take up their care myself.
Fisk and I parted then, for this was a good part of town in which to purchase hay, oats, and straw. At least that was what I told Fisk, and ’twas true, if not quite all the truth. The part I didn’t tell Fisk was that I wasn’t sure I could face another cozy family meal, with Mistress Anna shrinking from me and Maxwell wondering what crime I’d committed. Yet I might be able to help the Maxwells out of their predicament, and if there was anything else of worth that an unredeemed man could accomplish in this world, I didn’t know what it might be.
This thought brought back the bleak mood I had all but forgotten in the interest of the morning’s work, so I resolved to go on working. I arranged for the delivery of stable supplies and bought a couple of pork pastries at the market, after which I had nowhere to go but back to the Maxwells’.
Once there I mucked out the stable and curried both horses. The box stalls were large enough to keep them comfortable for a few days, especially after a long journey, but soon they’d need some exercise. I wondered if the Seatons would let us turn them out into the orchard. If it was walled all round ’twould be safe enough, and horses won’t harm a well grown tree, though they’ll graze on saplings.
I was heading for the orchard to inspect the walls, largely for want of anything else to do, when the kitchen garden caught my eye. Last night in the dark I’d not noticed much, but now the loss of the Maxwell’s gardener was apparent, for the dead growth hadn’t even been cleared. The ground was frozen too hard to mulch the brown leaves into the soil, but at least I could haul them off to the midden. The idea of doing something else to earn my keep in this house, where I was so clearly unwelcome, appealed to me.
I located a shed full of tools and selected a hoe, a rake, and a pitchfork to load the small wheelbarrow, and soon I was busy. Being raised on a country estate, one learns much about growing things. ’Twas not the work of a country steward I objected to, ’twas the rooted-ness of it, being forever tied to one small piece of the Green God’s earth.
I’d cleared the dry cornstalks and started on the vines when I heard young voices and turned to see Mistress Anna and Mrs. Trimmer leading the children out of the orchard. Their cheeks were red with cold and laughter. ’Twas distressing to watch Mistress Anna’s expression freeze when she saw me and clutched the children protectively to her skirts. That was the impulse of instinct, for she collected herself immediately and sent them off with Mrs. Trimmer—to weave juniper garlands, according to their shrill, excited cries.
Making Calling Night garlands is a family task, so I was surprised when, instead of following, Mistress Anna walked carefully across the muddy ground to where I worked. Her expression was neither shy nor frightened but fell somewhere between. There was nothing an unredeemed man could do to make her comfortable, so I simply nodded and hoped my own expression wasn’t as stiff and unfriendly as it felt. “Mistress Anna.”
“Master Sevenson.” She clasped her hands as if she didn’t know what to do with them. Then she turned toward a wooden bench, tucked under a bush that might be lilac, and sat down with the relieved air of a person who’s found a way to make an embarrassing situation seem a bit more natural.
Intrigued despite myself, I leaned on the rake and waited.
“Nonny talked to us at mid-meal. About you.”
“I see.”
Her gaze dropped, but she went on determinedly. “He told us how you rescued him. How he might have been flogged, or even worse. I wanted to thank you. It’s been hard for Nonny, and I…well, I wanted to thank you.”
“You needn’t. Fisk has long since repaid any favor I did him. Indeed”—I offered her a wry smile—“he’s proved a most excellent squire.”
Her lips twitched at that, but she still looked nervous. “I wondered…You seem to be a gentle sort of person, and Nonny is so loyal to you. I wondered…”
“What I did?” I swept the rake over the ground and lifted a load of withered vines into the barrow. “Fisk didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head. “He said that was your prob—decision.”
“How nice of him.” The complexity of the past fell heavily on my heart, and I stole an old line of Fisk’s. “’Tis a long story.”
I turned back to the garden, hoping to end the discussion, but she went on: “It wasn’t that so much. I just wondered if—if Nonny had dragged you into trouble,” she continued in a rush. “He’s a good person, the best brother anyone could have, but he is…”
She thought ’twas Fisk’s fault I was unredeemed.
“No, nothing of the kind. Fisk has saved me time and again. Indeed, as far as dragging people into trouble goes, I’m afraid it’s the other way round.”
Her eyes were full of hope and doubt. I couldn’t let her think badly of Fisk, so I told the whole story after all. ’Twas as long as I feared, for she asked many questions and insisted on hearing each twist of the tale. The sun was dropping by the time I finished, and I was sitting beside her. She’d lifted her feet onto the bench some time ago, curling up like a child, with her cloak wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were bright with interest, and she’d laughed much throughout my account. And though she sobered when I told her how I’d been declared unredeemed, she no longer shrank from me.
“Well, I think it was quite rotten of Nonny to creep away without a word, though you’re probably right about why he did it. I’m glad you followed him.”
“Truly?” I couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’d wondered if I’m not bringing him more trouble than my help is worth.”
“Truly,” she said firmly. “Nonny hasn’t had much luck with friends. Or family. I think your friendship is worth more to him than any trouble you could possibly bring.”
I met her eyes now, very directly. After all, I’d told my tale—an exchange was due. “You say Fisk has been unlucky. Will you tell me how?”
She looked startled. “Hasn’t Nonny told you?”
“He hardly ever talks about himself. Before I came here, all I knew of him was that he had sisters, and a criminal past. He also seems to be well educated, though he never talks about his schooling.”
“Oh, that was Papa. He taught both Fisk and Judith, since they had the brains for it and he had to teach. It was…Oh dear, I’d better start at the beginning.” She looked off a moment, ordering her thoughts.
“I think the beginning is actually before the beginning. My great-grandmother was a noblewomen, but born without Gifts. She had hopes for her daughters anyway—sometimes the Gift does skip a generation.”
And sometimes it breeds out of a line for good and all. Remembering the eerie glow of some of the apple trees last night, I could think of worse things than being Giftless. But I could see where this was leading and nodded for her to go on.
“Unfortunately her children were Giftless as well, and all her descendants. My grandmother married a merchant in a small town called Coverton, and Mama married the local schoolmaster’s son. She could have done better; my grandfather was well off. But Mama loved Papa. He wasn’t hand
some, but he was smart and gentle and merry. We weren’t rich, but our house was always happy when Papa was there. He adored Mama, too, and said a scholar had no need of a Gifted wife.
“Papa had big dreams, you see. His own father had a university education, and though he couldn’t afford to send Papa, he taught him well. Papa planned to write a thesis good enough to be accepted on merit and then go on to teach. To be part of a great university, shaping the world with knowledge. It consumed him, I think.” Her eyes dropped to her knees and she fell silent.
“’Tis a worthy ambition,” I said. So this was where Fisk’s odd erudition came from—he was the last of a line of scholars. So how under two moons had he ended in manacles on a judgment scaffold?
“Yes.” She smiled sadly. “I suppose it is worthy. But not practical. Papa’s father died, and he took over the school, working on his thesis at night. I was born, then Judith, and Mama was carrying Fisk when he finished it. He quit the school, moved the whole family to Fallon, and submitted his thesis to the university there.”
She stopped again, lips tight. The light around us was golden with sunset, and ’twould soon be too cold to sit out.
“It was rejected?” I guessed.
“They said it wasn’t original enough. The scholarship was fine, but…It’s the only time I ever saw my father drunk. I was just three, but I still remember it.
“He took odd jobs around the outskirts of the university—tutor, printer’s helper, things like that. And he started another thesis, but Fisk had been born by then and money was tight. So when he heard Ruesport was planning to build a university, he packed up the family again and we came here.”
I remembered the small, dingy shops and alleys of the old market. “But they never built it.”
“Not to this day. If they had, coming here wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. Even if his new thesis was rejected, he could have gotten work as a librarian. That would have suited him. He spent every spare fract on books. His study held the biggest library in Ruesport, and he had books shipped to him from all up and down the coast.”
