“You would have been the best. You never settle for less,” she answered.
“Does it make a difference in the way you feel about me?” he asked, sounding a little uncertain.
“No.” She sat up on his lap so she could look at his face.
“I saw you kill Madame Holz,” she went on quietly. “That didn’t change the way I felt about you. Why would knowing that you’re Lord Stettan change anything?”
Menders looked like a stunned fish.
“You saw…”
“Yes. I was awake that night, because Katrin kept crying and I was angry with you for letting that woman be around her and for leaving Katrin to cry in that cold nursery. I got out of bed to go to Katrin, but I stopped when I saw you go into the nursery. You took care of Katrin, then you left and went downstairs. That confused me, because surely you knew that terrible woman was there. So I stayed in the hallway, watching. Then you returned and went in and drank with her. I thought you’d gone mad. Then I saw you kissing her…
“I watched as you took her down the stairs. I saw you kill her. I was glad! Oh, I was so glad! That was an evil woman and she would have done terrible things to Katrin. I loved you even more after you did it.” Eiren’s voice trembled with emotion.
Menders’ expression was a mixture of perplexity and wonder. Then he laughed softly.
“My love, you are more terrifying than I, as Lord Stettan, ever was,” he said. “When Kaymar told me how you led Therbalt on and kept him coming back for more by playing the libertine lass from the country, my hair stood on end. You had best retire from your career as spy and assassin now, or you might end up knocking Lord Stettan off his pedestal as the greatest.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she murmured, letting him hold her again, resting her head against his shoulder comfortably. “If I have to do the same again to protect the ones I love, I will. I hope I never have to, but I will if need be.”
“That’s what the profession is about,” Menders said quietly. “To protect what you love, you take measures most people couldn’t. In my case, it was love of Mordania. I don’t like the Queen and I don’t like many things about the way the country is, but I love it and worked like a demon to preserve it in hope that someday it will be what it could be.”
Eiren said nothing, putting her arms around his neck. He held her for a while, stroking her hair and occasionally kissing her. It felt wonderful to be home.
“One thing I do regret very much,” Menders finally said as he ran a hand over her hair, “Is that because we are not married, you couldn’t become Lady Stettan. If anyone deserves the title, it is you. I hope you can forgive me that.”
“That’s silly. I don’t want a title, I want you,” Eiren said, content, listening to the beating of his heart.
“My darling, that you always have,” Menders whispered.
(51)
To Become A Tailor
Borsen strolled along the long pier at Erdstrom on a very misty winter day. Few people were stalwart enough to brave the foggy chill but he found it intriguing and rather romantic. Normal seaside sounds took on mystery as they drifted, apparently sourceless, through the swirling grey clouds.
He was tired. He had just completed four days of examinations required to attain the rank of tailor in the Tailor’s Guild of Mordania, and he knew without a doubt that his performance had been more than adequate. That didn’t mean that the board would grant him the rank, of course. He’d realized that was going to be a problem the moment he’d gone into the room where the five board members sat and they had seen that he was Thrun.
No matter, he thought. If they knock my application back out of prejudice, I’ll be back next year. Sooner or later, they will have to pass me through.
There was general approbation at The Shadows when Borsen announced that he’d applied to take the exams. That was followed by stunned silence when he stated his intention of taking the train to Erdstrom alone, even though that meant a week would pass before he could return.
He hadn’t the heart to tell anyone the real reason he’d chosen to do so – that he wanted to spend some time completely on his own. It would have hurt far too many people.
Borsen had never been on his own in his life. His childhood had been spent trailing in the wake of his itinerant father, his woman and their growing brood of children. Then he had gone to live at The Shadows, where there were over fifty people within shouting distance at any given moment.
Borsen loved The Shadows. It was safe there. He was free to be young and foolish if he wished. He liked the work he did and being with his beloved uncle was wonderful. But he had an overwhelming desire to be his own man, to accomplish things independently and to know that what he gained had been through his own efforts.
The loving atmosphere of The Shadows could be smothering. It would be easy, if he allowed it, to simply stay there forever, the adored pet of everyone, a fixture of Katrin’s household. He would have a job for life, gracious and comfortable surroundings and more companionship and family love than he’d ever thought he would.
During this week alone in Erdstrom he’d had time to think. He’d hired a horse and explored parts of Erdstrom he’d never seen on family visits to the town, looking at elegant houses and their grounds. He also spent hours on foot, going into one shop after another, glad for the leisure and privacy to be able to look as long as he wished, without having to consider others’ tastes and desires. He’d found ideas beginning to take definite form in his mind – what he wanted in the future, what he wanted to work toward.
He wanted something that, as far as he knew, did not exist. It would be a store, not a shop, where a person could go not only for a suit, but for shoes, hats, gloves, scarves, jewelry. And why not more, furniture, household goods, carriages? Not a general store – those were ghastly jumbled places – but high quality, luxury goods in beautiful and elegant surroundings. Kaymar, who traveled a great deal, said that he’d never seen such a place anywhere but would patronize such a store in a moment.
Borsen wanted money and fame and wasn’t ashamed of it. He’d been startled when his uncle had given him an income. He had tried to resist at first, wanting to have earned every pennig of his own money, but Menders persuaded him to accept.
“This money, by rights, should have been given as support for your mother during her minority,” his uncle explained gently. “My father had an obligation to support those children he fathered out of wedlock, but he never did so. In many ways, this will be righting a wrong. It will give you a start in life that your mother would have given you, had she been able to do so.”
Borsen gave in. Menders taught him how to invest the money and his little fortune had grown impressively. He could buy anything he wanted. Beyond an exquisite wardrobe made entirely by himself and some indulgences for his room, he spent little, planning for the future.
Borsen also knew that he wanted luxury. He knew what it was to sleep outside on a snowy night, or to live in a tenement room infested with rats. He never wanted to face such conditions again. He was willing to do any amount of work to make a life of luxury for himself. Only Menders knew most of the story of Borsen’s childhood, gently extracted from him during those nights when Borsen would wake screaming from nightmares. His early years had been a long, dark horror of cold, fear, insecurity, hunger, loneliness and abuse.
Borsen looked out over the grey ocean, seeing the house he would have someday. It would be near the sea, where he could hear the seagulls’ cries and buoy bells coming through the mist like the voices of ghosts. Grand, but not so grand that it wouldn’t be comfortable.
He’d taken an excellent hotel room, ignoring the stare of the desk clerk when a small, young Thrun man dressed in an exquisite suit had demanded and paid for the best.
Borsen was accustomed to being stared at, not only because he was obviously Thrun and because of his small stature, but also because in the last year he had become beautiful. Not handsome – beautiful. His face would have been conside
red beautiful on a woman, except for his perfectly kept Thrun-style jawline beard and moustache. He stood out in any crowd and made a point of doing so by his style of dressing and proudly upright bearing.
He’d gone into the Tailors Guild examination dressed in his absolute best, a handmade suit of an unusual golden grey silk, with a matching top hat. His heavy gold watch chain, a birthday gift from Menders, was much in evidence. A new pair of heavy gold hoops adorned his ears. He’d put a shine on his grey shoes that would make Hemmett’s Commandant weep with joy, and carried his walking stick, which concealed a sword blade, in hand.
He could tell he’d impressed the examination board, though a couple of them made a point of curling their lips and making sure he knew they considered him an inferior being because he was Thrun.
Borsen proceeded as if nothing insulting had occurred. He presented his letters of recommendation and greatly enjoyed seeing eyebrows hitting hairlines as the board members, including the sneering ones, saw that he had the highest opinion of Lord Stettan, Lady Spartz, Baronet Kaymar Shvalz, First Lieutenant Hemmett Greinholz, Court Assassin Bartan, Lord and Lady Velten and Princess Katrin Morghenna of Mordania.
“Your current place of employment?” one sneerer asked, as if it wasn’t clearly written on the paper before him. Perhaps he can’t read, Borsen thought charitably.
“I am in the service of Her Highness, Princess Katrin Morghenna of Mordania,” Borsen answered calmly.
Then the questions came thick and fast. The board members pretended they couldn’t understand his accented speech and constantly asked him to repeat himself.
“Yes, I have been apprenticed since I was thirteen. I was not put to sweeping or running errands, but began immediately on seaming by hand. I am proficient with sewing machines, yes. My master, Tomar Fersen, has written at great length of the thoroughness of my training and my skills.”
They perused Tomar’s letter. A great deal of whispered conversation and argument went on. Borsen waited, showing no sign of concern or agitation.
“You are sixteen years of age?”
“Yes.”
“Why have you not waited until you are of age to undertake the examinations?”
“There is no law or Guild rule that prevents someone of my age from becoming a tailor if he can demonstrate the required skills and knowledge,” Borsen responded.
There was another whispered huddle, though Borsen noticed that one of the men, the only one who had remained silent, did not take part but was looking at him. Borsen nodded politely. He was rewarded with an answering nod and slight smile.
“How would one of your – derivation – attain the skills of tailoring?” one of the sneerers asked.
“I was mentored by people who do not allow themselves to be blinded by ignorant prejudice,” Borsen responded politely. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the silent man laughing to himself. “I have been given the training any other tailor’s apprentice is given, and I have made the most of my opportunities.”
There were red faces and more hissing conversation.
“We suggest that you are too young to attempt the examination,” one man said.
“I will repeat myself - there is no law or Guild rule that prevents a sixteen year old from attempting the examinations or becoming a tailor.” He had decided that he was sixteen this year, after Kaymar quizzed him closely about things he remembered and said that he thought Borsen was probably older than Katrin. Ifor had supplied Borsen with a skillfully forged birth certificate to that effect, quietly explaining that he needed such documentation as he became an adult, that it wouldn’t do to be undocumented. Ifor had also reminded him that he was a member of the Royal Family, and would be considered of age at sixteen. That had sounded fine to Borsen.
The hissing began again, louder this time. Borsen heard several choice phrases, including “dirty Thrun”, “bloody little clever dick” and “let him show himself as a complete fake”, but showed no sign. The Guild rules were dragged out and perused. Eventually they ran out of steam and just sat there, looking at him like so many turtles on a log.
“May I request that you gentlemen allow me to undertake the examination and let my answers and work prove my expertise?” Borsen suggested, lowering his voice ever so slightly so it had a seductive husk to it, a trick he’d learned from Kaymar. He could see the silent man laughing into his shirtfront again. “You may ask me anything pertaining to tailoring or request me to demonstrate any skills you wish. It is my desire to prove myself to you as a tailor worthy of Guild rank.”
The silent man made an applauding motion and spoke, his voice a pleasant baritone.
“You can’t prevent him trying, so stop bullying the young man.”
They’d sputtered and hissed some more, but eventually gave in. They fired questions at Borsen for hours. He answered them all. They had bolts of fabrics hauled in, made him identify them, fired more questions about the handling of each fabric at him. He identified everything, knew exactly what should be done with each sample. The second day they gave him the written examination and he knew he had not missed a question. The third day they went over his presentation garments with magnifying glasses. They made him sew every hand stitch there was while they watched, dragged in a sewing machine that he had to clean and oil before it was workable and ran him through the repertoire of machine sewing.
On the fourth day, they had him cut and fit a casual jacket for the fattest member of the board. The man had an enormous belly and sway back. The jacket was to be roughed out, not finished. Borsen contemplated doing things by the book, but knew if he did, it would not fit the man’s contorted figure properly.
He went with his instincts. He cut the garment as he would if he were in the relaxed and friendly workshop at The Shadows, not in this room that simmered with resentment. He cut the back of the jacket on the bias to flow gracefully over the man’s sway back and massive buttocks. He weighted the hem with several washers he’d brought along in his pockets, so the jacket tail would hang straight. He sewed like a fiend, making the examiners stare as he drove the needle along the seams. He rejected the lining material they’d given him, saying briskly that it was cheap trash, and stunned them by selecting a heavy silk instead. He sat on the worktable all day, refusing to stop to eat or drink. He was determined to do more than they requested. The jacket would be finished, not merely roughed in.
Twice the silent man carried in food and water and set it beside him. Borsen, his gorge high from suppressed anger and tension, could barely choke it down. He made sure to thank the man, the only person who had treated him decently since this ordeal began.
It was a little before five o’clock when the jacket was done. Borsen gave it a final press and handed it over. The fat man slid it on.
“Would you make trousers for this?” he asked after a moment of staring at himself in the mirror.
Borsen laughed out loud, picking up his perfect hat and setting it on his silky, waist length hair.
“I will with pleasure,” he replied as the fat man extended a hand for him to shake. “If it isn’t convenient for you to travel to my workshop, I would gladly come to Erdstrom to make the trousers.” The rest of the board were circling Mister Fat, ogling the jacket, picking at the lapels and cuffs. They should ogle. It was perfect. They asked about the bias cut back and he explained. Then they stood and stared at him.
“Let the young man go, he’s exhausted,” the silent man said firmly. At that there was a general rumpus as they laughed at themselves and told him to run along, that he would receive official notification of his examination results by post in two weeks’ time. They clustered around Mister Fat again, looking like hens that had just been given their grain. Borsen managed not to slam the door on his way out, went back to his hotel and drowned his rage and indignation in a long hot bath, followed by an enormous meal and a glass of wine.
His temper had cooled in the three days since as he’d gone on his solo excursions around Erdstrom. Now
he felt philosophical. He knew that the board had demanded far more than they would of any other prospective tailor. It was likely he could protest the extreme requests they’d made. Tomar had told him that a written examination, some oral quizzing and perusal of the sample garments was all he had to expect. Tomar didn’t understand how things were for Thrun. Borsen had been ready for the worst and was glad of it. He’d managed not to let them see how many times he’d been close to a display of temper – or of bursting into tears.
Now he took off his glasses, which were so bedewed by the thickening ocean mist that he could hardly see. He drew a piece of flannel from his pocket, an off-cut from a little nightdress he’d made for one of the estate children. He was using it to clean and dry the fogged lenses when he realized someone was approaching. He turned toward what was a dim shape to his uncorrected sight, gave his glasses a final polish and settled them on his nose.
It was the silent man.
“Good evening, Mister Menders,” he said in the quiet tone which must be characteristic, bowing politely.
“Your servant, sir,” Borsen replied, returning the bow.
“I must apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I’m Seran Ferensen. I saw you here and wanted to compliment you on your excellent performance this week - and to make a suggestion.”
Oh, here it comes, Borsen thought, his confidence ebbing sickeningly. Try again next year, young man. Those bastards! I knew they’d never pass me even though I’m the best damned tailor they’ve ever seen!
“I cannot tell you the outcome of your examination,” Ferensen continued. “That has to wait until you receive the official notification. However, I should like to suggest that in two years’ time, when you are of age, you return and undertake the examination for Master Tailor. You would be assured of a pass, because that is the examination you were given.”
Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series Page 68
