Reave the Just and Other Tales

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He entered the tavern in what was, for him, a state of some anxiety. The more he had thought about it, the more he had realized that the gamble he took with Slup was one which he did not comprehend. After all, what experience had he ever had with alchemy? How could he be sure of its effectiveness? He knew about such things only by reputation, by the stories men told concerning alchemists and mages, witches and warlocks. The interval between his encounter with Slup and the evening taught him more self-doubt than did the more practical matter of his debt to the usurer. When he went to the tavern, he went half in fear that he would be greeted by a roar of laughter.

  He had invoked the power of an idea, however, and part of its magick was this—that a kinship with Reave the Just was not something into which any man or woman of the world would inquire directly. No one asked of Jillet, “What sort of clap-brained tale are you telling today?” The consequences might prove dire if the tale were true. Many things were said about Reave, and some were dark: enemies filleted like fish; entire houses exterminated; laws and magistrates overthrown. No one credited Jillet’s claim of kinship—and no one took the risk of challenging it.

  When he entered the tavern, he was not greeted with laughter. Instead, the place became instantly still, as though Reave himself were present. All eyes turned on Jillet, some in suspicion, some in speculation—and no small number in excitement. Then someone shouted a welcome; the room filled with a hubbub which seemed unnaturally loud because of the silence that had preceded it; and Jillet was swept up by the conviviality of his friends and acquaintances.

  Ale flowed ungrudgingly, although he had no coin to pay for it. His jests were met with uproarious mirth and hearty backslappings, despite the fact that he was more accustomed to appreciating humor than to venturing it. Men clustered about him to hear his opinions—and he discovered, somewhat to his own surprise, that he had an uncommon number of opinions. The faces around him grew ruddy with ale and firelight and pleasure, and he had never felt so loved.

  Warmed by such unprecedented good cheer, he had reason to congratulate himself that he was able to refrain from any mention of alchemists or widows. That much good sense remained to him, at any rate. On the other hand, he was unable to resist a few strategic references to my kinsman, Reave the Just—experiments regarding the potency of ideas.

  Because of those references, the serving wench, a buxom and lusty girl who had always liked him and refused to sleep with him, seemed to linger at his elbow when she refreshed his tankard. Her hands made occasion to touch his arm repeatedly; again and again, she found herself jostled by the crowd so that her body pressed against his side; looking up at him, her eyes shone. To his amazement, he discovered that when he put his arm around her shoulders she did not shrug it away. Instead, she used it to move him by slow degrees out from among the men and toward the passageway which led to her quarters.

  That evening was the most successful Jillet of Forebridge had ever known. In her bed and her body, he seemed to meet himself as the man he had always wished to be. And by morning, his doubts had disappeared; what passed for common sense with him had been drowned in the murky waters of magick, cunning, and necessity.

  Eager despite a throbbing head and thick tongue, Jillet of Forebridge commenced his siege upon the manor house and fortune and virtue of the widow Huchette.

  This he did by the straightforward, if unimaginative, expedient of approaching the gatehouse of the manor and asking to speak with her.

  When he did so, however, he encountered an unexpected obstacle. Like most of the townsfolk—except, perhaps, some among his more recent acquaintance, the usurers, who had told him nothing on the subject—he was unaware of Kelven Divestulata’s preemptive claim on Rudolph’s widow. He had no knowledge that the Divestulata had recently made himself master of the widow Huchette’s inheritance, possessions, and person. In all probability, Jillet would have found it impossible to imagine that any man could do such a thing.

  Jillet of Forebridge had no experience with men like Kelven Divestulata.

  For example, Jillet knew nothing which would have led him to guess that Kelven never made any attempt to woo the widow. Surely to woo was the natural action of passion? Perhaps for other men; not in Kelven’s case. From the moment when he first conceived his desire to the moment when he gained the position which enabled him to satisfy it, he had spoken to the object of his affections only once.

  Standing before her—entirely without gifts or graces—he had said bluntly, “Be my wife.”

  She had hardly dared glance at him before hiding her face. Barely audible, she had replied, “My husband is dead. I will not marry again.” The truth was that she had loved Rudolph as ardently as her innocence and inexperience permitted, and she had no wish whatsoever to replace him.

  However, if she had dared to look at Kelven, she would have seen his jaws clenched and a vein pulsing inexorably at his temple. “I do not brook refusal,” he announced in a voice like an echo of doom. “And I do not ask twice.”

  Sadly, she was too innocent—or perhaps too ignorant—to fear doom. “Then,” she said to him gravely, “you must be the unhappiest of men.”

  Thus her sole interchange with her only enemy began and ended.

  Just as Jillet could not have imagined this conversation, he could never have dreamed the Divestulata’s response.

  In a sense, it would have been accurate to say that all Forebridge knew more of Reave the Just, who had never set foot in the town, than of Kelven Divestulata, whose ancestral home was less than an hour’s ride away. Reave was a fit subject for tales and gossip on any occasion: neither wise men nor fools discussed Kelven.

  So few folk—least of all Jillet—knew of the brutal and impassioned marriage of Kelven’s parents, or of his father’s death in an apoplectic fury, or of the acid bitterness which his mother directed at him when her chief antagonist was lost. Fewer still knew of the circumstances surrounding her harsh, untimely end. And none at all knew that Kelven himself had secretly arranged their deaths for them, not because of their treatment of him—which in fact he understood and to some extent approved—but because he saw profit for himself in being rid of them, preferably in some way which would cause them as much distress as possible.

  It might have been expected that the servants and retainers of the family would know or guess the truth, and that at least one of them would say something on the subject to someone; but within a few months of his mother’s demise Kelven had contrived to dispense with every member of his parents’ establishment, and had replaced them with cooks and maids and grooms who knew nothing and said less. In this way, he made himself as safe from gossip as he could ever hope to be.

  As a result, the few stories told of him had a certain legendary quality, as if they concerned another Divestulata who had lived long ago. In the main, these tales involved either sums of money or young women who came to his notice and then disappeared. It was known—purportedly for a fact—that a usurer or three had been driven out of Forebridge, cursing Kelven’s name. And it was undeniable that the occasional young woman had vanished. Unfortunately, the world was a chancy place, especially for young women, and their fate was never clearly known. The one magistrate of Forebridge who had pursued the matter far enough to question Kelven himself had afterward been so overtaken by chagrin that he had ended his own life.

  Unquestionably, Kelven’s mode of existence was secure.

  However, for reasons known only to himself, he desired a wife. And he was accustomed to obtain what he desired. When the widow Huchette spurned him, he was not daunted. He simply set about attaining his goal by less direct means.

  He began by buying out the investments which had been made to secure the widow’s future. These he did not need, so he allowed them to go to ruin. Then he purchased the widow’s deceased husband’s debts from the usurer who held them. They were few, but they gave him a small claim on the importing merchantry from which Rudolph Huchette’s wealth derived. His claim provided him w
ith access to the merchantry’s ledgers and contacts and partners, and that knowledge enabled him to apply pressure to the sources of the merchantry’s goods. In a relatively short time, as such things are measured, he became the owner of the merchantry itself.

  He subsequently found it child’s play to reveal—in the presence of a magistrate, of course—that Rudolph Huchette had acquired his personal fortune by despoiling the assets of the merchantry. In due course, that fortune passed to Kelven, and he became, in effect, the widow Huchette’s landlord—the master of every tangible or monetary resource on which her marriage had made her dependent.

  Naturally, he did not turn her out of her former home. Where could she have gone? Instead, he kept her with him and closed the doors to the manor house. If she made any protest, it was unheard through the stout walls.

  Of all this, Jillet was perfectly innocent as he knocked on the door of the manor’s gatehouse and requested an audience with the widow. In consequence, he was taken aback when he was admitted, not to the sitting room of the widow, but to the study of her new lord, the Divestulata.

  The study itself was impressive enough to a man like Jillet. He had never before seen so much polished oak and mahogany, so much brass and fine leather. Were it not for his unprecedented successes the previous evening, his aching head, which dulled his responses, and his new warrant for audacity, he might have been cowed by the mere room. However, he recited the litany which the alchemist had given him, and the words trust, bold, and unscrupulous enabled him to bear the air of the place well enough to observe that Kelven himself was more impressive, not because of any greatness of stature or girth, but because of the malign and unanswerable glower with which he regarded everything in front of him. His study was ill-lit, and the red echo of candles in his eyes suggested the flames of Satan and Hell.

  It was fortunate, therefore, that Kelven did not immediately turn his attention upon Jillet. Instead, he continued to peruse the document gripped in his heavy hands. This may have been a ploy intended to express his disdain for his visitor; but it gave Jillet a few moments in which to press his hand against his hidden pouch of magick, rehearse the counsel of the alchemist, and marshal his resolve.

  When Kelven was done with his reading, or his ploy, he raised his grim head and demanded without preamble, “What is your business with my wife?”

  At any former time, this would have stopped Jillet dead. Wife? The widow had already become Kelven Divestulata’s wife? But Jillet was possessed by his magick and his incantation, and they gave him a new extravagance. It was impossible that Kelven had married the widow. Why? Because such a disappointment could not conceivably befall the man who had just earned with honest gold and courage the right to name himself the kinsman of Reave the Just. To consider the widow Huchette Kelven’s wife made a mockery of both justice and alchemy.

  “Sir,” Jillet began. Armed with virtue and magick, he could afford to be polite. “My ‘business’ is with the widow. If she is truly your wife, she will tell me so herself. Permit me to say frankly, however, that I cannot understand why you would stoop to a false claim of marriage. Without the sanction of the priests, no marriage can be valid—and no sanction is possible until the banns have been published. This you have not done.”

  There Jillet paused to congratulate himself. The alchemist’s magick was indisputably efficacious. It had already made him bolder than he had ever been in his life.

  In fact, it made him so bold that he took no notice of the narrowing of Kelven’s eyes, the tightening of his hands. Jillet was inured to peril. He smiled blandly as the Divestulata stood to make his reply.

  “She is my wife,” Kelven announced distinctly, “because I have claimed her. I need no other sanction.”

  Jillet blinked a time or two. “Do I understand you, sir? Do you call her your wife—and still admit that you have not been wed?”

  Kelven studied his visitor and said nothing.

  “Then this is a matter for the magistrates.” In a sense, Jillet did not hear his own words. Certainly, he did not pause to consider whether they would be pleasing to the Divestulata. His attention was focused, rather, on alchemy and incantations. Enjoying his new boldness, he wondered how far he could carry it before he felt the need to make reference to his kinsman. “The sacrament of marriage exists to protect women from those who are stronger, so that they will not be bound to any man against their will.” This fine assertion was not one which he had conceived for himself. It was quoted almost directly from the school lessons of the priests. “If you have not wed the widow Huchette, I can only conclude that she does not choose to wed you. In that case”—Jillet was becoming positively giddy—“you are not her husband, sir. You are her enslaver.

  “You would be well advised to let me speak to her.”

  Having said this, Jillet bowed to Kelven, not out of courtesy, but in secret delight. The Divestulata was his only audience for his performance: like an actor who knew he had done well, he bowed to his audience. All things considered, he may still have been under the influence of the previous evening’s ale.

  Naturally, Kelven saw the matter in another light. Expressionless except for his habitual glower, he regarded Jillet. After a moment, he said, “You mentioned the magistrates.” He did not sound like a man who had been threatened. He sounded like a man who disavowed responsibility for what came next. Having made his decision, he rang a small bell which stood on his desk. Then he continued, “You will speak to my wife.”

  The servant who had conducted Jillet to the Divestulata’s study appeared. To the servant, Kelven said, “Inform my wife that she will receive us.”

  The servant bowed and departed.

  Jillet had begun to glow inwardly. This was a triumph! Even such a man as Kelven Divestulata could not resist his alchemy—and he had not yet made any reference to Reave the Just. Surely his success with the widow was assured. She would succumb to his magick; Kelven would withdraw under threat of the magistrates; and all would be just as Jillet had dreamed it. Smiling happily at his host, he made no effort to resist as Kelven took him by his arm.

  However, allowing Kelven to take hold of him may have been a mistake. The Divestulata’s grip was hard—brutally hard—and the crush of his fingers upon Jillet’s arm quickly dispelled the smile from Jillet’s lips. Jillet was strong himself, having been born to a life of labor, but Kelven’s strength turned him pale. Only pride and surprise enabled him to swallow his protest.

  Without speaking—and without haste—Kelven steered Jillet to the chamber where he had instructed his wife to receive visitors.

  Unlike Kelven’s study, the widow’s sitting room was brightly lit, not by lamps and candles, but by sunshine. Perhaps simply because she loved the sun, or perhaps because she wished herself to be seen plainly, she immersed herself in light. This made immediately obvious the fact that she remained clad in her widow’s weeds, despite her new status as the Divestulata’s wife. It also made obvious the drawn pallor of her face, the hollowness of her cheeks, the dark anguish under her eyes. She did nothing to conceal the way she flinched when Kelven’s gaze fell upon her.

  Kelven still did not release Jillet’s arm. “This impudent sot,” he announced to the widow as though Jillet were not present, “believes we are not wed.”

  The widow may have been hurt and even terrified, but she remained honest. In a small, thin voice, she said, “I am wed to Rudolph Huchette, body and life.” Her hands were folded about each other in her lap. She did not lift her gaze from them. “I will never marry again.”

  Jillet hardly heard her. He had to grind his teeth to prevent himself from groaning at Kelven’s grip.

  “He believes,” Kelven continued, still addressing the widow, “that the magistrates should be informed we are not wed.”

  That made the widow raise her head. Sunlight illuminated the spark of hope which flared in her eyes—flared, and then died when she saw Jillet clearly.

  In defeat, she lowered her gaze again.

>   Kelven was not satisfied. “What is your answer?” he demanded.

  The widow’s tone made it plain that she had not yet had time to become accustomed to defeat. “I hope he will inform the magistrates,” she said, “but I believe he was a fool to let you know of his intentions.”

  “Madam—my lady.” Jillet spoke in an involuntary gasp. His triumph was gone—even his hope was gone. His arm was being crushed. “Make him let go of me.”

  “Paugh!” With a flick of his hand, Kelven flung Jillet to the floor. “It is offensive to be threatened by a clod like you.” Then he turned to the widow. “What do you believe I should do when I am threatened in this fashion for your sake?”

  Despite her own distress, Rudolph’s widow was still able to pity fools. Her voice became smaller, thinner, but it remained clear. “Let him go. Let him tell as many magistrates as he wishes. Who will believe him? Who will accept the word of a laborer when it is contradicted by Kelven Divestulata? Perhaps he is too shamed to tell anyone.”

  “And what if he is not shamed?” Kelven retorted instantly. “What if a magistrate hears him—and believes him enough to question you? What would you say?”

  The widow did not raise her eyes. She had no need to gaze upon her husband again. “I would say that I am the prisoner of your malice and the plaything of your lusts, and I would thank God for His mercy if He would allow me to die.”

  “That is why I will not let him go.” Kelven sounded oddly satisfied, as though an obscure desire had been vindicated. “Perhaps instead I will put his life in your power. I wish to see you rut with him. If you do it for my amusement, I will let him live.”