The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  “Next matter,” bellowed Cleaves. “Bring it out!”

  Toby gripped Grainger’s forearm. “You won’t make a moon-calf of me.”

  “You have greater things to fear than being made a fool of,” chided Grainger.

  Ravenscraigh spoke softly in Danny Cleaves’s ear.

  “Very well,” said Cleaves. “Let’s hear what’s against the lad.”

  Herrick, who stood in the place of a bailiff, stepped forward and proceeded with a recitation of the parties as bashfully as a schoolboy called out to repeat his lessons.

  “We’re a-calling Bartelby Storpin, who swears against Toby Redruth, upon his honour as a rogue, that he thieved a knife out of his cell.”

  As though the thought of a thief were odious in the extreme to the company, a hiss of disapproval rose about the chamber.

  With prodding and jeers from the impatient audience, Bartelby Storpin was pushed forward. He was a sallow, lean pickpocket, with a sideways gait and a mien at once wheedling and distrustful, who looked on the judges and the crowd with some disdain, but reserved a glower of black hatred for Toby.

  “Well, then, man, tell us what he done,” prompted Danny Cleaves.

  Torpin looked around and then expostulated bitterly. “He took my knife, if it please yer.”

  “This knife?” said Cleaves, touching something on the table before him.

  It was a wicked misericorde, longer than a twelve-inch, heavier than a dandy’s smallsword, that Cleaves indicated. Storpin gave it a hungry, lingering glance. “My little evener.”

  “How do you say he came by it?”

  “Stole it, sir. Stole it out of its keeping place, sure as day.”

  At this judicious conclusion, there was an uproar, and several punishments were urged on the panel, none of them kindly. This roused one or two retorts from the other side of the room, and half an eaten apple was thrown, by means of rebuttal.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Ravenscraigh, “and how do you know this?”

  With some wheedling and direction from the judges, Daniel Cleaves eager, and Sholto surly, Storpin made his testimony: The knife was his; such things were not difficult to come by in the Bells. Jealous of it (fearful to show it, and fearing more not to have it), he had kept it hidden under the miserable patch of cell he called his own, beneath (he admitted reluctantly and with a great show of duress) a slab of the flagstones that he had pulled up and hollowed out. It was a perfect concealment.

  His rage, therefore, when the theft was discovered was like that of the heathen dragon in the old epic when its hoard was plundered.

  “And pray tell,” said Grainger to himself, “did you ever make use of or show this priceless piece of ironmongery?”

  The ember of loss and resentment smouldered in his breast, and at length he appealed to the intercession of one of the newer gangs, the Harfoot Men. Dan Cleaves himself undertook the search.

  “Well, we found him out, didn’t we?” said Cleaves, with a smug grin.

  Questioning of his sergeants had brought out the name of Toby Redruth, porter boy and one of Tallow’s hated mob. Toby had been seen brandishing a long dagger, which he had hinted had been used to do a murder. Toby was confronted by a friendly party of two or three of the Harfoot Men. The misericorde was found under his shirt.

  “So, seeing as the lad had the thing in his hands when he was found, there don’t seem to be much left to do but decide what the penalty will be.”

  “Hang ’im,” suggested one or two responsible jurors.

  “Quarter ’im.”

  “Put ’im to the wheel!”

  This was answered by a roar of raised voices, but after a moment, Ravenscraigh spoke with dark gravity: “If he is a thief, then he shall be as a ghost to every man, woman, and child within the Bellstrom. All will turn from him; not one word of his will be heard. He will go unseen among our company. None may, by word or deed, come to his assistance.”

  The tap-room fell silent. Gabriel Sholto scowled and chewed on his lip. Grainger felt the boy, perched on the bench beside him, cross his arms. He stared intently at Sholto, who did not look back. Misery and desolation were plain in his silence and bent back.

  “Hold a moment,” said Thaddeus Grainger.

  “Who said ‘hold’?” sneered Dan Cleaves. “Should this company stay for you?”

  In truth, Grainger had risen and spoken at once out of devotion to Cassie and pity for her brother, for both his reason and his estimation of Toby Redruth, supported by the facts laid before the court, suggested Toby’s guilt.

  “I mean only, your worthies,” said Grainger with a bow, “that we have heard a great deal of interest, but not, perhaps, the whole of the tale.”

  “All right, then,” said Cleaves gracelessly. “Speak your piece.”

  Grainger stepped forward. The assembly muttered. Storpin, his role as witness and accuser usurped, sidled away from the table.

  “Master Storpin, if you don’t object, a few more words,” called Grainger.

  Doubtful as to this new part, but determined to attest his wrongs, Storpin clung to the end of the table and faced Grainger.

  Grainger opened his mouth and closed it, finding, in that instant, he had nothing to say. Yet some sentiment or fancy from Storpin’s testimony returned to him: “You say your knife was hidden.”

  “So ’twas.”

  “Well hidden, I expect.”

  “Can’t trust no one round here,” averred Storpin.

  “Would you not say that your most precious possessions were exceptionally well-hidden?” Grainger persisted.

  “The spot was canny, no denying it.”

  “Then how, in the name of Truth, did this green boy find it?” demanded Grainger.

  “’Spect the boy was prying and spying on me, and found it out that way.”

  “Perhaps,” said Grainger, calm again. “And with what purpose did you hide this fine old bloodletter?”

  Storpin muttered something with a stiff jaw.

  “Again, if you please, Master Storpin, that the tribunal may hear.”

  “Protection, I ’spect.”

  “Protection against what? Or should I say whom?”

  Storpin looked around. “Didn’t think I should have to answer questions like this.”

  “But you must,” said Grainger, “if these gentlemen here demand it.”

  “Aye, let’s hear it.” Gabriel Sholto spoke for the first time.

  “Protection from strong-arm men,” said Storpin.

  “Any men in particular?” pressed Grainger.

  “Augie Cledger and Gordon Knott,” growled Storpin.

  “And I daresay you brought out that fine Italian dagger to show them that you are not a man to be harassed.”

  “I did!” Storpin raised his chin. “Gave them a salute of cold steel and made my intentions known!”

  “And what did they do?”

  Bartelby Storpin looked down, his hands clenched, his tone desolate: “They thought it a great joke, and said I should sooner put out my eyes with such a bit of cutlery than make them afraid.”

  The assembly had grown restless, for this novelty in inquiry was unexpected, and as Grainger turned to see their faces—some grim, some leering, some bloodthirsty—he noted how the factions aligned themselves by subtle degrees.

  “Are any of those two enterprising fellows here today?” said Grainger.

  “I see Augie Cledger standing by,” admitted Storpin.

  “Then let him come forward,” cried Grainger, “and we will be better acquainted!”

  “Hold there!” roared Daniel Cleaves. “What is the meaning of this! Do you think to make a plain thing muddy with some cheat’s balderdash?”

  “On the contrary,” replied Grainger, “I seek to make matters clearer.”

  But Mr. Ravenscraigh was beckoning him with a crooked finger, and Grainger leaned near to hear him say, “Are you committed, Mr. Grainger, to this line of investigation? The Tribunal is, I am sure, disposed to be lenie
nt on the lad, owing to his youth and shallow experience. But do not compound his case with lies and evasions. You balance upon the edge here, and the crowd is not well-disposed.”

  “Oh, I perceive the matter of the crowd perfectly,” said Grainger. “Toby belongs to Tallow’s Mob, and Cledger to the Harfoot Men, and they are violently ill-disposed.”

  “Then do not antagonise the parties or goad them to riot.”

  “I will no more exacerbate their rage than let this boy carry the blame for a crime that was not his own in the name of good order.”

  “Then continue,” said Ravenscraigh with a testy gesture. “But have a care!”

  “Bring out, if you please, Master Augie Cledger,” called Grainger.

  Herrick moved to comply, pushing through the tap-room (for others in the yard, hearing the rumour of an interesting variation in the usual judgements, had crammed in at the doors), with curses, slaps, and shoves, to pluck out Augie Cledger and drag the lad before the bench and hearth. Cledger was revealed to be a bloated youth of sixteen or seventeen, with a damaged nose and pock-marked skin.

  “Good afternoon, Master Cledger,” said Grainger pleasantly.

  The boy scowled.

  “Do you know this gentleman here?” said Grainger, pointing to Bartelby Storpin.

  “I know him,” admitted Augie.

  “He knows you, as you tried to have money off him.”

  “He owed me, that’s what. We had a friendly arrangement!”

  “So friendly, in fact, that Mr. Storpin greeted your advances with this blade.” Grainger picked up the weapon from the bench.

  “He dint have no reason to do that,” opined Augie. “We weren’t going to hurt him.”

  “You merely gave that impression to smooth your transaction,” said Grainger, while one or two other victims of Augie Cledger’s friendly arrangements hissed at him from the back rows.

  “Do you know this young gentleman, also?” continued Grainger, going to where Toby slouched and drawing him upright by the collar.

  Abashed, Augie Cledger shook his head.

  “But I know you!” crowed Toby, darting forward. “You and I were rivals when we were porter boys. There’s a quarrel betwixt us. Don’t deny it. We have had hot words and bared fists within these walls!” In his elation and anger, Toby dashed in at Cledger and skipped away from him.

  “The boys are enemies,” said Grainger. “I believe it very well.”

  “And what of it?” snapped Cleaves. “Get to the matter of it.”

  Grainger stepped in, caught Toby by the collar, and shook him. “The truth now, and no lies or evasions. How came you by this dagger?”

  “I don’t know,” squealed Toby. “I found it a-lying under my kit! I don’t know where it came from.”

  Grainger released Toby. “Speak again,” he said. “How did you come by Master Storpin’s dagger?”

  “It was slipped under my kit. If some cully lost it or hid it and I found it, it ain’t stealing that way!”

  The tap-room fell silent. Grainger felt the attention of the prisoners upon him, and the weird elation and agitation of their regard, as any who raise their voice, the one before the many, know the strength and brittleness of speech that may ignite a passion or fade into idiocy and confusion.

  “Consider what the boy said,” he began. “Consider that it would be the height of folly to repeat this as a lie. Consider, that if it is not a lie, how it might come to be. Think how Toby, knowing nothing of the blade, its owner, or its concealment, could have cunningly brought it out and then boasted of it, and spun absurd tales as to how he got it. Now look here, to this Augie Cledger, who knows of the dagger, who has good reason to fear it, who also knows Toby and hates him. Say that he, with a little diligence, makes away with the blade he knows is in Storpin’s keeping. Later, he learns that the knife is eagerly sought, that Daniel Cleaves himself, the captain of his crew, has sworn to locate it. I say that he was fearful and looked for a place to conceal the blade and cast the suspicion on another, and his thoughts fell on Toby. And therefore, at his first convenience, he dropped the knife among Toby’s possessions.”

  “I saw him!” came a voice, from the back of the tap-room.

  “I sees him, too, creeping around the cells,” called another.

  “Then is there not here sufficient doubt as to dismiss the charge?” cried Grainger.

  The chamber erupted in a perfect tumult of voices. Two or three scuffles broke out, and a woman was shrieking in the front row. Some of the older hands looked on, impassive and grim, for the disorder was such that a riot, very imminent in that moment, threatened to break out into the yard and cells. Yet Grainger paid no attention to the mob, but turned to the Rogues’ Tribunal. Daniel Cleaves, his presumption and pride in tatters, looked to his left, to Mr. Ravenscraigh, the prince appealing to the king-maker before a peasants’ revolt. And Ravenscraigh, pale and steady, returned a single glance of cold fury and shook his head the merest fraction.

  “Hold!” bellowed Cleaves. “Hold your tongues, damn you!”

  The uproar did not abate. With a cry of frustration, Cleaves rose to his feet. “The charge is dropped.”

  “Do you say the boy is free?” called Grainger.

  “The boy is a fool, but no thief,” snarled Cleaves. “Stop your mewling, dammit!”

  By degrees, the room was stilled, as the words “no thief” got about the company.

  “What of the other lad?” said Sholto, with a hungry leer.

  “A bully and a Judas,” said Grainger. “He used this crime against Toby to throw off suspicion and conceal a greater offence.”

  “Let us consider that later,” said Ravenscraigh. “The matter is too hot for now.”

  Cleaves slumped in his high-backed chair. “Return his blasted dagger. The lad will make recompense another time. We are finished here.”

  Without ceremony, the Rogues’ Tribunal broke up, and the prisoners dispersed. Grainger saw Storpin fetch his misericorde from the table and hide it again beneath his ragged coat. Augie was dragged away by one of his friends, while Toby taunted him. Shortly, the dice were being rolled on the hearth again, and the small beer was poured.

  HOURS PAST DARK, with the lights in the lattice-windows still bright and the fiddle and the reel still overheard in the yard, Toby Redruth staggered out of the tap-room into the heavy night. A damp fog, a compound of stale smoke and rain, was collecting on every surface and dripping from every projection, but Toby, heated by his triumph, little regarded it.

  A shadowed figure, formerly in an attitude of watchful repose, detached itself from one of the stone pillars and moved purposefully towards Toby.

  “So it’s you, is it?” said the boy, downcast.

  “No gratitude or praise for your kindly protector?” enquired Grainger pleasantly.

  The boy’s feet skidded about on the slick stones. “I am very grateful, I’m sure.”

  “You have a blessed peculiar style of showing it.”

  In the half-light of the common-room and the few spare lights shining from the gaoler’s lodge, the boy’s face was hollow and surly. “Well, you wun’t have done it if it weren’t for my sister.”

  Grainger strode forward, and in an instant his hand was on the boy’s shirt-front, shaking and dragging him out of his customary slouch. “You are right: it was for your angel of a sister. For your own merits, you slinking, ungrateful cur, I would not lift a finger.”

  “You ain’t got no right to say that,” whined Toby.

  Grainger threw him back. “No right to say what? That your sister is an angel or that you are an ungrateful cur?”

  “What do you know of it?” cried Toby.

  “I know that you are a ruffian and a thief, an associate of rogues and murderers, and a trial and distress to your honest family.”

  “What I have done,” said the boy, gathering up his scraps of composure, “I have done to better myself. Honest? Oh, you don’t know what it is to be the son of an honest man and
rag-poor, and put up in a shambles, and not able to get the means to live day by day. I don’t give nothing for that honesty.”

  “Do you think that being a prisoner in the Bells is rising to a high office? Is this how you mean to improve yourself?”

  Toby slipped farther into the shadows of the yard. “How would you have it? Is there any honest way to prosper in this world?”

  “Your sister—” began Grainger.

  “Cassie?” sneered the boy, stung, and determined to strike back. “She’s tried to make herself a lady in your eyes. All so that you would look on her kindly. And what is she now? Lady’s maid to a whoremonger.”

  “Have a care,” said Grainger, in a low, grim tone. “You have this day narrowly avoided shame and exile, even among the scum of this gaol. I know not the truth of the case, but be thankful for the questions I did not ask. Like a fool, you boasted that the blade you found by chance had been used in a murder—a passing strange thing to say—unless you thought to be taken for a killer yourself.”

  Toby shuddered and crossed his arms. “Don’t speak on that.”

  “Aye, it was passed to you by design. And Cledger had no fondness for you. But what other ill-deeds are kept against your account that you should be singled out for that treatment?”

  “I shan’t say,” said Toby.

  And still advancing, step by step, Grainger had pressed the boy back against the prison walls. A dull, fine rain was starting, which softened and made remote all the hubbub of the gaol.

  “What did they call you?” said Grainger softly. “Your precious reputation among these rogues: ‘a sneak, a spy, and a liar.’”

  All the preening and bluster fell from the youth, and though he would not meet his gaze, Grainger saw a true glimmer of fear in his eyes.