Quillifer the Knight

by Walter Jon Williams

  Then the gun went off, and through the mist I saw a distant blossom of fire. Coarse energy filled me, and I swam with greater speed. I tasted gunsmoke on the air. The mist swirled before my eyes, and then I saw Lady Westley’s face looking at me with her gold-flecked blue eyes, and then the face dissolved into the mist. Anger filled me, and I struck on until I saw the quay, with galleys bobbing in the water and Lipton’s crew loading the leather gun.

  Panting, I let Lipton’s gunners draw me from the water, and then I sat in dripping fury on the quay while I caught my breath and curses chased each other in my head. It was a while before I could speak, and then I looked up at Lipton and said, “Has Wenlock come yet?”

  “I have not seen him, youngster,” said Lipton. “And I sense a tale forthcoming.”

  A shudder ran through me, and then a bout of shivering. Lipton signaled the gun, and it went off, the sound a storm breaking on my ears. I began cautiously to stand on my bare feet.

  At that moment I saw a white head on the water, and Lord Wenlock came swimming up with the same deliberate, methodical stroke he had used when he first set out on the water.

  “You swim well, my lord,” I said, “but you still owe me twenty-five royals.” My teeth were chattering so badly that I could barely speak.

  Wenlock was too exhausted to reply, but only floated in the water, blowing like a whale. Lipton’s gunners bent to help him rise, and I remembered that I had a warm room in the palace, with a bottle of brandy and a change of clothes, and I walked away on my bare, frozen feet. Along the way I found my boat’s crew, just ashore, who had my shoes and clothing. I stripped off my shirt and donned my doublet, jerkin, and trousers, which were far warmer, and then I told my crew to wait and went to the palace, where the corridors were filled with people dressed as shepherds and shepherdesses.

  As I grew warm, the anger that had been simmering in my blood burst into flame, and when I went into my room—the room with the fresh, scented rushes, perfumed candles, and soft bed that I had prepared for Lady Westley—I saw the room flare with a coruscating light, and radiant in the center of the light, imperious in a jeweled gown of forest-green satin, Orlanda stood with her hair tumbled down about her shoulders in massy red waves. A coronet that looked as if it were made of delicate crystalline leaves circled her brow.

  “Did you think I had forgotten you?” she asked.

  I closed the door behind me and reached into the wardrobe for a shirt. “I need never blame myself for my misfortunes,” I said. “You are present always.”

  “I hardly thought you would jump into the wintry lake,” said she. “That was your idea alone.”

  “I was giving Wenlock a chance to drown,” said I. “But he is stronger than I expected. Here.”

  I handed the shirt to Orlanda, who took it without thinking, and then looked at it in surprise. I walked past her to the mantel, where I poured myself a glass of brandy and drained half of it in a single draught. Orlanda looked at me sidelong.

  “Do you offer none to me?”

  “I’m not your servant, madam.” I took another sip. “An you want some, a glass lies ready.”

  She tossed my shirt at me, lightly, as if she were discarding a piece of trash, and I snatched it from the air.

  “You have done well with the obstacles I have put before you,” she said. “Though at least I have sent running away that greedy gem-loving vixen for whom you prepared this chamber.”

  I managed not to grind my teeth. “So you inspired Wenlock to employ Westley against me.”

  Orlanda gave a lazy, catlike smile. “It is so easy to move these mortal lords, these tiny insects who believe the world spins about them. And Westley had a perfectly good reason to challenge you, though he knew it not. You may thank me for choosing not to tell him you dallied with his wife.”

  “That courtesy made little difference in the end.”

  “It saved the lady from scandal, and scandal is what she most feared. She knew that you would not marry her if she divorced.”

  “That is far from proven,” I said. “Though it is true I consider myself a poor candidate for marriage, not least because an otherworldly being has cursed me.” I reflected on the matter. “Should I pity Wenlock, then? That his ill deeds are due to your prompting, and that you are his puppet-mistress?”

  Scorn twisted Orlanda’s lips. “Wenlock was nothing,” said she, “and now he is less than nothing. A worm that will writhe along Lord Edevane’s trail, leaving a trail of slime.”

  “You conjure a lovely picture, to be sure.” I looked at her. “Lady Westley’s eyes, for example, were perfection itself. You must have studied her for hours.”

  Her scorn deepened. “None of your women are worth studying, Quillifer.”

  “That seems not to keep you from studying them.” Warmth was enfolding my limbs. I sipped more brandy to encourage it. “The mist, then, was entirely yours, along with Lady Westley’s image?”

  “I wished to bring you and Wenlock together, to see what might result. And, I must admit, your swimming game was unexpected, though the finish was uninspired, with both of you wet but well.”

  “If you wanted blood, you should have conjured up a couple swords. Perhaps you should study drama with Blackwell.” I appraised her. “Was your hand in any of my other recent adventures? The business of the dragon, maybe?”

  She smiled. “I do not give orders to dragons. That was entirely your own affair, though it may be that I encouraged your companions to despise you, just a little.”

  I shrugged. “I had no great opinion of them, either.”

  “They were brave, and died. You were less brave, and triumphed.” Her eyes turned hard as jade. “Yet what did you do with your triumph? You are the servant and slave of Lord Edevane, no better than Wenlock. You are an informer, a mere creature who will indict anyone at the behest of your master.”

  “That, also, is not proven,” said I.

  “Ah?” She feigned incredulity. “And when Edevane tells you to provide evidence against one of his victims, you will refuse? When to refuse means your own present death?”

  “I refused him once already,” I said.

  “You refused his money, and it only served to make him suspicious. He will not let you refuse again.” Again that catlike smile crept across her face. “Edevane, I think, may be my masterpiece. It served for a while to make people hate you, but I think I may serve my purposes better by making the wrong people love you.”

  And with that she vanished, and her radiance also, leaving me alone and blinking in a small, dark room that smelled of brandy and stale lake water.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Warm both with brandy and the fury running through my veins, I dressed in dry clothes and left the palace for the gardens. The mist had evaporated along with Orlanda, and a cold winter sun shone down on brown grass and the bare earth that awaited spring flowers. Shepherds’ flutes were twittering, and shepherdesses walked with crooks dressed with garlands or ribbons. I turned the corner of the palace to return to the quay when bells began to toll. I remembered the last time the bells at Ings Magna had rung, followed shortly by Edelmir Westley’s fist striking my jaw, and so a foul mood deepened as I stalked through the withered gardens, kicking pebbles out of my way as if they were an army of my enemies.

  I stepped out onto the quay and saw, walking toward me, Princess Floria and her ladies. They were dressed as shepherdesses, wearing broad hats and carrying ribbon-decked crooks.

  The anger in my mind seemed to reach a peak, and then receded as I began to consider my situation more carefully. Orlanda had predicted with her smug little smile that I would turn into a vile informer and send the little princess to the scaffold. In that moment I decided that I would defy this fate that Orlanda had arranged for me, and that I did not care if it made an enemy out of Edevane. I would cope with that when the moment came.

  I stepped off the path and bowed as Floria approached. “Highness,” said I, “it seems you thrive in the shade, a
nd in the sun, too.”

  “Ah,” she said, “it’s the naufrageous sailor.”

  “More naufrageous now than ever, Highness,” said I. “My galley was rammed and sunk in the regatta.”

  “You seem to have no luck on the water,” Floria said. She flourished her crook. “Perhaps you should consider the bucolic life of a shepherd. I believe it is one of the few occupations you have not yet adopted as your own.”

  “Alas,” said I, “I have no dog to bark the wolves away.”

  “Dogs are easy to come by,” said Floria. “Here at court, every great officer of state walks at the head of his pack, each hound snuffling at his master’s heels for a whiff of power and treasure.” She gave me an appraising look. “Even the lord rat-catcher should be able to find such a pack.”

  “Such dogs are useless in the face of wolves, Highness,” said I. I glanced over my shoulder at the palace, with its ringing bells. “Have we declared another war?” I asked.

  “Possibly on the Estates General,” said Floria. “But no—my royal sister has announced that she is with child.”

  I donned my pious-anchorite face. “May the heir thrive,” I said.

  I detected a flicker of awareness below Floria’s eyelids. By this I knew that she understood my meaning, that the heir I hoped to thrive was Floria herself. Yet surrounded by ladies whose loyalty could not be guaranteed, she could not respond directly.

  “Amen,” she said simply.

  “I heard that Her Majesty was planning to migrate to Loretto,” I said.

  “The court will travel with her,” said Floria. “I shall go myself, after I have finished some business at my house of Kellhurst.”

  “Mistress Ransome’s observatory?”

  “That and a garden I am building.” She looked at the palace, and then at me. “Should you not be offering your congratulations to Her Majesty, like all the other courtiers?”

  “In my leather jerkin and trousers I am dressed for sailing, not the court.”

  “Another reason to take up the shepherd’s craft,” said Floria. “You would fit among the other shepherds… and their dogs.”

  “Perhaps I merely anticipate the festival of the ‘Silly Sailors.’ ”

  “That’s every regatta, Quillifer,” Floria said. “You have no idea how dull it all looks, seen from the shore.”

  “Perhaps Your Highness should build a boat and enter the races yourself,” said I. “I would help you find crew.”

  She laughed. “The courtiers would defer to my rank by losing deliberately. You would see the worst sailing in the world.”

  “Do it in disguise.”

  Again she laughed. “As Tom Bowlin the Miniature Sailor?” She looked at her ladies, amused. “I think I shall stay on shore, and guide my flock.”

  “That is probably wise, Highness. But now I must rescue my half-sunken boat.”

  “Best do it now, sir, before it becomes a full-sunk boat.”

  “Your Highness.” I bowed, and she went on, along with her flock.

  By his galley I found the Lorettan captain who had rammed Dunnock, and whose extravagant apologies I found useful, for he took me and my crew out in his boat, and together we towed Dunnock back to Rackheath House. With some effort we righted the boat, and then beached it. While lake water gurgled from the stove planks, my crew stripped away the gear, unshipped the tiller, and lowered the mast. I would contact a boatyard tomorrow for repairs.

  The bells continued to ring across the water, and were joined by a salute from a battery of Lipton’s guns. From the shore I could see the gunsmoke blurring the horizon, obscuring the palace that had become Orlanda’s playground. The intrigues and factions of the court were complicated enough without Orlanda subtly organizing them around me. I perhaps enjoy being the center of attention, but not in this way.

  Anything or anyone could be a trap, or could be turned into a trap. Yet I needed to avoid all traps.

  I thought this might oblige me to acquire more foresight than I currently possessed.

  * * *

  “Welcome to the first Savory Supper,” I said, and raised a glass. “I thank you for joining me, and I hope we may enjoy many feasts in the years to come. And now let us drink to Their Majesties, and the peace they have brought to our two realms.”

  The ladies remained seated while the gentlemen rose, and then we drank. I had instituted a loyal toast before every meal, and Master Stiver enforced it also in the servants’ hall. If Lord Edevane had informers in my house, let them report that we saluted the throne three times each day.

  I had by now been to enough fine feasts in the capital to perceive a gap in the bill of fare. The fashion was for foods that had been spiced or sweetened, as with carp served with a paste of blanched almonds, currants, and cinnamon; or leg of mutton with sugar, cloves, and nutmeg; or quails with apricots and pistachios; or the meatballs made with a paste of regia that I had served to Coronel Lipton. These sugar-gravies and fruit-sauces could be exquisite, but over a feast of ten or twelve removes, served with sweet wines, the very sweetness could grow heavy and monotonous. The spices could also disguise meat that was of poor quality.

  So with my new cook Harry Noach, I had planned a Savory Supper, with choice cuts of meat, fish, and fowl, all served with sauces that would enhance, rather than submerge, the native flavor. We began with a pottage of pigeon stuffed with parsley, then went on to pickled oysters, a pike-perch served with a fine cream of horseradish, a capon roasted simply and basted to crisp perfection, stewed pheasant, calf’s tongue hashed, a dish of marrow, a venison pie, a chine of beef roasted on a spit so that the exterior had a hard crust but the interior was pink and filled with juice, all the meats served with vegetables such as celeriac, carrots, parsnip, turnips, and other fruits of the season.

  Nor did I neglect those whose tastes were entirely biased toward the sweet sauces. A roast pig I served with a honeyed sauce of apricots, a chicken in a paste of almonds and pears, and a duck cooked in rosebuds and cloves.

  We ended, of course, with nuts and sweets: cakes with almond cream served on plates made of sugar, the colorful sweet bread called ginetoes, tarts with clotted cream, and a sweet frumenty made with rice. This I served to my principal guest, for frumenty was something of a joke between us.

  I had been somewhat surprised that Princess Floria had accepted my invitation, and yet here she was, seated by precedence at the top of the table, and her ladies somewhat below. She had Prince Alicio to talk to, and Their Graces of Roundsilver, while I occupied the middle reaches along with Dom Nemorino d’Ormyl, Countess Marcella, and Sir Cecil Greene, Ethlebight’s member in the House of Burgesses, he who had been clapped in prison by Their Majesties. Below were the commoners and mechanicals among whom I had till recently counted myself: Ransome the queen’s gunfounder, Floria’s other ladies, Coronel Lipton, Blackwell the playwright, and Alaron Mountmirail the engineer.

  The table’s great centerpiece was made of marchpane and consisted of a pair of falcons each a yard long, with feathers of sugar-paste and fierce eyes of carnelian. This was in honor of Blackwell, whose play The Kingdom of the Birds had been a great success, with Mountmirail’s mechanical birds flying over the heads of the audience, and another of his creations, a great kingly eagle twice the height of a man, which had been made to walk about the stage, turn its head, talk, and raise its great wings.

  An equal sensation had been made by a beautiful young actor, Webb, known in the company as Bonny Joe. He had played a princess, and so outperformed many of the adults in the company that he was thought to have a great future on the stage, if his fellow actors did not kill him out of jealousy.

  Music floated down from the gallery to aid our digestion, where Rufino Knott had recruited an orchestra.

  For the dishes that required it, I served as my own carver, for I felt I could carve more nicely than my servant, who for the feast now assisted the yeoman of the buttery in serving the wines. I sliced fine and fancy collops and joints, and ladled out
gravies and sauces with a careful eye.

  “I do not know this word ‘savory,’ Sir Keely-Fay,” said Dom Nemorino during one of the interludes, as the previous remove was swept away. “But it seems to me this is very plain food, which might be served in an inn.”

  “An inn could never afford meat this fine,” I said. This was not precisely true, but it appeased him somewhat, for his objection was not to the flavor but to the lack of expensive ingredients. If a dish had not cost a cotter’s yearly income, it was not worthy of his aristocratic palate.

  I had been lucky in my choice of date, for my feast was taking place the day after the Estates had adjourned. Because Greene and the duke were not required in the Estates, all my guests could arrive early in the afternoon and take part in an afternoon’s pleasures, including bowling on the green, games of darts and billiards indoors, and tennis in my court. This was the first time I had played tennis against anyone but my tutor, and I fancied I did well enough. I lost a match to Prince Alicio when he drove a ball right past my guard into the dedans, and then won a match off Dom Nemorino with an angled shot off the penthouse roof.

  I turned to Sir Cecil Greene. “Do you leave now for Ethlebight?” I asked.

  “After the solstice,” he said. “I hate a winter crossing, but I must inform our city that the crown will do precious little to keep our people from starvation.”

  “May I send money with you?” I asked. “You will know best how to bring relief to the city.”

  “I will do what I may, and thank you,” said he.

  “I shall contribute also,” said Floria, calling down the table.

  “You are very good, Your Highness.” And then to me, Sir Cecil said, “Well, the crown has its loan. But we shall see if they can collect it.”