Stargazy Pie

by Victoria Goddard

  “What a day in town indeed!” Mrs. Etaris said. “Let us go to Dominus Gleason’s the back way. Fortunately we have no horses to delay us.”

  Indeed, horses couldn’t have gone the route she took us by. I was once again amazed at Mrs. Etaris’ knowledge of the back alleys and little gaps between houses, but was too busy trying not to let waves of dizziness overwhelm me to say anything. Mr. Dart, who had managed with Mrs. Calloun’s assistance to outfit himself with a sling, did say, as we turned onto Dominus Gleason’s cul-de-sac after edging along a narrow path between raspberry canes and a stone wall, “How do you know all these back ways, Mrs. Etaris?”

  She smiled at us as she stepped aside to let me ring the bell at the door. “Oh, I’ve always enjoyed exploring places, Mr. Dart. Don’t you?”

  I had to hold onto the doorframe for balance; I hoped it was unobtrusively. Mr. Dart rearranged the knot of his sling and didn’t reply. I gulped, throat raw and thick-feeling.

  The ancient butler opened the door. He was frowning even more severely than the day before. The air that wafted out of the house was even stronger—I fainted.

  ***

  A little later I came to myself on a couch in a sitting room of such fantastic appearance that I thought I was hallucinating. It looked like the inside of the Lady’s cathedral I’d seen in Kingsford, elaborate vaulting with medallions and moulded fruit and grains and things. All of them brightly painted stone—except that it didn’t smell like stone—

  “It’s all right,” Mrs. Etaris said calmly. I felt pressure on the back of my neck, and bent down obediently until my head was between my knees. “Breathe through your mouth. Once. Twice. Again.—Thank you, Mr. Whilt. Here, eat this, Mr. Greenwing.”

  I accepted what she handed me, some sort of sweet dry biscuit. I chewed slowly, swallowed, and after another few minutes my brain stopped whirling in my head, and I felt as if I could manage to sit up. I did so cautiously. Mrs. Etaris leaned close under pretext of placing her cool hand on my forehead, and murmured into my ear, “That was perfect; he wouldn’t have let us in otherwise. Is that better, Mr. Greenwing?”

  “Yes,” I said, stopping my nod halfway through as I started to feel odd again. The sneezes were threatening to recur. I breathed shallowly in the hopes that I might be able to prevent them from overwhelming me again. The whole house smelled musty, papery, dusty, and there was that strange edge of corruption—or glue?

  “I really didn’t want visitors,” Dominus Gleason said in a high, whiny sort of voice. I blinked away the water in my eyes. I’d never been into any room in the old Gleason place but for sneaking visits into the library. We were in what seemed to be some sort of drawing room or personal chapel. The furniture was old and heavy, and Mr. Dart and Violet both sat uncomfortably on the edges of their seats.

  “I’m very sorry to trouble you,” Mrs. Etaris said, “but I think Mr. Greenwing will need to sit for a few minutes longer before he will be able to continue.”

  “What’s wrong with him, anyway? Ugh. Strange for a young man to faint like that.”

  “He must have breathed in too much smoke when most valiantly rescuing someone trapped in Mr. Shipston’s house earlier. It has been a trying day for everyone, I’m afraid. I understand you told the Chief Constable you’d had a burglary?”

  I hoped they were watching Dominus Gleason’s face. I closed my eyes against the riotous colour of the room, and concentrated on not retching from the waves of dizziness that seemed still to be coming at me. Someone pushed a glass into my hands, and I sipped the cool water gratefully, wondering how it was that Mrs. Etaris managed to imply so easily that her husband had told her about the burglary.

  “I’m glad he’s treating it more seriously than he implied earlier,” Dominus Gleason replied. His voice did sound thin and—what was the word?—querulous, that was it. “I was to be out of town for a few days, Mrs. Etaris, as Whilt told you yesterday when you called. Ugh. When I came home I discovered that someone had broken in and stolen some of my books.”

  “Infamous! Have you any idea who might have been interested? What manner of books were they?”

  He coughed, a hacking sort of thing that sounded painfully congested, and recurred in a kind of hiccoughing effect through his speeches. “Ugh. I’ve long had problems with boys breaking into my library. Ugh. I don’t practice magic any longer, of course, Mrs. Etaris, but I could hardly destroy my books, could I? Ugh. It may be that magic comes back into favour in future.”

  “That is quite possible, indeed. It seems likely this is more of the same, does it not?”

  “That’s what the Chief Constable said. He doesn’t like me—no sense shaking your head, Mrs. Etaris, your husband has never liked me, it goes back before the Fall when … well. Ugh. I used to be outspoken about some changes I thought would be worth seeing happen, and he disagreed. And of course he disapproves mightily that I chose to retire here. Ugh. It’s my family home, Mrs. Etaris, where else would I go? I have no family left, this house is all to me. Ugh. And I am outraged, yes, outraged, Mrs. Etaris, that someone would break in and damage my library looking for—”

  He stopped abruptly. I thought back to when Mr. Dart and the Honourable Rag and I were the boys breaking in. Everyone had known how easy it was to get into Dominus Gleason’s library; he regularly left one of the windows unlocked. Everyone thought he was trying to foment rebellion and support for the Red Company. The rumours ran clear that if one wanted to know about Fitzroy Angursell’s poetry—or, after the Fall, about that so-unfashionable magic—you never asked directly, but Dominus Gleason’s was where you went.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he added. “I will report it properly to the Chief Constable. Ugh.”

  “Of course. The constabulary is the appropriate recourse for theft. Nevertheless, if you decide otherwise, and give me the titles, I can make discreet enquiries among my fellow booksellers to see if they come on the market. We do try to keep limits on the trade in stolen books, Dominus Gleason.”

  “Erm, yes. Ugh. Now Mrs. Etaris, you came yesterday and again today, you obviously have a question for me?”

  He spoke too hastily, I thought, and knew Mrs. Etaris would have noticed too—and Violet as well, she was always alert to what people were not saying. Except for Lark, lying Lark—I rested the cool glass against my forehead. I’d been doing so well trying not to think about Lark.

  “Oh, yes, of course. I was distracted by Mr. Greenwing. I had two questions for you. The first is that I understand you acquired some herring from Mr. Fogerty this week, and I was wondering whether you had perhaps a recipe for herring pie? I was feeling somewhat homesick for a taste of Fiella-by-the-Sea, but my sister did not have the recipe, and it occurred to me you might.”

  “Herring pie? I … That’s the dish with all the cream, isn’t it? I suppose Mrs. Whilt might have a recipe for that, if you ask her.”

  The old man sounded nonplussed at the question. He paused, then added, “I feel I must explain to you, Mrs. Etaris, that I am not a well man. Ugh. I have been consulting with a noted physicker of Inghail who has been researching in the barony this year, and he had recommended I eat more fish—and that most plainly.

  “I hate fish,” he added plaintively. “Ugh. I was away yesterday for meditation—that is another aspect of his practice, which does not follow the Rondelan method. Mr. Greenwing might do well to consult with him, as clearly his running cold does not answer to Fiellanese physicking, either, and Mr. Shipston will be in no good position to give Ghilousetten potions again any time soon.”

  He made his hacking cough again, and I realized it was a form of laughter.

  Once he subsided Mr. Dart said thoughtfully, “Would the physicker of Inghail be Dominus Alvestone? He consulted with my brother’s library in the summer.”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Dart, Dominus Alvestone is most well known for his work with—well, with the sort of ailments that those of my profession have faced since the Fall. Ugh. He has been most intrigued by the stability
and general health of Fiellan, and especially in our barony. Ugh. We’re notable for being one of the least affected regions in all of Alinor, did you know that? But no one knows why.”

  “How curious,” Mrs. Etaris said. “Mr. Greenwing, are you feeling somewhat recovered?”

  I opened my eyes and set my jaw against the swirling sense of wrongness. “I think so. Thank you, Dominus Gleason, for your aid.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  I caught a glance from Mrs. Etaris, and so despite my reluctance, I said, “As it happens, I had a question for you myself, sir.”

  “Oh?” He hacked into a handkerchief. He did look unwell, I thought, with dark circles under his eyes, and a way of holding himself as if his skin hurt. He was smiling at me with an odd gleam in his eyes. I swallowed hard. I really didn’t want to be in his obligation.

  “I came across mention of something called the Knockermen in Ghilousette, and I was wondering if you might know whom I should consult to find out more.”

  There was a strained silence, and then Dominus Gleason sank back into his seat. “I think you had better sit down again, and tell me what is really going on, Mr. Greenwing.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I glanced around helplessly, the waves of dizziness throwing my wits off.

  Mrs. Etaris said, “Perhaps I can summarize—I think Mr. Greenwing is not yet feeling quite himself. Mr. Shipston mentioned that he had moved away from Ghilousette with some fear for the Knockermen. This seemed to have some relation to a question that had brought Mr. Greenwing’s friend from Morrowlea, Miss Redshank, here to Ragnor Bella.”

  “Miss Redshank, eh?” he said, with more hacking, and a determined leer that got my back up. Violet smiled at him coolly and I realized she probably had to fend off those sorts of leers frequently. No wonder she’d worked so hard with weapons in the Morrowlea salles. “Seeking the Knockermen instead of the Longworths, are you?”

  The Longworths were the family of assassins that the disguised Tenebra went seeking in Aurora. I risked a glance at Mrs. Etaris, who looked politely bewildered. Violet smiled at Dominus Gleason with almost exactly the same expression she’d given the Honourable Rag when he’d asked her if she was one of the Misses Indrilline.

  “I seek information,” she said. “Mr. Greenwing has offered his assistance.”

  “He could sniff them out, assuming they don’t come for him first,” he said with a disturbingly lascivious glance at me. I started to sneeze again in discomfort, and he hacked. “Didn’t you realize you’re shedding magic like dandruff? Fool boy. They’ll be coming for you next, if they’re in Fiellan. Ugh. They could make good use of someone who can smell magic. Ugh. But my offer still stands, Mr. Greenwing.”

  “What are they?” Mr. Dart said, casting me a worried glance.

  “The Knockermen? Ugh. In the Legendarium, they’re one of the bands of the Good Neighbours. They’re to be found in mines—they knock, hence the name. You don’t want to stay in a mine after the Knockermen start knocking, because it means they’re doing their mining. They follow human workings to harvest magic—from people and from places. We don’t have mines in Fiellan, so it’s no surprise you don’t hear much of them. The heart of their realm was in the Kilromby Islands, in the tin mines.”

  “Ghilousette has a lot of mines,” Mr. Dart said.

  I already thought I knew the answer to that, and shook my head. Dominus Gleason nodded in approval. I tried not to recoil obviously.

  “Iron and salt mines. Ugh. The Good Neighbours don’t like iron and salt, Mr. Dart. Or the ban on magic. Fools! The Duke will find that ban will come back to bite him.”

  “Have they left their mines?” Mrs. Etaris asked. “Is that what you mean about Mr. Greenwing perhaps being in danger?”

  Dominus Gleason hacked long enough that his butler came up with a glass of water into which he stirred a pale pink powder. I sneezed heartily at a sudden blast of lilac as he approached, and everyone looked sidelong at me. Dominus Gleason slurped his medicine, which seemed to soothe his chest but make his watery eyes yet more glittery.

  “I am still in communication with many of my old colleagues,” he said. “Over the past few years there have been those looking for the old books. Ugh. The Legendarium. The old ways. I am a Scholar, I have my standards. Some of my colleagues … Ugh. Not everywhere is as accommodating as Ragnor Bella. They take what they can.”

  “And the Knockermen?”

  “I have been hearing,” he said, “only hearing, and I tell you this because I know you are discreet, Mrs. Etaris, because Mr. Greenwing has his own problems, and Mr. Dart I know your heart is high and brave.” He didn’t mention Violet, but then of course, I thought, he would presume from her choice of name that she was a kindred spirit—which I supposed she was.

  “Ghilousette is not the only place where magic is banned, nor is it the only place where people yet are born with magic or still desire what can be done with it. Ugh. The Knockermen in the Legendarium mine for magic. The new Knockermen have learned ways to steal magic for their own purposes.”

  Violet spoke tensely. “Are there Knockermen in Ragnor Bella?”

  Dominus Gleason cackled. “Miss Redshank, if I knew that, do you think I would still be here? They would not leave me to speak. I am old, but I still have my magic, and I have many books of power. No, they have not come to Fiellan yet. This is a rumour in Ghilousette, in Tifou, in Tarkin, and of course in Kilromby. Nowhere that people still keep some of the old ways alive. Magic in Fiellan is unfashionable, but it is not banned; unspoken of, but still practised. Ugh. Ragnor Bella has always been most conservative. I have some respect still, from those who understand the ways of things. I have my knots on the waystones. And I have my students, you may be sure.” He hacked again, and looked very meaningfully at me. “When the student is ready the master comes. Ugh.”

  O Lady, I thought passionately, let anyone else come.

  Mrs. Etaris spoke quietly. “Which of your books were stolen, Dominus Gleason?”

  He hesitated again, then shrugged unconvincingly. “Ugh. Nothing of this sort. Ugh. History of religion.”

  “Ah,” she said, and looked around at us. “I think we’ve probably taken up too much of your time already. Mr. Greenwing, if you’re feeling well enough, shall we go see what havoc has been wreaked in the market square in our absences?”

  “Mm,” I said, and we all stood up. Violet came up beside me and laced her arm through mine, as if for politeness’ sake. I smiled gratefully at her.

  Dominus Gleason walked us to the door. His eyes looked even more glittery, and I wondered what exactly had been in his medicine. He smelled of camphor and lilacs and something else that made me sneeze. Violet squeezed my arm as I tried to cover the noise with my pitiful handkerchief.

  “Mr. Greenwing,” the Scholar said, stepping far too close to me so he could speak. I didn’t trust my body to reply, as I was clenching my lips shut in the hopes I wouldn’t retch or sneeze, so raised my eyebrows. “Mr. Greenwing. Come see me when you are ready.”

  I bowed curtly, hoping it merely looked like I was trying not to be sick again rather than insult him. He made his hacking laughter again, then plucked at his loose shirt. I wondered abruptly whether there were many light cuts across his torso that made him so uncomfortable in sitting, and so admiring in his talk of the old ways, and swallowed against revulsion.

  “I hope,” Violet said after we had followed Mrs. Etaris and Mr. Dart down the street a ways, “that there are other teachers of magic in Ragnor Bella.”

  ***

  We picked our way back through town to Elderflower Books. The market square was empty but full of more litter than usual. Pinger and Garsom were mooching around picking up the scraps of paper, vegetables, cloth, and so on; they were paid by the town council to keep things tidy. Mrs. Etaris waved at them as she unlocked the store. Its blinds were still drawn, the chairs left akimbo.

  “Woul
d anyone like some coffee before we start?” Mr. Dart asked. “And food?”

  “Oh, that is a good idea, Mr. Dart. Miss Redshank, will you go with Mr. Greenwing to help carry?”

  Violet linked her arm in mine again as we crossed the square to the bakery. Mr. Inglesides was in the process of closing up for the afternoon. “Mr. Greenwing!” he said, smiling, as I entered, and then gaped at Violet. “Er, hello, miss.”

  “This is Miss Redshank, a friend of mine from Morrowlea,” I said, and from his tiny frown of recognition knew he definitely had read Aurora. “We had a bit of an accident earlier and ended up in the river. Do you possibly have any coffee left, Mr. Inglesides? And I see you have some buns—could we get those?”

  “You can have the whole lot,” he said, putting aside the broom and going to rinse his hands in the basin and ewer set behind the counter. “I’m closing early today after the fuss in the market. Miss Pilker—my assistant, Miss Redshank—lives down the same street as Mr. Shipston whose house caught fire, so I sent her home early.” He shook his head as he put the remaining sweet buns into a paper bag. “She fusses so, it seemed a hardship to make her stay. That was before all the madness started in the square. The bookstore’s been closed since this morning, though—anything wrong there?”

  “Miss Redshank is a collector,” I said, “so Mrs. Etaris thought to close the store to permit her some privacy in her decisions.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Inglesides looked askance at Violet’s peasant dress. She smiled at him with slow mischief, and he melted. “Oh, I see. How … how much coffee you do want, Mr. Greenwing?”

  “Enough for four, please, Mr. Inglesides.”

  After the flustered baker passed us the goods, and in a sudden access of geniality refused any payment, gaping the while at Violet, we went back out. Pinger and Garsom were still picking through the litter, but Pinger ambled over as I adjusted my grip on the hot jug. I nodded at them. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pinger.”