Stargazy Pie: Greenwing & Dart Book One

by Victoria Goddard

  I cleared my throat, a little embarrassed by how Mrs. Etaris was smiling with a polite, sardonic kind of expression. She hung up her coat to dry. Mr. Dart came over beside me to lounge against the counter. “‘Stargazing, in the parlance of eastern Ghilousette (quod vide) and western Fiellan’—”

  “We get the idea of cross-references,” Mr. Dart said.

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “‘Stargazing, in the parlance of eastern Ghilousette and western Fiellan (quod vide)’—”

  “Go to.”

  “—‘means an unattainable yearning for impossible things, taken so far as to become a detriment to all society and custom, and particularly the ill-advised formation of attachments to the Good Neighbours’—”

  “That is, the Fair Folk,” Mr. Dart said helpfully. “Quod vide.”

  “We should avoid naming them,” Mrs. Etaris said placidly. Mr. Dart and I both looked at her; she smiled and shrugged, still sardonically. “They tend to leave South Fiellan alone, except for the Woods Noirell. But then the Woods Noirell—”

  “Quod vide,” I murmured.

  “—Are just down the highway,” Mr. Dart finished for her. Then he frowned at me. “Isn’t your grandmother the marchioness of the Woods Noirell? Shouldn’t she be—”

  “She disowned my mother after she married Mr. Buchance. I haven’t heard from her since I wrote to tell her mother had died. Shall we continue?” At my frown he was quelled, and shrugged amiably. I continued, “—‘And the druggery use of magic. Since the Fall of Astandalas’—”

  “Quod vide,” said Mr. Dart.

  “I think we’re all adequately well acquainted with that,” Mrs. Etaris said, when I paused to raise my eyebrows at him.

  Mr. Dart and I both grinned, the destruction the Empire of Astandalas being, obviously, by far the most important thing in anyone’s life who lived on any of the five worlds that it had covered (or, presumably, the other four, since a magical cataclysm of that magnitude affected everything). Each of the five worlds had experienced a different sort of disastrous consequence. We on Alinor called the period immediately following the Fall the Interim, it having been a time of strange fogginess in all respects, temporally, magically, physically, and emotionally, between the concrete one-day-follows-another normal periods before and after.

  I returned to the Encyclopedicon. “—‘It’—that is, Stargazing, ‘has expanded its meaning to denote the lingering effects of the Interim (quod vide)’—”

  “Let us not,” said Mr. Dart.

  “—‘The lingering effects of the Interim on both people and places, the desire to recreate the hallucinations and euphoria experienced by some during the Interim, and, in Ghilousette, has moreover the additional connotation that one who stargazes is not only insane but also treasonous.”

  Mrs. Etaris paused in the moment of taking off her bonnet, the long hatpin in her hand catching the light with a wicked flare. “Now, doesn’t that put an interesting complexion on the sudden appearance of a stargazy pie in the centre of Ragnor Bella.”

  “Quod vide,” I murmured, but I did not turn back the page to find out what was under that heading in the new edition.

  “I am astonished,” said Mr. Dart: “there might be secret meanings after all. And here I thought you just wanted to give the good gossips something else to talk about besides your belated return when we went into the fishmonger’s.”

  Mrs. Etaris seemed to be trying not to smirk. “What did you find out from Mr. Fogerty, Mr. Greenwing?”

  “He brought a barrel of Fultoney herring down from Ragmouth on Tuesday,” Mr. Dart said eagerly, while I was still trying to digest the implication that there was something interesting going on. “Half the barrelsworth was divided between Mrs. Landry, Mr. Shipston, and Dominus Gleason, and the other half sent on the country rounds with the barrow-boy.”

  “I shall have to speak with my sister.”

  “We had lunch at her parlour,” I said, “and Miss Featherhaugh said Mr. Landry hadn’t liked the fish, so it wasn’t like to be on the menu any time soon.” I felt there was no need to mention Saya Etaris’ comments. Mrs. Etaris would surely hear them all, and more besides, the next time she met her mother-in-law.

  “Well, well, well,” said Mrs. Etaris, and jabbed the hatpin back in. “Have there been any customers this afternoon?”

  “Nary a one so far,” I replied, but she seemed neither surprised nor annoyed.

  “It’s nearly time to close, anyhow. Let us go speak to Mr. Shipston. This order is for him, so we have a perfect excuse to call. Mr. Dart, would you care to join us?”

  “I should be delighted, but actually I’m supposed to be calling on my aunt, and she’ll be wondering what in the world I’ve done with myself today.” He got up with a hand held out to me. I looked at it stupidly and he chuckled. “Not shaking hands in Morrowlea, either? Silly fashions.”

  He punched me lightly on the shoulder instead. “I’ll tell her I met Mr. Greenwing and found a mystery, and she’ll be wholly delighted at the invitation to gossip, and no doubt tell me every mystery there has ever been in town back to before the Fall—not that there are many, Ragnor Bella’s known for being the dullest town in the four duchies. They mocked me in Stoneybridge for it, I tell you. Will you meet me at seven for mushrooms, Mr. Greenwing?”

  “It’s rather wet,” I objected, before the penny dropped.

  He winked under the cover of helping Mrs. Etaris back into her coat. “All the better for finding truffles. You’ve always had the knack—or is it the nose?—for it. Meet me at the walnut tree by the Little Church.”

  And out he bounced with a cheery whistle, leaving me and Mrs. Etaris to look at each other with surmise. I thought about how close the Green Dragon was to the Little Church crossroads. The tavern had always had a more than slightly raffish reputation. The Lady knew what they did on a Friday night that Mr. Dart might have developed a taste for.

  “Mr. Dart was very enthusiastic about the pie,” I said, with a vague attempt at misdirecting Mrs. Etaris’ possible thoughts, as I put on my coat. “I think he enjoyed the excuse for asking questions.”

  “I had an aunt who was a sociologist,” Mrs. Etaris said, smiling, as I picked up the box of books and followed her out into the square, where it had once again ceased raining, though the wind was picking up.

  Mrs. Etaris carefully locked the door behind us. “I always remember her saying to me, ‘My dear, do remember that gossip when well organized is sociology, and when ill regulated, slander.’”

  I looked at her. She stuck the key under the flowerpot again and smiled at me.

  “But I’m sure you already know all about that, Mr. Greenwing.”

  Chapter Six

  I was so preoccupied with preventing the box of books from slipping out of my grasp that I didn’t realize until we were well on our way that Mrs. Etaris was carrying the pie. Despite her flashes of humour, I didn’t feel I knew her anywhere near well enough to ask impertinent questions about it, and was rather disappointed she didn’t say anything as we walked, beyond a comment about someone’s potted flowers.

  “Outer Reaches asters,” I identified, pleased to show I knew something. I’m not an expert on plants by any means, but my roommate and closest friend at Morrowlea, Hal, had studied—and talked my ear off about—botany, and been particularly enthusiastic about the plants coming from explorers re-opening the trade routes after the Fall of Astandalas.

  Sadly, Mrs. Etaris only gave me a thoughtful glance and said nothing more.

  Mr. Shipston lived on the outskirts of town, in a squat stone house with a large and untended garden. I noticed a few chickens pecking down the bottom, and smiled at the thought of Mr. Dart trying to import Charese duck recipes.

  A manservant answered the door. He did not betray surprise at seeing us there, but merely bowed when I announced: “Mrs. Etaris and Mr. Greenwing, with a parcel of books for Mr. Shipston.”

  “I shall inform the master,” said the manservant, with a
thick Ghilousetten accent. Mrs. Etaris had covered the pie with a cloth against threat of rain, so he didn’t raise an eyebrow at it, nor at my name. They must not have been in Ragnor Bella very long, I thought.

  He led us into the drawing room, and I caught my breath against a series of sneezes.

  Mrs. Etaris gave me a curious glance as I wiped my nose and streaming eyes with one of my fresh handkerchiefs, glad I’d thought to replace the dirty ones from my stash in the store before we left. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m afraid I am sensitive to smells.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she said mildly. “What is it in here, may I ask?”

  I got my sneezes under control with a series of shallow breaths. “The metalwork. Strange. That doesn’t usually raise it in me.”

  “Hay fever, I expect.”

  “Something like that. It comes and goes.” I looked around the room. “I’ve never been in here before. Very modern Ghilousetten décor, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I’ve never been to Ghilousette, I’m afraid.”

  “I went to Newbury on my way home.”

  She smiled sardonically again. I flushed at the thought of what she must be thinking, that I had chosen that over my stepfather’s funeral. “That was why I was delayed getting back. I hadn’t written with proper directions for where I was staying before Mr. Buchance had—had passed away.”

  “Indeed.”

  I swallowed. “I visited the Hall of Marvels. They’ve banned magic, as I’m sure you’ve heard, put all their efforts into mechanical devices and contrivances. The Hall of Marvels is for educating people about the best and newest inventions.”

  “And this?”

  I gestured at the elaborate clockwork mechanism on the inside wall, all turning cogs in brass and copper and gold wire. “Isn’t it curious? The cogs turn from … well, I’m not sure what the source of power for this one would be. Often it’s water or wind … I didn’t see whether Mr. Shipston had a windmill, did you, Mrs. Etaris?”

  “This is the old millhouse, so I expect he has a waterwheel. What is the mechanism for? Purely the beauty of motion?”

  I hadn’t thought of it as being beautiful, although I supposed it was, all gleaming surfaces and whirring movement. “I believe this is … let me think of what I saw …” I closed my eyes and tried to retrieve what I’d learned in the Hall of Marvels. “I think it’s a timepiece,” I said, looking at how some of the pieces were connected to enamelled spheres and plates. “Yes … here’s a clock for the daily hours, and this one would be the moon’s phases, and here … is it possibly a year’s count?”

  “You know your cogswork, young sir,” said a dry elderly voice, and I jumped.

  Mrs. Etaris rose with a smile and a hand outstretched to the owner of the voice. Mr. Shipston wore the long black gown of a physicker. His grey hair was cut short in the style popular in Ghilousette. He bowed over Mrs. Etaris’ hand, and kissed it with a gesture I thought both affected and rather fine. Pity I hadn’t thought of introducing that as a Morrowlea fashion.

  “I had the opportunity to visit the Hall of Marvels in Newbury this summer, sir,” I said.

  “Mr. Greenwing made a walking tour of Rondé on his way back from Morrowlea, Mr. Shipston,” said Mrs. Etaris, sitting back down on the sofa when he released her hand.

  “Indeed?” he asked. “I went to Avalen, myself.”

  Avalen in Tifou, the kingdom south of Chare, was one of the Circle Schools, but like Stoneybridge kept itself mostly aloof from the rivalries between Tara and Morrowlea. I nodded awkwardly. “I’ve not travelled that far south, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “Sensible young man. You’re quite correct, Mr. Greenwing. This is a year’s count.” He showed me a series of elaborately carved figures on rings arcing across the face of the wall. “Not though it is all that accurate, since the Fall. It used to tell the Emperor’s Years and so on, but now …” He chuckled sadly. “It is something of a marvel it tells the Moon’s phases correctly. Can you reckon it?”

  I studied the notches and figures and symbols until I found the silver and black-lacquer image of the Moon sandwiched between a sun-in-glory for the Emperor’s Years, the main annual calendar used throughout the Empire (and which did appear to be more than a little off, since it read the 954th year of the Emperor Artorin’s reign; I wondered briefly why the maker had felt the need to include such high numerals in the first place), and the white unicorn symbol of Lady Jessamine of Alinor.

  I cleared my throat. “It is … the third of the Autumn Ember Days; the New Moon will be … oh, tonight, yes. She’s in the House of the Dragon, which is really of interest to students of the old religion.”

  “And are you one such?” Mr. Shipston asked.

  I sneezed at a whiff of copper—perhaps it was the polish Mr. Shipston’s domestics used that was doing it for me? I hadn’t sneezed so much in all the Hall of Marvels. “No,” I managed, wiping my nose. “I’ve read some accounts in the History of Magic.”

  “I’d forgotten about the Zodiac houses,” Mrs. Etaris murmured, setting the still-wrapped pie on the coffee table as the manservant came forward with a tray of coffee and biscuits. “Well done, Mr. Greenwing.”

  I could tell right enough that this was a veiled request for me to explain what I had taken at Morrowlea, but I didn’t feel like explaining why I’d moved from History of Magic to Classical Literature via Architecture, or how poorly that choice had worked out for me in the end.

  I had discovered a great appreciation for the complex coded architectural poetry of the Fourth Calligraphic Horizontal School, and I had lost my heart, and neither was really any of their business, any more than my paltry efforts to figure out how long exactly it had been between my father’s death and the Fall of Astandalas.

  Except, of course, my father hadn’t died then after all, and it hadn’t mattered a whit to anybody but me. Three Years Gone … or five … or none at all …

  But I didn’t feel like explaining that, no matter how pleasant Mrs. Etaris was and how bright an eye old Mr. Shipston turned on me, so all I did was bow to acknowledge the compliment and do my best to turn the conversation. “It is a beautiful piece of cogswork, Mr. Shipston.”

  “My hobby,” he said, a bit bashfully. “I am a physicker by trade, you know, but I’ve always enjoyed the complications of the Astandalan calendar. I understand the one used in the Collian portion of the Empire was even more complex than our Alinorel calendar, since Colhélhé has several moons and no strong agreement between the cultures, and half of them live below the surface of the sea and do not reckon with human measurements at all. I have always regretted I did not travel to Colhélhé when I was a young man, and the Empire made passage between the worlds possible. But I was ambitious in my trade.” He shrugged. “By the time I had thought I might retire, the Fall came upon us, and I was hard put to put my training to use in the Interim. I moved from Ghilousette five months ago, but came no farther than Ragnor Bella.”

  “There were rumours of war in the southern lands,” Mrs. Etaris said. “Or indeed, I should say there are rumours of war. Even Chare’s borders are not secure.”

  “We are very fortunate in Rondé, and particularly here in Fiellan,” Mr. Shipston agreed. “The young might wish for more prospect of adventure—don’t look at me like that, Mr. Greenwing, you are a young man and a red-blooded one I am certain!—But to those of us who have travelled farther afield, or recall the stories of those who joined the Astandalan army, the peacefulness of Ragnor Bella is a balm.”

  “My father was in the Astandalan army,” I said quietly. “He fought in the campaigns of East Orkaty and the Seven Valleys.” One to the greatest acclaim; the other … not.

  Mr. Shipston opened his mouth and then closed it again, and then bowed slightly. “Jakory Greenwing, of course. I apologize, Mr. Greenwing. You of all in this town would know the cost of adventure.”

  “Or of war,” said Mrs. Etaris, with a smile to remind us not to talk of gruesome things in her presence (or s
o I interpreted it). “But we do have a very small mystery to relate to you, Mr. Shipston.”

  “I did not order novels in this shipment of books!” he said, chuckling.

  “To be sure, no.” Mrs. Etaris pulled forward the pie and unwrapped the cloth covering. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  There was a ghastly pause. Mr. Shipston stared at the pie and I stared at him. His face contracted in an expression of horror so frank I felt an answering fear rise up in me like a distant echo.

  Then he called his manservant to have us thrown out of the house.

  Chapter Seven

  The manservant went rigid and grey when he saw the pie.

  “Mrs. Etaris and Mr. Greenwing are leaving,” Mr. Shipston said abruptly. “Tell Miranda—” he stopped even more abruptly. “No; I will come up myself.”

  Mrs. Etaris gestured at me and stood, putting her gloves back on as she did so. I hesitated a moment and then picked up the pie. Mr. Shipston made a strangled noise. I turned, and, astonished at my own insolence, said, “Was there something else, Mr. Shipston?”

  He didn’t lift his gaze from the pie. “Seven,” he said in a tight voice. “That’s fourteen …”

  “Two are gone,” the manservant replied brusquely.

  “Twelve … twelve … O Lady, they know. They know.”

  “Learned—” said the manservant, his voice cracking. Mr. Shipston swayed and sat down. The manservant glared in anguish from him to us. I hesitated, staring, as Mr. Shipston seemed about to faint, but Mrs. Etaris took me by the arm and led me firmly to the door.

  As it shut behind us, she said cheerfully, “Now, wasn’t that an interesting reaction! What do you think, Mr. Greenwing?”

  I thought Mrs. Etaris sounded insanely cheerful, to be honest, and was irresistibly reminded of my friend Violet, who had always sounded happiest in the thick of things.

  Former friend Violet. That was one of many things ruined in the spring examinations.

  I didn’t even try to match Mrs. Etaris’ insouciance as I gathered my fragmenting thoughts.