by Hilari Bell
“So are you,” said Fisk. “Good enough to make all the money you’d need, without cheating. Which brings us to the real question; does anyone else involved with the project need money?”
“No one who counts,” said Stint. “As far as I know. Dayless has nothing but her salary, but if she lived beyond her means she’d have gone broke long ago. The scholars are always broke, but they don’t care. Their parents pay their tuition and give them a stipend for room and board,” he added. “If they gamble they do it with each other, for tin points, so even if they lost all the time it wouldn’t matter. And speaking of mattering, I owe Professor Sevenson for this. So if you’re really planning to … what was it, clear his name? I should tell you that you don’t have a lot of time. I hear they’ve already interviewed a second applicant for his job.”
This news was so disturbing it almost distracted me — but working with Fisk has taught me that ’tis the things folk don’t say that you have to listen for.
“Who is it that needs money, but doesn’t count?” I asked.
“What?” He had to think back over what he’d said. “Oh, I was talking about Quicken, and his daughter’s leg. It took magica medicine to get it to heal.”
Fisk, who knows the price of magica medicine, winced. Stint went on, as oblivious as Benton.
“He has relatives in another town, connections of his wife’s, who have some money and they chipped in to help.”
“Or so he told you,” Fisk said. “It sounds like he needed money badly.”
“Yes, but that was four or five months ago. And I doubt Quicken has any idea what this project is about, or why it matters. I suppose if someone approached him, he might have understood that burning the notes would set us back. Though since Dayless had a copy, and I can reconstruct my formulas—” He lifted the rolled notes in his hand, in demonstration. “—setting us back a week or so is all it would do. Though he probably wouldn’t have realized that, either. The man’s only a gamekeeper, after all.”
We left Professor Stint to his notes, and had made our way out to the street before Michael spoke.
“My father has many faults. But he taught every one of us that just because someone is poor, or Giftless, that doesn’t mean they might not be brave or intelligent or kind or wise or good.”
“It’s not low birth that makes him ‘only a gamekeeper,’” I said. “Stint’s probably taught plenty of merit scholars, and given them his respect. It’s Quicken’s lack of education. Stint’s probably assuming, and he may be right, that the man left school as soon as he’d learned to read, write, and figure. So of course he couldn’t understand a complex professorial experiment. But despite your desire to leap to the defense of the downtrodden, it sounds like the man had a serious need for money several months ago. And he works at the heart of the project.”
I shared Michael’s distaste for Stint’s snobbery. But while I knew that the poor and uneducated could be brave, intelligent, and true, I also knew they could be cowardly, stupid, and dishonest. As could noblemen. The difference was that nobles had power and the poor didn’t … which made the poor more likely to be desperate.
And speaking of desperate, the sooner we found whoever had framed Benton the sooner I could leave, so I tried to fix my attention on the problem instead.
“What’s the difference between a bandit and a gamekeeper?”
Michael looked resigned, but he too knew his place. “I don’t know. What?”
“A gamekeeper usually likes his victims … and he kills them, anyway.”
“All right, he needed money. But according to Stint, his daughter’s injury, and that need, came upon him four or five months ago. If he was hired then to sabotage the project, why hasn’t he done something before this?”
“I don’t know, though it’s worth trying to find out. I wonder how many of Master Quicken’s neighbors we’ll have to talk to, before we find one who knows where his wife’s rich relative lives.”
“We may not need to trouble them,” said Michael. “’Tis not that Benton is oblivious. He just chooses what to care about.”
Benton looked startled at the question, but he knew that Mistress Quicken’s maiden name was Barrows. Her brother who’d helped with their medical bills lived in Trowbridge, two days’ ride from here, and in another fiefdom.
Since the third applicant for Benton’s job might arrive any day now Michael and I set off immediately — leaving Trouble behind because Kathy said someone had to help her look after Benton, and he was too gloomy for her to manage alone.
Little did she know that I was leaving my trouble behind, because she agreed to stay in Slowbend.
It felt painfully familiar to gather up our gear while Michael readied Tipple and Chant for travel–but that was nothing compared to the sweet and terrible pain of being in Kathy’s presence.
I’d hoped that the waterfall of emotion that had overwhelmed me in the loft might drain away. By the time I woke up the next day, I’d almost convinced myself it had. Then she came out of Benton’s bedroom, wearing a worn dressing gown and thick socks, yawning, and the waterfall flowed into a river with deep, dangerous currents, like Benton had been babbling about. It swept me up, and carried me so far from shore that the idea of being separated from her for four days felt like I’d be leaving an arm behind. Nothing as violent as an amputation, just something I’d keep reaching for, and being constantly startled when it wasn’t there.
Surely this sudden love would fade, maybe as fast as it had arisen … though thinking back on it, it wasn’t all that sudden. I had grown closer to her with every letter we’d written over the last three years, without even realizing it. Now I felt as if I knew her as well as my own hands.
But I’d be away from her for several days, which should let me get my unruly emotions under control. Though pushing thoughts of her aside only left another matter, one that still preyed on my heart, to rise to the surface.
It was awkward between Michael and me at first. The project was his investigation, so he was in charge of the journey. But he seemed self-conscious about it, asking me for agreement on things we’d settled years ago, like him caring for the horses while I set up camp.
By the second day of the ride some of the awkwardness had worn off. Michael was fretting about the potential arrival of the Benton’s replacement, and my absurd yearning for Kathy … it didn’t fade, but I was able to push it to the back of my attention, thinking about something besides her for as much as, oh, five minutes at a stretch.
We ended up sharing a lot of details about the separate parts of our investigations. From Michael, I learned more about what Dayless said about magic, and his adventures with Pig — which sounded crazier and more reckless the more he told me. I also learned more about the rabbits and how the project worked, and we agreed that Quicken could have sabotaged that part of the experiment more effectively, more easily, and without drawing attention to himself.
At that point, if I hadn’t been avoiding Kathy, I might have suggested we turn around — the gamekeeper wasn’t an idiot, and the more we discussed his other opportunities the less it looked like he’d have burned those papers. But he had needed money, the only one close to the project who had, so we rode on.
As the day passed, I told Michael more about our adventures in the library, the intricacy and solidity of Hotchkiss’ system, and how strange it was that such a mind would resort to blackmail. I knew scholars could be as greedy and vicious as anyone, but it seemed there was still a part of me that was disappointed that was so.
It was a sentiment Jack would have mocked mercilessly, but Michael understood.
We made camp early that night, and rode into Trowbridge in the late morning. It was a thriving small town, the administrative center of the fiefdom, not the farming village I’d expected. But instead of rowdy, scholarly arguments about whether Liege Jorrian was really a usurper, or the density of air, here the topics that raised people’s voices were a drop in the price of barley, or whether the Bittne
r’s dairy or the Happert’s made the best cheese.
We chose an inn, booked a room for the night, and asked the stout and ruddy innkeeper if he knew of a man called Barrows, said to live near there.
“Ah, that’d be the Barrows’ farm,” the man said. “But you don’t look… Well, it’s an hour’s ride north. You’ll pass the tree Tam Longner was climbing, and fell out of and broke his arm. Take the first lane to the left after that, and you’re there in no time.”
Despite the stone-paved streets it was a country village, after all — at least, as far as directions were concerned. I was about to ask for a better description of the tree Tam Longner fell out of, when Michael spoke.
“We don’t look like the people who usually call on Master Barrows? How so?”
“No disrespect, sir. It’s that you look like someone who travels a lot, and not in a fancy carriage, either. But I shouldn’t be saying more.”
And he didn’t. We had to ask a number of townsfolk, before we finally found a shopkeeper who said that no matter what Master Barrows claimed her compote hadn’t made anyone sick. And that a score of folk had bought jars from that same batch, and eaten it with no ill effect!
A long discussion ensued, and we learned that a well-dressed gentleman, who traveled in a very nice coach, had called on Master Barrows several times in the last four months, and it was after that he’d started throwing money about. Which had raised some eyebrows, and not just hers, let me tell you.
“What did Master Barrows say to account for this gentleman giving him money? For I’ll wager he said something,” Michael added, with the easy air of someone who was country raised himself, despite being the baron’s son.
“He said his sister’s husband had landed a soft job at the university over in Slowbend. But if you ask me, that’s rubbish. What’s a scholarly place like that need a gamekeeper for?”
That part we understood — it was why the gamekeeper had been allowed to wait so long before earning his bribe that was a mystery.
Armed with this incriminating information we went back to the inn, resaddled our horses, and rode out to the farm to ask Josh Barrows just that question. And we only made two wrong turns, at other trees, before we found Tam Longner’s.
The Barrows’ farm showed the sudden influx of money; a rain barrel made of bright new wood contrasted with the barn’s weathered planks, and there was fresh paint on all the doors and shutters … except for one set, which was being replaced by an actual glass window as we approached.
Master Barrows was outside, supervising the glaziers, and when we rode up he came over to us, with the authoritative air of the man who owns the place.
“Master Barrows?” Michael asked.
“Aye, that’s me. What can I do for you gents?”
He’d been doing more than supervise, for there were sweat stains on his shirt … but his vest was new too, and of better quality than the rest of his clothes.
“We need to ask you some questions.” Michael, taking charge. “About the man who pays you to send money to your brother-in-law, in Slowbend.”
Barrows didn’t flinch, but his expression congealed into blankness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s me as gets money from Lat. He’s paying back a loan I made him when he and Judy first married. ’Cause now he’s got a job at the university, and all.”
“He has a job,” Michael admitted. “But it doesn’t pay enough for him to buy magica medicine to heal his daughter’s leg, far less send money to others. He claims his money comes from you, that you’re rich enough to help your niece when she needed it so badly. And I’m sure you would,” he added, somewhat hypocritically. “But you couldn’t have afforded to do so, without the aid of that well-off gentleman from court.”
It was the way color faded from his tanned cheeks that told us the arrow had struck home.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barrows said. “And you’ve no business here.”
He went into the house, slamming the newly painted door behind him.
After a few friendly words we took Master Barrows’ place, helping the crew install his new window. They wouldn’t let us construct the frame, but we could saw boards to the length they marked, mix the plaster and caulk, and when they had the frame ready, we helped lift the heavy panel of glass rounds into place. I launched a discussion of the price of even old-style glass, but the master carpenter gave me a shrewd glance, and not only refused to comment, he didn’t let his men gossip either.
As soon as their cart rolled out of the yard, Michael went up to the door and knocked. “Master Barrows? We’re not going to leave till you talk with us, so you might as well do so. The glaziers have gone, so you can speak free—”
The door swung open, and a red-faced Master Barrows almost knocked Michael over as he burst into the farm yard. It must have been maddening to skulk in his own house, listening as we tried to pull gossip out of his neighbors. But that didn’t, in my opinion, excuse the poker he was gripping so hard his knuckles were white.
“Do you know that what you’re doing is illegal?” I asked sharply. “You could be brought before the judicars to answer for it.”
I had no idea if he’d done anything illegal or not, but there was a good chance he thought he had. He lowered the poker, and spoke instead of swinging.
“You got no call to say that. All I did was pass some money along.”
“You just told us ’twas Lat who sent money to you,” Michael pointed out. “Come, Master Barrows, tell us the truth. We intend no harm to you. Or even to Master Quicken, though if he’s committed some crime he may have a debt to pay.”
“That’s not my problem,” said Barrows, recovering a bit of his composure. “Anything he did, he did it in Crown fief, and this is Baron Martolk’s land. I haven’t committed any crimes.”
“If Lat’s been sabotaging the Heir’s project, I think you’ll find that your baron’s judicars will do whatever the Liege’s warrant tells them to. And if you’ve helped him, you may end up paying part of that debt yourself.”
“The Heir? I didn’t … I don’t… Look, all I wanted was to help Lat out! This was over four months ago, not long after Nan broke her leg. The healer said she wasn’t going to mend right without magica — a long course of it, not just one dose. All I did, all Lat asked me to do, was to pass the letters back and forth and then send him the money. Because it would be harder to track, across a fiefdom border, you know? It was only a few times,” he finished desperately. “And they both said I could take three gold roundels from each purse for my pains.”
I looked at Michael in time to see his brows rise sharply. If three gold roundels was just a fraction of that purse, Master Quicken had been very well-paid.
“What did Lat agree to do for all that money?” I asked. “And who was paying him?”
“I don’t know,” Barrows said. “And the gent don’t say. He’d even had the crest that was on the door of his fancy coach scratched off, so I knew he wasn’t about to give his name.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
Barrows shrugged. “Nothing much. Slim, brown hair. Older than you, not too tall, and an accent like your friend’s here. But I don’t have any idea who he was, much less who he worked for.”
“He worked for someone?” Michael asked. “’Twas not himself who wanted Lat’s service?”
“No. He said…” The man swallowed hard. “He said his employer was rich enough to pay for this, and more besides if Lat did well. And he must have, ’cause two more purses came after that.”
“Do you know what your brother-in-law was supposed to do for this money?” Michael asked.
“He said it wasn’t killing.” The desperate eyes flashed back and forth between us. “He said it’d do real harm to no one. Just some scholarly stuff, with papers and experiments and all. Said that when folk put more stock in papers than in people, it served ’em right. But I didn’t do anything but pass their letters and the money. And I don�
�t know any more about it.”
“Well, we know a bit more now,” Michael said.
We’d returned to the inn, and cancelled the room we’d booked so early that we’d gotten our money back. Now we were on our way back to Slowbend.
“We have proof Master Quicken was bribed,” he went on. “So it seems certain ’twas he who sabotaged the project. And we’ll return as quickly as we can to report it.”
He was right about the need for speed, but… “Why did he wait so many months before he did it?” I demanded. “From what Stint said, his daughter broke her leg four or five months ago, and Quicken gets paid three times before he does anything? And why burn papers instead of tampering with the rabbits, who were in his charge? It doesn’t make sense. We can’t just ask him about it, either. Unlike Master Barrows, he really has done something illegal, something that will cost him his job at the least. He isn’t going to babble at us, in the hope that we’ll go away again.”
“I know,” said Michael sadly. “But he’ll talk to the judicars.”
This was Michael’s answer to every problem — he’d have sent Jack to the judicars, even knowing he’d hang. I felt a lingering flash of resentment, though I had to admit, it was softened by having come to know Benton. Knowing just how much Quicken’s schemes had cost the scholar.
But it didn’t matter what I wanted, anyway. Michael was in charge when it came to the project, but even if he hadn’t been he’d have fought for this. Michael always fought for what he thought was right.
And I didn’t.
Not when it came to people, at least. And when it came to the people he cared about, that was when Michael fought hardest. Like he was fighting now, for Benton. Like he was fighting for me, still trying to reconcile us despite everything I threw in his way.
And I had run from him. I hadn’t been wrong, to let Jack go, but I could have stayed and fought it out with Michael. Instead I’d taken to my heels, just as I had all my life when caring about people got too hard. I ran from my family, instead of fighting the respectable Max. I’d run from Lucy when Jack challenged me — though that was probably smart, since someone who’d give you up for a bribe wasn’t worth much of a fight. But worst of all, I’d run from Michael instead of trying to stand up for myself, for my own beliefs. Because running had always been easier, even with Michael. But not now.