He was accompanied by the plump inn-wife, who was explaining something. He bid her a pleasant farewell and came over to our group. “Look, Jemis, the innkeeper gave me some of her speedwell! This is an extremely rare variety—oh, my apologies!” He grinned at Master Dart and Sir Hamish, who were both looking at him in astonishment. “I do get carried away at times when I see new plants.”
“This is Hal Leaveringham, my good friend from Morrowlea,” I said, remembering as I began speaking that the proper etiquette would have introductions going the other way. I grimaced apologetically, but Hal didn’t seem to notice. “Hal, Master Torquin Dart, the Squire, and Sir Hamish Lorkin.”
Both men bowed. Sir Hamish said, “I hadn’t heard much news of you at court these past three years, but if you were at Morrowlea that explains it, your grace.”
Hal made a face. “I’m not very good at this travelling incognito, am I?”
Sir Hamish chuckled. “I’m a portraitist, your grace. I’d hardly forget someone I’ve painted, even with the difference between sixteen and twenty-one.”
“Please, less of the gracing—I’ve abandoned my poor valet and most of my clothes, and I can hardly dress the part. I’m the Duke of Fillering Pool, Squire Dart. I don’t believe we’ve met before. Here, Jemis, take these, will you?”
He thrust the plants into my hands. They seemed entirely unprepossessing. I raised my eyebrows at him. “What do you want done with them?”
“Don’t lose all the soil! The inn-wife is bringing a container. I’ll wrap them up and take them back to Fillering Pool, obviously. What else would I do with them?”
I obediently closed my hands so that the earth didn’t fall between my fingers. “Consign them to the compost-heap?”
“Bah. You have no sense of the important things in life.”
“What, weeds?”
“It’s a very rare type of speedwell,” he said earnestly, then laughed with the resonant whoop that always surprised. “Oh, before I forget, Jemis, my mama sends her regards. She did like you this summer, even without knowing that you were Mad Jack Greenwing’s son. I can’t wait to tell them. It’s such a pity my sister’s affections are already engaged.”
I choked.
“Anyhow,” he went on before anyone else could respond to his stunning blitheness, turning with a brilliant smile to the inn-wife as she arrived with the promised tin. “Thank you, ma’am. What did you say this was called here?”
“’Tis bred from hoary eyebright, my lord, though some as will call it creeping speedwell, and my ma, who gave me that piece when I wed, called it Blue-eyed Veronica. She’s from the Woods, my lord.”
I reflected that Hal really wasn’t very good at travelling incognito. He ignored the my lords and set the plant into the tin, pressing soil gently around the roots and even over some of the branches. He looked as if only strict training was keeping him from cooing as the inebriated and half-enchanted Mr. Dart had cooed over the geese in the Talgarths’ pond last week.
“Hoary because of the ciliate leaves, creeping because of its prostrate habit, and blue-eyed must be its flowers—though Veronica I am unclear of. Do you know its history, ma’am?”
“My ma always said that Veronica was a name for the Lady down in the Woods.”
“Indeed?” Hal smiled down at his treasure. “There must be many wonderful variant names down here.”
“In the Woods, to be sure,” said the innkeeper, who had arrived with tankards of ale for Master Dart and me. He laughed. “Different words for all sorts of things. Make the runner turn the race, eh, Bella?”
His wife laughed good-naturedly. “It’s a more colourful way of saying ‘turn the handle on the pump’, now, isn’t it?”
“Aye, put a story into every sentence.”
There were far worse ways to behave, I thought, turning the phrase over in my mind and enjoying it.
“There’s a story in every plant-name,” Hal said happily. “Pity it’s autumn and I’ll have to wait till the spring for the flowers. I’m sure it will be well worth the wait.”
We all looked at the plant in its tin. The inn-wife said doubtfully, “’Tis a very humble plant, my lord. ”
“But of course it is! Nevertheless, it is superb in its own way, and of course it has many interesting properties ... the clarification of the sight being only the beginning of its magical virtues. Oh, yes, ale, sir, unless you have perry?” He winked at Mr. Dart. “I understand that to be a specialty of the region. I have been hearing about the pear orchards of Ragnor barony. And some water, ma’am, for my eyebright.”
“We have Arguty pear cider, my lord,” the innkeeper said, and bustled his wife off.
Hal set his tin down on the table quite carefully and turned with a disarming smile to Master Dart and Sir Hamish, who were still staring at him. “I don’t think I had ever truly realized that the Woods Noirell were so close to Ragnor Bella. Geography was never my best subject, eh, Jemis?”
“You’re the one sponsoring expeditions across the Western Sea,” I replied, taking the tray of drinks from the innkeeper. He’d added some of the little sweet cornmeal cakes the Old Arrow was noted for. At the sight of them I realized I was famished.
“Plant hunting expeditions,” Hal replied as earnestly as before, then laughed again. “Not that I don’t expect them to come back with maps, mind. Who knows what they’ll find out there over the old border?” He dribbled a little water from a small ewer on the tray into his container. “There. Now, Jemis, leaving aside questions of plants and plant-hunting—”
“For the nonce.”
He grinned at me. “I’m sure I’ll find some more to tell you about later. Anyhow, perhaps one of you gentlemen will be able to tell me—how do I get to the Woods from here?”
We all looked at him. Finally I said, “Er, why?”
“I want some honey,” he said, taking one of the cakes, then took in our expressions. “Why, is that so strange? At least three of the other people on the mail coach were coming to the Fair hoping to acquire some. That Madam Lezré seemed certain she had a source—but then it occurred to me, when the inn-wife was speaking just now, that of course I have every right to go call on the Marchioness and ... and it seems as if there are reasons no one else suggested that?”
I swallowed a long draught of my ale and started to cough when some went down the wrong way. Mr. Dart rolled his eyes, but his mouth was full with cake, and Sir Hamish was snickering softly, so it was left to Master Dart to say: “The Marchioness is, ah, somewhat eccentric.”
“Hasn’t left the Woods in years,” Sir Hamish put in. “Actually, come to think of it I haven’t seen anyone from the Woods in years—the Hornes used to come to the Fair with a wagonload of honey.”
Master Dart nodded. “Sometimes the Whites—they’re the innkeepers there—would come with their mead, too.”
“Mr. White’s mead was superb,” Sir Hamish said, closing his eyes reminiscently. “It made you think of Paradise like the song. Alas, they haven’t been by, oh, since Perry and the others went off to university.”
“They’re not on the list of vendors this year,” Mr. Dart agreed, then cocked his head at me. “Have you heard anything from the Marchioness, Jemis? We were interrupted earlier when we were talking about that article in the New Salon about the dearth of honey.”
I swallowed another mouthful of ale. “No. Not since my mother died. Why do you want Noirell honey, Hal?”
He was looking back and forth, brow furrowed slightly. His expression didn’t clear as he answered. “It’s my mother’s favourite, and I wanted to give her a crock for Winterturn. We need to turn her up sweet—my sister wants to marry an unsuitable party, you see.” He grinned; his frowns never lasted long. “Not that I care, and I am technically the head of the family, but Mama ... it is a pity, Jemis, that ... well, never mind. Is there a particular reason you’d hear from the eccentric Marchioness? Family connection?”
“She’s my grandmother,” I said, rolling a stray le
af of his hoary eyebright between my fingers. “She didn’t get on well with my mother.”
“She was a right old witch,” Sir Hamish said, snickering again. “Do you remember, Tor, when we went in for Jack and Olive’s wedding? She made them have it at that absurd ruined temple right in the middle of the Woods, and half the wedding party couldn’t find it. It ended up just being you and me, Jack and Olive, the Marchioness and her March—”
“Her Marquis,” said Master Dart. “Oh, what was his name? Looked like a jockey.”
“He looked like Jemis—or rather, Jemis looks like him. Udo, that was his name.”
I took another drink. “I’m so glad to know that not only am I named for a horse, but that I look as if I ought to be riding one professionally.”
“Could be worse,” Mr. Dart said. “You could look like one, too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dart.”
“Mind, she was literally a witch,” Sir Hamish went on, gesturing at Mr. Long the innkeeper for some more ale. I decided I was better off resisting the temptation to keep drinking, and drew my tankard away. “Always used to think that was the only way she managed to find a husband.”
“Hamish!”
“An imperial title is quite attractive, even these days,” Hal murmured.
“Point,” said Sir Hamish, grinning. “Now, this is all to say that you may wish to rethink your plan of calling on the Marchioness to ask her for honey. It’s quite possible she’d turn you into something, fashion or no fashion, and then where would your sister be?”
“Duchess of Fillering Pool,” Hal said, smiling imperturbably. “As it happens, I have a small talent in that direction myself, but never mind that. Imperial titles get passed down by primogeniture, not by gender. Which means—”
But Sir Hamish had choked on his ale and we had to wait while he spluttered himself into good order again. Several of the farmers looked over curiously. “Well now!” he said, focusing in on me. “I had entirely forgotten that.”
“What?” I retorted cleverly, and then my mind started to work through what Hal had just said. “Hal—what—what do you mean?”
“Unless you have any aunts or uncles?” Sir Hamish said.
“No, my mother was an only child ...”
“And you’re her only child.”
“Hal—don’t—”
“Which makes you, if I am not much mistaken, the Viscount St-Noire.”
Chapter Nine
I have No Idea
SUPPER AT DART HALL was excellent and washed down with copious—one might even say extravagant—quantities of even more excellent Arcadian red. I kept trying to explain how I couldn’t possibly be a viscount (a viscount!), but everyone else seemed to feel the matter was settled. Eventually I gave up on trying to change the subject, and listened to Hal’s account of his journey.
“I was in Isternes to see off my ship on her expedition,” he explained as the second remove was removed and the Darts’ butler, Mr. Brock, came in with port and cheese and then over to the sideboard for cigars. “That’s when I heard that my great-uncle, whom I was planning on visiting, had gone walkabout.”
“He doesn’t live in Fillering Pool?” Mr. Dart asked.
“No, he’s an advisor to the Lady on Nên Corovel. So there I was, with everything arranged—at home, I mean, my sister’s looking after my duties for the autumn—for me to be away another month or more, and nowhere to go. I was buying presents when I discovered that no one had any Noirell honey for love or money.”
“The New Salon reported that the last barrel in Kingsford went for three gold emperors,” Mr. Dart said, accepting his pipe from Mr. Brock. He was already remarkably proficient using his left hand for all the tasks he’d formerly done with his right; it wouldn’t be much longer before no one, watching him, would realize he wasn’t naturally left-handed.
“Distracted, Mr. Greenwing?” Master Dart said, and I started, realizing that the port had come to a stop before me. I put a small amount of port in my glass for appearances’ sake and slid the decanter along to Hal.
“Lord St-Noire,” murmured Sir Hamish.
“Mr. Greenwing,” I said, in what nearly amounted to a growl. Mr. Dart, his pipe successfully lit, raised his eyebrows at me. I glowered at him and poked at a cracker with my knife until it crumbled into pieces.
Hal slid the decanter along to Sir Hamish. “Anyhow, I couldn’t find any honey in Isternes or Orio City, and when I got to the turn to Fillering Pool I decided I’d keep on to Fiellan and see whether I could find any here. I was a bit worried about Jemis, who hadn’t written me in a while, and it occurred to me that my uncle might have come to Ragnor Bella, so I set off hither.”
Mr. Dart blew a smoke ring. “You said earlier you went into the river at Otterburn?”
Hal cut himself a piece of Blue Yrchester and examined it carefully before spreading the cheese on his biscuit. “My coachman can get quite puffed with the consequence of driving the Duke—he hasn’t had the, er, privilege very often since I’ve been at Morrowlea—and he was too busy preening for a passing landau full of ladies to watch where we were going, and off the road we went and into the river. It’s not as if it was a high-perch phaeton or anything.”
“Did you lose the horses?” I asked, knowing that Hal would not be telling the story so lightly if he had lost any of the people.
“No, fortunately the Otterburn isn’t a very dramatic river—it was only about three feet deep, and basically all that happened was that the coach tipped over and one of the horses sprained a tendon, and Filbert—that’s my valet—and I got a ducking. As did all my belongings. Which is why I ended up on the mail coach—I decided I was still in the mood for adventures, and after walking this summer, Jemis, travelling in the crested carriage, et cetera, was rather boring. So I told Criotte, the coachman, to see to the horses and fix the axle of the carriage or whatever it was that was wrenched out of alignment, and sent Filbert back to Fillering Pool with the damaged luggage and a letter to my sister. Then the mail coach came by, and I got on it, and ... came here.”
He grinned at me. “There were some minor adventures on the coach, but I can see that Jemis is still hoping to persuade us there is no way whatsoever he, his grandmother’s sole living relative, is not also her heir.”
“I have two half-sisters,” I said.
“Younger, I presume?”
“Yes,” said Sir Hamish, “and not from a legitimate marriage.”
“My mother entered into her second marriage in good faith,” I said hotly. “It’s not her fault that my father turned out to be alive and she was a bigamist—”
Sir Hamish said levelly, “I meant, not from a marriage contracted within the Woods. I seem to remember there was something about inheritance conditions involved in why the ceremony was at that temple.”
“Oh, yes,” said Master Dart, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. “Yes, that’s true. I do recall Jack saying something about that ... Some of the Imperial titles get passed down through strange conditions.”
“So it’s possible I’m not eligible?”
Hal started to laugh. “You sound so hopeful! Why don’t you want to be a viscount, Jemis? I know you’re a much keener radical than I am, but I have to say that money and a title can be very helpful.”
“How am I more of a radical than you?” I replied, gesturing at him, neatly but not exactly well-dressed from his cravat to his water-damaged boots. “You’re an imperial duke who went to Morrowlea.”
“And you’re a viscount who went there, too, and was one of the most impressively high-minded idealists. The fact that you didn’t know notwithstanding—although I’m not quite clear how you didn’t. Didn’t your mother tell you?”
Hal had known all through university that my parents were dead, though I hadn’t given him any specifics as to how. I’d known his father was dead, that he loved his mother dearly, that he had a twin sister whom he missed fiercely and wrote every week, that he had a number of aunts and uncles and cous
ins.
“No,” I said slowly, trying to get past the lump of pain that thinking of my mother always brought close to the surface. “I ... when my mother died, I wrote to tell my grandmother, and she wrote back, My daughter has been dead these five years since, and—and that was that. I haven’t had any communication with her since then.”
“No letters? Nothing from her lawyers or agents or men of business?”
I felt a sudden hollow sensation. I had no idea—none—what was involved in an imperial title, any title. Agents for what? Mr. Dart was his brother’s land agent ... I pushed around the crumbs on my plate. “Nothing. I didn’t—I didn’t pursue, and I’m sure Mr. Buchance didn’t.”
“He’s your stepfather?”
“Was. He died this past summer.”
“While we—?”
“While I was wandering around Ghilousette not writing to anyone,” I said glumly. “People think I missed his funeral on purpose.”
“How absurd.” Hal cut himself some more cheese. “Does that mean you missed the reading of the will at the Midsomer Assizes?”
“There was that, too. And now my uncle is the sitting magistrate for the autumn session—”
“And he thinks you’re all set to set off a revolution,” said Sir Hamish, snickering again.
Master Dart made a noise suggestive of warning and reached forward to take another cigar. Mr. Dart said sharply, “Not that one!”
There was a pause. Master Dart moved his hand to the cigar one over. “This one all right, Perry?”
Mr. Dart was flushing pink behind his beard. “Er, yes, that one’s fine.”
“You haven’t done that in ages,” Master Dart observed, carefully examining the acceptable cigar. “When you were a little boy you were forever telling us not to touch this or that thing, that this one wanted us to use it and that one didn’t.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Sir Hamish cried, pouring himself more port and topping up Mr. Dart’s while he was about it. “I’d forgotten—you must have been, what, four or five? And your papa would come up and say in a deep, deep voice, ‘Now then, Peregrine’—”
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