by Hilari Bell
Little’s eyes widened; then his brows sank into a suspicious glower. I cursed Michael’s inconvenient candor.
“Phil’s dead. What do you want to know about him for?”
“We’re interested in the truth,” said Michael.
“Would you tell us the truth about your brother?” I asked hastily, before Michael could go on to say precisely why we wanted it. “I’ll bet not many people heard your brother’s side of things. And yours, too. You were flogged, weren’t you?”
“Ah, that didn’t matter. They’d no call to hang Phil, though. We paid the money back. And he didn’t mean for anyone to die. They’d no call—” He turned abruptly to his workbench, fidgeting with a lethal-looking awl. “What are you here for? Nobody cared about Phil but me. And nobody cared about me except Phil.”
Michael opened his mouth, but I managed to speak first. “It must have been hard to lose a brother like that. Especially if you were close.”
“Phil looked out for me.” The look he cast Michael and me was almost pleading, and I knew he’d go on now without prompting. It’s not only things that frighten them that people need to talk about. A brighter, more imaginative man would have been suspicious, but the dull-witted are easy to lead.
“Was he older than you, or younger?” The sympathy on Michael’s face was patently sincere, and the last of Little’s hesitation vanished.
“He was older. Small and scrawny, so I got the smithy when Pa died, but he didn’t care. Said we’d look out for each other, just like always. And we did, too. He gave me an equal cut of everything he got. There wasn’t no call—”
His eyes shifted away.
“He hurt a lot of people.” Michael’s voice was gentle.
Little’s sigh could have moved a twelve-ton ship on a windless day. “Phil wasn’t quite…It mostly wasn’t worse than Pa used to do to him. To both of us, though Phil kept Pa off me when he could. He didn’t mean to kill anyone.”
“But you knew what he was doing?” I asked.
“Yeah. I didn’t mind being flogged. Figured I had it coming. I tried to tell Phil to take it easy, but he…The ones he beat, they were men who looked like Pa. And we paid the money back. There wasn’t no call to hang him.” His grief was giving way to sullen anger, and I decided I didn’t want to be around when he thought to ask again why we wanted to know.
“Thank you, Master Little, that’s what we needed. Come on, Michael. We’re leaving.”
Out in the street I took several deep breaths—the cold, fresh day seemed brighter. “Well, scratch one enemy. He hates Max enough, but he doesn’t have a devious bone in his body.”
“’Tis piteous,” Michael murmured. “With a different brother he’d have been an honest citizen. With a different father they might both have been all right.”
“And if good old Phil hadn’t been so crazy, several innocent men might still be alive. I can’t scrape up much sympathy for Phil.”
“No, but ’tis still piteous. And you’re right; Little could never come up with so complex a scheme.”
“Well, Kline, from all accounts, is a very bright lad. Jonas says his rooms are in the Oldtown.”
I was pleased to see Michael turn toward Trullsgate Bridge without further prompting. I’d make a townsman of him yet.
“If Kline is bright,” he said, “you might consider changing the way you introduce us. Or even if he isn’t so bright. What are you about, Fisk? You thought I was mad to claim knight errantry. You hated it.”
Michael’s eyes were bright with indignation; he gestured as he spoke. Much better than the crushed wariness he’d displayed when Sheriff Potter dragged him into Max’s hall.
“I’m coming to see the advantages. When people are wondering if you’re crazy, they’re not as likely to wonder what you’re up to. And it’s better to have them wonder than to know the truth.”
“That I’m an unredeemed man, you mean.” Michael’s expression closed again.
“No. The truth is that you are crazy. Come on, there used to be a good bakeshop by Sutter’s Gate—if it’s still there, we can eat mid-meal before we face the clever Master Kline.”
LEGAL ADVICE. CONTRACTS DRAWN UP. PROMISSORY NOTES. WILLS. ACCOUNTING. DEBTS COLLECTED. LETTERS WRITTEN OR READ. COPYING.
The neatly lettered sign in Erril Kline’s window told the full tale of what he’d come to.
“I didn’t think a nonguildsman could practice law,” said Michael.
“He can still draw up documents, but his clients have to go to a judicary member to get them ratified. I’ll bet he makes most of his money from debt collecting. If he’s not a brawny type, that’s a hard job.”
“What about copying?”
“Copying pays one copper roundel per page.” I’d tried it myself, once, and cursed the father who’d taught me to write so neatly with every stroke of the pen. “If he’s trying to make a living copying, he’s starving.”
Far from being brawny, Erril Kline, who opened the door at our knock, was shorter than I am and slight, with curly, pale brown hair, wide-set eyes, a charming smile, and freckles. He had to be at least in his mid-twenties, but he looked almost as young as Michael and I.
Then his eyes narrowed, and though his smile didn’t change, he didn’t look young at all.
“Masters Sevenson and Fisk, no doubt. I heard you might be calling.” His fingers were ink stained, and looking past him I saw a paper-cluttered desk. He was wearing threadbare fingerless gloves, even indoors.
“We’d like to talk to you,” I began carefully.
“About poor Master Maxwell’s sad predicament? Alas, I don’t know what I can do for you. And since I’m rather busy…” He smiled again and started to close the door.
“How much?” said Michael abruptly.
The door stopped. “How much what?”
“How much for half an hour of your time?”
The door swung open. “Ten gold roundels.”
Michael opened his mouth. “Do—”
“No!” I yelped. Not only was that an outrageous price, we didn’t have it. Michael had bought feed for the horses just two days ago. How could he be so oblivious to our financial state? “Three silver roundels is more than you’re making at anything else, and I’m not paying your top price. One silver roundel.”
“I get six for drawing up documents, and I can’t lower my rates, even for you gentlemen. Think of the delay to my other clients’ work. Five silver for half an hour.”
Michael started to speak again, and I jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “You don’t have to work, just talk. One, for fifteen minutes.”
We settled on one and five octs for ten minutes, to be timed on the guild tower clock which was visible from the window. Kline also insisted on being paid in Ruesport coin, and that was just to be annoying. All towns mint pure coin—otherwise their money would be worthless for trade. Fortunately, Michael had gotten change from the grain merchant, so we had some Ruesport coins mixed in with all the others.
Kline was smiling when he let us in. The room was so small that the meager coals that glowed in the fireplace almost heated it. In truth, meager was the word for everything from the thin blankets on the bed to the single small lamp on the desk. The cluttered desk wasn’t meager, but it was so battered that most would have broken it up to assist the struggling embers.
“Very well, gentlemen, my next ten minutes are at your disposal. What do you want to know?”
How much do you hate the man who took you from a promising law career to copper-a-page copying? I looked at Michael, who made a show of rubbing his ribs and said nothing.
“What actually happened between you and the Judicary Guild? We’d like to hear your side of it.”
“My side? Surely the facts are the facts. But it’s your ten minutes.” Kline replaced his smile with a thoughtful expression. “Let me see. It began when one of our local fences retired to another town—or more accurately another fiefdom, where Sheriff Potter’s writ doesn’t stand. Our good sheriff had been showi
ng considerable interest in his activities, and he decided a change of address might be salubrious.
“Nothing daunted, Sheriff Rob entered into correspondence with the man and persuaded him to offer up his client list—something about what our good sheriff would or wouldn’t tell the authorities in the town where the fence had moved. In fact, I believe Potter threatened to hire an artist and a printer and send the poor man’s portrait and an account of his activities to every sheriff in the realm. You must admit, Rob Potter is a veritable badger when he sets about catching someone. I’ve known him to—”
“We’ve met the sheriff,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well, the fence was understandably intimidated. The judicary, at the sheriff’s request, sent a clerk to take his deposition, and that clerk chose a promising young notary, myself, to accompany him and do the actual writing. I was flattered”—the smile returned—“because when the guild starts tagging you for these errands, it’s usually a sign of promotion to come. And since the judicary offered the Saddlers’ Guild one of their notaries to replace me, they had no objection to letting me go. Would you care to hear why I was working for the saddlers?”
“No,” I said firmly. I wondered if he could stretch his story for more than ten minutes. “Get on with it.”
“Just before the clerk and I set off, a man named Tocker called at my rooms—late at night, and with considerable stealth. He was a burglar by trade, quite a harmless little man. He’d heard that the fence was giving up his clients, and as one of those clients he was understandably concerned. Being brighter than his fellows, he’d hit on the idea of asking the notary who was to take down the names to exclude his. So simple, not to write those few small words. He offered me fifty gold roundels for this bit of nonwriting, and I said yes.”
He was still smiling.
“And did you?”
“Don’t rush me. The clerk and I took ship and had a very pleasant voyage. Only a month to get all the way to Lambington, where the fence had taken up residence. It was a lovely town, nestled amid rolling hills, the leaves just beginning—”
“Did you exclude the name?” Michael spoke this time, and he sounded as annoyed as I felt.
“Of course. I try to give value to all who hire me. There were over sixty names on that list and poor Tocker was near the end. The clerk never noticed my omission. Master Tocker went about his business untroubled by Sheriff Rob, and I was promoted to clerk myself. I went from the Saddlers to the Smiths’ Guild, which was much more interesting, because—”
“So how did you get caught?” I demanded.
“With my new station I felt the need to improve my appearance. A few new doublets. New boots. Rooms in a better neighborhood. My salary was larger, but when the bills came due, it wasn’t sufficient, and I went to my good friend Tocker for the difference. After all, I’d done him a considerable favor.”
“So you blackmailed him.”
“I did.” Kline’s smile seemed to be engraved on his face. “Mind, I wasn’t excessively greedy, having seen what happens when a blackmailer pushes his, ah…”
“Victims,” Michael supplied coldly.
“Victims too far. I asked only a bit here and there and Tocker paid quite amiably. But I fear I must have angered him more than I realized, for one night he was working in a cobbler’s shop…or was it a haber-dasher? No, I think—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupted. “He got caught.”
“As you say, he got caught. And was so irritated by my modest demands that he ratted me out to Sheriff Rob. He then set off for parts unknown—working passage, poor man, for after paying back all his victims, he was very poor indeed. But it was summertime, and I understand sailing then isn’t—”
“Did the judicary just accept his word for it?”
“By no means. I denied it with great indignation, and the clerk honestly didn’t remember Tocker’s name being mentioned. But Maxwell, who’d heard Tocker’s case, didn’t accept the guild’s ruling. He sent two more clerks, at his own expense, all the way to Lambington to talk to the fence, who did remember mentioning Tocker. He’d made notes before we came, so he wouldn’t forget anyone Sheriff Rob might already know about. When the clerks checked his notes against my list, it was the same in every particular except that Tocker’s name wasn’t on it. So I was convicted of bribe taking and had to pay the money back—to the Judicary Guild, since Tocker had gone by then. And I was disrobed, of course. Is there anything else? You still have”—he went to look out his window—“two minutes left.”
“Thanks, we’ve got what we came for.” He’d told us nothing we couldn’t have learned elsewhere. I only hoped my smile was as annoying as his. “Michael?”
“Just two questions. The name of the fence, and the clerk you traveled with.”
“Names? My dear gentlemen, I said I’d tell you what, not who. Names cost another silver roundel each.”
Michael flushed with anger. “We have two minutes left.”
“But not for names. Names are extra.”
“Forget it,” I said. “We can get the names anywhere. Come on.”
Michael sputtered for ten minutes after we left Kline’s rooms, even after I pointed out that we could get the names from Max for nothing. And we had learned what we wanted to know.
“He’s devious enough,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s not rich enough to have paid to have Max framed. Though the shabbiness could be an act.”
“He hates enough, too,” said Michael. “Beneath his smiles, he burns with it. Mayhap he was blackmailing others, and so amassed enough to buy his vengeance.”
I cast Michael a surprised look, for I hadn’t sensed hatred. But Michael was Gifted, however erratically those Gifts worked. And it wasn’t a bad theory.
“We’ll ask Max tonight, about the names and the possibility that Kline was blackmailing others. Though Max might not know. Blackmail victims almost never come forward to claim redress.” Maybe I should consider taking it up?
Nate Jobber, the forger who was next on our list, wasn’t at the tavern where he worked nights. The tapster gave us directions to his rooms, but he wasn’t there either. The elderly lady who lived below him didn’t know where he was.
Michael and I gave up and went home to dinner, resolving to catch the elusive Nate Jobber at work that evening.
We arrived home late and found Benjamin Worthington present and the children absent. I was disappointed, for I’d trade Becca’s conversation and Thomas’s shy giggles for the presence of any guest. On the other hand, I wasn’t the one scrounging for money to pay the door tax. And I had to admit he treated pork stew, bread, and applesauce as if it was the finest meal he’d ever eaten. Indeed, he claimed that his servants were readying his house for Calling Night and his only other recourse was a tavern. “And you know how I hate eating in taverns.” From the conversation I gathered he opened his house to friends every year, which can run from expensive to ruinous depending on how many friends you have. It seemed Worthington had a lot of friends.
As the meal finished, he asked Max if they could talk a bit of business over tea, in the study perhaps, “…and if they don’t mind, I’d like Fisk and Sevenson here to join us.”
Business? With us? Michael, Max, and I exchanged startled glances.
“We’d be most gratified,” said Michael politely.
We’d be cursed curious! And we weren’t the only ones. Anna brought the tea herself, and took so long serving it that Worthington finally laughed and said, “You can get it out of him later, Anna. You always do.” She crinkled her nose at him before she left.
The study was cozy, with the lamps lit and the warmth of the stove. Michael, Worthington, and I pulled up straight chairs to sit before Max’s desk, and something about the way Worthington glanced at his made me wonder if once there had been cushioned chairs for visitors in this room.
“I’m not sure if it’s worth making a pother about,” Worthington began as he picked up his teacup, “but I wanted to war
n the two of you—all three of you—that the most interesting rumor in town right now is that Sevenson here started that fire in the Oldtown last night.”
“That’s quick for gossip, even from the sheriff’s department,” I said. “Potter seems more competent than old Halverson. You’d think he could stop those leaks, or at least slow them down.”
Worthington laughed. “You’ll never stop gossip, lad. It’s like trying to stop the moons from circling. But I thought you should know it’s stirring up a lot of the feeling against you. You’ll want to be careful.”
“We will,” I promised, wondering how I could keep Michael from leaving the house.
Worthington rubbed his chin. “Well, it wasn’t entirely intended for your benefit. The fact that you’re living with Max, and investigating the crime he was accused of, is being talked about as well. In fact, more people are talking about that than about the arson. To put it bluntly, your investigation is making people remember the accusations against Max, and that’s not a good thing. I’m afraid it might stir up the same kind of trouble he had before.”
Max sighed. “I’ll stay in. Thanks for warning me, Ben.”
“Trouble?” I asked.
“There were some…difficulties when I was first disrobed.” Max sounded more embarrassed than indignant. “The townsfolk were unhappy, and rightly so in my—”
“Unhappy?” Worthington snorted. “He was beaten by one mob, and might have been killed if the deputies hadn’t arrived. And there was vandalism here at the house, stones thrown through windows, manure dumped in the fountain, that kind of thing. And the fact that Sevenson’s accused of arson can only make it worse,” Worthington added. “Since the docks burned, that’s a very serious crime. The whole town suffered from that fire, one way or another.”
He didn’t bring up the fact that Michael was unredeemed, but Michael understood the implication anyway. His gaze had fallen to his hands, which were clenched in his lap. In about five more seconds he would offer to leave.
“But the only reason Michael’s being accused of arson is because we’re investigating!” I said hastily. “Someone’s trying to stop us, and we can’t afford to let them win.”