Quillifer

CHAPTER TWELVE

he next morning, wanting to get out of my musician’s livery, I stopped by the tailor’s and collected my sober brown suit. I was a little vexed that the grander blue velvet suit was not ready, but once I joined the duke on our trip up Chancellery Road to the palace, I was glad that I was not in my gaudy best, for that best would not have been nearly fine enough.

The women at court were aglitter with diamonds and rubies, embroidered fans and gowns of hand-painted silk, and the men, if possible, outdid them in the matter of splendor. The duke wore a cape trimmed with sable fur, a scarlet silk doublet woven with gold wire and stitched with seed-pearls set into swirling designs, a ring on every finger, shoes with gold buckles, a hat pinned up with a carbuncle the size of a hen’s egg, and a large pearl dangling from each ear. Nor was this his own extravagant fashion, for the raiment of the great noblemen was equally lavish. Many dressed in the royal colors of scarlet and gold to emphasize their nearness to the throne. I looked like a poor brown hen cast among peacocks, but I was grateful that my blue velvet was not ready, for the suit I had considered very grand would have looked vulgar in this company. I would have seemed as if I were trying to ape my betters, and failing.

A very few of the men and women were dressed entirely in white silks or satin, enough to make them conspicuous. Though the color was simple, the fabrics were rich and luxurious, and glittered with silver thread, pearls, or diamonds. I turned to his grace.

“Who are the lords and ladies in white?”

“They are called Retrievers. They attempt to free the philosophy of the Pilgrim from the corruptions attached to it over the centuries.” He shook his fair head. “I would find it grim work, for the Pilgrim’s original philosophy was cheerless indeed.”

I smiled at the duke’s We-twievers. “In Ethlebight, the followers of the Pilgrim are too few to have fragmented into sects.”

“I seem to constitute a sect of one,” said the duke. “For I hold that the supreme virtue is Beauty, and I endeavor to serve and admire Beauty above all other things. For Beauty fights no wars, lays no plots, and causes harm to no one. Other virtues, like honor and fidelity and justice, are a source of endless strife, but all people know Beauty when they see Her, and worship Her in their own way.”

I was on the verge of conceding the truth of this observation when our conversation was now interrupted by an acquaintance of the duke. It was the first of many interruptions, to which his grace responded with his usual charm. We had by this point advanced through the Outer, Middle, and Inner Wards, and were now in the Great Reception Room, a vast chill hall crowned by ancient timbers, dimly lit by a clerestory, and inadequately warmed by a pair of giant marble fireplaces carved with nymphs and salamanders. Tapestries of Emelins and gods circled the room, and would have shown brilliantly if the light had been brighter. Every bit of the room that could bear an ornament or carving did so, and we were regarded as we walked by the eyes of birds, animals, monsters, fishes, and grotesques. A throne stood beneath a canopy at the far end of the room, but the throne was empty, for the Queen was meeting with her Privy Council in another chamber.

This left the glittering courtiers with nothing to do but gossip and conspire with one another, and so they circulated, interrogating one another about available offices and commissions and the state of Clayborne’s rebellion. Roundsilver, as a member of the Great Council and a near relative of the Queen, was presumed to know a great deal, and so was often approached. He politely introduced me to the each of his interlocutors, and I put on my dutiful-apprentice face and tried to keep straight all the peacock lords and ladies. They, for their part, were so intent on the business of politics and office-seeking that they barely acknowledged my existence at all. Probably they thought I was some kind of servant.

The throng was brought to silence as a sennet, played by trumpets hidden high in a gallery, echoed from the hammer-beam ceiling; and then her majesty entered, followed by her Privy Councillors. We all took off our hats and bowed low, and as I rose I noticed among the royal party the Queen’s mother Leonora, the Queen’s particular friend the Countess of Coldwater, and also the young man, still dressed in his diamond studs, who at the coronation banquet had served the Queen her roasted swan, and who had been favored with so many of Berlauda’s smiles.

“Who is that gentleman?” I asked, in the duke’s ear.

“Viscount Broughton of Hart Ness,” said he.

I saw the scowls on the faces about the young viscount, and said, “He is not popular with the Queen’s friends, though her majesty seems to like him right well.”

“When news of Clayborne’s rebellion first reached the capital,” said the duke, “no one knew how far the conspiracy extended, or who among the peers was loyal, or whether Queen Berlauda’s reign would last more than an hour before one of Clayborne’s allies invaded the palace and toppled the Queen into a dungeon. Even the Yeoman Archers, who guard the monarch, were suspected, because in Howel the other royal regiment, the Gendarmes, had declared for Clayborne. Viscount Broughton raised a troop of his friends and rode into town to declare his loyalty to the Queen, and to pledge his gentlemen as her guard. It is generally admitted that this was well and bravely done.”

“And the others, no doubt, wished they had done the same?”

“The others wish they had cut Broughton’s throat before he thought of it. For now her majesty favors him, and has made him Master of the Hunt and given him a place on the Privy Council, and—they say—her heart.”

I viewed the viscount. He was a small man, but well-formed, with a blond beard and yellow hair worn past his shoulders. Today the diamond studs fastened a green velvet doublet stitched with silver thread, and with a neat white ruff at throat and wrists.

“He is a handsome man,” said I. “Perhaps her majesty, too, worships at the feet of Beauty.”

The duke smiled. “Beauty,” said he, “is rather inconveniently possessed of a wife.”

“Her father divorced,” I pointed out. “And more than once.”

The duke nodded. “It would be a sad way to begin a reign, to snatch such a play-pretty from his spouse, behavior too reminiscent of the late King. And this, too, while the realm is under threat. Arguments will have been made for a match that better secures the throne.”

I observed the royal party as they made a circuit of the great room, and saw the look in Berlauda’s eyes as she regarded the man by her side, as well as the firm jut of her chin.

“And yet,” said I, “royalty has a way of getting what it wants.”

A man with extravagantly wide sleeves approached Queen Berlauda, took off his hat, and bowed low. The two spoke, he with florid gestures, she briefly and impassively.

“The ambassador of Varcellos,” said the duke. “Varcellos is burdened with a number of spare princes, and the ambassador offers them severally, or all together, according to her majesty’s taste.”

Another man hastened to approach the Queen, a tall fellow with a handsome, dark face and eyebrows raised in perpetual half circles. He wore a gold chain. He too bowed, and joined the envoy from Varcellos, who seemed none too pleased to see him.

“The ambassador of Loretto,” I was told. “Loretto has only one unmarried prince, but he is the heir.”

I gave his grace a surprised look. “Is it a serious offer? For Duisland to unite with our greatest enemy?”

“In the event of marriage, they would not be our enemies, but our kin.”

“Then they greatly underestimate the sorts of quarrels that can arise in families.”

Queen Berlauda listened to the two ambassadors for a brief while, then gave a nod and continued her progress around the room. She approached the duke, and the two of us bowed low and swept off our hats. Her scent, very floral, flowed over me as I straightened.

“Is her grace not with you?” asked the Queen. “We have not seen her.”

“This morning, she rides in the park with friends,” said the duke. “She will attend court this afternoon.”

“Tell her we have missed her.” A faint smile touched Berlauda’s impassive face.

“I shall assure her of your majesty’s kind regard.” His grace turned to me. “Your majesty, may I introduce Quillifer, who has escaped both pirates and bandits to ride to Selford and alert us to the fate of unfortunate Ethlebight.”

The Queen regarded me with her pale blue eyes. “We have been informed of the sad plight of our loyal city,” said she. “It moves us.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” said I.

“And we thank you, Lord Quillifer, for your bravery and enterprise in bringing the news to us.”

I decided not to correct the Queen on the matter of my being a lord. “It was only my duty, your majesty,” I said.

“Would that all our subjects shared your sense of duty.” And then, regally, she turned her handsome blond head and continued her procession around the room.

The duke and I bowed again, and as we straightened I observed the duke exchanging nods with one of the royal party, a very tall man dressed all in black, from his shoes to his skullcap. His raiment had none of the pearls or purfles affected by the others, though he wore a gold chain of office, and sapphires and smaragds worn over the gloves on his fingers. His face was lean and careworn, and his hair and beard streaked with gray. The duke turned once more to me.

“Quillifer, this is Sir Denys Hulme, the Lord Chancellor.”

I bowed. “Sir.”

“Let us go to my closet,” said the Chancellor. He spoke in a deep, almost subterranean voice.

He led us out of the great room and to a different entrance hall from the one his grace and I had used earlier. This was far more magnificent, with an enormous straight marble stair ascending two storeys. It seemed a wonder of the world, for I had never seen a straight stair in my life, but only stairs that circled round, or tracked back and forth from landings. Then I realized that I had never seen such a stair because I had never before been in a building large enough to house one.

The Chancellor took us to the second story, and from there through a series of offices filled with scribes plying their quills. He took from around his neck a key, opened an iron-strapped oaken door, and brought us into a small room. There were a desk and a pair of cabinets, and everywhere a profusion of books and papers. The smell of paper and dust and ink brought a memory of my old master Dacket, and his little offices above Scarcroft Square in that building owned by the duke. The room was lit by a high bull’s-eye window, though gloomy for all that.

His excellency bade us sit. He went behind his desk and brought out some blown-glass goblets and a brass tankard filled with sauterne, which he offered. As his grace accepted, I did as well, and the Chancellor kindly served us. Then he poured a glass for himself, sat at his desk, and took out a fresh sheet of paper.

“Goodman Quillifer,” he said. “I understand that your report was lost when you were captured by Sir Basil of the Heugh. But do you remember the essence of it?”

The report never existed—I was to write it on the journey, with due reference to the Delward translation of the Rhetorica Forensica, but Gribbins’s insistence on my sleeping in barns and haylofts mitigated against such work. But I knew all the figures, and was able to recite them for the Lord Chancellor. He wrote them down swiftly, the noise of his scratching pen loud in the small room, and when he was finished, he looked up at me from his desk.

“That was singularly comprehensive, young man,” he said. “Now, what does your city need? Food?”

“There is plenty of food in the granaries,” I said. “The reivers had no way of carrying it off, and so left it alone. What the city needs is money for ransoms and rebuilding, and soldiers for protection.”

“Money is all marked for the suppression of rebellion,” said the Chancellor. “Food I could possibly have arranged.”

“Then sell the food,” said I, “and use the money for ransoms.”

The Chancellor smiled somewhat as he raised his goblet of sauterne. “Twelve years have I husbanded the resources of the kingdom,” he said. “I had hoped that next year, we could at last pay off the remaining loans for the King’s last war. And now there will need to be more loans.”

I was startled at this, for King Stilwell’s last war had ended before I was born, and ended in triumph, with the armies of Duisland occupying whole districts of western Loretto. King Edouardo of that country had been forced to ransom his own cities for a fabulous sum, and then was forced to submit to captivity until the sum was paid. Eventually, he had to return to Loretto to raise the money personally, but his son and heir took his place in the gilded prison in Howel, and after a few years died there.

On account of Prince Antonio’s death, and Edouardo’s a year later, the ransom was never handed over; but it had not occurred to me that in a score of years a war could not be paid for.

“We may hope for a short war,” said the duke.

“So we may hope,” said the Chancellor, musing into his cup, “but I dare not wager the future of the state upon a short campaign. The foundations of revenue must be laid brick by brick, to support the weight of the kingdom withal. And, to speak frankly, I may not have the time to do you much service—there are many who would gladly sit in this chair, and hurl crowns and royals to the people in hopes of buying popularity. And these may influence the Queen more than I.”

“I will urge her majesty to retain you,” said the duke. “The treasury is too vital to be left to some base office-seeker.”

“I give you thanks, though I am ever reminded that I am by many considered that selfsame base seeker. Your grace is kind enough to overlook my common birth, but others are not.” The Chancellor raised his eyes from his goblet to me. “I hope you do not find these obstacles too discouraging.”

“Sir,” said I, “over the last months, I am grown used to discouragement.” Those crowns and royals whirled in my mind, and I leaned forward as an idea took me. I donned my learnèd-advocate face. “Sir, you must spend money to make a war. Can you not spend some of it in Ethlebight? There is a royal dockyard that could provide small craft to the fleet, pinnaces and tenders and powder-hoys.”

The Chancellor gave a small, discreet nod. “Some of these sorts of arrangements are within my scope. Others will require consultation with the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.”

“The army and fleet will also need victuals—biscuit, cheeses, salt beef, salt mutton. Ethlebight is rich in foodstuffs, and could provide more than its share.”

Another small nod. “Indeed.”

“And consider our reputation as privateersmen.” My enthusiasm grew as I spoke. “Armed with privateering commissions, our captains could haunt Clayborne’s shores and sew up his commerce neater than a pin tuck. The prizes would come back to Ethlebight for the benefit of the city.”

The Chancellor held up a gloved finger. “There is some danger in this. For in such a broil as a civil war, who is to know whether a ship holds to Clayborne’s cause or no? Should one of your privateers take a ship, and the captain say, ‘I am a loyal subject of the Queen who found myself in Bonille by chance,’ how could we sort these claims?”

“Sir, there are prize courts for the purpose. And the ship’s papers would be carefully examined, and if any of the Queen’s enemies were found among the owners, the ship and its contents could be rightly—and justly—sold. If one of our captains took a ship owned by anyone known for their loyalty, I’m sure the ship would be released, for no captain would want to prosecute a hopeless cause.”

“You prosecute your own cause with some ability,” the Chancellor observed. “But this is a matter in which I must approach the Queen.”

“Very good, sir.”

He sipped his sauterne. “Have you any other notions for enlarging Ethlebight’s capital?”

“The foundations of Ethlebight’s prosperity are built upon wool,” said I. “Surely, the Queen’s army needs clothing, as well as tents and blankets and the like. And we also export fine leather, for harness both of horses and war, and for buff coats and cuir-bouilli.”

“I shall so note.” The Chancellor returned to his pen, made a few scribbles, and looked up. “Your city should rejoice in your embassy,” he said. “You are an able advocate.”

I put on my attentive-courtier face. “Sir, I am but a loyal servant to the Queen.”

He smiled. “As are all of us, to be sure.” He then passed to the subject of royal offices in Ethlebight, and who should fill them. I had no confidence in Sir Towsley Cobb as the new Lord Warden, and with feigned reluctance said so. I also remarked that Sir Stanley Mattingly was a great huntsman and a self-proclaimed bold veteran of the late King’s wars; but that I knew he had cheated a gentleman in a land purchase, and I didn’t know whether her majesty would be justified in confirming Sir Stanley as Lord Lieutenant, not if there were monies involved, and temptations too great.

Having, I hope, successfully scuppered the hopes of the two splenetive swashers, I listened while the Chancellor and the duke, between them, proposed a list of candidates for the offices. I knew that two of them had been taken by the reivers, and said so, and other names were proposed. But for the most part I sipped my excellent sauterne, and gave thought to my schemes for improving Ethlebight, and possibly improving my own fortunes as well.

The Chancellor put his pen aside, and turned again to me. “I understand from his grace that you were taken by bandits on your way to the capital.”

I gave his excellency an outline of my time as a guest of Sir Basil, and did not omit that I had witnessed two murders during my few days as a captive.

“He is a bloodthirsty assassin, and probably mad,” I said. “If he is not roused out of the Toppings and sent to the hangman, there will be more good people killed.”

“I am not responsible for the apprehension of criminals,” said the Chancellor. “You should apply to the Attorney General, once her majesty appoints one.”

“I will do it.”

“How did you escape?”

I had given thought to how I would answer this question, and decided that any mention of nymphs might bring my veracity into question. I gave the Chancellor the answer I had prepared.

“We were counted before we went down into the dungeon for the night. But I took advantage of some confusion, and managed to slip away in the growing twilight.”

“Very enterprising,” said the Chancellor.

“It was more enterprise than that great following of Stayne showed,” I said. “He had a small army with him, all riding off to join his warship in Amberstone, and they surrendered meekly as lambs, and even acted as under-footmen at the bandits’ table.”

A glimmer of interest shone in the Chancellor’s mild eyes. “Army?” said he. “Warship?”

I explained the Marquess of Stayne being captured along with much of his armed force, and the galleon Irresistible, its gunports filled with ordnance, that awaited the party’s arrival.

“How very unfortunate for his lordship,” said the Chancellor, and made a note.

Half an hour later, my cheeks flushed with wine, I bade farewell to the duke and Chancellor, both of whom had other business, and walked down the great stairway to the ground floor. I saw that it was raining quite heavily, and so I re-entered the Great Reception Room. Queen Berlauda sat quite grandly on her throne, and was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen, including the ever-smiling Viscount Broughton of Hart Ness.

Led by the viscount, the dance about her continued, the never-ending quest for office and opportunity. A few pigeons flapped overhead, and let their droppings fall on the grand folk below by way of comment on the proceedings.

Standing in the hall, I observed my hostess, the Duchess of Roundsilver, speaking with some gentlemen, and I walked in her direction. She was splendidly attired in a gown sprinkled with margery-pearls and yellow sapphires, and even in the dim light of the room glittered like a beacon. I put on a broad smile and approached, and took off my hat and bowed.

“I hope you will congratulate me, your grace,” I said, “for thanks in part to your husband’s efforts, I am to be appointed Groom of the Pudding, with the announcement to come next Wednesday.”

She blinked up at me in surprise, and then mischief kindled in her blue eyes. “How splendid!” she said.

“I am sorry, sir,” said one of the gentlemen. “I have not made your acquaintance, nor am I familiar with this office.”

I put on my superior-prefect face. “I am Quillifer,” I said. “And my office is new, for his late majesty was not as fond of puddings as our new Queen. But since her majesty is uncommon fond of fig puddings, and plum puddings, and suet puddings with raisins . . .”

“Blancmange,” added her grace. “Cabinet pudding.”

“O, her favorite!” I proclaimed. “As well as dock pudding, clafouti, frumenty, toffee pudding, crow’s nest . . .”

“Treacle pudding,” said the duchess. “Date pudding, groat pudding, pease pudding, flummery.”

“Baby pancake and clootie!” said I by way of a grand conclusion, and then turned to the gentlemen. “In fact, her majesty is devoted to all puddings, and she desires a pudding-bearer to be near her at all times.”

“Groom of the Pudding!” The duchess was great in her admiration. “You shall be at the Queen’s very elbow!”

I bowed. “I shall have that honor,” I said. “And rest assured, your grace, that I shall do my utmost to repay your kindness by advancing your interest with her majesty whenever possible.”

“I am sorry, sir,” said one of the gentlemen. “I failed to quite catch your name.”

The duchess and I continued to amuse ourselves with the poor ambitious gentlemen, and as we rhapsodized about my wonderful new office, I could see the news passing among the throng like a burst of hailshot. Not everyone believed the story, but to some it seemed possible, perhaps even likely. After all, the Groom of the Pudding was scarcely more absurd than the keeper of the King’s thunder-box, known more formally as the Groom of the King’s Close-Stool. This was an ancient, well-established office, originally the lowly servant who, when the monarch was performing his private office, handed the ruler his cleaning-cloths; but which became, on account of the groom’s intimate and private contact with the King, a powerful post much sought by the well-born.

I found myself the cynosure of at least a few eyes, and discoursed on puddings in general and the kindness of the Roundsilvers. I confided my hope that I could convert the Queen to the cause of savory puddings, and offered as an example my mother’s recipe for a pudding of minced lamb’s kidneys. When this line of discourse began to flag, I related my account of the sack of Ethlebight, and again the story of my capture by Sir Basil of the Heugh, along with my subsequent escape in its emended version.

I have mentioned elsewhere the necessity of my demonstrating my gifts to the people, lest they overlook me entirely. And here I found I was not ignored, for I was approached by a young woman wrapped in what looked like an elaborate, ruffled dressing gown of a brilliant satin green, its sleeved puffed and purfled, its hem embroidered with gold thread and cat’s-eye chrysoberyls. Pearls wound their way through her tawny hair, and a necklace of emeralds and diamonds held her long throat in a close embrace. A peacock-feather fan hung carelessly from one hand. She blinked at me with long, lazy dark eyes that made her look as if she had just risen from a luxurious sleep.

“You are Lord Quillifer?” she said. “I believe you have news of my husband.”

I did not make a guess at the identity of the husband, but at once I swept off my hat and bowed.

“Quillifer,” said the duchess, “may I present her ladyship, the Marchioness of Stayne?”

I rose and viewed the silk-swathed woman before me. “When last I saw your husband, he was well,” said I. “He was being closely guarded, but he was not shackled or otherwise mistreated.” I smiled at her. “You should also know,” I said, “that I rescued his signet from the bandit treasure-house, and have it in my possession.”

The lazy eyes widened. “Do you have it with you?” she asked.

“I secured it in a strongbox until I found a means of contacting you,” I said.

The marchioness smiled with small white, chisel-like teeth. “I shall be at home tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “If you bring the signet and more information concerning my lord and his friends, you will find me grateful.”

I bowed again. “Your ladyship honors me,” I said, and rose to find her sauntering away, her peacock-feather fan dangling by its cord from her wrist. I watched the lazy motion of her hips as she flowed across the floor, and turned to find the little duchess watching me with narrow-eyed surmise.

“Master Quillifer,” she said, “I think you have progressed from puddings.”