Sudden dread filled Plurible’s face, but it was quickly masked. He whispered, “As you say, Inspector.”
Athellen turned away, arm in arm with Plurible, hiding a surge of elation. The man had assumed he was an inspector-general impersonating a magistrate—and whatever reasons there might be for such an action, they had to be horrible.
And kept secret…
They came into the study. “Take a seat, Your Honor!” Athellen waved his visitor to a chair as he went around behind the desk. “May I introduce you to my trusty Constable Garrick and Watchman Pory!”
The two officers bowed. Plurible nodded to acknowledge them as he sat, then turned back to Athellen. “What does all this mean, Inspector? I know I can’t be told all of it, but surely you can give me some small hint. Is my old friend Athellen in trouble?”
“I wouldn’t like to use such a word,” Athellen said, and rang the small bell on his desk. A side door opened, and the butler ushered in a maid, who set down the teapot.
“Explanations must wait till you have a cup in your hand!” Athellen insisted. “You have been traveling all morning, at a guess, and need refreshment!”
“It would be welcome,” Plurible said reluctantly. Clearly, he would rather hear the news first, but dared not say so. He took the cup and sipped. “Now, sir?”
“Yes, now.” Athellen took a long sip, playing for time, then sat back and said, “Not in trouble, no. Your old friend Athellen, though, needed … a rest.”
Plurible stiffened in alarm. “A collapse?”
“I would rather call it exhaustion,” the fake Athellen said, “but it’s bad for morale for people to know of it—so when it came time for reassignment, we sent him to a secluded retreat, and I took his place.”
“Thank heavens it could be managed so neatly!” Plurible sighed. “Is he recovering quickly?”
“I hope so, but no one has told me anything.”
“Of course, of course,” Plurible muttered, and sipped again. A quick glanced showed Athellen the thoughtful look on his visitor’s face. At a guess, Plurible was revising his estimate of the fake Athellen’s rank downward from inspector-general to one of the second-rank bureaucrats who kept all the records of the land and coordinated all the reeves—specifically, one of the group of troubleshooters who were always kept ready for such occasions. No one knew for sure if they really existed, but nobody really doubted it, either. Plurible sipped again, then asked, “What will you tell the people here when he has recovered?”
“Oh, we’ll arrange a mid-term reassignment, and explain that another magistrate died unexpectedly,” Athellen assured him. “Of course, it’s possible the doctors will insist he take the whole five years as a vacation; I’ve heard of it happening.”
“Yes… To write his … impressions of … duh peeble he … hazzz governed.” Plurible sipped again, then looked up, blinking bleary eyes.
“I think the journey has tired you out,” Athellen said, fairly oozing sympathy. “Perhaps you should nap before dinner.”
“Nnno, nnno! Mid … day … zleeb? Nev … nev…” But Plurible’s eyes closed, and he slumped in his chair.
Porry stepped forward just in time to catch the teacup before it fell. “How much of the drug did you put in his teacup, Your Honor?”
“Enough.” Athellen rose. “Put him to bed, and watch over him. Then, Porry, go into the forest and…”
“Hoot like an owl and tell the forester who answers that we need a replacement.” Porry nodded. “I remember, Your Honor.”
“Good.” He watched the two men carry the magistrate out, then rang the bell again. The butler came in. “Your Honor?”
“Are my watchmen making Magistrate Plurible’s men comfortable, Satter?”
“Quite comfortable, Your Honor.” The butler’s face showed his disapproval. “They’re already half drunk.”
Athellen nodded with satisfaction. “Tell the watchmen to keep it up, and tell Plurible’s men that their master has suddenly taken ill and gone to bed in one of my guest rooms. They have the afternoon to relax, but they must stay in the courthouse compound. They will probably be staying the night, so tell the bailiff to make arrangements.”
“As you will, Your Honor.” Satter’s tone left no doubt as to his opinion of the events, but he bowed and left to carry out his orders anyway.
Athellen sank into his chair with a sigh. The crisis was past, and successfully survived—or the first stage, of it, anyway. Still, he didn’t doubt that the men the Guardian would send would successfully cart away Plurible and his drunken watchmen, leaving a new and false Plurible in his place. Athellen heartily hoped he would never again meet someone who had known the real Athellen.
CHAPTER 19
Dilana glanced up from her embroidery, watching her husband furtively. It was winter, but he sat gazing at the garden beyond the window anyway. It was pretty enough, she had to admit, even buried under snow—or would have been, on a sunny day, but this one was overcast, and so was William’s face. Considering the case he had before him at the moment, that wasn’t surprising. She laid down the stretched linen, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “Would it be so bad as all that if young Charyg became a cabinetmaker?” William looked up with a start. Then he smiled and reached out to touch her hand. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
She returned the smile, clasping his hand: “You were quite upset about it when you came to dinner yesterday, and have been gloomy ever since. It’s not hard to guess. Come, husband—what harm in the boy’s going to apprentice to old Wizzigruf, if it makes him happy?”
“Perhaps because it would make his father sad.”
“Only for a while. He thinks the boy is taking a step back in the world, after all. But when Toby Charyg becomes a guildmaster, I suspect his father will be quite proud of him.”
“If he becomes a guildmaster,” William cautioned.
Dilana shrugged. “The lad has talent, we’ve all seen it in the scraps of wood he’s carved and the knickknacks he’s made for his mother. That cradle he gave his sister for her wedding was nearly a work of art. But even if he doesn’t, husband, isn’t it right for the lad to be happy?”
“Not if it makes his father gloomy.”
“If old Charyg really loves the boy, the lad’s happiness will make him happy,” Dilana pointed out, “and if the boy is sad being a merchant, that will make his father unhappy, too—and probably angry. They’ll quarrel, maybe even come to blows. No, surely it’s right for the boy to be happy.”
“Happiness isn’t something that’s right or wrong,” William grumbled. “It’s simply good luck.”
“If that’s so, I’ve been very lucky indeed.” Dilana squeezed his hand, then let it go.
He looked deeply into her eyes and smiled. “I too,” he said softly, “and I see what you mean, for it’s very right.”
“Then surely we all have a right to try to become happy.” “Have a right?” William frowned. “Odd phrase, that.” Dilana was suddenly tense; this was the delicate moment, and she hadn’t been able to see it coming. She turned to look out at the garden, choosing her words carefully, deliberately changing their meanings. “Surely something that is right, is something that we have, my husband. But some of those ‘rights’ are ours simply because we’re born. Everyone has a right to try to stay alive, for instance, and to defend himself or herself against thieves and murderers.”