I tossed the remains of my pear and my apple onto the street for the pigs, then crossed the square to a tall, narrow building with a crow-stepped gable. The glass in the tall, arched windows was stained with figures of a warrior battling a dragon, this representing Lord Baldwine, an ancestor of the current Duke of Roundsilver, who owns the building. Roundsilver is a wealthy peer, and owns a great many buildings around the city, as well as his own grand house on the square. He spends little time there, devoting his time to being at court along with all the other great nobles.
I admired the stained glass, with Baldwine holding up the severed dragon’s head, and went up a tall, narrow stair to a cramped office that smelled of paper, dust, ink, and vellum.
Lawyer Dacket, my master, stood in the center of the room, a paper in either hand. Dacket was a spare man with a pointed beard, a melancholy, lined face, and the black fur-trimmed robe of his profession. He wore a velvet hat like mine, but with gold tape and a gold pompon to show that he practiced before the bar.
“Pearmains are in!” I said in joy.
My pleasure seemed only to deepen Dacket’s gloom. “That would account for the juice on your chin,” he said. I hastily wiped it with my sleeve.
“Mrs. Vayne was generous with her samples,” I said.
“You are dressed for holiday,” observed Dacket. “I wish you joy of it, and of your apples.” The planes of his face shifted slightly. “May this office then hope you shall not return?”
I put on my learnèd-advocate face. “Loath though I am, sir, to stand in an abnegative posture and contradict my learnèd colleague in any way,” I said, “I desire the jury to observe, inicio, that while your humble apprentice shall be absent today, that he is not in absencia, for though my mind may be absent, my corpus shall absent be on the business of the court, videlicet, preventing Sir Stanley Mattingly from being absent at the Assizes, and that absent evidence of jurisdiction, I pray the jury to declare evidence of dereliction absent, and the Crown nolle prosequi.”
This is an example of what my father would call “flaunting my knowledge like a vainglorious peacock,” forgetting that peacocks have no knowledge to flaunt, vainglorious or otherwise. Yet I find that I must continually remind people of my gifts, for they are inclined to forget my education and acuity. I expect it’s because I am not impressive in my person: granted that I am tall and have broad shoulders, and long dark hair admired by the ladies, but I am not handsome like my schoolfriend Theophrastus Hastings, or as rich as the Duke of Roundsilver, or possessed of any degree of fame like the Emperor Cornelianus when he was called to the throne. My father is a Butcher, which causes some people to discount me. And of course, I am young and have not the authority that comes with age, like that of Judge Travers.
And so I must offer my gifts to the people, and offer them continually, and without cease, so that I may be something other than a nullity in their eyes.
My master, Dacket, listened impassively to my appeal. “The plea would receive a better hearing were there not apple skin between your teeth,” he said. “And what is this of Sir Stanley?”
Dacket’s office had been pursuing Sir Stanley Mattingly in an attempt to serve him with a writ to bring him to the Autumn Assizes, which would begin in two days. But Sir Stanley was not to be found at his town house, or at his house in the country; and unless the writ were served, Lawyer Dacket would be unable to prosecute him on behalf of his client, Mr. Morton Trew.
“And yet,” I said, “Sir Stanley cannot be far away, as he stands as honorary master of the Guild of Distillers, and must ride on their float in the Autumn Festival that follows the Assizes.”
“You have found his bolt-hole?” Dacket inquired.
“I remembered that Sir Stanley’s sister is married to Denys Buthlaw, and—”
“Buthlaw is moved to the capital, and his house here is closed. There is no guest lodged there; we have investigated.”
I raised a hand. “But sir, Buthlaw has another house, on Mutton Island.”
Again the planes of Lawyer Dacket’s face shifted. “Is that so?” he murmured.
“Remember that Sir Stanley is known as a great hunter and is ever trampling the fields of his own tenants in pursuit of the fallow deer. And bear in mind also that Mutton Island is connected to the mainland at low tide, and that directly across the channel is the Forest of Ailey, in which Sir Stanley could ride and hunt to his heart’s content.”
A tenuous gleam appeared in Dacket’s eye. “You have evidence that Sir Stanley is on the island?”
“Nay, sir. But Mutton Island seems worth exploring, if you can but provide me with a writ and spare me for the day.”
All traces of pleasure vanished from Lawyer Dacket’s countenance. “Spare you for a day of sailing.”
“On Kevin Spellman’s boat. And I shall bring Kevin along to serve as a witness, should I find Sir Stanley.”
Dacket adopted an air of saturnine amusement. “I could do with a day on the sea. Perhaps I should venture to the island on Goodman Kevin’s boat.”
I acknowledged this possibility with a gracious nod. “The sea air would serve to balance the humors,” I said, “and bring an attractive pink flush to your ears. But I urge your worship to bear in mind Sir Stanley’s history of violence—he is a dreadful man when his choler is up, and if you find him with his hounds, he may incite them against you, not to mention what damage he might do with his whip or his gun.”
“Nay,” said Dacket. “I applaud your devotion to justice, so great you are willing to fall beneath the fangs of a pack of ravenous hounds. And yet”—holding out his hands with the papers in them—“there are so many writs and other documents that must be copied before the Assizes.”
“You have a clerk,” I pointed out.
The clerk in question, bent over a desk, lifted his head to give me a basilisk stare from beneath his skullcap.
“Goodman Dodson is fully occupied,” said Dacket. “As am I.” With a sniff, he viewed one of his papers, then waved it in my direction.
“You may begin with a draft of a plea,” Dacket said, “the formal plea for mercy on behalf of Alec Royce, who cut a fern tree in the Crown Forest. Cutting the King’s timber calls for death, but if the judge is merciful, we may hope for prison or a fine.”
I considered this. “Did you say it was a fern tree?”
“Ay.” Dacket’s attention had already moved on, as he browsed through a stack of through papers.
“Then there is no need to plead for mercy,” I said. “The charge is baseless.”
“Base-less?” Dacket mouthed the word as if he were tasting something foul.
“It’s a new word. I invented it.” Which, for the record, I had.
“We have a perfectly fine phrase, ‘without foundation,’ which will serve—and if it won’t, we have as well ‘unfounded,’ ‘unsubstantiated,’ ‘unproven.’ There is no need for this base-less.” Dacket gave me an austere look. “I advise you not to use these neologisms before a judge.”
“Sir, I shall dispunge these innovations.” Dacket gave me a suspicious look, and I spoke more quickly. “Sir, our client is innocent.”
Dacket’s gaze firmed. “Royce has admitted the charge,” he said. “He has been in the cells of the New Castle for two months. There are no facts in dispute.”
“Save whether the King’s timber was cut at all,” I said. “Timber is defined in law as ‘that sturdy vegetable matter which may be used in construction, to-wit: in a house or other structure, a bridge, a boat or ship, a stile, a fence, et cetera.’ A fern tree is too small and weak to be used in construction, and therefore is not timber in the meaning of the law. The fern tree was mere superfluous growth, like a vine or a periwinkle, which Royce removed in order to allow a proper tree to grow in its place.”