“Good night, little sister.”
“Good night.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Constabulary notes: A fire destroyed the Almanac print shop, and two engines responded to the alarm. After a long battle, the firemen were successful in putting out the blaze. “The new pumps did the trick wonderfully,” said the chief of the firemen. The pumps were paid for by the new municipal tax levied under Guild recommendation. $$ Three merchant gentlemen were relieved of their wallets by a masked gunman last night along Waters Street. City police have stepped up patrols to thwart any more robberies. If anyone has any information pertaining to the identity of the malefactor, the police ask him to come forward and report.
The Gazette
The Gazette reported the fire, but not the murder, and the robbery but not the description of the thief. Interesting, Yvienne thought, as her father read out the day’s news. She looked down at her breakfast of eggs with biscuits with herb butter and a small bit of summer sausage. Mathilde had outdone herself on her meager budget. Yvienne only wished she had an appetite. Tesara looked much the same as she felt, hollow eyed and almost feverish. They had not had time to debrief each other that morning. They had instead slept in until the mouthwatering aroma of breakfast had woken them, and their mother called on them to get out of bed, for goodness sakes, or did they mean to sleep all day? Gladly, Yvienne had thought, but she got to her feet anyway.
Uncle Samwell’s seat was vacant, and Mathilde brought them the news with their breakfast that he had woken early and gone down to the docks for a morning stroll. But she left a little note by Yvienne’s plate. Yvienne palmed it and unfolded it in her lap, reading:
He tried his usual with me and I relieved him of his nonsense. I told him to get his breakfast at the docks if he could, and locked the doors against him. He’ll not try it again.
MA
Yvienne smiled wanly despite herself, and put the note in her pocket.
As Alinesse poured the coffee, Brevart was buried in the day’s papers, which Mathilde had brought him, saying she found both the Almanac and the rival Gazette on her way in that morning. If by found Mathilde meant purchased from a newsboy, Yvienne thought. The girl’s care for Brevart’s dignity was sweet, she had to admit.
“Listen to this,” Brevart announced, switching from the Gazette to the Almanac. “‘Dockside Doings: Has a merchant vessel from Terebrin been the first to round the Cape of the Moon for the year? Lighthouse keepers of Nag’s Head signaled the Harbor Master the night before last, our correspondent Junipre has learned. Guildmasters have been mum on the possibility, as it would be a blow to the prestige of Port Saint Frey.’ Man’s incorrigible. Everyone knows it’s Treacher himself.”
Not any more, Yvienne thought, direly. She blinked back tears, willing herself to regain control. Soon the word would get out, and Junipre and his column would be no more. Then she wondered when Treacher had time to print his Almanac. He must have put the paper to bed in the early evening, and had the newsies come and pick up copies for sale the next day.
“Ah,” Brevart went on. “And here’s another column by Arabestus.” He snorted. “Treacher’s been busy, grant him that.”
What? Yvienne jerked to alertness. She had not written another column.
“‘The business of the Guild of Port Saint Frey is business itself. Trade is the city’s lifeblood, and its streets and avenues its veins. But while trade hums and the Guild busies itself with governing with an iron hand, the city ages from within. The lovely dowager weakens, and criminal gangs have taken over. While the Guild slaps down those who it claims transgress against it, shouldn’t it use its considerable forces for the benefit of the city as a whole? Criminals, petty and otherwise, roam Port Saint Frey, and it would be fair to say that the Guild should raise itself above these rogues and not sink to their level. – Arabestus.’”
Treacher fired his own salvo in the war, she thought. He’s gigging the Guild even more than I did. Did he foresee the attack that killed him?
“He’s poking a hornet’s nest,” Brevart said, shaking his head. “Not sure what he means to gain by it.”
“At least he didn’t mention us,” Alinesse said with a delicate shudder. “We don’t need any more of his help.”
Their attention was riveted by the sound of someone hammering at the front door. Her parents flinched. Even Tesara sat up, and Yvienne felt a jolt of alarm go through her, making her heart race. It is the Guild, come to arrest me. No one spoke, but it was clear all were thinking it: knocking meant nothing good to the Mederos family. Tesara got up to open the door but Alinesse held out her hand.
“No,” she said, her chin up. “We have a housemaid.”
They all sat as still as mice as they heard Mathilde leave the kitchen and walk toward the front door. They heard the lock draw back, then her voice and the male voice of whoever was at the door. They heard the rush of footsteps, and then the door to the dining room was flung open. Uncle Samwell thrust himself inside, coat and hat askew.
“My God, did you hear?” he shouted, his eyes avid with news to tell. “Treacher – Treacher is dead.”
“What?!” Everyone’s voice commingled, except for Yvienne, who sat stock still, a bundle of nerves. She was grateful that no one was paying attention to her.
“His shop went up in flames last night and when the fire brigades finally doused the fire, they found him inside, his body hanging from a beam. Suicide, they say. The place was flooded with kerosene.”
Yvienne let her parents express their shock while she thought about what must have happened.
