Finn stopped, shaken, for a moment, from his dark and desolate thoughts.
“He can't? What on earth gave you an idea like that?”
“There are laws, you know. Laws and rules and regulations of every sort. You're a citizen and a-a human, Finn. You have certain rights like everyone else.”
“That's partially true.”
“You can be heard. You can declare a grief.”
“A grievance.”
“I just said that, didn't I?”
“Yes, and I believe you chose the better word, not I.”
“Well, then. It will be all right, I'm sure. They certainly can't send you somewhere in an awful balloon. I know you. You'd be scared out of your wits up there.”
“I'm scared out of my wits right now, and I'm standing in Garpenny Street on solid cobblestone. Letitia, love, do you recall our conversation, as we were approaching the Royal Hall?”
“Of course I do. Why would I forget what we talked about, my dear?”
“We discussed how Count VanDork was a despicable person, and that the reason he is, is that he mirrors the equally despicable character of his master, the Prince. The Prince, with the help of a veritable horde of vermin like VanDork, makes the laws and rules and regulations. These laws do not apply to them. They do apply to us.”
“But Finn…”Letitia bit her lip, her voice no longer firm, no longer bold. Doubt, now, seemed to slip in and push resolution aside.
“You're not a vagrant, you know. You're not of common folk. You're a-a master of your craft is what you are. You know people of quality like Lord Gherick, brother of the Prince.”
“Yes I do.”
“Well, then?”
“I don't like to say it, but we can't be sure Gherick didn't know about this.”
“Surely not. He's such a nice man, Finn.”
“He made himself absent as soon as Aghenfleck gave us the news. I turned around and he was gone.”
“They're not really close, are they?”
“Aghen Aghenfleck isn't close to anyone, as far as I know.”
“He certainly wasn't close to that other relation of his. That… oh, dear, Finn.”
“His cousin, Baffleton-Kreed. They grew up together. Inseparable, I understand.”
Letitia looked up at Finn. In the near end of the day, her eyes seemed enormous pools of liquid night. And in those pools, he saw a reflection of himself, an image blurred by a tear, which Letitia quickly wiped away.
“I'm not being rational, am I,” she said, turning from him then. “I'm making up pretty endings in my head.”
“Somewhat, yes. But there's nothing greatly wrong with that.”
“It is, yes. If it holds no truth at all. Oh, Finn…”
He held her, then, and in a moment she simply turned and walked quickly across the street and opened the latch with her key. She appeared for an instant, before the dim lantern in the hall, and then she was gone. A moment later, Julia squeezed through the portal and followed Letitia inside. There, but a few steps from the door of his house, Finn felt as if he'd never been so utterly, completely alone
EIGHT
With darkness came the usual sounds of night, the boots of a pair of guardsmen on Greenberry Street up the hill, the rattle of a blade against a studded belt. A shout from a fisherman, working on his nets, perhaps, on the river below.
And, at the end of Garpenny Street, a drift of wispy figures, disembodied souls, phantoms in ragged disarray. One might run out of ale in Ulster-East, Finn reflected, or sacks of wheat meal, but there was never any shortage of the dear departed in town. Foul deeds, pestilence-and, of course, the war-took care of that. The pale and spectral lights of Coldtown were a grim reminder that death was truly an alternate way of life.
Someone down the street, likely the Wheelcrafter's wife, had left food out for the Coldies that night. For though the dead no longer fed in the ordinary way, they ever hungered for the savor, the essence, the joyous scents of suppers past.
Letitia might have remembered to leave them something herself, especially on SpringFair, had the day not lingered so long and ended on such an unpleasant note.
A warm evening wind made its way down the hill, past Wesser and Doob and Winkerdown Square, on into Garpenny Street. The sign above Finn's head began to creak, and he knew he ought to grease the thing and give the carven lizard a coat of green and gold. Such thoughts had occurred a dozen times before, and somehow the work was never done.
Truly, it was a task worth his time, for it was the symbol of his trade, and folk judged a craftsman by what they saw outside his shop, not what was done within.
It was not a fair appraisal, of course, for many of the signs on the street that pictured swords, pies, ale and mead and spells, did not reflect the quality of goods and services offered inside.
Take Bickershank the Booter, for one. A man would do better to walk unshod on broken glass, than to trust his feet to the torturous wares of Master Bickershank. Once, Finn had caught a glimpse of the fellow's own bare feet, and he had never passed the shop again
He paused, then, cocked his head and listened, certain he had heard a sound that didn't belong to the ordinary noises of the night. A shuffle and a scrape, a rattle and a shake, something such as that.
Still, after a moment, when it didn't come again, he decided he was simply out of sorts from the misadventures of the day.
And what would be so strange about that? Who wouldn't feel adrift after what I've been through?
And, worse still, the fear, the awful trepidation, the lurch in his belly, the knowledge that tomorrow would be a hundred times worse than today.
As much as Finn loathed Aghen Aghenfleck, he found it hard to work up righteous anger at the Prince. In the face of such unthinking folly, such total unreason, it was like getting mad at a solid stone wall. You could kick it, curse it till you were blue in the face, and the damned thing still didn't know you were there.
Millions of men had died, and death would claim un told numbers more in the brutal, senseless war between Fyxedia and Heldessia Land that had dragged on more than seven hundred years. Finn had no idea what they were fighting for, and had never found anyone who did.
Yet, in spite of the carnage and destruction, the maimed, the mutilated and the dead, Prince Aghen Aghenfleck found the time to send a gift-a birthday present, mind you-a golden lizard with a clock in its belly, to the horrid, despised King of Heldessia, Llowenkeef-Grymm himself.
“Why?” he said aloud, and answered himself at once. Easy enough, as the words were his own, loosed not long before. “Because neither law nor reason applies to princes and kings. They do as they will, and damn the rest of us poor bloody souls!
“And, if a craftsman should tell a prince he does not wish to waste his precious time making lizards with clocks in their bellies, he might find himself some fine holiday on the Grapnel and the Snip.
“Or,” he added, “a mushing, whatever sort of horror that may be”
“Someone told me once, that he who talks to himself is conversing with a fool. I suppose there's truth in that.”
Finn didn't bother to turn around. “I told you that, as you know. I have also said that every adage, every saw, every chestnut of advice, contains its own exception to the rule.”
Julia Jessica Slagg gave a rusty cackle and waddled into sight.
“The exception being when Master Finn babbles to himself. I think I see now.”
“You don't, and no one asked your opinion, as far as I can tell.”
“No one ever does.”
