Brightly Burning (35 page)

At any rate, Pol could count on the entire Jelnack clan being home, which was why he had not wanted to delay
his
confrontation.

The house in question was hard to miss; instead of being decked in green garlands, it was swathed, windows and doors, and the gate in front, in sad swags of black mourning. Pol's mouth twisted, and he felt as if he had bitten something sour. Given what they (and everyone else involved) surely now knew that Tyron had been like, such over-ostentatious mourning was in questionable taste.

He rode to the gate, waited for one of his escort to open it, and rode into the minuscule front court. The Guard who had dismounted led his horse to the front door, and while Pol waited, still mounted on Satiran, the Guard pounded three times on the door with the pommel of his sword.

It was shockingly loud; it was meant to be.

The door flew open, and an angry manservant stood there. Clearly he had been about to deliver a scathing dismissal to whoever it was that had pounded so rudely on the door, but when he saw not one, but
two
Guards
and
a Herald, he was so overcome with shock that he just stood there, hand half raised, mouth hanging open.

“Is this the house of the Master Silversmith Jelnack?” the Guard asked, sternly.

The manservant nodded, dumbly.

“And is he the husband of the lady Jisette Jelnack?” the Guard continued, frowning.

“Y-yes, sir,” said the manservant at last. “W-w-would you care to come in?”

“I would
not,
” the Guard snapped. “There is a serious charge of theft and endangerment to be laid, and you will summon them here, this instant. If they will not appear of their own accord, instantly, the charges of evading the King's justice and resisting the King's officer will be added to those already accumulated.
And leave the door open.
”

By now, there were eyes at every window in the neighborhood, and likely ears pressed to cracks in the fence.

:There are,:
Satiran confirmed.
:I do believe we are more entertaining at this moment than the prospect of going to the Fair.:

Good.
Pol was counting on public humiliation to force the rest of the family to deal sharply and decisively with Jisette, who, according to Kalira, was the ringleader last night.

The manservant fled, and in a surprisingly short time, returned with a man and a woman clothed head-to-toe in black. The man pushed to the front, and Pol could tell from his expression that he was going to try bluster and bluff first.

“There must be some mistake,” he began.

“There is no mistake,” Pol said, using the authoritative Voice, a skill all Bards and most Heralds mastered. “Last night, in the presence of many of your household, you and your wife unlawfully detained and accused a Heraldic Trainee, one Lavan Chitward. You endangered his safety, threatened him, and stole the formal bridle of his Companion, said object made of blue leather and adorned with silver fittings and silver bridle bells, engraved with his Companion's name, said object being worth twenty crowns. I should think that as a Master Silversmith you would recognize this article I have just described. Do you deny this? I should warn you that if you do deny this, I have the authority to have the truth from you by means of the Truth Spell.”

The blood drained from Master Jelnack's face; he knew now he wasn't going to be able to bully or bluff his way out of the situation. He also knew that now
every
neighbor knew what his household had been up to last night.

“Cast your spell, Herald!” Jisette said shrilly, pushing past her husband despite his efforts to keep her out of the way and quiet. “That creature you claim is a Trainee murdered my son and slandered him after his death! Nothing you can say will make me believe otherwise! I demand justice! The blood of my son demands justice!”

“You, lady, have already
gotten
justice for your son,” Pol told her angrily. “Whether you believe it or not, it's no odds. Your son tortured and abused dozens of smaller, younger children for his own pleasure, forced them to act as his servants and even steal for him. The only person to be blamed for his death is Tyron Jelnack. Had he not been the kind of sadistic bully he was, he would be alive now. And you—” he concluded, again in the Voice, seeing that Jisette was about to launch into a tirade,
“You will be silent!”

The use of the Voice, directed at her and only at her, and with all of the force of Pol's minor Gift of Empathic Projection behind it, struck her dumb.

Now he turned to Master Jelnack. “I am sorry that your son's death has so clearly deranged your wife's mind,” he continued crisply. “And given that it is obvious that she is not thinking clearly or able to act rationally, the Crown may be willing to drop the charges, provided the bridle is returned
and
that you are able to demonstrate your ability to keep your wife under control until her clarity of thought returns. I must say that I am very much surprised and disappointed that she was able to sway all of you to believe in her delusions, but now that you know the truth, I trust you will treat her fantasy as it deserves to be treated, and ignore it.”

Master Jelnack had seemingly also lost his power of speech, but he did nod. He swallowed once or twice, then half-turned and whispered something to the manservant, who vanished.

Satiran stamped decisively. “I must warn you that if you fail to keep this afflicted lady from acting on her delusions, she will have to be confined by the Crown,” he continued. “And, of course, the charges will be reinstated. I believe you know better than I what such a reinstatment would mean to your reputation and career.”

If it had been possible for Master Jelnack to grow any paler, he would have. Pol knew very well what would happen. With even a charge of theft laid against him, Jelnack would lose his position as Guildmaster.

Jelnack clamped his hand on his wife's wrist, and pulled her behind him. “We'll see to it that she is watched over and gets proper treatment,” he said fervently. “I'll talk to the Healers myself.”

“See to it that you do,” Pol replied, remaining stony-faced as the manservant reappeared with the bridle. With a wave of his hand, he directed the Guard at the door to accept it. Then he backed up Satiran a pace, turned him, and led the way out of the courtyard into the street. The mounted Guard followed, then the last Guard mounted his horse, and took up the rear. Master Jelnack watched them leave, silently, afraid to make any show that might be interpreted as disrespect until they were out of the court. Only then did he close the door—very, very gently.

There wasn't a sound in the street; if it hadn't been for all the watchers, Pol could have believed that there wasn't a soul about. The hooves of the two Guards' horses clicked on the stones; Satiran's made that distinctive chiming sound that only Companions produced.

:I would have said that you were too hard on him, except that he should have figured out last night that Lan really was a Trainee,:
Satiran remarked.
:I mean, really! A silver-worked bridle, the sound of Kalira's hooves—you can't counterfeit those! If he'd had any sense, he would have been at the Herald's Gate with the bridle in his hands, begging for forgiveness within a candlemark of Lan's return.:

Pol sniffed.
:The only reason I wasn't harder on them is because I don't want to push things too far. They
would
be within their rights to demand that Lan undergo Truth Spell, and then the cat would be out of the bag.:

Satiran put his ears back.
:Huh. I hadn't thought of that. That would be messy.:

Pol wished he'd dared to take the woman into custody there and then and turn her over to the Healers—in protective custody, of course, with a Guard on her; he couldn't explain why, but he neither trusted her nor felt he could depend on her husband to keep her out of mischief. She was clever and entirely used to getting her own way. That was a bad combination.

But he'd done all he could for the moment. Keeping Lan away from family celebrations was the only other thing he could think of to do.

:That won't be difficult,:
Satiran retorted.
:I think it would be harder to force him to go.:

THE Chesters had made a second, and much more palatable, Feast for Lan. He was greeted as enthusiastically as if he had been gone for a month, and when he walked into the cottage, a dozen delicious odors hit his nose and nearly bowled him over. It was clear from the preparations that they were not going to feed him with leftovers.

He was doubly, triply glad now that on the way here he'd stopped to use the Midwinter gift of money his mother had sent to his room at the Collegium this morning (another guilt offering, perhaps) to buy gifts for everyone in the Chester household, from Granny on down. There was a Midwinter Fair in full swing outside the gate he'd left by, and he'd taken great care in selecting things he thought would please.

He presented them now, straight from the packs, in part to let their pleasure help erase the bitter memory of last night.

“I've got a few things for you all, to thank you for opening your home to me,” he said, as he passed them out, casually, hoping that they would not think themselves obliged to respond in kind. “I hope you like them. Granny, these looked useful to me for stitching in the winter,” he continued, handing Granny a set of gloves with cut-off fingers that left the last joint uncovered, made of chirra wool. He'd observed her rubbing her knuckles and wrists as if they ached, and he wondered if something like this would help. She tried them on, looking puzzled at first, and then delighted as the warmth penetrated her hands without impeding her dexterity. “And I
know
that these will help you, Ma.”

This time what he handed out were another sort of gloves, or rather mittens, with leather palms, the kind that some smiths who worked very small pieces used to handle hot metal. She saw that they were intended for immediately.

“Oh! Just the thing for handling hot pans and things from the oven!” she exclaimed happily.

Yet another set of gloves for Pa Chester came out of the pack, this time work gloves thickly padded on the back, with rough leather palms, triple-stitched to prevent tools from slipping. These had been quite new to Lan, and from the admiration with which Pa regarded them, they were new to him. “Why didn't some'un think of this before?” he asked rhetorically, passing them to Ma and Granny to see. “Brilliant! These are jest brilliant!”

For the girls, Lan had brought various trinkets; a box of brightly colored or pearly shells from Lake Evendim to be made into ornaments and jewelry, a box of glass beads for the same purpose, a bunch of ribbons and a hank of lace; those were for the three oldest. And for the two youngest girls, doll heads of wax-over-porcelain, to replace the battered, featureless heads of two of their own dolls. Both little girls immediately rushed to their room to pick out the dolls to have the transplant. Glass-and-stone marbles in a pouch for the youngest boy, and new pocketknives for Tuck's three older brothers, each of whom solemnly presented him with a groat in exchange, in order that the knife not be a gift, for it was held that the gift of a knife would cut the friendship. And last of all, for Tuck, not a pocketknife, but a real dagger. Lan knew good steel when he saw it, and this dagger had been the outstanding example in a collection of lackluster second-hand blades. Tuck took it with his mouth dropping open, and almost forgot to get a groat to give him in return.

“You'll probably get your Whites long before I do, and I want you to have something to remind you that I'm still getting belabored by the Weaponsmaster,” Lan joked. Tuck's radiant smile told him he'd picked the right present.

“Well, now, let's cap this by a good meal,” Ma Chester said heartily. “ 'Tis only a stewed bird, that nasty old hen that pecked at the girls one too many times, but I reckon revenge'll make her tasty!”

Lan couldn't believe that the hen had ever been old, for the meat fell off the bones, and all the fixin's that Ma had made to go with her were just as good. Lan ate with a much heartier appetite than he had yesterday, and when the dishes were cleared away and cleaned, he and Tuck went out for a ride before milking. Pa had promised to teach him how to milk—it looked like a very soothing sort of occupation—saying that no learning was ever wasted, and he might need to know how to some time.

“So was your Midwinter Feast really horrid?” Tuck asked sympathetically.

“It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I surprised my parents with the Formal Grays. Most of the family didn't know what to think of me, but the younglings thought I was the best entertainment they'd ever had.” With a sigh, he urged Kalira into a canter, hoping that Tuck wouldn't ask any further questions. He didn't want to talk about the Jelnacks or Jisette Jelnack's accusations.