Scholar's Plot (28 page)

“Some,” I said. This wasn’t the first time she’d asked about my past — I tried to convince myself it was more than just friendliness. But she was a friendly girl, so odds were I was conning myself. “I worked as an ink boy a time or two, when cash ran short. But… Do you know the difference between a printer and a bandit?”

“Yes,” said Kathy promptly. “’Tis that blood’s easier to get off your hands than ink.”

Michael snickered. “You shouldn’t step on his lines, Kathy. Trotting out those musty jokes is Fisk’s favorite pastime.”

“Well, it is hard to get ink off your hands,” I said. “You can get some of it with oil, but it never really comes out of the creases, or around your nails.”

“How about blood? Does that come off so easily?” Kathy’s voice was flippant, but I had a feeling she was serious underneath. But serious why? Because she was considering a future with me? Or because she wanted to know more about the man who was trying to help her brother? This guessing game was driving me mad, but I knew better than to lie. Not if I wanted that future.

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Not in the moral sense. I’ve never killed anyone. Which isn’t to say…” I turned the final pin and the lock popped open. “…that I’ve led a moral life.”

There were several fonts that were similar to the one used on the forged pass, and we carried samples of half a dozen
y’s
and
q’s
out to the front room to examine them in the light from the big windows.

It was Michael, with his sharp eyes, who found the letters with the long, curly tails.

“Should we ink it?” Kathy asked. “To make sure? It looks different, backwards.”

“We don’t need ink.”

I looked around till I found the pile of scrap wood that all workshops accumulate, and picked out a piece of smooth soft wood, and another that was harder. I set one
y
and one
q
face down on the soft one, with the harder piece on top of the type’s flat back, and thumped the wood with my fist. The lower block was softer than I’d thought, and I had to wiggle the tiny type bits free. The dust around the presses was dark — from oil, not ink, which dries into a hard sticky lump. I scraped up a fingerful of dust and rubbed it into the indentation the letters had left. Even before I pulled out Benton’s pass to compare, I knew we’d found them.

Which, as it turned out, didn’t tell us nearly as much as I’d hoped.

“We should search the rest of the shop,” Michael said. “Just in case.”

So we did, but all we learned was that the windows in the family apartment above the shop had a better view of the river.

Kathy sounded a bit wistful, pointing that out. “’Tis a nice place.”

It might be, if you hadn’t been raised in a manor house. Was she hinting she might not care? If she was — how I hoped she was — that was unbearably sweet. But I intended to offer her more than a broken down print shop. Preferably before I took the terrible risk of asking.

“They should have been able to make money,” I said. “It’s closer to the university than its competitors, and two presses aren’t enough for a place like this. I grant you, Crown City is close enough to take up the slack, but scholars with a book, they’re like mothers with an infant. They want to keep checking on it all the time. And when printers lay type they find all kinds of small errors. Then they have to ask the author if he really meant to say that, and how he wants to fix it. You need to be in the same town.”

There was only one thing left to discover, and that was if anyone had seen our killer. In a busy crowded neighborhood I had some hopes for that. But it took us the rest of the afternoon to find the baker’s mother-in-law, who lived over his shop and kept an eye on things. She’d seen a plumpish man in a scholar’s coat go in, late one night about two weeks ago, and stay so long she’d finally gone to bed.

“But since the university owns the shop, I didn’t think anything of it. He had a key, after all.”

She stared curiously at us, who also had a key, though no scholar’s coat to go with it.

“The coat’s no problem,” I said, as we set off to return that useful key. “I lifted one from a laundry yard on my first night in town. And every professor or scholar owns one.”

“She was looking down on the man,” Kathy said. “So he might be thinner or plumper than he appeared.”

“And as we’ve already established,” Michael finished, “everyone at the university might lay hands on Clerk Peebles’ keys. Which narrows our pool of suspects to exactly the same as ’twas before.”

I had to agree. We were nowhere.

In the days before Quicken’s hearing, we did nothing. Oh, I trailed after Fisk and Kathy as they tracked down others who owned a printing press, and asked if anyone had sought to borrow it. They hoped that whoever had printed the pass might have searched elsewhere before he found the deserted shop — but none of us were surprised when their inquiries proved futile.

And worse yet, the third professor applying for Benton’s job arrived in Slowbend. Fisk had gone to visit the jeweler when he learned this, and after he told us Benton became so quiet that I knew he’d dared to hope after all. Fisk hadn’t learned the date of the interview, and it still might take them several days to choose among the applicants.

But our time was almost gone.

When the day of the hearing dawned, we gathered in the square before the guard barracks, where the low platform of the judgment scaffold had been set up. Benton and Kathy were relegated to stand with the rest of the crowd, but Captain Chaldon collared Fisk and me, and sent us to sit on the bench where witnesses waited to be called. Professor Dayless, already seated there, nodded in response to my greeting but said nothing. She was so nearby that Fisk and I couldn’t talk without being overheard. The bench was hard, too.

I was about to start some conversation with the Professor whether she wanted it or not — but then the judicars came in, three of them, one plump, one old, one thin. Here in the Crown’s fief they were clad in robes of the Liege’s blue, with silver braid on their collars and the bottoms of their sleeves.

Despite the formal garb, it worked much like the village judgments I’ve seen. First a blacksmith whose shoddy work had lamed a horse, then a boy whose slingshot had broken a window, came up to receive judgment on the debt they owed. The last was Master Quicken, which meant the judicars considered his case the worst of the three.

After the boy’s grumbling father paid the whole price of the window, even though it might have been previously cracked, as he’d claimed, Captain Chaldon climbed to the platform. He said that since I’d reported it, I should bear witness to Quicken’s bribe taking. The plump judicar, who seemed to be the court’s spokesman, called for me to come forward.

I didn’t know what Captain Chaldon had told them, but all three judicars stared as I mounted the steps to the platform. The last time I’d stood upon a judgment scaffold it hadn’t gone well for me. This warm summer day was very different from the icy wind that had once raised goose bumps on my skin, and my palms were sweating as I climbed the short stair. My heart beat uncomfortably hard.

The thin judicar cast me a knowing look, but he only directed me to tell them why I’d gone to Trowbridge, and what I’d learned there.

I had to start by explaining that I was Benton’s brother, and when I gave my own name the Liege Guardsmen in the audience stared. But no one else paid much attention, and I relaxed a bit and related our conversation with Master Barrows as accurately as I could.

The judicars then asked Fisk if he could confirm what I’d said and he did so, without having to leave the anonymous security of the bench. They told me I could step down, but to hold myself in readiness in case Master Quicken wished to dispute my testimony.

I don’t know where they kept Quicken — in the barracks overlooking the square, mayhap — but as I gratefully resumed my seat on the hard backless bench, two guards led him forward. The others accused hadn’t even been in the guards’ custody, and despite his escort Quicken wore no chains. I had to remind myself that, although to me this was a matter on which my brother’s future rested, and mayhap a murder as well, the only charge before this court was vandalism.

Quicken’s expression was still impassive, but his shoulders hunched like a man expecting a blow. He went up the scaffold’s rickety steps with the nimbleness of a man accustomed to walking rough ground, and faced the judicars readily.

“Master Lat Quicken,” the plump one said. “You’ve been accused by Michael Sevenson of taking a bribe from an unknown party, presumably to destroy the…” He looked down at his notes. “…the research papers of a confidential project at Pendarian University, which had employed you as a gamekeeper. Do you dispute Sevenson’s testimony? It is, at this point, unsubstantiated except by his colleague,” the judicar added helpfully.

Quicken considered it, in his careful way. “No. If I did, they’d just send off for Josh, and he’d tell you the same. Aye, I took their bribe.”

“Whose bribe?” the old judicar asked. “And what were you asked to do?”

I found myself leaning forward, for it looked like we might finally get some answers.

“He didn’t give his name,” Quicken said. “Not ever. Nor signed his letters, either. Just showed up with a purse full of coin, over ten gold roundels when I counted it up, and asked if I needed it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his thin throat. “Master Sevenson, who spoke before, he told you about my Nan. What he didn’t know, when that bastard turned up, the infection was on her. The fever came and went, but each time it came back stronger. The doctor was saying as how the bone might be infected, and without magica to heal it she’d lose the leg. A long course of magica,” he added grimly. “More than he could spare, for charity. More than anyone was like to spare.”

A murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd behind us, and the old judicar sighed.

“He knew of your distress, this stranger?”

“He didn’t say so,” the gamekeeper said. “But I think he must have. ’Cause I wouldn’t have taken his money without.”

Having seen Quicken’s attitude toward his employers, I wasn’t certain of that. But it did seem the man had chosen his victim carefully.

“So you accepted the bribe,” the plump judicar prompted. “What did he ask you to do in exchange?”

“At first, just report on what they were doing and if it worked.” Quicken was more relaxed now, speaking freely. “To ‘keep him appraised’ was how he put it.”

“So when you first took bribe money, it was only to spy on the project?” the thin judicar asked.

Quicken hesitated again, but he answered. “No, sir. He said up front that if they looked to be making progress, he’d want me to do something about it. But if the bone was infected… I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but my Nan.”

’Twas clear from their expressions that not even the judicars blamed him for that. Only a monster could.

Fisk shifted on the bench, and I glanced aside and saw him frowning. Benton had told me of young Nan’s illness, so ’twas no lie. Though as Fisk himself had taught me, a thing may be perfectly true, but still be an act.

Was Quicken acting? Why?

“Did you report on the experiment’s progress, as you’d been paid to?” the plump judicar asked.

“Aye, sir. I’d pass him notes, through Josh, and he’d write back with questions. Or sometimes just send another purse.”

“And when the project began to make progress, that’s when you burned the papers?”

Quicken’s gaze fell. “Well sir, he’d paid me all that money. I had to do something. I’d seen Professor Dayless making her rough notes, but I knew there was 
a finished copy so it didn’t seem I’d be doing much harm. Didn’t know Professor Stint hadn’t copied his stuff,” he added, with an apologetic glance at the crowd.

I turned and saw that Stint stood in the audience. Not a potential witness, then.

Fisk’s frown had deepened to a scowl, and he jabbed an elbow into my ribs. I nodded, for I’d already realized that while Quicken hadn’t denied burning the papers, he hadn’t admitted to it, either.

But it seemed the judicars thought he had. The next sharp question came from the thin judicar.

“Did you have anything to do with the death of Master Hotchkiss, who was murdered in his home on campus shortly before you burned those notes?”

“No, sir. I had nothing to do with that, and I don’t know anything about it.” Quicken hesitated a moment, but then went on. “If that’s connected to the project, I don’t see how. Maybe the professors did research in the library or something, but Hotchkiss never came round to see it. And the man who paid me never mentioned him, or the library, or anything.”

“But you do confess to accepting a bribe to betray your employer, to revealing information you were expected to keep confidential, and to destroying property not your own in an attempt to harm the project you were paid to assist?” the old judicar asked precisely.

“Aye, sir,” Quicken said. “I did all that. I’d have done worse, if it was the only way to save my daughter.”

I thought they’d pronounce his sentence then. They’d have the university’s statement of damages in their notes, and there seemed to be little more they needed to establish. But they told Quicken to stand aside, that his employer wished to speak.

Professor Dayless’ black skirts rustled as she brushed past us. When she climbed the short stair her gaze met that of the gamekeeper, but Quicken’s stoic expression didn’t change.

The judicars looked a bit impatient.

“We already have the university’s accounting for the damage they suffered,” the plump man said. “Do you have something to add?”

“Yes.” Accustomed to speaking before a rowdy classroom, the professor was in no way intimidated. “In fact the university has appointed me, as head of the project in question, to speak for them in the matter of our debt claim.”

She handed over a paper and the judicars passed it down the table. The plump man’s brows rose, the old one looked resigned, and the thin one looked as if a boring case had suddenly become interesting.

“Very well,” said the plump man. “Does Pendarian wish to modify their claim?”

“We do,” the professor said. “As head of the project, I can confirm that Master Quicken’s ‘sabotage’ did very little harm.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Stint’s voice rang from the audience. “I’m still trying to recreate—”

“No comments from the audience are allowed,” the plump judicar said. “If you want to speak, sir, tell the guard and he’ll carry your request to us.”

Professor Stint subsided, but I thought ’twas more because of Professor Dayless’ withering scowl than the judicar’s wishes. And having seen her fury at her own notes’ destruction, I had a hard time believing she took the loss so lightly now.

“Whatever Professor Stint may say, the project will be moving forward again shortly,” she went on calmly. “I’d be more concerned about the information Quicken passed on. But since he had no access to Stint’s formulas before they were burned, and has not passed them on, it seems no harm was done there either. As project supervisor, the university has left it to me to reassess our damages. Considering the threat to Master Quicken’s daughter, I’ve chosen to be merciful and set them at three weeks of Professor Stint’s salary and one week of mine. That comes to forty-three silver roundels.”

I heard a choked-off exclamation from Stint, and the crowd gasped. The judicars stared. Forty-three silver roundels was only a fraction of the first purse Quicken had taken, and we knew there’d been more.

The thin judicar leaned forward. “Professor, if the court levies their usual ten percent charge for the hearing, Master Quicken will have made a great deal of money by taking those bribes. Does the university want that? Don’t you want the money left over after his daughter’s treatment? If not for your project, then for the university’s merit fund, or—”

“I choose to charge Master Quicken only for the damage he caused,” Professor Dayless said firmly. “In compassion for his daughter’s — ongoing — needs. Your decision is up to you.”

Since the function of the court is to make things right between those offended, and those who owe them, the judicars were bound to take her at her word.

Quicken’s tearful wife paid his fine in full, and the crowd was still buzzing with puzzled speculation when Fisk rose and dragged me away.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, the moment we were out from under Professor Dayless’ eye. “Not for one minute. She might have let him off the worst penalty because of his daughter, but she’d never let him keep that money. Not when it could go to her precious project or the university.”

“And yet, she did exactly that,” I pointed out. “Unless Quicken has some power to compel her…”

We both stopped talking. The more I thought on it, the more likely it seemed.

“But ’tis ridiculous,” I said. “We’ve already got one blackmailer, and what could a woman her age have done? She has no rich spouse to cheat on — she’s 
married to her job. And if she did commit some academic crime — how many decades ago was her thesis written? — Quicken has no way to learn of it.”