Midnight Jewel
Page 72
“Maybe. He looked like he took the message to heart. My guess is he’ll still raise it but not nearly so much. Saves face, gives him a little extra coin—hopefully keeps us away. And if he doesn’t do anything?” Tom shrugged. “We’ll find time to visit again.”
“It’s sort of an . . . erratic system.”
“It works, though, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” I said. We’d returned to the city’s heart and were nearing the Dancing Bull. “But we pick and choose who we ‘punish.’ And there’s no consistency in how we deal with these people.”
“You don’t seem to mind dealing with them.”
“I don’t. I know they’ve all done something. But the problem with selective justice is that it’s, well, selective.” I thought back to Osfro and the bias against Lonzo. “Laws exist to make sure everyone’s held to the same standards and treated the same way.”
“You know as well as I do that even when you’ve got an ironclad set of laws, with people to enforce them—which this city doesn’t—there will still always be those who slip through the cracks. We deliver justice, my dear. Sometimes you have to operate outside the law for that.”
My father had always said the same thing to justify his actions. I often soothed myself that what I did with Tom didn’t go to my father’s extremes, but there was no question that I was treading in ethically gray areas.
Tom turned even more melodramatic than usual when I didn’t respond. “Oh, the agony you cause me. The pain. To suggest paperwork and procedure is preferable to me! You’re lucky my faith in you is so unwavering.” He handed me a gold coin. “And inconsistent or not, our system pays better.”
I pocketed the coin but said, “This technically belongs to some of the tenants he gouged.”
“Oh, we’ll make sure some of it cycles back to them. But first, we have another good deed to take care of.”
The urgency of writing Lonzo’s letter had hung over me all evening. “No more jobs. I can’t stay tonight.”
“It’s a deed, not a job.”
Most of the crew remained at the tavern, but Lesser Tom joined Tom and me in carrying heavy sacks gathered from the tavern’s subterranean storage room. From there, we traveled to a poor neighborhood on the city’s west side where I’d made deliveries before. The houses were older and run-down, the people lean and desperate. No one harassed us. Those we passed waved and offered greetings—to all of us.
We knocked on the door of a house belonging to one Mistress Smith. We usually brought our gifts straight to her for distribution. She knew who needed what in her community and was fair about spreading it around. Not even the most desperate would dare steal from her. She opened the door wearing a thin nightgown and a cap over her wispy curls. Despite the late hour, a smile lit her lined face when she saw us. She’d lived in this neighborhood longer than anyone and was a matriarch of sorts. Her diminutive frame housed a ferocious heart.
“Tom, Tom, and my lady,” she said. “Come in, come in. Let me make you some tea.”
Tom greeted her with a flourish of the cape. “No time to stay, I’m afraid. We just want to pass on a few gifts.”
She exclaimed with delight when she saw what was in the bags: fruit, something scarce and expensive this time of year. The hosts whose parties I attended had the means to pay the current exorbitant prices. I’d been served apple tart just last night. Many of the guests had pushed their dessert away half-eaten, claiming they were full. Thinking of that excess and looking at Mistress Smith now, I no longer felt so guilty about stealing the fruit. Besides, we’d actually taken it from another group of smugglers. Thieves stealing from thieves.
“Oh, wait until everyone sees,” Mistress Smith said. “The Six’s blessings upon you all.”
Tom basked in her adoration. He hadn’t made many deliveries in person for some time. “It’s our pleasure. Lady Aviel doesn’t sleep at night if she hasn’t given away a bit of my wealth.”
Mistress Smith laughed as she watched Lesser Tom pass the sacks of fruit to a sleepy boy inside. “It’s good for you. And good of you. Wally, go get the present I made for Lady Aviel.”
“What?” I asked, seeing the boy dart away.
“Since you’ve been coming around, we’ve eaten better than ever. We all know who’s nudging Tom. I wanted to give you something in return.”
“It’s not necessary. Not at all.” These people had so little, I couldn’t even imagine taking anything.
“Hush,” she scolded. Wally returned and handed her a bundle of cloth. When she held it up, it unfolded into a black cloak with golden stars stitched all over it. I was so surprised that I didn’t refuse when she handed it over. The material was a sturdy but very basic wool. Mistress Culpepper would have turned her nose up at its plainness, but the gold thread bore the same quality I regularly saw in the Glittering Court. Tom noted it too.
“Fit for an angel. Where’d you get the thread?”
“Sold one of those jars of honey you brought us,” Mistress Smith said. “Bought just enough of a scrap to do up this cloak. I’d thought it’d match your hair.”
“Take it,” Tom told me. “Yours is battered, and you need to dress up your image anyway. Mistress Smith has obviously put a great deal of work into it.”
“I’m honored to wear it,” I told her, removing my old cloak and replacing it with the starry one.
“Not many of your lot help us out. And never so generously.” Mistress Smith proceeded to tick off names on her fingers as she spoke. “Joanna Steel. Howard Gilly. They come around sometimes. But we never see the likes of Joseph Abernathy or John Gray anymore. Or that new one. Saddler.”
“Sandler,” corrected Tom. “And that’s good to know. Keep me apprised of who else does or doesn’t visit.”
“It’s sort of an . . . erratic system.”
“It works, though, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” I said. We’d returned to the city’s heart and were nearing the Dancing Bull. “But we pick and choose who we ‘punish.’ And there’s no consistency in how we deal with these people.”
“You don’t seem to mind dealing with them.”
“I don’t. I know they’ve all done something. But the problem with selective justice is that it’s, well, selective.” I thought back to Osfro and the bias against Lonzo. “Laws exist to make sure everyone’s held to the same standards and treated the same way.”
“You know as well as I do that even when you’ve got an ironclad set of laws, with people to enforce them—which this city doesn’t—there will still always be those who slip through the cracks. We deliver justice, my dear. Sometimes you have to operate outside the law for that.”
My father had always said the same thing to justify his actions. I often soothed myself that what I did with Tom didn’t go to my father’s extremes, but there was no question that I was treading in ethically gray areas.
Tom turned even more melodramatic than usual when I didn’t respond. “Oh, the agony you cause me. The pain. To suggest paperwork and procedure is preferable to me! You’re lucky my faith in you is so unwavering.” He handed me a gold coin. “And inconsistent or not, our system pays better.”
I pocketed the coin but said, “This technically belongs to some of the tenants he gouged.”
“Oh, we’ll make sure some of it cycles back to them. But first, we have another good deed to take care of.”
The urgency of writing Lonzo’s letter had hung over me all evening. “No more jobs. I can’t stay tonight.”
“It’s a deed, not a job.”
Most of the crew remained at the tavern, but Lesser Tom joined Tom and me in carrying heavy sacks gathered from the tavern’s subterranean storage room. From there, we traveled to a poor neighborhood on the city’s west side where I’d made deliveries before. The houses were older and run-down, the people lean and desperate. No one harassed us. Those we passed waved and offered greetings—to all of us.
We knocked on the door of a house belonging to one Mistress Smith. We usually brought our gifts straight to her for distribution. She knew who needed what in her community and was fair about spreading it around. Not even the most desperate would dare steal from her. She opened the door wearing a thin nightgown and a cap over her wispy curls. Despite the late hour, a smile lit her lined face when she saw us. She’d lived in this neighborhood longer than anyone and was a matriarch of sorts. Her diminutive frame housed a ferocious heart.
“Tom, Tom, and my lady,” she said. “Come in, come in. Let me make you some tea.”
Tom greeted her with a flourish of the cape. “No time to stay, I’m afraid. We just want to pass on a few gifts.”
She exclaimed with delight when she saw what was in the bags: fruit, something scarce and expensive this time of year. The hosts whose parties I attended had the means to pay the current exorbitant prices. I’d been served apple tart just last night. Many of the guests had pushed their dessert away half-eaten, claiming they were full. Thinking of that excess and looking at Mistress Smith now, I no longer felt so guilty about stealing the fruit. Besides, we’d actually taken it from another group of smugglers. Thieves stealing from thieves.
“Oh, wait until everyone sees,” Mistress Smith said. “The Six’s blessings upon you all.”
Tom basked in her adoration. He hadn’t made many deliveries in person for some time. “It’s our pleasure. Lady Aviel doesn’t sleep at night if she hasn’t given away a bit of my wealth.”
Mistress Smith laughed as she watched Lesser Tom pass the sacks of fruit to a sleepy boy inside. “It’s good for you. And good of you. Wally, go get the present I made for Lady Aviel.”
“What?” I asked, seeing the boy dart away.
“Since you’ve been coming around, we’ve eaten better than ever. We all know who’s nudging Tom. I wanted to give you something in return.”
“It’s not necessary. Not at all.” These people had so little, I couldn’t even imagine taking anything.
“Hush,” she scolded. Wally returned and handed her a bundle of cloth. When she held it up, it unfolded into a black cloak with golden stars stitched all over it. I was so surprised that I didn’t refuse when she handed it over. The material was a sturdy but very basic wool. Mistress Culpepper would have turned her nose up at its plainness, but the gold thread bore the same quality I regularly saw in the Glittering Court. Tom noted it too.
“Fit for an angel. Where’d you get the thread?”
“Sold one of those jars of honey you brought us,” Mistress Smith said. “Bought just enough of a scrap to do up this cloak. I’d thought it’d match your hair.”
“Take it,” Tom told me. “Yours is battered, and you need to dress up your image anyway. Mistress Smith has obviously put a great deal of work into it.”
“I’m honored to wear it,” I told her, removing my old cloak and replacing it with the starry one.
“Not many of your lot help us out. And never so generously.” Mistress Smith proceeded to tick off names on her fingers as she spoke. “Joanna Steel. Howard Gilly. They come around sometimes. But we never see the likes of Joseph Abernathy or John Gray anymore. Or that new one. Saddler.”
“Sandler,” corrected Tom. “And that’s good to know. Keep me apprised of who else does or doesn’t visit.”
