27: The Merchant’s Tale

 

My attention was drawn to the Verlia affair some months ago, in early summer. I was in my counting house, busy as usual. Wealth never brings relaxation, you know. We work much harder than the poor. And my civic duties take a lot of my time.

I recall that I was in a testy mood. I forget what exactly had upset me—the continuing stupidity of my clerks, I suppose. Most of them don’t have the wits of a chicken, and they’re constantly getting sick and expecting time off work. I give them two days off every month! That’s time enough to be sick.

Anyway, this particular day, I received a very unusual caller. Most of my visitors are other important merchants and guildmasters, you understand, or often members of the nobility come to borrow money. I like to make ’em wait. When I was informed that there was an elderly nun asking to see me, I was not impressed. I couldn’t imagine why a nun would want to see me, other than to beg money for repairs to the nunnery or something. I probably wouldn’t have found time for her that day, except there was a weedy young aristocrat in my waiting room, and I knew he was hoping for a sizable loan. I also knew he needed the money very badly. The longer he had to stew about it, the less he would scream when I told him the terms. Besides, if he saw a woman, and a cleric besides, being received ahead of himself, it would make him realize that the sun didn’t rise for him alone, just because he had the hereditary right to pee in a silver pot, or something. So I said to send in the nun first.

She came in leaning on a staff. Her habit was a tawdry, threadbare thing, and I didn’t recognize her order—she wasn’t from Gilderburg. She was old, and frail, so I told her to take a seat, although I didn’t intend for her to stay long.

I went on signing letters. “I am pressed for time this morning, Sister,” I said. “Come to the point quickly, if you please.”

She perched on the extreme edge of the chair and did not seem to know what to do with her stick. She was nervous and twittery. “I apologize for interrupting an important person such as yourself, Burgomaster. I would not impose on you, except the matter is rather urgent. She is due to take her vows in a few weeks.”

Obviously she was a confused old bird.

“Who is?” I said.

“Postulant Marla, Your Honor.”

“And why should I care?”

“You needn’t. I mean, I hope you will. Oh, dear! You see, I think she may be important.”

I doubted it at that point, I admit. I decided I would give the hag five minutes to come to the point, or I would toss her out. But as she wandered and maundered, I began to get intrigued. I’m no vagabond yarn-spinner like Omar, so I won’t try to repeat the story the way she told it. I’ll just give you the bare facts.

My visitor said she was Sister Zauch, from some obscure convent in Luzfraul that I’d never heard of. The hills are full of them. It’s cheaper to dump unwanted daughters in a house of nuns than give them a dowry when they grow up. The nuns settle for much less—I know!

But this wasn’t anything like that. About twenty years ago, one bad winter’s night, a woman had come to the convent door. She was sick—dying in fact—and she had a baby girl with her. The mother duly died. The child was kept on in the nunnery. Nothing unusual about that, really. Luzfraul’s on the far side of Gilderburg from Schlosbelsh—this side of Gilderburg, that is—and just where someone coming over the Ranges might take a wrong turn … I’m getting ahead of myself. At first I was thinking the other way, thinking of going south and finding the passes closed and taking the wrong turn on the way back.

Sister Zauch was already past her five minutes, and I told her to get to the point. She brought out an old letter. Apparently the sisters had made an effort to identify the dying woman, but not much of an effort. The mother superior had written a letter to the margrave of the district, but for some reason it had never been sent. It had been lying in a drawer for twenty years. Nuns are not normally very businesslike people, of course. Sister Zauch herself had found the letter a few weeks before.

Now the girl was grown up and about to take her vows. That would be that, of course. But Zauch herself had been required to come to Schlosbelsh on some family business or other, and had brought the girl along as companion. While she was here, she had decided to consult the authorities. Would I advise her on what ought to be done? If anything.

Me? What did I know or care about lost aristocratic bastards? But I suppose a burgomaster seems much the same as a margrave to a gang of cloistered elderly females.

Well, a letter was better than an ancient nun’s confused blathering. It repeated the story of the dying woman, but it quoted a few words she had raved in her delirium. “Prince” was one of them, and that caught my attention, of course. Ravings carry little weight, but there was real evidence, too. The baby had been wrapped in a blanket of very fine woolen cloth, with a coat of arms stitched in the corner. The letter contained a drawing of this, and it certainly had a genuine look to it, although I don’t waste my time on heraldic nonsense.

I began to cross-examine old Sister Zauch. She had nothing more to add. The blanket had been lost, the letter had never been sent. She did not want Postulant Marla to hear anything about our conversation unless she did turn out to be of noble blood—it would upset her. That was understandable.

Of course I was skeptical. I promised the old biddy I would investigate the insignia and send word to her as soon as I learned anything. She was changing her lodgings, she said, so she couldn’t give me an address. We agreed she would call on me again in a few days, and that was the end of the interview.

I saw her out. I turned my attention to my other visitors, and almost forgot the whole business. But the next day Master Tickenpepper came calling about some important legal business of mine. I noticed the letter, still lying on my desk, and showed it to him. He agreed that it seemed genuine. I told him to look into it, not really expecting anything of interest to emerge.

Well, as you have all guessed by now, the coat of arms turned out to belong to the royal house of Verlia! That was a considerable surprise, because Verlia is not exactly next door. I couldn’t imagine how the blanket could have come so far. I decided it probably hadn’t. The woman herself had stitched the emblem into it, most likely, to honor her baby.

At that time I had heard of Verlia, but that was about all, and I have traveled widely. Very few men in Schlosbelsh would have even known there was such a place, because most have never been as far as Gilderburg in their lives. In the next few days, some odd rumors began to float around. As burgomaster, I hear the news as soon as anyone does—it is my business to! I stress that point, because it is important. Sister Zauch spoke to me before anyone else in the city had heard about the missing heir!

I set Master Tickenpepper to work finding out the truth of the matter.

When the old woman returned, I told her that the girl might indeed be important. I asked to meet her.

Sister Zauch was unwell and wanted to return to the convent, but she sent the girl to me. That’s when I met Marla.

I was bewitched from the moment I set eyes on her! Such innocence, such unconscious beauty—and very possibly daughter of an old and powerful family! I am not by nature a romantic man, but her situation touched me, I admit. Very soon, I stopped caring who her parents had been. I fell in love!

I proposed. She accepted. We were married.

Yes, I knew there was a remote chance that she might turn out to have an aristocratic background, but it was not a factor in my decision. The chances of ever tracking it down seemed very remote, and the odds of ever proving anything conclusive even slighter. Not many lost heiresses have gods waiting to attest to their identity! I love her for herself alone, and would still love her, no matter how humble her birth. I took her as she was, without dowry or credentials.

It was only later, when Tickenpepper came back with his final report, that I realized that I had unwittingly married a queen.