Episode Fifteen

Myran Smithson dropped five toad eye berries into the pan. Each reacted slightly curiously when they hit the boiling water, sizzling ferociously as if covered with scalding fat. They started behaving after a few seconds, however, and sunk to the bottom of the pan. As they slowly dissolved, they stained the water an unwholesome dark red and began emitting a faint acrid scent. Smithson stirred the brew gently, thinking while he did: somebody at some time discovered that this is a very good cure for constipation. Boiled red berries; blocked orifice. How on earth had the connection been made? Such questions often troubled him as he practised herblore, which relied a great deal on magic and ancient wisdom and therefore not a great deal on logic.
"Be about five minutes, Mrs Horstice," he declared. "Come back later if you want."
"I'll wait, if that's convenient, Mr Smithson."
Smithson shrugged and set up stools on the other side of the room, for the smell from the hearth was becoming quite strong. It was not just convenient, it had been expected. Calli Horstice was not merely seeking a cure for constipation. She was Showing Her Face. The Last Drop Inn was but one place where Calli was suddenly visible since being elected praetor. Smithson's the herbalist, Ramac the blacksmith, Golting the fruit and veg man; all the local traders previously ignored by a woman who preferred buying expensive goods from outside the neighbourhood were now given her patronage. Not everyone got her custom. But she carefully selected the businesses which were seen as integral to Jakks Way, who composed its character. Doubtless if she had any documents to forge she would call on Kalinka the Inker round the corner.
"Has there been any further news about your trading license?" she asked politely, shuffling uncomfortably on her stool. Smithson wondered if she personally was plagued with the constipation.
"No. The Gods still seem to have that inside their mills."
"Yes, I see. One does wonder sometimes if they are really grinding at all. I'm sorry I have been unable to help you further. My influence with Jalkin Council's Trade & Industry department is very limited, unfortunately…"
Smithson nodded. Calli Horstice's influence almost everywhere was very limited. He knew why and knew that it would mean she would probably never be more than a praetor. She was not brilliant, not well connected and not, save by Jakks Way standards, rich. She had nothing to sell, be it patronages, ideologies or oratories. He liked her, however. Her attitude to his trading license epitomised why. When she heard he still didn't have a licence, despite his palpable skills as a herbalist, her sole concern was to try and help him obtain one. She hadn't seemed to ask why he was quite happily trading without one, nor whether she should try to end this blatant flouting of the law. Such myopic humanitarianism was another reason why she would most likely not rise far.
"Don't worry about it," he said equably. "There is something you can tell me though. My payment, if you like."
Calli's eyebrows rose. "Mr Smithson, I believe I have already paid you in full for today's-"
"Not for the toad eye berries. Payment for not spending the next five minutes harassing you about your Councillor friend."
"I assure you, I'm quite willing to fully answer any questions about that affair."
"Not the ones I'd ask, you wouldn't," Smithson said, smiling faintly. Because she knew of his reputation, Calli hesitated and finally conceded,
"What do you wish to know instead?"
"Tell me about the law of paternal acknowledgement. I know of it but not the specifics."
Calli looked at him and broke into a snorting laugh. "What on… Why by Garrath do you want to know about that?"
"Let's call it a school project," Smithson said calmly.
"Oh, very well. Paternal acknowledgment… let me try to get this right… It says that if a man declares an infant to be his child, and I think the maximum age of the child is five years, if he makes the claim, the mother agrees and if there are no contrary claims for paternity… Then the infant is his child and he must fulfil all obligation. Most importantly, the claim cannot be rescinded later."
"That's all there is to it?" Smithson frowned. "Does he have to sign anything?"
"No, the claim can be an oral one providing there are two independent witnesses… And I understand your expression, Mr Smithson. Paternal acknowledgment is an extremely archaic law, older than Christoté itself. It is almost never used now. But it somehow found its way onto our statute books and has never been revoked."
"'Welcome to the brand new world / Just like the last one, so I'm told,'" Smithson quoted. "Does the midwife at the birth count as an independent witness?"
"I imagine she would, providing she is not related to any party. The priest also."
"I'm sorry?"
"A priest or priestess is sometimes asked to be present at difficult births. In case of…" Calli paused delicately.
"Of course. A midwife, a priestess. And a father pointing at a screaming infant shouting, 'Bigods! The feller's mine!' Words he can never take back. It sounds like a scene in a farce."
"I believe that it was used in one," Calli smiled. "A rather good piece by Myers Cass. Perhaps that's where your recollection comes from."
"I don't go to the theatre much. Real life is entertaining enough." And surreal enough, he thought. He had refused to pass Morran Ceppac's commission to anybody until he had checked it was at all feasible. This didn't seem at all likely. The pitiful last hope of an abandoned mother. At the same time there was always that small chance. Because real life, and especially real statute books, could contain almost any lunacy.
"And is the law in force across all Christoté?" he asked.
"I think, though I'm not entirely sure, that it was always an exclusively Dorlafan law. Not entirely surprisingly, it hasn't proved very popular."
""So it wouldn't apply to, say, a father from Elsey?" He relished the swift, sharp look which Calli gave him. Smithson was known to be from Elsey. She believes she's just found out something new about me, he thought. And let her carry on believing that.
"That rather depends," she said thoughtfully. "I would have to check, but I imagine that it's covered in the Confederacy Family Acts. A great many of these obscure local laws were."
"The… ah, one of those attempts to unify laws across Christoté, right? To make us look like a single proper country. Rather than seven separate countries stuck together with rather substandard glue."
"That is correct."
"How's that going, by the way?"
Calli gave her rueful smile again. "It is, as ever, a work in progress."
"So tell me how the Family Acts would work in the case of paternal acknowledgement," Smithson requested, hobbling across the room to give the pan of toad eyes another stir.
"As I said, the law can only be enacted in Dorlaf. But if it took place here then it would apply to any Christotan citizen – not simply, I mean, to Dorlafans. Furthermore, it would continue to have effect even if all concerned left Dorlaf again afterward. The man is the father of the child and that is that. It works on the same principle of a marriage being legally binding across the Confederacy wherever it occurs."
"And what happens," Smithson asked slowly, "If another Province, Elsey say, has their own little law covered by the Family Acts saying a dad can denounce a child whenever he fancies it?"
"Well, of course."
When she offered nothing else, Smithson looked at her quizzically. "No, I mean-"
"That is why," Calli said, "This country has a great many lawyers and some are very highly paid."
The toad eyes were almost ready. Smithson made himself focus on completing the potion which, for no good reason, required a pinch of sand to be added at the end. A little string of other customers came in after Calli left. He kept this other problem stored away until he had dealt with them all. Herbalism requires absolute concentration. Years of mental training had given Smithson an orderly mind filled with small compartments which he could open at will.
An hour latter he allowed himself a sit-down and time to examine the Morran Heppac commission again. "I know you know shady blokes who do this sort of stuff," she had claimed. She was right, though many weren't especially 'shady.' They were mostly former Guardsmen, who had left the force due to injury or old age or politics or, at worst, some small corruption scandal. A lifetime in the Christotan National Guards had trained them to fight and follow suspects and interrogate witnesses and do absolutely nothing which might earn them a proper wage. They now called themselves private detectives or freelancers. An objective observer would label them unemployed drunks who spent most of their energy bitching about how soft Guardsmen had become since their day.
Now Smithson had a commission for one of them. It involved Notrufans; unless Morran had another heavily pregnant and clearly desperate friend she was hiding away. There wasn't a great deal of time, if the size of Zesheyek's belly was any indication. A detective had already been involved and had, allegedly, done more hurt than help. The target was apparently a powerful aristocrat. There was a heavy cloak of absurdity covering the whole affair which could only grow thicker. And there was the likelihood that it would all be in vain and would leave the clients no better off. Which of Smithson's contacts were cynical enough to accept?
Well, that removed perhaps two names. He started working through the long list again, this time looking at whom he trusted and who might actually succeed. This removed possible candidates somewhat more effectively.