The Raiselig Dossier: Punishment Part 2
The ceremony was perfect. Raiselig was pleased.
The gifts of thanks came quickly and with little celebration. Raiselig was not surprised at this, as the people of Yolan were a proud sort, and didn’t take kindly to any suggestion that they were less pious or devoted than they could be. It was an odd dichotomy that Raiselig had never been able to understand. As a Scrivener, they were idolized by the Yolan people, and yet these proud and happy citizens couldn’t see Raiselig’s back soon enough.
It was pure fortune then, or misfortune as some might have it, that just as Raiselig had stepped off the dais and slipped back into their shoes, the newly-invested Count stepped forward.
“Forgive me, your honor,” the man cleared his throat anxiously, “but it has come to my attention that…two days ago, my daughter is no longer a girl.”
It took but a moment for Raiselig to parse the Count’s euphemism, and the implications of its use. “Congratulations,” they said. “I presume her appointed spouse will be delighted to hear it.” They raised a finger in reminder, “In accordance with the customs, the wedding must happen within the year.”
“Yes,” the Count coughed, “of course it must. Only, it would be a great service if…since you are here…”
Raiselig stared at the Count who had, for all intents and purposes, been a difficult man to work with. Even in deferring to Raiselig’s expertise during the ceremony, he had a sharp tongue and will of steel. He had been nothing like the man who stood before them now.
“You wish for her coming-of-age to be notarized?”
“I do,” the Count wiped his mouth. “Only, there the responsibilities of the Yolan people in regards to their women…and women’s duties in regards to —”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the customs,” Raiselig clasped their hands in front of them. “Nevertheless, the social ramifications are contingent on a shared agreement, rather than known event. An official notarization of your daughter’s menarche is unnecessary.”
“Yes, I thought it might be, only I’ve got to be sure, you understand. As new Count of Yolan, I need to be certain that everything is as it should be.”
“Do you have no Rashi?” Raiselig asked. “Surely the eldest of your elders is more fitting and suitable for —”
“Our dear Revered Mother died this past spring,” the Count shifted on his feet like an embarrassed child. “Her replacement is…of the Isusi family.”
While Raiselig didn’t understand the particular significance, they certainly understood the power of familial politics. “Another woman must surely —”
“Believe me, Scrivener,” a flash of steel returned to the Count’s tongue, “I would rather any woman of Yolan step forward, but my —”
The steel vanished. The Count took a deep breath. “My family is agreed, it is more important that the notarization is conducted and filed properly than by a member of the county. Please, your honor; this must be done properly. Everything in its place.”
Raiselig thought for a moment, studying the man’s stalwart face.
I could leave. I could thrust a contract in your face and make you sign it. I could twist your family into legal knots for years to come. I could make you regret ever calling for a Scrivener, and ensure you quake in fear of the day you need us again.
The quisitor’s gentle smile floated in Raiselig’s memory.
“Very well,” they said at last. “Take me to her, and I shall conduct the examination.”
The daughter of the count lay in her bed, attended by her mother the Countess and two servingmaids. At a glance, Raiselig could tell the girl was not enjoying herself, but she remained silent as the Count explained his decision, and nodded once when he cautioned her against willfulness. His piece said, the Count left the room, dragging the protesting Countess with him. The serving-maids remained, as was their privilege and their duty.
Raiselig doffed their bowler hat and coat. Handing both to the closest maid, they unbuttoned their cuffs and rolled up their sleeves.
“Your skin is so black,” the daughter said. “Like nighttime. Like the black of a cat’s eye.”
Raiselig did not answer, but instead produced their thin rod of willow-wick.
“Are you a woman?”
Raiselig moved to the foot of the bed. “Please open your legs.”
The daughter did so. “I did not think it was allowed for a man to do this.”
“I am no man,” Raiselig said.
“You’re not a woman,” the daughter said. “At least, you don’t look like one.”
Raiselig began to write. “I have traveled across the Western lands for many years, and I have been told I look nothing like a woman. For just as long I have traveled the East, and been told I am nothing like a man. It is my hair and clothing you see. If I wore a petticoat or a skirt, or had hair down to my shoulders, you would like as not call me woman.”
“It’s not just that,” the daughter said, leaning her head back as Raiselig continued their the inspection. “You don’t move like a woman either. You don’t sound like one.”
“I don’t move or sound like a lady of court, nor a farmeress, perhaps. You will find many women in the world who move and sound just like me,” they glanced up, “when they are working.”
“You don’t sound like a man, either. I mean, you talk like one, but your voice doesn’t sound like one.”
Raiselig continued writing. “I was not asked to come here to discuss my voice.”
“What are you?”
Everything in its proper place. Raiselig looked up. “Your father has purchased my services. If you wish for me to leave as soon as possible, as your earlier protestations suggest, I ask that you refrain from distracting me with questions.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” she said. “You’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in years. Why did my father hire you?”
Raiselig frowned. While it was not their place to educate young daughters about the political ambitions and necessities of their fathers, neither was it their place to lie. “Because he needs legitimacy.”
The daughter of the Count sniffed then, dismissing the sentiment with the usual casual air of a youth free of responsibility. “He’ll never have it. The people don’t like him, because he’s a brute. He treats them like peasants, which of course they are, but they don’t like being reminded of it. I wouldn’t.”
Raiselig did not respond. The girl had, in the manner of ignorant children, hit uncomfortably close to home.
“Do you know how he became Count?” she asked after a momentary silence. “It should be my uncle, but he went off to war because my father told him it would give him respectability among the peasants. Then he went and got his arm chopped off, and that meant he couldn’t hold both the scepter and the orb during the coronation.”
“Indeed.”
“Is that enough?” she asked. “Is holding the scepter in one hand and the orb in the other really that important? So important that my uncle couldn’t become count?”
“Yes,” Raiselig answered without pause.
“You could have changed it, couldn’t you?” The girl’s voice was accusatory. “You sat on the dais with your books and your wand and you made everyone dance like they were puppets. You could have said my uncle could carry both the scepter and orb in one hand. Or that he could rest them on his lap, couldn’t you?”
“No.”
“But it doesn’t matter, does it, that a Count have two hands? If his arm had been chopped off after the ceremony, he wouldn’t stop being Count, would he?”
“If it was not his arm, but his head, you would not be so confused.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Some might say a headless Count would be far better for the people.”
“You’re making fun of me,” the girl huffed. “I mean it’s not important what a Count holds in their hands during a ceremony, is it?”
Raiselig bit down on their tongue before answering. “It’s all important. Every bit of it.”
“Why?”
“Without ritual, you will forget who you are.”
“I know who I am,” the daughter said. “And I know who my father wants me to be. I don’t want to be a Countessa,” her voice was flat and cold. It was not the petulant whine of a child, nor the firm resistance of a teen seeking undue respect. It was the sentiment of a girl who knew what she wanted.
Raiselig continued to write on their scroll. “I’m afraid you are, whether you want it or not.”
“I could be something else,” she said. “I could renounce my title and honors. I could run away.”
For some reason, the idea amused Raiselig, so they gently set their pen down and said: “They will look for you if you do. Your father cares for you very much, and would stop at nothing to bring you home.”
“He cares that I marry the dog-boy Ruskin, and give him a grandchild,” she said. “He doesn’t care about me, he only cares about what I’ll do for him.”
“Dog-boy?” Raiselig raised an eyebrow. “Your chosen husband?”
“He’s always hunting,” she sighed, “with his hounds. He won’t care about me either. I don’t want to be a Countessa.”
“What would you be instead, then?”
This threw the girl for a moment. She thought carefully before answering; “I don’t know, really, but something where I didn’t have to follow all these stupid rules.”
There was a time, Raiselig knew, when hearing such disrespect would have lit a fire in their stomach. They would have snapped back at the girl, called her disrespectful and foolish. They would have berated the child’s tutors for ignoring her obvious deficiencies, and stormed out of the count’s mansion then and there, condemning the Count and his family to a life without the protection of their pen.
But Raiselig was older now, and wiser. The things that had mattered so much for so many years had become less important. The polish they once held in their eyes was duller now, the dents and scratches clearer.
“You always will have rules, and they are not stupid as you think.”
“They are,” she spat. “Do you know we have to eat boar on firstday? Have to. We had a cook once who always made cut-up stew on restday, which always had boar in it. Boar two days in a row.”
“Truly, you suffered greatly.”
“You’re making fun of me again. What about Ascent Day? We can’t wear green? That doesn’t even make any sense!”
Raiselig picked up their pen again, and continued writing. “Someday, it is quite likely that you will become Countess and lead the people of your county. When that day comes, what would you sacrifice for your people?”
“Oh, I know how to answer that one,” the daughter sighed and waved her hand. “We must sacrifice our selves to become more than a mere man or woman. I must become a countess for the good of the people, and give up my individual concerns.”
“Easy enough to say,” Raiselig nodded. “How would you prove this? How would you show them that you would sacrifice your health, your well-being, all for their betterment? Would you do anything they say? Perform embarrassing acts of service to earn your right to rule?”
“No,” she tossed her head. “I’d never do anything like that.”
“No? What if you risked exile? What if the only way to remain housed safe and warm and surrounded by your kith and kin, was that you had to, say, eat boar on firstday?” The daughter said nothing, thinking as Raiselig paused in their writing. “Now stand.”
The girl stood. “I wouldn’t be exiled,” she said, holding her hands out as Raiselig instructed with their willowwick rod.
“No? They protect you from exile all the same. The rituals, the traditions, they keep you from becoming a monster.”
“I’m no monster,” she said.
“How do you know?” It was a simple question, impossible to answer. “Monsters are cruel and evil, but so are some humans. It is ritual that divides your burning souls into these two camps. Monsters do not eat human food, or speak human language. They do not whisper human prayers. They walk differently, speak differently, come from different places. They do not shake hands, they do not cover their mouths when they cough.”
“That’s not ritual.”
“I promise you, it is.” Raiselig gestured to their yellowwood cabinet. “I have extensive files on the precedent. Smiling when you are happy, crying when you are sad. The many little signs that show the rest of your kind that you are one of them. You have grown up with them, so you do not recognize them as such, but they are every bit as important.” They paused. “If you wish to be human, you have to learn them all.”
“Did you have to learn them?”
“I did. Every twitch of the mouth and flick of the finger. You think I look nothing like a man or woman now; it is only because I have spent many years practicing that you think I am anything close to human.”
“Isn’t that tiring?”
Raiselig paused in their writing.
“It is. Very. But what else can I do?”
“I don’t know, what else could you do?”
I could burn…
“I was not given much in the way of options. The practice of human behavior seemed much the easier choice. Now, most of it is reflexive, though there are things I still do not have the knack of…”
“Like what?” The girl asked with her head cocked on its side. What had once been a desperate need had become a sensible curiosity.
Raiselig took a deep breath. “Friendship. Boundaries. The subtle distinction between cruelty and kindness. The truth of words and the deeper truths of singing. When it is your turn to speak.”
“When it is your turn to speak?” The daughter laughed. “You don’t know?”
Raiselig cocked their head. “No. Do you?”
“Of course!”
“How?”
The daughter opened her mouth and then closed it again. A look of embarrassed confusion gave way to dismissal. “You just know.”
“No. You just know. I had to learn, and I still do not always get it right.”
“You interrupt people, then?”
“Or do not answer when they expect me to.” Raiselig smirked; “I suspect they think I am being thoughtful.”
“I’ll bet you are. Just not in the way they think you are.”
Raiselig resumed writing.
“I want to be a sailor,” the daughter said, after a pause. “Or a soldier, maybe, if I had to. Someone that travels everywhere, so I could see all the places outside our county.”
“Yes?” Raiselig pursed their lips in thought. “Merchants must travel to sell their wares, yet I have never heard anyone yearning for travel offer themselves to be merchants.”
“No, I don’t think I’d want to be a merchant.” She sighed. “Everything depends on other people when you’re a merchant. If no one wants to buy what you’re selling, you go hungry.”
“Selling,” Raiselig nodded. “A ritual of immense complexity and case-law. Most would avoid the life due to its humble stature.”
“I don’t care about being humble,” she admitted. “I just want to be myself.”
Raiselig bit their tongue. Already they had perhaps said too much, but the temptation to remind the child that being herself would mean nothing without the people around her was great indeed.
“I am certain your father loves you,” Raiselig said instead. “He may not understand what his love…feels like to you, but he gives it freely.”
“Are you done?” she asked as Raiselig closed their books and rolled up their scrolls.
“I am. You are now a woman, officially. Whatever else you become, you will never be a child again.”
“Poor thing,” Calchona sighed as she cleaned a glass in front of Raiselig. “It must be difficult to have such expectations as a count’s daughter. Especially one whose father is so focused on being seen as legitimate.”
“It must,” Raiselig muttered.
Calchona paused in her polishing. “You’re in that mood again.”
“What mood?” Raiselig looked up. “I don’t have moods.”
“You most certainly do,” Calchona laughed. “Oh, you don’t let yourself feel them, but to anyone who knows you, you’ve got moods.”
“Truly?” In spite of themself, Raiselig smiled gently at the idea. “And what mood am I in right now that is so recognizable?”
Calchona leaned over the table, her paws gently resting on Raiselig’s hand. “The one where you’re a thousand miles away. Like you’ve forgotten you ordered a drink, that you’re sitting at a bar. The one where you look like you’ve forgotten how to be yourself.”
Raiselig’s smile faded. “Who is that?” They asked. “Who am I, really?”
“I don’t know,” Calchona answered. “I keep asking but you never tell me.”
Clicking their teeth, Raiselig pulled away and picked up their cup of rose-petal tea. “A low blow.”
“It’s true, though,” she returned to her polishing. “We’ve spent enough time together that I know something of you, and in spite of all my efforts you still know more about me than I know of you.”
“Do I?”
“You would,” she snapped, “if you paid more attention to people instead of your books and papers.”
“The law is all I understand,” Raiselig said, their voice growing loud. “The law doesn’t ask questions I cannot know the answer to. The law isn’t hidden behind masks and tones and turns of phrase. It’s there, in black and white. I can study it and it doesn’t change. I can learn it, and it remains resolute for centuries.”
“I’ve never met a smarter person in my life, Raiselig,” Calchona grit her teeth, her fleece quivering in the dim light. “If you put half the effort into people that you put into your damn law —”
Raiselig’s hand slammed on the bar. Without another word, they stood up, leaving their drink untouched. With the swift and steady stride of a Scrivener, Raiselig opened the door to the House of the Horned Serpent, and walked out into the night.
Calchona watched them leave. When the door slammed shut behind them, she picked up their glass and poured it out into the sink, wiping her deep black eyes with her apron.