Page 33 of Apple Boy

Alarm spread through my veins like fire at hearing that they would contact the Great Council directly, and I leapt from my chair. I shared an anxious glance with Adam to have my fear reflected in his eyes.

“With the greatest of respect, sirs. I’m sure you understand that this is a very delicate situation and I would rather you keep this information private for the time being. As I said earlier, I need to discuss matters with my Uncle Ivon and believe he will be able to instruct me on how best to deal with what has befallen me.”

“Sit down my Lord!” Mr. Wrenfrey cawed.

“I am well aware that I speak out of turn, but there is more at stake here than you yet know of. This problem concerns more than you and the ill-fortune you have endured! That vessel carried a cargo of gold for the Royal Mint. The Great Council is responsible for it.” Mr. Percheval squawked, dancing up and down the branch, his wings flapping in outrage.

Ah, it was just as I’d expected. They seemed to care more for the fate of all that gold than about what had happened to Jossuah and I. I wondered if they knew about the tortured souls who had been manacled to those wretched strong boxes of blood gold.

“I understand.” I lied, my voice sounding much calmer than I actually felt. “But I beg you sirs, let me speak privately with my uncle first. I would also prefer to speak to the Great Council myself and give them a first-hand account of what I witnessed, rather than allow them to make their conclusions from hearsay.”

The Lovebirds huddled together on a branch, and I heard strange clicking and ticking sounds emanating from their throats. They were speaking in a private bird language. What did they mean when they said that there was more going on in this city? What had we stumbled into?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

IVON

Where is he? Where’s mah’ boy?”

The deep thunderous roar made me start. The rowdy voice echoed from the main depository floor, filtering all the way down to Mr. Percheval and Mr. Wrenfrey’s office and in through the peculiar hole in the top of the door. I sat up in my chair, and the Lovebirds ceased in their private ticking and clicking conversation. I would have known that voice anywhere—and from the lordly insistence, Uncle Ivon meant business. He was slurring his words, and I understood all-too-well that he had been located drowning his sorrows at a club or bordello. I was a little annoyed that he was drinking so early in the day, but it hit me then that he’d believed me dead and had been drinking because he was grieving—for me. I chided myself for the uncharitable thoughts. No wonder he was in his cups.

Mr. Wrenfrey’s crest of blue feathers stood erect on hearing Ivon holler. He jumped up from his branch and flew towards the door, and then to my surprise; he flew straight through the hole. Now I understood what they were for!

“If anyone can calm Ivon Aeling down, it’s my Aric.” Mr. Percheval boasted, “He and Ivon have been the best of friends since Ivon was but a fledgling.” He explained. I was surprised by this. I did not know that the relationship between my family and the depository went beyond keeping our wealth secure. Mr. Percheval cocked his head enquiringly.

“Do you not recall the portrait of young Ivon in the dining room at your family estate?”

I furrowed my brow in concentration and thought back to the many works of art that decorated that room. Landscapes of Thorn in winter and summer—painted to celebrate the birth of my sister and me—and yes, there was one portrait of my uncle as a child. If I recalled correctly, he was dressed in turquoise hose, a billowing white blouse, and a green waistcoat. He stood regally erect, his white-blond hair in ringlets. A brightly colored bird sat at upon his outstretched finger. It struck me then how I’d observed that painting hundreds of times during boring dinners as a lad, and I had imagined that from the expression young Ivon wore that the two were in conversation. I used to make up silly stories with my sister about what they spoke of.

“No!” I exclaimed. Mr. Perchval bobbed his head, and then as one, we began to laugh. The bird's laugh was a strange wheezing, repetitive cawing sound which made me laugh even more, and Adam joined in even though he did not understand the joke. The door to the office burst open, abruptly ceasing our laughter and there, large as life stood my uncle Ivon with Mr. Wrenfrey perched on his outstretched finger, his beautiful blue crest of feathers standing up proudly. The sight of them together mirrored my memory of the pose in the portrait, and I eyed Mr. Percheval, who, reading my thoughts, squawk-laughed again.

Ivon gently raised his hand, and Mr. Wrenfrey took to the air returning to his perch. My uncle’s eyes rested upon me and began to glaze over with tears. He stepped forward as I rose from my seat and dragged me into a crushing embrace, squeezing me so hard to his generously proportioned belly that I lost my breath. He started to sob against my shoulder, and I was unsure what to do. Ivon was never emotional when sober, so he must have consumed a great deal of wine. Feebly, I patted his back and said,

“There, there. All is well. I’m okay Uncle; I’m okay.” Awkward moments passed as Ivon clung on to me sobbing and so I was relieved when Mr. Percheval suggested:

“Refreshments, yes?”

It provided the opportunity for me to ease myself from Ivon’s grasp, and straighten my less than stylish garb. Ivon looked the part of a Sereinean aristocrat. He wore a black frock coat, white blouson shirt; and a voluptuous white silk jabot sporting a hefty black gem mourning broach. The ensemble was topped off with a lavish embroidered green and gold waistcoat and generously cut black britches. The jabot and shirt were soiled—stained by splashes of burgundy red wine, and on letting go of me Ivon staggered a little as if having difficulty keeping his balance.

“Coffee for my uncle, if you please!” I requested, taking control and leading Ivon to the empty chair beside mine.

“You’ll need to sober a little if you are to comprehend all I have to tell you,” I said in forewarning. My uncle slumped into the comfortable high-backed chair and, emotionally drained; he wiped his eyes on his stained lace sleeve.

Although Ivon looked a little worse for the drink, it warmed my heart to at last be with my blood-kin. I counted myself very lucky indeed for I no longer had the fear of poverty, humiliation, and degradation hanging over my head.

Mr. Percheval jumped onto his desk, and I heard the click-click of his claws on the highly polished surface as he tapped his way across the desk toward a pile of papers and parchments. There sat a small bright brass bell. He gripped the tiny handle in his beak and shook his head with near violent abandon. The sound from the bell was not the expected, gentle tinkling chime of a tiny bell at all, but the loud piercing ding-dong of a handbell.

Within the blink of an eye, a maidservant knocked and entered the room pushing a trolley laden with tea, coffee, and cake. I had no idea how she could have anticipated our requirements but there on the cart sat a tall silver pot of steaming rich scented coffee, a pot of Montestine tea, two thimbles, and three cups. I also spied a platter containing—

“GODS! A Thornian peach cake!” I exclaimed in amazement. The dense sponge of this particular delicacy is studded with slices of fresh succulent peach before baking, and when removed from the oven, the top is sprinkled with crisp sparkling crystals of sugar while the cake is still warm.

“Oh, Adam you just have to try this!” I enthused, “It’s a traditional family favorite from home.” I paused, hearing the words I’d just uttered and my guts twisted with thoughts of home.

The maid poured two thimbles of golden tea and placed them on the desks for Mr. P and Mr. W, and then she prepared tea for Adam and I, and coffee for Ivon before retreating from the room. I strained my ears to hear the tip-tap of her retreating footsteps, but as soon as the door closed, curiously, I heard nothing.

As I took my first bite of that delicious peach cake, I thought of afternoon tea on the lawn with my family, and then my imaginings became darker—my mother and father grieving for me these past weeks, and my sister believing that her twin was lost at sea. My gut clenched and the mouthful of cake dropped into my belly like a rock. I laid the platter down on a small side table and turned to my uncle. With sudden urgency said, “Did you send a bird to Thorn with the news that I live?”

“Aye, boy, aye. Fret not.” Ivon said his voice gravelly and his hand flailing drunkenly to bat the question away.