The Glyph of Truth

An Appointment of Honour

Harcourt hurried home to the run-down timber-framed building in Crooked Lane. He climbed the four narrow, creaking stairs up to the attic and let himself into his garret. Despite the constant draft, the room managed to smell musty. A straw mattress, a ricketty tripod with a washbowl and chipped ewer, a whale oil lamp hanging from the rafters, an old stoneware chamber pot, and a heavy leather trunk for his meagre wardrobe -- those were all his worldly possessions. And as for his spiritual riches, they were in an even worse shape.

For some reason, the loud snoring from the floor below reminded him that he had stolen the chamber pot on a drunken romp in spring. But no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer recall where or why.

He lit the whale oil lamp, and opened the trunk. It contained his flax drill uniform, brushed and neatly folded, his boots, his sword and pistol, as well as a small, unruly jumble of shirts and undergarments. He stripped and flung his clothes into a corner. The air was so cold he could see steam rising from his skin.

Harcourt donned his grey-green uniform, trimmed with silver braid, and a silver caterfoil on the sleeves to proclaim his captain's rank. He buckled on his belt with scabbard and holster. An icon of St. Cordan, his regimental saint, was engraved on the buckle plate. Harcourt felt reassured by the familiar weight of the basket-hilt and the flintlock pistol. Donning his officer's helmet with the totem of the Sage Hall Fusiliers -- a stuffed blackbird -- perched on top, he realized how much he missed the army.

Wasting little time, Harcourt returned to the Good Wife. The alehouse was less crowded than he had left it. The musicians had left and the dancing had stopped, except for a single reveller who was swaying to a tune only he could hear. The assembled factory workers, gamblers and hangers-on fell silent at the sight of an officer of the Commonwealth Yeomanry in their midst. The tavern keeper appraised him with unease, and brandished a belaying pin in his beefy fist.

"I am not looking for trouble, Captain," he said by way of introduction. "But if you plan to give me any, I will pay you back in kind."

"Neither am I," Harcourt replied. "I am merely looking for my friend, the savage. Where is he?"

"He left a while ago. With Dolly. He was not molested, if that is your fear."

"This Dolly is a strumpet?"

"No, she works at the Stronghill Tannery. Although I do not see how that should be your concern."

"Where does she live?"

Some of the alehouse patrons grumbled and gripped their tankards tighter. Harcourt realized he was skating on thin ice. Although he had been drinking with them only a few hours ago, his uniform now made him their enemy. Even if they knew, they would not answer him.

"Very well. Please pardon my interruption. I did not mean to disturb your well-deserved merriment. I am merely looking for my friend."

Harcourt left the alehouse and walked back to Potter's Mill Ward, towards Lamprey Street, where Bowfinger lived. If they had gone to Dolly's place, he would stand little chance of finding them before dawn. Lamprey Street was a better neighbourhood than Crooked Lane. The buildings were older, sturdier and in better repair.

There were stables halfway up the street, and Bowfinger lived in a tiny cottage at the far end of the stable yard. The cottage was far older than the surrounding buildings that encroached on it. Horses whinnied as Harcourt crossed the yard, and the scent of manure was strong. He hammered on Bowfinger's door with his fist.

"Go away!" Bowfinger yelled and threw something, probably a tin cup, against the door.

"It's me, Harcourt."