The Lost Scribe of Justitia

The Grand Showing: Petrich

As Petrich dressed in his designated quarters, situated near to the baby's nursery, he heard a soft knock. He opened the door to Bridget Galloway, in her arms she held an awake and cooing Lord Jonathan. Petrich automatically smiled.
Briget's cheeks reddened as she said in a low tone. "It was the little Lord's wish to see you, Master Hollenburg."
Petrich chuckled and let in his visitors, careful they were not seen. He shut the door. "I was beginning to wonder if he'd even remember who I was." he teased.
"Oh, there is no possible way he'd forget you as long as he lives." Bridget replied, clearly not referring to the baby, by the way she gazed at him with adoring velvet brown eyes.
Petrich stepped closer and gently took the baby from her. It was simply out of his realm of understanding how much an infant could grow in such a short period of time.
"Why, look at you, little man! Mum and Bridget have been taking good care of his lordship, haven't they?" he commented, trying to keep his voice jovial at all costs, for Bridget knew nothing of the child's ultimate fate, as the stars had already foreseen.
Still, only Petrich himself and Dietfried Baugainvillea knew this to be the last day the baby was to live, unless, of course, a star in the reading just happened to have died in the meantime. Although the odds of this would be an astronomical miracle, Petrich chose to believe it could happen, and planned the baby's escape with his mother. He had never even considered defying a star reading before, but if the universe imploded because of his defiance, then, well, so be it. . . He had to try.
"I trust all is prepared, yes?" Petrich asked.
"Down to the very last second," Bridget assured him, "Her Ladyship and I went over everything many times. We could perform each task in our sleep."
Petrich nodded. "Very good, Bridget. Let me be the first to thank you for everything you've done. Once you're in Leiden, be sure to wire Captain Baugainvillea's residence. Mavis will have a position waiting for you if you choose to stay in domestics."
"Yes, Master Hollenburg, although with your generous financing, I plan to finish my education."
"Oh! Even better then! That's brilliant, Bridget. If there is anything the Captain and I can do to help with extra finances, please let us know."
Bridget blinked back tears and turned away from Petrich to dry them with her handkerchief. "Thank you, Master Hollenburg." she replied, turning to him and taking back the baby. "I'll do my very best to assist her Lady and Lordship out of this house."
"I know you will." Petrich said with full confidence and leaned over to give her a sweet kiss on the top of her head, being that her hands were full of baby. "I'll see you again in Leiden, I promise."
          Bridget nodded and turned to leave.  "If by some chance, we do not see one another again.  . . I love you."  Without even watching his reaction, Bridget quickly slipped out of the room. 
           For a moment, Petrich stared at the closed door.  It occurred to him in that moment that no other woman, (other than his mother while she was living) had ever said 'I love you' to him. Plenty of other things had been said while they were with him at various times, but never that. To be fair, he had never said it either.
            You're so very brave, Bridget Galloway, and I will find you again.
         From his upper windows, Petrich caught sight of Fitz touring the gardens below, carefully scouting the various entrances.
         Fitz filled the part of the assistant,as well as inspector, to perfection. Of course, Petrich knew she would. Her main task tonight was to be on the lookout for the Earl of Lutzinheim, if he decided to show himself. 
          "To be sure, I am no voice of law, unless it is of the maritime sort and I am actively sailing, but if accusations are to be made, I would encourage upmost discretion." Dietfried had suggested as plans were being made.
         Fitz agreed. Making an arrest of a guest at such an event as a Grand Showing could be dicey business if done improperly.
         "It will all depend on how he arrives."Fitz explained, "If as a guest, my plan is to track him as far as I need to serve papers. If as an outlier, then the appropriate charges should be on the books as soon as possible before there's trouble."
           "We'll trust you in making those decisions, then, Fitz." Petrich said, forever grateful for her presence.
           "Humph. . . Fitz," Dietfried murmured sulkily under his breath, then rolled his eyes. He tipped up his nose haughtily away from them and puffed on his pipe.
          Petrich and Fitz snickered like school children, until Petrich leaned close to her and begged, "Oh, let him call you Fitz, too, or else we'll have to go through this every time I say it in his presence."
           Fitz gently touched Dietfried's arm. "Please, I beg of you, Captain Baugainvillea, refer to me as Fitz."
            Dietfried ignored them both for a moment and continued puffing until he conceded with a simple, "Very well, then."
He had yet to refer to her by that name.
          They were all in position now. Petrich to the left of the displayed birth document, Fitz passing as his young, rather odd-looking, yet accepted, assistant, off to his right side. Dietfried stood in the crowd, flirting with a young, golden haired debutante on his arm, in order to appear as unsuspicious as possible (or so Petrich hoped). If this was Dietfried's smokescreen, it seemed to be working, for he was able to migrate fairly near to the huddled, possibly menacing Woxlichen scribes without their notice. 
           Petrich did not pay much attention to the Grand Marshal's presentation speech, he only saw the stocky, flush-faced man step aside, signaling for Petrich to take the golden cord and remove the veil. 
          With a great swoosh, the veil slid smoothly away. Petrich faced the silent crowd. They were always silent for just a few unnerving seconds, until the flood gate of applause opened and swelled, bouncing off the great walls and high ceiling of every ballroom where he had ever presented.  It was affirming, and intoxicating, all the boisterous cheering. 
After the cheering, however, came the scrutiny from everyone from fellow scribes, the commissioners, of course, and anybody who fancied themselves a connoisseur of art, which was everyone else.
          Petrich tolerated the scrutiny in the past with promises to himself of fine wine and women to calm his anxious nerves.  This Grand Showing held no such promises, only much more dire issues.
Those who viewed the document had every opportunity to freely view it again throughout the evening at their leisure. Most kept to their dancing, eating and drinking, but the true scrutineers would stare at it for a good part of the evening, deciphering the many details that was the Hollenburg trademark.
Petrich caught sight of the Woxlichen scribes making ready for a much more scrutiny session. Let the games begin, Petrich thought, not knowing whether to feel fear from them finding (and being highly offended at) the truth, or relief that it would no longer be a secret.
As he pondered, out of the corner of his right eye, Fitz stepped off the platform and was swallowed by the ballroom crowd only for her to show up again at the foot of the grand staircase, watching another figure dressed as a waiter, already nearly to the second floor landing. Petrich knew right away Fitz had her man. 
           He threw a hard, almost panicked look at Dietfried, who caught it, having seen Fitz take off, too. Dietfried discreetly raised his hand to his chest in a halt, code for Keep your cool, boy. He then tilted his head ever so slightly toward the Woxlichen scribes. Among them was Lord David Huxley Rykindella, his expression stormier than ever.
Petrich bowed to Lord Huxley as he came forward with his celestial scribe cousin, Gregor Rykindella, and the other three Woxlichen scribes. Lord Huxley's frown only deepened.
"Word has gone about that Master Hollenburg is truly a High Mystic." he announced to his cousin, yet loud enough for all, "My mother the Duchess is keen on this being true. I say it is a nothing but a scam, a lie of the worst sort. Master Hollenburg has been turned out of the Justitia guild because of it, I am sure. Without being a part of a guild, he is nothing. His work is nothing. He should have taken my advice and dissolve the commission contract by whatever means possible. But he did not."
By this time the whole ballroom had stopped to listen. Petrich stood firm, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on Lord Huxley. He honestly had no idea of what to expect next. The piece was presented, and there was nothing Lord Huxley could possibly do about it now, accept. . . Lord Huxley had in his hand a short dagger.
In ancient times, there were legends and folklore surrounding the physical indestructibility of a document created by a truly 'called' celestial scribe. It would survive fires, resist the ballistics of firearms and cuts from fine steel blades. Of course, no one had ever tried any of these methods on such a piece. They were simply too sacred to the families that owned them, and they were very much protected. They tended to be the first to be sealed in a hidden vault at the onset of any danger.
           Petrich never fully believed these legends of myth, but he did, however, believe that a celestial scribe would quite literally fight to the death to protect his own work. Himself included.  He stared at the dagger and instinctively stepped his body between Lord Huxley and the document.
Lord Huxley grinned savagely and even laughed, although his own cousin was now concerned enough to take a step back. "Do you honestly think I would not run you through, High Mystic Hollenburg? One less Justitia celestial scribe means next to nothing to me."
Petrich made no move, as Lord Huxley took a step closer. Then there was a extremely loud shout from the midst of the crowded ballroom.
"ENOUGH!"
It came out of the Duchess herself as she came forward. Dietfried Baugainvillea followed her closely. He tilted his head, to signal for Petrich to step out from in front of the document. Petrich reluctantly stepped to his right.
"What is happening here??" she demanded, authoritatively. "Step yourself down, your Lordship! How DARE you even attempt to threaten MY commissioned piece!"
Lord Huxley turned to her. "Oh, Mother. . . Do not even let me have at YOU!"
The Duchess glared at him, and Petrich knew there was nothing more intimidating a sight in all the world. She could have the command of the entire universe, and did in that moment.
But Lord Huxley met it head on. "You have your precious commissioned piece now, Mother. The first Hollenburg in all the Gardonian region, all 3.5 million square miles of it. A piece that shall be mocking ME long after YOUR death, even after MY death. For the next thousand years it will sit here in MY home for my successors to gaze upon only to find that it holds in it a vile lie, placed there by a Justitia so called scribe.  Leidenschaftlich is still, STILL  finding ways to have us lick their boots!  Did you know of this lie, Mother? Did you?  Your precious Hollenburg piece is forever giving MY son the title of a BASTARD?"
           A great gasp filled the room.
          "Recant this filthy lie, Master Hollenburg." Lord David commanded, again welding the dagger.
           Petrich glanced at the Duchess, then back at Lord Huxley.  "I can not and will not recant the truth." he replied, his voice as hard as cold granite.
             "It ultimately does not matter. This document's legacy ends here." And with that he  lunged with the dagger at the painted parchment. 
           Petrich threw himself in front of it and felt a white hot pain in his right arm. He then felt wetness and had a vague idea that it could be nothing but his own blood.  The pain was sharp enough to make him want to sick.
             All around him he heard screaming. Chaos had apparently ensued. But Petrich refused to fall. He clenched the fist of his left hand and swung it. It connected to his Lordship's jaw, and it came away in almost as much pain as his right arm.  He was quite sure he fractured the fifth metacarpal against Lord Huxley's teeth. 
           Petrich saw the dagger flash again toward the parchment. He threw himself to protect it yet again. The dagger caught his side, ripping his waistcoat and the shirt beneath. Another flash of white hot pain cut along his ribs. Petrich could no longer stand. The pain was too much. He managed to turn himself and fell forward, taking down with him the birth document, pinning it beneath him. He was finding it difficult to breathe now.
          Over my dead body will I let him cut you. Over my dead body will I let you remain where you cannot be loved as I love you. Over my bleeding, pained, broken, worthless, unwanted, abomination of a body will I . . .
        "Get up, boy!"  said Dietfried near his ear and through clenched teeth. "It's become a malaise. And. . . something's happened upstairs. We got to get out of here!"
           Petrich felt himself being jerked up off the floor and made to stand, albeit with extreme instability.  Everything was moving around them but in a busy chaotic blur.
           Dietfried covered Petrich's mouth and nose with a handkerchief and forced him to walk.  "Try not to breath too deeply. Your life depends upon it."