Game of Thrones: The Impaler of the Blue Fork

Chapter 60: Letters Home

The letter arrived on the seventh day.

The same caravan that travels to and from Twin Rivers every month, carrying the same fine linen packages, is passed in through the cracks in the doors of that small street, and then out through the cracks again. After two days on the main road, it is delivered to the outer trading district of the territory, tucked inside a batch of fur invoices.

When Pollifer received the package in the accounting office in the trading district, he was checking the number of seals on a batch of salt jars. He placed the package on the table, checked the number of salt jars against the list, made sure nothing was missing, and recorded it in the ledger. Only then did he pick up the package, untie the thin hemp rope, and take out the contents.

The letter was sealed with a green clay seal, featuring a pattern of crossed oak branches, exactly as William had described before. An irregular crack ran along the edge of the seal.

Pollifer glanced at the letter, tucked it into his pocket, and went out of the accounting office to find William.

William was shoveling mud from the drainage ditch on the north slope.

Winter mud is harder to shovel than in other seasons because there's a hard, frozen layer of lime at the bottom. The shovel slips when you dig down, so you have to first use the blade to chisel away at an angle to break that layer before you can dig up the mud. He's found the most efficient angle—dipping at an angle, not vertically. This angle allows the shovel blade to cut more evenly and reduces slippage. He figured this out himself; no one taught him.

Pollifer walked over and stopped by the canal.

"The letter has arrived."

William stuck the shovel into the mud and turned around. Pollifer handed him the letter, said nothing, and stood by the ditch waiting.

William took it and glanced at the seal—green, with crossed oak branches, just as he remembered. He had seen that seal when he was a child; it was kept in an old leather box on his father's desk in his study, never used except for formal occasions. Once, he took it out to play with it, and his father slapped his hand, saying it was a symbol of the family, not a toy.

He used his fingernail to pry open the seal, took out the letter, and unfolded it.

His father's handwriting was just as he remembered it—the spacing between each character was even, the horizontal strokes were slightly lighter, and the vertical strokes were slightly heavier. It was a style of writing that people who had been drafting documents for a long time had developed, not seeking beauty, but only clarity.

The first thing he asked about was his health, saying he was relieved to receive news that he was doing well in the territory. He also reminded him to keep warm in the winter, as the winters in the Riverlands were different from those in the south; the damp cold was more unbearable than the dry cold, and he should wear more layers.

Then there's my mother. Her back is better than in the fall, and it's even stabilized since winter started. She doesn't need to hold onto the table when she gets up in the morning anymore, but she still can't sit for long periods; it still aches after sitting for a while. My father said he found a herbal remedy from the south, which involves soaking feet in a foot bath with several warming herbs. He doesn't know if it will work, but he'll try it first.

William paused on that statement.

He remembered his mother sitting in the main room of the manor. One winter afternoon, she sat by the brazier sewing, the light casting a warm glow on her profile. She was sewing one of his robes; after finishing, she held it up to the light to check the stitches, then put it down and continued sewing the next stitch. She didn't know he was watching her from the doorway.

The image lingered in his mind for a moment, making the manor seem very close, so close that he could almost smell the brazier in the main house—a mixture of charcoal and dry pine branches, dry, warm, and completely different from the smell of quicklime in the territory.

He continued reading.

Then there were the two oxen on the estate. Father had said he would replace them this winter, and this letter said he had. They were replaced with two male oxen from the north, with dark brown coats and white spots, and thick hooves. Father said in the letter that he had thought about it for a long time, and finally chose the northern ones. His reason was that winter came earlier than usual this year, and the southern oxen wouldn't be able to withstand it. Also, the soil on the estate was stickier, and the northern oxen were stronger and more reliable, even if they were slower.

After William finished reading that passage, something stirred within him.

Then there's a paragraph at the end of the letter.

My father said that he recently helped the family servants buy fine linen for the winter. He went to several shops and found that the vendors on the road outside the East Pagoda were doing particularly well this year because the cloth in the official granary "had disappeared," so the local people had to buy it from elsewhere, which naturally made the price higher.

No name, no accusation. Just a casual complaint about the price of fabric.

My father was slow at everything he did, and he thought long and hard about everything he wrote. Every word he put into his letters was carefully considered. This passage is placed here, at the end of the letter home, after he inquired about my health, talked about my mother, and discussed the oxen.

Then comes the last sentence.

Father said that your great-uncle's batch of old leather was stored in the third warehouse on the east side, and someone would come to pick it up in the spring.

William stared at that sentence for a long time.

He had no great-uncle. Nor did his father. Their family never had any aged leather.

William folded the letter and looked up at Pollive.

Pollifer was still standing by the canal, the charcoal stick not turning between his fingers, just held there, watching him.

"Finished reading?" Pollifer asked.

"I've finished watching it."

"Is there anything I need to know?"

William thought for a moment. "The last part, the section about cloth prices, and the part about leather—you should take a look, sir."

Pollifer nodded, took the letter, but didn't open it immediately. He put it in his pocket, turned, and left.

Ten days later.

Pollifer placed a new parchment, a quill pen, and a small ceramic bottle for ink in the corner of the wooden table.

"The second letter," he said, "inquired about the progress of the canal repairs, using business as a pretext."

Then he left.

William sat there, looking at the three things.

The parchment was new and neatly cut. The quill pen had been used; a dried ink streak, embedded in the nib, remained. The seal on the ceramic inkwell was new and red.

He removed the clay seal, dipped his brush in it, tested the color on the corner of the paper, and then stopped.

The sound of the wind outside the longhouse seeped in through the cracks in the wooden walls, fine and icy. The hearth was in the middle of the longhouse, and his corner was some distance from it, so the heat was quite thin there. He could feel the coldness in his fingertips; the fingers holding the pen, dipped in ink, were colder than the others.

He wondered what his father's expression was when he wrote that sentence about leather.

Did he write this in the study? That oak door was heavy; he couldn't open it by himself when he was a child, he had to push it open with his shoulder. After the door was opened, there was a smell inside, a mixture of leather and aged ink—that was his father's smell.

Before writing that sentence, his father probably paused for a long time, going over each word in his mind again and again, making sure that each word could be understood by those who should understand it, and not by those who shouldn't. His father did this kind of thing his whole life, but William hadn't realized it before.

The father chose him to do this. Otto also chose him to do this. Both sides chose him, and both sides knew what he was doing.

He sat in the middle.

He dipped his pen in ink again and began to write.

He wrote the letters home quickly. He asked about his father's health, his mother's back, and how the two newly acquired oxen were doing. These were things he really wanted to know.

Then he stopped.

He knew how to write the next part. Pollifer had said to ask about the canal, using a business reason to make the question seem incidental. He remembered this and knew how to do it.

But he paused for a long time in front of that blank space.

It wasn't that he didn't know how to write; it was that he was thinking about something else—once he started writing, the letters between him and his father would no longer be just family letters. His father had already actively participated, as evidenced by the leather's words. If his father had chosen to participate, then his passing on this issue was the same as his father deciding to do it himself.

This idea may not be correct, but it's the only idea he has right now.

He wrote:

The lord of the territory has a matter concerning the repair of an old canal upstream of the Blue Fork River, which is said to be related to the waterway near the East Tower of the Twins. He needs to ascertain whether there has been any recent repair work there in order to estimate the materials required. My father has been traveling to the Twins for many years; if he hears any news about the waterworks there recently, please let him know.

"It is said to be related to the waterways near the East Tower of the Twins"—this sentence was added by himself; Pollifer hadn't asked him to include it. But he thought about it and felt that having this sentence was more natural than not having it—it gave his father a specific point of reference, so he wouldn't have to guess what kind of information his father wanted when replying.

After he finished writing, he folded it, sealed it, and took it to Polyver.

Polliver took it, glanced at the seal, and then looked at him.

"Go."

William turned and left to continue dredging the canals.

Seven more days passed.

A reply has arrived.

It was the same route, the same caravan, and the same fine linen bundle. Pollifer received it first, read it once, and then gave it to William.

William sat down on the steps of the side door of the longhouse to read.

In the letter home: Mother's back is feeling a bit better. We've switched to a ox from the north, for the same reason I mentioned in the last letter—the soil there is stickier, and oxen from the north are stronger and more reliable. Father also included a handful of dried mint leaves, saying he heard that adding a few to water when boiling it can ward off colds.

Then there's the last paragraph.

My father said he recently went to the Twins on business and took the opportunity to visit the market near the East Tower. At the market, a leather vendor was talking about how an official in charge of the irrigation canal repairs near the East Tower had recently become much wealthier. A few days ago, he bought a very expensive piece of leather from a shop outside the East Tower that specialized in southern goods. It was dark brown, top-quality cowhide transported from the South, and it wasn't cheap.

The stall owner said he had been selling leather for over ten years and knew the prices very well. The price of that piece of leather was roughly equivalent to the price of the batch of linen that had recently gone missing from the official granary.

His father said he found it funny. That's how things are in Twin Rivers City. Nothing can be hidden, but no one cares. People still eat what they want and take what they want.

William read the passage twice.

He folded the letter and went to find Pollifer.

Pollifer sat in his usual spot in the accounting office, a stack of bills spread out in front of him.

William handed him the letter.

"The official in charge of the irrigation canal," William said. "The letter didn't have a name."

"I know," Pollifer said, twirling the charcoal stick between his fingers, but only once before stopping. "It's not certain yet; we need to wait for further confirmation."

He took the letter and read the passage again.

As he looked at it, there was a very slight movement at the corner of his mouth.

He put the letter down, opened the account book, found a new page, and wrote four lines in very small print:

The first line is today's date.

The second line is about one thing: the manager of the East Tower water channel, made of dark brown leather, valued at approximately the same as the missing linen from the official granary.

The third line is a source: Charlton's letters, the second reply.

He paused on the fourth line.

He turned to another page further back, found the name William had mentioned long ago—Blind Petyr, the tax collector in the ditch outside the East Tower—checked it, turned back, and wrote a name at the very top of those four lines with charcoal.

That name doesn't belong to the official who bought the leather.

It's the person behind that official.

He closed the box, set the charcoal stick aside, picked up the unfinished stack of bills in front of him again, and continued checking the figures.

That name is waiting in the deepest part.

William returned to the sewer, picked up the shovel leaning against the stone wall, and continued shoveling.

The mixed smell of quicklime and mud wafted up, but he no longer found it unpleasant; now it was simply a sign that life had begun.

He shoveled once, then twice, and his rhythm became steady.

He knew about the contents of those two letters, the words his father had put in them, and the name Pollifer had written down—but he didn't know where they would end up, when they would be used, or how they would be used.

All he can do now is finish shoveling this section of the ditch, then move on to the next thing, then eat, then sleep, and then continue tomorrow.

As he shoveled the third time, he remembered the way his father had written that sentence about leather—sitting in his study with an iron candlestick beside him, carefully considering each word before putting pen to paper.

Then he remembered something else: when his father wrote that letter, he was doing the same thing he was doing now—shoveling away, doing one thing at a time, finishing one thing and moving on to the next, waiting for things to go where they were supposed to go.

He didn't stop, he kept shoveling.