The Queen of Bedlam by Robert R. McCammon

head on his cane nodding for attention. “If you haven’t been properly introduced to Mr. Deverick other than by name, you should know that he represents, in a way, all the taverns and their owners. Mr. Deverick is a goods broker, and it is by his untiring enterprises that the establishments are properly stocked with ale, wine, foodstuffs, and the like.”
    “Not only that,” Deverick added, still staring squarely at the governor. “I supply most of the glasses and platters, and a majority of the candles.”
    “And to also mention a majority of the candles used by the town,” said Lillehorne, who Matthew thought was up to getting free wine for a year at his own favorite haunt.
    “And, not least,” Deverick pressed on, “the majority of lanterns that hold those candles, supplied to the town’s constables for a reasonable allowance.”
    “Well,” Lord Cornbury said after a short rumination, “it seems you run the town then, sir, is that not so? For all your good works procure both the peace and-you would have me believe-prosperity of New York.” He lifted his gloved hands to show the palms, in an attitude of surrender. “Shall I sign over my governing charter to you, sir?”
    Don’t ask that of Lillehorne, Matthew thought. The high constable would use his own blood for want of ink.
    Deverick stood very straight and stiff and tall, his face with its craggy boxer’s nose and high creased forehead taking on an expression of composed nobility that perhaps Lord Cornbury could do well to emulate. Of course Deverick was a rich man. Possibly one of the wealthiest in the colony. Matthew didn’t know much about him-who did? for he was certainly a lone wolf-but he’d heard from Grigsby that Deverick had fought his way out of the London rubbish piles to stand here, grandly clothed and as cold as midwinter’s pond ice, staring down an official popinjay.
    “I have my own fields of governance,” replied Deverick, with a slight lift of his chin. “I should stay within their boundaries lest I trip over another man’s fence. But before I release this subject, let me please ask you to meet with myself and a committee of the tavern owners to discuss the matter at your convenience ere you decide upon a fixed course of action.”
    “Oh, he’s good,” Powers whispered. “I didn’t know there was so much lawyer in old Pennford.”
    Lord Cornbury again hesitated, and Matthew thought the man was not so schooled in diplomacy as he ought to be. Surely his feminine nature would seize upon a truce, if not so much to appease a very influential man but to get through his first public display without a riot.
    “Very well,” the governor said flatly, with no trace of interest in hearing any other opinion. “I shall delay my decree for one week, sir, and thank you for your remarks.” With that gesture, Pennford Deverick returned to his seat.
    Some of the discordant hubbub that had been brewing back in the mob pot began to simmer down now, but there were occasional hoots and hollers out on the street that proclaimed the verdict of the common man. Matthew wondered if a live governor such as the one standing before them could be worse than a dead mayor; well, time would tell.
    Cornbury now launched upon another speech in which he praised every gentleman-and gentle lady, of course-for their support and recognition of the need for strong leadership in this growing and all-important town. Then, his smug horse half whipped to death, he said, “Before I ask that this meeting be adjourned, are there any comments from you? Any suggestions? I want you to know I am an open-minded man, and I shall do my best to solve whatever problems may arise, small or large, to aid this town in its orderly and profitable progress. Anyone?”
    Matthew had in mind something to ask, but he warned himself against it because it was sure to anger Lillehorne and in his position that wasn’t wise. He’d already in the past month left two letters with the high