Malthus’ Vase (flash fiction)

He winced internally as the man handled the vase rather too familiarly. The official held it up in the dry air of the open market, trying to read the inscriptions around the rim. Externally, however, Malthus' face was a mask of obsequiousness.

After a long moment, the man lowered it down onto the stall.  He signalled his entourage, and within a moment a stool that seemed too small to bear his prodigious weight appeared beneath him. Lowering himself, he emitted a self-satisfied sigh, like a bellows in ill repair.

"Malthus, dear boy" he pronounced with a deliberate wetting of his lips "you do know that this" pointing at the offending vase " is illegal for you to possess? let alone to sell!" .  Malthus, who had dug the item out of a grave yesterday evening, was indeed aware; and he suspected the reason for the Quaerit's presence here wasn't merely a routine check. His face barely changed, perhaps a momentary grimace, as he moved to pour the Quaerit a glass of water - customary as it was to offer an official of the court hospitality.

"I am afraid" Malthus stumbled out " that I do not know much about that particular items sir. I am not able to read letters, as such education has not been afforded me". This was a lie, as a merchant's son Malthus could read perfectly in various scripts. Though that of the higher courts were seen as a waste of time by his father. However, this, by the Quaerit's standards , made him illiterate; and people of his rank often assumed much ignorance in those outside of their class. Malthus wanted the man to judge him stupid rather than a knowing transgressor of the law.

The Quaerit smirked to himself, as though he had just confirmed something to him. Malthus' became more strained as he rapidly tried to catalogue how the vase had come to him. Where had he slipped up? Who had told the Quaestor's office?  Behind the man's shoulder the market stall opposite slid into focus. Olev was staring at him with a vicious smile on his face. The bastard!, Malthus thought as he watched him distractedly. A snap of the fingers in front of his face jolted him back to his present predicament. The Quaester was looking at him as though expecting an answer to some question he hadn't heard. "I'm sorry!" Malthus said " what did you ask?".

He looked at Malthus as though he couldn't believe someone of his status could have been ignored. Incredulous, as though not getting his full attention had been a sort of slap in the face. "I asked" he said with deliberate slowness " where did you get that vase?".  Malthus feigned ignorance again, "I can't rightly remember sir. Were you wanting to purchase it?". The man's distaste became evident in a curling of his lip, "I don't need to buy it, it is my families property! Can't you read the inscription on the stem?" he paused in his tracks and looked abashed, as though commenting on Malthus' inability to read the high script was a social impoliteness akin to pointing out an unpleasant burn or deformity.  "Well" he said, collecting himself " this came from my family's cairn and it being here is a result of criminal actions. So you had best tell me where you got it!"...

Olev was brimming over with energy. His leathery frame hummed with a vibrating glee as he watched the Quaester arrive at the stall his longtime rival Malthus. The idea, like many of his best, had come to him halfway through a bottle of strong spirits. All it had taken was an anonymous tip in the confessions box outside the Quaestor district's temple and the events had been set in motion. Selling grave-goods was a common enough thing down here, indeed he had a dozen similar items in his own possession hidden under the stall; but the act of violating a grave was unthinkable to those of the walled city. They were walled off from the lower district, and the necessities required of living here.

So, telling them that Malthus had palmed one of their ancestor's vases had been a perfect way to finally get rid of the man who had been hogging the space closest to the city gate - prized for the quantity of foot traffic that went past it. He had discussed taking turns with Malthus, and even paying him to move for a day, but the stubborn idiot hadn't listened. Well, he can have plenty of time to think about that in the cells tonight, Olev thought to himself and a vicious smile carved up his lips.