That was a baseless fear, however. Like Rafferdy, Garritt no longer attended lectures at the university. Which meant he could have had no cause to be there that day. All the same, Rafferdy had written him a note to make certain he was well. So far Rafferdy had not received a reply, although this couldn’t really be a concern. Garritt was often very tardy in replying to letters of late. Why a man who was a scrivener all day long should find it so difficult to scratch out a few lines to a friend in the evening, Rafferdy did not know, but he would be sure to chastise Garritt the next time they met at tavern. In the meantime, all Rafferdy saw as he gazed out the window were sheets of rain lashing against the street.
At long last the storm subsided and the clouds broke apart, so that Rafferdy could see it was just afternoon. Which meant he still had many hours to waste before that night’s meeting. And as there was no place where an hour could be more effortlessly wasted than his club, Rafferdy took up his hat and called for his driver.
He soon found himself seated in a comfortable leather chair in a richly appointed room whose windows were happily swaddled with heavy drapes. This was not a place one came to consider the outside world, unless it was through the refracting lens of a brandy glass or the pages of a broadsheet.
Rafferdy paged through one of these now, though he did not bother to read any of the awful articles. It was simply something to occupy his hands in between rolling tobacco papers or drinking tea or eating lamb curried with hot Murghese spices. All the while, the low sounds of conversation went on around him. He had no wish to join in any discussions himself, but it was pleasant to hear the drone of voices, for it allowed him to be alone without feeling in any way lonely.
Thinking it was time to take a brandy or perhaps smoke more tobacco, Rafferdy started to set down his broadsheet. Just then, something caught his ear. It was spoken no more loudly than anything else in the room, but it is an odd fact that certain words will leap at one out of a jumble of voices. Once such a thing is heard, the listener will naturally focus upon the conversation, and so hear everything that would have previously gone unnoticed.
In this instance, the word was Quent.
“And I see here in The Comet that he is to testify before the next session of Assembly,” the speaker went on, a little ways off to Rafferdy’s right. The voice had a clear, youthful tone to it. “I imagine that would be an amusing thing to witness.”
“Indeed, I would be most amused to hear how he can justify being nominated for such a high post,” replied another man—somewhat older, given the gravelly sound of his reply. Rafferdy could not see either of them, for he had lifted the broadsheet up, pretending to read as he listened.
“Well, they say he has given excellent service to the realm,” the first speaker said.
This was answered with a snort. “So it is claimed. But that cannot change the fact that his station is not at all in keeping with such a position in the government.”
“I understand he is a baronet.”
“Yes, but one only recently made. Besides, even a baronet is too low to be lord inquirer. I do not know what Lord Valhaine was thinking.”
“Perhaps he’s thinking the post is not so important as it once was. After all, he has his magicians now to help him root out rebels and traitors. And as for the matter of the Wyrdwood …”
The speaker’s voice grew low, so that Rafferdy was forced to strain to hear behind his broadsheet.
“… I’ve heard that he’s making it his own business to seek out witches. He’s scheming some way, with the help of his magicians, to make it a simple matter to know if a woman is a witch or not. For he considers them to be the greatest of threats to the nation.”
“Is that so?” There was an audible scowl in the older speaker’s tone. “Even greater a threat than Huntley Morden’s men?”
“I know, it seems improbable to me as well. It’s not as if we have Old Trees here in the city. But that’s what I’ve heard from a very reliable source. I will say, if the Black Dog wants to find a witch who threatens the nation, he may not have far to look.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take up that copy of The Swift Arrow there, the one from today, and look at the second page.”
“The Swift Arrow? Why would I ever look at that dreadful publication? Its editors are practically rebels themselves.”
“No doubt,” the younger speaker replied. “Still, they have been printing some remarkable impressions of late.”
“Impressions? I hardly approve of those, either. Those degenerate illusionists make them, you know.”
“Of course, they are the most reprehensible sort of men. But they have their uses. You should see for yourself.”
Rafferdy glanced at the top of the page before him and was surprised to see that he was in fact holding a copy of The Swift Arrow. He had picked it up at random from the reading table. As quietly as he could, so as not to draw notice, he turned to the second page.
He had passed by it before, not looking at the pages as he idly leafed through them, but now that he saw it, Rafferdy had to agree the impression was striking. It showed a scene of Princess Layle departing St. Galmuth’s cathedral, where she had gone to attend a service following the terrible events in Covenant Cross.
The illusionist who made the impression had caught it just as the princess reached the bottom of the cathedral steps. He had framed it cleverly, presenting the view from the side, so that the soldiers who no doubt walked before and behind her could not be seen. Rather, she seemed alone save for a stone saint in the background, gazing down with a sorrowful expression as if in sympathy, and a gnarled holly tree that bordered the steps, its ancient branches twisting around the edges of the scene.
“There, do you see?” said the younger speaker, his voice still low. “As I said, Lord Valhaine may not have to go far to find a sibyl of the wood, if that’s what he seeks.”
Even as he overheard these words, Rafferdy noticed how the twisted branches of the holly tree seemed to bend downward in the impression, as if reaching of their own volition to touch the woman passing below.
“What are you implying?” replied the older speaker.
“I’m implying nothing,” said the other. “But it’s said that the Arringharts trace their lineage back to the first kings of Altania—and the first queens. And everyone knows how it is said Queen Béanore vanished into the forest all those centuries ago, after the armies of Tharos defeated her at the last. She had a great affinity for the trees.”
“I see,” the older fellow said after a long pause. “I will hope you are not right, but if you are, we may indeed have need of a lord inquirer with a strong and capable hand.”
This resulted in a laugh. “Well, I fear we shall not get one. Or didn’t you know that Sir Quent is missing a good portion of one of his hands?”
“Of course, I’ve heard such. But as he is from the country, I always assumed it was a mishap with a thresher or some such.”
“Oh no,” the other said in a scandalous tone. “It’s far worse than that. I’ve heard the truth of it—that he suffered the injury when he spent a night alone in the Wyrdwood.”
“Spent a night in the Wyrdwood?” the older lord exclaimed, then lowered his voice again. “Then he is not just a country fool. He is a madman with an unhealthy fascination for the Old Trees. I wonder what Lord Valhaine can be up to in nominating him.”
Rafferdy did not wait to hear any further speculation on the matter. He folded the broadsheet with a snap and stood abruptly. The two men who had been speaking looked up from the chairs where they sat a short distance away. They were, as he had suspected from their voices, two men of diverging years, though both were dressed in exceedingly fine clothes.
“I say, is something amiss, my good fellow?” the young one said, raising an eyebrow.
A great agitation filled Rafferdy. He could only think of how Sir Quent labored tirelessly to defend Altania with his efforts. Yet what was he working so hard to defend—men such as t
hese? A loud voice began to speak, and only after a moment did Rafferdy realize it was his own.
“No, nothing is amiss,” Rafferdy exclaimed. “Indeed, all can only be aright with the current state of affairs when the rich and idle are able to sit in leather chairs, drink brandy, and criticize the very men whose labors have ensured that they are free to do so.”
The two men stared, clutching the arms of their chairs. Throughout the large room, heads turned as Rafferdy’s voice rose in a thunderous oration.
“In fact, you can pay no higher honor to the men who have sacrificed themselves to safeguard Altania than to occupy yourselves here, reading newspapers, smoking tobacco, and belittling their bravery. For only in a free nation, one at the very pinnacle of civilization, and one so rigorously defended by good men, are sniveling cowards able to fashion such fine and comfortable lives for themselves. So by all means, mock those who give their efforts, their blood, and their very lives to protect us. By doing so, you give them the highest credit. You are reassuring them that they have made this nation safe for even its most useless citizens—namely men such as all of us at this club, and every other one like it in the city.”
With that he raised his brandy glass in a toast, then downed the contents in a single quaff.
The room was utterly silent now, and every pair of eyes was fixed upon Rafferdy. His face felt hot, and he could tell that he was shaking. All the same, he carefully set down his glass, straightened his coat, and then slowly walked to the door. No one moved or spoke as he went, and a servant handed him his hat and cane with a white-faced expression.
As he departed through the door, Rafferdy heard a sudden hubbub of conversation erupt behind him within the club, cut short as the door shut firmly behind him. Cane in hand, he walked to the street, where his driver met him.
“You’re leaving very soon, sir,” his man said as he opened the door of the cabriolet. “Will you be coming back later?”
No, Rafferdy knew he would never be coming back. After that little speech, he would no longer be welcome at this club—or any other club in the city, once word got around. Not that it mattered. The idea of sitting in a richly appointed room with men such as these filled him with revulsion. Far better to meet Eldyn Garritt at some ramshackle tavern in the Old City. At least there, the thieves and swindlers didn’t try to pretend they were anything but.
“I believe I will need to find other amusements from now on” was all he said.
The driver nodded and shut the door. Once back at his house, Rafferdy went to the parlor, and there took out a book of magickal runes and spells, studying it until the lumenal expired.
THIS TIME their meeting was at an inn situated just beyond the edges of the city, on the road to Hayrick Cross. A paleness upon the horizon hinted at the moon that had not yet risen. Rafferdy was early, but that was as he had planned it.
The inn would be empty of patrons, for they had paid the innkeeper a handsome sum to keep the establishment shut that night—and to keep his mouth shut as well. A man with a bald pate and pockmarked cheeks opened the door in answer to Rafferdy’s knock, then peered out through narrowed eyes.
“There are two crows on the roof,” Rafferdy said, speaking the prescribed phrase. It was somewhat absurd and rather overdramatic, but then that wasn’t entirely a surprise, given that it was of Coulten’s devising.
The innkeeper grunted, then opened the door. “One of your friends is already here, sir. He’s been waiting in the front parlor for nearly an hour.”
Rafferdy smiled as he entered the inn. He knew it could not be any of the other members of the Fellowship, for the meeting was not supposed to begin until after moonrise. Which meant the note he had written that morning had been received.
“Excellent,” he said. “Please tell him to stay a while longer in the parlor. Wait until fifteen minutes after the last of the others has arrived, and then bring him upstairs.”
The innkeeper scowled as he shut the door, but he nodded. “As you wish, sir.”
Rafferdy was satisfied. He did not care if their coin bought the man’s approval, only his cooperation and silence.
Not that, even if questioned by an agent of the Gray Conclave, the man would be able to reveal much. The inn was dim, with only a scant few candles burning, just as they had ordered it to be, and Rafferdy wore a hat that cast his face in shadow. The others would all do the same. The innkeeper did not know their names, and even if he wanted to, he would not be able to provide a description of anyone who came there that night.
Rafferdy proceeded to a private dining room upstairs—one that afforded a clear view of the road before the inn. He sipped a cup of thin wine the innkeeper brought him and waited for the moon to rise.
It did this soon enough, and by the time it was a short distance above the horizon, the meeting of the Fellowship of the Silver Circle had been called to order.
“I trust everyone took care they were not followed here,” Trefnell said, his eyes glinting beneath shaggy gray eyebrows. “As you know, we must redouble all our efforts at secrecy.”
Indeed, Rafferdy had observed that the former headmaster had taken great care in laying out the length of silver rope around the edges of the room as the circle of silence was conjured.
“I am sure everyone took the proper precautions, given the new state of affairs,” Canderhow said, then his several chins bobbed as he swallowed. “Didn’t they?”
Nods went all around the circle, and the plump barrister let out a relieved sigh.
“Very good,” Trefnell said. “But do not let your guard down for an instant. We must be vigilant at all times. Previously, we could count on a certain lack of effort on the part of the government to seek out illicit magickal orders when so many lords belonged to such a society themselves. Now that the High Order of the Golden Door has been officially sanctioned, we can no longer expect such laxity on the part of the Gray Conclave. Rather, we must presume they will be vigorous in their efforts to uncover secret societies like our own. One misstep on our part, and we may all find ourselves in Barrowgate.”
More than a few looks of unease went about the circle, but to their credit no one so much as suggested their meetings be discontinued. Rafferdy could only think that Trefnell had chosen the membership of the order well. Either that, or they were all of them fools, Rafferdy included.
“Well, at least some good came out of the announcement that the Golden Door has been granted authorized status,” Rafferdy said pleasantly.
Coulten turned toward him with a confounded look. “Good God, how much of the innkeeper’s awful wine did you consume, Rafferdy? How can there be anything good in the Gray Conclave giving special preference to the very magickal order that we know is scheming to have the Wyrdwood destroyed—a thing they can only be attempting because they are in league with the same awful characters who view the Old Trees as a threat?”
Rafferdy knew Coulten was right. There could be only one reason why the High Order of the Golden Door wished to have the Wyrdwood destroyed. It was the same reason why they had used occult rites to make young magicians into soulless vessels inhabited by daemons—to sow strife and disorder in the nation, to weaken its defenses, and to help prepare the way for the Ashen to enter into the world.
“There is something good in it,” Rafferdy said, “because it tells us something about them.”
“Such as?” Wolsted said. The former Stout wore a dubious look on his ruddy face.
“It tells us why they made it obvious that magick was involved in the attack upon the Ministry of Printing, as well as in the deaths of Lord Bastellon and Lord Mertrand,” Rafferdy said. “The magicians of the Golden Door could easily have made all of these acts appear as if they had been perpetrated by rebels or traitors to the Crown, but instead they made the effects of magick plain for all to see.”
Coulten sat in a rickety chair. “Yes, they did make it plain, but I can’t fathom why.”
“I believe I can,” Trefnell said, looking at Raffe
rdy as he spoke. “They were manufacturing a reason for the government to outlaw all magickal orders, so that when the time came, theirs would become the only sanctioned arcane society.”
Rafferdy took one of the cups of wine the innkeeper had left on the sideboard and handed it to Coulten. “Precisely. First they make all magicians appear to be the worst sort of villains. They get arcane orders banned, and even get Gauldren’s College shut down. And then they offer themselves up to the Gray Conclave with promises to aid in ferreting out their own kind. There’s no one better suited to catch one criminal than another, as the saying goes. I’m sure Lord Valhaine couldn’t resist the idea of using magicians he thinks are loyal to the nation to root out those he fears are not.”
“Only they’re the ones who are up to mischief themselves!” Wolsted said, the old lord’s expression even more dour than usual. “And now that the Black Dog’s gone and given them a government warrant, it’ll be all that much harder for anyone else to work against them.”
“For us to work against them, you mean,” Coulten said glumly. He took a long swig from the cup he held, then grimaced.
Trefnell fixed Coulten with a stern look—the same one he had no doubt given to errant students over the years. “It may make it harder for us, but it won’t put a stop to us. We kept the act for the reduction of the Wyrdwood from winning passage in Assembly, and you can bet we’ll thwart whatever devilry they scheme up next.”
“I’m sure we will,” Canderhow said, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing around the circle. “Yet you must admit, Trefnell, that the Golden Door has a great advantage now. We do not dare try to warn the Gray Conclave of their true nature, for doing so would only alert the government to our own activities. The magicians of the Golden Door can operate in the open, free to meet as they wish, while we must skulk about in the shadows. Nor can we expect they will fall for a trick such as Rafferdy devised the last time to keep them from voting. If we are going to continue to succeed at our purpose, we need some advantage of our own to counter theirs.”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 26
