The great house had tidy white walls and shiny wooden floors. The corridors were lined with expensive trinkets, furniture, and paintings of men from their shoulders up. Rose turned in circles, taking it all in, afraid to get too chose, lest the slightest breath from her sailor lungs might mar the beautiful hall.
Recalling that she had a task to complete, however, Rose plied her mind for the imperious maid’s directions. She swerved left at the top of the stairs, passing family portraits until she saw one of a man with a particularly large nose.
“Are you Atelier?” she asked him, exasperated. He wore an odd expression, as though he was surprised to have been painted. Beyond him, she saw a door that was slightly ajar. The light of a flickering candle streamed from the opening. Compelled to see what was inside, Rose listened for sounds from within. It was silent and empty, however, and she carefully let herself in.
There was a large carved desk and shelves of books lining the walls. The flickering candlelight she’d seen came from an assortment of candelabras sitting on small wooden side tables. Next to the desk, on another small table, sat a tray covered in opened letters. Seeing the chance to complete her first task, Rose pushed the door closed and made her way towards it.
Digging Fenric’s now-crumbled letter from her pocket, she lifted the stack of correspondence. She was about to place his note at the bottom when her attention was caught by a strangely familiar design rendered in ink. It was a splotch, perhaps, or a seal on a letter that seemed to have been forgotten at the bottom of the pile. Tugging this message free with difficulty, she wasted little time in swapping out the notes.
The letter she now held looked as though it had been routed and re-routed several times, having a name and town crossed out and a new one written below it, only to be crossed out in favor of another. Below the changes in address, however, was the intended recipient: Fenric.
Barely aware that she was doing so, Rose ripped at the seal and opened the letter. Inside was printed a few short words. Rose thought she might be able to recognize them if given the time, but in the moment she was more struck by the design below the words, a replica of the one on the front, except bigger.
Where had she seen the design before?
Already on edge, Rose nearly jumped out of her shoes when, with a metallic click, the study doorknob turned. She dropped the letter, picked it up, dropped it again, grabbed it hastily, and ran to the opposite wall.
There was no other exit. Looking around, Rose spied a large cabinet. She found it to be only half-full of soft jackets and pushed her way past them, closing the door behind her.
There were hesitating murmurs from the two voices outside the study, one saying that he thought he’d left the room open and the other commenting that a maid may have closed it. She recognized the second voice as Fenric’s. She supposed the other must belong to the master of the house.
* * * * *
Jas listened for voices within the Captain’s Cabin, knowing full well there was no one there. Try as he might to convince himself that he was doing the right thing, the nagging sense of breaking deeply ingrained rules weighed heavily on his conscience.
The Shipman’s Code of honor at sea made entering the Captain’s Cabin without permission among the greatest crimes a sailor could commit. It signified mistrust of a Captain, and was among the first signs of mutiny.
Despite his profound unease, Jas placed his hand on the handle of the Captain’s door, turned it, and pushed his way through. Sweat broke out across his forehead at this effort of defiance, and he clenched his eyes shut as he took the first forbidden steps inside.
Mouth dry, Jas opened his eyes a crack, preparing for an act of fate or justice to smite him where he stood. Anticlimactically, the empty room remained still and silent.
Jas shuddered in relief, letting out the breath he hadn’t recalled taking. Once within, his task seemed infinitely easier.
Jas rushed to the long chest of drawers that sat below the ship’s rear windows and began rifling through the compartments. He moved with haste, so as to be done before his good luck ran out.
As he tore through Kaille’s carefully organized belongings, he pictured a younger Whyl—a man still innocent of the world—getting his first job on a sailing ship. He’d been naive, perhaps, to set sail on an as-yet unnamed ship—that itself was a terrible taboo—but he’d left the kingdom of solid ground with the best of intentions.
Failing to find the key in a quick perusal of the drawers, Jas ripped them one by one from their frames and rifled though them once more, tossing papers and trinkets to the deck. As he did so, he imagined what it must have been like for Whyl, learning he worked for a man he couldn’t trust in such an inescapable place as a ship at sea.
Jas let out a roar of frustration at his continued failure. He scattered the contents of the chart table, tore the linens off the Captain’s bed, and began tossing his friend’s clothes to the floor.
He pictured Whyl, below decks and in chains, and then he imagined the boy from Whyl’s written words. That naive boy, just like the others found slaughtered upon that sinking ship, had all drowned. He sympathized with the confused and helpless shiphands of the Illiamnaut. How terrible must it have been as they slowly came to realize there was a scheme aboard…
Jas put himself in their place, hearing the whispers of a plot against the crown, discovering that he floated upon a condemned royal ship. All were the kind of things that would drive a man to madness while trapped aboard a floating collection of sticks in a veritable desert. He could hardly believe that all of this had happened to the poor man.
And the Scribe! Jas thought, pushing down Kaille’s heavy chair in frustration. That blasted Scribe and his Tikaani witch! Even Whyl had known that the girl—the one we’d left in that barren rocky town—was an evil sorceress.
Tearing through the Captain’s possessions for a third time, Jas imagined the terror that Whyl must have gone through next as sailors died mysteriously or disappeared without a trace. And then, just when it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse, there was a dark sail on the horizon—a sail that grew ever nearer and didn’t deviate from their course.
And poor Whyl, knowing that he was about to die—writing, in fact, what he thought would be his final words!
The Scribe had accused Whyl of sharing the name of a man he knew and had threatened the boy’s life for this cruel coincidence! What kind of monster was he?
With another frustrated roar, Jas rushed back to the door, thinking that the Captain must have taken the key with him to the ball.
Just as he went to leave, however, Jas saw the very same key hanging benignly on a hook by the door, easily to be seen upon entrance. Cursing himself as a fool—and Fenric as a liar—Jas ripped the key from its chain and rushed back below decks.
* * * * *
Rose heard the familiar sound of Fenric collapsing onto a seat—this time the one in the Lord Delahaye’s study—as the man’s injured leg fell out from under him.
“It’s an honor to finally meet you, Master Fenric, after all of your fine letters,” said the Lord Delahaye once they’d been seated. “I’ve always regretted being away from home on those infrequent occasions when you’ve visited. I was sad, also, to have missed you the other day after the yelling match with your niece. This blasted party gets more complicated every year, so it seems, and I had the most odd distraction. Did you know, dear sir, that the trees are considering rebellion?”
Rose, who had been slowly prizing the cabinet door open, caught a glimpse of Fenric, who for the briefest of moments met her panicked eye. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I have heard something like that. Up north, especially. It’s an odd sort of business.”
Rose sighed in relief, keeping a careful eye on the Scribe.
“Well I’ve let my wife rest assured that we’re doing all that we can,” answered the Lord Delahaye, his voice slightly less skeptical than before. “And I hope she passes it through the neighborhood—I don’t wis
h to be the only house wherein the servants are seen talking to trees.”
“That’s all we can do, old friend,” said Fenric generously. “And the honor of our meeting is all mine. Speaking of meetings, since I’ve had no response to my letter, I’ve brought the Captain that I mentioned here tonight. We leave tomorrow, you’ll recall, so time’s running short.”
There was a long pause. “The Captain? Your letter?” the Lord Delahaye finally asked. “Forgive me, old friend, but what letter? There has only been one letter, but it was for you, not from you.”
Fenric’s head turned to him with a sudden, violent motion, his eyes intense. “I should like to see that also, but I’m very sure there was letter in which I entreated you to meet a new contact of mine. It’s very important, you see, since I’ve promised—”
The Lord Delahaye’s frown grew deep. “It’s in poor taste, old friend,” he said with practical firmness, “to deal with matters of business during my wife’s party. It’s an especially poor idea, since I’m not—”
“Please, I know it’s not good practice to see such a man about trade at the last moment, and certainly not during such festivities,” Fenric said sternly, “but that’s why I sent a letter asking for an earlier audience. My letter must’ve been here for months. Are you certain it hasn’t gotten lost at the bottom of your pile? I can hardly believe you would’ve ignored it.”
“Of course not,” said Delahaye with prideful indignation. He rose and moved to his tray of correspondence, picking up the majority and searching at the bottom, “I should, however, give you the letter about which I spoke, and without delay.” Rifling through the stack, he paused, rifled again, and pulled out the letter Rose had placed there minutes before. “But here I find only the letter of which you speak, with the other disappeared. Perhaps I put it somewhere else.”
Rose could see Fenric’s confused reaction to the existence of a second letter. She felt the object of interest grow heavy in her hand, but could do nothing at this point to return it.
The Lord Delahaye, in the meantime, had opened and read Fenric’s message. “It’s seems I misspoke, my friend,” he said as he read. “I see you’ve known of your arrival here for nearly half a year and had gone so far as to choose this date knowing that I’d be at home for the ball. You’ve entreated me to visit you at the docks at my first convenience.” The Lord Delahaye’s silence was horror-struck. “I hope my absence hasn’t been viewed as a slight to your honor. It was only ignorance of your request that kept me away.”
“I assumed as much,” said Fenric, smiling through his own mounting nerves. “All is forgiven of course, there’s no question of your good intentions.”
“Please, I feel guilty. I must be assuaged,” said Delahaye, rising from his seat and moving towards the cabinet in which Rose sat. “What do you say to a brandy and a smoke by way of apology? It’s time, is it not, that we got to know one another?”
“That would be a rare pleasure,” Fenric said quickly, “however you must allow me to assuage my guilt for taking you away from your lovely wife. Please, you should return to the party. I too, should return. I must speak to my niece.”
Delahaye’s steps hesitated. “About that,” he said slowly, “your niece is…” The Lord paused, struggling for words. When he spoke again, he did so with the utmost care, “I imagine that she’s very confused, what with the nature of her disguise—”
“Please, don’t speak of it,” Fenric said hastily in a hushed voice. Rose got the distinct impression that this wasn’t a thing she was supposed to hear. “I’d always thought there would come a time when things began to get out of hand, however—”
“That time is long passed,” said Delahaye. “I agreed to this arrangement because I thought it would be a short-term imposition. It can only be a short-term imposition, you understand. These things can’t stay hidden—”
“I know this,” Fenric said in the same hushed tones. “I’ve formed a plan for curing the current situation, however. She’ll be dealt with tonight.”
“I hardly think it necessary to—” began Delahaye.
“Please, my Lord Delahaye,” said the Scribe. “I’ve come here with a plan. Allow me the time to implement it, and you’ll soon find the problem has been taken care of. In the meantime, allow me to find the Captain for an introduction.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Delahaye, helping Fenric to his feet. “My wife prefers I get rid of all my distractions at the same time.”
As the two men headed through the door, Rose felt an uneasiness settle upon her, caused no doubt by the ominous tone of Fenric’s assurances. He claimed to have a plan to ‘deal with’ his niece, but the only plan Rose knew of was to offer herself in a dance. Were the two plots related?
Rose ran to the study door after it had been closed for several moments, but she found it locked. She turned this way and that in her desperation, looking about the room for another way out.
“I’ve forgotten to find the letter that came for you,” said the voice of the Lord Delahaye, returning from down the hall. Rose shot back into the cabinet as he fumbled with his keys. “Please go on without me, I’ll find you in a moment.”
*
Chapter 11:
The Ball
* * * * *
Lynchpins and Liars
A Sideways Glance at the Spy of the Pharuses
Introduction
By Loh Moghler
*
If it’s true that history is written by the victors, then it’s also true that secrets are only kept by those who win the privilege of keeping them. It’s in this way that Marius Lynch was exposed to history as a traitor, whereas his rival, known only as the Spy of the Pharuses, faded from this world and into obscurity as a sort of shadowy hero. Lynch has since received every kind of denigration, being called incompetent and evil. In order to claim a person as a rival, however, our hero must have considered his antagonist to be of equal standing. Knowing that the Spy had a peer goes a long way towards understanding the unknown. So it is that we may begin to comprehend our befogged national legend through the lens of our renowned historical villain.
It’s well documented that Marius Lynch worked for the office of the Usurper, a well-sharpened tool in the vile man’s arsenal of power as he hunted the hidden heirs to the ends of the earth. In records of his trial, Lynch admitted to many guises with which he attempted his mission, sometimes as powerful statesmen, sometimes taking the names of dead men, and not a few times under a shady alias such as “Fenric” (a name that has taken on particular significance since the research and publications of Professor Pflumigan at the turn of the century).
It’s unknown if Marius Lynch fought during the War of the Usurper, but there is much mention of him after Illiamna fell into conflict. From the beginning, his skill at taking on new personas, stashing away money, and garnering favor from rich and poor alike, led him into a position of prominence in the new regime.
While it’s celebrated that the Spy of the Pharuses disposed of the Usurper’s men by the dozens, Lynch was instead vilified for taking several lives in his search for the Heirs. As is always the case with war, the crime of murder was met on the winning side with a reward. On the losing, however, it was punishable by death. So it was that Marius Lynch was executed shortly after his trial.
What can this man’s life teach us about the existence of our own shadowy legends? What can this man’s death teach us about our own national identity? I don’t seek to shatter fairy stories or overturn statues with this book. Rather, I seek to paint our past as a time when men interacted with other men, and wherein their decisions shaped the way we live today.
The Spy of the Pharuses was a man like any other. He felt and bled and, contrary to popular belief, he also died. We know this because his rival—his marked equal—felt and bled and died as well. It’s in humanizing these figures from our past that we may understand how to build our own modern legends for the future.
* * * * *
&nbs
p; Lucy nearly forgot the dress she wore as she gazed happily around the beautifully decorated ballroom. She didn’t think she’d ever seen so many asters in her life. Picked and placed only that morning, they filled the room with the breathtaking aroma of late summer.
Without meaning to, Lucy’s rapturous observations brought her into the path of Doormaster Gendry who, grabbing her hand, presented it to a young man with chestnut-colored skin.
It took Lucy no time at all to recognize the boy from the high-heather, though he was at the moment resplendent in a well-tailored navy suit and had his curly hair slicked back, not wild as though he'd just emerged from under a tossed dress. She blushed at the memory.
Lucy didn’t have time to rearrange the goofy smile that crossed her face at the sight of his handsome visage. She locked her grey eyes upon his light brown ones, desperately wanting to know his thoughts. His expression was unreadable, however, as he took her offered hand.
“May I present the Delahaye ward, Lucy Helayna: a beautiful girl and a fine dancer,” said Gendry, smiling upon them both. “It would give me much pleasure to pair you in a dance.”
“Oh, you old fool, what can you be thinking?” Emibelle’s voice protested. It could only have been this high-pitched trill that broke through Lucy’s excited stupor. She felt her foster sister’s fingers entwine with her own, causing Dunstan’s grip to fall free. “That shade of pink would clash horrendously with his cravat.” Emibelle looked sympathetically at Lucy and continued. “Maybe such things can be excused at a country reel where no one cares about anything, but just look at the decor: it’s stunning. Master Lorey, isn’t it far too stunning to waste on dances with children?”
Dunstan made a few guttering noises, caught between insulting his host’s decorations, the daughter’s favor, or the Ward’s vanity.
“Right, indeed,” he stammered, “far too stunning.” Hoping to regain himself on the last count, he added with a sideways grin, “I never heard, either, of a fairy attending a ball. She belongs, I think, to the enchanted woods, not the candle-lit ballroom.”
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