by Sean Russell
The seaman nodded, his eyes only flitting up occasionally. Moncrief wondered if a man of so little rank had ever entered this office before—unless it was to scrub the floor.
“If it please you, sir, I was on the dock by Halls and Hale, sail-makers, late this night past when a carriage drew up along the quay.” He glanced up apprehensively, as though he did not expect to be believed. For a moment he struggled, fear apparently having driven all memories from his head.
“Well, go on, Ransom,” Brookes said, none too patiently.
“Yes, sir. Two gentlemen and a lady disembarked from the carriage, sir. I couldn’t see them clear for the light was poorly, but one gentleman was older, sir. Older and a bit cranked, sir.”
“Bent,” Brookes translated for Moncrief.
“Yes, sir, bent and not so spry. He was speaking to the lady, though we could not hear what was said. We was in the shadow of the door . . . talking, you know.
“The woman left the gentlemen, walking a bit stiffly toward the quay’s edge, but she didn’t stop, sir. I swear. She just walked right in. Didn’t jump, sir, but walked in as though she didn’t see the water. The two gentlemen went to the edge, sir, and watched for a few moments, doing nothing to help her, as though she were in no difficulty. And then they loaded themselves back in their carriage and set off.” He looked up, his apprehension changing to defensiveness “We went to see what had happened, sir. But the tide was at full ebb, and she was not to be found. Drownt, I’ll wager.”
Brookes looked over at Moncrief, raising his eyebrows.
“And you did nothing to help?” Moncrief asked.
The man glanced at the woman. “Well, sir, we didn’t realize she was in trouble, you see. The two gentlemen stood by so calmly, we didn’t know what to make of it. ‘Perhaps she can swim,’ thought I. These folk do the oddest things for sport, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. They’ll row a boat for pleasure, sir. And some are said to swim, though I’ve never seen it myself. It was all so peculiar that I just didn’t think clear.”
“And you, Miss?” Sir Joseph said. “Do you agree with Mr. Ransom’s tale?”
She nodded quickly, clearly hoping to not have to speak at all. Moncrief realized that under the makeup hid a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Older than some, perhaps, but still too young. Having daughters himself, Moncrief was both appalled and filled with pity.
“Speak up when you’re spoken to, girl,” Brookes said.
“Yes, sir,” the girl managed, her voice coming out as a whisper. “Just as Abel tells it, sir. If it please you, sir.”
“Very little pleases me,” Brookes said, though he was not really talking to the girl. “Have you any questions, Lord Moncrief?”
“I suppose I need not ask who the woman in question was?” Moncrief said quietly to Brookes, who nodded. “Can they identify the men?”
“Can you?” Sir Joseph asked the pair.
“I’m sorry, sir. It was very dark.”
“I’m sure,” Brookes said. “Have you anything more to ask?” he said to Moncrief.
The King’s Man shook his head.
“I will have them kept close by in case they can offer anything more,” Brookes said as the man and woman were led out. “But do you see what I mean? Is it not an odd story?”
It was Moncrief’s turn to shrug. “The woman was threatened. It was either into the harbor or some terrible violence would be done her: a choice we might have made ourselves.”
“Yes, I suppose, but both Ransom and the girl are sure there was no threat. Only quiet conversation. When the woman went into the harbor, they were completely taken off guard. No wonder they thought it innocent—some lark of the gentry, though no one was laughing, I will wager.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“I can’t explain it, but it was damnedly peculiar, don’t you think?”
“To say the least.” Moncrief was not at all sure what to make of it.
“But do you see, there is a pattern of a kind?” Sir Joseph said. “Two of the men waiting for Skye swear they touched neither food nor drink, yet they fell as insensible as their mates who had. Then this odd occurrence at the harbor. Now let me add something more. The officers sent to look into the rooms of one of these young men that Skye employed encountered others who arrived before them with the same intentions.” He paused for a second. “These gentlemen vacated the rooms by the only means available—they leaped from the window. This seemed peculiar enough, as the window was quite high, but they apparently landed without harm and disappeared into the darkness. The officers who were present assure me that they would have been badly hurt if they had performed this same leap—and naval officers see men fall from the rigging often enough to know.”
Brookes raised his bushy gray eyebrows—like great storm waves, Moncrief thought. Raised them as though what he had just said made some sense.
“And your point, Sir Joseph?”
“Men fell asleep as though drugged when they had ingested neither food nor drink. A woman walked calmly into the harbor and drowned. She did not cry out or plead for her life, but simply went into the water as though nothing would come of it. And finally, men jumped from a great height to escape our men, and landed so easily that they were able to run off. Landed so softly that the men who chased them out barely heard a sound. These things are all more than peculiar, they are . . . well, I fear they are not natural. . . .”
If anyone but Sir Joseph Brookes had made this statement, Moncrief would have laughed aloud, but the Sea Lord had an uncanny intuition and had been proven right too often for Moncrief to scoff, no matter how outrageous the proposal.
“Do you think it’s Eldrich? Is that what you’re suggesting? Flames, Joseph, the mage has not left his estate in . . . decades. The rumors are that he is not long for this world.”
“Yes, the rumors always abound where the mage is concerned. He makes very certain that no truth ever escapes from his own lands—unless it serves him. No, we cannot be sure the mage is anywhere near death, I think. Nor can I say with assurance that Eldrich was either involved or not involved, I only know that something happened in the city last night that was not quite as it should have been, and it all centered around Skye. Perhaps the King is not his only protector.”
The two men sat brooding for a few moments, as though the idea was so far beyond their usual experience that they could not even begin to imagine what it might mean, or what they should do. And then Moncrief interrupted the silence. “What has become of Skye?”
“We don’t know.”
Moncrief shook his head. “I have done everything I can to insure that he doesn’t reach the King, or even send His Majesty a message, but this can’t be kept up forever. A few days at most. . . . We must assume that Skye knows who was behind his attempted ruin?”
“Not necessarily. Surely Mary suspected but had no proof, and the officers involved I trust utterly. No, we are safe from prosecution at least—how else we might suffer I cannot say. If the King were to believe Skye over us . . .” Sir Joseph rubbed one of his eyes gently and Moncrief realized that the man had not slept this last night. “But I have a feeling, Lord Moncrief, that Skye and the King are the least of our worries. Something else is afoot. Something very odd. If we assume that the men who jumped from the window on Paradise Street and the men who sent the woman to drown in the harbor were not the same gentlemen—for they would have had to have been in two places almost at once—then there would appear to be more than one man who has at least some knowledge of the arts. That leaves us with two possibilities. They are servants of the mage,” he paused, as though surprised by his own words, “or they are some group of whom we know nothing at all.”
“The former seems much more likely to me.”
“I would have to agree, but let me tell you something else. The officers who went to search Samual Hayes’ rooms came back
with a journal and a number of interesting letters. Most from his friend Kehler who has been studying at the Farrellite archive in Wooton. You will not believe what they’ve been up to. It seems Skye employed them to delve into this matter of the so-called Stranger of Compton Heath. Have you heard of this?”
“Something, yes. Some kind of a lunatic who appeared in the town, and the locals made claim that he was from an unknown land. Wasn’t that it?”
“More or less. But the odd thing is Hayes and Kehler came away convinced that the man was not mad at all. They also seem to believe that it was a mage who took the man away.”
Moncrief was at a loss for words, and unsettled by how out of his depth he suddenly felt. Moncrief who controlled the government and much of the kingdom, besides. “Joseph, I haven’t even the beginning of a notion as to what goes on. Have you?”
“I can’t claim that I do, Lord Moncrief, but no matter how absurd it might seem, it begins to look as if Skye has some interest and perhaps even some involvement in the arts. Whether it is Eldrich or some other, I cannot say. But it seems to me that we should know if the arts have come to life again around the Entide Sea.”
Moncrief also wanted to know what went on here, but if a mage were involved. . . . “I question the wisdom of interfering with Eldrich. He will not look kindly on us meddling in his affairs. I don’t care how old or infirm Eldrich has become—he is still a mage.”
Brookes nodded. “Yes, but I would never advocate interference. Observation is all I am suggesting. If there is some other who practices the arts, we should know his purpose—or at least be reassured that he means us no harm. If it turns out to be Eldrich, then we will break off our operation. If we are reasonably sure it is not Eldrich, then I would think it advisable to inform the mage.”
“It is still a risk, but I agree, however reluctantly.” Moncrief stopped as he began to rise. “But, Brookes, we should be sure your best people are involved and that they understand how important it is for them to keep their distance. We must limit the risks as much as possible.”
“Certainly, Lord Moncrief. Leave that to me.”
Moncrief rose, but had a sudden realization—clearly the surprising turn the conversation had taken had reduced his capacity to reason. “How will you begin, Brookes? You lost track of Skye.”
Brookes had risen to his feet as well. “Yes, but only temporarily, I think. If Skye reappears in Avonel, we will know, for we still have one of the earl’s servants in our pay. But I don’t think it will be so difficult to find Skye. He had these young men looking into the story of Baumgere, and I am all but sure that interest will give him away. I will wager that Lord Skye has retreated to the village of Castlebough—a town conveniently near the Entonne border should he need to quit Farrland altogether. I’m sure he has only temporarily dropped from sight, for the earl is far too well known to be able to hide for long. We will soon know his whereabouts, and then we’ll see what goes on in our kingdom. Something very odd, I think. Something very odd indeed.”
Eight
The sound was rhythmic and syllabic but too low to be distinguished. Chanting, Erasmus was sure. He could almost make out the words, though they did not seem to be Farr. Anxiety began to grow in him. The day was clear and warm, but here, among the green hallways of the wood, it was cool, the sunlight filtered to muted greens. Smoke; he could smell the smoke. It seemed to burn his nostrils, but then there was a hiss, and it turned sweet and aromatic. Leaves had been tossed onto the fire. Luckwort leaves, but they did not calm him as they should. Knowing what came next, he wanted to shout, but try as he might, he could produce no sound.
He pushed aside a branch, hurrying now, feeling the horror of what was about to happen drive him. But something was wrong; he seemed to be gliding so slowly, like a bird hanging on the wind, making little progress.
And then the scream. He stopped, standing on the pathway between the trees and the angled trunks of falling light. More than anything he wanted to look away, close his eyes to it, but he could not. Not quite. And then the child appeared, engulfed in flame, mouth open in a silent scream of unimaginable agony. Every nerve shrieking in anguish. The child stumbled toward him, arms out as though begging for help, to be held. And then it stumbled, looking at him still, the recrimination clear.
Why? Why did you do this to me?
The burning child toppled forward, and the last thing Erasmus saw was its face. His face. He was burning. Not some other. He was aflame.
* * *
* * *
Erasmus woke from the dream, covered in sweat. He stumbled up from the divan where he had fallen asleep and made his way to the doors looking down into his garden. He sucked in the cool air, almost sobbing. Alive. He was alive and unharmed. It had not been he who burned. Thank Farrelle. Not him.
* * *
* * *
The dream was never easy to drive from his mind, and Erasmus was grateful that it came infrequently. He paced back and forth across his study, unable to sit, running his hand back through his hair over and over.
“Blood and flames. Bloody blood and flames.”
He often wondered what caused the dream to return, but, as always, he could not say. Perhaps nothing caused it. It just would not let him be. His penance.
“We did not know,” he said aloud. “How could we?”
He tried to think of something else: his conversation with Hayes, but Stokes arrived with Erasmus’ wash water. The servant wore an odd, pensive look that was not quite in character.
“You look either troubled or ill this morning, Stokes. Now which would it be?”
“Never ill, sir,” he said quickly. “Nor particularly troubled . . . but your young man has been up since I don’t know when, pacing, sir. Back and forth across the library. Across the main hall. He seemed to be considering leaving, sir, or so I thought.”
“He’s here now, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He’s had a pot of coffee all to himself and is vibrating like a harp string. He seems anxious to speak with you, sir. Keeps asking when you might be up.”
“I’ll be down directly. Don’t let him leave before I’ve spoken with him.”
Erasmus continued with his toilet, not letting Hayes’ impatience ruin his morning ritual. Stokes came back a few moments later to shave him, and lay out his clothes, and with the warmed steel scraping across his face, Erasmus again considered the conversation of the night before.
The tale of the Stranger would have seemed nothing more than folklore if it hadn’t been for Hayes’ encounter with this physician, Ripke. That had a ring of authenticity to it that Erasmus was not about to deny. And Erasmus’ intuition told him that the man who’d come in the carriage to collect the Stranger was no man—not in the sense that he understood the word. It was a mage, and Erasmus thought he might even be able to supply the mage’s name. If a mage was interested in this Stranger, then Erasmus was interested, too. So Hayes had better be prepared to reveal a little more—the name of the gentleman who had employed him would be a good start.
As he went down the stairs, Erasmus wondered what the Admiralty’s part was in this affair. Unless they really did believe the Stranger was from an undiscovered land, for certainly most of the vast globe remained a mystery. Perhaps they’d learned something on a recent voyage. . . .
Hayes was sitting at a small table in the breakfast room, looking out into the garden. As Erasmus entered, he jumped up, obviously relieved to see him. There was a certain anxiety in the young man’s manner that did not disappear, however.
“Ah, Erasmus. I can’t thank you enough for your help and generosity, but I’ve decided that I must get messages to both Kehler and our employer as soon as possible.”
“Not before you’ve eaten, I hope.” Erasmus took a seat at the table and dropped a napkin into his lap, reaching for the coffee pot. “Sit down, Hayes. I’ve been thinking as well.”
Hayes took his seat slowly, as though he were ready to run out the door without any further discussion.
“The agents of the Admiralty might well be looking for you yet, so I’m not sure I like the idea of you racing around the city on your own. If they’ve come after you because of your link with this gentleman who employed you, they’re likely after him as well.”
Hayes shook his head. “I’ve thought about that and decided it’s very unlikely. You see, my patron is beyond . . . well, not beyond the law, but certainly even agents of the Admiralty would not dare apprehend him without . . .” He hesitated. “Let me just say that the man is not unknown to the King.”
Erasmus stopped with his cup in the air. “Are you telling me that it is Skye?” Erasmus could hardly credit this idea, but who else could Hayes mean? A man of great reputation and standing who had some involvement with the Admiralty. An intimate of the King, a man whose interests wouldn’t lead one to believe he would be interested in stories of mysterious strangers. An empiricist, obviously. Skye. It could be no other.
Hayes hesitated, chagrin obvious on his rather tired countenance. “I’m not telling you . . . at least not intentionally,” he added quietly.
Erasmus sat back in his chair and stared at his friend. If he had been told the man in question was his own brother, he would have been less shocked.
“What possible interest could Skye have in such a tale?” he asked finally.
Hayes shrugged, reaching down and picking up his spoon as though suddenly interested in silverware. “Erasmus, I hope you understand that the earl does not want his name connected with our inquiry—he was most adamant.”
Erasmus nodded dumbly. “But why is he interested?”
Hayes turned the spoon over and dropped it so that it rattled off the floor. Erasmus bent down quickly and retrieved it, reaching out and taking hold of Hayes’ wrist so that the young man would look at him.
