by Sean Russell
“Why?” he said quietly.
Hayes shook his head. “I don’t know. It . . . I don’t know. We speculated endlessly about this, but you must know that one does not ask the Earl of Skye impertinent questions.”
Erasmus nodded. The earl had a reputation for impatience with anyone who presumed too much of their friendship. “Well, I agree that a message should be taken to him directly. And this young man, Kehler . . . what’s become of him?”
“He has continued in the employ of Lord Skye, though not here in Avonel. I’m not at liberty to say more.”
“Do you intend to see him in person—Kehler, that is?”
“No, I’ll have to write him.”
“Well, eat, and we’ll pay a call on the Earl. I think, given the circumstances, we can risk doing so without warning him.”
“You’ll come with me? But, Erasmus, he’ll know I’ve told you.”
“Yes, well, that is a problem because I’m not sure you should appear at his door, not with the Admiralty looking for you.” Erasmus thought a moment. “We’ll approach it like this. You write a letter to the earl, and we’ll take a carriage to his home where I’ll deliver it. You can stay in the carriage unless the earl is there and wishes to speak with you. I’ll claim to be merely a loyal friend helping without explanation. Skye and I are both members of the Society and I’m known not to be one of the gossips. Will that answer?”
Hayes looked enormously relieved to have an ally and went immediately to write the note, not having touched his food.
* * *
* * *
The ride to Skye’s town home was not so long, as it turned out he did not live far from Erasmus. Hayes stayed in the hired carriage, as planned, while Erasmus rang the bell.
As he stood on the step, he turned around to survey the street. If Skye’s home was being kept under surveillance, it was being done with some discretion. An old woman stared down from a window across the way, but she didn’t have the look of an Admiralty agent to Erasmus’ mind—a busybody was more likely.
The door opened and a manservant nodded respectfully as Erasmus handed him a calling card. “Erasmus Flattery. It is imperative that I speak with Lord Skye. I have a letter that I must deliver.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Flattery, but Lord Skye is not at home. I’ll certainly see that the letter is delivered safely, however.” He reached out a hand, which Erasmus ignored.
“I’ve been charged to place it in the hand of Lord Skye and no one else.”
“I am sorry, sir, but that isn’t possible at the moment. . . .”
The servant looked up at the sound of the carriage door opening.
“Mr. Hayes!”
Hayes ran quickly up the steps. “Yes, is the earl not at home? I desperately need to speak with him.”
The servant shook his head, apparently pleased to see Samual. “No, sir. Lord Skye set out early this morning and didn’t say where. It was most peculiar. You don’t know where he’d have gone, do you, Mr. Hayes?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. You haven’t had men from the Admiralty about asking after your master, have you?”
“Not a one, sir, though your colleague, Mr. Kehler, was by this morning. He left a letter as well.”
Hayes shook his head in worry, looking at Erasmus as though unsure what to do. “Kehler didn’t say where he was staying, I don’t suppose?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Will you leave your letter with me, Mr. Hayes?”
Hayes was about to say yes when Erasmus stepped in, pocketing the letter quickly. “No, but thank you. If Lord Skye does return, would you ask him to contact me?”
The servant eyed Erasmus oddly, as though he were a little offended that Erasmus did not seem to trust him. “As you wish, sir.”
Erasmus steered Hayes down the stairs and into the carriage.
“Whatever led you to do that?” Hayes asked. “We don’t know when Skye might return or if he is even actually away. It would be better if he had my note at the soonest possible opportunity.”
Erasmus nodded. “Perhaps, but did you not think that servant was more curious than was polite?”
Hayes was brought up short by this. “But he knows me, and was likely concerned about his employer.”
“Perhaps so, but it is the practice of the agents of the Admiralty to pay servants for information about their employers. I would rather err on the side of caution.” Erasmus tapped on the ceiling to have the driver move on. “It seems your colleague is in Avonel. What’s his name? Kehler?”
Hayes nodded, thinking. “Yes, but where, that is the question. Under normal circumstances he would be my guest. As things stand, however, he could be rooming anywhere.”
The little window between the driver and the carriage slid open. “I’m not sure where I’m to go, sir,” the man said.
“Nor am I. Hold your course for a moment while we decide.” He turned back to Hayes. “I assume Kehler has some friends in the city? Besides yourself, that is?”
“Emin, primarily, but he’s abroad till midsummer.” Hayes considered a moment. “We could try the Belch.”
“Of course,” Erasmus said. “The old Gulch and Swallow.”
They pressed on to the inn where Hayes thought they might find Kehler, a place well known to Erasmus, though he had not been there in years.
The Gulch and Swallow Inn was called “House Hopeful” by many of its patrons for the simple reason that budding empiricists gathered there, both for organized discussion, and for discourse that could only be described as unruly. The truth was that, beyond their various interests, the patrons spent an inordinate amount of time gossiping about the doings of the Society for Empirical Studies and its fellows, for House Hopeful (also referred to as the “Belch and Swallow”) was filled with young men who longed to become fellows of that august Society.
They spent uncounted hours discussing how one would best go about bringing one’s efforts to the notice of the Society, as well as dissecting the tactics of every successful candidate.
Of course House Hopeful also provided a stage for the conquering hero, for who could resist returning to the “old neighborhood.” And no matter how gracious the newly appointed fellow was in victory, or how much he assured the others that their turn would come, there was always a little triumph there, and a bit of jealousy as well.
Erasmus thought that these young men could speed their fellowship considerably by simply using the time spent in the Gulch and Swallow to further their original studies, not that he hadn’t squandered his own fair share of hours in this very establishment. Youth, it seemed, had an undeniable need of company. It was rather like misery in that regard.
Neither of them spoke as they rode. The measured clip-clop of hooves on paving stones was hypnotic, lulling Erasmus into a contemplative state. The dream came back to him, but he pushed it out of his mind—much easier to do in broad daylight. They were not long in coming to their destination.
Erasmus followed Hayes through the door and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. There was a faltering of the conversation as many of the young men present noted that one of the gods had descended to walk among them. Though perhaps Erasmus’ reputation was not yet so large as to strike awe into the hearts of young empiricists. He might have been considered a mere demigod.
Hayes surveyed the young men present, acknowledging the occasional nod, and then he waved to someone, and crossed the room to him, Erasmus in his wake.
“Pleasures of the day to you, Dandish. Have you seen Fenwick Kehler?”
Dandish almost vaulted out of his chair, glancing nervously at Erasmus. “Yesterday. He was in here for an hour or more, asking after you, too, as I remember. He was talking to Ribbon most of the time.” Realizing that Hayes didn’t intend to introduce him, the young man turned to Erasmus. “Sanfield Dandish at your servic
e, Mr. Flattery. I’m a great admirer of your work in horticulture and botany, sir.”
Erasmus offered the young man his hand and a tight smile, never comfortable with even genuine praise. “Kind of you,” he said.
“You might try old Sam,” Dandish suggested. “He likely spoke with Kehler.”
Hayes ordered ale and left Erasmus at a table while he spoke with the tapman. He was back in a trice. “Sam’s not sure where Kehler’s found lodging, but likely in this quarter. There are a number of rooming houses that cater to visiting students and scholars. I’m sure I’ll find him.” Hayes picked up his ale and sipped it, staring at Erasmus. “Look, Erasmus, it doesn’t seem that agents of the Admiralty are out in force searching for me. They haven’t been in here, apparently, and this is a spot they’d likely not miss. I see no need for you to spend your day searching out Kehler. Leave me to it, and I’ll bring you any news I might gather; that is, if you don’t mind having me as a guest another night. I still feel a little trepidation at the idea of returning to my rooms.”
“You are thrice welcome, Hayes, but see if you can bring Kehler back with you. I’m curious to hear his story as well. I could have Stokes put another room to rights and put you both up, if you’d like.”
Hayes brightened at the offer. “You’re too kind, Erasmus. I’ll see if I can find Kehler, and we’ll see what he’s discovered in the archives of Wooton. I’m a little surprised that he’s in Avonel so early in the year. It makes me a bit suspicious. If I’m not at your home by eight, it will mean the Admiralty have me. I trust you’ll know what to do, for I certainly don’t.”
“Leave it to me, Hayes, but stay alert and be careful who you give your name to.”
* * *
* * *
Erasmus spent the afternoon puzzling over the story that Hayes had told him. It had brought unfamiliar emotions to the surface. He had even spoken of his time in the house of Eldrich, which he almost never did. No, it was all very odd. The worst of it was that Erasmus was certain he could feel the hand of the mage in the story of Compton Heath. The unseen hand.
“He does not sleep,” Erasmus whispered to the window. “Not yet.”
Erasmus was quite sure the rumors that Eldrich neared his end were not true—at least not in the way that others interpreted them. Eldrich, Erasmus was quite certain, would not pass through until he felt his time had come. But the idea that the mage was lying on his deathbed, aged and feeble, was simply not possible. Eldrich would likely remain hale and vital up until his last hours in this world. People simply did not understand mages—not these days, anyway.
Erasmus went out onto a small balcony, which looked down into his garden. Unlike most people of stature in Avonel, his home did not provide him a view of the sea. He found that the vast, open horizon begged too many questions and he felt that enough questions plagued him as it was. No, Erasmus much preferred his small garden. It gave rest to his soul in a way that the expanse of ocean never could. A garden whispered no questions.
The onset of twilight released the spell over the shadows dwelling beneath the shrubs and trees so that they began to swell, flowing slowly out into the open. A distinct demarcation between light and shadow began to climb the foliage of an ancient oak, and the corner of the house cast a shadow in dark relief on the lawn. Soon all of reality would blend in darkness, and everything would lose definition. Erasmus would dream and lose definition himself.
The world when Eldrich is gone, Erasmus thought. A commonplace world.
A hard tap made him start, and his manservant, Stokes, appeared. He opened his mouth and then stopped, a bit surprised. “Would you not like a lamp, sir?”
“Please,” Erasmus said, trying to calm his heart, feeling much as he had when a boy, expecting Eldrich to sweep in on a blast of wind.
Stokes lit a lamp, and then lit another on Erasmus’ desk. The light seemed to have a calming effect—like oil on stormy seas.
“Most unusual, sir. There is a Farrellite priest at our door asking to speak with you.”
“Does he want money? Can you not tell him we are not of his faith?”
“It seems he has not come asking money, sir, but wishes to speak with you, though he’d not say why.” Stokes looked a bit out of sorts. Though not a believer himself, Erasmus was, like most people in Farrland, respectful of the priests, if only as a concession to good manners.
“I am half-inclined to send him away,” Erasmus said, thinking aloud. “Could he not take the time to send me a note telling me the purpose of his visit? These priests . . .!” He looked back out into his garden, which was slowly being consumed by darkness. “Oh, bring him up. I suppose I shall find out what he wants.”
Stokes bobbed his head and went out, leaving the door slightly ajar so that his employer might hear the guest approaching.
A moment later Stokes opened the door and let in a small man dressed in the robes of the Farrellite faith. “Deacon Rose, Mr. Flattery.”
Erasmus extended both his hands as was expected, though he disliked doing it. He tried to remember where a deacon fit in the Farrellite hierarchy. Above a parish priest, he thought, though the old root of the word was servant—servant of the martyr in this case. Certainly not servant of the parishioners.
“Mr. Flattery,” the man said softly, his manner very humble, which annoyed Erasmus even more—falsely humble, he was sure. The deacon grasped both of his hands and said a quick blessing in Old Farr. “Thank you for seeing me without prior notice, Mr. Flattery. I apologize. It is not a habit of mine to burst in upon people unannounced, I assure you.”
“Don’t apologize, Deacon. Will you take wine or brandy? Coffee or tea?” Erasmus gestured toward two chairs.
“Brandy would be very welcome, I must admit. I have been traveling for the last three days and only came to Avonel this morning.”
“Well, then, you need a brandy, Deacon.” Erasmus was about to ask if the man had eaten, but stopped himself. He had never been too friendly with the priests of Farrelle, for he believed them to be a cynical, self-serving group that did much to slow progress in Farrland.
The priest collected up his robes and sat, smiling at Erasmus in a way that was kindly but not too familiar. Deacon Rose was a small man, his shape well disguised by robes. His hair, both gray and black, was cut short in the common style of the priests and he wore the round, crimson skull cap that denoted his rank. Rose might not have been a particularly handsome man, but he had a face that exuded a great deal of charm and humor, and his eyes suggested real kindness, although there was a trace of great determination there as well.
Erasmus was about to begin the small talk that was expected on such occasions—comments on the weather, etc.—but decided that the unexpected visit was hardly polite and so went right to the heart of it.
“What is it that I might do for you, Deacon Rose?”
The priest gave an odd smile that was half a grimace, as though he was hurt by the lack of politeness, but such was the burden of bearing the one truth. “And well you may ask, Mr. Flattery. But let me assure you, to begin, that you need do nothing for me. I have come regarding a mutual friend for whom I have great regard and concern. It is for his sake entirely that I am here.
“You see, after my arrival in Avonel earlier today, I went seeking this young man, and though I was not fortunate enough to find him, I was told in one establishment where the young gather that someone fitting his description and answering to his name had visited earlier, and, to my great surprise, I was not the first man who had come seeking him this day. Only an hour before the notable Erasmus Flattery had been asking after the same young man.”
Stokes arrived with brandies and lit another lamp before leaving. Erasmus should not have been surprised that this visit had something to do with Hayes and his friend Kehler, but somehow he had been caught off guard.
“Erasmus Flattery was a name I knew well because of my o
wn interests, and this brought me here. You see, Fenwick Kehler is a student at my college and, I have to say, such a student as we see only once a decade, if that. Mr. Kehler has the makings of an exceptional historian, perhaps even a great one. That is why I’m so concerned.”
Cynical though Erasmus believed the priests to be, this one seemed genuinely worried about his student.
“The problem, Mr. Flattery, if I might come right to the point, is that young Kehler has been searching into the archives. I fear he has poked into matters the church considers to be private. Things that, strictly speaking, he was not to have had access to.” For a second the man looked embarrassed. He began rubbing his hands together slowly, and then turned the single ring that he wore. “Yes, I know, many people think we are hiding things in Wooton, but that is not precisely true, or at least is not what they likely think.” He looked up at Erasmus suddenly, and there was a keen intelligence in that look. “Perhaps Mr. Kehler has spoken to you of this . . . ?”
Erasmus said nothing, but gazed coolly at the priest.
“Of course, that is your affair and not really my business,” the priest hurried to add. “But let me only say that Mr. Kehler has looked into documents that would give him merely part of a story.”
Erasmus almost interrupted to plead ignorance to the subject, but the priest began to speak again, turning his gaze out the window and continuing to toy with his ring. “The whole affair of Honare Baumgere is a grave embarrassment and something of a mystery to us. And all of this speculation . . .” He looked back at Erasmus. “It’s such utter foolishness.
“But that is not my real concern. You see, Mr. Kehler’s making free with our archives has caused quite a stir. He was granted great trust, and did . . . well, did what he did, unfortunately, and now he is in grave danger of expulsion. Not the end of the world, you are no doubt thinking, but the worst of it is that our young Kehler is from a family of extremely modest means. He is entirely dependent upon the good graces of the Farrellite Church for his tuition and other expenses. Oh, he does some work in the library in return, but not enough to recompense, and now, you see, he has put his situation in grave danger. He has not the means to return to Merton, or even some lesser university. I fear that we are about to see the end of an exceptionally promising career, Mr. Flattery.” He shook his head. “I am not quite sure what to do, for you see he will not face up to the consequences of his actions. As soon as it was learned that he had broken his word to us, Mr. Kehler slipped out of the monastery and away. Now a man of his age and learning should have the mettle to own up to his wrongdoing and, at the very least, apologize. Yet he ran off like a child, to the disappointment of many who had done much to further his studies and who had esteemed and trusted him.”
