by Sean Russell
He reached out and touched Erasmus’ wrist. “That is why I have come to you. If he does not return and take responsibility for his actions, he will certainly be expelled, which would be a terrible loss to the world of scholarship, not to mention the effect it will have on his life. I’m sure he has great regard for you, Mr. Flattery. You are a fellow of the Society, as all young men wish to be these days. Can you not speak with him? I assure you there is no great mystery to be uncovered in the archives of Wooten. He is throwing his career away for nothing.” He spread his hands. “Nothing.” The deacon looked up at him, anxiety overcoming his facade of peace and charm.
Erasmus was affected by the man’s concern, though it was against his better judgment. “Let me explain, Deacon, it would be something of an exaggeration to say that Mr. Kehler and I were acquaintances. I suspect I would have less influence on him than you hope.”
Deacon Rose looked a bit surprised. “I did not realize. I thought perhaps it was a relationship of long standing. In a way it would make sense that Mr. Kehler would cultivate your friendship. Did he ask you about mages, Mr. Flattery?”
Erasmus was a little taken aback by this. “I really feel any conversations I’ve had with Mr. Kehler were private matters, Deacon. I’m sure you understand.”
“Quite so. But even if you have not been long acquainted, you could do the young man a good turn. Could you not have a word with him, Mr. Flattery? I suspect he would respect your advice. Think of poor Kehler. What will become of him? He has no trade, no family connections. We are talking about a great career being cut short over mere stubbornness. And that is a tragedy. Youth, Mr. Flattery. Only a young man could be so impetuous. Only a young man could fail to see the consequences of his decision. The future, no doubt, seems infinitely bright to him, but we both know that much can happen in the course of a few short years. I fear he will live to regret this decision. Regret it most terribly.”
Erasmus wondered what Kehler was up to in the Farrellite archives. He was still in the employ of Skye, and Skye was proving to have some very peculiar interests.
Scholars had long believed that a great deal of Farr history was hidden in the archives of Wooton. Perhaps a great deal of information about the mages. “I’m not sure where Kehler has gotten to, but if he can be found, I’ll speak with him. I can promise no more than that. I have no faith that he will heed my council.”
The priest reached out and took both Erasmus’ hands. “Thank you, Mr. Flattery. May Farrelle bless you for your good heart. And Kehler will thank you as well, one day.” He muttered another blessing in Old Farr.
The priest sat back in his chair, taking up his brandy, and looking at Erasmus as though he were a particularly prized student. “As I said earlier, Mr. Flattery, we have a common interest: viticulture. Years ago, now, I held a position in the south countries, and at the abbey there we cultivated the vine—oh, and made wine as well—but my love was the vine and the grape. To work in the fields beneath the sun of high summer, to see the clusters swell upon the vine . . . I miss it terribly. I have a few vines growing at Wooton, but it is too far north—though I am finding some better results these last few years. Certainly you haven’t done all your work up in Locfal?”
“Some of it, but I have a small holding on the island of Farrow.”
The priest reacted as though Erasmus had mentioned the name of the man’s lost love—the loss that had sent him into the priesthood. “Oh, how fortunate you are, Mr. Flattery. I have traveled to Farrow only once, and for far too short a time, but there can be few places better suited to viticulture, I think. Have you seen the famous Ruin?”
Erasmus nodded.
“Is it not marvelous? Astonishing really. Life is filled with mysteries, Mr. Flattery, and I am glad of it. I’m much saddened by these young empiricists who wish to explain everything. Contemplating the mysteries is a worthy meditation, in my view. It teaches humility and fills us with proper awe for this world we have been blessed with. Don’t you agree?”
Erasmus shrugged. “I thought it was the business of the church to explain mysteries.”
The priest did not look at all ruffled, his amiable manner not changing in the least. In fact, he seemed almost pleased that Erasmus might dispute with him. “The Farrellite Church is not monolithic, Mr. Flattery. There are schools of thought—many of them—and though we agree on the central issues, there are many more on which there are differing views. This is very healthy, I think.
“Perhaps I’m something of a mystic. I believe there are mysteries that were not meant to be comprehended by men. Not in this life at least. But these mysteries are there to fill us with awe. To instruct us in ways we cannot explain. They are like the best art in that regard. Their contemplation opens doors within our own thoughts. We see things we would not otherwise have seen. And they fill us with joy at their beauty. Those who study the words of Farrelle in an attempt to comprehend the mind of the martyr are entirely misguided in my view. These writings were never meant to be understood, but were created to stimulate the minds of his followers. They were not meant to be the basis of doctrine but of inspiration.” The man paused, a bit embarrassed perhaps, but clearly this was a subject near to his heart. “May I tell you my view of mysticism?”
Erasmus nodded his consent, interested, in spite of himself, by what the man was saying.
“Imagine that you were trained as a dancer, and for many years that was your calling. But then you realized that it was necessary to your art to learn greater mental focus, and so you took up the meditative discipline of the Belthamite Hermits and pursued this for some time. When you had completed your study, you discovered that there was much to be expressed by the hands and the motion of the arms and so traveled to Doorn to work with a master there. And then, perhaps some time later, you returned to Avonel and one day, for no particular reason, picked up a fencing foil only to discover that all of your years of training had made you a great fencer, yet none of the specific disciplines you studied seemed to be in any way connected to fencing. This is mysticism. You read the teachings of Farrelle. Meditate on the ways of a running stream. Labor in a public garden to feed the poor. And if you do all of these things mindfully, one day you have an epiphany that has somehow grown from all of these things, yet does not seem to be made up of them in any recognizable way. All of these things lead to a greater understanding. Yet understanding is an inadequate word, for it is not an ‘understanding’ that you can explain. It is more like a blossom opening inside you. It is beautiful and awe inspiring and teaches you greater compassion and might allow you to accomplish much in the world. But can you give it a name? No. That is the way of the mystic, Mr. Flattery, and one does not have to be a believer in mysticism to experience it.” A sudden grin creased his much-lined face.
“Now you see what I have done? Began talking about viticulture, a subject dear to both of our hearts, and end up lecturing you about mysticism. I do apologize. I am carried away by my own enthusiasms. It is a great weakness and has turned me into something of a bore, I’m afraid. Do forgive me.” The priest rose suddenly.
“But I have taken up enough of your valuable time, Mr. Flattery. I thank you again for agreeing to speak with Mr. Kehler. It is noble of you, and I’m sure that Kehler will one day thank you for it.”
Deacon Rose was still thanking Erasmus as he passed out the door to the street. Erasmus stood for a moment before the door, lost in wonder, and then realized that he looked like a man performing his devotions before an altar, and this sent something of a shiver through him.
He turned and went back up the stairs. This priest was not so charming as he thought—or at least not so cunning. Fenwick Kehler had discovered something in Merton that had the church very worried. Erasmus had no doubt of that. Something to do with Strangers, perhaps. Strangers and mages.
Nine
Avonel had dozens of private clubs of varying degrees of exclusivity. The most exclu
sive, and therefore the most private, were the clubs that bore no markings to distinguish them in any way from the surrounding buildings. Some of these did not even have public names, and were referred to by their members simply as “the club.”
Every club had a purpose, though it was not always the purpose inscribed in the association’s charter. For instance, the club that Sir John had come to this night was ostensibly a gaming club, but its actual purpose was to put certain of its members in such debt that they would, for the foreseeable future, owe their allegiance to the “club.” Sir John had once been so far in debt to this particular organization that he expected to do its bidding for the rest of his career—furthering the interests of its members at great cost to his own credibility as a minister of the government. That was before he met Bryce.
Now he expended effort to further the interests of Bryce’s mysterious employer, though this had not brought him into conflict with his conscience nearly so regularly. Still, more than anything else, Sir John longed to be free. To owe allegiance to no man but his King, and to his country. That was why he had gone into government service in the first place: idealism. He shook his head. Hard to believe he had once been idealistic when you saw how things had turned out.
Sir John wondered if his news of the Entonne development of the cannon had leaked out yet. It could not be kept secret forever, that was certain. He was only afraid that the first the navy would hear of it would be when an Entonne man of war opened fire on a Farr ship. He could not allow that, but before it happened, he planned to make some political coin from his knowledge. It was, after all, a commodity like gold or grain; a value could be placed on it and it could be traded, and that was precisely what Sir John intended to do.
“Sir John! How good to see you. We’ve not had the pleasure of your company in a good long while.”
It was one of the senior members of the club. A man Sir John had once done many favors for.
“No, not for some time,” Sir John said.
“Feeling lucky tonight?”
“Indeed I am.” Sir John felt so incredibly fortunate that he did not intend to gamble a single coin.
The man touched his arm, smiling widely. “Well, you know your credit is always good here.”
Sir John looked down, nodding. The man’s smile caused such a surge of anger and resentment. He knew what it really meant: We knew you’d be back. I am back, Sir John thought, but I am changed. Now I can resist. I don’t quite know how or why, but I can resist.
He moved on through the rooms, nodding to a man here or there. Feeling a little let down by this encounter. They thought me so weak, so in thrall to my demons. The realization undermined his confidence a little.
He remembered well his conversations with Bryce, as he had come to know the man. Bryce had once said, daring insult: “I will tell you what it is, for it is no mystery to me. You believe you are a man blessed: intelligent, of good family, first of your class, healthy and vigorous, and handsome to the ladies. You believe so completely in your good fortune that you cannot accept your luck would desert you at the tables. How could it? And so you go back, to prove your good fortune is no accident, as though you cannot accept this failure. Your luck will win out—it must. And so you have lost a fortune, thrice over.”
Bryce, almost a stranger then, had been so utterly right. Sir John had known it the moment Bryce had uttered the words. A man so blessed should not lose at something so trivial as cards or dice. Really. It was absurd. But he did, repeatedly.
And then he had come to his agreement with Bryce—his deal with the devil. Bryce would clear his debt to the club, though not his other debts—those that had been accrued because gaming took all his money—Sir John would have to deal with those himself. And so it had happened. Bryce had accompanied him to the club one night, they had sat down at a table with the men who owned Sir John’s debt, and they had played at cards. And Sir John had won! He had won as he always believed he should.
And then, when his debt was cleared, Bryce had stood up, and announced it was time to go. Sir John had never felt such frustration. Go!? But the look Bryce fixed on him told him that there was no arguing. When Bryce left the table, Sir John’s luck would go with him.
He asked Bryce how he had done it—this was before he realized that one did not ask questions of Bryce—but the man would say nothing. Sir John was left with the impression that Bryce must be the sharpest of players, handling cards so deftly that no man could see what he was doing. Sir John did not care that he had won by cheating, for he always suspected he had been cheated anyway.
But the most incredible thing was, after that night he had no urge to gamble. None whatsoever. He did not even come down to the club to socialize. The desire was gone. He no longer felt that he had to test himself—test his good fortune. In fact it seemed a foolish pastime now. He could barely understand how he had been trapped in such folly.
He went into the largest room, searching among the faces, hoping to find the right gentlemen in attendance this evening. Few of the men at the tables looked up—intent on their cards. A wine tasting was underway in the next room, with a number of men from both the dragoons and the navy seriously engaged. One, the scion of the Palle family, raised a glass to him as he passed. Sir John smiled.
Ten minutes later he found one of the men he looked for; the Marquis of Sennet. The marquis leaned back against a wall with his thumbs tucked into his waistband and, with a rather bored air, watched several men playing a game called skittles on a pocketless billiard table.
“Lord Sennet,” Sir John said, leaning a shoulder against the wall.
“Lord? We are being formal tonight, aren’t we? Have you come back to lord it over certain gentlemen?” he asked, and Sir John laughed. “Tell me, Sir John, how did you do it? It has been the subject of endless speculation around these rooms for twelve months past.”
“Well, I sacrificed a ram and painted pentagrams on my chest in its blood. I went to the ruin of the old abbey on the city’s edge and sold my soul to a dark spirit. . . .”
“The usual, then?”
“Well, I sacrificed no virgins, not even symbolically.”
“I see.” Sennet looked back to the game as everyone groaned.
“I have a bit of news that might interest you,” Sir John said, lowering his voice. “In fact, I’m sure it will”
“Do you?”
“We should speak more privately.”
“In the library?”
Sir John nodded, setting off for the stairs. In this club one could usually rely on the library being vacant. It was not the literary set that came to gamble.
Sir John cast a glance back at the gaming room, and all the men intent on their fortunes. It seemed a rather pathetic scene to him. He shook his head, not without some sense of moral superiority, he realized, and continued on.
The library was indeed deserted. He found a copy of the day’s news and made himself comfortable by the cold hearth. A few moments later Sennet appeared, his curiosity well in check.
He slouched into one of the chairs and stared at Sir John as though he did not believe for a moment that he could tell him anything of interest.
“I have some news about the Entonne—not even a rumor yet.”
“News of the Entonne is always intriguing.”
“And I’m very interested in knowing what goes on with Skye. There have been some rumors. . . .”
“I might be able to help you there.” The one thing about Sennet was that he could be trusted to return an equal measure of information. It was one of the things Sir John liked about the man.
“My friends in Entonne tell me that their countrymen are casting cannon, and producing gunpowder as we speak. In two months, perhaps fewer, they will have armed ships.”
Sennet sat up in his chair, his look changing completely. Sir John almost smiled. It was hard to catch Sennet unawa
res.
“You’ve told the King’s Man?”
“Not yet.”
“Martyr’s blood,” Sennet said, his agile mind running over all the implications of this news. “We all knew it would happen, but not so quickly.” He looked up at Sir John, clearly impressed. “You shan’t make Moncrief happy with such news—not one bit.”
Sir John said nothing. No one in Farrland would be happy at this news—except, perhaps Skye.
Sennet broke into a grin. “Well, you caught me looking at the wrong hand, Sir John. Well done. But then you’ve long been a better conjurer than most.” He tipped an imaginary hat to Sir John. “You must have the finest of friends in Entonne. Very well placed.” Sennet looked at him with a little admiration, his mind clearly trying to divine the names of these sources. “But your question—” His look became more serious. “I don’t know if you realize what a hornets’ nest you’ve broken open. Flames, but Moncrief is playing a dangerous game.
“I am not sure what you’ve heard, but I have a friend in the Admiralty. . . .” Sennet let the sentence die. “This night past Skye had gone to meet a woman. Though it was unknown to him, she was once an Entonne agent now likely in the employ of the Admiralty.” He tilted his head at Sir John, who did not catch the inference.
