by Sean Russell
“The mage said this?” she asked, looking for anything to fill the silence.
“No, it was Mr. Walky.”
“Oh, well, Walky. Take no notice of him. Please, sit. I’m sure a few words cannot do any harm.” She tried to smile as though nothing were in the least amiss or even out of the ordinary, but all she could think about was why he had been cautioned to avoid her.
“You accompanied my friend, Marianne Edden, I collect?” she said when it became obvious that Skye would not speak. He perched on the edge of the seat and kept glancing up at the entry to the arbor as though expecting the mage to appear there out of thin air—which Eldrich actually seemed to do at times. She stole a quick glance, too, and then chastised herself for it.
“Was it the Peliers?” she asked quietly. “Is that what drew the attention of the mage?”
Skye shrugged, a little helplessly. “As astonishing as it is to me, Lady Chilton, I seem to have been an object of interest to Lord Eldrich for some time. I am not sure how long. He seems to know even of my distant past—the time lost to me. I—I cannot explain it. I have long been part of a design. . . .” Again he raised his shoulders in a gesture of complete mystification.
The countess reached out and gently touched the arm he had slung across the back of the bench. “Yes. It is shocking to discover such things. I found it a little hard to accept that I had met the mage on more than one occasion and had no memory of it. It was most disconcerting. But here we are. I had thought I might never see you again.”
Skye nodded, forcing a tight smile.
“Has Eldrich told you of your past, then? It must be a relief to finally uncover—”
“He will say nothing,” Skye broke in quickly. “Not a word. It would seem to take so little effort for him to relieve me of this suffering, yet he will not.” He shook his head, anger and terrible disappointment appearing on his face. “What are we but the result of the lives we’ve lived, and if some part of a life is lost—then we are not whole. Part of us has been severed. That is what I think. But Eldrich would tell me not a thing.”
The countess was not much surprised to hear this. “It is not his way to make such gestures to others, to show compassion for no reason. He is more likely to keep such information in the event that it will prove useful. Perhaps there is yet some task he wishes performed and nothing will insure your utter devotion to its success more than dangling the possibility of your memories before you. He is not compassionate as we understand the word,” she said sympathetically.
She wondered how it was that his prematurely gray hair seemed to make him look younger than his actual years. Was it the contrast between the gray mane and the almost unlined face?
Skye looked down at the bench. “No, he is not compassionate, but then neither was I when in a position where it would have taken little effort on my behalf. Perhaps I am reaping the rewards of my own callousness. Perhaps the mage is teaching me this lesson.”
“Oh, do not think that! No, Lord Skye, trust that Eldrich cares almost nothing for how you have conducted your own affairs. No, the concerns of men are of little consequence to him, for he considers himself above ‘petty morality.’”
Skye nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It just seems so odd. I was brought here by this man Bryce, spoke once with Eldrich, and then have been largely ignored. I am going a little mad with no one to speak with. One begins to have the strangest thoughts when there are no others about and one is thrown back entirely on one’s own company.” He looked up, apologetically. “I must sound a bit pathetic. Do excuse me, it’s just . . .”
“Do not apologize. This is the most irregular household in the world, I’m sure. Left here entirely on one’s own, kept in the dark as to what transpires and what the mage’s intentions are: it wears on one’s nerves. I have found it myself. Fortunately, I have had others to speak with, and Walky has become something of a friend.”
“Yes, he seems the only spark of humanity in the entire place, present company excepted, of course. Why are you here, Lady Chilton, if I may ask?”
She glanced over at the entry, then at the lilac trees. “Well, it is difficult to explain. The truth is, I am not entirely sure myself.”
“Then you are here against your will?”
“No. No, I am here . . . well, let us just say that the mage has a task for me, and that he was able to offer me something to insure my cooperation.”
“Ah.”
For an instant she thought he would ask what, but then he remembered his manners, even under the circumstances, which the countess thought so strange as to almost call for a rewriting of the rules of conduct.
They fell silent, the countess wondering what she should say next, acutely aware that Skye wanted nothing so much as to escape.
“The mage said absolutely nothing that would indicate what purpose he had for you?” she said when he seemed about to rise.
He shook his silver mane. “No. Well, I have mulled over the little he did say so often that the few words have taken on every possible meaning—and therefore have become meaningless. I don’t know. He wanted to know about a woman I met once briefly. Beyond that, he warned me that I might not be so happy to have my memories restored, as though there were something in my past that . . .” He shrugged. “I have even wondered if this was said merely to torment me. Mages are not above tormenting cruelly, or so I understand. Is that possible, do you think?”
“Possible, though not likely. Not unless you did something to raise his ire. He does have a cruel streak that can come out at such times. I have begun to think that he is like a man who, at intervals, suffers some terrible agony, and when one of these bouts is upon him, he loses all patience and can become vicious. Knowing when he is suffering, that is the key. So far I have not been able to tell.”
“But surely Eldrich cannot suffer from illness or injury. He is a mage.”
“No, I said only that he was like a man suffering pain. Though I think the truth is even more strange. I believe he suffers fits of despair. Despair that he will fail in the task he has been left. I cannot even tell you why I think this. I have been told my intuition is good.” She glanced at Skye. “Though occasionally it fails me spectacularly.”
Again the awkward silence, Skye looking at the entry, perched on the edge of his seat. The countess could see that he was vastly relieved to have someone to speak with but was also terrified of discovery.
Skye suddenly sat back on the bench, slumping against the back, his face collapsing in a like manner. The look he fixed on her was one of desperate appeal. “Have you any idea why I am being kept here? Any idea at all?”
She shook her head, somewhat devastated that she could not give him an answer, still hoping to please him, she realized, to win him over, despite all. “No, I haven’t, I’m sorry to say.” Then she brightened. “But perhaps I could find out. I could certainly ask Walky: I am likely to get nothing from the mage, but Walky is sometimes surprisingly forthcoming. I could try.”
Why was she making such an offer? Did she retain some feeling for this man that presently she could not find?
“I would appreciate it more than you could know,” he said with feeling, his despair lifting a little with this small ray of hope.
“Lady Chilton,” he said with great seriousness, “I really should not tarry. I do not want to do anything that would endanger my chances with Eldrich. Who knows. Perhaps he will answer my question yet.”
She nodded, tilting her head toward the opening in the trees—releasing him. This time he did make a leg, even forcing a smile.
Yes, she thought, as long as he wants something of me . . .
Although it was really Eldrich from whom Skye wanted something this time. And as far as she could tell, the mage never granted anyone what they wanted.
Thirty-Nine
The ships in the harbor foundered in fog, the stars slipping
into this same thin sea. As the carriage bumped over some rut in the cobbles, Captain James was thrown forward, and he reached a hand automatically for the windowsill.
One would almost think he dwelt in carriages these days, ever since he had been assigned this duty—the search for the faded woman. The one he had met . . . his mind would not provide the name of the village and the effort to dredge it up caused a peculiar uneasiness. And here he was again, rattling along the coast, pursuing another possibility.
For a sailor, Captain James was not a superstitious man, or so he held, but this duty was changing that. There was something very odd going on in the Admiralty. Everyone who was involved in the matter spoke of it in whispers. All very dark and peculiar. They sought a mistress of the King, some said, or an illegitimate daughter. But these theories were not near the mark—not for James’ money. No, it was all more macabre than that. Like his inability to remember certain things. The way his mind would shy away from them, almost slide off onto some other tack, and there he would be, thinking of something else.
His hand lifted in an unconscious warding sign.
He wished to Farrelle he were not mixed up in this matter. Better a battle at sea, a battle with the chance of a clean death. He shivered at the thought of his spirit left wandering, endlessly wandering, but he feared such could be his fate if things went awry on this duty. Though not an overly religious man, he made a sign to Farrelle.
And there had been disturbing dreams, as well. Nightmares in which he spoke to a shadow—a darkly malevolent shadow. Many of the strange events that had transpired in past weeks surfaced in dreams. The men leaping from the high window in Paradise Street, but rather than floating down as they were witnessed to do, they turned into nightjars and flew off, mewling in high, thin voices. Enough to make one’s skin crawl. The woman who self-murdered in Avonel Harbor floated through the sea of his dreams, as well, muttering dark imprecations. Words that he could not remember properly when he woke.
A bell echoed through the fog-bound town, which meant sunrise drew nigh, though in the world beyond the carriage there was only darkness and mist.
The carriage slowed, almost stopped, and then rolled on another twenty yards, as though the driver searched for a house number. Suddenly the rig drew to a halt, and James felt the springs flex as the driver climbed down to open the door and pull down the small steps. The man saluted smartly despite the hour.
“I believe this is your destination, Captain.”
James stepped out into the damp night, brushed out his coat, and then reached back in for hat and cane. A guard, fully armed, appeared to a knock on the door and insisted James produce his warrant, which was carefully examined. They were being cautious, which he was happy to see—though a little speed at this hour would have been appreciated.
An officer appeared in the hallway, pulling his clothing into order and trying to shake himself into wakefulness. “Captain James? Lieutenant Beal. We have her upstairs.” He gestured down the hall.
“You found her where?” James said as they mounted the creaking stair.
“She had procured passage from Helford on an old coaster.”
James nodded, his interest increasing. Coasters didn’t commonly bear passengers. There were far more comfortable methods of travel. Ideal for someone hoping not to be noticed.
“What brought her to your attention?”
“Well, she certainly fits the description, sir, though she is not quite so refined—but that could be an act. Claims her name is Ann Fairfield, which is close enough. And she cursed a sailor who was too bold with her, and he fell from the maintop and pulled his arm from its socket catching a buntline. A wonder he survived at all.”
“Well, there’s proof for you,” James said.
“Aye,” his companion agreed, missing the irony. “What has this young wench done that we’re turning half the kingdom end-over searching for her?”
“It’s a complicated story, Beal.”
The man looked at him expectantly.
“And I’m not at liberty to tell it.”
Two more guards stood outside a door, and here Beal shook out a massive ring of keys—a man who measured his importance in keys, as some did. He turned the lock, gathered a candelabra from a shelf, and gently opened the door.
James heard his breath catch, the moment was so unreal. He had been sent here to identify the woman, and the truth was that he didn’t know what she looked like, precisely. But he had been told that when he saw her, he would know. Who had told him that? This was always the part that was difficult to remember. A dark-haired man, exceedingly well groomed. Bryce, or Price. Something like that.
“We managed her arrest strictly as ordered,” Beal said quickly as he lifted the candles to afford James a view.
A young woman lay on a cot, bound hand and foot and roughly gagged. One eye was purple and swollen closed, and the rest of her face was covered by a curtain of hair—faded red hair.
James glanced at the other officer.
“We were told to descend upon her before she was aware of our intent, and not let her utter a word, sir. It went badly for her, but that’s orders, sir. Is she a spy, Captain?”
James did not answer but took the candles from the man and bent down.
“Some are saying that she is some kind of witch, sir.” James ignored the man, reaching out to tuck the woman’s hair behind her ear—his hand trembling a little. She drew back from him as much as her bindings would allow.
No light of recognition lit in his mind. She was a stranger to him, of that he was sure.
“Poor child,” James said. “Here take this.” He thrust the candles at the man, and proceeded to remove the woman’s gag.
“Sir! We were expressly warned not to do that. Captain James!”
“It is the wrong girl, Beal. There you go; Miss Fairfield, is it?”
She took a long gasp of breath.
“Here, let me get your hands.”
“I didn’t curse no sailor, sir. I—I swear it. You look a kind gentleman, sir. I’m no witch or whatever it is they t’ink.” Tears began to run down the young girl’s face. “I swear, sir. I’ll swear it ’fore a priest. . . . I will.”
“I know you’re not a witch, Miss Fairfield, and His Majesty’s government will compensate you for your inconvenience and injury. You can be sure of that. In fact this officer, Lieutenant Beal, is going to find you a room at the best inn this town can offer and send you on your way in comfort. Can you sit up, do you think? There’s a girl.”
A clamor sounded in the hallway and unfamiliar faces appeared in the door: two young men, a priest, and a brightly dressed dwarf.
“Who in this round world . . . ?” Beal took a step toward these strangers, his manner threatening.
“It’s all right, Beal. I know them—or at least know of them.” He turned to the door. “Is one of you Clarendon?”
“I am.” The small man stepped forward, performing a graceful leg. “Randall Spencer Emanual Clarendon, at your service.”
“This is not the Anna Fielding that I . . . know,” James said. “I trust you concur?”
“Completely. But who has mistreated this woman so?” The dwarf glared at Beal as though the man weren’t twice his size.
James stood up. “Send her on to the Admiralty in Avonel, Lieutenant, and they will see she’s properly compensated. In a navy ship, mind you, not a coaster or a carriage. We don’t want anything befalling her again.”
Introductions were made, and without further farewell James followed the others out, leaving a mystified Beal bobbing in their wake.
There was some light in the fog as they emerged from the building.
“Well, gentlemen, it is my intent to find an inn and break my fast. As we seem to be assigned to the same duty, perhaps you would care to join me?”
The four glanced at each other, a
nd then one of the young men—the cheerful-looking one—spoke. “I, for one, could use food, so it would be a pleasure, Captain James.”
Forgoing carriages—it seemed they had all been cramped up in them for too long—they began to walk along the quay, certain to find an inn by the harbor. Within a hundred yards they were given the choice of three. They quickly settled on the most prosperous looking, and found a table commanding a view over the small harbor.
“Well, I think that makes an even dozen red-haired young women,” Hayes said, “but not one our late, lamented Anna.”
This gave James pause. Late, lamented? Certainly this must be a private jest. All James knew about these gentlemen was that they were searching for this same young woman and were to be given every assistance—up to and including the use of the navy’s ships, personnel, and property.
“You know her?” James asked.
“Of course. Don’t you? Isn’t that why the Admiralty sent you down here?”
“Indeed it is,” James agreed. “It’s just that . . .” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “It is not worth discussing. Do forgive me. I have seen, I think, eight potential Annas, including this one whom we are both adding to our tally. I make that nineteen. How many women are there in Farrland with faded red hair and a slightly sallow cast?”
“I fear quite a number more,” Hayes said, “though I hope they will not all be as misused as that poor girl.”
“Yes, this entire matter is being pressed rather . . . vigorously.”
“Well, you know the mage, Captain,” Hayes said. “He cares little for the suffering of others. That poor girl might have been murdered, and he would not even take notice.”
James wondered if his face had paled. Eldrich. . . . Obviously it could be no one else. Why had he never thought of that before? Whenever he considered this subject, his thoughts became so muddled that his head would soon begin to throb. Eldrich! This girl was being sought by the mage.
“And how is it you became involved in this matter, Captain?” the priest asked quietly. The man’s question had no challenge in it, only polite curiosity, but he regarded James with a probing, intelligent eye.
