At once he reconsidered this action. A musty odor perfused the air, calling to mind a library gone to mold. Indeed, the shelves all around were crammed with books, and more books were stacked on tables and heaped on the floor. Few looked to have been printed in Rafferdy’s lifetime, given their cracked leather covers and the tarnished gilt on their spines. Other objects were scattered among the books: polished stones, brass candlestick holders, copper braziers, glass vials, and jars in which various objects floated—shapes unfathomable in the dirty light that seeped through the windows.
In all, the shop was in such a disheveled state that Rafferdy wondered why anyone would set foot in it, let alone a gentleman like Mr. Bennick. Hoping to learn something of his quarry, Rafferdy picked up a book.
“That one is not for beginners, you know. Do not blame me when you lose a finger. Or an entire hand, more the likely. The fellow I acquired it from had one made of silver. It was rather handsome, I grant you, but somewhat less useful than the appendage it replaced.”
Rafferdy dropped the book. He turned toward the sound of the voice and saw a little man waddle from behind a counter piled so high with flotsam and jetsam it had rendered him invisible.
“You’ve come for a ring, I suppose,” the man said. His voice had a wet, croaking quality to it, as if his throat was perpetually in need of clearing. “Well, the term has begun, so I haven’t as many as I did last month. Every young gentleman seems to want one these days. It’s the fashion, or so I’ve been told. The fashion! As if power were a fancy coat like the one you’re wearing—a thing you might don for a party and take off again when you were done. But I suppose you’re no different, so come here, and we’ll see what I have that fits. And do not think it will be cheap.”
Rafferdy hesitated, then edged his way between the various tables to the counter, where the little man had opened a drawer. He was roundish, with pale skin, bulbous eyes, and limp hair combed tight against his skull. In all, he made Rafferdy think of some preternaturally large toad.
“Actually,” Rafferdy said, “I was wondering if I might ask you a question about…about someone.”
“These aren’t easy to come by, you know,” the shopkeeper said, rummaging through the drawer, which contained a collection of ornate rings. “They appear on the market only rarely, and there are precious few left who can make them.” He picked one up—a thick silver ring with a lurid green gem—peered at it for a moment, then gave Rafferdy a speculative look. “So which House are you?”
“Pardon me?” Rafferdy said.
The man scowled behind dusty spectacles. “You’ll not get far in your research if you’re really that dull. Which of the seven Old Houses are you a scion of?”
At last, things became clear to Rafferdy.
“I’m quite sure I’m not a scion of any of them,” he said with a laugh. “Magick is far from an affectation of mine. I am comfortable in my certainty that I cannot claim descent from any of the Old Houses.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. A gentleman has a better chance than anyone of being able to trace a line back to one of the seven. Of course, not every son who gets his father’s name gets his father’s blood. And there are chimney sweeps and lamplighters who are the spitting images of portraits hanging in grand manors. But you…” He peered at Rafferdy over the rims of his spectacles. “You have a likely look about you. Here, try this one.”
He handed Rafferdy the ring with the green gem. It was heavier than Rafferdy would have thought, and cold. He had no intention of purchasing such an ugly piece of jewelry, but it seemed that trying it on was the quickest way to be done with this exercise and get on to making his inquiry. The ring was overlarge, so he put it on his right middle finger.
Or tried to, that is. The ring had not reached the first knuckle of his finger when he felt a curious resistance. It was more than large enough to accommodate his finger, but even with great force Rafferdy could not manage to push it down.
“So not Baltharel, then,” the little man said with a sniff. “Well, that’s no surprise. There are few left who are descended of that House, though it was once one of the greatest.” He took the ring back and handed Rafferdy another.
This one was of gold and bore a row of seven red stones, as well as elaborate designs and tiny symbols carved outside and inside the band. It was thick and heavy like the other ring, and even gaudier. This time Rafferdy attempted to place it on the fourth finger of his right hand. Just as before, he could not get the ring past the first knuckle no matter how hard he pushed, even though it was more than large enough.
The shopkeeper clucked his tongue. “There are some who might be disappointed not to be able to wear that ring. It bears the crest of Myrrgon. Of all the Old Houses, none has given Altania more of its greatest magicians, and these days no ring I have would win you more praise and admiring looks than this one. But there’s no use fretting about it. This one’s not for you.” He snatched the ring back.
Rafferdy hardly knew what to think of all this, except to wonder if maybe he had just been insulted. The little man dug through the drawer of rings, at times picking one up, studying it a moment, glancing at Rafferdy, then putting it back. “I doubt it would be Xandrus,” he would mutter as he sorted through the rings, or, “Oh, I should think not Vordigan!” Just when Rafferdy was ready to put a stop to this, the little man plucked a ring from the corner of the drawer and held it toward Rafferdy.
“Try this one.”
The ring was rather plain compared to the others; the silver band bore only a single stone, bluish in color, as well as a line of thinly etched runes around the circumference. Rafferdy was growing rather perturbed by then, so he fairly snatched the ring from the shopkeeper and jammed it onto his right hand.
The ring slid on smoothly and easily, fitting snugly but not too tightly around the base of his fourth finger. Rafferdy stared at it.
“Well, that’s rare enough,” the shopkeeper said, and clapped pudgy hands. “I must say, I am rather surprised. I almost always pick the correct House on the first or second try, and I really wouldn’t have thought it would be this. But Gauldren it is; there can be no doubt of it. I suppose you should consider yourself fortunate. Many would give much to have a claim to that name—Gauldren the Great, who quelled the wrath of the Wyrdwood and made all of Altania safe for the establishment of civilization. Without doubt it is the most revered and respected of the seven Old Houses. But the most powerful?” He shook his head and let out a gurgling laugh. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”
Rafferdy had no idea how to respond. Had the man just played some trick on him? He raised his hand and looked at the ring; the cloudy blue gem had a faint sheen to it despite the dim light of the shop.
“What is your name?” the little man asked.
“Rafferdy,” he said, studying the ring. “Dashton Rafferdy.”
The shopkeeper opened a massive book on the counter and flipped through its pages. “Would that be the north country Rafferdys or the Rafferdys of County Engeldon?”
“Engeldon.” He gave the shopkeeper a look. “And you are…?”
“I am Adabrayus Mundy, purveyor of magickal books and arcane objects.” The squat little man bowed.
“Well, Mr. Mundy, here is your ring back,” he said, taking off the silver ring and setting it on the counter.
“But do you not wish to purchase it, Mr. Rafferdy? I am certain we can agree upon a…fair price.”
“The price does not matter, as I would not wear such a hideous thing were it given away free,” Rafferdy said. Besides, he was increasingly certain the shopkeeper had indeed played a ruse upon him, one intended to dupe him into thinking the ring was special and buying it. “But as I have indulged you in trying it on, I hope you will return the favor by answering a question. The man who was in here before me—do you know him?”
“Mr. Bennick? Yes, I know him.” He gave Rafferdy a sly look. “And do you know him as well?”
“I have made his acquaintance,
” Rafferdy said, though this was not entirely true. “Tell me, does Mr. Bennick…Is he something of a magician, then?”
“Well, he is a scion of House Vordigan.” Mr. Mundy licked his fingertips and flipped through the book. “Throughout the ages it was always the least of the Houses—until recent years, that is, when it gave Altania its last great magician. You have no doubt heard of Slade Vordigan.”
“Yes, I heard the tale, like every child,” Rafferdy said with growing annoyance. “How Slade Vordigan stood on a hill at Selburn Howe, waved his hands, and mumbled some nonsense, which served to drive the Old Usurper back to the sea, no doubt by confounding him with absurdity, thus winning the day for king and country.”
“A tale, you call it,” Mr. Mundy said. “But is it not King Rothard who sits upon the throne rather than Huntley Morden? Here we are, the Vordigan crest.” He tapped a page that bore an engraving of a serpent devouring its own tail. “Mr. Bennick is Slade Vordigan’s grandson. In his youth he was a very promising magician. He is no lord in name, but few lords can best him. Or could, at least. He does not practice these days.”
“Really? And if he does not do magick, why was he here in your shop?”
Mr. Mundy closed the book with a boom. “My customers expect and receive complete discretion, Mr. Rafferdy.”
Rafferdy stepped back from the cloud of dust conjured by the shutting of the book. He had learned all he could—and had endured more than he could tolerate—from this toadlike little man. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mundy,” he said, and made his way to the door.
“Do come back when you change your mind about the ring!” the shopkeeper called after him.
“Thank you, but I’m quite sure I won’t,” Rafferdy said, and closed the door behind him.
Rafferdy made his way down the dank lane back to the carriage, absently rubbing his right hand as he went. He was suddenly weary and instructed his driver to take him back to Warwent Square.
Rafferdy leaned back in the seat. So Mr. Bennick fancied himself some sort of magician—or had at one time, at any rate. It could not be surprising, given his comments that night at Lady Marsdel’s. All the same, Rafferdy found himself disappointed. He had not thought a man of such keen mind would be seduced by such a silly fashion. Perhaps Mr. Bennick was neither so intelligent nor so intriguing as he had thought.
Constrained by the tangled lanes, the carriage had no choice but to escape the Old City by the Hillgate and make its way around through the streets of Gauldren’s Heights. This part of Invarel was populated by gentry and well-to-do professionals, and its streets were lined with sturdy houses of brick and stone. It was a decent and entirely respectable neighborhood—that is, of no interest to Rafferdy.
They were nearly to the edge of the Heights when they found the street ahead of them blocked by a hack cab with a broken wheel. While its driver tried to effect a repair, the hapless passenger—a man dressed in an ill-fitting black suit—stood to one side.
Rafferdy instructed his driver to go around, but as the cabriolet passed the broken-down hack, an astonishing thing happened: the passenger standing in the street waved and called out Rafferdy’s name in a cheerful, rather high-pitched voice.
“Shall I stop, sir?” the driver asked, turning around in his box.
Rafferdy’s first thought was to tell the driver to whip the horses into a gallop. However, it was too late; he had been recognized. If he tried to flee now, Lady Marsdel would surely hear of it, and he had no desire to earn another scolding. Instead, he directed the driver to pull up in front of the hack cab, and its passenger hurried over to the cabriolet.
“I say, good day, Mr. Rafferdy!”
Rafferdy managed a pained smile. “Good day, Mr. Wyble.”
“What marvelous fortune that you should happen upon me at this moment,” the laywer exclaimed. “What a remarkable and happy occurrence! But I say, I would never have thought to find you in this part of the city.”
“Yet here I am,” Rafferdy said. There was an awkward pause, and he could hardly bring himself to say the words that must follow next. However, at last he managed to utter them. “Are you in need of assistance, Mr. Wyble?”
“Oh, indeed! Indeed I am, Mr. Rafferdy, if you would be so kind. As you can see, I am utterly stranded.”
As was Rafferdy. But there was nothing for it, and he soon found himself sitting next to Mr. Wyble as the cabriolet continued through the streets of Gauldren’s Heights.
The lawyer clutched his hat to keep it from flying off his head and affected a broad smile. “Well, out of misfortune comes opportunity, as wise men say.”
“How so?” Rafferdy asked.
“I mean now is the perfect chance for us to engage in our postponed conversation, Mr. Rafferdy.”
“So it is,” Rafferdy said. “In fact, I imagine it can in no way be avoided.” And he settled back in the seat, bracing himself for the long ride to Mr. Wyble’s destination.
CHAPTER SIX
ELDYN WATCHED THE two men in gray coats depart the inn, then sighed into his half-empty cup of ale. His conversation with Mr. Sarvinge and Mr. Grealing, though brief, had filled him at once with new hope and new dread. His opportunity was not yet lost, as he had feared, but it soon would be if he was not able to acquire a hundred regals. And Eldyn’s pockets were as empty as ever.
“What did those men want with you?” Sashie asked, alighting on a chair across from him.
Eldyn looked up in surprise. The inn’s public room was not a proper place for an unaccompanied young woman, and he had told her she was never to come down here without his permission—though that was a rule, he had to admit, he had not been able to strictly enforce.
“Is it money they want?”
Eldyn fidgeted with the cup. So far he had not told Sashie of his plan to earn back the Garritt family fortune; he did not want to worry her about their situation. However, the look in his sister’s blue eyes was earnest and trusting, and he could not lie to her, not like their father had. How often had he promised her fancy dresses and pretty baubles, only to leave her crying once he drank and gambled the money away?
“It is not a debt I have with them, Sashie. You need not fear that. Rather, I wish to make an investment in their trading company, an investment that would serve to better our circumstances.”
She laughed at this; it was a music he adored above all others. “But, sweet brother, you have improved our circumstances. How can we fare better than to dwell here at the Golden Loom?”
Eldyn could not help smiling at her enthusiasm, even as it perplexed him. The inn was well kept, but like Eldyn’s coat it was growing shabby. And while the clientele were generally respectable folk, that was not entirely the case, as must be for an inn down in Waterside.
“I would do much to improve our lot, Sashie. I would get us a house to live in, with servants to keep it, and our own carriage to drive about the city. I would be a gentleman and go back to university. And I would buy you dresses and jewels, so you might attend a party in the grandest house in the New Quarter and command the attention of all eyes there.” He leaned across the table and took her hands in his. “I would see us happy.”
“But, dear brother, I am happy. Indeed, it is impossible that any of those things you speak of could make me any happier than I already am.”
She cast a look over her shoulder, across the public room toward the bar. A man stood there, speaking while others gathered around, listening and laughing. The spectators were some of the inn’s less savory denizens: their clothes thickly patched, their grins gap-toothed and yellow. A woman leaned over the bar toward the man, her face over-painted and her bosom nearly spilling out of her frock as she howled with laughter.
The speaker might have been taken for a young gentleman of worth hanging about a seamier section of the city for a thrill. He was tall, with a lion’s mane of gold hair, and was by any measure very handsome. His coat of russet velvet was superior to anything Eldyn had ever owned. Rings glittered on both of h
is hands.
The man went by the name of Westen, though whether that was his given name, his family name, or simply an affectation, Eldyn did not know. What Eldyn did know was that, despite his fine looks and fine clothes, he was no gentleman, and none of the rich things he wore had been gotten by forthright or respectable means, for the fellow was known to be a notorious highwayman. This was not a matter of rumor or idle speculation, as Westen had brazenly admitted to it on more than one occasion, and some of his exploits had been so audacious as to be the subject of articles in The Fox.
Even now he was regaling his listeners with some tale of his shadowy deeds. Eldyn could not catch the details from across the room, but the gist was clear when Westen made a little play, his hands flying up and his mouth forming a circle of surprise as he mimicked some hapless traveler whom he had accosted on the road and whom, at the point of a pistol, he had bereaved of all valuables.
The onlookers laughed, the coarse music of their mirth ringing out over the inn. Eldyn might have been tempted to call for a king’s man, but he knew there was no point. Though Westen enjoyed telling tales of his criminal doings, he was ever scrupulous to avoid mention of any details that might link him to a particular incident, and it was said he did his work in disguise, his face covered by a mask, so that none of his victims might recognize him.
During their first weeks at the Golden Loom, Westen had come in only rarely. However, before long the highwayman had started to show up at the inn with increasing frequency, and now Eldyn thought he began to have an inkling why. As Sashie gazed at Westen across the room, her pretty face alight, the highwayman paused in his storytelling to smile and nod in her direction. At this, Sashie snatched her hands back from Eldyn and drew a silk handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress; she let out a sigh as she clutched it in both hands.
“I do not recognize that handkerchief, Sashie. It looks very rich.” She resisted turning her head toward the bar, but her smile was enough to tell him his suspicion was correct. “Did Westen give it to you?”
The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Page 9
