The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  “But then Howburn—”

  “Howburn was no patriot. He thought he could sell what he knew to the king’s men for a goodly sum. But the blacksmith beat him to it and delivered him up to the soldiers for a grand total of a dozen regals. There’s a ‘devoted subject of the Crown’ for you. The only crown he cares about is one stamped on a coin.”

  Eldyn pressed a hand to his head. “But then the letters—”

  “Are safe. They were never in Howburn’s possession for long. It was his job to pass them along.”

  “And the papers the blacksmith found were fakes,” Eldyn said, “planted there to mislead the agents of the king.”

  Westen grinned, a flash of lightning. “You’re far better at this than you give yourself credit for, Garritt.”

  “But he will hang,” Eldyn said. “Whether the letters are false or not, no matter what they contain, in the end he will surely hang.” A terrible thought came to him. “What if he accuses us to save himself?”

  “And whom will he accuse? He has never seen me in his life, and you wore a mask when you went to meet him, as did the others. Howburn will go to the gallows alone.”

  Eldyn succumbed to thirst and took the cup, taking a draft. He set it down. “Either way, it is over.”

  Westen laughed; the sound gave Eldyn a shudder.

  “Over? No, it is far from over, Garritt.” He laid a copy of The Fox on the table and tapped a bit of print on the last page. It was an advertisement for pewter candlesticks, silver snuffboxes, and gold thimbles.

  Eldyn stared at the paper. The beer he had drunk curdled in his stomach.

  “It will not be over,” the highwayman said, “until the old stag is dead and the people of Altania roast its flesh on a spit.”

  A dread came over Eldyn. He thought of his near miss with the king’s men, of the dog that had attacked him, of the blacksmith and his hammer. He could not do this anymore.

  “I am finished.” He took a breath, then looked up and made himself meet Westen’s gaze. “I have done what you wanted of me. I am finished with this wretched business.”

  “But I am not finished with you,” the highwayman said. He reached for the cup, though Eldyn still held on to it, and their fingers brushed. Eldyn snatched both his hands back and put them in his lap.

  “I say again, I have done enough,” he muttered. “I am through with this devil’s work.”

  “That was not our agreement, Garritt. I know you are a gentleman of your word. Or do you mean to tell me you are giving me my hundred regals back?”

  Eldyn only looked at his hands.

  “Then it is as I thought, and our agreement stands.” Westen drained the cup and set it on the table.

  Eldyn wanted to weep, but he forced himself to stay steady. By God, to act so unmanly in front of the highwayman would be unbearable. Eldyn, not he, was the lord’s grandson.

  “I was nearly caught twice. I cannot hope to escape a third time. I have my sister to think of. I cannot do this.”

  “Not for the sake of your country?”

  “I am sure it is better for my country’s sake that I not do this.”

  “You say that, Garritt, but you do not believe it. You see as well as I how ill the magnates use Altania, how ill they use its land, its people, and how the king totters upon his throne and does nothing. A storm gathers. Fly with it, or it will beat you down.”

  Eldyn made no reply. The highwayman leaned in closer. “I told you that Howburn never saw me in his life, but I wear no mask with you, Garritt. Because what I said before was true. We are alike, you and I. We both want something better for ourselves and for our country. Yet unlike you, I am man enough to do something about it.”

  “I am doing something about it!” Eldyn said, but the words sounded weak. He hung his head, ashamed of the way his cheeks stung. The bench opposite him scraped against the floor. Boots thumped behind him, and a hand fell upon his shoulder.

  “You must choose whether or not to be a man, Garritt.” The highwayman’s breath was warm against his ear. “Do this for your sake, for your country’s sake. And if not for that…” He squeezed Eldyn’s shoulder. “If not for that, then do it for the sake of your precious sister. For I know you would never do anything, anything at all, that might cause her to come to harm. Would you, Mr. Garritt?”

  The sound of boots retreated. Eldyn sat at the table, staring at his empty cup, and it was many minutes before his legs felt solid enough to stand upon.

  EVENING WAS FALLING, a violet curtain that dropped by inches before a long night, as Eldyn raced through the streets of the Old City.

  Westen’s speech had indeed filled him with resolve, but not the sort the highwayman had intended. Eldyn would choose to be a man, but he would choose in his own way. He was not his father. He was not a highwayman.

  And he would not carry more messages for traitors, or for dogs who threatened his sister.

  He hurried along a darker part of Durrow Street, past the grog houses, past the beggars and the whores, past the men who huddled around the fires that burned in the street, drinking gin.

  “Hello there, love!” called out one of the women who sat on the filthy steps of a church. “You’re a fine thing to look at. Come on over, and we’ll show you something the priests never did.” She raised her bottle toward him and hiked up her skirts over her knees.

  Eldyn ran past without looking, and their laughter followed him.

  “I bet the priests did show him a thing or two. What they got under their cassocks, that’s what. And I bet he liked it. Well, you keep on going, love. The theaters are that way, and they know what to do with a thing like you!”

  He ignored their catcalls and pressed on, through the worst section of Durrow Street: a quarter-mile length known as High Holy by its denizens—and by those who ventured there seeking its dark and violent pleasures. For though the old chapel on its little hill had been abandoned years ago, the Church still owned it, as well as the buildings around it.

  As he left High Holy behind, Eldyn could only admit that some of what Westen had said was true. Altania and its people had been wronged by men of wealth. Nor had the king or the Church done anything about it. Yet that men like Westen could do any better was absurd.

  Westen fancied himself a kind of hero, but he was nothing more than a robber and a thief. He stole from the rich because it suited him. However, if men like him ever ruled the country, then they would steal from the poor just as easily. If Altania was to be made a better place, it would not be by the hands of criminals but through honest men.

  And Eldyn Garritt was an honest man. He would not go back on his agreement with Westen, however foolishly and in a weak moment it had been entered into. He would pay the highwayman back, and with interest.

  It would be simple enough, he was sure of it. His last meeting with Mr. Sarvinge and Mr. Grealing had gone exceedingly well. Any awkward or uncomfortable feelings had dissipated at once. The two had accepted his investment of a hundred regals gratefully, even humbly. They had apologized for being so sharp with him, but he understood they had only acted as business required; it was in no way personal. They had in fact always held the deepest belief that he would make good on his word. So he had, and they could not have been more pleased. The trading company was set to depart for the New Lands; his investment had come just in time. His profit of twenty times his investment was assured.

  Eldyn looked at the signs on the buildings as he went, searching for Inslip Lane. He had never been to their place of business before, but he knew the address. He would speak with Mr. Sarvinge and Mr. Grealing. They were reasonable men. The trading ships were on their way to the New Lands—indeed, were likely there by now. He would ask them for an advance against his returns. In exchange, he would be more than willing to take a smaller profit, perhaps fifteen times his investment; the remainder of the profit would be theirs as payment for the advance. He was certain there was no way men of such good business sense could fault an arrangement that would
cost them so little and that would bring them such benefit.

  True, Eldyn would be reducing his own profit. But fifteen hundred regals would still be a large sum of money. And the cost would be worth it to be free of that scoundrel Westen.

  Music and laughter spilled onto the street ahead, accompanied by flickering lights of many hues. Eldyn passed a row of theaters, their doors flung open to the twilight. Men with powdered faces and powdered wigs and red smiles stood along the street, conjuring flower-laden trees, tiny suns, and miniature dancers who whirled in midair, all in an effort to entice people into the various theaters.

  There seemed no lack of patrons. Many entered the theaters with their hats pulled low, while others had no fear of the lights and kept their heads uncovered, laughing boldly if they thought anyone was looking. There were even some women holding on to the arms of men, dressed in silk and glitter and so made up with powders and rouges that they were hardly less things of illusion that what the Siltheri conjured from light and air. One young woman smiled at Eldyn and dipped a finger into the cleft of her ample bosom. He turned away, letting the evening air cool his face.

  He found himself near one of the illusionists: a young man nearly as made up as some of the women. He wove slender hands back and forth, and all at once a small unicorn pranced around him, white as milk, a trail of stars cascading from its pearlescent horn.

  “You should buy a ticket and come in,” the young Siltheri said. “You are sure to find a performance that pleases you at the Theater of the Unicorn.” He made a circle with his fingers, stroking the shaft of the unicorn’s horn.

  Eldyn kept walking, leaving the light and music behind. He reached into his pocket and touched the disk of silver there: the coin that bore the faces of the sun and moon on its two sides. A compulsion came over him to go back to the theaters, to step inside their doors.

  There was no time for diversions; he had business of the greatest importance to attend to. Eldyn squinted at signs in the failing light. He could only hope they were still there, that they had not yet gone out for the evening.

  At last he found Inslip Lane, nearly at the very end of Durrow Street where it met the wall of the Old City. The odor of the river spilled over the wall; mosses flourished on the stones. He turned down the lane, which soon reached a dead end. He peered at the houses in the sputtering light of a streetlamp. At last he found the numbers painted on a door. A breath of relief escaped him—a light glowed through the panes of the window.

  Eldyn rapped on the door, hoping he was not disturbing them. There was no response, so he knocked again. As he did, the door swung open.

  The scene he beheld astonished him so greatly that for a moment he could not move. A woman of considerable girth, her frowsy hair spilling out of her goodwife’s bonnet, was rummaging through the drawers of a cabinet. Such was her muttering and the racket she was making with the drawers that she must not have heard his knocking. However, a gust of air rushed through the open door, causing the candle on the table to flicker and flare, and she turned around with a gasp.

  Taking her for a thief, Eldyn sprang forward and seized her by the wrist, intending to hold her while he called out for a constable. However, she howled and railed as if he were murdering her and jerked her hand with such surprising force that he was obliged to release her, upon which she snatched up an andiron from the hearth and brandished it at him.

  “Off with you!” the woman shouted. “Saints mark me, I’ll not let another steal from me this day!”

  These words so baffled Eldyn that he was forced to consider that he had misread the situation, that perhaps this was not the right house. So he raised his hands, as seemed prudent given her weapon and her apparent willingness to use it, and explained his situation. He had come looking for two respectable men, Mr. Sarvinge and Mr. Grealing, on a matter of business; he had thought this was their house.

  “No, this is my house,” she answered him. Her face had been marred by pox, but he was forced to admit it did not have an evil look to it. “I am the landlady here.”

  He asked if she had ever seen Mr. Sarvinge and Mr. Grealing; he described their general appearance.

  “Oh, aye, I know them well enough. The one skinny as a stick, and the other as round as a puddle of oil. And if I saw either of them, I would dash their heads in.” The andiron drooped in her grip. “But I don’t doubt I’ll never see either of them again. And I warrant you will neither, if that was your hope.”

  An ill feeling came over him. Forgetting the length of iron she held in her hand, he stepped off the threshold. “You’re mistaken. I have business with them.”

  “Aye, and so do I! They owe me ten regals in rent, they do. Kept promising me they’d have it for me. ‘Just another day, missus. Just give us one more day.’ They swore to Eternum and back they’d pay me. Now swearing is all I have.” She let out a curse, then dropped the andiron, reached into the drawer, and pulled out a fistful of papers. “A fine pair of talkers they were. But words is all they had to trade. I’ll never get my coin out of them. And neither will you, if they owed you anything. Sure as a long umbral is dark, they’re halfway to Torland by now.”

  She threw the papers at Eldyn. They swarmed to the floor, and one landed on the table before him. It was a printed certificate of investment for a trading company to the New Lands. He sagged against the table.

  “But we had business…”

  The landlady snorted. “The only business those two had was swindling folk. If you gave them anything, you’d have as soon given it to the illusionists down the street for all you’ll get in return.”

  With that she snatched up the candle, set her bonnet straight, and marched through the door, leaving Eldyn alone in the gloom.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AT FIRST THERE had been good reason to hope the situation was not in any way serious.

  Miss Lockwell was hardly the first young lady to have fainted at a party. It was agreed by all that the evening had offered more stimulation than she could have been accustomed to. The wine, the presence of so many important personages, the general grandness of everything had all worked to overwhelm her. She was carried to a bed upstairs and the doctor summoned.

  “It is the fault of fashion,” Lady Marsdel proclaimed to those who remained in the parlor. “To be considered stylish, a young woman’s gown must squeeze the breath out of her and not leave room for two bites of food. Soon ladies everywhere will be so beautiful that they’ll never be seen at all, swooning before they can leave their rooms for want of air and nourishment.”

  A message was dispatched to Whitward Street, so that Mrs. Lockwell might not wonder at her daughter’s failure to return. The note expressed the conviction that it was the most minor of conditions; Mrs. Lockwell could certainly expect her daughter’s return tomorrow.

  Mrs. Baydon, feeling a keen distress for her new friend, sat with her for many hours, as did the doctor, who held all manner of salts and acrid-smelling potions under her nose. However, all such efforts failed to induce consciousness, and by the end of the umbral a fever had come upon her. The doctor called for cool cloths; he bled her arm into a silver bowl. Dawn found her pallid, her eyes shut, her breathing swift and shallow.

  At breakfast the doctor spoke with Lady Marsdel. The situation was dire; the mother must be called for at once. After writing the unhappy letter on behalf of her husband’s aunt, Mrs. Baydon dashed off another missive—a note to Mr. Rafferdy.

  He had just been rising after what he indulged himself in thinking had been a wretched night. However, upon reading Mrs. Baydon’s note, all thought of the previous dozen hours vanished, and he was dressed and out the door before his carriage was ready—a fact that gave both his man and his driver some cause for wonderment. He arrived at Fairhall Street nearly simultaneously with Mrs. Lockwell, and he could hear her voice ringing out even as he set foot in the door.

  “My poor daughter!” came the mother’s cries. “She was out in that dreadful rain yesterday, I hardly know
why. A horrible storm it was, stirring up all sorts of vile mists and humors, I am sure. I told her she must rest, that she would catch something dreadful if she didn’t keep to her bed. But she was all aflutter about the party. Coming here meant the world to her, though I dread to say it might cost her the world in the end!”

  Rafferdy entered the front hall to witness the end of this speech. “Oh, Mr. Rafferdy!” Mrs. Lockwell exclaimed at the sight of him, but after that she was overcome by her distress.

  Lord Baydon took her arm and led her to a chair. “There, there, madam,” he said. And, unable to think of anything else that might help, he attempted to lend his words all the greater efficacy by repeating them. “I say, there, there.”

  Water was fetched, and one of Lady Marsdel’s fans for air, and the two elements revived Mrs. Lockwell enough that she was able to follow Mrs. Baydon upstairs. The doctor started up after, but Rafferdy touched his arm, speaking quietly with him at the foot of the staircase.

  “How serious is it?” he asked.

  “It is very serious, Mr. Rafferdy. I cannot make light of the young lady’s condition. The fever came upon her with great speed and force.”

  “What will you do to treat it?”

  “I fear I can do no more than I already have. Now the thing must run its course. It lies only in her power to break the fever now, and in God’s.”

  “But how long will it be before she recovers?”

  The doctor gave him a stern look. “Mr. Rafferdy, it is not a matter of when she will recover. Rather, it is a matter of whether she will recover at all. As for the answer to that, we can do nothing but wait.”

  At that moment Rafferdy felt a sort of fear he had never in his life known before. So strong was the feeling, and so entirely novel to him, that he was forced to sit, put a hand to his brow, and try to fathom what it was that had come over him.

  Of course he had felt fear before. He had experienced all the usual childish horrors: of the dark, of strangers, of being lost. There had been one terrifying experience when he had been chased by one of his father’s hounds that had turned feral.