The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  “What is it, Gerivel?” Dercy said as the other reached them. “Forgive my saying, but you look a bit ruffled tonight.”

  “Well, if so, I should think I have good cause!” The older man smoothed the feathers sewn on his sleeves. “We were short an illusionist tonight.”

  “Short an illusionist?”

  “Yes, Mondfort is still unable to perform. Indeed, he was not able to leave his chamber tonight, and of course Bryson insisted on staying with him, as he always does.”

  Dercy’s smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope Mondfort will be well enough to return to the stage soon. He is a great performer.”

  “Oh, the greatest! We all wish for his swift return, of course. But if he ever will be able to go onstage again …” The plumed epaulets of Gerivel’s coat lifted in a shrug. “Well, only time will tell. In the meantime, the performance must go on, and it was no small feat tonight.”

  “Do you not keep two understudies?”

  “Of course we do! Do you think us imprudent? But it was not only Mondfort and Bryson we were missing tonight. We were without Donnebric as well, and so I was forced to take on another role. I already play two, mind you, but there was no one else who could do Bryson’s role without practice. I was the only one, as I used to do it myself. So I had no choice. Above all, the play. Yet I tell you, I am enervated beyond all reason.”

  Indeed, the illusionist looked weary. Again he smoothed the feathers on his arms, and Eldyn saw how his hand trembled as he did. Dercy appeared to notice this as well, and when he saw their attention Gerivel quickly crossed his arms, tucking his hands beneath.

  “So where is Donnebric?” Dercy said, arching an eyebrow.

  “I was hoping you would tell me! That young libertine is gifted, I grant you, but he has yet to develop proper respect for the craft. To miss a performance with no word or explanation is a betrayal of the troupe! I suppose he will offer some excuse, though. He always does.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Earlier in the lumenal. He was leaving in a carriage, off to the New Quarter for a private performance at the house of a magnate. I cannot say whose house, though—we are forsworn to be silent.”

  “Or paid to be silent, you mean,” Dercy said with a grin.

  Once again Gerivel shrugged, as if to say there was no difference. “Well, even if I wished to tell you, I could not. We worked through an intermediary who arranged everything. Regardless, Donnebric was supposed to be back well before the play, but he still has not returned. I know you two used to run about together. Have you seen him?”

  “We had a few drinks together at tavern once or twice,” Dercy said flatly. “That’s all. And no, I haven’t seen him. Have you spoken with this agent of your nameless magnate?”

  “Of course,” Gerivel said indignantly. “According to him, Donnebric departed the house of the patron in question hours before nightfall. Where he went next is unknown. All that is known is that he left in the company of a priest in a red cassock.”

  Dercy laughed. “A priest in a red cassock, you say? Illusionists and clergy at the same time—this magnate keeps peculiar company. Well, if Donnebric left with a priest, I don’t imagine he can get into too much trouble. Though a few of the priests I knew at the Church of St. Adaris seemed determined to battle sin by becoming well versed in it.”

  The old illusionist gave him a sour look. “Now is not the time for jests, Dercent. I am seeking help.”

  Dercy’s laughter was extinguished at once. “Of course. If I see Donnebric, I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

  “That is all I ask,” Gerivel said. He gave an overdramatic bow, then returned to the door of the theater, vanishing within.

  Eldyn regarded his friend. “I thought only people you didn’t like called you Dercent.”

  “You thought right. Now I’m doubly glad I didn’t apprentice at the Theater of the Doves. The conniving old slag—he wants Mondfort’s place, that’s clear enough.”

  Eldyn looked at the darkened door of the theater. “Who is Mondfort?”

  “He’s the master illusionist at the Theater of the Doves. I met him once. He’s brilliant. He can transform the whole stage into a garden or a cloudscape with a twitch of his finger—or could, at least. Gerivel doesn’t have half his talent. He can scheme all he wants, but he’ll never be master at this or any theater. Now come on, let’s get a drink.”

  “What of your friend Donnebric?”

  Dercy laughed. “I wouldn’t call him my friend! Nor was I his. For, as I discovered, all he wants in a friend is a place to plant his boot while he climbs a step higher. Only by standing upon me, he could not reach anyone wealthy or powerful enough for his liking. Once he discovered that, he ignored me—much to my relief. I have far superior companions!”

  With that he took Eldyn’s arm, steering him toward a tavern beyond the last of the theaters, and Eldyn was led willingly.

  THEY WERE ALREADY on their second pot of punch by the time more performers from the Theater of the Moon arrived. There were illusionists from other houses as well—from the Theater of Dreams, the Theater of Veils, and the Theater of Mirrors. Laughter erupted, cups went around, and soon the Siltheri were putting on an impromptu play.

  It was mostly incomprehensible to Eldyn, as the players were constantly changing their forms. First they were Tharosian legionaries and woad-painted barbarians enacting a battle, then shaggy wolves and bleating sheep engaging in a fierce dance. But no matter how little sense it made, the regular patrons of the tavern applauded enthusiastically at every turn. Few of them would have been able to afford to go to a theater, and so they were more than glad to have the theater come to them. And drinks were freely handed to all of the performers—which was no doubt the purpose in giving a show.

  Yet, while the illusions were amazing, somehow the shimmering lights and raucous laughter were too much for Eldyn that night. He wanted a more dim and quiet place. Sensing his friend’s need, Dercy led him to a booth in the back of the tavern. From there they could watch the illusionists without being caught up in the wild phantasms they conjured.

  “Damn Siltheri,” Dercy said, shaking his head. “They craft illusions all evening for money, then for fun they go and give them away for free.”

  “I think it’s marvelous,” Eldyn said, watching as a handsome young illusionist opened a door in his tall wig to let a flock of sparrows fly out. “They do it because they love to do it. Besides, what harm can there be in it?”

  There was an expression on Dercy’s face that Eldyn couldn’t quite describe. It was thoughtful, but there was a sadness to it as well.

  “They are beautiful fools,” he said, then filled their cups again.

  Eldyn sipped his punch. Despite his pleasure at being with his friend, he could not help feeling a note of sadness himself. Would that he could conjure such visions of delight and amusement as the illusionists did!

  Well, he had other abilities. And even if he could not work grand illusions, there was nothing to stop him from paying a quarter regal to see them—at least until he entered the priesthood. Besides, as long as Dercy was his friend, he was bound to encounter illusions every day. This thought buoyed his spirits as much as the punch.

  Applause rang out. The Siltheri in the wig bowed, then sat and gladly accepted the cup that was placed in his hand.

  “So what does Siltheri mean anyway?” Eldyn said, asking a question he had often wondered. “It’s a peculiar word.”

  “It comes from ancient Tharosian.” Dercy flashed a grin. “Or so I’m told, as I’m no scholar. It means the concealed, and it was the name illusionists took for themselves long ago, back when their craft was as likely to get them an audience with an emperor as burned at the stake. Sometimes on the very same occasion.”

  “Well, times have changed.”

  Dercy scratched his bearded jaw. “Have they?”

  “I saw in The Fox that an illusionist performed at a party at the house of a v
iscountess.”

  “Don’t let that fool you! Every now and then, some lord or lady who seeks notoriety will manufacture a passing encounter with illusionists. A touch of scandal is like honey—it sets all the bees to buzzing. Then again, too much is poison, and the moment that lord or lady has risen high enough, they’ll be the first to spurn a Siltheri.” Dercy let out a snort. “Besides, last I looked, I hadn’t seen any respectable lords coming to Durrow Street—at least not without their hats pulled down low and collars turned up.”

  Eldyn could only concede the point. Yet things had changed. The theaters on Durrow Street, while beyond the bounds of respectable society, were allowed to operate openly, and they were busy nearly every night. So why couldn’t things keep changing? Perhaps a time would come when illusionists would no longer need to conceal themselves no matter where they went. The world was a vast place after all—vaster than anyone had thought only a few hundred years ago, before the New Lands were discovered. Why shouldn’t there be room for all sorts of folk? For some reason, this thought was as intoxicating to Eldyn as the punch.

  At last the hour grew late, and Eldyn drained his cup. The umbral was to be of only middling length, and he had promised he would attend Brightday service with Sashie in the morning. When he told Dercy it was time for him to leave, to his surprise, Dercy said he was weary as well, and so they left the tavern together.

  They tottered back down Durrow Street, heads light and legs wobbly, laughing and gripping each other as they went. Dercy had a room above the Theater of the Moon, so getting that far was their first goal.

  The street was all but empty now, the theaters dark, and the only illumination came from sooty streetlamps, which were few and far between. However, when they were about halfway down the street, they saw a knot of people gathered before the doors of one of the theaters.

  It was the Theater of the Doves.

  “Get away!” a voice shrieked. “All of you, get away from here!”

  Eldyn recognized that voice, and by his look so did Dercy.

  “It’s Gerivel,” he said.

  Then he was hurrying toward the door, stumbling no longer. Eldyn drew a breath to steady himself and followed after.

  “To the Abyss with all of you—just leave us!”

  Dercy pushed his way through the small throng of people, all of whom stared at something, mouths agape. Then Dercy stopped short, and Eldyn staggered to a halt beside him. The large quantity of punch in his stomach went sour, and the world spun in a giddy circle around him.

  Gerivel knelt on the paving stones before the door of the theater. He no longer wore his feathered costume, and was clad in plain black, though his face was still powdered. The powder had flaked off in patches, and tears had carved deep grooves through it, so that his face was a grotesque mask of anger and anguish.

  Next to Gerivel, slumped against the door, was a young man. Or rather, the body of a young man. He was dressed in fashionable clothes of velvet and brocade. However, there was no way to know if he had been handsome or not, for his face was crusted with blood.

  “Get back!” Dercy shouted, his voice deeper than Eldyn had ever heard it. He thrust his arms out. “All of you, get back!”

  The gawkers grumbled but complied, edging away from the door. As the crowd shifted, a beam of moonlight fell upon the corpse. Now Eldyn could see the source of all the blood. Both of the young man’s eyes were gone; only empty pits remained.

  Dercy crouched beside Gerivel, who was pawing at the corpse with thin hands, as if trying to wake it.

  “What happened, Gerivel?” Dercy gripped the older illusionist’s shoulders.

  “I told Donnebric not to go! I told him it could not be for good, not when it was all so secret. But he would not listen, not to me. What value could there be in anything I had to say?” Gerivel rocked back and forth on his knees. “I went out to look for him, only I couldn’t find him anywhere. Then I came back, and he was …” His words dissolved into a moan.

  Dercy rose and pounded on the gilded doors of the theater, not letting up until at last it opened a crack. Sounds of outrage emanated from within, quickly transmuting into dismay. Eldyn was aware of figures appearing in the dim doorway, of hands reaching out and picking up both Gerivel and the corpse, drawing them inside.

  Then the doors shut. Without a spectacle to behold, the crowd melted away.

  A hand touched Eldyn’s shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do here,” Dercy said, his voice low.

  “Should we not call for a redcrest?”

  “They would not come. Even if they did, what would the king’s soldiers say, except that this is what happens to men who do such things?”

  Eldyn could do no more than give a mute nod. He stumbled with Dercy down Durrow Street, thinking at any moment he would be sick. His head throbbed from too much punch. He remembered pushing through a door and staggering up a flight of steps.

  The next thing he knew, light flared—the mundane gold light of an oil lamp—and he saw that he was in a small but neatly kept room. They had made it to Dercy’s chamber above the Theater of the Moon.

  “I need to go,” Eldyn said. “I need to get to Sashie.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. You’ve drunk too much. Besides, it’s not safe out there tonight.”

  “I can bring the shadows to me.” Eldyn’s head was clearing now. It wasn’t the punch that had addled his wits so much as the sight in front of the Theater of the Doves.

  “The shadows can’t help you walk straight. And it’s too late to find a hack cab, at least in this part of the city. You can stay here tonight. You’d best lie down. I can sleep in the chair.”

  Eldyn wanted to argue, but he could not. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed and drank the cup of water Dercy handed him. His head still hurt, but his stomach had settled, and he knew he would be well enough.

  The same could not be said for the illusionist Donnebric.

  “Who do you think did it?” Eldyn said. “Was it robbers?”

  Dercy let out a snort. He stood near the window. “No, not robbers. At least not in the sense you mean. For every magnate is a robber in his way.”

  These words astonished Eldyn. “The magnate he performed for. You think he had this done?”

  “Who else would do it?”

  “For what purpose? Why kill him?”

  Dercy gazed out into the night. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone was removed in order to preserve a secret. It’s one thing for a lord to have an illusionist summon gold sparrows at a party to propagate talk and interest. But cavorting with Siltheri in private is a far different matter. You can imagine what it would do to some staid old magnate’s reputation if it was discovered he had let illusionists conjure lewd phantasms in his bedchamber while he paraded about without a stitch on.”

  Eldyn could indeed imagine it. It could very well cost him his seat in Assembly. After all, such actions had ended any chance Vandimeer Garritt had ever had of taking his own father’s seat in the Hall of Magnates.

  “That idiot.” Dercy shook his head. “Donnebric would have been fine if he’d been more discreet. But he always wanted to blaze in the sun. I’m sure he must have said or done something, made some boast, that caused the magnate to fear the whole sordid affair would be revealed.”

  “So Donnebric was murdered,” Eldyn said, hardly believing a man—a lord even—could be so cold as to buy secrecy at the cost of a man’s life. “God protect us.”

  Now Dercy laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Oh, he won’t protect us, Eldyn. Well, you, perhaps. You’re the one who works for the Church and who looks like an angel after all. But as for us Siltheri …” He drew the curtain and turned from the window. “Men might pay to see our illusions, Eldyn, but it is better if we are not seen ourselves. What happened to Donnebric—that’s what happens when our kind become too visible.”

  Eldyn looked down at his hands. Perhaps the world was not so vast after all. Perhaps it would never have room for people l
ike Donnebric and Gerivel and Dercy, and they would always have to remain concealed. He began to shiver, though the night was balmy.

  “Come now, what’s this?” Dercy said, sitting on the bed beside him. “You’re all right. You need not shake so.”

  “I can’t stop it,” Eldyn said. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  Dercy put an arm around his shoulder. “There is no point in it. I would never have wished such a thing for Donnebric, but he brought it on himself by his own actions.”

  “Did he? Did he truly do something to deserve such an end?”

  “Deserve it? No, he did not deserve it. Yet he knew the rules we must abide by, and he flouted them.”

  It was so cruel. How could one man have so much power over another? And how could God, who was sovereign over all, allow it? Were they just beasts, then, like the wolves and sheep in the makeshift play at the tavern, engaging in a savage dance until one consumed the other?

  Still Eldyn could not stop shaking. “I feel cold.”

  “Then let’s get you warm.”

  Dercy rubbed his hands against Eldyn’s back, his shoulders, his arms. He did this vigorously at first, to induce the production of warmth. Then, as the force of Eldyn’s shuddering eased, Dercy’s motions grew slower, more gentle. Yet even when Eldyn shivered no longer, the other young man did not stop. He touched Eldyn’s hands, his throat, his cheeks.

  “There, do you see?” Dercy said in a low voice. “You are well, my angel.”

  Eldyn looked up into the young man’s sea-colored eyes, and at last he understood the expression he had seen in them before: the look of hope, and of regret. How had he not realized before what it meant? Yet up until then he had been so preoccupied with trying to improve his ability at illusions that he had been insensible to that other capacity that had been steadily increasing in him whenever he and Dercy were together.

  Now he recognized it for what it was, and he could only be astonished at himself. Though in a way that was foolishness, for he supposed he had always known the truth of the matter. Certainly he had never watched a pretty young woman with the same fascination that he felt when he spied two illusionists together in the shadows of a tavern.