“Lily!” Ivy said, her sister’s display restoring her to her senses. “It is not proper to crow like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I crow? Just think how happy our mother would be if she were here! She would have shouted the news at the top of her lungs. Even she could never have asked for more for us.”
Ivy was forced to admit Lily was right. Were she alive, Mrs. Lockwell would have been beside herself to see the situation of her daughters so vastly—indeed, almost unimaginably—improved. Surely no one on Whitward Street would ever have expected the three Miss Lockwells to rise so far.
“Dance with us, Ivy!” Rose said, taking her hand as Miss Mew pranced around them.
Such was the power of Rose’s smile that Ivy could not resist. Nor, when she grasped the hands of her sisters, could she prevent herself from joining in their merriment, and together they laughed and spun before the windows, basking in the light of the long day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THOUGH IT HAD been nine hours since dawn, the light on the towers of Assembly was still the white-gold illumination of morning. Such was the way the light bathed them that it imparted to those spires a patina of virtue and purity that, Rafferdy was certain, was wholly misplaced.
Despite its breadth, Marble Street was a snarl of horses and carriages. Every driver struggled to get close to the steps in front of Assembly to discharge his passengers, while at the same time a company of soldiers endeavored to press them back, shouting, “Make way, make way, the king is coming!” Whips were brandished, and polished swords in turn. And if the soldiers pressed the carriages back on one flank, then the drivers advanced on another.
“It looks like a battle is going on!” Mrs. Baydon observed through the window of Lord Baydon’s barouche as it crept down the street in a series of fitful starts and stops. “I wonder if that is Captain Branfort’s company. If so, I’m sure the soldiers will prevail. You’d think people had come not to see the opening of Assembly but rather to assail its doors, wrest them open, and take over the place.”
“I am certain that taking over is precisely what people intend,” Rafferdy said. “Though it is not doors that will be assailed and wrested, but rather ears and arms, for the purpose of winning votes.”
He shifted on the seat, attempting not to wrinkle his new velvet coat. Rafferdy had changed into his best attire, despite Lord Baydon’s assurances that he could wear any old thing, as no one would see under his robes.
Mrs. Baydon smiled at him from the opposite bench. “Isn’t it too thrilling, Mr. Rafferdy, to think that you will get to raise your hand and speak yea or nay on matters of importance to all of Altania?”
“Yes, too thrilling by far. Thus I will pretend to be mute and palsied, unable to either utter a syllable or lift a hand.”
“You can do no such thing, I am sure! It is your duty to make wise choices for Altania. Besides, it would be horrid to pretend to be infirm when you are not.”
“No, Mrs. Baydon, it would be horrid to pretend to be wise when I am not.”
“Now you’re speaking gibberish, Rafferdy,” Mr. Baydon said, lowering a broadsheet that he had folded into quarters in order to read it in the confines of the barouche. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes time to vote. Why, all those lords out there think nothing about voting this way or that on the weightiest of topics, even if they haven’t learned a thing about it, and not one of them is a whit more wise than you are.”
Rafferdy gazed out the window. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Before the others could reply, the barouche gave a violent lurch and came to a halt. Outside, a number of soldiers dashed by, expressions angry and hands outstretched.
“Do you think we’ll get inside in time?” Mrs. Baydon said, adjusting the blue sash draped over her shoulder. “I don’t want to be late for the king’s entrance.”
“It is impossible we could miss it,” Lord Baydon said cheerfully. “It is far too grand a day for such a misfortune to befall us. You will see—the moment we have gotten inside and made ourselves comfortable, and have our wigs properly arranged, then the king will arrive.”
“It is impossible we could miss it,” Mr. Baydon repeated, “for it is the king’s purpose to address Assembly. Therefore he cannot very well speak before Assembly is gathered.” He raised his broadsheet. A headline on the reverse blared, SPY CONFESSES—REBELS IN OUTLAND COUNTIES SEEK TO INDUCE FURTHER RISINGS.
“Oh, look at this!” Mrs. Baydon exclaimed, and seized the broadsheet from Mr. Baydon’s hands. “There is an article here about Lady Crayford. It says the viscountess is expected to host a party this evening, following the opening of Assembly.”
Mr. Baydon crossed his arms. “I am relieved, Mrs. Baydon. I thought for a moment you had suddenly developed an interest in news and rational affairs. I see that is not at all the case.”
Mrs. Baydon raised the newspaper, blocking him from her sight. “It says there will be musicians, and a play, and a flight of gilded doves. The article claims it will be the grandest of affairs, and that everyone is going to be there.”
“Then I fear the article is in error,” Mr. Baydon said, plucking the broadsheet from her hands, “for we were not invited.”
“No, we were not,” Mrs. Baydon said, slumping back against the bench. “Everyone agrees the viscountess invites only the most desirable and stylish guests. Thus it is assured that we will never attend one of her affairs. I will never get to see so marvelous a thing. Instead, I will content myself with the same worn and dull amusements forevermore.”
“I had no idea you were so resigned to such a fate,” Mr. Baydon said. “Yet if that is the case, then I won’t bother speaking to Captain Branfort.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean, you won’t speak with the captain? Why should you speak to him?”
“He once served in the same regiment with a certain Colonel Daubrent, who is, I understand, the brother of the viscountess. From what Branfort told me, he and Daubrent were on friendly terms. I had thought he might be able to ask the colonel to inquire on your behalf about an invitation to one of Lady Crayford’s affairs. But since you are no longer interested …”
“Oh, Mr. Baydon!” she exclaimed.
“Well,” her husband said, “if you are certain, now that you have pledged yourself to a life of dullness, that a party will not be too distressing for you, then I will speak to him when next we see him.” He raised his broadsheet again, though not before Rafferdy caught the hint of a smile on his lips.
With a jerk, the barouche began to move again. Apparently the soldiers had decided the way to clear the street was not to turn everyone back, but rather to let everyone through. Against some tides, even the mightiest army could not stand, and the soldiers, for all their valiant efforts, had proved no match for a throng of politicians all wanting a good seat. In moments the carriage pulled up to the steps below the Hall of Magnates.
Rafferdy opened the door and helped Mrs. Baydon out while Mr. Baydon assisted his father.
“Are you still certain you want to observe today?” Rafferdy said to Mrs. Baydon. “You know you find politics tedious.”
“As do you, Mr. Rafferdy. But if you can bear to participate in Assembly, I am sure I can bear to watch it.”
“And if I cannot bear it?”
Mrs. Baydon looked up at him. “You must, Mr. Rafferdy.” She took her husband’s arm and walked with him up the steps, Lord Baydon huffing after them.
Rafferdy glanced up. A cloud had gone over the sun, and the spires above Assembly were no longer white, but rather were a sullied gray. For some reason the sight of this pleased him, and smiling despite himself he followed the rest of the throng up the steps.
LORD BAYDON WAS right about one thing: no one could see a stitch of Rafferdy’s new clothes beneath his robe.
The Robe Room was a dim, wood-paneled antechamber off the front gallery of the Hall of Magnates. He and Lord Baydon were some of the last to arrive, and so took off their
hats and donned the garments the usher handed them with all possible haste. Rafferdy’s robe was an ancient thing of heavy black cloth with a ruffled collar and a decidedly musty odor.
He meant to ask the gray-haired usher for another. However, it took considerable tugging to get Lord Baydon into his robe, and then the older man’s wig was askew, and by the time it was straightened they could hear the High Speaker’s voice echoing into the Robe Room, calling for order.
“Your wig, Mr. Rafferdy!” Lord Baydon said. “You haven’t put it on. Where is it?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Well, the usher can lend you one to wear. All lords must have a wig!” He gave his own white hairpiece a tug, so that it came down to his eyebrows.
Rafferdy eyed the row of wigs on a shelf. They were yellowed and matted, and had he not known otherwise he would have taken them for something the servants used to clean the floor.
“As I’m not yet a lord, I’m sure it would be improper for me to wear a wig,” he said. Somewhere a gavel was banging. “Now, Lord Baydon, we must find our places.”
They departed the Robe Room by the opposite door and found themselves in a corner of the Hall. It was a great rectangular room with a rostrum at one end and rows of ascending benches on the other three sides. A dome surmounted all, its frescoes tarnished and tainted from the smoke of oil lamps—or perhaps, Rafferdy imagined, from the noxious exhalations of countless politicians.
Finding their place was not difficult, as there were few places left. Rafferdy seated Lord Baydon at one of the lower benches—an act that resulted in a sudden displacement of lords in either direction. Then he took a spot in the highest row for himself. He plucked at the various frills of his robe, trying to arrange them without provoking any further emanation of odor.
“I see you’ve forgone a wig as well. Good for you, sir!”
Rafferdy looked at the young man who sat to his right. He was clean-shaven, like Rafferdy, and his crown of light brown hair was uncovered. Indeed, fitting a wig over it would have been as great a challenge as fitting a robe over Lord Baydon, for his frizzy hair rose up in a mass nearly as tall as a top hat.
The young man’s face was less remarkable than his hair, being neither homely nor handsome. However, it was round and open, with a goodly aspect. Perhaps not a face to inspire love, but one very easy to like. His cheeks were rosy, and dimples appeared as he grinned.
“If a few more join us, we will make a fashion of it. Soon only the most doddering old lords will be caught in a wig.”
“It wasn’t for fashion that I forwent a wig,” Rafferdy said. “I was simply in dread of touching any of the ones in the Robe Room.”
“Well, you were wise not to borrow one of those. There’d be no telling who wore it last. Eternum knows, it could have been a Stout.”
Rafferdy knew little about politics, but he had heard Mr. Baydon complain about the Stouts. They were an insignificant but apparently vocal party, and adhered to the belief that the magnates must hold themselves subject to the will of the Crown in all matters. That they should be detested by the rest of the magnates was thus a necessity.
“I confess it was not the former owner’s party that concerned me,” Rafferdy said, “but rather the frequency with which he washed his head.”
The young man laughed. “Then you definitely didn’t want the wig of a Stout. As far as I can tell, they only bathe if the king decrees it. Though I see you had to borrow a robe.”
“You mean we can have our own?” Rafferdy said, astonished. He saw now that the other man’s robe was simple but elegantly cut of black crepe, with not a frill or ruff to be seen. Rafferdy suffered a pang of envy.
“Of course you can have your own. Unless you prefer …”
Rafferdy raised an eyebrow and gave him a pointed look.
The young man grinned again. “I see. Then you’ll be wanting to visit Larrabee’s. They make the finest robes. You’ll find the shop down Marble Street, just past the Silver Branch.”
“I’ll go there directly once the session is over,” Rafferdy said. “I’m in your debt. And who should I tell them sent me?”
“You can give them the name Lord Coulten Harfax.”
Rafferdy gave a genial nod, as if no way surprised to hear the other’s name. In truth, he had not expected to find himself sitting next to the son of a marquess; Lord Harfax was well known to have a vast estate in the east of Altania.
“And I’m Rafferdy,” was all he said in reply.
“Excellent to meet you, Mr. Rafferdy.”
Lord Coulten extended his hand. As he did, Rafferdy saw a glint of red. On the other man’s index finger was a heavy gold ring set with seven small red gems. Eldritch symbols were etched along the sides. Rafferdy held out his hand, and the gem on his own House ring flashed blue.
Lord Coulten’s grin broadened, and his eyes sparkled as they shook hands. Before he could say anything more, the pounding of a gavel rang out, and the High Speaker’s voice thundered across the Hall, calling the session to order.
Lord Coulten gave Rafferdy a nod that meant, We will talk, you and I. Then they faced the rostrum as the work of the Hall of Magnates began for the year. However, Rafferdy soon believed it would take a year for Assembly to get to any business. A proposal first had to be put forth asking if the members thought Assembly should be convened. As if they had gone to all the trouble of coming here for some other reason!
The motion then had to be seconded and put to a vote. Then more motions were proposed and accepted, granting the gavel to the High Speaker (as though he didn’t already clutch it in his hand) and the keys to the Grand Usher (as if they didn’t already hang about his neck on a gold chain). Rafferdy followed Lord Coulten’s lead and spoke yea when he did.
Presently the members of the Hall of Citizens filed in to stand in every bit of free space in the aisles and behind the last row of benches, as when the king made an address to Assembly, it was the custom that the members of both Halls gather together. Finally a proposal was put forth asking if the king should be permitted entry in order to address the Hall.
Of course the proposal passed unanimously, though there was a small knot of lords who shouted their yeas in a hearty manner; those would be the Stouts, Rafferdy supposed by their ratty wigs and fervent expressions. The members of the Hall of Citizens gave their affirmation nearly as enthusiastically as the Stouts. Most lords spoke their yeas in more reserved tones, and there was one group that took great time in standing up, and who spoke their assent with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
Rafferdy leaned his head toward Lord Coulten. “What party are those lords in?”
“Oh, they’re in the Magisters. It’s the newest party, formed just last year. I think you can guess their opinion of the king.”
So could the Stouts, by the glares they threw across the Hall. However, the Magisters kept their gazes on the rostrum as all took their seats once more. The last to sit was a tall, fair-haired man whose black robe, while obviously new and rich, was adorned with even more frills than Rafferdy’s. His face had a high-cheeked haughtiness to it, but his gaze, when cast about the Hall as he sat, was more limpid than cutting.
The fair-haired lord proceeded to fuss with his robe, as if its drape was of greater concern than any business before the Hall. Indeed, all of the Magisters seemed preoccupied with their robes, their wigs (which had a bluish tint), or—for many of them—the House rings that glittered on their hands.
Rafferdy was going to ask Lord Coulten more about the Magisters. However, at that moment the Grand Usher called out: “By order of the Hall of Magnates, the king is hereby welcomed to address our body. Make way for His Majesty! Make way for King Rothard, High Lord of Altania!”
AT LAST THE speech was over.
Rafferdy’s back ached from sitting for so long on the hard bench. Here in one room were the heirs to all the greatest fortunes in Altania, and no one had ever thought to purchase cushions? He rose to his feet along with the lords as th
e members of the Hall of Citizens filed from the Hall, the king having departed before them.
Rafferdy glanced up at the gallery and caught sight of Mrs. Baydon sitting with a group of other young women all clad in shades of blue, gold, and green. Her sash had drooped off her shoulder. He waved up to her, but at that moment she shut her eyes, holding a hand to her mouth as she let out a great yawn. Rafferdy imagined she had been cured of the belief that politics in any way had the potential for excitement.
Certainly he would never believe such a thing. The king’s address had been interminable—at least half an hour. And all the while, Rothard had slumped in a chair on the rostrum, his head bent down as if it was painful for him to raise it, his thin hands curled in his lap.
Given the king’s feeble appearance, Rafferdy would have thought it impossible for his speech to have any sort of impact. But Rothard’s words, no matter that they were muttered, might have been a barrage from a cannon for the way they struck the Hall. He had called for the nation to come together as one. Inquire not what profit might be made, he proclaimed, unless it was for the sake of Altania’s profit; and let all pride be set aside, save for pride in Altania herself.
As pride and profit were all that generally consumed a magnate’s thoughts, these statements necessarily caused many a lord in the Hall to recoil. And the citizens applauded vigorously, the small band of Stouts with them, so that the king’s reedy voice was often drowned out. After such moments, Rothard appeared to have to gather himself to find the breath to continue on. That such a pitiful being could in any way oppose the will of the magnates seemed impossible.
Yet on those few occasions when he did raise his head, his eyes were sharp and gray. King Rothard’s body may have withered, but not his mind—as was made clear by his very last statements.
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