Well, Mr. Bennick had been thwarted, and he had not gotten the artifact. As for the things that her father had described hiding, perhaps Mr. Bennick had never gotten them either. Perhaps he had warned her father about the other magicians in the order because he had sensed they were going to turn against him—something they must have done at some point, for why else would they have taken Mr. Bennick’s magick from him?
As for the things her father wrote about hiding, she could only wonder what they were. Tyberion and Arantus—the names sounded familiar to her, but she wasn’t sure from where. Her father must have intended to tell her more. And perhaps he had. An excitement rose in her, and again she turned the pages of the journal, going through them one by one.
It took her some time, but at last there could be no doubt. There was no other entry in the journal besides the one. Whatever enchantment had caused it to appear had not affected any other pages.
Ivy’s excitement ebbed. Perhaps it was due to the ominous nature of the words her father had written, or to the fact that they reminded her of what she had for so long been deprived—namely, her father’s company and guidance. Whatever the cause, a sudden loneliness gripped her. The darkness pushed in through the windows, and the one taper she had lit wavered, as if unable to withstand that ancient force.
Ivy shut the journal and locked it back in the box. Then she rose to light more candles, thinking not of the cost as she spread them all about the room. Then she sat in the midst of them, as if their gold light was an aegis against the night, and waited for Mr. Quent to return.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ELDYN SAT AT his desk in the office of the rector, gazing at the blank sheet before him. He drew a breath, then dipped his pen.
The tip clattered loudly against the rim of the ink pot. He tried to blot it, but his hand gave a jerk, and dark drops struck the blotter, spreading outward in a violent stain. Eldyn set down the pen and grasped his right hand, trying to quell its shaking.
But it was no use. As soon as he let go, his hand began to tremble again, as it had ever since he saw that morning’s edition of The Swift Arrow. A boy had been hawking them before the steps of Graychurch, and Eldyn had bought a copy. However, one glance at the front page and he wished he had saved his penny.
A GRUESOME END FINDS ANOTHER ILLUSIONIST, read the smallish headline near the bottom of the page. The article beneath was brief, but not without salacious details, as lurid pieces were a specialty of The Swift Arrow. It described how a young man who was known to perform at the Theater of Emeralds had been discovered in High Holy, dead and bloodied.
Before his remains were heaved upon the steps of the old chapel, read the article, the unlucky fellow’s eyes were plucked from his skull. It was an act some might consider particularly awful, given that it was the victim’s vocation to conjure wonders meant to be seen, though we might choose to differ and call it particularly fitting instead.…
Eldyn had read no more; he threw the broadsheet in the gutter and hurried into the church, down to the cool quiet of the room above the crypts. His hands would not stop trembling. Nor could he make his head concentrate on the work at hand. Instead, all he could think of was the sight of Donnebric before the Theater of the Doves, his face a dark, crusted mask. Now another young man had met a similar fate. Had he been indiscreet, as Donnebric had been? Is that why he deserved this particularly fitting fate?
“Is everything well, Mr. Garritt?”
Eldyn looked up to see Father Gadby standing beside his desk.
“I’m sorry, I …” Eldyn cleared his throat. “That is, I am very well, thank you, Father.”
The rector’s hands fluttered upward like a brace of pale, plump doves. “Well, we must praise God for the health he has granted us, so we are able do his work in the world. Yet I notice the pace of your own work seems somewhat reduced this morning, Mr. Garritt. Is something amiss?”
Eldyn could not speak of the real reason for his distress that morning. What would he say if the rector asked him why he had any care for illusionists? Instead, he grabbed a slip of paper at random from the box of receipts. “I just wasn’t entirely certain what to do with this …” he glanced down at the paper, “… this note concerning the purchase of several red curtains.”
He set the receipt on the desk so it would not reveal the shaking of his hand. The rector leaned over the desk to examine it.
“Why, this is signed by the archdeacon himself!” he exclaimed. “That it is in proper order is assured. Archdeacon Lemarck is aware of every detail about the keeping of Graychurch. There is not the smallest thing that is beneath his attention—not even the work you do, Mr. Garritt. You must record this exactly as it is written.”
“I did not mean to question the judgment of the archdeacon in any way,” Eldyn said hurriedly. “I wanted only to be certain the work I do reflects his will properly.”
The rector smiled and smoothed a few wispy strands of hair over his pate. “Of course you do, Mr. Garritt! And your desire to make yourself his instrument in all things is most admirable. We would all do well to trust the archdeacon’s wisdom in every matter. Indeed, the Archbishop of Invarel—he who is highest above us all in this world, and closest to Eternum above—relies heavily upon the archdeacon these days. That is why we do not see him here as much as we might wish. Though Graychurch is the seat of his archdeaconry, he is often at St. Galmuth’s attending to the archbishop.”
Eldyn was not surprised to hear this. It was said the Archbishop of Invarel was aged and frail, and that when he presided over high service in the cathedral his voice could hardly be heard above a mumble.
“There are some who claim the Church is a dusty relic of the past,” the rector went on. “Yet you would not say such a thing if you heard the archdeacon give a sermon. What fire, what power there is in his voice. Why, if you saw him, you would think that one of the saints of old had returned to guide us from the shadows in which we have dwelled and back into the light! With men such as the archdeacon to lead us, I believe the Church’s most glorious times lay ahead.”
“I am sure you are right,” Eldyn said.
“Of course I am right, Mr. Garritt!” the rector exclaimed. “Now, do you have what you need to proceed with your work?”
Eldyn assured him he did. Indeed, as the rector waddled away, Eldyn found he was able to hold his pen with sufficient stability to dip it and scribe a row of figures upon the page. He bent over the ledger, and for the next several hours he let himself think of nothing but ink and numbers.
THE LUMENAL WAS short, and as Eldyn walked back to the old monastery the sun slipped behind the buttresses of St. Galmuth’s, casting a gloom over all. No longer kept at bay by the industry of work, Eldyn’s own gloom was free to return, and a new dread descended over him.
The article in The Swift Arrow said the murdered illusionist had worked at the Theater of Emeralds. Eldyn did not know any of the men who worked at that theater; its performances tended toward ribald burlesques that forwent symbolism in favor of obvious vulgarity. Those were not the kind of illusion plays Eldyn liked. However, there had been two murders of illusionists now, and the article had speculated that given the similarity of each case, they had likely been committed by the same hands. If so, was it not possible that the perpetrator would strike again? And what if it was not a stranger who was the victim, but rather someone Eldyn knew?
What if it was Dercy?
Only that was foolish. Dercy knew how to take care of himself. Was he not the one who had said Donnebric had behaved recklessly? Surely this other unfortunate illusionist had done the same. There was no use worrying; Dercy was far too clever to let himself fall into such a perilous situation.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Garritt,” spoke a friendly voice—one marked by a soft South-Country accent.
Eldyn looked up as he entered the foyer of the old monastery. A fellow was just coming down the stairs. He was several years older than Eldyn, clad in garb that, though of drab hues, was well-made
.
“How are you today, Mr. Fantharp?” Eldyn said.
“Very well, thank you, though very busy. A short day is always good for business, you know.”
“I am sure,” Eldyn said, managing a smile. Mr. Fantharp, as he knew from their prior encounters in the foyer, was a trader who dealt in the sale of tallow. He was from County Caerdun in the south of Altania, but had a small apartment here in the building where he stayed while in the city on business, as the Church was one of his primary customers.
“And how is Miss Garritt, if I might inquire?”
“You are kind to always ask about her, Mr. Fantharp. She is very well. She busies herself most days by assisting the verger at Graychurch.”
“Does she? That is capital, then. Capital!” He rocked on his heels and looked as if he wished to say something more, but did not.
“Well, good day to you, Mr. Fantharp.” Eldyn bowed and started up the stairs.
“Do give my regards to your sister, Mr. Garritt, if you will.”
Eldyn stopped on the stairs and looked back. Mr. Fantharp’s cheeks had gone rather red. A thought occurred to Eldyn—one he was surprised had not come to him before.
Mr. Fantharp was not especially handsome, but his teeth were good and his figure trim. As for his demeanor, it was pleasant, if somewhat monotonous. While he was only a tradesman, it was clear he was well-to-do. That he would be a good match for Sashie was so obvious Eldyn could only wonder that he did not see it before.
“I will tell my sister you asked after her. I am sure she will be pleased to hear it.” Eldyn wasn’t entirely certain Sashie knew who Mr. Fantharp was; she had never mentioned him. Yet the statement was not a mistruth, for what young woman did not enjoy hearing that a man had inquired after her?
“Thank you, Mr. Garritt. Thank you, and good day to you!”
Mr. Fantharp bowed, then turned to hurry out the door. With a smile, Eldyn continued up the stairs and entered their apartment.
He found Sashie sitting by the window, a book in her hands, her face glowing softly in the last of the daylight that fell through the glass.
“I see you are pleasantly engaged,” he said as he entered the room.
She looked up and smiled when she saw him; as always the expression gave him great delight.
“Hello, dear brother.”
“I am glad to see you are filling your days not only with work at the church, but rather some amusement as well. Is that a new romance you have found to read? Something with dukes and fair ladies, I hope.”
Her smile did not waver, but the slightest trace of a frown touched her brow. “I am sure I would read no such thing, dear brother! I am looking at the Testament, of course.”
“I see,” he said, a bit surprised.
It was one thing that Sashie enjoyed her work at Graychurch. After the awful events of last year, the church could only seem the most comforting sort of sanctuary to her. Yet reading the Testament was another matter. The text of it was archaic and not easily comprehended, and he had never in his life known Sashie to take up such a studious endeavor.
“Are you finding it of interest?” he asked her.
“Oh, I am. I am learning a great many things—things that I wish our father had taught us. What peril I have been in and hardly knew it! Did you know it is a sin for a woman to provoke the affections of a man unless she has been betrothed to him? She must not look at him or speak to him in a way that invites his passions, or else she has erred in the eyes of God.”
Eldyn raised an eyebrow. “A woman can hardly be blamed for inciting the passions of a man. If she is pretty enough, she need not speak or even look at a man to win those!”
“No, it is very clear.” She touched the book on her lap. “Devorah’s father told her she must not look at a man with warmth, or else she might incite an awful fire in his heart and so win God’s wrath. I know you only wish the best for me, sweet brother. Even so, I must wonder that you let me behave as I did in the past without proper instruction. What danger I was in!”
These words astonished Eldyn. Had he not tried, too many times to count, to alter her behavior? She had indeed been in grave danger when she flirted with Westen, but not the kind she now believed. It was not God’s wrath she had been in peril of receiving, but rather the kind of damnation that could be visited only by a mortal man in the flesh.
However, he did not say this. Nor did he speak of his encounter in the foyer. This was perhaps not the propitious time to mention Mr. Fantharp’s regard for her. All the same, Eldyn hoped she was not becoming too captivated with religion. While a degree of piety was certainly a virtue, too much of it could be off-putting to a man when considering a wife.
Well, he would keep an eye on her behavior. For now, he asked her how she had spent her day as they took a simple dinner, and he listened to her chat merrily about how she helped the verger oil pews and evict cobwebs from niches as if these were the most pleasant activities.
It had been Eldyn’s intention to spend the evening with his sister; but after their meal, it was clear she wished only to resume reading the Testament by lamplight. She did so with a pretty frown upon her face, her lips moving slowly as she read, and so charming did she look as a result that despite his earlier misgivings, he could only smile. Surely, once he had saved enough money, he would have no difficulty finding a suitable bachelor who wished to court her; and once she received such warm attentions from a living man, he had no doubt she would have little interest in reading about long-perished saints.
Tonight, though, she seemed intent on her reading, and he asked, if she was going to be so occupied, would she mind if he went out.
“Of course not, dear brother!” she exclaimed. “I would be dreadful to expect you to occupy yourself by watching me be occupied. You must engage in some activity to your own liking.”
Eldyn was sure he would. The theaters were all dark tonight, as they were once each quarter month. Which meant that Dercy would be free for all manner of other entertainments. He put on his good coat, checked to make sure his hair was properly tied back with a black ribbon, then went to his sister to kiss the top of her head.
She looked up at him, her face aglow in the lamplight, as if a holy illumination indeed welled forth from the book open in her lap. “Have a good evening, dear brother. I am sure you will find some activity just as pleasing to God as my reading.”
Eldyn swallowed. “I’m sure no one could please Him more than you,” he managed to say. Then he hurried out the door.
A chill had already taken the air, so that his breath fogged as he walked through the Old City. He had been happy at the prospect of seeing Dercy. Even now, the thought of it kindled a warmth in him that repelled the cold. Yet at the same time, a knot had formed in his stomach.
I am sure you will find some activity just as pleasing to God.…
He shuddered, and not from the cold. Would God really be pleased with what would surely happen if he found himself alone in a room with Dercy and a bottle of whiskey?
Eldyn knew that working illusions would be forbidden to him once he entered the priesthood. He accepted that as a part of the cost he must pay to gain all the benefits of entering the holy order. True, the thought of giving up his abilities to conjure wonders, so soon after discovering them, left him with a hollow feeling. Yet would they not be replaced by other wonders—ones more pure and sublime?
Besides, he had tallied up all the reasons for his decision. If it was just himself he had to consider, perhaps he could be tempted into a life on Durrow Street. However, what he did reflected upon Sashie, and he could not hope to secure a reputable future for her if he was associated with a place of such iniquity. And it was more than that. All his life, he had believed that he was sullied by his father’s actions. But Eldyn knew now that it was his own deeds that mattered, not those of Vandimeer Garritt. He wanted to wash away that taint, and to be something better than his father had been.
So he would be; he was resolved.
> Except illusions were not the only activities he had engaged in with Dercy. Nor were they the only pleasures he would have to forsake once he entered the priesthood.…
That thought caused a pang in Eldyn’s chest, but before he could consider it further, he turned a corner onto the east end of Durrow Street. On nights when the theaters were open, glittering lights and chiming music filled the air while illusionists stood before the various playhouses, crafting small illusions to entice people to enter. Now only a few people slunk down the street past guttering streetlamps.
Usually Eldyn felt a kind of safety within the crowds that thronged Durrow Street. Now, as he looked upon the barren street, he thought of the nameless illusionist from the Theater of Emeralds who had been found dead. High Holy was not so very far from here, and while Eldyn was not Siltheri himself, he had been mistaken for one of them more than once.
A pair of men walked down the far side of the street, laughing roughly as they went; they were not illusionists. With a flick, Eldyn gathered the shadows about himself, then hurried to the Theater of the Moon.
HE FOUND THE actors gathered within, rehearsing a new bit of staging for the scene in which servants of the Sun King pursued the Moon across the bottom of the sea. Given the laughter—and the bottle—that was going around, it was obvious the actors were not applying themselves to the task at hand as much as they were applying the spirits to themselves.
Nor was Eldyn surprised. The players labored hard throughout the quarter month, rehearsing, maintaining the theater, and of course performing. The nights the theaters were dark gave them a welcome respite. Tallyroth, the master illusionist of the Theater of the Moon, clearly agreed, for he smiled as he sat in a chair on the edge of the stage, watching the actors. All the same, he wore his usual wine-colored coat, and his face was powdered and his hair curled just as if it were performance night.
The House on Durrow Street Page 25
