Mr. Baydon folded over his broadsheet. “What Mrs. Baydon means to say is that she has seen him precisely once of late, when he stopped by our house to deliver a note on behalf of his sister. He did not set foot through our door, and he lingered no more than a minute, for he was merely passing by.”
“It was more than a minute, I am sure!” Mrs. Baydon said. “For I looked at the invitation while he waited, and you know I am not a swift reader. I must sound out everything in my mind—I can’t help it.”
Rafferdy turned another piece in his fingers. He could see where it fit, but he was waiting until Mrs. Baydon placed one first.
“The colonel brought an invitation, you say?”
“Yes, to Lady Crayford’s tea the lumenal after next. You are coming, of course, aren’t you, Mr. Rafferdy?”
He set the puzzle piece back down on the table, very close to the place it belonged and in the correct orientation. “No, I’m afraid I have other matters I must attend to that day.”
“That’s a pity,” Mrs. Baydon said. “I’m sure it will be a very marvelous affair. And the colonel told me Lady Quent will be there. Oh!” She plucked up the piece Rafferdy had set before her and put it in the puzzle. “It seems I am clever after all, for that was the most awful piece to discover.”
“Indeed it was,” Mr. Rafferdy said, and sank back into his chair.
A man came by with brandy. Rafferdy took one, drained it, set the empty glass back on the tray, and took another. The servant turned to Mr. Baydon, who set his broadsheet on the table to take a brandy himself. Rafferdy’s gaze strayed idly to the paper, not drawn by any words he saw, but rather by the vivid image printed on the paper.
The picture was rendered in such lifelike detail that it could only be an impression. Rafferdy did not understand why it was scandalous for respectable persons to go to a theater on Durrow Street, yet no one thought a thing if a respectable paper printed the work of an illusionist. Then again, was not the business of a broadsheet publishing one person’s sins for others to enjoy? It was what they called news.
The picture was upside down, and all Rafferdy could make out were a pile of rocks and what looked to be several redcrests, given their plumed helms. Idly, he reached out to turn the broadsheet around to get a better look.
A horror came upon him. He saw now that the rocks were in fact broken building stones, and the redcrests were shouting, their arms raised, at people who must have stood just out of view. On the ground lay the crumpled figure of a man. The corpse—for it could only have been such—was partially obscured by the rubble, but a limp arm protruded from the wreckage, ending in a pale hand.
Rafferdy leaned over the table, peering closer at the impression. The illusionist must have been one of the first to the scene; he had to have gotten very close to have seen everything so clearly that his memory of it could later be imprinted on an engraving plate with such exacting detail. Rafferdy could see the ring upon the man’s hand. There was something else on his hand as well.
Several sharp black lines arranged in a familiar pattern.
Mr. Baydon set down his brandy and took up the broadsheet again. Rafferdy stared at the table for a moment, then slumped back in the chair. A pain throbbed in his head, and his mouth had gone dry.
Twice before he had seen that same symbol on the hand of a man. Each time it had made him think of a magickal rune of some sort, and this man had been wearing a House ring. The other men could have worn one as well, for a magician’s ring might be worn on any finger of either hand. Which meant the explosion at the Ministry of Printing was not the first attempt by magicians to disrupt the workings of the government.
Yet why? Surely Mr. Baydon was right; magicians could have no enthusiasm for Huntley Morden, and not just because the magician Slade Vordigan drove Bandley Morden from the shores of Altania seventy years ago. After all, most magicians were gentlemen or magnates. They already ruled Altania, so they could have no affection for someone who intended to usurp that rule.
Then again, even if these men were magicians, they were not men like Rafferdy and his companions in the society. No, they were not like any sort of men at all—at least not when they were cut and bled. And according to the Lady Shayde’s man, Moorkirk, there were more of them out there.…
Mrs. Baydon set another wooden piece in place. “Come now, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said in a chiding tone. “You are being no help at all. It is you who is dull tonight, I think.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Baydon,” he said, the dryness in his throat making his voice hoarse. “I fear I have no head for puzzles tonight.”
He glanced at the ring on his right hand. Then he held up his empty glass to call for another brandy.
A PECULIAR THING occurred the following morning. Upon rising—at an unusually early hour after only a middle umbral—Rafferdy discovered that he was anxious to go to Assembly.
Such was the novelty of this sensation that Rafferdy gave in to it entirely. He took a breakfast consisting solely of coffee in his bedchamber, then dressed without waiting for his man to assist him. Downstairs, he called for his carriage and was standing on the doorstep by the time it arrived. The driver did not proceed with speed enough to suit him, and he rapped with his cane on the roof several times to let his displeasure be known.
Despite his driver’s leisurely pace, Marble Street was not yet crowded, and he soon departed his carriage before the stairs that led up to the Halls of Assembly. He took the steps two at a time, his black robe billowing out behind him.
He entered the Hall of Magnates through the main doors to find it largely vacant save for a group of Stouts who sat on one side. They were arranged in a tight knot despite the emptiness of the chamber, as if they anticipated some assault and so had formed a defensive phalanx to be ready.
Rafferdy proceeded to the upper benches where the wigless young lords habitually gathered. Lately, he had sat there himself, for Lord Baydon had not attended Assembly in over a month due to his health. However, none of Rafferdy’s usual companions was there, and as he sat, he realized it was from this source that sprang his desire to attend Assembly that day. He wished to make certain that all his acquaintances in the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade could be accounted for.
Fortunately, he did not have to suffer from anxiousness for long. Soon Lord Coulten entered the Hall. Lord Eubrey followed a few minutes after, as did the several young men who customarily sat with them, and who were also members of the society. All of them looked well and sound. Though, Rafferdy noted, they also all wore gloves.
Rafferdy’s own hands were bare.
“I say, Rafferdy, you’re here awfully early,” Lord Coulten exclaimed. His frizzy crown of hair was, if anything, taller than ever, and his face was cheerful and pink-cheeked. “Eager for Assembly to meet again so you can cast a vote on the Act Regarding Standards for the Excellence of Pork Fat or the Measure Providing More Methods for Gouty Old Lords to Acquire Money?”
As usual, Rafferdy found it impossible not to return Coulten’s grin. “Aren’t those acts the same thing? But no, I was not anxious to get to Assembly so much as I was to see you. I was hoping you would all be here.”
“Why shouldn’t we be?”
“After recent events …” Rafferdy cleared his throat. “Well, I didn’t feel I could be entirely sure.”
Lord Eubrey affected a scandalized look; indeed, he was so convincing that Rafferdy wasn’t certain he was acting.
“How now, Rafferdy—are you saying you thought we might have been involved in the business at the Ministry of Printing?”
Now that his fears had been revealed, Rafferdy was rather embarrassed by them. “Forgive me, it was ill of me to think that anyone in our circle might have been involved in such a thing.”
Coulten let out a merry laugh. “There is no need to apologize, Rafferdy! Indeed, I’m delighted you thought that we are of sufficiently devious and dastardly character to have possibly been involved in such a matter. It allows me to fancy that
I am more intriguing than I am, and I have always wanted to be notorious. How about you, Lord Eubrey?”
“I concur. It’s very amusing to think that I could have been out in the black depths of the umbral sneaking around and working wicked spells, when in fact I was at home and fast asleep in my bed. I fear that truth incriminates me more than could any involvement in the affairs at the Ministry, as it proves beyond doubt that I am criminally dull.”
Rafferdy was grateful for these good-natured comments from his companions. “On the count of dullness you will never be convicted, Eubrey. I have seen you at tavern, and can attest to that! Besides, I can only think there are better ways to prove one possesses an interesting character than to blow up buildings. The magicians who did it should have chosen otherwise.”
“What makes you believe it was magicians who did it?” Coulten said. He was no longer smiling.
Rafferdy shook his head. “All the reports say magick was involved. There was the preternatural color of the flames. There was also the fellow they found who …” He clipped his words short. He had no wish to describe the dreadful impression he had seen in the broadsheet.
Lord Eubrey shrugged. “Perhaps it was magick. Or perhaps it was something else. I do not know of an arcane society or magickal order that would wish to call such attention to itself.”
Rafferdy was not one to overly subscribe to the notion of logic, but Eubrey’s words had an air of reasonability about them. Did not the group to which they belonged go to great lengths to keep their meetings secret? Magick had started to come back into fashion these days, but that did not mean its practice was considered entirely acceptable.
What was more, from what he understood, it was the habit of arcane societies for each to keep its research and accomplishments unknown to other such orders and groups. A society could attract the best talent to its ranks only if magicians thought it possessed insights into the arcane that could not be gained elsewhere.
“Well, perhaps they were intoxicated,” Rafferdy said. “Or maybe things went awry.”
“Perhaps,” Lord Eubrey said. His dark eyes glanced away, then back. “Or perhaps whoever did it, it was their wish to make it appear as if magick was involved.”
This statement baffled Rafferdy. Who would wish to make an act look as if magick had caused it when it hadn’t, and for what purpose? Before he could voice his question, an audible hiss whispered around the chamber, as of many breaths being drawn in at once.
“If it was the perpetrator’s goal to bring the practice of magick under suspicion, then their deed has done so,” Coulten said, his typically jovial tone now low and sober. “Look there.”
Rafferdy turned to follow Coulten’s gaze. While they had spoken, magnates had continued to enter, and the Hall was now nearly full. All had ceased their progress in finding and settling onto the benches, and instead they were still, watching as another figure entered.
Like the magnates, this figure was clad all in black, though not in a robe; rather, she wore a black dress that was gathered tight about the neck and wrists. The gown was fashioned of some stiff material that hardly seemed to move as she walked. She wore a small hat with a veil that obscured the upper part of her face. All that was visible were a pointed chin and a pair of lips. These latter were so dark they were a blue-black against her talc-white skin, and they were ever so slightly curved to offer the suggestion of a smile.
As all looked on, the Lady Shayde ascended the steps behind the High Speaker’s podium. With deliberate motions she took a seat that afforded her a view of the entire Hall—or rather, one that afforded all a view of her.
Sounds filled the Hall again as the magnates returned to their conversations and to the task of finding their seats, though the din was more subdued than it had been before.
“Now the White Thorn comes to watch us,” Lord Eubrey said.
Rafferdy could not tell from his expression if he was alarmed or intrigued. Perhaps it was a bit of both, for Rafferdy himself was interested by the appearance of the White Lady—even if he had no wish to be subjected to her sharp gaze. He knew what it was like to suffer her attention, and he hoped never to do so again.
“Look there at the Magisters,” Coulten said. His grin had returned, and a light danced in his blue eyes. “So much for their prideful airs. They are no different from the rest of us now!”
Rafferdy looked down at the benches where the members of the Magister party customarily sat. At first he did not notice what was altered about them; certainly their haughty expressions were no different than before. Then one of them, a young lord with a large nose, took out a handkerchief to wipe that prominent proboscis, and Rafferdy saw what had changed.
The young magnate was wearing gloves. Rafferdy looked and saw the same was true for all of the Magisters. Each of them wore gloves upon his hands. There was not a House ring to be seen.
Had Lord Farrolbrook adopted this same affectation? Rafferdy supposed that must be the case, for he could not imagine the Magisters doing something their proclaimed leader did not. Only, as Rafferdy searched among them, he saw no sign of the fair-haired lord. This was odd, for had not Lord Farrolbrook crowed that the other Magisters would not take their seats until he took his? Yet they were all of them seated now.
Even as Rafferdy wondered at this, Lord Farrolbrook strode into the Hall, his pale, flowing hair as notable as his elaborately ruffled robe. He moved at a pace that, while still stately, had a slightly hurried cadence to it. He made a bit of a stumble as he stepped on his hem, then adjusted the ornate garment as he took his place among the Magisters.
“I daresay Lord Farrolbrook had difficulty getting into his robe today,” Lord Eubrey said with obvious delight. “Perhaps he is still getting accustomed to wearing such singular attire.”
Rafferdy glanced at Eubrey. “What do you mean? I thought Farrolbrook always had a penchant for such ostentatious clothes.”
It was Coulten who answered. “Actually, it is a recent affectation. He did not used to dress so outlandishly, though his father always had a penchant for such attire—all ruffles and gores and frills. It was dreadful stuff—a costume out of some moldy old play, you would have thought. Then, when the elder Lord Farrolbrook passed on a bit over a year ago, our Lord Farrolbrook quite suddenly adopted his father’s mode of dress. Though at least he seems to have had new robes made, so even if they look as dreadful as his father’s, they don’t smell as dreadful.”
Rafferdy supposed it was not unusual for a son to more closely emulate his father once the elder man had passed. Was not Rafferdy himself doing something he had never thought he would now that his own father was gone—that was, taking a permanent seat in Assembly? It was a peculiar fact that parents sometimes had greater influence over the behavior of their children after they departed the world than before.
As Rafferdy watched, Lord Farrolbrook rearranged the frills and ruffles of his robe. His cheeks seemed bright, and his hair was not quite so smoothly arranged over his shoulders as usual.
“I imagine you’re glad that you aren’t sitting down there next to him, Coulten,” Eubrey said, nudging their companion with an elbow.
Rafferdy gave Eubrey a curious look. “Why might Coulten be sitting next to Lord Farrolbrook?”
“Because he almost joined the order that Farrolbrook and a number of the other Magisters belong to, that’s why.”
“I did no such thing!” Coulten protested. “I never received an invitation from the High Order of the Golden Door, and nor did I wish for one. I merely had a few conversations with Lord Farrolbrook, that’s all.” Coulten looked at Rafferdy. “He approached me shortly after I took a seat in the Hall of Magnates, for we are both descended of House Myrrgon.”
Eubrey clapped him on the back and grinned. “Fortunately for Coulten, I came to his rescue and convinced him to join our little society instead.”
A pounding noise rang out, drawing their attention to the front of the Hall. The High Speaker was exacting a stern punishme
nt upon the podium with his gavel, and the Grand Usher was waving his overlarge golden key at the offending magnates like a herdsman flicking a switch at errant cows. Gradually all took their seats.
“So how long do you think the Stouts will wait before they bring it up?” Eubrey whispered to Rafferdy’s right.
“I’m sure they will show great patience on the matter,” Coulten replied from Rafferdy’s left. “That is, they will wait at least an entire minute before they start blathering on about it.”
“Before they blather on about what?” Rafferdy asked.
Eubrey stifled a laugh. “If it’s a minute, it’s only because it will take Lord Bastellon that long to straighten that greasy old wig of his and heave himself to his feet. See? I told you—there he goes already.”
Even as the High Speaker was setting down his gavel, a thickset old lord in a matted wig rose to his feet—with surprising alacrity despite his bulk—and bowed toward the High Speaker.
“The Hall recognizes Lord Bastellon,” the High Speaker said in a distinctly pained tone.
“My fellow magnates,” Lord Bastellon began, then coughed several times to clear his throat. “These are times fraught with peril and consequence. And as our body convenes again for a new session, I call for a debate to be opened upon the matter of—”
Another series of coughs ensued. As the old Stout worked upon the phlegm in his throat, the Magisters leaned forward on their benches, as if eager to leap to action.
“—upon the matter of each and every sort of action that must be taken to ensure the future safety and prosperity of our nation!”
A murmur went about the Hall. The Magisters leaned back on their benches, and several of them affected looks of annoyance.
Coulten gave a soft laugh. “Well, old Bastellon isn’t as much of a lump as he looks. He’s learned from his mistake, it seems.”
“How so?” Rafferdy whispered back.
“Remember what happened the last time Lord Bastellon brought up the subject of the king’s writ of succession?” Eubrey replied. “The Magisters closed the debate as soon as it was opened, then called for a vote, knowing the Stouts didn’t have the yeas to carry the measure.”
The House on Durrow Street Page 45
