The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  “So why don’t they do the same this time?”

  “That’s just it—they can’t. Bastellon has called for debate not on the matter of the writ of succession, but upon every matter that affects the future of Altania. The Magisters can’t very well close debate on that issue, for then nothing at all could be discussed for the remainder of the session. Which means the Stouts will be free to bring up the writ of succession. They can’t call for a vote on it—that would require bringing the specific measure up for debate—but at least they can speak about it now. Really, I’m surprised the Magisters let them get away with it.”

  “Farrolbrook must be losing his edge,” Coulten said.

  Eubrey gave a sniff. “If he ever had one. Just because a blade is brightly polished doesn’t mean it’s sharp.”

  Coulten grinned. “I think that goes for all of the Magisters!”

  “Indubitably,” Eubrey said, tugging the wrists of his fawn-colored gloves. “I’ve learned that the high magus of at least one society populated largely by Magisters has approached our own magus in hopes of forming a brotherhood of orders. No doubt they simply need help working any kind of magick. I doubt most Magisters could formulate an enchantment to bind shut a hatbox!”

  “Well, that would be more magick than I have seen worked at gatherings of our own society,” Rafferdy observed dryly.

  So far, the meetings Rafferdy had attended had been ponderous with discussion about magick and light on the performing of actual spells. There were the doors that led to the secret room beneath the Sword and Leaf, of course, which could only be opened by speaking the prescribed runes. And there were the enchanted journals by which messages were passed among members of the Virescent Blade. However, other than those things, Rafferdy had not seen the working of any kind of magick at the meetings of the society.

  “Oh, there is magick done within our society that far surpasses the opening and closing of hatboxes,” Eubrey said. He leaned in close and placed a hand beside his mouth so that his words would not carry over the tumult in the Hall. “Coulten can attest to that fact, for he’s seen through the Door.”

  “Only just the once,” Coulten said. “But Eubrey here has peeked in three times now. Haven’t you, Eubrey? No doubt the next time, you’ll be handed a gold robe and get to step through.”

  It was generally Rafferdy’s aim to appear bored with all things. However, these words sent a thrill through him. There was only one door his companions could be referring to. Rafferdy had seen it each time he had attended a meeting in the secret chamber beneath the tavern; or rather, he had seen the curtain behind which he knew a door stood. That was, the Door.

  The Door was one of three doors in the chamber. The first was the one that opened into the interior of the Sword and Leaf. The second one Rafferdy had not yet been through, but he knew it was the door behind the tavern that many of the members of the society used to enter the meeting chamber.

  Then there was the third. Rafferdy had never seen anyone pass through the Door; the initiates were always dismissed before it was opened. Only the sages—those who had been admitted to the innermost circle of the society—were allowed to pass through the Door. However, those initiates who were candidates to be raised to that higher rank were sometimes allowed to stay in the chamber after the others had been released, and to peer through the Door as it was opened.

  What lay beyond, Rafferdy could not imagine; perhaps it was nothing at all, and was merely meant to arouse curiosity to encourage new members to stay in the society.

  Except he doubted that. Sometimes, during their meetings, Rafferdy would feel a draft of chill air and catch a queer, metallic odor. At such times, he would look up to see the black curtain that covered the Door stir ever so slightly, as if under the influence of a breath of strange air.

  “So you have seen magick performed beyond the Door?” he said, unable to prevent an eager tone from creeping into his voice.

  Eubrey winked at him. “You know we can’t tell you what’s beyond it. Our tongues would be turned to slugs if we tried.”

  “Don’t worry, Rafferdy.” Coulten put a hand on his arm. “You’re sure to get a peek beyond the curtain soon. You’re the sharpest new magician we’ve gotten in a long while. The sages have their eyes on you, I’m sure of it.”

  Rafferdy laughed. “How can you know? They’re always wearing hoods!”

  “In the outer room, yes,” Eubrey said. “Not beyond the Door. But if you do not feel you’ve seen enough magick, Rafferdy, then make a date to come on a little excursion with me next quarter month.”

  “An excursion?”

  “Yes, it’s not very far from the city. A ride of no more than half a middle lumenal. Coulten is coming with me.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I really don’t think I should say anything more about it,” Eubrey said, then gave a subtle nod.

  Following Eubrey’s gaze, Rafferdy looked across the Hall. The Lady Shayde sat above the High Speaker’s podium, her white hands folded on her black dress. Her eyes were still hidden behind her veil—yet were no doubt watching all the same.

  On the floor of the Hall, Lord Bastellon proceeded to drone on, and various magnates after him, but Rafferdy heard nothing they said. Instead he fidgeted with the House ring on his finger and wondered just what sort of magick it was that Eubrey intended to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IVY WOKE IN the colorless light before dawn. The umbral had been brief, and its few hours had offered her scant rest. Her dreams had been vague and fitful—shapeless, gloom-filled interludes haunted by wordless murmurs and the sighing of a distant wind.

  At one point, she had awakened certain she heard the sound of voices speaking in cadence, like the sibilant whispers of priests across an empty cathedral. She nearly sprang from the bed to throw open the chamber door. However, it must have been a phantasm from her dreams. Surely Mr. Quent would have awakened as well if there had indeed been noises intruding through the door.

  Mrs. Lockwell is greatly relieved to have departed the house on Durrow Street, her father had written in an entry that had recently appeared in the journal. Our new abode on Whitward Street is much more to her liking. She complained that the old house was always watching her, and she claimed that she often heard noises—particularly a far-off soughing. I confess, I have not noticed such things. But then, neither my sight nor my hearing is so keen as hers, and it may be that over the years I have grown accustomed to such qualities that must be characteristic of any house inhabited for so long by those who study the arcane. Besides, I do not think it is so very ill if a house has life to it. And this house—the house you now inhabit, I hope—has more life than most dwellings, I think.

  Ivy had loved her mother dearly, but even Ivy had to admit that Mrs. Lockwell had not always been the most logical of beings. She had been given to frights and starts. Surely dwelling in an old house, one prone to creaking and filled with the peculiar trappings of generations of magicians, had impressed itself upon her senses. As for Ivy, had she not seen something herself yesterday—something that no doubt had found its way into her dreams and affected them?

  Therefore, she would not do as her mother and ascribe to fact what logic told her must have been imagined. All the same, she moved her arm beneath the bedclothes, reaching for the solid presence of her husband.

  Her hand found only the smooth flatness of the linen sheet.

  Ivy sighed. Though the hour was early, Mr. Quent was already risen and gone—off to the Citadel, no doubt. She wished she had some urgent purpose as he did to propel her from bed, or that she had the ability to go back to sleep. However, neither was the case, so she would rise early herself, and for no reason at all.

  She drew her robe over her nightgown, then moved to the window to push the drapes aside. Ivy glanced at the garden below. Nothing stirred in the pallid light. This did not surprise her; she had not expected to see anything there. Then again, she had not expected anything yesterday morning
either, when shortly after breakfast she looked out a window in the front hall to see him standing on the other side of the gate.

  The expression on his onyx mask had been flat—neither frowning nor smiling. He had said nothing, and had stood there for but a moment. Then he turned and departed in what seemed a great haste, his elaborate cape billowing behind him like black wings.

  Why had he bothered to show himself so briefly? She did not know. Perhaps his purpose had been simply to remind her of his presence. In which case he had succeeded, and she was sure she had to look no further for the source of her ill night’s visions than the sight of the man in black.

  Well, if he could not be bothered to tell her why he had shown himself, she would not be bothered to think of him.

  The sky was brightening by the time she finished readying herself for the day and went downstairs. It was still too early for breakfast, and Mrs. Seenly was not yet in the kitchen, so Ivy poured herself a cup of cold tea from the pot on the stove, then proceeded to the library.

  A quick glance at the almanac showed that the night had ended nearly half an hour sooner than it was supposed to have. However, as always, the old rosewood clock was unerring, and it let out a chime just as the first pink rays of light fell through the library’s windows. On the right face, the black disk had turned just enough to reveal a sliver of gold.

  Ivy sat at the writing table, took out the Wyrdwood box, and opened it with a touch. Making her usual careful perusal, she turned the pages of her father’s journal. It was her hope that she would find something he had written about the man in the black costume. In his letter, he had told Ivy to trust the stranger, but how could she trust someone who revealed so little? She could not know his purposes, or what he wanted of her. Some words on the subject from her father would surely help to assuage her unease.

  As she turned the last page, Ivy sighed. All of the pages in the journal were blank today. She returned the book to the box, then took out the small piece of Wyrdwood that Lord Rafferdy had given her. Even though it had been shut away in the box, there was a warmth to it, as though someone had just been worrying it in their hand.

  Was there some quality about it beyond that echoing hum, that memory of life that was inherent in all wood hewn of Old Trees? Ivy could not say. All she knew was that it was different than the wood from which the box had been fashioned. The box had been made of twigs and small branches woven cleverly together, while the triangular piece of Wyrdwood was harder and more thickly grained. Had her father acquired it from the same person as the box? She supposed there was no way to know.

  Or was there?

  She recalled the last entry she had found in her father’s journal, concerning his description of the Eye of Ran-Yahgren and the wooden frame it rested upon. The stand was made by a young man … whom I had the good fortune to meet at Heathcrest Hall, he had written. And, He also made the box of Wyrdwood in which you found this journal you are reading now.

  Reluctantly, for she found its smooth surface pleasing to touch, Ivy returned the piece of Wyrdwood to the box. Then she took paper and ink from the drawer. She cut a fresh quill and dipped it. For a moment she hesitated, wondering where to begin. She had not been in contact with him since leaving County Westmorain and returning to the city. Yet she could not think he would find a letter from her unwelcome. He had shown her nothing but kindness in her time in the West Country. Resolved, she tapped the tip of her pen against the ink pot, then set it to the paper.

  Dear Mr. Samonds, she wrote.

  AFTER THE LETTER was sealed with wax and given to a servant to be delivered, Ivy turned her attention to the seemingly endless task of placing her father’s books in order on the shelves. She had been at this task just long enough to become engrossed when she heard footsteps behind her.

  “Would you be so kind as to bring me a cup of tea?” she said without looking up, supposing it to be Mrs. Seenly.

  “Whatever you wish, your ladyship,” spoke a gruff voice.

  Ivy let out a gasp and turned around, then smiled. “But you are back so soon! Once I saw you were gone, I did not expect to see you all day.”

  Mr. Quent affected a solemn look. “I came back to make certain you were not deprived of your morning tea.”

  “Do not mock me!” she said with a laugh. “For I have not had anything today but cold tea, and I do not think I will ever be able to sort out these books without the benefit of another cup or two.” She set down her burden on the desk and crossed the room to kiss her husband. “Yet I imagine you have had nothing yourself today. That would be very like you to rush off to see to the needs of the Crown without seeing to any of your own.”

  “This is all the sustenance I need,” he said, and kissed her again.

  For a minute he held her in his arms, and Ivy was surprised, for there seemed an unusual fierceness to his action. Not that she could say she was discontent to let him encompass her so, or to lean her head against his chest and listen to the solid beating of his heart.

  At last it was not only the sound of his beating heart she heard, but also the noise of his stomach. She commented upon this, and he reluctantly agreed that he might in fact need something other than kisses to sustain him. A maid was called and given instructions to ask Mrs. Seenly to bring a tray, and soon the two of them sat at a table in the library, taking a little breakfast together.

  While they might have saved Mrs. Seenly trouble by going to the dining room, Ivy confessed it was pleasant to have Mr. Quent to herself—and to not have to listen to more of Lily’s chatter about her and Rose’s progress on the tableau. All the same, Mr. Quent had some curiosity on that particular subject, and she assured him that the tableau was bound to be impressively elaborate and theatrical.

  “I do hope Lily will not be worn out by the time the day of their party arrives,” Ivy said, pouring him more tea from the pot. “I want her to be able to enjoy the affair.”

  “On that account I can have little worry,” he said, and put three lumps of sugar in his cup. As Ivy had learned in their time together, he possessed something of a sweet tooth. “That said, I will be sure to admonish her to conserve herself if I observe her to look in any way tired or spent upon my return.”

  Ivy set down her own cup with a clatter. “What do you mean, upon your return?”

  He said nothing, but his expression was enough to answer her and confirm her fears. “You are going away again! That’s why you came back so early from the Citadel—to get ready to leave.”

  “I confess, that is the case.”

  A sudden panic came upon her. She knew it was ill of her to protest—what could it accomplish save to make his task more difficult?—yet she could not prevent herself. “You said you had accomplished what you needed to on your last venture to Torland. Surely there is no reason for you to return there. And it is so far—you will never return in time for Lily and Rose’s party!”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. She tried to snatch it back, but he tightened his grip on it, holding it with a force that, though gentle, was beyond her power to break.

  “I am not going back to Torland,” he said, his voice low, and his brown eyes intent upon her. “There is nothing more that I can do there. I am only going so far as Mansford in the south. I must meet with another of the inquirers there. He has some papers belonging to the lord inquirer that were in his keeping, and I must retrieve them.”

  Ivy’s dread receded somewhat. Mansford was not so terribly distant. If he took a swift stage, and did not linger long, he would be no more than a quarter month. All the same, that would have him returning very near to Lily and Rose’s party.

  “Cannot this other inquirer bring the papers to the city?” she said.

  “He is not at liberty to do so. His business lies in the other direction. Nor are these things that could safely be sent by post.”

  Ivy sighed, and the last of her fear was replaced by resignation. “It is just … you have already been at the Citadel so much of
late.”

  “I know.” He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “There has been much to do since our loss of Lord Rafferdy.”

  “Then the situation can only be improved when there is a new lord inquirer appointed. Therefore I will hope that day comes soon.”

  “You may not want to express such a hope!”

  “Why should I not?”

  He withdrew his hand from hers. “Because I fear that it is I who will be nominated for the post. Indeed, the papers I go to retrieve may confirm that very thing. All that has been wanting is to know what Lord Rafferdy’s mind on the subject was, and I have reason to believe that among these letters is one that expresses his intent that I succeed him. Thus you can now be assured that it is only with the greatest reluctance that I leave you to go on this journey.”

  Ivy’s astonishment was so great that for a long moment she could not speak. “But you must go!” she exclaimed at last. “This is marvelous.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Is it marvelous? That is hardly the word I would have chosen.”

  “Yet it is the word I choose,” Ivy said.

  She gazed at him. In that moment, all her dreads and anxieties and selfish cares, while they did not depart, became so light that she could easily pick them up and set them aside. She stood and went around to him, resting her hands upon his thick, sloped shoulders.

  “Do not think that I am not sensible to what this portends. It means I will be able to claim an even smaller part of you than I already do. Yet you must ignore all of my silly complaints. How can I be jealous of Altania? For in serving her, you serve all of us, including myself. Besides, I would rather possess a fraction of a great and good man, rather than the whole of one whom I did not so greatly admire, and so greatly love.”

  He said nothing. Instead, he caught her hand in his—the maimed one this time—and pressed it to his bearded cheek. They stayed that way for a while. Then, at last, he let go.