It was then that Rafferdy realized Farrolbrook was not wearing gloves like the rest of the Magisters or the other young magicians in the Hall. A flicker of darkness caught his eye, and he turned to see that Lady Shayde had lifted her veil. Her dark eyes were fixed not upon Lord Mertrand as might have been expected, but rather on Lord Farrolbrook.
After these events, a few small pieces of business were brought up, but by then no one was interested in discussing matters of politics in the Hall. Rather, they were ready to talk about them over rum and ale at the Silver Branch. Soon the High Speaker’s gavel clattered down, signaling the end of the session.
“Well, that was remarkable!” Coulten exclaimed. “I never would have imagined any topic Lord Bastellon might bring up could lead to so entertaining a display.”
Rafferdy wasn’t certain entertaining was the word he would have chosen, though it had all been fascinating, to be sure.
“I only wish Eubrey had been here to see it,” Coulten went on.
“Where is he, by the way?” Rafferdy said as they left their seats. “You were going to tell me when the session was called to order.”
Coulten cast several—rather conspicuous—glances around them, then leaned in close. “I don’t know precisely. I received a note from him yesterday before our meeting at the tavern. He said only that he had something of great importance to do, some task that had been given to him by the sages.”
“What task?”
“He was not at liberty to say, though I suspect it has something to do with his experiment at the Evengrove. Yet that wasn’t all he said in the note. He wrote that the sages had been keeping their eyes on me, that they have been making plans with me in mind. Eubrey thinks that I am sure to be the next magician in the society to be invited through the Door.” He gave a broad grin. “What do you think of that, Rafferdy? You aren’t going to beat me to the inner sanctum after all!”
Rafferdy could only grin back. “I am not surprised, Coulten. You have ever been higher than me!” He directed his gaze at his companion’s lofty crown of hair.
This caused them both to laugh as they proceeded down the steps. However, after a moment Rafferdy’s mirth faltered. He felt a chill on the back of his neck, and he glanced up. Across the Hall, Lady Shayde had risen from her seat, and her black eyes were directed not at Farrolbrook or Mertrand or any other magnate, but rather at him. Despite his efforts to do nothing to attract her notice, he had failed. But how?
Then he caught a glint of blue as a stray beam of sunlight struck his right hand, and he understood. There had been only two men in the Hall who had worn their House rings openly, and one of them was Lord Farrolbrook.
Rafferdy shivered, then he stuck his right hand in his pocket.
“Come on,” he said. “There won’t be a free bench at the Silver Branch if we don’t hurry.”
And he led the way out of the Hall of Magnates.
EVENING WAS JUST falling by the time Rafferdy departed the Silver Branch, and while he had not yet had his fill of rum, he’d had more than his fill of politics.
He had not taken part in any of the discussions himself, but they had gone on all around him and Coulten. Most of the discussions concerned who had gotten the best of the other that day at Assembly: Lord Mertrand or Lord Bastellon. Expectedly, many lords came down firmly on Mertrand’s side. But there were a surprising number who scored the day for Bastellon, and not all of them were old Stouts in greasy wigs.
All the same, as the afternoon wore on and the spirits flowed, Rafferdy overheard more and more men echoing Mertrand’s question—why hadn’t the Wyrdwood been burned down before, and why shouldn’t they do so now?
Each time he heard this question spoken, it left Rafferdy with an unsettled feeling, though he did not know why that should be. After all, he had neither interest in nor affection for the Wyrdwood, and he had seen firsthand what awful power it had. He would not soon forget the way the black branches had plucked up the soldier that day, shaking him as a capricious child might punish a doll. It had been a dreadful sight.
All the same, the more he heard men speaking of destroying the Old Trees, the more fretful his thoughts became, and the more rum he craved. After a time, he found himself turning his House ring around and around on his finger. By its blue gem and the runes etched on its side, he was descended from Gauldren, Altania’s first great magician, who had placed the Quelling upon the Wyrdwood. Eubrey had said that the Quelling was imperfect, and that was why magicians would one day be needed again.
Yet Rafferdy found himself wondering if that was really the case. What if Gauldren’s spell had worked exactly as he had intended it to? Perhaps it had been his wish only to make the Wyrdwood slumber, and there was some reason not to destroy it outright. After all, were there not other ways to control the wood? He thought of what Mrs. Quent had done that day, how the Old Trees had grown subdued at her bidding.
Finally some intoxicated lord had stood up on a table and called for torches to be brought to the Evengrove that very night. He was promptly hauled back down by others, of course; no one was that drunk. All the same, Rafferdy found himself no longer in any mood to stay, and he said his farewells to Coulten.
As he walked down Marble Street, Rafferdy found he was in no mood to go back to his home on Warwent Square either. He considered it only for a moment, then he hailed a hack cab and issued familiar instructions.
A quarter hour later the carriage halted on a dingy street before a squat, dingy building. Hanging above the door was a faded sign, barely visible in the light of a sputtering streetlamp, which illustrated a sword piercing the center of a large, curling leaf.
He had checked his black book earlier, and there had been no notice of a meeting of the society tonight. That was just as well, for it was not magick he wished to partake of. Instead, seeking familiar comfort, he entered the tavern and went to his favorite booth in one corner.
To his dismay he found it occupied by a lone figure in gray. Having no wish to attempt conversation with a stranger, he started to turn to go find another table, only then the booth’s occupant raised his head.
“Garritt!” he said in surprise.
While at the same time the other exclaimed, “Rafferdy!”
They stared at each other for a moment. At last Rafferdy overcame his astonishment.
“May I?”
“Of course!” Eldyn leaped to his feet and called for another cup. Once this was brought they both sat, and he filled Rafferdy’s cup with punch. They both took long draughts.
“So, what are you about tonight?”
Eldyn made a wordless gesture toward his cup.
“Ah,” Rafferdy replied.
They sat in silence for a while. For all that he had long been wanting to meet with his old friend, to catch up on affairs in both of their lives, Rafferdy found he had little desire to speak. For his part, Eldyn seemed to share this disinclination for talk. All the same, it felt good to be here in this familiar place, with this familiar person before him. For perhaps the first time since his father had passed, Rafferdy felt at ease.
“Well, how have you been, you rascal?” Rafferdy said at last, when it felt natural to do so. “You looked very well at the party for the Miss Lockwells, I must say.”
This seemed to Rafferdy an innocuous statement, but it elicited a grimace from his companion. The last time they had met here, Garritt had been uncharacteristically cheerful—so much so that Rafferdy had told him to affect his more usual air of melancholy when next they met.
Garritt had lived up to this demand. His face was wan, his gaze mournful, and he was prone to sigh every time he set down his cup. Yet now that his friend had become his more naturally glum self, Rafferdy could not say he was satisfied.
“You need not speak of it if you do not wish,” he said, refilling their cups, “but has your business you were scheming taken an ill turn?”
Garritt laughed a little at this. “No, on the contrary, it all has gone exceedingly well—fa
r better than I had thought. My plan is nearly at fruition, and far sooner than I expected.”
“Well, I am glad to hear it.”
“Are you?” Garritt shook his head. “I suppose I should be glad as well, only …” He gazed down into his cup.
“Only what?” Rafferdy said.
Garritt looked up at him, his eyes reflecting the smoky lamplight. “Have you ever had to give up something—a thing that was precious to you, which you adored more than almost anything—because there was something else that you had to do instead? Something that you knew to be the right thing, even if perhaps it was not so dear to you?”
Now Rafferdy looked at his own cup, and it was he who grimaced. Asked such a question, how could he think of anything but the day he had wished to go to Mrs. Quent, then Miss Lockwell, and ask her for her hand. Only he had opened his door to find his father standing there, and Lord Rafferdy had convinced him not to do his heart’s bidding, but rather to do his duty, which he knew to be right.
Yet had it been?
Rafferdy took a swig of punch. “Yes, I believe I have faced such a situation as you describe. And I will say this, Garritt.” He looked up at his friend. “You should not do what you think to be the right thing. Rather, you should act as your wishes and your heart direct you.”
“I see.” His companion drew a breath. “Only you didn’t, did you?”
Rafferdy hesitated, then shook his head.
Garritt let out a sigh. “I suppose I am bound to do the same.”
They drank in companionable silence after that, until all the punch was gone. Then, though neither said it, they both knew it was time to go, and they rose to their feet.
“I hope one day you can tell me of your business, and what you decided,” Rafferdy said as they clasped hands firmly.
Garritt nodded. “It was good to see you, Rafferdy. Let us not make it so long before our next meeting. I will be … that is, I may have news for you then.”
With that, they went out together into the night. Rafferdy raised a hand to hail a hack cab that was rattling by, then turned to ask Eldyn if he needed a ride anywhere.
But his friend was nowhere in view, and all he saw were shadows.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE SCRATCHING OF Eldyn’s pen was the only noise to controvert the silence of the vaulted room beneath Graychurch.
He bent over the church ledger in the dwindling light that fell from the window high above his desk, totaling neat columns of figures. In the past, he had always derived a satisfaction from the act of transforming a jumbled box of receipts and demands into precisely aligned rows upon a page. It had let him believe that, with the proper application of intellect and ink, any sort of muddle might be brought into order. Only now, no matter how many times he checked his ciphering, the sums never seemed to work out right.
Other sounds broke the quietude: the thumping of heavy footfalls, and the groan of a door.
“But, Mr. Garritt, you are still here!”
Eldyn looked up to see the plump form of the rector of Graychurch in the doorway.
“Hello, Father Gadby,” he said.
“I had come back only to make certain all the candles were put out,” the rector said, proceeding in a swift waddle toward him. “I had a sudden fright that I had left one burning. I see I did not, but I am glad I came all the same. It is past time for you to have gone home.”
“I was only just trying to finish these last receipts.”
The rector clucked his tongue. “I am sure you are anxious to earn your portion to enter the Church, Mr. Garritt, and your diligence is commendable, but tomorrow is another lumenal. What’s more, every good priest knows when it is time for labor and when it is time for contemplation. Now, put down your pen, and go to your sister. I’m sure she wants for you.”
So directed, Eldyn could only do what the rector asked, and he put up his work.
“Do not look so doleful, Mr. Garritt!” Father Gadby said with a smile. “You will be a priest soon enough. Why, I am quite sure that God already has a task set out for you.”
Eldyn only nodded, then ascended the stairs to the church above. The priests were chanting the evening prayers. Often, when his work was done for the day, Eldyn would stand among the saints in the ambulatory and listen for a little while. However, this evening there was a dissonance to the chanting of the priests, as if several of them intoned the words in an off key. What’s more, they had thrown too much incense upon the braziers, so that the air was cloying to breathe and made his eyes sting.
He did not pause, passing through the dimness of the nave and out into the twilight.
Usually he would be in a hurry to get to the theater, as following middle lumenals rehearsals typically commenced an hour after nightfall. However, he walked slowly to the old monastery and took the stairs at a deliberate pace. He wondered if he would encounter Mr. Fantharp. Only there was no one else on the stairs, and he soon entered the little apartment.
As usual, he found Sashie reading from the Testament by the dimming window. She did not look up to greet him as he entered. He saw that she had not set out the supper things that had been left by the cooking lady, so he did this himself and lit a few candles—though not so many as he might have before, as they had not had many from Mr. Fantharp of late.
As soon as he finished these actions, Sashie rose, gave him a brief, cool kiss on the cheek, and sat at the table. He asked her how she had occupied herself that day, but then regretted it, for she proceeded to tell him the story of every martyred saint she had dusted in the church. With what seemed great relish she recounted which ones had been shot with arrows by barbarians and which had been made to drink hot lead due to their faith.
“What of you, brother?” she said as she licked bits of an apricot tart from her fingers. “Are you going to stay and read from the Testament tonight? I can show you some verses I believe you might find to be … of interest to you.”
She gestured to the book on the table, which she must have set there. Compared to her own well-frayed copy of the Testament, his looked as if it were newly printed, and there was a thin layer of dust upon the cover. While he was far from eager to go to the theater, the thought of staying in that cramped room and reading from the Testament with her caused a shudder to pass through him. He pushed away from the table and stood.
“I’m afraid I have business to attend to.”
“Do you? Perhaps I am in error, but I thought that your only business was to work toward entering the priesthood.” She laid a hand on the copy of the Testament. “Yet you are so often gone at night, and I must begin to wonder, brother, what sort of virtuous business you can possibly have after dark?”
What little food he had managed to consume now churned in his stomach. Her face, despite its roundness, seemed hard, like that of some marble saint glaring from its niche.
“Whatever it is, it is no business of yours and is mine alone!” he cried, and while the words sounded angry, it was more out of a dread that he had raised his voice.
Despite the volume of the words, Sashie did not flinch. “It may not be my business, as you say, brother. Yet Father Prestus tells me that all we do in this world is the business of Eternum, else it is the work of the Abyss. I only hope you know which it is you are doing tonight.”
With that, she picked up his copy of the Testament and one of the candles and went into her room. For a moment Eldyn stared at the dirty plates on the table. Then he put on his gray coat and, without pausing to check his appearance in the mirror, went out into the night.
He did not draw the shadows around him as he proceeded through the streets of the Old City. Why should he bother when he already felt like a shadow himself? Nor did anyone accost him, and despite his reluctance to go that night, he found himself arriving at the Theater of the Moon just as the rehearsal was commencing.
The last two nights had been performances, and Eldyn had been able to fulfill his role and depart the theater without ever having to en
counter Dercy except upon the stage, at which times the play scripted their actions. However, there would be no avoiding him tonight, for it was to be a rehearsal. Eldyn tried to think of what he would say to him.
It did not matter, for Dercy was not there. He had sent a note earlier stating that he was ill, Riethe said when Eldyn asked about his whereabouts. At this news, Eldyn suffered at once a pang of relief and disappointment. He found that he wanted more than anything to see Dercy, and to tell him he did not want to have an argument with him.
Except what use was there in it? In the end it would not change what Eldyn had to do. As he had told Rafferdy at tavern last night, he was bound to do what he knew was right. While he would never have wished for him and Dercy to part in such a manner, it did not alter the fact that they would have had to part soon enough anyway. Perhaps it was better it had happened this way, so that the pain was done with swiftly instead of drawn out.
All the same, as the rehearsal progressed, Eldyn could not help glancing at the wings of the stage, wondering if he would see a young man with a blond beard grinning there. Only he never did, and soon the rehearsal ended—somewhat earlier than usual, for there had been no new staging.
“I am disappointed you have not devised some remarkable new way to present one of our scenes, Mr. Garritt,” Master Tallyroth said as the illusionists left the stage. His voice was thin and tremulous, as was the hand with which he gripped his cane, but his gaze was as sharp and bright as ever.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t had any good ideas of late,” Eldyn said, ducking his head. Before the master illusionist could say anything more, he hurriedly departed the stage with the rest of the young men.
The House on Durrow Street Page 61
