“Yes, I know their proclivities quite well,” Coulten replied darkly. “But it is baffling nonetheless. After all, the act to reduce the Wyrdwood is to be proposed in the Hall of Citizens as well.”
It was Canderhow who answered him. “I fear the Magisters have more than a few allies there. Now that the Magisters have suddenly become fervent supporters of royal power, many of the Citizens are following their lead.”
“Well,” Coulten said, “now that we know they’re planning a vote on the Wyrdwood, what do we do about it?”
Eight pairs of eyes turned toward Trefnell.
While the Fellowship of the Silver Circle had no magus, Trefnell was closer to being its leader than anyone else, and they all looked to the former headmaster before making any sort of decision. It was Wolsted who had discreetly approached Rafferdy and Coulten one day at the Silver Branch and spoken to them about joining the Fellowship, having observed their actions in Assembly as well as the House rings upon their hands. Yet it was very clear at their first meeting that, had Trefnell not approved of them, they would not have been admitted to the circle.
Fortunately, after no small amount of questioning—and a demonstration of their ability to read and invoke several magickal runes—Trefnell had shaken both their hands and welcomed them into the order. With the addition of Coulten and Rafferdy, the fellowship of nine was complete. Five of their number belonged to the Hall of Magnates, and the remainder to the Hall of Citizens. The purpose of the fellowship, Trefnell had told them during that first meeting, was to do all they could to make certain that Assembly passed no act or made no law that might cause harm to the Wyrdwood. And they had all of them together sworn an oath binding them to this aim.
Rafferdy had never been much for making pledges. After all, promises could become quite inconvenient when one had a sudden wish to change one’s mind. All the same, he had few misgivings in swearing this particular oath. He would never forget entering the Evengrove with Mrs. Quent and traveling to the ancient
pyramid in its center—the tomb of a powerful Ashen entity which was hidden within, and its vile powers contained by, the Old Trees. Rafferdy was in general a man happily free of convictions, but there were two notions to which, after that night, he now hewed with great faith. The first was that the Wyrdwood must never be harmed. And the second was that, in all of Altania, there was no woman more intelligent, more brave, and more beautiful than Mrs. Quent.
While it was not Trefnell who had founded the Fellowship of the Silver Circle, it was he who had quickly turned it to its present purpose upon joining the order. “It is no coincidence that, after so long, the Risings have begun again even as Cerephus approaches in the heavens,” he had said quietly to Rafferdy after that first meeting. “We all of us in the circle know that the Wyrdwood has the power to thwart the magicks of the Ashen. But only you and I have seen it with our own eyes.”
It was half a year ago when Trefnell had witnessed the abilities of the Wyrdwood for himself. A member of the arcane order he had belonged to at the time had been made into a gray man—his body hollowed out to a shell and his organs, along with his soul, replaced by a daemon.
After Trefnell, in the course of his research, stumbled upon this awful fact, his former compatriot pursued him, intending to murder him to conceal the secret. In desperation, Trefnell had fled to the country and there went to a small stand of Wyrdwood—for in his reading he had encountered a few hints of the ability of the Old Trees to resist daemons.
And that night, by the stone wall at the edge of the Wyrdwood, he had discovered it was true. He had watched as the branches of the trees lashed out, snatching his former compatriot up from the ground and rending the daemon into pieces that dissolved away into a gray sludge.
After hearing this harrowing tale, Rafferdy had related something of his own experiences at the Evengrove, how he had observed the trees stand in resistance to the magicks of the Ashen—though
he had given no details that might have indicated the presence or identity of Mrs. Quent, or even the true nature of what they had found there.
Despite Rafferdy’s vagueness, Trefnell had been excited to learn of these additional facts, which added weight to his belief that the Wyrdwood had some important role in what was to come. For none of them had any doubt that the Ashen would continue to seek a way into the world.
“It seems the hour we have been preparing for has come,” Trefnell said as the other magicians looked to him. “We must find a way to prevent the measure calling for the reduction of the Wyrdwood from being enacted. And I fear it is not enough to vote against it and hope others do the same. For should the act carry while we were in the negative, it would surely direct attention toward all of us.”
Trefnell did not need to explain further. Lady Shayde continued to observe Assembly on a regular basis, and if she did not come, then Moorkirk—that hulk of a man who served her—came instead.
“Then we are bound to fail,” Wolsted said, his ruddy face going grim. “If we do not vote against the measure ourselves, then we can hardly expect that others will do so.”
“What if nobody were to vote on it?” Rafferdy said, an idea forming in his mind.
“I don’t follow you, Rafferdy. If we speak nay to the motion to bring the act to the floor, or to the motion to end debate and call for a vote upon the act, we will draw as much attention to ourselves as if we opposed it outright. In any case, we cannot succeed.”
“So it would seem,” Rafferdy said. “Unless, of course, it is impossible for a vote to be called at all.”
Canderhow stroked his jowled chin. “But that would only happen if a quorum was not present. And if word gets out that there is to be an important vote—which the Magisters will make sure happens just in time, mind you—then we cannot expect many will stay away from Assembly.”
“Can’t we?” Rafferdy said, arching an eyebrow for effect. “And what if some number of magnates found themselves otherwise … engaged?”
The others stared at him. Then, as he explained his idea further, he saw looks of understanding go around the circle—followed by grins.
All at once those grins ceased as there came three loud thumps on the ceiling above. These were followed, after a pause, by three more. Despite the protections of the circle of silence, they all held their breath and uttered no word. There was only one reason for the signal from above.
There were either soldiers in the pewtersmith’s shop or suspected agents of the Gray Conclave.
For several tense moments they continued to stand within the circle, making no sound. Trefnell pointed at the door of the room, then clasped his hands together. The message was clear:
have your spells of binding at the ready
.
While Rafferdy had practiced his binding enchantments a number of times, so that the harsh words of magick came easily off his tongue, he had never used the spell on a living being. Nor did he ever have wish to do so. All the same, he tightened his grip on the ivory handle of his cane.
Suddenly there came two thumps from above, followed by two more. So loud was the noise that Rafferdy jumped in his boots, though he quickly let out a breath of relief.
“Whoever was here, they’ve left now,” Canderhow said, dabbing at the beads of moisture on his brow with a handkerchief.
“Then I suggest we do the same,” Trefnell said. He gave a nod in Rafferdy’s direction. “I believe we all know what we are to do in advance of the next session of Assembly.”
With that, the circle was broken and the cloth pulled away from the door. By ones and twos they went up and out into the night, allowing a few minutes to elapse between their departures from the pewtersmith’s shop so as not to draw attention.
“I do hope you know what you’re doing,” Coulten said as he and Rafferdy walked down Coronet Street.
“What a peculiar thing to say,” Rafferdy replied cheerfully. “Of course I don’t know what I’m doing. You know I prefer to invent things as I go.”
C
OUGHS SOUNDED about the Hall of Magnates, along with a constant rustling as lords and viscounts, earls and dukes fanned themselves with a folded broadsheet—always
The Comet
or
The Messenger
, of course, never
The Fox
or
The Swift Arrow
. Though it was still morning, the day was already sweltering, for the umbral had been exceedingly brief.
Another round of throat clearing echoed up toward the domed ceiling. Everywhere magnates turned their heads to look about them, as if expecting some event to occur. Despite this, the High Speaker’s gavel lay still upon the podium, and the floor at the center of the Hall remained empty.
Across the aisle from where the New Wigs were situated, Lord Davarry sat alone upon a bench. Several rows of benches behind him were similarly empty. While he sat stonily, gazing forward without expression, it was plain to all that his agitation was growing. His cheeks were red, and his bluish wig had steadily crept forward on his head over the past half an hour as he repeatedly clamped his jaw.
There was a loud noise at the back of the Hall. Davarry leaped to his feet and turned to look toward the large gilded doors. But it was only an usher who, having grown dull with the heat and quiet, had leaned against one of the doors, causing it to slam shut. The young man gave a sheepish look, then hastily pulled the door back open, for the doors were not to be shut until Assembly was called to order by the High Speaker.
And that could not occur until a quorum—two thirds of their total number—was present.
Davarry glared at the usher, then sat back down on the empty bench.
“Were you waiting for something, Lord Davarry?” Rafferdy said, rising to his feet. He spoke as if merely making idle
conversation—though his volume was more than enough to carry throughout the stifled Hall.
Now it was at Rafferdy that Davarry’s glare was directed. “And what might you presume the answer to be, Lord Rafferdy?” He gestured to the empty benches around him.
“Ah,” Rafferdy said, as if just noticing the empty seats. “It appears that you have misplaced your party, Lord Davarry.”
“So it would seem.”
A bout of nervous laughter went around the Hall at this, though it was not so much directed at Davarry as at the absurd situation. Rafferdy had to grant the other lord his due. Davarry was not one to be made a fool even when caught in foolish circumstances.
“Curiously, I find that I am in a similar plight,” Rafferdy said, gesturing to the empty seats to either side of him, which were usually occupied by the other New Wigs.
This won him a suspicious look from the elder lord. “Yes, it is highly curious, Lord Rafferdy.”
“Well, perhaps we can amuse ourselves while we wait for them to appear,” Rafferdy said pleasantly.
“How so?”
The noise of coughing and the rustling of broadsheets in the Hall was suddenly much reduced.
“Well, we might discuss ways in which some of the difficulties that beset our nation could be confronted.”
“You know we cannot conduct business in the Hall without a quorum!”
Rafferdy acknowledged this truth with a bow. “You are right, of course. Yet if the lords on the back benches are free to play at dice, then I am sure we up front may amuse ourselves by making conversation. I cannot think the High Speaker’s rules would forbid us passing the time in such a fashion.”
The High Speaker was, in fact, presently snoring as he leaned on an elbow propped upon his podium.
“Perhaps there is no rule against it,” Davarry conceded. “But neither is there a point to it. After all, nothing we say will be entered into the record of the Hall’s business.”
“Again, you are right. Yet it might help us to organize our thoughts, so that once the session does come to order, we can conclude our business more expeditiously in whatever time remains.” Rafferdy hesitated for the slightest moment. “Unless you do not think there is any need to conserve time, and that there is no great amount of work for us to do.”
A man with as keen a mind as Davarry’s could only know when he was being baited. But Rafferdy also knew that this same intelligence can also lead a man to abandon caution, presuming he can best his opponent at the other’s game. As the saying went, a clever mouse always thinks he can nick the cheese without springing the trap.
Rafferdy was about to find out if that adage was true.
“Of course there is a great amount of work for this body to perform!” Davarry said, addressing not Rafferdy, but the rest of the Hall. “Anyone who believes otherwise, who feels there is no need for us to take decisive action, puts our nation in grave peril. We must not dither and falter as we so often do. We must refrain from paying sole consideration to politics and how this or that might benefit our own positions, and instead we must do all that we can to strengthen our nation and protect it from all threats.”
This resulted in several calls of
Hear! Hear!
about the Hall, which after a few moments were timidly joined by others.
Rafferdy turned to look in the direction of some of these late-coming affirmations. “Indeed, Lord Davarry, no one in these times wishes to be seen as tolerant or coddling of any person or notion which might be perceived as a detriment to our nation. In fact, I am sure it is impossible for a man to dislike or dread such things too much! He could vocalize his detestation with great frequency and volume, could beat his breast and shake a damning fist at any who might offer the slightest disagreement, and still I’m sure it would not be deemed too much by some.”
Davarry hesitated, as if uncertain precisely how to respond to this. “For anything which would weaken the sovereign crown of Altania, no revulsion can be too much,” Davarry said at last.
“Altania above all else?”
“Indeed, above all!”
Rafferdy nodded. “Well, then we are in agreement. Yet perhaps I have found a topic for us to converse upon, for I find myself puzzled by one matter. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
“I might shine a light in a darkened room, Lord Rafferdy. Whether the light reveals the room to be full or empty is not under my control.”