The Master of Heathcrest Hall (34 page)

“Thank you, Lady Quent,” she said as they stood. “This has been very useful. And if I have a few more questions at some point, may I return?”

“Of course,” Ivy said as they walked toward the door. Now that she was over her initial surprise, she found herself fascinated with her visitor. This was not only the famed White Lady, whose mere gaze was said to compel traitors to confess and reveal their secrets, and who had single-handedly sent dozens to the gallows. This was also Ashaydea, who years ago had been Mr. Quent’s childhood companion at Heathcrest Hall.

Ivy thought back to the story Mr. Quent had once told her—how Ashaydea had been born in the Empire to an Altanian lord and a Murghese woman, and how Earl Rylend had brought her back to Heathcrest after one of his voyages to the south and had raised her like a daughter. The elder Mr. Quent was the earl’s steward. Thus, the young Alasdare Quent had often been at Heathcrest, and he and Ashaydea had often been playmates.

Only then, as they grew toward adulthood, something had happened. Or more specifically, Mr. Bennick had happened. For some unknown purpose, Mr. Bennick had performed a magickal ceremony on Ashaydea, one that had transformed the almond-skinned young woman into a being with pale skin, black hair, and preternatural abilities—just like the merchant’s daughter in
The Towers of Ardaunto
.

A sad and pitiful creature
, Mr. Quent had once called her, when they saw her in the Citadel.

Yet Ivy could not say she felt pity for the woman walking beside her now. Lady Shayde moved languidly and gracefully, yet with a power and confidence that could not be mistaken. She was hard, to be sure, and cool. But that had to be expected in one who held such a position as she. Whatever intentions he had for her, Mr. Bennick had not been able to place her under his command. Like the White Thorn in the novel, in the end she was her own being and served whom she chose.

Again, Ivy was struck by the similarities between the novel and Lady Shayde’s own story. Nor could this likeness be due to coincidence. Surely some of the other magicians in Mr. Bennick’s order were aware of what he had attempted with Ashaydea. What if Mr. Fintaur was one of them? And what if he was not just the proprietor of the bookshop where Ivy had bought the book? She recalled what he had said that day as she held the book.

I like this one very much myself.…

A sudden crack of thunder shook the windowpanes.

“Is something wrong, Lady Quent?” Lady Shayde said in her melodious voice. “Your color has gone very white of a sudden.”

Ivy was no longer so at ease as she had been a moment ago, but
she managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s only the thunder. It startled me.”

“It will be a violent storm,” the other said, gazing out the window. Then she turned and regarded Ivy with her dark eyes. “By the way, I meant to ask you how Lord Rafferdy is faring of late. Is he well?”

Ivy blinked. “But surely you know he has passed away!”

“I meant the
present
Lord Rafferdy.”

“Of course,” Ivy said, wincing at her mistake. But she always thought of her friend as
Mister
rather than
Lord
. “You know him, then?”

“Yes, we have met. I was of course well-acquainted with his father. But I haven’t had occasion to speak with Lord Rafferdy lately. I suppose he has been greatly occupied.” She touched a gloved finger to her chin. “Let’s see, how long is it that he has been pursuing the study of the arcane?”

Ivy opened her mouth to reply—then froze. How easily might she have stepped into the trap that had been cleverly laid for her. She had been put at ease and had been directed into a mode in which answering questions had become simple, even automatic.

He has been studying magick for more than a year
.

The words had been on the tip of her tongue before she even realized it; she had almost uttered them. Only her shock at realizing the truth about Mr. Fintaur had jarred her from that malleable state.

She clenched her jaw until she was certain she could answer in a careful fashion. “I think very well of Lord Rafferdy, but I confess, I have never known him to apply himself to any course of study—except perhaps that of the latest fashions.”

Once more Lady Shayde’s blue-black lips curved upward. Like the first time, the expression was anything but a smile.

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Lady Quent. I will be sure to return if I have more questions.”

Yes, I am sure you will
, Ivy thought. But she said only, “Good day, Lady Shayde. I trust you will not be caught in the storm.”

“I am certain I will not,” the other replied.

As soon as the front door closed, Ivy clasped her arms around herself, shivering. How foolish she had been to let herself think this interview was simply a formality. It had been anything but.

Another peal of thunder shook the windows. Still shivering, Ivy went back across the front hall to retrieve her coat, and put it on.

S
HORTLY AFTER RISING, Rafferdy opened his black book and saw that a new message had manifested upon its pages. There was to be another meeting of the Fellowship of the Silver Circle that night.

The timing was excellent. He had just one arrangement to make. Still in his silk night robe, he sat at the writing table in his bedchamber and penned a note with a few brief instructions. He gave the note to his man, taking a cup of coffee in return, then proceeded to make himself ready for the day.

If it could be called such. For the lumenal that ensued was so gloomy that Rafferdy feared he would have no way to know when night was falling and the moon rising. For hours on end, raindrops pelted the windows, as if seeking to force their way inside. The sound made him think of angry voices shouting, so that he kept looking out the windows to see if there were crowds marching in the street.

It would not be the first time. Recently, in Covenant Cross, a riot had broken out among a large gathering of university students, and it had grown violent when the redcrests appeared. Whether it was the students who first threw stones or the soldiers who first fired their rifles depended upon which broadsheet one
read. Either way, the result was the same: a number of young men, all of them students, had been shot dead.

Rafferdy had been astonished when he first heard the news from Mr. Baydon, while at Lady Marsdel’s for dinner. It was one thing to hear of soldiers shooting rebels in the country; it was quite another to have those shots fired upon university men here in the city. For a moment, a terrible thought had come to Rafferdy: what if Eldyn Garritt had been there in Covenant Cross when the soldiers opened fire?

That was a baseless fear, however. Like Rafferdy, Garritt no longer attended lectures at the university. Which meant he could have had no cause to be there that day. All the same, Rafferdy had written him a note to make certain he was well. So far Rafferdy had not received a reply, although this couldn’t really be a concern. Garritt was often very tardy in replying to letters of late. Why a man who was a scrivener all day long should find it so difficult to scratch out a few lines to a friend in the evening, Rafferdy did not know, but he would be sure to chastise Garritt the next time they met at tavern. In the meantime, all Rafferdy saw as he gazed out the window were sheets of rain lashing against the street.

At long last the storm subsided and the clouds broke apart, so that Rafferdy could see it was just afternoon. Which meant he still had many hours to waste before that night’s meeting. And as there was no place where an hour could be more effortlessly wasted than his club, Rafferdy took up his hat and called for his driver.

He soon found himself seated in a comfortable leather chair in a richly appointed room whose windows were happily swaddled with heavy drapes. This was not a place one came to consider the outside world, unless it was through the refracting lens of a brandy glass or the pages of a broadsheet.

Rafferdy paged through one of these now, though he did not bother to read any of the awful articles. It was simply something to occupy his hands in between rolling tobacco papers or drinking tea or eating lamb curried with hot Murghese spices. All the while, the low sounds of conversation went on around him. He had no
wish to join in any discussions himself, but it was pleasant to hear the drone of voices, for it allowed him to be alone without feeling in any way lonely.

Thinking it was time to take a brandy or perhaps smoke more tobacco, Rafferdy started to set down his broadsheet. Just then, something caught his ear. It was spoken no more loudly than anything else in the room, but it is an odd fact that certain words will leap at one out of a jumble of voices. Once such a thing is heard, the listener will naturally focus upon the conversation, and so hear everything that would have previously gone unnoticed.

In this instance, the word was
Quent
.

“And I see here in
The Comet
that he is to testify before the next session of Assembly,” the speaker went on, a little ways off to Rafferdy’s right. The voice had a clear, youthful tone to it. “I imagine that would be an amusing thing to witness.”

“Indeed, I would be most amused to hear how he can justify being nominated for such a high post,” replied another man—somewhat older, given the gravelly sound of his reply. Rafferdy could not see either of them, for he had lifted the broadsheet up, pretending to read as he listened.

“Well, they say he has given excellent service to the realm,” the first speaker said.

This was answered with a snort. “So it is claimed. But that cannot change the fact that his station is not at all in keeping with such a position in the government.”

“I understand he is a baronet.”

“Yes, but one only recently made. Besides, even a baronet is too low to be lord inquirer. I do not know what Lord Valhaine was thinking.”

“Perhaps he’s thinking the post is not so important as it once was. After all, he has his magicians now to help him root out rebels and traitors. And as for the matter of the Wyrdwood …”

The speaker’s voice grew low, so that Rafferdy was forced to strain to hear behind his broadsheet.

“… I’ve heard that he’s making it his own business to seek out
witches. He’s scheming some way, with the help of his magicians, to make it a simple matter to know if a woman is a witch or not. For he considers them to be the greatest of threats to the nation.”

“Is that so?” There was an audible scowl in the older speaker’s tone. “Even greater a threat than Huntley Morden’s men?”

“I know, it seems improbable to me as well. It’s not as if we have Old Trees here in the city. But that’s what I’ve heard from a very reliable source. I will say, if the Black Dog wants to find a witch who threatens the nation, he may not have far to look.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take up that copy of
The Swift Arrow
there, the one from today, and look at the second page.”

“
The Swift Arrow
? Why would I ever look at that dreadful publication? Its editors are practically rebels themselves.”

“No doubt,” the younger speaker replied. “Still, they have been printing some remarkable impressions of late.”

“Impressions? I hardly approve of those, either. Those degenerate illusionists make them, you know.”

“Of course, they are the most reprehensible sort of men. But they have their uses. You should see for yourself.”

Rafferdy glanced at the top of the page before him and was surprised to see that he was in fact holding a copy of
The Swift Arrow
. He had picked it up at random from the reading table. As quietly as he could, so as not to draw notice, he turned to the second page.

He had passed by it before, not looking at the pages as he idly leafed through them, but now that he saw it, Rafferdy had to agree the impression was striking. It showed a scene of Princess Layle departing St. Galmuth’s cathedral, where she had gone to attend a service following the terrible events in Covenant Cross.

The illusionist who made the impression had caught it just as the princess reached the bottom of the cathedral steps. He had framed it cleverly, presenting the view from the side, so that the soldiers who no doubt walked before and behind her could not be seen. Rather, she seemed alone save for a stone saint in the background,
gazing down with a sorrowful expression as if in sympathy, and a gnarled holly tree that bordered the steps, its ancient branches twisting around the edges of the scene.

“There, do you see?” said the younger speaker, his voice still low. “As I said, Lord Valhaine may not have to go far to find a sibyl of the wood, if that’s what he seeks.”

Even as he overheard these words, Rafferdy noticed how the twisted branches of the holly tree seemed to bend downward in the impression, as if reaching of their own volition to touch the woman passing below.

“What are you implying?” replied the older speaker.

“I’m implying nothing,” said the other. “But it’s said that the Arringharts trace their lineage back to the first kings of Altania—and the first queens. And everyone knows how it is said Queen Béanore vanished into the forest all those centuries ago, after the armies of Tharos defeated her at the last. She had a great
affinity
for the trees.”