The Master of Heathcrest Hall (47 page)

He reached the top of the steps and at once found his arm seized by Coulten, who had been lying in wait for him. The other young man pulled him aside, into the shadow of a marble column.

“Great Gods, there you are, Rafferdy.” Coulten’s hair seemed to have reached even greater heights than usual, as if driven upward by the force of his anxiety. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial volume. “So then, what is your plan?”

“Plan? I have no plan.”

“This is not the time for quips and cracks, Rafferdy. You have been very close since the last meeting of our little band, but I know you—you always have some clever scheme. So out with it. What are we going to do?”

“There is nothing we can do,” Rafferdy said gravely, keeping his voice low. “You heard what Farrolbrook said as well as I did.”

Coulten pulled his gloves tighter over his fingers and wrists. “So that’s it, then? We just let it happen?”

“We have no choice but to let it happen.” Rafferdy leaned in closer, whispering now. “As soon as Assembly convenes this morning, Lord Davarry is going to introduce a measure that will appoint Valhaine as Lord Guardian of Altania. The measure will command him to act as the steward and protector of the nation for the duration of the present crisis. It is a duty he is sure not to decline, and the measure will grant him any and all powers necessary to act out this role.”

Coulten frowned. “I know all that—as you said, I was there when Farrolbrook gave us the news.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to say anything more. But I can see by your look that I do.” Rafferdy laid a hand on the other man’s arm, pulling him in nearer yet so no one could possibly overhear. “Think it through, Coulten. Lord Davarry’s measure is bound to also introduce a new host of laws—measures even more strict and
terrible than those proposed in the Act of Due Loyalty. To criticize or speak out against the government in the most timid manner will be a crime punishable by imprisonment. To take the least action that might be construed as an attempt to weaken or threaten the nation will be a capital offense. Nor will you have the luxury of facing your accuser before a judge. Allegations will be made anonymously, testimony spoken against you by any official of the state will be taken as fact, and judgment will be swift, merciless, and final.”

Coulten’s face blanched. “But surely we can vote against Davarry’s measure. It won’t become law if it doesn’t pass both Halls.”

“You’re still not thinking,” Rafferdy said, thumping his index finger against Coulten’s brow. “We can’t know how many votes he has. Nobody can. So what if we vote against it, only then it passes? And what if the measure contains a stipulation that causes it to be retroactive in nature, so that the laws apply not only to deeds going forward, but to any committed since the commencement of this crisis?”

Coulten started to shake his head—then ceased this action abruptly as his jaw fell open. “But that would mean, if Davarry’s measure is supposed to strengthen the nation, then anyone who stands against it can be accused of weakening Altania.”

“Now you’re thinking,” Rafferdy said with a grim nod. “To have voted against the measure will be deemed a crime by the measure itself. Any lord or citizen who is on record as having called out a nay will be accused of treason. And since no one can be sure ahead of time that the measure won’t pass, only a madman would vote against it. Thus, in a single act, Valhaine will begin a reign more absolute than any king’s. For anyone who does not support his authority will become a criminal by definition, and will be hauled off to Barrowgate and summarily hanged.”

Coulten put a hand to his brow, pressing the place where Rafferdy had thumped it. “I know the Black Dog is rabid in his desire to protect Altania from its enemies, but I can hardly believe this. Whatever he is, Valhaine has always been loyal to the Crown.”

“Has he? Surely you’ve heard the rumors going about the city
that Princess Layle is a witch—or at least that she has the capacity to become one, given her supposed descent from Queen Béanore. And who do you suppose has been spreading these rumors?”

“The Gray Conclave?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t the inquirers,” Rafferdy said with a snort. “More likely it’s the Magisters. But whoever is to blame, Lord Valhaine will use these pernicious rumors as an excuse to confine Layle to her chambers. He’ll say it is for her own good, that she must be protected from the unwholesome influence of the Wyrdwood. But it will be no different than a prison; she will be able to do nothing against him.”

Coulten slumped against the column. “Good God, then we’re done for. Everything we’ve accomplished up to now has been for nothing. The magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door will have the confidence of the most powerful man in all of Altania. And if they are beholden to the Ashen, then he will be as well—whether knowingly or not—and they will do away with the Wyrdwood at once. We have lost, Rafferdy.”

“Today, yes,” Rafferdy said, then he tightened his grip on Coulten’s arm. “But this is only one battle. A consequential one, yes, but far from the last. Valhaine will have much to occupy him in the coming days. He can hardly send his men dashing about the nation to burn down the Old Trees as they please—not when most stands of Wyrdwood are in the West Country, and it’s from the west that Huntley Morden marches. That means we still have time. And if we are careful here this morning, then we can remain free to work against him another day.”

“And how can we do this?” Coulten’s tone was skeptical, but he stood up straight, and a bit of color had returned to his cheeks.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

Still holding on to Coulten’s arm, Rafferdy pulled the other young man along the colonnade and through the gilded doors into the Hall of Magnates, which was rapidly filling. They took their places on the bench alongside the rest of the New Wigs. The other young men all looked at Rafferdy, as if to see what he was going to do, but his own gaze traveled across the Hall.

The members of the Magisters party already occupied the front benches opposite where the New Wigs sat. They all of them sat serenely, as if this were just another session of Assembly. All, that was, save for one. Farrolbrook hunched upon their periphery. It was difficult to see what he was doing, but Rafferdy guessed he was drawing something in his sketchbook. Now and then there was a crimson flash as the ring on Farrolbrook’s hand entered a shaft of light falling from the slits in the dome above.

Other sparks of red and purple and green caught Rafferdy’s eye as well. No longer were he and Farrolbrook the only men in the Hall who had foregone gloves. The Magisters all wore their magicians’ rings openly now, just like the smug expressions on their faces.

Rafferdy twisted his own ring around on his finger. Damn the Magisters! This was why they had been so eager to support the Crown in recent months but not the princess; they would have their own monarch, in fact if not in title. Already they had employed him to hunt down any magicians who might oppose them. Now they would use him to wage a war—not upon Huntley Morden, but upon the Wyrdwood.

And upon those who might call out to it.

I’ve heard that he’s making it his own business to seek out witches
. So said the man Rafferdy had overheard at his club, referring to Valhaine.
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.…

Now it was not Rafferdy’s ring that was twisting, but rather his stomach. What if Valhaine really was creating some manner of witch-hunter? And what if one were to come before Mrs. Quent?

But that was speculation. How could Valhaine even manage such a thing? All the same, that Mrs. Quent must depart the city as soon as possible was a certainty. She was in grave peril as long as she remained in Invarel. It would be best if she departed for the east at once; she could go to Farland Park with Lady Marsdel. Yet Rafferdy knew it was useless to urge her to flee. She would never leave the city, not while her husband was being held in prison.
The only person in Altania who might have a chance of convincing her to go was Sir Quent himself.

Which meant Rafferdy had to find a way to get into Barrowgate to see him. Only how? For the last three lumenals, Rafferdy had racked his brain to think of a way he could aid Sir Quent, but so far he had conceived of nothing. Sir Quent had been arrested on suspicion of treason for his acts in Torland. By vouching for him, Rafferdy would achieve nothing save to incriminate himself, and he could hardly be a help if he was in prison. There had to be some other way to get into Barrowgate to see him. But how?

A loud noise jarred Rafferdy out of his thoughts. The High Speaker had struck the podium with his gavel. At once a solemn hush fell over the Hall. Only the Magisters knew for certain what was about to happen, but it was clear that everyone knew something momentous was about to occur.

Above and behind the High Speaker, Lady Shayde sat in her now customary seat. She was gowned in black as always, and the veil that draped from the brim of her hat concealed the upper portion of her face. All Rafferdy could see were her white hands, a white chin, and the blue-black curve of her lips.

Again the High Speaker banged his gavel. “The Hall is called to order!”

A silence ensued, broken only by the rustling of robes and a periodic cough. Heads turned as lords looked around in anticipation, but no one rose up to speak. A wild hope flared in Rafferdy. Perhaps something had happened, something that had caused them to abandon their plan. Perhaps they feared they did not have enough support after—

“The Hall recognizes Lord Davarry!” the High Speaker called out.

Rafferdy’s hope vanished, a spark snuffed out before it might kindle. The leader of the Magisters walked deliberately to the rostrum, then turned to address the Hall.

“The time has come,” Davarry said, and his voice did not carry through the Hall so much as it smothered all other sounds. “The time we have long feared. The Usurper’s forces have landed on
Altanian soil. They march even now from the West Country. It is a time most dire, but we need not fear for our sovereignty, not if we have among us just such a leader as these times demand.”

“Where is the princess?” someone called out. Rafferdy couldn’t see who, and he hoped Davarry couldn’t either. It was a brave act, and dreadfully foolish.

“Her Highness is safe in the Citadel,” Lord Davarry said. “Though it is not her that I speak of today. The rebels have shown their willingness to use the Wyrdwood to achieve their ends. So all must agree that a woman cannot be asked to lead us under present circumstances. Especially a woman of a
particular
nature.”

The pressure of the air in the Hall seemed to change as all drew in a breath at once.

“But we are blessed in our hour of need to have another who is able to take up the charge Her Highness cannot. Indeed, the ship of Altania might have already foundered but for his guidance these last months. And he will navigate us to calm waters again, if we but grant him the powers he requires to do so. I speak, of course, of Lord Valhaine. It is he who can—and who must—lead our nation.”

“As king, you mean?” someone else called out.

Lord Davarray raised a hand. “That would be treason,” he said, as if scandalized by the notion. That the shouter had been planted, Rafferdy was certain.

“The crown of Altania can never,
must
never, be worn on a head other than that of its rightful heir,” Davarry went on. “But if we are deprived of a royal monarch who is able to lead us, that does not mean we must founder without a strong and wise hand to guide us in this most fateful of hours. If we cannot have a king, then let us have a Lord Guardian instead—one who will lead us to victory.”

Even as Davarry spoke, Rafferdy let his gaze rove over the Hall. Here and there he met another’s gaze—Wolsted, and the other magnates who were part of the Fellowship of the Silver Circle. Each time he gave a grim nod, and each time it was answered in kind. Then he leaned his head toward Coulten’s and whispered,
“Whatever he calls for, vote aye. No matter what it is, no matter how terrible, you must vote aye.”

Upon the rostrum, Lord Davarry spread his arms wide. “I propose that Lord Valhaine this day be raised to the position of Lord Guardian of the realm, Protector of Altania, with all powers pursuant and necessary to fulfill the duties of this position!”

And Rafferdy was one of the first in the Hall to leap to his feet and call out in affirmation.

E
LDYN SHRANK within the shadow of a doorway at the bottom of Wickery Street, listening for the sound of boots against cobblestones. His hand was tucked inside his coat, and he gripped the leather tube concealed there. If a soldier were to accost him, he knew exactly what to do—how to squeeze the tube, breaking the vial of ink within, and thus destroying the message on the paper that was wrapped around the vial.

After all, this was not the first time he had been a courier of illicit messages in the dark of an umbral.