The Master of Heathcrest Hall (63 page)

At last the carriage came to a halt. Lawden exited, but before he could come around to help her, Ivy was out and down to the street.

“Wait for me,” she said to the driver, then hurried to the gate before the hostel.

It was shut, but she gripped the thick iron bars and called out, and at last one of the day wardens shuffled into view. His hair and face were both the same colorless gray as his smock.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“It is visiting day,” she said in exasperation, for why else would she have come. “I am here to see my father.”

“Are you certain?” the warden said.

Ivy had to take a breath and will herself not to scream at him. “Yes, of course I am certain.”

“It is just that we have few visitors these days, what with the state of affairs in the country.” He took out a ring of large keys and unlocked the gate. “Not that we care for such things, mind you. We are concerned only for the health and well-being of our charges within these walls. But I only wanted to make certain you had not arrived here looking for a crust of bread to be given out or some such thing.”

Ivy stared. Her driver had brought her in a glossy cabriolet drawn by a sleek chestnut horse. Besides, surely he recognized her, for she had seen this particular warden on many occasions.

Only it was clear he did not in fact recognize her, for as he opened the gate he said, “And who are you here to see?”

“Mr. Lockwell,” she said.

He stared at her blankly.

Ivy sighed. “That is, number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, nodding. “And are you certain that is the correct patient?”

“Yes, I am quite certain.”

“Very well, then, follow me.”

They entered the hostel, and despite the awful cacophony of screams and moans and sobs that echoed off the hard walls, Ivy felt a great relief. The warden would not be taking her to her father if anything was amiss. The man in the mask must have warned her in time. Ivy followed after the day warden, making sure to keep as far away as possible from the iron bars of the cells to each side.

At last they reached the door that led to the quieter part of the hostel where the wardens dwelled, and where her father was also housed. The warden took out his ring of keys, then paused to look at her.

“You did say number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Are you certain?”

Again Ivy had to draw a breath. “I could not be more certain,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Of course,” he said with a nod. “It’s just that our patients seldom get any visitors, let alone two in one day.”

Now Ivy was certain that it was her own face that had gone gray. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that a visitor already came to see that particular patient today—just a short while ago, in fact.”

Before she could react to this, he put a key to the lock. But at his touch the iron door swung inward. It was not locked or latched.

The gray of his face darkened a fraction. “Well, that is most peculiar. Our procedures here are very strict on the matter of locking doors.”

Ivy reached out and gripped his arm. She must have done so tightly, for he let out a startled cry.

“Who was it?”

He shook his head, gaping at her.

“Who came to visit my father?” She tightened her grip on him, terror lending her unusual strength.

“You mean number Twenty-Nine-Thirty-Seven?” the warden squealed. “I do not know who he was. A friend or a relative, I assumed.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was a tall fellow, I think. Yes, I can recall him now. Thin and rather sallow, with a long nose and very dark eyes.”

Mr. Bennick. It could be no other, for that description fit the magician perfectly. Ivy let go of the warden and moved past him. She pushed the door open and started down the corridor.

“But you must wait for me!” the warden called out behind her. “That is the rule, I am quite certain!”

She ignored his cries and ran down the corridor, past rows of
closed doors. Her heart pounded so fiercely in her chest that it caused her a pain, but she ignored it and ran on, until she reached the door that led to her father’s room.

It was open. Ivy halted, and though she had been running a moment ago, now she could hardly bring herself to move slowly to the door and through. At last she did.

Too late she clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Blood—there was blood everywhere. It spattered the ceiling, ran down the wall in dark rivulets, and pooled upon the floor. A man lay upon the floor, though he was hardly recognizable as such, for his body had been ravaged and dissevered in the most violent manner.

At first she thought it must be her father, torn apart like Mr. Larken. Then she saw the shredded remains of a gray smock that still clung to the corpse. The man was one of the wardens.

But then where was her father?

She looked up. The table had been overturned, and the books pulled from the shelves. But the winged, high-backed chair remained upright, facing the window as always.

Ivy entered the room, lifting the hem of her dress and carefully stepping around the pools of gore. She approached the back of the chair, dreading what she would see if she moved before it. But she must. Ivy drew a breath, then stepped around the chair.

It was empty.

Ivy stared, hardly knowing whether to feel relief or a new terror. Her father was not in the room. Which meant that Mr. Bennick had taken him. But to where, and for what purpose? Why had Mr. Bennick not simply murdered her father as he had done with Mr. Fintaur and Mr. Larken?

Perhaps, an awful thought came upon her, it was because he needed Mr. Lockwell to recover his piece of the fragment. Perhaps, in order to pass through the arcane defenses that protected the fragment, Mr. Bennick required the man who had first created them. And if the fragment was at the house …

“Rose,” she whispered. “Lily.”

Ivy turned and fled the room. The warden stood in the door,
his mouth agape and his face no longer gray, but white. Ivy paid him no heed. Instead she pushed by him and raced back down the corridor.

R
AFFERDY PACED beneath the coiling branches of the wisteria tree, grateful for its shade. The morning was hot and oppressive, and he was sweating inside his linen coat.

He glanced along the path that led to the grotto, but it was still empty. Rafferdy frowned. Typically, he was the one who was late. It was not usual for Lord Farrolbrook to be delayed. Had something happened? If so, he had not been informed of it. Though it had seemed to him, on the way to Halworth Gardens, that there were more soldiers than usual on the streets, and that they had gone about with more than usual haste.

Well, there was nothing to do but wait. As he paced, he drew a small object from his coat pocket. It was a gem. Its polished facets glinted in the harsh morning light, but the gem’s interior remained dim and cloudy.

Since yesterday, Rafferdy had made it a near constant habit to take out the gem and gaze into it. He had hardly slept last night, for it seemed every few minutes he would jerk awake and look at the gem. It was his hope that Mr. Quent would make use of the gem’s twin, and employ it to send a signal that he had conceived of some way to effect his release. Only each time Rafferdy looked at it, the gem was dark.

Sighing, Rafferdy tucked the gem back into his pocket.

Despite the heat, he stepped away from the protective canopy of the wisteria to get a better look down the path. In the distance, between the trees, he could just glimpse the spires that surmounted
the Halls of Assembly rising into the sky. They were tinged red in the livid glare of the morning sun, as if stained with blood.

That appearance was more than appropriate. How many lives had been ended, and how many more deaths would result, from the laws that had been enacted in the halls beneath those sharp spires of late? Assembly had declared so many actions to constitute treason against the nation that it might have been easier to simply list those few things that would
not
result in one being hung by the neck.

That Rafferdy had voted in favor of every one of these acts was a fact which caused him not inconsiderable horror. Nor was it any consolation that every other magnate and citizen had done so, and that all of these laws had passed through Assembly upon unanimous votes. How could they not, when every man on the benches knew that to cast a vote in opposition was a crime itself? They were all like puppets acting out a play, seeming to flail their arms of their own will, when in fact everything they did was determined by the tugs that the puppeteer made upon the strings.

Yet Lord Valhaine did not hold every string. Not yet. A few of those puppets still had a cord or two that was free. A shadow caught his eye. He looked up and saw a tall, fair-haired man striding along the path.

“You’re late,” he said when Farrolbrook reached him.

“I know, and I am sorry,” the other lord said. His words were somewhat gasping, and the tangles in his long hair, as well as the general dishevelment of his attire, imparted a harried look. He wore an odd black cape that was too heavy and frilled for such a warm day.

“Well, what kept you?”

Farrolbrook dabbed at his brow with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I was …” He shook his head, and there was a vagueness in his eyes. “I suppose I don’t know, exactly. But I’m here now. And I have news.”

He drew closer to Rafferdy, and the perfume of the purple wisteria blossoms could not mask a distinctly putrid scent. Though some effort had been made to conceal them with powder, the blotches upon Farrolbrook’s hands, neck, and face were visible in the glaring light. They were darkly livid with yellowish edges, like bruises. Whatever condition it was he had inherited from his father, it was worsening.

Despite the unpleasant odor, Rafferdy did not retreat or pull away. “What have you learned?”

“A message from the magus appeared in our black books,” Farrolbrook said, his eyes becoming clearer and more focused. “It was a warning for us all to prepare ourselves.”

Rafferdy was surprised. After the little trick he had previously arranged, he wouldn’t have thought the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door were still using the black books to send messages to one another. Perhaps they had purged any initiates or sages they suspected of duplicity, and had taken their magick books from them. Fortunately, they had not thought to take Farrolbrook’s away. It appeared that, being beneath their contempt, he was yet beneath their suspicion.

“The magus warned you to prepare for what?”

“The Altanian army suffered a severe defeat by Morden’s forces. The whole of the West Country is now considered lost. As a result, Lord Valhaine intends to tighten his hold upon Invarel. What’s more, he is going to dissolve Assembly. In its place, he will assume the establishment of all law as Lord Guardian of the realm and commander of the army.”

Rafferdy felt as if he had been struck across the cheek. Only it was not so much due to the actions that Valhaine was taking as it was the fact that he was doing all this in response to Morden’s victory at Baringsbridge. So there really was a hope, then! Yet there was no use becoming too elated, for the news of Valhaine’s plans was dire.

“He is going to close the city completely, isn’t he?” Rafferdy said.

Farrolbrook nodded. “Yes, the gates will be sealed so that no one can enter or leave Invarel. It may happen as quickly as tomorrow. The city will be closed to protect its people against the advancing rebels.”

“Or so Valhaine will claim,” Rafferdy said darkly. “Though the city’s people will not be wards of the state, but rather hostages should Morden ever make it this far. I am sure that many a rebel has a relative here in the city.”

Farrolbrook reached up a gloved hand, touching one of the dangling wisteria blooms, as if fascinated by it. “I suppose you are right. At any rate, the magus was giving members of the order advance warning in case any of us might wish to depart ahead of the closure. Though, for his part, he stated that he and the sages will not be leaving Invarel.”

So Lord Davarry was going to stay in the city—presuming that Davarry was in fact the magus of the High Order of the Golden Door. They all guessed that he was, but even Farrolbrook did not know for certain. It was the custom for the magus of an arcane society to always wear a heavy cowl to keep his identity a secret from all but the sages.

“Well, some of the magicians of the High Order of the Golden Door may be staying, but there is no point in any of us doing the same,” Rafferdy said. “If Valhaine is to dissolve Assembly, there is nothing more we can achieve here in the city. Not that we have achieved much to date, save to bear witness to the awful things that Valhaine has wrought.”

“That is not so,” Farrolbrook said, releasing the wisteria bloom. “Your actions caused great delay to their plans before Valhaine seized power. And by then, Morden had landed and the rebels were on the march. The Wyrdwood might already be burned to ash if you had stood by and done nothing.”

Rafferdy could not help thinking that perhaps there was some fragment of truth to this, and he stood up a bit straighter. “Well, if we hope to have any further influence upon matters, we must all of us get out of the city at once. I will send a message to the other
members of the Silver Circle, telling them to depart Invarel at once.”