The Master of Heathcrest Hall (7 page)

“Dr. Lawrent.”

He paused by the door, his hand on the eagle-clawed knob.

Rather than look at him, she turned her head to gaze out the window at the waving branches of the ash tree. “It was a boy, was it not?”

The breath he drew was audible. “It was exceedingly small, Lady Quent. There had not been much time for it to form properly.”

“But it was a boy,” she said, now turning her head to look at him.

For a long moment he was motionless, then he nodded.

“I believe you are aware that I am a great-granddaughter of Rowan Addysen,” she said.

“Yes, so Sir Quent told me. Though I confess, I would only have had to look at you, and to be told your origins are from County Westmorain, to know it for a fact. The first Mrs. Quent shared a similar heritage, and your features have much in common with hers.”

So Ivy had been told. “You must have known her,” she said.

He responded slowly, as if taking care in his answer. “Yes, I did. I saw her on several occasions when visiting Heathcrest Hall.”

“And she was very much like me?”

Now he gave a soft laugh. “Like you? No, not at all. She had green eyes and fair hair, as you do, Lady Quent. But she was taller. And while you have a calm and serious intellect, I would say Gennivel’s proclivities lay more in the direction of parties and dances and other such amusements. This is not to say she was frivolous, for she was also very accomplished in artistic endeavors, such as painting and music.”

“So I was not like her after all,” Ivy breathed, more to herself.

Dr. Lawrent gave her a solemn look over the wire rims of his spectacles. “If you have ever thought Sir Quent married you because you reminded him of her, then I think you are mistaken.
Rather, it was only when he met you that I think he was finally able to cease dwelling upon the past.”

Ivy appreciated these words. It was reassuring to know that she was in fact different from the first Mrs. Quent. Yet there was still one characteristic that Ivy and Gennivel had in common—one which all witches shared. But how much did Dr. Lawrent know about that?

“I’ve heard it said in the county that there aren’t many sons in the Addysen line,” Ivy said.

He nodded. “I am given to understand there have only ever been a few male children born into that family. And they are often—”

He cut his words short, but Ivy knew what he meant. They were often similar to Mr. Samonds, the farrier in Cairnbridge. And while he was kind and handsome, he was not likely ever to marry or have a child himself. A pretty lady would never strike his affections that way.

“That is,” the doctor went on after clearing his throat, “there seems to be a strong proclivity for women of that particular lineage to bear daughters rather than sons.”

Ivy suffered a deep ache—though it was not the spasms returning. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said quietly.

“Of course, Lady Quent. Please let me know if you have any need of me.” Then he turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Alone, Ivy leaned back against the pillows and watched the shadows of the branches weave upon the far wall. But if there was any meaning in the pattern made by the branches, it was beyond her understanding.

N
OW WAS HIS MOMENT. Rafferdy gave his wig a quick tug to make certain it was set firmly upon his head. Then, before anyone else could claim the floor, he rose from his seat on one of the frontmost benches.

The High Speaker’s gavel came down with a loud clatter. “The Hall recognizes Lord Rafferdy!”

Now that the floor was his, Rafferdy moved to take it as if he were in no great hurry, strolling to the front of the Hall of Magnates. Once there, he took the time to flick a wrinkle from his elegant robe of black crepe, plucked a stray thread from the sleeve, then proceeded to make a thorough examination of the state of his fingernails.

Sighs and mutters of impatience ran around the benches, but still Rafferdy kept his attention fixed on his fingernails. The Hall was hot and stifling, for the lumenal had been exceedingly long—more than twenty-five hours at that point, and it was not over yet. Anticipating this, Rafferdy had dressed very lightly beneath his robe, and he had directed his man to sprinkle a large quantity of powder inside his wig to prevent any rivulets of perspiration that might otherwise trickle down his brow. As a result, while many of the lords were boiling in their robes and dabbing at red faces with damp handkerchiefs, Rafferdy at the least appeared cool.

He waited for the sounds in the Hall to rise into a cacophony of cane thumping and calls of
Get on with it, sir!
All at once, as if suddenly recalling where he stood, Rafferdy looked up.

“Gentlemen, it has been proposed and seconded that we begin debate upon the Act of Due Loyalty and Proper Regard for Our Glorious Nation of Altania.”

Rafferdy pitched his voice in a lower range than was natural for him, keeping his shoulders back and the muscles of his midsection taut. As a result, his voice sounded relaxed and unstrained, yet it carried easily throughout the Hall. It was a trick his friend Eldyn Garritt had showed him the last time they met at tavern, after Rafferdy mentioned that his voice had been getting hoarse from speaking loud enough to be heard at Assembly.

How Garritt himself had come to learn this trick, and why a clerk might have any need to project his voice, were questions that had only occurred to Rafferdy after the fact. Then again, he had gotten the impression from the fashionable coat Garritt wore that he was no longer working as a scrivener and had found other, more lucrative, business. Rafferdy would be sure to ask him about it when they next met, and to thank him for the advice.

Now, as he spoke, the noise in the Hall subsided, and magnates leaned forward on the benches. As Rafferdy had discovered, if you made men wait to hear you speak, they were more likely to listen when you finally did.

“It occurs to me,” he went on, “that there is no one better suited to tell us more about this act than the one who proposed we debate it. To that end, Lord Davarry, perhaps you would enlighten us regarding the particular benefits that would arise from this proposal were it made law.”

The subject of this address was just retaking his seat, having been as slow to depart the floor as Rafferdy was to take it. So addressed, Davarry had a right to speak on the issue, and he appeared more than eager to make his appeal on someone else’s time rather than his own. He rose at once from his seat among the other members of the Magisters party.

“Opening the matter for debate was merely a formality required by the protocols of the Hall, Lord Rafferdy. I should hardly think it requires any debate at all.”

Lord Davarry was neither very tall nor very handsome, two features which cast him in stark contrast to the prior leader of the Magisters. All the same, his blue eyes reflected a keen intelligence that Rafferdy had witnessed in effect more than once on the floor
of the Hall of Magnates. An altercation with Lord Davarry was not something to be engaged in lightly.

And Rafferdy was about to provoke one.

“Yet to cast our votes in good conscience, we must hear both the arguments for and against an act.” Rafferdy spoke in a tone that implied this was the most obvious thing.

“Of course,” Davarry agreed, even as he made a slight motion with a gloved hand as if to cast the idea aside. “In this case, though, I believe no rational mind could possibly conceive of an argument against the act. That it should be considered a crime for anyone to make public speeches, or authorize words to be printed, that cast our nation in an ill light, and thus undermine the authority of our government, is self-evident.”

“It is?” Rafferdy said, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Davarry went on indulgently. “As I am sure all present are aware, our nation is beset by enemies all around. They seek constantly to find a chink in our walls, to discover a way to attack us from within, and there are no better weapons they can use to this end than words. A bullet can fell a man, but words might accomplish something far worse. That is, they might arouse his sympathies and turn his mind to traitorous thoughts. You might as well pick up a gun and go fight for those rebels in Torland, who seek to make a beachhead upon our shores for Huntley Morden, as make public criticisms of Altania’s government or sovereign Crown.”

Rafferdy affected a confounded look. “Forgive me, Lord Davarry, but I have become confused. You see, I thought it has long been the purpose of the Hall of Magnates to offer public criticisms of the Crown. And as for not criticizing the remainder of the government—gentlemen, I remind you that
we
are the government. And I do not think I should be hauled off to the prisons below Barrowgate for observing how crookedly other lords might wear their wigs or noting how foolishly they bet their money while gambling with dice among the back benches. Rather, I consider insulting my fellow magnates to be a God-granted right, and one that cannot be revoked.”

Laughter erupted around the Hall, along with several calls of
Hear! Hear!
Lord Davarry frowned, perhaps rethinking his eagerness to engage in debate on someone else’s time.

“Besides,” Rafferdy went on as the laughter died down but before Davarry could have a chance to go on the offensive himself, “isn’t this matter already addressed in the Rules of Citizenship?”

Rafferdy gestured toward the sheet of paper posted on the wall behind him, which provided exhaustive direction for the correct behavior of proper citizens of the country. It was the same notice posted in every public shop and tavern and market square in the city. Indeed, so abundant were the printed notices throughout Invarel that people had begun to take them for use as kindling to start fires and to paste upon their walls to stop drafts—two habits which had recently been addressed by Rule Forty-Six:
No one shall make use of these printed Rules for any purpose other than posting in public for the education of the people
.

“I believe the Rules already clearly state that it is prohibited to speak about the Crown in an unfavorable manner,” Rafferdy continued.

“Yes, that’s so,” Davarry replied slowly, as if reluctant to offer any sort of agreement. “Yet as I am sure all present know, the Rules of Citizenship are maintained by the Gray Conclave, under the authority of the Crown itself. And while the Crown may issue rules to clarify the enforcement of the laws of the nation, it cannot enact laws itself. That is a right reserved solely for Assembly under the Great Charter.”

“For which we all thank our forebears for their wisdom,” Rafferdy interjected. “But if the Gray Conclave already has the power to regulate the speaking habits of the public in an effort to enforce our existing laws, then what need have we of new laws? It seems a dreadful waste of paper, which I do not need to tell you is getting scarce and expensive these days.”

Davarry’s expression darkened, and in his narrowed eyes Rafferdy noted the first glimmerings of contempt.

“Yes, the Gray Conclave has the authority to investigate those who bring suspicion upon themselves with their speech,” Davarry
said, enunciating each word carefully. “And those investigated have sometimes been found to have engaged in treasonous activities, and so are sent to the gallows. But just as often no evidence of a crime is found, and the perpetrator is released. So they are free to roam the city again and speak ill of our nation.”

“But shouldn’t they be released if they haven’t committed a crime?”

“That is precisely the point,” Davarry said. “Speaking out against the Crown in a seditious manner should be considered a crime of High Treason in and of itself, regardless of what other treasonous activities might have been engaged in. Yet only Assembly can make the law to add such a crime to the rolls.”

Rafferdy snapped his fingers. “I see! Very well, then, I propose an amendment to the act in question.”

“An amendment?” Davarry said, clearly surprised. “For what end?”

“For funds enough to pay for a very large quantity of rope.”

Now Davarry’s surprise became a scowl. “That seems exceedingly frivolous. What could a quantity of rope be required for?”

“To fashion all the nooses that will be needed for all the necks here in the Hall of Magnates, of course,” Rafferdy said pleasantly. “For which of us hasn’t at some point spoken ill words about the actions of the Crown—statements which have all been clearly set down in the records of this very Hall? If those who criticize the government of Altania are all to be hung, Lord Davarry, then we will all of us here need to have our collars fitted for longer necks.”

Again laughter went around the Hall, only there was a nervousness to the sound of it this time, and it died out quickly. No one was entirely certain whether Rafferdy was making a jest or not.

Davarry’s face reddened a shade, perhaps realizing that he had allowed himself to be goaded into a misstep. “That is a poor joke, my lord. I speak of men who would diminish the authority of the Crown by their speech. What we discuss here in the Hall of Magnates is hardly the same thing!”