The Master of Heathcrest Hall (9 page)

Rafferdy guessed the broadsheets were right on one account: it was certainly magick that had caused Mertrand’s death. That it was an accident was something Rafferdy considered far less likely. Mertrand could not have been the only lord involved in delivering young men to Mr. Gambrel for his awful purposes. Gambrel had promised Mertrand knowledge and power in exchange for having suitable young magicians brought to him, and no doubt there were other lords who had been similarly tempted by such a bargain. Fearing the suspicion Mertrand might cast their way, they had instead done away with him.

That was Rafferdy’s conjecture on the matter, at least. But whatever the cause of Mertrand’s death, it had left the Magisters without a leader. Lord Farrolbrook could no longer fulfill that role—that was obvious to all in the Hall of Magnates, given his increasingly erratic behavior. Thus it seemed the party would be thrown into disarray like the Stouts.

And then Lord Davarry stepped in.

This had astonished many in Assembly. Davarry was the lord of a prosperous but, it was said, unremarkable estate in eastern Altania. He was a member of the Magisters, but no one could recall any debate or the passage of any act or law in which he had been instrumental. Indeed, few could think of a time when they had seen him take the floor to speak.

But that was exactly what he did shortly after Mertrand’s death. While he had seldom spoken prior to that, he must have observed things closely, for it soon became clear he was a genius at maneuvering among the labyrinthine rules and protocols of the Hall of Magnates. Indeed, he often found a way to bend them to his purpose. Thus, while the public face of their leadership had changed, the ability of the Magisters to form and direct debate in the Hall was as strong as ever.

Yet the direction of their arguments
had
changed since Lord Davarry ascended to the head of the party. As Coulten had observed, the Magisters had increasingly become proponents of royal authority. Under Lord Mertrand, they had refused to approve King Rothard’s writ of succession that declared the princess as his true heir. Some had gone so far as to suggest it was dangerous in times such as these—when witches in the West Country had been known to induce the Wyrdwood to rise up—to have a woman sitting on the throne. But now, whenever Lord Valhaine requested more authority or broader reach for the Gray Conclave, all in the name of Princess Layle, the Magisters were first and loudest to support it.

What had caused the Magisters to change their views? Was it the princess herself? This seemed unlikely. After all, it was not as if the Magisters were clamoring to crown her. While the members of the Hall of Citizens and the majority of the people in the city were eager to have the princess formally take the throne, the Magisters seemed more than content to wait.

Of course, there had been little opportunity for a coronation as of yet. First, there had been the requisite period of mourning following King Rothard’s death. And since then, the government had been faced with matters of more immediate need. Besides, Princess Layle was already the legal ruler of Altania. By law, she had become so the moment her father passed.

Yet she could not be crowned queen until the succession was formally acknowledged and ratified by both Halls of Assembly. The Hall of Citizens had already done so, but not the Hall of Magnates. And for all their recent support for royal authority, the Magisters had yet to allow the matter of formal succession to be brought to a debate.

But why was that the case?

Before he could think more on the matter, Coulten leaned over and brought his mouth close to Rafferdy’s ear.

“It’s almost time,” he whispered.

Idly, as if he were merely bored, Rafferdy turned his head, surveying
the tavern over the edge of his cup. Here and there he caught another’s gaze, and each time he gave the slightest fraction of a nod. The others returned the gesture in a similar fashion.

Many of them were lords of middle years, and some even older. A few weren’t lords at all, but instead were doctors or barristers who were members of the Hall of Citizens. Only two or three were younger lords like Coulten and Rafferdy, and none of the others were members of the New Wigs.

Which was precisely the point. Now that magickal societies were proscribed by the Gray Conclave, it would not do to be seen congregating in a public fashion in Assembly or anywhere else. The New Wigs were all good men, but other than Rafferdy and Coulten, they were none of them practicing magicians.

Coulten rose from the table and wandered off, as if in search of a pot to relieve himself in. Over the next quarter hour, around the tavern, the others with whom Rafferdy had traded nods rose and departed in a likewise manner. Finally, Rafferdy himself rose from the bench. Engaged in a heated discussion about current politics, the other New Wigs did not notice as he left the table and made his way to the back of the crowded room.

He came to an open doorway that led to a corridor. Nailed to the wall next to the opening was one of the numerous copies of the Rules of Citizenship posted around the tavern. Evidently Lord Valhaine believed that members of Assembly were in particular need of admonishment regarding the proper way to conduct themselves. Rafferdy ran his eyes down the lengthy list. There it was, toward the bottom.

Earlier that year, the last time Rafferdy saw his father alive, the elder man had warned that a time of great suspicion was coming. How much sooner it had arrived than Rafferdy had thought! After the attack on the Ministry of Printing, and the deaths of Lord Bastellon and Lord Mertrand—incidents which had all clearly involved the arcane—Lord Valhaine had all the evidence he needed to support his ban upon magickal orders. No one had dared to question it, not even the Magisters.

Rafferdy cast a glance over his shoulder, looking to see if any eyes had followed his progress. Then he passed through the doorway. He followed the corridor to its end, ascended two flights of stairs, and made his way down a passage, counting doors as he went. They never met in the same place twice, and so the only guidance he had were the instructions that had appeared of their own volition in the journal, bound in black leather, that he kept locked in the desk in his study.

Upon reaching the fifth door on the left, Rafferdy stopped. He whispered a word of magick, and for a brief moment a blue rune flickered into being on the wood of the door. Just as quickly, it vanished. Rafferdy lifted his cane and gave three light taps on the door.

The door opened. Rafferdy stepped in, and the door was quickly shut behind him. Eight other men stood in the room, Coulten among them. Their number had been chosen carefully, for nine was a numeral well known to have certain properties and benefits with regard to magick.

A circle had been drawn on the floor of the room using a thin silver cord. Small silver disks, each marked with a rune, had been placed around the perimeter of the circle. Careful not to disturb them, Rafferdy stepped into the circle of silence to join the other men. As long as they remained within its bounds, no one would be able to hear their words, even if they stood right outside the door of the room.

Rafferdy raised his right hand, and the others followed suit. None of them wore gloves now, and the gems on their House rings sparked with the arcane energy summoned by the circle: red and purple, green and blue.

Coulten gave Rafferdy a grin. Rafferdy could not help smiling in return, only then his expression grew serious.

“The Fellowship of the Silver Circle will now convene,” he intoned in a low voice.

“The Circle will not be broken,” the others chanted in reply.

And the magicians proceeded with their illicit meeting.

“I
T’S OUT!” Riethe fairly bellowed as he burst into the dim interior of the Theater of the Moon. “It’s come out, and I’ve got a copy!”

Onstage, the illusionists stopped in the middle of the scene they had been rehearsing. They looked up at the commotion at the back of the theater. At the same time, a winged horse and several clouds unceremoniously winked out of existence. Riethe came barreling down the aisle between the rows of shabby seats and mounted the stage with an athletic leap. The strapping young illusionist was waving a folded broadsheet before him.

“You’re late to rehearsal, Riethe,” Master Tallyroth said, leaning on his cane. His powdered face was drawn in a frown, but his tone was more bemused than irritated. “I presume, as usual, you have some excuse.”

“So I do, Master Tallyroth,” Riethe said with a grin. “You see, I knew it would be published this afternoon. And here it is, the latest edition of
The Swift Arrow
—still damp off the presses, mind you, so be careful as you handle it. I bought it just a minute ago
from a boy out on Durrow Street. You owe me a penny, Eldyn, though I’m sure you can afford it now. Look.”

He unfolded the broadsheet. Everyone gathered close, and expressions of amazement were uttered all around.

“I can hardly stop looking at it,” Hugoth said, plucking at the whiskers on his chin as he peered at the broadsheet. He was the eldest illusionist at the theater, aside from Master Tallyroth, and the only one at present who wore a beard. “No painting or illusion is as clear as that. I feel as if I’m right there, watching it myself.”

“I suppose the reproduction of the scene is very fine,” Merrick said. He was a tall, thin young man with a beaklike nose.

The diminutive illusionist next to him wrinkled his own nose in a scowl. “You make it sound like a cup of wine you were just able to get down once you held your breath.”

“That is not what I meant, Mauress.”

Merrick was the only one who ever used Mauress’s proper name, and then only when he was perturbed with him. Otherwise they all just called him Mouse because of his small size and the way his nose twitched when he was excited or agitated—which was his general state.

“I only meant the details are exceedingly small,” Merrick went on.

Mouse shook his head. “Small? That’s just like you to belittle something you couldn’t have done yourself. I’d like to see you try to make an impression, and then we can all tell you how
fine
we think it—”

“Mouse,” Eldyn said as he stepped forward, his tone gentle but warning, “Merrick is entitled to his own opinion.”

“I was only trying to comment on the exceeding number of tiny details that serve to enhance the effect of the scene,” Merrick said, looking at Eldyn. “There is a remarkable subtlety to it.”

“And we all know that subtlety is something which is utterly lost on Mouse,” Riethe said, looping an arm around Mouse and picking him up off the stage despite the smaller man’s protests.

At last Riethe set the other illusionist back down. Mouse’s nose twitched furiously, and he looked ready to give a hot rejoinder,
but at that point Master Tallyroth stepped forward, leaning heavily upon his cane, and gave Mouse a sharp look. The master illusionist of the Theater of the Moon didn’t conjure phantasms himself anymore, due to the effects of the mordoth that afflicted him, but he still had one remarkable power none of them could match—he could make Mouse be quiet.

“May I see?” Tallyroth gestured toward the broadsheet, and Riethe turned it around so he might look at it.

“Well,” he said after a long moment. “That is without doubt one of the best impressions I have ever beheld, Mr. Garritt. Oh, I have seen others that achieved a similar level of clarity—perhaps even greater. But it is the composition of the scene, the way it is framed, and the choice you made regarding which subject to place in the foreground, that I think make it superior. Had I not already known, I would still have recognized it as your work. It has your characteristic sensibility.”

Eldyn hesitated, almost afraid to see for himself. Then he took the broadsheet from Riethe, and for the first time gazed upon an engraving that had sprung from his own thoughts printed in crisp black and white on the front page of a newspaper.

He could not help being astonished himself. Perren had pulled a hasty print from the copper plate, but the print had been blurry and smeared, made with too much ink. Nor had there been time to make a better copy, for time was of the essence. No broadsheet would pay for an impression of a scene if they were not the first to have one; it was exclusive images that helped to sell newspapers.

After Perren wiped the plate clean, they had hurried to Coronet Street, to the office of
The Swift Arrow
. Eldyn might have been inclined to go to another broadsheet first, for he still recalled the cruel and mocking stories
The Swift Arrow
had printed some months ago, at the time when illusionists were being murdered. But Perren explained that a new publisher had taken over the broadsheet not long after that, one who was very keen on impressions. And indeed, the last time Eldyn happened to glance at a copy of
The Swift Arrow
, he had thought the stories to be sensationalistic, but not nearly so lurid and dreadful as before.