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.
RULE FORTY-SEVEN. No good citizen of Altania shall become a member of any secret order, society, or organization dedicated to the practice of magick, occult matters, or the study of the arcane; for magick, comprising the abilities to open locks and reveal private knowledge without due authorization, poses a grave threat to the security of the nation as well as the proper functioning of the government. Anyone found to be violating this rule will be imprisoned while they are investigated for Treason against Altania; for while magick is not a crime in and of itself, it can have little other purpose than to be an agent for committing nefarious acts.
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.
“IT’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.
They had soon reached the office of the broadsheet, and there they met with one of the editors, whom Perren had sold impressions to in the past, and handed over the plate and the smeared print. The man discarded the print without looking at it, then took up a magnifying glass and used it to pore over the engraving plate. All the while, Eldyn had hardly been able to draw a breath.
At last the editor set down the magnifying glass. Without speaking a word, he opened a box, took out some coins, and counted three gold regals into Eldyn’s hand. Eldyn had stared at them in wonder. Just as he stared now at the image on the front page of the broadsheet. He had known the detail would be better when printed on a real printing press by men who knew their craft. But even though he had created the impression, he had had no true idea how it would really look, or how closely it would match the scene he had envisioned in his head.
As it turned out, it was nearly perfect. The spires of Assembly rose up sharply against the clouded sky. Members of the Hall of Magnates and the Hall of Citizens rushed down the steps, their robes rendered so clearly the garments almost seemed to flutter. To the right, a line of grim-faced soldiers leveled their bayonets against a throng of people who shouted and shook their fists at the men who were departing Assembly. Everything Eldyn had pictured in his mind as he held the engraving plate in Perren’s room above the Theater of Mirrors was there—the ribbing on the red plume that rose from a soldier’s helmet, and the chunk of bread one woman gripped in her hand, as if she did not know whether to eat it or throw it.
If that was all the scene was, it would have been dramatic enough, he supposed, and might still have warranted publication. Yet for all its vividness, the altercation before the steps of Assembly was the background of the image. Large in the foreground was the thing that had caught Eldyn’s eye as he walked down Marble Street that day, and which had made him want to try making an impression.
It was a dove, its eyes shut in death, lying atop the low wall that bordered the foot of the steps.
Eldyn’s eyes moved to the headline above the impression. IS ALTANIA ALREADY AT WAR? it read in large type. It was a provocative statement, no doubt formulated to sell copies of the broadsheet. And it didn’t exactly capture what Eldyn had been thinking when he envisioned the scene. The point wasn’t that people were fighting with one another. Rather, it was the notion that something beautiful had perished in plain view when no one was paying attention.
Yet despite the choice of headline, Eldyn could not really be displeased by the quality of the printing—or the jingle of the extra coins in his pocket—for it was the culmination of several months of work.
It had all begun one night when he and the other players from the theater had gone to the Red Jester following a performance. This was a very familiar (if not very reputable) tavern just off Durrow Street. As he walked from the bar with a pot of punch for him and his companions, Eldyn had passed by a bespectacled young man who sat alone at a table, looking at a picture printed on the front page of a broadsheet. It was a particularly good impression—one that depicted a riot before a candlemaker’s shop that had taken place the day before.
Eldyn had paused and leaned over to make a remark about the high quality of the impression. To his surprise the young man thanked him for this praise. A bit of polite inquiry ensued, and though the object of these questions was clearly bashful, Eldyn did not let up. Thus it was soon revealed that the other young man was in fact the originator of the impression; he had made it himself and sold the plate to the broadsheet.
Fascinated, Eldyn began to ask the other illusionist how impressions were fashioned, as he had always wondered. Only by then his companions were baying for their punch. Riethe had even conjured a dog’s nose and floppy ears for himself as he howled. Eldyn knew he could not linger.
Unexpectedly his disappointment became delight as the young man offered to meet with him the following day, if he wished, so they might continue their discussion of impressions. Elydn had gladly accepted. Then, taking his leave, he hurried over to his friends. By then all of them had ears and noses in imitation of Riethe, and were barking like fools. After a few rounds of punch, Eldyn joined them.
The next afternoon he returned to the Red Jester, when the tavern was quieter and he was more sober. Upon entering, he saw the bespectacled young illusionist sitting at the same table as last night. Eldyn went to him at once and thanked him for coming.
“I’m Eldyn Garritt, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand. “From the Theater of the Moon.”
The other young man hesitated a moment, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose, then reached out to clasp Eldyn’s hand. “I know. I’ve seen your performance several times. You probably haven’t seen me, though. I’m Perren Fynch, from the Theater of Mirrors.”
Eldyn could only confess he hadn’t seen the illusion play at that particular house for some time. Luckily, it didn’t seem to matter. While Perren seemed to possess a rather quiet and reserved nature, all that changed as soon as Eldyn began questioning him about the methods by which impressions were made. He was soon chattering away
as Eldyn listened in fascination.
And somehow, by their second cup of punch, he had gotten Perren to agree to teach him how to make impressions.
Of course, this was all easier said over cups of punch in a tavern than it was actually put into deed. The old illusionist who had taught Perren how to make impressions had claimed that only a few Siltheri possessed the requisite skill. And of those, only a few were willing to put in the many hours of effort it took to hone the craft to any sort of usable point. Eldyn, however, was determined to give it his best.
After all, he had the time.
Gone were the days when Eldyn was attempting to juggle two vocations at once. Since leaving Graychurch, he had not sought out another clerking position. Nor were familial or fraternal duties a distraction. His sister, Sashie, was not consigned to his care anymore, having been accepted into a nunnery in County Caerdun in the south, and his friend Rafferdy was too occupied with affairs at Assembly to have time to meet very often.
As for that most affectionate sort of relationship—there was no time lost on that account either. Not that Eldyn wouldn’t have given up all his time in the world, and gladly, just to be able to look into Dercy’s sea green eyes once again. Not a lumenal passed, no matter how brief, that he did not spend hours of it thinking about Dercy, recalling all their moments together. And not an umbral fell that did not find him awake at some point, touching the cold, empty space in the bed beside him, and wishing Dercy were there to fill it.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 7