Yes, he did. He recalled the hanging his father had taken him to watch when he was a boy, and more lately the execution of Westen Darendal, which he had gone to see. Both times the people in attendance had gladly howled for the death of someone they didn’t know, and who had caused them no harm. But it wasn’t the men being hung whom they were angry at, whose death they wanted; rather, it was all that they represented.
“I think the people are afraid,” Eldyn said. “They’re afraid of what might be coming, and they’re looking for someone to tell them what to do. I almost don’t think they care who it is, just so long as it’s someone who can tell them which direction to go.”
Jaimsley nodded. “A drowning man will tend to grasp at any rope, no matter who throws it to him. The way things are proceeding in this nation, it’s assured someone is going to seize the reins.”
Eldyn’s hand went to the broadsheet tucked in his coat. “But then why shouldn’t it be the princess? I can hardly think Huntley Morden’s claim to the crown is really any better than Layle’s. His ancestry goes back to Torland and from there to the Northern Realms, but it’s said the Arringharts were descended of ancient Tharos.”
Jaimsley snorted. “That’s hardly anything special. I’m sure Emperor Veradian’s soldiers got a great lot of bastards on the women of this island once their ships landed on its shores. You and I can probably both count some lustful Tharosian infantryman as a progenitor.”
Eldyn supposed that was not far from true, at least in the southern and central parts of Altania. From what he recalled of the lectures in history he had attended at St. Berndyn’s, the armies of Tharos had never gotten all the way to the far western and northern parts of the island.
Perhaps that explained why the Outlands had always been somewhat less civilized than the rest of Altania. Unlike the Arringharts, the Mabingorian kings had hailed from the seafaring kingdoms across the frigid northern ocean. A thousand years ago, when the forces of Tharos retreated from the island, the men of the north took the opportunity to seize control. They came in dragon-prow ships, armed with ax and fire. They drove the last of the Tharosians from these shores, and they claimed a right to the crown of Altania based upon a common lineage with the original inhabitants of the island.
Three hundred years ago, when the last of the Mabingorian kings died without an heir, a war for the crown ensued among the House of Rothdale, the House of Morden, and the House of Arringhart. It was a long and violent conflict, but in the end it was Hathard Arringhart who claimed victory, and he was crowned King of Altania.
The Rothdale line was all but obliterated during the Three Corners War—as the battle for the crown came to be known—but some few of the Mordens endured in the West Country, in Torland. There, old hatreds stewed and simmered beneath the heavy lid of Altanian rule. Then, some seventy years ago, they bubbled up again with new heat. Bandley Morden took up the hawk banner and marched out of Torland with five thousand men at his back and his eye on the throne.
A few early victories lent heart to Bandley Morden and his followers, but the rebellion was short-lived. A number of earls and dukes who had intimated they would support a Morden gambit instead backed the king, and Bandley Morden found himself pushed back to the sea. Then, at the battle of Selburn Howe, with the help of shadows and other magicks conjured by the great magician Slade Vordigan, the Old Usurper was driven entirely from the shores of Altania. He fled across the sea to the Principalities, and no Morden had set foot on Altanian soil since.
Thus the Arringharts continued to rule. Yet some wounds never really healed, and over the years Torland remained a place of frequent troubles and unrest. Now it was rumored that Huntley Morden, the grandson of Bandley Morden, was preparing to sail from the Principalities, bringing with him a ship full of guns to arm the people of Torland and lead them to battle. Indeed, it was hardly considered a rumor these days, and it seemed only a matter of time until a ship flying the green hawk was sighted off the western shore.
“But do you really think it would make things any better if Morden were king?” Eldyn said—softly, in case there were any agents of the Gray Conclave in earshot. He did not want to get taken to Barrowgate himself. “It seems that to install him as such could only cost a great amount of blood. Is he truly worth such a dreadful price?”
Jaimsley gave a shrug. “Who can say if he’s worth it? I’m not sure any man merits such a price. Though I’ve heard it said Morden is an honorable sort, and that he holds great affection for the people of Altania despite living all his life in exile. That said, for my part, I don’t think King Rothard was a villain, or even most of the lords in the Hall of Magnates. They’re weak, to be sure, and selfish and shortsighted, but not really more than most men. It might be better, and engender far less strife, if we could repair our nation rather than knock it down wholesale. But I don’t think that’s possible anymore.”
These words sent a feeling of dread through Eldyn, but he suffered a peculiar excitement as well. “So you think revolution is coming?”
“No, I think it’s already begun. The wheels are turning even now.”
Eldyn could only be astonished. “You seem as if you know something.”
Jaimsley was silent for a long moment, as if making a decision. When at last he did speak, it was without any of his characteristic drollery.
“As I said, the wheels are turning, and they will not cease until our present government is ground to dust beneath them. Altania will be broken, and if we want to have any say in how it will be built anew from the ruins, then we must put ourselves on the side of the victor. That’s the only way we’ll have a chance of making sure that whatever government comes to be, it’s better for the people than what we have now.”
“But what if you throw your lot in with Morden and it’s the princess who wins?”
Jaimsley sighed and shook his head. “I can’t say who will come out on top, but one thing I do know is that it won’t be the princess. She’s a pawn in all of this, nothing more. Why do you think they haven’t let her put on her father’s crown? Do you really think it’s simply out of worry for the safety of the royal person at a coronation?”
Eldyn thought of the expression he had seen on Layle’s face outside Duskfellow’s. It had been a look of sorrow. And of resignation.
“So you think it’s Morden who’s going to win?”
“I can’t say who will win. There are a great number of forces at work, some I’m sure we can’t even see yet. But for my part, I hope it’s Morden who prevails. I’d rather not have a king at all, but if that can’t be, then I’d rather have a decent monarch than a tyrant of a far worse sort.”
Eldyn frowned. What sort of tyrant did he mean? Before he could ask, Jaimsley rose to his feet.
“I’m afraid I’ve got to go.”
“But you haven’t had any coffee,” Eldyn said, standing as well.
Now Jaimsley’s crooked grin returned. “Talking with you has enlivened me more than a cup could, Garritt. It’s truly good to have seen you. And in any case, I was planning to be quick about my business here.”
Together, the two men left the coffeehouse and went out onto the street.
“So where are you off to in such a hurry, if I might ask?” Eldyn said.
“I’ve got to go meet up with Talinger and Warrett,” Jaimsley replied, his breath making a fog on the air.
“For a lecture at the college, you mean?”
He shook his head. “There aren’t going to be any lectures at St. Berndyn’s today, or any of the other colleges at the university. I just got wind of it last night—the students are all going on a march to protest the closing of Gauldren’s College.”
Eldyn had read about it in The Fox the other day: how the Gray Conclave had locked the doors of Gauldren’s College because the professors there were teaching on the subject of magick.
“But I always thought you considered the men at Gauldren’s to be a lot of stuck-up prigs,” Eldyn said.
Jaimsley l
aughed, his homely face lighting up. “That’s because they are stuck-up prigs! But I’ll still defend their right to study what and how they please. If the government can shut down one college because they don’t like what’s being taught there, then they can do it to any other. It could be St. Berndyn’s next. So Talinger and Warrett and I are going to march with the men of the other colleges around Covenant Cross. We’ll let the Black Dog know what we think of his policy.”
Eldyn could only be impressed, but he wondered if it was wise to taunt Lord Valhaine and the Gray Conclave so openly, or to flout the Rules of Citizenship, which prohibited such gatherings. Then again, it would hardly be the first time students had gone on a march for some cause, though usually it was to protest the high cost of whiskey or the like.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a merry band,” Eldyn said.
“We’d be merrier with more. Care to join us, Garritt?”
For a moment Eldyn was tempted. It would be good to see Curren Talinger and Dalby Warrett again. He missed his days at university, and it would be good to feel he was part of it again, if just for a little while. That said, he was not certain he wished to risk attracting the notice of any soldiers or an agent of the Gray Conclave. Jaimsley may have spoken about rebels, but Eldyn had actually worked for them once, and he wished to take no chances. Besides, he had to return to the theater soon for a rehearsal. Maybe Jaimsley was right, and a great upheaval was coming; but in the meantime, the daily habits of life must proceed.
“Thanks, but I’ve got someplace to be myself,” Eldyn said, then laughed. “Besides, I don’t think I’m the revolutionary sort.”
Jaimsley met his gaze, then nodded. “All right, then. But we can always use another trustworthy man, Garritt. If you ever find you’ve changed your mind about what sort of fellow you are, come and look me up. You can find me at the dormitories off Butcher’s Slip.”
Jaimsley gripped his hand and shook it. Eldyn warmly returned the gesture. Then, with a final good-bye, Jaimsley hurried up the street and was gone. Eldyn turned and went in the opposite direction, making toward Durrow Street. As he did, the sky above began to fade from black to gray. The long umbral was finally coming to an end.
As for how long the coming day would be, there was no way to know.
MUCH TO IVY’S DISMAY, Dr. Lawrent left them soon after Mr. Quent’s return.
There were two causes for the doctor’s departure. First, his work at Carwick College had been disrupted by recent events at the university. One of the colleges, Gauldren’s, had been closed by the Gray Conclave on the grounds that it was teaching principles of magick. That particular topic was now the sole purview of the High Order of the Golden Door, which had been granted a charter by Lord Valhaine to advise the Crown on occult matters. All other arcane societies or organizations devoted to the study or practice of magick were proscribed by law.
Angered by the closing of a college’s doors by the government, and as a demonstration of their fraternity with the men of Gauldren’s, the students of all the other colleges had ceased attending lectures. Instead, they had taken to loitering about the university, blocking anyone from entering the buildings, and several times had taken to marching about Covenant Cross to make a protest. On each occasion the students had been dispersed by redcrests, but each time when they returned it was in greater numbers.
Had it been only these events, Dr. Lawrent might have remained in the city for a time, waiting for tempers to cool as they always must, and for the disruptions at the university to come to an end. However, news had come out of the West Country that was greatly troubling.
Affairs along the border with Torland had grown so violent it was feared that the Crown’s soldiers would be forced to abandon their outposts there, lest they be burned within them, and fall back to fortresses closer to Invarel. Which meant there would be nothing to stop bands of rebels from spilling into the westernmost counties of Altania and moving about freely.
If this were to occur, well-to-do families who were known to be loyal to the Crown would no longer be safe in the West Country. Therefore, Dr. Lawrent was returning to County Westmorain with all possible haste to remove Mrs. Lawrent from their home there, as well as their daughter, who was a widow and dwelled with them along with her several children. Dr. Lawrent’s intention was to take them to the south of Altania, far from the troubles, to live with Mrs. Lawrent’s sister. If by then affairs at the university had gone back to their usual state, he would consider returning to the city—but only if it could be assured his family would be safe in the south.
It was deep in the middle of a long umbral when Dr. Lawrent departed. He was to go as a passenger with the post, that being the safest way to travel these days, for it was always accompanied by a guard of soldiers. While it might have been more pleasant to have remained in their beds, the post always kept to its timetables whether it was dark or light, and so they went out into the cold and dark to bid the doctor farewell.
“I wish you could have stayed longer,” Ivy told him as he took her hands in his.
“As do I,” the doctor replied, “but present affairs demand otherwise. Like the moths of County Dorn, we must all adapt to our new circumstances, lest the birds spy us and pluck us up.”
Ivy laughed at this. “I will endeavor to find a way to use some heretofore unknown trait in my possession to help me avoid them.”
One last time, he peered at her over the rims of his spectacles. “Yes, I imagine that you will, Lady Quent.”
Ivy didn’t know how to respond to this. Then Dr. Lawrent was shaking Mr. Quent’s hand and bidding good-bye to Lily and Rose. Moments later he was in the waiting carriage, a lantern hanging from the driver’s bench, and away into the night. Ivy took Mr. Quent’s arm, walking back through the gate and up the walk to the house while Lily and Rose hurried ahead, eager to retreat from the chilly air.
As they entered the house, Ivy thought of Dr. Lawrent’s reason for returning to County Westmorain, and she thought also of the others whom she knew there.
“What is it, Ivoleyn?”
She must have sighed without realizing it. Mr. Quent shut the door behind them and regarded her, concern in his brown eyes.
“I was just thinking of Mr. Samonds, and of Miss Samonds,” she said. “I worry they will … that is, I do not think that they have any close family outside of County Westmorain with whom they might live.”
“Ah,” he said with a deep exhalation, and he reached for her hands, folding them inside his own. In public he made a habit of keeping his left hand in his coat pocket to hide the fact that it was bereft of its last two digits, but he had long since ceased making any attempt to conceal his old injury from Ivy or her sisters.
“It is kind of you to be concerned for the Samondses,” he said. “Yet I do not think you should worry for them too much. Most people in County Westmorain would not have to search through many cousins to find one across the border in Torland. While those who hail from the east, and who have known ties to the Crown—like Dr. Lawrent—might have cause for concern, I do not think Mr. Samonds and his aunt have any great need to fear. If rebels from Torland were to cross the border, they would be bent on marching as swiftly as they could toward Invarel. I doubt they would remain in Westmorain for long. But let us hope it will not come to that. The army has not abandoned the border yet, and they will likely never do so.”
As always, her husband spoke with much wisdom, and Ivy was reassured by his words. Only then she thought of what he had said about those who had known ties to the Crown.
“The Samondses may be well, but we would not be able to say the same if we were to return, would we? We cannot go back to Heathcrest Hall.”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No, Ivoleyn. I do not think that would be wise, at least not at present. I hope circumstances will change and allow us to return there one day, but for now it is best if we remain here in the city.”
Ivy could not help feeling a sadness at this response. Of late, she
had found herself thinking of Heathcrest Hall often. The city seemed increasingly confining, and a desire had grown within her to see the wildness of the moors and fells around Heathcrest once again.
Well, there was no use in fretting about it. Nor would it be anything other than churlish of her to complain about their present circumstance. They were perfectly safe here in the city, and had nothing to be concerned about, unlike Dr. Lawrent.
She smiled and kissed Mr. Quent’s cheek to assure him she was well. After that, having various missives from other inquirers he needed to read and respond to, he retreated to his study. Ivy had her own work she wished to see to, but so far there had been no opportunity. Both of the lumenals since Mr. Quent’s return had been brief, and she had not had an opportunity to travel to Mr. Mundy’s shop off Greenly Circle.
Supposing she might as well make herself useful in the interim, Ivy carried a lamp into the parlor, intending to work on the household ledger. More than once, Mr. Quent had told her she did not need to maintain the ledger herself, for his bank employed clerks who could manage such things. All the same, Ivy had been reluctant to give up the responsibility. Just because they did not want for money did not mean they should be frivolous with it, and tallying the expenses of the household helped her to keep a good sense of the cost of everything—a number which was steadily rising these days.
The parlor was empty, and every bit as cold as the little parlor at Whitward Street used to be during long umbrals. Ivy rang for a maid to come stoke the fire. But as one did not immediately appear, she went to the fireplace and stirred it up herself, adding several pieces of coal. Once the fire was blazing nicely, she went to the table where she kept the ledger.
She found this in a chaotic state, being littered with books and newspapers and sheets of music all left there in great disarray—by Lily, no doubt. With a sigh, she began pushing these aside in search of the ledger. At last her hands seized upon a large volume, and she pulled it out from the heap. Her grip upon it proved faulty, though, and the heavy book slipped from her grasp. As it did, it fell open upon the table.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 16