Well, she was here now, and not far ahead she glimpsed a sign above a door. The light was just sufficient that she could make out the faded silver outline of a staring eye painted upon the sign. Lifting the hem of her gown off the cobbles, she hurried toward it.
Yet when she reached the door, Ivy found herself reluctant to push it open. She stepped to one side and peered through the windows of the shop, but they were even grimier than the last time she had been there, so that she could glimpse only a few indistinct shapes through them.
She went back to the door, its blue paint flaking as if it were afflicted with some scabrous malady. What would she say to Mr. Mundy? Should she tell him how she had learned her father wanted her to seek out his old friends from the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye? That might not be wise, given that Mr. Lockwell had intended the journal for her and no other.
She would not tell Mr. Mundy everything right off, Ivy decided. It would be best simply to say that she knew the time had come to make contact with her father’s former compatriots, and then see what Mr. Mundy volunteered on his own. Resolved, she gripped the doorknob and pushed.
The door did not budge. Ivy tried again, giving it all her strength, but still the door did not open, nor would the knob turn.
Ivy stared stupidly at the door. So intent had she been on finding an opportunity to go to Mr. Mundy’s magick shop that she had never considered he would not be there when she did! And it seemed peculiar that his shop was closed after the long umbral. Though now that she considered it, what with the practice of magick now being regulated by the Gray Conclave, perhaps it was not so unexpected after all.
Hoping he was perhaps within, even if the shop was closed, Ivy knocked upon the door. She waited, then knocked again, harder this time. However, the door remained shut, and she heard no sound behind nor saw any glimmer of light through the dirty windowpanes.
At last she was forced to surrender. If Mr. Mundy was in his shop, he was not answering. Yet she had the feeling that he was not there. Now that she noticed it, there was a large drift of refuse piled before the door—old leaves and crumpled pages from broadsheets matted together by rain. It gave the feeling that no one had opened the door for some time. Perhaps Mr. Mundy had left the city, as so many others had.
In which case, she had little more knowledge of his whereabouts than she did that of Fintaur or Larken. The gloom that filled the lane now settled into Ivy’s chest, as if she had been breathing it in all this while. It was time to return to the cabriolet; Lawden would be wondering where she was.
She turned back down the lane and emerged once more into Greenly Circle. The traffic was so thick that there was no going against it to return by the route she had come, and instead she was forced to move with it, though this meant going the long way around. Even this was no easy feat, and when a lorry suddenly rattled past her, she was forced to press herself against the window of a bookshop to avoid being trampled.
The lorry hurtled by, and with a relieved breath Ivy stepped back from the window. Beyond the glass was a table stacked with a number of volumes; and being a person who was ever devoted to books, she could not help glancing at them, reading the spines and covers.
All at once a gasp escaped her, and the large eyes of her reflected self stared back at her from the window glass. A moment later she was at the door of the shop, pushing it open.
The place was a labyrinth of dark wood shelves that were crowded, though in neat and orderly fashion, with all manner of books. The air had a bluish tint to it, colored by a beautiful transom of stained glass above the door, which bore the design of a winged lion standing rampant against an azure background.
A peculiar sensation of familiarity came over Ivy, as if this was not the first time she had been to this place. Yet she was sure she had never bought anything in this store before, and she supposed it was simply the dusty odor of books—a thing so well-known and comforting to her, and which hung thickly upon the air of the shop—that made it seem so familiar.
Wending her way around a tall shelf, Ivy came to the table situated before the shop’s window and she picked up the book she had seen through the glass. She ran a finger over the gilt words on the red cover. They read, The Towers of Ardaunto, and beneath that in smaller type, By an Anonymous Prince of the Fabled City of Canals. She opened the book near the end and saw at once that the final chapters, which had been excised from the book she had at the house, were present in this copy.
“Can I assist you in some way, madam?” spoke a voice behind her.
Startled, Ivy shut the book and turned to see a man before her. She supposed he was the bookseller, for he had a rather bookish appearance himself. His eyes were small and squinting, and his shoulders were hunched within a suit that was, like his store, at once neatly kept and somewhat dusty. His white hair was carefully parted to either side of his crown like the open pages of a book.
“I saw this in the front window,” she said. “Is it for sale?”
He peered at the book in her hands, then frowned. “But that’s not right at all.”
“You mean it isn’t for sale?” Ivy said, tightening her fingers around the book. That she could possibly leave the shop without it in her possession was unthinkable.
The bookseller gave her a reassuring smile. “No, of course it’s for sale, as are all of my books. It’s just that the table in the window is not its usual place, and I’m sure it wasn’t there a little while ago.” He stroked his chin with a hand. “I suppose it must have been that peculiar fellow who was just in here. Other than you and him, I haven’t had another customer this morning. I fear no one wants for books when they’re fighting over candles.”
A thought occurred to Ivy, one that made her heart leap. “Was your other customer today dressed in a strange black costume?”
The other shook his head. “A black costume? No, he wore a blue coat, one that was very rich, by its look. It wasn’t his dress that was odd, but his behavior, for he wouldn’t speak a word to me. Instead he kept wandering about my shop, so that I began to fear he was intent on pinching something. Then, when I turned around for a moment, he was gone.”
Ivy considered these words. She had wondered if it was the man in the black mask who had left the book in a place she might see it. But if it was, then he had not been dressed in his usual garb.
Well, no matter who it was who had placed the book on the table, he was gone now, and Ivy was eager to take it home. She asked the bookseller the price, then opened her purse to draw out a silver half regal.
“Do you mind if I inquire how you became interested in this particular book, madam?” he asked as he accepted the money. “Is it the title that caught your interest?”
Ivy hesitated, wanting neither to tell a falsehood nor speak too much. “I was reading another copy, but the last pages were missing from it.”
“How dreadful! Printers cannot be trusted these days. But you must have liked the book then, to want to read it all the way through.”
“Yes, I do like it,” she said, more quickly this time, for it was the truth.
His smile returned, broader than before. “Very good, I’m glad to hear it. I like this one very much myself.”
Ivy nodded absently, hardly hearing him. Now that the book was hers, she wanted nothing more than to read the last chapters. She bid the bookseller farewell, then went out the door. And even as she walked through the crowds of Greenly Circle, she opened the book and began to read.
IT WAS THE FIRST long lumenal in a quarter month, and Halworth Gardens was busy with people who had come out for a stroll in the bright sun. Rafferdy walked along a path, past scarlet geraniums and yellow hibiscus, swinging his ivory-handled cane as he went and tipping his hat to any pretty young ladies who smiled at him.
There were no small number of these, for he was smartly dressed in a new green coat that was cut tightly to his figure in the latest mode. Yet while Rafferdy in no way minded this attention, neither did he stop to speak to any who offer
ed it to him. There was only one lady he would have wished to walk with in the gardens, but she was not here. Besides, it was not for an idle stroll that he had come to this place.
Rafferdy cast a glance behind him, making certain no one was paying him any heed, then turned onto a narrow side path that wound away to a quiet grotto. There, a man sat on a marble bench beneath the braided canopy of a wisteria tree. He was dressed in a dark blue coat that was overly ornate and heavy for a stroll in a garden on a warm day.
The man on the bench did not look up as Rafferdy approached. Instead, his attention was fixed on the small sketchbook open on his knee. He tucked a stray lock of long, pale hair behind an ear, then made a scribble on the page with a charcoal pencil.
Again Rafferdy looked over his shoulder, making certain he had not been followed, then sat upon the bench.
“Good day, Lord Rafferdy,” the fair-haired man said without looking up. He made several more marks upon the page. The ring on his right hand flashed red as it caught a stray sunbeam.
“Hello, Lord Farrolbrook,” Rafferdy said in a voice so low that someone a dozen feet away would have heard only bright birdsong and the murmurings of the wisteria tree. “I am glad that you were able to come today.”
The other man gave a small shrug. “I have little else to occupy me of late. So it all went as you had hoped, I heard.”
Rafferdy could not help a grin. “Yes, quite as I hoped. Lord Davarry found himself very much alone, and the measure to reduce the size of the Wyrdwood was not brought up for a vote.”
“I am not surprised that was the case. It was a clever scheme.”
“No matter how clever, it could never have succeeded without your assistance. But you were not there to witness its fruition yourself.”
Farrolbrook reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small pocketknife. He unfolded it and began whittling the end of the pencil. “I thought it best not to be seen that day. I did not want anyone to have cause to think of me. Not that any of the other Magisters suspect me of duplicitous behavior. Why should they? I am sure they think me quite impotent these days. And indeed, without your aid, I could not have worked even so small a spell as it takes to write a message in my black book.”
Rafferdy did not doubt this. Farrolbrook had hardly been able to utter the words of magick that day in the dim parlor of his house in the New Quarter. Rafferdy had been forced to sound out the runes one by one for him. But at last, after great effort, the deed was done. Farrolbrook had inscribed the message in the small book, bound in black leather. At the same moment, the message had appeared in the black books possessed by every other member of the High Order of the Golden Door. Thus it was, rather than going to Assembly to vote on the matter of the Wyrdwood, every magician in the order had gone to a warehouse down in Waterside, thinking they had been summoned to a secret meeting by Lord Davarry. All except for Davarry himself, who—being the one who normally called meetings—had not been bothering to regularly check his own black book.
Rafferdy imagined that would change henceforth. The Magisters knew now there was a traitor in their midst, but they couldn’t know who. It was the magick of the books that what was written in one was written in all of them, but there was no way to know in which book the message had originated. And as Farrolbrook had said, no one was likely to suspect him, given how poor he was at magick.
Indeed, so feeble was his ability to work spells these days that it was remarkable he remained in the High Order of the Golden Door at all. Perhaps some of the Magisters still held him in regard for the service he had rendered unto the order in the past—or more precisely for the way the order had made use of him. Or perhaps it was simply that he had become so low as to be beneath their notice.
Whatever the reason, it was fortuitous that Farrolbrook was still a member of the Golden Door. And it was for that very reason Rafferdy had sought him out again two months ago.
It was not long after Rafferdy and Coulten had joined the Fellowship of the Silver Circle that Rafferdy conceived the notion to speak to Farrolbrook. The idea was perhaps more mad than clever. After all, the purpose of the Fellowship—to prevent the passage in Assembly of any measures against the Wyrdwood—was directly at odds with that of the High Order of the Golden Door, to which many Magisters belonged, and Farrolbrook was the former leader of the Magisters.
Yet Rafferdy was sure that if the Fellowship was going to counter the maneuverings of the Magisters in Assembly, they were going to need a greater comprehension of the working of the Golden Door. And who better to provide such than one of their own? Farrolbrook had already aided Rafferdy once before, on the day Rafferdy had pursued Coulten to Madiger’s Wall. It was Farrolbrook who had revealed Mr. Gambrel’s plan to break open the tomb of the Broken God—and to sacrifice Coulten in the process.
Rafferdy had never been one to overthink things. Like a necktie or a bouquet of flowers, an idea was best if one did not fuss with it too much. Thus he did not bother debating the matter, and one afternoon directed his driver to take him to Farrolbrook’s large, gaudy house in the New Quarter.
On his one prior visit to that abode, Rafferdy had found the servants disagreeable and fearful of guests while the master of the house had shut himself in a darkened parlor greatly in need of cleaning. Expecting the same or worse this time, he was surprised to discover a new set of servants who were both efficient and courteous, and he was shown to a bright, airy room where Lord Farrolbrook received him in the most friendly manner.
Rafferdy could only express his surprise at such a welcome.
“And why should I not welcome you?” Farrolbrook had said that day. “I have a great deficit of company, for no one else ever comes to visit me. And as they say, a pauper cannot be particular. Now, I suppose you’ve come to learn about the Magisters. Would you care for tea?”
Rafferdy could only nod as he accepted a cup. And so began their regular meetings.
That there remained something wrong with Lord Farrolbrook, there could be no doubt. Rafferdy did not know exactly what malady had caused him to fall from his position as leader of the Magisters. From what Coulten had said, Farrolbrook had begun to dress and act strangely following the death of his father the previous year. Perhaps this loss, compounded with the pressures of leading the Magisters—in appearance, at least, if not in fact—had caused the onset of his erratic behavior.
Fortunately, Farrolbrook was far more lucid that day in the parlor than on the first occasion Rafferdy had gone to him, and his condition seemed to improve each subsequent time they met. True, there were limits to these improvements. The other day, Rafferdy had observed the way Farrolbrook’s brow beaded up with sweat, and how his hands trembled as he held his black book, laboring to inscribe the message in it with Rafferdy’s assistance.
Then again, his hands seemed very steady now as he worked the pocketknife upon the pencil to sharpen it. Both the blade and his House ring flashed in the dappled sunlight as he worked, and Rafferdy found himself wondering if the other man was indeed so entirely impotent.
Evidently satisfied by the sharpness of the pencil, Farrolbrook put away the knife and resumed drawing in his sketchbook.
“If I may say so, you seem very well today,” Rafferdy said.
Farrolbrook worked the pencil in bold strokes upon the page. “As I said before, I have learned it is best not to try to resist or struggle when the spells come upon me.”
“Yes, you did say that, though you never mentioned how you discovered the fact.”
“It was in a letter from my late father. I discovered it a few months ago among his things, and it contained a large amount of advice on the topic.”
“The topic of your illness, you mean?”
“Yes. Though I was not aware of it, it seems he long suffered from the very same malady that has now afflicted me.”
Rafferdy was intrigued by this news. The elder Lord Farrolbrook must have known, or at least suspected, that his son would contract this same illness. “And in his
letter, did your father impart to you knowledge of what this peculiar malady is?”
“No, I fear not,” Farrolbrook said. “While he offered much advice for managing the condition and ameliorating its effects, he seemed to understand its nature and origins no more than I do. I suppose eventually it will take its toll upon me as it did him.”
That it was already taking a toll was apparent. Despite his general improvement, there was still an impression of illness about Lord Farrolbrook. His complexion was pale and slightly jaundiced, and though it was obvious he kept his person clean, still Rafferdy often noticed that there was a faint but unpleasant odor about him—a cloying scent, like that of fruit that had been left in a bowl too long.
Farrolbrook shifted his grip on his pencil, and for the first time Rafferdy noticed a small blemish on the back of his hand—a suppurating wound or a moist sore. As if aware of Rafferdy’s gaze, the other man suddenly set down his pencil and book on the bench.
“I’m glad you could come today,” Rafferdy blurted out to mask the awkward moment. “I wanted to thank you again, for inscribing the message in your black book.”
The other man gazed at him with pale blue eyes. “And is that the only thing you came for today?”
Farrolbrook might have been infirm and a poor magician, but he was not so dull of wits as Rafferdy had once believed. It was quite the opposite, for his perception in this matter was keen.
“No, it’s not. There’s something else I was hoping you’d do.”
Rafferdy explained his intention, and Farrolbrook raised a golden eyebrow in response.
“Are you certain that’s a good idea, Lord Rafferdy? What will the other members of your order think?”
“I’m sure they’ll all come around. Once their hearts begin to beat again, that is.”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 18