Ivy went to the stairs, and this time she was not distressed when others drew away from her, but rather glad, for she was able to hurry down the stairs, and so meet her husband. She went to him, and put her arm through his. To her astonishment, she could feel him trembling.
“I am sorry, Ivoleyn,” he said, his voice gruff, so that only she might hear.
Somehow, his anguish had the effect of strengthening her. Her mind grew clear, and she tightened her grip upon him, steadying him. It was time to leave this place.
“Do not be sorry, Alasdare,” she said. “You must never be sorry for what you did.”
“No, it is for what will come that I am sorry.”
It seemed he wanted to say more, but if so he could not find the words. Ivy took her husband’s arm, leading the way from the Hall of Magnates. And there was more than one person who, upon feeling the gaze of her green eyes, hurriedly stepped out of their way.
ELDYN HURRIED through the streets of the Old City. The afternoon had been brilliant and warm when he left, but then the sun took a sudden lurch to the west, and now the daylight was faltering. He considered turning around and heading back to the theater, for there was to be a performance at moonrise that evening. But he was nearly to Coronet Street; he might as well finish what he had set out to do.
He walked the last few blocks at a brisk clip, and soon reached the office of The Swift Arrow. Fresh bales of newspapers had just been delivered from the printing house, and were being offloaded from a wagon even as he arrived. Eldyn could have simply waited for a boy to come down Durrow Street hawking broadsheets, but he was anxious to see the latest impression he had sold. It was, he had thought when he created it, particularly vivid.
Eldyn paid his penny and got one of the first copies off the stack. He walked a short ways away, then leaned against the wall of the building and unfolded the broadsheet. They had printed the impression on the front page this time, for such a macabre image could only cause people to be curious about the article that accompanied it.
Even in the fading daylight, each detail was rendered so crisply that the objects depicted in the impression seemed to float above the surface of the page at varying distances, imparting a sensation of depth. The scene showed the gallows in the desolate square before Barrowgate. Three empty nooses hung from the gibbet, while atop perched the black silhouette of a crow, as if waiting patiently for the ropes to be put to use.
This alone might have made for an interesting image, but it was the figure in the foreground that had caught Eldyn’s eye that day, and which had altered the perspective of the scene. A young boy, perhaps six or seven, knelt on the cobbles before the gallows, his hair a tousled mop, and his bare knees dirty. He was playing with a bundle of sticks. Was he making an innocent game of them—or was he building his own miniature gibbet?
Eldyn couldn’t say. Yet it was that very question the scene begged, and which made it so interesting. Living in such times, witnessing such things, could any child remain innocent? Certainly the hanging Eldyn’s father had taken him to see as a child had affected him deeply. He supposed it was the memory of that day that had caused him to stop when he saw the boy playing before the gallows.
The resulting impression was not so sensational and violent as the one he had made of the terrible events at Covenant Cross last quarter month. Nor did it involve a famous personage, like the images he had crafted of Princess Layle departing the graveyard or, more recently, walking down the steps of the cathedral. Yet he had thought this one was perhaps his best work yet.
The editor of The Swift Arrow had agreed when Eldyn handed him the engraving plate.
“Our circulation has increased measurably of late,” he had said as he counted out several gold regals. “I trust you will not consider selling your work to any other publication, Mr. Garritt.”
Eldyn had assured him he would not, then pocketed the coins. There was a part of him that could not help feeling it was wrong to profit from such awful events. Yet it was important for people to know what had really happened that day.
While illusionists could create anything they wished out of light, it was not so with impressions. As Perren had said, an illusionist could only make an impression of something he had actually witnessed himself. Nor was this simply because the mind could not invent things in sufficient detail; after all, Eldyn could create very detailed figures upon the stage. Rather, it was the impression rosin itself. Somehow it knew whether the image it was being shaped into was true or not.
Eldyn had learned this for himself recently. In his room above the theater, he had coated a plate with rosin, then had held it in both hands as he pictured Dercy’s face. He had concentrated with all his might, imagining every line, every familiar angle. Why shouldn’t it work? he had reasoned. After all, he had gazed upon that face many times.
But when the green flash happened, it was dim. Then, after he coated the plate with ink and pressed it against a piece of paper, the resulting image was blurred and indistinct. He could make out only the barest shadow of a face in the smudges of ink. It wasn’t enough to simply imagine how Dercy looked. He would have had to call to mind a specific scene with Dercy in it, one that had happened just recently. Which meant it was impossible Eldyn could make an impression of him now.
As painful as this realization was, it was because impressions could only be true that they could also sell broadsheets and command high prices. The impression Eldyn had made of the scene in Covenant Cross was remarkable not just for its clarity, but because it proved beyond doubt that the university men had not been rushing forward to attack the soldiers, as some early reports had claimed, but rather had been falling back when the redcrests fired upon them.
Which meant, by selling his impressions to the broadsheets, he wasn’t just making a profit from awful happenings. He was doing something of worth. At least, that was what he told himself. Yet there were times when he could not help thinking that he should be putting his abilities to a different use. Though what that might be, he could not say.
The shadows along the street were lengthening; it was time to get back to the theater. Eldyn folded the broadsheet as he stepped into the street.
And just as quickly stepped back. He raised the broadsheet before his face. He considered gathering the thickening shadows, wrapping them around himself, but resisted the urge. After all, another illusionist would be liable to notice the trick.
Cautiously, Eldyn peered around the edge of his broadsheet. A plump, bespectacled young man was walking from the door of The Swift Arrow. He held a small, square bundle wrapped in paper, and there was a sour expression on his round face.
Eldyn quickly ducked back behind the newspaper before Perren could see him. An encounter with the other young man was the last thing he wished—not now, after his impression had just been published, and when it was clear Perren had failed to sell his own. For what else could the square bundle in his hand be, or the cause of the dyspeptic look on his face?
It was uncharitable of him, especially after the way Perren had helped him, but Eldyn couldn’t help feeling a small note of satisfaction. After all, it had not been out of kindness that Perren had taught him to make impressions. Rather, he had expected payment in the form of Eldyn’s romantic affections. And when these were not received in due, he had revealed his to be a mean and petty nature.
Perren had said he would tell the editors of The Swift Arrow not to buy Eldyn’s impressions. But it appeared it was Perren’s impressions they were refusing to buy instead. Behind the broadsheet, Eldyn smiled. Then, as his gaze took in the words before him, his smile went flat. He had given little thought to the article that the editors would print as an accompaniment to his latest impression. As he scanned the words, a weight descended in his stomach, as if he had swallowed cold lead.
THE GALLOWS GAME, read the title under Eldyn’s impression, and the article continued below.
Who shall be the next to meet an untimely end upon the gibbet before Barrowgate? Predicting this is a g
risly game, no doubt, but one sure to provide amusement all the same, such as that being found by the young boy in this striking scene. There is, we are sure, no shortage of suitable necks to choose from these days, but one in particular comes immediately to mind.
Last year, the people of Torland were subjected to the horror of the first Risings of the Wyrdwood in centuries. In an awful spectacle that hardly seems possible, numerous men lost their lives—beaten and strangled to death by the branches and roots of Old Trees under the influence of a witch. Now, in shocking testimony before the Hall of Magnates, elucidated by the clever questioning of Lord Davarry, a terrible truth has been revealed.
Previously, like so many others, we regarded Sir Alasdare Quent, of County Westmorain and late of East Durrow Street, as a true champion of the realm for his actions in putting down the Risings in Torland. Now, by his own astonishing admission under oath, we have learned how he was able to work this feat. It was through collusion with the very witch who caused the Risings that he was able to effect their end.
One can only wonder, if this heinous conspiracy could so swiftly and abruptly bring about an end to the Risings, might it not also have been the source of its sudden inception? We have all heard of depraved men who have set a house on fire so they can be the first to it with a bucket of water and present themselves as a savior.
There can be no doubt that Sir Quent has benefited greatly from his reputation as the one who ended the Risings. He was granted one title, and had hopes of another being bestowed upon him. But this then begs the question: did Sir Quent secretly induce the witch to make the Old Trees lash out so that he could then publicly manufacture an end to the Risings, and so be proclaimed by all as a hero?
We do not know the answer to this question. But if that in fact turns out to be the case, then Mr. Quent—forgive us, Sir Quent—is no hero at all, but rather the most monstrous sort of villain. And so we will have a winner in the gallows game.…
Eldyn could barely make out the final lines of the article, for the daylight had gone to ash. All the same, their meaning registered clearly. Trembling, he lowered the newspaper, no longer thinking about Perren.
Could the story be true? He knew the broadsheets had a penchant for publishing inflammatory pieces in order to win readers. And it seemed impossible that a man as solid and patriotic as Sir Quent would aid and abet an enemy of the realm, and a known witch.
Or was it? Archdeacon Lemarck had been blinding illusionists and torturing them in an attempt to create witch-hounds—men who would be able to know when a sibyl was brought before them by detecting the telltale light around her. Eldyn recalled the glow he had seen around Lady Quent at the party for the Miss Lockwells. It had been as green as leaves in sunlight, and as bright and shimmering as any light woven by illusionists.
Illusionists. Siltheri. Sons of witches …
The broadsheet slipped from Eldyn’s hands and fell in the gutter. The twilight was thickening, and there was no sign of Perren. He hurried along the street; it was time to get back to the theater.
“THERE YOU ARE, ELDYN!” Riethe exclaimed with a relieved expression as Eldyn stepped from the wings onto the stage. “We looked upstairs to see if you were asleep, and then we went to the Red Jester, but you weren’t there either. Where in the Abyss were you hiding?”
“I was just … I went out for a walk,” Eldyn said. And it was the truth, if only a part of it.
“Out for a walk?” Mouse echoed, and his nose crinkled in a scowl. “Have you lost your wits, Eldyn? We can’t go on without you. And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s not exactly safe out there on the streets. Or have you forgotten what happened in Covenant Cross?”
No, he had not forgotten. Rather, the details of that day—the puffs of black smoke, the mad scramble of men, the blood pooling on the cobblestones—were indelibly etched upon his brain, as if by mordant upon an engraving plate. Only he had not told the other illusionists about the impression he had made of that awful scene; he had not wanted them to be worried for him after the fact.
Nor did Eldyn care to discuss the latest impression he had sold, not after reading the article that had accompanied it in The Swift Arrow. It was awful to think that an impression he had fashioned might be used to turn people’s opinions against Lady Quent’s husband. It seemed impossible that Sir Quent would really be convicted of such a dreadful crime. But if somehow he was, what would become of Lady Quent and her sisters?
He would have to ask Rafferdy about it the next time they met for a drink; surely he would know the truth of it all. Though, even as he thought this, it occurred to Eldyn that he hadn’t been back to his former residence near the cathedral in over a half month. He had an arrangement with the new occupant of the rooms, who would collect any correspondence that came for Eldyn, for he couldn’t very well give Rafferdy his present address.
Periodically, Eldyn would go back to the apartment to retrieve any notes or letters that came for him, giving the man who now lived there a few coins for his trouble. But it had been some time since Eldyn had had a chance to go back to the old monastery. It was possible there was a note from Rafferdy already waiting for him.
Well, Eldyn would go back there as soon as he could. At the moment, he had other matters to concern him.
“I’m sorry I worried you all, Mouse,” he said. “But you know, it’s not exactly safe here in the theater either.”
Mouse sighed but didn’t disagree. How could he? A thick pink scar was still clearly visible along the edge of Hugoth’s cheekbone.
“Let’s just get our costumes on,” Mouse said.
They did so. Though as it turned out, they need hardly have bothered. They opened the doors of the theater and sent up the shaft of illusory light that signaled there was to be a performance. Only, by the time the moon rose into the sky, there were no more than a dozen stragglers in the audience—mostly drunks who had stumbled in from nearby taverns.
There was not a single soldier among them. Either the redcrests had gone to another illusion play that night, or their duties prevented them from seeking out entertainments that evening. Had the illusionists known there would be no soldiers attending, they would have let the theater stand dark and gotten some much-needed rest instead.
Only there was never any predicting when the soldiers would decide to show up all in a group, and if they had found the doors of the theater closed, they would have broken them down. So Madame Richelour had had no choice but to open the doors, and now the players had no choice but to put on a show for the few men who had paid their coin to enter.
Just because the show had to go on, though, didn’t mean it had to be a very good one, or very long. The illusionists moved through the scenes quickly, in the most perfunctory fashion, and in general they relied on the physical sets and costumes, dressing these with only a minimal sheen of illusion.
After less than an hour, the curtain whisked shut. The men in the audience grumbled their complaints, or let out slurred curses, but all the same they got up and stumbled out of the theater. As soon as they were gone, Riethe shut the doors and locked them against any latecomers seeking entrance. Then Madame Richelour opened up the receipt box. But the take was so pitiful that none of them would have any of it from her.
“Looks like there won’t be any punch for us tonight,” Mouse said wistfully.
Perhaps if they had ventured to another part of the city, they might have found a tavern where they could pass off a penny disguised to look like a gold regal. But it was too dangerous to venture far afield at night, and all the barkeeps along Durrow Street were well aware of the abilities of illusionists, and knew to bite a coin before accepting it. Even so, Mouse and the others would get their punch.
“Don’t be so glum,” Eldyn said. “You can each buy a pot on me.”
“Really?” Mouse said, his eyes lighting up. “Then let’s get going!”
“Hold a moment,” Riethe said, clamping his hands on the small man’s shoulders. “Eldyn, that’s goo
d of you. God knows, the only way to get Mouse to shut up is to get him so drunk he can’t speak. But don’t you need that money to buy more things to make impressions?”
“I have plenty of materials,” Eldyn said. Which was in fact the case, given his recent sale.
Though he supposed it would be the last sale as well. He did not see how he could sell any more impressions to The Swift Arrow, not after the awful way his latest image had been used. That meant he didn’t need his coin for engraving plates or impression rosin anymore. In which case, they might as well spend it on punch.
“Go on and get started,” he said, taking a gold regal and flipping it toward Mouse. “I’ll be along with more in a little while. I just want to go up and pay Master Tallyroth a visit.”
Mouse gripped the coin. “All right, but be swift about it. This won’t last us very long.”
“Mouse!” Riethe growled.
But the little man had wriggled from his grip and was heading to the back of the theater. The others followed after.
“Here’s another regal,” Eldyn said, pressing a coin into Riethe’s big hand. “Don’t let Mouse go through it too quickly.”
“If he gulps too much, I’ll throttle his neck to keep him from swallowing,” Riethe said with a grin. “And don’t hurry on our account. Master Tallyroth will be happy to see you. He was asking about you when I was sitting with him earlier.”
“How was he?”
Riethe’s grin vanished. “Go on up” was all he said, then he followed the other illusionists out the back of the theater.
Eldyn gripped the banister for a moment, then ascended the stairs. The night Master Tallyroth had collapsed after conjuring illusions, they had carried him up to the little parlor just above the theater, for it was the nearest room. He had remained there in the days since, as the parlor was bright and sunny; and if they propped him up on the chaise, he could see the length of Durrow Street out the window—a sight which always seemed to cheer him.
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 29