Eldyn took one of the whiskey glasses and downed its contents in a single gulp, then he held it out for more. He could scarcely believe what he was going to do. But it was for the revolution, he had told himself repeatedly on his way here. And if it meant that another man didn’t perish from having his skull dashed in by the butt of a rifle, then it was worth whatever discomfort it might cause Eldyn himself.
“I know how we can get messages out of the city,” he said, setting a cloth sack on the table.
“It’s not getting a message out that’s the problem, Garritt,” Jaimsley said, lowering his whiskey glass. “It’s what happens if the man carrying it is caught and the message is read.”
“But they won’t know how to read this message,” Eldyn said. “In fact, they won’t even know it’s a message at all.”
The others watched with curious intent as Eldyn drew several objects from the sack: a thin metal plate, a bottle of ink, and two more vials of fluid—one thick and cloudy, the other thin and yellowish.
Jaimsley rubbed his chin. “What is all this, Garritt? Some sort of chemical experiment?”
“You’ll see.” Either it was the whiskey, or perhaps the certainty that this was what had to be done, but Eldyn felt steadier now. “Jaimsley, write out a message on a piece of paper while I get things ready. It doesn’t matter what the message says. It’s just to show you what I can do.”
Jaimsley’s expression was full of questions, but he did as Eldyn said, taking pen and paper and writing down some words. While he did this, Eldyn readied things, borrowing a flat pewter platter and a ceramic washbasin from the sideboard. By the time Jaimsley finished composing the message, all was ready. Eldyn picked up the parchment—then raised an eyebrow.
“A rude verse?”
Jaimsley shrugged his thin shoulders. “It was all I could come up with in a pinch.”
Despite the churning in his stomach, Eldyn laughed. “Good old Jaimsley.”
Then he got to work. He opened the vial of thick, cloudy fluid, poured a small amount of it on the metal plate, then used a brush to spread it into an even layer. Next he took up the paper on which Jaimsley had written the verse. He stared at it, committing not just the words to mind, but the shape and arrangement of them upon the paper.
At last he was ready. He set down the paper, then took up the metal plate again, holding it in both hands with the coated side away from him.
“What is all this?” Brackton said, but Jaimsley punched his arm, silencing him.
Eldyn drew a breath, then shut his eyes. He pictured the paper he had memorized, envisioning every curve and line of ink. Then the image in his mind vanished in a bright green flash.
He opened his eyes. It was finished.
“Now what?” Jaimsley said, somewhat skeptically.
“Now we get to see what I’ve done.”
Eldyn set the plate in the basin and emptied the vial of yellowish fluid over it. He counted to the requisite number, then used a cloth to pick up the plate by a corner and poured water from the pitcher, rinsing it off. Next he used the cloth to wipe away the residue of the thicker substance and polish the plate to a shine. Finally, he painted a thin layer of ink on the pewter platter, then pressed the metal plate against it.
Now came the final step.
“Give me a fresh sheet of paper, Jaimsley,” Eldyn said.
Jaimsley did. Eldyn laid the paper on the table and pressed the ink-covered side of the metal plate against it. Then, carefully, he lifted the plate away.
The other three men stared at the paper. Printed upon it in black ink was a nearly perfect replica of the verse Jaimsley had written. Comparing them side by side, there were slight differences in the shape of a letter here or there, but still there was no mistaking it for a close facsimile of the original.
“Good God,” Jaimsley said, his blue eyes gone wide, “it’s an impression, isn’t it?”
Eldyn nodded. He was aware of the astonished looks of the other two men, but he kept his gaze on Jaimsley as he spoke.
“Not many people know how impressions are made. A soldier isn’t likely to recognize the engraving plate for what it is. And the impression rosin is clear once it dries. There’s no way to see the impression unless you put the plate in a mordant bath for just the right amount of time and then make a print from it. What’s more, you have to be timely about it. After a few hours, the volatiles in the rosin begin to evaporate, and before long the impression is gone altogether.”
Jaimsley picked up the engraving plate by the edges, turning it this way and that in the light. “Even if one of our men were caught leaving the city with this, the soldiers wouldn’t know what it was he was carrying. And even then they couldn’t read it, which means they’d have no cause to delay the courier. Then, once he’s safely away from the city, a print of the message could be made from the impression to take to our forces in the west.”
“Exactly,” Eldyn said. “And once they’re done with the plate, they can break it or use another round of mordant to etch away the impression.”
“But wait now,” Brackton said. “How did you do this, Garritt? I thought illusionists were the only ones who could make impressions.”
“They are,” Miggs said, his thick eyebrows drawn down in a sneer. “And it turns out Garritt here is one of them—a dirty, mincing illusionist.”
Miggs’s eyes were narrowed into a glare, and Brackton wore an expression of shock on his boyish face. Eldyn felt his own face glowing, and he started to retreat. But Jaimsley reached out and laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. Then he turned to regard Miggs.
“The rebellion needs heroes, not prats with horseshit between the ears,” he said in a low voice. “Garritt has shown which one he is time and again. I wonder, which are you, Miggs? I know what opinion Huntley Morden will have of the man who devised a way to smuggle vital messages out of the city. It’s time you decided what opinion Morden will have of you.”
Miggs met Jaimsley’s look for a moment, then lowered his gaze. At last he looked up again, and his expression was sheepish now. “Sorry, Garritt. It’s just … I’m not used to that sort of thing. It might take me a bit, all right? But Jaimsley’s right—I’m not going to speak against anything that could help the revolution, and it’s clear what you can do has its uses.”
“Uses indeed,” Jaimsley said, winking at Eldyn. “I think we know now how Garritt was so good at always giving the soldiers the slip.”
He laughed, and so did Brackton and Miggs. With that, the tension in the room dissolved. The other two men departed, having some mischief to work, leaving Eldyn and Jaimsley in the room.
Jaimsley refilled two of the whiskey glasses and handed one to Eldyn.
“I’m sorry if I surprised you,” Eldyn said.
“And I’m sorry in turn, for I wasn’t surprised at all,” Jaimsley replied with a crooked grin.
Eldyn gaped at him.
“Come now, Garritt. It was obvious to me the first time we ever met Curren Talinger. As usual, he had drawn in all the prettiest lasses in the room to him, and we were cursing his handsome face. Except when the girls saw you and your even handsomer face, they all started batting their eyelashes in your direction. Only you were entirely oblivious. You ignored every one of the lasses, and all your attention was on Talinger. I’m not sure you even realized it. Nor did anyone else, I suppose. But I did.”
Eldyn could only believe it was true; he recalled how fascinated he had been with Talinger when they all first met the striking Torlander, at a party near the university. He had hardly even known why at the time, though he did now. As did Jaimsley, it seemed.
“Illusions do not appear to fool you, Jaimsley,” Eldyn said ruefully.
The other young man laughed. “When you look like I do, you tend to see the plain truth of things. Luckily, I have my charm to make up for my face.”
He clinked his glass against Eldyn’s, and they both quaffed the contents. Jaimsley’s expression grew serious then.
&
nbsp; “It was you who made the impression of the shootings at Covenant Cross, wasn’t it, Garritt?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Eldyn nodded.
Jaimsley set down his empty glass. “That was good work. Like I said before, that picture won over a lot of lads to our side. They couldn’t just stand by, not after they saw for themselves what had happened.”
Eldyn couldn’t answer for the lump in his throat. He should have been glad the men who died that day hadn’t done so in vain, that they had helped to bring others to the cause of the revolution. But all he could think of were Dalby Warrett and, especially, Curren Talinger. It didn’t matter how handsome or dashing Talinger had been. None of that mattered to a bullet.
“Well, you look weary,” Jaimsley said. “You should go get some rest. I have it on good authority that tomorrow is to be an important day, and you’ll have work to do when we set your plan into action.” Again a grin crept across his homely face. “Indeed, I’m already thinking of other ways we can put this ability of yours to good use.”
ELDYN CONSIDERED heading back to the theater, but the sky was already fading to gray outside, and he didn’t want to show up at the theater just before dawn. Better for the others to think he had gone out early, and not that he had stayed out all night, for otherwise they would ply him with questions about where he had been. So he caught a little sleep on a free cot at the dormitory, then made his way back to the theater an hour after sunrise.
He sweated in his coat as he went, for despite the early hour it was already hot. The sun seemed too large and red in the sky, staring down on the city like a glaring eye.
It was just as he turned onto Durrow Street that he was nearly trampled by several horses. He did not see them at first, for sweat had gotten into his eyes. But he heard the loud commotion of their hooves bearing down on him and managed to leap aside. He blinked, clearing his vision in time to see a band of cavalry soldiers thunder past, scattering people and carts like chaff before a wind.
The soldiers were riding east, toward the Citadel.
Eldyn resumed his course down the street, but he had hardly gone a dozen steps before he was forced to leap into a doorway as more redcrests rode by, followed by a whole troop on foot, marching in swift formation. Nor were the soldiers the only ones in motion. As he continued on his way, he noticed that people were going to and fro in a great hurry, and many shops that should have been just opening for business were instead closing their doors and shutting their windows.
The coffeehouse where Eldyn sometimes got a cup was still open for business, though. Indeed, it was overflowing with men, so that Eldyn had no hope of getting in.
“What’s going on?” he asked one of the men milling outside the door of the coffeehouse.
“Huntley Morden’s army has been spotted east of Baringsbridge,” the man fairly shouted. He was a corpulent fellow, and his face and bulbous nose were flushed and ruddy.
“Baringsbridge!” Eldyn exclaimed himself.
Baringsbridge was a large town situated on the River Telfayn. The Telfayn was generally considered the border between the West Country and the more civilized heartlands of Altania, and Baringsbridge was no more than two hundred miles from Invarel.
“But how is that possible?”
“I’m sure the Black Dog’s asking himself the very same thing,” the other man replied, and his harsh bark of laughter made his allegiances more certain. “Two full regiments of the Altanian army were supposedly defending the bridge and watching the banks. Only there’s a great number of trees that crowd along the far side, and some are saying that Morden’s forces crept down to the river under the cover of the trees, then made the crossing on rafts.”
“But it hardly seems probable they could have reached the east side of the river unseen,” Eldyn said.
The man gave a sly nod. “So it does. But folk are saying a queer fog rolled out of the trees on the far side to give the rebels cover, and so Valhaine’s forces were taken by surprise. They were outnumbered, too, for the rest of the battalion had been sent south on rumors Morden was intending to make a landing near Point Caravel. I’m guessing that was all a ruse, though, to draw Valhaine away from Baringsbridge.”
“If so, it sounds as if it worked.”
The man gave a snort. “So it does. Given how outnumbered they were, the Altanians had to fall back or be overrun by the Torlanders. Now Morden’s men are on this side of the Telfayn. It means the West Country is entirely lost. It’s only a matter of time before he marches on Invarel now.”
Eldyn suffered a terror at this idea. Or was it excitement? Jaimsley had said today was going to be an important day; he must have known something was brewing.
“But now what will we do?” he said aloud, and though he had not meant it as a question for the other man, the fellow answered anyway.
“Who’s to say? But you can bet the Black Dog will be clamping his jaw down on the city tighter than ever now.”
Yes, he would.
“Damn it, can’t a man get in this place to get a cup?” the red-faced fellow growled, then tried to use his bulk to force his way into the coffeehouse.
Eldyn continued down the street, wending his way through the throng of people. Where any of them thought they were going, he didn’t know. It was not likely the soldiers were letting people in or out of the city, not with news like this. Perhaps, he thought, they merely wanted to be out of their houses, to feel that they were part of such consequential events.
“Mr. Garritt!”
Eldyn was nearly to the door of the theater when he heard, over the clatter of hooves and wheels and boots, someone calling out his name. Was it Madame Richelour? It was a woman’s voice. Only it was higher-pitched than hers, and it came not from the direction of the theater, but from behind him. He turned around.
And stared at a dark-haired young woman in an ivory dress bedecked with ribbons as pink as her lips and cheeks.
“Miss Lockwell?” he said, dumbfounded.
“Mr. Garritt, it is you after all!” Lily cried, closing the last distance to him. “I’ve been running after you for what seems a mile! I was beginning to think my eyes were playing tricks on me.”
So did he. “But what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, of course. Only I thought I would never find you. I went all along the street, showing people the picture I made.”
She waved a piece of paper for emphasis. In a brief flutter, he saw it bore a skillfully done drawing of a young man with dark hair and eyes. It was a face he recognized well from looking in the mirror.
“I was sure someone here had to know you. But everyone was utterly awful and would hardly even speak to me. I was in a great despair. Only then I turned and was sure that I saw you walking up ahead, so I hurried after. And now I see that I wasn’t mistaken.”
She was beaming now, her eyes very bright, though with what emotion he could not say.
“Oh, Mr. Garritt!” she exclaimed, and then flung her arms around him in the most familiar manner. “I am very glad to see you.”
And Eldyn was so astonished that he could do nothing but return the unexpected embrace.
IVY WOKE in a tangle of bedclothes.
She sat up in bed, pushing damp curls of hair from her face. Hot light spilled through the window, for she had forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed, and the room was sweltering.
Perhaps it was the feverish heat that had induced the nightmares she had been lost in. What they had involved, she was not certain, for already the phantasms were evaporating in the searing light. It seemed to her that she had been caught among a web of black branches that coiled around her body. But it was just the sheets and blankets that were twisted around her. Nor did she have need to sleep to become caught in nightmares. For now that she was awake, she found herself in what seemed another awful dream.
Only it wasn’t a dream, was it? For it was morning, and she was fully, terribly awake. Ivy threaded her hand through the tangled be
dclothes, groping among them. But the other side of the bed was empty, just as it had been when she laid down.
With some effort, she extracted herself from the bed, then went to the window, blinking against the harsh light. The bulbous orb of the sun hung low in the sky like an overripe fruit. She had never seen it so large or so crimson before. The trees in the garden drooped beneath its fiery glare.
Ivy pulled the curtains shut, then went to the bureau to splash water on her face and make herself ready for the day. Yet for what exactly was she readying herself? Yesterday afternoon, after driving her back from Barrowgate, Mr. Rafferdy had deposited her at the front gate of the house. She had been so entirely numb that she had not been able to thank him for what he had done for her, or even to say good-bye to him. Instead, she had gone through the gate and stumbled up the walk. But she had not entered the house. Instead, she had stood there how long she knew not, staring at the door, gripped by a paralysis and unable to enter.
She might have been there still when night fell had Mrs. Seenly not opened the door, having seen her through a window. The housekeeper brought her in, leading her like a small child, and took her to the parlor and brought her a cup of tea.
This revived Ivy sufficiently that she had been able to speak in a somewhat coherent fashion when her sisters came in, asking about her ordeal. Ivy had attempted to describe things in a fashion that would not seem entirely bleak, but evidently she failed, for Rose burst into tears.
Seeing her sister in such need lent Ivy a strength she had not thought she possessed, and she had tried to reassure Rose. But it seemed Miss Mew was the only one who could comfort her, and taking up the cat in her arms, Rose fled the parlor. In contrast to their middle sister, Lily shed no tears and seemed oddly composed, though her round face was uncharacteristically solemn. She had taken Ivy’s hand in her own, clasping it tight.
“I’m frightened, Lily,” Ivy had whispered then. It seemed improper to confess such a thing to her youngest sister, but she could not help herself. “I’m so terribly frightened, and I don’t know what to do.”
The Master of Heathcrest Hall Page 46