by Sean Russell
What in the world was Sennet suggesting? And then it struck him. Moncrief’s jealousy had run out of control! “They were trying to entrap him,” he said, not needing confirmation. That would be Moncrief’s approach. Ruin Skye by destroying his reputation. It would not be so hard. Have a woman who was reputed to be an Entonne agent claim that Skye was bringing her the design of the ship’s gun, then have agents of the Admiralty apprehend them in the act. Treason. Even the King would not be able to save Skye from that.
But Sir John, and now Sennet, knew that the Entonne already possessed the cannon! They needed nothing from Skye. If this got out, Moncrief’s plot against Skye would explode in his face.
“What happened exactly, do you know?” Sir John asked.
“Not in detail, but I’m sure you can guess. It went awry somehow. Moncrief actually visited the Sea Lord—went to the Admiralty building! They’re more than distressed. No one knows where Skye is at the moment, and I’m sure that Moncrief and the Sea Lord are living in terror that he will appear in the palace, lunching with the King. If it gets back to His Majesty that Moncrief and Brookes plotted against Skye . . . well, there will be no saving them.”
“Did Skye realize what was afoot and escape?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. But there is more. This morning a woman who fit the description of this former Entonne agent was found floating facedown in the harbor.”
Sir John shook his head, realizing suddenly that he had underestimated Moncrief’s jealousy. The man was less balanced, and now more desperate, than he had suspected.
Sennet smoothed his frock coat with exaggerated care.
“I sense there is something else, Lord Sennet.”
“I don’t know what to make of it. I’m even a little embarrassed to tell you.”
Bryce’s warning came back to him. Bring everything you learn back to me, and I will judge it.
“Please, Lord Sennet, put aside your reticence. I will pass judgment on the information only, not on its source.”
Sennet nodded. “Something very odd has happened. My friend in the Admiralty, even he is not certain what it is. But it seems there is some hint of . . . well, the arcane.” He looked up at Sir John, a bit defensive, but interested in his reaction, too. “Does that make any sense to you?”
Sir John shrugged, suddenly feeling as though he had been set adrift. The arts? Is that what he was suggesting? “Perhaps. Can you say more?”
“Not really. My friend was not very clear. You might delve into the death of this woman—the one found in the harbor.” He shook his head. “I was told that Brookes and Moncrief both looked as though they had seen ghosts. And they interviewed some sailor and a trollop. My friend believed they knew something about the woman’s death. Bloody peculiar.”
“So it seems.” Sir John shifted in his chair, anxious to leave. Anxious to relay what he’d learned to Bryce—to see the man’s reaction.
“You had best be careful who you tell about the Entonne and their naval gun, Sir John,” Sennet said, sensing that his friend was about to leave. “Moncrief will not want that information to get out too soon, I should think.”
“No, I’m sure he wouldn’t, though there can’t be many who know about his plot against Skye and therefore could put two and two together.” He stared at Sennet, who shook his head.
“I’m sure that’s true. Still . . . if Skye knows what was planned, then he will likely not keep it secret, though accusing Moncrief without evidence would be a mistake. Especially as it is well known the two men dislike each other. It might seem merely an attempt to slander the King’s Man, and that would be foolish. I can’t imagine Skye acting rashly.”
“No.” Sir John had thought his own news of great value, but Sennet had repaid him with coin to spare, if for no other reason than he was now on his guard against Moncrief. He would likely have gone to Moncrief with his news of the Entonne and the cannon. And where would that have led?
Sennet had discharged his debt, that was certain, but Sir John was willing to trade on his credit a little.
“You don’t know where Skye has disappeared to?”
Sennet shook his head. “It is a mystery. Is it idle curiosity or do you need to know?”
“I need to speak with him. I have information that he must have.”
Sennet considered this request, gazing at Sir John as though weighing his ability to pay. “It has come to my attention recently that the Countess of Chilton has a certain regard for Lord Skye. She would not likely give him away intentionally, but . . .”
“The countess? Really? I should have taken up empirical studies.”
Sennet smiled politely.
Sir John was willing to make one more withdrawal against his credit. “I have a last request. Have you ever had dealings with a man named Bryce or heard tell of him?”
“Bryce? What is his given name?”
“I—I don’t know,” Sir John admitted, a bit embarrassed. “He is a mystery to me. Tall man, dark, very sure of himself. Extremely fastidious. Precise in his speech. I cannot really tell you more.”
“But aren’t you describing the stranger who sat at the gaming table with you the night of your phenomenal luck?”
Sir John nodded.
“But everyone believes he was a friend of yours. A . . .” He did not want to say “sharp.” “You really didn’t know him?”
Sir John shook his head. A small lie, only. He barely knew Bryce.
“Well, that is interesting. I don’t know if I can learn anything with so little to get me started. You can’t tell me anything more? Is he a gentleman of leisure, or does he follow some profession? What schools? I suppose you know nothing of his family?”
“I can tell you nothing more. No, that is not precisely true. He has a head for figures, especially where money is concerned, and is a shrewd investor.”
“Ah, there you go. If he is an investor, then he can be found.”
“Well, that might or might not be true. I am not absolutely sure he invests himself. . . . Though one would think he must.”
Sennet took out the smallest pocket watch Sir John had ever seen. “I will do my best, Sir John.”
“I will be in your debt,” Sir John said, meaning it more than figuratively.
“Hardly.” Sennet turned to him, very serious suddenly. “Do be careful with what you know about the Entonne. I would not like to see Moncrief hush it up because it could potentially hurt him. Some innocent Farr sailors might die to learn what is already known. I suggest you find some other way to send that information to the King, and not through the Admiralty, that is certain.”
“Moncrief is my superior. I can’t bypass him and go directly to the King myself.” He fixed a look of appeal on Sennet. “You could take this information to the King for me, and Moncrief would know nothing of its source. If anyone could manage that, you could.”
Sennet nodded. “Very likely, but aren’t you afraid that you’ll lose credit for your discovery?”
So, there would be a greater cost for this interchange than he’d anticipated. “It’s immaterial who receives the credit. Better Moncrief not know it came from me, and you’re absolutely right—the King must know immediately. Can you manage it?”
Sennet nodded. “Leave it to me, and if there comes a time when it is propitious to do so, I will share the credit with you. Is that acceptable?”
“More than acceptable,” Sir John said, feeling his peerage slip away.
“Then I will be about our business, Sir John. Good luck with locating Skye. If I learn anything more, I will send you word immediately.”
Yes, no doubt you will. You’re about to receive all manner of honors for the information that I have given you. Sir John realized that he felt a little more amused than resentful. He had discovered what Bryce wanted to know, and that was what mattered, for good or ill.
&
nbsp; Sir John wandered down through the club in something of a daze, barely acknowledging the men who spoke to him. The thought that it was he who had started this entire affair—setting Moncrief up to be ridiculed by Skye—was finally making its significance felt. He had known that Moncrief would never let such an insult go unanswered. Had Bryce been out to bring down Moncrief all along? Was that his purpose? Astonishing. Who Bryce’s mysterious employer was suddenly took on more meaning. Moncrief had enemies, that was without doubt, but which one of them employed Mr. Bryce?
But there was something else in his conversation with Sennet that stood out—for its strangeness if for nothing else. “There was some hint of the arcane.” Was this why Bryce had cautioned him to relay everything he heard to him? Sir John shook his head. What was he caught up in?
Sir John stepped out the front door of the club and was about to ask the doorman to find him a hack when the door of a large carriage opened and a man leaned out.
“Sir John?”
It was Bryce, waiting at the curb.
Sir John stepped up into the carriage and settled into a seat, more than a little surprised.
“What in the world brought you to be here at this hour?” Sir John asked.
“You might call it a hunch,” Bryce said, smiling only slightly. “Have you found Skye? Do we know what happened?”
“I have the name of someone who might know Lord Skye’s whereabouts, or so I hope. Whether she will help us or not remains to be seen. As to what happened, it seems that Moncrief, in a fit of jealousy, tried to entrap Skye.” He told Bryce what he had learned from Sennet, holding back only the last piece of information.
Bryce merely nodded. “And that’s it? That’s what you learned?”
“No, there is one more thing. . . .” Sir John watched this mysterious man very carefully, though he didn’t expect to be able to read Bryce’s reaction—he never could. “My friend tells me that there was some hint of the arcane in this matter. Perhaps something to do with how the woman died.”
To Sir John’s amazement, Bryce smiled. Not a smile of mockery or disbelief, but one of great satisfaction. As though he’d been told that the woman he desired most in the world was mad for him.
“Well,” he said, and no more.
“Does it have some significance?” Sir John asked, unable to stop himself.
“That is for my employer to decide,” Bryce said, though he still looked pleased, and not annoyed as he always did when Sir John asked questions.
This made Sir John suddenly bolder. “So you will bring down Moncrief. Is that what you’ve planned all along?”
Bryce looked surprised. “Moncrief?” he said as though hearing the name for the first time. “Sir John, Moncrief is no concern of ours. None whatsoever.” And with those words he folded his arms and turned to look out the window.
Ten
It was some time after dinner that Hayes returned to Erasmus’ home. He looked as though he’d run across the entire town on his own two legs, he was so red in the face and out of breath.
Stokes led him into the study, his manner toward this young waif considerably softened.
“Ah, Hayes. Without your friend Kehler, I see.” Erasmus paused. “Is something wrong?” It appeared that Hayes was more than just red in the face, he was unsettled. “Nothing ill has befallen your friend, I hope?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of. But I just had the strangest encounter. As I came up to your door—I was just lifting the knocker—someone called out Kehler’s name. I turned around to find this little man hurrying across the street. He came to the bottom of the stair and realized I wasn’t Kehler at all. Then he mumbled an apology and scurried off. The strange thing was that he was a Farrellite priest and Kehler has been studying at their college in Wooton.”
“Deacon Rose.”
“You know him?”
“Only since this afternoon. He came here looking for Kehler. He had been by the Belch and learned that I was in there asking after him. He came here hoping I would help him find your friend. It seems Kehler has been delving into things he was not meant to find, and this has the church in rather an uproar. This man Rose claimed that Kehler had betrayed their trust, and now was in danger of expulsion, which would ruin his career, for he was dependent upon the church for his tuition.”
Hayes snorted. “I’ve never heard such rubbish. Kehler’s people aren’t wealthy, but they’re certainly able to pay his school fees. No, I don’t think the Farrellites are searching for Kehler for charitable reasons.” Hayes reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. “Kehler left this with a friend.” He started to offer it to Erasmus, appeared to change his mind, and then pushed it into Erasmus’ hand.
Erasmus slipped the letter from the envelope—a single page written in an appalling hand.
My dear Hayes:
I’ve instructed Colghan not to trust this letter to anyone but you. I do hope it finds you. I tried to see you while I was in Avonel, but you’d fled your rooms and there were all kinds of rumors as to what had happened.
I’ve been on the run as well; from my good teachers. It seems they have not properly appreciated my search for the truth. Well, be that as it may, I have found some things that would amaze you. I dare not say more in a letter, but hope to be able to tell all in person. I’ve chosen the road of honor, I’m sure you will understand.
I am leaving you this one line of text which is a complete mystery to me. Can you find someone at Merton who might be able to read it?
There followed a single line of characters which caused Erasmus to sit down abruptly.
“Erasmus?” Hayes sounded worried. “Are you well? You’ve turned white as a ghost. Shall I call Stokes?”
Erasmus looked up at Hayes, who stared at him with great concern. “He found this text in the archives?”
“So I would assume. Can you read it?”
Erasmus shook his head. “No. No one can read it. No man at least. It is the writing of the mages. . . . I saw it—in the house of Eldrich.” Erasmus raised the letter again, still unsettled and oddly saddened. “Where is Kehler now, do you think?” he asked, his voice very soft, as though he had just learned of a friend’s death.
Hayes did not answer, and Erasmus looked up.
“I think it would be better if you told me, Hayes. I’m beginning to suspect that your friend Kehler has involved himself in matters he does not clearly understand. And we mustn’t forget that the Admiralty searched your rooms—perhaps they have some interest in this matter, as well.”
Hayes took a seat, clearly struggling with promises he’d made to Skye and Kehler. “Kehler wrote that he’d taken the road of honor,” he said, his voice very subdued. “It is a reference to a priest. A man who died years ago. Honare Baumgere. Do you know to whom I refer?”
Erasmus shook his head. “No, but the priest mentioned his name—almost in passing—as though he wanted to see my reaction to it.”
Hayes raised his eyebrows. “Baumgere was someone Skye was interested in. I mentioned that in Compton Heath they sent for a priest learned in languages? That priest was Honare Baumgere.” Hayes took a long breath, and let it out slowly, his gaze fixed on some point well beyond the room. “Later—many years later—Baumgere excavated a . . . structure near the town of Castlebough in the Caledon Hills.”
“I’ve heard something of that. Wasn’t it a crypt?”
“That’s how it’s known, though there is no reason to believe it was really a crypt other than the fact that it vaguely resembles one. But it is a puzzling piece of architecture. Some say it is as unique as the Ruin on Farrow, for we don’t know who built it or when, or even its purpose.”
“And Skye has some interest in this? It connects to the Stranger in some way?”
Hayes nodded stiffly.
“Samual,” Erasmus waved the letter at him, “this is the script of
the mages and though it might one day become a matter of academic interest, I can assure you that while Eldrich lives, it is still a jealously guarded secret. If the priests are keeping texts in this language in Wooton and Kehler has found them, then it is no wonder they are searching for him. Eldrich will be in a blind rage if he discovers the church has been hoarding texts dealing with the arts.
“You see, when the Farrellites lost their war against the mages, they swore they would never practice the arts again, for they had used the mages’ own arts against them. All of the texts they had gathered were to have been surrendered to the mages. If they have held some back, or even discovered a text since that they’ve hidden, Eldrich will not be merciful. I can assure you of that. The worst of it is, your friend Kehler might end up suffering as much as the priests. Remember, mages are not known for being just or fair. I think it best that you tell me what you know and then we set out to locate Kehler. I only hope we can find him before he does something foolish. What say you, Hayes, will you trust me with the rest of your story?”
Hayes thought for a moment, his boyish face very serious, which mysteriously made him look even younger. Then he nodded quickly, pulling his waistcoat down. For a moment he was very still. “Baumgere was a scholar of some note,” he began, “who, for many years, was an archivist at Wooton. Sometime in his middle years he was struck by the urge for a more pastoral life and was granted the living of the church in Castlebough. Do you know Castlebough? It is not far from the famous Bluehawk Lake. I think it the most beautiful country. Right in the heart of the Caledon Hills. The village is not as well known now as it was—oh, fifty years ago—when it was the fashion to take the waters there, but people still travel to Castlebough for their health.
“Baumgere had always been a scholar—had likely never given a sermon in all his days—but he was apparently a respected man within the church, and if that was what he wanted, then his superiors were happy to oblige. After a scant three years in Castlebough, Baumgere left the church, odd enough in itself, but then he discovered the buried ‘crypt’ near the castle.