Seldom would Raith consent to stop in any of the houses, or in the lonely inns or hedge-taverns along the way. He and his prisoners carried food and drink with them, and slept on the move—Tremeur most often with her head on Luke’s shoulder, or curled up in a corner of the coach or the wagon; Lucius giving way to sudden, overwhelming urges to nap, which he thought must be induced by Raith, so the Leveller himself might snatch a few hours of rest.
There were unforeseen and surprising obstacles.
Once, when travelling on horseback, they were forced off the high-road and obliged to make their way slowly across a quaking bog, because an entire herd of sheep lay dead in the road, struck down by some mysterious disease.
On another day, they stopped to assist a trio of keening, wild-eyed women as they pulled the water-logged bodies of a dozen drowned men out of a ditch. “How did this happen?” asked Raith. But the women refused to answer, and the men could not.
Sometimes, there would be a brief pause in some isolated spot, where the Leveller reined in the job horses, climbed down from the wagon or carriage, and began to cast one of his seeking spells. Of these he seemed to know a great number, and he employed a variety of curious devices: wands, pendulums, needles of magnetized iron. He was frequently seen scratching arcane figures in the soft earth, or sketching them in the air.
“Is that a hex?” Luke asked early one evening, when they had stopped at the edge of a rushy lake. He jumped down from the carriage to get a better look at Raith’s activities. “I suppose it must be.”
It was the hour before sunset, and a mist was gathering over the water, so that only the tops of the bulrushes were visible. A flight of swans flew overhead. In spite of himself, Luke felt a superstitious thrill pass down his spine.
“It is a pentacle,” Raith answered calmly. “A figure much used by magicians and hexmasters alike.”
Luke scowled at him. “You speak as though there were some essential difference.”
The Leveller went on digging his mystic signs into the damp ground. “Hexes are invariably the work of ignorant rustics, frequently clumsy in their execution, and far more concerned with immediate results than with long-term consequences. As such, no matter how benign his intention, the work of any hexmaster generally leads to unfortunate results, sooner or later. I, on the other hand, am a trained magician. There is a precise calculation in everything I do.”
Frogs were croaking in the invisible lake. The mist had crept inside of Luke’s clothing, making his linens heavy and dank. “A trained magician,” he repeated mockingly. “Yet you are also an Anti-demonist—and excommunicate.”
“That is true,” said Raith, taking out and examining another of his curious devices—this one much like a compass, though with two needles and the signs of the zodiac painted on the dial. “If hexmasters are common in Rijxland, Herndyke, and Catwitsen, so are Anti-demonists. Unfortunately, that very proximity has caused the latter to form an unshakeable aversion to all forms of magic. It is an aversion which, needless to say, I do not share.”
“But does any of this really tell you where Lord Flinx is?” Luke was determined to be unpleasant—though it did often seem they were moving at random.
“Not precisely where he is, no. What it tells me is where he has been and where he is not, which can also be useful, though it does take longer to find him that way.” Raith’s eyes were sunken and shadowed, his skin was dull, yet Luke detected nothing in his voice or his movements to betray fatigue. “But we will catch up with Lord Flinx eventually. When we do, I can only hope that he carries the Jewel with him. If he has passed it on to somebody else, this whole journey may well prove fruitless.”
“Pass it on to—why would he do that?” said Luke, with a fleering laugh. “When the whole idea of stealing one of the Goblin Jewels must be to gain power for himself?”
The device in Raith’s hand began to give out a low humming noise. The double needles, which had been swinging wildly up until now, suddenly came to rest: one of them pointing to the sign of the crab, the other to the scorpion. “I do not say he would pass it on willingly. But I believe he may be dealing with people more ruthless, even, than he is himself.”
“But who could that possibly be?” Tremeur asked, coming up beside them, materializing like the ghost of a drowned child out of the mist. “You don’t mean to tell us, sir, that my uncle has been nothing more than a pawn in somebody else’s game from the very beginning?”
“I do mean to tell you so. Have I kept you both to such a pace that you have not even noticed the forces at work on every side of us? When we took the mail-coach from Louu, did you hear none of the disturbing news that the other passengers were all discussing?”
Luke thought about that as they all climbed back into their hired carriage, sat down again on the clammy red leather seats. He had been absorbed in his own troubles, yet he had not been deaf or blind—he had simply refused to analyze any of the ugly or frightening things he had seen or heard along the way.
“It does seem as though there is sickness in every village or town we pass through,” he answered slowly. “Or that the people are always just recovering from some freak disaster. But that it might actually mean something—it never occurred to me.”
“Then consider it now,” said Raith, taking up the worn leather reins. “Let your imagination run wild. I doubt you will come up with anything more incredible than the truth. If ever there was a time for you to detect evidence of some dread conspiracy, Mr. Guilian, that time is now.”
46
At the Bridemoor—Catwitsen Border
8 Pastoral, 6538
General Pengennis arrived with the dawn. A lanky gentleman, something past fifty, he had long fair hair streaked with grey and a fine military swagger. Evidently, he was perfectly at ease in his brand-new uniform, with its gaudy gold braid, immense brass buttons, shoulder loops, and archaic insignia. “If you can prove to my satisfaction that you are in no way connected with the Crown of Lichtenwald, I will issue a passport. Otherwise, I am afraid you will have to turn back.”
Will was absent-mindedly reaching for his missing warrant, when Blaise surprised him by stepping forward and producing a handful of documents. “Blaise Crowsmeare-Trefallon,” he said briskly. “I have here a lieutenant’s commission, recently signed by Rodaric of Mountfalcon, and a letter explaining that Captain Blackheart and I have been sent abroad on exceedingly vital official business.”
The general accepted his papers and examined them carefully. “Blackheart,” he said, with a keen glance in Will’s direction. “I believe that I had the honor of meeting your wife. She is Sir Bastian’s granddaughter?”
Will bowed stiffly, rather than assent to the lie.
“It seems strange you should both be travelling this way—though separately and on different business.”
Will bowed again, even more rigidly than before. The general continued to frown at him for several minutes, then shook his head and turned to Blaise. He asked a number of curt questions and seemed satisfied with the answers, because he scribbled out a pass on the back of the letter and handed all the papers back to Trefallon. He left the tent, but not without another pointed glance in Will’s direction.
“Now, why poker up like that and remain silent?” asked the exasperated Blaise. “Or did you mean to convince him you are a wife-beater and a brute, in pursuit of your unfortunate bride who has fled with her grandfather?”
Will shrugged. “It scarcely matters what he thought; he issued a passport anyway. But as we are asking questions, lieutenant, perhaps you’ll explain those documents you’re carrying?”
Trefallon followed him out of the tent, shaking his head. “Don’t sulk, Will, just because Rodaric gave them to me. I admit that I should have mentioned them before, but the truth is—”
“The truth is,” said Will, vaulting up into the saddle, and spitting the words out over his shoulder, “it’s been decided I might be inclined to lose them.”
“Nothing of the so
rt,” Blaise answered patiently, as he untied the reins, and mounted the chestnut. “It’s been decided that you are a walking target for the conspirators. Who, we devoutly hope, don’t know me—since the Wryneck who might have identified me is a handful of ashes blowing through the streets of Fencaster.”
They crossed the mountains and descended into the lowlands of Catwitsen, heading west into country made marshy by the confluence of three rivers: the Catkin, the Eel, and the Windle. It was feverish country; many died there during the summer months. This early in the year, it ought to have been pleasant. Yet, though the fennel and the lacy water hemlock were in bloom, though an immense blue sky stretched overhead, it seemed a landscape in mourning. At least once a day, Blaise and Will passed some funeral procession: a dozen black barges poling through the reedy waterways, or a straggling line of veiled women and children toiling up a windy hillside rank with sedge. In every churchyard, there were fresh graves under the silver willows.
For Will, the next weeks were a study in frustration. Twice, when he and Blaise stopped at an inn or a tavern to make inquiries about an elderly gentleman and a young woman travelling in a barouche, they were sent tearing off in some new direction, only to discover in the end that they were following the wrong pair.
Arriving late one evening in the town of Rummeny, they were denied lodgings on the grounds that the inn and all the houses were under quarantine for the Yellow Plague. And when—already impatient for dinner and beds—they rode on to the next village, they were stopped four times in three hours by roving troops of soldiers, who demanded to see their passport.
Even the weather turned against them. For a solid week, it rained heavily. Rivers raged, roads flooded, bridges were swept away, causing numerous detours. When the rain stopped, there was a brief period of calm, followed by a wind-storm so violent, it tore branches off trees and thatch off roofs, and even pulled rushes and cattails out of the ground.
The further they rode into Catwitsen, the worse they found the accommodations. Beds were hard, food ill-prepared, landlords, waiters, and chambermaids surly. One night there was nothing to eat but pilchards. Breakfast the next morning was burnt porridge. Boots went unpolished, linen unwashed, until Blaise and Wilrowan became as dirty and sullen as the inhabitants.
Worst of all, at least for Trefallon, were the volatile moods of his travelling companion. Up one day and down the next, Will’s spirits seemed to fluctuate more often than the weather.
The world that he knew was passing away, and he felt responsible. The old ways had not been perfect, certainly, but at least they had been safe, predictable. Wilrowan had always scoffed at those of his friends who preferred a secure and settled life, but now he was finally learning its value—just when it seemed there was no safety left in the world for anybody.
When it looked like his search was about to be crowned with success, he was exalted. When he encountered another disappointment, his mood was savage. On the day it became obvious they had lost the scent entirely, Will and Blaise nearly came to blows.
But late one morning, they arrived in a tiny village on the banks of the Catkin. While Trefallon rode on to make the usual inquiries at a tumbledown tavern across the green, Will stopped off at the more respectable little inn, and walked right in on Lili and Sir Bastian eating breakfast in the coffee-room.
He stopped dead on the threshold, surprised by the violence of his own reaction. Though he had known from the beginning that Lili was not travelling alone, there was something in the sight of her sitting there so placidly, eating herrings and toast with another man, that made his blood burn.
But the savage mood passed. He walked quickly across the room, and bowed to Sir Bastian. “Sir,” he said coldly. “I believe that you owe me an explanation.”
Lili put out one hand, whether in greeting or in protest it was impossible to say. “No, Will, it is I who—”
But she got no further, as Will hauled her up out of her seat, wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace, and buried his face in her hair. “You owe me nothing,” he answered fiercely. “Whatever you have done, no doubt I deserved it. But these other people—this Sir Bastian of yours, and all your other Specularii magicians—they have no shadow of a right to place themselves between man and wife.”
He put her gently aside. “I repeat, sir. You owe me an explanation, and I am still waiting here, impatient to receive it.”
Sir Bastian rose from his seat. “It is possible, Captain Blackheart, that I have been misinformed as to your character. Your sentiments, at least, are well expressed, and your demeanor toward your wife impresses me favorably.” A slight frown creased his broad high forehead. “But it seems that I need not tell you why Lilliana and I are here. You have been deceived, it is true, but in a good cause. I should tell you, however, that Mrs. Blackheart wished to include you from the very beginning.”
Moving out of Will’s embrace, Lili turned to Sir Bastian. “Sir, we ought to include him now. It’s perfectly absurd to continue on as we have, considering how much Wilrowan knows already.”
The old gentleman nodded, though a trifle reluctantly. “Things have reached such a desperate pass, these last weeks,” he said with a sigh, “I fear that we mustn’t be too particular in choosing our allies.”
A mocking smile passed over Will’s face; he bowed ironically. “Someday, Sir Bastian, I hope to be able to return that compliment.”
Yet the tension in the room relaxed just a little. At Lili’s insistence they all three sat down around the table, where she poured out some bitter blackberry-leaf tea for Wilrowan and refilled Sir Bastian’s cup.
“I trust, Captain Blackheart, that you did not find the accommodations in Hoile—too confining?” the old gentleman asked, as he passed Will a plate of slightly charred toast.
Will gave a start of surprise. “They were not in the least to my taste,” he answered, automatically accepting the plate and laying it down on the table in front of him. “Am I to assume, sir, that you are the one I should thank for my imprisonment?”
Lili set down the chipped china teapot so hard and so suddenly the lid rattled. “Imprisonment? What are you—”
But Wilrowan ignored her, intent on Sir Bastian. “I was told that it was a lady who presented the warrant.”
Lili’s mentor took a small sip of tea. Then he took a bite of burnt toast, chewed it, and swallowed it before he answered. “They say that money talks. It may also, on occasion, prevaricate. Are you surprised to learn that the constable in Hoile was induced to lie to you?”
“Not at all.” Will raised his cup to his lips, blew on the tea in order to cool it. “Had you paid him enough, I expect he would have strangled me in my sleep. But I certainly wonder why you wanted to deceive me.”
“I thought it might serve to discourage you if you thought Lilliana was responsible. I see now that it probably had the opposite effect. My congratulations, Captain Blackheart. I never supposed you would be able to overtake us after such a serious setback.”
Things went more pleasantly after that, and they were all eating an amicable breakfast when Blaise came in, expecting to report his failure at the tavern. Taking in the situation at a glance, Trefallon nodded to Sir Bastian, kissed Lili’s hand, and slipped into a seat beside Will.
“Had I known you would find them here, I would never have left you alone,” he said under his breath. “You surprise me, Will. This is exceedingly civilized. I would have expected a cutting of throats all around.”
After breakfast, they hired a private parlor, where they could speak confidentially. It was a small room at the back of the house, with a view of the yard below. Sir Bastian and Blaise took chairs, while Lili and Will sat down together on a window-seat.
Wilrowan took her hand and held it tightly, while Lili spoke. He was surprised to learn that she and Sir Bastian were no longer in pursuit of the Maglore woman. “It appears,” said Lilliana, “that she passed the Chaos Machine to a fellow conspirator. And though we hear of him in practic
ally every place we visit, he always seems to know that we are coming, and invariably leaves just an hour or two before we arrive.”
“But just what does this fellow conspirator look like?” asked Will, staring moodily down at his boots. That Lady Sophronispa had carried the Chaos Machine so far only to hand it on to somebody else struck him as exceedingly odd.
“A gentleman of forty or thereabouts,” said Sir Bastian. “He has a smooth tongue and an affable manner, which endears him to innkeepers, hostlers, and waiters, in every place that he goes.”
Will glanced up. “A gentleman, you say, and not a Goblin? You are certain he is not one of these resurrected Maglore—or even a Wryneck or Grant?”
“We are moderately certain,” Sir Bastian answered. “He is travelling under diplomatic credentials, which seems unlikely for a Goblin. We did rather wonder if he might not be you in disguise—except that he had been described as considerably taller.”
“And except, of course, for the affable manner,” Blaise said under his breath, remembering the weeks just past, with all their tempests and tantrums.
Lili’s mentor smiled grimly. “As you say. No doubt this man’s affability does much to smooth his way, but there is no reason to suppose he would hesitate to abandon it, if he were cornered.
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