The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  He was just on the verge of rising from his chair to see if the parlor was still being prowled by Mrs. Chisingdon when the conversation in the study turned to the matter of enclosure and its many merits. Rafferdy stiffened and kept his seat.

  Enclosure had first become the fashion in the counties closest to Invarel a generation ago. Lords no longer allowed their tenants to wander freely through lands that were part of their demesne but instead erected walls to keep people out. At first, the walls were raised only around limited areas: an earl’s favorite hunting grove, perhaps, or the hills that formed the view from a baronet’s dining hall. However, as time went on, the pace of enclosure increased, and more and more lands were shut off, until the countryside around Invarel had become a veritable labyrinth of high stone walls: one from which the common people could find no escape. Instead, they were forced to contain themselves in ever smaller areas and to scrape ever more meager livings from the ever more squalid tenant villages where their lot required them to live.

  It was, in other words, a great success.

  In recent decades the practice of enclosure had begun to spread outward from the lands closest to Invarel. If it kept going apace, soon there would be hardly an inch of countryside in the central counties that didn’t have a wall around it.

  “Every lord with any sense at all has enclosed his lands by now,” Sir Earnsley declaimed, summing up the general mood of the room.

  “My father hasn’t,” Rafferdy said.

  He might well have confessed he was the secret son of the Usurper for the looks that pronouncement won him.

  “Well, he ought to do so at once,” Mr. Harclint said, blinking his watery eyes.

  “And why should he? If there is an area in his lands he wishes none to trespass, he may simply post a sign in the village.”

  Mr. Harclint took a pinch of tobacco. “Walls and nooses are greatly superior to notices and rules for keeping unwanted folk out,” he said with a delicate snuffle. “I’m sure even the Outland lords and earls will learn that fact soon enough. After all, they have only to look at the wonders enclosure has worked here in the central counties.”

  Rafferdy did not remember rising from his chair, but there he was all of a sudden, standing in the midst of the others. A warmth infused him so that his cheeks glowed, but it was not from the brandy.

  “Indeed, the number of starving has doubled, at the very least,” he said, “now that in lean times common folk can’t hunt a rabbit or gather an acorn on lands that have been public territory for time out of mind. Happily, such folk can be hanged by their necks at Barrowgate the moment hunger and desperation drive them to go over the walls and they are caught in the act. So the problem presents its own cure, getting rid of the starving just as efficiently as it creates them. A wonder indeed!”

  Without waiting for a reply, Rafferdy bowed and turned to depart the study. As he went, he was again aware of a pair of dark eyes watching him. But whether they shone with mirth or derision—or with some other feeling—he did not stop to consider.

  In the parlor, he searched for Mr. and Mrs. Baydon in hopes of bidding them a surreptitious good night, but his plan was thwarted when he discerned them sitting near to Lord Baydon and Lady Marsdel. He attempted to go in the other direction; however, he was too late to avoid the flick of her ladyship’s fan and was compelled to approach.

  “Where have you been hiding yourself, Mr. Rafferdy?” Lady Marsdel said. “There has been no sign of you for at least an hour.”

  “I saw him exit the study,” Lord Baydon said.

  “The study? So you have been avoiding me, have you?”

  “No more than the stars could avoid the moon, your ladyship.”

  She gave him a look of flint. “Do not attempt to make light with me, Mr. Rafferdy. If you think because I am old that my mind is no longer sharp, then you are mistaken.”

  Rafferdy addressed her with all seriousness. “Your ladyship, I may be one of those inconstant and undependable young gentlemen you spoke of; it is, I confess, my ambition to be exactly such. But there is one thing upon which you may depend: I know very well that you are a force that must never be underestimated.”

  This elicited a dry laugh. “You are transparent to me, Mr. Rafferdy. You would deflect my ire with your appealing manner. By confessing your poor behavior in so charming a fashion, you hope to win forgiveness for it. Such methods work with meek young ladies, I have no doubt. But I am neither young nor meek, and so I will say this: a man can hide behind his charms for only so long. Someday that mask must fall aside, Mr. Rafferdy. And you should take great care how you act now; otherwise, you might not like the face it reveals when it does.”

  It was rare that Rafferdy was at a loss for words. Yet at that moment they eluded him, and he found himself blinking like a regular Mr. Harclint.

  “Do stop staring like that, Mr. Rafferdy,” Lady Marsdel declared. “You look positively witless, and it’s for your wit that your presence is required at these affairs. Besides, I have decided to forgive your infraction. This once. But you must give me your promise to return as soon as possible.”

  This assurance was willingly given. With matters resolved to her satisfaction, Lady Marsdel folded her fan and retired from the parlor. Her brother followed suit, and as he went, Lord Baydon cheerfully commended the room to the younger people.

  Now that Lady Marsdel had retired, it was safe to depart, and not a moment too soon; no doubt Eldyn Garritt was already at the Sword and Leaf and two cups ahead of him. He went to Mr. and Mrs. Baydon to bid them a good night. Mr. Baydon snored in his chair, his broadsheet over his face, while Mrs. Baydon conversed with a man in an ill-fitting black suit—or, rather, the fellow was directing all the vigor of his conversation at her, and she was braced in her chair, enduring its brunt.

  “Mr. Rafferdy!” she said, fixing a wild look upon him. “You must come here and meet one of Lady Marsdel’s guests. I insist!”

  Rafferdy had encountered more than enough of her ladyship’s guests, but the fellow had already turned around in his chair and was beaming at him. He was not much older than Rafferdy, but rather bald and doughy in both figure and feature. Reluctantly, Rafferdy sat down next to Mrs. Baydon. Her companion’s name, he learned, was Mr. Wyble.

  “Mr. Wyble is a lawyer, Mr. Rafferdy. He lives in Lowpark.” Mrs. Baydon clutched his arm. “You know, between Gauldren’s Heights and Waterside.”

  He extricated himself from her grasp. “Thank you, Mrs. Baydon, you needn’t draw me a map. I know Lowpark.” That is, he knew he would never have cause to set foot in that part of the city, as it was home to neither seamy taverns, fine clothiers, nor any other thing of interest to him.

  “And how do you come to know Lady Marsdel?” he asked out of real curiosity.

  “Know her? Oh, I cannot claim to know her, Mr. Rafferdy. What an honor and delight it must be to be able to say one knew her ladyship! However, I had the recent pleasure of serving her in a minor capacity, representing her cause on a small matter of business before the court.”

  “Mr. Wyble is too modest,” Mrs. Baydon said. “I gather he saved my husband’s aunt a considerable sum of money.”

  His face grew red. “Her ladyship’s case could have been argued by anyone. That she was in the right would have been clear to any rational mind.”

  “Indeed, argued by anyone?” Rafferdy said. “Yet it was you who came to represent her case? How so?”

  “I was recommended to her by someone in her acquaintance.” He placed a hand on his lapel. “I do not think I give myself undue credit to say I have something of a reputation. All the same, it was a kind act. Just as it was kind of her ladyship to invite me tonight. Was it not too kind of her?”

  Rafferdy smiled. “Far too kind.”

  “Indeed, so it was! But I cannot say I was not pleased to receive the invitation. I am of an age—as I am sure you understand, as you appear to be of much the same age yourself, Mr. Rafferdy—when it is desirable, I should say even expect
ed, to expand one’s circle of acquaintance. For one can never know when and where one might encounter a suitable lady who would be amenable to entering into a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

  “I take it you mean you seek to marry, Mr. Wyble.”

  “Does not every respectable man? I have not yet been fortunate in the regard. However, my success in the endeavor is assured, for I am certain that winning the favor of an eligible lady is in no way different from winning a case before the bench.”

  A fine line marked Mrs. Baydon’s brow. “Truly, you think so?”

  “I know it for a fact,” Mr. Wyble said. “My theory on the matter is quite well developed and my reasoning irrefutable. Once an appropriate aim has been decided upon, I must only present clear evidence and argue my case with force and logic, and a judgment in my favor is certain.”

  Rafferdy did his best to affect a serious expression. “Tell me, Mr. Wyble, have you won many cases?”

  “A good many—very many, if I do say.”

  “And in the course of your work have you convicted many criminals?”

  “Yes, some. A fair number, in fact.”

  “I see,” Rafferdy said. “Then to win your case would be like sentencing the lady in question to a lifelong term with you.”

  “Precisely!” Mr. Wyble tilted his head. “That is to say, I had not thought of it in that manner. But I concede there is perhaps some similarity, though I think this sentence would be more happily received. Indeed, I am sure of it. But I must say, what I’ve heard about you is correct, Mr. Rafferdy. It was my hope to make your acquaintance tonight. I was told I should meet nobody more clever than you.”

  Mrs. Baydon gave Rafferdy an arch look. “Indeed, our Mr. Rafferdy is sometimes too clever for his own good.”

  “Nonsense,” Rafferdy said. “No one can be too clever for his own good, only for other people’s.” He rose from his chair.

  “But you aren’t going already, are you?” Mr. Wyble said.

  “I have business I must attend to.”

  Mrs. Baydon frowned up at him. “Business? At this hour?”

  Mr. Wyble stood as well. “I had hoped we would have time to sit and converse, Mr. Rafferdy. It is so rare I encounter another mind sharp enough to engage my own. I would have come to speak with you earlier, but I was having the most delightful time playing cards with Mrs. Chisingdon. Have you met her? I’d be happy to introduce you.”

  Rafferdy demurred on the plea his business could not wait. Mr. Wyble asked for a promise that they would continue their conversation another day, and Rafferdy granted it willingly, for nothing was easier to give away than a thing that had no worth. He made his farewell, and Mrs. Baydon rose from her seat, claiming it was her duty to see him out.

  “Do return to us soon as you promised,” she said as they reached the door. “And be safe on your journey. I have heard such frightful things about the roads of late!”

  “I’ll be going with the mail, which is always accompanied by a pair of the king’s redcrests. Besides, I’m far less concerned about encountering a highwayman than I am Mr. Wyble!”

  He gave Mrs. Baydon’s hand a warm clasp, then called for his hat and cloak and was out the door into the soft night. The streetlamps blazed along the Promenade, and the lights of the Old City glittered beneath the Citadel, a mirror to the stars.

  Several carriages were waiting in the street. One of Lady Marsdel’s men let out a whistle, summoning the nearest one, and Rafferdy climbed in. As he settled himself on the bench, he saw a tall figure in a black coat walking down the steps of the house.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the servant, “but do you know that gentleman coming out just now?”

  The servant scratched his chin. “Him? Why, that would be Mr. Bennick. He used to come around often enough, but that was years ago. I haven’t seen him since Lord Marsdel passed on, not until this very night. I suppose he’s been in the west county all this time.”

  “In Torland, you mean?”

  “Aye, that’s where his grandfather was from. A man by the name of Vordigan. It’s said Mr. Bennick owns the estate now.”

  “Vordigan, you say? Then Mr. Bennick inherited through his mother somehow?” That would certainly be unusual.

  “Nay, he didn’t inherit through father nor mother.” The servant grinned in answer to Rafferdy’s look of puzzlement. “Mr. Bennick may have gotten his father’s looks, but he didn’t get his name, if you know what I mean. The word is his half brother got deep in debt to Mr. Bennick and was forced to sell the estate to him to settle the debt, then he died not long after that. So Mr. Bennick got his father’s land in the end.”

  Yet still not the Vordigan name. All the same, this explained Mr. Bennick’s interest in the famed magician. The tall figure in black reached the street, but rather than taking a carriage he turned and was swallowed by the gloom of a side lane. Someone interesting indeed.

  The servant shut the carriage door. “Tell me,” Rafferdy said through the window, “how long is the night to be?”

  “It’s to be a middle umbral, sir,” the servant replied. “Eleven hours from dusk ’til dawn. Where shall I tell the driver to take you, sir?”

  “To the Sword and Leaf, in the Old City.”

  The servant raised his eyebrows, but he relayed the direction to the driver, and the carriage started down the broad curve of the Promenade. Rafferdy leaned back against the seat. So the night was to be eleven hours long? Good. Very good.

  That left more than enough time for him to get properly drunk before beginning the journey home to Asterlane.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ELDYN HID IN the shadows.

  He held his breath, standing in the corner where the fuller’s abutted the brewery. The drab air that threaded its way through the cramped lane spun around him, forming a gray veil. Just as his lungs started to burn, the one who hunted him rounded a bend, head sidling back and forth, jaw jutted forward. He pressed himself deeper into the corner.

  His hunter stopped not five paces from him and let out a huff. “Well, blight me, I swear I saw him come down this way just a moment ago. Now, where has that Mr. Garritt gotten to?”

  The woman turned, and for a moment her eyes were directed at his hiding place. She was of an age with him, twenty-four perhaps, and would have been passably pretty if her face were better scrubbed and her dress not so plain. However, neither soap nor ribbons could have improved her unrefined manner.

  At last she turned away and rambled down the lane, the hem of her gown mopping up the gutters. He breathed in, and so starved were his lungs that even the river air—dank with the exhalations of tanneries and fish markets—seemed wholesome.

  As he stepped into the lane, Eldyn offered up a silent prayer to St. Andelthy, patron to artists and the wrongfully condemned. He was grateful to have escaped another encounter with Miss Delina Walpert—though it had been a close thing. Fortunately, some instinct or premonition of doom had caused him to glance over his shoulder just in time to see her turn a corner. There had been only a moment to nip into the shadows. But, as so many times in the past, within their folds he had found blessed sanctuary.

  Eldyn couldn’t remember when he had learned to hide in shadows. Even as a child he had found it a natural thing, simple as a thought. He would use the trick when his father came home drunk, which he did often enough, his hand heavy and aching to hit something—usually his son, since his wives seldom endured for long. Eldyn would creep into the shadows under a staircase or behind a cupboard and wrap the darkness around him like a blanket while his father raged and bellowed, bruising wood and shattering crockery as substitutes for flesh and bone.

  “Where do you get yourself to, boy?” his father would say when he woke from his stupor. He would be quiet then, sitting at the table with a bowl of gruel, but the fury would still shine in his eyes, along with a crafty light. “I wasn’t so blind as that from drink. Where did you hide yourself last night when I wanted you? She taught you some trick, didn’t s
he? That witch, your mother. She was a sibyl, I know she was. That was why no other man would have her.”

  Those words never made sense to Eldyn. If she had known the trick, wouldn’t she have hidden herself away as well? Instead, he had stood beside her bed, a child of seven years, holding her cold hand, watching her white face: the only thing in the world that had ever smiled at him up to that point. But she would never smile again.

  Leaving shadow and memory behind, Eldyn walked up the lane and quickly turned onto a busy thoroughfare, lest Miss Walpert see him on her way back to the inn. He did not know what he had done to win her affection; surely it was through no interested looks or flattering comments on his part. One day he intended to find a wife and start a family, but those things would have to wait until he had succeeded in restoring the Garritt family name and fortune—both of which his father had squandered.

  Besides, Eldyn’s wife, when he did take one, would not be a Miss Walpert. Once the Garritts had been gentlemen of worth and respect; Eldyn’s grandfather had once sat in the Hall of Magnates. While his father had cast the family reputation into the gutter, Eldyn was determined to raise it up again. When he did, he would find himself a proper wife, perhaps a daughter of well-to-do gentry. He must not reach too high too quickly, he knew that, but his children could expect to fare better and would see the restoration of the Garritt name completed. And once he was married, he would find a respectable husband for Sashie; a baronet would be a good match. No lord or magnate would have her, of course. But she was exceedingly pretty. A gentleman would be glad to take her, provided Eldyn could offer an acceptable dowry, and would keep her in comfort, if perhaps not always in style.

  As for Miss Walpert, Eldyn would make every effort to avoid her, for while she was an annoyance, and dull, and had a snorting laugh, she was a good-hearted thing, and he did not want to upset her. Or her father, who kept the inn where Eldyn and Sashie had made their home these last three months.

  It occurred to him that perhaps the best solution was to move their lodgings to another inn. However, the Golden Loom was the best he could afford; while it stood in an unsavory part of the city, it was decent and well-kept, and he didn’t want to make Sashie move again so soon. These had been hard times for her; she had been his father’s favorite, the child of his last wife, and she wasn’t as accustomed to want as Eldyn was. Besides, she liked living at the Golden Loom. She had told him so just yesterday, and he couldn’t remember the last time his sister had said she was pleased about something.