The Magicians and Mrs. Quent

by Galen Beckett

  Hands trembling, she opened the back cover of the book, examining it. The endpaper was blank, but it seemed thick compared to that inside the front cover, and one corner of it curled up. Ivy hesitated—harming a book in any way was against her most basic nature—then gripped the loose corner.

  The endpaper peeled away easily from the cover board, and a folded slip of paper fell into her lap. A laugh escaped her. Of course. Behind a myth can lie a greater truth.

  Ivy picked up the slip of paper, unfolding it, and recognized her father’s thin, elegant hand as she read the words upon it.

  When twelve who wander stand as one

  Through the door the dark will come.

  The key will be revealed in turn—

  Unlock the way and you shall learn.

  Despite the sunlight that streamed through the window, a chill came over her. The poem made her think of how she had felt that night in the attic, when the darkness seemed to press down, creeping in through the cracks and windows, wanting to suffocate all light, all life.

  But it wasn’t just a poem. It was another riddle; Ivy was certain of it. Yet she was also certain that this one would not be solved so easily as the first. She was supposed to find a key. Only to what? And what would she learn when she found it?

  Ivy didn’t have the answer to that. However, there was one thing she did know. Mr. Lockwell must have known what was going to happen to him. Why else would he have left a message like this for her, only days—perhaps mere hours—before his mind was stolen from him? Only the affliction…It must have come upon him sooner than even he had expected, and he had never given her the book for her birthday present.

  Now she had finally found it, but to what end? Ivy doubted that would be an easy question to answer. It was clear he had not meant her to find this riddle as a child but rather later, when she was older, when she could properly understand.

  When she could help him.

  A thrill passed through Ivy, a bright spark that burned away the cold. That was the answer. He had known that one day she would be old enough to understand. Old enough to help him. And she would help him. The answer was right here before her. All she had to do was understand it.

  Unlock the way and you shall learn.

  Ivy folded the paper, tucked it back into the book, and rose. There was no time to waste; she had reading to do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ON THE MORNING of the first long lumenal since his return to Invarel, Mr. Dashton Rafferdy took a late breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Baydon at Lord Baydon’s house.

  Like many fashionable young gentlemen, he had much in common with a beggar who, for lack of better means, must go from door to door scrounging for a bite. In similar fashion, as he did not keep a cook, Rafferdy was required to proceed from acquaintance to acquaintance in order to procure his meals. Even as he was dining at one house, he was always considering whom he might call on next—whether it had been too soon since the last time, and if they had gotten a better cook.

  Happily, Mr. and Mrs. Baydon seemed not to have wearied of his frequent companionship. A note sent early in the morning to Vallant Street was enough to win Rafferdy an invitation, and as soon as he rose and had his coffee and was dressed—that is to say, after the sun had been up for four hours—he called for his carriage and went directly to Lord Baydon’s house, just off the Promenade.

  They had only just started their repast when Mrs. Baydon set down a piece of toast she had barely nibbled and turned toward Rafferdy. “Have you heard the news?” she said, eyes aglow. “There is to be a masque at Viscount Argendy’s. I learned it from Mrs. Darlend just yesterday.”

  “I would hardly call that news,” Mr. Baydon said from behind the stiff wall of his broadsheet. It was a copy of The Messenger this morning.

  “But it is news,” Mrs. Baydon said, her forehead creasing in a pretty frown. “The viscount’s masques are famous for their extravagance.”

  “I was always given to understand it was their absurdity they were famous for,” Mr. Baydon said. “Unless you find men dressed as songbirds dangling about on wires to be a matter of delight. Though I warrant there might be some small amusement in the proceedings should the wires prove faulty and fail to hold.”

  “It’s to be held at the viscount’s home on the night of the full moon,” Mrs. Baydon went on, undeterred. “I’ve heard that the centerpiece of the masque will be performed by the finest troupe of illusionists in the city. Please, Mr. Rafferdy, say you’ll attend with us.”

  “That will be quite impossible,” Mr. Baydon said before Rafferdy could fashion a reply.

  “Nonsense. Mr. Rafferdy has just returned from Asterlane. Surely his father would not recall him so soon.”

  “It’s quite impossible,” Mr. Baydon reiterated, “because whether Mr. Rafferdy is in the city or not, he cannot attend the masque with us as we will not be attending ourselves.”

  “Not attending?” Mrs. Baydon gave the raised broadsheet a cross look. “But, Mr. Baydon, can we not at least consider it?”

  “I already have,” he said, and turned a page.

  She cast a rueful look at Rafferdy. “I’ve heard the Siltheri weave enchantments out of air and light that are beautiful beyond description. You can picture anything at all—a mountain or a castle—and they can conjure it with a wave of the hand. I’ve often asked when I might be allowed to attend one of their performances, only I have ever been denied this pleasure for reasons that are beyond me.”

  Mr. Baydon lowered his broadsheet. His expression was stern but not ungentle. “The reasons are not beyond you, Mrs. Baydon. Lord Baydon has forbidden any in his household to venture to the theaters on Durrow Street. It is only on a solid foundation of real progress and industry that the future of Altania can be secured, not witchery and illusion. How could my father face his peers in the Hall of Magnates if it was known a member of his own family habituated a place of such questionable repute?”

  “But Viscount Argendy’s house is not on Durrow Street.”

  “The viscount’s good reputation is his own to preserve or discard as he sees fit,” Mr. Baydon said, and the broadsheet was raised once more.

  “I fear I wouldn’t be able to attend anyway,” Rafferdy said, putting another cake on his plate. “I’m already in danger of falling from your aunt’s good graces. I had better not compound the situation by appearing to support the viscount’s disreputable plans.”

  Mrs. Baydon sighed several times, but she did not bring up the subject of the masque again—for which Rafferdy was grateful. While in her innocence she might imagine illusionists conjuring castles and rainbows, he knew the plays put on by the Siltheri were not always limited to such wholesome topics. There was a reason respectable men did not venture to the theaters on Durrow Street. At least not without a hat pulled low and a pocketful of coins to buy a carriage driver’s silence. As for a woman who attended the plays—she might be called many things, but lady would not be one of them.

  “You still haven’t told us about your trip to Asterlane,” Mrs. Baydon said as they took a final cup of coffee. “How was it?”

  “Unremarkable,” Rafferdy said, though dreadful would have been a more accurate term. Indeed, the visit had gone exactly as he had dreaded.

  He had hardly arrived at Asterlane, head aching from a night at tavern compounded by eight hours of jostling in a coach, before Lord Rafferdy asked to see him. His father had been in the library, his foot propped up on a stool. Upon entering, Rafferdy was immediately—and without any consideration for his need to rest after such a long journey—delivered a typical lecture on the need to take on more responsibility now that he was a man, to put aside foolish pursuits, and to turn his attention toward settling down.

  There will be a time when I can no longer perform my obligations and duties, his father told him. When that time comes, you must be ready.

  Rafferdy had only the vaguest idea of what his father’s obligations and duties actually were; in fact, he had made a point of no
t knowing. That he worked on matters at Assembly, Rafferdy knew. Also that he saw to the affairs of his estate, and was often writing missives and reports, and met frequently with various agents of the government who did Rafferdy knew not what but who always gave a salute to the king upon their departure.

  While his father had been somewhat more grim than usual, this topic of conversation had been nothing out of the ordinary—certainly nothing warranting a summons home. It wasn’t until he prepared to depart that Lord Rafferdy at last broached the topic Rafferdy had dreaded for so long. Still, why had his father insisted on his returning to Asterlane to give him that news? A letter would have more than sufficed.

  “Surely, Mr. Rafferdy, your time in Asterlane cannot have been entirely unremarkable,” Mrs. Baydon said. “Did you not have the pleasure of making a new acquaintance while you were there?”

  Rafferdy gave her a sharp look. “As a matter of fact, I did. Lord Everaud was visiting at Asterlane, and I made the acquaintance of his eldest daughter. But I wonder how you should know such a fact.”

  “I am not without my abilities,” Mrs. Baydon said.

  “Gossiping with other young women being chief among them,” Mr. Baydon added, lowering the paper. “You should be warned, Rafferdy, that Mrs. Baydon and Miss Everaud have recently become fast friends and will no doubt do everything they can to entrap you in some scheme of their concoction, as two silly young women acting in concert must always try to do.”

  “She is very beautiful, isn’t she?” Mrs. Baydon said brightly.

  Rafferdy only smiled. He suspected he had better heed Mr. Baydon’s warning and proceed with care. Men far more clever than he had been caught in snares laid by women far less clever than Mrs. Baydon. Propriety might prevent women from visiting the theaters of Durrow Street, but like so many charming young ladies, Mrs. Baydon still found a way to craft her own small spells of illusion.

  “Indeed, Miss Everaud is very pretty,” Rafferdy said, though he could not remember what she looked like or anything she had done or said while he was there. However, he thought she must have been pretty. If she had been otherwise, he surely would have remembered that.

  “What was your favorite thing about meeting her?”

  “It would be quite impossible for me to choose,” Rafferdy said. Fortunately, his answer seemed to satisfy Mrs. Baydon, and she sipped her coffee with a pleased expression.

  Rafferdy mused awhile over his own cup. This conversation had done much to cast a new light on his visit to Asterlane. It wasn’t just for the purpose of admonishing him to behave more responsibly that his father had summoned him home—or to give him the news about his plans for the estate at Asterlane. No, Lord Rafferdy had had other intentions in mind. Nor could Miss Everaud’s presence there be ascribed to chance. A snare had been laid for him indeed, only its purpose was not to clamp an iron band around his foot but rather a gold band about his finger.

  Rafferdy took his leave of the Baydons, then returned to his house near Warwent Square. This was a neighborhood nestled between the New Quarter and the Old City. It was neither so splendid as one nor so shabby as the other, and given its convenient proximity to the houses of the wealthy as well as houses of drinking and gambling, it was the favored choice of many young gentlemen.

  Lord Rafferdy did own a house in the city, not far from Lady Marsdel’s abode, but he was seldom in Invarel, due to his infirmity. Rafferdy might have dwelled there, but Warwent Square suited him better, and on this one matter he and his father agreed. The house in the New Quarter was much more expensive to operate, requiring a staff of at least eight. In contrast, at his current residence Rafferdy kept but a single man to serve and dress him, and he took every opportunity to remind his father how much money he was saving the family by choosing to dwell at Warwent Square.

  HE SPENT THE rest of the morning in the parlor, responding to the heap of letters that had grown on the table. There were invitations to dinners and parties and dances, and he took much care in choosing which he would turn down (very many) and which he would accept (very few).

  By the time the sun reached its zenith, Rafferdy was ready to venture out, having spent an hour choosing what to wear and another making himself presentable. He paused to write a note to Eldyn Garritt, telling him to be at the Sword and Leaf after sunset, then he was out the door.

  He told his driver to bring the cabriolet and put down the calash top, for there was no threat of rain. It was now midday, and according to the driver (who, unlike Rafferdy, was no stranger to an almanac), the sun would not set on the long lumenal for another thirteen hours. Thus there was time for all sorts of amusing pursuits, followed by a rest, so that Rafferdy could wake as the day ended and be refreshed for the night’s various activities.

  He began by taking a dinner at his club, where he lingered for a time in a comfortable chair, enjoying a pinch of tobacco and pretending to read a copy of The Comet. On the front page was a particularly captivating image of Princess Sahafina. The daughter of a wealthy Murghese prince, she had recently made a journey to Invarel and while there had captured the fancy of the city with her beauty and exotic customs.

  The image of the princess was not a typical illustration but rather an impression. From what Rafferdy understood, there were some illusionists who could hold an engraving plate in their hands and concentrate upon it, working an enchantment so that what they imagined in their minds appeared on the plate, rendered with an accuracy that caused the subject to appear clearer than in the most skillful painting.

  Once he tired of the club, he instructed his driver to take him to Marmount Street, where the finest clothiers resided. By the time he returned to his carriage, the sun was well on its descent toward the towers of the Citadel, and he had been fitted for two pairs of trousers, a coat, and several shirts.

  A pleasant weariness had settled over him, and he decided a cup of chocolate was in order. The best chocolate houses in the city were in Covenant Cross. However, just as he leaned forward to tell the driver to go in that direction, his attention was caught by a figure in black walking with long strides along Marmount Street.

  The man cast a glance over his shoulder, and a jolt of surprise coursed through Rafferdy. A moment later the other vanished into the dimness of a side lane. Surprise gave way to curiosity, and Rafferdy found himself wondering what sort of place a man such as Mr. Bennick might frequent.

  A compulsion to discover what Mr. Bennick was doing seized Rafferdy. Why he wanted to know he couldn’t say, except that it seemed a diverting entertainment, and of all the people he had ever met at Lady Marsdel’s, Mr. Bennick was the only one he had found intriguing.

  Mr. Bennick had vanished from sight. The lane was too narrow for the cabriolet to follow, but Rafferdy knew that it led toward Coronet Street, and so he directed the driver to take him around the block.

  Sure enough, as the cabriolet turned the corner onto Coronet Street, Rafferdy glimpsed a tall form in black. However, he had no sooner caught sight of Mr. Bennick than the other man crossed the busy thoroughfare and, with another look over his shoulder, started down a stair. Rafferdy was not certain where the stair led, so he asked the driver, who said if he remembered right it let out on the edge of Greenly Circle.

  That was ill news. Greenly Circle was in a part of the Old City where several streets came together. From there Mr. Bennick might proceed almost anywhere. Finding himself well amused by the thrill of the chase, he ordered the driver to proceed to Greenly Circle by the most direct route.

  This proved a difficult feat, for the New Quarter was situated upon a heights, and the driver was forced to descend to the Old City, then navigate a labyrinth of twisting ways before at last proceeding along King’s Street and down into Greenly Circle.

  At once noise and odor overwhelmed Rafferdy. The booths of flower sellers and butchers and fishmongers crowded against one another in the shadow of the Citadel as tradesmen, servants, goodwives, and boys hawking broadsheets jostled between. On the steps of a fou
ntain, a pair of mummers juggled torches, sometimes pausing to lay the flaming ends against their tongues while the crowd gasped as if the two were Siltheri illusionists rather than common street players, their rough faces smeared with greasepaint, their callused hands blackened beyond feeling.

  Rafferdy had the driver make a circuit three times, and each time it took ten minutes for the vehicle to maneuver through the crowd. At last Rafferdy was forced to admit defeat at his little game; he had seen no sign of Mr. Bennick. With both his curiosity and craving for chocolate gone, he instructed the driver to turn toward home.

  This was easier said than done, as a cart carrying apples had turned over and spilled its contents, and the result was a crowd of children, women, men, and horses all vying for the fruit. After much cracking of his whip, the driver was able to guide the cabriolet into a side street where it only just fit.

  In contrast to the raucous circle, the lane was all but deserted. Only a murky light filtered down between buildings that leaned overhead. As the carriage started down the lane, a door opened ahead, and a man stepped out.

  He was tall and wore black.

  Before Rafferdy could even think to call out, the man pulled his hat low, then started up a stair between two buildings and was lost to sight. Once again he had gone a way where a carriage could not pass. Nor would there be any tracking him in the maze of the Old City. Rafferdy had found him only to lose him for good; there was no way to know where he had been going.

  Except Rafferdy did know. For this had to be the place that Mr. Bennick had come. Why else had he gone into that building? A sign hung over the door. Rafferdy couldn’t read it in the dim light, but there was a picture painted on it in faded silver: a single eye that stared through the gloom. Directing the driver to wait, he left the cabriolet and approached the door. It looked to be some sort of shop, though what manner of goods it sold he couldn’t say; the objects beyond the grimy window were impossible to make out. Having come this far, he opened the door and entered.