The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  In dark times, the king had said, just as a ship must have a star to guide it, so must a nation have a ruler to steer it through stormy waters. While it is my intention to be the one who pilots this nation to the hope of a new dawn, it is vital that there be no doubt who would take my place should I not be able to do so. Thus I call upon Assembly to acknowledge the power of the ancient laws, and to immediately ratify my existing writ of succession.

  A motion was made to close the session, which was seconded. The High Speaker’s gavel fell, and a great din filled the Hall as everyone spoke at once. The noise reminded Rafferdy of a swarm of bees; there was an industrious and threatening sound to it.

  “I must say, I really hadn’t expected him to call for that,” Lord Coulten said beside him.

  “Indeed, it’s preposterous,” Rafferdy replied. “How are we expected to plunder someone else’s ship when we’re all in the same boat?”

  Lord Coulten grinned. “An excellent jest, Mr. Rafferdy, but you know what I’m talking about. You have far too clever a look about you to be able to feign ignorance.”

  In fact, Rafferdy had no idea what Lord Coulten was referring to. All this talk of ships and stars had been nonsense to him. Though it appeared from the way others in the Hall spoke that it meant something to them.

  “He’s thrown down the gauntlet,” the other young man went on. “Now Assembly must accept his preferred succession, or they must openly oppose it. Not that his request will have any trouble in the Hall of Citizens. They’ll be all for it; the people love her dearly. And why shouldn’t they? She’s pretty enough, and by all accounts a doting daughter. However, a sweet princess is one thing. A ruling queen is quite another.”

  At last Rafferdy understood. “So the magnates would deny the crown to the princess?”

  Lord Coulten nodded. “It’s been centuries since we had a queen after all, and there are plenty in this Hall who would keep it that way if they could. Only now King Rothard has called them out. They must either accept the succession or deny it outright. I must say, those who hold that Rothard is hopelessly weak have underestimated him. There will be no more scheming in the shadows now. It will all be out in the open.”

  Rafferdy looked out across the Hall. He saw several Stouts glare as a group of Magisters walked past, led by the pale-haired man, his expression aloof.

  “I am new to these proceedings,” Rafferdy said. “All the same, I believe the scheming is far from done. What of you, Lord Coulten? Do you think a woman should be allowed to rule?”

  “I certainly think a woman is no more likely to be a poor queen than a man is to be a poor king.”

  “That’s not the same thing. Would you prefer a king to a queen?”

  “That implies, Mr. Rafferdy, that I wish for any sort of monarch at all.” Lord Coulten laughed, his cheeks bright. “But you’re right, of course. The scheming will continue. So why should we be left out of the amusement? Once I take off this robe, I’m meeting a few others at tavern—some wigless young lords like you and I. Would you care to join us? We can have a drink or two and devise our own plots for ruling Altania.”

  Rafferdy was tempted—as much by the drink as by Lord Coulten’s good-natured company. But he had promised to have dinner at Fairhall Street that evening and was forced to extend his regrets.

  “Another time, then,” Lord Coulten said.

  “You have my word on it.”

  “I will hold you to that, Mr. Rafferdy. A magician’s word is as strong as any enchantment—as I’m sure you know.”

  He gave a wave of farewell, the ring on his right hand glinting red, then descended the steps, his towering column of hair the last thing to disappear from view. Rafferdy winced and glanced down at his own ring, which shone a dim blue. He rummaged beneath his robe, found his gloves in his coat pocket, and put them on.

  This act encouraged a renewed exhalation of the musty odor. It was time to rid himself of this dreadful garment. He descended to the lower benches, found Lord Baydon, helped him to stand, and accompanied him to the Robe Room, which was filled with older lords returning their robes.

  “Well, Mr. Rafferdy, what is your opinion so far of being a magnate?” Lord Baydon said, as if they had just been to the most delightful party. “No doubt you are impressed by the ancient atmosphere of the proceedings.”

  “Indeed, an ancient, even decrepit, atmosphere had a direct impression upon me throughout.” He wrinkled his nose as he gladly relinquished his robe to the usher.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Rafferdy. You are not too modern a man to apprehend the weight and importance of tradition. Not like my son. I hope, when the time comes for him to sit on the benches, you will be there beside him. Now you—by heavens, I don’t think that’s right.”

  In attempting to take off his robe, Lord Baydon had only succeeded in thrusting an arm through the collar and now was quite stuck. Rafferdy moved to help him remove the garment—a feat that proved even more difficult and time-consuming than getting it on.

  At last the deed was done and the robe delivered to the usher. There were few lords left in the Robe Room, and the usher made no attempt to hide his wish that the stragglers remove themselves promptly. Having every desire to comply with the usher’s wishes, Rafferdy took his companion’s arm and led him toward the door.

  “My wig!” Lord Baydon exclaimed, raising both hands to his head. “Why, I’ve lost my wig.”

  “Perhaps it came off with your robe.”

  The older lord shook his head. “No, I remember now. It was very hot in the Hall. Once the High Speaker closed the session, I took it off. I believe I set it on the bench next to me. Yes, I’m sure I did. I must hurry back for it.”

  He started to turn around, but moving in a hurry was not something of which Lord Baydon was capable. The usher glared as he walked at a stately pace toward the door to the Hall. Aware of the usher’s disapproving expression, Rafferdy volunteered to go fetch the wig.

  “That’s very good of you, Mr. Rafferdy,” Lord Baydon said. “I will make my way to the steps. If you don’t go very quickly, I’m sure I’ll be to the carriage before you.”

  Rafferdy ducked through the door back into the Hall. Now that it was emptied of people, it had a hollow feel to it. His footsteps echoed up to the dome, where a stray pigeon flapped in circles, trapped. He went to the bench where Lord Baydon had been sitting.

  The wig was not there. Rafferdy peered underneath, but it was not there either. He searched up and down the bench, and among those benches above and below, but it was no use. Someone else must have picked it up—one of the Stouts, perhaps. Certainly they could do with better wigs. Lord Baydon would simply have to get a new one. Rafferdy turned to go back to the Robe Room.

  And there it was. The wig perched on the railing that separated the first row of benches from the floor, adorning the knob of a post. So intent had Rafferdy been on searching the benches that he hadn’t seen it right before him. Or perhaps he had mistaken it for one old lord, head bowed, asleep in his seat, unaware that Assembly was over for the day. However, Rafferdy was alone, save for the pigeon that still struggled vainly for escape. He snatched up the wig and hurried back to the Robe Room.

  The door was shut.

  He was so astonished that for a long moment he merely stared at the heavy oak door. At last he thought to try it, but of course it was locked. He pounded on the thick wood to no effect. Surely the usher knew he was here in the Hall. Then he recalled the man’s sour expression, and Rafferdy knew he would not get out that way.

  Well, there were other ways out. But when he approached the tall, gilded doors opposite the rostrum he found them also shut, and no amount of pushing would make them budge. Rafferdy turned, searching for another exit, and for a dreadful moment he felt as trapped as the pigeon.

  The bird was no longer in view; it must have escaped. Then he saw his own means of egress. The small door beside the rostrum, the one through which King Rothard had entered and exited, stood open. He hurried
to it, lest it suddenly slam shut before he could pass.

  Beyond the door was a corridor. Narrow windows lined one side, permitting thin shafts of sunlight to enter. Through the windows he glimpsed the esplanade before Assembly. It was devoid of people. Mr. and Mrs. Baydon would be wondering what had become of him. They might have already headed back to Fairhall Street to have a glass of wine without him! The corridor was long, so he increased his pace.

  At last it ended in a door. To his great dismay, it was locked. He started to turn, to dash back down the corridor to look for another way out, except there wasn’t another way.

  Besides, didn’t he know how to open a lock?

  Rafferdy turned back toward the door. He took off his right glove, then laid his hand against the wood. A beam of sunlight caught the ring on his fourth finger. The gem winked like a blue eye.

  Surely it was against some law to open a locked door in Assembly. But, he reasoned, he wasn’t trying to break into Assembly. Rather, he was trying to break out, and that couldn’t be any sort of crime.

  Before he could think of a reason not to, he spoke the words of the spell. It had been months since he had worked an enchantment. He had not uttered words of magick since that day at the old house on Durrow Street. Yet now that he did speak them, the ancient words sprang easily to his lips, as if he had just finished a lesson with Mr. Bennick.

  There was a distant rushing noise as he uttered the final word, followed by a discernible click. Rafferdy pushed, and the door swung open. He glanced at his hand. The blue gem flared brightly, then faded. An exhilaration filled him, and a sense of satisfaction, just as it had that day he spoke the enchantment upon the Eye of Ran-Yahgren.

  Rafferdy shook his head. It was only because of her great need that he had worked magick that day, and it was only because of his that he did it now. He put his glove back on and passed through the door into another corridor. As he proceeded quickly down its length, he felt a movement of air. Just ahead, the corridor bent to the left.

  “But I still can’t fathom how he could have gotten inside,” said a voice—low and stern, a man’s voice. It echoed from around the corner. “Only members of the king’s retinue were allowed in through the west door.”

  Rafferdy came to a sudden halt, his heart beating vigorously.

  “Then you’ve already answered your question,” spoke another. This voice belonged to a woman and, while not loud, it was as sharp as a splinter of crystal. “If only members of the king’s retinue were allowed in, then he was part of it. There can be no other answer.”

  “So he was a traitor, then? But would Lord Valhaine not have discovered him? He has kept watch on all of the king’s servants.”

  “Perhaps he was a traitor.” Her voice sounded at once unsure and intrigued. “Or perhaps he was … something else.”

  “What do you mean, something else?” The woman didn’t answer, and the man went on. “Well, whoever he was, it wasn’t getting in that was the problem for him—it was getting out. He should have known we would take the king by another route than the one we used to bring him in. I don’t think he thought through that part of the plan.”

  “Perhaps,” said the woman. “Or perhaps he never intended to get out. In fact, I am rather certain that he didn’t. Look.”

  “What do you think you’re—Great God, what is that?”

  Such was the sound of astonishment and horror in the man’s voice that Rafferdy could not suppress a small exclamation himself.

  A rustling sound. “We are not alone, Moorkirk.”

  Certain he was about to be exposed, Rafferdy saved them the trouble. He stepped around the corner.

  “Excuse me,” he said, doing his best to emulate Lord Baydon’s ever-cheerful tone, “but I’ve managed to get lost. It’s my first time at Assembly, you see. My name is Rafferdy. I’m sitting in the Hall of Magnates for my father, who is ill, but I’ve gotten myself turned around. Is this the way out?”

  “How did you get here?” the man said. He was a hulking figure, with a thick neck, brutish hands, and an overhanging brow. Rafferdy might have expected to encounter his like in a rough tavern in the Old City. However, his garb was rich and well-cut, if all in shades of gray.

  Rafferdy gave a vague wave. “There was a door back there.”

  The man advanced on him. “All the doors were locked. We sealed all of the exits from this corridor when—” He seemed to catch himself, clenching his thick jaw. “The doors were locked.”

  “Well, obviously one of them wasn’t, much to my good fortune.” Rafferdy smiled as if his life depended on it; he wondered if it didn’t.

  The woman, who stood above a heap of rags on the floor, moved toward him. Her gown made a stiff, crackling sound. It was all black, like her hair, her eyes, and the ribbon around her throat—a stark contrast to her skin, which was so pale he could discern the paths of blue veins beneath.

  “Perhaps the door was locked, but then something unlocked it.” The woman’s gaze flicked to Rafferdy’s gloved hands before returning to his face. Her thin lips—a red so deep as to be nearly black—curved in a smile. “Or, more likely, you overlooked one of the doors, Moorkirk.”

  His face darkened in a glower. “I am certain I did not, Lady Shayde. More likely this fellow is in league with the conspirator. Why don’t you use your knife to find out like you did with the other one?”

  The man’s words provoked two shocking realizations on Rafferdy’s part. The first was that this woman was none other than the famed White Lady, a member of the Gray Conclave, and an agent of the king’s Black Dog, Lord Valhaine. The second was that she held a slim stiletto in her hand.

  “No, that won’t be necessary, Moorkirk. See the way his cheeks are flushed? I’ve encountered their like before. They cannot blush—they are not capable of it.”

  As she spoke, Rafferdy’s gaze went past her to the thing on the ground. What he had taken for a pile of rumpled cloth was in fact a man. His legs and arms were splayed at unnatural angles, and his face was slack in a way that seemed beyond death; rather, it was as if the flesh were melting away from his skull. A wound had been cut into the man’s neck—a deep, sharp-edged gash. However, no blood flowed out. Instead, a thick, grayish fluid oozed onto the marble floor.

  “Moorkirk,” Lady Shayde said, “cover the conspirator.”

  The man took off his cape and laid it over the corpse, so that only a single limp hand remained in view. Rafferdy’s attention was drawn to that appendage. Dark lines marked the palm, and at first Rafferdy thought they were scratches that had crusted over, perhaps wounds gained in some scuffle. Only how could a man who did not bleed from his neck form a scab upon his hand? Besides, the lines were too precisely arranged to be wounds gained in a violent struggle. Instead, they looked like a kind of symbol.…

  The man called Moorkirk gave the cloak a twitch, covering the lifeless hand. As if a spell had been broken, Rafferdy was able to avert his gaze. He no longer made any pretense of smiling.

  “I still want to know how he got in here,” Moorkirk said, looking up. Rafferdy was certain he was not referring to the body.

  Lady Shayde took another step closer. “Your name is Rafferdy, you say. You are Lord Rafferdy’s son, then?”

  He managed a nod. “So I am.”

  “And I believe you know who I am.”

  Again he nodded.

  “I’m sorry you witnessed this sight, Mr. Rafferdy. I know it can only be upsetting. There was a plot to disrupt the opening of Assembly today. You must know, of course, that such things happen. There are a few wicked people who seek to harm Altania and its institutions because they hate anything good and noble. It is my duty to find them and stop them. The other conspirators were caught before they could enter the Hall of Magnates today, and as you can see, this man was prevented from doing any ill.”

  She moved closer yet, until her face was a white moon before him, eclipsing all else.

  “Even so, I am sure this is distressing for you to witne
ss. A grave shock such as this can have an effect on your mind. You might not even be certain what you really saw today. It would be best if you did not speak of it to anyone. Do you understand, Mr. Rafferdy?”

  Her eyes were so black he could not see where iris met pupil. “Of course,” he said. The words were hoarse, for his mouth was dry.

  She regarded him for a long moment, until he felt lost in her black gaze. Then she nodded and stepped away.

  Her companion frowned. “Aren’t you going to question him? He could know something.”

  “I am satisfied, Moorkirk. Besides, he is the lord inquirer’s son. It is not as if we don’t know where to find him should there be need. Please show Mr. Rafferdy the way out, then make arrangements for this to be removed.” She gestured to the body.

  Moorkirk appeared less than pleased, but did not question his mistress. He made a sharp motion for Rafferdy to follow. They turned a corner, leaving the lady and the body behind, and walked in silence until they came to an iron-bound door. Moorkirk unlocked it with a key and pushed it open. Yellow sunlight spilled through, so brilliant Rafferdy was forced to raise a hand to shade his eyes.

  “You’d do best if you forgot this,” Moorkirk said. “But do not think that she’ll forget you. She doesn’t forget anything.”

  Rafferdy gave a mute nod. However, in his mind, he could still see the body sprawled on the floor and the colorless liquid flowing from the gash in its neck. He knew it was a sight he would long remember.

  “Go,” the large man said.

  Rafferdy walked into the light, and the door clanged shut behind him. He found himself at the side of the Hall of Magnates. Above, the Citadel loomed on its rocky height. Usually he thought nothing of the sight of the king’s fortress. All he could think now when he looked up at the Citadel was that it was the place where she resided. He worked his tongue in his parched mouth. By God, he needed a drink. How he wished to call for a hack cab and direct it to the nearest tavern.

  Instead, he made his way around to the street, and there he found a single black carriage waiting.