“I hope that didn’t happen when you went down to Mrs. Murnlout.”
“You didn’t hear any crashing, did you?”
Eldyn conceded the point. He took a sip of the strong coffee, and he felt his spirits rise once more.
“So why is it that other theaters don’t tell the story of the moon and sun? If it’s so important to the Siltheri, I’d think others would want to make a play of it as well. Why is yours the only theater that does?”
“Because it’s the Theater of the Moon,” Dercy said as he donned a pair of trousers—real ones, this time. “It’s the only theater that has the charter from the Guild to tell the story.”
Eldyn shook his head. “The Guild?”
“Have you been listening to nothing people say at the tavern after a performance?” Dercy grinned. “No, I suppose you’re too intent on getting drunk. The Guild of Illusionists issues the charter for each theater. A theater cannot operate without such a charter—no illusionist would work for it. Ever since the founding of the Guild, only one theater is allowed to tell the story of the sun and the moon, and it is always called the Theater of the Moon. Our theater was called the Theater of Shadows before Madame Richelour won the charter, after the last theater that held it closed.”
Eldyn returned Dercy’s grin. “I like the Theater of the Moon better.”
“As do I.”
“I’m glad you got the charter. However, no one’s ever spoken to me of the Guild of Illusionists until this moment. But that’s no surprise, as I’m not an illusionist myself.”
Dercy gave him a serious look. “You are an illusionist, Eldyn Garritt.”
“No, I’m a clerk who has learned to work a few illusions, that’s all.”
Eldyn didn’t want to speak about it anymore. He could not deny that it felt marvelous to at last be able to work true phantasms, but it didn’t change what he planned to do. Illusions were marvelous, but they were hardly a solid foundation upon which to build a respectable life for him and his sister. What proper gentleman would ever marry Sashie if it become known her brother was an illusionist? Nor could such a thing be counted upon to remain a secret, not if he ever performed upon a stage. However, he had not yet told Dercy about his intention to save enough money to enter the priesthood, and he was not in the mood to do so that morning, for they were bound to get in an argument when he did, given Dercy’s own history with the Church. He set down his cup, slipped out of bed, and found his clothes on a chair.
“If I don’t get back to Graychurch soon,” he went on, making his tone light, “it’s my job that will vanish like a phantasm. You may be able to trick the cook with illusory garments, but I can’t fool the rector with an illusory ledger. If there’s one thing the Church enjoys counting more than souls, it’s money.”
Dercy took Eldyn’s place on the bed. “Suit yourself. Go be a good little clerk. Yet Madame Richelour saw you practicing at the theater the other day. Take heed, for she has her eye on you.”
These words made Eldyn flush—or perhaps it was the sight of Dercy lying on the bed in nothing but his breeches. Whatever the source, he put such thoughts aside as he donned his coat. A rosy light shone through the gap in the curtains, and this time it was no illusion. He had to go.
“The day is not to be very long, if I recall the timetables right. Dusk will come soon enough, and I’ll see you then.”
“It’s Darkeve. The theaters are black tonight. There won’t be any performances.”
“Then that leaves us all the more time for drinking,” Eldyn said with a grin.
ELDYN WAS JUST on the edge of Covenant Cross when he heard the bells of St. Galmuth’s chiming the end of the umbral. Despite the brightness of the sky, it was earlier than he had thought. He hadn’t needed to rush from Dercy’s room quite so quickly, though he supposed it was for the best. Had he lingered, no doubt the other young man would have entangled him in a way that assured an even longer delay. And if he was late to his work because of it, what reason would he give the rector? He could not have told the truth, yet he felt it would be awful to utter a falsehood in a house of God.
No, it was best he had left without lingering. Besides, while his head was improved, it was still somewhat dull from last night’s activities, and he decided there was both time and reason for another cup of coffee. As he was already at Covenant Cross, there was no place closer to get a cup than Mrs. Haddon’s.
True, if his old friends from university were there, they would want him to sit and talk, and he did not have time for heated discourses on all that was wrong with the government. Yet it had been months since he had been to Mrs. Haddon’s, and even longer since he had seen Jaimsley, Talinger, or their usual companion, Dalby Warrett. A meeting with them was long overdue. Besides, if the bells were to be believed, he could afford to sit and talk with his old companions—if not long enough to solve all of Altania’s ills, then at least for the space it took to drink a cup.
Cheered by this thought, Eldyn headed toward a familiar sign painted with a cup and a dagger hanging above a red door. As he went, he wondered if Jaimsley, Talinger, and Warrett were still attending university. Eldyn had always meant to go back to St. Berndyn’s College once he had saved enough money to pay for tuition again. The books, the lectures, the atmosphere of history and wisdom that perfused the air of St. Berndyn’s ancient stone halls—all had been dear to him. When the professors spoke, it was as if they were opening windows to worlds Eldyn had never seen before, giving him glimpses of new and wondrous sights.
Yet there were other windows that had opened for him now, ones that looked out on their own wonders. Besides, it was a different kind of studying that would occupy him once he saved up enough money to enter the priesthood. Eldyn felt a pang of sorrow as, for the first time, he considered that he would likely never return to university.
All the same, it would be good to see his friends, and to hear what amusing things this or that cracked old professor had done of late. Smiling at the thought, he made his way toward the door of the coffeehouse.
As he drew near, though, a misgiving filled him. The windows of the coffeehouse should have been blazing with lamplight at this early hour, revealing a room filled with young men readying themselves for the day’s lectures at the various colleges that lay just beyond Covenant Cross. Instead, the windows were dark and empty. Eldyn laid a hand on the brass knob, but the door was locked. Then he saw that there were two pieces of parchment nailed to the red surface of the door.
The first one was a copy of the Rules of Citizenship. This was a familiar sight, as by order of Lord Valhaine a copy of the Rules was posted in every tavern, coffeehouse, and public meeting place in the city. The Rules put forth all of the things a good citizen of Altania was required—or forbidden—to do. Each time Eldyn glanced at a copy, it seemed the list was longer than before. Looking at the bottom, he saw that gatherings in public streets of more than five unrelated persons were prohibited without a permit, as was publishing any pictures of the king that depicted His Majesty in an unflattering or grotesque manner.
Eldyn glanced at the Rules for only a moment. It was to the second piece of parchment nailed to the door that his attention was drawn. CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE GRAY CONCLAVE, the notice read. There was no further reason or explanation given. It was signed by the king’s Black Dog himself, Lord Valhaine.
The tolling of the bells faded to silence. At the same time, Eldyn heard the sound of boots striking against cobbles. He turned to see a group of three redcrests walking through the broad square of Covenant Cross, backs straight in their blue coats, sabers at their hips. Quickly, Eldyn brought the early morning shadows in close around him—not so much as to make him abruptly vanish from view, but enough so that a casual glance would be less likely to fall upon him.
Keeping his head low, he walked at a brisk but not hurried pace. He did not want the king’s soldiers to see him standing by the door of the coffee shop, for fear they might question him. Mrs. Haddon’s shop had always po
ssessed a reputation as a favorite place of agitators and anarchists, and it was not so long ago that Eldyn had carried messages for rebels himself.
He passed out of Covenant Cross, and the sound of boots faded behind him. A glance over the shoulder confirmed that the redcrests were not following in this direction. With a sigh, he released the shadows, then made his way through the streets of the Old City. Both his need and desire for more coffee had dissipated; he could not be more awake now.
That Mrs. Haddon’s had been closed by order of Lord Valhaine was a shock. True, many of the young men who frequented the coffeehouse had liked to criticize Assembly and, on occasion, the king. However, such talk had gotten quieter and less frequent after Lady Shayde made an appearance there. Eldyn hadn’t seen it himself, thank God, but he had heard about it: how the White Lady had come into Mrs. Haddon’s and had sat there, slowly drinking a cup of coffee, and all the while not speaking a single word.
She hadn’t needed to. All knew that Lady Shayde was a member of the Gray Conclave, and also that she was Lord Valhaine’s favorite servant. Just as all knew that no agent of the Gray Conclave had sent more men to the gallows for crimes of treason. Or women, for that matter, for Lady Shayde was no kinder to her own sex than to the opposite.
Once her cup was empty, Lady Shayde had left. After that, not so many people had gone to Mrs. Haddon’s, and those who did spoke in lower tones. While they still discussed politics, and even criticized Assembly and the king at times, anyone who spoke anything that remotely sounded like a call for revolution was quickly hushed and hurried out the door.
To tell the truth, Eldyn had preferred the change. Had the rebellious talk continued, he doubted he would have set foot in Mrs. Haddon’s again, for fear of placing himself—and his history of treasonous work for Westen—at risk of discovery. However, the discussions Eldyn had heard the last time he had been at Mrs. Haddon’s had been so innocuous he could not believe they would have caused concern to anyone who might have overheard them. Then again, that had been before the incident at the cenotaph, and before the ill news out of County Dorn. Perhaps talk of rebellion had started up again among the students who frequented the coffeehouse; maybe someone had even been so foolish as to speak the name of Huntley Morden in public.
If so, it must have been enough to bring down the wrath of the Gray Conclave. Eldyn was sorry for Mrs. Haddon. She had always treated “her lads,” as she called all the young university men, in the most motherly way, and she had been kinder to Eldyn than to most. All the same, whatever had happened to close the shop, Eldyn was glad he had not been there to witness it. He only hoped that no one had been taken to Barrowgate, and that, wherever she was, Mrs. Haddon was well. He would be sure to ask Jaimsley about her the next time he saw his old friend.
Though when that would be, now that the coffeehouse was closed, Eldyn did not know.
BY THE TIME he passed St. Galmuth’s, the gilded spires of the cathedral were aflame with gold light. Just beyond, Graychurch still huddled in the shadows—a thing that was hardly seen unless one made an effort to look for it. Yet its unassuming appearance pleased Eldyn. Was it not more pious to be humble and stand in the darkness than to thrust oneself into the light and strive for glory? He was not a priest yet, but it seemed so to him.
He made his way past the two churches to the rooms he inhabited with Sashie. Outside the door was a basket covered with a cloth as well as a pot of tea. Eldyn picked up the basket and used his key to let himself in. He was glad to find that Sashie had not yet risen.
While her behavior was greatly improved, an industriousness that compelled her to rise early from bed must be placed along with cooking on the list of virtues his sister had not yet mastered. Not that Eldyn would complain, for it meant he could come in after a late night without enduring questions about where he had been.
Eldyn changed his attire, as it would not do for Sashie to see him in the same clothes he had worn last night; besides, he never wore his best coat while clerking, for fear of spilling ink on it. He tied his hair back with a ribbon, freshened his face in a basin of water, then went to the table and took the cloth from the basket.
He poured cold tea from the pot, and was just setting out a loaf of bread, a soft cheese, and a crock of honey when the door to Sashie’s chamber opened. As usual, she wore her simplest ash-colored dress.
Eldyn had given up on the idea of buying her anything prettier to wear. After Brightday, he had taken her to Gauldren’s Heights as promised, and they had gone into several fashionable Uphill shops. However, there was nothing that suited Sashie’s taste.
“It has all become so vulgar!” she exclaimed in the last shop, a bit more loudly than he might have wished, as several other patrons in the shop looked their way. “It has been too long since I have bought anything, and now I hardly know what to make of the latest modes, except that the necks are far too low, and everywhere the tiniest scrap of lace is substituted for a proper covering. A young lady would hardly be fit to present herself on Durrow Street in these dresses, let alone in a respectable place.”
In a way, Eldyn was amused that his sister was suddenly repulsed by the very gowns she had previously berated him for failing to buy her. Yet it could hardly be surprising that an impressionable young woman, who had endured the most lax and chaotic sort of upbringing at the hands of their father, had become enamored of the simple and comforting order espoused by the Church, and so in her childish way wished to emulate it. Either that, or Father Prestus had told her that pretty dresses were frowned upon just like spending money on a Brightday!
All the same, it was clear other patrons in the shop did not find her outburst so amusing, and Eldyn had quickly hurried her outside. That had been the last time he had taken Sashie to a shop, and nor would he do so again until her attitudes returned to their more natural state, and she once again pined for all things frilled and flounced and beribboned. He had no doubt that time would come soon.
Now she kissed his cheek, an act that always pleased him, and sat at the table. Pretending he did not already know the answer to the question, he asked, with an affectation of great interest, what she intended to do that lumenal.
“I must be with the verger all day,” she said as she slathered honey on a large piece of bread. “His arm grieves him terribly still. He wrenched it, you remember, when we were moving the re-redos that stands behind the altar in order to clean there.”
“I’m sorry to hear he is ill.”
“And there is so much to do today! This umbral is Darkeve, so all the figures of the saints must be changed in the nave. The verger will insist on lifting them, but he will ruin himself if he does. I will insist he sit in the pews while I move them, and he can direct me how to place them in the proper order.”
Eldyn could not help wondering if the old verger’s complaints of pain were not so much due to his injury but rather to the fact that he had an able young person to do his work for him while he rested. However, all he said was “You are very good to do that.”
Roses bloomed on her cheeks. “Whether I am good is not for me to judge, I am sure! I only strive to do good in whatever way I can, no matter how small it might be.” She smiled at him, her blue eyes bright. “I am glad you have found good work as well, brother.”
He broke off a piece of bread. “You no more than I! It is good to have a reliable clerking position.”
“I mean,” she said, seeming to choose her words with care, “I am glad that you labor not just in any position, but in this one. It has, would you not agree, peculiar rewards?”
“I don’t know about peculiar. The rector is kindly enough, and the work is not so tiring as at a trading house. As for rewards, money is money. It spends no differently wherever one gets it.”
She affected the tiniest of frowns; it was charming to behold. “Yes, a coin is not altered by where it comes or goes. But is not the one who receives it more malleable? Is he not changed by the source from which the coin springs? Surely the money
you now earn comes from a source of far greater good than any that might be gotten at a trading house.”
Eldyn could not resist her when her expression was so earnest.
“I had not thought of it that way,” he said. “You are right, of course. There is no telling where the coins I earned before came from. For all I know they passed through the hands of corsairs or slavers in the Empire! That the coins I receive now, that bought us this food, have any such taint upon them is impossible.”
She did not answer him, but she treated him to a very sweet smile, then licked honey from her fingertips.
Eldyn returned to his own breakfast, and as he ate bread he looked at yesterday’s edition of The Swift Arrow, which lay on the table. The headlines spoke of further discord in the Outlands. According to one article, a band of Torland loyalists had confronted a small group of soldiers. At first only hot words were exchanged, but then someone threw a stone, striking one of the redcrests.
The soldiers had been greatly outnumbered and, fearing for their lives after the recent mayhem in County Dorn, had fired shots. They escaped in the chaos that ensued, but when the smoke cleared three Torlander men lay on the ground, shot dead. Assembly had called on the king to send additional soldiers to enforce the peace, but instead His Majesty had recalled even more of his forces from the local garrison.
This ill news hardly impinged upon Eldyn. It was not the words on the page that occupied his mind, but rather thoughts of meeting Dercy at the Theater of the Moon after dark and working more illusions. He could almost see the phantasms moving in a lithe dance on the page before him.
Eldyn blinked. It was no idle daydream. The words printed on the broadsheet were indeed moving, roaming around the page like black sheep on a white field. Even as he watched, they rearranged themselves in a new pattern—one that made no sense when read, but which conveyed a meaning all the same. For such was now the distribution of white and black on the page that the effect was to form an image, like a kind of etching, of a face. It was a young man, his short beard parted by a grin.
The House on Durrow Street Page 17