The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  His only consolation was that he was able to bypass the musty old Robe Room (and its musty old usher), for he wore his new robe of black crepe. Also, there was no need to help Lord Baydon with his robe today. The elder lord remained at Vallant Street, for his head cold had been slow to improve. All the same, Lord Baydon had expressed a great degree of certainty that he would find himself completely recovered at any moment, and Rafferdy should not be at all surprised to find him at Assembly before him.

  However, Lord Baydon was not here, and Rafferdy could only wonder why he, who considered himself to be so clever, had not thought to play ill himself. Certainly a physician’s diagnosis could be purchased for a reasonable sum! Perhaps a doctor could be found on Marble Street.…

  “Is there somewhere else you need to be, then, Mr. Rafferdy?” a cheerful voice called out.

  Rafferdy looked up to see a young man striding toward him. His robe was similar to Rafferdy’s, and his hair rose up in a frizzy crown, unconstrained by a wig—if indeed any wig could possibly have constrained it. Shafts of sunlight fell between the columns along the loggia, and each time the young man passed through one there was a flash of crimson on his right hand.

  Rafferdy gave a nod as the other approached. “I was simply considering all of the available possibilities.”

  “Well, I can hardly fault you for that! I can think of any number of things I’d rather do on a fine day than be shut in a room along with a number of Stouts who seem to be as reluctant to bathe as they are to pass any law the king does not support.”

  “Perhaps they consider it unpatriotic to wash off any of Altania’s native soil that might have settled upon them,” Rafferdy said, at which Lord Coulten let out a vigorous laugh.

  “I can only imagine you’re right, Rafferdy. That sounds like something a Stout would say. But why are you lingering out here? Are you waiting on your older companion?”

  “Lord Baydon? No, I am afraid he is indisposed today.”

  “Is he? I’m sorry to hear that. He seems a very genial sort of fellow. I hope his recovery will be swift. In the meantime, you must come sit with us other wigless young lords.”

  Rafferdy made a bow. “That is kind of you, but you should reconsider your offer. For I am bound to do all of you a great discredit by yawning very frequently and making extensive investigations of the state of my fingernails anytime the High Speaker talks.”

  “That’s nothing, Rafferdy! If you simply remain upright in your seat, you’ll be doing better than half of us.” Lord Coulten’s blue eyes sparkled. “Then again, you may find you have less trouble staying awake this session than you think.”

  Rafferdy made no effort to suppress a frown. “Forgive me if I am doubtful, but what makes you say so?”

  Lord Coulten said nothing. Instead he made a subtle nod toward a man who was just then approaching the doors of the Hall. His long hair was so fair as to be nearly white, and it made a dramatic contrast to his black robe, which was thick with frills and ruffles.

  The man must have noticed their gazes, for he adjusted his course, so that in moments he drew near them.

  “Good day, Lord Coulten,” he said with a deliberate, rather overdone nod. His voice was of a refined timbre, but slightly high in pitch.

  “Good day to you,” Lord Coulten replied amiably. “Tell me, have you had the pleasure of meeting our newest compatriot in the Hall of Magnates?”

  “I do not believe I have. Which is a peculiar thing, for I am sure it is a rule that I am always the first person that any new magnate meets.”

  The pale-haired man turned slowly, as if in no great hurry to make the introduction. He was taller than Rafferdy, who was in no way short. He did not lower his head, and instead gazed at Rafferdy down the length of his nose. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord … ?”

  “Mr. Rafferdy.”

  The other raised a colorless eyebrow.

  “There, you see, your rule is quite intact,” Rafferdy said agreeably. “For I am no magnate at all.”

  “He is occupying Lord Rafferdy’s seat while his father is unable to attend Assembly himself,” Lord Coulten explained.

  “I see,” the taller man said. “Then you must at least be very close to becoming a magnate.”

  This time, Rafferdy’s tone was somewhat less pleasant. “On the contrary, I cannot think of anyone who is further from being a magnate in all of Altania than myself.”

  A long moment of silence ensued.

  “You must excuse me!” Lord Coulten exclaimed. “I have forgotten my protocols, despite the Grand Usher’s best efforts to pound them into my brain. Mr. Rafferdy, let me introduce you to one of our Hall’s most famous members, Lord Farrolbrook.”

  The taller man extended his right hand in such a way that the ring upon it could not be missed. It was gold with seven red gems, just like the ring that Lord Coulten wore. Rafferdy extended his own right hand, and as he did Lord Farrolbrook’s gaze moved down to it. However, if it was a ring he was looking for, he was disappointed; Rafferdy had put on his gray gloves today.

  They shook hands briefly, and Farrolbrook pulled away from the gesture no more quickly than Rafferdy did himself.

  “I must take my place on the benches,” the fair-haired lord said. “I do not want the other members of my party to grow weary from standing.”

  Rafferdy shook his head. “Well, if they are tired of standing, it can hardly be your problem. They have only to take a seat, don’t they?”

  Lord Farrolbrook smiled as one might at a child who had asked where the sun sleeps during an umbral.

  “I do everything with a particular purpose, Mr. Rafferdy—a fact the members of my party know well. That includes choosing where I take my seat at the start of each session. It may be there is a lord who I fear may vote upon the wrong side of an issue, and so I will position myself so that I might easily meet his gaze and thus induce him, at the time of the vote, to choose rightly. Or it may be I know I will need to address the Hall to keep it from moving in an errant direction, and so I will select a place that will allow me to be seen by all when I stand and speak. However, you are very new here. You cannot be expected to perceive such things.” He nodded to each of them. “Lord Coulten, Mr. Rafferdy.” Then he turned and moved with languid strides through the doors of the Hall.

  Rafferdy was at a loss for words; or rather, he had so many words to utter that, like a group of men trying to exit a door at the same moment, all of them crowded together so that none could get out.

  “I will forgo claiming to be insulted,” he said at last. “To do so would be to grant him more credit than he likely deserves. For to be convicted of a crime, one must have the wits to have intended to commit it.”

  Lord Coulten laughed. “Well, I’d say you did rather well. From what I’ve seen, that was one of Lord Farrolbrook’s better introductions.”

  “Then I would despair to see his worse. Is it true his compatriots wait for him to take his seat before they take theirs?”

  “It’s quite true,” Lord Coulten said. “The Magisters look to him as their leader. I can only believe there are other minds at work within the Magisters, yet he does command a certain attention, and I believe they use that to their advantage.”

  Rafferdy considered this with some skepticism. That associating with a man such as Lord Farrolbrook could have any sort of benefit was difficult for him to accept, though he supposed fame had its uses.

  “So why did you make a nod in his direction? You did so when you said you thought I’d have less difficulty staying awake today.”

  Now there was a slyness to Lord Coulten’s expression. “I’ve gotten wind that the Magisters are up to something.”

  “Up to what?”

  “I have no idea, really.”

  Rafferdy waggled a finger at him. “On the contrary, you do have an idea. It is apparent on your face. However, I can see you have no intention of telling me what you’ve learned, and I am not one to reach for a rumor; for like a ripe frui
t, gossip is always at its juiciest when it falls freely from the tree.” Rafferdy raised his ivory-handled cane. “Let us go in. We don’t want to delay anyone from taking their seat.”

  “True enough!” Lord Coulten said merrily, and they proceeded through the gilded doors.

  DESPITE LORD COULTEN’S assurances, that day’s session of the Hall of Magnates was no less dull than before. Yet Rafferdy found that having a companion at one’s side made the affair easier to bear.

  Disdain, when it is shared, can form a sort of entertainment, and each sigh or groan they emitted, each barely stifled yawn or shifting of the buttocks upon the bench, became an expression of amusement, together forming an ongoing dialogue upon the proceedings. There was no need to exchange words when a low snort served as the most eloquent dissertation upon some old lord’s backwards wig or another’s propensity for examining the finger that had just explored the interior of his ear.

  The High Speaker once again gave a discourse on legislative procedure. Several obscure acts were proposed, debated, and subsequently drowned in a chorus of nays. Throughout it all, Lord Farrolbrook sat on the front bench in the most placid manner, his hands upon his knees, his gaze upon whomever was speaking.

  At last the proceedings drew toward a close. The High Speaker called for any last business to be presented. One of the Stouts on the far right of the Hall rose to his feet. He was a man who did credit to the name of his political party, being prodigious in dimension from side to side though not from top to bottom. He wore an overlarge wig and his cheeks were as red and wrinkled as last year’s apples.

  “The Hall recognizes Lord Bastellon,” the High Speaker pronounced with a wave of his gavel.

  The portly lord gripped the edges of his coat and, instead of speaking immediately, embarked upon an enthusiastic clearing of his throat. Lord Coulten let out a sigh that said, I thought we were going to escape it this time, while Rafferdy gave a small cough meaning, Prepare yourself for the air to become thick and odious.

  Every session since the opening of Assembly, when the High Speaker made his call for final business, the leader of the Stouts had risen to address the Hall. Each time Lord Bastellon had called for debate to be opened on the matter of King Rothard’s writ of succession. And each time the Hall had voted against the proposal, with the nays being spoken quickly and loudly by the Magisters and a majority of the lords following suit. So rebuked, the Stouts would leave the Hall in a group, red-faced and fuming.

  When at last his lengthy expectoration was concluded, Lord Bastellon once again spoke of the king’s desire that Assembly vote upon the matter of his writ of succession—though, despite his efforts at clearing his throat, his words came out with as much phlegm as force.

  “The Hall of Citizens has already taken up the matter, and we must do the same,” he concluded. “Therefore I call again for debate to be opened on the subject of His Majesty’s writ of succession!”

  Rafferdy waited for the resounding chorus of nays, preparing to speak along with them. Not that it was his particular wish to defy the king; rather, he simply did not want to vote for anything that would give the Stouts further opportunity to drone on. However, before anyone could speak otherwise, a clear voice rang out.

  “Hear, hear! I second the motion.”

  A low murmur rushed through the hall like a wind. The speaker was none other than Lord Farrolbrook. The pale-haired lord had risen to his feet. Lord Bastellon gaped at him in open astonishment.

  The High Speaker banged his gavel against the podium. “The proposal has been seconded. A vote must now be taken on the issue. Shall debate be opened on the matter of the writ of succession of His Majesty, King Rothard? All in favor speak yea!”

  This time all of the Magisters stood, speaking their yeas in loud voices. Many of the lords in the Hall exchanged baffled looks, but a number of them shrugged and stood as well to join the affirmative. Next to Rafferdy, Lord Coulten jumped to his feet and shouted yea, as did several of the young men around them. As he tended to follow Lord Coulten’s lead, Rafferdy stood and called out a tentative yea himself. Lord Coulten grinned at him.

  Now the High Speaker called for the nays, and these were few and uttered in rather confused tones. There was no question; the yeas had it by a great majority. All took to their seats again.

  “Debate is now opened!” the High Speaker called out.

  Lord Bastellon’s astonishment had been replaced by a pleased look. He gripped his coat, striding back and forth as he performed further labors upon the phlegm in his throat. “My good and wise lords, I am pleased. It is past time we grant His Great and Blessed Majesty the due that he deserves and discuss the important matter of—”

  “But why discuss it?” a voice rang out, interrupting Bastellon.

  Again, all stared at the speaker; again, it was Lord Farrolbrook.

  “Since the matter is of such great importance, let us not cause further delay by debating it this way or that,” the pale-haired lord said. “Instead, let us see it resolved at once. I call for an end to debate.”

  All of the Magisters leaped up behind him. The motion was quickly seconded. The High Speaker struck his gavel and called for a vote. Bastellon sputtered, trying to speak, but he was able to produce no words, only spittle. The Magisters called out their yeas, as did many around the Hall, including Lord Coulten. Once again the motion was carried.

  “But this is madness!” Lord Bastellon at last managed to cry out. “I will not stand down before I have any chance to speak on the matter.”

  The High Speaker pounded the podium with his gavel, though he looked as if he would just as readily pound Bastellon’s head if needed.

  “The motion has carried. Debate on the matter is ended. You will depart the floor, sir!”

  Bastellon looked ready to argue, but then the Grand Usher was there at his elbow, a pair of ushers with him, and there was nothing for it; he had to depart. He shook off their hands and stamped to the right to join the other Stouts, who were all stewing in their wigs.

  The High Speaker called for a vote on the issue: should the Hall of Magnates ratify and affirm King Rothard’s existing writ of succession as the will and law of Altania?

  The Stouts leaped out to shout their yeas; these were more than matched by the nays cried out by the Magisters on the left. The middle of the Hall largely joined in the nays, though Lord Coulten did not stand and speak, and so Rafferdy abstained as well. Once again, there was no question about the outcome. The High Speaker’s gavel came down, dealing a final, fatal blow to the measure. The proposal had failed.

  With this final business so concluded, the day’s session was closed. The Stouts rose and marched out of the hall in a group, their faces no longer red but as gray as their wigs. The Magisters departed in a more slow and stately fashion, Lord Farrolbrook at their fore.

  “Well, that was a grand entertainment!” Lord Coulten proclaimed as they departed the Hall.

  “I suppose I cannot find fault with any measure that keeps the Stouts from speaking,” Rafferdy allowed. “All the same, I am not sure I comprehend what you found so delightful in the affair.”

  Lord Coulten’s blue eyes were alight. “Don’t you see? The Stouts have wanted to debate the king’s writ. Well, now they’ve had their chance.”

  “Not much of a chance.”

  “That’s the point. By closing off the debate and calling for a vote, Lord Farrolbrook dealt them a grave blow.”

  Rafferdy shook his head. “Can it never be voted on again?”

  “It can, of course—only not this session. The matter will have to wait for the next session of Assembly before it can be brought up again. I’m sure the Stouts will have learned their lesson by then. They aren’t that dull. They won’t allow the matter to go to debate if they are not confident it has some chance of passing should a vote be called. However, it worked this time, and as a result we won’t have to listen to them speak any further on the issue for months. It was, in sum, a clever plan.”
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  “Which means it could not possibly have been conceived by Lord Farrolbrook,” Rafferdy said.

  “I imagine not!” Lord Coulten agreed. “I can only believe someone else was the author of this play, yet Farrolbrook performed his part very well, which I am sure is his purpose.”

  They passed through the gilded doors into the loggia. A little way off, a group of lords—mostly Magisters, given the House rings on their hands—gathered around Lord Farrolbrook. They were congratulating the fair-haired man, who wore a pleased expression.

  “Yes, it is precisely his purpose, I think,” Rafferdy said. “They put forth a posturer as their leader so that others underestimate them—and then promptly fall into their traps. Certainly Lord Bastellon did.”

  Lord Coulten let out a laugh. “God above, I never thought of it that way, but I’m sure you must be right. I say, you’re quite good at politics, Rafferdy. I imagine you’ll be giving speeches before the Hall and laying your own snares before the session is out.”

  Now it was Rafferdy who laughed. “I can assure you no such thing will happen. His purpose may be to gain the attention of others, but mine is just the opposite. It is my hope that I will depart this body soon, and that no one so much as notices when I go.”

  “Well, then, you’ve already failed, Rafferdy, for I will certainly notice your absence.”

  Rafferdy nodded, but only distractedly. He continued to watch Lord Farrolbrook from afar. For some reason, he found the fair-haired lord an object of fascination. His mannered gestures, his insipid expression, his overruffled robe—they were all so ridiculous. Did he truly believe that others admired him? Though Rafferdy supposed that some people did, and he recalled all the times Lady Marsdel’s nephew, Mr. Harclint, had expounded upon the many talents allegedly possessed by Lord Farrolbrook, from painting to science to magick. Even as Rafferdy thought this, Farrolbrook made a fluttering motion with his hand, and crimson sparked on his finger.