“Have you indeed?”
Some of Rafferdy’s indignation receded. He realized that statement might not serve to lessen any cloud of suspicion that lingered over him.
“Yes, I have. However, it has become too popular for my taste now. I am sure I will not wear gloves again.”
Moorkirk nodded. “You would do well to adhere to that, Mr. Rafferdy.”
“I will. As for that man, I was only following him out of curiosity. I can assure you that I have nothing to do with his sort.”
“That’s what she said.”
He did not need to say her name. Rafferdy knew Moorkirk could only be referring to his mistress, Lady Shayde.
“I have never known her to be wrong,” the larger man went on. “All the same, should you see another one of these sort of men, I would advise you not to follow.”
Rafferdy shook his head. “What should I do?”
“You should go the other way. For if I catch you in the vicinity of one of them again, I might have to believe that you are indeed involved with them—no matter what she says. I think you understand me. And I know I do not need to remind you to speak of this to no one.” He held out the cane. “Consider it our secret, Mr. Rafferdy.”
Rafferdy took the cane in a numb hand. Moorkirk moved past him, following the soldiers into the alley.
Blue shadows crept down the lane, and Rafferdy shivered. God, but he needed a cup of punch. Fortunately, the sun was already sinking, and it would not be long until he was to meet Eldyn Garritt at tavern.
And if he arrived there early, and had a pot before Garritt arrived—well, that could be his secret as well.
AS IT TURNED out, he was not so very early to the Sword and Leaf.
By the time he found his driver and returned to Warwent Square, he was exhausted. He laid down to rest for a few minutes, and he fell into a fitful sleep, one inhabited by awful dreams. In one of them, the Lady Shayde came to him and asked to examine him. She pricked his finger with a needle, and instead of blood a colorless fluid oozed out of the wound.
So troubling was the dream that he was half tempted to stab his own finger when he rose to make sure it resulted in crimson. Upon glancing in the mirror and seeing the red lines that marked the whites of his eyes, such a test was rendered unnecessary.
Given the hour, his man said he had time to take supper. However, Rafferdy was without appetite. Besides, his man had to be mistaken, for it was already dark outside. Instead, he put on his coat, called for his driver, and proceeded to the Sword and Leaf.
As Rafferdy entered the tavern, the doorman gave him a sharp look.
“You’re early,” he said.
How the doorman could presume to know when he had intended to arrive, Rafferdy did not know or care. He did not reply, and instead made his way back to their usual booth in the rear corner.
It was empty. He asked the tavern keep the time and discovered that, despite the thick of night outside, it was in fact not yet the appointed hour of his meeting. That was good, as it would give Rafferdy a chance to get a drink in him—something much needed after the day’s events. He ordered a pot of punch, along with lemons and sugar, and when it arrived fixed himself a cup. He did his best to drink it slowly, but by the time it was drained there was no sign of Eldyn Garritt, so he made himself another cup. A sensation began to spread through him that, while not exactly cheerful or pleasant, was at least satisfyingly numb.
“Time for another pot, then?”
“Garritt!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been?”
As he looked up, he saw that it was not his friend, but rather the tavern keep. Rafferdy stared a moment, then nodded. To his surprise the first pot was drained, and he didn’t want Garritt to know he had drunk a whole pot of punch without him.
The tavern keeper returned. As tempted as Rafferdy was to fix another cup, he did not. Every time the door of the tavern opened he looked up, but on each occasion it was someone other than his friend who stepped through. His mouth felt dry and his head began to hurt as his numbness dissipated. When the tavern keep passed by, Rafferdy again asked what the hour was.
“It’s two hours past moonrise, sir.” He glanced at the still-full pot on the table. “Is there someone you’re waiting for?”
Rafferdy drew in a breath. “No, it’s only myself tonight. I just didn’t want to drink too quickly.”
The tavern keeper laughed. “Well, you’re a noble fellow! But not too noble, I hope. Otherwise, I fear you’re in the wrong place, and there’s a church down the street.” He winked at Rafferdy, then went on his way.
Rafferdy stared at the pot of punch. What use was there in saving it? Now that he had sobered up a bit, it was all too clear. In all their prior meetings here, Garritt had never been tardy. Which could only mean one thing.
He wasn’t coming tonight.
He must have forgotten their appointment. Except that wouldn’t be like Garritt, who always had a pen with him and seemed to write everything down. Rather, there must have been something more pleasant or enticing to attend to. For hadn’t Garritt looked uncharacteristically well of late?
Yes, there was something he had found that was giving him great pleasure—a pretty young woman, or a merry new gang of friends. But why had he not mentioned it? Did he fear his new acquaintances were too low to be introduced to Rafferdy?
Or was it that, with fine new friends, he had no need of a dull old one?
That was the more likely explanation. What did Rafferdy have to offer except witless talk of new coats and dreary complaints about Assembly? Garritt could have no use for such things; and so, just like Lady Quent, he had found more worthwhile companions.
And what did Rafferdy have? Coats and canes and a dwindling number of invitations to parties he never attended. He had seen the awful result of the power that some men wielded over others, and he had never wanted any part of it. It had always been his intention to be utterly harmless. Yet in so doing, he could only concede that he had also made himself irrelevant.
Or was it even worse than that?
The man who does the greatest harm is the man who does nothing at all, Mrs. Baydon had told him by the sphinx in Lady Marsdel’s parlor.
What solace might he have been able to offer Lady Quent had he not selfishly avoided her? What assistance might he have been able to give Eldyn Garritt when he was struggling to find some business to support himself and his sister? Rafferdy would never know. And was it any wonder, now that both of them had risen in life, that they would leave behind one who had never offered to lift them up?
No, it could only be expected. So here he was, alone in a dank tavern. This was what all his efforts to be harmless had won him. Well, if he was here, he might as well get drunk.
Rafferdy reached for the pot of punch. Only then he halted, staring at the ring on his right hand. A spark glimmered within the blue gem.
“Good evening, Mr. Rafferdy!”
Rafferdy looked up to see a man with a plain yet cheerful face and a tall crown of frizzy hair.
“Lord Coulten!” he said, astonished. But why should he be surprised? Lord Coulten had said he was going to meet with his magician friends tonight. “Don’t you usually come in the back door?”
“Indeed, I do. But I confess, you had mentioned you had an appointment tonight, and I hoped it might be here, as I know you have come to this tavern before.”
Rafferdy shook his head; it felt dull from the punch. “You hoped to find me here?” Before he could say anything more, his House ring flashed again. At the same time he caught a blue glint behind Lord Coulten.
“I see yours is a ring of good quality,” Lord Coulten said with a grin. “It detects when there is another of the same House nearby. Lord Eubrey is descended of House Gauldren as well.”
Only then did Rafferdy see that Lord Coulten had a companion. He was a handsome young man with dark hair. Rafferdy recognized him as one of the wigless young men Lord Coulten often sat with at Assembly.
Lord
Eubrey smiled and nodded. “It is good to meet you, Mr. Rafferdy. Lord Coulten has told me much about you. And it seems that we are cousins of a sort.” He held up his own ring, which glittered blue like Rafferdy’s.
Rafferdy rose—a bit unsteadily—to give a bow of greeting. He hoped he did not appear as dreadful as he felt; he gave his coat a tug to straighten it.
“I’m afraid we cannot tarry,” Lord Coulten said. He glanced at his companion. “Lord Eubrey was late returning from an outing today, so we must be off to our meeting. Only I see you are unaccompanied at present. Is your appointment for the evening already over, then?”
Rafferdy glanced at the pot of punch. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
Lord Coulten and Lord Eubrey exchanged a look, and each nodded.
“Then perhaps we could entice you to join us at our meeting tonight,” Lord Eubrey said. “Our society is always looking for men of quality, wit, and … talent.” His gaze moved to Rafferdy’s ring.
Lord Coulten laughed. “Why, that’s a capital idea. What do you say, Rafferdy—will you come with us? You need never come again if you don’t find our little society to your liking.”
Rafferdy opened his mouth to offer a polite refusal. He had never asked to be descended from one of the seven Old Houses, nor had he asked for this awful magician’s ring.
Of course, he had never asked to be the son of a lord either, yet that did not mean he could avoid becoming one someday. Besides, Lady Quent and Eldyn Garritt had both found new things with which to occupy themselves. Why should he not have something as well? As he thought this, Rafferdy recalled the sensation he had experienced when he used magick to open the locked door at Assembly. It had been a warm and satisfying feeling, even better than that imparted by rum or whiskey.
“I’ll come,” he said, astonished to hear himself say the words. Yet as he did, a new certainty filled him. It was time to stop being harmless, and to start making something of himself. “I’ll come with you to your meeting.”
“Excellent!” Lord Coulten exclaimed. “I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Rafferdy. But we had best hurry. We do not want to be late!”
With that, Lord Coulten and Lord Eubrey made their way to the back of the tavern. Rafferdy followed after, leaving the full pot of punch on the table. They entered the dank corridor Rafferdy had investigated before and came to a halt before the iron-bound door at the end of the passage. Lord Coulten reached out to grip the iron handle.
“But it is only a blank wall on the other side!” Rafferdy exclaimed.
He saw both young men grin in the dimness.
“So you have tried the door yourself,” Lord Coulten said. “I see you have already been curious about us.”
Rafferdy suffered a pang of chagrin, but Lord Eubrey laughed warmly.
“Do not worry, Mr. Rafferdy. We think no less of you for it. On the contrary, such curiosity will serve you very well beyond this door.”
Before Rafferdy could say anything more, Lord Coulten gripped the iron handle. As he did, the ring on his right hand flashed crimson, and a murmuring sound rose on the air.
It was Lord Coulten. He was chanting in a low voice. Lord Eubrey had joined him. Rafferdy couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he recognized a few words here and there. They were speaking in the tongue of magick—a language that, Mr. Bennick had once told him, was older than mankind itself.
The incantation ceased. Two blue sparks had joined the red. All of their rings were shining now.
“The way is ready,” Lord Eubrey said.
And Lord Coulten opened the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BRONZE ORBS SPUN and crystalline spheres turned as Ivy worked the various handles and knobs of the celestial globe. Her hands began to ache, and a stiffness crept up the back of her neck so that her head throbbed. If only she was as skilled at using the globe as her father had been! As a girl, she used to watch in fascination as he manipulated its gears and workings.
Look, Ivy, I have the whole of the heavens right here in my study, he would say, and she would gaze at the rotating spheres until her head grew light and it felt as if she were whirling among the planets herself. Now she wished that, instead of dreaming, she had paid better attention.
Ivy bit her lip as she adjusted a lever. Some months ago, she had used the celestial globe to solve a riddle her father had left for her, and in so doing had discovered the key to the house on Durrow Street in a hidden compartment. Now it was another kind of riddle she was trying to solve.
She gave a knob a quarter turn, and a yellowish ball suspended at the end of a brass arm moved a corresponding amount. The word Loerus was engraved on the ball. Loerus was one of the eleven planets—or rather, one of the twelve, now that the red planet, Cerephus, had returned to view.
Ivy took up a thin metal rod and used it to measure a line between the yellow ball and the great sphere of crystal in the center of the globe. Fine dots were etched on the glass, and next to each was a name. She peered at the sphere, reading the name next to the point where the rod had touched it.
Murgon Prime.
Yes, that made sense for Murgon Prime was the brightest star in the constellation Murgon. Ivy moved around the globe. She located the brass circle that represented the horizon, then read the names etched on the glass sphere that were just above the brass line. Andareon. Rikus. Castani.
Dalavar.
A thrill passed through her. She turned and picked up a piece of paper from the table. It was the sheet on which she had transcribed the second entry that had appeared in her father’s journal. Loerus in Murgon, the entry had begun. Dalavar Rising.
She was right. Instead of dating the entries in the journal in the usual fashion, he had described key features in the heavens. How like her father, to have done something in such an arcane manner! Or had there been a greater purpose to it than mere cleverness or amusement?
Again she looked at the celestial globe, counting the tick marks around the central brass ring to determine the position of the sun and the moon. Then she went back to the table and picked up the almanac she had brought with her to the house. She turned the pages, going from back to front, searching for the day when the positions of the sun and moon were the same as those she had read from the globe. If she could find them, then she would know on what day he had written the entry. The idea had come to her that morning just as she woke, and so she had left The Seventh Swan after breakfast and had gone directly to Durrow Street.
And there it was, close to the start of the almanac, almost exactly ten years ago. That was the day he had written about how the key to Tyberion—whatever it was—had gone missing.
Ivy wished she could recall the star positions he had written for the first entry she had found in the journal. If so, she could know how much time had passed between the writings. However, she could not remember, and she had not copied that entry.
Yet she was sure more messages from her father would appear. It was highly unlikely she had happened to open the journal just when the only two entries in it had become visible. Thus logic suggested that more entries would appear over time; she had only to make sure to check the journal regularly, and she was sure to see them.
But what was the purpose of the enchantment that he had placed upon the journal? What scheme was there to the manner in which the writings showed themselves? She could not believe it was random or without order. That would not be like her father at all.
She would have to think more about it later. Mr. Rafferdy would be coming to call that afternoon. Wondering how long the day was to be, she turned the almanac’s pages to the table for the present month. She saw it was only to be a middling lumenal today, which meant she had better return to the inn. She started to close the almanac—
—then halted as an entry caught her eye. It was yesterday’s listing. Slowly, making sure she was not in error, she turned back to the listing from ten years ago.
No, she was not mistaken. The positions noted for the s
un and moon were the same for both entries. There was no possible way it could be chance. The entry in the journal had appeared when certain objects in the heavens were arranged in exactly the same way as when it had been written ten years ago.
Ivy marveled at the nature of this enchantment. Only why had her father gone to such trouble? Why not simply let her read all the entries in the journal at once, in the order he had written them?
There was no time to speculate. Mr. Rafferdy had promised to come just after midday, which meant she needed to proceed back to the inn at once. She left her father’s study, being sure to lock the door and take the key. This was the only room the builder had been instructed to leave untouched. The chamber that held the Eye of Ran-Yahgren lay behind it, and that was a secret of the house she had no wish for Mr. Barbridge to uncover.
She descended the staircase to the front hall. It was quiet and dim, the drapes pulled shut and the new furniture covered in cloths. The workmen were gone. After months of labor, all was ready. As soon as Mr. Quent came back to the city, they would leave the inn and return to Durrow Street.
Ivy was more than ready. They had only dwelled in the house a short time, but even in that little while it had become her home. She longed to return to it—to all the little things that reminded her of her father. She was tempted to pull the sheets from the furniture, to throw open the drapes, and to linger awhile.
There was no time. She cast one fond look at the hall, then hurried out into the late morning.
BY THE TIME the bells of a church near the inn sounded the start of the third farthing, they were ready.
Ivy had arranged for an extra chair to be placed in the little sitting room, so there was space for all of them in the event Mr. Rafferdy brought Mr. Garritt with him, and a maid had just delivered the tea as well as a plate of biscuits and sandwiches. Rose perched on the sofa, afraid to move for fear of mussing her dress, while Lily peered out the window.
“Blow me down, the sun is past the yardarm,” she said. “If they’re late, I’ll make those scalawags walk the plank!”
The House on Durrow Street Page 34