The House on Durrow Street

by Galen Beckett

  “I do not think you can claim sole credit for the success, Mr. Fanewerthy,” the master illusionist said in a scolding tone, though he smiled as well. “You were excellent tonight, I grant you, but so was everyone else. And a special mention must be made, I think, of Mr. Garritt’s improvements to the final scene, for I believe they worked greatly to heighten its effect.”

  Dercy gave a wave of his hand, and suddenly a beam of shimmering white light shone down upon Eldyn. The other young men laughed and clapped him on the back, and Eldyn experienced a warmth that could not be attributed to the illusory illumination.

  He was pleased to have his idea so praised. It had occurred to him that when the Sun King finally captured the Moon Prince, the king should not smite the prince down to the stage. Rather, Eldyn had suggested, the Moon should be bound and raised up on high; in that way, when he was consumed by fire, the flames would radiate out from him like a golden corona.

  It was again something Eldyn had read in the Testament that made him think of the idea—how St. Mirzan, convicted of heresy, was lashed to a tall post and left to a lingering death. Only God sent to him a sparrow with a berry from the Tree of Flame, and when Mirzan ate the berry, he was consumed from within by a brilliant fire, so perishing swiftly and mercifully.

  “I could feel every gaze in the house upon me while I was hanging up there,” Dercy said, his grin softening a bit. “And did you hear how everyone drew a breath when the flames surrounded me?”

  “I swear, I felt it like a wind rushing into the theater,” Riethe said. His right hand was healing badly, and he was working the front door these days. “How did you conceive of it, Eldyn?”

  Eldyn thought of the fable of Mirzan and the holy flames that released him from his pain.

  “It just came to me,” he said.

  The noise of the audience had at last ceased beyond the curtain. The illusionists made ready for their own exit from the theater, and their plan to proceed directly to tavern was benefited by the arrival of Madame Richelour. The mistress of the theater opened the box with that night’s receipts and proceeded to hand out coins.

  “I must give some of this away,” she declared, “for otherwise I will not be able to close the lid!”

  Eldyn happily accepted some of this largesse along with the other illusionists. However, as he gazed at the coins in his hand, his mirth dwindled. “It seems strange,” he said softly.

  Dercy, who stood close beside him, cocked his head to one side. “Strange? How so?”

  He looked up at Dercy. “Strange that our theater should know such success when others have had to close their doors.”

  Dercy’s expression grew solemn. The news had flown down Durrow Street just yesterday that the Theater of Emeralds had gone dark forever. They had lost too many illusionists—those who had vanished, and those who had left the city—and their master illusionist was perilously ill. The mordoth would take him soon, it was whispered.

  “Some rise while others fall,” Dercy said, his sea green eyes thoughtful. “That’s the nature of the world. Besides, there’s some good in it all. No player from the Theater of Emeralds will have trouble finding a place at another house, not if he wants one. Besides, if our play draws so many people that we must turn them away from the door, it only means they’ll go to one of the other theaters. So you see, our good fortune helps the whole street.”

  Eldyn had to admit his friend’s words sounded like wisdom. Still, he could not help but wonder how many other theaters would have to close if more young men went missing or fled the city.

  Dercy looped an arm around Eldyn’s. “Come on, let’s be the first to the tavern. That way we can buy ourselves a round of punch, and then when the others come they can buy us another!”

  That sounded like a merry plan. All the same, Eldyn gently disengaged his arm from his friend’s.

  “Unfortunately, I must go home,” he said. “Even if the almanac’s error is in my favor tonight, it will still be a short umbral, and I am needed early at Graychurch tomorrow.”

  “You are needed, you say? What of our need to celebrate our glory? It is your solemn duty to raise a glass with your fellows.”

  Eldyn let out a laugh. “It is also my solemn duty to show up to my work in a few hours sober and able to hold a pen. And as the one duty will earn me regals while the other will cost them, for all Madame Richelour’s bounty, I think my choice is made.”

  “Why are you still so concerned with thoughts of money?” Dercy said with a frown. “You’re earning a full player’s wage now. And if you need more, just ask Madame Richelour. I’m sure there’s enough in her box to give you another regal or two.”

  “You forget that I’ll need more than a regal or two to save up a portion for my sister if she is to be married respectably. And then there’s the amount I’ll need for—” Eldyn clamped his jaw shut.

  Dercy’s green eyes narrowed. “The amount you’ll need for what?”

  “For her wedding party and such,” Eldyn said hurriedly.

  Dercy seemed to study him, then at last he shook his head. “I hardly understand you sometimes, Eldyn. You’ve discovered you can conjure wonders that bring audiences to their feet, yet you seem perfectly content to sit in a musty old crypt and scribble numbers on paper for a few pennies.”

  “It’s more than a few pennies,” Eldyn said. “Besides, it won’t be for much longer.”

  “I suppose. All the same, sometimes I begin to think you rather enjoy working for the Church.”

  Eldyn suffered a pang of alarm. “What do you mean?”

  “The idea of lifting me up on high just came to you?” Dercy let out a snort. “You forget I was a priest, Eldyn. I wasn’t one for long, I grant you, but it was enough to learn about all the saints, Mirzan included. And the doves in the scene on the mountain—that’s right out of the Testament. It’s all brilliant, of course, and it gives me more than a little pleasure to think how red-faced the priests at St. Adaris would be if they knew scenes from the holy book were being used to improve a profane illusion play on Durrow Street.” Now his grin returned. “Why, it’s so perverse I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. So go on, then—keep working at the Church to find ideas to steal. I won’t tell Master Tallyroth the secret source of your improvements.”

  A horror came upon Eldyn. He had not considered that it might be sacrilegious to include holy symbols in their performances. What if what he had done had caused an insult to God? Except he could not believe that. Theirs was not some ribald display. Besides, the archdeacon himself had assured Eldyn that what he did before he became a priest was of no matter. All would be forgiven at that moment.

  Still, he thought perhaps he would consider it more carefully if another idea for improving the illusion play came to him while reading scripture.

  “I will see you tomorrow,” he told Dercy. “Tell Merrick and Mouse to have a drink for me. Tell Riethe to have two.” He gave Dercy an embrace that, while strong, was so brief it left Dercy no time to reply.

  He passed through the front door and out into the night. Durrow Street was not so busy as he had imagined it would be. The crowds had dispersed quickly after the illusion plays let out. A few people walked here and there, and several carriages sped by, wheels clattering loudly against the cobbles. From somewhere down the street came the bubbling sound of laughter. Or was it a sound of suffering?

  Eldyn could not help thinking of the illusionists who had been found murdered. Even as he did, a tall man clad all in black—alone, the brim of his hat pulled low—came striding down the street. A sudden desire to not be seen came over Eldyn, and he reached out for the shadows, drawing them in close and wrapping them around him like a soft, comforting cloak.

  The man walked past him without so much as a glance. Eldyn let out the breath he had been holding, then hurried down the street.

  Soon he came to the edges of High Holy. Usually he went around the infamous section of Durrow Street. While he might cloak himself in shadow
s and so pass unseen, the shadows could not prevent him from seeing the sights of wretchedness and degeneracy all around. However, the umbral was to be brief, and passing through High Holy was the quickest route back to the old monastery.

  With a thought he redoubled the shroud of darkness around him. He kept his gaze down as he went, only now and then casting a furtive glance to either side to see if anyone noticed him. Men with slack faces huddled in doorways or warmed their hands over fires burning in barrels. A trio of whores, their skirts hiked up to reveal their pantaloons, were drinking gin and cackling with laughter on the steps of the abandoned chapel. No one looked Eldyn’s way.

  He left the decrepit chapel behind and drew near the statue of St. Thadrus the Elder, whitened by pigeons, which marked the east end of High Holy. A man stood beneath the statue, clad in a ragged cape whose hood was pulled up to cover his head against the night chill.

  The man moved back and forth in front of the statue, his head swaying from side to side as he went. A wheezing emanated from within the hood, as if from labored breaths being drawn. Having no wish to catch an illness from some vagrant, Eldyn gave the man a wide berth as he passed by the statue of St. Thadrus.

  There was a hissing noise, and the hood turned in Eldyn’s direction.

  Eldyn’s step faltered. It was almost as if the hooded man had seen him. But that was impossible, concealed as he was in shadows. As for being heard, the noise of his footsteps could only be lost amid the harsh laughter and moans that echoed throughout High Holy. Assured he could not have been detected, Eldyn continued on.

  The hooded head swung around, following him as he went.

  A seed of dread germinated in Eldyn’s heart, then quickly blossomed into horror as the man took a step in his direction. He pulled down a thick curtain of darkness before him, and slowly, soundlessly edged away.

  The black pit of the hood turned slowly as well, moving just as Eldyn did. The man reached out a pale hand. A finger uncoiled and thrust itself forward, pointing stiffly ahead.

  Pointing at Eldyn.

  The curtain of darkness fell to tatters as Eldyn lost his grip on the illusion. No longer did he care if others saw him pass. Instead, he turned and ran east along Durrow Street, his heart pounding in time with his boots against the cobbles. The horrible noise of wheezing was loud in his ears.

  But it was only his own labored breaths he was hearing, and when he cast a glance over his shoulder, the street behind him was empty.

  THE BELLS OF St. Galmuth’s were tolling the coming of dawn when Eldyn left the old monastery, though it was still nearly dark as night, for the sky was a leaden gray, and a fine rain was misting down from the clouds.

  Despite the dreary weather and queer happenings after leaving the theater last night, Eldyn’s spirits were bright. He was still filled with the afterglow of their last performance, and a little rain could not douse such a light. As for the peculiar occurrence in High Holy on his way home, it did not seem so disconcerting when considered in the light of morning as it did when alone in the dark of night. The hooded man could not possibly have seen him. The derelict had been mad or ill or addled with gin, that was all, looking for things that did not exist and pointing at things that were not there. It was simply chance that his finger had happened to point in Eldyn’s direction.

  So there was nothing to worry about. As long as he was careful, and made liberal use of shadows as he went to and from the theater, he had no reason to fear any harm would come to him. Besides, his time on Durrow Street was to be shorter than he had thought. The receipts at the theater had quadrupled from what they were before, and now he was getting a full player’s share. As a result, it would be a matter of months before he had amassed funds enough for his and Sashie’s portions. Which meant, even if murderous beings continued to stalk along Durrow Street, Eldyn would soon have no cause to fear them.

  Yet what of the other players at the Theater of the Moon? And what of Dercy? Eldyn might be safe within the walls of a church; however, as long as illusionists continued to go missing, or to turn up floating in the Anbyrn, no one at any of the houses on Durrow Street would be safe.

  While the rain could not dampen Eldyn’s spirits, this thought did. How could he be content in his secure and happy life as a priest knowing that his friends might at any moment be preyed upon by those who wished harm to their kind? Even worse, what if more theaters, including his own, were forced to close in the near future? The loss of that income would ruin all of his plans for him and his sister. There had to be some way to find and bring to light the perpetrators of these awful acts.

  Only he did not know how. The redcrests cared nothing if a few Siltheri were found dead; wicked things happened to wicked men, was all they would say. Nor could the Crown or Assembly be expected to do anything about it. Eldyn imagined they could only be glad if all the theaters were closed; to them, it would be the welcome removal of a blemish upon the Grand City. But then who was there left who could help them?

  The bells of the cathedral tolled the final notes of their carillon, and Eldyn’s gaze was drawn up to the spires that reached toward the gray sky. He knew the Church frowned upon the activities of illusionists. Yet God loved the wretched and lowly as much as he did the high and noble, or so he had read in the Testament. Perhaps there was some way the Church could intervene on behalf of the Siltheri. After all, if its purpose was to save men’s souls, did not their lives need to be saved first?

  His spirits buoyed once more, he turned up the collar of his coat against the chill and hurried across the street and up the steps of Graychurch to commence his work for the day.

  Soon Eldyn was bent over his writing table in the rector’s office, his pen scratching rapidly against paper. As usual, the box of receipts and demands was overflowing. Eldyn was continually amazed at the busy nature of the church’s accounts. Surely they surpassed those of any private company. Indeed, so numerous were the purchases to record in the ledger that he began to wonder if all the items were really needed.

  Even as he thought this, Eldyn took from the box a receipt for several sets of red curtains. It was not the first time he had seen such a purchase, yet he was sure he had never seen red curtains anywhere in Graychurch or St. Galmuth’s cathedral, or in any church he could think of. More than likely they were lining some priest’s private chambers!

  Well, it was not for him to question. Like so many of the purchases he recorded in the ledger, this one must have had all proper sanctions, for it had been signed by Archdeacon Lemarck on behalf of the archbishop.

  Eldyn could not be surprised that the archdeacon was doing so much of the archbishop’s work; it had long been known that the Archbishop of Invarel was infirm. What was more, an article in a recent edition of The Swift Arrow had repeated rumors that it was more than age or illness that afflicted him—that in fact the archbishop was prone to fits and spells, and that he had fallen under the grip of a derangement of the mind.

  According to the article, persons who had managed to get near to the archbishop reported that he was suffering hallucinations. He often claimed he saw daemons and fell beasts prowling outside the cathedral—creatures formed of tooth and shadow that lurked on the edges of the light, hungering to feast upon the souls of men.

  Eldyn hoped the article in The Swift Arrow was in error, and that the archbishop was not so mad as that. All the same, that he was ill was not in doubt; even Father Gadby had said as much. This caused Eldyn some worry, for the Archbishop of Invarel was the Primate of the Church of Altania. Of course, the Church was fortunate to have a man such as Archdeacon Lemarck on whom to rely in this difficult situation.

  Eldyn had been at his labors for some hours and was preparing to start on another box of receipts when Father Gadby complained that he was in need of some air, and he asked Eldyn if he wished to go up and sit for a while outside. Eldyn readily agreed. His neck ached, and his hand had become cramped from holding the pen.

  Soon the two of them were happily ensconce
d on the steps before the church, though it had required some effort on Eldyn’s part to help lower the portly rector so that he might take his seat. The clouds had burned off, and the day had become fine. The cooing of pigeons drifted on the air, along with the calls of a boy hawking copies of The Fox across the street.

  “I do wish that young hooligan would move along and take his mischief elsewhere,” the rector said with a frown.

  “The boy is doing no harm that I can see,” Eldyn replied. “He is only selling broadsheets.”

  “Broadsheets! He is selling woe and misery. There can be nothing good contained in those newspapers. A man should better spend his time reading the Testament.”

  Eldyn could not disagree with that. “Still, I would think it is good for a person to know what is going on in the world.”

  “Well, if one wishes to know what is happening in the world, one should see it for oneself. Perhaps King Rothard would not tolerate such wicked and profligate behavior in our nation if he were to come down off of his throne once in a while and go out among the people.”

  Eldyn could not help a laugh. “I can only imagine people would cease behaving in wicked and profligate ways the moment they saw their king approaching.”

  “Well, then he ought to leave his crown and go about in plain attire,” the rector said. “That way he would be able to observe how people truly are when they are at their ease, not when acting on their best behavior. That is what the archdeacon does to discover what is happening within his demesne.”

  “You mean he goes about dressed as a layman?” Eldyn said, astonished by this news.

  The rector’s jowls waggled. “No, not as a layman! That would hardly be proper for a man who has taken the vows. I have heard from reliable sources that the archdeacon sometimes goes about clad in the garb of a simple priest. Dressed in that manner he attracts little notice, and so he can better see how his flock fares. However, now that I think about it, I believe that I perhaps should not have told you this. So I will ask you to keep this in confidence, Mr. Garritt. Were it known widely that this was his practice, he might not be able to go about so anonymously.”