He signed the note and set it on the bed. Then he departed the room and went back outside into the morning.
It was time to go to work.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A LUMENAL PASSED, then an umbral, and still there was no word from Coulten or Eubrey. Now, as morning light fell into the parlor at Warwent Square, Rafferdy took the black book from the drawer of his writing table. He spoke the runes of unbinding, then opened it.
No new message had appeared upon its pages; there would not be a meeting of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade that night. Whether he was disappointed or relieved he could not say. He was curious to learn what Eubrey had been up to since being admitted to the inner circle, yet he had no desire to hear more calls for the ruination of the Wyrdwood, given the peculiar feeling such discussions stirred in him.
Thinking of the wood brought Mrs. Quent to mind. As he returned the book to the drawer, he recalled that he had intended to send her a note to tell her what he had learned from Eubrey at the party for the Miss Lockwells. He had no idea why the topic of the Sword and Leaf was of such interest to Mrs. Quent. However, given her curiosity on the matter, he thought she might like to know that the tavern was indeed located off of Durrow Street—if one counted the magickal door that led directly from the street to the meeting room beneath the tavern.
Rafferdy sat at the table, took out paper and ink, and penned a brief note to this effect. He signed the note, began to fold it, then opened it back up and scrawled a hasty postscript.
I hope we might have an occasion to take a walk together soon.
He folded the note and sealed it, then gave it to his man with instructions for it to be delivered at once. After that he put on his coat and hat, and took up his cane. Even if he had looked at the almanac, there would be no way to be certain how much longer the lumenal would last, and he wished to take in some sun before it was gone for the day.
With this purpose he set out from Warwent Square. He went not upward in the direction of the New Quarter, but rather down toward the Old City. It felt good to stroll along the street, and he swung his cane in a jaunty fashion as he went. Soon a plan began to form in his mind; he would proceed to his club, he thought, and take a brandy while he pretended to read the latest edition of The Comet, while in fact eavesdropping on the conversations of others. Pleased with this idea, he altered his course and turned onto Coronet Street.
And there, on the other side of the street, was Lord Eubrey.
He was unmistakable, cutting a fine figure in a wine-colored coat as he walked with what seemed great purpose down the street. For days Rafferdy had been left in a state of suspense, wondering how Eubrey was faring in his new status within the society. Now here he was barely a stone’s throw from Warwent Square, and he had not even bothered to call on Rafferdy! At once annoyed and delighted, Rafferdy hailed his friend.
Eubrey kept walking along the street, moving with swift strides, his gaze fixed forward.
Rafferdy called out again, but still Eubrey did not stop. Had he not heard Rafferdy’s call? Surely it had been loud enough, and Coronet Street was not at all noisy or busy. Vexed now, Rafferdy hurried after him.
Catching up to his quarry was no easy task, as Eubrey continued to move at a rapid pace, and soon Rafferdy’s heart kept time to his swift steps. However, just as Coronet Street ran into the north end of Marble Street, several carriages went clattering by. Eubrey was forced to stop short to avoid them, and this gave Rafferdy the opportunity to at last draw near.
“Ho, there, Eubrey!” he said breathlessly as he approached the other young man. “I’ve caught you at last, you scoundrel.”
Still Eubrey gave no indication that he had heard Rafferdy, though he was no more than five paces away. Instead, with deliberate motions, he reached into his coat pocket and took out a pair of kidskin gloves.
By now Rafferdy had become greatly perturbed. “I say, Eubrey, I’m right here behind—”
The words caught in his throat as his feet and his heart both came to a sudden halt. Moving slowly, mechanically, Eubrey put on his gloves. As he did this, Rafferdy glimpsed the sharp, dark lines that formed a rune on Eubrey’s right hand.
The symbol disappeared from view as Eubrey finished putting on his gloves. He turned his head, glancing around, and for a moment his gaze passed over Rafferdy. A horror descended, and Rafferdy froze, now fearing Eubrey would see him. However, there was no glint of recognition in Eubrey’s eyes. Rather, they were darker than Rafferdy recalled them being, with no glint of light or life in them.
All at once Eubrey tilted his head, as if he heard some sound or voice, though what it might be Rafferdy could not tell. Then, as the last of the carriages passed by, Eubrey sprang forward, dashing down the length of Marble Street at a full run.
Rafferdy tried to call out, but the only thing he could give voice to was a wordless sound of despair. He still tried to comprehend what he had seen, only he knew what it signified, didn’t he? A convulsion of understanding and dread shuddered through him. Yes, he knew now what it was that Eubrey had been up to these last days …
“Gods, no, Eubrey,” he at last managed to speak in a whisper.
Then he was running down Marble Street himself, weaving in and out among the people and horses, wielding his cane before him to clear a path. The spires of Assembly loomed before him as he went.
A lorry bore down on him, and Rafferdy narrowly dodged to one side to avoid being crushed. He caught a glimpse of wine-colored velvet ahead, and despite the pain in his lungs he ran in that direction. By now he was nearly even with the Halls of Assembly. A group of several men were walking down the broad swath of marble steps. One of them was short and thickset, wearing a yellowed wig and old-fashioned yet lordly attire.
A four-in-hand thundered before Rafferdy, and he was forced to stop short lest he be trampled. When the way was clear he saw that the lord in the wig had reached the bottom of the steps. It was, he realized, Lord Bastellon. The door of a black carriage opened, and the old Stout climbed inside. At the same moment a figure in a wine-colored coat appeared from out of the throng on the street and moved toward the carriage.
Rafferdy propelled himself forward through the crowd. “No!” he shouted at loudly as he could. “Stop!”
Only his words were lost in the clatter of wheels and the pounding of hooves against cobbles. Twenty paces away, the door of the black carriage shut. At the same moment the figure in the wine-colored coat—not Eubrey, the thing could no longer be called Eubrey—approached the carriage.
“Get out!” Rafferdy shouted, only his throat was raw, his voice hoarse. “Get out of the—”
A gloved hand touched the side of the carriage. There was a brilliant flash, as from a bolt of lightning, followed by a deafening noise. A moment later a column of blue fire leaped up toward the sky from the very spot where the carriage was parked before the steps.
Rafferdy staggered, thrown back by the force of the conflagration along with dozens of others. Shouts and cries sounded all around him, as well as the terrible screams of horses. The latter were cut short as the livid flames quickly consumed the black carriage, far more swiftly than any mundane fire could have done. Smoke climbed into the sky in a black pillar, forming a shadowed mirror to the spires that crowned Assembly.
An acrid scent spread upon the air, making Rafferdy’s eyes smart and water. He took a halting step forward, but there was no use. The flames collapsed back on themselves, dwindled, and died out. Where the carriage had stood there was little more than a smoldering black heap on the cobbles.
There was no sign of a man in a wine-colored coat.
More shouts rang out. Soldiers were marching rapidly down the street. Several more were coming down the steps before Assembly. At their fore was a large, hulking figure dressed all in gray.
A glint of blue caught Rafferdy’s eye. He glanced down and saw that the gem in his House ring was glittering. A fresh dread came upon him. He looked up and saw that the br
utish man in gray had nearly reached the bottom of the steps. The last thing Rafferdy wanted now was to be caught by Moorkirk, not a dozen paces from the remains of Lord Bastellon’s carriage, his magician’s ring blazing in echo to the arcane energies that had just been unleashed.
Moorkirk shouted something to the soldiers. The redcrests rushed toward the crowd—to begin accosting people, Rafferdy supposed, though he did not wait to find out. He turned and, pushing his way through the confusion, ran back down the length of Marble Street.
He did not stop running until he reached Coronet Street. Then he was forced to walk, for his lungs and heart would bear no more. Though his body moved more slowly now, his mind continued to race. There was no doubting what he had witnessed, but still it was difficult for his mind to fully grasp it. Why had Eubrey done this thing?
Only it wasn’t Eubrey who had done it. It was a thing wearing Eubrey’s face and skin—a thing that, had it not been burned up and destroyed in the magickal fire, would have bled not blood but a gray oozing fluid when the soldiers brought it down with their rifles.
Though he sweated inside his coat, he shivered; his skin was clammy, and he felt a sickness churning in his stomach. How had this happened to Eubrey? When had this horrible deed been done to him?
Except he already knew the answer to that question. After all, he and Coulten had not seen Eubrey since he was admitted by the sages to the inner circle of the Arcane Society of the Virescent Blade—since he had passed through the Door into the sanctum beneath the tavern. Coulten had gotten the news from him in a note before the party for the Miss Lockwells.
Coulten! A new dread welled up within Rafferdy. What was it Coulten had told him at Assembly the other day?
Eubrey thinks that I am sure to be the next magician in the society to be invited through the Door.…
Dread became a sudden panic. Gripping his cane, Rafferdy forced himself back into a run. He had to return to his house, get his carriage, and go warn Coulten that he was in the gravest danger—and that whatever he did, he must not go through the Door.
Minutes later he reached his house in Warwent Square, panting as he climbed the steps. Once inside he called for his man, then told him to have the carriage brought around, that he needed to go at once to Lord Coulten’s abode in the New Quarter.
“Very well, sir,” his man said. “Though you may care to read this first, as it just arrived. It is a note from Lord Coulten.”
Rafferdy took the note, staring at it as his heart thudded in his chest. Then, as his man left the parlor, Rafferdy sank into a chair and opened the note. It was indeed from Coulten and was very brief.
I have but a moment to write this, yet I wanted you to know the excellent news! I received a missive from Eubrey. He tells me that the sages have an experiment for me to conduct, and that if I can successfully perform it, they will admit me to the inner circle of the society. I don’t know what it involves yet—I’m to take direction from the magus himself—but Eubrey tells me it is of great importance to our alliance with another magickal order.
Do not be too envious, Rafferdy, for I am sure you will be the next in line to be admitted to the inner sanctum. I will tell you more when I have more to tell, but for now I must be off to receive my instructions. It’s all very secret and exciting, don’t you think? I feel positively notorious. Bid me luck!
—Coulten
Again Rafferdy read the note, and his dread was renewed. What mission was it the sages were giving to Coulten? Rafferdy did not know what it might be, only that Coulten must not be allowed to perform whatever task it was.
His man returned to the parlor. “The carriage is being readied for you, sir. Do you still wish to go to the New Quarter?”
Rafferdy stared at the note. He had to warn Coulten that he was in grave peril. Only how could he do that when he had no idea where Coulten was off to? For a mad moment he considered trying to seek out the sages, to demand that they tell him where Coulten was going. Yet he had no idea who the sages really were, and even if he did, they were the ones who had condemned Eubrey to his awful fate. Rafferdy’s mind was a fog of confusion; he could think of no way he could possibly find where Coulten was to go.
Then, by some magick he did not fully comprehend, the murk of fear in his mind was transmuted into a clear and crystalline resolve. He folded the note and stood.
“Tell the driver to bring the carriage around at once,” he said to his man. “I will go to the New Quarter as planned.”
Only, he was not going there for a leisurely drive.
RAFFERDY DRUMMED HIS fingers against the bench of his carriage as it made its way up the Promenade. A compulsion came over him to pound with his cane upon the ceiling, to urge the driver to go faster, but he refrained. The broad, winding avenue was busy with people out for a drive or a stroll in the midday sun. The driver could go no faster.
And what if it didn’t matter how swiftly he went? What if all Rafferdy accomplished here was to squander what little time he had? However, even as these doubts registered, he dismissed them. In his note, Coulten had written that the task the sages had for him involved an alliance with another magickal order. Rafferdy recalled the words the magus had spoken, at the last meeting of the society, regarding the Wyrdwood.
Know that we have many allies in this matter … very soon this subject will be brought up in Assembly by members of one such order.
The matter of the Wyrdwood had indeed been brought up at Assembly—by the Magisters. Rafferdy knew what magickal order many of them belonged to. What was more, he knew by name at least one member of that order.
The carriage came to a halt, and the driver climbed down to open the door.
“We have arrived at Lord Farrolbrook’s abode, sir.”
Rafferdy took up his hat and cane, then departed the carriage. “Wait here,” he instructed the driver. “It is my hope I will not be long.”
Gripping his cane, Rafferdy passed through a large gate and walked up marble steps to the door of a grand house. It was an ostentatious structure, with a surfeit of columns, friezes, and winged cherubs that perched upon every available cornice and ledge like so many fat stone pigeons. It was gaudy and absurd—that is, precisely the sort of edifice he would have expected its occupant to dwell in.
He reached the front door and, eschewing the ornate knocker fashioned from a trio of bronze nymphs, used the handle of his cane to rap on the door. After a moment this was opened by a tall but rather stooped manservant.
“I am sorry,” he intoned in a dry voice before Rafferdy could utter a word, “but the master is not receiving visitors today.” He started to shut the door.
Rafferdy wedged his cane in the gap, then used it as a lever to force the door back. He was not about to be delayed in his task by a haughty butler. “You will take me to Lord Farrolbrook at once,” he said, and he raised his right hand so that the gem on his House ring flashed blue in the sunlight.
This action had an even greater effect on the man than Rafferdy had hoped it would, for his heretofore squinted eyes went wide, and he took a hasty step back from the door. Rafferdy seized the opportunity to cross the threshold.
“Thank you,” he said pleasantly. “Now, show me to your master.”
However, the man shook his head. “I told him I will not have any more dealings with your kind—not after the last time. If you wish to see him, then find him yourself!”
With that the manservant turned and hurried down a hallway, shooing a pair of maids—who had no doubt been eavesdropping—ahead of him. Rafferdy found this all very peculiar, but there was no time to wonder about it. He left the front hall in the opposite way the butler had gone, guessing from the man’s reaction that this would be the most likely direction to find the master of the house.
His hypothesis soon proved correct. The first two doors he opened revealed empty rooms beyond, but the third, at the end of the corridor, led to a large parlor. It was hard at first to gauge the parlor’s expanse, for the curtains had
been drawn over the windows, shutting out most of the daylight.
Gradually Rafferdy’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he became aware of a vast array of clutter that filled the parlor: tables littered with compasses and sextants and scales, large canvases resting upon easels, and half-finished sculptures that strained and contorted to free themselves from blocks of stone. All manner of books and tools were scattered about, along with numerous trays containing uneaten food and full cups of tea. There was a stale, rather unwholesome smell upon the air.
Rafferdy was about to shut the door when a silhouette, which he had taken to be a pale statue draped in black cloth, suddenly took a step toward him.
“Have you come to deprive me of my magick, then?” spoke a voice—one that for all its weariness had a clear timbre that carried across the parlor. “But you must know by now there is not much to take.”
The figure took another step forward. It was not a statue, but rather a tall man with long, pale hair. He wore a black robe that was heavily decorated with frills and ruffs.
Despite the urgency of his business here, Rafferdy felt both pity and curiosity. It had seemed in Assembly the other day that Farrolbrook was losing his wits, and now Rafferdy could only believe that was the case. He took a step into the room. As he did, he passed one of the paintings that leaned upon an easel. It depicted a pastoral scene; or rather it had. Black splotches of paint had been spattered over the image of hills and meadows, as if a dark mold had eaten away at the canvas.
“I don’t know a thing about taking anyone’s magick, Lord Farrolbrook,” Rafferdy said, keeping his tone brisk and light. “I only came here to ask you a question.”
The other man lifted a hand to his brow, then moved into a thin beam of light that fell through a gap in the curtains.
The House on Durrow Street Page 63