The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (9 page)

Again she looked at the globe. As a child, her father had taught her how the eleven planets were named after mythical figures of ancient Tharos. Like so many myths, the story of Vaelus and Cyrenth attempted to explain something the Tharosians had observed around them. In this case, the myth told the tale of two lovers whom the gods forced apart as punishment for a crime of which they were wrongly condemned. According to the myth, that was why the two planets never met in the sky—because it was the doom of the two lovers never to meet again for all eternity. It was a story her father had known well. Yet three times now she had found the globe arranged so that Vaelus and Cyrenth were next to each other.

Ivy was moving before she fully realized what she was doing. She dashed down two flights to the third floor, hurrying to the room she shared with Lily. The book was still on the shelf under the window where she had placed it. She took it out, ran a hand over the cover, then opened it.

There was writing on the overleaf.
To my dearest Ivy,
it read,
On the occasion of her thirteenth birthday. For now this is but a story, and one I hope you will enjoy. However, one day you will learn that behind a myth can lie a greater truth. I hope you will seek it out.

It was signed by her father.

For a moment Ivy felt her heart was no longer beating. Reading the inscription was like hearing a beloved voice from the past. He must have acquired this book for her as a present, had even inscribed it, but he had never had the chance to give it to her. The affliction had come upon him just before her thirteenth birthday, and the book had been lost among her father’s things all these years, until the day when he pulled it out by chance.

Her heart was beating again. No, it wasn’t chance that he had taken this book out. Just as it wasn’t chance that three times she had found the celestial globe configured in an impossible position. He was trying to tell her something in the only way he could, she was sure of it. But what?

Again she read the inscription.
He’s telling you to seek out the truth. So do it.
But what truth? And where was she supposed to find it? It was a riddle, she realized, like the ones he always used to give her. The key to solving a riddle was looking for meanings other than those on the surface. He had told her where to find the truth. She was to look for it in a myth.
This
myth, perhaps. Which meant she had to read the book.

Ivy sat on the bed and opened the book. But even as she read the first lines, something prickled in the back of her mind. No, this was not right. She was not applying logic properly. Again she looked at the inscription. It did not say the truth was
in
a myth.

Hands trembling, she opened the back cover of the book, examining it. The endpaper was blank, but it seemed thick compared to that inside the front cover, and one corner of it curled up. Ivy hesitated—harming a book in any way was against her most basic nature—then gripped the loose corner.

The endpaper peeled away easily from the cover board, and a folded slip of paper fell into her lap. A laugh escaped her. Of course.
Behind a myth can lie a greater truth.

Ivy picked up the slip of paper, unfolding it, and recognized her father’s thin, elegant hand as she read the words upon it.

When twelve who wander stand as one

Through the door the dark will come.

The key will be revealed in turn—

Unlock the way and you shall learn.

Despite the sunlight that streamed through the window, a chill came over her. The poem made her think of how she had felt that night in the attic, when the darkness seemed to press down, creeping in through the cracks and windows, wanting to suffocate all light, all life.

But it wasn’t just a poem. It was another riddle; Ivy was certain of it. Yet she was also certain that this one would not be solved so easily as the first. She was supposed to find a key. Only to what? And what would she learn when she found it?

Ivy didn’t have the answer to that. However, there was one thing she did know. Mr. Lockwell must have known what was going to happen to him. Why else would he have left a message like this for her, only days—perhaps mere hours—before his mind was stolen from him? Only the affliction…It must have come upon him sooner than even he had expected, and he had never given her the book for her birthday present.

Now she had finally found it, but to what end? Ivy doubted that would be an easy question to answer. It was clear he had not meant her to find this riddle as a child but rather later, when she was older, when she could properly understand.

When she could help him.

A thrill passed through Ivy, a bright spark that burned away the cold. That was the answer. He had known that one day she would be old enough to understand. Old enough to help him. And she
would
help him. The answer was right here before her. All she had to do was understand it.

Unlock the way and you shall learn.

Ivy folded the paper, tucked it back into the book, and rose. There was no time to waste; she had reading to do.

CHAPTER FIVE

O
N THE MORNING of the first long lumenal since his return to Invarel, Mr. Dashton Rafferdy took a late breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Baydon at Lord Baydon’s house.

Like many fashionable young gentlemen, he had much in common with a beggar who, for lack of better means, must go from door to door scrounging for a bite. In similar fashion, as he did not keep a cook, Rafferdy was required to proceed from acquaintance to acquaintance in order to procure his meals. Even as he was dining at one house, he was always considering whom he might call on next—whether it had been too soon since the last time, and if they had gotten a better cook.

Happily, Mr. and Mrs. Baydon seemed not to have wearied of his frequent companionship. A note sent early in the morning to Vallant Street was enough to win Rafferdy an invitation, and as soon as he rose and had his coffee and was dressed—that is to say, after the sun had been up for four hours—he called for his carriage and went directly to Lord Baydon’s house, just off the Promenade.

They had only just started their repast when Mrs. Baydon set down a piece of toast she had barely nibbled and turned toward Rafferdy. “Have you heard the news?” she said, eyes aglow. “There is to be a masque at Viscount Argendy’s. I learned it from Mrs. Darlend just yesterday.”

“I would hardly call that news,” Mr. Baydon said from behind the stiff wall of his broadsheet. It was a copy of
The Messenger
this morning.

“But it
is
news,” Mrs. Baydon said, her forehead creasing in a pretty frown. “The viscount’s masques are famous for their extravagance.”

“I was always given to understand it was their absurdity they were famous for,” Mr. Baydon said. “Unless you find men dressed as songbirds dangling about on wires to be a matter of delight. Though I warrant there might be some small amusement in the proceedings should the wires prove faulty and fail to hold.”

“It’s to be held at the viscount’s home on the night of the full moon,” Mrs. Baydon went on, undeterred. “I’ve heard that the centerpiece of the masque will be performed by the finest troupe of illusionists in the city. Please, Mr. Rafferdy, say you’ll attend with us.”

“That will be quite impossible,” Mr. Baydon said before Rafferdy could fashion a reply.

“Nonsense. Mr. Rafferdy has just returned from Asterlane. Surely his father would not recall him so soon.”

“It’s quite impossible,” Mr. Baydon reiterated, “because whether Mr. Rafferdy is in the city or not, he cannot attend the masque with us as we will not be attending ourselves.”

“Not attending?” Mrs. Baydon gave the raised broadsheet a cross look. “But, Mr. Baydon, can we not at least consider it?”

“I already have,” he said, and turned a page.

She cast a rueful look at Rafferdy. “I’ve heard the Siltheri weave enchantments out of air and light that are beautiful beyond description. You can picture anything at all—a mountain or a castle—and they can conjure it with a wave of the hand. I’ve often asked when I might be allowed to attend one of their performances, only I have ever been denied this pleasure for reasons that are beyond me.”

Mr. Baydon lowered his broadsheet. His expression was stern but not ungentle. “The reasons are
not
beyond you, Mrs. Baydon. Lord Baydon has forbidden any in his household to venture to the theaters on Durrow Street. It is only on a solid foundation of real progress and industry that the future of Altania can be secured, not witchery and illusion. How could my father face his peers in the Hall of Magnates if it was known a member of his own family habituated a place of such questionable repute?”

“But Viscount Argendy’s house is not on Durrow Street.”

“The viscount’s good reputation is his own to preserve or discard as he sees fit,” Mr. Baydon said, and the broadsheet was raised once more.

“I fear I wouldn’t be able to attend anyway,” Rafferdy said, putting another cake on his plate. “I’m already in danger of falling from your aunt’s good graces. I had better not compound the situation by appearing to support the viscount’s disreputable plans.”

Mrs. Baydon sighed several times, but she did not bring up the subject of the masque again—for which Rafferdy was grateful. While in her innocence she might imagine illusionists conjuring castles and rainbows, he knew the plays put on by the Siltheri were not always limited to such wholesome topics. There was a reason respectable men did not venture to the theaters on Durrow Street. At least not without a hat pulled low and a pocketful of coins to buy a carriage driver’s silence. As for a woman who attended the plays—she might be called many things, but
lady
would not be one of them.

“You still haven’t told us about your trip to Asterlane,” Mrs. Baydon said as they took a final cup of coffee. “How was it?”

“Unremarkable,” Rafferdy said, though
dreadful
would have been a more accurate term. Indeed, the visit had gone exactly as he had dreaded.

He had hardly arrived at Asterlane, head aching from a night at tavern compounded by eight hours of jostling in a coach, before Lord Rafferdy asked to see him. His father had been in the library, his foot propped up on a stool. Upon entering, Rafferdy was immediately—and without any consideration for his need to rest after such a long journey—delivered a typical lecture on the need to take on more responsibility now that he was a man, to put aside foolish pursuits, and to turn his attention toward settling down.

There will be a time when I can no longer perform my obligations and duties,
his father told him.
When that time comes, you must be ready.

Rafferdy had only the vaguest idea of what his father’s obligations and duties actually were; in fact, he had made a point of
not
knowing. That he worked on matters at Assembly, Rafferdy knew. Also that he saw to the affairs of his estate, and was often writing missives and reports, and met frequently with various agents of the government who did Rafferdy knew not what but who always gave a salute to the king upon their departure.

While his father had been somewhat more grim than usual, this topic of conversation had been nothing out of the ordinary—certainly nothing warranting a summons home. It wasn’t until he prepared to depart that Lord Rafferdy at last broached the topic Rafferdy had dreaded for so long. Still, why had his father insisted on his returning to Asterlane to give him that news? A letter would have more than sufficed.

“Surely, Mr. Rafferdy, your time in Asterlane cannot have been
entirely
unremarkable,” Mrs. Baydon said. “Did you not have the pleasure of making a new acquaintance while you were there?”

Rafferdy gave her a sharp look. “As a matter of fact, I did. Lord Everaud was visiting at Asterlane, and I made the acquaintance of his eldest daughter. But I wonder how you should know such a fact.”

“I am not without my abilities,” Mrs. Baydon said.

“Gossiping with other young women being chief among them,” Mr. Baydon added, lowering the paper. “You should be warned, Rafferdy, that Mrs. Baydon and Miss Everaud have recently become fast friends and will no doubt do everything they can to entrap you in some scheme of their concoction, as two silly young women acting in concert must always try to do.”

“She is very beautiful, isn’t she?” Mrs. Baydon said brightly.

Rafferdy only smiled. He suspected he had better heed Mr. Baydon’s warning and proceed with care. Men far more clever than he had been caught in snares laid by women far less clever than Mrs. Baydon. Propriety might prevent women from visiting the theaters of Durrow Street, but like so many charming young ladies, Mrs. Baydon still found a way to craft her own small spells of illusion.

“Indeed, Miss Everaud is very pretty,” Rafferdy said, though he could not remember what she looked like or anything she had done or said while he was there. However, he thought she
must
have been pretty. If she had been otherwise, he surely would have remembered
that
.

“What was your favorite thing about meeting her?”

“It would be quite impossible for me to choose,” Rafferdy said. Fortunately, his answer seemed to satisfy Mrs. Baydon, and she sipped her coffee with a pleased expression.

Rafferdy mused awhile over his own cup. This conversation had done much to cast a new light on his visit to Asterlane. It wasn’t just for the purpose of admonishing him to behave more responsibly that his father had summoned him home—or to give him the news about his plans for the estate at Asterlane. No, Lord Rafferdy had had other intentions in mind. Nor could Miss Everaud’s presence there be ascribed to chance. A snare had been laid for him indeed, only its purpose was not to clamp an iron band around his foot but rather a gold band about his finger.

Rafferdy took his leave of the Baydons, then returned to his house near Warwent Square. This was a neighborhood nestled between the New Quarter and the Old City. It was neither so splendid as one nor so shabby as the other, and given its convenient proximity to the houses of the wealthy as well as houses of drinking and gambling, it was the favored choice of many young gentlemen.

Lord Rafferdy did own a house in the city, not far from Lady Marsdel’s abode, but he was seldom in Invarel, due to his infirmity. Rafferdy might have dwelled there, but Warwent Square suited him better, and on this one matter he and his father agreed. The house in the New Quarter was much more expensive to operate, requiring a staff of at least eight. In contrast, at his current residence Rafferdy kept but a single man to serve and dress him, and he took every opportunity to remind his father how much money he was saving the family by choosing to dwell at Warwent Square.

H
E SPENT THE rest of the morning in the parlor, responding to the heap of letters that had grown on the table. There were invitations to dinners and parties and dances, and he took much care in choosing which he would turn down (very many) and which he would accept (very few).

By the time the sun reached its zenith, Rafferdy was ready to venture out, having spent an hour choosing what to wear and another making himself presentable. He paused to write a note to Eldyn Garritt, telling him to be at the Sword and Leaf after sunset, then he was out the door.

He told his driver to bring the cabriolet and put down the calash top, for there was no threat of rain. It was now midday, and according to the driver (who, unlike Rafferdy, was no stranger to an almanac), the sun would not set on the long lumenal for another thirteen hours. Thus there was time for all sorts of amusing pursuits, followed by a rest, so that Rafferdy could wake as the day ended and be refreshed for the night’s various activities.

He began by taking a dinner at his club, where he lingered for a time in a comfortable chair, enjoying a pinch of tobacco and pretending to read a copy of
The Comet.
On the front page was a particularly captivating image of Princess Sahafina. The daughter of a wealthy Murghese prince, she had recently made a journey to Invarel and while there had captured the fancy of the city with her beauty and exotic customs.

The image of the princess was not a typical illustration but rather an impression. From what Rafferdy understood, there were some illusionists who could hold an engraving plate in their hands and concentrate upon it, working an enchantment so that what they imagined in their minds appeared on the plate, rendered with an accuracy that caused the subject to appear clearer than in the most skillful painting.

Once he tired of the club, he instructed his driver to take him to Marmount Street, where the finest clothiers resided. By the time he returned to his carriage, the sun was well on its descent toward the towers of the Citadel, and he had been fitted for two pairs of trousers, a coat, and several shirts.

A pleasant weariness had settled over him, and he decided a cup of chocolate was in order. The best chocolate houses in the city were in Covenant Cross. However, just as he leaned forward to tell the driver to go in that direction, his attention was caught by a figure in black walking with long strides along Marmount Street.