The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (63 page)

An illusion—that’s all it had been. There was no truth to any of it. These narrow, grimy streets he walked through—these were real. This was all that mattered.

It was late. He meant to go directly home, but when he saw a familiar sign down a street, a sudden thirst came over him. His boots took him that way, and he passed through the door of the Sword and Leaf.

As he entered the tavern, it seemed a bit of the night tried to follow after him, as if not wanting to let him out of its clutches. Eldyn gave the door a hard push, shutting out the dark. He sat at a table, ordered punch, and did not look up until his first cup was drained.

He had a faint hope that he would see Rafferdy grinning and waving at him from across the tavern, wanting someone to buy him a drink, but the place was mostly empty. The few other patrons did not talk or laugh and drank alone.

Eldyn had seen Rafferdy little these last months. Rafferdy’s work for his father kept him busy and often took him away from the city. Even when he was free, his appetite for drink and amusement seemed diminished.

It was just as well. Eldyn’s position at the trading house left him little time or money for pleasure. Nor had he told Rafferdy that he was working as a clerk; the last time they met, he had said only that he was still working on his business, and as usual Rafferdy had not pressed for details.

However, that night as they had left the tavern, Rafferdy had given him a fond clap on the back. “Do take care of yourself, Garritt,” he had said. “I believe you’ve been working too hard on your business. You’re fading away. At this rate you’ll be a phantasm the next time we meet. Then the sun will rise, and you’ll be gone.”

It had been a joke, but now Eldyn thought of the illusion play and how the silver youth had vanished in a puff of smoke. He put another lump of sugar in his cup and filled it to the brim.

I will write a note to Rafferdy tomorrow,
he told himself as he drank. Only he wouldn’t. When would he have the time? He would need to work a second shift again to make up the cost of this punch he was now drinking. The thought occurred to him that he would go to Mrs. Haddon’s on his next free day to see his old university friends. Only he wouldn’t do that either. Two months ago he had read in
The Swift Arrow
how an agent of the Black Dog had appeared at Mrs. Haddon’s coffeehouse. Nor was it just any of Lord Valhaine’s spies, but the White Lady herself.

Lady Shayde had not spoken to anyone; she had merely sat at a table while she slowly drank a coffee. All the same, the effect could not have been more chilling if she had rushed in with a band of guards and arrested ten men for treason. Who would go to Mrs. Haddon’s and speak criticisms of the king or Assembly now?

Certainly not Eldyn—not after what he had done for Westen. Eldyn had never seen the White Lady, and he hoped to God he never did. It was said her face was the color of snow, and that one look from her and all your deepest secrets would spill out of you like water from a cracked pot. He did not dare go to Mrs. Haddon’s, and he could only hope that Jaimsley, Talinger, and Warrett were keeping away as well.

Eldyn drained his punch and called for more.

T
WO HOURS LATER, Eldyn staggered out the door of the Sword and Leaf and onto the street. He had consumed a second round of punch, and a third, but there had been something wrong with the stuff. It had not dulled his mind, allowing him to forget the dismal apartment he shared with his sister, or his position at the trading company, or his poverty. Instead, each drink had only brought these things into clearer focus, making them larger, until he could think of nothing else. It was only the hopes, the wishes and ideas of better things to come, that the drink caused to fade, until his brain was not capable of envisioning a single good thing—not even something so small as a pretty flower in the hand or a ray of warm sun on the face.

In this frame of mind, he stumbled down the street. As he started off, it again seemed to him that a patch of darkness peeled away from the inn and followed after. However, he could not muster the will to worry. He lurched along, and so deep was he under the effects of the punch that he did not bother to wrap the shadows around himself as he went.

It was his intention to go home, to bang on the door and tell Sashie to let him in, for he was in no state to fit a key into a lock. However, when he passed the iron gates of Duskfellow’s, a wild desire came upon him to enter the graveyard. He pulled at the bars, but the gate was locked. However, the stones of the walls were rough and thick with vines, and even in his current condition it was little problem to climb up and over the wall.

He lost his grip at the top and fell to the soft turf below, missing the sharp edge of a broken tombstone by inches. Using the stone as a crutch, he pulled himself up, then wove and wheeled among the graves.

It was only when he came upon the small headstone that he realized he had been looking for it, that this was why he had come here. Unlike the timeworn grave markers all around, the writing on this stone was sharp and legible in the faint starlight:
VANDIMEER GARRITT.

An urge came over Eldyn to kick the headstone, as he himself had been kicked so many times. He tried, but his boot caught the ground, and he fell atop the grave on his hands and knees.

“You bastard,” he said. “You sodding bastard, this is all your fault! You stole everything from me. Everything I ever had and ever could have. Even dead, you couldn’t leave me alone.”

His shoulders heaved, and he vomited on the grave.

At last the clenching of his gut ceased. For a moment Eldyn stayed on his hands and knees, panting, catching his breath. The act of spilling his guts had cleared his head a bit. Finally, he felt steady enough to slowly stand.

“You called me a coward,” he said, wiping his mouth as he looked down at the tombstone. “Well, you were the one who took the coward’s way out. You killed yourself as sure as if you’d put a bullet in your brain. The whiskey just took a little longer, that’s all. So now you’re dead, and what do I have?” His hands clenched into fists. “You said I was weak. Well, if you were here now, I would knock out what few teeth you had left. Come, you bastard, let me prove it to you. Show yourself!”

Even as he spoke, it seemed to him a livid mist rose up from the grave. The mist coiled upon itself, thickening as it floated higher, forming wraithlike into a shape. The shape was dim, its edges indistinct, as if seen through a greenish mist, but there was no mistaking it. It was the figure of Vandimeer Garritt, hulking and scowling in death even as in life. The apparition raised a hand, not in greeting but as if to strike.

A gurgling scream sounded behind Eldyn.

Eldyn staggered around. Not five paces behind him stood a man in patched clothes and a ragged cloak, a small knife bared in his hand. The whites of the man’s eyes shone in the starlight, and his mouth was a dark, toothless circle amid a scraggly beard.

“Who are you?” Eldyn said, astonished.

The other gazed not at Eldyn but past him. The knife dropped from his hand, and with another cry he turned and fled, vanishing in the gloom among the gravestones.

Shock sobered Eldyn. He stared after the man, then he bent and picked up the knife. The hilt was worn, but the short blade had been honed to a wicked point. Eldyn had no doubt it had been intended for him, only something had frightened off the would-be robber.

He turned back toward his father’s grave, but the dark air was empty. The specter of his father was gone—a hallucination brought on by anger and memory and too much drink.

Yet if that was the case, why had the robber fled? He recalled how the man’s eyes had widened, gazing past him toward the grave, as if he had seen something there….

“But that’s impossible,” Eldyn murmured. “Another man can’t see a figment of my
own
imagination.”

His skull throbbed; he could not think. He needed to rest his head, just for a minute, then he would go back to the apartment. Eldyn sat on a marble bench in front of a crypt, then lay down on it, pressing his cheek to the cool, mossy stone.

H
E WOKE TO the tolling of the bells of St. Galmuth’s.

Eldyn sat up, then groaned as he held a hand to his aching temples. Gradually the pain subsided, though it did not disappear. He brushed his cheek, and bits of moss came off. Above, the sky was a honey color.

The umbral was over. He must have been lying on the bench for hours. That no one had molested him during the time seemed inconceivable. Duskfellow’s after dark was a known refuge for thieves and murderers. Yet, aside from the aftereffects of too much punch, he was well, and a quick check confirmed that his wallet (and its scant contents) was still in his coat pocket.

Not wishing to press his luck, Eldyn hurried from the graveyard. By the time he reached the street, sun slanted among the buildings. At first he started back toward the shoemaker’s shop, then he realized there was no time. After a middle umbral, all clerks were expected at the trading company a half hour after dawn. The bells had already stopped tolling. Eldyn changed direction, then broke into a run.

He stopped for only a minute to wet his handkerchief at a public well and bathe his face. He brushed off his coat with a hand and made a mirror of a window to arrange his hair. It would have to do.

By the time he turned a corner onto Marble Street, he saw the line of clerks already filing through the doors of Sadent, Mornden, & Bayle. He reached the trading house just in time to join the tail end of the line and slipped in with the others.

“Cutting it a bit fine this morning, aren’t you, Garritt?” Tems Chumsferd whispered as Eldyn took his seat.

He was already scribbling away at the paper before him. Eldyn picked up a quill and did likewise, continuing the row of sums where he had left off the night before.

“You know me, Chubbs,” Eldyn whispered back. “I never make a mistake.” He gave his pen a flourish.

“I won’t deny you’ve better penmanship than just about anybody, but if Whackskuller ever catches you late…”

“He won’t,” Eldyn said. “Because I won’t be.”

Chubbs started to respond, but hisses sounded to either side. A moment later came the
clump
-CLOMP of Mr. Waxler approaching. Both Eldyn and Chubbs bent their heads over their work.

The shift crept by. The only noise was the scratching of pens and the buzz of flies. The hall grew stuffy, and Eldyn sweated in his coat. As the hours passed, he never had another opportunity to speak with Chubbs, for Mr. Waxler seemed particularly interested in him that day. Often he heard the head clerk pause behind him. Eldyn ignored the throbbing in his head and wrote in precise, economical strokes. Despite Whackskuller’s attentions, the shift ended without the head clerk’s baton striking either Eldyn’s work or his head.

Most of the clerks rose from their stools. Uncharacteristically, Chubbs was staying for the extra half shift, but Eldyn knew he was far too weary after last night. He would have to make up the money another time. He stood and stretched, forcing his shoulders out of their hunch.

“Good night, Chubbs.” He gave the other clerk a wink. “Remember, ink is the lifeblood of Altania. Don’t waste it.”

Chubbs scowled at him. Eldyn grinned back, then was out the door and into the warmth of a long afternoon.

There were still a few pennies in his pocket, so he stopped by a bakery to pick out something for Sashie. He imagined she would be vexed at him for his long absence, and hopefully a sweet would appease her.

Soon he was walking home, a sack of almond and anise biscuits in hand. He fell into a jaunty cadence, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. Free from the trading house and bathed in the warm light, his weariness was forgotten, as were the shadows and specters of last night. His free day was coming soon; he would take Sashie to Gauldren’s Heights and then see if Rafferdy would meet him for a drink. In the meantime, he could work an extra shift or two and save up enough to attend another play on Durrow Street. Perhaps he would go to the Theater of the Moon again. Only this time he would avoid Duskfellow’s on the way home!