The Master of Heathcrest Hall (56 page)

Garritt had looked up and, by his slack expression, was incredulous at these words. But Rafferdy reiterated them, and coaxed him further, and bought him more punch, and at last Garritt was induced to reveal all. Indeed, once the tale began to flow out of him, it could hardly be stopped. A dam that has long held back a reservoir does not bear up long once a chink is opened in it; instead, a flood gushes out, washing the barrier away, and so it was with Garritt.

Rafferdy learned about the things Garritt could do, how he shaped light and performed in illusion plays at the theater, and even how he had learned to make impressions, several of which he had sold to the broadsheets. For all his newfound forthcoming-ness, though, there was one thing Garritt did not reveal, at least not directly.

Yet it is the case that sometimes the pauses and the spaces and silences between words carry as much meaning as what is spoken. There was a young man Garritt alluded to several times. Rafferdy got the impression he was gone now, but it was clear this other young man was sorely missed. Only once did Garritt speak his name,
Dercy
, but this was done with a tone of such tender sadness that there could be no doubting how the two of them had been related—and not through the fraternal camaraderie felt by two members of the same venture.

After these revelations, many men might have recoiled and withdrawn, but not Rafferdy. On the contrary, he felt only a greater affinity to his friend. Previously, Garritt had seemed so wholesome and chaste as to be almost exasperatingly decent. But in truth, he was as marvelously imperfect as any man fashioned of flesh, blood, and bone. To learn it was a relief!

At last the pot of punch was done, and Garritt heaved a great sigh, his shoulders moving as if relieved of a dreadful weight.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Rafferdy,” he said. “To have you still sitting here with me, after all I’ve said—it’s remarkable. I’m sorry to have kept this all a secret from you for so long.”

Rafferdy was usually not one to offer apologies, but this was not a usual occasion. “No, it is I who am sorry, Garritt. I have always treated you as if you were some marble icon of a saint—a thing too pure and unblemished to harbor indecent thoughts like the rest of us. It was terribly unfair to impose such a constraint upon you. When I gave you no room to commit even little sins, how could you have revealed what some would hold to be a great one?”

“And don’t
you
hold it as such?”

Though it was rare for Rafferdy to be at a loss for words, he was then—but only for a moment.

“I know that’s what we’re told to believe. But then again, lately I have learned that a great many things people believe about this world and its denizens are in fact utter rubbish. Given my knowledge of you, Garritt, I’m forced to relegate such beliefs to the same
category. I cannot accept that being an illusionist makes a man innately wicked—not when I know without doubt that
you
are inherently good.”

And with that, it was done. Garritt had business to attend to, and so did Rafferdy. They rose from the table, went outside, and shook hands, friends still and for always.

“I haven’t told you everything, you know,” Garritt had said then, rather wistfully.

“No, I’m sure you haven’t,” Rafferdy replied. “But then again, neither have I.”

Garritt had gaped at him, but Rafferdy only winked, then swung his cane and started off down Durrow Street. That they would speak again soon, he was sure. And maybe then it would be time for Rafferdy to reveal a few of his own secrets. That he could trust Garritt with them, he was sure; they were both of them outside the bounds of society now.

“Lord Rafferdy?” Lily said, and took another step toward him. “I asked you if Mr. Garritt was well.”

He blinked, realizing he had been silent as he decided what to say. Only why shouldn’t he answer with the truth?

“Yes, he’s very well,” Rafferdy said, and smiled.

Lily smiled herself now. “I’m very glad to hear it. I wonder—that is, do you think he will ever come to call on us again?”

“I do not know,” Rafferdy said, again being truthful.

“I don’t think that he will,” Lily said, and she tightened her arms around the large leather-covered book. “I think that, if we ever wish to see him again, we’ll have to go look for him ourselves.”

Rafferdy’s smile dwindled at this response. Previously, Mrs. Quent had told him about Lily’s drawings and their subject matter. Before he could think of what to say, though, a small yet elegant figure descended the stairs.

“Good-bye, Lord Rafferdy,” Lily said, then turned and bounded up the staircase even as Mrs. Quent reached the bottom.

She was lovely in a dress the gray-green color of heather, and
several stray locks of gold hair fell upon her shoulders like shafts of sun upon a moor. Yet she looked exceedingly pale, and when he took her hand in greeting he felt it quiver, curling within his own like some tiny, frightened creature seeking refuge. He would have thought the idea of seeing her husband would fill her with excitement more than dread.

“Are you well, Mrs. Quent? Perhaps we should wait for a moment before we go.”

But she said, or rather gasped, “Lady Shayde was here.”

So that was who had come to call at the house. Now he understood the reason for her trembling.

Rafferdy kept his grip on her hand, holding her steady. “What did she say to you?”

Mrs. Quent looked away. “Awful things.”

“I fear that can be no surprise. Did she come hoping to learn something? Something about your husband?”

“No. Or rather, not anything regarding Mr. Quent.”

Rafferdy shivered himself, despite his heavy wool suit. “But she did come seeking knowledge of someone.”

Mrs. Quent looked back at him again, and now he no longer held her hand, but rather she gripped his, tightly.

“Lady Shayde knows, Mr. Rafferdy. Or at least, she strongly suspects that you are involved in”—she leaned in close, and the wooden eye upon the newel post turned in its socket, as if interested in what she would say—“she knows that you are involved with an arcane order that threatens the government.”

The reaction this evoked in Rafferdy surprised him. He knew he should dread the fact that Lady Shayde held him in suspicion. Yet instead he felt a peculiar sort of pride and satisfaction. In a way, to be deemed a possible threat to the government was a noteworthy accomplishment. Besides, he had long known that Lady Shayde suspected him of working magick.

“I am sorry to have put you in such a dreadful position, Mrs. Quent,” he said. “But in a way, this is excellent news.”

“Excellent news! How so?”

“It means, for all her suspicions, Lady Shayde has no proof of anything our order has done. If she had, she would move against me herself, rather than try to prize secrets from you.”

Mrs. Quent hesitated, then nodded. “I think that must be so. Nor did I tell her anything that might have helped her.”

“For that, I thank you.”

It seemed she wanted to say something, but after a long moment it was only a sigh that escaped her.

“Shall we go then?” he said.

And they did.

B
ARROWGATE was situated on the northwestern edge of the Old City, and the drive there seemed inordinately long. Not only was the four-in-hand forced to proceed slowly, the streets were also thick with royal soldiers in their blue coats and red-crested helmets.

Except the redcrests weren’t truly royal soldiers anymore. Princess Layle was shut away somewhere in the Citadel, and no one had seen her in nearly a half month. The army was under the command of the Lord Guardian of the nation; they were Valhaine’s soldiers now.

Often the soldiers would stop a cart or carriage at random to question the occupants or examine any goods contained therein. Several times the four-in-hand was blocked from progressing along a narrow street as the soldiers made an examination of some other vehicle just ahead. Yet they never stopped Rafferdy’s carriage. Such a grand and gilded coach could only belong to an important lord. At least, that is what Rafferdy had hoped they would think. Whether this was the case, or it was merely chance, they at last reached Barrowgate unhindered.

Barrowgate itself was no more than a low, nondescript door set into the wall that ringed the Old City. During the time of the first Mabingorian kings, when Altania was afflicted by bloody civil wars and subjected to invasions from the Murgh Empire, it was
the passage by which the vast number of prisoners who were executed or otherwise perished in jail were taken out of the city to be heaped in unmarked graves.

These days it was not empty fields that lay beyond the wall, but rather the district of Lowpark, for Invarel had grown much since then, and the door was now used by people moving between the different parts of the city. But after all these years, some things about the Barrowgate had not changed. There was still a prison beside the door, and its walls of black stone were still devoid of any windows, so that neither light nor hope could enter into the dungeons below. As always, a gibbet stood in the square before those black walls. And those who met their end upon a rope were still taken through the door in the wall, to be buried on unhallowed ground outside the city.

The carriage came to a halt. The broad square before Barrowgate was empty now; the gallows stood unused, for the moment at least.

“Would you like to wait here in the carriage?” he said to Mrs. Quent, who sat on the bench opposite him. “I can go in to make sure he is … that all is ready for our audience.”

His fear was that Sir Quent would be in a physical state that might be shocking for her to witness, and he wanted to have a chance to correct that, if possible, before she saw him.

“Thank you, Mr. Rafferdy, but I will go with you.” Though her face was pale, there was no quaver to her voice.

The driver opened the door. Rafferdy exited, then took her hand to help her from the carriage. Together, they approached the soldiers standing before the prison. Rafferdy exchanged a few words with a stern-faced captain. His coming was expected; a soldier was ordered to take them to see the lieutenant inside the prison. They entered the hulking stone building, and it was like stepping from lumenal into the depths of an umbral. Oil lamps lined the halls, casting a wan and sputtering light.

“It is cold in here,” Mrs. Quent murmured, tightening her hold on his arm as they followed the soldier.

Mr. Rafferdy had previously thought the wool suit too hot, but
now he was glad for it, for the thick stone walls radiated a chill. Mrs. Quent wore only her light gown of gray-green.

“Stay close to me,” he said, and it was not only her shivering that was on his mind as he said this. Rafferdy had noticed the looks some of the soldiers had given her as they entered; he imagined many of them had not been close to a pretty lady in some time. While he feared no untoward action on their part, still he did not want her subjected to such gazes.

They were soon brought to the office of the lieutenant. He was a smallish fellow of middle years who was easier to picture as a bank clerk than a military man and a superintendent at a notorious prison. The papers on his desk were organized into neat regiments, and he had a habit of frequently using his handkerchief to wipe his hands after touching almost any object.

Rafferdy explained his purpose in coming, and the lieutenant quickly retrieved a paper from within one of the stacks.

“I have the letter from the Citadel, and everything appears to be in order,” he said, his eyes on the paper rather than Rafferdy. “Corporal Lewell here will escort you to a chamber where you can wait while the prisoner is prepared. Once he is ready, you can interview him however you will, your lordship.”

Rafferdy felt Mrs. Quent stiffen beside him. He imagined she did not care for the idea of the prisoner being
prepared
any more than he did.

“Thank you, Lieutenant” was all Rafferdy said.

The lieutenant nodded absently. He made some marks upon the paper and placed it on a different stack, then took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands.

Rafferdy waited for some comment regarding the presence of Mrs. Quent, but none came. Perhaps a woman was beneath the lieutenant’s notice. Or more likely, the orders from the Citadel had contained no proscription against the interviewer being accompanied, and so it was not a thing of note. It was clear all that mattered to the lieutenant was being able to properly marshal his papers upon his desk, and he proceeded to do this now, as if the visitors were no longer there.

“Follow me, sir,” the corporal said.

He led them through more dark hallways and down a stairway, and the air grew colder yet. Finally they were shown into a small room furnished with only a single wooden bench.

“Please wait here,” the soldier instructed. He used a large key to lock the door by which they had entered the room. Then he went to another door in the opposite wall of the chamber. This door was made of metal rather than wood. He exited through it, and again they heard a lock turning. They were, for the moment, prisoners themselves.

“I hope it will not take them long to bring Sir Quent to us,” Rafferdy said, then winced at the way his voice echoed in the bare room.

“I do not care how long it takes,” Mrs. Quent said.

Rafferdy only nodded. Even if speaking was not so disconcerting in this echoing space, still he would not have known what to say. He was bracing himself for the sight of Sir Quent just as much as she was.

“I was ill, you know,” she said softly, breaking the long silence.

He looked at her beside him on the bench, startled by this.

“Ill?” he said at last. “When?”

“A few months ago, the last time my husband was out of the city,” she said. “It was not yet public knowledge, but we were all of us in the household expecting a happy occasion, one that is often anticipated a year or so after marriage. Only I had … that was, a misfortune occurred, and after that our hopes were let go. It was not to be.”

Now he could only stare at her. If any confusion as to the meaning of her words remained, it was dispelled as her hand crept to the waist of her gown, as if to touch something that was no longer there.