The Master of Heathcrest Hall (16 page)

This resulted in a roar of laughter all around. Rafferdy gave a bow to conceal his smile.

“Then tell me this, Lord Davarry,” he said, rising again. “You say we must seek to bolster the Crown, and I think all present would agree. But I cannot help wondering—would the Crown not be more easily bolstered if it were firmly situated upon someone’s head?”

Murmurs ran about the Hall at this. At the podium, the High Speaker opened his eyes.

Davarry glared at Rafferdy. He could have disengaged then. As he had said, none of this mattered. But while Davarry disliked appearing a fool, he disliked even more to appear as if he was not up to a challenge. At least, that was what Rafferdy was counting upon.

“I presume it is the princess’s head you refer to,” Davarry said.

Rafferdy shrugged. “Unless there is another you think the crown belongs on.”

“That would be treason, Lord Rafferdy,” the other lord said darkly. “The crown of Altania can never be,
must
never be, worn on another’s head.”

There was something peculiar about this statement. The words which were omitted from it seemed to impart as much meaning as the words that were included.

“If that is the case, then when will it be placed upon Princess Layle’s?”

“Such a public spectacle as a royal coronation is hardly prudent at the moment. I can think of no event which would attract so many hooligans and troublemakers. They must not be given a stage upon which to perform their mischief and so advertise themselves.”

“Very well, then let it be done in private.”

“That is not what is prescribed in the Great Charter!”

Rafferdy affected a bemused expression. “So a coronation must be public, and yet no one can be allowed to attend. Given these requirements, I find it a wonder Altania has ever had a ruler at all.”

This time the laughter in the Hall belonged to Rafferdy, as did Davarry’s scowl.

“You make it sound as if we have the benefit of no authority, Lord Rafferdy, when you know very well that is not the case. Lord Valhaine labors tirelessly to ensure order in the name of Her Highness. Just as we must labor ourselves to do the same. So let us set aside these idle discussions, and instead pursue subjects of real weight.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the poor state of the exchequer! Or the proper deployment of the army, or the matter of the Wyrdwood, or—”

Rafferdy didn’t hesitate. This was the moment he had been waiting for—indeed, whose occurrence he had been trying all this while to provoke—and so he seized it.

“The Wyrdwood?” he interrupted in a loud voice. “Really, Lord Davarry, you aren’t still concerned by a few collections of ragged old trees? I thought we were to discuss true threats against our nation, not imagined ones.”

“Imagined?” Lord Davarry sputtered. “God on High, man, the recent Risings have hardly been a fantasy. The Old Trees have lashed out. Men have been throttled to death by root and branch.”

“True, but only those who have been dull enough to venture near the groves,” Rafferdy said, making his voice crisp. “In which case the Risings have only served to benefit us by removing the most imbecilic individuals from the population and thereby increasing its general intelligence.”

Lord Davarry gave his wig a tug. “You are very flippant, sir. I wonder if you would speak that way to the widow of one of the soldiers who perished at the Evengrove.”

“No, for a soldier is not subject to his own stupidity but rather to that of his commanders.” Rafferdy raised a finger, as if an idea
had just occurred to him. “But speaking of soldiers, I wonder, Lord Davarry, if you have never considered that the Wyrdwood serves a similar purpose as they do? That it is perhaps for this very purpose that groves of the Old Trees have so long been preserved in Altania.”

“What purpose are you referring to?”

“The purpose of defense, of course.”

Lord Davarry’s blue eyes narrowed, and he stood silently for a long moment. “Defense?” he said at last. “And what could the Wyrdwood possibly defend us against?”

“Against those who would invade our nation,” Rafferdy said with perfect seriousness.

A silence descended over the Hall. A vibration could be felt upon the stifling air, like the beating of a great heart. All turned their eyes toward Lord Davarry, awaiting his reply.

Before he could speak, the noise of many footsteps echoed up to the marble dome. All turned to look as a group of twenty or so young lords in silver-tinted wigs appeared at the doors of the Hall.

“Well, look now, here is the remainder of my party,” Rafferdy said, as if pleasantly surprised. “I’m sure the Grand Usher will correct me if I am in error, but I believe we might now have just enough to make a quorum and come to order.”

And the trap was sprung.

Led by Coulten, the New Wigs proceeded down the aisle to occupy the benches around Rafferdy. The Grand Usher made his count, then announced they indeed had a quorum, with a slight surplus. The High Speaker brought down his gavel, and the Hall of Magnates came to order.

A few small matters of business were brought up, discussed, and voted upon, but nothing of great import. All the while Lord Davarry sat stock-still amidst the empty benches that were usually occupied by the Magisters. He did not dare bring up any measure about the Wyrdwood now, for fear it would not have the votes to carry.

Rafferdy had to give Lord Davarry credit, for he kept his face forward, and never once looked back at the gilded doors, which
were shut now that the Hall was in session. But though he said nothing, once again his wig inched forward on his scalp as he clamped his jaw over and over. He had been caught in the snare, and he had not a crumb of cheese to show for it.

Soon the business of the Hall was concluded, and the High Speaker’s gavel came down to end the session. Nor did this happen a moment too soon, for even as the doors opened and magnates began to stream from the Hall, a large number of men in elegant black robes and bluish wigs forced their way down the aisles.

It was the remainder of the Magisters.

Several of them reached Davarry, gesturing with great agitation as they spoke to him in voices too low to be heard. Rafferdy saw Davarry’s cheeks darken to an even deeper shade of red. All at once he shouted out to the High Speaker to bring the Hall back to order, but it was too late for that. Half the lords had already departed by now, off to the Silver Branch or elsewhere to get their dinner. It was over.

“Great Gods, but that was entertaining,” Coulten murmured, leaning his head close to Rafferdy’s. “Your scheme worked perfectly.”

Rafferdy could only concede that this was the case. “Did any of the New Wigs ask how we knew what was going to happen?”

“Of course they did. They’re clever lads. I told them that we had heard a rumor that the Magisters were going to be delayed, and that we could have an impact on the proceedings if we timed our entrance carefully. They were more than happy to go along with the game, and they’re delighted it worked.”

So it had. The Magisters all milled about Lord Davarry now, looking in their black robes like so many angry crows.

Yet even as he watched this satisfying scene, Rafferdy’s amusement faded. “They will not fall for that trick again.”

“I suppose not,” Coulten murmured. “But it really was brilliant. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall.”

So did Rafferdy. He could imagine all the Magisters entering the dank warehouse down in Waterside, believing from the notice
which had appeared in their black books that they were attending a hastily called meeting of their arcane order. Only their magus never arrived. And then, when they attempted to depart, they found the doors had been locked by magick, preventing them from getting out.

“Really,” Coulten went on, “they must all be dreadful magicians if it took them all that time to figure out they were duped and to break the spells on the doors.”

Not so dreadful as Rafferdy had hoped. Despite the strength of the bindings he and the other members of the Fellowship had placed on the doors of the old warehouse by the river, the Magisters had freed themselves and arrived at Assembly more quickly than he had expected. A few minutes sooner, and the Hall would still have been in session, and they might have been able to bring the plan for reducing the size of the Wyrdwood to a vote.

Of course, the whole scheme would have fallen apart if Lord Davarry had simply opened his own black book to see the meeting notice. As the leader of the Magisters—and presumably the magus of the Golden Door—he would have known at once that the message was false, for it came not from him. But if he
was
magus, and thus the one who called all the meetings, why would Davarry bother to open his own black book unless it was for the purpose of writing a message? He wouldn’t. Or at least, that was what Rafferdy had reasoned. And it appeared he had been right.

“I say,” Coulten said quietly as they left the benches, “you never did tell us how it was you got the notice for the meeting to appear in their black books. That was some trick. However did you manage it?”

“I have my methods.”

“Come now, Rafferdy, don’t be so secretive. I think you can tell me of all people.”

Rafferdy’s smile returned. “And so I will, but not quite yet. Now let’s get to the Silver Branch. I am in severe need of a drink.”

They proceeded from the Hall of Magnates with the other New Wigs. The Hall of Citizens was also just letting out of session, resulting in much crowding and jostling, and Rafferdy found himself
separated from Coulten. All around, men were talking in loud voices, and it was quickly clear from bits of conversation Rafferdy overheard that the measure to reduce the Wyrdwood had not been brought up for a vote in that Hall either.

So Canderhow had been right. He had predicted that those in the Hall of Citizens who were in league with the Magisters would not dare to bring up the matter for a vote on their own, preferring instead to follow the lead of their more powerful allies.

Across the loggia, he saw the bulky figure of Canderhow departing the Hall of Citizens. Trefnell came a little ways behind him. Rafferdy met the older man’s eyes for a brief moment, then quickly turned away before anyone might notice the exchange. Just then Coulten hurried up to him, a broadsheet in hand. He seemed to have something to say, but before he could get it out, a group of young lords in rich black robes and bluish wigs appeared before them.

“You think yourself very bold and clever, don’t you, Lord Rafferdy?” one of them said, his tone sneering.

Rafferdy didn’t know his name, only that he was one of the Magisters, and that he bore an uncanny resemblance to a bulldog, having a snubbed nose and sagging jowls that were accentuated by his glowering expression.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Rafferdy replied pleasantly, though his fingers tightened around the ivory handle of his cane.

“On the contrary, I believe you know precisely what I mean. You fancy yourself a powerful magician. You believe that you and the rest of your arcane order can work spells as you please, without any sort of consequence, and you make no effort to hide the fact. Rather, you advertise it.”

He made a gesture toward the House ring on Rafferdy’s right hand.

Despite the spark of alarm he felt, Rafferdy gave an indifferent shrug. “It is a ring such as we all have, nothing more. I simply choose to display what everyone already knows is there. I can
hardly think it of any note. As for working spells—I am sure you know as well as I that belonging to any sort of occult order is against the Rules of Citizenship.”

Suddenly the other young man’s face drew back in a loose-fleshed grin. “Oh, it’s against the Rules for
you
, all right. But not everyone suffers under that same proscription now. Which means you might discover that you are not so clever as you think, Lord Rafferdy, and that what you consider to be boldness is in fact folly. Until later.”

These last words were accompanied by a stiff bow. As one, the group of Magisters turned with a flourish of their black robes and proceeded away across the loggia.

Rafferdy frowned after them. “What do they mean, not everyone suffers under the same proscription now?” he muttered.

“I think it has to do with this,” Coulten said in a low voice, and he held up the broadsheet he had been carrying. “Look here.”

Rafferdy did, and the spark of alarm in his chest began to smolder and burn.

Any sense of victory Rafferdy had enjoyed now vanished. “So the Magisters are no longer working for Lord Valhaine in secret. Their allegiance is out in the open.”

Coulten nodded. “And it’s more than that, Rafferdy. We’re not
the only magicians who have continued to meet under the assumption that the Gray Conclave wasn’t making too great an effort to root out magickal orders, given that the Magisters all belong to one themselves. But now that the High Order of the Golden Door is officially sanctioned by the Crown …”

“It means the Black Dog is free to start sniffing around in search of other occult societies,” Rafferdy said grimly.

Even as he spoke, he was aware of a dark figure emerging from behind a column at the far end of the loggia. She moved stiffly, so that he could almost hear the crackle of her black gown, and even though a veil draped down from her hat to conceal her face, he could imagine black eyes watching him.