The Master of Heathcrest Hall (21 page)

The coffee he had drunk now burned in Eldyn’s stomach. Mrs.
Haddon was a frowsy, cheerful woman of middle years who had only ever been kind to him and the other young men who came into the coffeehouse. To think of her dangling from a rope beneath the gallows was terrible.

“God’s mercy,” he managed to say at last. “Is there nothing that can be done for her?”

“Oh, there’s one thing that can be done,” Jaimsley said, his voice falling to a whisper. “We can toss every magnate in Assembly out on the street where they can lie with the rest of the horse dung. And we can win ourselves a new king while we’re at it.”

This statement shocked Eldyn. Being a Torlander, Talinger had often professed his admiration for Huntley Morden, but Jaimsley had never followed suit. Rather, he had once told Eldyn that it was the people themselves who should rule Altania, not a monarch.

“I thought you didn’t care for having a king,” Eldyn said.

Jaimsley’s brow crinkled above his large beak of a nose. “No, I can’t say I care for kings. If the notion of monarchs could be dispensed with, then I’d be the first to do so. And maybe in some far-off time we’ll be able to have a nation where the citizens lead themselves. But as for now—well, you know what people are like.”

Yes, he did. He recalled the hanging his father had taken him to watch when he was a boy, and more lately the execution of Westen Darendal, which he had gone to see. Both times the people in attendance had gladly howled for the death of someone they didn’t know, and who had caused them no harm. But it wasn’t the men being hung whom they were angry at, whose death they wanted; rather, it was all that they represented.

“I think the people are afraid,” Eldyn said. “They’re afraid of what might be coming, and they’re looking for someone to tell them what to do. I almost don’t think they care who it is, just so long as it’s someone who can tell them which direction to go.”

Jaimsley nodded. “A drowning man will tend to grasp at any rope, no matter who throws it to him. The way things are proceeding in this nation, it’s assured
someone
is going to seize the reins.”

Eldyn’s hand went to the broadsheet tucked in his coat. “But then why shouldn’t it be the princess? I can hardly think Huntley Morden’s claim to the crown is really any better than Layle’s. His ancestry goes back to Torland and from there to the Northern Realms, but it’s said the Arringharts were descended of ancient Tharos.”

Jaimsley snorted. “That’s hardly anything special. I’m sure Emperor Veradian’s soldiers got a great lot of bastards on the women of this island once their ships landed on its shores. You and I can probably both count some lustful Tharosian infantryman as a progenitor.”

Eldyn supposed that was not far from true, at least in the southern and central parts of Altania. From what he recalled of the lectures in history he had attended at St. Berndyn’s, the armies of Tharos had never gotten all the way to the far western and northern parts of the island.

Perhaps that explained why the Outlands had always been somewhat less civilized than the rest of Altania. Unlike the Arringharts, the Mabingorian kings had hailed from the seafaring kingdoms across the frigid northern ocean. A thousand years ago, when the forces of Tharos retreated from the island, the men of the north took the opportunity to seize control. They came in dragon-prow ships, armed with ax and fire. They drove the last of the Tharosians from these shores, and they claimed a right to the crown of Altania based upon a common lineage with the original inhabitants of the island.

Three hundred years ago, when the last of the Mabingorian kings died without an heir, a war for the crown ensued among the House of Rothdale, the House of Morden, and the House of Arringhart. It was a long and violent conflict, but in the end it was Hathard Arringhart who claimed victory, and he was crowned King of Altania.

The Rothdale line was all but obliterated during the Three Corners War—as the battle for the crown came to be known—but some few of the Mordens endured in the West Country, in Torland.
There, old hatreds stewed and simmered beneath the heavy lid of Altanian rule. Then, some seventy years ago, they bubbled up again with new heat. Bandley Morden took up the hawk banner and marched out of Torland with five thousand men at his back and his eye on the throne.

A few early victories lent heart to Bandley Morden and his followers, but the rebellion was short-lived. A number of earls and dukes who had intimated they would support a Morden gambit instead backed the king, and Bandley Morden found himself pushed back to the sea. Then, at the battle of Selburn Howe, with the help of shadows and other magicks conjured by the great magician Slade Vordigan, the Old Usurper was driven entirely from the shores of Altania. He fled across the sea to the Principalities, and no Morden had set foot on Altanian soil since.

Thus the Arringharts continued to rule. Yet some wounds never really healed, and over the years Torland remained a place of frequent troubles and unrest. Now it was rumored that Huntley Morden, the grandson of Bandley Morden, was preparing to sail from the Principalities, bringing with him a ship full of guns to arm the people of Torland and lead them to battle. Indeed, it was hardly considered a rumor these days, and it seemed only a matter of time until a ship flying the green hawk was sighted off the western shore.

“But do you really think it would make things any better if Morden were king?” Eldyn said—softly, in case there were any agents of the Gray Conclave in earshot. He did not want to get taken to Barrowgate himself. “It seems that to install him as such could only cost a great amount of blood. Is he truly worth such a dreadful price?”

Jaimsley gave a shrug. “Who can say if he’s worth it? I’m not sure any man merits such a price. Though I’ve heard it said Morden is an honorable sort, and that he holds great affection for the people of Altania despite living all his life in exile. That said, for my part, I don’t think King Rothard was a villain, or even most of the lords in the Hall of Magnates. They’re weak, to be sure, and
selfish and shortsighted, but not really more than most men. It might be better, and engender far less strife, if we could repair our nation rather than knock it down wholesale. But I don’t think that’s possible anymore.”

These words sent a feeling of dread through Eldyn, but he suffered a peculiar excitement as well. “So you think revolution is coming?”

“No, I think it’s already begun. The wheels are turning even now.”

Eldyn could only be astonished. “You seem as if you know something.”

Jaimsley was silent for a long moment, as if making a decision. When at last he did speak, it was without any of his characteristic drollery.

“As I said, the wheels are turning, and they will not cease until our present government is ground to dust beneath them. Altania will be broken, and if we want to have any say in how it will be built anew from the ruins, then we must put ourselves on the side of the victor. That’s the only way we’ll have a chance of making sure that whatever government comes to be, it’s better for the people than what we have now.”

“But what if you throw your lot in with Morden and it’s the princess who wins?”

Jaimsley sighed and shook his head. “I can’t say who will come out on top, but one thing I do know is that it won’t be the princess. She’s a pawn in all of this, nothing more. Why do you think they haven’t let her put on her father’s crown? Do you really think it’s simply out of worry for the safety of the royal person at a coronation?”

Eldyn thought of the expression he had seen on Layle’s face outside Duskfellow’s. It had been a look of sorrow. And of resignation.

“So you think it’s Morden who’s going to win?”

“I can’t say who will win. There are a great number of forces at work, some I’m sure we can’t even see yet. But for my part, I hope
it’s Morden who prevails. I’d rather not have a king at all, but if that can’t be, then I’d rather have a decent monarch than a tyrant of a far worse sort.”

Eldyn frowned. What sort of tyrant did he mean? Before he could ask, Jaimsley rose to his feet.

“I’m afraid I’ve got to go.”

“But you haven’t had any coffee,” Eldyn said, standing as well.

Now Jaimsley’s crooked grin returned. “Talking with you has enlivened me more than a cup could, Garritt. It’s truly good to have seen you. And in any case, I was planning to be quick about my business here.”

Together, the two men left the coffeehouse and went out onto the street.

“So where are you off to in such a hurry, if I might ask?” Eldyn said.

“I’ve got to go meet up with Talinger and Warrett,” Jaimsley replied, his breath making a fog on the air.

“For a lecture at the college, you mean?”

He shook his head. “There aren’t going to be any lectures at St. Berndyn’s today, or any of the other colleges at the university. I just got wind of it last night—the students are all going on a march to protest the closing of Gauldren’s College.”

Eldyn had read about it in
The Fox
the other day: how the Gray Conclave had locked the doors of Gauldren’s College because the professors there were teaching on the subject of magick.

“But I always thought you considered the men at Gauldren’s to be a lot of stuck-up prigs,” Eldyn said.

Jaimsley laughed, his homely face lighting up. “That’s because they
are
stuck-up prigs! But I’ll still defend their right to study what and how they please. If the government can shut down one college because they don’t like what’s being taught there, then they can do it to any other. It could be St. Berndyn’s next. So Talinger and Warrett and I are going to march with the men of the other colleges around Covenant Cross. We’ll let the Black Dog know what we think of his policy.”

Eldyn could only be impressed, but he wondered if it was wise
to taunt Lord Valhaine and the Gray Conclave so openly, or to flout the Rules of Citizenship, which prohibited such gatherings. Then again, it would hardly be the first time students had gone on a march for some cause, though usually it was to protest the high cost of whiskey or the like.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be a merry band,” Eldyn said.

“We’d be merrier with more. Care to join us, Garritt?”

For a moment Eldyn was tempted. It would be good to see Curren Talinger and Dalby Warrett again. He missed his days at university, and it would be good to feel he was part of it again, if just for a little while. That said, he was not certain he wished to risk attracting the notice of any soldiers or an agent of the Gray Conclave. Jaimsley may have spoken about rebels, but Eldyn had actually worked for them once, and he wished to take no chances. Besides, he had to return to the theater soon for a rehearsal. Maybe Jaimsley was right, and a great upheaval was coming; but in the meantime, the daily habits of life must proceed.

“Thanks, but I’ve got someplace to be myself,” Eldyn said, then laughed. “Besides, I don’t think I’m the revolutionary sort.”

Jaimsley met his gaze, then nodded. “All right, then. But we can always use another trustworthy man, Garritt. If you ever find you’ve changed your mind about what sort of fellow you are, come and look me up. You can find me at the dormitories off Butcher’s Slip.”

Jaimsley gripped his hand and shook it. Eldyn warmly returned the gesture. Then, with a final good-bye, Jaimsley hurried up the street and was gone. Eldyn turned and went in the opposite direction, making toward Durrow Street. As he did, the sky above began to fade from black to gray. The long umbral was finally coming to an end.

As for how long the coming day would be, there was no way to know.

M
UCH TO IVY’S DISMAY, Dr. Lawrent left them soon after Mr. Quent’s return.

There were two causes for the doctor’s departure. First, his work at Carwick College had been disrupted by recent events at the university. One of the colleges, Gauldren’s, had been closed by the Gray Conclave on the grounds that it was teaching principles of magick. That particular topic was now the sole purview of the High Order of the Golden Door, which had been granted a charter by Lord Valhaine to advise the Crown on occult matters. All other arcane societies or organizations devoted to the study or practice of magick were proscribed by law.

Angered by the closing of a college’s doors by the government, and as a demonstration of their fraternity with the men of Gauldren’s, the students of all the other colleges had ceased attending lectures. Instead, they had taken to loitering about the university, blocking anyone from entering the buildings, and several times had taken to marching about Covenant Cross to make a protest. On each occasion the students had been dispersed by redcrests, but each time when they returned it was in greater numbers.

Had it been only these events, Dr. Lawrent might have remained in the city for a time, waiting for tempers to cool as they always must, and for the disruptions at the university to come to an end. However, news had come out of the West Country that was greatly troubling.

Affairs along the border with Torland had grown so violent it was feared that the Crown’s soldiers would be forced to abandon their outposts there, lest they be burned within them, and fall
back to fortresses closer to Invarel. Which meant there would be nothing to stop bands of rebels from spilling into the westernmost counties of Altania and moving about freely.