The Master of Heathcrest Hall (79 page)

A sharp, sudden pain pierced Eldyn’s head, and the images before him wavered and dissipated. It was only as they did so that he realized he had not merely imagined the scene; rather, he had conjured it as an illusion.

That had been a foolish exertion. He was already weary from their last performance, and he had work yet to do that night. Eldyn pressed a hand to his brow, waiting for the pain to subside. At last it did. By then, the theater was quiet. He left the newspaper on the table, put on his coat, and went downstairs. Making no sound, he slipped out the rear door of the theater and into the night.

As he moved through the empty streets of the Old City, Eldyn stitched the shadows into a heavy cloak. If only it could have kept him warm like a real garment. But it could not, so he moved quickly, trying to generate heat through exertion. The umbral had been so long that the black water in the gutters was beginning to freeze. He began to fear that, no matter how thickly he wrapped
the shadows around him, the white fog of his breath would betray his presence. Each time he saw a patrol of soldiers approaching down an otherwise empty lane, he would duck into a corner or alcove and cease breathing until they passed by.

At last he reached the dormitories below Butcher’s Slip. He cast off his disguise, but even so it took the two young men standing by the door a few moments to notice him in the gloom. Once they saw his face, they let him pass, and he made his way down to the chamber at the end of the hallway.

As usual, Jaimsley was awake, poring over a desk filled with papers and empty whiskey glasses. His prematurely thinning hair stood above his head in wild tufts, as if he had been continually running a hand through it.

“You’d better hope that none of the Lord Guardian’s men ever come in here and see this,” Eldyn said, picking up one of the papers. “Copies of secret missives, maps of troop positions—this would surely win you an appointment at Barrowgate if it were ever seen.”

“Don’t worry,” Jaimsley said with a wry expression. “All I need is a moment’s notice to destroy the evidence. I’ve spilled so much whiskey on these papers of late that all it would take is a touch of a candle, and they’d be gone in a flash.”

Eldyn couldn’t help chuckling. For all that he might be one of the most important men in the city aiding the rebellion, Jaimsley was still the same homely young man who could cause people to laugh in any situation.

“So how about some of that whiskey?” Eldyn said.

Jaimsley went to the sideboard. “You’re in luck. We were nearly out, but one of the boys came upon a few crates some redcrests had hidden in a house near the Morrowgate. As the redcrests shouldn’t be drinking on duty, my lads decided to relieve them of the temptation.”

He held out a full glass, which Eldyn accepted gratefully.

“Steady there, now,” Jaimsley said, and his grin flattened a bit. “I say, are you all right, Garritt?”

Eldyn looked down. His hand was trembling, and some of the whiskey had sloshed out of the glass onto the paper-strewn desk.

Hastily, Eldyn gripped the glass with both hands. “I thought I’d sprinkle a little more whiskey just to be safe in case you have need to ignite any of these papers.” Carefully he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one long draught. The whiskey burned his throat, but quickly diffused into a pleasant warmness in his chest.

Jaimsley watched him with close-set eyes. Then he tossed back his own whiskey in a single motion. “All right, let’s get to work.”

There was much to do that night, for there were several documents which their source within the Citadel—a clerk who was employed there—had managed to make copies of, and which provided key intelligence about the strength and movements of Lord Valhaine’s forces.

Eldyn went to the cabinet where the tools of his trade were stored, and he drew them out: engraving plates, brushes, and a vial of impression rosin. This latter had grown difficult to obtain, until Jaimsley managed to secure a steady supply from one of the few men in the city who manufactured the substance, and who it turned out was sympathetic to the revolution.

“He said if we can keep bringing him bark taken from Old Trees, he can keep making the rosin,” Jaimsley had said. Since then, rebels outside the city had been smuggling in bundles of such bark. It was taken from branches that had fallen over the wall at the Evengrove, and was brought into the city the same way messages were—through the drains, or right through the gates under the eyes of the guards in barrels of grain or blocks of tallow.

Eldyn arranged all of the materials on the sideboard. He carefully coated an engraving plate with the impression rosin. Next, he lifted one of the missives to be sent to Morden’s forces outside the city. Eldyn studied it for a number of minutes, committing every letter to mind. Then he took up one of the plates, held it before him, and shut his eyes.

A green flash of light, and it was done.

He repeated these steps, and in this manner made impressions of several more letters and diagrams. A sheen of sweat broke out
upon his brow as he worked, and he found himself wishing for one of Lily’s hyssop-scented cloths. Instead he clenched his jaw and kept working.

“Can I get you more whiskey?” Jaimsley said as he took the last plate Eldyn had worked on and carefully wrapped it in a waxed cloth. “You look a little pale.”

Indeed, Eldyn
felt
pale. Or rather, he felt transparent somehow. It was like being a windowpane: a brittle thing through which light might pass freely, but a thrown stone could shatter.

“Yes, if you can spare some,” he said.

Jaimsley laughed. “For you, Garritt, we can spare all the whiskey you want. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be getting any messages out of the city at all these days. There are more soldiers than ever, and they accost anyone they meet. Just last umbral, one of our couriers was stopped by soldiers outside the city. They searched his satchel and found the engraving plates he was carrying, only they had no idea they were anything other than pieces of scrap metal to be sold for a coin. The redcrests confiscated his satchel, but in the end they had no cause to detain the courier and let him go.”

Eldyn let out a breath of relief. The loss of the impressions was of no matter; they could be remade. But a life could not be restored if it was taken, and he was grateful the courier had not been detained. As for the messages themselves, there was little risk they could have been intercepted or read. Even if the soldiers had somehow not smeared the impression rosin in their handling of the plates, the volatile substance would have evaporated within hours. Which meant that Eldyn’s scheme was working as planned.

Jaimsley handed Eldyn another glass of whiskey. It was less full this time. Still, even holding it with both hands, Eldyn had a difficult time keeping it from spilling as he lifted it to his lips.

“These documents you’ve gotten are all astonishing,” Eldyn said hurriedly, before Jaimsely might comment on his trembling. “I can only wonder how our man in the Citadel managed to copy these.”

“As do I,” Jaimsley said. “We have never seen him, and do not
even know his name. Nor have we ever tried to learn it, for fear of exposing him. But I will say, though he may be a mere clerk, this fellow is braver than any soldier on the battlefield, and as important as any general.”

Eldyn could only grin at this, having been a clerk himself. It was strange but marvelous to think that this war could hinge not just on cannons and gunpowder, but on illusions and ink. He picked up one of the missives he had made an impression of. All of them had been fascinating. Some detailed what seemed a frantic rearrangement of troops, or reiterated urgent requests for supplies. One particularly intriguing letter made a mention that the Citadel was waiting on a report from the White Lady, but that it had not yet been received, and that her present whereabouts were unknown. Had she perhaps been captured by the enemy? If so, that would be a grave blow to the Lord Guardian, for she was one of his chief spies.

“From reading all of these, I can only start to think the Lord Guardian begins to fear he might not be victorious,” Eldyn said, setting the paper down. “Morden presses relentlessly from the west, and at the same time Valhaine has to expend great effort here just to keep the city firmly under his thumb. All of these actions have something of a desperate quality.”

“Yes, they do,” Jaimsley said. “And there’s no one more dangerous than a desperate man, for he cannot be expected to act in a rational manner, or to safeguard those things a man usually would protect. Instead, he will bare his teeth and sever his own limb if he thinks it should free him from the trap he is caught in.” He unrolled a large sheet of paper on the desk. It was a map of the southern part of Altania, hastily drawn in spare but precise lines. “Look here. Our man in the Citadel managed to make a copy of this. Without a doubt, it is the most vital document he has provided us so far.”

Eldyn leaned over the table. “What does it show?”

“I can’t say I’m entirely certain. But do you see these?” He pointed to an arrow on the map, and to several others. “It’s apparent
these places are important given the way they’re marked. And from other reports we’ve intercepted, we know that these are the very directions in which Valhaine’s troops have been moving of late.”

“But what are these marks beside each of the arrows?” Eldyn said, peering at the map. Next to the point of each arrow were several queer, angular symbols. They looked almost like writing, but none that Eldyn recognized.

“I’m not sure,” Jaimsley said. “Perhaps they’re some sort of code that states what forces are to go to these locations or what will happen there. I have to believe it’s something central to Valhaine’s plans. It seems mad to send his forces running willy-nilly all over the countryside like this, but there has to be some purpose in it. I can only believe he’s scheming some great gambit. I have no idea what it could be, but clearly Valhaine is betting much upon it—perhaps everything. And if Morden is not prepared to counter it …”

Jaimsley didn’t finish the thought. Instead he said, “We have to get a copy of this map out of the city at once. I’m sure as this night is long that many lives depend upon it.”

“I understand,” Eldyn said, and picked up another engraving plate.

The plate slipped through his fingers and shattered as it struck the floor. Eldyn stared at his hands. They were shaking violently.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hastily withdrawing his hands. “I shouldn’t be so careless, not when these are so hard to come by.”

He started to bend down to pick up the broken pieces of metal, but Jaimsley gripped his shoulder, stopping him.

“Are you all right, Garritt?”

“I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

Jaimsley’s face was uncharacteristically somber. “Are you sure? It seems more than simple weariness that afflicts you. All these impressions you’ve been making, and your performances at the theater as well—I’ve heard it said that doing too many such things can make an illusionist sick.”

Eldyn worked his jaw, but he could summon no words to speak.

“Maybe we should take this up again tomorrow,” Jaimsley said.

Again Eldyn looked down at his hands. They seemed thinner than he recalled, and for the first time he noticed how dark blue veins mottled their backs, snaking up his wrists.

You must be very careful not to create too many impressions, Mr. Garritt
, Master Tallyroth had told him that last night they had really talked.
They are wondrous—perhaps the grandest sort of illusion a Siltheri can fashion. But they are costly as well.…

Yes, very costly, for Tallyroth had explained how shaping the impression rosin required an illusionist to expend some portion of his own light. And Eldyn needed to look no further than Master Tallyroth to see the effects of using up too much of one’s light. How many impressions had Eldyn made over the past month for the sake of the revolution? Twenty? Thirty? No, it was far more than that.

And each one had used up a little bit of his light, his life.

Promise me that you will only make another impression if it is for something truly worthwhile
, Tallyroth had said that night.

I promise
, Eldyn had answered. And he would hold true to that vow. But what could be more important than this?

“Hand me another engraving plate,” Eldyn said, sitting at the table and looking at the map, studying its lines and markings.

Jaimsley sat down opposite him, a metal square in his hand, but he did not let go of it. “Garritt, I don’t know about this.”

“You said you were sure many lives depended upon a copy of this map reaching our generals.”

“Yes, but what of your own life? I had suspected it prior to this, but now I am certain of it—making all of these impressions is killing you. Not as quickly as a bullet, mind you, but just as surely. I see how you get a little paler every time that you make one.” He leaned over the table. “Would you throw your life away in a rash moment, like Talinger and Warrett did?”

Eldyn looked up from the map. “Talinger and Warrett didn’t
throw their lives away rashly. They knew exactly what they were doing that day. They were fighting for what they believed in, and what they cared about. For our nation, and for one another. How could it ever be rash to give one’s very last for the sake of such things?”

Jaimsley’s mouth pulled into a flat line. For a moment he gazed at Eldyn, his small eyes unusually bright. At last he laid the engraving plate down on the map.

“Go on, then,” he said quietly. “Make the impression.”

And Eldyn did.

E
LDYN WOKE to sunlight streaming in through the window of his little room above the theater. The umbral had been so long that he had begun to despair dawn would never come again. Only it had, and the world was filled with light.

But for how long? As he pulled on his trousers and buttoned his shirt, his gaze went to the issue of
The Comet
he had thrown on the little table by the bed. A
STROGRAPHERS
P
REDICT AN
U
NUSUAL
A
LIGNMENT OF THE
P
LANETS
, read a line of large print upon the front page. And below that in slanted type,
All Citizens Should Prepare for an Umbral of Unprecedented Length
.