Goblin Moon (35 page)

“My dear Lord Skelbrooke, pray tell us something of
your recent exploits,” said a pale young fellow in a grey wig,
another of the “bookish gentlemen” attached to the speculative
branch of the guild. “I daresay that you are presently engaged in
something particularly dangerous and exciting.”

Lord Skelbrooke took out his pocket watch. It was
shaped like an egg: a very pretty trinket, if a bit outsized, it
had been coated with a shell of fine white porcelain and painted
with tiny flowers. “I am presently endeavoring to put an end to the
white-slave trade as it is practiced in Thornburg and neighboring
towns,” he said, lifting the upper half of the egg and studying the
watch face beneath. “Decent young girls, and sometimes boys as
well, are kidnapped and spirited away—sometimes in wagons over the
Alps, but more often in ships by way of Spagne—and sold in Ynde to
serve as concubines, or even common prostitutes.”

“A shocking practice, no doubt, said the pale young
gentleman. “Though why it should merit your concern, I do not
precisely comprehend. Your purpose—indeed, the purpose which we all
share in common—is to seek out instances of the misuse of magic,
and see that the offenders are punished.”

Skelbrooke smiled his sweetest and blandest smile.
“But of course, Lord Mallekin, it is just as you say. And that
being so, perhaps it would be in order for you to share with this
assembly your own (no doubt considerable) exploits in the pursuit
of that goal?”

There followed an uncomfortable silence, during which
Lord Mallekin and some of the other gentlemen exchanged uneasy
glances. Lord Mallekin cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon. I
did not mean to criticize. I am well aware—“

“You are well aware,” said Skelbrooke, closing his
watch, and still smiling that same amiable smile, “that it is only
my presence among you, and my willingness to take on risks which
none of the rest of you dare to even contemplate, that extends this
Chapter any credibility at all. You are also aware that until I
arrived in Thornburg and presented myself to the Grand
Preceptor”—here he gave a respectful nod of the head in the
direction of Mr. Christopher Owlfeather—“and was duly admitted into
the Chapter, you and your fellow members could no more claim an
active pursuit of that particular purpose than—I beg your pardon, I
do not mean to imply that the other goals of the Glassmakers were
neglected, that the poor were not fed or that widows and orphans
were not given aid, or that my own contribution is in any way more
important than the charitable works of this institution. But in
regard to the oath that all of us take
to seek
out the guilty and to render justice,
nothing at all was done,
beyond a great deal of talk and the performance of some very pretty
ceremonies and rituals. Even now—“

“Even now,” put in Mr. Owlfeather, from his place at
the head of the table, “only you, my good Francis, have the
courage, the daring, and the expertise necessary to take an active
role. For which reason,” he added, with a significant glance in
Lord Mallekin’s direction, “I have taken the position that it is
not for the guild to dictate Lord Skelbrooke’s activities, so much
as to sponsor them. Where and when he chooses to act must be left
entirely to his own discretion.”

“I thank you,” said Skelbrooke, with another nod. “I
am perfectly convinced that insofar as you are concerned, Mr.
Owlfeather, no explanation is necessary. But for the sake of the
other gentlemen here present I will say this much: there is
evidence that these white slavers make some use of magic in snaring
their victims and rendering them docile. These spells, so very
minor in themselves, would hardly merit my attention, were it not
for the purpose to which they have been addressed.”

“Nevertheless,” the young man in the grey wig
insisted, “from what I know of your previous activities, this
project does not appear to be precisely in line with your usual
endeavors.”

“My dear Lord Mallekin.” Skelbrooke’s voice took on a
steely edge, and his smile lost some of its sweetness. “I oppose
myself to
anything
which tends toward the
rape of innocence.”

The Glassmakers conducted their more private
ceremonies in a vault beneath the Guildhall: a vast octagonal
chamber built of stone, purposely constructed to resemble a
glassblower’s furnace, with arched apertures on every wall, except
at the east, where the heavy iron doors were located.

There were seven arches, and twice seven pillars, and
seven marble statues of the winged Fates. The floor was tiled in an
elaborate mosaic pattern depicting the ascent of the soul through
the seven spheres. At the center of the vault was a raised dais,
reached by nine shallow steps.

On this particular evening, only lodge members of the
sixth rank and higher were present, for this was a ceremony of
elevation to that rank and title: Exalted Commander of the Burning
Water. There were two Wardens at the door, south and north, Francis
Skelbrooke and Master Ule, both of them attired in purple robes
emblazoned with suns and stars. They wore sharp-edged scimitars
with golden handles, tucked into their belts. And Mr. Owlfeather,
as the Grand Preceptor, waited on the dais.

As the iron doors opened; the Wardens drew their
scimitars. Two members, acting as Chaplains, appeared on the
threshold, escorting the blindfolded Candidate between them. His
eyes were bandaged and his wrists manacled with wide cuffs joined
by a stout chain—symbolizing the heavy weight which those who live
in ignorance must bear through the world. The Chaplains led him to
the dais, and Mr. Owlfeather, descending, removed the
blind-fold.

In his place by the door, Francis Skelbrooke was
experiencing the greatest difficulty concentrating on the action by
the altar. His thoughts kept straying back to the apothecary shop
and the puzzling revelations of Mistress Sancreedi. Every instinct
he possessed assured him that Skogsrå and the Duchess presented a
threat to the health and well-being of Elsie Vorder, yet the nature
of that threat continued to elude him. Something was missing, he
told himself, some clue, some word, some perception—lacking which
he was incapable of making the right connections.

Up on the dais, the ritual continued. The Preceptor
produced a poniard and placed it ceremoniously at the initiate’s
throat. On receiving the correct response, he removed the blade and
freed the Candidate of his shackles. The initiate crossed his arms,
palms up, offering his wrists to Mr. Owlfeather, who carefully made
a shallow, ritual scar on each one.

With a violent start, Skelbrooke dropped his
scimitar. It fell clattering on the tile floor, drawing all eyes in
his direction. For in one brief flash of intuition, all the facts
had fallen into a neat, comprehensible pattern in his mind. Yet the
puzzle revealed was so fantastic, the whole thing so wildly
improbable, that he was not absolutely positive that he believed
any of it himself.

Certainly, thought Skelbrooke (as he bent with a word
of apology to pick up the blade), certainly none of this was
anything he might communicate to Sera Vorder in a letter—not if he
expected her to credit a single word. No, he decided, he would have
to travel to Zar-Wildungen in person and arrange to speak to Sera
privately. Once he had convinced her, it would be up to Sera, in
her turn, to convince Elsie that a plot existed against her.

Yet his present perilous business still demanded his
immediate attention. He could not leave Thornburg until that was
finished, lest the prey he had marked for himself slip right
through the net he was so carefully weaving, and escape
altogether.

But three days to complete his business, four at
most—and then two days on the road to Zar-Wildungen, if he traveled
swiftly and encountered no delays along the way—he should be there
inside a week. And Elsie and the Jarl were not even betrothed; the
young lady was not in any
immediate
danger.

He felt confident that he would reach the Duke’s
estate with ample time to spare, in plenty of time to prevent a
wedding . . . and a blood-letting.

Chapter
29

In which Skogsrå learns more of the Duchess’s
Intentions.

The road between Lüftmal and the larger town of Pfalz
was well maintained, and the Duchess and her party traveled along
at a steady clip for perhaps five miles. But then the road divided,
and the coach, and the lighter carriage following behind, deserted
the broad and easy way for a winding country lane, leading toward
the Duke of Zar-Wildungen’s country estate.

The lane soon became rutted and bumpy, heavy going
for the big berlin, which jounced and bounced in such a way that
the ladies inside were much shaken. But Jarl Skogsrå, in his
well-sprung cabriolet, and his companion Mr. Budge, took the bumps
lightly and arrived at the iron gates of the Wichtelberg still
comparatively fresh.

From there, the way was smoother; a gravel-covered
drive wound through the park in wide, leisurely loops. The Duchess
shook out her skirts and righted her bonnet, took a reviving whiff
of hartshorn, and opened her fan. The two girls, recovering more
swiftly, each took a window. The drive continued on for almost a
mile through wooded country, then past a lake and down an avenue
lined with ash trees, before Sera and Elsie caught their first
glimpse of the house.

Located on rising ground above the lake, the manor
was a great rambling dwarf-built structure of whitewashed stone,
reached by a series of marble terraces. The coach pulled up before
a flight of low steps. The Duchess alighted first, followed by
Sera, and then Elsie.

A broad-shouldered young man in an exquisitely
tailored coat of blue superfine appeared on the terrace above. He
ran down the steps and presented himself to the Duchess with a very
pretty bow.

“My dear boy, how delightful to see you again,” said
the Duchess. “Allow me to present you to my companions. Miss
Seramarias and Miss Elsie Vorder: this gentleman is Baron
Vodni.”

The Baron had an open countenance and a fresh
complexion. He wore his own hair, carelessly tied back, with one
dark lock straying romantically across his brow. He looked, thought
Sera, like a man who lived in the country and liked it. He had an
easy, graceful way about him, as he took first Elsie’s hand and
then Sera’s, each time executing an elegant bow.

Then he turned to greet Jarl Skogsrå, who was just
dismounting from his carriage. “My old friend, you look fagged to
death. The journey was undoubtedly a difficult one. But you must
not exhaust yourself, really you must not,” said Vodni, with a wide
grin. “For the sake of your friends, my dear Skogsrå, you must make
every effort to guard your health.”

“I thank you,” said the Jarl, with a characteristic
grimace, “my health remains excellent—you young popinjay—and I am
not so many years your senior.”

Baron Vodni continued to smile brightly. “But of
course—a decade or two—what is that?”

It was evident, at least to Sera, that the two men
disliked each other heartily, and the Baron rose in her estimation
accordingly. Certainly there was nothing mocking or objectionable
in his manner when the Duchess introduced him to Hermes Budge. “The
Duke sent me down to welcome you, sir. He is resting at the moment,
but he hopes to entertain you in his study this evening.”

The baron fell into step with Sera as they crossed
the marble terrace. “Seramarias is a charming name. The mythical
gemstone of incalculable price.
‘Radiant
Seramarias, which men have sought . . . ‘
I fear that I have
forgotten the rest of the verse, but perhaps it will return to
me.”

“Are you a poet, my lord?” asked Sera, with a frown.
She was not eager to make the acquaintance of another poetical
young noblemen.

“Alas, no,” said Vodni, with unimpaired good nature.
“Though I once had aspirations along those lines. Not a poet, Miss
Vorder, but the Duke of Zar-Wildungen’s secretary.”

“The Duke’s—“ Sera experienced a momentary confusion.
“Perhaps I misheard the Duchess. It is . . . it is
Baron
Vodni, is it not?”

“Baron Nicolai Vodni; but the title is little more
than a courtesy,” he replied. “In my family, we are all barons and
baronesses. It is the custom of our country, where titles are more
easily come by than money to live on. My uncle does own a fine
estate near Katrinsberg, which he inherited from my grandfather,
but in Ruska as elsewhere the younger son of a younger son is often
obliged to work for his living.

“You must not think that I am complaining,” he added
cheerfully. “Apart from my blighted poetic ambitions, my situation
suits me very well. And I believe that a man as energetic as I am
requires a profession, to keep him out of mischief.”

The Duchess’s personal attendants, along with the
house servants, were lined up to greet her in the great marble
entry hall. She assigned a maid to Sera and Elsie and delegated a
footman to act as valet to the Jarl and Mr. Budge.

“I believe,” she told her guests, as she handed
Sebastian the ape over to her butler, “there is time enough for
anyone who wishes to take a brief rest before dressing for dinner.
But for myself, I am eager to see the Duke. You will accompany me,
Vodni?”

“It will be my pleasure,” said the Baron, offering
her his arm.

“I have no desire to rest,” said Skogsrå: “I find
myself restless, not tired at all. With the Gracious Lady’s
permission, I will accompany her as well.”

The Gracious Lady lfted an eyebrow, but made no
demur, not even when Skogsrå followed her and Vodni out of the hall
and down a broad corridor lined with suits of armor and ancient
portraits.

“And what do you think of the young ladies, my
guests?” the Duchess asked the Baron, as they moved in the
direction of the east wing, where the Duke’s rooms were located
overlooking the lake. “Are they not both of them delightful young
women?”