The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (6 page)

Eldyn’s plan was only to see which of his former schoolmates were hanging about and to find out how they were faring now that the new term was under way. He did not intend to loiter, for he dared not buy more than a single coffee. Even so, at ten pennies a cup, it was more than he could afford. However, Mrs. Haddon was so elated to see him after a long absence from her establishment that she cackled like a hen and pinched his cheek and told him he should have as many cups as he liked that day and not pay a thing. For, as she said, “The sight of your cherub’s face, Mr. Garritt, is payment enough for me.”

This comment provoked laughter all around. Mrs. Haddon was old enough to be a mother to any of them; her white wig was frizzy as a dandelion gone to seed, and her cheeks were painted like a Murghese teapot, which was not inappropriate, as her shape recalled a teapot as well.

After disentangling himself from Mrs. Haddon, Eldyn noticed a group of Gauldren men sitting at the table nearest the window. He had been introduced to some of them before, as they were classmates of Rafferdy’s. However, they ignored his glances and instead talked intently—and rather loudly—of astral conjunctions and runes of power. It was only at Gauldren’s College that the subject of magick was currently taught, which was why it had become fashionable for the sons of lords to attend that particular college, which was consequently too expensive for anybody else.

Eldyn passed their table and instead—having noticed several hands waving vigorously from across the coffeehouse—made his way to a table in a cozy corner near the fire. At the table sat several of his classmates from St. Berndyn’s College. Or former classmates, as Eldyn had not been able to afford that term’s tuition. They found a chair for him, and he sat, grateful for the heat; the day was chilly, as short days after long nights often were.

As he sipped his coffee, savoring the flavor of it, he asked his old companions about which classes they were attending and what their professors had discussed. However, as usual, they were less inclined to talk about their studies than the news in the latest issue of
The Fox
.

“It’s criminal, that’s what it is,” Curren Talinger said, thumping the table so that they all had to grasp their cups and saucers to keep them from flying off. “It’s positively criminal what they’re doing.”

Eldyn shook his head; he hadn’t read the broadsheets in several days. “What
who
is doing?”

“The criminals, I should imagine,” Orris Jaimsley replied with a bent grin. “They’re usually the ones who perpetrate the crimes.”

“Oh, they’re criminals, all right,” Talinger went on, clearly in a mood for oration. His red hair belied his Westland heritage. That and his temper: the table received another blow from a meaty fist that seemed better suited to a workman than a student of philosophy. “They’d make the king crawl on his belly and beg just to build a ship to defend Altania’s shores. But the swine are running things now, and we have only ourselves to blame for it. We’re the ones who put them on top.”

“I don’t remember voting for a Sir Hogg or a Mr. Porkly in the last election,” Eldyn said, returning Jaimsley’s grin.

“I think he’s referring to members of Assembly,” Dalby Warrett said, as usual not getting the joke.

“Then he’s insulted swine everywhere,” Jaimsley proclaimed. He was a gangly young man who more than made up for his homely looks with an appealing wit. No one was more popular at St. Berndyn’s.

“Really, Talinger, do you think this new act is so bad as all that?” Warrett said when their mirth had subsided. He had a face that, while well wrought, was too placid to be handsome; he was forever attempting to throw water on Talinger’s fires. “The Hall of Magnates has committed worse crimes than this of late. Besides, Assembly has always held the kingdom’s purse strings.”

“Held them?” Talinger shook his head. “More like clutched them tight and knotted them shut, while at the same time slitting a hole in the bottom of the purse. They build walls around their manors to protect them, but they won’t let the king build a ship to protect our country.”

“Protect our country from what?” Jaimsley said with a roll of his eyes. “There’s been peace with the Murgh Empire for half a century. And even if they decided to invade tomorrow, do you really think you could trust our king to keep Altania safe?”

Talinger had to concede the point. “Maybe not King Rothard. He was already weak before he got ill. He never should have given up so much ground to Assembly. But if we had a strong king, a rightful king…”

Jaimsley gave him a sharp look. “What are you saying?”

“All I’m saying is…” Even Talinger had the sense to lower his voice, noisy as the coffeehouse was. “All I’m saying is that if
Somebody
was ever to come back to Altania, he would put an end to these sorts of problems. You can bet
Somebody
would stop the magnates from raiding Altania’s coffers and leaving nothing for the common folk, and you can bet he would put Assembly in its place. And if the princess married
Somebody,
then no one could complain the crown wasn’t rightfully his.”

Warrett’s cup clattered against his saucer, and Eldyn cast a glance over his shoulder. What Talinger had said was dangerously close to treason, and the Gray Conclave had spies everywhere.

“Oh, dry your breeches, Warrett,” Talinger said. “I didn’t speak a name. Even if the Black Dog’s men are sniffing about, there’s nothing they can do. All I said was
Somebody.
”

Yes. And Eldyn, just like everyone else, knew that
Somebody
meant not just anybody but rather Huntley Morden—grandson of the Old Usurper, Bandley Morden—who rumor told dwelled in the court of a Murghese prince, waiting for the right wind to blow him and the fleet of ships he was building east across the sea to the shores of Altania so he might seize the throne his grandfather had failed to win. Given these times, Eldyn was not so certain as Talinger that one of Lord Valhaine’s agents, if he had overheard, would have sat there and done nothing. Men had been jailed for as much and hung for little more.

However, nothing did happen, and after a moment Warrett retrieved his cup, giving Talinger a dark look. “Whatever you might think of the king, Talinger, you cannot truly believe Princess Layle would willingly marry her father’s sworn enemy.”

“What do you want with a king anyway, Talinger?” Jaimsley said more lightly. “Are you so keen to be told what to do? If so, you need only to look there.”

Jaimsley gestured toward the wall behind them. Warrett and especially Talinger glared at the piece of paper tacked to the wall, and Eldyn could not blame them. The Rules of Citizenship had gone up in every public place in the city by order of the Black Dog himself, Lord Valhaine. They listed all the things a good citizen of Altania was to do and not do. Among its myriad lines, the rules stated when people could gather, and where, and in what numbers. Rule Six said that anyone hearing treasonous talk should report it to a magistrate at once. Rule Fourteen stated that one was not to insult the king, the princess, or Assembly in public.

Eldyn was pretty certain they had all violated
that
particular rule.

Breaking any of the rules was a punishable crime. Tearing the rules down was one too. Whether that crime got you a fine, a night in jail, or an appointment with the noose at Barrowgate all depended on how foul a mood the judge was in, how large a bribe you could pay, and whether your grandfather had marched under the Arringhart stag or the Morden hawk.

“That’s what a king does, Talinger,” Jaimsley said with a serious look. “He can’t help it. It’s in his blood. So if you’re intent on having a monarch, be sure to take special note of Rule Twenty-Four. It tells you when you can wipe your arse.”

Talinger’s face reddened another shade. “Better a just king telling you what to do than a bunch of greedy lords.”

“And I say we’d be better off without either king or Assembly,” Jaimsley said, balancing a spoon on his finger. “Perhaps, if we’re lucky, one will do away with the other, and Altania will be rid of the scourge of both.”

“And who would rule us then?” Talinger said with a snort.

“Why, we would rule ourselves.” Jaimsley gestured around the table. “The people would rule Altania.”

Perhaps it was only the effects of too much coffee, but these words filled Eldyn with a peculiar exhilaration. What if it did not matter that one was a lord or of the gentry or the lowest of the commons? What if a man’s fate wasn’t decided by who his father was, but was rather something he could choose for himself?

“I would start by tossing all the magnates in the pits beneath the Citadel,” Warrett declared, his usually tranquil manner replaced by a certain vehemence. “Throw away the keys and let them rot in there with the other rats, that’s what I say.”

“Now, that’s the spirit,” Jaimsley said with a laugh. “We don’t need them to make decisions for us. The people can decide for themselves what’s best for Altania.”

“But can they?” Eldyn said, realizing only after the fact that he had spoken the words. His excitement had faded. “Can common people really be counted upon to make decisions about important matters? What if they choose unwisely?”

Jaimsley gave him a sharp look. “But that’s not possible, Garritt. If something is truly the will of the people of Altania, then it cannot possibly be wrong. It is only when the desires of the people are supplanted by the greed of the magnates that ill arises.”

While Jaimsley’s words made sense, somehow Eldyn could not feel the same certainty. He remembered once, years ago, when his father took him to see a hanging at Barrowgate. Eldyn had been no more than five or six; why his father had wished him to see such a spectacle, he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was out of simple cruelty.

He remembered how his father had hoisted him up on his shoulders so that Eldyn could see the black walls of Barrowgate. Who the men on the scaffold were he did not know, but the crowd shouted and jeered at them as if they were beasts. Except, after a while, it was the crowd that seemed to be comprised of beasts. Men threw stones and old women howled, while children danced about and vendors sold sweets and cups of grog from carts, as if it were a festival. There was a hunger in the air, and if one man had dared to get up and claim that one of the condemned was in fact innocent and should be spared, Eldyn was sure the crowd would have dragged him down and torn him apart with their hands.

As they waited for the execution, his father had bought him a treacle tart—which was strange, as his father never bought him sweets or presents. But he did that day, and he urged Eldyn to eat it, which he did, even though it made his stomach sick.

“Cheer,” his father told him. “Cheer when they pull the lever.”

Then the trapdoor on the scaffold was dropped, and the prisoners fell. However, the hangman had tied the ropes too long, and when the men stopped falling, their necks broke, killing them. The crowd hissed and swore at being denied the spectacle of a slow death; then they turned away, going back to their lives as cobblers or washing women or grocers.

Eldyn wondered—were these the same people who would decide the fate of Altania in the absence of King and Assembly? His stomach felt sour, as it had that day long ago. But it was only too much of Mrs. Haddon’s strong coffee. He glanced out the window and saw that dusk was gathering; the short day was nearly done. He stood and bid his companions farewell.

“You will be back at university next term, won’t you, Garritt?” Talinger asked as Eldyn put on his coat. “We need that pretty cherub’s face of yours to attract the girls when we go out drinking.”

“Of course I’ll be back,” he said, doing his best to sound confident. “I’m preoccupied with business right now, that’s all. It should be concluded soon. Until then, you’ll just have to make do with Jaimsley’s wit.”

“Then saints help us all,” Talinger said.

And the three were already back to discussing the doings of king and Assembly by the time Eldyn turned from the table.

H
E WALKED PAST the old church of St. Adaris on his way back to the Golden Loom.

Eldyn knew he shouldn’t have come here; the church was out of the way, and he had told Sashie he would be back by afternoon. Now the brief day was done, and twilight settled like ash over the city. Besides, he had not set foot inside a church in years. There was nothing for him within those walls.

But he wanted to see the angel again.

Like so many of the old churches in Invarel, the chapel of St. Adaris had seen better days. It glowered at the end of a squalid lane on the far side of Durrow Street. It was a hulking edifice, its walls streaked with soot and bird droppings.

Eldyn gripped the bars of the fence that bounded the churchyard. The statue of a beautiful youth glowed amid the gravestones in the moonlight. He was naked save for a ribbon of cloth that swirled about him; his wrists were bound behind his back, and steel arrows pierced his flesh. Dark tears streamed from the weathered hollows of his eyes.

The statue was not really that of an angel. It was only years after he first saw it as a boy that Eldyn learned it was meant to depict St. Andelthy, who was martyred for his faith fourteen centuries ago: shot full of arrows by the barbarians who inhabited Altania when civilized men first set foot upon its shores, bringing the word of God with them. Maybe it was his silent prayer to St. Andelthy earlier that day that had made him think of the statue, or perhaps it was the thoughts of the past that had haunted him of late. Eldyn wasn’t certain. All he knew was that he had wanted to look upon it again, and here he was.