The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (69 page)

Ivy felt her spirits rise with real hope. “Try the spell again, Mr. Rafferdy. However, this time I want you not merely to speak the words, but to envision each word as a thought coming from your own mind, each sound as a breath from deep inside. With each utterance, you must feel your will being exerted upon the box.”

A furrow creased his brow as he raised the box and gazed at it. The magician’s ring glinted blue on his hand. For a long moment he was silent. Then he drew a breath and spoke in the ancient tongue of magick.

The sunlight coming through the window went thin, and the air in the parlor darkened a shade. Ivy shivered, crossing her arms. As he spoke the final words, it seemed to her there came a sound on the very edge of hearing, like a rumble of thunder that had all but faded away.

Their eyes met. “Go on,” she said at last.

He shook his head. “No, you try it.”

She took the box from him, running her fingers over it, attempting without success to pry it open. However, as she touched the silver eye inlaid in the wood, the symbol depressed under her fingertip.

The top of the box sprang open with a
click
. So surprised was she that she fumbled the box and something small fell out, striking the parlor floor with a loud noise. Mr. Rafferdy bent forward and retrieved it.

“It’s just a ball,” he said. “A metal ball.”

He held it out to her. It was, as he said, a small sphere forged of some metal. It was reddish in color, as if rusty, but smooth to the touch. The ball was cold in her hand.

He stood. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Quent, but I don’t see how that’s going to be any help. Perhaps you were mistaken about the box?”

Ivy turned the orb over and saw there was a small hole in it. She thought of her father in his cell at Madstone’s, how he had sometimes paused in his pacing to make twisting motions with his hands. No, she had not been wrong about the box.

“Come with me,” she said, and without further explanation she hurried from the parlor and up the stairs. It took him a moment to react, so that by the time he came into the attic she had already reached the corner where the celestial globe stood.

“What is this thing?” he said as he drew closer.

“It’s my father’s. It shows the mechanics and motions of the heavens.” She examined it, searching, looking for something she had never seen before but that she was certain was there. It had to be. “The larger, hollow orbs represent the celestial spheres.”

He touched one of the balls suspended on the end of a metal arm. “And I suppose these are the eleven planets.”

“No, not eleven,” she said, gripping the metal orb in her hand.

And there it was. It was on the rear side of the globe, close into the center, and very small—a round nubbin of metal. It was no wonder, given the profusion of gears and levers and arms, that she had never seen it before. She took the reddish metal ball and lined up the hole with the post. Then she pushed it into place.

There was a metallic sound. The ball pushed back against her hand, as if somewhere deep within the globe a spring had been released. She let go of it, and the post extended outward from the globe, telescoping into a thin metal arm with the reddish orb at its end.

Mr. Rafferdy raised an eyebrow. “Well, that did something, all right. But what is it?”

“It’s the twelfth planet,” Ivy said. “The red wanderer that appeared in the sky a few months ago. It’s been gone for millennia, since before recorded history began, but now it’s come back.”

So, you have returned at last from your wanderings,
her father had said that night when she first saw the red spark in the sky. Somehow he had known about the planet and had incorporated it into the globe. She put her hands on the knobs and levers and began to work them.

“What are you doing?”

Ivy watched the spheres and arms as they spun and turned. It was all different now. Something must have been altered in the interior workings of the globe. The planets moved in patterns she had never seen before. The two smallest planets, Vaelus and Cyrenth, swung toward each other—then passed by without touching. She kept working the dials and levers.

“When twelve who wander stand as one,”
she murmured.

“What’s that?”

She shook her head. “It’s a riddle. Something my father left for me.”

He walked around the globe. “I see. They’re lining up, aren’t they?”

He was right. At first the planets had been scattered in all directions around the globe. However, each time the spheres made a full revolution, they drew nearer and nearer one another. Now they were all on the same side of the globe, now gathered in the same quadrant, now forming a ragged line. She kept turning the knobs, even though her hands had started to ache, simulating the passage of dozens, of hundreds of years.

This time it was not a
click
but a tone like the chiming of a bell. Ivy pried her stiff fingers from the dials. On the far side of the globe, all twelve of the balls—the planets—stood in a perfect line.

“It’s a grand conjunction,” she said, filled with wonder. “But that’s impossible. The planets never all line up.” Or at least they never had in the memory of mankind.

He walked again around the globe. “Look here!” he said.

Ivy followed him, looking where he pointed. A small opening had appeared in the centermost sphere. It was too dark too see what it was, but something glinted within.

“Go on,” he said. “You’re the one who solved the riddle.”

Ivy leaned forward, slipping her fingers into the opening. She came away with something small. She opened her hand, and as when Mr. Rafferdy had worked magick, a shiver passed through her.

“The key will be revealed in turn,”
she said softly. She turned the iron key over in her fingers. It was cool and heavy.

“I think there’s something else in there.” Mr. Rafferdy leaned in and plucked something out of the niche in the globe. It was a piece of paper, folded several times into a neat square.

“Please, you open it,” she said, for her hands were shaking.

“It’s a letter,” he said. “Addressed to you.”

“Would you read it for me?” Her hand was a fist around the key.

“Are you certain?”

She nodded. Mr. Rafferdy took the letter to the window where the light was stronger.

“My Dearest Ivy,”
he began,
“if you are reading this, it means something has gone awry, and I have been forced to do something I hoped I would not have to do. I cannot say I am entirely surprised; that things might take a bad turn is precisely why I have made these preparations. Since you are reading this, it seems my riddles were not beyond you. Not that I thought they would be; I know you are an exceedingly clever girl. Or young lady, I suppose by now. How I wish I could see how you have grown!

“But there is no time to wonder about that. The hour grows late, and I have only a little time left to write this and to conceal the key. That they will come searching for it, I have no doubt. The binding is strong and will endure for a long while. However, in time, others will attempt to undo our work and open the way—and I fear those who do so will be members of my own circle, the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye.”

Ivy could not suppress a gasp. The man in the black mask had told her of the order, but that her father had been a member of it was something she had not considered.

Mr. Rafferdy looked up from the letter. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Please, go on.”

He returned his gaze to the letter.
“I have discovered that there are deceivers within the order. They will seek to open the door, thinking they can use what would come through for their own ends. They are wrong. To break the binding would open the way for something unspeakable. That I have time on my side is my one comfort, for the enchantment is one of great power, and it will take many years for them to undo the work we have done.

“Yet they will not stop trying. Eventually, they will attempt to open the door. This must not be allowed. I wish I could have told all of this to you directly, but you are too young as I write this, and since I do not know who within the order I can trust, I must resort to these little puzzles, which I am confident only you will be able to solve. It is only you I can trust, my dearest Ivy. That is why I gave you the book of myths and my magick cabinet.”

Ivy’s heart ached. “But he was never able to give me the book. I only found it recently because of the carelessness of one of our maids. And I never received the magick cabinet. My mother must have banished it from the house; she loathed such things. She must have given it to Mr. Quent.”

Mr. Rafferdy met her gaze. “But what is this door he speaks of? Does that key go to it?”

“Finish the letter,” Ivy said. “Then I will tell you what I know.”

He read on.
“Clever as you are, my dearest, you will not be able to protect the doorway on your own. There are enchantments in the house, defenses that can be renewed. However, you must find another who can help you—a magician. Who that will be, I do not know. I can tell you only not to trust any of the members of my order. That most are good and conscientious men I believe, but I cannot know who among them is false. You will have to use your own judgment.

“I recommend only that he be a magician of considerable skill. It will not be easy, and you will have little time. Once you enter the house, they will be alerted—they will sense that the seal has at last been broken, and they will come. You will find the door in the chamber behind my study. It is there that the magician must work the enchantment. I have set out the words of the spell on the reverse of this page. That the magician succeed in this task is of the greatest imperative. All of Altania depends upon it.

“I wish I had time to tell you more. I do not! I will say only that if
he
should come to you, listen to him. I will not give his name, for I do not know it myself, though I have spoken to him many times over the years. Nor have I seen his face behind the dark mask he wears, but I trust him more than I trust myself. If he should ever speak to you, heed him.

“My time is gone. I must go. Give my affection to your mother and sisters, and know that no matter what happens you have, and shall always have, my love.”
Rafferdy turned over the letter. “There is something written in the language of magick here, as he said.”

A weakness had come over Ivy. She went to a stool used to retrieve books from the highest shelves and sat. “That’s what he meant in the riddle,” she murmured.
“Through the door the dark will come.”

“What will come through the door? And who’s this person he described, the one he said might speak to you? It certainly seems like he might be able to help if we could find the fellow.”

Ivy looked up at him standing by the celestial globe, the letter in his hands. His velvet coat had gotten dusty, and his expression was at once serious and puzzled, giving him a quizzical look. Despite everything that had happened—that was going to happen—her heart felt suddenly light. Her father had told her she needed to find a magician to help her, someone she could trust utterly. But she already had.

“I have spoken to him,” she said, meeting his gaze, “twice now.”

Then she told him about the man in the mask.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

R
AFFERDY GAVE HIS hat and ivory-handled cane (his latest affectation) to the servant, who bowed as he accepted them.

“I will tell the master you’ve arrived,” the man said as he rose, though given his expression he might as well have said,
I will tell the master there is a bit of moldy cheese on the table,
or
I will tell the master there are several charity workers at the door.

“Thank you,” Rafferdy said.

The man shut the doors, leaving him alone in the parlor. It was sometimes said that a man’s character was reflected in his servants. That adage appeared true enough in this case. Rafferdy could not recall a time he had willingly come to call on someone he found so repulsive.

However, it was not for his own entertainment he had come here, he reminded himself. He paced around the room, wishing he had kept his cane; he enjoyed the feel of it in his hand, and he liked to imagine it lent him an air of gravity.

As always, the room appeared comfortable and mundane, filled with the warm sun of a lingering morning. Yet appearances could deceive. In his previous visits here, he had come to learn more about the objects that decorated the room. He knew now that the soapstone urns contained dust from Tharosian graves; that the rusty knife on the mantel had once been used by chieftains of the remote north to offer up sacrifices to pagan gods; and that the massive book that rested on a wooden stand, retrieved from the vaults beneath a padishah’s library, was bound in fine leather that came not from the hide of animals but from a source that set Rafferdy’s own skin crawling in sympathetic reaction each time he considered it.

He willed his attention away from these peculiar objects and instead drew a piece of paper from his coat pocket. On it he had made a copy of the spell Mr. Lockwell had included on the back of the letter they had discovered inside the celestial globe.

You must think I’m the one who should be in Madstone’s,
Miss Lockwell—that is, Mrs. Quent—had said yesterday, after she told him about the man in the black mask who had appeared to her twice now.

In truth, Rafferdy did not know what to think. Mysterious strangers, magickal doors, secret societies—all of it seemed fairly preposterous. And what was this grave danger that the masked fellow had warned would come through the door if it was opened—these Ashen, as he called them? That sounded like something one good sneeze would blow away. Besides, what need had Altania for fantastical threats when it already had magnates, bankers, and rebels aplenty? No, he did not know what to think.

Except he did not think Mrs. Quent was mad. Indeed, he was certain she was at least twice as clever as he was, and far more sensible. Besides, her father had seemed to know this peculiar masked fellow and had warned of similar dangers in his letter. While Rafferdy could not imagine he had the power to do anything to help Altania, if he could help Mrs. Quent gain entry to the house on Durrow Street, he would do so. It was her hope that something inside the house would give her insight into the mishap that had befallen her father years ago and that such knowledge might make it possible to cure his malady. He did not know if that was the case, or even if he could possibly work the spell written on the paper, but for her sake he would try. Besides, it would be a novelty to do something for someone other than himself.

Again he studied the words of the spell. They were stranger than anything Mr. Bennick had so far shown to him. His lips could not shape themselves around the syllables. In his letter, Mr. Lockwell had warned that members of the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye would be alerted once they entered the house, that he would have to work the spell before they arrived. However, at his present rate, it would take him hours to mumble his way through the spell.

Rafferdy sighed and folded the paper. “I can only hope the wicked magicians are in no particular hurry,” he said.

“In a hurry to do what?” asked a deep voice behind him.

In a smooth motion, Rafferdy slipped the paper into his pocket, turned around, and smiled. “To take my soul, of course. Isn’t that what all wicked magicians want? To find some young apprentice they can trick into signing away that better, ethereal part of him in exchange for the promise of power? But if it’s my soul they’re after, they’ll have to wait. It will be years before I’m so much as the lowliest acolyte. Not that they’ll find my soul of much value when they do get it. I am sure by now it is a bedraggled thing.”

Mr. Bennick went to a sideboard. “I do not believe it will be nearly so long as you suggest before you are much more than an apprentice,” he said as he poured a pair of sherries. “I have had students, some from the oldest Houses, who after a year of study have not successfully performed a single spell. You performed one within minutes. So by your measure, your soul is very much in peril. Or what is left of it, at any rate.” He handed Rafferdy one of the glasses. “To magick,” he said, and took a sip of his drink.

Rafferdy was forced to shore up his smile lest it crumble. “Cheers,” he said, and downed the contents of his glass.

“I was pleased to receive your note asking to continue your studies,” Mr. Bennick said. “As I told you, I believe you have rare ability, but that ability is worth little without application. Was there some particular thing you wished to learn today, something of special interest to you?”

Rafferdy winced. Had the magician seen him reading the paper?

“I had no particular thought,” he said. “You’re the master, and I am merely the student. I will leave it to you.”

“Learning cannot happen if there is not something one wishes to learn, Mr. Rafferdy. You have mastered the binding and opening of small objects; I can teach you no more in that regard. However, as you have seen, that is little more than a parlor trick. To progress deeper in the arcane arts—I will say only that it will not be as simple as what we have done so far. So if it is the case that there is not something particular you desire to know, perhaps it is best if your lessons end now.”

His eyes were dark as he took another sip of sherry. That this was his first test, Rafferdy had no doubt. Except if he failed this exam, there was no paying a few regals to get a better score as at university.

“There is something,” he said, and drew in a breath. “I was interested in learning how—that is, you mentioned once that enchantments can lose their potency over time, that a box I bind shut will before long lose all traces of magick so that anyone can open it.” He took a step toward Mr. Bennick and was surprised to hear a note of what sounded like genuine interest in his voice. “I was wondering what can be done to make such an enchantment endure longer, even for many years—that is, to renew an existing spell.”

Mr. Bennick raised an eyebrow. “Usually novices want to learn how to call lightning or some such thing.”

Rafferdy shrugged. “I can neither drink lightning nor smoke or wear it, so it’s of no use to me.”

“Your inquiry pertains to a vital subject,” the other man said. “One that weighs upon the mind of many who study the arcane. It is not unusual for a magician to desire to keep some things hidden for years, even long after his own demise. Nothing is more precious to a magician than knowledge—not just gaining it, but protecting it as well. A magician who can master such bindings would be considered powerful indeed.”

Rafferdy willed himself to meet the taller man’s gaze, to hold it. He had to appear as if he really wished to learn.

Yet he
did
wish to; he was suddenly more curious about it than he had been about anything for ages. Exactly why, he wasn’t certain. Maybe it was only because if
she
was interested in it, then it was necessarily interesting to
him
.

“Can you teach me?”

Mr. Bennick crossed the room. Rafferdy followed after, ready to plead his case.

“As I said, you should not think it will be easy,” Mr. Bennick said. He stopped before the large tome on its pedestal, the ancient book whose covers were fashioned of human skin. It was bound with brass bands and a padlock shaped like a grotesque head, its mouth forming the keyhole.

“Well, I should hope not,” Rafferdy said. “If it were easy, then any sod would be a magician. In which case I wouldn’t find it the least bit interesting. For the moment everyone is doing something is the moment it stops being remotely fashionable.”

“Is that the reason you wish to study magick, Mr. Rafferdy? Because it has become fashionable of late?”

Rafferdy started to form some flippant answer.
Of course,
he was going to say,
the only reason to do anything at all is because it’s fashionable
. Then he thought of the wealthy young men he had known at Gauldren’s College, sons of lords like him. He recalled how they had liked going to taverns and coffeehouses and speaking in overloud voices of this arcane rune or that secret word of power they had learned.

A feeling of disdain came over Rafferdy. Fashion was something one necessarily pursued in public in order to better make an impression upon others, but somehow he could not imagine that Mr. Bennick, when he was a magician, had ever gone to a pub or party and spoken loudly of some spell or enchantment he had done.

“No,” he said at last. “If I wish to be fashionable, I’ll buy a new coat.”

“Very well,” Mr. Bennick said. “We will begin with the Codex of Horestes. The original was written over three thousand years ago and has been lost. Yet there are a few copies, and this is one of them. It is old in its own right, at least five hundred years.”

“That seems like an awfully valuable thing to leave lying about one’s parlor,” Rafferdy said.

“Hiding a thing is only one way to guard it,” Mr. Bennick said. “And this tome has its own protections.”

He drew a ring of keys from his coat and used one of them to unlock the book. As he opened it, an odor rose on the air, at once medicinal and dusty. It made Rafferdy think of the mummies he had seen long ago on display at the Royal Museum, dug up from the sands of the far south of the empire.

“Come,” Mr. Bennick said. “Read aloud with me.”

Breathing in that ancient perfume, Rafferdy did.

H
OW LONG THEY stood there with the book, Rafferdy did not know. It seemed a short while, but when Mr. Bennick closed it and Rafferdy looked up, he saw the day had burned to ash outside the window. His legs ached, and his mouth tasted of dust.

He took a step back from the pedestal and would have staggered if the taller man had not caught his arm.

“You should sit for a while,” Mr. Bennick said. “I will get you another sherry, if you like.”

“Yes,” Rafferdy said. “I think that…yes, thank you.”

He sank into a chair near a bookshelf and held a hand to his head. His temples throbbed, and his stomach heaved to and fro like a ship on a stormy sea. Outside the window, lamplighters moved down the street.

They must have stood there reading for hours. More than once Rafferdy had wanted to turn his head, to move away; however, he had been unable to pull his gaze from the book. The spidery lines of ink had been a dark path that, once embarked upon, could not be turned from; he could only keep following it forward.

All the same, it had not been easy to read the book, and not only because of the archaic language or the queerly slanted script. He knew it had only been his imagination, an impression encouraged by the strange odors that rose from the book and perfused his brain, but the words had seemed to writhe on the parchment, as if unwilling to let themselves be read even as they bound the eye and kept it from looking elsewhere.

Now, as he sat, sweat cooled on Rafferdy’s brow, leaving him clammy. Mr. Bennick locked the book, then poured a glass of sherry and handed it to him. Rafferdy gulped it quickly, lest he spill it.

“Do you understand what you read?” Mr. Bennick’s sallow face was impassive as always, but there was a glint in his deep-set eyes.

Rafferdy set down his glass and drew out a handkerchief to mop his brow. “I don’t know. Yes—that is, I think so. Some of it, at least.”