The Master of Heathcrest Hall (37 page)

Ivy looked up at him, meeting his somber eyes. “And I believe that your words are being heard at the Citadel. Why else would you have been nominated for this post?”

“We shall soon see,” he said softly, more to himself than to her.

By then there were several lords pressing in toward them, and it was clear she could no longer keep Mr. Quent to herself. She wished him luck, and dared to give his cheek a fleeting kiss, before leaving him to the men who were to interview him.

Unaccompanied, Ivy made her way up the staircase to the gallery. She found that a seat had been reserved for her at the front of the balcony, which permitted a full view of the rostrum below. The chairs around her own were already occupied, and as soon as she was seated, she found herself returning the greetings and well wishes of many gentlemen and ladies whom she had never met. Her nervousness began to subside; it was clear that her husband still garnered much goodwill in the nation.

Then, just as Ivy’s heart had begun to beat at a more usual pace,
it quickened again as a figure came into view below. The woman might have been lost amid all the lords, for she was draped in black just like they were, but the sea of robes parted before her as she moved, then closed in behind her once she passed. From above, it looked like the pattern of ripples made by a black stone dropped into a pond.

Languidly, as if the opening of the session would naturally wait on her, Lady Shayde ascended to a seat on the rostrum, above and behind the High Speaker’s podium. She arranged the stiff black folds of her gown, then lifted the veil from the brim of her hat, exposing the perfect whiteness of her visage. Her black eyes made a survey of the Hall, then turned up toward the gallery.

Ivy shrank away from the balcony, but not before she felt that cool gaze touch upon her. Several times in the days since Shayde’s visit, Ivy had gone over the conversation in her mind, trying to remember if she had given away anything to the White Lady that she should not have.

Fortunately, Ivy had retained enough wits not to speak of Mr. Rafferdy’s study of magick, or the fact that he had joined an arcane order. There was one thing, though, which Ivy had inadvertently confirmed: the fact that she and Mr. Rafferdy were indeed acquainted. But then, this was not something they had ever concealed, and was likely a matter of public knowledge.

Had that been Shayde’s real purpose that day—not to learn about Mr. Quent, but rather to discover if Mr. Rafferdy was practicing magick? Shayde had to know he was a magician, for he never made a habit of concealing his House ring. And the practice of magick by anyone other than the High Order of the Golden Door was proscribed by the Gray Conclave. Perhaps she suspected Mr. Rafferdy was in violation of that edict.

Which, in fact, he was.

While Ivy had told Mr. Quent about Shayde’s visit, she had not been able to tell him about the final question concerning Mr. Rafferdy. Ivy could not put Mr. Quent in the awful position of knowing that a close acquaintance of his was at odds with the law. Not that Ivy liked having to conceal something from her husband;
rather, it was a cause of constant distress for her. But she knew it was right. She could not place a further burden on him, not when he was so burdened already. At the same time, she must do nothing that might endanger the work of Mr. Rafferdy’s order. For their goal was the very same as Mr. Quent’s—to ensure that the Wyrdwood did not come to harm.

Ivy leaned back toward the balustrade again, and she risked a fleeting glance at Lady Shayde. The White Lady gazed placidly at the Hall now. Ivy supposed the magicians of the Golden Door had convinced the Gray Conclave that the Wyrdwood must be destroyed, that it was a threat to Altania. Did Lady Shayde know the truth about them—the true reason they wanted the Wyrdwood destroyed?

No, Ivy did not think so. She could only believe that Shayde’s desire to defend Altania from its threats was genuine. But it was as Mr. Quent had said—she could not discern right from wrong. If only Ivy could tell her how she was in error, that she should not trust the magicians of the Golden Door! But to do so would require telling her how Ivy had come by this knowledge—and that would mean revealing that Mr. Rafferdy belonged to an illegal order.

Ivy knew what happened to those who committed crimes against the nation these days; she had seen stories in the broadsheets concerning the numbers that were sent to the gallows at Barrowgate each quarter month. No, she did not dare tell Lady Shayde what she knew.

Even as she thought this, a pair of familiar figures caught her eye. The two men were just taking their seats on one of the front benches. One of them wore an exceedingly tall wig. The other’s was more understated, but he looked very well in a simple but elegant robe of black crepe.

The latter was Mr. Rafferdy, of course, in the company of Lord Coulten. Ivy was very happy to see him, and was grateful to know her husband would have at least one trusted friend in the audience. An impulse came upon her to raise a hand and wave in order
to catch Mr. Rafferdy’s eye. Only doing so might catch Lady Shayde’s eye as well.

Ivy kept her hands firmly clasped on her lap. The High Speaker banged his gavel, and the magnates took their places as the Hall came to order. Some various pieces of business were conducted, but in short order the Hall turned to the primary matter of the day.

“Will Sir Alasdare Quent, if he is present, please come forward!” the High Speaker called out.

Mr. Quent rose from a seat on the side of the Hall. Because of his forceful presence, Ivy always thought of her husband as being larger than in fact he was. But though he possessed a powerful build, he was not in any way a tall man. Now he looked suddenly small as he made his way up to the rostrum by himself. All eyes were upon him as he went—including Lady Shayde’s.

“Sir Quent, you have been nominated for the post of lord inquirer,” the High Speaker said. “It is the right of the Hall of Magnates to advise the Crown on such matters, and to provide its consent. Toward that end, are you willing to answer any such questions as the Hall may have of you?”

“I am,” Mr. Quent said, his low voice rumbling throughout the Hall.

“Very well, then be sworn in.”

The Grand Usher brought forth a copy of the Testament, and Mr. Quent laid a hand upon it as he gave an oath to speak only truth, to the very best of his ability. This done, Mr. Quent took a seat upon the rostrum, just below the podium, and without further ado, the interview began.

It was the right of any lord in the Hall to ask a question, and a number proceeded to do so. Though what question they were asking was in general not easy to discern, for most lords seemed more inclined to make a protracted statement than pose a query to the subject on the rostrum.

Some expounded at length on the great importance of the post of lord inquirer at a time when the nation faced many threats, including
Risings of the Wyrdwood. Others recounted the excellence of the late Lord Rafferdy’s work as the leader of the Inquiry. And still other lords rose to praise Sir Quent’s long history of experience as an inquirer himself, and to recount his achievements in putting a stop to the Risings last year in Torland. For his part, Mr. Quent was able to add little to these lengthy expositions, other than to give his agreement or thanks.

In all, it was less like an interview than a series of toasts and long-winded digressions at a dinner party. Ivy’s nervousness receded. The Hall was overly warm due to the heat of the day, and as heads began to nod and drowse around her, Ivy found herself tempted to do the same.

“Thank you, Lord Stulwich,” the High Speaker said as an elderly lord, who had asked questions in a quavering voice that no one in the Hall could comprehend, retook his seat. “Are there any more queries to be made?”

Other than a rustling of robes, a silence fell over the Hall of Magnates.

“If you have a question, stand and be recognized,” the High Speaker called out, but no one responded.

Ivy’s heart leaped. Was that all? If so, then she could not believe there was anything that could impede Mr. Quent’s confirmation to the post. For nothing had come out in his testimony that reflected even the slightest bit poorly on her husband, save that it was clear he was a modest man.

But it indeed seemed to be over. The High Speaker reached for his gavel. “If there are no more questions, then this Hall will—”

“Actually, I do have one more thing to inquire of our subject,” spoke a voice. “It is just a small matter, if he would be so kind as to indulge us with one more answer.”

All heads turned toward a man who had risen from one of the front benches, opposite the Hall from where Mr. Rafferdy sat. The speaker had an unremarkable appearance, being of middle years and middle height, and not particularly thin or fat, or handsome or plain. He had a good speaking voice, though, and it carried throughout the Hall.

The High Speaker set down his gavel. “The Hall recognizes Lord Davarry. You may address the witness.”

“Thank you,” Lord Davarry said, and approached the rostrum.

Ivy dabbed at her damp cheeks with a handkerchief. She had hoped the interview was over, but she supposed she could endure one more question, if Mr. Quent could do so. She hardly paid attention to the lord’s words as he went on. Only then she happened to glance down at Mr. Rafferdy, and she saw the way he sat stiffly on the edge of his bench, his eyes fixed on the questioner.

A note of alarm impinged upon the dullness in Ivy’s brain. She looked again at the lord who was presently speaking, now paying attention to his words. As she did, her alarm rapidly grew.

“… and I must congratulate you on your testimony so far,” Lord Davarry was saying. “It is clear you are both very well-regarded in this Hall, Sir Quent, and very well-qualified for the post.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Quent replied, as he had many times already that day.

Lord Davarry nodded and smiled. He started to turn away from the rostrum, as if he were finished. Only then, abruptly, he turned on a heel and raised a finger.

“Oh, that’s right, there was one thing I wished to ask you, Sir Quent, if you do not mind. It’s something that concerns the Risings in Torland last year. You do recall them?”

Mr. Quent nodded. “Of course, very well.”

“I am sure you do,” Lord Davarry replied. “After all, you were very integral in bringing about their end, is that not so?”

“There were many who had a part in achieving that—in the Inquiry, the Gray Conclave, and the royal army.”

Davarry waved a hand. “Yes, of course, I’m sure that’s the case. I do not mean to deprive anyone of the credit they are due. But I think we can all agree that you had an
especial
importance in bringing about the end of the Risings. We all read the reports in the broadsheets, which described how you yourself were able to locate the sibyl who was in league with the rebels there, and who was inducing the Wyrdwood to rise up on their behalf.”

Mr. Quent did not reply. It had not been a question, and all of this was a matter of public record.

Lord Davarry angled his body so that he was no longer looking just at Mr. Quent, but at the Hall as well. “There’s just one thing I’m curious about, Sir Quent. The articles in the broadsheets were never clear on the specifics of how you managed to effect the capture of the witch. I can only imagine it was a difficult task to find her. How did you manage it?”

Ivy could see Mr. Quent draw a breath before he answered in his deep voice. “Over the years, the inquirers have accumulated a large body of knowledge concerning all the groves of Old Trees in the nation—their locations and dimensions, and the condition of the walls around them. By comparing observations of various stands of Wyrdwood to their known last descriptions, I was able to determine which groves had been recently disturbed, and so was able to infer her whereabouts.”

“How dry and tedious you make it sound, Sir Quent!” Lord Davarry said with an indulgent laugh. “You would have us take you for a clerk poring through dusty records. But you are too humble. I am sure it was quite exciting to hunt down a witch hiding among the Old Trees and no doubt guarded by rebels. Even if you knew what grove she was hidden within, how was it you managed to approach her unmolested?”

Furrows appeared on Mr. Quent’s brow. Again Ivy could observe the way he struggled to form a careful answer.

“I called out to her, and was able to convince her to come to the edge of the grove.”

Lord Davarry held a hand to his chest in a gesture of shock. “You called out to her? And she came?”

“She did.”

“Forgive my ignorance of such affairs, but I do not comprehend this. The witch was safe within the Wyrdwood. Why should she listen to you? Unless you threatened to burn down the grove, that is.”

Mr. Quent shook his head. “No such threat was made. To harm
the Old Trees so directly could only have led to further Risings, as she would have been well aware.”

“Then I am astonished, Sir Quent. While you have spoken very well here today, I do not discern any unusual power in your voice to induce or compel others to do your will. Or am I mistaken, and all of you have been convinced to vote aye on the matter of Sir Quent’s nomination?”

He spoke this last to the Hall, and a round of nervous laughter rose up from the benches.

“But with all due gravity,” Lord Davarry said, returning his attention to the witness, “how is it that you were able to formulate such a speech as would cause a witch to depart her only sanctuary?”

The laughter quickly succumbed to a taut silence. On the stand, Mr. Quent cleared his throat.

“I have known …” He clasped his right hand around his left. “That is, through my work, I am familiar with their ways and habits.”

For a moment Lord Davarry said nothing. He merely gazed at the witness, a hand beneath his chin.

“Indeed, Sir Quent,” he said at last, “is it not the case that you are, in fact, most intimately acquainted with witches?”

The sound of gasps was audible throughout the Hall. Ivy could not prevent herself from recoiling away from the edge of the balcony. She had never met this Lord Davarry. How was it possible that he knew? A dread came upon her, a certainty that all eyes in the Hall would turn up to look at the gallery where she sat.