The Master of Heathcrest Hall (40 page)

Over these last days, Merrick had gone several times to the Theater of the Doves. The master illusionist there had been able to impart some useful advice about what tinctures and decoctions were best for quieting spasms or easing breathing in one afflicted with the mordoth. But other than making Master Tallyroth comfortable, there was little that these could do. If he retained a great enough portion of light to sustain the workings of life, then he would endure. And if he did not …

“How was the performance tonight?” Master Tallyroth said, turning his head on the pillow to look at Eldyn. “Was there a very large audience? Though I don’t suppose there was, for I think I would have heard them.”

Eldyn shook his head. “No, the soldiers didn’t come tonight. We had barely a dozen in the house. They had all paid for their admission, though, so the performance went on as planned.”

“Above all, the play,” Tallyroth said, his voice faint but approving.

Eldyn winced a bit. “Well, we didn’t strictly give it our all.”

A frown creased the powder on the master illusionist’s face. “An illusionist should always do his very best, Mr. Garritt, if not out of regard for the audience, then out of respect for the craft.”

“I’m sorry, Master Tallyroth. You’re right, of course. But we thought … we are just rather tired after the last few performances.”

“That is understandable, Mr. Garritt. The additions necessary to please the soldiers have made the show very demanding, to be sure. But that simply means you must allow yourself enough time between performances to rest and recover.” He studied Eldyn for a moment. “Your light does seem a bit dimmer than usual. Have you been making more impressions lately?”

“A few,” Eldyn admitted.

“Well, that is part of the problem. You must be very careful not to create too many impressions, Mr. Garritt. Instead, make them only sparingly. They are wondrous—perhaps the grandest sort of illusion a Siltheri can fashion. But they are costly as well.”

Eldyn shook his head. “Costly? What do you mean?”

“When you make an impression, you are not shaping light, Mr. Garritt. You are shaping a physical thing—the impression rosin upon the plate. Yet like any illusion, light is still required to work the craft. Which means the only light you can use when you make an impression is your own.”

Eldyn could only stare. He had never considered that he was using light to work the impressions; he was always so caught up in the act of making them that he didn’t think about it. But even as Tallyroth spoke, Eldyn knew it was true—that the green flash he saw in the moment he made an impression was a bit of his own light being expended.

It was something of a horrifying realization. How much of his light had he used up? Not very much, he had to think, for he was not suffering from any adverse effects, other than being a bit tired. Besides, it didn’t matter anymore, for he had no desire to sell anything else to
The Swift Arrow
.

“I don’t think I’ll be making any more impressions for a while, Master Tallyroth.”

“That is good, Mr. Garritt. Promise me that you will only make another impression if it is for something truly worthwhile.”

“I promise.”

This response seemed to please the master illusionist, though he made no reply. Instead he exhaled, and his gaze went back to the window. Outside, the moon rose over Durrow Street. The two men were silent for a time, content to watch that silvery glow bathe the darkened theaters along the street.

“And how is Mr. Fanewerthy?”

Eldyn sat up in the chair, lifting his head as he did. He was so weary he must have nodded off for a moment. Or more than a moment, for the moon was gone from view. Now the only light visible through the window was the red ember of the new planet, pulsing against the black sky.

“I’m sorry,” Eldyn said. “What was that?”

“What is keeping him so long?” Master Tallyroth said, his reedy voice faint but peevish. “He hasn’t come to visit me all day.”

Eldyn shook his head. “Who hasn’t come to visit you?”

“Who do you think? I mean Dercy, of course! That rascal.”

A pang stabbed at Eldyn’s heart. It wasn’t just that he missed Dercy. It was also the fact that Master Tallyroth had forgotten he was gone. Nor was this the first time that had happened.

“Dercy isn’t in the city,” he said gently. “He left for the country months ago, to try to get better. You remember that, don’t you?”

The master illusionist stared blankly for a moment, confusion in his clouded eyes. Then his sunken chest rattled with a sudden breath.

“Yes, Mr. Fanewerthy has left us,” he said, the words no more than a whisper. “He is gone, I do remember.”

Eldyn rose from the chair. “I think I need to go get some of that rest you prescribed for me earlier. You should do the same.”

Master Tallyroth nodded; words seemed beyond him now. Eldyn smoothed his covers, then bent to kiss his brow. When he rose again, the older man’s eyes were closed. Quietly, so as not to wake him, Eldyn went to the oil lamp to turn down the wick. Master Tallyroth needed to sleep. That was the only thing that would help him now.

Except that wasn’t true. There was one other thing that could
be done for him—something that could help with the mordoth that afflicted him.

There is only one way to reverse the effects of the Gray Wasting
, the master illusionist at the Theater of the Doves had said to Merrick.
You can press your lips to his, and grant him some of your own light. It is not any sort of permanent cure, mind you. Each dose of light he receives will sustain him for but a finite time before it fades. Yet if those who love him wish it, then in this way they can help him to endure.…

Merrick had repeated these words to Eldyn, Hugoth, and Riethe late one night. Though Riethe had expressed his doubts.

“No, it’s true,” Merrick had said. “We all know that a little bit of light passes between Siltheri each time they touch. And the more intimate the touch, the more the light.”

Hugoth had given a grim laugh. “I’d have thought that was something you were well aware of, Riethe, given what a strumpet you are. It’s a wonder you don’t have the mordoth yourself. Then again, I’ve found it’s always the big, strapping lads who want to be on the receiving side of things!”

Riethe had begun a red-faced rejoinder, but Eldyn had intervened. Then Merrick had asked him what he thought.

Eldyn knew Merrick was right, that it was indeed possible. After all, that was the reason Dercy was ill. First he had given Eldyn some of his light. Then Lemarck had stolen more of it—a great quantity. Eldyn would never forget how the archdeacon’s skin had glowed with a golden radiance as Dercy’s own went ashen. And he would never forget Dercy’s screams as his light was drained from him.

Only this wouldn’t be the same. It would be their choice to do it. And they would only give a little bit, just enough to sustain him until he could regain his strength.

Except Master Tallyroth would never take it from them. Eldyn knew it. All the same, they went to speak with Madame Richelour. But as soon as Merrick started to say what they were thinking, she waved a hand to silence him, rings flashing and bracelets jangling.

“You say this out of love for him, I know,” she said. “But I also know that the very idea would cause him pain. He would never
accept such a thing, not from young men whom he loves as his sons.”

Merrick shook his head. “But he needs—”

“He needs to know his boys are well, and that the play goes on each time the theater doors open. That is what will sustain him, if—”

Her words fell short, and when she spoke again it was to dismiss them from her chamber. But Eldyn knew what she had been about to say.
That is what will sustain him, if he is sustained at all
.

After that, none of them brought up the idea again.

Now, upon the chaise, Master Tallyroth drew slow, rattling breaths. Eldyn turned down the wick on the oil lamp a little further, so the light would not wake him. Only he fumbled the knob, going too far. The wick sank into the lamp, and the flame was snuffed out.

I
T WAS JUST AFTER SUNRISE when Eldyn awoke. He had no idea if the umbral had been short or long, or how many hours he had slept.

Not many, he thought as he went downstairs, for the theater was quiet. He supposed he should go back to bed. Only his sleep had been restless, filled with ill dreams. In them, he kept looking up at the sky as the new red planet grew larger and larger. Only then it wasn’t a planet anymore. Rather, it was a great eye, rimmed with flame, peering down at him from the heavens, and beneath its fiery gaze his soul shriveled and blackened.

It was a duplicate of the vision Archdeacon Lemarck had once forced upon him. He still dreamed about it from time to time. And even though he knew it had only been an illusion, and that Lemarck had perished after expending all of his light while shut in a dark prison, still the image filled Eldyn with dread.

And shouldn’t it? Lemarck might be dead, but what of the ancient god he had claimed to serve? Ul’zulgul, he had called this being. Afterward, Eldyn had told himself that it was all just another phantasm, an invention of the madness that had possessed
Lemarck. Only what if it wasn’t just an invention? What if Lemarck really had seen something through that window he found deep beneath Graychurch, and some eldritch power really had spoken to him?

But Lemarck was gone, and there was no point in thinking about it. Eldyn was shaken by the bad dreams, that was all. He just needed some coffee to properly wake up. Unfortunately, once again, there was no sign of the woman who cooked for them. So Eldyn went back upstairs to retrieve his coat, then left the theater in search of a hot cup.

He made his way down Durrow Street toward his usual coffeehouse. After no more than a minute, a boy with a dirt-smudged face ran up to him, holding several rumpled broadsheets that looked as if they had been plucked from the gutter.

“Today’s edition of
The Swift Arrow
, sir,” the boy said. “Same news as what will cost you a penny elsewhere, just a half penny here.”

Eldyn supposed the papers were from a bundle that had fallen off the back of a lorry and had broken apart on the street. Yet he had no interest in broadsheets, no matter the price—especially
The Swift Arrow
. He started to brush past the boy. Only then the picture on the front page caught his eye. It was his own impression, the one he had made after the terrible events at Covenant Cross.

“Are you sure those papers are from today?” he said with a frown. “From last quarter month, more likely.”

“Not on your life, sir! It’s today’s, sure as we stand here. Have a look yourself at the date.”

He thrust the newspaper up at Eldyn. The boy was right; it was indeed today’s edition. Not that this was entirely surprising. It was common for broadsheets to reprint an impression several times, given how much they cost to acquire, and how popular they were. But why reprint this one, with its awful scene? Then he saw the headline beneath the impression, and he understood the reason.

C
OVENANT
C
ROSS
M
ASSACRE
N
OT
F
ORGOTTEN
, it read. And beneath that,
Names of Those Slain Are Revealed by a Secret Patriot
.

A jolt far stronger than any provided by coffee surged through Eldyn’s brain. He snatched the paper from the boy’s hand.

“Hey now, that’ll be a half penny!”

Eldyn groped in his coat pocket, found a two-penny silver, and flipped it at the boy.

“Sorry, sir, no change!” the boy cried, snatching the coin out of the air and dashing down the street.

If he feared pursuit, he needn’t have bothered. Eldyn stepped to the side of the street, reading the story on the front page as he went.

Eldyn opened the broadsheet, looking for the list. And there it was, printed in large type on the centermost page. Quickly he read through the list top to bottom, looking for the name he feared might be upon it.

The wheels are turning
, Orris Jaimsley had said that day Eldyn had run into him at the coffeehouse on Coronet Street.
And they will not cease until our present government is ground to dust beneath them.…

In the days since witnessing the massacre in Covenant Cross, it had been Eldyn’s fear that Orris Jaimsley had been there, marching with the other young men. After all, Eldyn had seen the flag for St. Berndyn’s among those of the other colleges in the square, and
Jaimsley had seemed intent on the idea that the government was bound to fall.

Yet as Eldyn ran a finger over the list, which was ordered by surname, the entries went from
D. Hennifree
to
M. Lindrew
, skipping the place where
O. Jaimsley
might fit. His name was not there. Eldyn started to draw a relieved breath—

—then the air passed out of him again in a gasp, as if he had been struck in the chest. Again he read the two names at the very bottom of the list, though it was difficult for the way his eyes blurred.

C. Talinger
, read the one. And below that,
D. Warrett
.

As people and horses moved past him on the street, Eldyn stared at the broadsheet, as if the letters on the page would at any moment rearrange themselves into a more comprehensible order. Only the black ink they were printed in was as indelible as blood.