Isaveth uncorked the decoction and raised it toward the light, watching the purple liquid closely. For a few seconds nothing happened, and she feared Quiz might be too far away. But at last the potion’s grainy depths stirred, and the particles drifted to the left side of the bottle.
North, then. Isaveth tucked the potion into her satchel, jumped back onto the cycle, and pedaled doggedly up Council Street, toward the heart of the city.
Chapter Twenty-Two
TRACKING QUIZ through the streets of Tarreton was a maddeningly slow process, since Isaveth had to check the decoction every few minutes to make sure she was going in the right direction. She cycled past factories and warehouses, the great gray bulk of Sage Johram’s Hospital, and parks full of wandering homeless looking for a place to spend the night. She swerved to the edge of the road as a late tram rattled by, then back into the middle to avoid the ranks of milk wagons outside the City Dairy. By the time Isaveth passed the massive Arcan Temple with its glittering spire, every muscle in her legs ached and she felt she couldn’t pedal one street more. But with every junction the particles in her bottle moved more sluggishly, and she feared that if she paused to rest even for a moment, the spell would stop working altogether.
Soon the road narrowed, winding lazily into smooth-cobbled bends, and the factories and office buildings receded as gated mansions and walled gardens took their place. Even the streetlamps had a decorative look to them, slender trunks of iron dangling light-globes like ripe, tempting fruit. She had reached Rollingdale, the wealthiest neighborhood in the city.
Only days ago Isaveth had envied Lady Marcham her house and garden, and dreamed of one day living in such a place. Now, as she rode past one sprawling estate after another, with their twinkling rows of lit windows and gleaming spell-carriages parked along the drive, that ambition seemed positively modest. Here lived the true nobility of Tarreton, the families that had held power for generations. And this, Isaveth now felt sure, was where Quiz’s captors had taken him.
The road branched, and Isaveth stopped to consult her decoction. The particles moved eagerly now, as though sensing their spell-tablet counterpart was near—though this time the grains drifted back the way Isaveth had come. She retraced her route to a brass gate flanked by towering maples, where a cobbled drive wound between banks of ornamental shrubbery. There, in the distance, stood the most magnificent house Isaveth had ever seen.
It was two stories high and ten windows wide, pearl white and pillar fronted, with a glittering crystal of a conservatory on one side and a handsome three-door carriage house at the other. By its front steps, rose a fountain like an enormous fancy-cake, iced with falling water and tinted rosy gold by a ring of underwater lights. It was so beautiful it took Isaveth’s breath away—but it also made her horribly thirsty.
Whoever lived here must not have much fear of intruders, because the gates were open and she could see no guard. Licking her dry lips, Isaveth wheeled the pedalcycle inside the grounds and parked it in the shadows of an enormous fairy bush, where it couldn’t be seen from either the drive or the roadway. Then she crouched and sneaked across the lawn toward the carriage house.
One of the bays stood open, light slanting out onto the drive. As Isaveth crept closer, she spotted one of the men who’d kidnapped Quiz—only now his rough coveralls were gone, replaced by the brass-buttoned coat and peaked cap of a personal driver. With leisurely confidence he paced about the carriage, pausing here and there to buff a headlamp or wipe a smudge from its gleaming side. It was the same vehicle she’d seen speeding away with Quiz—but the rain top was scrolled back, and the backseat lay empty.
It was just as Isaveth feared: Quiz had been kidnapped on the orders of someone in this house. But surely, if Master Orien’s killer wanted to keep them from getting to the truth, the sensible thing would have been to abduct Isaveth as well?
Unless this wasn’t about the murder investigation. Could it have something to do with the “boggy hole” of trouble that had kept Quiz away for two days? Had he been secretly spying for some powerful noble all along and made the mistake of disappointing him?
Well, whatever the answer, Isaveth wouldn’t find it lurking in the shrubbery. She had to get inside that house. Isaveth waited with growing impatience until the driver finished his polishing and closed the bay door behind him. Then she darted behind the carriage house and peered around the corner, waiting for the driver to come out.
But though she watched the side door for what seemed ages, it never opened. Either there was some powerful Sagery going on here and the man had magically transported himself to the house, or—more likely—there was another exit. Isaveth sent up a quick prayer for safety, then tiptoed down the stone path to the door.
The handle felt stiff, and she feared it might be locked. But when she squeezed harder, the latch clicked open. Silent as a shadow, Isaveth slipped through and shut the door behind her.
The darkness inside the carriage house was absolute. Step by cautious step Isaveth felt her way toward the back wall—until, without warning, her right foot dropped into emptiness. She would have plunged headlong if she hadn’t caught herself in time.
That decided her. Risky or not, she had to make a light. Still shaky from her near-fall, Isaveth fished the remnants of her light-tablet out of its wrapping and squeezed the crumbs in her palm. The magic was almost exhausted, but its faint glow was enough to reveal what lay at her feet—a stairwell leading to a tunnel whose gray walls and exposed pipes reminded her of the basement of Founders’ Hall.
There was an underground passage between the mansion and the carriage house. Isaveth had never imagined such luxury, but it wasn’t hard to guess its purpose: so the nobles who lived here could easily get to their vehicles in bad weather. Was this the way the men had taken Quiz as well? Raising her luminous palm, Isaveth searched the walls and floor of the tunnel for signs of struggle. But she found no scuff marks, nor even a grimy handprint.
Perhaps they’d threatened Quiz with a weapon, so that he’d had no choice but to go quietly. Or else they’d knocked him out with a sleep-wand and carried him in. Treading softly in her worn shoes, Isaveth followed the passage to its end, then up another set of steps to ground level.
The landing held two identical doors set at right angles, which puzzled Isaveth at first, until she realized that one must lead to the servants’ wing and the other to the main part of the house. Judging by the noises coming from the left-hand door—a distant clatter that sounded like someone dropping a tray, followed by two female voices raised in furious quarrel—she’d be safer trying the other one. She eased it open, scanned the semidarkness on the other side, then slipped through.
She found herself in a handsomely tiled passage with a staircase slanting down from the ceiling on her left, and a spacious foyer spreading out beyond. Isaveth edged along the side of the staircase, past the end of its curving banister, and peeked out at the archways that flanked the house’s front entrance. One opened onto a parlor, though the curtains were closed and its spell-lamps turned so low that she could only guess at its opulence. The other revealed an equally darkened library. Neither room held Quiz, tied to a chair or otherwise. Indeed, there was no sign of anyone in this part of the house at all.
So far Isaveth had been fortunate, but she reminded herself not to get overconfident. If she was caught sneaking about a noble’s house, there was no telling what he might do to her. Pulse beating in her throat, Isaveth darted across the brightly lit foyer to the corridor on the other side.
The first door she found was mostly glass, but so thickly etched and frosted that even when Isaveth pressed her face against it, she could make out only shadows. She could hear no sound from inside, which made it tempting to move on. But what if Quiz had been gagged silent or knocked out, and she walked past him without knowing it? Gathering courage, Isaveth turned the handle.
She found herself in a gaming room, surrounded by dark wood paneling and tables for everything from Gamble to Cro
ck-in-the-Hole. There was a lingering aroma of baccy. An enormous drinks cabinet stretched the length of the wall beside her, while at the opposite end of the room a fireplace gave off its wavering light. Two leather armchairs faced away from her, so broad and high-backed that at first Isaveth thought them empty—until she spotted the hand draped over the arm of the right-hand chair, and the signet ring glittering upon it.
Fear iced through Isaveth, freezing her in her tracks. For a few dreadful seconds she stood motionless, gaze locked on the drooping hand. Then a snore rose from the depths of the armchair, and for the first time Isaveth noticed the empty wine bottle lying on the floor.
Her terror melted away. He’d drunk himself into a stupor and wouldn’t notice Isaveth if she did a stomp-dance on top of the card table. Curiosity prodded her, and she tiptoed over to study the sleeping man.
Heavy jowls, a florid nose, and a flap of thinning gray hair. One look was all Isaveth needed to be certain: She was in the presence of the Sagelord of Tarreton himself.
But did that mean he was Orien’s killer, or Quiz’s master, or both?
Whatever the answer, she’d better get out of here quickly. Eyes fixed on the snoring Lord Arvis, Isaveth backed away, turned—and bumped straight into the broad, uniformed chest of a personal guard. She was staring at his buttons, too shocked to cry out, when something cold poked her neck and the room furled up like a black umbrella, taking her consciousness with it.
* * *
Isaveth woke slumped in an armchair in a gentleman’s study she’d never seen before, with Tarreton-blue curtains and silver wallpaper patterned in the latest geometric style. Plush carpet spread beneath her feet, and the tea-table in front of her was polished to mirror sheen—like the enormous tray that sat upon it, close enough to touch. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, half convinced she was dreaming.
Yet the tray remained, laden with a steaming silver teapot and matching service, three gold-rimmed cups and saucers, and a plate of cakes and sandwiches as tempting as anything at Lady Marcham’s garden party. And there was no one else in sight.
Isaveth’s mouth felt dry as a tomb, and her stomach groaned with hunger. Yet she couldn’t start eating without even trying to escape. She rose and tugged at the door.
Unsurprisingly, it was locked. The study window was not, but the wall outside was a smooth expanse of plaster with a stone pavement two stories below; she’d never get out that way. If she’d still her satchel of spells, she might have created a diversion, but the big guard had taken it.
Isaveth pressed her palms to the glass, gazing hopelessly out into the night. Then she drew the curtains, walked back to the tea tray, and helped herself to a sandwich. After all, if her host had wanted her dead, he’d have killed her already, and if he wanted her unconscious, he only needed to poke her with the sleep-wand again. So it seemed unlikely the food would do her any harm.
She’d finished off half the plate and started on her second cup of tea when the door opened and Quiz stumbled in, blond hair flopping over his eyepatch, and his clothes even more ragged than usual. He looked like he’d wakened from a nightmare—or a double dose of the sleep-wand, more likely—and when he saw Isaveth, he turned a delicate shade of green.
“No,” he breathed, and rounded on the guard standing behind him. “Let her go! It’s a mistake—she’s got nothing to do with this!”
The guard didn’t argue, only stepped sideways and took up a position by the door. Isaveth studied the man’s blunt, square-boned face, then set her teacup down and rose. She was beginning to think she understood what was going on, even if she wasn’t sure about the reason—and so she was barely surprised at all when the door opened for the second time and Eryx Lording walked in.
“Good evening,” he said mildly. He gave his hat to the guard, then crossed the room to the desk and peeled off his leather driving gloves. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was out this evening and only learned of your arrival a few minutes ago. Please . . .” He gestured to the armchairs that flanked the table. “Sit down.”
“Our arrival.” Quiz spat the word with venom. “Is that what you call sending your thugs to accost us and drag us halfway across the city? I’m not interested in playing word games, Eryx. Whatever punishment you think I deserve, that’s one thing. But Isaveth’s done nothing wrong. Let her go.”
“Actually,” said Eryx, “according to Hulton, she broke into the house, snooped all around the downstairs looking for you, and nearly woke Father from one of his refreshing naps. But I’m not inclined to hold that against her.” He flashed Isaveth a smile. “How was she to know you were never really in danger, let alone that you were coming h—”
He never finished the sentence. Isaveth barely had time to realize Quiz was moving before the street-boy grabbed Eryx by the throat.
Eryx staggered back, clawing at the younger boy’s grip. “Hulton!” he wheezed, but the big guard was already in motion. One hand hauled Quiz off the Lording, while the other ripped the sleep-wand from his belt.
“No!” Quiz howled, writhing like a garden snake. “Isaveth, don’t let him . . .” Then he crumpled, and the guard scooped him up and carried him out of the room.
“I apologize,” said Eryx hoarsely once the door had shut. He smoothed his hair, straightened his collar, and walked to the tea tray. “I’d hoped to avoid any unpleasantness. But Esmond can be . . . difficult, sometimes.”
Isaveth felt light-headed, her mind reeling from one shock after another. She said feebly, “Esmond?”
“He didn’t tell you. I’m sorry. I should have realized.” Eryx poured a cup of tea and sipped it, wincing as he swallowed. “The boy who was here just now is Esmond Lilord. My younger brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
ISAVETH GAZED AT THE LORDING, speechless. She backed up to the armchair and sank into it.
“I don’t . . . ,” she faltered, then swallowed and tried again. “But he doesn’t . . .”
“Look like me?” asked Eryx. “Not especially, no. He looked like a smaller and not very flattering copy of our father until he turnπed thirteen. Then he shot up like a puff-weed, and now he looks like Mother and Civilla. I’m the odd man out in this family, I’m afraid. Take after my uncle Calvius instead.”
Isaveth pressed her fingers against her eyes, appalled by her own stupidity. She’d seen the Lilord slumped between his siblings at last year’s Harvest Parade and thought him ugly, fat, and self-centered. She’d never imagined a boy’s appearance could change so dramatically in a matter of months, or that the sulky expression he’d worn that day might not be typical.
But blind as she’d been not to notice the straight nose and high forehead he shared with Eryx, or the similar quirk in their smiles, the next thought hit Isaveth even harder: Quiz had been lying to her from the start.
“I know this must come as a shock,” said Eryx, hooking a leg over the corner of the desk and sitting down across from her. “You must be a very good friend to him, to have followed him all this way. I’m only sorry Hulton didn’t tell you straight off why he’d come to fetch Esmond, and save you the trouble.”
Isaveth looked up sharply. “He didn’t fetch him,” she said. “He and that other man—the driver—grabbed him and dragged him away.”
Eryx sighed. “I’m afraid they had no choice. Esmond would never have gone with them willingly. Especially not if he was with you.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Lording studied his polished shoes. When he raised his head again, his expression was both apologetic and grave. “We don’t talk about private matters outside the family,” he said, “so I must ask you to keep this in the strictest confidence. But since you seem close to Esmond, and you’ve shown such concern for his welfare, you ought to know that my brother is . . . unwell.”
Isaveth’s heart beat faster. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“His troubles began last year, when he started growing.” Eryx rose and began to pace the room, hands clasped
behind his tailored jacket. “He complained of headaches, and blurred vision in one eye.”
I’ve got a beast of a headache, Quiz had told her only a few days ago. It happens sometimes. Isaveth sat motionless, waiting for Eryx to go on.
“Naturally, my parents took him to the best healers in the city, but after months of treatment Esmond was no better. He became moody, suspicious, even violent at times, and the pain grew so intense that one day he . . . injured himself, trying to relieve the pressure. The surgeon did his best to save the eye, but he’s been blind on that side ever since.”
Isaveth’s nails dug into her palms. “Did it help?” she whispered. “Even a little?”
“With the pain, yes,” said the Lording. “But not his condition. He began to experience hallucinations, delusions, gaps in his memory . . . sometimes he seemed to forget he had a family, while other times he was convinced we were all trying to kill him, or one another. Then he started disappearing for hours, even days, at a time. Yet he always came home in the end, so we did our best to be patient. My mother couldn’t bear to have him locked up, you see. None of us could.”
“You must have tried to find him, though,” said Isaveth, and Eryx nodded sadly.
“Of course. But we were looking for the Lilord of Tarreton, not a street-boy. We had no idea that his delusions had gone so far. It wasn’t until a few days ago, when he turned up at Master Orien’s memorial in an eyepatch and ragged trousers, that I put the pieces together. I sent Hulton and our driver out to search for him, and, well . . . you know the rest.”