The Magicians and Mrs. Quent Read Online Free PDF

liberty of answering her. “But, Mrs. Baydon, that’s precisely the reason he reads them. Here in the Grand City, a gentleman’s life is so filled with ease and luxury that annoyance is prized as a novelty, and thus becomes a form of amusement.”
    “Is that so, Mr. Rafferdy?”
    “I swear to it.”
    “Then your level of amusement is likely to increase, for here comes Mrs. Chisingdon, no doubt in search of a fourth hand to complete a table. You do enjoy playing parlor games, don’t you?”
    “Nearly as much as I enjoy donning my most expensive coat and strolling St. Galmuth’s Square where all the pigeons fly.” And he excused himself, departing just in time to pretend not to hear Mrs. Chisingdon calling his name.
    He retreated into the study and there discovered a number of men who, like him, were refugees from the parlor. They were drinking brandy and discussing the ills of the monarchy and agreeing that only Assembly was wise enough to lead Altania in these trying times; they were, in other words, avid readers of
The Comet.
    Still, they were preferable—if only just so—to a table of Mrs. Chisingdons and an endless game of Queen’s Court. Rafferdy claimed an empty chair on the edge of the room, declined the tobacco box a servant offered him, accepted the brandy, and pretended to find a globe of the world fascinating.
    There was a general complaint in the room that the making of business had grown risky of late. The Outland counties were all but lawless, with the king doing nothing about it; the roads were unsafe. And how many ships, laden with gold and chocolate, had been dashed to bits by capricious winds on their way back from the New Lands? True, trade with the Murgh Empire was profitable.
Very
profitable, several men were quick to say. Even so, there were whispers of an ill wind that might one day blow west across the sea. Yes, there had been peace for over fifty years with the empire, but who knew when
that
might change?
    There was, in sum, an overall want of stability, a deficit of that most precious predictability upon which both civilization and business relied. Nor was there any hope that the king would do anything about it. Rothard’s will was as weak as his constitution, though all agreed his daughter, Princess Layle, was a modest young woman, sensible and not given to frivolous displays. The only hope was that she would be married to a man of good sense who would do what King Rothard had not: namely, rely upon the wiser heads of Assembly in determining the best course for Altania. Regardless of the man, marry she must, and before her father’s health failed. That a woman should rule Altania on her own was, of course, unthinkable.
    “It seemed to go well enough for Queen Elsadore all those centuries ago,” Rafferdy said, looking up from the globe. “Grant you, I’m no historian. But there is a rather enormous statue of her in front of the Citadel.”
    “And a shame it was ever erected!” exclaimed Sir Earnsley, a high-colored old fellow who wore a gray flannel waistcoat despite the balmy evening. He was a baronet—that is, a member of the gentry, and not a far step up from a country squire. Lady Marsdel must have been positively frantic to get to thirty-two that night. “What sort of signal does it send to the young ladies of our nation to have
her
lauded so? Queen Elsadore never took a husband.”
    “I believe that, upon her ascension to the throne, she claimed she was married to Altania,” said Mr. Harclint. He was a nephew of Lady Marsdel—not that this was at all special, as her ladyship seemed to have a multitude of nephews. This one had the usual receding chin and watery eyes.
    “No, not married to Altania,” Sir Earnsley said darkly. “She said she was married to the
land
of Altania. We all know what that means. It is wrong for her likeness to stand in such a place of respect.”
    “Just so, Sir Earnsley,” Rafferdy said, “for I gather she did nothing at all, save to turn