Free The Master of Heathcrest Hall by Galen Beckett

openly.”
    “That’s a curious thing to hear coming from you, Rafferdy.” Coulten gestured to the House ring in plain sight on Rafferdy’s right hand. In contrast, Coulten’s hands were covered by kidskin gloves.
    Rafferdy looked at the blue stone set into his House ring. What did it matter if he wore it openly? Had he not already attracted the attention of Lady Shayde? And there was no one more prominent in the Gray Conclave than her—barring her master, Lord Valhaine, himself. No, there was no use covering it up now; it would only make him seem as if he had something to hide.
    Which, of course, he did.
    Rafferdy tightened his right hand into a fist, then pounded on the roof of the carriage. “Faster, man!” he cried out. “We are dying for whiskey in here!”
    Fortunately, it was not far down Marble Street to the Silver Branch, and once free of the crowd before Assembly, the carriage proceeded swiftly to its destination. Rafferdy and Coulten disembarkedand, passing the pair of black-liveried guards that stood at either side of the door, entered the tavern which for more than two hundred years had been frequented by members of Assembly following a session.
    And it seemed half of Assembly was already here. Rafferdy surveyed the scene, searching for a space. The heavy beams overhead were stained from years of tobacco smoke, and the eponymous branch hung from the centermost beam. It was more of a club than a branch, really: a heavy scepter gilded in silver, which long ago had been granted as a symbol of honor to the man who, it was deemed, had won an important debate in Assembly.
    These days the branch was bolted to the beam, having too often in the past become an all too real weapon—one which was used to crack skulls when arguments from Assembly were rekindled and made hotter by drink.
    “Over there,” Coulten said, pointing.
    Several members of the New Wigs sat at the end of one of the tables, though like Rafferdy and Coulten they had removed their headpieces now that they were outside the Hall of Magnates. The young men waved and gestured to a pair of spaces they had reserved. Rafferdy waved back, and he and Coulten proceeded through the crowded tavern to join their companions.
    They managed to catch a harried barkeep as he passed, seizing the bottle and cups from the tray he was carrying. The man began to protest that these were intended for the lords at another table, but his complaints were silenced by a half regal Coulten tossed on the tray, and so cups were filled and passed all around.
    Rafferdy took a drink of his whiskey, then nearly choked upon it as he was subjected to a number of claps on the back. The other young men grinned, congratulating him on his work at Assembly that day. A few of them went so far as to propose they stand up on the table, wrench the silver branch from its the beam, and present it to Rafferdy as a tribute for putting Lord Davarry in his place.
    To Rafferdy’s relief, this stunt was not attempted. They returned to their seats, and soon the conversation turned to other topics—namely,who owed whom from last night’s game of dice. Rafferdy was allowed to drink his whiskey in peace, and he gave a sigh as he took a sip of the sweet, smoky liquid.
    “Speaking of gambling, I’d wager we’re not the only ones who believe you bested Davarry today,” Coulten said, leaning to speak in Rafferdy’s ear so he could be heard over the din in the tavern. “Though I’d say some would just as soon strike you with the branch as hand it to you.”
    Trying not to make a scene of it, Rafferdy glanced over the rim of his cup. After a moment he saw them: a group of younger Magisters, still in their bluish wigs, casting sour looks in his direction.
    “Maybe they don’t like the taste of their punch,” Rafferdy said.
    “Oh, they have a bad taste in their mouths, all right,” Coulten said cheerfully. “You made their leader look a fool—though he certainly lent you some help in that