Updated_PerilInTheOldCountry_SamHooker_EbookFormatting_Nook

by Peril in the Old Country (retail) (epub)

  Sloot didn’t really trust Roman any more than Roman trusted packages wrapped in brown paper, but some shred of pragmatism deep within him knew that there was no sense in worrying about it just then. Had that shred not been vastly outnumbered by his preternatural talents for worrying, it might have been able to slow the growth of his latest ulcer by a day or so.

  “Fine,” said Sloot. “Let’s go and find Willie.”

  They found him in the courtyard. He was standing atop the stone bench where Sloot had once sat to hire the staff. He was dressed all in khaki, the explorer outfit he’d copied from his hero.

  “Is that Sir Wallace Scoffington, come to visit?” asked Roman.

  “What? Where?” Willie jerked his head around, then leapt into a sort of martial pose with his fists swaying clumsily over his head. Any sparrows in the neighborhood might have thought twice about flying low near him, but probably not.

  “Oh, no,” said Roman. “That’s Willie! Forgive me, m’lord, you looked just like Sir Wallace there.”

  “I forgive you,” Willie replied, looking puzzled.

  “You look quite dapper in your explorer’s get-up,” said Sloot.

  “Thanks.” Willie cracked what must have hoped to be a dashing grin when it grew up. “It’s called a kit, actually. My tailor said that’s what all of the explorers call their outfits. I told him that we’d been to Nordheim, and I told him about the mammoth.”

  “That’s nice,” said Roman. “And I see that you’ve given the mammoth to Greta as a gift.”

  “That’s right. Wait, have you seen her? Did she like it? She’s my fiancée!”

  “That’s right,” said Roman, “she is. She liked the mammoth very much, your fiancée. In fact, she’s asked if she can come along on our next expedition.”

  “Really? Wait, I thought the women were supposed to stay at home while the men went out into the wild frontier.”

  “So we should leave Nan at home?”

  Willie’s eyes narrowed, as though that would help him see through whatever trick was being played on him. He moved into a slight crouch, a sort of warning pose for the danger which was all around him.

  “I don’t like that idea,” said Willie. “Nan knows how I like my sandwiches cut, and I’m not allowed a knife.”

  “Well, that settles it.” Roman shrugged. “We’ll be allowing women on the trip. That was truly cunning insight, m’lord.”

  “Happy to help.” Willie puffed up his chest. “So, where’s the next expedition?”

  “This will be your best one yet,” said Roman. “In a few days, we leave for Carpathia!”

  “Carpathia? But won’t that be dangerous?”

  “It will most certainly have the appearance of danger,” Roman answered, “but we’ve taken precautions to ensure that it’s quite safe.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course! It will have all of the hallmarks of danger. In fact, you’ll probably feel as though you’re standing on the precipice the entire time we’re there!”

  “I don’t know,” said Willie. “Why don’t we go to Stagralla instead?”

  “Well, we can plan a trip to Stagralla in the autumn if you like, but we can’t have an expedition there.”

  “Why not? I like Stagralla.”

  “Everyone likes Stagralla,” said Sloot. “It’s the capital of Sothumbria, one of the greatest allies of the Old Country. We can’t have an expedition there!”

  “Why not?”

  “In order for a trip to be an expedition,” said Roman, “you’ve got to go to either an uncivilized place or a hostile one. Preferably both. Stagralla is very civilized, and the only hostility you’re likely to encounter there will be at the bakery counters.”

  “They do take their pastries very seriously,” said Willie. “But what about Nan? I don’t think she’ll be very keen on letting me go to Carpathia.”

  “It shouldn’t be up to her to let you do anything, Willie. You’re Lord Hapsgalt now! You’re a field-hardened explorer, all staunch and brazen! Don’t you just feel the call of adventure beckoning to you?”

  “I have to admit that I do.” Willie stuck his chin up and gazed off toward the horizon, as though he were modeling for a statue. “I suppose I’ll just have to remind Nan that I’m a big boy now and that this is my profession … nay, my calling! Make ready, men, for soon we ride!”

  Sloot astonished himself by giving a “whoop!” and throwing his fists into the air. Inspiration of that sort was rarely, or rather never, employed in the counting house. He wondered whether settling up accounts would have been more rousing if the lead financier had riled them up every so often. “We’ll not give the sums an inch of ground until the quarterly reports are ready for independent review! Eat a big lunch lads, for tonight we collate monthly summaries!”

  Perhaps not.

  ***

  Individually, words hold little power. They become powerful when they collude together in gangs. When enough of the wrong words throw in together and get their dander up, you can bet they’ll end up vandalizing unattended walls or harassing old grans.

  Less rebellious phrases may end not in vandalism, but in magic, and contrary to what old wizards in robes with stars all over them will insist, one does not have to spend years and years in a magical college in order to tap into the power of words. People without pointy hats are perfectly capable of unleashing the vast energies of the universe by uttering the right phrases at the right times.

  A simple incantation like “I’d like to see you try,” for example, can compel a person to attempt just about anything, provided they’ve had enough to drink.

  “Santa will only come if you’re asleep,” when uttered on the right night of the year, will send even the most willful youth running for his or her bed.

  Sloot knew that he’d never convince Nan to approve of Willie’s going to Carpathia. According to Roman, he didn’t have to. The trick wasn’t saying the right thing, it was getting Nan to say it. They’d have to be subtle about it, but all they needed from her were two simple words.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Roman suppressed a grin, but poorly.

  “Sorry, Nan,” said Sloot, “but we’ve been through every possible scenario. We simply can’t have you along on this expedition.”

  Nan was fuming. Her fists trembled as they made their way toward her hips. Sloot sensed danger and started to think slightly less of their clever approach.

  “If you think for one minute,” started Nan, “that you’re going to take a little boy like my Willikins out into the wild without his Nan—”

  “It’s already been decided,” Sloot interrupted. “I’m sorry, Nan, but we’re worried that you’ll be a bit too—”

  “Oh, I see! Too what, too old? Is that it? Or maybe you think I’m too frail to go along! What a load of rotten cabbage. Who drove an entire stinking congress out of Whitewood, eh? Answer me!”

  “Why, you did, of course. Look, I’m not trying to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset! If there were any chance you’d be able to keep me from going on this expedition, I might be upset. But you don’t. Where are we going?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” said Sloot. “I’m under strict orders from the lady who’s funding the expedition not to breathe a word of it to anyone.”

  “It’s a lady, is it?”

  “I’ve already said too much.”

  “Talk, Peril! How will I know how much underwear to pack for Willie?”

  “He can pack his own underwear,” said Sloot, knowing that it was a lie. His stomach started to churn. He was comfortable enough with this particular fib, he just knew that he wasn’t any good at telling them in general.

  “There are only so many ladies who would fund an expedition,” said Nan, trying to out-maneuver him. “I know a few of the widows in the High
Tea Knitting Circle, I’m sure I could ask around.”

  “Please don’t!” Sloot stepped closer, and nearly put a hand on her shoulder for emphasis, but decided in the end that there were some lines not worth crossing. “Please, is there anything that I can do to convince you to sit this one out?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Fine.” Sloot let his shoulders slump into a show of dejection. That he managed with some skill, practice making perfect and all. “You can come, but I really can’t tell you where we’re going. The success of the mission depends on it!”

  “And why is that?”

  “It will all make sense in the end,” said Roman. He’d let Sloot carry the farce that far, but closing it required more finesse than he had to offer. “Now, why don’t you tell me all about which knots are gentlest on Willie’s shoelaces?”

  Sloot excused himself after dinner, promising to return before sunrise to make an accurate accounting of all the apple crates currently in operation as furniture. No one responded with the enthusiasm he’d anticipated, but that was the least of his worries.

  There was a chill in the air, which Sloot marked as particularly unremarkable. It was that time of year, after all. Had it been warm, now that would have been something worth noting.

  That was as far as he got.

  Sloot used to be able to bury his head in unremarkable tedium for hours before realizing he was doing it. The realization made it impossible to continue, so now there was nothing for it but to engage in the ponderance of difficult questions.

  Why did Myrtle burgle Whitewood? That much was easy enough. She was secretly working for Winking Bob, and she wanted out. But what did that mean? Did she just want out of her contract, or did she want out of Whitewood altogether? She stayed around for awhile after, but was that only for appearances?

  He turned down the street that led to his apartment. Mrs. Knife had instructed him to hire Myrtle. He’d assumed she was her niece or something, but that didn’t add up. It was really Bob who wanted her working there, wasn’t it? Mrs. Knife just made sure it happened. Were the two of them working together? That didn’t make sense! The Four Bells had to be cutting into The Three Bells’ profits with all of their black-marketry, which makes them natural enemies. Why would they ever cooperate?

  Sloot couldn’t get Mrs. Knife out of his head. He pictured her in harrowing detail, that being one of the principal ways in which worriers torture themselves. He could see her steel grey eyes burning with soulless indifference for his continued drawing of breath. Her severe black dress, the wicked-looking knife on her belt, the silver ring on her left forefinger…

  Perhaps there was something there. How many of those rings had he seen that night at the elder Lord Hapsgalt’s table, on the Feast of St. Bertha? Easily a dozen. Two silver snakes coiled around a black stone. He didn’t know the fabulously wealthy to follow such specific trends. In fact, he’d once seen a scuffle start up between a pair of women who’d worn lilac gowns to the opera on the same night. That much matching jewelry in the same place should have ended in a bloodbath! What was the significance? Were they in some sort of club?

  Winking Bob hadn’t worn one during their negotiation, but then she struck Sloot as very careful never to give anything away. If there was some sort of secret behind the rings, it was a very well-kept one. The answers weren’t going to walk up and introduce themselves.

  Up the hill, through the door, up the stairs, and into his apartment. There was only a bit of moonlight in the room, scarcely enough to see anything. At least it served to reassure him that he hadn’t gone suddenly blind, a fear that even he had to admit plagued him far more frequently than it should.

  He undressed and got into bed, though his brain still was buzzing with questions. Full of bees, he was. There was a terrifying thought, though not so terrifying that it distracted him from the matter at hand for long. Of all the nights that he’d been able to stare up into the darkness and worry about grisly deaths that would never come to pass, this was the first time he could remember wishing that the gruesome fantasy hadn’t been so easy to dismiss.

  He couldn’t tell how much time had gone by, but it had been an hour at least. He needed to do something, anything, or he’d never get to sleep.

  But what? He was an accountant, not a detective! What could he do? What talents did he possess that might compel secrets that didn’t want to be discovered to … well, be discovered?

  The money. That was it. He could follow the money. He practically leapt from his bed and got dressed.

  Whatever Mrs. Knife and the other silver ring wearers—who probably called themselves something much cooler, like the “Really Wicked Spiders”—were up to, he had little doubt that there was a paper trail that would give them away. They were all wealthy to one degree or another, and Sloot knew that the wealthier one was, the more accurate and detailed their ledgers would be.

  It was a sort of defense mechanism. The more money a wealthy man has, the more likely the people who work for him will be to think “he won’t miss this little bit right here.” Shine lights on all of your pennies and no one will risk stealing them.

  So it stood to reason that if several wealthy people were in financial cahoots with one another, they’d need to keep each other honest, in addition to their employees! Given that Mrs. Knife and both of the Lords Hapsgalt worked most of their interests through The Three Bells, the counting house would be the best place to start.

  Sloot was proud of working all of that out on his own, making him practically giddy as he walked to his former place of employment. It wasn’t until he reached the main gate in Salzstadt’s north wall that he realized he’d fallen quite naturally into his old morning routine. Did he even know the way to the counting house from his own front door?

  As long as he was thinking about what the Really Wicked Spiders might be up to, he was fine. So, of course, his mind wandered away from that with great haste, and he was left to spend his walk considering the potential dangers of what he was doing.

  He was committing a crime! Well, not yet, but that was the intent, wasn’t it? Was skulking through darkened streets toward the scene of a crime not part of the act itself? Crime wasn’t heresy per se, but it wasn’t far off.

  What if he was caught? Sloot wasn’t cut out for not answering questions. He only knew of one way to deal with authority figures, and that was to do precisely as he was told. A simple “what are you doing out so late?” from a passing constable was as likely to end in a full confession of every crime to which he could possibly be linked as a casual “just taking in the air, Constable.”

  Fortunately for Sloot, constables on the night shift are far more fastidious in seeking out criminal activity in Salzstadt’s many pubs than anywhere else. Further fortune provided an unlatched window on the alley side of the counting house, and Sloot only nearly broke his nose shuffling through it.

  The counting house! He’d forgotten the smell of the ink-stained desks and mouldering paper; the sound of the creaking floorboards, upon which he’d been so sure that he’d one day keel over and expire. It was like coming home.

  The door to the supervisor’s office had been left open. He’d so often fantasized about the promotion that would win him that sad, windowless closet, which was barely larger than the sad little desk inside it. He lit a candle, pulled a few ledgers from the shelves, and got to work.

  Most of this sort of thing is exactly as dull as one might think, meaning that Sloot found it utterly riveting. A few missing pennies in one column often turned out to be the product of sloppy work, the inevitable conclusion of well-meaning parents telling their children “we don’t care if you like it, accounting is a steady career! It’s either this or the army, you decide.”

  Sloot had been lucky. When he’d told his mother that his dream was to become an accountant, she’d given him her blessing. If all parents were so supportive, all accountant
s would love their work, the ledgers would be far more accurate, and Sloot would have had far fewer dead ends to chase down before finding the one clever deception that brought the whole facade tumbling down.

  Well, not tumbling down, per se. In truth, it did little more than point out that a facade did, in fact, exist. What had been made to look like massive quantities of rope being purchased at prices that would make professional extortionists balk was actually … well, something else. It was hard to say for sure without having a look at some land deeds and partnership contracts, but he was sure it couldn’t have been rope. Sloot himself had started clerking for the rope division when he was new on the counting floor, and knew from experience that all the ships in the entire Three Bells fleet couldn’t have needed that much rope; in fact, they didn’t even have enough ships to carry that much rope.

  Strange they tried to hide whatever they’re doing as bulk rope purchases, thought Sloot. I’d have expected something a little bit less scintillating, more low-key!

  The signature on the log sheet was the genuinely cunning part of the cover-up. Vasily Pritygud’s name had very nearly made Sloot overlook it without a second thought. Why would anyone ever consider that an error by that twit was anything but carelessness?

  Very clever indeed, he thought, just as he caught a glint of light in the corner of his eye. He’d only lit the one candle … sunlight! It was coming through the window where he’d gotten in. He’d been there all night!

  He’d only just started to clean up after himself when he heard a click in the lock on the front door. Someone was coming! Luckily, Sloot Peril lived in a constant state of panic. It would take a lot more than the possibility of being caught in the commission of a crime to freeze him in his tracks. Unfortunately, his ability to keep moving through the panic was not joined by any shrewd instincts for self-preservation. His solution was to sit back down and continue digging through the ledgers.

  The front door creaked open, and someone stepped inside. Sloot’s back was turned to the door, so he had no idea who it was.