by C. K. Brooke
In one fluid movement, before Macmillan could trace his destination, Cosmith submerged back into the crowd. The young man jerked his head furiously in search of the thieving knave, but he was nowhere to be found among the scores of other men.
THE DOWNPOUR PICKED UP AFTER dark, and the three women in the Beili Bungalow sat cross-legged by the crackling hearth. Each attended her own chore as the rain belted down over their little inn and collected in clay bowls they’d lain beneath the leaks in the roof.
All three women jumped as a knock at the door reverberated throughout the shanty.
“Praise the gods, a customer,” Priya exhaled, hurrying to answer.
Dainy perched atop her knees to watch a slender, dripping figure step through the open door. With a squeal of delight, the girl forgot the apron she was mending and ran to greet their guest with outstretched arms.
Priya took one look at the visitor. “Paxiamma,” she barked, although Paxi was already making her way over. “It’s your brother.” She turned on her heel.
“Well, well.” Paxi grinned. “I do declare, Mr. Pascale Higueleri. Where’ve you been, boy?”
“Around.” Pascale’s golden eyes smiled at his sister.
“Uncle Pascale!” Dainy threw herself into his arms. “It’s been much too long.”
The man wrapped his toned, dark arms around her. “My, my, Dainy. But you are no little girl anymore.” He pulled away to examine her. “Short hair,” he noted.
“Do not remind me,” said Priya from the hearth.
Paxi twisted her lips, feeling guilty at the mention of Dainy’s haircut. She still hadn’t informed her friend about the silver coins.
Pascale nodded thoughtfully. “It becomes you,” he told his foster niece.
Dainy beamed. In her usual pixie-like manner, she dashed to the hearth to help Priya heat a helping of stew for their guest.
Paxi noticed her brother watching the girl sadly, as though seeing her for the final time. “So.” She folded her ample arms. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this rare visit?”
“How old is Dainy now?” A shadow of concern clouded Pascale’s features. “She is but fifteen, sixteen, yes?”
Paxi laughed. “See, that’s what I’m saying, Pascale. You’ve been gone too long. Our Dainy-girl has seen eighteen springs.”
Pascale looked as though his worst fears had been confirmed.
Paxi dropped her voice, although the others had disappeared into the dinette to set the table. “Now, tell me what this is really about.”
Pascale swallowed.
“Hot clam stew,” Priya’s accented voice rang out to them.
Pascale shook the rain from his tightly coiled hair and removed his sandals. “We’ll speak of it later,” he murmured to Paxi.
HESSIAN GATSPIERRE RETURNED TO HIS study. After passing through the oaken doors, he gasped to see someone seated in his chair.
“At last,” the intruder greeted him calmly, peaking long fingers. “I daresay, I was beginning to wonder whether you hadn’t joined the little search party yourself.”
“Who are you?” rasped Gatspierre. He raised his lantern to illuminate the stranger’s visage. The man possessed a pale face, curtained with hair so blond it was white. He registered Gatspierre’s shock with a smooth glare, as though he had every right to be sitting at Gatspierre’s private desk, in his personal chair, at his estate, uninvited.
“This is obscene. I’m calling my guards.”
“I would not summon them, if I were you,” the pale man drawled, unfazed as he rearranged Gatspierre’s parchments.
“And why the devil not?”
“Misters Blair and Patil?”
Gatspierre gave a start at their names.
“Oh, yes, I know who they are. They are wanted by my government for disloyalty, as are all the members of your staff.” He delivered the last word with a mocking edge. “While you may have been mercifully banished fifteen years ago, Gatspierre, your employees were not. They unlawfully fled by your side before we could bring them to trial. However,” he added with a patronizing grin, “I am sure you had absolutely no idea about any of that.”
Gatspierre swallowed.
“In any case,” he went on, “if you call them forth to eject me, I’m afraid I might accidentally confirm their whereabouts to my superior, and would be required to escort you all to my embassy.” He flashed a sickly simper. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”
Gatspierre’s confidence was rapidly deflating. “So, what are you?” he finally demanded. “A Jordinian spy?”
The man stood, revealing his considerable height. “Anton Visidair, at your service.”
“I command you to leave, Mr. Visidair, before I summon the local authorities.”
“Now, now,” chided Visidair. “I would not involve the Häffstrom Guard, either. For it appears you’ve made quite a home for yourself here.” He cast his gaze about. “Bit enormous, really. I wonder, comrade,” he mused, plainly savoring the look of disgust on the former nobleman’s face at being addressed in the way of the Republic, “how you managed to acquire such an impressive estate, when all your assets were rightfully seized by the New Republic after the revolt?”
Gatspierre’s glare hardened. “I live off my investments. Nothing more.”
“Curious. I was under the impression that the terms of your exile decreed that all your assets—which, if I’m not mistaken, would include the entirety of your capital—be overturned to the New Republic. However, judging by all of this,” he glanced about the expansive study once more, “it would seem that you’re supporting a life of—dare I say?—luxury, by means of stolen funds.”
Gatspierre’s jaw fell in indignation.
“I’m sure I need not remind you that the nation of Häffstrom, neutral though it may be, does not tolerate theft and smuggling. But, go right ahead.” He shrugged. “Summon the authorities. I’m sure they would not hesitate to investigate my claims.”
Gatspierre had heard enough. “What do you want? By all means, your Republic has already taken everything from me. I’ve done you no harm.”
“Oh, but you have done us harm.” Visidair took a menacing step forward. His eyes shone bloodshot red. “What about those posts you sent out to every town square in West Halvea?” He squinted, making a show of extracting the details from his memory. “Some bollocks about a botched execution, a former duchess being alive, and your intentions to grant her rescuer an obscene amount of gold?”
Gatspierre’s eyes narrowed.
“Not too big a turnout though, eh? Just sixty-three men. I am sorry you could achieve no better.” Visidair broke into a crooked grin.
And then, it dawned upon Gatspierre. “You removed my bulletins,” he realized.
“Oh, we prevented most from being posted in the first place. Of course, some did manage to slip by us.” He sighed. “In those parts, we issued our warning: any citizen of ours to participate in your harebrained quest would be instantly banished, on principle.”
“And what principle might that be?”
Visidair blinked, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “Displaying anything less than unwavering loyalty to the New Republic of Jordinia. Not to mention,” he added, “blatant stupidity. Because of course, as we all know, every last Ducelle is dead.”
Slowly, Gatspierre smiled. “You cowards.” His sage eyes met Visidair’s red ones. “You know I tell the truth. And you fear I shall find her.”
Visidair laughed abruptly. “Even you do not know whether it is truth you tell. You’ve taken a dead man, delirious with the fever, at his word.”
Gatspierre was about to inquire incredulously as to how Visidair could have possibly known about the anonymous soldier’s scroll, when Visidair reached a pallid hand into the folds of his cloak and extracted it. “I believe I’ve found everything I need.”<
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“That is mine,” rumbled Gatspierre.
Visidair re-pocketed it, smirking through pointed teeth. “This,” he patted his pocket, “goes with me. As for your search party, I would not count on anyone returning.”
“Why not?”
With a swish of his cloak, Visidair posed at the bay window, which Gatspierre now noticed had been open all the while. “Suffice it to say that the ingenuity of the Republic shall mark the hand of my assassin.”
Gatspierre was hardly able to process the intimation when the spy added, “And, comrade? You’ll be next if you try anything else.”
Visidair swept his hood overhead and was gone through the window, leaving naught in his wake but the open pane’s gentle rattle in the nighttime breeze.
PAXI AND HER BROTHER SIPPED tea by the kitchen window, listening to the ocean waves riding on the balmy air. Dainy had since gone to bed, and Priya busied herself scrubbing the cast iron pots.
It was a while before Pascale’s mild voice broke the silence. “I came to speak to you.”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to it,” replied Paxi.
“I was recently on the coast of Häffstrom,” he began. “There was talk at port. Men were considering taking leave from their labor at the docks to compete in a quest issued by Hessian Gatspierre.”
“Who?” said Paxi.
The man massaged his work-worn biceps. “Brother of the late Jordinian empress. Living in exile.”
“What about him?”
“He claims his niece, the last Grand Duchess of Jordinia, is still alive. He’s organized a search party to find her. Big reward, they say, to whomever brings her to him.”
“Hmm.” While all of this may have been fascinating to Pascale, Paxi had no use for fishermen’s tales. “So, what were you meanin’ to speak to me about?”
Pascale placed a hand atop hers. “Paxiamma, when were the Ducelles executed? Fifteen winters ago. When did Dainy mysteriously appear on your doorstep, in the arms of foreign white men, beseeching you to take care of her? Fifteen winters ago.” He met her eyes significantly. “Do you not realize what this could mean?”
Paxi blinked in shock. “You don’t think…?”
Pascale pressed on, his gaze growing intent. “How old was the duchess when she was believed to have been executed? Three years old. How old was the child when she first came into your care?”
“Three years old,” breathed Paxi incredulously.
“You truly believe Dainy could be the former duchess of Jordinia?” came a dubious voice behind them.
Pascale addressed Priya. “What did she insist her name was, when you two tried to call her something else?”
Priya and Paxi turned to each other.
“Dainy,” Priya whispered. Realization was dawning in her eyes.
Paxi watched her, equally stunned. “Like Eludaine.”
“There is more.” Pascale frowned. “Gatspierre has promised his niece as bride to the first man to find her.”
At this, Paxi and her friend’s eyes widened hopefully. “Really?”
Pascale furrowed his brow. This was clearly not the reaction he’d been expecting.
“Dainy’s had no suitors, Pascale,” Paxi tried to explain. “That pale skin o’ hers….” She shook her head. Though comely enough, the short, fair and curvy young maiden she’d raised was nothing like the tall, slender, caramel-skinned beauties of Heppestoni. “A husband for that girl,” said Paxi, “someone to take care of her, so she won’t have the kind of working life like Priya and me, would be the answer to our prayers.”
“Be careful what you pray for,” warned Pascale.
“Ha!” Priya scoffed. “But of course, you would see little value in marriage, Pascale.”
“Lower your voice, Priya, or Dainy shall hear you.”
“Do not give me orders in my own home, Pascale Higueleri.” The bronze woman’s nostrils flared as she drew herself to her full height. “Had you gone through with our engagement twenty-five years ago, perhaps you would have the right, as my husband, to command me. But seeing as the sea was always more important to you….”
Pascale cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We were discussing Dainy,” he reminded her. “Her uncle’s search has already begun. What do we tell her, then, should some man come knocking at your door, ready to take her away with him?”
“The truth,” said Priya simply. “She is of age. And heaven knows, she has no prospects here.”
“Dainy would want to go,” Paxi agreed. “Meet her kin. Find out who she really is, and where she belongs. Assuming,” she added with some uncertainty, “that she really is…the duchess of Jordinia.”
THEY WEREN’T BUT A FEW days into the countryside, yet so far, the journey had been laborious and admittedly uneventful.
Although they were competing against each other, the search party had decided to tackle the first leg of the journey as a group. After all, they were headed in the same direction—south, to the land of Heppestoni, where Hessian Gatspierre had instructed them to look. And, Macmillan supposed (although he’d never had cause to believe it), there was strength in numbers.
At present, they’d stopped for a brief respite from their travels, and Macmillan was attempting to rest—‘attempting’ being the operative term. He inhaled, eyes closed, head cradled in a soft and private patch of grass, when he heard raised voices carrying over the wind. It was awfully distracting. As the shouting and arguing only grew louder, the young man finally relented from his pursuit of respite, sat upright, and got to his feet.
Rejoining the others, he recognized the red-haired Ezra MacNeale, a member of their party. It sounded like MacNeale was chastising someone, although Macmillan couldn’t make out whom. Unable to help his curiosity, he moved closer.
There were three men in all, the second being contained by a third. Macmillan groaned to see who stood captured, victim to MacNeale’s admonishment.
“I assure you, this has all been a big misunderstanding.” Jon Cosmith’s hair fell charmingly onto his unshaven face, ever yet bearing that insufferable grin.
Macmillan made to turn away, but was too late. Cosmith had spotted him. “My friend!” he shouted merrily.
Macmillan grit his teeth.
“As you can see, I’ve found myself in a bit of a bind here.” Cosmith indicated his captor with a cock of his head. “Perhaps you can explain to these gentlemen—?”
“You’re a friend of his?” MacNeale demanded, cutting Cosmith off.
Macmillan shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”
Cosmith emitted some combination between a laugh and a moan. “Please, just…explain about your sickle.”
“What about my sickle?” Apprehensively, Macmillan reached into his pocket to ensure it was still with him.
“Explain how I gave it back to you,” said Cosmith carefully, and Macmillan was somewhat satisfied to see the man’s grin finally begin to slip away.
Macmillan turned to MacNeale. “This man calls himself Jon Cosmith. Yesterday, he stole my sickle. He gave it back as an afterthought before departing my company.”
“So he is a thief.” MacNeale shared a nod with Cosmith’s captor.
“Not a thief,” objected Cosmith, dropping all pretenses at last, plainly desperate now that Macmillan had not proved to be his ally. “Pray tell, what kind of thief returns what he’s taken?”
MacNeale smirked. “Apparently, your kind.”
“I’m telling you,” insisted Cosmith, “I had every intention of giving back your bauble.”
“This bauble of which you speak,” said the red-haired man, “is my heirloom money clip. I should like to know, comrade,” he applied the Jordinian title contemptuously, “what you intended to do with it, if not steal the notes it contains?”
“Aye, and how about the rapier we confiscate
d from you?” added Cosmith’s captor. “The one that did not belong to you, either?”
A crowd was forming behind them, drawn to the commotion. Dozens were now watching the spectacle.
“Mr. Cosmith—”
“Please, my friends call me Jon.” Cosmith mustered a cheerful, if not strained, smile for his new onlookers.
“I hereby accuse you of thievery. So, what shall it be?” MacNeale addressed the throng accumulating behind him. “How shall we punish thievery among our ranks?”
“Cut off his hand,” came several cries, and Macmillan watched as Cosmith’s face went pallid.
“No,” came a soft grumble. The giant, as Macmillan had come to think of him, stood placidly at the center of the group. The men beside him gaped up and inched slowly out of his way.
“And your name is?” MacNeale wanted to know.
“Bos.”
“And what would be your suggestion, Mr. Bos?”
“There has been enough violence in this world,” was all Bos replied in his sonorous voice.
The others glanced at MacNeale. No one wanted to object to the giant.
For once, Cosmith looked vulnerable, apprehension filling his eyes as they flickered uncertainly between Bos and Ezra MacNeale. It made Macmillan wonder if there could be more beneath the surface, and he loathed himself for beginning to pity the wretch.
“Ezra,” he said.
MacNeale regarded him.
“Marley Macmillan,” he hastily introduced himself, realizing that he had, until then, failed to do so. “Look, in Cosmith’s defense, he gave my sickle back to me. If he’d intended to steal it, he would have kept it, wouldn’t he?”
“See?” piped Cosmith. “Macmillan can vouch for me!”
MacNeale surveyed him evenly. “What are you proposing, Macmillan?”
Sixty-two pairs of eyes were fixed upon him. Macmillan took a breath. “I’m proposing that you let him go.” He met Cosmith’s curious gaze. “He’s clearly learned his lesson, and knows better than to steal from us again.”