“See that man sitting on the bench in the corner? He’s been hanging around ever since we returned. I’m going to leave first. You wait behind, see what he does. I’ll meet you in the park. Did you find a suitable prop?”
“Not yet. I’ve been dressing. But I will,” added Rodrigo, seeing Stephano’s brows draw together. “Don’t worry, my friend. I always come through for you, don’t I? Go along. I’ll be there shortly. You won’t have any trouble finding me in the crowd.”
“That’s true enough,” Stephano said gloomily.
Rodrigo laughed and took up his post at the window.
Stephano smiled to himself once he was out of the room. What Rodrigo said was true. He always came through. If it hadn’t been for Rodrigo’s courage and tenacity, sixteen-year-old Stephano de Guichen would have died on the field after the battle of Saint Bernadette in the Lost Rebellion. Rodrigo had risked imprisonment and execution by flouting the king’s command that dead rebels should be left to the vultures and rats. Rodrigo, then fifteen, had searched the battlefield until he found Stephano, badly wounded. With Benoit’s help, Rodrigo had carried Stephano away in the dark of night, hidden him, and had spent a month nursing Stephano in secret back to health. Rodrigo had been with Stephano, standing at his side, as Stephano witnessed his father being executed as a traitor.
No one took Rodrigo seriously. Their friends considered him a dandy, a fop, charming, witty, delightful to have around. The serious-minded Dag disapproved of Rodrigo’s cavalier lifestyle. Miri and Gythe laughed at his airs and his clothes and his romances. Stephano alone knew and appreciated the depths of his friend’s courage and resourcefulness. Neither of them ever talked about that terrible time-for good reason.
Rodrigo’s family had not taken part in the rebellion, but they were friends with those who had, and that had been enough to damn them in the eyes of King Alaric. Rodrigo’s father and mother had been exiled. His father had won his way back into His Majesty’s good graces by the payment of a considerable sum of money and had been granted an ambassadorship. Even a hint that their youngest son had been involved in saving the life of a member of the de Guichen family would ruin them. Stephano had no choice but to keep his friend’s valor a secret.
Sauntering out onto the street, Stephano turned his steps in the direction of the park. He walked at a leisurely pace, pausing to admire the early blooming roses and breathing deeply the late afternoon air. As he strolled along the tree-lined boulevard, he doffed his hat and bowed in polite greeting to passing ladies, who smiled and nodded in return. All the while, he felt eyes on him. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably and he was tempted more than once to turn his head for a quick glance behind. He gritted his teeth and fought off the impulse, which might let the follower know he had been spotted. Rodrigo would see whatever there was to see.
The Park of the Four Oaks, named after the four ancient oak trees that grew in the center, was a popular place for the citizens of Rosia to visit at day’s end. Here, the common folk mingled with the quality. Riders cantered along the bridle paths, exhibiting their equestrian skills. Young unmarried women walked in company with their chaperones or proud mamas, smiling at the young unmarried men. Boys sailed boats on the ponds. Girls rolled hoops and tossed coins into the fountains. Old women fed crumbs to the birds. Old men basked in the sun that warmed arthritic bones. The city police strolled about in pairs; due to the crowds, the park was also popular with pickpockets and thieves.
All this activity made the park an ideal setting for the sharing of secrets and intrigue. True privacy was difficult to come by in the city of Evreux, whether one lived in a hovel or a palace. Walls were thin. Rooms harbored closets to hide in, beds to hide under, curtains to hide behind. Neighbors eavesdropped on their neighbors. Servants were paid to betray their masters. Two people walking in the park, out in the open air, could carry on a confidential conversation and be certain that only the sparrows in the trees heard them.
Arriving at the park, Stephano went straight to the location where the Cadre generally met-a bench near the four gigantic oak trees that gave the park its name. He saw, without seeming to see, Dag wearing his mercenary uniform, in his usual place, sitting with his back up against one of the oak trees, teasing the cat, Doctor Ellington, with a piece of string. Knowing the string game amused his master, Doctor Ellington would play for a short time. When he grew bored, he would sit with his paws tucked under his chest and stare with enmity at his mortal enemy, the squirrels, daring them to come within range of his claws.
Miri and Gythe were established beneath another oak tree some distance from Dag. Gythe sat on a stool, playing a lap harp. Miri sang and collected coins in a basket from those who stopped to listen. Miri was dressed in colorful Trundler garb that she never wore except when she was performing: long, full skirt of bright red silk, with a black fringed shawl tied around her waist, a ruffled white blouse worn low to reveal her freckled shoulders. Her hair flamed in the sunlight, her golden earrings sparkled. She sang a bawdy song that had the gentlemen laughing and caused the chaperones to look scandalized as they hustled their young women out of earshot. Gythe wore a sky-blue skirt and plain blouse, her beautiful hair bound up in a scarf. As Stephano passed, he dropped a coin in the basket and Miri winked at him.
Stephano sat down on the bench and began to act the part of someone waiting impatiently for a meeting. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them. He looked at his pocket watch, rose to his feet, paced about, looked at his watch again, and sat down. He kept this up for half an hour, by which time he was no longer acting. He was truly impatient and growing annoyed and wondering what had become of Rodrigo. The sun was starting to slide into the mists of the Breath. The sky was glowing with oranges and purples. It would be dark within the hour, and the Cadre would lose their chance to get a good look at whoever was tailing them. When Rodrigo finally appeared, Stephano jumped to his feet and waved and shouted testily.
“Rigo! Over here! Where have you been?”
“There you are. I’ve searched all over. I found it,” Rodrigo called, waving a book he held in his hand. “The Crafter’s Guide to Metallurgy. One of my University texts. And there is something in here I think you will find very interesting.”
Rodrigo pointed to a page in the book. Stephano affected to read it.
“Well?” he asked softly.
“You were right,” Rodrigo said in a low voice. “After you left, the man waited a short time, then he followed you. I waited a short time, then I followed him.”
Stephano glanced around. “I don’t see him.”
“He watched you until you sat down on the bench, then he took off at a run. I’ve been waiting and waiting to see if he came back, but he hasn’t returned.”
“He probably went to report that I was in the park.”
“Report to whom? And why would anyone care where you are?”
“I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”
“So what do we do now?”
Stephano shrugged. “I will watch the crowds, and you will read this enlightening piece of literature.”
“Must I? This book brings back unpleasant memories of the lecture hall.”
“I’m surprised you have any memories of lectures,” said Stephano, resuming his seat on the bench.
“I attended lectures,” said Rodrigo, sitting down beside him. “It was the only place a fellow could get any sleep.”
Rodrigo handed Stephano the book. “You read. I will study the view.”
He leaned back, crossed his leg over his knee, and fixed his admiring gaze on a young woman, who was out with her chaperone. She blushed and raised her fan and turned away, and then peeped back at him from beneath the hood of her cloak.
Stephano tried to read, but he found the discussion of sigils and lines of magical energy every bit as confusing as he had when he was a boy with his tutor. Besides, it was growing too dark to read. With the sun setting, the crowds were starting to thin out, people going home to their sup
pers or to dress for the evening’s festivities. Stephano had not noticed anyone who remotely resembled the man in the slouch hat or the young man who had followed him to the park. Dag and Miri and Gythe had not had any luck either, apparently, for none of them had given him a signal.
Their “hunting expedition” appeared to be a wasted effort.
While Stephano sat on the bench pretending to read and Rodrigo flirted with pretty women and Doctor Ellington dreamed of chasing squirrels, the bishop’s agent, Dubois, was entering the Park of the Four Oaks himself. His day had been an eventful one.
Hearing news that James Harrington, one of Sir Henry’s agents, was on Half Moon Street, Dubois rode swiftly to that location. He arrived in time to find Harrington asleep on a bench beneath the statue of Saint Michelle. Harrington had covered his face with a slouch hat, but Dubois had no difficulty in recognizing him.
Dubois was fortunate to encounter a talkative priest and he established himself on the steps of the church, from which location he could keep watch on Harrington while pretending to listen to the priest discuss everything from aphids in his rose garden to the lamentable lack of funds in the poor box.
Nothing interesting happened on the Street of the Half Moon for a full hour, and Dubois was racking his brain, trying to figure out why Harrington was wasting his time here, when two men, dressed like gentlemen, stopped in front of number 127. The two men spoke to several children who were swinging on a gate, and one of the gentlemen offered the children a copper for information.
Dubois searched his mental files for the faces and pulled out two names: Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen, bastard son of the Countess Cecile de Marjolaine. The other was Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve, son of Claude de Villeneuve, ambassador to Estara.
Dubois had excellent hearing, though he really didn’t need to strain his ears, for the two gentlemen did not bother to lower their voices. They were asking about a resident of this run-down boarding house, a man named Pietro Alcazar. Dubois searched his file for the name, but came up with nothing. He stored it away for future reference.
Dubois gave the chatty priest a coin for his poor box and strolled over to the statue of the saint, taking up a position behind it. He noted, as he did so, that Harrington was also taking an interest in the two gentlemen, adjusting the slouch hat over his eyes so that he had a better view.
Captain de Guichen and Monsieur de Villeneuve entered the courtyard in company with the children. The moment they went inside, Harrington rose from his bench and, keeping the hat pulled low, strolled over to the iron gate and stared intently into the dark courtyard.
Harrington suddenly tugged on his cap, then wheeled and ran down the street. At the same moment, Captain de Guichen emerged from the courtyard, his gaze following Harrington, who signaled to a cab that he had apparently kept in waiting.
“Dearie me, James, you are slipping,” said Dubois. “You let yourself be spotted. That was careless.”
Dubois briefly considered mounting his horse and trying to follow Harrington’s cab, but rejected that idea. His agents were in position outside Harrington’s lodgings, and they would pick up the trail. Dubois was intrigued by the fact that Captain de Guichen was taking an interest in this Alcazar fellow.
Several boys were playing ball outside. Dubois strolled over to question them and heard the story of the mysterious disappearance of Pietro Alcazar, journeyman at the Royal Armory. Dubois waited until Captain de Guichen and his friend left the house, then entered the boarding house himself. Dubois mounted the stairs, and took a look around Alcazar’s apartment. He found the open inkwell and a pen lying on the table. The ink on the pen’s nib was still moist.
“Well, well, well,” Dubois murmured.
He had a habit of talking to himself. As he was accustomed to saying, he liked talking to the most intelligent person in the room.
Finding nothing more to pique his interest, Dubois left the building, returned to his horse, and rode back to his own lodgings.
As he was riding, Dubois sorted through all the various bits of information he had acquired. Two nights ago, Pietro Alcazar, journeyman at the Royal Armory disappears from his dwelling on Half Moon Street. The next day, the Master of the Royal Armory is listed as a visitor to the Countess de Marjolaine. This morning, the countess’ son is listed as a visitor to the countess. Also this morning, James Harrington, premier Freyan agent, is found lurking outside the residence of Pietro Alcazar. This midday, Captain de Guichen is seen entering the apartment of Pietro Alcazar. James Harrington leaves his post, rides off in a hurry.
Dubois did not waste his time trying to figure out what was going on. He had long ago learned that it was a mistake to theorize without information. He ordered in a late dinner and was finally able eat a decent meal.
A short time after, one of his agents came to report that Harrington had returned to his lodgings, where he had remained until a man arrived in a great rush. They held a brief conversation, then the man left and Harrington, dressed quite elegantly now, hailed a cab, and ordered it to drive rapidly to the Park of the Four Oaks.
Dubois went to the park, sauntered about for a short while, until he found Harrington, standing beneath an oak tree in company with another man.
Gone was the drunken Harrington in the slouch hat. In his place was a noble lord dressed in the latest style of the Freyan court. His hair was combed and powdered. He wore a sword on a finely embroidered baldric. His coat was dark wine with velvet collar and cuffs. He was talking animatedly to a young man of about twenty, who was red in the face and appeared beside himself with fury.
Dubois put a name to the young man. Escudero Juan Diego Ruiz Valazquez, son of Baron Valazquez, Estaran ambassador to Rosia.
“That is the man,” Harrington was saying. “I recognized him the moment I saw him, and I dispatched my servant posthaste to fetch you.”
“I will kill him!” said the young man in a strong accent, seizing the hilt of his sword. “I will slice off his-”
“You will do no such thing, my friend,” said Harrington, placing a restraining hand on the young man’s arm. “You will note the presence of two policeman over by the fountain. Besides, you do not want to make a scene before all these people. Consider your sister’s reputation. The fewer who know about this sad affair, the better.”
Valazquez contained himself with an effort. “Then what can I do? I will not allow the bastard to go unpunished!”
“You will handle this in the way most gentlemen handle such affairs,” said Harrington coolly.
Valazquez glanced at him, uncertain. “But dueling is illegal.”
“Only if the police find out about it. Ah, look. The policemen are walking off. Now is your chance. Remember, hold yourself in restraint.”
“I will try,” said Valazquez, breathing hard. “But it will be difficult. I long to rip out his lungs!”
The two men advanced. Dubois came out from around the back of the oak to observe the object of their conversation and Valazquez’s wrath.
“Well, well, well,” said Dubois and he raised his eyebrows-a rare display of emotion.
Harrington and Valazquez were walking over to speak to Captain de Guichen and his friend, Rodrigo de Villeneuve.
A beautiful afterglow spread over the sky. In the distance, drifting among the clouds, the Royal Palace was putting on a magnificent show. The base of the walls was a mixture of orange and pink drifting up through lavender. The tops of the palace’s towers had faded to black, and the first twinkles of starlight were just starting to glimmer along the roofline.
“It’s obvious we’ve failed. Can we leave now?” Rodrigo asked. “I’m hungry.”
Stephano cast an interrogative glance over his shoulder at the other members of the Cadre. Miri, seeing him, gave a very slight shrug. Dag shook his head.
“You’re right. This was a waste of time,” said Stephano.
The bench was hard, and he’d been sitting there for almost an hour. Stephano stood and stretched and
rubbed his lower back. Rodrigo rose with him and brushed off his red hunting coat. They were about to walk away when they saw Dag jump to his feet, spilling Doctor Ellington, who had been asleep in his lap. The cat gave an indignant yowl. Dag jerked his thumb.
Stephano turned just in time to see two gentlemen approaching. The eyes of both men were fixed on Stephano and his companion, and there was no doubt that they were coming to speak to them. Judging by their grim expressions, the subject of the talk was going to be unpleasant. Stephano elbowed Rodrigo.
“Company,” he said.
Rodrigo glanced around. “Do we know these gentlemen?”
“I don’t,” said Stephano. “Do you?”
“Yes,” said Rodrigo. “The young one is what you might call my opposite. I am the son of the Rosian ambassador to Estara, and he is the son of the Estaran ambassador to Rosia.”
The younger man, dressed in the flamboyant style of satin coat and breeches that marked him as an Estaran, was apparently in the grip of some powerful emotion, for he tried to speak, choked on his words, and failed utterly. The second man, who was some ten years his senior, made a cold and formal bow.
Stephano looked closely at the older man, thinking something about him was familiar. The man had short-cut fair hair, flat blue eyes, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and the pale complexion of those who live in rainy climes. He was of medium height and moved with a languid kind of grace. The two made an odd-looking pair. His young companion had long black hair that fell in waves over his shoulders, a sleek black mustache, flashing black eyes, and the brown skin of those who live much of their lives in the sun.
“Captain de Guichen,” the older man said. “Monsieur de Villeneuve.”
“You have the advantage of us, sir,” replied Stephano, with a bow equally cold and formal.
“I am Sir Richard Piefer of Dought Crossing, Freya. May I present His Excellency, Escudero Juan Diego Ruiz Valazquez, son of Baron Valazquez, ambassador from Estara.”
Rodrigo was about to bow when Valazquez stepped forward, drew off his leather glove, and slapped Rodrigo across the face.
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