“Quit calling her that,” said Stephano.
“-entrusted me with information she did not want to write down,” Benoit continued, ignoring the interruption.
Stephano tensed. “Tell me.”
Benoit whispered two words in Stephano’s ear.
“Henry Wallace.”
Stephano felt the tingle at the base of his spine run up his back and twist his gut.
“Do you know the name, sir?” Benoit asked.
“Unfortunately, I do,” said Stephano.
Sir Henry Wallace, spy master, assassin, was perhaps the only person in the world his mother truly feared. The countess had spoken of him only once, in connection with rumors of a failed assassination attempt against King Alaric who had been going to conduct a royal inspection of the mysterians damage done to the newly commissioned naval cutter, Defiant. Stephano had been with the Dragon Brigade then and there had been some talk of sending the Brigade in pursuit of the assassins. She had told him her belief that Sir Henry was involved and she had gone on to tell him what she knew of the Freyan spy master, whom she had met many years ago, when he had come to court in his capacity as the Freyan Ambassador.
Stephano dredged up the memory of his mother’s words. He had never heard her speak of any man the way she talked of Sir Henry.
“Henry Wallace is a man of superior intellect, rapier-sharp wit, and cold-blooded calculation. He is ruthless, clever, and cunning and a Freyan patriot to the core of his being. He hates Rosia and would sacrifice anything, anyone to see us lie crushed and defeated beneath the Freyan heel. His reach is long. He has spies in every court, agents hiding in every closet, and assassins underneath every bed.”
Stephano remembered he had been impressed, but he had wondered, if this man was so amazing, why he had failed in the attempt to kill the king.
He could see the countess standing in her room, twisting the ring on her finger. He could hear her bitter and enigmatic reply. “I am not certain he did fail. It is my belief that he wasn’t truly out to kill the king.”
As it happened, the Brigade had not been called up. The entire matter had been abruptly and mysteriously dropped. His mother had refused to discuss it and had forbidden him to ever refer to it. She had never again spoken of Sir Henry Wallace.
The fact that Wallace was mixed up in the disappearance of Alcazar drastically altered the situation. His involvement made it a safe bet that Alcazar had succeeded in his experiment. Stephano allowed himself to picture what would happen if such magically-infused metal were to fall into Freyan hands. Rosian ships firing every gun they had and doing little damage, as Freyan vessels pounded the Rosian Navy into kindling. The war would be over in a matter of days.
He looked back at how the events had unfolded after he’d begun his investigation into Alcazar’s disappearance and he could now begin to explain what had previously been inexplicable. The man with the slouch hat who had been lurking outside Alcazar’s apartment, the same man-the supposed Lord Richard Piefer-who had arranged the duel, murdered Valazquez, and tried to murder them must be an agent of Sir Henry Wallace. He had probably given instructions that anyone who took too great an interest in Alcazar was to be removed. That did not explain the other person who had been present at the duel, the person whose timely shot had saved Stephano’s life, but Stephano assumed now that this must have been an agent sent by his mother.
He pondered what to do now. First and foremost, he had to protect Benoit. He was angry at his mother. She had no right to get the old man involved in such a dangerous and potentially deadly affair.
“Were you followed here?” Stephano asked.
Benoit sat up very straight. His rheumy eyes flashed with indignation. “I should hope you know me better than that, sir!”
Stephano rested his hand over the old man’s. “I have no doubt you managed to shake off pursuit, but I need to know if you were pursued. Were you?”
“As a matter of fact I was, sir. A man followed me when I left the palace. I made sure I lost him before boarding the vessel that brought me to Westfirth. I have kept an eye out since, but I have not seen anyone take any particular notice of me.”
“Good. I want you leave Westfirth tonight and go back to-”
“Beg pardon, sir, your honored… that is to say your lady mother instructed me to return to her with word that I had found you. She was worried when she heard you had been shot-”
Stephano’s eyes narrowed, and Benoit suddenly ceased talking.
“How did my mother hear I was shot?” Stephano demanded.
Benoit buried his nose in his ale mug and pretended to be extremely interested in observing the tavern’s clientele.
“There was no one on the dock that day but you and the man who tried to assassinate me,” Stephano continued in grim tones. “And I somehow doubt that the assassin was the one who went and told my mother! Which means you’ve been spying on me for her!”
“A mother’s love, sir-” began Benoit in plaintive tones.
“Bullshit!” Stephano glowered and shook his fist. “I should wring your scrawny neck-”
Benoit suddenly leaped out of his chair.
“Good God, sir! Look who just walked in! Sir Ander Martel! Your father’s dear friend. I must go pay my respects-”
Sir Ander was entering the tavern, accompanied by Father Jacob, Master Albert, and Brother Barnaby. Father Jacob, he noted, was carrying an extremely large bundle. He saw that Sir Ander was being unusually watchful; he had his hand on his sword hilt and he was staying very close to Father Jacob.
The light outside was bright; it would take the three a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim light of the tavern. Stephano had already located another way out. Seizing hold of Benoit, Stephano hustled him, kicking and sputtering, to the back door which was behind and to the right of the bar, a good distance from the front door. He cast a few coins on the bar as he ran past. The barkeep gave them a bored glance as they made their hasty exit. He did not say anything or even seem much interested. In a tavern frequented by smugglers, customers bolting suddenly out the back were an everyday occurrence. So long as they paid their bill, they could fly up the chimney for all he cared.
The back door led to a storage room lit only by a single, filthy window. Stephano tumbled over a few barrels and bashed his knee on a packing crate before he reached the door. He thrust it open, peered out cautiously into a dingy side street. Seeing no one, he shoved Benoit, still protesting vociferously, through the door and after a glance behind, went after him.
Stephano had to take time to assure Benoit that he had met up with Sir Ander and that they were now the best of friends before the old man would calm down.
“I know you would like to visit with Sir Ander,” said Stephano, as he hurried Benoit down the street. “But trust me. Now is not the time. You have passage on a ship? You know where you’re going?”
“Yes, sir, your lady mother was kind enough-”
“Yes, yes. Then take your ship, go back to the palace, tell my ‘lady mother’ I am not dead, at least not yet. And you can add that I thank her for her concern, but I took a job and I intend to see it through. You understand.”
“Yes, sir,” said Benoit.
They stopped at a street corner. Stephano had to get back to the Cloud Hopper, which must be about ready to depart. He eyed Benoit, realized suddenly that the old man was, well, old. No one could call him frail, but he should be back home sitting peacefully in front of the family fire nursing his blasted extremities, not running down side streets and shaking off tails.
“I’m sorry as hell you were dragged into this, Benoit,” said Stephano ruefully. “Take good care of yourself going back to Evreux. Don’t get yourself kidnapped again or that gray head of yours blown off. You know that Master Rigo and I can’t manage without you.”
“I tremble at the thought of either of you attempting to do so, sir,” said Benoit with feeling. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve come through worse than this. I do, howe
ver, find myself a bit short of funds-”
Stephano had handed over all the money he had left and Benoit went safely on his way. Returning to the Cloud Hopper, Stephano found everyone waiting eagerly for his return. They crowded around him the moment he set foot on deck, demanding answers.
“Rodrigo told us you went after Benoit,” Dag said. “What’s he doing here?”
“Where is the old man?” Miri asked, peering fondly over Stephano’s shoulder. “Didn’t you bring him with you?”
“Your mother sent him,” Rodrigo guessed. “Something’s gone wrong. Or maybe I should say something else has gone wrong.”
Stephano cast a glance over the rail. The Retribution was now in the care of the shipyard. Crafters and carpenters were swarming over the yacht, discussing the repairs, making notes. He could see some of the crafters shaking their heads over the strange scorch marks. He wondered what Father Jacob had told them about the attack. Certainly not the truth.
‘I’ll explain everything later,” said Stephano. “For now, let’s just get out of here.”
Rigo put away his fishing gear. Dag went to clean and reload the guns. Stephano walked over to stand by Miri, who was once more at the controls, maneuvering the houseboat through the crowded shipping lanes of the harbor. The sun was setting, the light fading. Fortunately, the Trundler village was not far away. They would be there before darkness fell.
“Where’s Gythe?” Stephano asked, looking around in alarm. “She’s not sick again, is she?”
“Not sick as you mean,” said Miri. “Oh, Stephano, the worst thing has happened to her!”
“What now?” Stephano asked, alarmed, preparing for some new crisis.
Miri gave a deep sigh. “Gythe’s fallen in love with that monk!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Trundlers are a friendly lot so long as the sun is up. A floating village becomes a market, the houseboats market stalls, where all are welcome to come and spend your rosuns. When the sun sets, the Trundlers close up shop and raise the barricades. Trundlers do not take kindly to strangers and anyone not a Trundler is a stranger.
– Lord Captain Stephano De Guichen
BY THE TIME THE CLOUD HOPPERHAD SLIPPED into its berth alongside the other houseboats in the floating Trundler village, night had fallen. The Trundler houseboats had lit their lanterns and the glowing lights, dancing up and down or shifting from side to side with the rocking motion of the boats at anchor, made it look as if the village were populated by fireflies.
Even though most on board were “outsiders,” they were welcomed by the Trundlers. Miri’s uncle was leader of the McPike clan and well-liked by all except the McGonagalls, a clan with whom a feud had been raging for about three hundred years or so. Miri in her role as Lore Master was honored and highly valued, and Gythe was universally loved. Their entry into the Trundler village took on the aspect of a triumphal march. Running lights shining and lanterns lit, the Cloud Hopper sailed among the houseboats, with Miri calling out greetings to those they passed, asking about her innumerable relatives and whether they were “in town” and acknowledging invitations for her and Gythe to come visit.
Once they docked, Miri and her sister made ready to depart to pay their respects to their uncle, hear the latest news of the family, and make inquiries about the missing journeyman. Dag was also leaving the Cloud Hopper, to find out if any of his former underworld connections knew anything about Alcazar. Before everyone went their separate ways, Stephano called them together. He told them about his mother’s letter, shared with them what he knew about Sir Henry Wallace, emphasized the danger, and gave them a description of Wallace.
“My mother saw Wallace many years ago, so this description is probably not much good. And he’s adept at disguising himself. For what it’s worth, Henry Wallace is tall, slender in build, with finely chiseled features except for his nose, which was broken in his youth and did not heal properly. Pietro Alcazar is addicted to gambling and could possibly be found at the baccarat tables if he’s off his tether, which is unlikely. We want to know if anyone has seen either of these men or if anyone has been asking about them.”
He also told Miri and Gythe to find out if there had been any more attacks on Trundler houseboats and, if so, if those attacks had been similar in nature to the attack on their parents’ boat. Finally, he reminded them that they were all under Seal and that he had given his word to Papa Jake that they would say nothing about the demons. Everyone nodded solemnly at this.
Stephano watched Dag carefully arm himself, tucking two pistols beneath his coat and sliding a pistol and a knife into his boot.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Stephano asked, watching Dag assemble his arsenal. “Maybe I should go with you.”
Dag chuckled as he slid a second knife into his belt. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but you’d be more trouble than you’d be worth. You’re a gentleman born, sir, and you can’t hide it. The places I’m going don’t take to gentry. You’d end up in the gutter with your throat slit, your watch missing, and your pockets turned inside out.”
“You and Rigo can come with us,” said Miri. She cast a sidelong look at her sister, who was staring up dreamily at the stars. “You can help me take Gythe’s mind off Brother Barnaby.”
Stephano was about to agree, and he was startled to hear Rodrigo decline, claiming that he was going to bed; he had to be up early the next day.
“Early for what?” Stephano asked, astonished.
“My dear fellow, I have to see my tailor,” said Rodrigo, sounding shocked that he would even ask. “I have nothing to wear.”
“You have a chest filled with clothes,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo only smiled and shook his head. Miri rolled her eyes and whispered something to Gythe, who giggled. Dag snorted in derision. Picking up the Doctor, Dag settled the cat on his shoulder and descended the gangplank. He walked out onto the long pier that led to shore.
“You could come with us,” said Miri to Stephano, as the sisters were about to leave. “Uncle likes you.”
“He likes me now, since we’ve finally convinced him I have no intention of trying to worm my way into the McPike clan by wedding his niece,” said Stephano. “When do you plan to tell him about Dag?”
“When I’ve told Dag about Dag,” said Miri crisply. She glanced with concern at the back of the big man, who was walking away from them. Doctor Ellington’s tail stuck straight up, looking like a furry feather in Dag’s hat. “I hope he’ll be safe.”
“Worry more about anyone who tries to cross him,” said Stephano. “Thanks for the invitation. Give your uncle my regards. I’ll stay with Rigo.”
He had given his friend the sad news about his father; the countess had received confirmation from her sources that Ambassador de Villeneuve had been assassinated. Rodrigo had received the news with equanimity, going a bit pale, but only saying calmly that he was thankful to be no longer in doubt. Stephano remembered his own soul-searing grief over the death of his father and he had felt helplessly that he should be doing or saying something more.
“We could find a way to send you home for the funeral…” he had begun and then he had remembered. “Damn! You can’t go home. We’re under Seal. I promised Father Jacob we’d all remain here in Westfirth. Never mind the priest. If you want to go home, Rigo, you should go home.”
Rodrigo had smiled and shaken his head. “My dear fellow, have you forgotten that we spent days lost in the Breath? The funeral will be over and done with by now. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
But Stephano was worried. Rodrigo loved Trundler gatherings. It wasn’t like him to miss one.
After Rodrigo had gone to bed, Stephano sat down with a bottle of wine given to them by one of their Trundler neighbors. He went over everything that had happened these past few days and made plans for what was likely to happen in the future.
Stephano did not worry about setting the watch. They were surrounded on all sides by Trundler houseboats. The
Trundlers set their own watch over the entire village; they did not take kindly to strangers. For the first night in many nights, Stephano slept deeply and woke to the sun shining and the smell of sausages.
The morning of Chardus, the fourth day of the week, was a fine one, not a cloud in the sky. Even the mists had dissipated. Peering over the hull, Stephano could see quite a distance down to the dark and murky depths of the Breath below. Stephano thought of the demons that had come up out of those depths and he shifted his gaze landward, which provided a far more pleasurable view of the city of Westfirth.
He looked out over a veritable sea of gaily painted balloons. Trundler houseboats bobbed in the harbor, thin trails of smoke rising from their galleys bringing with it smells of fresh-baked bread. The morning was brightened by the laughter of children as they scrambled up and down the masts or jumped perilously from boat to boat in games of tag while parents called irritably for them to stop or they would break their fool necks or tumble into the Breath.
Beyond the Trundler village was the southern end of the city of Westfirth; a veritable forest of chimney pots. The two spires of the archbishop’s grand cathedral, currently under construction and covered in a maze of scaffolding, was a new and interesting feature on the skyline.
“A sign the Church is exerting authority in Westfirth at last,” Stephano reflected. “Or trying to.”
Like parents endeavoring to curb the excesses of a child they had ignored for many years, the Church was finding it difficult to alter the city’s bad behavior. The new archbishop was an energetic and zealous man, however; firmly determined to make his unruly city into a model of deportment.
According to Dag, who had returned to the Cloud Hopper in the early hours, the archbishop was not having much luck. Criminal organizations still flourished, operating brothels and gambling and opium dens, waging wars over territory and conducting running battles with the members of the Constabulary. A militaristic police force organized and financed by the Church, the Constabulary had replaced the corrupt and ineffective city guard and was doing its best to bring law and order to Westfirth. Theirs was an ambitious task. Smuggled goods were still being sold openly in the city market. The murder rate was so high the constables were forced to conduct a sweep every morning to gather up the bodies. The crackdown was having some effect.
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