More worryingly, they had adopted the new Lokant and draykoni descendants with enthusiasm and had been attempting to recruit all of those who showed even the least skill in any related area. It had been whispered that they had even attempted to sway the founder of the LHB, Lady Evastany Glostrum herself, though of course her ladyship had proved impervious.
Dame Halavere probably had not. Her name had come up repeatedly in connection with several recent crimes, and though they were but rumours, Serena’s superiors had judged it best to investigate. Word had reached them of a meeting that was to take place tonight, under cover of Halavere’s grand ball. The topic under discussion was to be a new job — and not just any job. This job was extremely important, enormously lucrative, and to be entrusted only to the most talented, most loyal, and most reliable of the Unspeakables.
Unfortunately, nobody had any idea what the job was. It fell to Serena and Fabian to keep Halavere under close observation tonight, and attempt to overhear whatever was said at that meeting. There were only a few obstacles in their way: namely the presence of approximately two hundred other guests, the necessity of concealing themselves and their true purpose from their hostess, and the minor complication that they had no idea who Halavere might be meeting. Or whether she would even risk attending that meeting in person.
Fortunately, the Carteretts had one or two other colleagues stationed around the house tonight.
Chapter Two
In the cloakroom of Dame Halavere’s country mansion, two temporary members of staff were hard at work accepting the many cloaks, coats, mantles, hoods and scarves of their employer’s guests, and assisting them in changing their outdoor shoes into dancing slippers. Teyodin Bambre was a little too tall to be strictly nondescript, but he had covered his shaggy, dark brown hair with a neat wig of an indeterminate hue and had adopted besides a bland expression perfectly suited to his role for the evening. A man of early middle years, he wore his age well, though there were a few tell-tale lines around his eyes and mouth. He attended to the gentleman guests with gracious solicitude; a worthy servant, but never so helpful as to excite comment, or to encourage anyone to remember him.
His colleague, Egg (or Egrenne, though she hated to be addressed by that name) performed the same service for the ladies. She was ten years younger than her associate, in truth, though she could have passed for a few years younger still. Her skin was also a few shades lighter than his darkish brown, though neither could be called pale. Her dark red hair was concealed beneath a black wig, she had bound almost flat the feminine assets which could not help but attract attention, and she was attired in the uniform livery of the Morann family. Teyo did not even glance at her as he went about his business, nor she at him; they were too well practiced at this art to betray any acquaintance with one another.
As Teyo worked, he set about committing to memory every face that appeared before him, together with any memorable details about that person and, if he could contrive it, their name. He also kept his ears open for any snatches of overheard conversation that might help him to determine who among Dame Halavere’s guests was her appointed contact.
They had been assisting the guests for an hour already, and the task seemed endless. Just as the flow of ball attendees seemed to finally be slowing down, a fresh flood of them would burst through the doors, setting Egg and Teyo bustling once more. Teyo’s memory was excellent, but even he was beginning to lose track of the many faces that had passed before his eyes. Most of the conversation he heard, moreover, was vacuous in the extreme and of neither use nor interest to him.
...delightful party... Dame Halavere so beautiful... goodness, but these shoes do pinch! I hope I shall be able to dance in them... careful with that, man, it is the finest silk! Who can that lovely young woman be, there in the violet gown? ...heard about Miss Galler? Cannot countenance how she can show her face... shabbiest of refreshments at Sir Tatton’s last week, do hope Dame Halavere’s will be better...
In addition to all of this, Teyo was also obliged to keep track of his companion, friend and co-spy, Jisp. The creature was tiny, lithe and orange-scaled, with a blunt snout and lively black eyes. The sticky yellow pads to her toes allowed her to climb anywhere and everywhere, and he had frequently found this to be a useful talent.
He had discovered his draykon heritage a year ago, and very suddenly. He had been wandering across a field, deep in thought, and abruptly he had not been human anymore at all. He did not know how his sudden transformation had come about — certainly through no will of his own — but he understood it to be an increasingly common occurrence these days.
He had received training since, and one of the best perks of his unexpected heritage was his ability to bond and communicate with animals. He and Jisp had formed a strong friendship soon afterwards, and they were greatly attached to one another.
Not much happening down here, she reported from somewhere beneath a pile of shoes. These things stink.
Okay, switch to the pockets, he instructed her. He could not, as a servant, risk going through the guests’ pockets himself; if caught, he would be instantly dismissed and his part in the evening’s job would be over. Jisp, however, was perfect for the task. She instantly busied herself with climbing the ranks of coats and cloaks which hung on racks behind him, and nosing her way into all the nooks and crannies they contained. She transmitted to him a series of mental pictures of everything that she found within: handkerchiefs, snuffboxes, an occasional pipe or pot of rouge. Nothing of interest.
And then: a note! Jisp painstakingly nosed her way over the scrawled words as Teyo fought to focus both on that and the shoes of the gentleman before him. Midnight by the fountain, it said. Teyo’s heart beat a little faster. Do not wear your... oh. The next word was a vulgar term for women’s undergarments.
Teyo muttered something under his breath as he hung up the next cloak. He was disappointed, though he couldn’t help feeling a flicker of appalled fascination as well. Did the high-and-mighty truly attend grand society events without their underwear, and engage in scandalous trysts in their hosts’ gardens? So much for all their vaunted propriety.
Jisp continued with her explorations without any further excitement. The flow of guests was at last beginning to wane, and Teyo was prepared to give up, when he noticed that Egg was trying to attract his attention. She made a surreptitious signal, which he translated as: Kitchens, half an hour.
Jisp had completed her survey of the pockets of Dame Halavere’s guests, but she was so well entertained that Teyo left her to rummage as she wished. There was little danger of her being discovered, in spite of her bright colours; she had an unerring nose for danger and a remarkable talent for disappearing at a second’s notice. He passed the appointed half-hour in the scrupulous performance of his duties, a footman to the core, and by the time it was over new guests had ceased to arrive, and Teyo was free to depart. He did so speedily, lest his temporary superior, the butler, appear at an inopportune moment and order him elsewhere.
The kitchens were in chaos, of course. A banquet for hundreds of people had to be prepared, and everything must be perfect. Regaled with the sights and aromas of myriad glorious dishes, Teyo was briefly sorry that it would not be possible for him to partake of it. But he was able to palm a tiny fruit tart on his way through, together with a second one for Egg. They were warm in his hand as he slipped through the rear door into the pantries, and down a flight of steps at the back.
He and Egg had explored the house earlier that day, and agreed upon a meeting point. A disused storeroom lay behind a broken door in the cellar. Egg had left the leaning door open several inches, and Teyo slipped inside.
It was almost fully dark. Egg had a tiny glow-lamp for purposes such as these, and she had muted its already subtle light by covering it with a lightweight cloth. Fine cambric, he judged, with a pretty lace border. She had filched a handkerchief from one of the lady guests.
‘Resourceful,’ he murmured, indicating the handkerchief wit
h a nod.
Egg flashed her wide, mischievous grin. ‘I am. Thank you. Find anything much?’
‘A very, very steamy love-note,’ Teyo replied, widening his eyes.
Egg coughed. ‘Anything relevant?’
‘About eighty snuffboxes and a truly appalling number of handkerchiefs. Oh, and Mr. Archiban Binker is to wed Miss Tia Wennan after all, though it was not thought that he would come up to the mark.’
Egg nodded wisely. ‘Wonderful news. I was wondering when those two would get together. Meanwhile, I have been hugely successful.’
‘In that case, you win food.’ Teyo handed her a fruit tart, and devoured his own in one bite.
‘Thanks,’ Egg said, her mouth already full of pastry. ‘Do I win two?’
Teyo shook his head. ‘The degree of your brilliance has yet to be demonstrated. It is not yet certain that you merit two.’
‘You merited one without doing anything at all!’ Egg protested.
‘That’s different. I was the thief of this operation: I get spoils.’ Teyo folded his arms.
Eg sighed. ‘Fine. Come with me.’
This, Teyo had not expected. He followed her out of the pantry, keeping a cautious eye out for passing staff. Egg led him to the other side of the spacious cellar, and Teyo became gradually aware of a faint sound: the sound, perhaps, of somebody writhing about and trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to shout around some kind of obstruction in the mouth. Egg threw open the door to one of the liquor rooms and whipped the handkerchief off her light-globe as she did so, allowing its light to blaze much brighter.
The room beyond was full of fat wooden barrels, probably containing brandy. It also had an occupant. A man in groom’s attire was lying face-first over one of the barrels, his legs and arms trussed up with something that looked suspiciously like stockings. Teyo raised an eyebrow at Egg, who shrugged.
‘What the—’ she said loudly as she stepped forward. ‘Oh, my giddy goodness! Are you all right?’ She had developed the broad vowels and drawling intonation of a local country lass, and when she ran forward to assist the captive, her demeanour was of shock and charmingly dim-witted concern. She soon managed to untangle the stocking which bound up the man’s hands, while Teyo ripped away his gag and the bindings on his legs. He got a good look at the captive’s face in the process, and understood at once why Egg had stuffed him in the brandy cellar.
‘Of course I’m all right!’ spat the man, and shoved past Egg without another word. He vanished through the door, leaving Egg to waggle her eyebrows at Teyo in an intolerably smug fashion.
Because Teyo had seen the man before, of course. His younger years had been neither as productive nor as respectable as he might have liked; he had, to his regret, been a member of the Yllandu. It was never easy to extricate oneself from such an outfit, but Teyo had managed it at last. He had offered himself to the Torwyne Agency of Irbel, and been accepted. For the past four years he had been working with Serena, Fabian and Egrenne to oppose everything the Unspeakables attempted to do in Irbel or Nimdre.
Egg’s captive was Yllandu. He had joined the organisation just as Teyo was leaving, and the two had never been acquainted. He had a distinctive face, however: pale and violently freckled, with a nose that veered sharply to the left.
‘And now we follow,’ Egg said proudly, and darted after the escapee. Teyo wandered after, pausing only briefly when the returning Jisp opted to scarper up his trouser-leg.
Serena had danced once with Fabian, once with the lively and very handsome Lord Darnwell, and once each with Mr. Rostover and Mr. Brackly. ‘Both so eligible,’ she breathlessly confided to Fabian a little later, as she downed a glass of punch.
‘Can you not stop dancing for five minutes?’ he returned in a disapproving tone. His eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke, ostensibly gazing with suitably admiring intensity at all the prettiest young ladies present. Serena knew that he was actually keeping an eye on Dame Halavere.
‘It must be my gown,’ she said modestly, lightly touching the silk. ‘It puts the gentlemen in such a fever of admiration, how can I be expected to resist?’ She smiled winningly.
‘We have work to do,’ he reminded her in a low voice.
‘I am working.’
‘You’re flirting.’
‘That can be work.’ Serena finished her punch, set down her glass and swapped with Fabian. It was his turn to busy himself about the punch-bowl, and hers to maintain a surreptitious scrutiny of Dame Halavere’s movements, together with those of any other guest who might be behaving in unexpected ways. She noticed one gentleman — Trimble, his name was; an incorrigible libertine — slipping out of the rear door with Mrs. Vasher. Both were notoriously free with their favours, and Mrs. Vasher was doing far too much giggling for Serena’s taste.
‘Probably she is not even wearing underwear,’ Serena muttered under her breath.
‘What was that?’ whispered Fabian around his punch-glass.
‘Nothing.’
Nothing else untoward occurred. Dame Halavere was dancing with Sir Kunley Prosh, a gentleman of advancing years who Serena instantly dismissed as a candidate for intrigue. He was far too simple-minded. He danced rather poorly — only his great wealth made him tolerable either as a ball-guest or a partner, she suspected — and smiled at his pretty partner in such a fatuous way that Serena felt reassured: nothing of the remotest interest could be going on inside that head.
When the dance came to an end, Halavere rejected the invitation of the next gentleman to approach her and made her way towards the garden doors.
Two men came towards Serena at the same moment, their intentions writ large upon their amiable faces, and she made a noise of frustration. ‘I should have brought Teyo into the ballroom,’ she hissed at Fabian.
‘What?’ he blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Because then we could have pretended to escape into the garden for a daring tryst, and I would not be stuck with these people.’
‘Would it have been pretend?’ Fabian asked with interest.
‘Naturally.’
‘Probably?’
‘We’re going to have to do it the other way,’ she sighed.
‘Oh, no,’ Fabian muttered. ‘Please don’t do that again—’
His entreaties went unheeded. Just as her first would-be dance partner arrived with proffered hand, Serena began to sway slightly on her feet, her hand lifting to her forehead with an intriguing little fluttering motion. ‘Oh,’ she whispered faintly, ‘I do feel so very...’
She was not, in her weakness, able to utter another syllable before she sank into an elegant swoon. For a second, she thought that Fabian was not going to catch her after all. She shot him a glare from under her eyelids and, with a sigh, he broke her fall with every appearance of solicitude. Gone was Fabian Carterett, replaced by the perpetual boredom and faint, spoiled sneer of Lord Bastavere.
‘Oh, no, is it the vapours again?’ he murmured with becoming concern. ‘My poor, dear sister. What could be causing these repeated fits? I do hope it is not anything fatal.’
Serena was too artfully unconscious to be able to attempt any reply, though she made a mental note to smack him for it later. A little crowd had gathered around her, thrusting several bottles of smelling-salts under her nose at once. The aroma made her cough, her eyes watered, and she was obliged to recover.
The operation proceeded with well-practiced ease from there. In a trice, Fabian had explained to the company with brotherly concern that his sister required a little air; he had elbowed away the solicitous advances of the gentlemen and fended off the (largely feigned) concern of the ladies. He gently shepherded Serena out into the gardens, reassuringly unaccompanied, and there she underwent an instant and miraculous recovery.
‘You are so very good at that,’ she said, beaming.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ he said dryly, offering her his arm. ‘I begin to think ballrooms are hazardous to your health. You cannot enter one without falling into a swoon.�
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‘Quite right. I will have to give up the dancing and the flirting, and leave them both to Egg.’ She took his arm and they promenaded serenely through the darkened gardens, their path lit by way of dozens of light-globes floating just overhead.
It did not prove difficult to locate Dame Halavere. She had left a trail of heavy perfume, so powerful as to outdo even the exotic flowers for dominance. Serena followed her nose.
The garden was laid out in an ornamental arrangement, framed by tall hedges which divided it up into sections. Halavere’s trail led through a corridor of red-blooming vines and past a grand marble fountain. Serena thought she could hear giggling coming from behind one of the hedges. Fabian tried to turn towards it, but Serena pulled him back, shaking her head.
‘Not Halavere,’ she muttered, with an expressive roll of her eyes.
Fabian snorted. ‘I like this party.’
‘I can’t tell you how uninterested I am in hearing about that. Come on, this way.’
The soft scrunch of feminine footsteps on gravel sounded from somewhere ahead, and Serena and Fabian came to a halt. Peeping around a hedge, Serena observed Dame Halavere, but dimly visible in the moonlit darkness, lingering in a corner of the hedge.
‘She’s skulking,’ she reported in a faint whisper.
‘It’s always so promising when they skulk,’ Fabian replied with approval. He peered around Serena’s shoulder and added, ‘This is an especially promising skulk. She is certainly waiting for someone.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Serena murmured. ‘Perhaps we could talk about it later?’
Fabian gave one of his soft snorts, and subsided. They waited in silence, until Serena’s straining ears caught the sounds of another set of approaching footsteps: heavier, probably male. The newcomer came into view moments later, and Serena could not repress a smile of mingled satisfaction and amusement. He was dressed as a groom, though his disguise was mediocre at best. He had none of the air of a man of the stables; he displayed the peculiar combination of swagger and furtiveness that marked out all the most desperate characters, and even the once-broken nose of a born brawler. It could virtually be considered a uniform among the Unspeakables. Why could criminals never display any imagination?
Seven Dreams Page 2