It is almost as though he believes me guilty of some dreadful secret vice, which he expects me to confide in him! she thought indignantly. The feverish intensity of his dark gaze, an avid expression on his lean brown face, made Elsie want to shiver and shrink away, but he had already edged her into a corner of the sofa, and she had no place farther to go. This man has an unquiet spirit. If his soul is sick, then how can he hope to minister to mine?
She felt a cold wash of relief when Mr. Tynsdale finally arose, begged her to convey his compliments to her friend Miss Thorn, bowed, and stalked out of the room.
Elsie moved out of the corner, shook out her ruffles, and unfolded the crumpled handkerchief she had crushed in one damp palm. She was not even certain what the man had said or done to fluster her so, or why she should feel so unaccountably violated.
Mr. Tynsdale is a fanatic, that I know. But why he keeps coming here, as though this house were a perfect haven for sinners and apostates, that I do not know. Elsie jumped in her seat as a step sounded in the hall and the parlor door opened—but it was only Sera, returning from her afternoon call.
"My dear, you look positively rattled," said Sera, untying the ribbons of her bonnet and taking a seat on the sofa. She reached out to smooth Elsie's disheveled golden curls. Though no longer the sickly girl she had been in Thornburg, Elsie still retained a deceptive air of fragility that aroused all of Sera's protective instincts.
"I have been teased and bothered nearly to distraction," Elsie admitted. "But let us not talk of that. Tell me, if you please, what you learned today from Jedidiah and Mr. Jonas. Jed has been dreadfully provoking, this last fortnight, with all sorts of hints and veiled promises, but he never said anything that made the least sense."
As nothing short of an earthquake or an explosion was likely to disturb the napping Granny Bullrush, Sera very readily told Elsie everything she knew, describing at length (and with a strong air of disapproval) the plans and arrangements already made by Jedidiah and the gnome. As she might have expected, the romantic aspects of the proposed undertaking so delighted Elsie that she clapped her hands and declared herself willing, should the need arise, to pack up her bags and depart on a moment's notice.
"But Sera," she asked, grown suddenly sober, "perhaps you are not so eager to resume our travels? After all, it has been more than a year since we left Thornburg, and Francis Skelbrooke—"
"—can find me there as easily as he can here," Sera finished for her, a trifle crossly. Anger was better than self-pity, and she would not play the role of the maiden abandoned by her lover—and really, when had there been anything between them but the one hurried declaration—no matter how much her heart ached. "That is, supposing he meant anything he said to me that night in Zar-Wildungen, and that he really does come looking for me."
She reached instinctively for the little spiral of sea-ivory set in gold, which she wore on a fine chain around her neck. The trinket had come to her eight weeks before—through what mysterious channels she could only guess—by way of the Glassmakers Guild. It had arrived in a little wooden box inscribed with her first name, and on a card inside were scrawled the initials "F.S." Yet of the elusive Skelbrooke himself, or his present whereabouts, she had received no word.
"But I think he will come for you," Elsie said softly.
"Do you?" Sera spoke a little huskily. "But things never do go right for me . . . as we know quite well. But don't let it trouble you, my dear. I am twenty years old and a confirmed spinster. I may not be satisfied with my lot in life, but I can imagine much worse.
"And really, Elsie, you disappoint me," she added, speaking very low and gesturing toward the hall. The voices of Mistress Bullrush's arriving supper guests could be heard in the hall. "Lord Skelbrooke's name, along with our own names, our true relationships, and our very reasons for being here in the New World . . . these are not things we should mention aloud even among ourselves. We can never tell who may be in the house to overhear us!"
***
Alas for Sera, and alas for secrecy, those very names were already familiar to a recent visitor to the Bullrush mansion. In a modest bedchamber at the Sea-Horse Inn, a gentleman sat at a small desk of varnished maple, writing a letter by candlelight.
To the Most Gracious and Exalted Lady, Marella, Duchess of Zar-Wildungen, he wrote in a dashing hand.
I have good reason to Believe that I have at last Succeeded in that Inquiry with which you were kind enough to Entrust me. Two young Women, bearing a close resemblance to the Misses Seramarias and Elsie Vorder are currently Residing in the town of Lootie's Bay in the colony of Nova Imbria, under the assumed names (as I conceive) of Sera Thorn and Elisabett Winter. I shall set down here all that I know of these two Young Women, so that the Gracious Lady may decide for Herself whether or not I have Successfully located her Quarry . . .
***
After describing his first meeting with the two young ladies, the spy paused briefly and thoughtfully, then dipped his quill pen once more into the standish, and continued on.
. . . though I must Confess that I am baffled by one Circumstance which I had not Anticipated, viz.: the Existence of one Mister Thorn (as he calls himself), a young man Posing before the Community as the brother of Sera Thorn. This Imposture (as I must suppose) rendered particularly Convincing not only by a Similarity of Stature and Complexion, but Most of all by a kind of Affectionate Disrespect displayed by both parties, each to the other, which argues a Long but scarcely Lover-like Intimacy between them. Perhaps Madam, being better informed than Myself, knows of whom I speak.
The gentleman paused again, to trim the wick of the candle, which had begun to flicker, and to take a sip of wine from a cup at his elbow.
These things Said, I shall turn to the Question which the Gracious Lady addressed to me in her last letter, viz.: my Previous Acquaintance with the poetical Lord Skelbrooke. To answer fully, I must needs Reveal something of mine own history, and my close Involvement in a terrible series of Events, which the Newspapers came to call the Waxbridge Horror.
Six years ago, when scarcely more than a Boy—although, indeed, I thought myself at the very pinnacle of sophistication—I had the ill-fortune (though Great Good Fortune it seemed to me at the time) to be admitted into a circle of Magicians, the which were all Disciples of a certain Noblewoman who represented herself as a White Sorceress of no Mean Ability.
To be brief, the Woman was not what she Seemed, and indeed it was her Custom to gradually Introduce the young Men of the Circle to one filthy and pernicious Vice after another, until (her Disciples becoming by Slow Degrees as Vicious and Degraded in their inclinations as she was Herself) she deemed it time to Initiate her followers, one by one, into the loathsome mysteries of the Dark Arts. I, like many others who fell under the Influence of this Gloriously Seductive creature, was Deeply Infatuated, nor did it take me long to Succumb to those Enticements which she offered me, and engage in practices of the Utmost Depravity.
But to return to Francis Skelbrooke: he had come to the City of Lundy, quite against the Wishes of his Noble Relations, to study the Science of Medicine, having some Romantical idea that he had come into this world to Minister to the Sick and Suffering. He, too, joined our Circle, and fell rapidly under the Influence of the female.
I will spare the Gracious Lady the distressing Details, and say only that the Sorceress was in the Habit of Using young orphan Children in the course of her spells and Perversions. These Unlawful practices at length coming to the Attention of the Authorities, the Woman was unmasked and brought to Trial, and all her Disciples with her. Only Mr. Skelbrooke (a late and not yet fully initiated member of our Circle) escaped prosecution. The Sorceress, being Convicted of her crimes, was Quietly and Discreetly executed, while all her accomplices, on Account of our Youth—and due in no small part to our Connections in high places (for we were none of us of Lowly birth)—being spared the full Rigor of the Law, were sentenced to spend the Rest of our Days behind Prison bars.
H
ow I escaped this Dismal Fate can be of no interest to Your Worshipful Grace . . . suffice it to say that a great deal of Gold changed hands, and my Departure was effected at Dead of Night with the aid of a rope. I shall, therefore, pass on to those Things which I know of Lord Skelbrooke's subsequent Career.
The gentleman paused in his writing, and absently slipped one hand around the wrist of the other, rubbing gently, as if he could still feel the chafing of iron fetters. Then, with a sigh, he dipped his pen in the ink and continued writing.
Did I say that Francis Skelbrooke escaped Punishment? Yet he was not entirely Spared neither. For whether through Remorse at learning of the part he had played in Luring certain Pitiful Urchins into her Clutches, or through some Contagion he had contracted, by Reason of his Medical Studies, was stricken by a Sweating Sickness and a Brain Fever so Virulent they seemed likely to Carry him Off. An Old Schoolfellow of his, a Mr. Hermes Budge, nursed him through this Illness, but though young Skelbrooke did recover his Health, there was for many months some doubt that he would fully recover his Reason. I believe it was at this Period that he first made use of the Sleep Dust, to which he afterwards became Addicted.
As to those subsequent Activities, I know nothing for Certain, though I think it Entirely in Keeping with what I know of His Lordship's Character, that he should Attempt some form of General Restitution by indulging in just such Heroic and Flamboyant behavior as you have Described to me.
In light of the above, Gracious Lady, you might then wish to ask: was Francis Skelbrooke indeed cured—is he now as Sane as he ever was? As one who has shared many of the same Experiences, and Considering myself even at this Late Date more than a little Mad, I can only say that I entertain some Doubt. And if you should wish to ask further: do I then regard Lord Skelbrooke as a Dangerous man, I should have to reply in the Affirmative. It is always so with your Disillusioned Idealist.
In the hope that this somewhat Lengthy Epistle shall find favor with the Duchess's Grace, I remain, Respectfully, ever hers to Command, &c., and Awaiting her Further Orders . . .
The spy heavily underlined the last phrase, then signed his name with a flourish:
Euripides P. Hooke
CHAPTER FIVE
Which whisks the Reader across the Sea—a Proceeding which (let him be Warned) is like to become a Commonplace before our Tale is done.
The white road leading north between Katrinsberg and Ghyll ran broad and straight for league upon league. But a mile beyond Ghyll, where the vast, resin-scented pine forests gave way to barren steppes, the road abruptly ended.
Indeed, there was little need for a road: few traveled beyond that point even during the warm seasons. And if the land was bleak, it was also flat. The soil stayed frozen for most of the year, as hard and as black as iron, so that even a light early snowfall (like that which had been sifting down for a day and a half) did not readily turn to slush. Until the first heavy snows fell, travel north on horseback or by sledge would remain comparatively easy.
The Duchess of Zar-Wildungen, of course, insisted on her comforts. Her reindeer-drawn sledge, a grand and gilded affair—boat-shaped, with a leaping lion as the figurehead—skimmed smoothly along on scarlet runners, while the lady reclined amidst furs and cushions, protected from the cold by a mantle of crimson velvet and a swansdown hood.
Keeping pace with the sledge rode Jarl Skogsrå, mounted on a fine, coal-black stallion. The stallion pranced and tossed his head, and the Jarl was resplendent in the scarlet and gold uniform of a Nordic cavalry officer, with a dark green cloak floating out behind him. But the third member of the party was less prepossessing: a sober young man in a brown wool greatcoat, a grey muffler, and a tricorn hat which had seen much use. He trailed a little behind the others, plodding along on an undistinguished but serviceable dun mare.
The pale winter sun was dipping toward the horizon when the Duchess spoke up in her sweet, childlike voice. "How much farther to Skullgrimm's palace?"
The Jarl shrugged his shoulders under the green cloak. "Another eight or ten miles, perhaps. It is many years since I last came this way, and of course there are no landmarks to speak of."
The little Duchess sighed, her hands tightened on the crimson leather reins. "I had hoped to arrive before nightfall."
"That I should certainly advise," answered Skogsrå, with grim satisfaction. "At whatever cost to your team. Few Men travel in these parts and with good reason. At sunset, or a little thereafter, Skullgrimm will release his hounds."
A tiny frown appeared between the Duchess's well-shaped eyebrows. "But surely so long as we remain with you, Mr. von Eichstatt and I will be perfectly safe. You are first cousin to the King—"
The Jarl shook his head, a single sharp motion. "Skullgrimm's creatures heed no one but the King himself. Indeed, even His Majesty sometimes experiences difficulty in controlling them.
"They are certainly trained to recognize the scent of troll, and they will not molest me," he added, with a mocking little bow. "Your own scent, Gracious Lady, may trouble and confuse them, and in that way may save you. But as for the horses and the good doctor . . ." Skogsrå's smile was more a baring of his even, white teeth. "For their sake, I should advise that we increase our pace."
***
The Troll King's stronghold appeared in the distance, a dark and sullen pile, surrounded by a fence of iron pickets like the wall around a graveyard, though of far more imposing height. The Duchess and her party arrived at the gate just as the sun slipped below the horizon. A serving-troll appeared, dressed in baggy, knee-length breeches and an antiquated tunic with a wide, white collar. He opened the gate, and then closed it with a clatter behind them.
There was no chance of this one masquerading as a Man, mused the Duchess, eyeing the troll as her sledge swept through the gate. No chance of imposing on credulous humanity as Skogsrå had done successfully for so many years. Though he presented a manlike appearance from the waist up, the legs below the flaring breeches undeniably marked the gatekeeper as a troll: they were spindly and bristled, ending in a pair of slotted trotters. In addition, he sported a long tufted tail like a cow.
"They are a little behind the fashions here," said Skogsrå, with a grimace.
"As I perceive," the Duchess responded dryly. "About a century, I should say."
Two lean black mastiffs, red-eyed and oddly hairless, paced at the ends of long, heavy chains. As they passed the dogs, the horses whickered and shied, and the Duchess's reindeer rolled their eyes and might have bolted but for her firm grip on the reins. She had her hands full trying to control her team, until a groom appeared to take charge of them.
"At least," she said, "we have arrived in time to avoid a dangerous encounter with Skullgrimm's hounds."
The Jarl dismissed the mastiffs and all their ilk with a lordly sweep of the hand. "Those you see there are only His Majesty's dogs . . . had we met with those he calls his hounds, you would know the difference."
Poor Mr. von Eichstatt looked utterly miserable, his nose blue and his teeth chattering, whether because of the cold, the drooling black mastiffs, or a sinking realization that he had truly arrived in the midst of a settlement of trolls, it was impossible to tell. The Jarl dismounted first and assisted the Duchess out of her sledge.
"I fear that you will find Skullgrimm and his court very dull," said the Jarl. "They care for nothing here but their books, their sorceries, and the pleasures of the table. It is a failing, I regret to say, common among my race."
"But it is to consult your King on the subject of sorcery that I have come so far." The Duchess put back her swansdown hood. "Sorcery—and revenge. But do tell me, my dear sir," she added sweetly, "how it happens that you yourself have overcome this 'failing' of your race?"
The Jarl made an airy gesture. "I have no time for such things. Besides, it is healthier so, for those who stand too near the throne. His Majesty surrounds himself with scholars and magicians (which is all the company that amuses him), but when any of his cousins show
too great an interest, or too formidable an aptitude, Skullgrimm grows uneasy.
"It is not in the nature of trolls to hunger for the flesh of their own kind," he continued, "but Skullgrimm has been known to overcome his distaste, in order to make an example of an overambitious kinsman by killing and eating him. It was to avoid just such a doleful fate that your young friend Vodni (the merest collateral relation) found it necessary to absent himself from the court."
With von Eichstatt lagging a bit behind them, they proceeded across the snowy yard to the palace. That was an ominous, frowning structure, many stories high, with outcrops and overhangs and balconies sprouting out in unexpected places, and tall, twisted towers. A steep staircase winding up the side of the central pile led to a pair of heavy bronze doors.
The Duchess gathered up her skirts and began to climb, the velvet mantle trailing behind her. But she stopped after a dozen steps and gazed up at the palace with wondering eyes. For it was not polished stone, as it appeared from a distance, but some unknown dark wood. Every visible surface had been covered with carvings—bizarre, dreamlike pictures that seemed to emerge out of the grain of the wood and not by any craft of knife or chisel. "I had no idea your people were capable of anything like this."
"They say that it took the demon slaves of my great ancestor, Hellgrind of the Golden Bristles, a single night to construct the entire castle," said Skogsrå, "But me . . . I think it is all superstition."
They mounted to the great double doors, where more troll servants came to greet them, and proceeded down a long, narrow corridor lit by smoking torches that flared into life as they approached and just as mysteriously died as soon as they passed by. Another set of doors opened soundlessly before them. Skullgrimm's vanity, thought the Duchess, squandering his sorcery to impress his guests. Skullgrimm's arrogance.
Hobgoblin Night: Mask and Dagger 2 Page 3