Hobgoblin Night: Mask and Dagger 2

by Teresa Edgerton

  She took up the book gingerly. The cover, besides being frayed, was quite appallingly filthy as well—not dusty, as a volume must be if left too long on a bookshelf, but covered with fresh-earth as though it had lately been buried in the ground.

  Disgusted, Sera dropped the book on a little table beside her bed, and the cover fell open. On an impulse, she leaned forward, the better to see the name written in faded red ink upon the flyleaf: Izrael Falconer Barebones.

  She stood there with her hand on her heart and the grue running cold up and down her spine. "It must—it must have been one of the children, who brought it up before as a prank, and I simply did not notice it until now."

  But she knew very well that the book had not been there the last time she came upstairs. If she had not seen it, she must certainly have smelled it, for it filled the room with the dark, gritty odor of garden mold.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Perhaps the Shortest chapter in the Book.

  South of Thornburg, at the mouth of the river Lunn, stood the seaport of Ilben, a breezy little town of white-washed buildings with blue slate roofs, built on the verge of a broad mudflat. A vast network of piers and boardwalks beginning at the seawall led out from the town to the harbor.

  The twenty-ninth day of the season of Thaw, a fair but blustery day, discovered the Duchess, along with Jarl Skogsrå and Sebastian the ape (trailing behind on a jeweled leash), strolling on one of the weathered boardwalks. The big merchantman the Waxing Moon, a great, wallowing vessel with parchment-colored sails, waited at the end of the pier to carry them off to the New World.

  With them, as mute as ever, obedient as always, within her limited range, came Skullgrimm's artificial creation, heavily veiled. It would not do, the Duchess had said, so near the town of Elsie's birth, for the monster to be noticed and the resemblance remarked by any intimate of the Vorder family. Accordingly, they had swathed her in yards of black tulle.

  As they proceeded up the gangplank the Duchess continually glanced around her, as if expecting to find a familiar face on the wharf, or waiting for her on shipboard.

  "Perhaps he has changed his mind," said Skogsrå, though he, too, directed a glance over his shoulder. "I confess that I would not be disappointed if he had. I do not like this new traveling companion of ours. He brings with him the odor of the grave . . . an atmosphere of things long buried that should not have come to light." The troll shuddered distastefully. "He fairly reeks of corruption."

  The Duchess lifted her own light veil, which was attached to an exceedingly becoming bonnet. She gave a tiny sigh. "I quite agree with you. And yet he may prove to be a valuable ally. Also . . ." she added, in a low, intense voice, "in return for our aid in recovering those books of his, he has vowed to perform what Jenk the alchemist promised but did not deliver: the creation of a living homunculus, a small but perfect child for me to call my own.

  "I have waited so many years to become a happy mother," she added wistfully. "I believe I would do almost anything to achieve that fortunate state."

  "If so," said the Jarl, in that provokingly prosaic way that he had, "the Gracious Lady might just as well adopt a child."

  The Duchess shook her head emphatically. "I had something of the sort in mind when I thought to become Elsie Vorder's godmother, and you see what trouble came of that. I was passed over, insulted, most brutally offended! I shall not try anything on that order again, I can assure you."

  Though Skogsrå walked arm in arm with the simulacrum, and the monster had always followed docilely wherever he went, she now began to drag her feet, to lag a step behind him. "She is losing animation; she requires to be fed," said the Jarl.

  "We can hardly feed her up here on the deck, for all the world to see," said the Duchess, making a face. "I shall go with you below, to your cabin."

  In the Jarl's cabin, the Duchess sat on the edge of his bunk, and the blue ape squatted down at her feet. Skogsrå took out a cage full of white mice from among his luggage, removed two of them, killed each one by the simple expedient of breaking its neck, and proceeded to slit them open with a little knife. Watching him do these things, the golem became restless, even agitated, making inarticulate whimpering sounds deep in her throat.

  The Jarl took up one of the warm, bleeding mouse hearts and delicately placed it between the monster's rosy lips.

  "Indeed, you amaze me," said the Duchess, taking a little lace-edged handkerchief scented with vetivert out of her reticule and waving it under her nose. "You display such solicitude for the creature, you treat her so . . . gently. You almost seem fond of her."

  "It is a sort of game that I like to play," replied the Jarl, with a mutinous glance. "A harmless fancy I choose to entertain, that our Cecile is a creature like myself, that her eagerness at moments like this is a reflection of my own hunger, my own obsession. I am entitled to my amusements, am I not?

  "And she is . . . a pretty plaything," he added, so low that the Duchess could not be certain whether he spoke to himself or to her. "Far more attractive than any troll woman would be."

  The Duchess was shocked, and more than slightly revolted. "My dear Jarl, I fear you have conceived some unwholesome attachment. But you must realize that the monster is not really alive, that she is no more, really, than an animated doll!"

  "I am in no danger of forgetting that," retorted the Jarl, as he washed his bloody hands in a basin of water. "Indeed, how could I? Did I not see the clay figure from which Skullgrimm created her? Nor am I so stupid, so gullible, as the Gracious Lady likes to pretend." He led the simulacrum over to a corner of the cabin and left her standing there.

  "But we trolls . . . we are a lonely race," he went on, in an uncharacteristic burst of confidence. "We do not even like each other very much, as you know. So why should I not grow a little fond of this Cecile, even make a pet of her, as you have made a favorite of the ape Sebastian?"

  The Duchess bristled up, for the comparison offended her. She took the little ape up into her lap. "If you continue to spout such disgusting nonsense, I shall have to take steps to save you from this . . . yes, this monstrous attachment," she said, smoothing Sebastian's long indigo fur. "I shall have to take charge of Cecile myself—which I confess I am loath to do—or, better still, turn her over to Mr. Kelly.

  "Indeed, why should I not?" she asked rhetorically. "I should think them a most compatible match, for they are creatures of much the same sort. They are both more dead than alive."

  Skogsrå glared at her, as he picked up the cage and put it inside a small cupboard built into the wall above his bunk. "The Gracious Lady amuses herself at my expense. But it shall not be. If I am to continue to lend myself to your schemes, I am at least entitled to this one indulgence."

  The Duchess raised an eyebrow. This show of spirit was unlike the Jarl, whose occasional rebellious flashes more often came out in the form of subtle, petty revenges, and not in open defiance.

  "Oh, very well, why not?" she said. "It costs me nothing, after all. And if it affords you some grotesque satisfaction, why should I not indulge you?"

  The Jarl smiled, showing his teeth. "The Gracious Lady is all generosity."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Which brings mixed Tidings to our Hero.

  On the shores of Lake Valentina, in the mountainous little principality of Schwannstein, clustered many fine inns, hotels, and guest houses. The jewel-like lake, the rugged alpine scenery . . . these brought artists and nature lovers from all parts of Euterpe. In addition, Lake Valentina was located on one of the principal routes through the Alps. There was one quaint inn in particular, a frosted gingerbread chalet overlooking the sapphire lake, that was a favorite stopping place for traveling nobility.

  One such visitor, who had stopped for nearly a fortnight, was a certain Imbrian gentleman of eccentric habits, for he came and went at all odd hours of the day and night, and apparently traveled without a valet, a surprising omission on the part of so obviously fashionable a gentleman. Other visitors found him po
lite but distant, absorbed in his own affairs, though neither they nor the innkeeper nor the inn servants ever learned what that business might be; however, the boy who polished the boots (who was known to have a lurid imagination) declared that he had detected about the elegant little gentleman a strong whiff of gunpowder, on more than one occasion.

  The gentleman strolled into the inn at ten o'clock one morning—very prettily attired he was, in rose velvet and creamy lace, his satin waistcoat embroidered with a pattern of morning-glories worked in palest blue—as immaculate as ever, for all he had been out the entire night. He caused a stir by sending for the innkeeper and demanding his reckoning: "For my visit, regrettably, has come to an end."

  The innkeeper experienced a pang of considerable disappointment; since nothing had been said about the length of his visit, all had assumed the Imbrian gentleman would stay for the season. But as there was no help for it, the innkeeper produced the bill. The gentleman went upstairs to pack his baggage. The boot boy came up half an hour later, to find him just fastening the last of his bags.

  "I shall not need your assistance, as you can see, though you are really most obliging," said the gentleman, dusting off his fingers with a handkerchief, as though he found the business of packing his belongings rather dirty work.

  "Begging your pardon, Mr. Carstares, sir," said the youth. "These letters come for you yesterday, when you was out."

  Mr. Carstares daintily accepted the letters. One was in a hand that he knew, the other was vaguely familiar. "You are very good. The coach arrives at noon, does it not? You may come in another hour to take down my bags."

  The boy bobbed his head respectfully and withdrew. Mr. Carstares opened one of the missives and took it over by the open window in order to read it. The letter was written in the Glassmakers code, and it came from the dwarf Trithemius Ave. Mr. Carstares skimmed down to the last paragraph:

  Caleb Braun and Eirena do very Well, and I expect them to Stay with me for some little Time. The page-boy is even now on his way to Orania. As for Count Azimet, as far as the Zammarcans are concerned, he simply Vanished—which is Often the way in the Equable Republic—but Baron Onda assures me that his Cousin witnessed the Execution, and there can be no Doubt that the Villain is Dead. Two of his Oranians—under what Duress one can only Imagine—admitted Complicity in the Count's treasonous Schemes, and were drowned in the Lagoon. What became of the others Baron Onda does not say. However, I think you may Congratulate yourself for having the Foresight to remove the Boy. As one of Azimet's favorites, I believe it Would have gone Hard with him, and he might even now be lying at the Bottom of the Lagoon with those other Unfortunates.

  Mr. Carstares crumpled the letter with one convulsive movement and cast it into the fireplace. He crossed the room in three swift steps and flung himself down into a chair. A parade of conflicting emotions passed over his face, a shudder ran through his wiry frame, the small white hands clenched and unclenched . . . then the elegant Mr. Carstares emerged once more.

  He reached into a waistcoat pocket and drew out his box of Sleep Dust, took a generous pinch, and inhaled. Then he remembered the other letter, which he had stuffed into his coat pocket.

  This missive, also, was written in code, a personal cipher known only to himself and to one other.

  My very dear Francis . . . or Should I say Robin or Simon? [wrote Hermes Budge] I have recently received Word from our Friends in Thornburg, to the Effect that a Certain Great Lady (along with her constant Companion, a gentleman of Unnatural Appetites) sets Sail this very day for Nova Imbria. I am persuaded that this News . . .

  Mr. Carstares read the entire letter through twice, with mixed emotions, though nothing on the order of his previous reaction.

  He had feared, for several days now, that something of the sort was in the wind, ever since his constant companions, the Duchess's bloodhounds, disappeared. Taken altogether, it could mean only one thing: the Duchess had picked up some clue as to the whereabouts of Sera Vorder and her cousin Elsie, and had gone to the New World in pursuit of them.

  Yet as bad as that was, he also felt a surge of relief. He had been delaying his own voyage to Nova Imbria, for something more than a year, lest the Duchess or her agents follow him there. But to go looking for Sera after Marella had picked up her trail, that was another matter entirely. Mr. Carstares heaved a deep sigh. Whatever else might come of it, this news set him free to follow his heart.

  However, there was one small item of business back in Thornburg that he meant to attend to first.

  ***

  Seven days later, a fresh-faced youth dressed like a country squire was seen to hesitate on the doorstep of a certain notorious establishment on the banks of the Lunn. The house was a high-class brothel, known as the Sultan's Jewelbox, and those who observed the country-bred youth could not suppress smiles of amusement: it was obvious the place exerted a strong attraction, equally obvious that he entertained panicky second thoughts.

  In the end, however, lubricity (or perhaps just curiosity) evidently triumphed over the dictates of conscience. The young squire squared his shoulders and entered the house of ill-repute.

  A half-naked boy with rings in his ears greeted him at the door, begging the gentleman to state his pleasure. The young squire replied, with a burning blush, that he was invited to the supper upstairs.

  "Second floor, at the back of the house," said the boy, adding, with an ugly smirk, "But if you're wanting a girl for later, you'd best make the arrangements now."

  The visitor blushed more painfully than before, and stammered a reply: that he had not yet reached a decision on that score. The boy declared that he was perfectly free to suit himself, and gestured toward the stairs.

  It was fortunate the boy had elected to remain at his post by the door, for after the young gentleman climbed the first two flights he continued on up the stairs for two flights more.

  Moving softly, he passed by the door at the top of the steps, and went on to the end of the corridor, where another door opened on a set of luxurious rooms: the private apartments of the proprietor, one Mr. Jagst.

  Finding those rooms unoccupied, as might be expected so early in the evening, and noting with approval how the intervening floors removed these apartments from the rowdy merriment in the house below, the young country gentleman made a few trifling arrangements, set a comfortable chair in a darkened corner of the room, and sat down to wait.

  More than an hour passed before the door opened and Mr. Jagst strolled into the room. He had closed the door behind him and advanced halfway across the chamber when a tiny sound, a soft click, caught his attention. He wheeled around to confront his unexpected visitor.

  He did not immediately recognize this intruder lounging so idly in the gilded chair, for many seasons had passed since their last meeting—which had, of necessity, been rather brief.

  However, he had no difficulty identifying the object in the visitor's hand: it was undoubtedly a cocked pistol. Mr. Jagst's complexion tended more toward the sallow than the ruddy, but he rapidly lost what little color he possessed.

  "Lord Skelbrooke . . . it is Lord Skelbrooke?" said the pimp.

  The young squire—no longer so very young, as he had miraculously acquired some seven or eight years since entering the room, and his air of countrified innocence had quite disappeared—smiled a singularly disquieting smile. "Indeed, Mr. Jagst, it is I. Intact, and precisely as my Creator made me."

  Mr. Jagst cleared his throat uneasily. "The threat of castration . . . that was suggested to me, you know, by the manner in which you threatened Lord Krogan. There was no malice intended."

  Lord Skelbrooke's glance hardened, his grip on the silver-chased pistol tightened. "And the hot iron which, on that memorable occasion, you applied to the soles of my feet? What—if one might inquire—suggested that to you?"

  "A matter of expedience," said Mr. Jagst. "I feel certain your lordship will understand the necessity."

  His lordship continued to smile aw
fully. "You will pardon me if a certain prejudice prevents me from doing so." He gestured with the pistol. "You will find a weapon, loaded and primed, on that very pretty lacquered table behind you. It is the mate of the one you see in my hand."

  Mr. Jagst slithered around behind the table, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "You mean to challenge me to a duel, then?"

  "I do," said Skelbrooke, rising slowly from his seat. "I suppose that even a cur like you deserves his chance."

  The pimp eyed the pistol on the lacquered tabletop with evident distaste. He cleared his throat again. "I must tell you, if you cherish any illusions of fair play, that you have me at a complete disadvantage."

  "You can hardly expect me to take your word for that," Skelbrooke replied coldly. "Besides, neither am I a crack shot. I have a habit of shooting at close range."

  Mr. Jagst smiled weakly. "But supposing . . ." He took a step toward the table. ". . . supposing I refused your challenge?"

  "Then I would kill you anyway. I said you deserve your chance, but having offered and been refused, I would have no qualms about killing you. My own wrongs are as nothing," his lordship said with a hardening glance, "but you have caused much misery in this world. When I think of the scores of innocent youths and maidens you have kidnapped and condemned to lives of misery and degradation—"

  Without warning, Mr. Jagst reached for the pistol, leveled, aimed, and fired. Lord Skelbrooke fired in the same instant.

  Skelbrooke's shot whizzed past Jagst's ear, but the pimp had chosen the easier target. The ball took Skelbrooke in the shoulder, causing him to stagger back with a cry and collapse in a chair by the door.