Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  The cabdriver had taken one look at the two shabby customers carrying a trunk between them, and insisted on payment in advance. Fortunately, they still had money, due, as Rodrigo pointed out, to the simple fact that there had not been anyplace on the island to spend it.

  When he and Rodrigo arrived at their house, they were comforted to see a thin trail of smoke rising from one of the two chimneys.

  “Wonderful!” Rodrigo exclaimed ecstatically, dropping the trunk. “Benoit is here and he has a fire going. I will have a bath. A bath that lasts for hours. Sorry, but you will have to wait your turn.”

  The door was locked and Stephano had no idea what he’d done with the key. He took hold of the door knocker—a dragon done in brass—and rapped loudly. They waited a considerable time. Stephano could picture Benoit, swearing to himself in annoyance, hobbling to answer.

  The door opened a crack. An eye peered out. “Get along with you! No beggars.” Benoit started to slam the door.

  Stephano inserted his foot. “Benoit! It’s me!”

  Benoit stared at him a moment and then fell over backward, landing on the floor with a thud.

  Rodrigo gasped. “Good God, Stephano, you’ve killed him!”

  The two hurried inside. Stephano went down on his knees beside Benoit and propped him up.

  “Benoit, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  Benoit’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Rigo, go fetch some water—”

  “Brandy…,” Benoit murmured faintly.

  Rodrigo ran to the kitchen.

  “We don’t have brandy,” said Stephano.

  “We do now,” said Rodrigo, returning with a crystal snifter. “Very fine brandy, too. Vieille Reserve if I’m not mistaken.”

  “What did you pawn to buy brandy? The furniture?” asked Stephano, trying to sound severe.

  “A gift from your lady mother, sir,” said Benoit.

  He sipped the brandy and looked at Stephano with watery eyes.

  “I am glad to see you, sir. You, too, Master Rodrigo. So very glad!”

  Benoit embraced them both, then held out the snifter, indicating the need for more brandy. Stephano and Rodrigo between them assisted the old retainer to his comfortable chair by the kitchen fire.

  “We’re starving,” said Stephano. “Is there anything to eat?”

  “I would be glad to cook for you, sir,” said Benoit. “But I’m feeling a little dizzy. The joyous shock of seeing you come back from the dead, sir—”

  “We’ll fend for ourselves,” said Stephano, grinning.

  “Indeed we will,” Rodrigo called, reporting from the larder. “I’ve found a beefsteak pie, cold chicken, a round of cheese, sausages, fresh baked bread, a full barrel of beer, and several bottles of wine. From your mother’s cellar, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Stephano fixed his eye on Benoit.

  “The countess thought I was looking unwell, sir,” said Benoit defensively. “I told her I had lost my appetite—”

  “You seem to have found it,” said Stephano. “Bring some of everything, Rigo.”

  While they ate, they assured Benoit that Miri and Gythe were well and that they would soon be coming to see him. Stephano made no mention of the trouble between them.

  “As for Dag—” Stephano began.

  Benoit slapped himself on the forehead. “That reminds me, sir. A letter came for you from Dag only an hour ago. He’s visiting your estate. One of the tenants delivered it.”

  “Dag at my estate!” Stephano was confounded. “What in the name of all that is holy is he doing there?”

  “He’s alive, at least,” Rodrigo stated.

  “That is true, thank God,” Stephano said, relieved. “How is he? Are the dragons with him? What did he say?”

  Benoit drew himself up. “I have no way of knowing, sir,” he said stiffly. “The letter was addressed to you. I would never open your private correspondence.”

  “Never?” Stephano asked with a wink at Rodrigo.

  Benoit stole a sly glance at his master. “Well, perhaps in this one instance I might have taken a peek, sir. I deemed this might be an emergency. Your honored mother was so extremely worried, I took the liberty.”

  Stephano gave a solemn nod. “I’m certain you had good reason. What does Dag write?”

  “He is well. He is visiting your estate with five dragons, two of whom apparently you know from the Brigade days, sir. He adds in a postscript that you should come as soon as possible. The letter was quite brief, sir.”

  “Dag isn’t much of a correspondent, I should guess,” said Rodrigo.

  “More likely he doesn’t want to set down what he knows in writing,” said Stephano. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “We might as well throw on some clean clothes and go see my mother now. Get the worst over.”

  Rodrigo stared at him, horrified. “First we will bathe and then change into our court clothes. Then, when we are suitably attired, we will go to see your mother. You owe me, for getting us off that island.”

  Stephano smiled. Just as he had predicted.

  “How would you like to see the old estate again, Benoit?” Stephano asked as he was going up the stairs to his room.

  “Very much, sir,” said Benoit. “I will heat water for baths. Oh, there is something you gentlemen should know before you leave. There’s been a terrible tragedy in Evreux.”

  He told of the collapse of the Crystal Market. Stephano and Rodrigo listened in shock.

  “Do they know what caused it?” Stephano asked.

  “All manner of rumors are floating about, sir,” said Benoit.

  “When did this happen, Benoit?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Let me see … three days ago, sir. Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “The day of the storm…” Rodrigo observed.

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “I think it a strange coincidence,” said Rodrigo in somber tones. “You say some friends of mine from court were among the dead.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Benoit. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Rodrigo sighed deeply. “I will be in my room. Let me know when the bath is ready.”

  “I am going to add lavender and rose oil, sir,” said Benoit, rising to put on the kettle. He wrinkled his nose. “You will forgive my saying this, but there is a strong odor of smoked fish about you both.”

  * * *

  Before he took his bath, Stephano wrote a note for Benoit to deliver to his mother, apprising her of his return and saying that he would be pleased to wait upon her in the early evening if she would deign to receive him and Monsieur de Villeneuve.

  Benoit traveled by hackney cab to the palace. He gave the message to D’argent, who read the few words, and, smiling broadly, carried the note to the countess. She was in the middle of a meeting with the Estaran ambassador, endeavoring to convince him that Freya was deliberately provoking the Estarans into going to war and that the Estarans should not rise to the bait by attacking Travia.

  She motioned for D’argent to enter. He whispered to her as he handed her the note. She read it without expression, handed it back to him without comment, then continued with her meeting. By the time the Estaran ambassador left, he promised to at least consider her advice.

  When he was out the door, Cecile closed it and then, feeling faint, leaned against the wall and, putting her hands to her face, she whispered over and over, “Thank God! Oh, thank God!”

  Rinsing her eyes with cold water, the countess told D’argent to invite Stephano and Rodrigo to a private supper at the hour of eight.

  * * *

  At the appointed hour, Stephano and Rodrigo, dressed in somber-colored mourning, arrived at the palace. Rodrigo carried the pewter tankard in a velvet sack tied with a ribbon.

  D’argent himself was waiting at the palace entrance to receive them. He expressed his pleasure at seeing them alive and well. Stephano answered curtly. As always, when facing a meeting with his mother, he was in a bad mood. Rodrigo was more graci
ous. He thanked D’argent, who cast a curious glance at the velvet sack.

  “A memento of our travels we have brought for the countess,” said Rodrigo.

  “From an old friend,” Stephano added drily.

  D’argent raised an eyebrow, but made no comment. He conducted them through the palace corridors to the countess’s private chambers.

  Several people walking the halls recognized Stephano and Rodrigo, especially Rodrigo. The ladies in particular were delighted to see him. They gave him their rouged cheeks to kiss and demanded to know how he could have deserted them all this time. He said he had been home on family business. None of the women paid any attention to Stephano, who had put on his court face, which Rodrigo had likened to the face of one of the palace’s gargoyles.

  As the three were walking through the hall, Rodrigo talked with D’argent about those who had died. Stephano was ahead of them, not paying attention, trying to imagine the Crystal Market in ruins. He had the sudden strange sensation that someone was watching him. Stephano turned his head to see an exotic-looking woman had stopped in the hall to stare at him. Stephano was so struck by her beauty that he stopped to stare back. Rodrigo stopped because he bumped into Stephano.

  “My dear fellow, do watch where you are going—”

  “Who is that?” Stephano asked in a low voice.

  Rodrigo looked at the woman. She was dressed in muted elegance in a midnight-blue gown of velvet and silk. She wore an elaborately coiffed white wig. Her complexion was dusky, her cheeks rose red.

  “I have no idea,” said Rodrigo. “Do you want to be introduced to her?”

  “No,” said Stephano. “I was just wondering—”

  “You are interested. I will find out—”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “D’argent,” said Rodrigo, ignoring Stephano’s protests, “who is that amazingly beautiful female?”

  “The Duquesa de Plata Niebla, sir,” D’argent replied. “The young gentleman is her nephew, the Conte Osinni.”

  “Where the hell is Plata Niebla?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Estara, I believe, sir,” said D’argent.

  “Ah, of course. No country breeds such beautiful woman as Estara,” said Rodrigo.

  The duchess resumed walking, glancing at them over the rim of her fan from beneath thick black eyelashes. She was accompanied by a handsome young man in his midtwenties who walked with a slight limp and a silver cane. He paid scant attention to them.

  Rodrigo and Stephano both bowed. The duchess paused. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind whether to speak or simply accept their admiration and pass by. At last she lowered her fan and walked over.

  “Monsieur de Villeneuve,” she said, her voice a rich contralto. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “I never forget a face, Your Grace,” Rodrigo said. “Especially one as lovely as yours. I am devastated to admit, therefore, that I cannot remember where exactly we have met.”

  “I am Idonia, the Duchess of Plata Neibla. Have you ever been to Plata Niebla?” the duchess asked.

  “I have not had that pleasure,” said Rodrigo, adding gallantly, “but if all the women are as lovely as you, Your Grace, I will make plans to travel there at once.”

  “Do not leave us too quickly, monsieur,” said the duchess, smiling.

  Stephano found her fascinating. He liked the fact that she did not simper and blush and giggle behind her fan. Unlike most women at court, she was forthright and outgoing. He tried to think of something witty to say and failed utterly.

  She introduced her nephew, who placed his hand on his heart and bowed. He resembled the duchess only in that he had dark hair swept back from his forehead. He had large brown eyes of astonishing clarity and a sulky mouth.

  “I know you will be heartbroken, gentlemen,” the duchess said with a laugh, “but I must leave you. My nephew and I have been summoned to attend the queen and we are already late. I hope now that we are reacquainted, Monsieur Rodrigo, I will not lose you again.”

  Rodrigo reached into an inner pocket and produced a silver case inlaid with gold. He opened it, withdrew a card, and handed it to the duchess.

  “My card,” he said. “A simple note will bring me to languish at your feet in admiration.”

  The duchess laughed again, a delightful, rippling sound. Accepting the card, she slipped it into an embroidered reticule she wore on her wrist. She thanked him and dropped a curtsy. Her nephew bowed gracefully, stifled a yawn, and the two departed.

  “My dear fellow, congratulations,” said Rodrigo in a low voice, as they went on their way. “You have made a conquest!”

  “What are you talking about?” Stephano asked irritably. “She never looked at me.”

  “That means she was quite taken with you,” Rodrigo assured him. “She was being coy.”

  Stephano shook his head. “A woman like that has never been coy in her life. Do you remember where you met her?”

  “No, and that is puzzling. How could I forget such a face?” Rodrigo gave this a few moments thought, then dismissed the matter with a shrug. He gave the duchess no more thought.

  * * *

  The duchess was, however, thinking a great deal about Rodrigo. Eiddwen and Lucello continued down the hallway on their way to the royal quarters. Eiddwen’s brow was furrowed. She flicked her fan open and closed, open and closed, paying no heed to Lucello, who was brooding over something and wanted her to know he was unhappy.

  As the two were walking past the music room, which was closed due to the period of mourning, Eiddwen suddenly veered off. She opened the door, grabbed hold of Lucello, and dragged him into the dark and empty room.

  “What the devil are we doing in here?” Lucello asked petulantly. “Bad enough I have to watch you flirt with that fop—”

  “That ‘fop’ as you term him, was the man I told you about on board the Silver Raven. I am certain he recognized me from the ship. He covered it well, with all that talk about not forgetting my beautiful face. But I am sure he knows me.”

  “What if he did? He’s a buffoon,” said Lucello dismissively. “And what would he say? That he thinks the last time he saw you, you were a sailor? That’s ludicrous.”

  “Don’t let him fool you,” said Eiddwen. “Villeneuve only plays at being a buffoon. I overheard him talking to the journeyman, Alcazar. The two were discussing contramagic. He was coming too close to the mark. I sent our troops to the island where they were marooned to find and kill the clever Monsieur de Villeneuve. They reported they had done so. Why the devil is the bastard still alive?”

  “Because your Bottom Dwellers bungled it,” said Lucello contemptuously. “I don’t know why you are surprised. Those uncouth savages bungle everything.”

  “May I remind you, Lucello, that you are a guttersnipe I saved from prison. You would still be an uncouth ‘savage’ were it not for me.”

  “Then let me take care of the fop,” said Lucello eagerly. “I’ll see to it that he doesn’t remember anything ever again.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  Eiddwen opened the reticule and took out Rodrigo’s card. She gazed at it a moment, turning her plans over in her mind. She handed him the card.

  “You will not be able to attend the princess tonight. I will make your excuses. Disguise yourself as one of the servants and leave by the servants’ exit. Go to La Farge…”

  “I’ll do it myself. No need to waste good money on La Farge.”

  “I have said before: You must curb your appetites while we are in Evreux, Lucello,” said Eiddwen bitingly. “I mean it. Do not make me tell you again.”

  Lucello’s eyes flared, then smoldered. “I am not a child, damn it! You treat me like a child!”

  He crushed the card in his fist and angrily walked toward the door. Eiddwen gave an inward, irritated sigh. She had only herself to blame. She had taught this boy to kill. He was like a bear she’d raised from a cub. He danced to her tune and ate from her hand, but bears were wild beasts a
nd someday he might slip his chain and turn on her. She had to keep tossing him honeycombs.

  “You may come to me tonight,” said Eiddwen.

  Lucello stopped and looked warily around. “Truly? You’re not toying with me?”

  Eiddwen bit back a sharp response. “I will be in my chambers after midnight. Come to me then. And now you must leave. La Farge will need time to make arrangements. You have the card?”

  Lucello waved the card with Rodrigo’s address. It was crumpled, but readable. Lucello went on his way, walking rapidly, swinging his silver cane and humming the waltz tune the princess Sophia had played for him.

  Eiddwen watched him go. One day he was going to choke on that honeycomb.

  * * *

  D’argent escorted Stephano and Rodrigo to the countess’s chambers. They entered through the salon, passed through her office, and into her private room, where servants appeared to take their capes and hats. D’argent then escorted them down a hallway decorated with paintings and works of sculpture. Flowers in porcelain vases perfumed the air with the fragrances of roses and lilies. Soft light illuminated the paintings, shone on the sculptures and the flowers.

  “I assume you sent your own mother a letter letting her know you are safe and well?” Stephano asked Rodrigo as they were walking down the hall.

  “I wrote her the moment we arrived,” said Rodrigo. “I would like to take a few weeks to visit her. I haven’t seen her since my father’s death…” Growing misty-eyed at the thought, he took out a handkerchief to wipe his nose.

  Stephano smiled sympathetically. “I’ll be going to my estate to meet with Dag. Yours is nearby. We can travel together.”

  D’argent opened the door to the drawing room, ushered Stephano and Rodrigo inside and, closing the door after them, departed. The Countess de Marjolaine was arrayed in her evening splendor, wearing a night-blue silk moiré gown decked with lace, and with a train in the back that fell from the shoulders. Her hair was beautifully arranged, trimmed with feathers and roses. She wore a necklace of sapphires and diamonds with matching sapphire-and-diamond bracelets and rings.

  She stood by the fire, reading a book through her lorgnette. At Stephano’s entrance, she looked up, lowered her lorgnette, closed the book, placed it on the mantelpiece, and extended her hand to be kissed.