No answer.
Stephano assumed that Benoit had fallen asleep after the rigors of the day. The trunk was empty. Benoit must have unpacked their things. He hoped Benoit had brushed and cleaned his Dragon Brigade coat. Stephano turned to see if Rodrigo needed assistance walking.
Rodrigo was steady on his feet despite the amount of wine and port he’d consumed. He was an effervescent drunk, not mean or surly, not sloppy or sentimental. He was not staggering, though Stephano noted that his friend did take extra care when crossing the hall. Witty and charming, he would tumble into his bed with a smile and wake refreshed. Stephano, who drank half as much as his friend and generally ended up feeling twice as bad, looked upon Rodrigo as a marvel.
“You go upstairs,” said Stephano. “I’ll check on Benoit.”
Rodrigo gaily assented. He was still carrying the decanter of port, though there was considerably less now than when they had left the countess. The decanter was cut crystal, decorated with the bee insignia of the de Marjolaines. Stephano would have to remember to return it to his mother.
“Can you make it?” he asked Rodrigo dubiously, seeing his friend pause to scrutinize the first step.
“My dear fellow, I could dance the fandango if I wanted,” said Rodrigo, referring to the lively Estaran dance then currently in vogue. “Would you like to see me?”
“No, no, I believe you,” said Stephano hastily. “I’ll meet you upstairs.”
“Will you take a final glass of your mother’s excellent port before you go to bed?” Rodrigo asked.
“No, I’ve had enough of my mother for one night,” said Stephano grimly.
Rodrigo smiled. “Tell Benoit to wake me early so that I can pack.”
“How early is early?” Stephano asked.
“Noon would be about right,” said Rodrigo. “Good night, my friend.”
Gripping the decanter in one hand and the stair railing in the other, he began to negotiate the stairs with as much care as if he were scaling a mountain.
Stephano watched to make certain his friend didn’t fall and when Rodrigo had safely reached the summit, went to the kitchen. A lamp was burning. A glass of wine—partially drunk—was on the table. Benoit was not in his chair.
“That’s odd,” Stephano remarked.
Nothing irritated Benoit more than to see guests walk away from the table leaving behind wine or beer or whatever they were drinking. He considered this an insult to the host. This had actually become a joke among the Cadre. Rodrigo would sometimes leave a bit of wine in his glass just to hear Benoit berate him. The idea that Benoit would not finish his wine was unthinkable.
Stephano was concerned enough that he picked up the lamp and walked across the hall to Benoit’s bedroom. Opening the door softly, he looked inside. The old man was in his bed, lying on his back, his nightcap on his head, the blanket pulled up to his chin. Benoit’s mouth was open. He was breathing loudly.
Stephano stood a moment, looking fondly at Benoit. The family retainer had known Stephano before Stephano had known himself. Benoit had ridden with his father to bring home his infant son from the nunnery where his mother had sought refuge to give birth to her bastard child. If the mother superior of the nunnery had not contacted Julian, he would have never known he was a father. Stephano might have been raised an orphan for all his mother cared. She had wanted only to go back to court and to her lover, the king.
That was the story he’d heard from his embittered grandfather. Stephano thought back to tonight, that shadowed look of dread in his mother’s eyes. He had not imagined it or at least he didn’t think so. He wondered, for the first time, what the true story might be. His father had never talked about Cecile, had never spoken her name. Perhaps Julian had not known the truth, either. If there was a truth to know.
He thought of his cutting remark about Sir Ander and remembered his mother’s swift defense. The knight had remained Cecile de Marjolaine’s loyal friend after all these years. Sir Ander was a good man, honest and God-fearing. Was it likely he would be steadfastly loyal to a woman who was little better than a common whore?
Stephano asked himself this question and it occurred to him that he could ask Sir Ander. The knight had wanted to talk to Stephano about his mother when they had met at the Abbey of Saint Agnes. Stephano had coldly refused.
“Next time we meet,” he said to himself.
He closed the door to Benoit’s room and ascended the stairs. The second floor of the house consisted of a parlor that doubled as library and office; Rodrigo’s bedroom and dressing room; and Stephano’s bedroom and dressing room. The third floor was a formal dining area, a large room that Rodrigo termed grandiloquently “the ballroom.” The third floor was kept closed, the few pieces of furniture covered with cloth. Stephano had never held a ball in the ballroom, nor was he ever likely to. He detested such events and while Rodrigo adored them, giving fancy dress balls and elegant dinner parties cost money. Rodrigo never gave up hope that someday they would be able to afford it.
Certainly not now, Stephano thought. Not with the Cadre disbanded and me with no way to earn a living.
He used the lamp to light his way up the stairs. He paused on the landing on the second floor and glanced around. He still had the feeling something wasn’t right. Benoit and the unfinished wine and the fact that the old man always waited up for them—if for nothing else than to hear Rodrigo relate the latest court gossip.
Stephano couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Telling himself he was jumping at shadows, he looked in on Rodrigo, who was in the parlor, sprawled in a chair in front of a barely glowing fire. Another oddity—Benoit had not been up to tend to it. Rodrigo was drinking the last of the port and yawning at the embers.
“There were times I thought I would never see this room again,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo smiled. “Good night, my friend. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For bringing us home,” said Rodrigo.
“We stayed true to each other. The Cadre. That’s why we survived.” Stephano sighed. “And now that’s gone.”
“When Miri hears Dag is alive and well, she’ll be in a better frame of mind. Leave the door open. I’ll finish the port and then I’m off to bed.”
Stephano bid his friend a good night and went to his bedroom, which was the last room at the end of the hall. He opened the door and heard behind him, over his right shoulder, someone draw in a soft breath.
Stephano’s gut clenched. Every nerve in his body tingled. He didn’t stop to ask questions. A person hiding behind a door was not here for a chat. Stephano swung his body toward the sound, taking the lamp with him as he pivoted.
The light reflected off the blade of a knife. Stephano flung the lamp in the assassin’s general direction. The lamp struck the man in the face. Glass shattered. The man gave a grunt of pain and dropped the knife.
From down the hall, Rodrigo called out sternly, “Stephano? What did you break now? That had better not be the hand-painted porcelain water pitcher—”
The light was gone. Before it went out, Stephano had caught a glimpse of his attacker: a man wearing a cloak and tricornered hat, his face covered by a black silk scarf, with eyeholes and slits for the nose and mouth.
Stephano yelled, “Assassin!” and ran for his sword, which he kept in the baldric, hanging from the bedpost. He had the advantage in the semidarkness, because he knew where he was and what furniture was around him, whereas his attacker would be left to fumble about.
“Assassin?” Rodrigo was bewildered. “Stephano, are you … Ulp!”
Stephano heard his friend cry out, then the sound of a door banging and feet pounding. His heart sank. There was more than one killer in the house.
Pale light from the streetlamp shining through the windows cast two long silvery rectangles of light on the floor. Stephano was three jumps away from the bedpost when strong arms wrapped around his legs, taking him down.
Stephano landed flat on his stomach. His
assailant twisted to his feet. Stephano, glancing back, saw the barrel of a pistol aimed at his head. He rolled under the bed.
The gun went off, the bullet striking the floor where his head had been. Stephano crawled out from under the bed just as the assassin was drawing another pistol. Reaching up, Stephano snagged a pillow and tossed it at the window.
The assassin turned and fired. The bullet blew a hole in the pillow and smashed through the glass. Stephano clambered to his feet, grabbing the sword from the baldric. He lunged at the attacker, only to see the blade enveloped in a swirl of black cloak, fouling the weapon.
Stephano swore and tried to free his blade from the tangled cloak. The assassin gave the cloak a snap, yanking the sword from Stephano’s hand, and flung the weapon, still wrapped in the cloak, across the room. He drew another pistol. Stephano’s own dragon pistol was inside a box in the closet, so that wasn’t any help. He seized hold of the hand-painted porcelain water pitcher and flung it at the pistol, striking as the man fired, spoiling his aim.
The bullet hit the wall behind Stephano, who was ready with his fists. The assassin was fumbling in his pocket for either a knife or yet another pistol. The shrill, piercing sound of police whistles brought both Stephano and his attacker to a halt.
In what Stephano would later recall as one of the more ludicrous moments of his life, he and the man trying to kill him stared at each other in mutual astonishment.
True, there had been the sound of gunshots, but when people in Evreux heard gunshots, they tended to shutter the windows, bolt the doors, and go back to bed. Few went to the trouble of summoning the constables and even if his neighbors had done so, the nearest constabulary was half a mile away.
“La Farge! Coppers!” yelled the lookout who had been posted on the sidewalk below.
The assassin raised his hand to his forehead in salute, then he ran across the room and coolly dove through the broken window, taking out the frame and the rest of the glass. Stephano ran to the window and stared down to see the assassin make a hard landing on the sidewalk among shards of broken glass and smashed wood. One of the man’s accomplices helped the assassin to his feet. The last Stephano saw of him, he was hobbling off down the block in company with two others. The police whistles were growing louder.
“Damnation!” Stephano swore.
Sounds of swearing and thumping came from the hallway. Stephano found his sword, freed it from the cloak, and ran into the hall.
Seeing him, Rodrigo yelled excitedly.
“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”
Stephano stopped to stare.
Rodrigo, with a courage born of port, had jumped onto his assailant’s back, wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, and covered his eyes with his hands. The man was flailing with his fists and staggering blindly about the hallway, deliberately bumping into walls in an effort to knock Rodrigo off him.
“Let him go, Rigo!” Stephano shouted, choking back an inclination to laugh. “The constables are coming!”
“But I’ve got him!” Rodrigo protested. “They can arrest him!”
“Let him go!” Stephano said grimly. “The police aren’t coming for him. They’re coming for you!”
Rodrigo lost his grip and slid off the man’s back. The assassin fled into the darkness. Stephano could hear him thundering down the stairs. Rodrigo was standing in the hall, gaping at him.
“Me? What—”
“Grab money from the strongbox!” Stephano ordered.
“Why—”
“Just do it!”
Stephano heard shouting from the street; someone had caught sight of the assassins. Several of the constables broke off from the main group to give chase, probably thinking they were the men they had come to arrest.
Stephano ran into his room, flung open the closet door, and grabbed the two most valuable objects he owned: his Dragon Brigade uniform coat and a box made of oak, bound in iron. He noted Benoit had, indeed, cleaned his coat. He thrust his sword into his baldric, slung it over his shoulder, and ran back into the hallway. Rodrigo was stuffing two bags of silver in his pockets.
“Would you please tell me what’s going on?” Rodrigo pleaded.
“My mother is what’s going on,” said Stephano angrily, grabbing hold of Rodrigo’s arm and propelling him down the stairs.
Reaching the ground floor, they headed for the kitchen and the back door. Stephano blessed the assassins. If they had not attacked, he and Rodrigo would have been sound asleep when the constables invaded their home.
So much for thinking his mother cared about him.
As he and Rodrigo rushed out through the back door, they heard the shattering sound of the constables breaking down the front. Stephano and Rodrigo ran through the backyard, trampling Benoit’s garden, and out the back gate. One of the constables, coming around a corner, saw them and let out a yell.
Stephano darted into an alley. “This way!”
“Why would your mother hire assassins to kill us?” Rodrigo asked, hurrying to keep up.
“My mother didn’t send the assassins,” said Stephano. “She sent the police to arrest you.”
“Then who sent the assassins?”
“I have no idea,” said Stephano. “No more questions! Save your breath for running!”
Shouts and whistles indicated pursuit was right behind them. They had a good head start and they knew the neighborhood. They ran down alleys, crashed through hedgerows, and scaled walls. When they could no longer hear whistles, Stephano called a halt. He had a stitch in his side that was painful, but at least it was not a knife. Rodrigo bent double, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
In the light of a streetlamp, Stephano placed the box he was carrying on the sidewalk, opened the box, and drew out his dragon pistol, the small bag of shot stored alongside the weapon, and the tin of powder. He began loading the pistol.
“I don’t suppose I can go back for a change of clothes?” Rodrigo asked plaintively. He was wearing his count finery—silk coat, lace, velvet pantaloons, silk stockings.
Stephano looked up. “Rigo, someone wants us dead. Not to mention the fact that my mother has a warrant out for your arrest. She sent the police to haul you off to a foundry.”
“I’ll hide at my mother’s—”
“You told my mother you were going to visit your mother. The police will be there, as well.”
Rodrigo gave a bleak sigh. “So where are we going?”
“The Cloud Hopper,” said Stephano, rising to his feet. “I hope you’re right about Miri forgiving me. Otherwise…”
“I’ll be smelting,” said Rodrigo gloomily. “Or dead. I’m not sure which would be worse.”
Stephano tucked the loaded pistol into his coat, leaving the box behind. The two headed for the harbor.
* * *
Miri and Gythe always docked the Cloud Hopper at a public wharf near Dag’s boardinghouse. When in Evreux, the two women did not join their fellow Trundlers in the Trundler village of houseboats. The village was located about ten miles from the city, which had meant the sisters would have a long way to travel to reach Stephano’s house, where the Cadre met. They liked to be close to Dag and they knew he liked having them nearby.
This area of the harbor was home to warehouses and businesses dependent on the canal traffic. Long barges loaded with goods were tied up for the night. Empty barges were waiting to be filled in the morning. The streets were deserted but Stephano and Rodrigo kept to the shadows, not taking chances. Arriving at Canal Street, Stephano stopped behind the corner of a building. He took hold of Rodrigo, dragging him back when he would have walked on.
“The Cloud Hopper is just down the road—” Rodrigo protested.
“I know,” said Stephano.
Flattening himself against the wall, he peered down the street. He drew back with a curse.
Rodrigo groaned. “What now?”
Stephano gripped Rodrigo by the arm and pulled him into the shadows. “Down the boardwalk. The Cloud H
opper.”
Rodrigo looked and let out his breath in a low whistle. “D’argent!”
“And he’s brought friends,” said Stephano bitterly.
The Cloud Hopper was lit up like the royal barge on His Majesty’s birthday. Constables swarmed over it, flashing their bull’s-eye lanterns into the water barrels and peering beneath rolls of sailcloth. D’argent held a handkerchief to his cheek with one hand. A constable had hold of Miri, who was swearing at him. Gythe stood blocking the door to the hold, threatening anyone who came near her with the belaying pin.
“I’m an idiot!” Stephano muttered. “Of course, my mother would realize the Cloud Hopper is the first place we would go.”
“Will they take Miri and Gythe to prison?” Rodrigo asked worriedly.
“Not if I can help it,” said Stephano grimly, drawing his pistol.
Miri kicked the constable in his privates. He doubled over and she broke free. Gythe snatched up Doctor Ellington, made a rude gesture at D’argent, and hurried to join her sister. The two women ran down Canal Street. The constables started to go after them.
“Leave them,” D’argent ordered, loud enough for Miri and Gythe to hear. “We have the boat. That is what we came for.” He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief.
“The boat,” said Stephano. “So we can’t get away.”
“We have money,” said Rodrigo. “We could hire a coach or horses or—” He saw the expression on Stephano’s face. “Your mother will have all those places watched, too.”
“My mother is nothing if not thorough,” said Stephano.
The two waited in the shadows for Miri and Gythe, who were walking down Canal Street in their direction. As if God himself were taunting them, the skies clouded over, and rain began to fall.
“Me without a cloak. Another silk coat ruined,” Rodrigo said with a sigh.
Neither of them had brought a hat either. The rain drummed on their heads and ran into their eyes. Stephano and Rodrigo moved to the shelter of an overhang.
The constables on board the Cloud Hopper loosened the tie ropes. One took his place at the helm. They steered the houseboat away from the dock and out into the canal. Gythe and Miri stopped to watch until the houseboat disappeared into the darkness.
Storm Riders Page 35