“Oh, he had them,” Rodrigo stated. “Note the ink splotches on the table. He was a learned man, our Alcazar. You can see traces in the dust on those shelves where he kept books. And he played baccarat, albeit poorly, since he appears to have lost more than he won. I played baccarat myself in University, as do many students. My guess is that he attended University himself, at least for a short time.”
Rodrigo took one final look around. “Nothing more here. I think it is time we paid a visit to the neighbor. Are you armed? It might be well to take precautions.”
Stephano drew a short-barreled pistol from inside his coat. The gun had been a gift from his godfather, Sir Ander Martel, and was one of Stephano’s most prized possessions. The gun was unique in design and had been a present on the occasion of his twelfth birthday. The barrel was cast in the form of a dragon; wings swept back, as though the creature was diving. The clawed hands and feet wrapped around the silver inlaid stock. The dragon’s tail created the spine of the handle. The gun was one of a matched pair; the other belonging to Sir Ander.
Stephano and Rodrigo walked down the dismal hall, heading toward a door at the far end. The door was opened a crack, allowing a shaft of dusty sunlight to creep out of the room and into the hall. Whoever was inside was watching them. At their approach, the door shut, the sunlight vanished.
Rodrigo glanced at Stephano, who nodded to indicate he was ready. Rodrigo rapped smartly on the door.
Silence. Rodrigo rapped again.
“What do you want?” came a woman’s voice.
“Just a friendly chat about my poor friend, Pietro Alcazar. He seems to have gone missing,” said Rodrigo in plaintive tones. “I have some questions. Nothing alarming, I assure you, Madame. I will make it worth your while.”
The door opened an inch. The woman peered out. Rodrigo held up a coin, this one of silver. Her eyes widened. She drew back the door, revealing a broom, which she was clutching in a threatening manner.
“You can put down the weapon, Madame,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano looked past her. A little girl, a baby in her arms, crouched under a table. He didn’t see anyone else.
“Is your good man at home?”
“He’s my man, but there ain’t nothin’ good about him,” said the woman, sniffing. She lowered the broom. “If you want him, you’ll find him in the tavern, drinking with his layabout friends.”
Stephano returned his gun to his pocket.
The woman’s eyes were on the silver coin. “He don’t know nothin’ anyway. I was the one who saw ’em.”
“Saw who?” Rodrigo asked.
“Them as took your friend away.”
“If you could tell me about that night . . .”
The woman snatched the coin, stuffed it into her bosom, and told her story.
She had been awakened by a loud bang and a splintering crash, sounds of a scuffle, thumps and bumpings, and what she thought was a muffled cry for help. She had tried to wake her husband, but he had been dead drunk and had only grunted and rolled over.
Fearing for the safety of her children, the woman had grabbed up the broom in order to fight off whatever villains she might encounter. She opened the door a crack, and saw two men, clad all in black, descending the stairs at a rapid pace. She heard more thumps and bangs from the apartment, and then two more men emerged. One of the men carried a dark lantern and, by its light, she saw him holding another man by the arm, forcing him down the stairs.
She had waited a moment longer, but, seeing nothing more to alarm her, she had gone back to her bed. Early the next morning, broom in hand, she had ventured down to Alcazar’s apartment “to find out what had become of the poor man.” She had discovered the door open and a scene of destruction.
“Furniture tipped over, books scattered about, clothes strewn all over the floor. . . .”
She was relating all this with relish when a thought suddenly occurred to her. She clamped her mouth shut and started to slam the door. Rodrigo blocked it with his foot.
“You’ve been extremely helpful, Madame,” he said. “I was wondering if I could borrow a sheet of paper, a pen, and some ink.”
“As if I would have the like!” returned the woman, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge Rodrigo’s foot by poking him with the broom handle. “For one, I can’t read nor write. For two, paper and ink is dear—”
“But Pietro Alcazar had such things,” said Rodrigo, keeping his foot in the door. “You were the first in his apartment. I was thinking that perhaps you might have taken his books and his clothes and linens—”
“I never!” cried the woman angrily.
“—for safekeeping,” Rodrigo finished in soothing tones. “So that no unscrupulous person would steal them, perhaps sell them at the pawn shop. . . .”
“They would be worth a lot of money,” said the woman, her eyes on Rigo’s purse.
Rodrigo produced another silver coin and held it just out of her reach. “Paper, pen, and ink. You can keep the rest.”
The woman wavered a moment. Rodrigo removed his foot from the door. She shut it and they heard her walk off.
“We’re not made of silver, you know,” said Stephano testily.
“Something tells me this will be worth it,” said Rodrigo.
The door opened. The woman handed out several pieces of paper, a pen, and a pewter inkwell. Rodrigo gave her the silver coin. She took it and slammed the door shut.
Rodrigo and Stephano returned to Alcazar’s lodgings.
“It does look as if he was snatched,” said Stephano. “By professionals, at that.”
“Let us see what this letter has to tell us,” said Rodrigo. “If you could shut the door—or what’s left of it. And we will shove the table up against it to prevent any intrusion by broom-wielding neighbors.”
Rodrigo sat down cross-legged on the floor. He placed one of the blank pieces of paper the woman had supplied on the floor in front of him. Dipping the pen in the ink, he drew four sigils on the page: one at the top, one on either side, and one at the bottom. He then drew a line connecting each sigil, one to the other.
“What exactly is this going to do?” Stephano asked.
Rodrigo picked up the page and scooted closer to the fireplace. “The partially destroyed letter has two separate components: the ink and the paper on which the ink resides. If this spell works as planned, the magical construct I have crafted on my piece of paper should gently pull the ink from the burnt paper and transfer it to my sheet.”
“Do you think it will work?” Stephano asked.
“I have no idea. Wind coming down the flue broke up the burnt paper, but we might still be able to read something. The one major problem is that the spell will destroy what’s left of the original.”
“So we have only one shot,” Stephano said. “Just out of curiosity, where did you learn to cast a spell like this? I don’t suppose reading burnt letters was part of the University curriculum.”
Rodrigo smiled. “We both have the weapons we need to fight our battles, my friend. In the circles I frequent, information can be more explosive than gunpowder. Now, please be silent and let me concentrate.”
Rodrigo held the page with the construct above the remains of the letter and focused his thoughts on the magic. His eyes closed to slits. His breathing slowed. He touched each of the sigils he had drawn on the paper, tracing them with his finger. After he had gone over all four of them, the constructs began to glow. The black ink shone with a golden light.
Rodrigo placed the glowing paper directly over the burnt paper in the grate. The two merged, the glowing paper seeming to absorb the burnt letter—ashes and all. The glow faded away. His paper rested on the cold stone of the hearth. The burnt letter was gone.
“Let us see what we have.” Rodrigo gingerly picked up the piece of paper and turned it over. “Damn. I was afraid of this.” He sighed in disappointment.
Stephano leaned over his shoulder. Very little had been salvaged. The missive had been brief. He
saw a part of a word that began with “au” and another fragment that might have been “eet.” Only two words in the body of the letter were clearly visible: the word “when” and a second word “Westfirth.”
“The letter was signed,” said Rodrigo, holding the paper close to his eyes.
“Can you read it?” Stephano asked.
Rodrigo shook his head. “All that is left are the bottom swoops of the characters. Maybe “ce” or “ca” . . . I can’t be sure.
“So all we have is ‘when’ and ‘Westfirth,” said Stephano.
“A Rosian city with an unsavory reputation,” said Rodrigo. He struggled unsuccessfully to rise out of his cross-legged position and finally reached out his hand. “Help me, will you? I seem to have lost all the feeling in my right foot.”
Stephano hoisted up his friend, who groaned and hobbled about the room, trying to restore the flow of blood.
“Magic always takes a toll on me,” Rodrigo complained.
“It wasn’t the magic,” said Stephano, unsympathetic. “Your foot went to sleep.”
He stood gazing about the ransacked sitting room, turning things over in his mind.
“Well, that is that,” said Rodrigo. “We’ve learned all we can learn here. Our simple little job is ended. You can report back to your mother, and then we can—”
“No,” said Stephano.
“No, what? You’re not going to report to your mother?”
“Report what?” Stephano said. “That Alcazar was a bad baccarat player? That three men broke into his rooms in the dead of night and took him away? That we found a burnt letter?”
“A letter containing the name of a city known to be a haven for criminals. And you saw someone keeping an eye on this place,” said Rodrigo.
“I saw a man with a slouch hat,” said Stephano. “There are a thousand men with slouch hats in this city, any one of whom might simply have been a drunken gawker who came to view the scene of the crime. I’m sure my mother will be agog with wonder at my investigative skills.”
“So much for the simple job,” Rodrigo said with a sigh. He folded the paper and thrust it into an inner pocket of his coat. “I gather we’re going to be taking a trip to Westfirth.”
“Miri and Gythe can talk to their Trundler friends there, find out if they know anything about Alcazar. And Dag still has some of his old underworld contacts in Westfirth. I believe it would be worth a trip.”
The two left the lodging. As Stephano started to close the door, he paused, gazed thoughtfully back inside.
“You don’t think that man with the hat was a gawker, do you?” Rodrigo asked.
“Drunks in slouch hats who sleep on benches don’t have hackney cabs waiting to whisk them away,” said Stephano.
He shut the door. Once out on the Street of the Half Moon, they turned their steps toward home.
“I’ll send Benoit to court with a letter for my mother,” Stephano said. “I’ll tell her about what we found and where we’re going.”
“Admit it,” said Rodrigo. “The real reason we’re going to Westfirth is because you don’t want to put on a cravat.”
“Damn right,” said Stephano, smiling.
His smile faded. He came to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder. The time was midafternoon and the street was even busier than when they had first arrived. The tavern’s customers overflowed the bar and spilled out the door. Wagons and carriages rolled past. An airship floated overhead, casting a shadow that glided over the sidewalk.
“What are you doing besides impeding the flow of traffic?” Rodrigo asked, apologizing to an irate pedestrian, who had nearly run into him. “You’ve been as jumpy as a frog on a gridiron since we left that apartment.
“I have the feeling we’re being followed.”
“We are—by about several hundred Rosians. I beg your pardon, Madame. It was my fault entirely that you trod on my foot,” said Rodrigo, doffing his hat. He seized hold of Stephano and tugged him along. “You’ll never spot a tail in this crowd.”
Stephano acknowledged this with a mutter and continued walking.
“Why should anyone be following us?” Rodrigo asked. “I don’t owe any gambling debts.”
Stephano glanced at him.
“I paid the duke last month,” said Rodrigo with affronted dignity.
“And you know I don’t gamble,” said Stephano.
“At least not with money,” said Rodrigo. “Your life is a different matter.”
Stephano glanced once more over his shoulder. “I don’t see anyone, but, as you say, in all this crowd spotting a tail is nigh impossible. I’m thinking we should celebrate our good fortune this evening by arranging a picnic in the park. Let’s see who’s keeping an eye on us.”
“An excellent idea,” said Rodrigo. He stopped to bow to a woman driving past in a carriage adorned with a baron’s coat of arms. The woman leaned out to wave at him and blow him a kiss. “Intrigue. I love it. Who’s watching who’s watching who’s watching whom.”
“Only in this case,” said Stephano, “it will be us watching them watching us.”
Chapter Five
Constructs are the combination of various sigils connected by lines of power or magical conduits to direct and control magical energy into a pattern in order to achieve a specific and desired purpose.
—The Art of Crafting
Church School Primer
RETURNING HOME, RODRIGO WENT TO HIS ROOM for an afternoon nap to recover from the fatigues of the day. Stephano sent Benoit to find Beppe, a sharp lad of about twelve.
Stephano had first met Beppe when his mother, who took in laundry, came to collect the clothes to be washed while Beppe tagged along to steal whatever he could lay his hands on. Benoit had caught the boy raiding the larder and was teaching him a lesson with a cane applied to his backside when Stephano, hearing ungodly howling from the kitchen, came to the boy’s rescue.
Foreseeing that Beppe’s current career was likely to land him in prison, Stephano had offered to pay him to run errands. Beppe had proved invaluable. The boy could go anywhere, talk to anyone, eavesdrop, ask questions: all without attracting notice. The boy was friends with Dag and Miri and Gythe (Beppe was desperately in love with Miri) and often did small jobs for them.
Stephano sent Beppe with a message to the sisters who lived on their houseboat, the Cloud Hopper, and another message to Dag in his rooming house near the docks. Stephano gave his instructions to the boy verbally and made him repeat them back.
After Beppe left, Stephano wrote his mother a brief and concise account of everything they had discovered at Alcazar’s apartment. He ended by saying he and the Cadre of the Lost were traveling to the city of Westfirth to follow up on the matter, then rang the bell for Benoit.
The old man came slowly up the stairs, groaning loudly with each step, and leaning heavily on his cane. He limped into the room.
“I have a letter I want you to deliver,” said Stephano. Folding the letter, he dropped melted wax on the page and dipped his signet ring with its symbol of a tiny dragon into the melted wax.
Benoit gave another groan. “I’m sure I would be happy to do your bidding, sir, if I weren’t in such constant misery that I can scarcely move a step—”
“You’re to take the letter to the Countess de Marjolaine in the Royal Palace,” said Stephano.
Benoit stopped groaning. His eyes gleamed. He stood up straight, smoothed back his long gray hair, and straightened his jacket.
“It will be hard on me, but I will undertake to make the sacrifice, sir.”
“I thought you might,” said Stephano wryly.
Benoit loved visiting the royal court. A trip to the palace brought back fond memories of times gone by. He would find time to dine with his friends in the servants’ quarters, hear the latest below-stairs gossip. He stood his cane in the corner and reached for the letter.
Stephano eyed the old man. “What about your constant misery? I can send som
eone else—”
“Do not give my suffering a second thought, sir,” said Benoit. “I would never dream of permitting my failing health to stand in the way of my duty to you.”
Stephano hid his smile and handed the old man the letter. “Here’s money for a carriage. Give the letter into the hands of the Countess de Marjolaine, not that popinjay of a secretary.”
Stephano had no fear Benoit would give the letter to anyone except the countess, who always rewarded him most handsomely.
“The countess’ hands, as you say, sir,” Benoit said, unusually dutiful. He dashed down the stairs.
“You move damn fast for an old cripple!” Stephano called, leaning over the stair rail. “You forgot your cane!”
His answer was the door slam. Grinning, Stephano walked over to the window and drew back the curtain in time to see Benoit hurrying down the street, waving his arm to gain the attention of one of the wyvern-drawn carriages drifting by overhead. Stephano chuckled and then cast an idle glance up and down the street. His neighborhood was residential, home to men and women of the lower upper class, minor nobility like Stephano, and those of the upper middle class, such as the wine merchant who lived in the fine house across the street. Stephano saw the young and pretty nursemaid, who made eyes at Rodrigo whenever he walked past, taking the wine merchant’s young son out for an airing. While the little boy played, the young woman was happily flirting with a young man paying her admiring attention.
Stephano shut the curtain. Removing his jacket, he picked up his rapier and went downstairs and out into the small yard at the back of the house where he had set up a target, which looked rather like a scarecrow. He began his daily fencing practice, performing over and over again the nine classic parries and their intricate footwork.
Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen had a reputation as an expert swordsman, a reputation he had earned. On the urging of the grand bishop, the king had made dueling illegal, mainly because too many promising young officers were being felled fighting affairs of honor. Unfortunately, the only effect this law had was to force gentlemen to settle their quarrels in the privacy of some cemetery or farmer’s field, away from the notice of the watchful police, who took great delight in hauling the sons of noblemen off to jail.
Shadow Raiders Page 9