Dag chuckled as he slid a second knife into his belt. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but you’d be more trouble than you’d be worth. You’re a gentleman born, sir, and you can’t hide it. The places I’m going don’t take to gentry. You’d end up in the gutter with your throat slit, your watch missing, and your pockets turned inside out.”
“You and Rigo can come with us,” said Miri. She cast a sidelong look at her sister, who was staring up dreamily at the stars. “You can help me take Gythe’s mind off Brother Barnaby.”
Stephano was about to agree, and he was startled to hear Rodrigo decline, claiming that he was going to bed; he had to be up early the next day.
“Early for what?” Stephano asked, astonished.
“My dear fellow, I have to see my tailor,” said Rodrigo, sounding shocked that he would even ask. “I have nothing to wear.”
“You have a chest filled with clothes,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo only smiled and shook his head. Miri rolled her eyes and whispered something to Gythe, who giggled. Dag snorted in derision. Picking up the Doctor, Dag settled the cat on his shoulder and descended the gangplank. He walked out onto the long pier that led to shore.
“You could come with us,” said Miri to Stephano, as the sisters were about to leave. “Uncle likes you.”
“He likes me now, since we’ve finally convinced him I have no intention of trying to worm my way into the McPike clan by wedding his niece,” said Stephano. “When do you plan to tell him about Dag?”
“When I’ve told Dag about Dag,” said Miri crisply. She glanced with concern at the back of the big man, who was walking away from them. Doctor Ellington’s tail stuck straight up, looking like a furry feather in Dag’s hat. “I hope he’ll be safe.”
“Worry more about anyone who tries to cross him,” said Stephano. “Thanks for the invitation. Give your uncle my regards. I’ll stay with Rigo.”
He had given his friend the sad news about his father; the countess had received confirmation from her sources that Ambassador de Villeneuve had been assassinated. Rodrigo had received the news with equanimity, going a bit pale, but only saying calmly that he was thankful to be no longer in doubt. Stephano remembered his own soul-searing grief over the death of his father and he had felt helplessly that he should be doing or saying something more.
“We could find a way to send you home for the funeral . . .” he had begun and then he had remembered. “Damn! You can’t go home. We’re under Seal. I promised Father Jacob we’d all remain here in Westfirth. Never mind the priest. If you want to go home, Rigo, you should go home.”
Rodrigo had smiled and shaken his head. “My dear fellow, have you forgotten that we spent days lost in the Breath? The funeral will be over and done with by now. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
But Stephano was worried. Rodrigo loved Trundler gatherings. It wasn’t like him to miss one.
After Rodrigo had gone to bed, Stephano sat down with a bottle of wine given to them by one of their Trundler neighbors. He went over everything that had happened these past few days and made plans for what was likely to happen in the future.
Stephano did not worry about setting the watch. They were surrounded on all sides by Trundler houseboats. The Trundlers set their own watch over the entire village; they did not take kindly to strangers. For the first night in many nights, Stephano slept deeply and woke to the sun shining and the smell of sausages.
The morning of Chardus, the fourth day of the week, was a fine one, not a cloud in the sky. Even the mists had dissipated. Peering over the hull, Stephano could see quite a distance down to the dark and murky depths of the Breath below. Stephano thought of the demons that had come up out of those depths and he shifted his gaze landward, which provided a far more pleasurable view of the city of Westfirth.
He looked out over a veritable sea of gaily painted balloons. Trundler houseboats bobbed in the harbor, thin trails of smoke rising from their galleys bringing with it smells of fresh-baked bread. The morning was brightened by the laughter of children as they scrambled up and down the masts or jumped perilously from boat to boat in games of tag while parents called irritably for them to stop or they would break their fool necks or tumble into the Breath.
Beyond the Trundler village was the southern end of the city of Westfirth; a veritable forest of chimney pots. The two spires of the archbishop’s grand cathedral, currently under construction and covered in a maze of scaffolding, was a new and interesting feature on the skyline.
“A sign the Church is exerting authority in Westfirth at last,” Stephano reflected. “Or trying to.”
Like parents endeavoring to curb the excesses of a child they had ignored for many years, the Church was finding it difficult to alter the city’s bad behavior. The new archbishop was an energetic and zealous man, however; firmly determined to make his unruly city into a model of deportment.
According to Dag, who had returned to the Cloud Hopper in the early hours, the archbishop was not having much luck. Criminal organizations still flourished, operating brothels and gambling and opium dens, waging wars over territory and conducting running battles with the members of the Constabulary. A militaristic police force organized and financed by the Church, the Constabulary had replaced the corrupt and ineffective city guard and was doing its best to bring law and order to Westfirth. Theirs was an ambitious task. Smuggled goods were still being sold openly in the city market. The murder rate was so high the constables were forced to conduct a sweep every morning to gather up the bodies. The crackdown was having some effect.
“Watch yourselves when you’re in town,” Dag warned. “The Constabulary is well-armed, and they have a fondness for hauling people off to jail to make it look like they’re doing something useful.”
Dag had managed to run into a few people who still remembered him—some of them fondly. He had not encountered any trouble, though the same could not be said for the good Doctor, who had returned with a swollen eye, a chipped tooth, and part of an ear missing.
“But you should see the other cat,” Dag said with a proud grin.
Dag had spread the word that he would pay well for information regarding Alcazar or Henry Wallace. His silver rosuns had garnered something, though not much that was useful. About a week ago, a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years of age had appeared in the high-class brothels and gambling dens, making inquiries about a Freyan gentleman by the name of Henry Wallace.
The young man was handsome, well dressed, soft-spoken. He told people he had been sent by his mistress, Lady Wallace, to find her husband, who had gone missing. He had a description of Sir Henry, which matched in many respects the description given by the countess. No one had seen such a man, however, at least so far as Dag was able to determine.
Stephano found this odd, but not particularly enlightening, beyond the fact that someone else was searching for Sir Henry. This young man might be what he claimed to be—a member of Wallace’s household. Or he might be an agent sent by a foreign government, the grand bishop, or even his mother, though Stephano doubted that. The countess had told him she could not trust any of her agents and whatever other faults Cecile de Marjolaine might have, she had never lied to him. Since any number of people could be looking for Sir Henry for any number of reasons, Stephano did not give the matter further thought.
Dag’s questions about Alcazar had drawn a blank. Alcazar was a fairly common name in Westfirth, and while many people knew men named Alcazar, none were journeymen and none matched the description.
“There are three Alcazars residing in Westfirth,” Dag said. “One is a middle-aged baker, another a farrier, and the third is a sailor.”
“What about the warrant for my arrest?” Rodrigo asked anxiously. “Am I a wanted murderer for killing Valazquez?”
Dag shook his head. “I asked. If there is a warrant, no one here has word of it.”
“I told you. My mother took care of it,” said Stephano.
Rod
rigo gave a faint smile and a shrug. Stephano gazed thoughtfully at him, then asked Miri what she had found out. She reported even less success than Dag. She had questioned her fellow Trundlers about Sir Henry. None of them had ever heard the name. They had not seen anyone resembling his description. The same with Alcazar.
Stephano shoved away his empty plate and sat back in his chair, frustrated.
“Not much to go on. Still, one of these Alcazars might be a relative of Pietro’s. Miri, you and Dag pay a visit to the baker and the farrier. I’ll go to the docks and ask around about the sailor. Gythe, you stay here to mind the boat. What’s wrong now?”
Gythe was shaking her head and indicating she was accompanying her sister.
Stephano frowned. “You’ve been really ill, Gythe. I’m not sure you should be going—”
“Gythe, dear,” said Miri, fussing with her hair, “I need another pin for this cap. Would you be a love and run fetch one for me.”
Gythe ran down below. When she was gone, Miri said with a grimace, “She hopes to run into Brother Barnaby. I tell you, she’s besotted with that man.”
Rodrigo was incredulous. “Impossible. With that dreadful haircut!”
“I don’t think love has anything to do with his haircut,” said Stephano dryly. “I know Trundlers don’t know much about the Church. Does Gythe realize that Brother Barnaby is a monk and that monks take vows not to . . . uh . . .”
“Frolic beneath the sheets,” said Rodrigo.
“I’m not sure. I’ve tried talking to her,” said Miri, sighing. “She either doesn’t understand or refuses to understand. I’m really worried about her, Stephano. Gythe seems well enough, but she’s changed. She stops dead in her tracks sometimes and stares off into nothing. She’ll frown sometimes and wince and put her hand to her head, as though she’s in pain.”
“Sounds like love to me,” said Rodrigo. He tapped Stephano on the shoulder. “It’s time we were going—”
“Maybe this has something to do with her magic,” said Stephano, getting to his feet. “Is that possible, Rigo?”
“If so, I have no idea what it could be,” Rodrigo said. “Ask Father Grim and Dreadful.”
“His name is Father Jacob,” said Dag in stern and rebuking tones. “You shouldn’t make fun of a priest.”
“Trust me, my friend, I find nothing at all funny about that man,” said Rodrigo.
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Miri,” said Stephano. “I can plan a raid on a heavily fortified castle, fly a dragon through cannon fire, and even battle demons from Hell. A young woman in love with a monk is beyond my capability. All I can tell you is to keep clear of the area around the Old Fort. Father Jacob said they would be staying there as guests of the archbishop. He’s taken over the residential part of the Fort.”
Gythe returned with the hairpin, which she gave to her sister, along with a look that said plainly she knew they had been talking about her. Gythe adjusted Miri’s hair, patted her own cap in place. Miri and Gythe were dressed as servants from a well-to-do household, wearing neat gray dresses and frilly white caps. In such disguises, they could claim to be anything from parlor maids to seamstresses to cooks as the situation warranted.
“Dag, you and the Doctor go with Miri and Gythe. Do you have money?” Stephano asked.
Miri exhibited a small leather purse she carried around her wrist.
“Are you armed?” Stephano asked.
Dag indicated his weapons. Miri reached into her bosom and drew out a corset gun, then hiked up her skirt to reveal a knife in her stocking.
“And the hairpins,” she said, grinning. “Amazing what damage you can do with a hairpin.”
“Very well, good luck,” said Stephano. “Take care of yourselves. Rodrigo and I will visit the docks—”
“After I’ve been to my tailor,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano sighed and went below to dress. He wore his brown, militarycut coat and a plain shirt, no frills and no cravat. He put on his tricorn, draped his sword belt over his shoulder, slid the dragon pistol into his belt and a smaller pistol into a loop in the top of his boot. He came up on deck prepared to face Rodrigo’s scathing criticism of his clothing. Rodrigo scarcely gave him a glance and said nothing beyond the fact that he had a spot of mustard on his shirt collar.
The two left the Trundler village, taking the road that led into the central part of the city. The time being midmorning, the road was crowded with people of Westfirth coming to visit the Trundler village, and Trundlers taking their goods to market. Trundlers were tinkers and craftsmen, tending to excel in weaving, embroidery, and fine leather and metal work. A few traded in gems, while others sold charms and herbal potions and remedies. Trundler villages—closed up at night—were open to the public by day.
Rodrigo wanted to take a cab to their destination. The day being a fine one, Stephano felt in need of exercise after being cooped up on the boat. He had always been fond of Westfirth, wild and lawless as the city might be, and he proposed that they walk.
Rodrigo agreed, though with obvious reluctance.
“God forbid you should have to appear wearing the same lavender brocade coat trimmed in ermine you wore in Evreux,” Stephano teased, as they continued down the street. “I suppose there would be a warrant out for your arrest.”
“My dear fellow,” said Rodrigo with a faint smile, “even you must concede that my clothes are not suitable for mourning.”
“Mourning . . .” Stephano came to a sudden stop, much to the annoyance of several people behind him and regarded his friend in remorse. “Oh, my God, Rigo, your father! I’m sorry, damnably sorry! What with all that’s been happening, it never occurred to me—”
“Keep moving,” said Rodrigo, drawing Stephano along. “You’re impeding traffic.”
“We can take a cab . . .”
“No, no, I don’t mind walking. See the sights. I need to stop at a stationer’s if there is such a thing in this city. I have to write a letter to my mother explaining why I was unable to attend the funeral. I’ll have to make up some tale. I can hardly plead fighting giant bats as an excuse—”
“Rigo, stop playing the clown!” said Stephano. “You should have said something. You don’t need to hide your grief. Not from me or the others. We’re your friends.”
Rodrigo was silent long moments, then he said in a muffled voice, “I wasn’t trying to hide from you. I didn’t . . . want to think about it. Then, last night, I realized I would have to appear in public today and I had nothing that was suitable. My father is dead. He was murdered, and I have nothing to wear except lavender . . .”
Rodrigo lowered his head. Blinking his eyes rapidly and walking very fast, he blundered into a costermonger, who threw down his cap and doubled his fists and challenged the “gentlemun who thinks he’s better’n the likes of us” to a fight. Stephano hailed a passing cab, and bundled Rodrigo into it before the wheels had stopped rolling. He gave the address of the tailor shop, which was on Threadneedle Street. Rodrigo sank into a corner and sat with hand over his face.
Stephano knew that no words of his could help ease Rodrigo’s pain, but he also knew that the words didn’t matter. What mattered was the warmth of a friend’s voice, the touch of a friend’s hand. By the time the cab rolled to a stop, Rodrigo had recovered his composure. He hastened into the tailor shop. Stephano paid the driver and, as was his habit, cast a routine glance up and down the street.
Rodrigo was a longtime customer of this particular tailor’s shop, which happened to deal in fine-quality silks at prices much lower than anything he could buy in Evreux; mainly due to the fact that the silks entering Westfirth entered the city through unconventional means. Stephano, who detested going to the tailor’s and did so only when forced, had always managed to avoid accompanying his friend on these trips. He had never been to this shop or even to this part of Westfirth.
There had been a time in the city’s history when streets had been named after the nature of the shop owners’ occup
ations. Thus there was Market Street, Butcher’s Row, Smith Street, and so forth. The needs of a burgeoning population, especially a growing upper middle class (or lower upper class as they liked to think of themselves), had brought about changes. Threadneedle Street was still known as a place where one could find tailors, milliners, and dressmakers. Now one could find lodging on Threadneedle Street, as well. An inn, newly built, had opened across the street from the tailor’s shop. A café known as the Four Clovers was next door.
Stephano, loath to go into the tailor’s, where he was certain to be accosted by the tailor trying to sell him new trousers or the latest fashion in waistcoats, remained outside, observing the people. His mother, the Countess de Marjolaine, would have never been seen on Threadneedle Street. Her dressmaker came to her in the palace. The wife of the wealthy ironmonger who had recently been knighted for his ironmongering services to the country came to Threadneedle Street. “Lady Ironmonger” was shown pen-and-ink drawings of the dresses worn by the Countess de Marjolaine and she would then instruct her dressmaker to make a dress exactly like that worn by the countess only “it was so plain” and to add a few more feathers and a lot more ribbons and perhaps plunge the bosom and raise the hem.
Stephano also saw what were termed “men of affairs” hastening along the street, engrossed in their own business which was all about money and the making of it. Meeting other men of affairs, these gentlemen would stop to talk in urgent voices for the making of money always demands urgency.
A group of priests passed him, hands in the sleeves of their robes. Stephano gave them a sharp glance, prepared to bolt, but none wore the black cassock. He did bolt when he saw several naval officers from one of the navy ships patrolling the harbor near the Old Fort. One of those ships was the Royal Lion, commanded by Stephano’s old enemy, Captain Hastind. None of these men were Hastind, but Stephano might know them from his days in the Dragon Brigade, which had been part of the navy, or they might know him from his notorious duel with Hastind. Either way, a meeting would be awkward. He ducked into the tailor’s shop.
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