“The Blue Parrot!” Rodrigo repeated in alarm. “They’ll be waiting for him!”
“Thomaso,” said Stephano urgently, “we haven’t a moment to lose. Would it be possible for your driver to take us—”
“Of course, sirs, of course,” said Thomaso. He summoned the page and ordered him to the stables.
“The Blue Parrot is not far, Captain,” Thomaso said, when the carriage arrived. He assisted them to enter. “By the Masons’ Guildhall.”
“Thank you, Thomaso,” Rodrigo called, as the carriage rattled away over the cobblestones. “You may have saved a life this night!”
Stephano sat back in the seat, flexing his hand. “I’d forgotten that man’s handshake. I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers.”
“You note I avoid personal contact,” said Rodrigo. “I’m glad he and Maudie are doing well. We’ll have to remember to tell Dag. So, now, what is our plan? Do we storm the Blue Parrot? If so, I must remind you that I’m not much good at storming.”
“Don’t you find it odd that Sir Henry is still in Westfirth?” Stephano asked. “If I’d kidnapped a journeyman who’d made an astounding discovery that would revolutionize warfare, I’d be on the first ship out.”
“Maybe Wallace knew that people would be searching for him and he’s lying low to wait for the furor to die down.”
“Maybe,” said Stephano, unconvinced. “But now he knows that Father Jacob recognized him, and while he probably hopes the demons killed the priest, Wallace can’t count on it. He’ll have to leave tonight.”
“Perhaps he’s already gone,” said Rodrigo.
“Don’t sound so hopeful,” said Stephano. “Wallace went back to the Blue Parrot. Let’s say he has Alcazar stashed there. He has to pack up his things, collect Alcazar. That could take some time.”
“If I am not mistaken, here we are,” said Rodrigo as the carriage rolled to a stop. “Too bad we don’t know what Wallace looks like. Thomaso’s description could fit almost any one.”
“From what my mother told me, a description wouldn’t help,” said Stephano. “He’ll be disguised and he’d have Alcazar disguised, as well.”
“Fine establishment, this Blue Parrot,” said Rodrigo, as they emerged from the cab. “A hotel suitable for intrigue, secret assignations, lovers escaping the eyes of jealous spouses. Not the sort of place one hides kidnapped journeymen.”
The Blue Parrot was obviously a well-to-do establishment, catering only to the finest clientele. The windows of the upper levels were discreetly sealed and shuttered, while the windows on the ground floor were ablaze with light. The neatly painted sign featuring the bird for which the inn was named hung above the well-lit entryway. Through the windows, they could see serving maids bustling about in little frilly caps and white aprons waiting on elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen.
“You’re right,” said Stephano, frowning. “Still it won’t hurt to ask—”
He started toward the door. The scandalized Rodrigo dragged him back.
“My dear fellow, you can’t possibly think you’re going to go bounding inside and demand to see the guest register?”
“I was going to ask the landlord if he’d seen a man resembling Wallace’s description—”
“And you would be escorted to the street and tossed out on your ear,” said Rodrigo.
“So what would you do?” Stephano asked, exasperated.
“Take a room,” said Rodrigo. “Wash off the gunpowder residue and have supper. I’m thinking a nice bit of fish, followed by broiled squab, new spring peas and a dry white wine, moderately chilled.”
“You have to explain this bill to my mother,” Stephano grumbled.
Sir Henry Wallace arrived at the Blue Parrot without incident. Ordinarily he would not have risked giving a carriage driver his true destination, but he was in haste and he had no reason to think anyone had followed him. He did take the precaution of ordering the carriage to drive around to the back alley and came in through the rear entrance. He opened the door to his room with his key and walked in, expecting to find Alcazar there, whining as usual.
Alcazar was nowhere in sight.
“Pietro?” Sir Henry called softly, looking about.
No answer. The suite was empty. Swearing beneath his breath, Sir Henry searched all the rooms twice, even looking under the bed. He was trying to think what might have happened, when there came a timid knock on the door.
Sir Henry flung open the door and found Alcazar in the hall. Henry grabbed hold of the journeyman and dragged him, stumbling, inside.
“Where the devil have you been?”
“I . . . I went to visit Louisa, my b-brother’s wife,” Alcazar stammered, shriveling beneath Sir Henry’s withering eye.
“You went to visit?” Sir Henry said, his voice shaking with fury. “You left this hotel and went to visit your brother’s wife, who is undoubtedly under surveillance—”
Alcazar went exceedingly pale. “I . . . I w-wore a hat.”
“You wore a hat. God give me strength not to murder you,” said Sir Henry, his fists clenching.
“I have good news, sir!” cried Alcazar faintly, backing into a corner. “The Silver Raven is in port. We can leave tomorrow . . .”
“We’re leaving now, tonight,” said Sir Henry. “Go get dressed.”
“But I’m already dressed—”
“As a woman, you blithering idiot. You came here in petticoats. You’re damned well going to leave in petticoats.”
The chastened Alcazar hurried meekly into his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and began to wrestle with his corset. Henry blew out the lights, walked over to the window, parted the velvet curtain a crack and looked out onto the street. He was certain he had not been followed from the bordello, but that fool Alcazar, traipsing about the city in his blasted hat could have picked up any number of tails.
Sir Henry saw a group of men congregating down the block in front of the Masons’ Guildhall. The men were drinking ale and relaxing after a hard day’s labor. Such gatherings were commonplace and he gave them only a cursory glance and then dismissed them. No one else was about.
He left the window and went to pack his things in a portmanteau. He would give orders for the portmanteau to be delivered to one of any number of locations in the city, to be retrieved at a later date. Henry deeply regretted the loss of his leather satchel, but Alcazar had his satchel, in which he carried valuable notes relating to his experiment. Sir Henry buried the pewter tankard in the satchel under the papers and then went to wash off the blood and dirt and change into elegant clothes that suited the count.
He was putting on his white, gold-embroidered weskit when he heard the clatter of horse’s hooves and the sound of wheels rolling to a stop in front of the hotel. Henry parted the curtain for a look. Two men descended from the carriage and stood in the light of a streetlamp, conversing.
Sir Henry recognized them both. He let the curtain fall.
“Son of a bitch!” Henry muttered.
Coincidence might have brought Captain Stephano de Guichen to this hotel, but Sir Henry had learned long ago to never trust in coincidence. He had to assume, therefore, that Captain de Guichen was on his trail. Henry ran through his plans.
He had purchased tickets for himself and his “lady” for the evening’s performance at the Opera Bouffe. His coach, driven by his agent, was going to take them to the crowded theater. Inside the coach were two more of his agents, dressed as the “count” and his “lady.” Wallace and Alcazar would enter the coach, but his agents would enter the theater. They would mingle with the crowd, go into their box while the lights were up, wait until the lights went down, and then disappear. All the while Sir Henry and Alcazar would be boarding the ship and sailing back to Freya.
Wallace looked back out the window to see Captain de Guichen, and his friend Monsieur de Villeneuve entering the hotel. Wallace knew what they would do, which was what he would do. They would request one of the elegantly appointed tables in th
e dining room, eat supper, drink wine, and observe all who came and went. He did not fear that either of them would penetrate his disguise as the count, nor were they likely to recognize Alcazar in his face powder, rouge, and curling love locks.
“But should I take that chance?” Henry reflected, pacing the room, talking to himself. “We could leave the hotel by the rear entrance. I’ll have to order the coach to be brought around to the back and that will seem odd, but I can tell the landlord that my lady’s jealous husband is looking for her.”
About to summon the page to carry a message to his coachman, Henry once again looked out the window. The lamplighter had been making his rounds and the streetlamps shed bright pools of light up and down the block. Sir Henry’s eyesight was keen. He knew what to look for, and although the pudgy man in the long cloak and hat was careful never to step directly into one of those pools of light, Sir Henry saw him lurking near a doorway.
Henry drew in a hissing breath. “Dubois!”
The arrival of Dubois, the bishop’s agent, at the Blue Parrot was definitely not coincidence. Wallace now understood everything that had puzzled him. Dubois was the third man at the duel, the mystery man who had shot at Harrington. Dubois must have kept on Harrington’s trail, followed him to Westfirth, and stayed on him until Harrington had led him to Henry, undoubtedly at the café. The countess’ bloodhound and the bishop’s bulldog—both hot on Sir Henry’s heels and closing in for the kill. Henry hoped Harrington was suffering every torment Hell had to offer.
Two men joined Dubois. They spoke together for a moment, then the two men left, heading for the hotel’s rear entrance. So much for sneaking out the back.
Henry turned from the window. He had been in tough situations before, but nothing as dire as this. If he was caught on Rosian soil with the missing journeyman, he would be tortured for information (which he would steadfastly refuse to divulge) and then what was left of him dragged to a public execution. His queen would be seriously embarrassed and compromised. His agents left out in the cold. The work of many years would be for nothing. The cunning fox had been run to ground. Henry Wallace was trapped and cornered, surrounded by dogs panting to rip him apart. Worse even than losing his life, he would lose Alcazar and with him the opportunity to give Freya the power to crush her enemies.
Henry eyed the satchel containing the tankard thoughtfully, then he grabbed the tankard, thrust it into the portmanteau, closed the lid, and locked it.
“Alcazar! We’ve been discovered!” he said.
The journeyman came running out, half-naked, tripping over his chemise. He looked ready to faint.
“Don’t worry,” Henry continued coolly. “I’m going to get us out of this. I need you to place a magical construct on the lock.” He pointed to the portmanteau.
“What sort of construct?” Alcazar asked, trembling with fright.
“Something that will make the lock impossible to open for anyone other than the two of us. Put a spell on the trunk, as well, just in case someone should try to hack it apart with an ax. And be quick about it!”
Alcazar cast his constructs swiftly and assured Sir Henry that the trunk was now safe from any thief. He gave Sir Henry the key to breaking the magical seal, which was a short combination of finger taps and swipes, and hurried back to finish dressing. Henry stood frowning at the portmanteau.
“Was this my fault?” he asked himself. “I knew Harrington was likely to do something stupid. And I knew I should have taken Alcazar out of the country immediately. I understood I might well be walking into an ambush this evening and yet . . . What else could I have done? Harrington, with his charm and acting ability and skill with guns and sword, was the best man for the task. I could have forcibly removed Alcazar, but then the unhappy journeyman might have refused to work for the Freyan government and there is no way I could force him. Whereas now, I have him, his brother, and his brother’s family under my control.
“And I could never have anticipated going to a meeting with the Sorceress only to find my nemesis, Jacob Northrop, there. Nor could I have foreseen that I would be attacked by fiends from Hell. If I had it to do over again, I would undoubtedly do exactly the same. I have to leave the Blue Parrot now. I have to leave Westfirth this night. A ship is waiting for us. The only question is: how to slip past the dogs?
“My Lady Luck,” said Henry, “this is for you, you fickle female. Do I go out the front or the back?”
He took out a coin and flipped it. The coin landed on the floor. Henry picked it up, eyed it, and tossed it on the table as recompense for the maid. He rang the bell to summon the footmen to take away the portmanteau. He ordered it delivered to the merchant ship, the Silver Raven, and sent word to the agent who served as his coachman.
The Blue Parrot Hotel had been named for the large blue parrot that squawked loudly from its gold-gilt cage in the front entryway. The hotel was known for the parrot and for the beautiful marble staircase that flowed in polished and lemon-oiled majesty from the first floor to the lobby. Several pages stood at their post near the staircase, ready to rush to perform the guests’ bidding. The office of the innkeeper was off the lobby to the right. The small and elegant dining room was to the left. One of the amenities for the occupants of the dining room was to be able to watch the arrivals and departures of beautifully coifed and bejeweled ladies and silk-caped aristocratic gentlemen.
Rodrigo and Stephano had both obtained rooms. Within fifteen minutes, Rodrigo had endeared himself to half the maidservants and made bosom friends of the Boots. Rodrigo had explained their somewhat rakish appearance, lack of luggage, and the unfortunate state of Stephano’s trousers with a thrilling tale of having been set upon by highwaymen. He and Stephano had received sympathy and towels, copious amounts of hot water, and gossip about all the guests.
After they had both hastily cleaned up and were downstairs dining on turbot and broiled squab, Rodrigo reported that several of the gentlemen currently residing at the Blue Parrot matched the description of Sir Henry Wallace, but none of the guests came close to resembling Pietro Alcazar.
“Maybe my mother is wrong,” said Stephano as the dishes were cleared away. “Maybe Wallace has nothing to do with Alcazar.”
“A possibility, I suppose,” said Rodrigo, ordering a snifter of brandy. “Though I might venture to remind you that your mother is never wrong.”
Stephano only grunted, then asked, “So what do we do now?”
“Sit here and drink brandy,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano shifted restlessly in his chair. “I don’t want to sit here. We should be doing something!”
“We are doing something,” said Rodrigo. “We are watching for Sir Henry.”
“Who might be disguised as anyone from the blue parrot in the lobby to that venerable old woman haranguing the wait staff. And we’re looking for another man who is apparently not even in the hotel. That sounds like a prosperous night’s work,” Stephano said.
“You’re in a bad mood, so you’re obviously feeling better,” Rodrigo observed, ordering more brandy for himself and one for his friend. “Miri’s yellow goo may offend the nostrils, but one has to admit its effectiveness.”
“I don’t like leaving our friends on their own,” said Stephano. “Not with demons around. I keep thinking about that poor murdered girl—”
“Lower your voice,” Rodrigo said quietly.
Stephano picked up the snifter of brandy, drank it, and motioned for a refill. “God! I wish I hadn’t seen her!”
“It was pretty awful,” said Rodrigo, pouring more brandy.
“I’ve seen worse on the battlefield,” said Stephano, tossing down the biting liquid. “But I keep thinking about what Father Jacob said, about that man drinking her blood—” He poured himself another glass.
“You might want to take it easy on the brandy,” said Rodrigo.
“This is the last,” said Stephano. A clock in the hallway chimed ten. He drank the brandy and stifled a yawn. “I’ve got to get some sle
ep. If Wallace was ever in the hotel, he’s probably gone by now.”
“I will remain here with this excellent brandy,” said Rodrigo, taking his time to savor a mouthful.
Stephano was rising to his feet when the doorman entered to announce that the coach for Count Fairhaven had arrived. The doorman summoned the page, who went dashing up the stairs to alert the count. The landlord, hearing his distinguished visitor was departing for the opera, came out of his office to bid his well-paying and noble guest a good evening.
Stephano decided he might as well wait to see this Count Fairhaven. He glanced at Rodrigo, who raised his eyebrows. They both watched as the count came down the stairs, escorting his female companion.
Stephano studied the count. The brim of his hat and the feathers that adorned it concealed much of the man’s face, as did the curls of the white powdered wig and the frilly white lace at his throat. Stephano caught a glimpse of an aristocratic nose and thin mouth, a black mustache and goatee. The count was elegantly dressed in a black silk cloak, a red waistcoat with overlarge sleeves embroidered with gold stitching, an embroidered weskit, lace cuffs, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He had one hand solicitously on the arm of his lady. He was speaking to her in Rosian, his accent indicating he came from the eastern region, perhaps somewhere around Haerigan. His voice was high-pitched, thin, affected.
“That’s not him,” said Stephano.
“But that is her!” Rodrigo exclaimed.
“Her? What do you mean her?” Stephano asked, puzzled.
“The love of my life,” said Rodrigo.
“Oh, good God!” Stephano looked at his friend in exasperation. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can. I am!” Rodrigo gazed, smitten. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful creature!”
The count’s lady was slender and graceful. Long curling locks of blonde hair fell over white-powdered shoulders. She wore an elaborate headpiece with feathers and jewels that artfully concealed her face and was dressed in an exquisite gown. Her eyes, what could be seen of them behind the large feather fan she held, were lustrous. Her face was powdered and rouged, her lips touched with red. She seemed shy and timid, for she clung closely to her companion.
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