Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  “Uncle, Albero,” Yvienne said. “Guard the house. We’ll be back with Tesara soon.”

  Samwell saluted, and Albero threw a curt nod at Malcroft. “Take care,” he said, stopping before he added, of her.

  Malcroft nodded back. “If I hear ‘cheesy biscuits’ we’re out of there faster than a lurcher on a hare.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Yvienne stood across the street from Forty-seven Kittredge Mews and tried to get a good look at the house. She was dressed in sturdy tweed trousers and linen shirtwaist, with a short jacket over it. She had on warm walking boots, oiled against the weather. Her pistol was concealed in a special pocket that she had engineered herself, easy to access in the back of her jacket, where the garment ended in a small frill. She had practiced drawing it until she was satisfied with her ability.

  The townhouse was a narrow brick building, its simplicity belying the classic architecture. The stairs up to the front porch were steep, and there was a dully glowing lantern above the door that illuminated the house number but little else. There was nothing to indicate anyone was at home. The street was entirely dark, fogged in, the lamp a smudge of light in the mist. Mrs Francini and Noe had gone to the servants’ entrance on the side of the house and she and Malcroft had heard nothing since.

  “Do you think they’re inside?” she muttered, scanning the dark and silent house. Beside her, Malcroft shrugged, brushing up against her. He loomed in his overcoat, the rifle slung across his back. His overcoat concealed an alarming variety of weaponry including several knives and the truncheon, all arrayed for easy access.

  “No reason why not. Noe’s one of the best we’ve got. You don’t have to worry about her. Er, that is–”

  “Don’t bother, Mr Malcroft,” Yvienne said. “Noe’s other activities are none of my business or concern right at the moment.”

  True to her word she tried to focus on the task at hand. Every nerve ending was alive, and her heart beat fast. She scanned the house and its surroundings, noting where the alley came out, the next door gate, and the way the street curved downhill toward the main circle. There was little traffic here, but not far away the city was lively. She wondered where Abel was, and she knew she would never see him until the time came for him to show himself.

  “All right,” she said. “It’s time for me to go in.”

  “Alone?” Malcroft said, skepticism in his voice.

  “I’ll take the frontal assault. I want you to go back to the kitchen and help with the search for Tesara.”

  She didn’t say that she wanted to face Trune herself, and best him once again. Now that she was here, the desire for revenge thrummed in every heartbeat. Trune needed to learn, for once and for always, that he would never be able to destroy House Mederos.

  “That wasn’t our plan, girl.”

  “If we storm in, it could put all of us in danger,” she said. The way her heart was pounding, she thought he could hear it just standing beside her. She took a breath. “Malcroft, I know I seem like just a merchant’s daughter to you, but I’ve gotten out of some rather serious scrapes. I’m not taking this lightly; trust me. Go ahead into the back. I’ll draw Trune to the front door, and with a bit of luck, you can get in and out with our friends while I have his attention. Also, you’ll be in a better position to take them by surprise than in a frontal attack, don’t you think?”

  He grumbled, but he finally said, “Agreed. But you heard Albero – if I don’t come back with you, I’m in trouble.”

  She grinned for the first time that night, and she knew he could hear the smile in her voice. “At the first sign of danger you have my leave to break heads.”

  “Music to my ears,” he said. Malcroft melted away into the darkness, his footsteps fading fast into silence. She was left alone in the wet street, the only sound that of distant water pattering down a gutter somewhere.

  She gave Malcroft two minutes, and then gathered her courage and crossed the street. Yvienne padded up the front steps, and knocked, the brass doorknocker reverberating against the metal plate. Her shoulder blades itched and she was acutely aware of the Harrier somewhere in the darkness behind her, Malcroft behind the house, her sister and the other women in the house in front of her. She was the sacrificial lamb, the bait – and she knew that Trune could not fail to take it.

  The door opened.

  Trune’s coachman. There was a second of dawning recognition, and then, even as she reached for her pistol, he grabbed her by the front of her tweed jacket and yanked her inside. In an instant he had her disarmed, her own pistol at her side, his arm across her throat. He pushed her in front of him to the genteel parlor, where a comfortable fire burned and the lamps cast a rosy glow on the well-stuffed furniture.

  “Well, well, well,” smirked Trune over by the mantel, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass. “Not the smartest girl in Port Saint Frey, after all.”

  Yvienne glared at him over the coachman’s well-muscled arm.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Doc lit the small lamp on the dressing table, the low light casting a gentle glow. Abel stood rigidly, his heart hammering, sweat springing out all over him. He could smell it on himself, and he knew Doc would be disgusted at this most elemental of tells.

  He watched as Doc carefully pulled on a pair of leather gloves, the ones with the brass knuckles sewn in. He unrolled a supple leather portfolio and laid out his kit – pincers, pliers, and a small, wicked scalpel. More alarming, there was the small wooden casket, a hand crank on the side. The lid was cracked an inch, and wire leads curled from the dark mouth.

  “Abel, get me the handcuffs from my luggage, will you?”

  Woodenly, Abel went over to the shabby carpetbag and pulled out the handcuffs. He knew what Doc was doing, softening him up, but he also knew that there was nothing stopping Doc. Doc had made him, and he wielded Abel so deftly he could even turn him against himself.

  I can stop him.

  No. It was a stupid thing to think. He couldn’t win against Doc even at his peak, and he was exhausted, battered, weakened. Doc would win, just as he always had, just as if Abel were still the seven year-old boy Doc had taken in and broken and remade.

  He tried not to shake, and could not stop. He tried not to sweat, and only sweated harder.

  “Thanks, son,” Doc said, amiable as he always was, right before he turned fearsome. Abel had seen it before – the anticipation of great acts of violence calmed him. Doc took the cuffs and with a practiced hand slapped them around Abel’s pliant wrist, fastening the other cuff to the bedpost. “Sit. Take a load off. You look terrible.”

  Abel sat.

  Doc shoved the gag in Abel’s mouth. “Shhh,” he said consolingly. “Now this is going to hurt.”

  Yvienne was tied to a chair in the parlor, hands behind her back, the coachman’s hand on her shoulder, further pressing her down. Trune laid her pistol on the end table and observed her.

  “I’ve waited for this for a long time, Miss Mederos,” he said.

  She didn’t bother to reply. Ten minutes, she thought. Ten minutes and Malcroft would burst in. He was in the house already, and had rescued everyone else, and was just waiting to break heads. The Harrier too, she thought. The Harrier was out there, ready to make his move.

  “You thought you had me, didn’t you? You thought that you could put me in my place. Well, see how that worked out. When we’re through here, you will be where you ought to be – in gaol for your activities as the ‘Gentleman Bandit.’” He made quotes in the air. “As for your sister…” his mouth screwed up in a twist of disgust. “That little freak of nature will be put to use, make no mistake.”

  Yvienne surged up and out of the chair, carrying it with her. She was gratified to see Trune start back in alarm. The coachman slammed her roughly back into her seat, but Yvienne kept her eyes on Trune. He recovered his composure, straightening his coat with a sniff.

  “The smartest girl in Port Saint Fre
y,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. He checked his pocketwatch, then looked at her again. “The big brute and his rifle I understand, but you really sent your cook up against me? Or should I say, my cook. I hope you’re happy. That poor dear lady will go to prison for her association with the likes of you.”

  Despite herself her eyes widened, and he laughed. “You are a foolish girl. You’ve played your hand, but I’ve won the match. You’re done, Miss Mederos. You are done. So you may save yourself time, and pain, and tell me where your sister is.”

  So after all their trouble, wherever Tesara was, she was not here. Yvienne felt suddenly, entirely heartened, and at the same time, even more guilty for dragging her staff on a wild goose chase. She said nothing, staring up at him. He made a displeased tsk. “Come, Miss Mederos. It’s over. I’ve won. Here you are; you’re even dressed like the Gentleman Bandit. Renner will be ecstatic when I hand you over to him. By the time I’m done House Mederos will be in ashes and you might, just might, be able to run a sweet shop once you get out of prison.”

  She laughed. “Listen to me carefully, Trune, because I will say this only once. You are filthy, filthy scum. You think you’ve won? Think again, you miserable bas–”

  He slapped her. The ringing blow made her cry out, and she could taste the blood on her lip where his signet ring cut her. She shook her head to clear it.

  Trune was breathing hard, his eyes glaring and his face red and contorted. He clenched his fist and she winced despite herself.

  “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Where is your sister?”

  The mare was blowing hard as she made the last hundred feet up the steep hill of the Crescent, but her step remained springy as Tesara steered her toward the Mederos gate. There was a small crowd outside the gate, and she pulled the mare up before the streetlamps, staying in the shadows. She could see a small fire and people laughing and chatting, their voices rising and falling in comfortable tones.

  She couldn’t just ride up through the crowd to the gate. Well then, she thought. She dismounted, wincing at the pain and stiffness in her seat and legs. The boost of energy was fading, and she could feel the ague and sore throat begin to marshal their forces, the headache rising behind her eyes. She hung onto the stirrup for a moment until her dizziness cleared, and then she clicked to Persife and led the mare back along the alley to the rear of the house, to the garden gate. The small wrought-iron gate was locked, and she felt around for the battered old key under the loose brick where it had always been, and came up clutching it.

  “Hey!”

  She turned. The young man loomed behind her, his voice young and excited. He whooped again, causing Persife to start.

  “Hey! She’s here! Come and see, everyone! She’s here!” He was beside himself with excitement and triumph. “I knew it! I knew you’d try to come home this way! Give me the story, Miss Mederos! What’s the story about you and your sister?”

  She was sick and tired, and ached all over. It had gotten harder to control her powers, taking more strength than she had. Trembling with effort, she faced down the impertinent boy.

  “You want the story?” She could hear the approaching crowd. “Here’s the story.” Tesara put out her hand and pushed.

  There was a crack of lightning in the dark, and the boy flew backward at the explosion of air and electricity. She was unable to restrain the impact, so he fetched up hard on his back in the alley. He stared up at her, his mouth and eyes wide open, insensate to the world.

  Tesara nodded in satisfaction. “Tell that to your newspaper.”

  She unlocked the gate and led Persife through, just as the crowd came bumbling down the alley. As she was locking it up after, Albero came out the kitchen door, a poker in one hand and a lantern in the other. He took her in: in her men’s clothes, the solid, well-bred mare beside her, and the tumult outside the gate.

  “Miss Tesara?” he said.

  She sighed. “I’m home, Albero.”

  He drew her in and hugged her, and she hugged him back. For the first time she had the most satisfying sense that it was all going to be all right. After such a long time and so much peril, she was home.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Her sense of comfort evaporated when Albero and Uncle Samwell attempted to fill her in, interrupting each other, all the while Albero made tea and Samwell offered her brandy. She turned down the tea, and sipped water. It was both painful and refreshing, and she wanted to weep.

  “Wait, wait,” Tesara croaked, putting up a hand. “Tell me slowly.”

  Uncle Samwell took the lead. “They’ve all gone off to rescue you – Mrs Francini and Noe were to distract the household, and Vivi and Malcroft were to go in, pistols blazing, to bring you home.”

  “And they were looking for me where? Why?” And who was Malcroft?

  “The Harrier said you were at a house in Kittredge Mews,” Albero said. “He said that Trune was holed up there, that he had rented it under an assumed name, and used it as a base for kidnapping. That’s where we thought he had you.”

  Of course. From Kittredge Mews, Trune could send out his coachman to abduct her, or he could travel easily across the fog-bound city to Madam Saint Frey, to compel or cajole her into turning over Tesara to him. And from Kittredge Mews in North Town, one could easily watch for a lamp at the window, high above the city.

  “Where have you been, if you don’t mind my asking?” Samwell grumbled, topping off his own glass from the bottle on the rough-hewn kitchen table. “Were you gambling? Fayres sent two of her housemen to ask for Yvienne, but they left when we said she wasn’t here. Is that where you’ve been? I must say, Tesara, that is thoughtless, even for you.”

  It would take too long to explain, so she just shook her head, and set down her cup.

  “I have the use of a horse, so I’ll be going. If Vivi has gone up against Trune, even with this Malcroft – who is that, anyway?”

  “He’s one of Cramdean’s but he’s working for your sister now,” Uncle Samwell said. “Good man in a fight, though one of a larcenous nature.”

  Her sister had fallen in with the dock gangs. It made as much sense as anything, Tesara supposed. “All right,” she said. “We’ve wasted enough time talking.”

  “You’re sick,” Albero protested. “You can barely stand.” That was true, and she stayed stubbornly put at the table, knowing that if she attempted to get to her feet she’d tip over. Tesara tried to brazen it out.

  “I won’t need to stand – I’ll be riding.”

  It was a ridiculous argument, and he didn’t bother to counter it. Instead, they were distracted from their disagreement by shouting at the kitchen door and the alarmed whinnies of Persife, tied to the garden gate.

  Albero jumped up, hefting the poker, and went to the kitchen door. There was a flurry of shouting, and what looked like a skirmish, and then Noe burst through into the kitchen, stumbling over the threshold and landing on the flagstone floor.

  “Albero!” she cried. “Something terrible has happened! They’ve captured Mrs Francini!”

  Albero helped her to her feet and sat her at the table across from Tesara, while Uncle Samwell pushed the door closed and locked it, shouting back at the mob. The girl was sobbing, muddy, soaked through, and frightened. Tesara reached out and held her hand, trying to chafe warmth back into it, and the girl pressed her hand in return. Uncle Samwell fetched another cup from the cupboard and poured a healthy serving of brandy into it. Noe sipped and coughed, and color returned to her cheeks, though her eyes remained shadowed.

  “What happened?” Tesara managed.

  Noe told the tale in a straightforward way, sipping the brandy whenever her emotion overcame her, which was quite often. Samwell refilled her cup twice. She and Mrs Francini had approached the house as planned. They both went to the back door, with the simple idea of Noe hanging back in the shadows as Mrs Francini went up and knocked, to offer her services as a cook and informant. She wo
uld be interviewed by the butler, the plan was, while Noe slipped in undetected. “To find you, Miss Tesara,” she had said, and there was only a mild rebuke in her voice.

  Instead, the butler answered the door, called Mrs Francini by name with a great many accusations in his voice, and before Noe could creep out of the shadows, another burly fellow came to the butler’s aid, and they grabbed Mrs Francini and pulled her inside, even as the poor woman shrieked “cheesy biscuits! cheesy biscuits!” at the top of her lungs.

  Noe burst out of hiding with the intent of rescuing the cook, but the butler shone a lantern toward her, and shouted to the big man that, “there’s another one!”

  “And as he had a pistol, miss, I took myself home, as fast as I could.”

  “You didn’t see Miss Yvienne or Malcroft?” Albero asked. Noe shook her head, her slender, workworn fingers wrapped around the cup. Uncle Samwell poured another finger of brandy and patted her clumsily on the shoulder. Tesara got to her feet, holding onto the chair back until the faintness subsided and the black dots that formed over her vision dissipated. “Right. I’m off.”

  “No,” Albero barked. He straightened his shoulders, looking quite un-butlerlike, with a stubbled chin and wild hair. When was the last time he shaved? Tesara thought. Albero turned to the housemaid. “Noe, you’ve done enough, but you need to do more. Go and roust Dr Reynbolten and have her alert the constables and tell her Guildmaster Trune has returned and has Miss Vivi. Have her go straight to Kittredge Mews.”

  Noe looked determined. “That I can.”

  “Do it. And once you reach Dr Reynbolten, have her send Dr Melliton here to tend to Miss Tesara.” He turned to Tesara. “You’re going straight up to bed.”

  “I’m not staying in bed while you rescue my sister,” Tesara said, even though she wanted nothing more than to stay in bed while they rescued her sister. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it could be seen beneath her shirt, waistcoat, and jacket. Albero shook his head.