He staggered into the stables, his hand pressed over his wound, trying in vain to stanch the bleeding. He approached one of the carriage horses. The animal reared back his head at the smell of blood, but he knew Mr. Sloan from this morning and calmed down at the sound of his voice.
Carriage horses were accustomed to having postilions ride them, although not bareback. Mr. Sloan prayed that the horse would not fling him off or bolt, for that would be the end of him. Groaning, he pulled himself up onto the broad back. The horse turned its head to eye him curiously, but permitted him to mount.
Mr. Sloan managed to fling his leg over the horse and sit more or less upright. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flank and the animal trotted out of the stable. The fastest route to Sir Henry’s home would be to take Meek Street to Market. Mr. Sloan guided the horse to the front of the building.
The two Guundaran mercenaries came dashing out the door, armed with rifles, with Smythe behind them, his face a mask of blood. He pointed at Mr. Sloan. The Guundarans raised their rifles and fired. Mr. Sloan flung his arms around the horse’s neck and ducked down as best he could.
Warhorses are trained to endure fire. Carriage horses are not. One of the shots clipped the horse’s ear, the other struck him in the rump. The bullets did little damage but the pain and the cracks of the rifles terrified the animal.
The horse bolted, breaking into a gallop and rushing headlong down the street. Mr. Sloan had no harness, no way to try to restrain the maddened animal. He could only hang on as best he could, which meant pressing his chest against the horse’s neck. The pain was excruciating and he had to fight to remain conscious.
The Guundarans fired again, but by now the horse’s frantic pace had carried him out of rifle range, though there was some question as to whether Mr. Sloan should count himself fortunate.
He was going into shock from pain and loss of blood and finding breathing increasingly difficult. The horse’s hooves clattered on cobblestone. Mr. Sloan had a dim impression of nearly being run down by a dustman’s cart and of men running into the street, shouting and waving their hands in an effort to stop the crazed beast.
The next thing Mr. Sloan knew, he was lying on his back on the pavement looking into a crowd of faces gathered around him, peering down at him and loudly discussing him. Several pronounced him dead and a group of boys jostled with each other to view the corpse. Someone noted that he was wearing a uniform, which meant he was a soldier. Another man stated that he had been in the war and knew a gunshot wound when he saw one.
Mr. Sloan stirred and attempted to sit up, and cries rose that he was alive, at which someone thought to summon a constable.
The constable arrived and took charge. He ordered men to take a door off its hinges to use as a litter and they jumped to the task. The boys squatted down to peer at Mr. Sloan, probably hoping he would die again. The makeshift litter arrived. Several men picked up Mr. Sloan and placed him on it.
“There, my man, just lie still. We’ll take good care of you.”
“Henry…” Mr. Sloan whispered.
“We’re going to take you to the Sisters of Mercy Hospital, sir, just lie still.”
The men lifted the litter. Mr. Sloan had to try one final time to make them understand. He managed to gasp out the name.
“Henry!”
“Just you rest now, Henry,” said the constable, giving him a pat. “We’ll soon have you set to rights.”
Mr. Sloan closed his eyes and gave up.
FIFTY-TWO
Phillip waited for Thomas in the park for several days after their first meeting, but to no avail. Thomas did not come, nor did he try to contact his friend. Given what he had heard of Sir Richard, Phillip guessed that Thomas had been locked in the nursery and forbidden to go out.
“Undoubtedly for the best,” Phillip reflected.
He had been uneasy of late. He had the feeling he was being watched. He had no real basis for the fear. He had not seen anyone following him or loitering outside the inn or taking too great an interest in his movements. The feeling persisted, however, and he did not discount it. He had learned through the years to trust his instincts.
He was reasonably certain Sir Henry had not discovered him, mainly because he was still alive. Henry was not one to shilly-shally around. He would simply order one of his agents to “shoot the bastard” and that would be that.
But Haever was a city crawling with spies. Every foreign government had spies who lived in the shadows as well as diplomats, ambassadors, and envoys who were also spies, but walked about in the open.
Phillip was acquainted with most of them, for they all knew each other, because they all needed one another. They fed each other false information, used each other, spied on each other, and each pretended not to know the other. Everyone knew the rules of the game, and so long as no one crossed anyone, few ever came to real harm.
But they would all have heard that Phillip had given his support to Thomas and several might be concerned enough to keep him under surveillance.
Phillip considered leaving Haever, but he was reluctant to depart without knowing what was to become of Thomas. He did not know if the queen had returned to the palace. He thought about sending Thomas a note warning him not to come to the park, it was too dangerous. He knew Thomas, however, and knew his friend would not rest until he had questioned Phillip to find out what was going on, which would rather defeat the purpose.
Phillip decided his best course of action was to keep to his routine, which consisted of leaving his inn every morning, buying a paper, reading it in the park, and returning to his inn. If anyone was following him, they must be heartily bored by now.
He came to the park today, as usual, and waited for Thomas, who did not appear. Phillip was folding up his paper and preparing to go back to his cheerless inn when a boy ran up to him.
“Message for you, guv’nah,” said the urchin, touching his hat.
He held out a piece of paper in a grubby hand.
“For me?” Phillip asked, startled. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, guv,” said the boy.
“Who gave it to you?” Phillip asked.
“The bloke up yonder.” The boy pointed.
Phillip looked to see Rodrigo, resplendent in sky blue, strolling along the path, talking to a woman who was hanging on his arm and regarding him with adoring eyes. Rodrigo glanced his way, put his hand to his hat, then continued on.
“Thank you, lad,” said Phillip. “I’ll take that now.”
The boy held the note out of reach. “The bloke said you’d give me a talon.”
“He did not. In fact, the ‘bloke’ already paid you, didn’t he?” said Phillip.
The boy grinned and shrugged. “No harm in trying, guv.” He handed over the note and dashed off.
Puzzled as to why Rodrigo would be sending him a note, Phillip quickly opened it.
I have vital information. Meet me at my dwelling. The address is 1100 Clattermore Street. Tonight, the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month, seven of the clock.
The note was signed Rodrigo.
Phillip frowned. He should decline the appointment, of course. He could be putting both himself and Rodrigo at risk. Phillip searched for him, planning to signal to him he could not attend. Rodrigo and his companion had walked on, however. They were still within sight, but Phillip did not want to draw attention to himself or to them by dashing after them.
He returned to his inn, wondering what to do. He was going to send Rodrigo a note, saying he couldn’t come, but he was troubled by Rodrigo’s message. What was his information? Did it have something to do with Thomas?
He recalled something Rodrigo had told him when they had first met in the palace in Everux.
“I delight in the follies and foibles of mankind,” Rodrigo had said. “I make it my business to seek out every rumor, savor every bit of gossip, revel in every hint of scandal. I hear every whisper, I see every furtive glance. I know the meaning behind every coy smil
e.”
“If there is even a chance he has heard something in regard to Thomas, I have to visit him,” Phillip said to himself. “I have to find out.”
He had brought no evening attire, but he trusted Rodrigo would understand. He spent the afternoon watching out the window, trying to see if someone was keeping an eye on him. He had chosen this inn because it was on a busy street and he could blend in among the crowd. The problem was that the inn was on a busy street and his tail could blend in with the crowd.
Phillip saw no one behaving in a suspicious manner, yet the feeling of unease did not abate. He prepared for his meeting, taking the usual precautions. He wore unremarkable clothing, such as might be worn by any gentleman-about-town: fawn-colored breeches, tall black boots, weskit, and knee-length suit coat. He pulled a tricorn low over his face, wrapped himself in a cloak, tucked a pistol inside his jacket, and left the inn by the back door.
He hailed a cab and gave the driver an address several blocks from Clattermore Street. Alighting from the cab, he walked the rest of the way. Night came early in the city as the sun sank behind the tall buildings, and the lamplighter was making his rounds. The streets were quiet; few people were walking abroad after dark in Haever in these troubled times. If someone was following him, Phillip would certainly have seen him.
He watched Rodrigo’s house, saw no one about. He waited until a carriage drove past, then crossed the street, ran up the steps, and rang the bell.
Rodrigo himself answered the door. He was dressed all in black. His coat was black and trimmed in black. He wore black stockings and a black cravat. His hair was tied back with a black ribbon.
Phillip could only suppose some close relation must had died and offered his condolences.
“Ah, dear boy,” said Rodrigo with a heavy sigh. “You have no idea.”
He ushered Phillip inside with the air of an undertaker leading the family to view the body.
“I gave the staff the night off,” said Rodrigo in sepulchral tones. “Allow me to take your cloak.”
He took Phillip’s cloak and hat and then looked about vaguely, uncertain what to do with them.
“The servants always deal with cloaks and hats and whatnot,” said Rodrigo. “I am positive there is a cloakroom but I’m damned if I know where.”
Phillip could offer no help, and in the end, Rodrigo draped his cloak over the top of a large, freestanding clock in the hallway and rested the hat atop a marble bust of a gentleman in a full-bottomed wig.
“I have grown quite fond of the portly chap,” Rodrigo said, admiring the effect of the hat on the bust.
“Who is he, my lord?” Phillip asked.
“No idea,” said Rodrigo. “I am renting this house during my time in Freya and the portly chap came with it. The owner was going to have him carted off, but I could not bear to part with him. I mean—look at that wig! I am having one made for myself. This way, please, Your Grace.”
“My lord, if you could tell me—”
“Hush, not here,” Rodrigo warned.
He picked up a lamp and showed Phillip into a darkened parlor. Phillip thought perhaps they would hold their clandestine meeting here, but Rodrigo passed through the parlor into a darkened sitting room. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, talking of the Freyan weather, which he considered perfectly foul, and lamenting the rented furniture, which he also considered foul.
“I invested heavily in antimacassars,” he confided. “That way, I can’t see what’s underneath.”
Rodrigo crossed the sitting room and was about to open yet another door. Phillip stopped him.
“My lord, you said you had urgent information for me. I took a great risk coming here. What do you have to tell me?”
“Have you dined, Your Grace?” Rodrigo asked imperturbably. “I asked the servants to prepare a light supper.”
Phillip was losing patience. “Thank you, my lord, but I must insist—”
Rodrigo threw open the door to the dining room ablaze with candlelight.
Sophia stood smiling at him.
“Please forgive me for the subterfuge, Your Grace,” she said, flushing. She was holding Bandit and had her hand clamped over his muzzle to prevent him from barking. “I wanted a chance to talk to you in private and Rigo told me he would arrange a meeting. Ouch! You naughty Bandit!”
The spaniel had been trying to free himself from his mistress’s grasp to greet Phillip. Failing at his previous attempts, the dog resorted to nipping at her fingers. Sophia dropped him to the floor and Bandit ran to Phillip and began to paw at his boots, begging for treats.
Phillip could only gaze at Sophia. He was accustomed to seeing her wearing her court finery: silk and ribbons, tulle and lace, hoops and petticoats. Tonight she was dressed in a plain woolen skirt and white blouse decorated with tiny pearl buttons. Her hair was done simply, gathered in curls that framed her face. She had never looked more beautiful.
“I do not mind a secret that ends in a delightful surprise,” he said.
He stooped to pet Bandit, then walked forward to kiss her outstretched hand. Her fingers were cold and her hand trembled. She regarded him with sorrow mingled with regret.
“Phillip, I have been thinking. I am engaged to Thomas. It is not fair to him … And it certainly is not fair to you…” Sophia drew in a deep breath, gathering her courage. “I believe we should end—”
“This discussion until after we have dined,” Rodrigo interjected. “Where are your manners, Sophia? The poor man has traveled all this way. You might at least offer him a glass of wine and a cold chicken wing before you break his heart. Especially since I went to all the trouble of ordering the servants to prepare this meal.”
“Oh, dear! I am so sorry!” Sophia said. “Of course, you must be famished. Bandit, leave His Grace alone! He does not have a treat for you. Please, do sit down.”
She picked up Bandit and led the way to the table. Phillip wasn’t the least hungry, but he was grateful for the reprieve, if only for a short time. The table was small with seating for six. Rodrigo took his place at the head.
“We will be cozy, like a family,” he said, with an emphasis on the word that made Sophia blush. “Your Grace will sit at my left, Sophia to my right.” He fixed Bandit with a cold stare. “The dog on the floor.”
Light gleamed on the elegant silver and delicate porcelain plates. Rodrigo was a charming host. Neither Phillip nor Sophia knew what to say and he kept the conversation flowing.
Phillip was not relegated to dining on a cold chicken wing. The dinner consisted of filet of beef and sauté of veal, shrimp and mussels, and plover’s eggs. Rodrigo poured the wine and was in the midst of telling a scandalous tale when Bandit suddenly jumped to his feet with a growl. He glared at the door that led to the sitting room, continuing to growl. His hackles rose, his ears flattened.
“He interrupted my best story,” Rodrigo said.
“I am so sorry, Rigo,” said Sophia. “Bandit, what is the matter? Stop growling! There is no one there—”
“Yes there is,” said Phillip softly, reaching for his pistol. “I hear voices…”
Bandit fled, diving under the table. A man threw open the door and entered the room, closely followed by two companions. They wore dark coats, tricorns with black silk masks. The first man aimed his pistol at Phillip. The other aimed his weapon at Rodrigo and the third trained his pistol on Sophia.
“Drop your weapon, Your Grace,” said the first. “Come with us quietly and your friends will not be harmed.”
Phillip could tell at a glance that these men were professional assassins. They knew their business and were going about it calmly. He rose with alacrity, his only thought to lead them away from Sophia. He raised one hand in the air and dropped his pistol to the floor.
“I will come with you,” he said.
“No, you will not!” Sophia cried. She rose imperiously to her feet. She was pale, but she was angry. Two crimson spots burned in her cheeks. “His Grace is not going anyw
here with you!”
“That’s true, he isn’t,” said Rodrigo. “You rudely interrupted our meal. We haven’t had dessert.”
He exchanged glances with Sophia. She gave a little nod. Rodrigo began idly playing with the silver salt cellar.
The three men cocked their pistols. The first man gestured. “Make haste, Your Grace.”
“I am coming with you,” said Phillip, casting an agonized glance at Sophia.
He started to walk toward the men. Before he could reach them, Rodrigo flung the contents of the salt cellar at the assassins and spoke a single word. Each grain of salt burst into dazzling blue light.
As the men squinted, trying to see, Sophia lifted her hands. One hand burned with blazing green fire. The other hand flamed blue. She waved her hands and sent the magical fire roiling across the room. The threads of flame, blue and green, mingled and engulfed the three men.
Their pistols began to glow green.
“You should drop those weapons,” Rodrigo advised in grave tones. “The green glow is contramagic. When the green mixes with the blue of the magic on your weapons, they will explode and blow off your hands. You have mere seconds.”
The men hesitated. The green glow intensified and, cursing, they flung their weapons to the floor.
“And now, I give you permission to leave with your lives,” said Rodrigo magnanimously.
The first grunted, thrust his hand in his coat and drew a knife.
Sophia spoke a word and clapped her hands.
Sparks of blue flame snapped and crackled around the three like fireworks, burning their faces, their hands, their clothes. One tore at his smoldering silk mask, ripping it off his face in panic. Another slapped at the sparks on his cheek and the third was frantically wringing burned hands.
“The witch is going to roast us alive!” one cried and dashed off, crashing through the door. A second followed. The leader remained, angrily slapping at the flames as though he was in a swarm of biting mosquitoes. He cast a grim glance at Phillip, then left. They heard the front door slam.
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