Shadow Raiders

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE COMPASS LED RODRIGO AND STEPHANO down Canal Street. They turned left onto the Street of Saints, where the compass led them straight to an exclusive bordello known as the Dovecote. The trail ended on the walkway outside the bordello’s ornately carved and gold-leaf-trimmed door as they discovered when they walked past the house and continued down the street about a block. The compass did not react.

“He must have taken a cab,” Rodrigo said, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“I don’t think so,” said Stephano. Turning around, he studied their location. “Cabs don’t frequent this street, at least not this early. He came here for a reason.”

“To the Dovecote? You can’t be serious,” Rodrigo said, carefully tucking the compass in an inner coat pocket. “He’s been ambushed by demons, involved in dark magic and the murder of a young girl. A priest from the Arcanum knows he’s in Westfirth, and Wallace decides to go play slap and tickle?”

“If he’s a member, he would ask the doorman if he-”

“-could make use of their carriage,” Rodrigo finished, catching up with his friend’s thinking. “That makes sense. I wonder if Dag’s friend is still the owner?”

“We have the priest’s blessing,” said Stephano. “Let’s see if it’s worth anything. Do I look presentable?”

“No,” said Rodrigo, twitching Stephano’s long coat in place to hide the fact that his trousers were grimy and blood-stained and shaking his head over the sorry state of his friend’s shirt. “But, then, you never did, so no one should be surprised.”

The two retraced their steps back to the bordello and walked down the paved path that ran from the street to the entrance. The grounds were pleasant. They walked beneath the overarching limbs of graceful poplar trees and through a rose garden. The house was quiet at this time of evening with only a few lights in the windows. The women would be dressing, putting on their jewels and powder and perfume, preparing for the night’s work. In the back rooms, the owner would be preparing the tables for baccarat, dice, and other games of chance. The doorman stood in a well-lighted portico adorned with tubs of geraniums and lilies. He had been keeping an eye on the two gentlemen and, as they ascended the stairs, he advanced to meet them. He was a shortish man, almost as wide as he was tall with broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and no neck. He touched his hand to the brim of his hat.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said polite, but firm. “I fear you have made a mistake. This is a private club, for members only-”

“Thomaso,” said Rodrigo warmly. “Don’t tell me you have forgotten old friends?”

“Monsieur de Villeneuve!” the man exclaimed, looking at them more closely. “And Captain de Guichen! God bless my soul, but it is good to see you both. And to think I tried to send you away!”

He shook his head ruefully, then gestured toward the door. “Come in, sirs, come in. Maudie will be so pleased. We were talking of you only the other day. We can never forget, Captain,” he added, his voice growing husky, “what you and your Cadre of the Lost did for us. We would have been the ones who were lost!”

“I take it no one else has tried to run you out of business,” Stephano said, wincing slightly as Thomaso engulfed his hand in a grip that was a bit too heartfelt.

“No, sir, no. Thanks to you and your friends. How is Dag? He didn’t come with you?”

“He’s a trifle indisposed,” Rodrigo said. “Nothing serious.”

“Ah, I see.” Thomaso grinned and looked wise. “Send him round when he recovers. Now, do come in, sirs.”

“Sorry, Thomaso,” said Stephano. “Maybe another time. We’re looking for a friend of ours. We’re afraid he may be in trouble. He would have stopped by here in the last hour, perhaps asked for a ride-”

“You must mean Sir Robert Beauchamp,” said Thomaso. “Your fears are right, Captain. Sir Robert said he’d been attacked by thieves.”

Stephano and Rodrigo looked at each other.

“The assassins found him,” said Rodrigo in grim tones. “Maybe we’re too late!”

“I fear we are,” said Stephano. “Was Sir Robert badly hurt?”

“Just a gash on his hand,” said Thomaso. “He didn’t stay long. He asked if we could give him a ride to his lodgings. Sir Robert’s a member of long-standing. Of course, I was happy to accommodate him.”

“Just to be sure this is our Sir Robert, could you describe him?” Stephano asked.

“A tall gentleman, well-spoken,” said Thomaso. “Freyan exile. Came here after the war. That’s about all I can tell you, Captain. I’ve never seen the man’s face. Like many of our members, he always wears a mask.”

“Well, it seems he’s safe for the moment,” said Rodrigo.

“Yes, but for how much longer,” Stephano argued. “The hounds are on his trail-”

“If only we knew where he’s gone,” Rodrigo said helplessly. “We could warn him.”

Thomaso looked from one to the other. “Generally such information is kept in strict confidence, but seeing that it is you, Captain, Sir Robert asked the driver to take him to the Blue Parrot.”

“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 the 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 cafe. 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 sleep. 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.

The count and his lady reached the bottom of the stairs and were crossing the lobby. The count stopped to assist the lady with her cloak, then walked over to exchange greetings with the landlord. The lady stood a short distance from him in front of the parrot’s cage. She looked exceedingly pale and nervous. The hand holding the fan trembled.

The parrot had been asleep with his head beneath his wing. A sudden noise-perhaps the landlord’s loud laughter at something said by the count-woke the bird. He let out a loud and raucous squawk. At the unexpected sound, the lady gasped and dropped her fan.

Like an arrow shot from love’s bow, Rodrigo leaped from his chair and ran to the lady’s side. He picked up the fan and, sinking to one knee, held it out to her.

“I give you your fan, my lady,” he said and added in a low voice, meant for her ears alone, “And with that fan my heart, if you will take it.”

The lady stared at Rodrigo with wide, frightened eyes. She was trembling all over now, probably terrified of her lover. But the count was either not the jealous type or he did not consider Rodrigo a threat. He glanced with some irritation at his lady and said sharply, “The gentleman has picked up your fan, Imogene. Thank him, my dear, and allow him to get up off his knees.”

The lady stammered something incoherent. She took the fan from Rodrigo with a hand that was shaking so much that she nearly dropped it again. Rodrigo rose to his feet, made a gallant bow to her. He bowed to the count, who bowed back.

The count took hold of the lady’s arm and guided her firmly toward the door and their coach that was waiting outside. Stephano went to join Rodrigo, who was standing by the parrot, gazing after the woman with love and longing.

“She comes into my life for a brief moment and is gone,” said Rodrigo.

“Funny how that always seems to happen,” Stephano remarked. “I’m off to bed.”

He had his foot on the marble stair. Rodrigo remained in the lobby, yearning after his lost love, who was standing on the sidewalk. The coach driver was opening the door, when the count gave a loud shout, “Assassins! Help!”

Men armed with clubs were attacking the count. He had drawn his sword and was fending them off, all the while trying to drag his terrified lady toward the coach. One of the thugs grabbed hold of the woman and tore her away from the count. She cried out in terror and dropped, senseless, to the ground. The other thugs redoubled their attack on the count. He clouted one with his fist and thrust his sword at another.

The doorman rushed out in the street, shouting for the constable. The landlord stood in the lobby wringing his hands. The parrot screeched. The page boys went running to the windows to see the fight. The maids screamed in horrified delight, and Rodrigo went bounding out the door to save the lady.

“Rodrigo!” Stephano cried. “Are you mad? Oh, for the love of-He’ll get himself killed!”

Drawing his sword, Stephano ran after his friend.

The count’s blade flashed in the lamplight. He jabbed and stabbed with expert skill, but he was hampered by his efforts to protect the lady, who was lying on the pavement. The coachman was on the box, yelling for the count to get in. The horses were stamping, their eyes rolling.

One of the thugs made a dart at the lady and grabbed one arm, apparently with the intention of dragging her away. Rodrigo seized the lady by her other arm and a tug of war ensued, both of them pulling at the poor woman, yanking her back and forth.

“Let her go, you bounder!” Rodrigo cried angrily.

In answer, the thug aimed a blow with his club at Rodrigo’s head. Stephano’s blade sliced through the meaty part of the man’s hand. He dropped the club with a cry, but continued to stubbornly hang onto the lady.

Stephano held his sword poised over the man’s arm. “Let go of her or end up minus a hand!”

The thug apparently decided Stephano meant what he said, for he let go of the woman and ran away. Stephano turned to see the count still fending off two attackers.

“Carry the lady to the coach, Rigo,” Stephano shouted. “I’ll help the count.”

Rodrigo endeavored to lift the unconscious woman, only to find the delicate beauty much heavier than he had anticipated. He staggered and nearly dropped her. “You are a sturdy little thing, aren’t you my love?” he said, gasping.

Unable to lift her, Rodrigo was forced to half-carry, half-drag the lady to the carriage. He shoved her hurriedly inside and turned to await developments.

“Go to your lady, my lord!” cried Stephano, coming to the aide of the beleaguered count. “I will hold them off.”

The count thanked Stephano in a few brief words, then jumped into the coach and slammed shut the door. Stephano shouted at the driver, who cracked his whip. The coach lurched forward and rushed off with such speed that the wheel narrowly missed crushing Rodrigo’s foot.

The instant the coach departed, so did the thugs, vanishing into the darkness, taking their wounded away with them. The piercing screech of whistles announced the coming of the constabulary. Rodrigo was standing in the gutter, gazing woefully after his lost love. Stephano seized hold of him and dragged him off down the street.

“But I haven’t finished my brandy-” Rodrigo protested.

“If we stay to be questioned by the police, you’ll be drinking your brandy in a jail cell,” said Stephano.

“Ah, good point,” said Rodrigo.

“Walk. Running looks suspicious.”

The two sauntered down the street, pausing as any curious bystander would pause to watch the constables race by. An officer skidded to a stop in front of them.

“Did you see where the thugs went, gentlemen?”

“That way, down the alley,” Stephano said, pointing. The constable touched his hat and ran off.

Stephano and Rodrigo continued along the street and were about to cross to the other side, when a small carriage came dashing straight at them, almost running them down. The carriage careened around the corner and was gone.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” remarked Rodrigo.

He and Stephano walked on, dispirited and downcast.

“This entire venture has been an unmitigated disaster,” said Stephano.

“At least we managed to save a damsel from assassins,” said Rodrigo. “That brute actually tried to drag her off!”

“Assassins would have just shot the count. Those men were trying to abduct him and the lady, as well,” said Stephano.

“I saw him say something to you. What was it?”

“Something about being in my debt. He gave a kind of chuckle and hoped someday I would realize what I’d done.”

“That’s a rather odd thing to say to someone who has just saved your life.”

“I might not have heard him right. It doesn’t matter,” said Stephano, shrugging.

“I guess not,” said Rodrigo. “Though it pained me deeply to see him drive off with the woman of my dreams. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what it was all about.”

“And I don’t suppose we’ll ever find Sir Henry Wallace,” said Stephano.

“Look at it this way, our luck can’t get any worse,” said Rodrigo.

“Don’t say that,” warned Stephano. “You’ll jinx us.”

Dubois had watched in disbelief as Captain de Guichen rushed in, sword drawn, to save Sir Henry Wallace from being captured by Dubois’ agents. Poor Dubois almost lost his faith that night. He was sorely tempted to ask God whose side He was on.

Dubois regained control of himself, however. He did not stay to wait for the constables to find him. He had two carriages stationed around the corner. He ran to one of them. Red Dog peered down at him from the driver’s seat.

“Follow that coach!” Dubois ordered, pointing. “Sir Henry’s inside. He’s probably bound for the docks. Find out what ship he’s sailing on and report back to me.”

Red Dog nodded, and within moments the carriage was whirling down the street in pursuit. Dubois climbed into the other carriage.

“The Archbishop’s residence,” Dubois told the driver. “And don’t spare the horses!”

Inside his coach, Sir Henry Wallace roused Alcazar from his fainting fit with a couple of smacks across the face.

Alcazar sat up and looked around. “Are we safe?”

“Yes, my love, thanks to your alluring charms,” said Sir Henry Wallace, laughing.

He was in an excellent mood. He thought back to Captain de Guichen coming gallantly to the “count’s” aid, helping him escape. Sir Henry leaned back in the seat and roared with mirth. Alcazar came near fainting again at the dreadful sound, but Sir Henry reassured him.

“Be merry, my friend. We are now on our way to your brother’s ship.”

Alcazar realized with a start they weren’t alone in the coach. Two people shrouded in black cloaks were seated opposite him. He shrank back into the cushions.

“Who are they?”

“The woman’s name is Brianna. She is a friend of mine. Brianna say hello.”

“Hello,” said the woman.

“The man is known as the ‘Duke.’ ” He is, of course, not a duke at all, but he looks well in evening attire.”

“Why are they here?” Alcazar asked, quivering.

He noticed, as they passed under a streetlamp, that the man and woman were dressed in the same clothes he and Sir Henry were wearing.

“Because I never leave anything to chance,” said Sir Henry. “And don’t start whining, or I’ll smack you again.”

He glanced out the rear window. He did not see anyone following them, but that didn’t mean much. Dubois’ agents were good at their jobs. Almost as good as his.

Henry sat back in the seat. He put his fingertips together, tapping them, thinking. When he arrived in Freya, he would hand over Alcazar to Mr. Sloan with orders to take the journeyman straight to the armory. Henry would travel to court, report the joyful news to his queen, and receive her praise and thanks. He would then go to his wife. She would be devastated over the loss of the manor house, but he would be able to assure her he would build her a new one, far grander than any other manor house in Freya.

He was thinking these pleasant thoughts; the rocking motion of the coach sending him into a half-doze, when he was awakened by a cannon’s boom.

Sir Henry sat straight up. He listened to the echoes of that single cannon shot dying away in the night and swore.

“What is wrong now?” Alcazar asked fearfully. “Is it war?”

Sir Henry Wallace sank back in the seat of the coach that was now taking him rapidly nowhere.

“The port of Westfirth has just been closed,” Sir Henry explained in dire tones. “From this moment, no ships can sail in. No ships can sail out.”

“Then we’re trapped!” Alcazar cried.

“So it would seem,” said Sir Henry.