83

The blizzard had worsened. In the falling snow parameter. You couldn’t see twenty feet. It was warmer and less windy. The snow came down in big, sloppy, slow flakes. The walk to Mr. Jan’s place was less miserable than I’d anticipated, though my calf muscles did ache from having to slog through snow in places already a foot deep. I gave a lot of mind time to a hope that it would melt before my turn at the shovels came again.

I thought it might. This blizzard had the feel of Winter’s last forlorn effort.

I didn’t proceed with battlefield caution. It was a storm. Bad people would be scarce. The reason most of them are bad is, they can’t stand the stress and structure of honest work. Or they’re too stupid.

Stupid were the kind who would be out looking for victims in this.

Still, my pace slackened ever more as I neared the tailor shop.

Something was off.

That old thing about it being quiet. Too quiet.

Even for the middle of a snowstorm, where it’s always quiet.

The quiet was the wrong sort.

I saw nothing. But there was something. I felt it.

I sniffed. And sniffed. And sniffed some more.

There was nothing in this air but heavy, resinous smoke. Every working stove and fireplace was trying to hold off the cold, mostly by burning cheap dangerous softwoods.

Maybe I was overly sensitive.

I crept up to Mr. Jan’s door without having anything creep up on me. Wondering if this was one of those deals where the genius bad guy tells you all your questions will be answered if you show up at some remote place, all alone, and don’t tell anybody.

That must have worked at some point, once upon a time. Else why would villains keep trying the blatantly stupid and transparent?

Inside. The bell jangling. Still nothing suspicious. But I had my weighted oaken headknocker deployed. My left hand, in my coat pocket, had fitted itself to brass knuckles cast in our own manufactory from a design suggested by Kip Prose. Just twelve had been produced before I enjoyed one of my few successes as self-appointed company conscience.

There really is no legitimate use for brass knucks.

Mr. Jan popped through the curtains closing off the back of his shop. He carried Jokes Leastor’s special coat. ‘‘Ah. You’re here. I didn’t expect you for a while yet.’’

‘‘My associates are fast. And have been known to be lethal.’’

That went over his head. Musingly, he observed, ‘‘They would be, wouldn’t they? Come on back here.’’

I leapt and caught him. Not only my associates are fast. He yelped, startled. ‘‘Tell me, Mr. Jan. Where did you get that coat? It’s only been a few hours since I traded it for what I’m wearing now.’’

The little man gasped, ‘‘Back there. In back.’’

He wanted me to go to the back. Into shadowy tight places where his fabrics were stored. Where villains by the dozen might be lurking.

‘‘I’ll be right behind you.’’ I poked him with the end of my stick. Thoroughly put out, he pushed through the curtains. I stayed close enough to grab and use him as a shield.

The back of the shop was a surprise. It was spacious and lighted. Mr. Jan’s fabric bolts hung on wall brackets where the cloth could be unrolled as needed. The floor was given over to cutting tables and manikins of varying size, most wearing apparel in some stage of construction.

‘‘Ah. Sergeant Garrett. You have me at a disadvantage for the moment. I hadn’t entertained the ghost of a hope that you would arrive so soon.’’

The other thing gracing Mr. Jan’s back room was His Royal Highness, Prince Rupert, Lord of This, Count of That, Duke of Something or Other Else. Hell. There I went. So up on my Royals that I didn’t know which titles Rupert preferred. A failing unlikely to garner positive reviews from His Grace. Though not that unusual down on the street, where who is what doesn’t make a lick of difference, day to day.

I tried to recall the rituals you’re expected to pursue when entering the presence of someone so exalted. ‘‘I apologize, Your Grace. I’ve never been taught the appropriate obsequies.’’

‘‘Never mind. There’s no one here to see.’’

There was Mr. Jan. But he had recovered his aplomb and was back at work on a larger, gaudier, new and improved version of the coat he had built for Jokes Leastor.

I had a sinking feeling.

Clown coats would be all the rage by the time winter rolled around again. Had to be if it was what the most popular Royal was wearing.

Mr. Jan hummed softly as he cut and pinned.

He could see that future.

He’d be a made man this time next year. He’d have squadrons of employees. After all those years in the trenches he’d be an overnight success.

The reason the prince felt at a disadvantage was, he was in his underwear. The tailor was using his exquisitely made outerwear to get the refined measurements needed to make sure the new coat was a perfect fit.

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