Shadow Raiders

Chapter Thirty-Six

DUBOIS’ CAB SPED FROM THE FRACAS AT THE Blue Parrot straight to the Old Fort, the residence of the archbishop. In his morning meeting, Dubois had told the archbishop as much as he deemed the man should know about Sir Henry Wallace and the threat he posed. He had warned the archbishop that if Wallace eluded capture, the port would have to be closed. The archbishop had scoffed at such an idea.

“Nonsense,” said the archbishop. “His Holiness can’t be serious!”

The archbishop had heard rumors about Dubois, knew him to be the grand bishop’s trusted and confidential agent, but had never met him. The archbishop was at first unimpressed by the common, shabby little man. Dubois was used to creating such a deplorable first impression. Indeed, he fostered such impressions. He liked being underestimated, forgotten. He found it easier to slip up on his victim unawares.

Having been confident he would capture Sir Henry, Dubois had said nothing more at the time. Now the man had once more escaped him. Dubois found the archbishop hosting a private musical evening for several wealthy gentlemen of the city, hoping to be able to persuade them to donate to the building of the cathedral. The archbishop was not pleased at being summoned away from the concert to meet with Dubois, who was waiting in the shadows of a balcony outside the salon.

“Well, what is it?” the archbishop demanded. He could hear, in the distance, the soprano singing one of his favorite arias.

Dubois explained briefly that Wallace had managed to escape.

“You must act now, Your Reverence,” Dubois concluded. “Close the port before this extremely dangerous man can flee to Freya.”

“Out of the question,” said the archbishop brusquely. “People will view this as a prelude to war with Freya. Does His Majesty know about this?”

“The bishop will handle His Majesty,” said Dubois. “As you are aware, I have here the bishop’s letter giving me full power to make this demand.”

The archbishop was well aware of the letter. He knew it was genuine. He could see and touch the grand bishop’s own personal seal that was affixed to it. But the archbishop was still not convinced. The idea that he was about to unofficially declare war on Freya by closing the port was appalling. He could envision the hordes of angry ship owners descending on him, howling about lost money. And, the truth be told, he was worried about the funding for his magnificent cathedral. In the event of war, that funding might dry up and so would his legacy.

“The Royal Navy would have to be informed-”

“I’ve already done that,” said Dubois coolly.

The archbishop flushed in anger. “You had no right-”

“I have every right,” said Dubois. “I refer you, once again, to the grand bishop’s letter.”

The archbishop thought this over. The grand bishop’s letter gave Dubois power to deal with any crisis in general. The grand bishop did not say anything specific about the closing of the port.

“I would feel more comfortable if I had a letter in the grand bishop’s own hand stating that he was responsible for issuing the decree,” said the archbishop. “As you know, I am but his humble servant. I could send a messenger to Evreux by griffin. He would be back by morning two days hence.”

“By which time, Sir Henry Wallace will be well on his way to Freya bearing Rosia’s doom,” said Dubois.

“Hardly my fault,” said the archbishop with a telling glance at Dubois. “You are the one who lost him.”

Dubois would have liked to wring the neck of the grand bishop’s humble servant. He restrained himself, however. He was thinking he was going to have to get tough with this man, threaten to reveal a certain sordid incident in the archbishop’s past which Dubois had taken care to discover, just in case. He did not want to resort to such a drastic measure. Not yet. Not if there was an easier way.

“If you will excuse me,” said the archbishop, “I am going to return to my guests.”

Dubois gazed, frowning, into the night. Hearing voices drifting up from down below, he glanced down over the edge of the balcony.

Silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and half moon, three men were walking the battlements at a slow pace. He could not see their faces in the darkness, but he knew them by their attire: one man in helm and breastplate, one in flowing monk’s robes, one in a long black cassock. By their low tones, they were deeply engaged in some important and serious conversation. He spoke to the back of the departing archbishop.

“Your Reverence,” said Dubois, “what would you say if I referred this matter of Sir Henry Wallace to the judgment of the Arcanum?”

The archbishop stopped. He turned around. He looked uneasy. “Why would the Arcanum get involved?”

“Because they have sense enough to understand the danger,” said Dubois.

The archbishop followed Dubois’ gaze to the battlements, to the man in the black cassock. The archbishop looked from Father Jacob back to Dubois and back to Father Jacob. The archbishop’s face went stony. He turned and stalked off.

Dubois smiled and out of habit started eavesdropping on the priest, who had paused right beneath the balcony. He heard Father Jacob tell his Knight Protector that he was planning to order the archbishop to send forces to scour the city in search of one he termed “the Sorceress” and her evil followers. Dubois raised an eyebrow. He had heard of this Sorceress. Was she responsible for the ambush? If so, why had she been attempting to kill both Sir Henry and Father Jacob?

“I need to meet this woman,” Dubois said to himself.

The father and his companions moved on and so did Dubois. As he returned to his coach, he saw the harried archbishop trying to explain matters to his guest, the Lord Mayor of the City of Westfirth, who was almost purple with fury. Dubois shook his head and slipped away.

Within the hour, a cannon announcing the closing of the port of Westfirth went off, as constables fanned out across the city, looking for a young man of about seventeen, who might be suffering from a gunshot wound to the foot, and a Freyan woman named Eiddwen, beautiful, with black curling hair. Dubois returned to his room at the Threadneedle Inn to try to get some sleep while he awaited the reports of his agents.

The echoes of the cannon shot were still lingering in the air when Sir Henry Wallace put his new plan into action. He watched out the window and when the coach entered a certain, shadowy street, Henry rose to his feet and rapped on the ceiling of the coach. The coach rolled to a stop. Henry got out and, glancing behind to make certain the street was empty, he spoke to the driver.

“Are we being followed?”

“Yes, Guvnor,” said the driver, who knew Sir Henry by a completely different identity. “Small hansom cab. Keeps a block or two behind.”

“Come down here,” said Henry.

The driver obeyed. The two walked off to an alley, leaving Alcazar, a prey to terror, alone with the woman and the “Duke.” He lost sight of Sir Henry in the darkness and was afraid that Monsieur Russo (Sir Henry’s alias) had abandoned him. Then, thankfully, Sir Henry and the driver returned. Sir Henry entered the coach. Alcazar was about to say something when he saw the man’s face.

“You’re not Monsieur Russo!” Alcazar gasped.

“Shut yer yap,” said the driver, now wearing the count’s cloak.

Sir Henry, wearing the driver’s coat, mounted the box, took the reins, and the journey resumed.

Henry glanced several times over his shoulder and finally caught sight of the small hansom cab. He took care so that the cab did not lose him. The original idea had been to throw Dubois off the trail. Now Henry wanted Dubois on it. Dubois had grown annoying. Henry wanted to be rid of him.

Henry drove the coach to a small boarding house located near the docks. He stopped beneath a streetlamp and, in his guise as coach driver, climbed down from the seat to assist the “count” and his “lady” to leave the coach. Alcazar was also about to leave. Henry strong-armed him, shoved him back inside.

“Not a word,” said Sir Henry. “Keep an eye on him,” he said to the man who had been driving the coach.

The count and his lady swiftly mounted the steps of the house. The count unlocked the outer door, and hurried inside, bringing his lady with him. Sir Henry returned to the driver’s seat. He waited a moment to make certain Dubois’ agent in the hansom cab had taken note of the movements of the “count,” then drove off. Looking back over his shoulder, Henry noted with immense satisfaction that the hansom cab remained parked near the boarding house.

Once more having shaken a tail, Henry drove the coach to his next destination. When the coach stopped, he ordered Alcazar to quit blubbering and get out. Alcazar looked around and saw with dismay that they were in a stinking, refuse-littered, festering street of one of the worst parts of Westfirth.

There being no streetlamps in this squalid section of the city, few people dared venture out after dark. Those who did had their reasons. The sight of an elegantly dressed “woman” descending from a coach brought unwelcome attention. Two rough-looking men approached her. Alcazar was mute with fear. Henry Wallace coolly drew out a monocle that when he touched it a certain way, began to glow with light. He held the light to his face. The two men halted, then backed away precipitously.

“Pardon, Guvnor,” said one man, nervously touching his hand to the brim of a filthy hat. “Didn’t know it was you.”

Henry ordered the driver to leave, then took hold of Alcazar by the arm and escorted him to what was popularly known as a rag and bottle shop. Henry drew out one of many keys he carried with him, fit it into the lock, opened the creaking door and shoved Alcazar inside. Henry followed, closing the door, leaving them in pitch-darkness, for the windows were shuttered. He told Alcazar to stand by the door, not to move.

Sir Henry drew out the glowing monocle and by its light, he wended his way among the stacks of refuse and broken furniture, cracked dishes, bags of hair, bottles, clothing, books, weapons, watches, and anything else that could be bartered or sold by those in desperate need.

The shop’s owner, hearing someone rummaging about, came down from his little room above the shop. He was clad in his nightdress and carried a candle in one hand and a stout club in the other.

Henry again allowed the light from the monocle to play upon his face. The owner stared at him keenly, gave a nod, and asked him in a whisper if he needed anything. Henry told him he required food and a bed for the night. The man went back upstairs. Henry continued on his way to a large portmanteau he kept stashed at the very back of the shop. He opened it, rummaged through coats, waistcoats, shirts, boots, hats, gloves, shoes, underclothes, and even handkerchiefs. Henry took off the driver’s clothes he was wearing and placed them in the portmanteau and then opened a small metal box. Henry shone his light on a quantity of letters, official looking documents and papers, all expertly forged. He selected those he required, then shut and locked the metal box.

Henry went back to Alcazar and thrust some clothes into his arms and told him to change. Alcazar was so happy to get out of his corset and petticoats and so exhausted by the events of the evening that he complied readily, without complaining, not even when told he would be spending the night in this ghastly place.

The shop owner returned with a large bowl containing some sort of meat floating in congealed gravy. Sir Henry ate ravenously. Alcazar, smelling it, queasily declined. The owner indicated a vacant room next to his own; they could spend the night there. He brought them blankets and pillows, which Henry spread out on the floor. He lay down on the blanket and stretched out comfortably.

Alcazar remained standing.

“Are there rats?” he asked fearfully.

“Big as dogs,” said Sir Henry.

After his exertions in aiding the count to escape his kidnappers, Stephano also spent a restful night. The combination of brandy and yellow goo sent him into a deep slumber. His shoulder was stiff and his thigh sore, but both wounds were healing well. He went to check on Dag and found him already up and eating breakfast.

“How are you this morning?” Stephano asked.

“Fine, sir,” said Dag, stolidly eating. “The burns weren’t serious.”

Stephano noted that Dag was sitting awkwardly, making certain his burned back did not come in contact with the chair.

“He’s not fine,” Miri snapped. “He’s going to have his bandages changed and more ointment this morning before he goes anywhere.”

She slammed a bowl down in front of Stephano and hurled a spoon in his general direction. He caught it on the bounce. Miri stalked off, going back to the galley.

“Bullets flying, Captain,” Dag advised. “Keep your head down, sir.”

Stephano understood. Miri was in one of her moods. He took a seat and tried to avoid coming under fire as Miri returned carrying a large pot in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“You’re having oatmeal,” she stated.

Stephano hated oatmeal, but he caught Dag’s warning glance and said meekly, “Oatmeal will be fine. Thank you, Miri.”

Miri sniffed and dug her spoon into the pot. Stephano reached out to pet the cat, who was curled up in Dag’s lap, dozing in the morning sunshine.

“How is the Doctor this morning?”

The cat responded to Stephano’s pat by purring loudly.

“Lazy beast,” said Miri scathingly.

She flung the oatmeal into the bowl and then pointed the spoon at Dag.

“I’ll have you know, Dag Thorgrimson, I found a mouse in the storage room this morning! Ran right over my foot. Mice running rampant all over the ship and that idle cat of yours sits there purring! He better start earning his keep, or I’ll throw him into the Breath.”

She shook the spoon at the Doctor, spattering him with oatmeal. The cat gave a startled meow and dashed for cover.

“She doesn’t mean it,” said Stephano.

“I do so too, mean it!” cried Miri, rounding on him. “The same goes for you, Captain Bloody de Guichen! We’ve flown all this way and for what?”

Miri slammed the pot with the oatmeal onto the table and answered her own question. “Gythe hearing demons. You stabbed and nearly killed. Dag lit on fire. My own boat attacked and almost sunk. What have you to show for it? Well?”

She stood in front of Stephano, hands on her hips, her red hair flaring in the morning sun, her green eyes blazing. Stephano shoveled oatmeal into his mouth as though his life depended on it which, with Miri in her present mood, perhaps it did. Dag had taken his own advice and was keeping his head down.

“I’ve a mind to hoist the sails and leave right now!” Miri continued, and Stephano could see that she meant it.

“I’m sorry this hasn’t turned out well, Miri,” he said, shoving what remained of the oatmeal around in the bowl. “We can’t sail today anyway. Not until the authorities complete the inspections and issue permits-”

“Permit!” Miri snorted. “As if I needed a blasted permit!”

Generally, Trundlers did not require permits. Having no nationality, they tended to come and go as they pleased; one reason Stephano was fond of conducting operations on a Trundler houseboat. But war with Freya loomed on the horizon, at least that’s what everyone was saying. Even Trundlers might find their lives changed during a time of war.

“Give me today to track down this last Alcazar, the one who’s the sailor,” Stephano pleaded. “If we don’t find him or it turns out he has nothing to do with the journeyman, then we can leave.”

Miri regarded him with narrowed eyes, then said coldly, “You have today.”

She grabbed up the pot and banged her way through the hatch. They could hear her stomping angrily down the stairs.

“She’s worried about Gythe, sir,” said Dag.

“I know she is,” said Stephano. “I’m worried, too.”

The door opened a crack. Rodrigo stuck his head out. “Coast clear?”

“She’s gone back to the galley,” said Dag.

“Did I hear Miri say we are leaving?” Rodrigo asked worriedly, coming out on deck. “We can’t leave yet. I have to pick up my new clothes at the tailor’s-”

“I don’t think now would be a good time to mention your clothes,” Stephano said. “Not unless you want to be wearing oatmeal instead of a hat.”

“So what’s the plan for today, sir?” Dag asked.

“Pick up my clothes,” said Rodrigo.

“You pick up your own damn clothes,” said Stephano. “Dag and I will go to the docks and ask if anyone knows this sailor named Alcazar. If not”-he shrugged-“we pack up and go home. And I tell my mother we failed.”

“She might be interested in the demons,” said Rodrigo. “And the green magic I’m not supposed to talk about.”

“Fine-you tell my mother we fled Westfirth because we were attacked by fiends from Hell riding giant bats,” Stephano said testily.

Rodrigo thought this over. “I see your point. She already suspects me of being a bad influence on you. She’d probably think I was luring you into opium dens.”

Stephano sat jabbing his spoon dejectedly into his slowly congealing oatmeal. Dag lured Doctor Ellington out from under the cannon with a bit of smoked fish. Rodrigo took a turn about the deck, trying to work up the courage to ask Miri to fix him a coddled egg when he came to a sudden halt.

“Stephano! Look there.” Rodrigo pointed to the end of the pier, where several men could be seen conferring. Four of the men were Trundlers, one of whom was Miri’s uncle, Ehric McPike. Ehric was talking with a well-dressed man wearing a long hunting coat, tall black boots, and a hat.

“Does that man seem familiar?” Rodrigo asked, frowning. “The one in the hunting coat. I have the feeling I know him from somewhere.”

“Yeah, me, too,” said Dag, squinting against the sun.

Stephano rose to his feet. He eyed the man and then said slowly, “That’s the count. From last night.”

“By God!” exclaimed Rodrigo, stunned. “You’re right! How do you suppose he found us?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Stephano grimly.

Miri’s uncle and the count began walking down the pier in the direction of the Cloud Hopper. Dag reached for his musket. He had heard the story from last night, how Rodrigo and Stephano had fought off thugs to save some mysterious count and his lady.

“The love of my life,” Rodrigo said in melancholy tones.

“Fetch Miri,” Stephano told him, and Rodrigo hurried down below. He returned in a moment with Miri and Gythe, relating again the tale of the previous evening’s adventure, just in case they had forgotten.

“How are you this morning?” Stephano asked, smiling at Gythe.

Gythe was pale and wan. Her fingers danced in the air. She touched her ears and shook her head.

“She says the voices are gone,” Miri reported.

Gythe regarded her sister hopefully. Her fingers fluttered. Miri shook her head. Gythe sighed and walked forlornly away.

“She seems to be wanting to tell me something,” said Miri helplessly. “But I can’t understand her. I’m not sure she understands herself. Oh, Stephano, I’m so worried about her!”

“I am sorry, Miri,” Stephano said quietly, moving over to squeeze her hand.

“You better be,” Miri said, but she said it with a sigh and a half-smile and squeezed his hand back. He knew all was forgiven.

Ehric McPike accompanied the count, serving as his escort. The Trundlers bowed before no king, but they did have their own nation which was wherever a group of Trundler clans docked their houseboats, a tradition that had lasted for centuries. Many Trundler camps were as old or older than the cities near which they were established. Every so often, some enterprising person (such as the archbishop) endeavored to oust the Trundlers, terming them thieves and smugglers. Nothing came of these efforts, however. The archbishop was informed by the head of the constabulary that the Trundlers could not be told to leave Westfirth because they weren’t in Westfirth. They docked in the Breath. The city limits of Westfirth ended at the shoreline.

The Trundler camp had their leader and guards. Outsiders were viewed with suspicion and must be approved by a Trundler clan leader before they were permitted to enter the camp and then only with an escort. When the count and Miri’s uncle reached the Cloud Hopper, Ehric told the stranger to remain on the pier, while he boarded the Cloud Hopper. He kissed his nieces, and then turned to Miri.

“This man”-Ehric motioned at the stranger waiting on the pier with a jerk of his thumb-“says he has business with the captain. Will you receive him and take him into your care, Miri? Or should the lads and I escort him back to from where he came?”

The count stood quite at his ease on the pier. He gazed at the boats and their gaily colored balloons and the Trundlers going about their everyday business: hanging out laundry to dry, cooking, sweeping; all the while keeping a wary eye on the stranger in their midst. The count smiled at Stephano with the air of calm and cool self-confidence he’d displayed during the attempt on his life. Reaching up, he tipped his hat with a courtly gesture.

Stephano kept silent. The Cloud Hopper was not his boat. It was not his place to say who could come aboard or not.

“He can board,” said Miri. “We’ll see to him.”

“Shout if you need help,” said her uncle, as he took his leave.

Miri promised she would. The count came on board. He cast a glance at Dag, who stood stolidly on deck, his musket under his arm and Doctor Ellington on his shoulder. The count turned to Miri, standing on deck with Gythe at her side. The count’s eyes widened at the sight of Gythe, whose remarkable beauty tended to have that effect on most men. He spent a moment regarding her in silent admiration. Gythe did not notice; she never did notice men staring at her. Rodrigo saw, however, and he nudged Stephano.

“There’s hope for me!” he whispered. “Ask him about his lady friend.”

Stephano snorted and stepped forward. The count swept off his hat. He expressed his pleasure at meeting Miri and Gythe and thanked them for permitting him to come aboard.

“I have business with Captain de Guichen,” said the count, turning to Stephano with a bow. “Private business,” he added gently.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Miri. “Come along, Gythe. I need your help with the washing up. Try not to get yourself shot,” she added in a low voice, walking past Stephano. “I’m running out of herbs for my poultice.”

“Let us be grateful for small blessings,” said Rodrigo.

Miri and Gythe descended into the hold. Stephano knew quite well she had no intention of washing dishes. She and Gythe would both settle themselves on the stairs on other side of the hatch, where they could comfortably overhear the entire conversation. Stephano nodded at Dag, who stalked off to the bow, out of earshot, but within musket range. Stephano politely invited the count to sit down. Rodrigo brought up a chair and joined them, despite the fact that he had not been invited.

“You’re no count, are you,” Stephano said, as the stranger took a seat.

Rodrigo blinked. “What do you mean he’s not a count?”

“How very clever of you, Captain de Guichen,” said the stranger with that same cool and confident smile. “But then, the son of the Countess de Marjolaine would have inherited his mother’s brains.”

Stephano’s face froze as always when his mother’s name was mentioned.

“What is your name, sir?” he asked. “What do you want of me?”

The count reached into an inner pocket. Seeing Dag raise his musket, the count lifted a warding hand. He drew out a piece of paper, which he laid on the table.

“My name is Russo. Here are my credentials, Captain.” Monsieur Russo tapped the wax seal on the letter in an odd staccato rhythm, paused, then tapped it again. The seal was the King’s Rose, the official emblem of Alaric, King of Rosia. When the stranger tapped the seal, it began to magically change. The rose vanished and was replaced by a thorn, the emblem of a unit of elite undercover operatives tasked with protecting the king.

Stephano cast a glance at his friend.

“Is it genuine?”

“Quite genuine,” said Rodrigo. “The hand-tapping activates the magic. Monsieur Russo has to tap the seal in a certain way or the magic won’t work.”

“What does the Thorn want with me, Monsieur Russo?” Stephano asked.

“You and Monsieur de Villeneuve performed a valuable service to your king last night, Captain de Guichen,” said Russo, picking up the letter and returning it to his coat pocket. “I came to thank you.”

“I didn’t know I was helping the king,” said Stephano. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have.”

Monsieur Russo smiled. “Your mother told me you might be difficult.”

Stephano flushed in anger and rose to his feet. “If that is all you have to say, Monsieur…”

“You will be interested to know that I have in my care a certain missing journeyman,” said Russo.

Stephano shrugged. “Good for you. What has that to do with me?”

Monsieur Russo glanced around the boat, then said quietly, “Is the name Henry Wallace familiar to you?”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Stephano, shooting Rodrigo a warning look, ordering him to keep his mouth shut.

“Your mother told you about him, I assume.”

Stephano shook his head. “I’ve heard his name bandied about town.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Monsieur Russo with a dry chuckle. He grew serious, his face shadowed. “Henry Wallace is a dangerous foe. He is the man who kidnapped Alcazar. Two days ago, I managed to free Pietro Alcazar from Wallace’s clutches. Alcazar’s brother, Manuel, is a merchant seaman. We were to sail on his ship, the Silver Raven, last night. As we left the hotel, Wallace’s bully boys tried to grab Alcazar. You and Monsieur de Villeneuve thwarted that attempt.”

Rodrigo was bewildered. “Excuse me, sir, I don’t understand. We saved you and a lady-”

He stopped talking and stared, aghast. “No! Don’t tell me! That beautiful creature! I held her in my arms…” Rodrigo paused, then added, “I did think the dear girl weighed rather a lot…”

Dag, who wasn’t supposed to be listening, was seized with a violent fit of coughing. He turned his back to them, his shoulders shaking. Stephano ran his hand over his mouth and rubbed his chin to hide his grin.

Monsieur Russo frowned at them both. “This is not a matter for levity, gentlemen.”

“So you managed to escape from Wallace with our help,” said Stephano, regaining control of himself. “What happened? Why didn’t you leave Westfirth?”

“The closing of the port, of course,” said Russo impatiently, annoyed by the question. “You do know the port was closed, don’t you, Captain?”

Rodrigo was saying sadly, “I can’t believe it. The woman of my dreams is a man.”

At this, Stephano feared Dag was going to rupture something and he said hastily, “Just because the port is closed doesn’t mean you and Alcazar can’t leave Westfirth. You could travel overland to reach Evreux.”

“We could… if we were going to Evreux,” said Russo.

“Where are you taking Alcazar?”

“Somewhere safe,” said Russo evasively. “You do not need to concern yourself with our destination, Captain. The less you know, the better.”

“So how can I help you?” Stephano asked. “In case I am inclined to help you. Which at the moment, I’m not.”

“Alcazar is in a secure location being guarded by two of my agents.” Russo said, then shrugged. “Or at least I thought the location was secure. Last night, I caught sight of one of Wallace’s agents outside the house. This morning, I saw several more. We are surrounded. I need you to draw off Wallace’s men, while I take Alcazar to safety.”

“Where is Wallace?”

“I have no idea,” said Russo. “If I had to guess, I would say he is no longer in Westfirth. I received a report that an attempt was made on his life yesterday.”

Stephano exchanged glances with Rodrigo. This much of the man’s story was true.

“Then who is watching you?” Rodrigo asked.

“One of Wallace’s best men-a pudgy, nondescript little fellow. He goes by the name of Dubois. Do you know the name?” Russo asked casually.

“No, Monsieur,” said Stephano. “Should I?”

“I thought perhaps your mother might have mentioned him,” said Russo.

“My mother doesn’t tend to confide in me,” said Stephano dryly.

“You saw Dubois, though you probably didn’t notice him. He was in the cafe when you killed another of Wallace’s agents, a man named James Harrington. You knew him as Sir Richard Piefer-”

“Good God!” Stephano exclaimed, astonished. “I remember. The pudgy fellow I took for a clerk. He ran over to see if Harrington was dead.”

Stephano eyed Russo. “But if that was this Dubois, he told me I had ruined his chance of finding Wallace…”

“Ah, he is clever, our little Dubois. He would say that to throw you off the trail.”

Stephano sat for a moment thinking this through, trying to sort out the tangle in which no one was who he-or she-claimed to be. “If this Dubois knows where you have Alcazar, why doesn’t he try to abduct him again?”

“He will-tonight,” said Russo. “He wouldn’t dare attempt to drag a lady out of a respectable house on a well-traveled street during the day. The neighbors would call the constables, all very messy.”

“How many men does Dubois have?”

Russo shrugged. “Ten or so. Maybe more.”

“Ten!” Stephano repeated and then he laughed. “You have a high opinion of me and my comrades, Monsieur. We are good, but not that good.”

“I’m not permitted to handle firearms,” said Rodrigo by way of explanation.

“I suggest you enlist the aid of the Constabulary,” said Russo. “Show them this document. I will leave it with you.” He handed over the letter sealed with the King’s Rose.

“You could show them the document,” said Stephano. “Commandeer a vessel and tell them to sail you and Alcazar to wherever you want to go. You’re on the king’s business.”

Russo quirked an eyebrow and smiled and adjusted his cravat. He appeared slightly embarrassed.

“He can’t,” said Rodrigo in sudden understanding. “Because the king doesn’t know it’s his business. His Majesty doesn’t know Alcazar was kidnapped.”

“His Majesty has so many cares,” said Russo gravely. “Your mother believes we should not add to them. This letter will be enough to convince the head of the Constabulary that you require his assistance. That and the name of Lord Captain de Guichen, son of the Countess de Marjolaine.”

“You mean my mother’s name will convince them to act,” said Stephano coldly.

“Your mother is held in high esteem throughout the world, Captain,” said Russo.

Stephano was about to make some scathing remark when the door opened and Miri walked out onto deck. She came over to Stephano and dug her nails into his shoulder, his sore shoulder.

“I don’t trust this man,” she said coolly. “He knows too much about us.”

“I agree,” said Stephano. He eyed Russo. “I want to see Alcazar.”

“Out of the question,” said Russo shortly.

“I see Alcazar or no deal,” said Stephano.

Russo fixed Stephano with a cold and glittering gaze. “You are being asked to perform this service by your king, Captain.”

“Piss on my king!” said Stephano angrily. “Do we have a deal or not, Monsieur?”

“Dubois knows you-”

“He knows you and you came here without being seen. At least, I assume you weren’t followed.”

Russo gave a faint smile. “No, Captain, I was not followed.” He sat frowning, his hand absently tapping the king’s letter. Then he said abruptly, “Very well. I will take you to Alcazar.”

“You’re certain he’s a man? Not a woman?” Rodrigo asked plaintively. “A lovely woman, if a trifle on the hefty side?”

“Quite certain,” said Russo.

Rodrigo gave a heartfelt sigh. This was too much for Dag, who burst out with a roar of laughter.