Shadow Raiders

Chapter Six

RODRIGO SAID NOTHING DURING THEIR WALK back to the house that evening. When they arrived, Stephano suggested they have a glass of wine.

“Since we’re once more in funds,” he added, trying to seem cheerful.

Rodrigo shook his head. “I’m going to my room.”

“Do you want company?” Stephano asked.

Rodrigo hesitated, his hand on the balustrade, then said quietly, “I have to write a letter to my father and mother.”

He walked slowly up the stairs. Stephano felt a choking sensation in his throat and turned away quickly. This letter would be a difficult one to write. Rodrigo was the youngest child, the spoiled child, the mischievous imp whose antics had delighted his fond parents who could never see a fault in their brilliant, talented son. And now he was telling them good-bye-forever. Stephano could not imagine how the terrible news of Rodrigo’s death would affect his loving parents.

He cursed stupid sons of barons and their equally stupid and gullible sisters and hung up his baldric, flung off his coat, and threw his hat at the bust of King Alaric. The hat fell on the floor and Stephano left it there. He entered the kitchen to find Benoit and young Beppe seated at the table, finishing up the remnants of a cassoulet of white beans and chicken.

Beppe leaped to his feet at the sight of Stephano and gave a salute. His dearest wish, since he had met Stephano, was to be a Dragon Knight. Benoit cast a glance at the hat on the floor and groaned and began to rub his leg.

“Don’t disturb yourself,” said Stephano caustically. “I’ll pick it up later. Beppe, I’m glad you’re here. I need you to run an errand.”

“Of course, Captain,” said Beppe, pleased.

Stephano dashed off a note to Miri and Gythe and one to Dag, telling them that he both hoped and expected that he and Rodrigo would meet them the next day at the Cloud Hopper and that the ship should be ready for travel. He warned them not to come to the house, as it was likely under surveillance, though he had no idea who was watching or why.

“Deliver these letters,” said Stephano, “and then go home. Here’s some money.”

“That’s a lot, Captain,” said Beppe, his eyes wide.

“I’m sure we owe you back pay,” said Stephano dispiritedly.

“Yes, Captain, thank you, sir.” Beppe started to leave, then turned back. “Is anything wrong, Captain?”

“No more than usual,” said Stephano, with an attempt at a smile. “Now run along.”

Beppe gave another salute and dashed off.

Stephano, knowing it would be useless to ask Benoit, went to the storeroom fetch his own beer. The barrel was once more full.

“How was court, Benoit?” he asked. “Any message from my mother?”

“Your honored mother the countess has heard nothing more about the matter at hand, sir,” said Benoit. “She bids you a safe journey.”

Stephano sighed and sat down. If Rodrigo survived, the Cadre would go to Westfirth to continue the search for Alcazar. The chance of Rodrigo surviving being highly unlikely, Stephano guessed he would spend tomorrow planning his friend’s funeral. He drank the beer, stared into the empty mug, then suddenly swearing viciously, he flung it at the fireplace. The crockery mug shattered.

Benoit eyed the remains. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

“Like I give a damn!” Stephano said savagely.

“What is wrong, sir?” Benoit asked. He rose to his feet without a trace of infirmity to face Stephano. “I have a right to know.”

Benoit had ridden with his master, Sir Julian, to the convent to bring home his newborn child. Sir Julian had placed the baby in Benoit’s arms and said, “Benoit, meet my son. Care for him as you do me.”

Stephano rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head in his hands and dragged his fingers through his long hair. His face was pale, haggard.

“Sir,” said Benoit, sounding fearful, “tell me-”

“Rodrigo’s very likely going to die tomorrow,” said Stephano.

“Oh, my God, sir!” Benoit grabbed hold of the edge of the table for support. “The king didn’t find out about-Master Rodrigo’s not going to be executed-”

“No, no, nothing like that,” said Stephano wearily. “A duel. A bloody, stupid duel.”

He described what had happened in the park.

“Master Rodrigo claims he’s innocent, sir,” said Benoit.

Stephano gave a wan smile. “Master Rodrigo always claims he’s innocent.”

“That’s true, sir,” the old man admitted. He set to work with unusual energy, filling the teakettle with water and placing it on the hob, stirring up the coals, adding wood to the fire.

“What are you doing?” Stephano asked.

“Fixing a honey posset for Master Rodrigo, sir. It will help him sleep. He will need all his faculties for the morning.”

“I doubt if his ‘faculties’ are going to be that much help,” Stephano muttered.

Benoit disappeared into the storeroom. He was gone several moments, then returned carrying a crock of honey and a small, dust-covered jug.

“I don’t suppose I could have a tumbler full of whatever is in that jug?” Stephano asked.

“For illness only, sir,” said Benoit. He cast Stephano a sharp glance. “You need to be sober. It’s up to you to find a way to save him.”

“There’s nothing I can do this time, Benoit,” said Stephano.

“You’ll find a way, sir,” said Benoit stoutly.

Stephano only shook his head. He watched while Benoit concocted the posset, mixing the contents of the mysterious jug with honey and boiling water.

“I’ll take that to him,” Stephano offered. “Save you a trip up the stairs.”

“I will take it, sir,” said Benoit with dignity. “It’s the least I can do.”

Stephano followed the old man as he hobbled up the stairs. He heard Benoit’s gentle knock, saw him open the door softly and carry the steaming mug inside. Stephano sighed deeply and went to his own room.

Benoit’s posset contained rum laced with opium, with the result that Rodrigo slept quite soundly, while Stephano passed a wretched night, trying in vain to think of some way to save his friend’s life. He was so desperate he even considered traveling to the palace to appeal to his mother. On sober reflection Stephano realized there was nothing even the powerful countess could do. Rodrigo had made his bed, so to speak.

In the small hours of the morning, Stephano went to his bookshelf and found a small, thin volume given to all officers in the navy. It was called the Codes Duello and laid down the rules of dueling. Stephano was familiar with the guide, but he read it over again, hoping to find some way for Rodrigo to honorably withdraw. Unfortunately, the book only confirmed what Stephano had known from the beginning-there was nothing to be done.

According to the Codes Duello, Rodrigo might have been able to offer an apology to Valazquez and his sister without loss of honor except that a blow had been struck-an insult no gentleman could tolerate. The Codes offered only one hope and it was faint: as a second, Stephano had the right and the duty to attempt to reconcile the parties before blood was shed. Considering the hot-headed Valazquez, Stephano didn’t think reconciliation likely.

The night passed slowly for Stephano and yet far too quickly. When the clock struck four, he dressed by candlelight, putting on his military-style dragon green coat and breeches with high boots and a plain waistcoat. Beneath the waistcoat he wore a lightweight, chain mail vest made of tiny riveted links of steel, each set with its own magical construct. The vest had been a gift from his Dragon Wing when he had been named commander of the Dragon Brigade. The vest weighed only ten pounds and provided better protection than a steel breastplate. A craftsman in the Royal Armory had worked three months to make it.

How ironic would it be, Stephano thought, if that craftsman had been Pietro Alcazar.

Wearing armor to a duel wasn’t exactly proper etiquette, but protecting himself was good, common sense. Stephano didn’t know either of these gentlemen and while he assumed they were gentlemen and wouldn’t resort to any dirty tricks, he considered it wise to take precautions.

When he was dressed, he went to summon Rodrigo. Having expected his friend to be lying awake, a prey to anxiety, Stephano was surprised to find Rodrigo sleeping as soundly as a babe in arms. Stephano had to shake him to rouse him. Rodrigo woke groggy and disoriented, at which point Stephano sniffed at the mug containing the honey posset, smelled the opium, and yelled angrily for Benoit.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Rodrigo out of bed, sobered up, and dressed. The laws of dueling forbade the wearing of any clothing set with magical constructs. The duel’s adjudicator-a person brought in from outside to see to it that the proceedings were handled fairly-was required to check to make certain neither opponent took such an unfair advantage. The Codes did not say anything about the style of clothing the combatants wore. Stephano insisted that Rodrigo put on a loose-fitting white shirt with overlarge, flowing sleeves. In any sort of breeze, the sleeves would flap in the wind, making aiming at a vital organ difficult.

Rodrigo protested against the shirt, which was old and completely out of fashion.

“He’ll probably just shoot me in the head,” said Rodrigo. “At least let me die in style.”

“A head shot is unlikely,” said Stephano briskly, determined to be matter-of-fact. “You both will stand back-to-back with your guns in the air. At the signal, you will each walk ten paces, turn, and fire. Because Valazquez has to turn, he will be forced to fire quickly, hoping to hit you before you can get off a shot at him. He won’t have time to aim at your head. He’ll likely try to hit you in the chest, which provides a larger target and is easier to hit.”

“So I should do the same?” asked Rodrigo. “Aim for his chest?”

Stephano thought back to the first, last, and only time he and Dag had tried to teach Rodrigo to shoot. They had all three been extremely fortunate to escape with their lives. Rodrigo had a most lamentable habit of closing his eyes whenever the gun went off.

“Just keep your eyes open,” said Stephano.

“I can’t help it,” Rodrigo protested. “It’s like sneezing. Absolutely impossible to keep your eyes open when you sneeze.”

“You will have only one shot, Rigo,” said Stephano quietly. “You have to make it count.”

Rodrigo looked down at his trembling hands and smiled wanly. “I’m not sure it will matter whether my eyes are open or closed, my friend.”

Stephano tried to say something reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come past the burning sensation in his throat. Down below, a clock struck five. Stephano put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Is it time?” Rodrigo asked with terrible calm.

“It is time,” said Stephano.

Rodrigo picked up a sealed letter and handed it to Stephano.

“For my father,” Rodrigo said. “You will take it to him if… if…” He couldn’t go on.

Stephano took the letter and tucked it inside his waistcoat. “A sacred trust.”

Rodrigo nodded gratefully and the two went downstairs together. Benoit stood waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“I summoned the cab, sir,” he said in a shaking voice. “It’s waiting.”

Benoit handed them their cloaks and hats. Stephano draped his baldric with his rapier over his shoulder. Sometimes the seconds ended up in a duel themselves. Stephano hoped that happened. He found the prospect of fighting the cold and supercilious Freyan, Sir Richard Piefer, extremely appealing.

Benoit held a tray containing two crystal goblets filled with a goldenbrown liquid. Stephano sniffed at it and wondered how Benoit had managed to come by brandywine, which was very expensive. He did not ask.

“To calm the nerves,” said Benoit.

“Thank you, Benoit,” said Rodrigo, and he downed the brandy gratefully.

He impulsively embraced the old man. Stephano felt tears sting his eyes, and he hurriedly blinked them away. Benoit wiped his nose with a large handkerchief and then bravely stood at the door to see them off.

Stephano remembered Benoit standing in the door like that, looking brave like that, on the day his father had gone to his execution. Stephano’s stomach clenched. Bile filled his mouth. He reminded himself sternly that his friend needed him to be strong, and he drank the brandy. The liquid bit into his throat and warmed his blood. He handed the glass back to Benoit, who said softly and pleadingly, as he took it, “Keep him safe, sir.”

Stephano gave a sorrowful shake of his head and turned away.

The two men entered the hansom cab. Neither had shaved; neither felt his hand to be steady enough, and asking Benoit to shave them was out of the question. Stephano gave the driver directions to the Church of Saint Charles, mumbling something about attending early mass.

The hansom driver, who was about thirty, and had the jaunty air of a racecourse tout, gave them a knowing smile and a wink. He took his seat up top and whistled to the horse.

Stephano, glancing back, saw Benoit standing on the door stoop, a candlestick in his hand, tears running down his dried-up, leathery cheeks. The cab was pulling away when movement on the sidewalk caught his attention.

The sun had not yet risen. The street was dark, except for Benoit’s candle, and that gave only a feeble light. Yet Stephano was convinced he saw a shadow detaching itself from darker shadows. Stephano leaned out of the open-air compartment to try to get a better view. The shadow melded with the darkness. Stephano sat back, frowning.

“What are you doing?” asked Rodrigo listlessly.

“I saw a man in the alley,” said Stephano. “Someone is still watching us.”

“Probably to make certain I don’t run off,” said Rodrigo.

“Possibly,” said Stephano, but he was not convinced.

Rodrigo wrapped his cloak closely about him and sat back against the cushions, staring at the world he might shortly be about to leave. Stephano tried to think of something to say that would bring his friend some comfort, but everything he thought of sounded stupid and maudlin. Rodrigo’s hand, fist clenched, rested on the seat. Stephano placed his hand over his friend’s. Rodrigo responded with a pallid smile. They rode in silence to the church. Once there, Stephano asked the driver of the hansom cab to wait for them until mass was over.

The driver gave a chuckle and another knowing wink. Sitting back in the seat, he tipped his hat over his face and settled himself comfortably. The horse began to graze on the dew-wet grass.

“At least, you’ll save money, my friend,” Rodrigo said, as they were walking toward the site of the duel. “Going back, you’ll only have to pay for one fare.”