“Yes, yes,” said Frank hastily. “Visions. I see. Well, thank you for your time. If anything develops, we’ll get in touch with you.”
The man stood up uncertainly and ambled out of the room. A moment later Hodges leaned in. “Another blank?” he asked.
Frank nodded.
“Nut or fortune-hunter?”
“Nut, for sure,” said Frank. “The guy doesn’t know Topo’s dead, even.”
“Well, I’ve got six more out here. You want ’em now or save ’em to see tomorrow?”
“Oh, tomorrow, I guess. We’ve got to find an heir, Hodges.”
“If you say so, sire.”
Frank waited until Hodges had got rid of the six other pretenders to the throne, and then went downstairs and put on his coat and sword.
“Going somewhere, sire?” Hodges asked.
“Yeah; I’m meeting a couple of friends on the boat.”
“Be careful.”
“Always, Hodges.”
Cochran Street was empty as Frank closed the door behind him. The air was chilly, and foul with fumes that were filtering up from some low-level swamp or stagnant branch of the Leethee. He pulled his coat tighter about him and strode off rapidly toward his dock. After insisting that his boatman and two guards remain where they were, Frank untied a small rowboat and took off down the Leethee. The river was flowing quick and smooth, but the choppy water and erratic evening wind of the harbor slowed him down. When he reached the anchored boat another rowboat was already moored to it.
“Frank!” someone called from the deck. “Get up here with the key, for God’s sake!”
Frank tied his rowboat to a mooring ring and climbed aboard the larger vessel. George Tyler stood shivering on the afterdeck, clutching a wine bottle as if it were a threatened baby. Frank unlocked the cabin and they both hurried inside.
“Get the heater lit,” gasped Tyler. “I’ve been out there for an hour.”
“You have not.”
“Well, nearly. Who’s this friend I’ve got to meet?”
“His name’s Tom Strand. He was my best friend before I came understreet.”
“Oh.” Tyler struck a match and lit the lamps. “Say, Frank, I’m sorry about what happened at my party.”
“Forget it, George. I’d say Kathrin and that Matthews dimwit are made for each other.”
“I guess so. They certainly see a lot of each other, anyway.” Tyler slumped into a chair. “Say,” he said, “where is Sam’s grave? I never thought to ask, but now I’d like to go and ... pour some wine on his last resting place, or something.”
“He doesn’t have a grave,” Frank told him.
“You didn’t bury him?”
Frank pulled the cork out of George’s wine bottle. “Not exactly. I dragged his body back to our boat and then went on to that meeting we’d been heading for. Afterward I rowed out past the jetty and tied a heavy chain around him and let him sink in the outer sea.” He handed Tyler a glass of wine.
Tyler frowned for a moment, and then nodded. “You did the right thing, Frank. Bodies buried understreet always pop out sooner or later on a lower level. Here’s to his shade!” He tossed off the wine.
Frank drained his, too, and flung the glass hard at the narrow starboard window, which shattered explosively outward, spraying the deck with tinkling glass. Tyler flung his through the jagged hole into the sea.
“Hey, take it easy!” someone called from outside. “Frank, is that you?”
“That must be Tom,” Frank said, walking to the door. “I was beginning to worry about him.”
Frank went out on deck and showed Tom where to tie his boat, then helped him aboard and opened the cabin door for him.
(Two hundred yards away a tall, blond man in the harbor patrol uniform lowered his binoculars. He looked pleased as he took up the oars and began pulling toward the south.)
“This is George Tyler, Tom, one of the great poets of our age,” Frank said. “George, this is Tom Strand. Will you have some wine, Tom?”
“Sure. I can never afford any on an apprentice’s wages.”
“Maybe you can do better than that,” said Frank, pouring two new glasses for Tyler and himself. “I have a position for you.”
“Oh?” Tom took his glass and sat down. “Doing what?”
“Training my troops in fencing. They—”
“Troops?” Tom asked incredulously.
“That’s right. I’ve been organizing these thieves and a lot of the homeless Goriot farmers into an army. I’m beginning to get them into some kind of shape, but they know nothing about real fighting. I’ve been giving groups of them some basic lessons in stance and parrying and all, but I need someone who can be a full-time instructor. You’re probably as good a fencer as I am; why don’t you take the job? You’ll have your bond paid off in no time.”
Tom stared into his wine. An underground army, he thought. Duprey will be damned grateful when I tell him. “Sure,” he answered, looking up. “It sounds fine to me.”
“Terrific. You can start the day after tomorrow. I’ll have Hodges get a group of the best ones together in the meeting hall.”
They soon finished the wine and opened a bottle of Tamarisk brandy; the sight brought tears to Tom’s eyes.
“Easy, Tom,” Frank said jovially. “I guess it’s been a long time since you’ve had good brandy. Relax. Real soon you’ll be able to buy all the fine brandy you want.”
“I know,” said Tom.
Chapter 2
A fly was circling, in the aimless way of flies, in and out of a beam of morning sunlight in Duke Costa’s throne room, annoying him mightily. Three hard-eyed, leather-faced men stood in front of him and watched impassively as the powdered and jewel-decked Duke flung books at the insect.
Finally one of them spoke. “Your grace,” he rasped. “Why have you called for us?”
“What? Oh. You’re the assassins, right?”
The three men exchanged cold looks. “We served your father in many ways,” said another of them.
“I know. But right now it’s only as assassins that I want to see you. Now listen closely, I hate repeating myself. The King of the Subterranean Companions is a young man named Francisco Rovzar. He owns a large boat in the harbor, just north of the ship basin, and he spends time there, I’ve heard, when he wants to relax after doing whatever horrible things he does— interfering with the government, mostly. Anyway, I want you to kill him. I’ll pay you the same rate my father did.”
“Double it,” growled one. “The malory isn’t worth a sowbug’s dowry these days.”
Costa frowned and pressed his lips together, but nodded. The three men bowed and filed out of the room.
They’re insolent boys, Costa thought. I probably should have had them seized and flung into a dungeon (I wonder if I have any dungeons?). But no. I’ll let them kill Rovzar first. It will be fun to mention, off the cuff, of course, to those serious-minded Transports that I’ve succeeded where they’ve failed, and had Rovzar killed without their tiresome help.
TOM Strand lifted his mask so that it sat on his head like a conquistador’s helmet. “Okay,” he called to the thirty sweating men lined up in the hall. “Advance, advance, advance, retreat, advance, lunge!” His students leaped about awkwardly, thrusting their swords in all directions. “Well, that’s pretty bad,” Tom said. “Let’s call it a day. But be back here tomorrow—I’ll teach this stuff to you guys or kill you all trying.”