“Someone does,” said the countess flatly.
Stephano was brought up short. He thought this over and now understood her concern. Alcazar had disappeared, perhaps not of his own free will. Someone had snatched him. The idea of such magically enhanced steel in the wrong hands was appalling.
“I need you to discover the truth, Stephano. Go to Alcazar’s lodging, search it, see what you can learn. You will be discreet, quiet, circumspect. No hint of what has happened must leak out.”
“Which is why you came to me,” said Stephano.
“I dare not trust any of my local agents,” said the countess, nodding agreement. “Not with something this important. Here is the address.”
She reached into her bosom and drew out a piece of paper and handed it to Stephano. The address was in his mother’s own hand, bold and firm: 127 Street of the Half Moon. He thrust the paper into an inner pocket in his coat.
“How flattering to know you actually trust me, Mother,” he remarked.
“I do trust you, Stephano,” said the countess gravely. “Do not let me down.”
She moved to the door and stood beside it, waiting for him to open it for her. The interview was at an end.
Stephano stood up, pressing his hand against his rapier to keep it from striking the bench. “One question. You mentioned Grand Bishop Montagne. Is it possible that he could have found out about Alcazar?”
“I thought of that,” said the countess. “I have made inquiries and am convinced that the bishop knows nothing. If his creature, Dubois, were in Rosia, it would be a different matter. Dubois knows, sees, hears everything. But Dubois is in Freya, attending the royal court. And now I really must go. I am late for a meeting with the Travian ambassador.”
Stephano opened the door, and the countess swept past him with a rustle of satin and the faint fragrance of honeysuckle.
“I hear Travia and Estara are hurling cannonballs at one another over which of the two nations owns mineral-rich Braffa,” said Stephano. “Rodrigo’s father is ambassador to Estara. He writes that the situation is grim.”
“They are both trying to draw us into the fight,” said the countess. “I won’t allow that to happen.”
“Shouldn’t King Alaric be handling this matter, along with his officially appointed ministers?” Stephano asked, grinning.
“His Majesty has far more important matters to concern him,” said the countess.
Stephano leaned near to say, “There’s not a twitch of your cobweb that you don’t feel, is there, Mother?”
“You’ve fought the Estarans. Do you want to do so again?” the countess asked, as they passed through the sitting room and into the library.
“I would not be given the chance, as you well know,” said Stephano caustically.
“May I remind you, my son, that you were the one who resigned the commission which I had managed to obtain for you,” the countess returned.
“And may I remind you, Mother, that I resigned after the king disbanded the Dragon Brigade and took away my command,” said Stephano heatedly.
“His Majesty offered you a post-”
“-as a lowly lieutenant on one of his new-fangled floating frigates. I am a Dragon Knight. If you think I would stoop-”
Stephano stopped to draw in a deep breath. He was not going to quarrel with her. Not that they ever quarreled. She was Breath-enhanced steel. Words, like bullets, could never penetrate her. He came back to business.
“If I find out what you need to know about this Alcazar, you will clear all my debts?”
The countess glanced at him. “I said I would. I keep my word.”
Stephano flushed. He hated to mention this next, but he had no choice. He did so with what dignity he could muster. “Rodrigo tells me that I am… er… rather short of funds right now. If you could advance me-”
“I have given instructions for you to receive the paperwork clearing you of your debt and I have provided money for expenses,” said the countess.
They had returned to the audience chamber. She remained standing. Business concluded, she was ready to be done with him.
Stephano bowed. “I will take my leave, then, Madame. I will be in touch. Who do I see about the money?”
The countess extended her hand for him to kiss.
“My secretary, Emil,” she said, adding, with a hint of a smile, “The young man you insulted.”
While Stephano was back in the antechamber, forced to endure Emil’s sneers while waiting for his mother’s money, one of the men he and the countess had been discussing was also being forced to wait. Only this man was waiting to clear customs, not waiting for an insufferable secretary.
For once, the countess’ spies were wrong. Dubois, the bishop’s “creature,” as the countess had termed him, was not in Freya attending the royal court. His ship had docked at the Rosian port at about the same time the wyvern-drawn carriage containing Stephano and Rodrigo had flown over the dockyards. If Stephano had looked down and Dubois had looked up, the two men would have seen each other.
Seeing Dubois would not have done Stephano any good, for he did not know the man. They had never met. Dubois knew Stephano, however. Dubois made it his business to know everyone who had anything to do with the politics of any of the royal courts.
Once he was through customs, Dubois-known by everyone simply as Dubois-did not waste time. He met with several men who were waiting on the dock for him. He heard their reports and gave them instructions. These meetings with agents concluded, he hastened to a nearby inn where he always kept a horse in readiness, mounted, and rode swiftly through the crowded streets, paying no heed to the curses of those he nearly ran down.
Upon reaching the vicinity of the Bishop’s Palace, Dubois left the horse at the stables of another inn in which he had taken up lodgings, then walked the rest of the way. He did not enter by the main gate. Instead, he went to a small gate located in the wall directly behind the bishop’s private residence. The gate was hidden in some shrubbery, and Dubois had the only key.
The gate led into a small walled-off terrace, still filled with last autumn’s dead leaves, located at the rear of the house. A door with a lock to which Dubois also had the key opened into a long, narrow hallway.
The hall was dark, but Dubois had walked it many times and did not need a light to find his way. At the end of the hall was another door with yet another lock. He opened this door with yet another key and entered a small closet, big enough for him and a single chair.
Dubois walked over to the wall and pressed his ear to it. He could hear voices: the deep, resonant voice of the grand bishop and other voices he did not recognize. He could hear the bishop quite clearly for his chair was near the closet door, which was concealed by a thick, velvet curtain hanging behind the bishop’s chair. The other voices were agitated, less distinct, but Dubois was a master at eavesdropping.
The Abbey of Saint Agnes had been attacked during the night. Many of the one hundred nuns living there had been slaughtered, the abbey burned.
Dubois was shocked at the terrible news and was surprised he had not heard of the attack from his agents, but then he reminded himself that he had only just landed. A devout man, Dubois said a prayer for the dead. He took a seat on the chair and waited with some impatience for the visitors to leave.
In his mid-forties, Dubois was hard to describe. Plain and ordinary to look at, Dubois fostered the appearance of being plain and ordinary. His dress and demeanor were that of a lowly clerk (and a poorly paid lowly clerk at that). What lifted Dubois out of the ordinary was his extraordinary mind. He had only to look at a face and he would remember that person for the rest of his life. He had merely to peruse a document once and he could later copy it word for word, comma for comma. He could repeat a conversation verbatim, though it might have lasted hours. These amazing talents had been noticed many years ago when he was a young man by his parish priest, who had brought Dubois to the attention of the grand bishop.