“So much for the simple job,” Rodrigo said with a sigh. He folded the paper and thrust it into an inner pocket of his coat. “I gather we’re going to be taking a trip to Westfirth.”
“Miri and Gythe can talk to their Trundler friends there, find out if they know anything about Alcazar. And Dag still has some of his old underworld contacts in Westfirth. I believe it would be worth a trip.”
The two left the lodging. As Stephano started to close the door, he paused, gazed thoughtfully back inside.
“You don’t think that man with the hat was a gawker, do you?” Rodrigo asked.
“Drunks in slouch hats who sleep on benches don’t have hackney cabs waiting to whisk them away,” said Stephano.
He shut the door. Once out on the Street of the Half Moon, they turned their steps toward home.
“I’ll send Benoit to court with a letter for my mother,” Stephano said. “I’ll tell her about what we found and where we’re going.”
“Admit it,” said Rodrigo. “The real reason we’re going to Westfirth is because you don’t want to put on a cravat.”
“Damn right,” said Stephano, smiling.
His smile faded. He came to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder. The time was midafternoon and the street was even busier than when they had first arrived. The tavern’s customers overflowed the bar and spilled out the door. Wagons and carriages rolled past. An airship floated overhead, casting a shadow that glided over the sidewalk.
“What are you doing besides impeding the flow of traffic?” Rodrigo asked, apologizing to an irate pedestrian, who had nearly run into him. “You’ve been as jumpy as a frog on a gridiron since we left that apartment.
“I have the feeling we’re being followed.”
“We are-by about several hundred Rosians. I beg your pardon, Madame. It was my fault entirely that you trod on my foot,” said Rodrigo, doffing his hat. He seized hold of Stephano and tugged him along. “You’ll never spot a tail in this crowd.”
Stephano acknowledged this with a mutter and continued walking.
“Why should anyone be following us?” Rodrigo asked. “I don’t owe any gambling debts.”
Stephano glanced at him.
“I paid the duke last month,” said Rodrigo with affronted dignity.
“And you know I don’t gamble,” said Stephano.
“At least not with money,” said Rodrigo. “Your life is a different matter.”
Stephano glanced once more over his shoulder. “I don’t see anyone, but, as you say, in all this crowd spotting a tail is nigh impossible. I’m thinking we should celebrate our good fortune this evening by arranging a picnic in the park. Let’s see who’s keeping an eye on us.”
“An excellent idea,” said Rodrigo. He stopped to bow to a woman driving past in a carriage adorned with a baron’s coat of arms. The woman leaned out to wave at him and blow him a kiss. “Intrigue. I love it. Who’s watching who’s watching who’s watching whom.”
“Only in this case,” said Stephano, “it will be us watching them watching us.”
Chapter Five
Constructs are the combination of various sigils connected by lines of power or magical conduits to direct and control magical energy into a pattern in order to achieve a specific and desired purpose.
– The Art of Crafting
RETURNING HOME, RODRIGO WENT TO HIS ROOM for an afternoon nap to recover from the fatigues of the day. Stephano sent Benoit to find Beppe, a sharp lad of about twelve.
Stephano had first met Beppe when his mother, who took in laundry, came to collect the clothes to be washed while Beppe tagged along to steal whatever he could lay his hands on. Benoit had caught the boy raiding the larder and was teaching him a lesson with a cane applied to his backside when Stephano, hearing ungodly howling from the kitchen, came to the boy’s rescue.
Foreseeing that Beppe’s current career was likely to land him in prison, Stephano had offered to pay him to run errands. Beppe had proved invaluable. The boy could go anywhere, talk to anyone, eavesdrop, ask questions: all without attracting notice. The boy was friends with Dag and Miri and Gythe (Beppe was desperately in love with Miri) and often did small jobs for them.
Stephano sent Beppe with a message to the sisters who lived on their houseboat, the Cloud Hopper, and another message to Dag in his rooming house near the docks. Stephano gave his instructions to the boy verbally and made him repeat them back.
After Beppe left, Stephano wrote his mother a brief and concise account of everything they had discovered at Alcazar’s apartment. He ended by saying he and the Cadre of the Lost were traveling to the city of Westfirth to follow up on the matter, then rang the bell for Benoit.
The old man came slowly up the stairs, groaning loudly with each step, and leaning heavily on his cane. He limped into the room.
“I have a letter I want you to deliver,” said Stephano. Folding the letter, he dropped melted wax on the page and dipped his signet ring with its symbol of a tiny dragon into the melted wax.
Benoit gave another groan. “I’m sure I would be happy to do your bidding, sir, if I weren’t in such constant misery that I can scarcely move a step-”
“You’re to take the letter to the Countess de Marjolaine in the Royal Palace,” said Stephano.
Benoit stopped groaning. His eyes gleamed. He stood up straight, smoothed back his long gray hair, and straightened his jacket.
“It will be hard on me, but I will undertake to make the sacrifice, sir.”
“I thought you might,” said Stephano wryly.
Benoit loved visiting the royal court. A trip to the palace brought back fond memories of times gone by. He would find time to dine with his friends in the servants’ quarters, hear the latest below-stairs gossip. He stood his cane in the corner and reached for the letter.
Stephano eyed the old man. “What about your constant misery? I can send someone else-”
“Do not give my suffering a second thought, sir,” said Benoit. “I would never dream of permitting my failing health to stand in the way of my duty to you.”
Stephano hid his smile and handed the old man the letter. “Here’s money for a carriage. Give the letter into the hands of the Countess de Marjolaine, not that popinjay of a secretary.”
Stephano had no fear Benoit would give the letter to anyone except the countess, who always rewarded him most handsomely.
“The countess’ hands, as you say, sir,” Benoit said, unusually dutiful. He dashed down the stairs.
“You move damn fast for an old cripple!” Stephano called, leaning over the stair rail. “You forgot your cane!”
His answer was the door slam. Grinning, Stephano walked over to the window and drew back the curtain in time to see Benoit hurrying down the street, waving his arm to gain the attention of one of the wyvern-drawn carriages drifting by overhead. Stephano chuckled and then cast an idle glance up and down the street. His neighborhood was residential, home to men and women of the lower upper class, minor nobility like Stephano, and those of the upper middle class, such as the wine merchant who lived in the fine house across the street. Stephano saw the young and pretty nursemaid, who made eyes at Rodrigo whenever he walked past, taking the wine merchant’s young son out for an airing. While the little boy played, the young woman was happily flirting with a young man paying her admiring attention.
Stephano shut the curtain. Removing his jacket, he picked up his rapier and went downstairs and out into the small yard at the back of the house where he had set up a target, which looked rather like a scarecrow. He began his daily fencing practice, performing over and over again the nine classic parries and their intricate footwork.