Several boys were playing ball outside. Dubois strolled over to question them and heard the story of the mysterious disappearance of Pietro Alcazar, journeyman at the Royal Armory. Dubois waited until Captain de Guichen and his friend left the house, then entered the boarding house himself. Dubois mounted the stairs, and took a look around Alcazar’s apartment. He found the open inkwell and a pen lying on the table. The ink on the pen’s nib was still moist.
“Well, well, well,” Dubois murmured.
He had a habit of talking to himself. As he was accustomed to saying, he liked talking to the most intelligent person in the room.
Finding nothing more to pique his interest, Dubois left the building, returned to his horse, and rode back to his own lodgings.
As he was riding, Dubois sorted through all the various bits of information he had acquired. Two nights ago, Pietro Alcazar, journeyman at the Royal Armory disappears from his dwelling on Half Moon Street. The next day, the Master of the Royal Armory is listed as a visitor to the Countess de Marjolaine. This morning, the countess’ son is listed as a visitor to the countess. Also this morning, James Harrington, premier Freyan agent, is found lurking outside the residence of Pietro Alcazar. This midday, Captain de Guichen is seen entering the apartment of Pietro Alcazar. James Harrington leaves his post, rides off in a hurry.
Dubois did not waste his time trying to figure out what was going on. He had long ago learned that it was a mistake to theorize without information. He ordered in a late dinner and was finally able eat a decent meal.
A short time after, one of his agents came to report that Harrington had returned to his lodgings, where he had remained until a man arrived in a great rush. They held a brief conversation, then the man left and Harrington, dressed quite elegantly now, hailed a cab, and ordered it to drive rapidly to the Park of the Four Oaks.
Dubois went to the park, sauntered about for a short while, until he found Harrington, standing beneath an oak tree in company with another man.
Gone was the drunken Harrington in the slouch hat. In his place was a noble lord dressed in the latest style of the Freyan court. His hair was combed and powdered. He wore a sword on a finely embroidered baldric. His coat was dark wine with velvet collar and cuffs. He was talking animatedly to a young man of about twenty, who was red in the face and appeared beside himself with fury.
Dubois put a name to the young man. Escudero Juan Diego Ruiz Valazquez, son of Baron Valazquez, Estaran ambassador to Rosia.
“That is the man,” Harrington was saying. “I recognized him the moment I saw him, and I dispatched my servant posthaste to fetch you.”
“I will kill him!” said the young man in a strong accent, seizing the hilt of his sword. “I will slice off his-”
“You will do no such thing, my friend,” said Harrington, placing a restraining hand on the young man’s arm. “You will note the presence of two policeman over by the fountain. Besides, you do not want to make a scene before all these people. Consider your sister’s reputation. The fewer who know about this sad affair, the better.”
Valazquez contained himself with an effort. “Then what can I do? I will not allow the bastard to go unpunished!”
“You will handle this in the way most gentlemen handle such affairs,” said Harrington coolly.
Valazquez glanced at him, uncertain. “But dueling is illegal.”
“Only if the police find out about it. Ah, look. The policemen are walking off. Now is your chance. Remember, hold yourself in restraint.”
“I will try,” said Valazquez, breathing hard. “But it will be difficult. I long to rip out his lungs!”
The two men advanced. Dubois came out from around the back of the oak to observe the object of their conversation and Valazquez’s wrath.
“Well, well, well,” said Dubois and he raised his eyebrows-a rare display of emotion.
Harrington and Valazquez were walking over to speak to Captain de Guichen and his friend, Rodrigo de Villeneuve.
A beautiful afterglow spread over the sky. In the distance, drifting among the clouds, the Royal Palace was putting on a magnificent show. The base of the walls was a mixture of orange and pink drifting up through lavender. The tops of the palace’s towers had faded to black, and the first twinkles of starlight were just starting to glimmer along the roofline.
“It’s obvious we’ve failed. Can we leave now?” Rodrigo asked. “I’m hungry.”
Stephano cast an interrogative glance over his shoulder at the other members of the Cadre. Miri, seeing him, gave a very slight shrug. Dag shook his head.
“You’re right. This was a waste of time,” said Stephano.
The bench was hard, and he’d been sitting there for almost an hour. Stephano stood and stretched and rubbed his lower back. Rodrigo rose with him and brushed off his red hunting coat. They were about to walk away when they saw Dag jump to his feet, spilling Doctor Ellington, who had been asleep in his lap. The cat gave an indignant yowl. Dag jerked his thumb.
Stephano turned just in time to see two gentlemen approaching. The eyes of both men were fixed on Stephano and his companion, and there was no doubt that they were coming to speak to them. Judging by their grim expressions, the subject of the talk was going to be unpleasant. Stephano elbowed Rodrigo.
“Company,” he said.
Rodrigo glanced around. “Do we know these gentlemen?”
“I don’t,” said Stephano. “Do you?”
“Yes,” said Rodrigo. “The young one is what you might call my opposite. I am the son of the Rosian ambassador to Estara, and he is the son of the Estaran ambassador to Rosia.”
The younger man, dressed in the flamboyant style of satin coat and breeches that marked him as an Estaran, was apparently in the grip of some powerful emotion, for he tried to speak, choked on his words, and failed utterly. The second man, who was some ten years his senior, made a cold and formal bow.
Stephano looked closely at the older man, thinking something about him was familiar. The man had short-cut fair hair, flat blue eyes, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and the pale complexion of those who live in rainy climes. He was of medium height and moved with a languid kind of grace. The two made an odd-looking pair. His young companion had long black hair that fell in waves over his shoulders, a sleek black mustache, flashing black eyes, and the brown skin of those who live much of their lives in the sun.
“Captain de Guichen,” the older man said. “Monsieur de Villeneuve.”
“You have the advantage of us, sir,” replied Stephano, with a bow equally cold and formal.
“I am Sir Richard Piefer of Dought Crossing, Freya. May I present His Excellency, Escudero Juan Diego Ruiz Valazquez, son of Baron Valazquez, ambassador from Estara.”
Rodrigo was about to bow when Valazquez stepped forward, drew off his leather glove, and slapped Rodrigo across the face.
Rodrigo put his hand to his stinging cheek and stared at the man in astonishment. “What the devil did you do that for?”
“Because you, sir,” said Valazquez in passionate tones, “are a most consummate villain and a scoundrel! I accuse you of having besmirched the honor of my sister and insulting my family. What have you to say for yourself, sir?”
“‘Besmirched,’” said Rodrigo, opening his eyes wide. “Who talks like that these days?” He gave a light laugh. “Admit it, young sir. This is a practical joke. Lady Rosalinda put you up to this, didn’t she?” He turned to Stephano. “She has never forgiven me for the time I hid the frog in her glove box-”
Stephano had been watching the faces of the two men, and he said in an undertone, “They’re not joking.”
“Oh, come now,” said Rodrigo, turning back to Valazquez. “You can’t be serious.”
“Sir Richard was a witness!” cried Valazquez in anger, indicating his friend, who bowed again in acknowledgment. “He saw you leaving my sister’s bedroom in the middle of the night a fortnight ago.”