Shadow Raiders

Chapter Two

THE NEXT DAY, STEPHANO ROSE AT HIS USUAL TIME. He ate breakfast, ran through his daily fencing practice, washed, and dressed. Hearing the sound of the carriage arriving at the door, he shouted to Benoit that he was leaving and descended the stairs that led to the main entryway. Stephano cast an uncaring glance at himself in the mirror, put on his hat (which he noted had been brushed, the brown plume fluffed up a bit) and was almost ready to go out the front door when Rodrigo opened it and walked inside.

“I was just on my way to join you at the palace,” said Stephano. “I thought you were ‘visiting a friend.’ ”

Rodrigo regarded Stephano’s green breeches, which were tied below the knee, his dark green stockings, light green waistcoat, and dark green coat, lacking adornment, with frowning disapproval.

“I thought I might find you in this state. One reason I returned early. We are attending court, not storming the battlements at Vertin. Benoit!”

“I wash my hands of him, sir!” came the querulous response from the kitchen.

“Back to the dressing room,” said Rodrigo, placing his hand on Stephano’s shoulder and shoving him toward the stairs.

Seeing Stephano’s rebellious look, Rodrigo added briskly, “Pays well, on time.”

“You’ll find his court clothes laid out on the bed, sir!” Benoit called from below.

Stephano heaved a sigh and allowed himself to be propelled up to his dressing room. “I’m only doing this for Miri and the others, Rigo. If it were up to me, I’d starve before I went groveling to my mother.”

Once Stephano was properly attired, Rodrigo inspected him. “The sleeves are frayed at the cuffs. The coat is at least two years out of fashion, but the material is of the finest quality and the style is classic, so I am not completely ashamed to be seen at court with you. Let me tie your cravat.”

With a suffering air, Stephano let his friend tie the white cravat, edged with a hint of lace, around his throat, and regarded himself in the mirror. He privately conceded that he did look good. The knee-length silver-trimmed coat was fitted at the waist, and powder blue in color with turned back cuffs that showed the lace-edged sleeves of his white shirt. His waistcoat was of blue-and-green brocade. He wore breeches of the same blue color tied with ribbons below the knee, white stockings, and black shoes. His rapier hung from an embroidered baldric draped over his shoulder.

Stephano steadfastly refused to wear the powdered wigs then fashionable in the royal court. His sandy-blond, shoulder-length hair was tied at the back of his neck with a blue ribbon. He was clean-shaven, a task he performed himself, given that Benoit’s hands were too shaky these days to be trusted with a razor. Stephano’s blue eyes were changeable, becoming gray with anger or determination. He was of medium height with the light-muscled, fine-boned build of a Dragon Knight and an upright military bearing. His face tended to be stern and unsmiling, except when he was around his friends, at which time he would relax and lower his guard.

Rodrigo draped his arm around his friend’s shoulder and regarded the two of them in the mirror.

Unlike Stephano, Rodrigo was dressed in the latest fashion. His long, fitted coat was mauve, decorated with gold buttons and golden embroidery. His deep cuffs were a darker mulberry. His shirt was dripping with lace, and he wore a lace collar. His stockings were white. He also did not wear a wig, preferring to show off the brown curls that framed his face. Women termed his brown eyes “melting.” His face was long, his chin slightly pointed. His mouth quirked with fun and good humor. He was hopeless with a rapier and terrifying to his friends with firearms. His tongue was his weapon, he liked to say.

Rigo-as he was known-was thirty-three, and he and Stephano had been firm friends from childhood, despite their contrasting natures. Stephano was energetic, resolute, disciplined (except when it came to money). Rodrigo was indolent, vacillating, with not an ounce of self-discipline (except when it came to money).

Rodrigo was also a brilliant crafter and could have risen to the top of that profession, but he had studied magic only sporadically, dabbling in what interested him and forgoing the rest. Consequently, he had been thrown out of the University, to the dismay of his parents, who, however, continued to dote on him. He was the spoiled third son, with no income other than what he earned with the Cadre of the Lost and a modest stipend from his parents. Rodrigo was most at home in drawing rooms and salons. He knew everyone in court, knew the gossip about all of them, and he acquired most of the Cadre’s jobs.

Rodrigo smiled. “You would never know I was forced to pawn your dress sword to pay for the carriage.”

“You did what?” Stephano demanded, rounding on his friend. “My sword with the gold basket hilt? That was a gift-”

“And we will get it back from the pawn shop,” said Rodrigo soothingly. “Just mention to the countess that you could use an advance on payment, will you?”

“I haven’t agreed to take this job yet,” said Stephano angrily. He snatched his best tricorn hat, which was the current fashion, since it could be folded and tucked under the arm, and stomped down the stairs.

Benoit was there to see them off. The old man smiled to see Stephano and a wistful look came into the weak eyes. “I wish your father could see you, sir. You do him proud.”

“He wouldn’t be proud of the fact that I’m selling my soul to the king,” Stephano muttered.

“He would, sir,” said Benoit stoutly. “Your father, Lord Julian, God rest him, was a practical man.”

“My father wasn’t practical at all, you know,” said Stephano somberly to Rodrigo, as they entered the carriage. “Julian de Guichen was a man who sacrificed his wealth, his lands, and eventually his life for a hopeless cause, all in the name of honor and loyalty and friendship.”

“The apple did not fall far from the tree,” observed Rodrigo.

“Don’t try flattering me,” said Stephano, glowering. “It won’t work.”

“Take the rest of the day off, Benoit,” Rodrigo called out the carriage window before shutting it. “We will dine out.”

Rodrigo told the driver their destination and shut the carriage door. The driver nodded his head at his boy, who released the mooring line that secured the carriage to the ground, then took his place at the rear. The wyvern was harnessed to the carriage by long tethers attached to breast and shoulders. Magic used in the construction of the carriage added strength to the thin wooden walls while keeping the weight as low as possible. Internal reservoirs or “lift tanks” held the refined and purified “Breath of God” that provided much of the vehicle’s buoyancy, with a balloon for additional lift.

The balloon was red in color, the carriage blue. One could always tell a rented carriage by the red balloons. The driver, mounted on the seat in front of the carriage, began channeling the magical energy that existed naturally in the world into a brass control panel. A series of constructs, set into the brass itself, allowed the driver control over the levels of buoyancy in the two primary lift tanks located on either side of the carriage, and the forward and rear stabilizing tanks. From the brass panel, the driver could also control the large multichambered red balloon tethered to the top of carriage.

The carriage’s passenger compartment could seat four comfortably. The leaded glass windows were covered with lace curtains to provide the occupants a degree of privacy. The blue-lacquered exterior was waxed till it shone and was set off by polished brass fixtures and lanterns.

When the carriage was clear of the ground, the driver gave three short tweets from a whistle, letting anyone nearby know that they were preparing to leave. Next, he clucked at the wyvern and poked the creature in the back with a prod.

The wyvern angrily whipped around its head and snapped at the prod. Wyverns are temperamental and stupid, but the driver was used to such behavior from his steed. He poked the wyvern again, and the beast sullenly flapped its wings and took off.

Stephano threw himself into a corner of the conveyance and sat there, brooding. As always, when he was forced to pay a visit to his mother, he was in a foul mood. His thoughts carried him back to the past. He blamed Benoit for having brought up his father, but it wasn’t the old man’s fault. Stephano would have thought about his father in any case. He could not help thinking about his father whenever he was forced to visit his mother.

Cecile de Marjolaine, daughter of the wealthy and powerful Count de Marjolaine, was introduced at court when she was sixteen, having the honor to become one of the ladies-in-waiting to the queen. Cecile was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, as well as being the only heir to her father’s vast fortune. Both wealthy and lovely, she was the jewel of the court. Nobles and princes cast their hearts at her feet. Even King Alaric, newly ascended to the throne on the sudden death of his father, was said to be enamored of her.

Cecile was flattered by the attention, but her own heart remained untouched until she met the handsome and dashing young Dragon Knight, Sir Julian de Guichen. The two fell deeply, hopelessly in love-hopeless because the count had determined that his only child, his beautiful daughter, would marry well. De Guichen was merely the son of a knight and not a particularly wealthy knight at that. To make matters worse, the de Guichens were loyal friends with the king’s avowed enemy, the Duke de Bourlet.

The two young people knew only that they adored each other. None of the rest mattered. And then Cecile discovered she was pregnant. She was frightened, but was also ecstatic. She and Julian would run away to be married and live happily ever after. Before she could tell Julian the wonderful news, however, the Dragon Brigade was summoned to duty and he had to leave. The two had only a few fleeting moments together before he was gone.

Cecile had no mother in whom to confide; her mother having died when she was young, and she continued to dream her pretty dreams until the day she was confronted by Lady Adele, an older woman, who was also one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. The sharp-eyed Adele had noted Cecile’s swelling breasts, expanding waistline, and her unfortunate tendency to vomit on a daily basis. Lady Adele spoke to the girl in private and in a few stark words shattered the pretty dreams by making Cecile face cold, ugly reality.

Did Cecile honestly think the Count de Marjolaine would allow his only daughter, who stood to inherit one of the largest fortunes in the kingdom, to marry a penniless knight?

“Your noble father would have Julian killed first,” said Lady Adele pitilessly. “And don’t think he could not do it and get away with it. If you truly love Julian, you will cast him off and never speak to him again.”

Cecile was forced to admit the lady was right. Her father was known by everyone to be a cold-blooded, ruthless, calculating man. She cried herself to sleep every night, Julian’s letters in her hand.

Cecile was fast reaching the point where she could no longer hide her pregnancy. She had planned to travel to Lady Adele’s country estate to have the child in secret, when she received an abrupt summons to return home. The count did not ask her if the rumors he had heard about her were true. One look at her swollen belly provided the answer.

He demanded to know the name of the father. Cecile steadfastly refused to tell him. He called her a whore and struck her across the face, knocking her to the floor. His large emerald ring split her lip, leaving a small, white scar visible to this day. He sent his daughter to a nunnery, where she remained in seclusion until her baby, a son, was born.

Cecile had not written to tell Julian of her pregnancy, for she knew he would come to her and that would place his life in danger. She had determined to keep the name of the baby’s father a secret. But her labor was long and difficult and at one point Cecile was in such agony and was so exhausted that she feared she would die. In her despair, she confided the name of the baby’s father to the Mother Superior.

Cecile gave birth to a son. The nuns allowed her to spend a day-one glorious day-with her baby. Then, on the count’s orders, the child was taken away to be placed in the Church orphanage.

The Mother Superior was a woman of strong convictions. She came from a noble family herself and did not think it proper that the child of a knight should be raised in an orphanage, never knowing his father. The Mother Superior wrote to Sir Julian, telling him he had a son.

Julian was astounded and confused. He could not help but wonder why Cecile had not told him. He traveled with the family retainer, Benoit, to the nunnery and demanded to see Cecile, but was told she had returned home. She had left no message for him. All he could think was that she no longer loved him. The Mother Superior brought the baby to him. Heartbroken and bewildered, Julian took his son home.

Several months later, after she had recovered from her ordeal, Cecile returned to court. She was more beautiful than before, if that were possible, but her beauty, which had been warm and vibrant, seemed now cold and glittering. She became the open and avowed lover of King Alaric, a calculated move, meant to ward off the men her father would have forced her to marry. Whenever she received an offer, she was able to manipulate the jealous and grasping Alaric into refusing to give his consent.

Julian had secretly dreamed his own pretty dream. He nursed the fond belief that Cecile still loved him and that someday they would be together. Then he heard about the affair. Not only was she openly involved with another man, that man was the enemy of Julian’s liege lord, the Duke de Bourlet. If Cecile had stabbed Julian in the heart with a dagger, she could have caused no greater pain.

Sir Julian was a chivalrous and honorable knight. He would not say a word against Cecile to anyone. Her name never crossed his lips. There were those in his household who knew the truth-or thought they did-and they were free in venting their rage against the woman who had hurt their beloved friend and master.

Only one man, Julian’s friend, Sir Ander Martel, the baby’s godfather, knew Cecile, knew her father, and knew or was able to guess both sides of the tragic tale. He tried at one point to tell Julian that Cecile had done this for his sake, because she feared for his life. The moment Sir Ander mentioned her name, Julian told him coldly that if he wanted to continue to be friends, he would never speak of her again. Julian de Guichen would eventually learn the truth, but, sadly, only on the night before his execution. Too late to tell his son.

Stephano, growing up, knew he was different from other children in that he did not have a mother. He was not particularly bothered by this lack. He and his father were extremely close. Sir Julian always refused to speak ill of Cecile, but Stephano’s grandfather felt no such compunction. When Stephano was twelve, his embittered grandfather summoned the boy to his study and told Stephano the truth-his side of it, which had been further tainted over the years by a hatred of King Alaric and his mistress, who, on the death of her father, was now the wealthy and powerful Countess Cecile de Marjolaine.

Sir Ander, as Stephano’s godfather, could have told the boy what he knew, but that was the time Julian’s friend and patron, the Duke de Bourlet, had openly split from the king. The seeds of rebellion were being sown. Sir Ander did not like King Alaric, but he believed a man should be loyal to the Crown and, although he knew the duke was in the right, in that he had been goaded past endurance into fighting, Sir Ander did not join in the rebellion. He and Julian remained friends, though they were on opposing sides of the terrible conflict.

As Stephano sat in the carriage, his hat on his knee, he heard again his grandfather’s bitter, hate-filled tirade against his mother, words forever seared in the boy’s memory. He was jolted from his dark reverie when Rodrigo got into a heated argument with the carriage driver, claiming that the man was deliberately taking them out of their way in order to charge them more money.

“Look, Stephano!” Rodrigo cried, pointing out the carriage’s glass window, “Look where this son of a goat has taken us! Out past the Rim!”

The continent of Rosia was surrounded by an ocean of air, as were all the continents-the Seven Sisters-of the world of Aeronne. The air, the Breath of God, with its magical properties, was the “sea” on which floated the continents and islands that made up the world of Aeronne.

Similar to the water in the greater inland seas and lakes, the Breath had currents and moods. The wispy, peach-colored mist of a calm day could quickly darken to the deep reddish orange of a coming water storm with winds that would whip the surface of the Breath to a froth, lifting the heavier clouds from below to wreak havoc with the controls on an airship.

The mists that were wispy and thin as silken scarves grew thicker as one sank deeper into the Breath, becoming almost liquid at the bottom, or so learned men theorized. No one knew for certain what lay at the bottom because no one had ever been able to penetrate that deep and survive.

Where the Breath met the shoreline of the continents was called the Rim. To sail beyond the Rim meant leaving land behind and venturing into the mists of the Breath.

The view out the carriage window was spectacular and, as always, caused Stephano’s heart to contract with both pain and pleasure. When he had been a Dragon Knight, riding the thermals of the Breath, flying among the tendrillike mists, he would always take a moment to view the continent from this angle: the jagged edges of distant mountains, the green of hills, the smoky haze rising from the multitude of chimneys, the airships of all sizes and types sailing in and out of the bustling port of Evreux, the capital city of Rosia and one of the largest and busiest ports in the world.

He and his dragon mount, Lady Cam, would always share this moment. He would laughingly point out his family’s former small estate, tucked somewhere in those green hills, and she would, with more gravity, mention her family’s estate in the Montagnes Imperiale, the mountain range which the dragons called home. The two would ride the mists, knowing themselves-in the dragon’s grace and beauty and Stephano’s skills as a rider-superior to those who were forced to rely on wood and magic and silk balloons to sail the Breath.

Lady Cam was dead now. She had died in battle eight years ago, struck down by friendly cannon fire from a ship of their own fleet. She had died and so had the Dragon Brigade. And so had Stephano, in a way.

Stephano looked at the clouds and took note of the wind speed and the direction the wind was blowing, and then endeavored to make Rodrigo understand that the carriage driver knew what he was doing. Given the conditions, he was taking the best route to the palace.

“Otherwise, the ride would be bumpy. We would be blown all over the sky, and you would be air sick and complain about that,” said Stephano.

Rodrigo gave way with such good grace that Stephano suspected his friend had started this row simply to shake Stephano out of his gloomy mood. By that time, they were once more over land and the palace was in view.

The Sunset Palace was a breathtaking sight, whether seen by day, suspended in the air above the lake, mirrored in the waters below, or at night, when its lighted windows, shining in the darkness, rivaled the stars. The palace was, as its name implied, most beautiful in the twilight, when magical constructs set in the walls reflected the colors of the sky, causing the walls to change color from pink to orange, purple, and blue.

Simple in design, the palace was a square with a tower at each of the four corners. The entrance consisted of another, smaller square constructed inside the first, with a smaller tower at each of those four corners. The palace’s beauty lay in the graceful magnificence of the towers and the fanciful construction of the one hundred chimneys, each of which was of a different design, so that the palace, from a distance, resembled the skyline of a city.

The Sunset Palace was the largest floating structure in the known world. The construction of the palace had started during the reign of King Alaric’s grandfather. He had died while the building was still on the ground. Alaric’s father, the late king, had brought crafters from all over to place the magical constructs that had at last lifted the palace up to the heavens, elevating the King of Rosia to a somewhat equal footing with God.

Stephano noted that several of those fancy new warships drifted in the air near the palace, keeping constant vigil. The ships used the liquid form of the Breath, known as the Blood of God, to stay afloat. The liquid was stored in lift tanks in the hull near the base of the wings and ballast tanks on the mast, which meant the ships had no balloons, only sails. Faster and lighter, these were the ships that had replaced the Dragon Brigade. The navy stood guard because the palace had minimal defenses. Though the towers and walls were strengthened by magical constructs, they were mainly for decoration. Most of the magic went into keeping the palace up in the air. The warships and the palace guards, mounted on wyverns, patrolled the perimeter, turning away those who did not have business with the royal court.

A series of buoys, marked with different colored flags, floated in the sky, forming lanes through which carriages were funneled. The large and splendid carriages of the nobility, sometimes drawn by as many as four wyverns, entered one lane. Delivery vehicles entered another. Hired hacks traveled yet another. Stephano’s carriage took its place in line with those.

When they reached the arrival point, a palace guard looked inside the carriage and, recognizing Rodrigo, exchanged a few pleasantries and waved them on. The carriage flew to the entrance and dropped down onto the open-air paved courtyard. The wyvern rested, tucking its head beneath its wing. The driver dismounted and lowered the steps. Rodrigo and Stephano descended. Rodrigo paid the driver, who touched his hand to his hat and, prodding the wyvern into flight, sailed off.

A line of footmen stood waiting at the entrance to greet visitors and escort them into the palace, taking them where they were supposed to go, prohibiting them (politely) from going where they weren’t wanted, and generally keeping people from getting lost. The palace had over four hundred rooms and a confusing number of hallways and staircases and corridors, and even Rodrigo, who visited the palace two or three days a week, found the footmen helpful.

Stephano mentioned the name of the Countess de Marjolaine and showed the footman her letter with her seal. The footman nodded and started out.

“I’ll come with you,” said Rodrigo.

“To make sure I go through with this?” Stephano growled.

“Yes. And I have nothing better to do until the royal levee, which is later this morning,” said Rodrigo.

The halls of the palace were wide and spacious with wood-beam ceilings and parquet floors. Paintings, colorful tapestries, and deer with immense racks of antlers adorned the walls. Suits of armor from bygone days stood in niches in the walls.

“Hollow knights with no heads,” remarked Stephano. “How fitting.”

“Do keep your voice down,” said Rodrigo.

Three young ladies of the court, dressed in colorful satin gowns, with the hems pinned up to reveal their decorated petticoats; long, pointed bodices and dropped shoulders entered the gallery from one of the staircases. At the sight of Rodrigo and Stephano, the young women raised their fans and drew together, laughing and whispering to each other.

Rodrigo “made a leg” as the saying went, placing one foot before the other and giving a graceful bow. The young women curtsied. Rodrigo offered to introduce them to his friend, “Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen.” The young women curtsied again, clearly in admiration of the handsome captain. Stephano removed his hat and gave a stiff bow and then stood fuming with impatience while Rodrigo exchanged flirtatious banter.

“I have an appointment,” said Stephano abruptly, interrupting one of the women. “If you will excuse me-”

He bowed again, turned on his heel and walked off. Behind him, he could hear Rodrigo apologizing and the low voices of the women talking behind their fluttering fans.

“That was the wife of the Count of Galiar you just insulted,” said Rodrigo, catching up with his friend. “I smoothed things over. Told her you were perishing of a broken heart. I fancy from the way she looked at you that she would like to help you mend it.”

“She seems much more your type,” said Stephano.

“I was in love with her once,” said Rodrigo in the sorrowful tones he always used when speaking of his past amours. “I was on the verge of proposing, but then she married the count.”

Rodrigo was always falling in love and always on the verge of marrying, but the women with whom he was always falling in love always ended up marrying counts or barons or dukes or earls-anyone besides Rodrigo. He maintained that he was unlucky at love. Stephano wondered, not for the first time, if his friend was unlucky or remarkably adroit.

The Countess de Marjolaine had a suite of rooms in one wing of the palace. Although she was no longer the king’s mistress, the countess remained King Alaric’s most trusted adviser and confidante. She wielded great power and was respected and flattered, hated and feared.

The countess’ suite was furnished with exquisite taste and every luxury, all paid for by herself. She was one of the wealthiest landowners in the kingdom and made it a point of pride to never accept money from His Majesty or anyone else. Stephano and Rodrigo were admitted to the countess’ antechamber by a footman wearing a royal blue velvet coat, lace, satin, and silk stockings. Petitioners and favor-seekers sat on curved divans and chairs, decorated with the countess’ bumblebee, waiting their turn to be ushered into her presence. Two noblemen, whom Stephano did not recognize, lounged in a corner, exchanging idle gossip. They stopped their talk long enough to stare in a haughty, challenging manner at Stephano, who stared back at them just as haughtily.

Stephano gave his name and presented the countess’ note to the footman, who bowed and took it to a young man seated at a desk before the door to the countess’ audience room. The young man-the countess’ secretary-looked at the note, looked at Stephano, and said crisply, “Lord Captain de Guichen, please be seated. I will let you know when the countess is at liberty to receive you.”

With a gesture, the young man indicated one of the divans. Stephano noticed that, at the sound of his name, the two lordlings in the corner inclined their heads together and started whispering. Stephano guessed that the countess’ bastard son was the subject of their conversation, and his face burned. He put his hand on the hilt of his rapier and took a step toward them. Rodrigo plucked his sleeve.

“They’re nobodies, my friend,” he said. “Hoping for a favorable glance from your mother, which they won’t get, no matter how many hours they wait here. Don’t waste your time.”

Stephano was annoyed. “I will not wait here with my mother’s flunkies and ass-lickers for hours until she deigns to receive me. She stated our appointment was for nine. It is now nine. I’m going inside.”

“If you try to barge through the door, the secretary will summon the footmen, who will throw you out. You see that one footman-the big brute with the shoulders whose velvet coat is starting to split at the seams? He was once a professional bear-wrestler. We can’t afford to make your mother angry by starting a row in her chambers.”

“Then I won’t stay-”

“Yes, you will. Leave it to Rigo. I deal with the secretary. You slip inside.”

Rodrigo walked up to the secretary’s desk and perched his rump familiarly on one corner. The secretary had been writing down numbers in a ledger. Shocked at such rude behavior, he looked up.

“Do you want something, sir?” the secretary said in a frozen tone.

“I have a wager I’m hoping you can settle, sir,” said Rodrigo in loud and affable tones.

He had by now attracted the attention of everyone in the room, footmen included. Stephano sidled closer to the door and rested his hand, covered by the lace on his sleeves, on the door handle and jiggled it. The handle gave slightly. The door was not locked.

“I have wagered that you are a fourth son,” Rodrigo went on. He shook his head. “Not even a church appointment for you, eh? Not worth the family spending the money on, I suppose. The most you can hope for is to do menial work for a great lord or lady.”

The young man flushed and rose irately to his feet.

“I will have you know I am the son of Viscount Telorind-”

“Fourth son?”

“Well, yes,” the young man admitted.

“And you’re new to court?”

“I have been here a month-”

“Ah!” said Rodrigo with a knowing look. “That explains a lot. You think you were sent here to learn the ways of court. In truth, you are here as a guarantee for your father’s good behavior, so that His Majesty can keep his eye on him.”

Rodrigo leaned forward, as if in confidence. “I’ll make another wager. All your correspondence to and from home is being intercepted and read-”

The young man gasped and began to sputter. Everyone in the antechamber was chuckling. No one was paying attention to Stephano, who pressed on the handle, opened the door, and slid inside. He shut the door on the rising voices behind him and advanced into his mother’s audience room, which was like her: quiet, refined, cool, and elegant.

A woman sat behind a desk containing a number of leather-bound ledgers and other papers. She was holding a lorgnette in front of her eyes to peruse one of the papers, a slight frown creasing her forehead. Opposite her, on the other side of the desk, Dargent sat, taking notes in a small book. The countess must have heard the door, but she did not look up. Dargent glanced around and, seeing Stephano, said something to her in a low voice.

The countess continued to read a moment longer, then she lowered the paper and the lorgnette and, without a glance at Stephano, proceeded to give instructions to Dargent, who noted them down in his book. Unlike many women in her position, who gave over control of their wealth to male relatives or trusted advisers, the countess managed her estate and business concerns. The instructions she was giving Dargent had something to do with the felling and sale of timber on her land. Stephano was angry and embarrassed at being ignored and he had difficulty hearing what she said through the blood pounding in his ears.

At last, her business concluded, the countess handed Dargent the paper and nodded her head in dismissal. Dargent rose to his feet, bowed to the countess and inclined his head to Stephano, then exited the room through another doorway. The countess turned her gaze upon Stephano.

“You were not summoned,” she said in mild reproof. “What have you done to my secretary? Sliced him into bits?”

The door flew open and the flustered young man burst inside. “Madame, I am sorry! I did not see the captain enter. Here, you, sir-”

The secretary reached out his hand to grab hold of the interloper and drag him out. Stephano stopped the man with a look.

The countess glanced past the secretary’s shoulder and saw Rodrigo smiling from the antechamber. He placed his hand on his heart, bowed low. The countess gave a deep sigh.

“Thank you, Emil,” she said to her secretary. “Remind me to teach you how not to be an idiot. That will be all.”

Blushing, the young man cast a furious glance at Stephano, then withdrew. Rodrigo gave a wave to Stephano and mouthed the words, “Pays well!” Emil shut the door and Stephano and his mother were alone.

Stephano gave a mocking, servile bow. “I am here, Madame, your indentured servant, come to work off my debt.”

“Don’t be more of an ass than you can help, my son,” said the countess. “I find it so tiresome.”

She made a commanding gesture. “Fetch my scarf. We are going to take a turn about the garden.”

“Fetch your own damn scarf. I am not your lady’s maid,” said Stephano angrily. “And we will talk about this here and now-”

The countess fixed her lustrous blue-gray eyes upon her son. “I said we will take a turn in the garden. Now hand me my scarf.”

Stephano swallowed his wrath. He snatched up the lace scarf-made of lamb’s wool, delicate as cobweb-and flung it over his mother’s shoulders.

“If I refuse to undertake this job, will you really send me to debtor’s prison, Mother?”

The countess raised a delicate eyebrow, gave a delicate shrug, and said coolly, “Don’t ask stupid questions, my son.”