Shadow Raiders

Chapter Thirty

Rule 23. If the cause of the meeting be of such a nature that no apology or explanation can or will be received, the challenged takes his ground, and calls on the challenger to proceed as he chooses; in such cases, firing at pleasure is the usual practice, but may be varied by agreement.

– Codes Duello

SIR HENRY SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFE in his guise as a benign old priest and dunked bread into his beef-and-barley soup with a palsied hand. He liked the disguise mainly because the fake infirmity of a bent spine allowed him to take inches off his height, while his mild and gentle demeanor earned “Father Alfonso” much goodwill from customers and wait staff. Sir Henry had already established the character of the elderly priest in the Four Clovers. He had dined there several times before in this guise, telling the owner in his best Rosian accent that he had traveled to Westfirth from Caltreau to observe the building of the new cathedral.

“I won’t live to see it finished,” he said cheerfully. “But I wanted to see it started.”

The elderly priest had immediately become a favorite. He was given his usual table and a glass of dandelion wine, compliments of the house. At his feet was the worn leather satchel he always carried everywhere with him. He said the satchel contained notes on a biography of Saint Stanislaus, notes he would drag out and read during his meal, offering gladly to expound upon the life of the saint if anyone made the mistake of asking. Concealed in the satchel, beneath the pages and pages of documents, was the pewter tankard. Sir Henry carried the tankard with him wherever he went by day and slept with it beneath his mattress at night.

The Four Clovers was known among Sir Henry’s agents as a place where they could meet with him if an emergency arose. The sign was a bunch of clover left at any one of several locations throughout the city. Every agent had his own color of ribbon. A black ribbon around the clover indicated the request for a meeting came from James Harrington, who was supposed to be in Evreux, but who was at this moment now in Westfirth.

Harrington was in his guise as Sir Richard Piefer, wealthy and rakish Freyan nobleman. He doffed his hat and made a graceful bow to a party of three ladies and two gentlemen seated at a table beneath a rose tree. He stared balefully at several Rosian naval officers and gave them a cold bow, which the officers returned just as coldly. Rosia and Freya were nominally at peace, but the wounds from the last war were still raw and bleeding.

Harrington sauntered over to the table near Sir Henry, sat down with a languid air, and adjusted the long and frilly lace at his cuffs so that it would not come into contact with his food. He flirted with the serving girl, who gave the handsome nobleman a sweet smile, and brought him a flagon of red wine.

Harrington then exchanged a friendly greeting with his closest neighbor, the elderly priest, who smiled upon him beatifically. Harrington inquired politely what the priest was studying so intently. Sir Henry asked if the “young gentleman” would be interested in hearing about the life and travails of Saint Stanislaus. Harrington, with a wink for the serving girl, indicated that he would like nothing better.

“But I believe, Father,” said Harrington, “that you have mislaid one of your documents.”

Sir Henry glanced down to see a sheet of paper lying at his feet. The paper was covered with handwriting-not his, Harrington’s. A written report. Henry reached a shaking hand to pick it up. Harrington politely intercepted the elderly man, picked up the report, and gave it to Sir Henry, who felt, hidden beneath the single sheet of paper, a folded, sealed note.

“From Sloan,” Harrington said in a low voice.

Sir Henry knew immediately something was wrong. Sloan, his confidential secretary, would not have risked writing unless the matter was of the utmost importance. Sir Henry’s first concern was for his pregnant young wife. Had something happened to her? He longed to read the note, but he dared not in such a public place. And he needed to know why Harrington was here in Westfirth. Sloan could have sent the letter by courier.

Sir Henry, shuffling and rattling papers, began to ramble on in a cracked voice. He was, in fact, reading the report that Harrington had just handed him. Harrington flung himself back in his chair and drank his wine, affecting to listen. As Sir Henry read, he began to frown. He stammered to a halt, pretending to have lost himself in his notes. Harrington heard the ominous silence and shifted uneasily in his chair and ordered more wine.

“Won’t you join me, my son?” Sir Henry asked with a smile. “I have something here I think will be of interest.”

Harrington did not evince any great pleasure at accepting this invitation, but he did not have much choice. He shifted his chair to the old priest’s table. Sir Henry shuffled papers and leaning close said in a tone of barely controlled fury, “What the Hell were you thinking?”

“I initiated part two of the Braffa scenario as you ordered, sir,” said Harrington. “The assassination of Ambassador de Villeneuve went as planned.”

“Of course it did,” Sir Henry stated coldly. “Because I planned it. I did not plan for you to murder young Valazquez and try to murder the son of the Countess de Marjolaine!”

He flicked his hand at the report. Harrington squirmed, his attitude became defensive. They both stopped talking as the serving girl brought a plate of cheese, grapes, apples, and walnuts and set it down in front of Harrington. He began ripping grapes off their stems and tossing them moodily into the bushes.

“You told me, sir, I was to act on my own if I saw anyone snooping around about Alcazar. When I saw that she-bitch of a countess set her whelp on the trail, I figured you’d want him off it. At the same time, I could remove Villeneuve, who might prove to be a nuisance if he started asking questions about his father’s death. My idea was that a duel involving Villeneuve would have solved everything-take him from the picture and upset the countess’ son. He’d forget he’d ever heard the name Alcazar. That damned imbecile Valazquez ruined everything.”

“Valazquez ruined it,” said Sir Henry.

“Yes,” said Harrington sullenly, hearing the sarcasm. “If he hadn’t gone softhearted-”

“-then you wouldn’t have gone softheaded,” Sir Henry finished.

The elderly priest leaned close to the young nobleman, as if about to enlighten him on a discovery of immense importance about Saint Stanislaus. The old man wore a smile on his lips, but the look in his dark eyes caused Harrington to shove aside his plate and fiddle nervously with his fork.

“Who was the third man?”

“What third man?” Harrington asked uneasily, his eyes on the fork.

Sir Henry referred to the report. “The man who shot at you from the woods, knocking the gun from your hand as you were about to kill the captain.”

Harrington again shrugged. “I assumed he was one of my hired guns who was a bad shot or maybe of the countess’ agents looking after her bastard son. How should I know?”

“It is your business to know,” said Sir Henry. “Especially as you have undoubtedly led this man right to me. He could be sitting in this cafe this moment.”

Harrington looked shocked. “No, sir! I swear to you, sir-”

“Shut up and listen to me.” Sir Henry rattled his papers and held them up to his face and peered over them, concealing his lips.

“Your plan might have succeeded, but you lost your nerve. You have imperiled an operation on which I’ve worked for years, laying the groundwork so that Rosia would be sucked into war over Braffa, expending money and resources while Freya remains neutral. We watch Rosia bleed and when she is weak and gasping, we strike.”

Sir Henry touched the satchel containing the tankard reassuringly with his foot. The time for Freya to strike might be closer than even he had anticipated.

“So much depends on this and now… Now, because of your bungling, the son of my most implacable enemy, who was only moderately interested in Alcazar before you shot at him is now intensely interested in finding him and probably more in finding you! And what do you do? You come straight to me!”

Sir Henry was about to continue when he caught sight of the very man they had been discussing. Stephano de Guichen, accompanied by Rodrigo de Villeneuve, entered the Four Clovers.

Not unnaturally, Sir Henry leaped to the conclusion that Stephano was on the trail of Harrington and that Harrington had led the captain to him. Henry was somewhat comforted by the fact that the captain and his friend appeared astonished to see Harrington. Rodrigo de Villeneuve gaped at Harrington in astonishment and went quite pale. Stephano de Guichen flushed an angry red.

Harrington was sitting with his back to the door and had not seen the two come in. Sir Henry rose to his feet and began hastily gathering up the papers on the table.

“God has an amazing sense of irony, my son,” said the elderly priest.

He thrust the papers into the satchel and pushed back his chair. Bending over Harrington, Henry whispered, “If you survive, you know how to reach me.”

Stephano and Rodrigo had entered the cafe when Stephano saw the three naval officers he’d previously avoided enjoying their after-dinner port. He made a face and started to leave.

“We’ll eat somewhere else,” he said and then he saw Rodrigo’s eyes widen, his face go white. “Rigo! What’s wrong?”

“It’s… him,” said Rodrigo in a strangled voice. “Piefer.”

The patio was filled with people, but Stephano saw only one-the man he knew as Sir Richard Piefer. He was seated at a table with an elderly priest, who was shoving papers into a satchel. The priest had apparently observed the fact that Rodrigo was staring fixedly at his dinner companion, for he said something to him which caused Harrington to shift in his chair.

Harrington saw Stephano and rose to his feet.

The patio was crowded with tables and chairs, some empty, others occupied. A table occupied by several ladies and gentlemen was between Stephano and Sir Richard. The three naval officers were to his right. A group of students was seated at a table near the back and to his left. A fellow who looked like a clerk was seated in the shadows of a hibiscus.

Stephano laid his hand on the hilt of his rapier.

“You, sir! I promised we would meet again!” cried Stephano.

“Are you mad?” Rodrigo gasped. He seized hold of his friend’s arm, trying to prevent him from drawing his weapon. “Leave him alone! They’ll send for the constables-”

“Let them!” Stephano said grimly.

James Harrington cast Stephano a glance of contempt. He began to adjust the lace at his cuffs. “If you have a quarrel with me, sir, let us settle the matter in some less public place.”

Stephano did not see Harrington. He saw young Valazquez, missing his face, lying in a pool of blood. He relived that nightmarish chase through the streets, a bullet in his shoulder. He remembered how near he and his friends had come to sinking into the Breath.

“Stay out of this, Rigo,” said Stephano harshly and he took off his coat, tossed it to the ground, and drew his rapier.

By now, of course, everyone in the cafe was watching. The ladies were whispering in thrilled horror behind their fans. Their gentlemen stood up, looking uncertain. The naval officers had all lowered their glasses of port. One of them tried to intervene.

“Gentlemen, please-”

“This son of a bitch is no gentleman, sir,” Stephano said. “He is an assassin who murdered a man in Evreux and tried to murder me. If one of you will oblige me by calling the constables, I will see to it that he does not escape justice.”

Harrington had been keeping his own hand near his sleeve, smoothing the long lace that fell over his wrist. His hand darted swiftly into the cuff of his coat and came out holding a small pistol.

Stephano saw the flash of sunlight off metal. He stiff-armed Rodrigo, giving him a shove that sent him reeling backward into one of the serving girls. They both went down together with a crash of crockery.

Harrington fired. Stephano ducked. The bullet whistled harmlessly over Stephano’s head and smashed into a post.

The cafe was in an uproar. One of the women fainted. Her companion cried out that she had been shot and then she fainted. The third woman screamed and went into hysterics. The two gentlemen had taken cover under the table, where they were endeavoring to assist the ladies. A serving girl ran to the aid of the elderly priest, who seemed on the verge of collapse, while the other patrons made a mad scramble, overturning chairs and upending tables. The clerk tried to leave, but found his way blocked by an upended table to his right and the naval officers on his left.

The owner of the cafe dodged around Rodrigo, who was floundering amidst broken crockery, and ran into the street, shouting for the constables. People in the street, attracted by the commotion, hurried over to see what was happening, adding to the confusion. The students, having taken cover, were exchanging bets.

Harrington threw down the useless pistol and reached for his sword. Stephano jumped onto a chair, from the chair to a table, and back to the ground, landing in front of Sir Richard. The naval officers had all drawn their weapons and advanced with the intention of trying to stop the fight.

“Stay out of this, gentlemen!” Stephano cried. “This bastard murdered a young nobleman in cold blood and he tried to kill me and my friend in the same cowardly manner. He is mine!”

The naval officers glanced at each other. If Harrington had been a Rosian, they might have stayed to try to prevent bloodshed, but he was a Freyan, and therefore not worth their trouble. The officers thrust their swords back into their sheaths. One of them saluted Stephano, and then they hurriedly left the cafe, well aware that the Constabulary was probably already on the way. Now that the officers were gone, the clerk made his way out from behind the overturned table.

“Sir!” the clerk called to Stephano. “For the love of God, don’t kill him! Wait for the constables!”

Stephano paid no heed, but drove the point of his rapier at Harrington’s throat. Harrington parried, and Stephano managed to nick the man’s chin. Stephano followed with a series of attacks-slash and thrust, moving rapidly, his blade darting and jabbing, trying to force Harrington onto the defensive.

Harrington was a skilled swordsman, however, and all Stephano managed to do was slice open his shoulder. He pressed Harrington, who had the garden wall behind him. Harrington leaped lightly up onto the wall and ran along it, keeping the tables between him and Stephano.

Stephano took hold of a table, pitched it over, and lunged at Harrington, who jumped down off the wall and seized hold of one of the serving girls and flung her into Stephano’s arms. Stephano tried to sidestep in order to miss hitting her, but he was not quick enough. He collided with the girl. Harrington used the advantage to drive his blade through the girl’s upper arm and into Stephano’s left shoulder-the same shoulder that was still stiff and sore from Harrington’s bullet. Pain shot through Stephano’s arm and his hand tingled.

Harrington yanked out his sword and made ready for another strike. The girl collapsed at Stephano’s feet, screaming in pain and terror and further impeding his ability to reach Harrington, who scored a bloody gash down Stephano’s side.

Stephano grabbed a wine glass from a table and flung the contents into Harrington’s eyes, half-blinding him. While Harrington tried to wipe away the stinging wine, Stephano hurled the glass at him. Harrington lifted his arm to block the blow and managed at the same time to parry Stephano’s vicious stab. Stephano sliced through the cloth and into Harrington’s left forearm. The lace at the man’s wrist was immediately drenched in blood. Harrington feinted to the right, fell back, and seized a knife that had been left in a saddle of beef. He threw the knife at Stephano, hitting him in the thigh.

Stephano yanked out the knife and backed up. Blood oozed from the wound, and he flung the bloody knife back at Harrington, more out of rage than with the hope of hitting him. Harrington had to dodge the knife, however, and that gave Stephano a moment’s respite. For a moment, both men stood staring, each calculating the next move.

Blood trickled down Stephano’s leg. His shirt was wet with blood and sticking to his ribs. Harrington was bleeding, too, but only from a few gashes here and there. He smiled. He must think Stephano was nearly finished. He came at him.

Stephano cast what he hoped looked like a panicked glance behind him, as though judging the distance between himself and the exit. He began to retreat, gasping for air, moving slowly, limping heavily. He kept his rapier raised, defending against Harrington’s quick jabs. Stephano, appearing to weaken, let the tip of his blade waver and drop.

Harrington had been waiting for this. His blade slid over Stephano’s, aiming for his heart. Stephano hooked his foot under a fallen stool and kicked it, sending it rolling into his foe. The stool struck Harrington in the shins. He stumbled and fought to keep his balance, but his feet were entangled with the legs of the stool and he fell to his knees.

Stephano attacked while the Freyan was on the ground, hoping to end the fight. Harrington fended off the attack with his sword as he twisted back to his feet with the same feline grace and athleticism that had caused Stephano to place him as the man in the slouch hat. Again, Harrington drove the tip of his blade at Stephano’s heart, turning his wrist so the flat of the blade would slide between his ribs.

Stephano sidestepped and Harrington’s momentum carried him past Stephano, who jabbed his rapier into Harrington’s back. Harrington gasped in shock. He looked down to see the bloody tip of a sword sticking out of his breast.

“Valazquez, I hope you are watching,” said Stephano.

He yanked out the blade and James Harrington fell onto an overturned table, bounced off it and rolled to the ground. He lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, blood dribbling from his mouth.

Stephano fell back, gasping for breath. What with the heat and excitement and loss of blood, he felt suddenly giddy. As he leaned back against a table and tried to keep from passing out, he was vaguely aware of the clerk who had begged him not to kill Harrington kneeling by the corpse. Stephano and he didn’t pay much attention, though he wanted to tell the fellow not to waste his time. Harrington was most certainly dead. He did think it odd that the pudgy man was frantically searching Harrington’s pockets.

The clerk yelled something at Stephano and then jumped to his feet and was gone. Stephano stared after him, wondering if he’d heard right. Before he could react, whistles sounded in the street and Rodrigo was beside him.

“Constables,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”

“Which way?” Stephano asked.

“Over the garden wall,” said Rodrigo. He looked at Stephano’s bleeding leg. “Can you manage?”

“Do I have a choice?” Stephano returned, hobbling along beside his friend.

“This or prison,” said Rodrigo.

The stone wall proved to be more decorative than functional. They clambered over it, Stephano wincing and grunting and Rodrigo doing what he could to help. They floundered through some ornamental hedges, trampled flower beds, and dodged rose trees in tubs.

“First you get shot, now stabbed,” Rodrigo grumbled. “If you’re going to keep this up, I will have to start bringing along a wheelbarrow to haul your sorry ass back home.”

“Don’t make me laugh. My ribs hurt!” Stephano pleaded.

They floundered their way through the park. People stopped to stare at Stephano, who was covered in blood. Such sights were not unusual in Westfirth, however, and most shrugged and went on about their business.

Stephano and Rodrigo emerged from the park onto Haymarket Street, which ran parallel to Threadneedle, and was one of the busiest streets in Westfirth. Rodrigo hailed a cab. A hansom cab rolled to a stop. The driver looked down at Stephano, noted the blood on his clothes, and shook his head.

“He’ll ruin the h’upolstery,” he said indignantly.

Rodrigo looked into the cab, saw that the “h’upolstery” was faded, cracked, ripped, and disgorging stuffing.

“A little blood might be good for it,” he told the driver. “I’ll pay double.”

The driver gave a nod. Rodrigo opened the door and pushed Stephano inside. The driver whipped up the horses before Rodrigo had the door shut, and the cab rattled off through the streets.

“Sorry about your lavender coat,” said Stephano, eyeing the blood smears on the fine fabric.

Rodrigo smiled. “Good thing I just ordered a new one.” He began to inspect his friend’s wounds, opening Stephano’s shirt and peering at them.

“They don’t look very severe to me.”

“What do you know?” Stephano groaned. “My ribs hurt like hell.”

“Don’t be such a baby. The bleeding in your shoulder has stopped. There’s a big gash down your side, but the blade didn’t penetrate to the bone.” Rodrigo took out a handkerchief, wadded it up. “Here, press that against your leg. I’m getting to rather like bandaging wounds. Perhaps I’ll study to be a surgeon.”

Stephano did as ordered and held the handkerchief against the gash in his leg. “Speaking of surgeons, did you see that man kneeling over the body?”

“I didn’t see the body,” Rodrigo answered. “I was trying to reach you, which wasn’t easy, given the fact that I had to wade through a sea of overturned furniture and hysterical women. Why? What did he do?”

“I thought he was trying to save that bastard,” said Stephano. “But then he began to rifle the man’s pockets and he started swearing. I heard him say, ‘You bloody fool, you just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!’ And then he was gone.”

“He mentioned the name Henry Wallace?” Rodrigo asked, astonished. “Did you see what the man looked like?”

“He had on a big hat and a gray cloak,” said Stephano.

“That describes about half the population of Westfirth,” said Rodrigo. He was silent a moment. They were both silent, thinking, and not much liking their thoughts.

Rodrigo spoke first. “I guess we know now that Henry Wallace is here in Westfirth, probably with Alcazar.”

“And I’m guessing Wallace now knows we’re here,” said Stephano. “And that we’re looking for Alcazar.”

“And that someone else is looking for him, too.”

Stephano grinned. “Just as long as they’re not riding giant bats.”

“Amen to that, my friend,” said Rodrigo.

Dubois had never in his life been so frustrated. He had tried to keep sight of the elderly priest, but Wallace had been too quick for him. When Dubois saw one of the serving girls assisting the priest to leave the scene of the fight, he had attempted to go after them, but by then bullets were flying, tables and chairs and stools were in his way, naval officers interfered, swords flashed. When Dubois next looked, the priest had vanished.

Dubois’ only hope had then been to keep track of James Harrington; Captain de Guichen when killed Harrington, all Dubois’ plans and efforts were gone with the jab of a rapier.

Dubois took a chance searching through Harrington’s pockets, with Guichen standing over the body, but Dubois was desperate to find a note or a key or anything that might lead to Sir Henry.

Harrington had nothing on him. Frustrated, Dubois lost his head and gave voice to his anger.

“You are an idiot,” he said furiously to Guichen. “You just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!”

Dubois scuttled out of the cafe, exiting through the rear door just as the constables were entering the front. In the street, Dubois looked about for the elderly priest, but, of course, Sir Henry was long gone.

Dubois sighed and reflected that Captain de Guichen, who was also on the trail of Alcazar, was once again his only hope. Dubois regretted his uncharacteristic outburst in the cafe. He did not often lose his self-possession, but he’d been going for days on little sleep and less food. Dubois rubbed his aching head and plotted his next move.

There was no need to follow Captain Guichen. The man had sailed from Evreux on a Trundler houseboat with his Trundler friends. They would be docked in the Trundler village.

Dubois hailed a cab.