Shadow Raiders

Chapter Four

STEPHANO HAD MANAGED BY A GREAT DEAL of self-control to avoid running his rapier through the insufferable little twit of a secretary and been provided with funds for the work ahead. He was now free to leave the palace and he would have done so immediately, except he couldn’t find Rodrigo. After an hour’s searching, he and a footman discovered his friend in the music room, playing the clavichord in his usual whimsical manner for numerous laughing silk-and-satined, perfumed-and-rouged female admirers.

Rodrigo was a very talented musician and he could have won fame as a performer and composer if he’d worked at it. As with his crafting of magic, he couldn’t be bothered. Running his fingers over the keys, he played snippets of popular compositions, adding some of his own, interspersing his playing with lively tidbits of scandal and gossip.

Stephano did not want to enter the room, for he knew if he did, he’d be trapped into socializing. He stood in the doorway, making emphatic gestures until Rodrigo caught sight of him and ceased playing, much to the disappointment of the ladies. Rodrigo paid charming compliments, kissed all the bejeweled hands, made promises to dine with at least half of them, and at last escaped.

Rodrigo’s first question, the moment he and Stephano were alone, was, “Did you get the money?”

“I had to wait in my mother’s antechamber and hold my tongue while that bastard Emil informed me and everyone else in the room that my mother was paying my debts,” said Stephano, still fuming. “Then he made a grand show of counting out the silver! Even the footmen were snickering. And I wasn’t the one who insulted him! You were the one who sneered at him for being a fourth son!”

“True, but that’s not important. I am a third son and look how well I turned out. What is important is-did you get the money?” Rodrigo asked again.

“After I was thoroughly humiliated,” said Stephano grimly. “I have the letters of mark from our debtors, which are now all paid off in my pocket and fifty silver rosuns for our expenses.”

“Excellent,” said Rodrigo, with a sigh of relief. He ushered his friend through the long gallery of gleaming rosewood and black-and-white marble, decorated with landscape paintings by famous artists. At the end, a staircase led them toward an exit. “Now that we are in funds, I suggest we celebrate with a bottle of claret at some small, but elegant cafe, and you can tell me about the job.”

“I’ll tell you about the job on the way home so that I can take off this bloody cravat. I feel like I’m being strangled,” Stephano grumbled, tugging at the offending object.

A footman summoned one of the wyvern-drawn carriages. Once inside, Stephano explained the situation regarding the mysterious disappearance of Pietro Alcazar. Stephano kept his voice low, despite the fact that with the wind rushing in his ears, the driver was unlikely to hear anything short of a shout. The information was sensitive enough that Stephano did not want to take any chances. Rodrigo had to lean close to hear him.

At the conclusion, Stephano added, with a shrug, “The job seems simple enough. We search Alcazar’s rooms, report back to my mother, and no more debts.”

“The simplicity is what worries me,” said Rodrigo. “The countess is paying us a large sum for doing nothing more than instituting a search for some wayward journeyman? Doesn’t make sense. Your mother, unlike her son, is an astute businesswoman.”

“My mother is not paying us for the search,” said Stephano dryly. “She’s paying us for our silence.”

“Ah, of course. Well, as you say, a simple little job.” Rodrigo settled back in his seat.

“A simple little job,” Stephano echoed, as he thankfully pulled off the cravat.

Stephano and Rodrigo dismissed the carriage, changed into more comfortable (and less ostentatious) clothing and then walked to their destination-the lodgings of Pietro Alcazar, which turned out to be only a few miles from their dwelling. The Street of the Half Moon was located in the central part of the city of Evreux in a neighborhood that had once been fashionable, its large homes formerly occupied by wealthy merchants and minor nobility. As the city expanded and its population grew, the wealthy abandoned the city center, removing to the outskirts, away from the crime and noise and press of people. Since nature abhors a vacuum, less well-to-do people moved to Half Moon Street, taking over the large dwellings and turning them into boarding houses. Homes that had once housed a single family were now occupied by ten.

The residents of the Street of the Half Moon liked to pride themselves on their genteel roots. A worthy matron married to a greengrocer would tell friends she lived in “Lord So-and-So’s” mansion in a tone that implied she was His Lordship’s invited guest, staying a month or two for the hunting season.

A major thoroughfare, the Street of the Half Moon was crowded with horse-drawn carriages, cabs, wagons and riders. Wyvern-drawn carriages sailed in the air above the chimney tops and airships, with their colorful balloons, floated up among the clouds. People thronged the sidewalks, going in and out of the shops that occupied the lower floors of most of the buildings. Women sat gossiping on the steps. Children and dogs were everywhere. Cats curled up in windows, blinking sleepily in the midday sun.

The people of Half Moon Street were generally in a good mood, Stephano noted. The children were loud and boisterous and appeared well fed and as clean as could be expected of twelve year olds playing at stickball in the alleys.

If Stephano and Rodrigo had appeared on the Street of the Half Moon dressed in their court clothes, they would have attracted notice and received a cool reception. Stephano was once more in his comfortable coat of dragon green with its tailored military cut, and Rodrigo, dressed in an open-collared, flowing sleeved shirt and loose-fitting coat of a soft fawn color, looked like either an artist or a poet.

The two encountered some difficulty finding the address, 127 Half Moon Street, not because people were reluctant to speak to them, but because everyone they asked had a different idea of where it was located. They received a wide variety of answers and wandered up and down the street to no avail, until Rodrigo stopped to visit with an elderly woman, dressed all in black, who stated firmly that the house was located in a court across from the Church of Saint Michelle. The elderly woman knew this because she attended services at the church twice a day, morning and evening, and she passed the address on her way.

Stephano and Rodrigo walked toward the small neighborhood church. Passing a tavern, they thought they might find out information about Alcazar from the locals and entered. The patrons, gathered inside for a midday “wet,” greeted the two affably enough. Stephano bought a pint for himself and Rodrigo and one for the bartender as was customary.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” said Stephano, speaking to the bartender. “He and I were in the king’s service together. A man named Pietro Alcazar. I thought perhaps he might do his drinking here.”

The bartender shook his head. He had never heard of Alcazar; neither had any of the other patrons. Stephano thanked the bartender. Finishing their pints, he and Rodrigo went back out onto the street.

“Apparently he isn’t a tippler,” said Rodrigo.

“Douver claimed Alcazar didn’t overindulge, but it never hurts to check.” Stephano looked up and down the street. “This is the most likely tavern for him to frequent. There’s the Church of Saint Michelle, complete with statue. If your widow is right, the address is somewhere around here.”

“She said it was located in an inner court and that the building was a neighborhood disgrace,” Rodrigo stated, peering about. “Ah! I believe that is it! No wonder we missed it.”

The four-story brick boarding house was set so far back from the street as to almost completely escape notice. Constructed in the shape of a “U,” the building featured a courtyard protected by a wrought-iron fence with a gate in front. The dwelling had probably once belonged to a wealthy man who had liked his privacy.

Whoever owned the building now had not kept it up. The courtyard was dark and filled with dead leaves and trash. The wrought-iron gate had no lock, and several children were taking turns swinging on it. The rusted hinges gave off a shrill screeching sound that seemed to go right through Stephano’s teeth.

“I thought journeymen smiths in the Royal Armory were paid well,” Rodrigo said, eyeing the building with disgust.

“They’re paid very well,” said Stephano. “Alcazar would have been paid better than most, since he was a valued employee. He wasn’t married. He didn’t have twelve children to feed or an aged mother to support. He could have afforded to live some place better than this.”

The two waited until a wagon loaded with barrels had rumbled past, then crossed the street. Stephano took careful note of the surroundings, observing who was coming and going. Three women carrying empty baskets emerged from the building. One of the women stopped to speak to the gate-swinging children, then the three matrons, chattering loudly, continued on their way. Four boys in their teens were kicking a ball against the wall at the corner of the building.

Across the street was the church. A priest stood on the church steps, chatting with an ordinary-looking fellow, dressed like a clerk. A drunk in filthy clothes with a slouch hat pulled over his face was either asleep or had passed out on a bench beneath a statue of Saint Michelle. Several young blades rode past on horseback, talking loudly and ogling a young woman walking toward the church. A man in an apron pushing a handcart loaded with vegetables headed in the opposite direction.

While Stephano kept watch on the street, Rodrigo went to speak to the children. He pulled a copper coin out of his purse and tossed it into the air, so that it flashed in the sunlight, then deftly caught it with a snap and held it up. The children immediately clustered around him.

“I’m looking for someone, and I’ll give this bright penny to the smart lad or lass who can help me find him. I’ve been told he lives here.”

“Who you lookin’ for, Mister?” asked a boy, the tallest and probably the oldest.

“His name is Pietro Alcazar,” said Rodrigo.

Stephano glanced around at the people within earshot, to see if the name had any effect. The boys playing ball paid no attention. Neither did the young woman or the priest or the clerk. The drunk lying on the bench stirred, however. The man moved his arm, which had been over his head, lowering it to his chest. Stephano watched him closely, but it seemed the drunk was merely shifting to a more comfortable position. He settled the slouch hat over his face and folded his arms and did not move again.

“What do you want with Monsieur Alcazar?” the boy was asking. “Does he owe you money?”

Rodrigo and Stephano exchanged glances.

“Does he owe a lot of people money?” Rodrigo asked.

“My papa says he owes the wrong people money,” stated the boy with a worldly-wise air.

“Monsieur Alcazar plays with rats,” added a little girl, her eyes huge.

“He does what?” Rodrigo asked, startled.

“He plays baccarat,” said Stephano, translating.

“Ah, yes, that would make sense,” said Rodrigo, relieved. “Thank you, my friends.” He handed the boy a coin and another for the little girl. “Now, which is his lodging.”

“I’ll show you!” said another boy, hoping for a copper of his own. “It’s up the stairs.”

The children began to pull Rodrigo into the dark and dismal courtyard.

“He’s not there, though,” added the older boy. “The door’s busted. Someone took him away in the night.”

“He was carried off by demons,” said the little girl. “Demons took him to the Bad Place because playing with rats is wicked.”

“What an astonishing imagination that child has,” Rodrigo said in a low voice to Stephano. “She quite frightens me.”

The children eagerly related the story, which was apparently the talk of the neighborhood. None of the children had actually seen the demons, much to their disappointment. The interesting event had happened well past their bedtimes. But the children all agreed there had been a “terrible fight.” According to the oldest boy, a neighbor down the hall from Monsieur Alcazar had actually seen the demons in the act of carrying off the poor journeyman.

“I think we should have a talk with this neighbor,” said Rodrigo quietly, and Stephano nodded.

The courtyard was dark, the stairs were darker. Accompanied by the children, Rodrigo began to grope his way up the stairs. Stephano lingered in the courtyard a moment, seeing if anyone was interested. At first he saw no one and was ready to join his friend. He had set his foot on the lower stair, when he saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over his shoulder back out into the street. The drunk with the slouch hat, who had been asleep on the bench, was now very much awake, standing in front of the iron gate and peering intently inside the courtyard.

The drunk caught sight of Stephano, tugged on his hat, slurred, “ ‘Afternoon, Guvnor,” and lounged off.

“Go on, Rigo! I’ll catch up with you,” Stephano called and ran back through the wrought-iron gate in pursuit of the drunk.

Stephano reached Half Moon Street in time to see the drunk in the slouch hat running down the street with a marked and fluid grace that reminded Stephano of a jongleur or an acrobat. Slouch Hat was no longer drunk either, apparently, for he motioned to a hackney cab that might have been waiting for him and hopped into it quite nimbly. The driver whipped the horses, and the cab drove off in haste.

“Now that’s odd,” muttered Stephano. “Damn odd.”

He looked up and down the street and saw lots of people, but no one else who appeared to have a particular interest in 127 Street of the Half Moon. He went back through the gate, entered the courtyard, and was proceeding up the stairs, when he was almost swept away by a flood of children coming down. Rodrigo had been generous with his coppers and the children were running off in high glee to the local baker to buy penny buns.

Alcazar’s lodging consisted of a bedroom and a sitting room. Stephano found Rodrigo examining the lock to the door that had, according to the children, been “busted.” The strike plate, which was lying on the floor, was still affixed to a portion of the wall that had broken off when the door had been violently kicked in. Rodrigo crouched down to examine the plate, regarding it intently.

“Someone was keeping an eye on us,” said Stephano “That drunk in the slouch hat asleep on the bench. He woke up in a hurry, seemingly. As you were going up the stairs, I caught him nosing around outside the gate.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

Stephano shook his head. “He had a hat pulled over his face. He ran off when he saw me. I went after him, thinking I’d ask him what he found so damn fascinating about this place. But before I could catch him, he hailed a cab and drove away. Looked to me like the cab was waiting for him. So what do you find so interesting about this lock? Looks ordinary to me.”

“It is an ordinary lock,” said Rodrigo. “Or it would be, if it had not been imbued with magic.”

God breathed magic into everything in the world, “from mountains to molehills, men to mice” as the catechism states. Some people have the ability to see the magic, control it, guide it, construct it. These people are known as crafters, and Rodrigo was one of the best. Completely lacking in any magical talent, Stephano had always been fascinated and a little envious of Rodrigo’s skill as a crafter and had never been able to understand his friend’s lighthearted, flippant attitude toward his magic.

“You waste your time on frivolous pursuits,” Stephano had said in exasperation after Rodrigo had been thrown out of the University for innumerable sins, among which were smuggling women into his room at night; advancing the theory that the Breath did not come from God’s mouth, but could be produced by mixing together the right chemicals; and, the coup-de-grace, using his magic to cause the bishop’s miter to float off his head during a service to celebrate All Saints’ Day. The miter had gone sailing about the sanctuary, much to the glee of the assembly, and Rodrigo had been expelled.

“There are men who would kill to have your power,” Stephano had told his friend.

“That’s just the point, Stephano,” Rodrigo had replied with unusual gravity. “Men would kill.”

He had refused to elaborate, and had gone on to make some jest of it. But Stephano had remained convinced that for once in his life, his friend had been in earnest.

Rodrigo passed his hand several times over the strike plate, taking care not to touch it.

“As you will observe,” he said to Stephano, “the locking apparatus is quite simple, consisting of a metal strike plate affixed to the doorjamb with a hole for the bolt, which is attached to the door. Shut the door, slide the bolt, the door is locked. But Alcazar did not put much trust in his neighbors. See that?”

Beneath Rodrigo’s hand, the strike plate began to glow faintly.

“I see light,” said Stephano.

“You see light. I see sigils,” said Rodrigo. “Burning with the magic. One sigil here and one here and one here, forming a construct, with lines of magical energy connecting them. The magic strengthens the metal. Ah, and look at this.”

He murmured a word and the glow grew brighter.

“Another layer of protection underneath,” said Rodrigo with satisfaction. “You could hit this lock with a hammer, my friend, and it would only dent it.”

“Too bad Alcazar didn’t think to strengthen the wall with magic,” said Stephano, noting the splintered wood on the floor. “A lock is only as strong as the surface to which it is attached. People tend to forget that. A couple of good, hard kicks to the door, and you rip the strike plate right off the wall.”

The two of them entered the sitting room. Stephano glanced at the peeling paint and the cracks in the walls and shook his head.

“Alcazar must not be a very good baccarat player. I’ll take the bedroom. You search this room.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Rodrigo.

“Some clue as to what Alcazar was working on in the Armory and who snatched him and why-”

“The children claim it was demons. I see no cloven hoofprints,” said Rodrigo. He sniffed the air. “Though perhaps I detect the faintest whiff of brimstone… Or is it boiled cabbage?”

“Be serious,” Stephano said irritably.

He was suddenly sorry he’d taken on this job. He didn’t like prying into the life of another man, especially when it appeared the life of this man had been a sordid and unhappy one.

“The little girl was right about him being carried off by demons,” Stephano said to himself as he entered the shabby bedroom. “Demons of his own making.”

The only article of furniture was a bed and a portmanteau on top of which stood a broken porcelain bowl and a water pitcher missing its handle. Alcazar had been smart not to trust his neighbors, who had apparently ransacked the place in his absence. The bed had been stripped of bed linens and blankets. The portmanteau was empty. If there had been a rug, it was gone.

Stephano stomped his foot on the floorboards, but heard no hollow sound. No loose boards suggesting a secret hiding place. He upended the portmanteau, found no false bottom. Nothing had been hidden under the bed or stuffed inside the straw mattress.

“No luck,” he said, returning to the sitting room. “Strange that there’s no blood.”

“Why is that strange?” Rodrigo asked. His voice was muffled. He was on his hands and knees and had his head in the fireplace.

“Well, let’s say that Alcazar is overly fond of playing baccarat. Unfortunately, he loses more than he wins and ends up owing money to the wrong men, as that astute little boy suggested. These bad men come to the collect the debt or at least to impress upon Alcazar that he should pay up quickly.”

“The sort of work our friend, Dag, used to do for a living,” said Rodrigo, craning his neck to peer up the flue.

“They would have beat him up, bloodied his nose, punched him in the gut a few times, maybe cracked a couple of ribs. That’s what these sort of debt collectors do.”

Rodrigo sat back on his heels. “But instead of collecting a debt, they collected Alcazar. Maybe they’re holding him for ransom.”

“Not likely. According to my mother, who heard it from Douver, Alcazar has no relations except a brother who is a merchant sailor in Westfirth.”

Stephano shook his head. “I hate to admit it, but it seems my mother is right. Alcazar was snatched because someone thinks he devised a way to use magic to strengthen metal. What was so fascinating about the fireplace?”

Rodrigo rose to his feet, brushed off his breeches, and pointed to the grate. “You’ll note that piece of paper. It seems either Alcazar or someone else tried to burn it, but was in too much haste to do the job well.”

Stephano bent over to take a closer look.

“The person tossed the letter onto the fire in the grate thinking it would go up in flames,” Rodrigo continued. “But it was nighttime. Alcazar had gone to bed and allowed the fire to die down. The paper landed on coals that were hot enough to sear the center of the sheet, but not hot enough to destroy the paper completely. The person burning the letter either fled or was dragged off before making certain that the fire had done its work.”

“I don’t see how this helps,” said Stephano. “All that’s left of the paper are the corners and they’re blank. The rest is nothing but ash.”

“Never underestimate my incredible ability to snoop about where I’m not wanted,” said Rodrigo cheerfully. “I need pen and ink and paper.”

“If Alcazar ever had such things, they’re not here now,” said Stephano, glancing about.

“Oh, he had them,” Rodrigo stated. “Note the ink splotches on the table. He was a learned man, our Alcazar. You can see traces in the dust on those shelves where he kept books. And he played baccarat, albeit poorly, since he appears to have lost more than he won. I played baccarat myself in University, as do many students. My guess is that he attended University himself, at least for a short time.”

Rodrigo took one final look around. “Nothing more here. I think it is time we paid a visit to the neighbor. Are you armed? It might be well to take precautions.”

Stephano drew a short-barreled pistol from inside his coat. The gun had been a gift from his godfather, Sir Ander Martel, and was one of Stephano’s most prized possessions. The gun was unique in design and had been a present on the occasion of his twelfth birthday. The barrel was cast in the form of a dragon; wings swept back, as though the creature was diving. The clawed hands and feet wrapped around the silver inlaid stock. The dragon’s tail created the spine of the handle. The gun was one of a matched pair; the other belonging to Sir Ander.

Stephano and Rodrigo walked down the dismal hall, heading toward a door at the far end. The door was opened a crack, allowing a shaft of dusty sunlight to creep out of the room and into the hall. Whoever was inside was watching them. At their approach, the door shut, the sunlight vanished.

Rodrigo glanced at Stephano, who nodded to indicate he was ready. Rodrigo rapped smartly on the door.

Silence. Rodrigo rapped again.

“What do you want?” came a woman’s voice.

“Just a friendly chat about my poor friend, Pietro Alcazar. He seems to have gone missing,” said Rodrigo in plaintive tones. “I have some questions. Nothing alarming, I assure you, Madame. I will make it worth your while.”

The door opened an inch. The woman peered out. Rodrigo held up a coin, this one of silver. Her eyes widened. She drew back the door, revealing a broom, which she was clutching in a threatening manner.

“You can put down the weapon, Madame,” said Rodrigo.

Stephano looked past her. A little girl, a baby in her arms, crouched under a table. He didn’t see anyone else.

“Is your good man at home?”

“He’s my man, but there ain’t nothin’ good about him,” said the woman, sniffing. She lowered the broom. “If you want him, you’ll find him in the tavern, drinking with his layabout friends.”

Stephano returned his gun to his pocket.

The woman’s eyes were on the silver coin. “He don’t know nothin’ anyway. I was the one who saw ’em.”

“Saw who?” Rodrigo asked.

“Them as took your friend away.”

“If you could tell me about that night…”

The woman snatched the coin, stuffed it into her bosom, and told her story.

She had been awakened by a loud bang and a splintering crash, sounds of a scuffle, thumps and bumpings, and what she thought was a muffled cry for help. She had tried to wake her husband, but he had been dead drunk and had only grunted and rolled over.

Fearing for the safety of her children, the woman had grabbed up the broom in order to fight off whatever villains she might encounter. She opened the door a crack, and saw two men, clad all in black, descending the stairs at a rapid pace. She heard more thumps and bangs from the apartment, and then two more men emerged. One of the men carried a dark lantern and, by its light, she saw him holding another man by the arm, forcing him down the stairs.

She had waited a moment longer, but, seeing nothing more to alarm her, she had gone back to her bed. Early the next morning, broom in hand, she had ventured down to Alcazar’s apartment “to find out what had become of the poor man.” She had discovered the door open and a scene of destruction.

“Furniture tipped over, books scattered about, clothes strewn all over the floor…”

She was relating all this with relish when a thought suddenly occurred to her. She clamped her mouth shut and started to slam the door. Rodrigo blocked it with his foot.

“You’ve been extremely helpful, Madame,” he said. “I was wondering if I could borrow a sheet of paper, a pen, and some ink.”

“As if I would have the like!” returned the woman, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge Rodrigo’s foot by poking him with the broom handle. “For one, I can’t read nor write. For two, paper and ink is dear-”

“But Pietro Alcazar had such things,” said Rodrigo, keeping his foot in the door. “You were the first in his apartment. I was thinking that perhaps you might have taken his books and his clothes and linens-”

“I never!” cried the woman angrily.

“-for safekeeping,” Rodrigo finished in soothing tones. “So that no unscrupulous person would steal them, perhaps sell them at the pawn shop…”

“They would be worth a lot of money,” said the woman, her eyes on Rigo’s purse.

Rodrigo produced another silver coin and held it just out of her reach. “Paper, pen, and ink. You can keep the rest.”

The woman wavered a moment. Rodrigo removed his foot from the door. She shut it and they heard her walk off.

“We’re not made of silver, you know,” said Stephano testily.

“Something tells me this will be worth it,” said Rodrigo.

The door opened. The woman handed out several pieces of paper, a pen, and a pewter inkwell. Rodrigo gave her the silver coin. She took it and slammed the door shut.

Rodrigo and Stephano returned to Alcazar’s lodgings.

“It does look as if he was snatched,” said Stephano. “By professionals, at that.”

“Let us see what this letter has to tell us,” said Rodrigo. “If you could shut the door-or what’s left of it. And we will shove the table up against it to prevent any intrusion by broom-wielding neighbors.”

Rodrigo sat down cross-legged on the floor. He placed one of the blank pieces of paper the woman had supplied on the floor in front of him. Dipping the pen in the ink, he drew four sigils on the page: one at the top, one on either side, and one at the bottom. He then drew a line connecting each sigil, one to the other.

“What exactly is this going to do?” Stephano asked.

Rodrigo picked up the page and scooted closer to the fireplace. “The partially destroyed letter has two separate components: the ink and the paper on which the ink resides. If this spell works as planned, the magical construct I have crafted on my piece of paper should gently pull the ink from the burnt paper and transfer it to my sheet.”

“Do you think it will work?” Stephano asked.

“I have no idea. Wind coming down the flue broke up the burnt paper, but we might still be able to read something. The one major problem is that the spell will destroy what’s left of the original.”

“So we have only one shot,” Stephano said. “Just out of curiosity, where did you learn to cast a spell like this? I don’t suppose reading burnt letters was part of the University curriculum.”

Rodrigo smiled. “We both have the weapons we need to fight our battles, my friend. In the circles I frequent, information can be more explosive than gunpowder. Now, please be silent and let me concentrate.”

Rodrigo held the page with the construct above the remains of the letter and focused his thoughts on the magic. His eyes closed to slits. His breathing slowed. He touched each of the sigils he had drawn on the paper, tracing them with his finger. After he had gone over all four of them, the constructs began to glow. The black ink shone with a golden light.

Rodrigo placed the glowing paper directly over the burnt paper in the grate. The two merged, the glowing paper seeming to absorb the burnt letter-ashes and all. The glow faded away. His paper rested on the cold stone of the hearth. The burnt letter was gone.

“Let us see what we have.” Rodrigo gingerly picked up the piece of paper and turned it over. “Damn. I was afraid of this.” He sighed in disappointment.

Stephano leaned over his shoulder. Very little had been salvaged. The missive had been brief. He saw a part of a word that began with “au” and another fragment that might have been “eet.” Only two words in the body of the letter were clearly visible: the word “when” and a second word “Westfirth.”

“The letter was signed,” said Rodrigo, holding the paper close to his eyes.

“Can you read it?” Stephano asked.

Rodrigo shook his head. “All that is left are the bottom swoops of the characters. Maybe “ce” or “ca”… I can’t be sure.

“So all we have is ‘when’ and ‘Westfirth,” said Stephano.

“A Rosian city with an unsavory reputation,” said Rodrigo. He struggled unsuccessfully to rise out of his cross-legged position and finally reached out his hand. “Help me, will you? I seem to have lost all the feeling in my right foot.”

Stephano hoisted up his friend, who groaned and hobbled about the room, trying to restore the flow of blood.

“Magic always takes a toll on me,” Rodrigo complained.

“It wasn’t the magic,” said Stephano, unsympathetic. “Your foot went to sleep.”

He stood gazing about the ransacked sitting room, turning things over in his mind.

“Well, that is that,” said Rodrigo. “We’ve learned all we can learn here. Our simple little job is ended. You can report back to your mother, and then we can-”

“No,” said Stephano.

“No, what? You’re not going to report to your mother?”

“Report what?” Stephano said. “That Alcazar was a bad baccarat player? That three men broke into his rooms in the dead of night and took him away? That we found a burnt letter?”

“A letter containing the name of a city known to be a haven for criminals. And you saw someone keeping an eye on this place,” said Rodrigo.

“I saw a man with a slouch hat,” said Stephano. “There are a thousand men with slouch hats in this city, any one of whom might simply have been a drunken gawker who came to view the scene of the crime. I’m sure my mother will be agog with wonder at my investigative skills.”

“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.”