Shadow Raiders

Chapter Five

RETURNING HOME, RODRIGO WENT TO HIS ROOM for an afternoon nap to recover from the fatigues of the day. Stephano sent Benoit to find Beppe, a sharp lad of about twelve.

Stephano had first met Beppe when his mother, who took in laundry, came to collect the clothes to be washed while Beppe tagged along to steal whatever he could lay his hands on. Benoit had caught the boy raiding the larder and was teaching him a lesson with a cane applied to his backside when Stephano, hearing ungodly howling from the kitchen, came to the boy’s rescue.

Foreseeing that Beppe’s current career was likely to land him in prison, Stephano had offered to pay him to run errands. Beppe had proved invaluable. The boy could go anywhere, talk to anyone, eavesdrop, ask questions: all without attracting notice. The boy was friends with Dag and Miri and Gythe (Beppe was desperately in love with Miri) and often did small jobs for them.

Stephano sent Beppe with a message to the sisters who lived on their houseboat, the Cloud Hopper, and another message to Dag in his rooming house near the docks. Stephano gave his instructions to the boy verbally and made him repeat them back.

After Beppe left, Stephano wrote his mother a brief and concise account of everything they had discovered at Alcazar’s apartment. He ended by saying he and the Cadre of the Lost were traveling to the city of Westfirth to follow up on the matter, then rang the bell for Benoit.

The old man came slowly up the stairs, groaning loudly with each step, and leaning heavily on his cane. He limped into the room.

“I have a letter I want you to deliver,” said Stephano. Folding the letter, he dropped melted wax on the page and dipped his signet ring with its symbol of a tiny dragon into the melted wax.

Benoit gave another groan. “I’m sure I would be happy to do your bidding, sir, if I weren’t in such constant misery that I can scarcely move a step-”

“You’re to take the letter to the Countess de Marjolaine in the Royal Palace,” said Stephano.

Benoit stopped groaning. His eyes gleamed. He stood up straight, smoothed back his long gray hair, and straightened his jacket.

“It will be hard on me, but I will undertake to make the sacrifice, sir.”

“I thought you might,” said Stephano wryly.

Benoit loved visiting the royal court. A trip to the palace brought back fond memories of times gone by. He would find time to dine with his friends in the servants’ quarters, hear the latest below-stairs gossip. He stood his cane in the corner and reached for the letter.

Stephano eyed the old man. “What about your constant misery? I can send someone else-”

“Do not give my suffering a second thought, sir,” said Benoit. “I would never dream of permitting my failing health to stand in the way of my duty to you.”

Stephano hid his smile and handed the old man the letter. “Here’s money for a carriage. Give the letter into the hands of the Countess de Marjolaine, not that popinjay of a secretary.”

Stephano had no fear Benoit would give the letter to anyone except the countess, who always rewarded him most handsomely.

“The countess’ hands, as you say, sir,” Benoit said, unusually dutiful. He dashed down the stairs.

“You move damn fast for an old cripple!” Stephano called, leaning over the stair rail. “You forgot your cane!”

His answer was the door slam. Grinning, Stephano walked over to the window and drew back the curtain in time to see Benoit hurrying down the street, waving his arm to gain the attention of one of the wyvern-drawn carriages drifting by overhead. Stephano chuckled and then cast an idle glance up and down the street. His neighborhood was residential, home to men and women of the lower upper class, minor nobility like Stephano, and those of the upper middle class, such as the wine merchant who lived in the fine house across the street. Stephano saw the young and pretty nursemaid, who made eyes at Rodrigo whenever he walked past, taking the wine merchant’s young son out for an airing. While the little boy played, the young woman was happily flirting with a young man paying her admiring attention.

Stephano shut the curtain. Removing his jacket, he picked up his rapier and went downstairs and out into the small yard at the back of the house where he had set up a target, which looked rather like a scarecrow. He began his daily fencing practice, performing over and over again the nine classic parries and their intricate footwork.

Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen had a reputation as an expert swordsman, a reputation he had earned. On the urging of the grand bishop, the king had made dueling illegal, mainly because too many promising young officers were being felled fighting affairs of honor. Unfortunately, the only effect this law had was to force gentlemen to settle their quarrels in the privacy of some cemetery or farmer’s field, away from the notice of the watchful police, who took great delight in hauling the sons of noblemen off to jail.

Stephano disliked dueling. His father had taught him that if you lived the life of a man of honor, you did not need to be constantly proving you were an honorable man. But Stephano also followed his father’s dictum that while a man of honor never sought a quarrel, he never backed down from one either. Stephano had fought three duels in his life, two of them over the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, where the men had presumed to refer to him as a bastard, and one duel when he accused Lord Captain William Hastind of being the cause of the death of Lady Cam, Stephano’s dragon and comrade-inarms in the Dragon Brigade.

Stephano had won all three duels. He had disarmed two of his opponents and severely wounded Hastind, who had, however, survived and returned to duty. He was now captain of the king’s pride and joy, the man-of-war, Royal Lion. Hastind was a favorite of His Majesty. The king had been furious when he had heard about this last duel and only the entreaties of the countess had kept Stephano out of prison.

Stephano had been aware of the danger when he had challenged Hastind, but he would never, as long as he lived, forget what he owed to Lady Cam. Though dying and in terrible pain, the dragon had fought to the end to keep Stephano safe. He had expected to be arrested and was astonished when nothing had happened. He thought perhaps that Hastind, feeling guilty, had not pressed charges. Stephano never knew of his mother’s involvement. If he had, he would have been furious.

Stephano practiced his fencing exercises daily, generally in the morning. He took his practice seriously; the exercise helped him keep fit and physical activity freed his mind. The blade of his rapier was a little heavier than most; the ornate basket hilt balanced that weight. While he lunged and recovered, he considered all that had happened this day. He went over every word of his mother’s conversation, every detail of the visit to Alcazar’s apartment. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that his mother was right. Someone believed Alcazar had made a world-changing discovery. Stephano wondered what this person would do to the poor wretch if they found out his “discovery” was so much hot air.

“Ah, there you are.” Rodrigo opened the window to his bedroom and was leaning his head out. “Put away your toys. Nearly time for our picnic.”

Stephano saluted his friend with the rapier and went inside to wash off the sweat and change his clothes. As he did so, he glanced out his bedroom window onto the street. The nursemaid and little boy were no longer visible. But the young man who had been flirting with her was still hanging around, lounging at his ease on a stone bench in a niche in a wall.

Stephano felt a tingle at the bottom of his spine. This man might be the nursemaid’s lover, hoping for another glimpse of her, but Stephano doubted it. He dressed quickly, putting on a murrey-colored coat, white shirt, murrey breeches, and boots that came up over the knee. Going to Rodrigo’s room, Stephano found his friend in hunting attire, with a long, belted red coat that extended below his knees, red breeches, black vest, and tall black boots.

Stephano stopped to stare.

“Was I mistaken, Rigo? Are we riding to the hounds? I thought we were going for a stroll in the park.”

“You mock me, but this is the latest fashion,” said Rodrigo, smoothing his white silk cravat. “I am told the Earl of Monte Claire dressed like this for an evening fete last week at the palace and was the object of considerable admiration. The queen was said to be in raptures. Besides, you want to ‘flush’ the ‘bird’ who is taking an unusual interest in us. Note the clever use of hunting terminology.”

Rodrigo added a black hat to his ensemble and regarded himself with satisfaction in the mirror.

“I assure you, all eyes will be on me.”

Stephano thought this would be quite likely, unfortunately, but, knowing his friend and knowing that further argument would probably make matters worse, he drew Rodrigo to the window and parted the curtain.

“See that man sitting on the bench in the corner? He’s been hanging around ever since we returned. I’m going to leave first. You wait behind, see what he does. I’ll meet you in the park. Did you find a suitable prop?”

“Not yet. I’ve been dressing. But I will,” added Rodrigo, seeing Stephano’s brows draw together. “Don’t worry, my friend. I always come through for you, don’t I? Go along. I’ll be there shortly. You won’t have any trouble finding me in the crowd.”

“That’s true enough,” Stephano said gloomily.

Rodrigo laughed and took up his post at the window.

Stephano smiled to himself once he was out of the room. What Rodrigo said was true. He always came through. If it hadn’t been for Rodrigo’s courage and tenacity, sixteen-year-old Stephano de Guichen would have died on the field after the battle of Saint Bernadette in the Lost Rebellion. Rodrigo had risked imprisonment and execution by flouting the king’s command that dead rebels should be left to the vultures and rats. Rodrigo, then fifteen, had searched the battlefield until he found Stephano, badly wounded. With Benoit’s help, Rodrigo had carried Stephano away in the dark of night, hidden him, and had spent a month nursing Stephano in secret back to health. Rodrigo had been with Stephano, standing at his side, as Stephano witnessed his father being executed as a traitor.

No one took Rodrigo seriously. Their friends considered him a dandy, a fop, charming, witty, delightful to have around. The serious-minded Dag disapproved of Rodrigo’s cavalier lifestyle. Miri and Gythe laughed at his airs and his clothes and his romances. Stephano alone knew and appreciated the depths of his friend’s courage and resourcefulness. Neither of them ever talked about that terrible time-for good reason.

Rodrigo’s family had not taken part in the rebellion, but they were friends with those who had, and that had been enough to damn them in the eyes of King Alaric. Rodrigo’s father and mother had been exiled. His father had won his way back into His Majesty’s good graces by the payment of a considerable sum of money and had been granted an ambassadorship. Even a hint that their youngest son had been involved in saving the life of a member of the de Guichen family would ruin them. Stephano had no choice but to keep his friend’s valor a secret.

Sauntering out onto the street, Stephano turned his steps in the direction of the park. He walked at a leisurely pace, pausing to admire the early blooming roses and breathing deeply the late afternoon air. As he strolled along the tree-lined boulevard, he doffed his hat and bowed in polite greeting to passing ladies, who smiled and nodded in return. All the while, he felt eyes on him. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably and he was tempted more than once to turn his head for a quick glance behind. He gritted his teeth and fought off the impulse, which might let the follower know he had been spotted. Rodrigo would see whatever there was to see.

The Park of the Four Oaks, named after the four ancient oak trees that grew in the center, was a popular place for the citizens of Rosia to visit at day’s end. Here, the common folk mingled with the quality. Riders cantered along the bridle paths, exhibiting their equestrian skills. Young unmarried women walked in company with their chaperones or proud mamas, smiling at the young unmarried men. Boys sailed boats on the ponds. Girls rolled hoops and tossed coins into the fountains. Old women fed crumbs to the birds. Old men basked in the sun that warmed arthritic bones. The city police strolled about in pairs; due to the crowds, the park was also popular with pickpockets and thieves.

All this activity made the park an ideal setting for the sharing of secrets and intrigue. True privacy was difficult to come by in the city of Evreux, whether one lived in a hovel or a palace. Walls were thin. Rooms harbored closets to hide in, beds to hide under, curtains to hide behind. Neighbors eavesdropped on their neighbors. Servants were paid to betray their masters. Two people walking in the park, out in the open air, could carry on a confidential conversation and be certain that only the sparrows in the trees heard them.

Arriving at the park, Stephano went straight to the location where the Cadre generally met-a bench near the four gigantic oak trees that gave the park its name. He saw, without seeming to see, Dag wearing his mercenary uniform, in his usual place, sitting with his back up against one of the oak trees, teasing the cat, Doctor Ellington, with a piece of string. Knowing the string game amused his master, Doctor Ellington would play for a short time. When he grew bored, he would sit with his paws tucked under his chest and stare with enmity at his mortal enemy, the squirrels, daring them to come within range of his claws.

Miri and Gythe were established beneath another oak tree some distance from Dag. Gythe sat on a stool, playing a lap harp. Miri sang and collected coins in a basket from those who stopped to listen. Miri was dressed in colorful Trundler garb that she never wore except when she was performing: long, full skirt of bright red silk, with a black fringed shawl tied around her waist, a ruffled white blouse worn low to reveal her freckled shoulders. Her hair flamed in the sunlight, her golden earrings sparkled. She sang a bawdy song that had the gentlemen laughing and caused the chaperones to look scandalized as they hustled their young women out of earshot. Gythe wore a sky-blue skirt and plain blouse, her beautiful hair bound up in a scarf. As Stephano passed, he dropped a coin in the basket and Miri winked at him.

Stephano sat down on the bench and began to act the part of someone waiting impatiently for a meeting. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them. He looked at his pocket watch, rose to his feet, paced about, looked at his watch again, and sat down. He kept this up for half an hour, by which time he was no longer acting. He was truly impatient and growing annoyed and wondering what had become of Rodrigo. The sun was starting to slide into the mists of the Breath. The sky was glowing with oranges and purples. It would be dark within the hour, and the Cadre would lose their chance to get a good look at whoever was tailing them. When Rodrigo finally appeared, Stephano jumped to his feet and waved and shouted testily.

“Rigo! Over here! Where have you been?”

“There you are. I’ve searched all over. I found it,” Rodrigo called, waving a book he held in his hand. “The Crafter’s Guide to Metallurgy. One of my University texts. And there is something in here I think you will find very interesting.”

Rodrigo pointed to a page in the book. Stephano affected to read it.

“Well?” he asked softly.

“You were right,” Rodrigo said in a low voice. “After you left, the man waited a short time, then he followed you. I waited a short time, then I followed him.”

Stephano glanced around. “I don’t see him.”

“He watched you until you sat down on the bench, then he took off at a run. I’ve been waiting and waiting to see if he came back, but he hasn’t returned.”

“He probably went to report that I was in the park.”

“Report to whom? And why would anyone care where you are?”

“I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”

“So what do we do now?”

Stephano shrugged. “I will watch the crowds, and you will read this enlightening piece of literature.”

“Must I? This book brings back unpleasant memories of the lecture hall.”

“I’m surprised you have any memories of lectures,” said Stephano, resuming his seat on the bench.

“I attended lectures,” said Rodrigo, sitting down beside him. “It was the only place a fellow could get any sleep.”

Rodrigo handed Stephano the book. “You read. I will study the view.”

He leaned back, crossed his leg over his knee, and fixed his admiring gaze on a young woman, who was out with her chaperone. She blushed and raised her fan and turned away, and then peeped back at him from beneath the hood of her cloak.

Stephano tried to read, but he found the discussion of sigils and lines of magical energy every bit as confusing as he had when he was a boy with his tutor. Besides, it was growing too dark to read. With the sun setting, the crowds were starting to thin out, people going home to their suppers or to dress for the evening’s festivities. Stephano had not noticed anyone who remotely resembled the man in the slouch hat or the young man who had followed him to the park. Dag and Miri and Gythe had not had any luck either, apparently, for none of them had given him a signal.

Their “hunting expedition” appeared to be a wasted effort.

While Stephano sat on the bench pretending to read and Rodrigo flirted with pretty women and Doctor Ellington dreamed of chasing squirrels, the bishop’s agent, Dubois, was entering the Park of the Four Oaks himself. His day had been an eventful one.

Hearing news that James Harrington, one of Sir Henry’s agents, was on Half Moon Street, Dubois rode swiftly to that location. He arrived in time to find Harrington asleep on a bench beneath the statue of Saint Michelle. Harrington had covered his face with a slouch hat, but Dubois had no difficulty in recognizing him.

Dubois was fortunate to encounter a talkative priest and he established himself on the steps of the church, from which location he could keep watch on Harrington while pretending to listen to the priest discuss everything from aphids in his rose garden to the lamentable lack of funds in the poor box.

Nothing interesting happened on the Street of the Half Moon for a full hour, and Dubois was racking his brain, trying to figure out why Harrington was wasting his time here, when two men, dressed like gentlemen, stopped in front of number 127. The two men spoke to several children who were swinging on a gate, and one of the gentlemen offered the children a copper for information.

Dubois searched his mental files for the faces and pulled out two names: Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen, bastard son of the Countess Cecile de Marjolaine. The other was Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve, son of Claude de Villeneuve, ambassador to Estara.

Dubois had excellent hearing, though he really didn’t need to strain his ears, for the two gentlemen did not bother to lower their voices. They were asking about a resident of this run-down boarding house, a man named Pietro Alcazar. Dubois searched his file for the name, but came up with nothing. He stored it away for future reference.

Dubois gave the chatty priest a coin for his poor box and strolled over to the statue of the saint, taking up a position behind it. He noted, as he did so, that Harrington was also taking an interest in the two gentlemen, adjusting the slouch hat over his eyes so that he had a better view.

Captain de Guichen and Monsieur de Villeneuve entered the courtyard in company with the children. The moment they went inside, Harrington rose from his bench and, keeping the hat pulled low, strolled over to the iron gate and stared intently into the dark courtyard.

Harrington suddenly tugged on his cap, then wheeled and ran down the street. At the same moment, Captain de Guichen emerged from the courtyard, his gaze following Harrington, who signaled to a cab that he had apparently kept in waiting.

“Dearie me, James, you are slipping,” said Dubois. “You let yourself be spotted. That was careless.”

Dubois briefly considered mounting his horse and trying to follow Harrington’s cab, but rejected that idea. His agents were in position outside Harrington’s lodgings, and they would pick up the trail. Dubois was intrigued by the fact that Captain de Guichen was taking an interest in this Alcazar fellow.

Several boys were playing ball outside. Dubois strolled over to question them and heard the story of the mysterious disappearance of Pietro Alcazar, journeyman at the Royal Armory. Dubois waited until Captain de Guichen and his friend left the house, then entered the boarding house himself. Dubois mounted the stairs, and took a look around Alcazar’s apartment. He found the open inkwell and a pen lying on the table. The ink on the pen’s nib was still moist.

“Well, well, well,” Dubois murmured.

He had a habit of talking to himself. As he was accustomed to saying, he liked talking to the most intelligent person in the room.

Finding nothing more to pique his interest, Dubois left the building, returned to his horse, and rode back to his own lodgings.

As he was riding, Dubois sorted through all the various bits of information he had acquired. Two nights ago, Pietro Alcazar, journeyman at the Royal Armory disappears from his dwelling on Half Moon Street. The next day, the Master of the Royal Armory is listed as a visitor to the Countess de Marjolaine. This morning, the countess’ son is listed as a visitor to the countess. Also this morning, James Harrington, premier Freyan agent, is found lurking outside the residence of Pietro Alcazar. This midday, Captain de Guichen is seen entering the apartment of Pietro Alcazar. James Harrington leaves his post, rides off in a hurry.

Dubois did not waste his time trying to figure out what was going on. He had long ago learned that it was a mistake to theorize without information. He ordered in a late dinner and was finally able eat a decent meal.

A short time after, one of his agents came to report that Harrington had returned to his lodgings, where he had remained until a man arrived in a great rush. They held a brief conversation, then the man left and Harrington, dressed quite elegantly now, hailed a cab, and ordered it to drive rapidly to the Park of the Four Oaks.

Dubois went to the park, sauntered about for a short while, until he found Harrington, standing beneath an oak tree in company with another man.

Gone was the drunken Harrington in the slouch hat. In his place was a noble lord dressed in the latest style of the Freyan court. His hair was combed and powdered. He wore a sword on a finely embroidered baldric. His coat was dark wine with velvet collar and cuffs. He was talking animatedly to a young man of about twenty, who was red in the face and appeared beside himself with fury.

Dubois put a name to the young man. Escudero Juan Diego Ruiz Valazquez, son of Baron Valazquez, Estaran ambassador to Rosia.

“That is the man,” Harrington was saying. “I recognized him the moment I saw him, and I dispatched my servant posthaste to fetch you.”

“I will kill him!” said the young man in a strong accent, seizing the hilt of his sword. “I will slice off his-”

“You will do no such thing, my friend,” said Harrington, placing a restraining hand on the young man’s arm. “You will note the presence of two policeman over by the fountain. Besides, you do not want to make a scene before all these people. Consider your sister’s reputation. The fewer who know about this sad affair, the better.”

Valazquez contained himself with an effort. “Then what can I do? I will not allow the bastard to go unpunished!”

“You will handle this in the way most gentlemen handle such affairs,” said Harrington coolly.

Valazquez glanced at him, uncertain. “But dueling is illegal.”

“Only if the police find out about it. Ah, look. The policemen are walking off. Now is your chance. Remember, hold yourself in restraint.”

“I will try,” said Valazquez, breathing hard. “But it will be difficult. I long to rip out his lungs!”

The two men advanced. Dubois came out from around the back of the oak to observe the object of their conversation and Valazquez’s wrath.

“Well, well, well,” said Dubois and he raised his eyebrows-a rare display of emotion.

Harrington and Valazquez were walking over to speak to Captain de Guichen and his friend, Rodrigo de Villeneuve.

A beautiful afterglow spread over the sky. In the distance, drifting among the clouds, the Royal Palace was putting on a magnificent show. The base of the walls was a mixture of orange and pink drifting up through lavender. The tops of the palace’s towers had faded to black, and the first twinkles of starlight were just starting to glimmer along the roofline.

“It’s obvious we’ve failed. Can we leave now?” Rodrigo asked. “I’m hungry.”

Stephano cast an interrogative glance over his shoulder at the other members of the Cadre. Miri, seeing him, gave a very slight shrug. Dag shook his head.

“You’re right. This was a waste of time,” said Stephano.

The bench was hard, and he’d been sitting there for almost an hour. Stephano stood and stretched and rubbed his lower back. Rodrigo rose with him and brushed off his red hunting coat. They were about to walk away when they saw Dag jump to his feet, spilling Doctor Ellington, who had been asleep in his lap. The cat gave an indignant yowl. Dag jerked his thumb.

Stephano turned just in time to see two gentlemen approaching. The eyes of both men were fixed on Stephano and his companion, and there was no doubt that they were coming to speak to them. Judging by their grim expressions, the subject of the talk was going to be unpleasant. Stephano elbowed Rodrigo.

“Company,” he said.

Rodrigo glanced around. “Do we know these gentlemen?”

“I don’t,” said Stephano. “Do you?”

“Yes,” said Rodrigo. “The young one is what you might call my opposite. I am the son of the Rosian ambassador to Estara, and he is the son of the Estaran ambassador to Rosia.”

The younger man, dressed in the flamboyant style of satin coat and breeches that marked him as an Estaran, was apparently in the grip of some powerful emotion, for he tried to speak, choked on his words, and failed utterly. The second man, who was some ten years his senior, made a cold and formal bow.

Stephano looked closely at the older man, thinking something about him was familiar. The man had short-cut fair hair, flat blue eyes, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and the pale complexion of those who live in rainy climes. He was of medium height and moved with a languid kind of grace. The two made an odd-looking pair. His young companion had long black hair that fell in waves over his shoulders, a sleek black mustache, flashing black eyes, and the brown skin of those who live much of their lives in the sun.

“Captain de Guichen,” the older man said. “Monsieur de Villeneuve.”

“You have the advantage of us, sir,” replied Stephano, with a bow equally cold and formal.

“I am Sir Richard Piefer of Dought Crossing, Freya. May I present His Excellency, Escudero Juan Diego Ruiz Valazquez, son of Baron Valazquez, ambassador from Estara.”

Rodrigo was about to bow when Valazquez stepped forward, drew off his leather glove, and slapped Rodrigo across the face.

Rodrigo put his hand to his stinging cheek and stared at the man in astonishment. “What the devil did you do that for?”

“Because you, sir,” said Valazquez in passionate tones, “are a most consummate villain and a scoundrel! I accuse you of having besmirched the honor of my sister and insulting my family. What have you to say for yourself, sir?”

“‘Besmirched,’” said Rodrigo, opening his eyes wide. “Who talks like that these days?” He gave a light laugh. “Admit it, young sir. This is a practical joke. Lady Rosalinda put you up to this, didn’t she?” He turned to Stephano. “She has never forgiven me for the time I hid the frog in her glove box-”

Stephano had been watching the faces of the two men, and he said in an undertone, “They’re not joking.”

“Oh, come now,” said Rodrigo, turning back to Valazquez. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sir Richard was a witness!” cried Valazquez in anger, indicating his friend, who bowed again in acknowledgment. “He saw you leaving my sister’s bedroom in the middle of the night a fortnight ago.”

“And I would ask one question of Sir Richard,” said Rodrigo. “What the devil were you doing watching this man’s sister’s bedroom in the middle of the night?”

“Do you doubt the word of a gentleman?” Valazquez demanded vehemently.

“I beg your pardon,” said Rodrigo, bowing. “I thought Sir Richard said he was a Freyan.”

It took Piefer a moment to realize he had been insulted. When he did, his face darkened. Valazquez was incoherent with rage, reduced to sputtering.

“Perhaps I can settle this,” Rodrigo continued smoothly. “My lord Valazquez, I recall spending a most enchanting evening a fortnight ago with a young woman who read poems to me as I rested my head on her white thighs-”

“Rodrigo!” Stephano exclaimed, scandalized.

“You lie! My sister, sir, cannot speak your language,” said Valazquez.

Rodrigo frowned thoughtfully. “Her sumptuous curves, her large, round breasts-”

“My sister is slender and petite!”

“Ah, you see?” said Rodrigo, smiling. “This proves it. We are talking about two completely different young women. I bid you a good evening.”

He started to turn away, as though the matter was concluded.

“All this proves is that you are a rogue and a coward!” said Valazquez, trembling with rage. “What of this?” He took from his doublet a packet of letters, tied with a red ribbon, and thrust them at Rodrigo. “Do you deny you sent these to my sister? Her duenna found them tucked under her pillow.”

“Of course, I deny it,” said Rodrigo. “That’s not my handwriting. But even if I had written them, a letter beneath her pillow doesn’t prove that I was beneath the sheets.”

Valazquez flushed in fury and reached for the hilt of his sword. But before he had his sword out of the scabbard, Stephano was holding his rapier’s tip at the young man’s chest. Piefer hurriedly intervened.

“Gentlemen, this is neither the time nor the place,” he said urgently. “The police might return at any moment!”

Stephano held his rapier on Valazquez until the young man slammed his sword back down into the scabbard, then Stephano returned his blade to its scabbard, though he kept his hand on the hilt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dag standing alert, his hand beneath his jacket where he kept his stowaway pistol.

“You should not interfere, Captain,” Piefer was saying. “The quarrel of Lord Juan Diego is not with you, but with your friend. There is only one way to settle this matter and that is on the field of honor.”

“You make the arrangements, Sir Richard,” said Valazquez. “If I stay here any longer, I will gut this wretch like a pig.”

Casting a glance of utter contempt at Rodrigo, Valazquez stalked off, walking over to stand beneath one of the oak trees.

Rodrigo looked utterly bewildered. “Arrangements. But this is a jest…

“I’m afraid not, my friend,” said Stephano gravely. “Your sins have caught up with you.”

“I didn’t write to the girl!” Rodrigo protested.

“Stand over there and be quiet,” Stephano ordered in exasperation.

Rodrigo did as he was told, though he continued to listen anxiously.

“I will act as second for Lord Juan Diego,” said Piefer.

“And I will act as second for Monsieur de Villeneuve,” said Stephano. “As the challenged party, we have the choice of weapons.”

“That is true,” said Piefer. “What do you propose?”

“Pistols,” said Stephano.

Rodrigo bounded forward and plucked at Stephano’s sleeve. “Pistols! What are you doing? You remember what happened the last time I fired a gun-”

“You stand a better chance with pistols than you do with a sword,” said Stephano. He turned back to Piefer. “Where shall we meet, my lord?”

“Are you familiar with the cemetery of the Church of Saint Charles, Captain?” Piefer asked politely.

“I am, my lord,” said Stephano.

“The cemetery is quiet, out of the way, suitable to such affairs as this-”

“And you can just bury me while we’re there!” Rodrigo groaned. “Save time, trouble-”

“I propose we meet at the cemetery at the hour of six of the clock in the morning if that is agreeable to you, Captain,” Piefer concluded.

“It is most agreeable,” said Stephano. He bowed. “Your servant, my lord.”

“Your servant, Captain.” Piefer bowed to Stephano.

Piefer did not bow to Rodrigo, but cast him a cold glance and then turned on his heel and walked away to join Valazquez.

Watching Piefer, Stephano experienced again the feeling that something about this man was familiar. Stephano had not met Piefer at court. Stephano had not been to court in months. He watched the Freyan with the disquieting feeling that the answer was important and that it was teetering on the tip of his brain.

Stephano gave up. Whatever it was, he couldn’t take time to concentrate. He had to think of Rodrigo who was facing certain death.

The afterglow lit the sky, but the shadows were dark beneath the oak trees and the park was almost deserted when Stephano gave the private signal to Dag, Miri, and Gythe that he would be in touch with them later. There was nothing they could do.

The three had all witnessed the incident, and they had heard enough of Valazquez’s ravings to figure out what had transpired. Stephano could tell at a glance what they were thinking.

Dag had never approved of Rodrigo, and he obviously believed in his guilt. Miri rolled her eyes and shook her head. She could never understand men and their need to settle such matters with bloodshed. Gythe was troubled and unhappy. He saw her try to come comfort Rodrigo, but her sister stopped her. The Cadre had to keep up the pretense that none of them knew each other.

Dag gathered up Doctor Ellington, put the cat on his shoulder, and waited for Gythe to pack up the harp. Always protective of the two women, he would see to it they reached the Cloud Hopper safely. Dag cast Rodrigo a final stern and dour glance before he left.

“Stephano,” said Rodrigo when they were alone. “You have to get me out of this duel. I don’t know one end of a pistol from another.”

“I’m not certain I can, Rigo,” said Stephano with a sigh. “I always told you something dire was bound to happen. The way you carry on-”

“But I swear to you I never touched that wretched girl! Well, perhaps I did touch her, but nothing more than a kiss on the hand.”

“They have the letters you were imprudent enough to write to the girl.”

“I didn’t write those letters.”

“No one will believe you-”

“Meaning you don’t believe me,” said Rodrigo with a faint smile. He added wistfully, “We could sail off on the Cloud Hopper tonight. We were going to Westfirth in the morning anyhow. Just make an early start?”

“Rigo,” said Stephano, laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “this is an affair of honor. Think what would happen if you ran. You would be branded a coward. You would no longer be admitted to court or to any of the elegant parlors or salons you love to frequent. Besides, this affair doesn’t affect you alone. Your father may be an ambassador, but his favor with the king is tenuous at best. Think of the disgrace that would fall on him and your mother and your older brothers if the story circulates that you basely fled-”

“Enough, enough,” said Rodrigo. He had been standing with his head lowered. He gave a thin smile. “Can you make me an expert marksman in one night?”

Stephano thought back to the one time he’d tried to teach his friend to handle a gun and he shuddered.

“It’s late to be practicing with a pistol,” he said evasively. “The neighbors would call the police.”

“I suppose you’re right. I doubt practicing would do me any good anyway. Perhaps this foul Valazquez is as poor as shot as I am,” Rodrigo said hopefully.

“Perhaps he is,” said Stephano, striving to be cheerful, though he gave an inward sigh. He had heard of Valazquez. The young man had fought any number of duels. He was a good swordsman and had a reputation as a crack shot.

“I tell you, Stephano, I am innocent,” said Rodrigo, as they turned their steps toward home.

“I know, my friend, I know,” said Stephano, glad for the darkness that hid the sorrow on his face.

There had been one other witness to the encounter in the park besides Miri and Gythe and Dag. Dubois watched Valazquez and Harrington, in the guise of “Sir Richard Piefer” depart. Dubois had observed the signals between Captain de Guichen and the Guundaran mercenary (as Dubois judged from Dag’s clothes and military manner). Dubois had watched the mercenary gather up his cat and leave in company with the two young Trundler women. Dubois saw Captain de Guichen and his unfortunate friend leave the park.

After all of them had gone, Dubois walked over to the bench where Captain de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve had been sitting. He found the book they had left behind, forgotten in the turmoil. The title was embossed on the cover and he could just barely read the imprint of the letters in the sun’s dying glow: The Crafter’s Guide to Metallurgy.

Night’s shadows closed around Dubois, both figuratively and literally. He had the feeling something of immense importance was about to happen and he was groping about in the darkness, unable to see the danger that was perhaps right in front of him.

What game was Harrington playing? Why was he now disguised as a titled Freyan noble in company with the impressionable and not very bright youth, Valazquez, the son of the Estaran ambassador to Rosia? Why had Harrington, the instigator of the challenge, seen to it that the charge was made against Rodrigo de Villeneuve? Captain de Guichen was the threat.

Dubois could not figure any of this out, but he knew one fact for certain. Sir Henry Wallace was the thread that ran through all these seemingly disparate incidents and tied them together. Harrington was Sir Henry’s agent. Find Sir Henry. Find answers.

Arriving at his lodgings, Dubois collected the reports from his agents that were waiting for him. He glanced through them and tossed them irately in the fire. None were any help. He ate a quick supper, then went to his bed. He had to be up early.

Dubois had a duel to fight.