“Indeed,” Roderick purred. “Alex
Daniel swung up to his saddle, gathered his reins.
Roderick looked up at him, held his gaze. “Incidentally, while you’re discussing matters with Alex, you might mention that I would look favorably on an
Daniel looked down into Roderick’s cold eyes. His half brother was clearly not as oblivious to his and Alex’s view of him as they’d thought. A point to discuss, indeed-if Roderick succeeded in retrieving all four letters, he’d be cock of the walk, king in the Black Cobra’s domain. Which didn’t auger well, not for Roderick.
But now Daniel merely nodded, his expression saying nothing of such complex thoughts. “Alex and I will be waiting in Bury.” About to spur off, he paused to add, “Remember to come in the back way.”
Roderick waved him off, his attention returning to the holder in the hedge. “Don’t fret-I’ll come via the ruins.”
Daniel stared at him for a second, sensing again the shift in dynamic that had occurred since the three of them had stepped onto English soil. Then he turned his horse and made for the small lane that led north to Bury.
A cultist came out of a stand of trees to the north, from the position Demon had suggested any attack on the carriage along that most amenable stretch would come.
Unhurriedly, his eyes scanning the empty fields and the nearer copses, the cultist rode to where the scroll holder was jammed, leaned from his saddle and pulled it free.
He tucked it into the frieze coat he wore, sitting tall, surveying all about him.
“They’ve changed their turbans for hats,” Del murmured.
“But they’ve clung to their black silk scarves.” Gabriel was studying the man closely. “I can see quite a few weapons, too, and they look to be well cared for.”
“While most of the cultists we’ve stumbled on are foot soldiers, not well trained with arms, the men with Ferrar will be his closest guards-his elite. They’re cavalry trained, good with sabers, but they fight like we do-you won’t run into any surprises with them. The assassins are another matter-they fight with half swords and shorter knives. If you find yourself facing one of them, expect the unexpected. They fight to win whatever the cost.”
“There’s definitely other riders in the trees he came out from,” Demon reported. “Exactly how many, I can’t be sure, but a goodly number.”
“We’re looking for eighteen,” Royce said. “Could there be that many hidden there?”
Demon nodded. “Easily.”
Gervase was suddenly there. He’d gone down to the fields to get a different line of sight. “One of the gentlemen just left, riding hard up the lane over there.” He pointed to the west of Ferrar’s assumed position.
“That leads to Bury,” Royce said.
“Here we go,” Devil said. They all watched, sharing six spyglasses among them, as the cultist carried the holder openly back across the fields, and up the treed rise to his master.
“I can see Ferrar from over here,” Lucifer called. The others all shifted, refocused.
Just in time to witness Ferrar receive the scroll holder from his man. In short order, he opened it. Those with the glasses quietly relayed what they saw.
“He’s pulling the letter out, unrolling it.” Royce smiled. “It’s a decoy, so the instant he realizes…”
His voice trailed away. Those without glasses shifted restlessly.
“What’s happening?” Gabriel Cynster asked.
“He’s smiling. Delightedly.” Devil handed his glass to Gabriel, looked at Royce. “If it’s a decoy, why is he so thrilled to have it?”
Frowning, Royce lowered his glass, then gave it to Gervase. “If he’s keen to retrieve the copies as well as the original, that suggests there’s something else in the letter that’s a threat to him, something in the words we’ve missed. Just as well Hamilton made another copy.”
“It has to be that.” Del handed his spyglass on. “Just look at his face.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed. “There’s definitely something we’re missing in this. Something more going on.”
“He’s leaving,” Gabriel reported. “He’s tossed aside the scroll holder and put the letter in his inside pocket. Now he’s riding off up that lane to Bury.” A second later he reported, “He’s taking only eight cultists with him-the others are heading south.”
“Probably returning to the north bank of the Thames,” Del said.
They watched the eight cultists, totally assured, ride past their position.
“Let them go.” Royce looked north, at the eight elite guards and assassins riding easily in Ferrar’s wake. “We need to reduce their numbers in this area, not further south.”
Devil glanced at his cousins, at Gyles. “There’s six Cynsters, one Rawlings-seven. We volunteer.”
“Do we need to take prisoners?” Lucifer asked.
“No-no use.” Royce hesitated, then said, “I have oversight of the magistrates in the area, so I’m charging you seven, ex-Guardsmen and peers, with the task of removing those eight cultists. We know they’ve committed atrocities in India, and if we had the time to spare, we could catch them, try them, and hang them-but that will cost our country time and money. These men have cost England enough-quietly removing them seems our best option.”
Devil grinned. “You’ve twisted our arms.”
They all turned to their horses. “One thing.” Royce’s words stopped them. He met Devil’s eyes. “Delborough, Gervase, Tony, and I will follow Ferrar into Bury and onward, with luck to his lair. We’ll meet you at Elveden to share what we find. However…” He looked at the eight cultists riding unhurriedly up the lane to Bury. “Ferrar has gone ahead. We’ll circle around and catch up with him, but given the distance between him and his men, I want you to remove them without alerting him.”
Devil looked at the cultists heading north. They could still see Ferrar merrily riding ahead. “You do like to be difficult.”
“The request shouldn’t be outside your scope.” Royce glanced at Demon. “You both know the country well-they don’t, or they wouldn’t be hanging so far back, not if they’re his guards.”
Demon glanced at Devil. “The bend before the windmill?”
Devil nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Less than a minute later, they were all mounted, streaming down the rise to circle to the west, to follow and overtake the band of cultists, and separate his guards from Ferrar.
Jack and Tristan caught up with the carriage a little way out of Bury St. Edmunds.
“Not a cultist in sight,” Jack reported. “They must have taken the bait, which means they should be coming up the road behind us.”
“I don’t know about you”-with his glance, Tristan included Mullins, Mooktu, and Bister-“but after all this, I’d like to be in at the end.”
“Me, too,” Jack said. “So we vote to stop at an inn in Bury, get the carriage off the road, and watch Ferrar and his flunkies go past. Then we can join the others on their trail.”
No one argued. They found the perfect inn in Westgate Street, and hired the front parlor, from which they could see back down the road up which they’d come, as well as see some distance left and right. Whichever route Ferrar took, he was likely to pass their position; they settled to wait.
Fifteen minutes later, Ferrar, alone, came jauntily riding along Westgate Street, smiling as he tacked this way and that through the late-afternoon traffic. He passed the inn window right to left. Emily seized Gareth’s sleeve. “He didn’t come the way we did.”
Jack and Tristan crowded the window, peering at Ferrar’s back. “He must have taken that minor lane to Bury.” Tristan stared the other way, in the direction from which Ferrar had come. “Where are the others?”
For a full minute, they looked back and forth, at Ferrar’s back, then the other way, hoping to spot their comrades, who should have been on his trail.
“Damn!” Jack said. “He must have lost them.”
He and Tristan were out of the door on the words. Gareth rushed after them; Emily rushed after him. Jack’s and Tristan’s horses were still saddled. They swung up to their backs and rode out of the inn yard.
