his wig drifting on to his shoulders. “They are suspicious of me, and…”
Quire seized him roughly by the arm, squeezing the flesh of it above the elbow. He put every fierce sentiment he had cultivated over the last weeks into his voice.
“I need to know everything you know, Durand. Everything, not hints and games. So you’re coming away with me now, or so help me I’ll add you to the list of folk I’ve got a quarrel with.”
The Frenchman stared into Quire’s eyes.
“You misunderstand me. I am not unwilling, but I fear perhaps they are forewarned. Blegg accompanied us tonight, a thing he never does. He is outside somewhere, on the street.”
Quire ground his teeth in exasperation. But he steeled himself.
“You’ll not likely have another chance, Durand. You’ve got two men here, tonight, willing to do all we can to help you. We’ll not be coming again.”
Durand hesitated. Then he nodded, just once, curtly.
“Go,” Quire snapped through the mask. “Tell the man waiting in the lobby I’ll need the pair of you to wait for me. We’ll all go out together.”
The music died behind him even as he watched Durand working his way rapidly towards the doors. A ripple of applause rolled around the room. Quire made his own way through the crowd, going carefully, making himself as anonymous as a big man in a harlequin costume could; it should be possible here, tonight, if nowhere else.
He was stymied, though, by a stiff arm thrust out to block his path. An angry jester brandished a belled and beribboned stick at him.
“Was it you, just barged into me?” the jester demanded. “Not so much as an apology, not so much as an excuse me?”
Quire shook his head mutely, and made to move away.
The jester tapped him on the chest with that ringing stick.
“Disgraceful, sir! Quite disgraceful. I will be making a complaint to your employer.”
“Aye, go ahead,” Quire said and moved decisively away, striding quickly enough to leave his assailant in his wake.
He got himself into the doorway, and turned back to cast his eyes over the bobbing hats and wigs and tiara- laden heads. He looked for Ruthven’s turban, or for anything that might be suggestive of pursuit, and saw nothing. The musicians were tuning their instruments, putting violins back under their chins. There would be another dance in moments.
He spun on his heel.
“Mr. Quire,” he heard behind him. “Mr. Quire, that is you, isn’t it?”
He could have kept going, perhaps, but he feared Ruthven might raise a commotion, even have him detained. That would leave Durand and Dunbar alone.
He stopped, and turned about, and faced Ruthven, who must have come up to the door along one of the walls, out of Quire’s line of sight, and must have done it quickly. He was taking the absurd turban off his head, and ran a long-fingered hand back through his hair to straighten it.
“I thought I recognised the set of those shoulders. Do take that ridiculous mask off, man.”
Quire did so, and glared at Ruthven.
Another harlequin, carrying two empty trays in his hands, came out of the ballroom. Ruthven moved out of his way, to one side of the doors.
“I really thought we had done with you, Mr. Quire,” he said, picking at the cloth of his headgear. “I really did. Blegg predicted I would learn otherwise, and so it transpires. I am very sorry to find I was mistaken. Sorry for you, as much as anything.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me.”
The music started up, snaking out from the dais, through the open doors, rolling around Ruthven and Quire. A waltz, Quire thought.
“No,” Ruthven was saying. “I don’t intend to worry about you, I can assure you of that. I’ll be leaving the question of what to do with you entirely to others now.”
“That wouldn’t be your Mr. Blegg you’re talking about, would it?” Quire smiled. “I’ve formed the impression he maybe does a fair bit of your dirty work for you.”
“Believe me, you have no idea. None at all.”
“Well, I’ll look forward to my education, then.”
“I doubt that. Blegg tells me you have been sneaking about on my farm, and at a certain hovel in the Old Town.”
Quire said nothing, but he felt the tremor of confession in his own face.
“I see it’s true. How enterprising of you. Evidently I have misjudged you from the very beginning of our unfortunate acquaintance.”
Still Quire said nothing, hoping that Dunbar would have the sense to keep Durand out of sight. Ruthven pursed his lips.
“Look at you,” he said. “Not even on police pay any more, and still you’re nipping at my heels. Why don’t you just go home, Mr. Quire? Alone.”
“The difficulty I have with that is I’m thinking I’ll not be long above ground, now you know I’m still paying you some attention. Am I right?”
Ruthven smiled thinly.
“Do you know,” he said, “I think you might be. There, now: we all know where we stand. What have you done with Durand, by the way? I don’t see him.”
Ruthven peered over Quire’s shoulder, eyes narrow and questioning.
“I’ve not seen him, so I couldn’t say,” Quire said.
“Oh. I really did think I was paying sufficient attention to his whereabouts, but once again you have managed to surprise me. What a pity the police decided to dispense with the services of such a resourceful fellow.”
Ruthven sniffed in dry amusement at his own barbed humour. He glanced around, taking in the traffic of gaudily dressed celebrants, like a parade of exotic birds.
“There’s been about two things in my life I was any good at,” Quire said levelly. “Soldiering and policing. Maybe I can’t help but be one or the other of those, paid or not. I’m ready to try the policing line, if you are. Are you going to come along to a judge with me and tell him all that you’ve done?”
Ruthven smiled, almost pityingly.
“No, Mr. Quire, I am not.”
“No. You’re not. Then maybe it’s the soldiering line for me after all.”
“I see. I see. You know, I think you have the advantage over me, for there is only really one thing I have ever been good at. I have attempted a number of roles in my life, but the truth is I found no great success in any of them: farmer, merchant, investor. Husband. I was not suited to any of them.
“But, do you know, I have done things in the last few years that men will one day wonder at. I have tapped into the well at the very root of life, and made the vital forces flow at my command.”
“And how many deaths have been caused by your miracle-working?”
“I do not suppose you could be expected to understand,” Ruthven said, almost sadly. “There is a price to be paid for revelation, Mr. Quire. For revolution. Knowledge is not always paid for solely by the sweat of the brow. A hundred years from now, the knowledge, the wonders will persist. The price paid for them will be forgotten. Forgiven.”
“You buy it with blood, I say it’s not worth the having.”
“You’re wrong. I can say nothing more than that. Well, I must return to my wife. There will be talk, you know, if I seem to be neglecting her.”
He slipped the turban back on to his head, and with a last lingering look down the length of the lobby towards the doors out on to the street, he turned back and sank into the costumed host of his kind.
Quire blew out a long breath and went slowly towards the cloakroom, casting many a backward glance to ensure Ruthven did not reappear. He found Dunbar and Durand in a secluded corner, just inside the main entrance, and dropped his now useless mask to the floor there. Durand had been stripped of his distinctive wig and enclosed in the overly capacious cape. A plain and rather shapeless soft hat was pulled down over his head.
“Can we go now?” Dunbar asked with a rather plaintive hint to his voice.
