hustled him into the nearest tavern. Benoit kept trying to talk and Stephano kept shushing him. The tavern had a few customers who glanced at Stephano and his companion without much interest and went back to their mugs and conversations. Dockyard taverns, unlike neighborhood taverns, were accustomed to strangers.
Stephano escorted Benoit toward a table in the back, away from any windows, and sat down in a shadowy corner. He caught the eye of the barkeep, held up two fingers, indicating they wanted two mugs of ale, and ordered Benoit to keep quiet until the ale was delivered and paid for.
“What are you doing here?” Stephano demanded, once they were alone. “What’s happened?”
“I was kidnapped, sir, the house was ransacked, and I have an urgent letter from your mother.”
“Good God!” said Stephano.
He had picked up his ale, but now he set it down untasted. He gazed gloomily at the letter, not eager to read it, certain that it meant trouble. There was no help for it. He picked it up, broke open the seal.
Benoit was indignant. “Didn’t you hear me say that I was kidnapped, sir? It was quite harrowing, I assure you.”
Stephano continued reading. “You appear to have survived.”
“Well, yes, that’s true, sir, but-”
“Who snatched you?”
“I couldn’t tell, sir,” said Benoit. “They dropped a gunnysack over my head.”
“What did they want?”
“A man asked me about your dealings with the countess.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was not in your confidence, sir.”
Stephano looked up from his letter. “Did they beat you, pull out your fingernails, and tie you to the rack?”
“I’m glad you find this funny, sir,” said Benoit stiffly. “As it turned out, the man made me sit in an extremely uncomfortable chair. I lost all feeling in my lower extremities.”
Stephano hid his smile. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt. What happened after you told them you didn’t know anything?”
“They put the sack over my head again and drove me back to the house. I found that in my absence someone had broken in. The place was a mess, sir. Furniture upended, books pulled off the shelves, Master Rodrigo’s undergarments strewn about-”
“I don’t want to hear about Rigo’s undergarments,” said Stephano. “Was anything stolen?”
“Not that I could tell, sir, but I didn’t have much time to look. I had only been home a short while, when I received an urgent summons from the palace. When I arrived, I was given this note and told to board a private vessel that I would find waiting for me. The vessel brought me here. I went to the Trundler village where you usually dock, but you weren’t there. I asked about, but the Trundlers claimed they hadn’t seen any sign of the Cloud Hopper. I heard from some sailors that there had been terrible storms in the Breath the last few days and, figuring you might have been delayed, I came here to wait.”
“You did well, old man,” said Stephano absently, his thoughts on the note.
“Thank you, sir. I assume I will be recompensed for the ale I was forced to buy during the last two days.”
Stephano looked up from his reading and raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“I had to have some explanation for why I was loitering about, sir,” said Benoit.
“I see. What happened to the money I’m certain my mother gave you to cover your expenses?” Stephano asked.
“Your honored mother was kind enough to provide me with money for my travels. But there is a matter of my food and lodging, sir,” said Benoit with dignity. “In addition I was forced to buy several rounds of drinks before I could induce the sailors to speak with me. Then there was the pain I suffered during my kidnapping. Did I tell you how I lost all feeling in my extremities? Then the mental distress when I feared you might be lost in the Breath and finally the joyful shock of discovering you were alive-”
Stephano grinned. “Yeah, you were in raptures. All right, you old rascal. Give your bill to Rigo.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. If you’re not going to drink your ale, sir-”
Stephano waved his hand and Benoit, who had already downed his, drank his master’s. Stephano ordered another round for both of them and, after the ale had been delivered, he read the letter again. Judging by the handwriting, the note had been written in haste and was short and to the point.
My son,
I trust you are in good health. Regarding that lost shipment of brandywine you were good enough to offer to try to locate for me, I have received information that it has arrived in Westfirth and is in the hands of a most notorious and dangerous band of smugglers. The shipment is of immense worth, though not at the cost of your life. I would urge you to abandon the search, but I know your brave and adventurous spirit and I fear you would ignore my wishes. If you insist on proceeding, please do so with extreme caution.
Stephano grimaced and shook his head. How like his mother. Warning him of the risk inherent in continuing the search for Alcazar and yet reminding him of the vital importance of locating the missing journeyman. Urging him to abandon his pursuit of information regarding the kidnappers and advising him to use caution when pursuing them. Telling him about the danger and not giving him the slightest hint what that danger might be.
Still, he reflected grudgingly, the letter also proved how well his mother knew him. He thought back, irritably, to Sir Ander saying he had his mother’s eyes. Stephano crumpled the note in his hand and dunked it in his ale. He watched the ink fade off the paper, mingling with the ale, turning the golden liquid faintly purple. He looked up to find Benoit regarding him intently.
“What now?” Stephano growled, in no mood to hear more about the old man’s extremities.
Benoit glanced about. The two of them were the only people in this part of the tavern. A group of young men, apparently students on holiday, had just entered and were raucously demanding service. He and Stephano could have shouted at each other and not been heard.
Benoit motioned Stephano near. “Your honored mother-”
“Quit calling her that,” said Stephano.
“-entrusted me with information she did not want to write down,” Benoit continued, ignoring the interruption.
Stephano tensed. “Tell me.”
Benoit whispered two words in Stephano’s ear.
“Henry Wallace.”
Stephano felt the tingle at the base of his spine run up his back and twist his gut.
“Do you know the name, sir?” Benoit asked.
“Unfortunately, I do,” said Stephano.
Sir Henry Wallace, spy master, assassin, was perhaps the only person in the world his mother truly feared. The countess had spoken of him only once, in connection with rumors of a failed assassination attempt against King Alaric who had been going to conduct a royal inspection of the mysterians damage done to the newly commissioned naval cutter, Defiant. Stephano had been with the Dragon Brigade then and there had been some talk of sending the Brigade in pursuit of the assassins. She had told him her belief that Sir Henry was involved and she had gone on to tell him what she knew of the Freyan spy master, whom she had met many years ago, when he had come to court in his capacity as the Freyan Ambassador.
Stephano dredged up the memory of his mother’s words. He had never heard her speak of any man the way she talked of Sir Henry.
“Henry Wallace is a man of superior intellect, rapier-sharp wit, and cold-blooded calculation. He is ruthless, clever, and cunning and a Freyan patriot to the core of his being. He hates Rosia and would sacrifice anything, anyone to see us lie crushed and defeated beneath the Freyan heel. His reach is long. He has spies in every court, agents hiding in every closet, and assassins underneath every bed.”
Stephano remembered he had been impressed, but he had wondered, if this man was so amazing, why he had failed in the attempt to kill the king.
He could see the countess standing in her room, twisting the ring on her finger. He could hear her bitter and enigmatic reply. “I am not certain he did fail. It is my belief that he wasn’t truly out to kill the king.”
