between himself and the exit. He began to retreat, gasping for air, moving slowly, limping heavily. He kept his rapier raised, defending against Harrington’s quick jabs. Stephano, appearing to weaken, let the tip of his blade waver and drop.
Harrington had been waiting for this. His blade slid over Stephano’s, aiming for his heart. Stephano hooked his foot under a fallen stool and kicked it, sending it rolling into his foe. The stool struck Harrington in the shins. He stumbled and fought to keep his balance, but his feet were entangled with the legs of the stool and he fell to his knees.
Stephano attacked while the Freyan was on the ground, hoping to end the fight. Harrington fended off the attack with his sword as he twisted back to his feet with the same feline grace and athleticism that had caused Stephano to place him as the man in the slouch hat. Again, Harrington drove the tip of his blade at Stephano’s heart, turning his wrist so the flat of the blade would slide between his ribs.
Stephano sidestepped and Harrington’s momentum carried him past Stephano, who jabbed his rapier into Harrington’s back. Harrington gasped in shock. He looked down to see the bloody tip of a sword sticking out of his breast.
“Valazquez, I hope you are watching,” said Stephano.
He yanked out the blade and James Harrington fell onto an overturned table, bounced off it and rolled to the ground. He lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, blood dribbling from his mouth.
Stephano fell back, gasping for breath. What with the heat and excitement and loss of blood, he felt suddenly giddy. As he leaned back against a table and tried to keep from passing out, he was vaguely aware of the clerk who had begged him not to kill Harrington kneeling by the corpse. Stephano and he didn’t pay much attention, though he wanted to tell the fellow not to waste his time. Harrington was most certainly dead. He did think it odd that the pudgy man was frantically searching Harrington’s pockets.
The clerk yelled something at Stephano and then jumped to his feet and was gone. Stephano stared after him, wondering if he’d heard right. Before he could react, whistles sounded in the street and Rodrigo was beside him.
“Constables,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”
“Which way?” Stephano asked.
“Over the garden wall,” said Rodrigo. He looked at Stephano’s bleeding leg. “Can you manage?”
“Do I have a choice?” Stephano returned, hobbling along beside his friend.
“This or prison,” said Rodrigo.
The stone wall proved to be more decorative than functional. They clambered over it, Stephano wincing and grunting and Rodrigo doing what he could to help. They floundered through some ornamental hedges, trampled flower beds, and dodged rose trees in tubs.
“First you get shot, now stabbed,” Rodrigo grumbled. “If you’re going to keep this up, I will have to start bringing along a wheelbarrow to haul your sorry ass back home.”
“Don’t make me laugh. My ribs hurt!” Stephano pleaded.
They floundered their way through the park. People stopped to stare at Stephano, who was covered in blood. Such sights were not unusual in Westfirth, however, and most shrugged and went on about their business.
Stephano and Rodrigo emerged from the park onto Haymarket Street, which ran parallel to Threadneedle, and was one of the busiest streets in Westfirth. Rodrigo hailed a cab. A hansom cab rolled to a stop. The driver looked down at Stephano, noted the blood on his clothes, and shook his head.
“He’ll ruin the h’upolstery,” he said indignantly.
Rodrigo looked into the cab, saw that the “h’upolstery” was faded, cracked, ripped, and disgorging stuffing.
“A little blood might be good for it,” he told the driver. “I’ll pay double.”
The driver gave a nod. Rodrigo opened the door and pushed Stephano inside. The driver whipped up the horses before Rodrigo had the door shut, and the cab rattled off through the streets.
“Sorry about your lavender coat,” said Stephano, eyeing the blood smears on the fine fabric.
Rodrigo smiled. “Good thing I just ordered a new one.” He began to inspect his friend’s wounds, opening Stephano’s shirt and peering at them.
“They don’t look very severe to me.”
“What do you know?” Stephano groaned. “My ribs hurt like hell.”
“Don’t be such a baby. The bleeding in your shoulder has stopped. There’s a big gash down your side, but the blade didn’t penetrate to the bone.” Rodrigo took out a handkerchief, wadded it up. “Here, press that against your leg. I’m getting to rather like bandaging wounds. Perhaps I’ll study to be a surgeon.”
Stephano did as ordered and held the handkerchief against the gash in his leg. “Speaking of surgeons, did you see that man kneeling over the body?”
“I didn’t see the body,” Rodrigo answered. “I was trying to reach you, which wasn’t easy, given the fact that I had to wade through a sea of overturned furniture and hysterical women. Why? What did he do?”
“I thought he was trying to save that bastard,” said Stephano. “But then he began to rifle the man’s pockets and he started swearing. I heard him say, ‘You bloody fool, you just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!’ And then he was gone.”
“He mentioned the name Henry Wallace?” Rodrigo asked, astonished. “Did you see what the man looked like?”
“He had on a big hat and a gray cloak,” said Stephano.
“That describes about half the population of Westfirth,” said Rodrigo. He was silent a moment. They were both silent, thinking, and not much liking their thoughts.
Rodrigo spoke first. “I guess we know now that Henry Wallace is here in Westfirth, probably with Alcazar.”
“And I’m guessing Wallace now knows we’re here,” said Stephano. “And that we’re looking for Alcazar.”
“And that someone else is looking for him, too.”
Stephano grinned. “Just as long as they’re not riding giant bats.”
“Amen to that, my friend,” said Rodrigo.
Dubois had never in his life been so frustrated. He had tried to keep sight of the elderly priest, but Wallace had been too quick for him. When Dubois saw one of the serving girls assisting the priest to leave the scene of the fight, he had attempted to go after them, but by then bullets were flying, tables and chairs and stools were in his way, naval officers interfered, swords flashed. When Dubois next looked, the priest had vanished.
Dubois’ only hope had then been to keep track of James Harrington; Captain de Guichen when killed Harrington, all Dubois’ plans and efforts were gone with the jab of a rapier.
Dubois took a chance searching through Harrington’s pockets, with Guichen standing over the body, but Dubois was desperate to find a note or a key or anything that might lead to Sir Henry.
Harrington had nothing on him. Frustrated, Dubois lost his head and gave voice to his anger.
“You are an idiot,” he said furiously to Guichen. “You just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!”
Dubois scuttled out of the cafe, exiting through the rear door just as the constables were entering the front. In the street, Dubois looked about for the elderly priest, but, of course, Sir Henry was long gone.
Dubois sighed and reflected that Captain de Guichen, who was also on the trail of Alcazar, was once again his only hope. Dubois regretted his uncharacteristic outburst in the cafe. He did not often lose his self-possession, but he’d been going for days on little sleep and less food. Dubois rubbed his aching head and plotted his next move.
There was no need to follow Captain Guichen. The man had sailed from Evreux on a Trundler houseboat with his Trundler friends. They would be docked in the Trundler village.
Dubois hailed a cab.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bitter End: the last part of a rope or chain. The term has passed into common usage so that: “One hangs on until the bitter end.”
