hot on Sir Henry’s heels and closing in for the kill. Henry hoped Harrington was suffering every torment Hell had to offer.
Two men joined Dubois. They spoke together for a moment, then the two men left, heading for the hotel’s rear entrance. So much for sneaking out the back.
Henry turned from the window. He had been in tough situations before, but nothing as dire as this. If he was caught on Rosian soil with the missing journeyman, he would be tortured for information (which he would steadfastly refuse to divulge) and then what was left of him dragged to a public execution. His queen would be seriously embarrassed and compromised. His agents left out in the cold. The work of many years would be for nothing. The cunning fox had been run to ground. Henry Wallace was trapped and cornered, surrounded by dogs panting to rip him apart. Worse even than losing his life, he would lose Alcazar and with him the opportunity to give Freya the power to crush her enemies.
Henry eyed the satchel containing the tankard thoughtfully, then he grabbed the tankard, thrust it into the portmanteau, closed the lid, and locked it.
“Alcazar! We’ve been discovered!” he said.
The journeyman came running out, half-naked, tripping over his chemise. He looked ready to faint.
“Don’t worry,” Henry continued coolly. “I’m going to get us out of this. I need you to place a magical construct on the lock.” He pointed to the portmanteau.
“What sort of construct?” Alcazar asked, trembling with fright.
“Something that will make the lock impossible to open for anyone other than the two of us. Put a spell on the trunk, as well, just in case someone should try to hack it apart with an ax. And be quick about it!”
Alcazar cast his constructs swiftly and assured Sir Henry that the trunk was now safe from any thief. He gave Sir Henry the key to breaking the magical seal, which was a short combination of finger taps and swipes, and hurried back to finish dressing. Henry stood frowning at the portmanteau.
“Was this my fault?” he asked himself. “I knew Harrington was likely to do something stupid. And I knew I should have taken Alcazar out of the country immediately. I understood I might well be walking into an ambush this evening and yet… What else could I have done? Harrington, with his charm and acting ability and skill with guns and sword, was the best man for the task. I could have forcibly removed Alcazar, but then the unhappy journeyman might have refused to work for the Freyan government and there is no way I could force him. Whereas now, I have him, his brother, and his brother’s family under my control.
“And I could never have anticipated going to a meeting with the Sorceress only to find my nemesis, Jacob Northrop, there. Nor could I have foreseen that I would be attacked by fiends from Hell. If I had it to do over again, I would undoubtedly do exactly the same. I have to leave the Blue Parrot now. I have to leave Westfirth this night. A ship is waiting for us. The only question is: how to slip past the dogs?
“My Lady Luck,” said Henry, “this is for you, you fickle female. Do I go out the front or the back?”
He took out a coin and flipped it. The coin landed on the floor. Henry picked it up, eyed it, and tossed it on the table as recompense for the maid. He rang the bell to summon the footmen to take away the portmanteau. He ordered it delivered to the merchant ship, the Silver Raven, and sent word to the agent who served as his coachman.
The Blue Parrot Hotel had been named for the large blue parrot that squawked loudly from its gold-gilt cage in the front entryway. The hotel was known for the parrot and for the beautiful marble staircase that flowed in polished and lemon-oiled majesty from the first floor to the lobby. Several pages stood at their post near the staircase, ready to rush to perform the guests’ bidding. The office of the innkeeper was off the lobby to the right. The small and elegant dining room was to the left. One of the amenities for the occupants of the dining room was to be able to watch the arrivals and departures of beautifully coifed and bejeweled ladies and silk-caped aristocratic gentlemen.
Rodrigo and Stephano had both obtained rooms. Within fifteen minutes, Rodrigo had endeared himself to half the maidservants and made bosom friends of the Boots. Rodrigo had explained their somewhat rakish appearance, lack of luggage, and the unfortunate state of Stephano’s trousers with a thrilling tale of having been set upon by highwaymen. He and Stephano had received sympathy and towels, copious amounts of hot water, and gossip about all the guests.
After they had both hastily cleaned up and were downstairs dining on turbot and broiled squab, Rodrigo reported that several of the gentlemen currently residing at the Blue Parrot matched the description of Sir Henry Wallace, but none of the guests came close to resembling Pietro Alcazar.
“Maybe my mother is wrong,” said Stephano as the dishes were cleared away. “Maybe Wallace has nothing to do with Alcazar.”
“A possibility, I suppose,” said Rodrigo, ordering a snifter of brandy. “Though I might venture to remind you that your mother is never wrong.”
Stephano only grunted, then asked, “So what do we do now?”
“Sit here and drink brandy,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano shifted restlessly in his chair. “I don’t want to sit here. We should be doing something!”
“We are doing something,” said Rodrigo. “We are watching for Sir Henry.”
“Who might be disguised as anyone from the blue parrot in the lobby to that venerable old woman haranguing the wait staff. And we’re looking for another man who is apparently not even in the hotel. That sounds like a prosperous night’s work,” Stephano said.
“You’re in a bad mood, so you’re obviously feeling better,” Rodrigo observed, ordering more brandy for himself and one for his friend. “Miri’s yellow goo may offend the nostrils, but one has to admit its effectiveness.”
“I don’t like leaving our friends on their own,” said Stephano. “Not with demons around. I keep thinking about that poor murdered girl-”
“Lower your voice,” Rodrigo said quietly.
Stephano picked up the snifter of brandy, drank it, and motioned for a refill. “God! I wish I hadn’t seen her!”
“It was pretty awful,” said Rodrigo, pouring more brandy.
“I’ve seen worse on the battlefield,” said Stephano, tossing down the biting liquid. “But I keep thinking about what Father Jacob said, about that man drinking her blood-” He poured himself another glass.
“You might want to take it easy on the brandy,” said Rodrigo.
“This is the last,” said Stephano. A clock in the hallway chimed ten. He drank the brandy and stifled a yawn. “I’ve got to get some sleep. If Wallace was ever in the hotel, he’s probably gone by now.”
“I will remain here with this excellent brandy,” said Rodrigo, taking his time to savor a mouthful.
Stephano was rising to his feet when the doorman entered to announce that the coach for Count Fairhaven had arrived. The doorman summoned the page, who went dashing up the stairs to alert the count. The landlord, hearing his distinguished visitor was departing for the opera, came out of his office to bid his well-paying and noble guest a good evening.
Stephano decided he might as well wait to see this Count Fairhaven. He glanced at Rodrigo, who raised his eyebrows. They both watched as the count came down the stairs, escorting his female companion.
Stephano studied the count. The brim of his hat and the feathers that adorned it concealed much of the man’s face, as did the curls of the white powdered wig and the frilly white lace at his throat. Stephano caught a glimpse of an aristocratic nose and thin mouth, a black mustache and goatee. The count was elegantly dressed in a black silk cloak, a red waistcoat with overlarge sleeves embroidered with gold stitching, an embroidered weskit, lace cuffs, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He had one hand solicitously on the arm of his lady. He was speaking to her in Rosian, his accent indicating he came from the eastern region, perhaps somewhere around Haerigan. His voice was high-pitched, thin, affected.
“That’s not him,” said Stephano.
“But that is her!” Rodrigo exclaimed.
“Her? What do you mean her?” Stephano asked, puzzled.
“The love of my life,” said Rodrigo.
“Oh, good God!” Stephano looked at his friend in exasperation. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can. I am!” Rodrigo gazed, smitten. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful creature!”
The count’s lady was slender and graceful. Long curling locks of blonde hair fell over white-powdered
