slow pace. He could not see their faces in the darkness, but he knew them by their attire: one man in helm and breastplate, one in flowing monk’s robes, one in a long black cassock. By their low tones, they were deeply engaged in some important and serious conversation. He spoke to the back of the departing archbishop.
“Your Reverence,” said Dubois, “what would you say if I referred this matter of Sir Henry Wallace to the judgment of the Arcanum?”
The archbishop stopped. He turned around. He looked uneasy. “Why would the Arcanum get involved?”
“Because they have sense enough to understand the danger,” said Dubois.
The archbishop followed Dubois’ gaze to the battlements, to the man in the black cassock. The archbishop looked from Father Jacob back to Dubois and back to Father Jacob. The archbishop’s face went stony. He turned and stalked off.
Dubois smiled and out of habit started eavesdropping on the priest, who had paused right beneath the balcony. He heard Father Jacob tell his Knight Protector that he was planning to order the archbishop to send forces to scour the city in search of one he termed “the Sorceress” and her evil followers. Dubois raised an eyebrow. He had heard of this Sorceress. Was she responsible for the ambush? If so, why had she been attempting to kill both Sir Henry and Father Jacob?
“I need to meet this woman,” Dubois said to himself.
The father and his companions moved on and so did Dubois. As he returned to his coach, he saw the harried archbishop trying to explain matters to his guest, the Lord Mayor of the City of Westfirth, who was almost purple with fury. Dubois shook his head and slipped away.
Within the hour, a cannon announcing the closing of the port of Westfirth went off, as constables fanned out across the city, looking for a young man of about seventeen, who might be suffering from a gunshot wound to the foot, and a Freyan woman named Eiddwen, beautiful, with black curling hair. Dubois returned to his room at the Threadneedle Inn to try to get some sleep while he awaited the reports of his agents.
The echoes of the cannon shot were still lingering in the air when Sir Henry Wallace put his new plan into action. He watched out the window and when the coach entered a certain, shadowy street, Henry rose to his feet and rapped on the ceiling of the coach. The coach rolled to a stop. Henry got out and, glancing behind to make certain the street was empty, he spoke to the driver.
“Are we being followed?”
“Yes, Guvnor,” said the driver, who knew Sir Henry by a completely different identity. “Small hansom cab. Keeps a block or two behind.”
“Come down here,” said Henry.
The driver obeyed. The two walked off to an alley, leaving Alcazar, a prey to terror, alone with the woman and the “Duke.” He lost sight of Sir Henry in the darkness and was afraid that Monsieur Russo (Sir Henry’s alias) had abandoned him. Then, thankfully, Sir Henry and the driver returned. Sir Henry entered the coach. Alcazar was about to say something when he saw the man’s face.
“You’re not Monsieur Russo!” Alcazar gasped.
“Shut yer yap,” said the driver, now wearing the count’s cloak.
Sir Henry, wearing the driver’s coat, mounted the box, took the reins, and the journey resumed.
Henry glanced several times over his shoulder and finally caught sight of the small hansom cab. He took care so that the cab did not lose him. The original idea had been to throw Dubois off the trail. Now Henry wanted Dubois on it. Dubois had grown annoying. Henry wanted to be rid of him.
Henry drove the coach to a small boarding house located near the docks. He stopped beneath a streetlamp and, in his guise as coach driver, climbed down from the seat to assist the “count” and his “lady” to leave the coach. Alcazar was also about to leave. Henry strong-armed him, shoved him back inside.
“Not a word,” said Sir Henry. “Keep an eye on him,” he said to the man who had been driving the coach.
The count and his lady swiftly mounted the steps of the house. The count unlocked the outer door, and hurried inside, bringing his lady with him. Sir Henry returned to the driver’s seat. He waited a moment to make certain Dubois’ agent in the hansom cab had taken note of the movements of the “count,” then drove off. Looking back over his shoulder, Henry noted with immense satisfaction that the hansom cab remained parked near the boarding house.
Once more having shaken a tail, Henry drove the coach to his next destination. When the coach stopped, he ordered Alcazar to quit blubbering and get out. Alcazar looked around and saw with dismay that they were in a stinking, refuse-littered, festering street of one of the worst parts of Westfirth.
There being no streetlamps in this squalid section of the city, few people dared venture out after dark. Those who did had their reasons. The sight of an elegantly dressed “woman” descending from a coach brought unwelcome attention. Two rough-looking men approached her. Alcazar was mute with fear. Henry Wallace coolly drew out a monocle that when he touched it a certain way, began to glow with light. He held the light to his face. The two men halted, then backed away precipitously.
“Pardon, Guvnor,” said one man, nervously touching his hand to the brim of a filthy hat. “Didn’t know it was you.”
Henry ordered the driver to leave, then took hold of Alcazar by the arm and escorted him to what was popularly known as a rag and bottle shop. Henry drew out one of many keys he carried with him, fit it into the lock, opened the creaking door and shoved Alcazar inside. Henry followed, closing the door, leaving them in pitch- darkness, for the windows were shuttered. He told Alcazar to stand by the door, not to move.
Sir Henry drew out the glowing monocle and by its light, he wended his way among the stacks of refuse and broken furniture, cracked dishes, bags of hair, bottles, clothing, books, weapons, watches, and anything else that could be bartered or sold by those in desperate need.
The shop’s owner, hearing someone rummaging about, came down from his little room above the shop. He was clad in his nightdress and carried a candle in one hand and a stout club in the other.
Henry again allowed the light from the monocle to play upon his face. The owner stared at him keenly, gave a nod, and asked him in a whisper if he needed anything. Henry told him he required food and a bed for the night. The man went back upstairs. Henry continued on his way to a large portmanteau he kept stashed at the very back of the shop. He opened it, rummaged through coats, waistcoats, shirts, boots, hats, gloves, shoes, underclothes, and even handkerchiefs. Henry took off the driver’s clothes he was wearing and placed them in the portmanteau and then opened a small metal box. Henry shone his light on a quantity of letters, official looking documents and papers, all expertly forged. He selected those he required, then shut and locked the metal box.
Henry went back to Alcazar and thrust some clothes into his arms and told him to change. Alcazar was so happy to get out of his corset and petticoats and so exhausted by the events of the evening that he complied readily, without complaining, not even when told he would be spending the night in this ghastly place.
The shop owner returned with a large bowl containing some sort of meat floating in congealed gravy. Sir Henry ate ravenously. Alcazar, smelling it, queasily declined. The owner indicated a vacant room next to his own; they could spend the night there. He brought them blankets and pillows, which Henry spread out on the floor. He lay down on the blanket and stretched out comfortably.
Alcazar remained standing.
“Are there rats?” he asked fearfully.
“Big as dogs,” said Sir Henry.
After his exertions in aiding the count to escape his kidnappers, Stephano also spent a restful night. The combination of brandy and yellow goo sent him into a deep slumber. His shoulder was stiff and his thigh sore, but both wounds were healing well. He went to check on Dag and found him already up and eating breakfast.
“How are you this morning?” Stephano asked.
“Fine, sir,” said Dag, stolidly eating. “The burns weren’t serious.”
Stephano noted that Dag was sitting awkwardly, making certain his burned back did not come in contact with the chair.
“He’s not fine,” Miri snapped. “He’s going to have his bandages changed and more ointment this morning before he goes anywhere.”
She slammed a bowl down in front of Stephano and hurled a spoon in his general direction. He caught it on the bounce. Miri stalked off, going back to the galley.
“Bullets flying, Captain,” Dag advised. “Keep your head down, sir.”
Stephano understood. Miri was in one of her moods. He took a seat and tried to avoid coming under fire as
