boisterous and appeared well fed and as clean as could be expected of twelve year olds playing at stickball in the alleys.
If Stephano and Rodrigo had appeared on the Street of the Half Moon dressed in their court clothes, they would have attracted notice and received a cool reception. Stephano was once more in his comfortable coat of dragon green with its tailored military cut, and Rodrigo, dressed in an open-collared, flowing sleeved shirt and loose-fitting coat of a soft fawn color, looked like either an artist or a poet.
The two encountered some difficulty finding the address, 127 Half Moon Street, not because people were reluctant to speak to them, but because everyone they asked had a different idea of where it was located. They received a wide variety of answers and wandered up and down the street to no avail, until Rodrigo stopped to visit with an elderly woman, dressed all in black, who stated firmly that the house was located in a court across from the Church of Saint Michelle. The elderly woman knew this because she attended services at the church twice a day, morning and evening, and she passed the address on her way.
Stephano and Rodrigo walked toward the small neighborhood church. Passing a tavern, they thought they might find out information about Alcazar from the locals and entered. The patrons, gathered inside for a midday “wet,” greeted the two affably enough. Stephano bought a pint for himself and Rodrigo and one for the bartender as was customary.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” said Stephano, speaking to the bartender. “He and I were in the king’s service together. A man named Pietro Alcazar. I thought perhaps he might do his drinking here.”
The bartender shook his head. He had never heard of Alcazar; neither had any of the other patrons. Stephano thanked the bartender. Finishing their pints, he and Rodrigo went back out onto the street.
“Apparently he isn’t a tippler,” said Rodrigo.
“Douver claimed Alcazar didn’t overindulge, but it never hurts to check.” Stephano looked up and down the street. “This is the most likely tavern for him to frequent. There’s the Church of Saint Michelle, complete with statue. If your widow is right, the address is somewhere around here.”
“She said it was located in an inner court and that the building was a neighborhood disgrace,” Rodrigo stated, peering about. “Ah! I believe that is it! No wonder we missed it.”
The four-story brick boarding house was set so far back from the street as to almost completely escape notice. Constructed in the shape of a “U,” the building featured a courtyard protected by a wrought-iron fence with a gate in front. The dwelling had probably once belonged to a wealthy man who had liked his privacy.
Whoever owned the building now had not kept it up. The courtyard was dark and filled with dead leaves and trash. The wrought-iron gate had no lock, and several children were taking turns swinging on it. The rusted hinges gave off a shrill screeching sound that seemed to go right through Stephano’s teeth.
“I thought journeymen smiths in the Royal Armory were paid well,” Rodrigo said, eyeing the building with disgust.
“They’re paid very well,” said Stephano. “Alcazar would have been paid better than most, since he was a valued employee. He wasn’t married. He didn’t have twelve children to feed or an aged mother to support. He could have afforded to live some place better than this.”
The two waited until a wagon loaded with barrels had rumbled past, then crossed the street. Stephano took careful note of the surroundings, observing who was coming and going. Three women carrying empty baskets emerged from the building. One of the women stopped to speak to the gate-swinging children, then the three matrons, chattering loudly, continued on their way. Four boys in their teens were kicking a ball against the wall at the corner of the building.
Across the street was the church. A priest stood on the church steps, chatting with an ordinary-looking fellow, dressed like a clerk. A drunk in filthy clothes with a slouch hat pulled over his face was either asleep or had passed out on a bench beneath a statue of Saint Michelle. Several young blades rode past on horseback, talking loudly and ogling a young woman walking toward the church. A man in an apron pushing a handcart loaded with vegetables headed in the opposite direction.
While Stephano kept watch on the street, Rodrigo went to speak to the children. He pulled a copper coin out of his purse and tossed it into the air, so that it flashed in the sunlight, then deftly caught it with a snap and held it up. The children immediately clustered around him.
“I’m looking for someone, and I’ll give this bright penny to the smart lad or lass who can help me find him. I’ve been told he lives here.”
“Who you lookin’ for, Mister?” asked a boy, the tallest and probably the oldest.
“His name is Pietro Alcazar,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano glanced around at the people within earshot, to see if the name had any effect. The boys playing ball paid no attention. Neither did the young woman or the priest or the clerk. The drunk lying on the bench stirred, however. The man moved his arm, which had been over his head, lowering it to his chest. Stephano watched him closely, but it seemed the drunk was merely shifting to a more comfortable position. He settled the slouch hat over his face and folded his arms and did not move again.
“What do you want with Monsieur Alcazar?” the boy was asking. “Does he owe you money?”
Rodrigo and Stephano exchanged glances.
“Does he owe a lot of people money?” Rodrigo asked.
“My papa says he owes the wrong people money,” stated the boy with a worldly-wise air.
“Monsieur Alcazar plays with rats,” added a little girl, her eyes huge.
“He does what?” Rodrigo asked, startled.
“He plays baccarat,” said Stephano, translating.
“Ah, yes, that would make sense,” said Rodrigo, relieved. “Thank you, my friends.” He handed the boy a coin and another for the little girl. “Now, which is his lodging.”
“I’ll show you!” said another boy, hoping for a copper of his own. “It’s up the stairs.”
The children began to pull Rodrigo into the dark and dismal courtyard.
“He’s not there, though,” added the older boy. “The door’s busted. Someone took him away in the night.”
“He was carried off by demons,” said the little girl. “Demons took him to the Bad Place because playing with rats is wicked.”
“What an astonishing imagination that child has,” Rodrigo said in a low voice to Stephano. “She quite frightens me.”
The children eagerly related the story, which was apparently the talk of the neighborhood. None of the children had actually seen the demons, much to their disappointment. The interesting event had happened well past their bedtimes. But the children all agreed there had been a “terrible fight.” According to the oldest boy, a neighbor down the hall from Monsieur Alcazar had actually seen the demons in the act of carrying off the poor journeyman.
“I think we should have a talk with this neighbor,” said Rodrigo quietly, and Stephano nodded.
The courtyard was dark, the stairs were darker. Accompanied by the children, Rodrigo began to grope his way up the stairs. Stephano lingered in the courtyard a moment, seeing if anyone was interested. At first he saw no one and was ready to join his friend. He had set his foot on the lower stair, when he saw a shadow out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over his shoulder back out into the street. The drunk with the slouch hat, who had been asleep on the bench, was now very much awake, standing in front of the iron gate and peering intently inside the courtyard.
The drunk caught sight of Stephano, tugged on his hat, slurred, “ ‘Afternoon, Guvnor,” and lounged off.
“Go on, Rigo! I’ll catch up with you,” Stephano called and ran back through the wrought-iron gate in pursuit of the drunk.
Stephano reached Half Moon Street in time to see the drunk in the slouch hat running down the street with a marked and fluid grace that reminded Stephano of a jongleur or an acrobat. Slouch Hat was no longer drunk either, apparently, for he motioned to a hackney cab that might have been waiting for him and hopped into it quite nimbly. The driver whipped the horses, and the cab drove off in haste.
“Now that’s odd,” muttered Stephano. “Damn odd.”
He looked up and down the street and saw lots of people, but no one else who appeared to have a particular interest in 127 Street of the Half Moon. He went back through the gate, entered the courtyard, and was proceeding up the stairs, when he was almost swept away by a flood of children coming down. Rodrigo had been generous with
