his coppers and the children were running off in high glee to the local baker to buy penny buns.
Alcazar’s lodging consisted of a bedroom and a sitting room. Stephano found Rodrigo examining the lock to the door that had, according to the children, been “busted.” The strike plate, which was lying on the floor, was still affixed to a portion of the wall that had broken off when the door had been violently kicked in. Rodrigo crouched down to examine the plate, regarding it intently.
“Someone was keeping an eye on us,” said Stephano “That drunk in the slouch hat asleep on the bench. He woke up in a hurry, seemingly. As you were going up the stairs, I caught him nosing around outside the gate.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
Stephano shook his head. “He had a hat pulled over his face. He ran off when he saw me. I went after him, thinking I’d ask him what he found so damn fascinating about this place. But before I could catch him, he hailed a cab and drove away. Looked to me like the cab was waiting for him. So what do you find so interesting about this lock? Looks ordinary to me.”
“It is an ordinary lock,” said Rodrigo. “Or it would be, if it had not been imbued with magic.”
God breathed magic into everything in the world, “from mountains to molehills, men to mice” as the catechism states. Some people have the ability to see the magic, control it, guide it, construct it. These people are known as crafters, and Rodrigo was one of the best. Completely lacking in any magical talent, Stephano had always been fascinated and a little envious of Rodrigo’s skill as a crafter and had never been able to understand his friend’s lighthearted, flippant attitude toward his magic.
“You waste your time on frivolous pursuits,” Stephano had said in exasperation after Rodrigo had been thrown out of the University for innumerable sins, among which were smuggling women into his room at night; advancing the theory that the Breath did not come from God’s mouth, but could be produced by mixing together the right chemicals; and, the coup-de-grace, using his magic to cause the bishop’s miter to float off his head during a service to celebrate All Saints’ Day. The miter had gone sailing about the sanctuary, much to the glee of the assembly, and Rodrigo had been expelled.
“There are men who would kill to have your power,” Stephano had told his friend.
“That’s just the point, Stephano,” Rodrigo had replied with unusual gravity. “Men would kill.”
He had refused to elaborate, and had gone on to make some jest of it. But Stephano had remained convinced that for once in his life, his friend had been in earnest.
Rodrigo passed his hand several times over the strike plate, taking care not to touch it.
“As you will observe,” he said to Stephano, “the locking apparatus is quite simple, consisting of a metal strike plate affixed to the doorjamb with a hole for the bolt, which is attached to the door. Shut the door, slide the bolt, the door is locked. But Alcazar did not put much trust in his neighbors. See that?”
Beneath Rodrigo’s hand, the strike plate began to glow faintly.
“I see light,” said Stephano.
“You see light. I see sigils,” said Rodrigo. “Burning with the magic. One sigil here and one here and one here, forming a construct, with lines of magical energy connecting them. The magic strengthens the metal. Ah, and look at this.”
He murmured a word and the glow grew brighter.
“Another layer of protection underneath,” said Rodrigo with satisfaction. “You could hit this lock with a hammer, my friend, and it would only dent it.”
“Too bad Alcazar didn’t think to strengthen the wall with magic,” said Stephano, noting the splintered wood on the floor. “A lock is only as strong as the surface to which it is attached. People tend to forget that. A couple of good, hard kicks to the door, and you rip the strike plate right off the wall.”
The two of them entered the sitting room. Stephano glanced at the peeling paint and the cracks in the walls and shook his head.
“Alcazar must not be a very good baccarat player. I’ll take the bedroom. You search this room.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Rodrigo.
“Some clue as to what Alcazar was working on in the Armory and who snatched him and why-”
“The children claim it was demons. I see no cloven hoofprints,” said Rodrigo. He sniffed the air. “Though perhaps I detect the faintest whiff of brimstone… Or is it boiled cabbage?”
“Be serious,” Stephano said irritably.
He was suddenly sorry he’d taken on this job. He didn’t like prying into the life of another man, especially when it appeared the life of this man had been a sordid and unhappy one.
“The little girl was right about him being carried off by demons,” Stephano said to himself as he entered the shabby bedroom. “Demons of his own making.”
The only article of furniture was a bed and a portmanteau on top of which stood a broken porcelain bowl and a water pitcher missing its handle. Alcazar had been smart not to trust his neighbors, who had apparently ransacked the place in his absence. The bed had been stripped of bed linens and blankets. The portmanteau was empty. If there had been a rug, it was gone.
Stephano stomped his foot on the floorboards, but heard no hollow sound. No loose boards suggesting a secret hiding place. He upended the portmanteau, found no false bottom. Nothing had been hidden under the bed or stuffed inside the straw mattress.
“No luck,” he said, returning to the sitting room. “Strange that there’s no blood.”
“Why is that strange?” Rodrigo asked. His voice was muffled. He was on his hands and knees and had his head in the fireplace.
“Well, let’s say that Alcazar is overly fond of playing baccarat. Unfortunately, he loses more than he wins and ends up owing money to the wrong men, as that astute little boy suggested. These bad men come to the collect the debt or at least to impress upon Alcazar that he should pay up quickly.”
“The sort of work our friend, Dag, used to do for a living,” said Rodrigo, craning his neck to peer up the flue.
“They would have beat him up, bloodied his nose, punched him in the gut a few times, maybe cracked a couple of ribs. That’s what these sort of debt collectors do.”
Rodrigo sat back on his heels. “But instead of collecting a debt, they collected Alcazar. Maybe they’re holding him for ransom.”
“Not likely. According to my mother, who heard it from Douver, Alcazar has no relations except a brother who is a merchant sailor in Westfirth.”
Stephano shook his head. “I hate to admit it, but it seems my mother is right. Alcazar was snatched because someone thinks he devised a way to use magic to strengthen metal. What was so fascinating about the fireplace?”
Rodrigo rose to his feet, brushed off his breeches, and pointed to the grate. “You’ll note that piece of paper. It seems either Alcazar or someone else tried to burn it, but was in too much haste to do the job well.”
Stephano bent over to take a closer look.
“The person tossed the letter onto the fire in the grate thinking it would go up in flames,” Rodrigo continued. “But it was nighttime. Alcazar had gone to bed and allowed the fire to die down. The paper landed on coals that were hot enough to sear the center of the sheet, but not hot enough to destroy the paper completely. The person burning the letter either fled or was dragged off before making certain that the fire had done its work.”
“I don’t see how this helps,” said Stephano. “All that’s left of the paper are the corners and they’re blank. The rest is nothing but ash.”
“Never underestimate my incredible ability to snoop about where I’m not wanted,” said Rodrigo cheerfully. “I need pen and ink and paper.”
“If Alcazar ever had such things, they’re not here now,” said Stephano, glancing about.
“Oh, he had them,” Rodrigo stated. “Note the ink splotches on the table. He was a learned man, our Alcazar. You can see traces in the dust on those shelves where he kept books. And he played baccarat, albeit poorly, since he appears to have lost more than he won. I played baccarat myself in University, as do many students. My guess is that he attended University himself, at least for a short time.”
Rodrigo took one final look around. “Nothing more here. I think it is time we paid a visit to the neighbor. Are you armed? It might be well to take precautions.”
Stephano drew a short-barreled pistol from inside his coat. The gun had been a gift from his godfather, Sir Ander Martel, and was one of Stephano’s most prized possessions. The gun was unique in design and had been a
