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  “As if I would have the like!” returned the woman, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge Rodrigo’s foot by poking him with the broom handle. “For one, I can’t read nor write. For two, paper and ink is dear-”

  “But Pietro Alcazar had such things,” said Rodrigo, keeping his foot in the door. “You were the first in his apartment. I was thinking that perhaps you might have taken his books and his clothes and linens-”

  “I never!” cried the woman angrily.

  “-for safekeeping,” Rodrigo finished in soothing tones. “So that no unscrupulous person would steal them, perhaps sell them at the pawn shop…”

  “They would be worth a lot of money,” said the woman, her eyes on Rigo’s purse.

  Rodrigo produced another silver coin and held it just out of her reach. “Paper, pen, and ink. You can keep the rest.”

  The woman wavered a moment. Rodrigo removed his foot from the door. She shut it and they heard her walk off.

  “We’re not made of silver, you know,” said Stephano testily.

  “Something tells me this will be worth it,” said Rodrigo.

  The door opened. The woman handed out several pieces of paper, a pen, and a pewter inkwell. Rodrigo gave her the silver coin. She took it and slammed the door shut.

  Rodrigo and Stephano returned to Alcazar’s lodgings.

  “It does look as if he was snatched,” said Stephano. “By professionals, at that.”

  “Let us see what this letter has to tell us,” said Rodrigo. “If you could shut the door-or what’s left of it. And we will shove the table up against it to prevent any intrusion by broom-wielding neighbors.”

  Rodrigo sat down cross-legged on the floor. He placed one of the blank pieces of paper the woman had supplied on the floor in front of him. Dipping the pen in the ink, he drew four sigils on the page: one at the top, one on either side, and one at the bottom. He then drew a line connecting each sigil, one to the other.

  “What exactly is this going to do?” Stephano asked.

  Rodrigo picked up the page and scooted closer to the fireplace. “The partially destroyed letter has two separate components: the ink and the paper on which the ink resides. If this spell works as planned, the magical construct I have crafted on my piece of paper should gently pull the ink from the burnt paper and transfer it to my sheet.”

  “Do you think it will work?” Stephano asked.

  “I have no idea. Wind coming down the flue broke up the burnt paper, but we might still be able to read something. The one major problem is that the spell will destroy what’s left of the original.”

  “So we have only one shot,” Stephano said. “Just out of curiosity, where did you learn to cast a spell like this? I don’t suppose reading burnt letters was part of the University curriculum.”

  Rodrigo smiled. “We both have the weapons we need to fight our battles, my friend. In the circles I frequent, information can be more explosive than gunpowder. Now, please be silent and let me concentrate.”

  Rodrigo held the page with the construct above the remains of the letter and focused his thoughts on the magic. His eyes closed to slits. His breathing slowed. He touched each of the sigils he had drawn on the paper, tracing them with his finger. After he had gone over all four of them, the constructs began to glow. The black ink shone with a golden light.

  Rodrigo placed the glowing paper directly over the burnt paper in the grate. The two merged, the glowing paper seeming to absorb the burnt letter-ashes and all. The glow faded away. His paper rested on the cold stone of the hearth. The burnt letter was gone.

  “Let us see what we have.” Rodrigo gingerly picked up the piece of paper and turned it over. “Damn. I was afraid of this.” He sighed in disappointment.

  Stephano leaned over his shoulder. Very little had been salvaged. The missive had been brief. He saw a part of a word that began with “au” and another fragment that might have been “eet.” Only two words in the body of the letter were clearly visible: the word “when” and a second word “Westfirth.”

  “The letter was signed,” said Rodrigo, holding the paper close to his eyes.

  “Can you read it?” Stephano asked.

  Rodrigo shook his head. “All that is left are the bottom swoops of the characters. Maybe “ce” or “ca”… I can’t be sure.

  “So all we have is ‘when’ and ‘Westfirth,” said Stephano.

  “A Rosian city with an unsavory reputation,” said Rodrigo. He struggled unsuccessfully to rise out of his cross-legged position and finally reached out his hand. “Help me, will you? I seem to have lost all the feeling in my right foot.”

  Stephano hoisted up his friend, who groaned and hobbled about the room, trying to restore the flow of blood.

  “Magic always takes a toll on me,” Rodrigo complained.

  “It wasn’t the magic,” said Stephano, unsympathetic. “Your foot went to sleep.”

  He stood gazing about the ransacked sitting room, turning things over in his mind.

  “Well, that is that,” said Rodrigo. “We’ve learned all we can learn here. Our simple little job is ended. You can report back to your mother, and then we can-”

  “No,” said Stephano.

  “No, what? You’re not going to report to your mother?”

  “Report what?” Stephano said. “That Alcazar was a bad baccarat player? That three men broke into his rooms in the dead of night and took him away? That we found a burnt letter?”

  “A letter containing the name of a city known to be a haven for criminals. And you saw someone keeping an eye on this place,” said Rodrigo.

  “I saw a man with a slouch hat,” said Stephano. “There are a thousand men with slouch hats in this city, any one of whom might simply have been a drunken gawker who came to view the scene of the crime. I’m sure my mother will be agog with wonder at my investigative skills.”

  “So much for the simple job,” Rodrigo said with a sigh. He folded the paper and thrust it into an inner pocket of his coat. “I gather we’re going to be taking a trip to Westfirth.”

  “Miri and Gythe can talk to their Trundler friends there, find out if they know anything about Alcazar. And Dag still has some of his old underworld contacts in Westfirth. I believe it would be worth a trip.”

  The two left the lodging. As Stephano started to close the door, he paused, gazed thoughtfully back inside.

  “You don’t think that man with the hat was a gawker, do you?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Drunks in slouch hats who sleep on benches don’t have hackney cabs waiting to whisk them away,” said Stephano.

  He shut the door. Once out on the Street of the Half Moon, they turned their steps toward home.

  “I’ll send Benoit to court with a letter for my mother,” Stephano said. “I’ll tell her about what we found and where we’re going.”

  “Admit it,” said Rodrigo. “The real reason we’re going to Westfirth is because you don’t want to put on a cravat.”

  “Damn right,” said Stephano, smiling.

  His smile faded. He came to a sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk and looked over his shoulder. The time was midafternoon and the street was even busier than when they had first arrived. The tavern’s customers overflowed the bar and spilled out the door. Wagons and carriages rolled past. An airship floated overhead, casting a shadow that glided over the sidewalk.

  “What are you doing besides impeding the flow of traffic?” Rodrigo asked, apologizing to an irate pedestrian, who had nearly run into him. “You’ve been as jumpy as a frog on a gridiron since we left that apartment.

  “I have the feeling we’re being followed.”

  “We are-by about several hundred Rosians. I beg your pardon, Madame. It was my fault entirely that you trod on my foot,” said Rodrigo, doffing his hat. He seized hold of Stephano and tugged him along. “You’ll never spot a tail in this crowd.”

  Stephano acknowledged this with a mutter and continued walking.

  “Why should anyone be followi
ng us?” Rodrigo asked. “I don’t owe any gambling debts.”

  Stephano glanced at him.

  “I paid the duke last month,” said Rodrigo with affronted dignity.

  “And you know I don’t gamble,” said Stephano.

  “At least not with money,” said Rodrigo. “Your life is a different matter.”

  Stephano glanced once more over his shoulder. “I don’t see anyone, but, as you say, in all this crowd spotting a tail is nigh impossible. I’m thinking we should celebrate our good fortune this evening by arranging a picnic in the park. Let’s see who’s keeping an eye on us.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Rodrigo. He stopped to bow to a woman driving past in a carriage adorned with a baron’s coat of arms. The woman leaned out to wave at him and blow him a kiss. “Intrigue. I love it. Who’s watching who’s watching who’s watching whom.”

  “Only in this case,” said Stephano, “it will be us watching them watching us.”

  Chapter Five

  Constructs are the combination of various sigils connected by lines of power or magical conduits to direct and control magical energy into a pattern in order to achieve a specific and desired purpose.

  – The Art of Crafting

  Church School Primer

  RETURNING HOME, RODRIGO WENT TO HIS ROOM for an afternoon nap to recover from the fatigues of the day. Stephano sent Benoit to find Beppe, a sharp lad of about twelve.

  Stephano had first met Beppe when his mother, who took in laundry, came to collect the clothes to be washed while Beppe tagged along to steal whatever he could lay his hands on. Benoit had caught the boy raiding the larder and was teaching him a lesson with a cane applied to his backside when Stephano, hearing ungodly howling from the kitchen, came to the boy’s rescue.

  Foreseeing that Beppe’s current career was likely to land him in prison, Stephano had offered to pay him to run errands. Beppe had proved invaluable. The boy could go anywhere, talk to anyone, eavesdrop, ask questions: all without attracting notice. The boy was friends with Dag and Miri and Gythe (Beppe was desperately in love with Miri) and often did small jobs for them.

  Stephano sent Beppe with a message to the sisters who lived on their houseboat, the Cloud Hopper, and another message to Dag in his rooming house near the docks. Stephano gave his instructions to the boy verbally and made him repeat them back.

  After Beppe left, Stephano wrote his mother a brief and concise account of everything they had discovered at Alcazar’s apartment. He ended by saying he and the Cadre of the Lost were traveling to the city of Westfirth to follow up on the matter, then rang the bell for Benoit.

  The old man came slowly up the stairs, groaning loudly with each step, and leaning heavily on his cane. He limped into the room.

  “I have a letter I want you to deliver,” said Stephano. Folding the letter, he dropped melted wax on the page and dipped his signet ring with its symbol of a tiny dragon into the melted wax.

  Benoit gave another groan. “I’m sure I would be happy to do your bidding, sir, if I weren’t in such constant misery that I can scarcely move a step-”

  “You’re to take the letter to the Countess de Marjolaine in the Royal Palace,” said Stephano.

  Benoit stopped groaning. His eyes gleamed. He stood up straight, smoothed back his long gray hair, and straightened his jacket.

  “It will be hard on me, but I will undertake to make the sacrifice, sir.”

  “I thought you might,” said Stephano wryly.

  Benoit loved visiting the royal court. A trip to the palace brought back fond memories of times gone by. He would find time to dine with his friends in the servants’ quarters, hear the latest below-stairs gossip. He stood his cane in the corner and reached for the letter.

  Stephano eyed the old man. “What about your constant misery? I can send someone else-”

  “Do not give my suffering a second thought, sir,” said Benoit. “I would never dream of permitting my failing health to stand in the way of my duty to you.”

  Stephano hid his smile and handed the old man the letter. “Here’s money for a carriage. Give the letter into the hands of the Countess de Marjolaine, not that popinjay of a secretary.”

  Stephano had no fear Benoit would give the letter to anyone except the countess, who always rewarded him most handsomely.

  “The countess’ hands, as you say, sir,” Benoit said, unusually dutiful. He dashed down the stairs.

  “You move damn fast for an old cripple!” Stephano called, leaning over the stair rail. “You forgot your cane!”

  His answer was the door slam. Grinning, Stephano walked over to the window and drew back the curtain in time to see Benoit hurrying down the street, waving his arm to gain the attention of one of the wyvern-drawn carriages drifting by overhead. Stephano chuckled and then cast an idle glance up and down the street. His neighborhood was residential, home to men and women of the lower upper class, minor nobility like Stephano, and those of the upper middle class, such as the wine merchant who lived in the fine house across the street. Stephano saw the young and pretty nursemaid, who made eyes at Rodrigo whenever he walked past, taking the wine merchant’s young son out for an airing. While the little boy played, the young woman was happily flirting with a young man paying her admiring attention.

  Stephano shut the curtain. Removing his jacket, he picked up his rapier and went downstairs and out into the small yard at the back of the house where he had set up a target, which looked rather like a scarecrow. He began his daily fencing practice, performing over and over again the nine classic parries and their intricate footwork.

  Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen had a reputation as an expert swordsman, a reputation he had earned. On the urging of the grand bishop, the king had made dueling illegal, mainly because too many promising young officers were being felled fighting affairs of honor. Unfortunately, the only effect this law had was to force gentlemen to settle their quarrels in the privacy of some cemetery or farmer’s field, away from the notice of the watchful police, who took great delight in hauling the sons of noblemen off to jail.

  Stephano disliked dueling. His father had taught him that if you lived the life of a man of honor, you did not need to be constantly proving you were an honorable man. But Stephano also followed his father’s dictum that while a man of honor never sought a quarrel, he never backed down from one either. Stephano had fought three duels in his life, two of them over the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, where the men had presumed to refer to him as a bastard, and one duel when he accused Lord Captain William Hastind of being the cause of the death of Lady Cam, Stephano’s dragon and comrade-inarms in the Dragon Brigade.

  Stephano had won all three duels. He had disarmed two of his opponents and severely wounded Hastind, who had, however, survived and returned to duty. He was now captain of the king’s pride and joy, the man-of-war, Royal Lion. Hastind was a favorite of His Majesty. The king had been furious when he had heard about this last duel and only the entreaties of the countess had kept Stephano out of prison.

  Stephano had been aware of the danger when he had challenged Hastind, but he would never, as long as he lived, forget what he owed to Lady Cam. Though dying and in terrible pain, the dragon had fought to the end to keep Stephano safe. He had expected to be arrested and was astonished when nothing had happened. He thought perhaps that Hastind, feeling guilty, had not pressed charges. Stephano never knew of his mother’s involvement. If he had, he would have been furious.

  Stephano practiced his fencing exercises daily, generally in the morning. He took his practice seriously; the exercise helped him keep fit and physical activity freed his mind. The blade of his rapier was a little heavier than most; the ornate basket hilt balanced that weight. While he lunged and recovered, he considered all that had happened this day. He went over every word of his mother’s conversation, every detail of the visit to Alcazar’s apartment. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that his mother was right. Someone believed Al
cazar had made a world-changing discovery. Stephano wondered what this person would do to the poor wretch if they found out his “discovery” was so much hot air.

  “Ah, there you are.” Rodrigo opened the window to his bedroom and was leaning his head out. “Put away your toys. Nearly time for our picnic.”

  Stephano saluted his friend with the rapier and went inside to wash off the sweat and change his clothes. As he did so, he glanced out his bedroom window onto the street. The nursemaid and little boy were no longer visible. But the young man who had been flirting with her was still hanging around, lounging at his ease on a stone bench in a niche in a wall.

  Stephano felt a tingle at the bottom of his spine. This man might be the nursemaid’s lover, hoping for another glimpse of her, but Stephano doubted it. He dressed quickly, putting on a murrey-colored coat, white shirt, murrey breeches, and boots that came up over the knee. Going to Rodrigo’s room, Stephano found his friend in hunting attire, with a long, belted red coat that extended below his knees, red breeches, black vest, and tall black boots.

  Stephano stopped to stare.

  “Was I mistaken, Rigo? Are we riding to the hounds? I thought we were going for a stroll in the park.”

  “You mock me, but this is the latest fashion,” said Rodrigo, smoothing his white silk cravat. “I am told the Earl of Monte Claire dressed like this for an evening fete last week at the palace and was the object of considerable admiration. The queen was said to be in raptures. Besides, you want to ‘flush’ the ‘bird’ who is taking an unusual interest in us. Note the clever use of hunting terminology.”

  Rodrigo added a black hat to his ensemble and regarded himself with satisfaction in the mirror.

  “I assure you, all eyes will be on me.”

  Stephano thought this would be quite likely, unfortunately, but, knowing his friend and knowing that further argument would probably make matters worse, he drew Rodrigo to the window and parted the curtain.