Still, he reflected grudgingly, the letter also proved how well his mother knew him. He thought back, irritably, to Sir Ander saying he had his mother’s eyes. Stephano crumpled the note in his hand and dunked it in his ale. He watched the ink fade off the paper, mingling with the ale, turning the golden liquid faintly purple. He looked up to find Benoit regarding him intently.
“What now?” Stephano growled, in no mood to hear more about the old man’s extremities.
Benoit glanced about. The two of them were the only people in this part of the tavern. A group of young men, apparently students on holiday, had just entered and were raucously demanding service. He and Stephano could have shouted at each other and not been heard.
Benoit motioned Stephano near. “Your honored mother-”
“Quit calling her that,” said Stephano.
“-entrusted me with information she did not want to write down,” Benoit continued, ignoring the interruption.
Stephano tensed. “Tell me.”
Benoit whispered two words in Stephano’s ear.
“Henry Wallace.”
Stephano felt the tingle at the base of his spine run up his back and twist his gut.
“Do you know the name, sir?” Benoit asked.
“Unfortunately, I do,” said Stephano.
Sir Henry Wallace, spy master, assassin, was perhaps the only person in the world his mother truly feared. The countess had spoken of him only once, in connection with rumors of a failed assassination attempt against King Alaric who had been going to conduct a royal inspection of the mysterians damage done to the newly commissioned naval cutter, Defiant. Stephano had been with the Dragon Brigade then and there had been some talk of sending the Brigade in pursuit of the assassins. She had told him her belief that Sir Henry was involved and she had gone on to tell him what she knew of the Freyan spy master, whom she had met many years ago, when he had come to court in his capacity as the Freyan Ambassador.
Stephano dredged up the memory of his mother’s words. He had never heard her speak of any man the way she talked of Sir Henry.
“Henry Wallace is a man of superior intellect, rapier-sharp wit, and cold-blooded calculation. He is ruthless, clever, and cunning and a Freyan patriot to the core of his being. He hates Rosia and would sacrifice anything, anyone to see us lie crushed and defeated beneath the Freyan heel. His reach is long. He has spies in every court, agents hiding in every closet, and assassins underneath every bed.”
Stephano remembered he had been impressed, but he had wondered, if this man was so amazing, why he had failed in the attempt to kill the king.
He could see the countess standing in her room, twisting the ring on her finger. He could hear her bitter and enigmatic reply. “I am not certain he did fail. It is my belief that he wasn’t truly out to kill the king.”
As it happened, the Brigade had not been called up. The entire matter had been abruptly and mysteriously dropped. His mother had refused to discuss it and had forbidden him to ever refer to it. She had never again spoken of Sir Henry Wallace.
The fact that Wallace was mixed up in the disappearance of Alcazar drastically altered the situation. His involvement made it a safe bet that Alcazar had succeeded in his experiment. Stephano allowed himself to picture what would happen if such magically-infused metal were to fall into Freyan hands. Rosian ships firing every gun they had and doing little damage, as Freyan vessels pounded the Rosian Navy into kindling. The war would be over in a matter of days.
He looked back at how the events had unfolded after he’d begun his investigation into Alcazar’s disappearance and he could now begin to explain what had previously been inexplicable. The man with the slouch hat who had been lurking outside Alcazar’s apartment, the same man-the supposed Lord Richard Piefer-who had arranged the duel, murdered Valazquez, and tried to murder them must be an agent of Sir Henry Wallace. He had probably given instructions that anyone who took too great an interest in Alcazar was to be removed. That did not explain the other person who had been present at the duel, the person whose timely shot had saved Stephano’s life, but Stephano assumed now that this must have been an agent sent by his mother.
He pondered what to do now. First and foremost, he had to protect Benoit. He was angry at his mother. She had no right to get the old man involved in such a dangerous and potentially deadly affair.
“Were you followed here?” Stephano asked.
Benoit sat up very straight. His rheumy eyes flashed with indignation. “I should hope you know me better than that, sir!”
Stephano rested his hand over the old man’s. “I have no doubt you managed to shake off pursuit, but I need to know if you were pursued. Were you?”
“As a matter of fact I was, sir. A man followed me when I left the palace. I made sure I lost him before boarding the vessel that brought me to Westfirth. I have kept an eye out since, but I have not seen anyone take any particular notice of me.”
“Good. I want you leave Westfirth tonight and go back to-”
“Beg pardon, sir, your honored… that is to say your lady mother instructed me to return to her with word that I had found you. She was worried when she heard you had been shot-”
Stephano’s eyes narrowed, and Benoit suddenly ceased talking.
“How did my mother hear I was shot?” Stephano demanded.
Benoit buried his nose in his ale mug and pretended to be extremely interested in observing the tavern’s clientele.
“There was no one on the dock that day but you and the man who tried to assassinate me,” Stephano continued in grim tones. “And I somehow doubt that the assassin was the one who went and told my mother! Which means you’ve been spying on me for her!”
“A mother’s love, sir-” began Benoit in plaintive tones.
“Bullshit!” Stephano glowered and shook his fist. “I should wring your scrawny neck-”
Benoit suddenly leaped out of his chair.
“Good God, sir! Look who just walked in! Sir Ander Martel! Your father’s dear friend. I must go pay my respects-”
Sir Ander was entering the tavern, accompanied by Father Jacob, Master Albert, and Brother Barnaby. Father Jacob, he noted, was carrying an extremely large bundle. He saw that Sir Ander was being unusually watchful; he had his hand on his sword hilt and he was staying very close to Father Jacob.
The light outside was bright; it would take the three a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim light of the tavern. Stephano had already located another way out. Seizing hold of Benoit, Stephano hustled him, kicking and sputtering, to the back door which was behind and to the right of the bar, a good distance from the front door. He cast a few coins on the bar as he ran past. The barkeep gave them a bored glance as they made their hasty exit. He did not say anything or even seem much interested. In a tavern frequented by smugglers, customers bolting suddenly out the back were an everyday occurrence. So long as they paid their bill, they could fly up the chimney for all he cared.
The back door led to a storage room lit only by a single, filthy window. Stephano tumbled over a few barrels and bashed his knee on a packing crate before he reached the door. He thrust it open, peered out cautiously into a dingy side street. Seeing no one, he shoved Benoit, still protesting vociferously, through the door and after a glance behind, went after him.
Stephano had to take time to assure Benoit that he had met up with Sir Ander and that they were now the best of friends before the old man would calm down.
“I know you would like to visit with Sir Ander,” said Stephano, as he hurried Benoit down the street. “But trust me. Now is not the time. You have passage on a ship? You know where you’re going?”