“We could find a way to send you home for the funeral…” he had begun and then he had remembered. “Damn! You can’t go home. We’re under Seal. I promised Father Jacob we’d all remain here in Westfirth. Never mind the priest. If you want to go home, Rigo, you should go home.”
Rodrigo had smiled and shaken his head. “My dear fellow, have you forgotten that we spent days lost in the Breath? The funeral will be over and done with by now. I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me.”
But Stephano was worried. Rodrigo loved Trundler gatherings. It wasn’t like him to miss one.
After Rodrigo had gone to bed, Stephano sat down with a bottle of wine given to them by one of their Trundler neighbors. He went over everything that had happened these past few days and made plans for what was likely to happen in the future.
Stephano did not worry about setting the watch. They were surrounded on all sides by Trundler houseboats. The Trundlers set their own watch over the entire village; they did not take kindly to strangers. For the first night in many nights, Stephano slept deeply and woke to the sun shining and the smell of sausages.
The morning of Chardus, the fourth day of the week, was a fine one, not a cloud in the sky. Even the mists had dissipated. Peering over the hull, Stephano could see quite a distance down to the dark and murky depths of the Breath below. Stephano thought of the demons that had come up out of those depths and he shifted his gaze landward, which provided a far more pleasurable view of the city of Westfirth.
He looked out over a veritable sea of gaily painted balloons. Trundler houseboats bobbed in the harbor, thin trails of smoke rising from their galleys bringing with it smells of fresh-baked bread. The morning was brightened by the laughter of children as they scrambled up and down the masts or jumped perilously from boat to boat in games of tag while parents called irritably for them to stop or they would break their fool necks or tumble into the Breath.
Beyond the Trundler village was the southern end of the city of Westfirth; a veritable forest of chimney pots. The two spires of the archbishop’s grand cathedral, currently under construction and covered in a maze of scaffolding, was a new and interesting feature on the skyline.
“A sign the Church is exerting authority in Westfirth at last,” Stephano reflected. “Or trying to.”
Like parents endeavoring to curb the excesses of a child they had ignored for many years, the Church was finding it difficult to alter the city’s bad behavior. The new archbishop was an energetic and zealous man, however; firmly determined to make his unruly city into a model of deportment.
According to Dag, who had returned to the Cloud Hopper in the early hours, the archbishop was not having much luck. Criminal organizations still flourished, operating brothels and gambling and opium dens, waging wars over territory and conducting running battles with the members of the Constabulary. A militaristic police force organized and financed by the Church, the Constabulary had replaced the corrupt and ineffective city guard and was doing its best to bring law and order to Westfirth. Theirs was an ambitious task. Smuggled goods were still being sold openly in the city market. The murder rate was so high the constables were forced to conduct a sweep every morning to gather up the bodies. The crackdown was having some effect.
“Watch yourselves when you’re in town,” Dag warned. “The Constabulary is well-armed, and they have a fondness for hauling people off to jail to make it look like they’re doing something useful.”
Dag had managed to run into a few people who still remembered him-some of them fondly. He had not encountered any trouble, though the same could not be said for the good Doctor, who had returned with a swollen eye, a chipped tooth, and part of an ear missing.
“But you should see the other cat,” Dag said with a proud grin.
Dag had spread the word that he would pay well for information regarding Alcazar or Henry Wallace. His silver rosuns had garnered something, though not much that was useful. About a week ago, a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years of age had appeared in the high-class brothels and gambling dens, making inquiries about a Freyan gentleman by the name of Henry Wallace.
The young man was handsome, well dressed, soft-spoken. He told people he had been sent by his mistress, Lady Wallace, to find her husband, who had gone missing. He had a description of Sir Henry, which matched in many respects the description given by the countess. No one had seen such a man, however, at least so far as Dag was able to determine.
Stephano found this odd, but not particularly enlightening, beyond the fact that someone else was searching for Sir Henry. This young man might be what he claimed to be-a member of Wallace’s household. Or he might be an agent sent by a foreign government, the grand bishop, or even his mother, though Stephano doubted that. The countess had told him she could not trust any of her agents and whatever other faults Cecile de Marjolaine might have, she had never lied to him. Since any number of people could be looking for Sir Henry for any number of reasons, Stephano did not give the matter further thought.
Dag’s questions about Alcazar had drawn a blank. Alcazar was a fairly common name in Westfirth, and while many people knew men named Alcazar, none were journeymen and none matched the description.
“There are three Alcazars residing in Westfirth,” Dag said. “One is a middle-aged baker, another a farrier, and the third is a sailor.”
“What about the warrant for my arrest?” Rodrigo asked anxiously. “Am I a wanted murderer for killing Valazquez?”
Dag shook his head. “I asked. If there is a warrant, no one here has word of it.”
“I told you. My mother took care of it,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo gave a faint smile and a shrug. Stephano gazed thoughtfully at him, then asked Miri what she had found out. She reported even less success than Dag. She had questioned her fellow Trundlers about Sir Henry. None of them had ever heard the name. They had not seen anyone resembling his description. The same with Alcazar.
Stephano shoved away his empty plate and sat back in his chair, frustrated.
“Not much to go on. Still, one of these Alcazars might be a relative of Pietro’s. Miri, you and Dag pay a visit to the baker and the farrier. I’ll go to the docks and ask around about the sailor. Gythe, you stay here to mind the boat. What’s wrong now?”
Gythe was shaking her head and indicating she was accompanying her sister.
Stephano frowned. “You’ve been really ill, Gythe. I’m not sure you should be going-”
“Gythe, dear,” said Miri, fussing with her hair, “I need another pin for this cap. Would you be a love and run fetch one for me.”
Gythe ran down below. When she was gone, Miri said with a grimace, “She hopes to run into Brother Barnaby. I tell you, she’s besotted with that man.”
Rodrigo was incredulous. “Impossible. With that dreadful haircut!”
“I don’t think love has anything to do with his haircut,” said Stephano dryly. “I know Trundlers don’t know much about the Church. Does Gythe realize that Brother Barnaby is a monk and that monks take vows not to… uh…”
“Frolic beneath the sheets,” said Rodrigo.
“I’m not sure. I’ve tried talking to her,” said Miri, sighing. “She either doesn’t understand or refuses to understand. I’m really worried about her, Stephano. Gythe seems well enough, but she’s changed. She stops dead in her tracks sometimes and stares off into nothing. She’ll frown sometimes and wince and put her hand to her head, as though she’s in pain.”
“Sounds like love to me,” said Rodrigo. He tapped Stephano on the shoulder. “It’s time we were going-”