“Maybe this has something to do with her magic,” said Stephano, getting to his feet. “Is that possible, Rigo?”
“If so, I have no idea what it could be,” Rodrigo said. “Ask Father Grim and Dreadful.”
“His name is Father Jacob,” said Dag in stern and rebuking tones. “You shouldn’t make fun of a priest.”
“Trust me, my friend, I find nothing at all funny about that man,” said Rodrigo.
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Miri,” said Stephano. “I can plan a raid on a heavily fortified castle, fly a dragon through cannon fire, and even battle demons from Hell. A young woman in love with a monk is beyond my capability. All I can tell you is to keep clear of the area around the Old Fort. Father Jacob said they would be staying there as guests of the archbishop. He’s taken over the residential part of the Fort.”
Gythe returned with the hairpin, which she gave to her sister, along with a look that said plainly she knew they had been talking about her. Gythe adjusted Miri’s hair, patted her own cap in place. Miri and Gythe were dressed as servants from a well-to-do household, wearing neat gray dresses and frilly white caps. In such disguises, they could claim to be anything from parlor maids to seamstresses to cooks as the situation warranted.
“Dag, you and the Doctor go with Miri and Gythe. Do you have money?” Stephano asked.
Miri exhibited a small leather purse she carried around her wrist.
“Are you armed?” Stephano asked.
Dag indicated his weapons. Miri reached into her bosom and drew out a corset gun, then hiked up her skirt to reveal a knife in her stocking.
“And the hairpins,” she said, grinning. “Amazing what damage you can do with a hairpin.”
“Very well, good luck,” said Stephano. “Take care of yourselves. Rodrigo and I will visit the docks-”
“After I’ve been to my tailor,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano sighed and went below to dress. He wore his brown, militarycut coat and a plain shirt, no frills and no cravat. He put on his tricorn, draped his sword belt over his shoulder, slid the dragon pistol into his belt and a smaller pistol into a loop in the top of his boot. He came up on deck prepared to face Rodrigo’s scathing criticism of his clothing. Rodrigo scarcely gave him a glance and said nothing beyond the fact that he had a spot of mustard on his shirt collar.
The two left the Trundler village, taking the road that led into the central part of the city. The time being midmorning, the road was crowded with people of Westfirth coming to visit the Trundler village, and Trundlers taking their goods to market. Trundlers were tinkers and craftsmen, tending to excel in weaving, embroidery, and fine leather and metal work. A few traded in gems, while others sold charms and herbal potions and remedies. Trundler villages-closed up at night-were open to the public by day.
Rodrigo wanted to take a cab to their destination. The day being a fine one, Stephano felt in need of exercise after being cooped up on the boat. He had always been fond of Westfirth, wild and lawless as the city might be, and he proposed that they walk.
Rodrigo agreed, though with obvious reluctance.
“God forbid you should have to appear wearing the same lavender brocade coat trimmed in ermine you wore in Evreux,” Stephano teased, as they continued down the street. “I suppose there would be a warrant out for your arrest.”
“My dear fellow,” said Rodrigo with a faint smile, “even you must concede that my clothes are not suitable for mourning.”
“Mourning…” Stephano came to a sudden stop, much to the annoyance of several people behind him and regarded his friend in remorse. “Oh, my God, Rigo, your father! I’m sorry, damnably sorry! What with all that’s been happening, it never occurred to me-”
“Keep moving,” said Rodrigo, drawing Stephano along. “You’re impeding traffic.”
“We can take a cab…”
“No, no, I don’t mind walking. See the sights. I need to stop at a stationer’s if there is such a thing in this city. I have to write a letter to my mother explaining why I was unable to attend the funeral. I’ll have to make up some tale. I can hardly plead fighting giant bats as an excuse-”
“Rigo, stop playing the clown!” said Stephano. “You should have said something. You don’t need to hide your grief. Not from me or the others. We’re your friends.”
Rodrigo was silent long moments, then he said in a muffled voice, “I wasn’t trying to hide from you. I didn’t… want to think about it. Then, last night, I realized I would have to appear in public today and I had nothing that was suitable. My father is dead. He was murdered, and I have nothing to wear except lavender…”
Rodrigo lowered his head. Blinking his eyes rapidly and walking very fast, he blundered into a costermonger, who threw down his cap and doubled his fists and challenged the “gentlemun who thinks he’s better’n the likes of us” to a fight. Stephano hailed a passing cab, and bundled Rodrigo into it before the wheels had stopped rolling. He gave the address of the tailor shop, which was on Threadneedle Street. Rodrigo sank into a corner and sat with hand over his face.
Stephano knew that no words of his could help ease Rodrigo’s pain, but he also knew that the words didn’t matter. What mattered was the warmth of a friend’s voice, the touch of a friend’s hand. By the time the cab rolled to a stop, Rodrigo had recovered his composure. He hastened into the tailor shop. Stephano paid the driver and, as was his habit, cast a routine glance up and down the street.
Rodrigo was a longtime customer of this particular tailor’s shop, which happened to deal in fine-quality silks at prices much lower than anything he could buy in Evreux; mainly due to the fact that the silks entering Westfirth entered the city through unconventional means. Stephano, who detested going to the tailor’s and did so only when forced, had always managed to avoid accompanying his friend on these trips. He had never been to this shop or even to this part of Westfirth.
There had been a time in the city’s history when streets had been named after the nature of the shop owners’ occupations. Thus there was Market Street, Butcher’s Row, Smith Street, and so forth. The needs of a burgeoning population, especially a growing upper middle class (or lower upper class as they liked to think of themselves), had brought about changes. Threadneedle Street was still known as a place where one could find tailors, milliners, and dressmakers. Now one could find lodging on Threadneedle Street, as well. An inn, newly built, had opened across the street from the tailor’s shop. A cafe known as the Four Clovers was next door.
Stephano, loath to go into the tailor’s, where he was certain to be accosted by the tailor trying to sell him new trousers or the latest fashion in waistcoats, remained outside, observing the people. His mother, the Countess de Marjolaine, would have never been seen on Threadneedle Street. Her dressmaker came to her in the palace. The wife of the wealthy ironmonger who had recently been knighted for his ironmongering services to the country came to Threadneedle Street. “Lady Ironmonger” was shown pen-and-ink drawings of the dresses worn by the Countess de Marjolaine and she would then instruct her dressmaker to make a dress exactly like that worn by the countess only “it was so plain” and to add a few more feathers and a lot more ribbons and perhaps plunge the bosom and raise the hem.
Stephano also saw what were termed “men of affairs” hastening along the street, engrossed in their own business which was all about money and the making of it. Meeting other men of affairs, these gentlemen would stop to talk in urgent voices for the making of money always demands urgency.
A group of priests passed him, hands in the sleeves of their robes. Stephano gave them a sharp glance, prepared to bolt, but none wore the black cassock. He did bolt when he saw several naval officers from one of the navy ships patrolling the harbor near the Old Fort. One of those ships was the Royal Lion, commanded by Stephano’s old enemy, Captain Hastind. None of these men were Hastind, but Stephano might know them from his days in the Dragon Brigade, which had been part of the navy, or they might know him from his notorious duel with Hastind. Either way, a meeting would be awkward. He ducked into the tailor’s shop.