“Verily,” agreed Haven. To Cass she said, “Pray, forgive my crude enquiry. But for all we know, you might well be in the employ of the Black Earl and have been sent here to deceive us.”
“And the Black Earl is . . . who?” wondered Cass, setting aside her glass.
“The aforementioned Lord Burleigh,” answered Haven. “He is entitled the Earl of Sutherland, and his machinations know no bounds. His greed is exceeded only by his arrogance, which is great indeed. And as Giles has said, he quails at nothing to have his way—even if that means cutting the throats of anyone he perceives as a rival.”
Cass accepted this and said, “Well, considering all that you have been through, I can understand your reluctance to place trust in a stranger. I will be only too glad to reassure you in any way I can.” She spread her hands. “You’ll have to tell me where to start.”
“Your demeanour speaks for itself,” said Lady Fayth. “Yet, for our present purpose, I would hear more about this society you have mentioned. Let us begin there.” She glanced at Giles, who was still standing by the table. “Pray, take a seat. We may be here awhile, and I would not have you tire yourself overmuch.”
“Thank you, my lady,” replied the coachman. He made a slight bow as he spoke, and Cass caught a strong whiff of the class divide between them. “I will stand if it is all the same to you.”
“But it is not the same to me,” Haven countered quickly. She patted the cushion of the chair beside her. “If we are to be partners in this quest, we must not allow the differences in our station to impose unnecessary constraints. You have been wounded and require recuperation. It does no one any good to have you less than robust and full of health.” She patted the cushion again. “Now come and sit. I will hear nothing more about it.”
Giles gave a reluctant nod and acquiesced to his mistress’s wishes. The incident left Cass in no doubt that Lady Haven Fayth was a woman very much used to having her own way, and the pretence of egalitarianism was nothing more than the assertion of privilege. When Giles was seated, she turned to Cass and smiled. “You may begin. You were going to tell us more of this society, I believe?”
“As good a place to start as any, I suppose,” said Cass and explained about meeting Mrs. Peelstick and Brendan in Damascus, the Zetetic Society headquarters with its genizah, which she described as a library of sorts containing old books and obscure manuscripts the society deemed useful even if, as was apparently the case, only vaguely understood. She told about some of the other members she had met and offered a general explanation of the work of the society as she understood it.
Haven and Giles listened to all she had to say, nodding now and then and exchanging covert glances as they assessed what she was telling them. It was a loose and somewhat rambling recitation and included many superfluous details: descriptions of the courtyard in Damascus; Fortingall Schiehallion’s odd book, Maps of the Faerie; the Old Straight Street market; Brendan’s charming Irish accent; and Mrs. Peelstick’s habit of infusing mint leaves in the tea.
Winding down at last, Cass finished with a report of the council at which the absence of Sir Henry and Cosimo was raised with some concern and it was decided that she should embark on a mission to find out what could be discovered of their disappearance.
“I suppose you could say my mission has been successful,” she concluded. “I learned what I came to find out.”
Lady Fayth, chin in hand, considered this, then rose abruptly. “Pray, excuse us,” she said and summoned Giles to attend her. The two moved to a corner of the room where, backs turned to Cass, they held a brief private conversation that concluded with a definite nod on the part of Giles, whereupon the two returned to their places.
Haven smoothed her dress with her palms as she resumed her seat and said, “We have digested what you have told us and find the tale, like its teller, wholly creditable. In short, we are prepared to accept that you are who you say you are, and that you mean us no harm.” She smiled. “You will forgive us for being chary—when dealing with the Black Earl it is better to err on the side of caution.”
“I understand,” replied Cass; she had felt no real anxiety over this point, but it was still nice to know that she was accepted.
“Now that you have learned what you came to find,” Giles said, addressing Cass directly, “what will you do?”
“Take word back to the others, I suppose,” she replied. “I know Brendan—Mr. Hanno, that is—and Mrs. Peelstick will appreciate news as soon as possible. I expect they will want to make plans of some sort.”
“You might do that,” suggested Haven, “or you could come with us.”
Lady Fayth glanced at Giles and said, “Mr. Standfast and I have already determined to return to Prague. That is where we must raise the trail if we are to continue the quest.”
“It is the last place Kit was seen,” Giles expanded. “There are folk there who can perhaps help us to find him.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .” said Cass, her attention flagging once more. She was much too tired and hungry to be making any firm decisions. “As important as it may be to find Kit, the Zetetics are waiting for word of my mission.”
“May I suggest,” began Haven, rising from her chair, “that we adjourn the discussion and revisit the matter in the morning? Supper is soon ready, and after we have eaten, you may retire to your rest. We can reconsider the question when you are refreshed.” She smiled warmly. “Would that be agreeable to you?”
“Most agreeable, my lady,” replied Cass. Realising she had slipped into a servant’s form of address, she bit her lip in embarrassment.
Haven merely accepted this appellation as her due and held out her hand to Cass. “Come, we will find some clothes for you which will be more suitable. No doubt you will want to bathe and refresh yourself after your long journey today.”
“Thank you,” said Cass, accepting her hand, a little uncertain of the protocol. “I would like that, yes.”
Haven patted her hand and led her from the room. “Ley leaping is always such an adventure, do you not find it so?”
“I am not very experienced,” Cass confessed. “I fell into it by accident . . . gosh—only a few days ago, I guess. But it feels like years.”
“Oh, indubitably. Time ceases to run a normal course for ley travellers,” replied Haven. “It can become monumentally confusing. Is that not so, Giles?”
“Very true, my lady,” he said. Taking up the candle tree from the table, he closed the door to the study and followed the women into the corridor, adding to himself, “It is nothing if not confusing.”
CHAPTER 5
In Which Kit Returns to the Scene of the Crime
On the seventh step Kit felt the ground give way beneath his feet. Instinctively his toes reached for another foothold, stretched, and found purchase. In the same moment, a stiff breeze kicked up grit from the path. He shut his eyes, and when he opened them again he was standing in the middle of an arrow-straight, tree-lined parting between two fields—the same tree-lined path to which he had been directed by Wilhelmina on the night of his slender escape from Burleigh.
“We’re back,” he said, swivelling around to find Mina and Brother Lazarus. “Everybody okay?”
“Never better,” answered Wilhelmina, brushing bits of leaf from her hair. Brother Lazarus, directly behind her, patted dust from his priestly robes; he smiled and said, “Es war gut Sprung.”
“Jawohl!” Mina agreed. She gazed around, orienting herself to the landscape. “The river road is behind us. It’s early yet, so we should be able to hitch a ride from one of the farmers heading into the city.” She started down the tunnel-like groove of the tree-lined trail. “I wonder what day it is.”
“Or what year, more like.”
“In my experience,” Mina told him, “as long as I make the jump on the seventh step from the marker stone on the Big Valley ley, I’m rarely more than a day or two out. You’d never believe how long it took me to learn that.”
“
Does that concept work everywhere?”
“Mmm.” She thought. “I believe so.” Turning to Brother Lazarus behind them, she rattled off a long sentence in German and the two held a brief conversation, punctuated by complicated hand gestures on the part of Brother Lazarus, who occasionally lapsed into Italian.
“We’ll have to do something about that,” mused Kit as he listened to their exchange—of which he grasped only a fleeting word or two. “So what’d he say?” he asked as Mina turned back.
“He says that it appears to be possible in a very general sense for a traveller to adjust his arrival by the method I’ve just explained—allowing for such variables as stride length, relative speed of motion, and so forth. However, it would be unwise to mistake what is possible for what is likely.”
“Right.” Kit nodded thoughtfully. “Rule of thumb, not universal law. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
Shouldering their packs, the three travellers proceeded down the trail and came in sight of the road and, glimmering in the near distance, the silvered glint of the Moldau River. Upon reaching the road, they stepped out of the shaded path and into the sun-warmed air of a fine autumnal afternoon. On the road ahead they saw a hay wain heading for the city.
“There’s our ride,” cried Mina, starting after the horse-drawn wagon. “I think I know this farmer; he’ll take us to my front door.”
“Wow, Mina—you’ve got this whole place sewn up.”
She was already away. “Hurry!”
Wilhelmina streaked off to catch the wagon, leaving Kit and Brother Lazarus to scramble in her wake. “Guten Tag!” she called. “Hallo! Guten Tag!”
The driver looked back and the wagon slowed to a stop. “We’re in luck,” she called as the two men joined her. “He’s on his way to the hostler in the city. Here, help a lady up.”
A few moments later all three were seated on bundles of straw and listening to the slow clop, clop, clop of the horses as the wagon rumbled along, past newly harvested fields on one side and, on the other, the slow river snaking its smooth way along banks of tall grass gone to seed. While the other two chatted in German with the farmer, Kit turned his attention to the countryside. Something about the air, or light, or the familiar Olde World feel of the place induced in Kit a reverie, and he soon found himself brooding over the events of his slender escape from Burleigh on the night Giles was shot. It was on this same road—perhaps near this very spot, the scene of the crime, as it were—that it had happened. They were on foot and Burleigh was on horseback; moreover, the earl had a gun. Unable to outrun their mounted pursuer, they had tried to unhorse Burleigh and Giles had taken a bullet in the arm, allowing Kit to escape in the confusion.
Kit had not spent any substantial amount of time thinking about that night; no doubt getting lost in the Stone Age and living amongst River City Clan had presented him with such a host of new and alarming dangers that Burleigh and his dire schemes shrivelled into insignificance by comparison. But the ruthless Lord Burleigh and his thugs occupied Kit’s thoughts now, and the notion that they might still be lurking down some dark alley waiting to pounce filled him with renewed dread. What did they want with him, anyway? More to the point, why did they want him dead? Was it simply to keep him out of the way? Or was there something more to it?
Contemplating these things cast Kit into a melancholy mood that lasted until he saw the city walls rising in the distance. As soon as the wagon passed through the city gates, however, his mind turned to the special supper Wilhelmina had promised them. Thinking about a tasty schnitzel and cool flagon of foamy beer made his mouth water and banished all thoughts of Burley Men and midnight chases.
The wagon trundled up the narrow rising street from the gate to the market square in the old city. There Wilhelmina bade the driver to pause while they grabbed their rucksacks and disembarked; she told him to come to the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus when he finished his business and there would be a nice hot cup of coffee and fresh strudel waiting for him.
“Danke!” called the farmer and snapped the reins to urge his team on.
Strolling across the square towards the coffeehouse, Kit wondered, “How many days do you imagine have passed since you were last here?” Recalling their previous discussion, he added, “Or maybe I should ask if you have left yet?”
Wilhelmina laughed. “That’s never happened in Prague. Not yet. But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s two or three days since I left. Rarely more than four. I was gone for a week once, but that was a mistake.” She lifted one shoulder in a light shrug. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Hurrying to the door of the Grand Imperial, Mina darted inside. Kit and Brother Lazarus entered behind her to find a room full of patrons at their morning cups and green-and-white-liveried servants ferrying pots of coffee and plates of pastries to the tables in an atmosphere redolent of fresh-baked bread and pleasant conversation. The mood was cheery and light, and Kit was again reminded what a success Wilhelmina and Engelbert had made of the place.
Mina stood in the entryway, surveying the scene with obvious delight. “Make yourselves at home,” she told them, shedding her pack and heading directly for the kitchen. “Etzel!” she called. “Ich bin zurück, mein Schatz!”
As she reached the counter, the big man himself stepped from the kitchen, a floppy green hat covering his curly hair, his round face red from the oven. “Liebling!” he cried, throwing his arms wide. Mina’s slender form disappeared in his bear-like embrace, and she was lifted bodily from the floor and whisked out of sight into the kitchen.
“I guess he’s glad to see her,” mused Kit. He and Brother Lazarus exchanged a knowing glance and then took in the room. Their arrival had been noticed by the shop customers, some of whom smiled and nodded in their direction. Kit wondered at this reception until, glancing down, he realised that what the diners saw was a pair of unfamiliar priests in dark clerical robes and backpacks. Kit nudged Brother Lazarus, who raised his hand in a vague benediction, and the customers returned to their chat and coffee.
Mina reappeared with Etzel in tow. “Engelbert, dies ist mein Freund, Giambattista Becarria.”
Etzel swiped the shapeless hat from his head and gave the priest a tidy bow; Brother Lazarus returned the bow, then shook the baker’s hand.
Turning to Kit, she said, “Kit, I’m sure you remember Engelbert.”
“Of course.” Kit, in turn, stuck out his hand. “Hallo, Engelbert. Good to see you again.”
“Hallo, Herr Livingstone! Ja, es ist gut Sie zu sehen!” He offered Kit an affectionate pat on the shoulder. The big baker’s hand was dry-powdered with flour and left a large handprint on Kit’s black robe.
“First things first,” said Mina, becoming crisply officious. “You two can have the spare room upstairs. The beds are good and there’s a chest where you can stow your bits. I’ll tell one of the maids to bring some more blankets,” she said, repeating it in German for Brother Lazarus. “Go on up now and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll have some hot water brought so you can wash and make yourselves presentable—because I’m taking us all out for dinner tonight to celebrate our safe return.” She saw the fishy expression on Kit’s face and said, “What?”
“These clothes—” he began. “Do you think I could get something a little less . . . religious?”
“Tired of the priesthood already?”
“Please,” Kit insisted. “Anything will do.”
“Okay, I’ll send one of the lads out to find something more . . . you.” Taking Engelbert by the arm, she led him away; switching smoothly to German, she said, “Come along, Etzel. I want to hear what’s been happening around here while I was gone. Tell me everything.”
“Thanks, I’ll owe you one,” called Kit as they disappeared back into the kitchen. “See you later, Engelbert.”
He turned his gaze back to the room and tables of contented customers, his nostrils filled with the fresh-pastry smell of the bakery. “This way, Brother Lazarus,” he said, indicating the stair
way at the back of the room. “It may not be the Ritz, but the food is good and you get a genuine feather bed.”
CHAPTER 6
In Which Vows Easily Made Are Easily Broken
The next morning Kit awoke vowing he would never eat again, a heartfelt resolution that lasted until—washed and dressed in the new, very baggy trousers and fine linen shirt that now formed his wardrobe—he wandered down into Etzel’s kitchen, where a fresh batch of honey-and-walnut rolls was just coming out of the oven. The divine aroma overthrew his resolve and he succumbed without a fight, drawing up a chair to the worktable as the big baker, beaming encouragement, placed a fresh hot roll on a clean plate before him.
“Etzel, you are a genius,” Kit enthused around a mouthful of the meltingly toothsome pastry. “A true artist.”
“Es ist gut?” wondered Etzel, watching Kit’s reaction.
“Ja! Sehr gut!” Kit replied, virtually exhausting his small store of German vocabulary. The baker returned to his oven, humming happily.
The night before, Kit had been equally impressed with the schnitzel served up at the best chophouse in the city. Wilhelmina had arranged for her business partner, Herr Jakub Arnostovi, to take them to Saint Hubertus’ Hall, Prague’s most fashionable dinner club—a request the astute man of business was only too happy to oblige. There, in a valiant attempt to match the seasoned trencherman Engelbert bite for bite, Kit outdid himself, downing a mound of coleslaw and sauerkraut while demolishing a lightly dusted, seasoned, and fried slice of veal that not only covered the plate but lopped over the edges—and this while guzzling a heady Dunkelweissbier from a seemingly bottomless jar. Hence his short-lived resolution upon rising the next morning.
As Kit was savouring his sweet roll and a hot cup of coffee, Wilhelmina came breezing in. “Good afternoon,” she said, pausing to cast a critical eye over him. “Are you among the living at last?”
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