by Emma Newman
“Mr Bertrand Persificola-Viola,” Morgan announced.
The younger Viola walked in, dressed in a Regency-style outfit with a superbly cut single-breasted tailcoat and high cravat. He was so much smarter than his brother Freddy, in more ways than one, Will suspected. Bertrand gave a formal bow and entered, heading for the chair on the other side of the desk that Will gestured to.
They shook hands before he sat down. “Thank you for accepting my request to speak with you, your Grace.”
“I assume it’s something important or you’d have said something at Black’s, earlier.” Will sat down. He also expected something was about to be raised off the record, or Bertrand would have visited him at the Tower.
“I wanted to be discreet, and to ensure a private conversation didn’t become the subject of gossip.”
“Would you like some brandy?”
“Thank you, your Grace, but no. I don’t drink alcohol.”
Will inclined his head in acknowledgement. The younger wanted to distance himself from Freddy in every way, it seemed.
“May I say, before we go on,” Bertrand said, “I understand the Duchess was kind enough to pay a social call to my wife earlier today. Charlotte was deeply touched and quite thrilled that Her Grace singled her out for the honour.”
Will smiled. Cathy’s gesture was perfectly timed. “My wife said she enjoyed the visit immensely.” He had no idea if that were so, but was planning to quiz her on the subject later.
“Your Grace, something has come to my attention that I believe you should be made aware of, if you haven’t been informed already. Several people are considering leaving Londinium to go and live in Oxenford.”
Will pressed his fingertips together, keeping his expression neutral. “People are free to live wherever they wish, if the ruler of the city permits it.”
“They’ve been personally invited to consider moving by Margritte Tulipa.”
He hadn’t expected that. “How many?”
“I know of ten but there may be more. All influential families, including my brother.”
“I know Freddy took Bartholomew’s death badly.”
Will watched a muscle work in Bertrand’s jaw. “My brother speaks first, thinks last. I apologise for his appalling behaviour at the first Court.”
“There’s no need for you to apologise for him. His actions aren’t your fault.”
Bertrand looked down. “He’s been to Oxenford and is waiting on the Hebdomadal Council for a formal invitation to move there. He’s trying to persuade others to come with him and take their tithe from Londinium’s coffers. I felt you should know.”
Will almost thanked him, but stopped himself. He didn’t want Bertrand to know it was the first he’d heard of it, or to appear beholden to him. “Have you received a letter from Margritte?”
“No, your Grace. It seems I’ve been overlooked.”
Will didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice and felt Margritte’s omission had little to do with it. No doubt he’d been overlooked many times. “Older brothers can be difficult,” Will said, adopting a more relaxed position. “Mine is said to be the most able swordsman in Albion. Every time I picked up a sword I was compared to him. I always fell short, but I didn’t mind.”
“Why? If I may be so bold.”
“Because he deserves the acclaim. He is the best swordsman. If I was to be judged poorly thanks to his inability to wield a weapon it would be a different matter altogether. I wouldn’t just be overlooked, or compared unfavourably, I’d be suffering an injustice.”
Bertrand’s eyes flicked over his face, as if he were searching Will’s expression for any sign of something other than solidarity. “I had the impression that you’re going to be a Duke with a strong sense of justice.”
“Indeed.” Will nodded. “A Duke must do all he can to ensure the people under his care are able to be all they can be. Whether that’s ensuring they can travel safely or simply helping them to solve their personal problems, it’s all equally important.” Bertrand was nodding slowly, listening with total attention. “Wherever I perceive an injustice it’s my duty to ensure something is done.”
“You’ve already demonstrated that, your Grace. So many in Londinium are nothing but words, but you act decisively to protect those under your care.”
Will smiled to mask the uncomfortable flash of memory. He had acted decisively but he’d killed the wrong man. “I do all I can to make sure those I love—and those who are loyal to me—have the very best of my protection and care. I hope, when people realise this, they can feel confident and secure enough to act decisively themselves, to make their lives all they can be.”
“Even if they had to do something…radical?”
“If I believed it was for the good of Londinium, yes. Sometimes a forest has to have a great tree felled to give enough light for others to grow. It’s a radical act, but for the good of the whole.”
Bertrand’s chest swelled and his eyes glistened with the implicit permission he’d just been granted. “I won’t take a moment more of your time, your Grace, I’m sure you are very busy.”
Will stood and extended his hand which Bertrand shook enthusiastically. “My door is always open to you, Bertrand. I’m better able to help if kept well informed.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, your Grace.” Bertrand bowed and left.
Will sat back down and took up his pen. There was another knock on the door. “The Marquis of Westminster is here, your Grace.”
“That time already?” He covered the letter again. “Show him in, Morgan, and bring us a bite to eat.”
“Very good, sir.”
Tom soon entered and they shook hands. Whilst he wasn’t as uptight as Bertrand had been, Tom was far from relaxed. “I trust you’re well, your Grace?”
“Tom, please. We’re in my house. Call me William.” He went to the tantalus on the sideboard behind him. “Brandy?”
“No, thank you. I have the report. Would you like me to leave it with you?”
“How about giving me a summary now? Do you have time?”
“Of course.”
Will waved a hand at one of the twin sofas in front of the fire and sat opposite Tom. Whilst he settled into the corner with an arm on the rest and his legs crossed, Tom remained bolt upright as he looked through the sheaf of paper in his hands. That he and Cathy had been brought up in the same household still amazed Will.
“I’ve interviewed all the victims who came forward and some interesting findings have emerged. One of the most important is that there’s more than one team of robbers.”
“That’s interesting,” Will said. “How—”
There was one knock on the door and it opened. Cathy marched in. “What’s going on?”
“Catherine!” Tom stood. “The Duke and I are having a private meeting.”
Cathy’s hands were on her hips. “So this is how it is, then? The ladies sit and embroider while the men talk about all the important things?”
“Catherine,” Tom’s voice was stern. “Don’t be so rude.”
Will watched with interest as the old family pattern emerged. Cathy continued to ignore her brother, her eyes fixed on Will.
“I can contribute,” she said. “If I’m clever enough to be a good Duchess, let me be more than someone who sits next to you in the Court and has tea with wives.”
Tom turned to Will. “I’m so sorry, she’s always been difficult.”
“Tom!”
Will held up a hand. “You’re right,” he said to Cathy. Tom would be on his side no matter what, but he had to win Cathy over completely. He couldn’t bring himself to use anything that overpowered her emotions again, especially not after having been a victim of it himself, so he needed to do all he could to bring them closer together. And she was right, she wasn’t stupid.
Her smile made her features softer and he found himself smiling back. “Thank you,” she said.
“Come and sit next to me, my love. Tom was telling me w
hat he’s found out about these highwaymen.”
Tom sat down, took a deep breath and focused on the pages again. “As I was saying…there are several groups of robbers—the attacks on multiple carriages are simultaneous and in different parts of Londinium. Jewels and money are stolen, as would be expected. The carriages are never attacked on the way to or from the Court. Only large banquets, balls and soirées.”
“I wonder why that is…” Will said.
“There must be something that people don’t take to Court,” Cathy said.
“There’s a tradition in Londinium,” Will said with a snap of his fingers. “No Charms in the Court that can influence the way one looks or how persuasive one might be to others. That’s why the old room at Somerset House was lined with mirrors, so people could always check a person’s reflection if they were in doubt.”
“So they want jewellery that’s Charmed,” Cathy said. “That’s interesting. Did you get descriptions of the things stolen?” she asked Tom, who nodded.
“Yes, a mixture of Charmed and plain jewellery. All sorts of things, from tiaras to cufflinks.”
“Will,” Cathy said, “you should get someone to look at the mundane auction houses.”
“What for?”
“I doubt the highwaymen are stealing jewels to wear themselves. I bet they’re selling on the pieces that aren’t Charmed, and they’ll be going through a fence to do that.”
Will and Tom frowned at her. “A what?” Tom asked.
“A fence is someone who takes stolen goods and sells them for a profit, taking a cut for themselves. The good ones can get fake proof of ownership for the really expensive pieces and they have loads of contacts willing to take stuff off their hands in return for a lower price.”
“How the devil do you know that?” Will asked and Tom fidgeted.
“I saw it in a TV show in Mundanus,” Cathy replied. She noticed Tom’s discomfort. “Don’t worry, Will knows all about that.”
Tom’s surprise was evident. “Oh. I see.”
“Auction houses are the best place to sell good pieces,” Cathy continued. “They’re more likely to have specialist buyers and collectors who’ll pay more for rare jewels. Necklaces and so on that we wear in the Nether are usually the highest quality, so they get better prices, too.”
Will was glad he’d let her stay. “All this from a TV show?”
“Oh…well, the fence stuff, yes. I used an auction house…” She glanced at Tom. “I sold my coming-of-age jewels to fund my time there.”
“Catherine Rho—” Tom cut himself off. “That’s a terrible, terrible thing to do. Those were a gift, not to mention a family heirloom you should pass to your daughter.”
“I felt that freedom was a more valuable gift,” she replied. “But of course, you never did understand that.”
The tension between them was something Will had only glimpsed in the past. He recalled the time Tom had dropped her off at the restaurant in Aquae Sulis after the first ball of the season. No wonder their relationship had been so strained, and still was—Tom was ashamed of her behaviour. The amount of stress that must have been endured in the household before that first ball must have been intense. He wondered if that was why he’d never heard anything of Tom’s Grand Tour. Had it been sacrificed in the search for his runaway sister? No wonder there was animosity between them.
“I think that’s very useful information, Cathy, thank you,” he said and squeezed her hand. “Tom, do you have anything else?”
“Only a theory,” he replied, all business again. “I’ve been considering how multiple groups of highwaymen could possibly know when and where to target carriages on miles of roads in the Nether. I thought about various military campaigns and how even the seemingly insignificant parts of a system can actually provide critical intelligence. I think they must have contacts at the stables. There are seven reflected into the Nether in London, and all the people robbed used one of them on the night they were attacked. It would be a simple matter for a spy to see people set off in their finery and send a message detailing who was inside and where they were going.”
Will nodded. “Yes, it makes perfect sense. No one would ever think of the staff either—they’re always overlooked. This is excellent work, Tom, thank you.” He smiled at Cathy. “And thank you, my love. It seems we can make a good team.”
She gave Tom a nervous glance. “I’m sorry about the jewels.”
Tom gathered his notes, not looking at her. “Don’t tell Mother what you did, for goodness’ sake.”
“Of course not. I’m not an idiot.”
“I think I can handle it from here,” Will said. He stood, shook hands with Tom and they watched him leave. Will caught hold of Cathy’s hand, pulling her up into an embrace. “Your poor brother,” he said. “You traumatised him with your wilful behaviour. He didn’t know how to handle you coming in like that.”
A moment of sadness crossed Cathy’s face. “We used to be close. Not any more. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me. You didn’t seem to mind though, and you’re the Duke.”
“And your husband,” Will said and kissed her, weaving his fingers into her hair and holding her waist tight against him. He felt her tense up at the initial contact and then soften into the kiss. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about Amelia.
16
Max pulled the ivy around the gargoyle’s neck, adjusting it until the soul chain was hidden. “If you don’t move too much and keep most of your body behind the guttering it should be out of sight.”
“This is going to be brilliant,” it replied.
“Don’t get carried away. As soon as we spot one of them you need to tone it down, and when they get close you need to keep still so they use the Sniffer. When he tries to climb up then you need to use the—”
“I know, I know,” it replied. “Don’t worry, it’s going to work.” It took the Opener from Max and put it between its teeth.
“I’m not worried,” Max said but the gargoyle was already climbing up the wall. When it reached the top it leaped across to the top of the portico and up to the guttering at the corner of the church. Once he was satisfied the gargoyle was in position, the Opener tucked away and the soul chain still hidden, Max hid in the doorway across the narrow London street. It had taken hours to find the right place but once he had it had been no trouble to bring the gargoyle through from Aquae Sulis and formulate the plan. Now it was just a matter of waiting for an Arbiter to turn up so he could be tracked back to the corrupted Chapter’s cloister.
“Hey!” the gargoyle shouted at a young man walking by. “Hey you, short-arse! Hey, look at me when I’m trying to insult you!”
The man stopped and looked at the church. The gargoyle waved and the man jolted.
“Yes, it’s me,” the gargoyle yelled. “What are you wearing? Is that supposed to be a hat? You put your Mum’s tea cosy on instead.”
As expected, the young man pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and began filming as the gargoyle blew raspberries at him. “Are you another actor?” he asked. “Are you from the same people who did the Nelson stunt?”
“Nelson?” The gargoyle pulled a face as if he’d just smelt a rotten egg. “Nelson was an amateur. No charisma. I’m so much more interesting than him.”
“Don’t take it too far,” Max whispered under his breath.
“That’s so cool,” the man said. “I’m posting this right now.”
“Yeah, you do that,” the gargoyle said. “Make me famous.”
Max hoped the ivy was doing a good enough job. Whilst it wasn’t ideal having the gargoyle made famous on the mundane virtual library network, it wasn’t as if anyone in the Nether used it and besides, he could hardly take the gargoyle out and about in Mundanus anyway. There was no other way to find one of the London Arbiters so efficiently.
Then he saw Faulkner at the end of the street. He remembered him from the café on Judd Street. Max got the bug ready, activating it so the claws sprang open,
ready to catch onto the fabric of the Arbiter’s coat. He had a spare in case he missed, but he still needed Faulkner to get closer.
“Have you seen this?” the first man asked and then looked back at the gargoyle, disturbed by Faulkner’s manner. “He was saying a lot more a few minutes ago.”
Faulkner got out a mobile phone and made a call as he walked down the street to stand next to the other spectator. The gargoyle pulled faces for a minute or so, then stopped when Faulkner ended his call.
“Aw, show’s over,” the young man said. “I’m going to see if I can find the wires or the battery. No one knows how they did Nelson, maybe—”
Faulkner shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I were you.” He flashed an ID at the young man. “Move along.”
“Bloody hell, it’s just a bit of fun,” the man said. “The filth are all fascists these days!” He ran off.
As predicted, Faulkner got out a Sniffer and began winding it. He was less than ten feet away. Max placed the bug on the palm of his hand, lined it up as best he could and then flicked it with his forefinger. It landed just above the belt of his coat and crawled away beneath the waistband, geared as it was to seek out a dark crease upon landing. Satisfied, Max gave the gargoyle a curt nod and slipped away, limping without using his stick so the sound wouldn’t alert the Arbiter. By the time he was in the next street he knew the gargoyle had opened a Way in the church roof and escaped into the Nether driveway of Mr Ekstrand’s house whilst Faulkner had been trying to find a gate into the churchyard. Mission accomplished.
Sam pulled the iron out of the coals and laid it on the anvil, then, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he struck it with the hammer. He’d barely slept, he’d hardly eaten but when he worked the iron he didn’t feel it. It was the only thing he could bear to do as he waited for Lord Iron to come back from his latest trip.
The strikes upon the red metal rang through the forge and he felt each one through the gloves, up his arm and into his chest. His blows were hammering the blunt stump into a flatter point, “drawing down” as the blacksmith had taught him. He didn’t have a particular piece in mind; he just wanted to practise the basics. He’d made a few curls, slit a few pieces and made some holes, each time the technique felt easier. At school he’d barely been able to wield a coping saw in woodworking class yet here he was, doing something totally practical with relative ease. His teacher wouldn’t recognise him.
