The Black Star (Book 3)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Time to get off the street," Cee said. "Establish a base of operations."

  Dante had never been to Setteven before, so he left the logistics in her hands. She took them to an inn in the baker's district. Staff led the horses to their stables. The shutters in Dante's second-floor room were open and the whole room smelled of rising bread.

  Despite the agreeable aroma, he closed up the window. "What now?"

  "Depends," Cee said. "What are you going to do when you find him?"

  "That's for me to decide."

  "I don't care if you mean to spit him like a hog and serve him in honey. But what you want done impacts how I go about finding him."

  Dante shook his head. "I won't know that until I know what he's doing here. Just get me the intel. Quietly."

  Cee snorted. "Will do, boss. Guess you better stay out of sight until I'm back."

  She took her sword and a small pack with her. Dante sent Lew downstairs for food and stoked up the fire. Lew returned with bread, stew, and the sour green apples that were Dante's favorite. He eyed Lew. Did the kid spy on his meals, too?

  He couldn't complain about the fare, though. The stew was potatoes and bacon, and so heavily peppered it burnt his tongue. The sort of thing an innkeeper might do to hide the taste of spoiled meat, but the stew tasted so good Dante figured the Settevites just had a thing for spice.

  "What if it turns out Cee's right?" Lew said around a mouthful of bread. "If he's doing business with Setteven, doesn't that make him a traitor?"

  "No," Dante said after a moment. "We're not at war anymore. There's no use speculating until we hear what Cee has to say."

  Mercifully, that put an end to the conversation. After dinner, Lew nodded off in his chair. With nothing better to do, Dante did the same. It was dark and quiet when Cee returned.

  "Have a nice nap?" she said. "Ready to meet my informant, or would you rather catch another forty winks first?"

  Dante stood. "Let's go."

  Lew blinked from his chair, annoyed, but he followed them downstairs. Setteven was the Gaskan capital, but it was hardly better lit than any other major city. Cee found a wide street where lanterns burned at major intersections and over the stoops of public houses and tea shops.

  She hooked right down a side street. Over the course of three blocks, the neighborhood shifted from pleasant and prosperous to mean and grim. Pools of stagnant water forced them to swerve like the drunks. The lanterns were gone, feebly replaced by the quarter moon and a few open windows. People cackled and argued. Dante pulled the nether to his hands.

  Cee swung into an alley littered with garbage and sleeping vagabonds. Wash lines criss-crossed the air between the crooked rowhouses. She turned into a dead end abutting the backs of several connected buildings. There, a bearded man sat on a blanket, clicking around a set of clay tiles inscribed with what looked to be Old Gaskan runes.

  "Took you long enough," he said.

  Cee jerked her thumb at Dante. "Tell him what you told me."

  Still fiddling with his tiles, the man gazed at Dante. "Couple months back, one of Lord Pendelles' servants had me arrested for loitering. Lives on Dunvern Street. Big pink house."

  "Did you see him?" Dante said.

  "The man himself?" The bearded man laughed. "Course not. They had me arrested so people like him wouldn't have to see me."

  "Do you know if he still lives here?"

  "Yeah, let me check with my vizier."

  "Pay him," Cee said. "Five hammers."

  Dante spent enough time on the streets to recognize the slang for iron coins. He counted them out and handed them to the man, who rattled them around his palm and nodded. Cee thanked him and walked away.

  "That's it?" Dante said. "Why didn't you just tell me yourself?"

  "Because you would have demanded I take you straight to him to ask your own questions." She brushed back her hair. "Anyway, I wasn't about to spend my money."

  On the way back to the inn, they hashed out their next step. They knew where Pendelles lived; now it was time to determine whether Pendelles was in fact Blays. While Lew might be able to positively identify him, Dante wanted to do so himself. That meant staking out Dunvern Street. Dante could disguise himself, be it magically or mundanely, but if he were to hang out in the open, Blays was canny enough to recognize him by posture or gesture.

  He couldn't use a dead bug to infiltrate the house, either. They never moved right. To most people, it would just look like his moth spy was sick, but Blays would know it for what it was. Dante needed somewhere he could watch from in secret.

  That meant attempting to rent a room. Cee could handle that, but they were dressed for travel, not doing business in one of Setteven's trendiest neighborhood. If they were to walk into Dunvern Street in dirty cloaks and scuffed boots, they might be kicked out on sight. Even if they were allowed to roam around, no landlord or innkeeper would let Cee degrade his property with her presence.

  In short, they needed new clothes.

  Acquiring these ate up the next morning. As soon as they finished, Cee hired a carriage—she couldn't arrive on foot for the same reason she couldn't wander around in dingy clothes, and besides, the hackney might know who in the neighborhood was renting—and headed off for richer pastures.

  That left Dante and Lew in their room. Dante had brought a kapper scale with him and killed time trying to study it, but since he couldn't reach inside it with the nether, there was little for him to see. Lew had got his hands on parchment and a quill. He spent all day parked in the window scribbling away. A report to Olivander? If so, it certainly was detailed. Anyway, Lew would probably be less open about it. Poetry, then. Or a letter to his mom.

  At sunset, catcalls erupted from the common room downstairs. Dante wasn't surprised in the slightest when Cee opened their door a minute later. She had chosen a sleek purple dress that wasn't shy about expressing her décolletage.

  She gave Dante a look that could have cut boiled leather. "One word and you can book your room yourself."

  He splayed his palms. "I think you look regal."

  "If nothing else, I'm the queen of getting things done. Your room is right across the street."

  "Can we go now?"

  "Sure. But unless you want to crack your skull, you should stay seated until you hear the bill."

  She quoted him the room's rate, but the silver meant nothing to him. They packed their things and Dante and Lew donned their new dress: formal longjackets, shiny boots, and fur-trimmed hats. They flagged a carriage and headed across town.

  As the name suggested, Dunvern Street straddled a high hill interrupted by parks, paths, and assorted greenery. Below its crest, the road leveled, overlooking a slope too steep for structures. The city sprawled to all sides, darkness pricked by ten thousand lanterns and candles. Miles away, moonlight bounced from a lake and shined on the confectionary eminence of the palace.

  The road curved from the cliffs into rows of stately residences with little space between them. The carriage creaked to a stop in front of a pillared white structure labeled The Hotel Osterre. Dante paid the driver and exited. He wore a hat and had selected a coat with a collar that rose to his nose, yet in the cold, quiet street, he felt exposed to the world. He dreaded every second Cee and Lew dawdled inside the carriage.

  At the hotel entrance, a doorman examined them, then saw Cee and smiled. His eyes moved to Dante and Lew and his expression flickered with amusement. As he led the three of them up a grand staircase to a rug-padded hallway, Dante understood: the doorman believed Dante and Cee were wealthy blue-bloods who'd paid Lew for a night of fun.

  As that made it less likely they'd be interrupted, Dante was content to maintain that illusion. He followed the man to the reserved room, tipped him, and winked. The doorman closed the door and padded away down the hall.

  Dante went to the window and parted the curtains. Bubbled glass filled the panes, presenting a sweeping view of the dim street. "Which one?"

  Cee moved beside him a
nd pointed to a house almost directly across from them. "That's it. Look like a Blays house to you?"

  "A Blays house would be walled with rum bottles and roofed with swords cleaned to an obsessive degree. Side note—if he invites you over, I wouldn't visit on a windy day."

  "If he learns I'm the one who brought you to him, I doubt he'll be inviting me anywhere."

  He dragged a chair to the window. "Douse the lights. You'll have to entertain yourselves in the dark."

  "I'll keep the heavy breathing to a minimum," Cee said.

  He scowled. They took a couple minutes to settle in, then blew out the candles, casting the room into darkness. Dante sat and waited. The cold of the night seeped through the window, chilling his hands and face. Dunvern Street was one of the capital's nexuses, a hotbed of trade, fashion, and society. Though it was well after dark, the road thrummed with pedestrians, riders, and carriages. Red-uniformed watchmen patrolled the way, protecting the taxpayers. Many of whom were escorted by personal bodyguards as well.

  It was a veritable crowd, but no one approached the pink manor. As the night deepened, the street calmed. Only the watchmen remained. The watchmen and Dante.

  Dawn poked through the gap in the curtains. Blankets stirred behind him.

  "Have you been there all night?" Lew croaked.

  Dante didn't turn. "What do you think?"

  "That you're cranky when you haven't got any sleep. Want a break?"

  "Will you know him if you see him?"

  "I'll wake you if anyone comes or goes from the house."

  Dante sighed and stood, staggering on his stiff legs. "A nap might do me some good."

  Lew sat in a nest of blankets on the floor. Cee had claimed the poster bed and was stirring, woken by their voices.

  "You look like a dried-up frog," she laughed. "I'm guessing you haven't seen him?"

  "With such uncanny powers of deduction, it's no wonder you're so good at your job." Dante shrugged off his coat and draped it over a chair. Lew replaced him at the window. Dante stretched his legs, wandering closer to Cee. "Speaking of, I need you to hit the streets again. I have to know more about what Blays is doing here."

  Cee rubbed her eyes and stretched an arm above her head, elbow torqued. "I've got a contact on the other side of the hill. I'll see what she's heard. Right after I've had some damn tea."

  That sounded pretty good, but sleep sounded even better. Dante installed himself in the bed, which smelled like hotel perfume and Cee's skin, and quickly drifted into the realm between consciousness and proper sleep. He stayed there some time, vaguely aware of the noise of Cee preparing to depart. As soon as the door clicked, he fell into a dead slumber.

  A hand shook his shoulder. He smacked at it and it slapped his face. He jolted upright, feeling dizzy and sick from too little sleep, head pounding. Lew pointed at the window. Dante's heart drummed his ribs. He ran to the window. Outside the pink house, a sleek carriage sat in the noon sun. A man hunched inside it with one hand on the running board, fishing around its floorboards, back turned to the hotel.

  The man straightened, put whatever he'd found into the pocket of his sweeping coat, turned, and looked Dante straight in the eye. Or so it felt—in truth, Dante watched through the narrowest sliver of window, obscured by a heavy curtain and the glare of the sun on the glass. In the street, the man planted his palms on the small of his back and leaned back until it looked like he'd snap in half. Dante had seen that stretch a thousand times before. He moved to the side of the window.

  "Well?" Lew said. Dante nodded blankly. Lew gestured frantically. "And?"

  "We wait for Cee."

  He sent Lew down for tea. He hadn't known how he'd feel at this moment, but he hadn't expected this...numbness. He had no idea what to do next. Ironically, if he and Blays had still been companions, Blays would have come up with the perfect solution in a trice. They had complemented each other, improvising their way through a thousand different disasters. Three years later, Dante still wasn't used to making decisions without having his thoughts challenged and improved at every step of the process.

  Lew returned with tea. Dante thanked him. More words almost followed, but something stopped him.

  Cee got back a few hours later. "We're in luck. Dunvern Street is as incestuous as the royal family."

  Lew wrinkled his nose. "What's so lucky about that?"

  "My person knows a person. Their person's already agreed to speak to us. Tonight."

  Dante refilled his mug. "Tell me it's not another trip to that above-ground sewer we visited the other night."

  "It's a temple," Cee said. "Will that work? Or will you burst into flames if you step inside?"

  "The temple might," he said. "But that's its problem."

  With the meeting hours away, Dante caught another nap. Cee got out a deck of cards, cajoled Lew into playing, and methodically fleeced him of every penny in his pockets.

  The hour arrived. Once more, they donned their fancy garb and hit the streets. It was close to midnight and except for a few intoxicated revelers, the only other travelers on Dunvern Street were the city guard. Dante made a show of chatting about the party they were on their way to crash, chuckling heartily. Cee strode ahead, turning down a leaf-strewn alley that opened into a pedestrian mall. She crossed this without a second glance, taking them to a stone staircase set in the side of a hill.

  After a brief stretch of wooded parkland, the ground leveled and cleared. The temple topping the hill was from an earlier age, but even at a distance, its hexagonal spire gave it away. It was dedicated to Taim. Father of time—and judgment. Dante couldn't help wondering if there was a symbolic element to their contact's choice of location.

  The base was hexagonal, too, capped by a slate dome. Out front, a pedestal displayed a small blue flame, burning unattended. Cee took them around the back, where a viciously narrow staircase had been wrought into a seam in the temple. Their boots scuffed on the steps. The temple dome was painted with silver points—a map of the night sky.

  Eighty feet up, the top of the dome flattened into a platform, allowing a view of the city and access to the spire. A shadow moved from the spire and stood across from them. "Why do you want to know about Pendelles?"

  Dante had no idea which lie was best. "I believe he might not be entirely trustworthy."

  "Do you represent the king?" the woman asked.

  "Far from it. Do you?"

  She laughed sourly. "I represent one of the many people the king has wronged."

  "That being?"

  "A lady who deserves better than to be run over roughshod." She slitted her eyes. "That's all you need to know."

  "Fair enough," Dante said. A breeze picked up, and though his footing was perfectly sound, he couldn't stop himself from throwing out his hands for balance. "So what is Pendelles doing in Setteven?"

  "Are you aware of bossen?"

  "The clothes? Like the norren make?"

  "And are you aware it is the most prized object in the land? Pendelles practically has a monopoly on it—and he's about to turn that monopoly over to the king."

  "What?" Dante blurted. "Why?"

  The servant made a face. "Why do you think? To get filthy, stinking rich. My lady had a deal in place, but when Moddegan caught wind of it, he decided to snatch it up for himself. Pendelles couldn't say no to the king. He was probably happy for the chance to acquire a tie to the throne."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Dante managed, head spinning. "Then anything more you can tell me will serve both our aims."

  "The deal goes down in two days." The woman grinned ruefully at the spire. "That's why I came here. Figured I'd beseech Taim to knock the palace to the ground."

  "You never know. Thank you for your time." Dante bowed and headed back down the steps. Back on the ground, he turned to Cee. "Good work."

  "I know," she said. "Now can we get back to Narashtovik and fit me for my new uniform? I'll look deadly in black and silver."

  "Just one more step." He gaz
ed into the night. "Blays is no longer the man I once knew. It's time to expose his true colors to the king."

  8

  Taya absorbed his story of the meeting as thoughtfully as ever. When he finished, she said, "Have you thought about why Moddegan is offering to buy you out?"

  Blays shrugged. "So he can fill his basement with coins and swim around in them like an avaricious duck?"

  "In your pursuit of the duke, you've been blathering far and wide about the deal for weeks. The king's known about it at least that long. Possibly since the first day you mentioned bossen. Why swoop in now?"

  He went still, following the lines of her logic. "To hide something. To protect the duke. His nephew."

  Taya nodded once. "The duke couldn't afford the bossen, so he thought to steal it instead. Somehow, Moddegan was led to believe you knew who was behind the attack on our wagons—and now he's buying your silence."

  "You're devious, aren't you? Should I be hiding the kitchen knives when I sleep?" Blays folded his arms and watched Dunvern Street through the window. "Followup question: so what?"

  "That the king is duping you?"

  "He's buying my bossen, isn't he? He'll have more than anyone in Setteven. He won't flip it the next day. He'll try to dribble it out to maximize his investment. Meanwhile, we flood the market beneath him."

  "This is significantly more dangerous than going after the duke. Dilliger is a cad, a fool. If he were to go bankrupt, the court would echo with 'I told you so.'"

  "Whereas the king is far too savvy to sink his wealth into a bum horse."

  Taya lifted her finger and pointed it at him. "Meaning he'll pin the blame on the horse trader."

  "He's fettered by the inconvenient fact his nephew tried to rob me. If he tries to come after us, he risks exposing Dilliger and his own attempt to cover up the crime."

  "And if he loses his fortune, revenge might throw reason out the window." She circled her finger on the arm of her chair. "I'll work on finding direct evidence between Duke Dilliger and the bandits. If Moddegan winds up coming for us, it would be nice to have a dagger and not an empty sheath."