The Sisters Mederos

by Patrice Sarath

  I knew I couldn’t fool you; the bedclothes were just to fool Mother and Father if they checked in on me from the door.

  I’ll explain later.

  Y

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The convenient fiction of her sore throat gave Yvienne the excuse she needed. Once upstairs while her family was at their tea, she locked the bedroom door, and pulled out the brace of pistols. The pistols were simply yet beautifully constructed and had been well kept, even though they had spent years in the chest. Who had they belonged to? Neither of her parents were the type who would own a pistol, unless there was something she didn’t know about either of them. She dismissed Uncle Samwell out of hand; he wouldn’t be able to keep something like this secret. The pistols had been very carefully squirreled away, and perhaps even forgotten. She picked one up and pointed it at the wardrobe, holding the pistol in both hands and sighting at a knot in the wood. It was harder to keep it from wobbling than she expected, but she found that if she planted her feet and breathed gently, the barrel didn’t waver as much. She dry-fired the pistol, and the hammer fell with a solid thunk.

  Wrapped up with the pistols was a slender ramrod, a twist of black powder, and three balls. She considered this new treasure and the possibilities it brought. The balance of power shifted ever so slightly away from the Guild.

  Yvienne felt a rush of excitement and apprehension as she let herself out of the house by the front door while the family argued about something in the dining room, oblivious to her escape. She guessed it was about half past seven, and she needed to get to Treacher’s shop by eight to make their rendezvous.

  The boy’s clothes fit and wanted only the hems let down on the trousers. The waistcoat and shirt were snug across her bosom – that had been a bit of a surprise, that even her slight curves were enough to fill out the clothes – but the jacket hid her shape convincingly. She wrapped the flannel around her neck as further camouflage, and pulled a cap down over her hair. She took one pistol and the shot and powder and carried it in a satchel on her hip.

  A fog had rolled in, bringing an early night to Port Saint Frey. The streetlamps cast a fuzzy yellow glow that proved inadequate to the task of lighting her way, but it was to her advantage. Even befogged, the city was rowdy, with music from saloon pianos and fiddles skirling out over the damp streets, and shouts and laughter from revelers. She plunged into the crowds, abandoning herself to the anonymity.

  She had learnt another lesson too, and that was not to look behind her to see if she were being followed. Instead, she stopped to watch street performers, angling herself to keep an eye on the way she had come, scanning for the familiar person of the ginger-whiskered man. There was no one she recognized. Flame burst from a street clown’s mouth and the crowd oohed in delight. Giving way to someone else who wanted to watch, she melted back out of the light and continued on her way.

  It grew darker along the mercantile streets where Mastrini’s and Treacher’s were located. All the shops and businesses were closed, the clerks and shopkeepers all gone home. Now there was less excitement and more fear. This was dangerous; fewer people on the streets meant more risk, as well she knew from that morning.

  Her footsteps sounded loud and lonely on the wet cobblestones. The fog closed around her, distorting sounds so that she couldn’t tell where they were coming from.

  Once she thought she heard something, but when she stopped she could hear nothing except the trickle of water. She extended her senses outward, closing her eyes to hear what she could, but only the distant revelry of the nighttime city came to her ears.

  Treacher’s was down the next alley. Looking behind her, she gave up stealth and hurried down the sidewalk to the dark mouth of the little street. Breathing hard, her heart hammering, she leaned back against the cold wall, trying to regain her composure. The smell of sewage rose up around her, letting her know she was in the right place. Treacher’s shop was hidden in the darkness up ahead. Yvienne stepped into the alley. She kept one hand on the wet wall, scraping her palm on the rough brick. She skirted a pile of rags and debris that she hoped was neither animate nor a corpse. It didn’t reach out to grab her ankle as she passed, so she reckoned it a good sign.

  Treacher’s shop with its faded sign was silent and empty. The windows were blank eyes in the darkness, the dark shutters drawn to, and she could smell paper and machine oil and ink. There was no light, but she expected none. Yvienne went to rap gently on the door, but to her surprise the door was already ajar.

  She stopped, the back of her neck prickling in fear. Leave the door unlocked for her, yes. But ajar?

  She put one hand inside the satchel, throwing back the flap and gripping the pistol. She pushed the door the rest of the way open and closed it behind her. The inside of the shop was pitch dark. Yvienne stepped out of the doorway, fumbling for a match from the satchel. She struck it on the brick wall of the shop and it flared, the sulfur acrid in her nostrils. She found the small lantern hanging by the door and lit it. Light bloomed. She held the lantern high over her head, its warm glow illuminating the shop.

  The shop was a shambles. Papers and type were spilled everywhere, the table overturned, glass crunched underfoot. Yvienne gasped. “Mr Treacher?” she whispered. She gathered her courage and called louder, “Mr Treacher?”

  There was no answer. Her heart hammering, Yvienne stepped carefully into the back room, where the destruction was even more thorough. Everything had been destroyed, and they had even taken a sledgehammer to the printing press, a thing that she, as a booklover, felt a desecration.

  There was a small door at the back of the shop, from the smell of it the water closet. It was ajar, and although she couldn’t see all the way in, she could see a boot, sticking slightly over the threshold.

  With shaking hands, she pulled the door the rest of the way.

  Treacher was dead, his face ashen and blue, his eyes staring. She couldn’t see any wound at first, and then she detected a thin wire looped around his neck. He had been garroted so thoroughly the wire cut bloodlessly above his collar.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Panic came over her in waves and she had to set the lantern down and breathe deep.

  Get out get out get out get out. She had to flee. What had she been thinking?

  This was her fault. Treacher had been silenced so he couldn’t reveal the Guild’s secrets. He printed the Arabestus letter. I killed him. She stuffed her fist in her mouth so she wouldn’t burst out into sobs. I can’t just leave him here, she thought. He deserved someone who cared enough to bring his body away and mourn him, and light the ceremonial funeral torches. He had a sister and he had a grand-nephew. That boy could not find him dead when he came to work tomorrow.

  But who could she tell? The constables? They were in the pocket of the Guild. And they would wonder what she was doing, lurking about Port Saint Frey at night, in boys’ clothes.

  Yvienne leaned down and with a trembling hand tried to close his eyes, but he continued to stare accusingly at her. So, she took off the flannel at her neck and covered his face, saying a prayer for mercy for the dead. I hope he was already dead before they destroyed the shop, she thought. It would have broken his heart.

  The sound of the front door creaking open caught her attention and she jerked to alert. She made to snuff the lantern, but stopped. It would only put her at a disadvantage, her eyes unused to sudden darkness. Instead, she moved to the side of the inner door, waiting for the other intruder to come further in. Her mouth was dry and she breathed as lightly as she could. She heard footsteps and a muffled curse as whoever it was barked his shin on the mess. She pulled her pistol out of the bag, and held it at the ready.

  The inner door moved slightly, and then it opened. The barrel of a pistol poked through. Yvienne took a deep breath, counted to two, and slammed her shoulder into the slightly opened door, catching on the barrel of the pistol.

  With a jerk, the pistol discharged with a sharp report, deafening her for a moment.
She grabbed the barrel, wincing at the heat, and twisted it out of the man’s grasp, tossing it aside. In the next moment she pulled the door wide again, and cocked her own pistol with both hands, and aimed it in the face of the other intruder. She caught a glimpse of wide eyes and familiar ginger whiskers and the man backpedaled hastily.

  “Stop,” she ordered, making her voice thick and gruff. She raised the pistol slightly and sighted on his nose. He stopped. He put his hands up. “Kneel.”

  After a moment, he did. She grabbed the heavy bag that he carried and stepped back with it. Something sloshed. She smelled volatile spirits.

  “Listen, kid,” the man said, “I know you took a scare just now, but we’re on the same side here.” So, he really didn’t recognize her. She didn’t say anything more lest her voice give her away. To her delight, the ginger man was a talker. “Did Cramdean send you? He should have known that I was keeping an eye. Just didn’t think anyone would come back at night, and we’ve been keeping a watch on the family all day.” The family. Treacher’s family? Then with a chill she realized he was talking about her family. He went on babbling. “Frey’s bones, just let me up.” He went to get on his feet and she swung the pistol back to cover between his eyes. She squeezed the trigger slightly, knowing from her practice that she had a deal more pressure before the trigger engaged. His eyes widened and he got back down. She couldn’t keep him at bay forever, but she had nothing to tie him up with. She certainly couldn’t let him follow her.

  “All right. I get it. You ain’t Cramdean’s. But this is Guild business, boy, and believe me, the dock gangs don’t want to get involved.” He laughed with forced bravado. “So, you just let me do my job here, and I’ll forget I ran into you, and you return the favor, eh?”

  She kicked at his satchel and it spilled over with a clatter, the acrid smell of kerosene filling her nostrils. So, the destruction had not been enough. The Guild surely wanted Treacher’s secrets – and House Mederos’ – to die with him. She doubted the man knew the why of any of it, and any chance she had of finding answers had died with Treacher. So, let it be his funeral pyre. After all, hadn’t the Arabestus herself gone down in flames? She picked up the jug of kerosene and backed toward the door. She began to pour it between herself and the man. His eyes grew round when he saw what she was doing.

  “Nononononono. No kid, wait, don’t,” he said, rising panic in his voice. He sank back when she pointed the pistol at him again. “Kid, come on. Let me up. You don’t want to do this. Just let us both get out, and then you can set it alight.” She tossed the empty jug and struck another match against the wall. It flared up with a hiss. Their eyes met; his wide and desperate, and she glanced deliberately at the back of the shop, pointing with her chin for good measure. He had to know he could get out, through the small window in the back. Surely she wasn’t condemning him to death. The heat from the match scorched her fingers but she held onto it, giving him time. The ginger man made up his mind. He got to his feet and ran to the back of the shop. She dropped the match and the kerosene caught lazily, more smoke than fire. It wasn’t until the blue flame encountered paper that the fire began to burn in earnest. She leaped back and out, feeling the heat of the flames rise up behind her. Out the front door, she risked turning back to make sure ginger whiskers wasn’t following her, and then she ran down the alley toward the street, sticking to the shadows until she could be sure she had cleared the shop.

  I’ll avenge you, Mr Treacher, she thought as she ran. The image of the dead man’s gray face kept inserting itself in her memory, and her breath came hard and ragged. She sobbed once, but pushed back her tears. The Guild would answer to her for this, and when she got her revenge for the destruction of House Mederos, she would make sure everyone in Port Saint Frey knew the Guild had murdered Treacher.

  The rising sounds of alarm, bells calling the fire horses and the fire wagons, and the cries of the crowd followed her from the shop, but the fog was so thick that she was fairly certain she was completely unobserved. Indeed, she made her way half by feel and by the downward incline of the cobbles beneath her feet. Here and there streetlamps loomed out of the fog, but the light was so dull and dissipated that it was almost useless. So, when she bumped head on into a trio of revelers it was a shock to all of them.

  “Ho, there, villain!” a man shouted. Yvienne jumped back, fumbling for her pistol. The man reeled tipsily and his friends held him up. “Who is it? Who goes there?” He giggled. “Where are we?”

  He reeked of spirits. Under the dim light she could make out his evening cape and his elegant shoes, the worse for wear in this weather. He swayed, and his two friends continued to hold him upright.

  “Now, boy, tell us where we are and be quick about it!” snapped one of the young men in a lordly way. “Which way to House Saint Frey?”

  House Saint Frey? They had drifted so far off course in the fog they would end up in the harbor if they kept going. She was about to tell them that, when the second man said drunkenly, “Don’t talk to him, Bror. He’ll just try to pick your pocket. Oldest dock trick in the book. Did you see that? Ran into us. Check my pockets.” He tried, but only succeeded in groping his sides ineffectually.

  “Poor scrawny feller,” said the third friend, as drunk as the others. “They train them up as children, you know. Orphans. Beaten until they learn to lift a wallet as gently as a bee takes nectar. It’s lovely, really. My mother formed a benevolent reform society.”

  “Can’t reform them,” the first drunk objected. “Press-gang ’em, maybe. Better to die at sea than rob their betters.” He swayed forward and said loudly and slowly, “Beg our pardon, beggar boy, and we won’t thrash you.”

  Yvienne had had enough. She drew the pistol, aiming it at the man’s nose. “I have a better idea. Your wallets. Now.” She held out the satchel, inviting them to drop their money in it. For a moment there was nothing but heavy breathing. Then, remembering, she cocked the pistol, the small metallic sound ringing out in the fogbound street. The reaction was dramatic. The three men drew out their wallets and dropped them into the satchel. Yvienne kept her pistol aimed at them as she stepped back out of the light.

  “A pleasant evening to you, sirs, and thank you for your contribution.” She faded into the fog and the darkness, and took off running.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was all Yvienne’s fault, Tesara thought, trudging up the steep street to the Saint Frey mansion. If her sister had not sneaked out, she would not have had the courage to do the same. The grand old pile could be seen by every window along the Crescent though it was located two miles away across town, on the promontory that jutted out into the harbor. It was somewhat fortunate that her parents’ exile from the Crescent had brought her within walking distance of the Saint Freys, and it really hadn’t been a hard walk. The brocade evening slippers were bad shoes for climbing and the shoes were a bit big for her, being made for Alinesse, but Tesara had stuffed a bit of cotton in the heels, and that kept them on well enough. If no one looked too closely they wouldn’t see the scuff marks and the stains; they would see only the glittering embroidery and the small winking beadwork.

  The shoes were not all that was left of Alinesse’s evening finery. Tesara had made a foray into the attic, which had been curiously left unlocked, and ruthlessly raided the old costume chest that was tucked up there, coming up with treasure after treasure: the dress and the white fringed cashmere shawl. Elbow-length kid gloves. An ostrich-skin fan. A beaded headband that was knotted with crystals. The gown, a rose pink of a generation ago, and the cashmere shawl, were old-fashioned but well kept. There had been a portrait of Alinesse in this very gown and wrap that had once hung in the family’s sitting room. The gown was beautiful, with subtle beadwork in tiny pearls that caught the light, but it had a deep décolleté that made Tesara a bit nervous. She had to refrain from constantly drawing it up. Even had they not lost their position, at nearly eighteen she would not yet have had her come out and so she wasn’t used to
such a low-cut bodice. That Alinesse had kept the dress when everything else had to be sold made Tesara wonder at her pragmatic mother’s sensitivity. She’ll kill me if she finds out I took it, Tesara thought, holding up the skirts. This was not a dress meant for hiking the steep hills of Port Saint Frey. It was meant for a cool ballroom and dancing, and flirting with young men.

  Although the deep fog blanketed the city several streets below her, up here the skies were clear and the city was well lit with streetlamps fueled with lamp oil. There were several folk out promenading, young people flirting under the steely gaze of watchful chaperones. If any marked the fallen Mederos daughter, well, it was dark and what the eye couldn’t see, the heart couldn’t grieve over. The heart, in fact, was pumping rather hard as she gained the entrance to the Saint Frey mansion. Tesara paused to regard it and to catch her breath.

  The path up to the house was lined with torches, and the front part of the house blazed with light. As she drew closer, she had to encourage herself to keep going, scolding herself for her first instinct to skulk back into the shadows and pretend she hadn’t come. It took a glance down at her borrowed finery to keep her going, because it reminded her of what she had done to come here. Tesara had to put up her hair by herself, and hoped that the headband made up for any deficiencies, not to mention the damage done by a sweaty walk. It was cold – Port Saint Frey’s nights were always cold – so that was a blessing, but she knew that she would arrive at the party in a state. There would be an anteroom set aside for the ladies to fix their hair and repair their powder and lip color and generally make themselves ready for the show.

  That was, if they let her inside. Maybe I won’t get past the butler, she thought rather hopefully. But on the off chance that she did, she would have to enter the salon with a straight back and a high head, rather as if she were riding to hounds in the countryside. Heels down, head up, and a firm hand on the reins, she told herself.