The Sisters Mederos

by Patrice Sarath

  There were no introductions. The game began.

  She lost track of time, so absorbed in the game now that she didn’t have to pretend to be a terrible player. Her focus narrowed to her table only. There was no conversation, no laughter, only the sound of bets and cards, the chink of coins and the whisper of paper drafts and markers. The level of play took all of her concentration.

  She won and lost and won some more, the pile in front of her steadily growing in height. She paid off the markers that Terk had staked for her. He grunted as she passed over the winnings, but made no other comment. She had an inkling that he was as absorbed in the game as she was, a kindred spirit. She was minded of Jone’s comment about how gambling wasn’t a sin if one didn’t take it seriously. Then I’m a bad sinner, she thought, because I take this as seriously as life and death.

  “Call,” Terk said in his gruff voice and she laid down her cards, a winning hand. There was a murmur around the table, a shift in balance. She felt powerful, vindicated.

  “Well, well, well,” someone drawled. She looked up, and as she did her elbow knocked over the wineglass at her elbow. It barely registered, though wine splashed along her old silk dress.

  Trune.

  The Guildmaster and some of his high-ranking Guild cronies stood over the table. Tesara put her hands in her lap to hide the trembling. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Terk glance between them.

  “Interesting,” Trune went on, as he took in the table, the pile of winnings in front of Tesara, and her own self, the erstwhile housemaid snooping in his study and now gambling in his friend’s billiards room. She calculated her possibilities.

  Grab her winnings, tip over the table, run. She wouldn’t get far.

  Use her powers. She felt the answering energy well up in her fingertips again, swelling them with electricity. That was her ace though, and she didn’t want to squander the card.

  Brazen it out. Trune still knew where she lived, and would take it out on her family, but if she brought the attack to him in public, he might have to tread carefully in his retaliation.

  “Guild liaison, Trune,” she said, demoting him on purpose. “Enjoying your stay in my home?”

  He snorted a laugh, but she saw how his eyes narrowed at her hit. He gave a look around at his cronies as if to mark her utter ridiculousness.

  “Perhaps you’d like to visit and see what I’ve done with the place. Oh wait. You’ve already done so.”

  “Fascinating, Mr Trune, do tell.” She was gambling – perhaps foolishly – on residual sympathy from the merchant houses. Trune would have to produce eyewitnesses and evidence that she had been the mysterious housemaid. Even the Guild would have to rule that his household staff would be considered prejudiced witnesses for the accuser, and anyway, she no longer had the dress.

  He looked surprised. “Really, Miss Mederos? My staff was furious at your deception, you know.” He leaned over to her and whispered in her ear, while she stared straight ahead, trying not to reveal her disgust at his damp breath so near to her. “You have no idea of the stakes in this game you are playing.”

  Neither do you.

  Someone tugged Trune’s jacket and he let himself be pulled away, gathered up amongst his cronies. She kept still until she judged him gone, and then with a silent exhale, continued to pull her winnings toward her.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” she said in her best Alinesse tone. “I think it’s best I take my leave.” No one spoke. Terk just watched her with his keen eyes, the wrinkles around them reminding her of a sailor’s, though he clearly was no sea gentleman.

  She had brought a purse with her. It bulged. No one spoke as she walked out of the smoking room and into the main hall. The fascinating woman watched her go with a keen and attentive eye. An attendant was waiting with her wrap, so the Scarlantis had already made plans to rid themselves of their troublesome guest.

  She made her curtsey to Mrs and Mr Scarlanti, and the wide doors were opened for her. Tesara walked out into the chill night, the wrap billowing around her. It was past one in the morning, and she knew she would have a hard time catching one of the many horse-drawn cabs at this hour, even though she had plenty of money to pay for one. She would have to walk home.

  This would be the time she would run into the Gentleman Bandit, she thought. But he had better watch out. Her fingers were tingling with energy. He might find out that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Yvienne threw the heavy satchel over the wall, the strap catching on the wrought-iron arrow tips.

  She scrambled up after, scraping her knees and tearing her coat on the rough stone, the decorative wrought iron cutting into her hands. She kicked and pulled herself up and over, hearing the fabric rip more as she left a strip of old wool behind. Then she grabbed the satchel and jumped–

  And landed hard on the gravel drive, scraping her hands and knees. The drop was longer on the other side than it was from inside the Kerrills’ garden. Cursing their landscape designer, she got to her feet and ran, the sounds of pursuit close behind. Hunting dogs bayed and men shouted.

  She knew this part of Port Saint Frey well because she had grown up here and because she had been reading city maps and scouting routes for days. She junked left down an alley, knowing it wouldn’t fool the dogs. It was a shortcut, and it would take her to the sea, to her sea cave. The high tide worked to her benefit, though it would mean getting the pistols wet. They would be a devil to clean afterwards.

  The baying sounded louder. Yvienne put on more speed, head back, elbows bent, hands slightly curved. The satchel strap crossed her front and the heavy satchel thudded against her back. She had to make a split-second decision; turn left ahead again, calculating that she could get over the wall at the back of the old mews across from the Crescent, or turn right, so she could lose herself in the crowds in the lower part of the city.

  She turned left. Twenty paces away, the wall loomed. Five… four… three… she hit the spot and jumped.

  “Down here, boys!”

  Frey’s robe, they were close. The dogs howled and bayed in indiscriminate fury. Yvienne scrabbled for handholds and footholds, scaling the twelve-foot wall, her muscles in her arms burning. Her fingers were raw now, and desperation moved her upward.

  “There he is! Stop, thief! Shoot! Shoot!”

  She flung her leg up and, for one heart-stopping moment, was unable to get her boot over. It hung on the lip of the wall, and then she yanked it over and fell, rather than jumped, just as a single shot discharged.

  Stunned, she landed on her side, struggling to move. Had she been shot? She got to her feet, took a second to register lack of blood or pain other than a twisted ankle, throbbing knee, and a bruised rib, and then got herself moving, limping. Move, move, move, she chanted, getting back into a rhythm. She knew from the commotion behind her that a few men would be trying to get over the wall and the rest would backtrack and take the dogs around.

  Everything that hurt still hurt, but she got back into a jog. In a moment she heard two shouts, a couple of thuds, and some groans. She grinned and moved faster.

  Two more minutes, with the sounds of pursuit fading, she found the sea trail. It was steep here, but she knew it intimately. Half-skidding, she made her way down the trail. Now the sound of the sea was louder than anything, the waves a soothing rhythm that helped slow her racing heart. The whitecaps glowed a little in the clear night.

  Yvienne stood on the edge of rocks and looked back up the steep cliff. She could see lantern lights bobbing crazily, but she doubted her pursuer marked her. She was tucked back among the rocks, shadowed in the night. She took a breath, secured the satchel and her pistols, and dove into the cold water.

  Salt water stung her abrasions, and she gasped at the freezing temperatures, but she kicked steadily, swimming toward the caves. She surfaced for air twice, and then the third time, came up inside the cave. Gasping and cursing, she crawled out onto the sandy le
dge, shivering. With shaking hands, she found a lantern and a match. It took a couple of tries to scrape it, before it finally caught.

  The lantern shed a dull light on her little lair. The black water gleamed back at her. Yvienne raced to undress and dry off, and get into warm clothes. It felt strange to get back into her usual clothes – bloomers, shift, corset, stockings, petticoat, dress. They made her feel like regular old Yvienne, a boring governess. She spread out the boy’s clothing to let it dry. The clothes would be stiff with salt but she hadn’t the time to wash them. In the lantern light she examined the tears. The coat and trousers were both badly torn.

  Might have to buy new, she thought, but it wasn’t crucial. The police would be looking for a man with torn coat and trousers, and of course she would not be wearing any of those things. She cast an eye at a small pocket watch she kept wound in the cave. About two of the clock. She had time to get a few hours’ sleep before she would have to walk over to the TreMondis’ to start lessons. It would have been lovely to sleep in her own bed, even find out how Tesara had done at the Scarlantis’, but she had told Mama she was sleeping over, and wouldn’t be expected home.

  She was too excited and exhausted to sleep. Yvienne pulled out the satchel. She had an inkling that she might have to swim for it tonight and so she had taken only bills from her victims. She counted and straightened the money, raising her eyebrows at the haul.

  House Kerrill had been surprisingly easy to enter, although Mr Kerrill had set up a patrol of burly watchmen with dogs to patrol a perimeter. Yvienne had straightened her collar, removed her kerchief, and walked past the guards as a late-coming young gentleman, reeling a little as if she had already started her revelry.

  As she had already experienced, drunken young men were easy pickings. What had taken her by surprise were her own mixed feelings at robbing her old friends. Even Amos, swaggering, bullying Amos, had once been someone she knew and was expected to know socially. And quiet, charming Jone Saint Frey, whom she suspected her sister of rather liking when they were kids, was there. When she had fired the warning shot, he had looked straight at her as if he knew her, and it flustered her.

  Girls screamed, boys shouted, men scrambled into action. Yvienne sprang into belated action, took Jeni Scarlanti as a hostage, gathered up as much as she could, and then bolted.

  It was close, she thought, shivering, as her elation waned and weariness set in. She would have to come up with a story to explain the abrasions and the limp, and every story made it harder to keep up the deception. She had so much to do, and she was no closer to understanding how the Guild had destroyed her family or worse yet, how to restore it. The Gentleman Bandit had become a distraction from her true purpose, and she felt a pang of guilt, that she had let desire for revenge get in the way of uncovering the truth. I must focus, she thought. This was the last job. It had to be. She had to focus on finding out who had destroyed House Mederos.

  The nervous energy that kept her running was draining away. She yawned, and cleared a space to lie down on the sandy shelf. She was dry now and warm enough. She darkened the lantern and clutched the pocket watch, knowing she would wake in three hours because its steady ticking counting down the seconds would impinge itself on her sleep, ensuring she woke up on schedule. Her eyes closed, and the sound of the nearby sea lulled her into sleep.

  As brisk, rosy dawn rose over Port Saint Frey that morning, it gave light to the usual bustle of carters and servants, delivery boys and grooms, all hustling to their posts. Shopkeepers threw back their shutters and pushcart men wheeled their bright carts into the marketplace. No one marked the serious, dark-haired governess in serviceable clothes, limping only slightly and carrying a leather schoolbag, making her way to the TreMondi house on the lower Crescent. She fit right in to the business of the city.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Exactly what is the Guild? It ostracizes the good people of Port Saint Frey and elevates others, gives its imprimatur to the actions of a few, and then says, “But you here, you are wanting.” It is immoderate and inconsistent, tyrannical and secretive, and raises up some, only to cast down others.

  Ah, but the Guild would have no power except that it uses its capriciousness to entice the unwary to seek its favor. For like an inconstant mistress, now all smiles and the next a-tantrum, it tricks its constant beloved into seeking to placate the storms and return the sea to calm. But it’s never the constant lover’s fault – the Guild cares nothing for the efforts of its faithful swain.

  The good citizens of Port Saint Frey do have the power to correct the Guild. As the wise nanny disciplines a tempestuous child by refusing to give into its petty tantrums, but says only, “I cannot speak to you right now, you must calm yourself,” and turns her back, so must Freysians discipline the Guild. Only then will it right itself and gain moderacy and self-command in all things.

  We have only the Guild we deserve.

  Arabestus

  The question of whether Treacher was Arabestus was answered when a single broadsheet appeared in the hands of newsies all along the Mile and down by the docks. The saucy urchins said only that a “young fella” gave them the papers to sell, and they were quick to do so. Everyone was talking about it, from the docks to the Mile. Each installment was eagerly awaited.

  That was not the only news.

  “Listen to this,” Brevart said at dinner that night. He read from the Gazette, the remaining paper after Treacher’s death. “‘The good merchant folk of Port Saint Frey have once again been terrorized by the Gentleman Bandit. Last night at the Kerrills’ salon for the eighteenth birthday of Master Amos Kerrill, the larcenous bandit came in through the garden, availed himself of the purses of several guests, and vanished into the night before the constables could be sent for. Guests were terrified and several ladies – and one gentleman, we have been told – fainted and had to be revived with strong spirits. Mr Kerrill called out the dogs and many guests went out in pursuit, but it was in vain.

  “‘“It is getting so that no one wants to even hold a salon,” Mrs Kerrill said in tears. “It is infuriating that such a low fellow breaks in, thieves wantonly, and disappears. Our evening was ruined. The police must do something.”’” Brevart ruffled the pages of the paper. “I don’t know what this city is coming to. Treacher’s death, the fire that almost burned down the entire block, and now this.”

  “The fellow has quite a mode of operation, I’ll give him that,” Uncle Samwell said. He sounded almost as if he wished he had thought of it.

  “An entirely criminal one,” Alinesse said. “I wonder that the police can’t apprehend him.”

  “He’ll stumble soon enough. These fellows always do,” Brevart said. “They get ambitious, and the next thing you know, they’ve been nabbed. Hubris.”

  Uncle Samwell naturally took the other side. He ticked off his points. “One. He knows what house to hit, and when. Always knows when there is going to be a big do. Two. Never takes jewelry. Always cash, because then he don’t have to worry about fencing any of it. Three. Always knows how to get in, and most importantly, how to get out. I wager the Sansieris will never be touched; their place backs up onto that great back wall.”

  “And I say it’s only a matter of time.”

  “And I say it’s a good thing Tesara never accepts any of these invitations,” Alinesse said. “Goodness knows what would happen if this fellow is about.”

  Tesara shrugged. “It’s not as if he would get anything off me,” she pointed out. “I haven’t a purse to cut.”

  “Could be worse,” Uncle Samwell said, but with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Fellow like that might slit your throat out of spite.”

  “Sam!” Alinesse said, exasperated. Despite her mother’s annoyance, Tesara snorted a laugh, and that emboldened her uncle.

  “Give over, Alinesse, I didn’t mean it. Look, even Tesara’s laughing.”

  “Oh, well, if Tesara laughs then it’s all in line,” Alinesse said with deep sarcasm.


  “Oh, I see, if I laugh, then I’m in the wrong automatically?” Tesara said, but with mock insult.

  “That’s not – oh for heaven’s sake. I liked it better when you two were out of sorts with each other.”

  But that was it, Tesara reflected. Things were back to normal, brought on by good food and warm fires and general household indulgence.

  The dining table had undergone as substantial a transformation in the last weeks as the breakfast table. There was a tablecloth now, and the dishes of dented tin had been replaced with a set of quite pretty crockery. Alinesse’s gardening skills had borne fruit, as it were, and tall stalks of dragonsnaps interspersed with pale pink wild roses, their delicate scent perfuming the air all day, adorned the sideboard from an empty can that once held cooking oil.

  There was plenty of food – a small leg of lamb dressed with mint jelly, potatoes with dill, sweet peas and a tossed salad of spicy bitter greens, and biscuits that were as high as the gunwales, as Mrs Francini would say. A bowl of trifle waited for dessert.

  Yvienne continued to provide the fiction that the additional money for the household came from her salary on advance, as she had still not been paid for her first month. They had been supplementing the budget with Tesara’s purse but had been a bit profligate. The money had gone to their heads. We need to scale back, Tesara thought. Alinesse was growing suspicious. Their mother had taken to going over the accounts and questioning Mathilde about the marketing. That worried Tesara. Mathilde had allayed Alinesse’s suspicions, which was a relief, but it only meant that now the housemaid knew something was afoot with regards to the money she and Yvienne were slipping her. It was a dreadful tangle. If Alinesse found out that the groceries cost more than the pittance she gave to Mathilde for marketing, supplemented with Yvienne’s pay, and if Mathilde found out the money came from somewhere other than those sources, the jig would be up.

  It’s ridiculous, Tesara thought. First we didn’t have any money, and now we have too much. She and Yvienne would have to sort this out. Laundering the money through the household accounts was no longer working.