“Of course,” said Bob. “Forgive my naiveté in these matters, I’m completely at sea when it comes to thievery.”
“Of course,” said Roman with a smirk.
“So sorry to hear of Lord Hapsgalt’s misfortune, though. Edmund?”
“Any use of the word ‘sorry’ by any persons or absences of persons in this or any past, present, or future context shall not be construed as an admission of guilt or wrongdoing, and is inadmissible in any court of law.”
Bob gave Edmund a satisfied nod.
“Thanks,” said Roman. “There’s still the matter of the involvement of parties who shall remain nameless for the moment. I don’t like to use words like ‘evidence’ or ‘corroborating witnesses’ in polite conversation. I’d prefer to rely on your good graces to obviate the need.”
Bob tsked. “Roman, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were harboring suspicions. Edmund?”
“Any use of the word ‘know’ shall not be interpreted as an acknowledgment of prior awareness to any event or events that may or may not have preceded this event, which may or may not be happening, and thus may or may not be possible to precede.”
“Oh, come on,” said Roman. “Remember when we used to just talk, Bob? We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. We go way back!”
Edmund took in a breath, to which Bob held up a hand.
“Assuming for a moment that was true, it simply doesn’t change the fact that business is business,” Bob countered. “I’d honestly like to help you out, Roman, but my hands are tied. Edmund?”
“Use of the word ‘honestly’ shall not be taken to imply dishonesty in any other statements made by the person or persons, present or otherwise, having allegedly used said word.”
“There’s always a way,” interjected Sloot.
“Don’t mind him.” Roman gave a nervous chuckle and shot a dirty look in Sloot’s direction.
“Business is business, isn’t that right, Bob?”
“Speaking in hypothetical generalities, yes.” Bob regarded Sloot with a curious smirk.
“Best if I do the talking,” said Roman through clenched teeth.
“Not so fast,” said Bob. “Mister Peril is the financier, is he not?”
“That’s right,” answered Sloot.
“But he’s not a negotiator,” said Roman. “Didn’t you say you were looking for a belt, Sloot? Perhaps you could go and―”
“Nonsense,” interrupted Bob. “Tell me, Mister Peril, if that is indeed your real name—which you need neither confirm nor deny at this juncture—what sort of business would you like to discuss?”
“The sort that puts enough gold back into Willie’s treasury to keep up appearances,” Sloot replied. “I know I can’t convince you to give back what you stole from Whitewood―”
“Objection!” said Edmund.
“Withdrawn,” said Sloot. “Look, we could go to the elder Lord Hapsgalt and have the money replaced in a heartbeat, but we’d be a laughing stock! Willie would never―”
“Live it down!” shouted Roman, drawing a sidelong glance from Edmund. “You’re right about that, he’d definitely be deeply embarrassed by that, having to crawl to his father.”
“Er, right,” muttered Sloot.
“No, no,” said Bob, “please do go on, Mister Peril. No more interruptions please, Roman.”
“You seem like a reasonable person, Bob.”
“If, in fact, that is my real name.”
“Sure,” said Sloot, “and I have no doubt that you understand our predicament. Surely, we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement?”
“Well,” said Bob, “I could offer you a contract for services if you’d be amenable.”
“Sloot, don’t―”
“What sort of contract?”
Giving a forlorn groan, Roman hung his head.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sloot. Roman said nothing.
“We’ve entered a negotiation,” said Bob. “You didn’t specify that Roman should be party to it, so you’ll be the sole delegate for your contingent. You are empowered to enter into financial contracts on behalf of Lord Wilhelm Hapsgalt, are you not?”
“Well, yes, but―”
“Let the record—which may or may not exist—reflect that the contract allegedly being negotiated is between Roberta Golubkin on behalf of The Four Bells Trading Company, and Sloot Peril on behalf of Lord Wilhelm Hapsgalt.”
“So noted,” said Edmund, “hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Mister Peril,” Bob continued, “we are prepared to offer you a sum in the amount of one-tenth of the value of all property allegedly burgled from Whitewood at the time purported, said value to be based on wild conjecture on the part of the Four Bells’ accountants, and certainly not on a detailed accounting that could never be performed, given that neither the Four Bells nor any of its agents or subsidiaries were involved in said burglary.”
Sloot said nothing, making that the smartest thing he’d said since having entered the room.
“In return for said one-tenth of the aforementioned alleged burglary, Lord Wilhelm Hapsgalt and his agents will be held accountable for ten individual services to The Four Bells, deliverable on a schedule to be determined by the same.”
“Ten for a tenth? That’s larceny!”
“Allegedly,” said Bob.
What Sloot lacked in the ability to recognize when he was in over his head, he made up for in stubborn persistence. He was first and foremost an accountant, after all—if he couldn’t walk away from a services contract negotiation with vaguely favorable terms, he’d be honor-bound to return his diploma to the University of Salzstadt.
There was no way to tell time in the little room, but Sloot would have guessed that they’d been at it for nearly three hours when they finally came to terms that took on the outer shape of adequacy.
“What do you say to that?” asked Sloot. He’d removed his shirt half an hour prior and was dripping with sweat.
“A quarter of the conjectured value of the alleged burglary,” said Bob, who glistened but showed no real signs of exhaustion, “in return for two services to be specified in advance.”
“And the answer to one question,” began Sloot, “to be asked by me and answered by you, once the rest of the business is settled.”
“Very well.”
“Name your services,” said Sloot.
“The first is the installation of an item in the old clock tower in the Ulfhaven town square.”
“That’s the capital of Carpathia!” exclaimed Sloot.
“Please don’t interrupt,” said Bob. “The second service will require the gentleman to sign this confession. Edmund?”
Edmund produced a single sheet of paper folded into thirds and handed it to Sloot.
“Confession? To what?”
“Oh, nothing yet,” said Bob. “It’s just the last page.”
Sloot read the paper. It was indeed the last page of a confession, though it mentioned no specific crime or heresy. It started with “I, the undersigned, do hereby firmly attest in very flowery language that I was the heinous perpetrator of whatever atrocities just happen to be pinned atop this paper,” or something very close to that.
“This is diabolical,” said Sloot.
“This is how we do business. Edmund?”
“The use of the term ‘we’ does not affirm any association―”
“Right, whatever.” Sloot signed the paper while Edmund droned on with his disclaimer. He handed it back to Edmund, who stamped it with a notary seal and placed it in a satchel, which resembled a purse in his enormous hands.
“Oh, good,” said Bob with one of those mouth-only smiles that unnerved Sloot so much. “Look on the bright side, you’ve fulfilled half your end of the bargain already!”
“What do you intend to do with that?”
“Probably nothing,” said Bob. “It’s a fairly standard practice, I’ve got dozens of them.” She paused. “Or do I?”
“So you’re not planning on pinning some crime on me?” asked Sloot, who was trying to decide if being jailed for a crime he didn’t commit―while going unpunished for the ones he did―counted as irony.
“Not yet,” said Bob. “As long as I’m pleased with the status of our association, it’s altogether possible that that paper will never see the light of day.”
“Would it be possible to repurchase it from you someday?”
“Everything is for sale,” said Bob, “but try not to think about that. Edmund?”
Bracing himself for another disclaimer, Sloot wondered whether Edmund had been the burliest lawyer in his class at the university, or simply a savant in the area of rote recitation; but the droning legality never came. Instead, he produced from his satchel a weathered black box, which he handed to Roman. Roman opened the box.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Roman.
“Objection,” said Edmund. “Conjecture.”
“Ugh,” groaned Roman, “sustained. It’s a blood star, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfectly harmless to you,” said Bob. “Best not to think about it, yes? Better still to refrain from asking questions, especially now that you’re committed.”
“What’s a blood star?” asked Sloot.
“We’ve concluded our negotiation, Mister Peril. Is that the question you want me to answer?”
“No it isn’t,” said Sloot, “and no we haven’t. We haven’t shaken on it.”
“That’s ceremonial.” Bob lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I’ve got your signature.”
“On a fabricated confession. That was a part of the deal, and a fabricated confession doesn’t constitute a contract … unless, of course, you’d like to use it to frame me for having agreed to close the negotiation.”
“Oh, very well.” Bob donned a scowl in an earnest attempt to be annoyed, but she couldn’t repress a grin. “Well played, Mister Peril.”
She extended her hand, and Sloot shook it. He thought her grip was surprisingly firm, then chastised himself for thinking that it would have been otherwise just because she’s a woman.
“Now, then, what’s your question?”
Sloot cleared his throat. “Who is Myrtle Pastry?”
Bob smiled. A real one, with her whole face—not the dead-eyed, burn-a-hole-into-your-psyche sort she’d been practicing up to that point.
“You’re cleverer than I thought,” she said. “You like her, don’t you?”
“I just need answers.”
“Very well, a deal’s a deal.”
“Allegedly,” stated Edmund.
“Right,” said Bob. “Myrtle came to work for me a long time ago. When the opportunity came along to place someone in little Lord Hapsgalt’s service, I thought she’d do nicely. It was just supposed to be a bit of pilfering here and there, nothing that would be noticed; but then she told me she wanted out, wouldn’t say why. The burglary was the price.”
***
“You’ve really stepped in it,” said Roman as they were leaving the black market. “If you’d let me do all of the talking, neither of us would have signed one of her awful confessions!”
“You didn’t have to do it,” said Sloot. “Besides, she said it’ll probably never see the light of day.”
“Right. Keep repeating that to yourself while you’re trying to sleep tonight.”
Sloot wasn’t going to get any sleep anyway. He’d be up all night trying to fit all of the pieces together. Bob said she’d placed Myrtle in Whitewood, but that was impossible. It had been Mrs. Knife who insisted she be hired. How were they connected?
“What’s a blood star?” asked Sloot, confused on that point as well.
“Keep your voice down!” Roman hissed. He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was following them, then leaned in close to Sloot.
“Necromancer stuff,” he whispered. “Very nasty. I don’t know exactly what it does, and I don’t want to know.”
“Necromancer?”
“Wizard who trucks with the dead.”
“Wizards? There are no such things!”
“Well, that’s a relief. And I suppose that we should pay no mind that we’ve just been offered a quarter of a Hapsgalt’s fortune to place one of their trinkets in a tower!”
“A tower in Carp― up north,” said Sloot, “no easy feat, is it? Plus the confession.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot all about the accountant who signed a piece of paper! Quite the coup, that. She’s a criminal mastermind, isn’t she?”
Roman was right. Given the difficulty of the journey, why make it just to hang a trinket in a tower? It was obviously worth a lot of money to Bob to get it done, unless Sloot’s signature really was worth that much.
“So wizards are real?”
Roman nodded. Sloot said a swear word. There was a pop and a cackle behind them.
“It’s nearly lunchtime,” remarked Roman.
Sloot yawned. They’d been up all night at the crags and then down in the black market, so he hadn’t slept.
“We should be getting back to Whitewood,” said Roman. “Got to maintain our cover, after all.”
“Right you are. Plus, we need to convince Willie that he needs to go up north, and I doubt old Nan will be too keen on that.”
A Bit of Skulking
Among the things on Sloot’s desk, or rather the stack of apple crates that was filling in since the proper desk had been burgled, was a package wrapped in plain brown paper.
“That’s not a good sign,” said Roman. “Never open a package you weren’t expecting.”
“Is that―” Sloot paused to look over each shoulder, making sure they were alone. “Is that part of the spy training?”
“It’s common sense! Could be anything in there, right? What if it’s … I dunno, poison or something?”
“It’s from Greta.”
“It says it’s from Greta.”
“Right, on the return address. It’s probably just my watch.”
“Repaired so quickly? Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”
Sloot had no idea how long it took to repair a watch.
“What else would she send me?”
“You’re assuming it’s from her.”
“It’s not assuming if it’s written on the package.”
“You’re assuming she wrote it!”
“It’s ticking,” said Sloot. He was holding the package to his ear.
“It could be a bomb!”
“A bomb that ticks? Don’t be ridiculous. It would have to have a—what do you call it—burning bit of string?”
“A fuse.”
“If you say so.” Sloot had only ever seen a bomb once, and it had had a burning bit of string coming out of the top. It was on a poster that the Ministry of Propaganda had plastered up on every wall that wasn’t already occupied by something with an official stamp of higher priority.
Thinking of the poster gave Sloot a chuckle. The bomb was dressed up like a baby on a plate, being handed to some unsuspecting Carpathian cannibals by a pair of clever soldiers. “Giving The Enemy What For!” read the caption. Solid patriotic humor.
Sloot tugged at the string, which both opened the package and sent Roman diving behind a different configuration of apple crates that was serving as a sofa. As Sloot had suspected, Greta had delivered his watch.
It was merely ticking now, a faint whisper of its former violent clanking.
“She must have been right about the overwinding,” said Sloot.
“You got lucky.” Roman was back on his feet and dusting off his coat.
“I just
opened a package.”
“Mark my words, one day you’ll open the wrong package, and BOOM! No more Sloot. You’ll wish you’d listened to me then.”
“Won’t I be dead?”
Roman’s eyes narrowed, and a snarl of disapproval took root in his upper lip. “That’s dangerously close to insubordination, Peril.”
“Sorry.”
Sloot was relieved to have the watch back and resolved to thank Greta properly. He didn’t know what women liked, but he could get to know her a bit on the trip to Carpathia—that should help him think of something.
That’s when the guilt started sinking in, over adding Reckless Endangerment of a Loyal Subject of the Domnitor—long may he reign—to his list of atrocities.
“Why did you convince Greta to come up north with us?”
“It’s all part of the plan,” said Roman.
“Which plan? The plan to get Willie’s finances in order? Since when does it involve dragging innocent hostages along?”
“No, that plan is just one part of the plan! I told you, it’s starting to take shape. The fact that she and Willie aren’t actually engaged makes it interesting.”
“I’ll say. When Constantin finds out, he’ll be furious! We’ve got to think of something, or we’ll be out on the streets before we know it.”
“If only that were the worst of it.” Roman glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t understand men like old Constantin. He doesn’t abide disappointment. He’s been far too rich for far too long to let a simple thing like the free will of other people get in the way of how he’s decided things are going to be.”
“So that’s it then? We convince Greta that she’s in love with an expensive suit filled with ridiculously wealthy cretin, and off into the sunset they ride?”
“What if it is? There are far worse fates befalling far nicer people every day. Marrying an innocent dimwit for a healthy profit is far from cruel, as fates go.”
“It’s not fair, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Like you’d know fair if it bit you in the face! Which it won’t, because fairness has got no teeth. Don’t worry about Greta. Leave it to me, it’s all part of the plan.”
Updated_PerilInTheOldCountry_SamHooker_EbookFormatting_Nook Page 15
