“She didn't have any.” Willem bobbed his head fearfully at Chang. “She wouldn't be your horse, would she, sir?”
“You mean you don't know whose it is?”
Willem shook his head.
“Can you tell me if this horse has come from a particular stable— from the north?”
“Are you from the north too, sir?” asked Willem.
“Can you tell me?” repeated Chang, more sharply.
“If she has their mark.”
“I will give you this to know,” said Chang, and he took a silver penny from his pocket—Chang had, without the slightest scruple, filched his own small supply from Miss Temple's boot while the Doctor and Elöise were elsewhere. The boy slithered over the stall door and carefully approached the skittish animal, his calming whispers at odds with his eagerness to earn the penny. Chang took two steps closer to the animal—just enough to detect the odor of indigo clay clinging to its flesh.
“I have found the mark, sir!” Willem cried. “It belongs to a merchant in fish oil. He lives here in Karthe, but his team and driver have been trading between villages in the north.”
Chang flipped the silver penny into the air and with a smile the boy snatched it from the air.
“You are quite sure the train will not leave for two hours at the soonest?”
“At the very soonest, sir.”
“Then let us see what else your comrade can say.”
Christian still gripped the wooden cup between his hands, but his senses had cleared enough for him to look up as Chang re-entered the tack room.
“Willem says you found that glass next to the white mare.”
“Is it your glass, sir?” His words were thick and slurred. “I'm ever so sorry—”
“Did you touch it?” asked Chang, but then he saw the groom wore leather gloves. “Did you look into it?”
The groom nodded haltingly.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“It was a rainstorm… a trampled rainstorm… every drop was… broken…”
Chang picked up the glass shard with his gloved hands and squinted, holding it at an angle. The entire shard was riven with cracks, finer than a spider's thread, a ruined lacework just beneath its surface. What effect would this have on the memories inside—would they remain legible? Would looking into broken glass offer only broken memories, or something worse? If the boy had looked longer, would it have burned a hole in his mind, like the tip of a cigar punching through a sheet of parchment?
Chang kicked open the stove with his boot. He shot the shard of glass into the bed of white-orange coals and closed it again. Then he turned back to the groom with a smile as false as any quack physician's.
“You will be fine. I know you both for honest lads—perhaps you will tell me more about this Captain…”
Chang looked around him for the younger boy, but he was gone.
“Where is Willem?” he asked.
The older groom smiled weakly. “Gone to announce you at the inn, sir, so they can prepare a room and a proper dinner. As you have been good to us, Willem was happy to go.”
CHANG CURSED under his breath as he loped back through Karthe, just imagining the way he would be eagerly described. Alone or with a gang of allies, the Captain would now have ample time to lay an ambush. Above Chang lurked the same dim carpet of cloud, seemingly fed by the pale twists of smoke from each smug little stone house in the town. The illusion of safety provided by stone walls so easily climbed and wooden shutters so simply pried apart—the naïveté made him suddenly sick.
The white horse had carried the reek of indigo clay—and the privy had been stained with blue. He had allowed himself to assign all those killings to Josephs and this Captain, yet neither man had shown signs of any sickness, nor were their mounts deranged as the white horse so obviously was. Did this mean someone else had survived the airship? Or had another of the Captain's party run as afoul of the blue glass as the naïve groom? Had there perhaps been another broken book in the sand—had the man looked into it or tried to transport the pieces and exposed the horse? Perhaps this man was even now with the Captain at the inn, fouling an upstairs room…
Chang stood below the inn's hanging sign, deciding how best to enter. The windows above were shuttered. No doubt there was an exit to the rear, but if the Captain intended to bolt out the back, it only postponed their meeting until the train yard. Chang reached into his coat and took firm hold of the hunting knife. Then he rapped on the door.
IT WAS opened by an older woman in an apron, her hair wrapped tight with a cloth. Chang's gaze went past her to the room beyond—lined with benches, a fire freshly laid—and then back to the woman. Her face bore a practiced smile and her eyes balanced with a professional skill the likelihood of his having money against his causing trouble. It did not seem any man with a weapon lurked behind her door. Chang brushed past, turning when the hearth was at his back and he could see the entire room in a glance.
“I will need a meal,” he said. “Have you any other guests?”
“A meal, you say?” answered the woman. “Let me see—”
“Yes. I will be taking this evening's train.”
“My name is Mrs. Daube—”
“I have not asked your name, madame. Have you any other guests?”
Chang craned his gaze toward a staircase leading to what he assumed were rooms upstairs. The woman looked back to the still-open door behind her, as if he should consider leaving.
“I cannot discuss my tenants, present or future, with every fellow—unsavory fellow—coming in off the street.”
“There is no street! In a town like this, one is known by all or is a stranger.” He stepped closer to her. “Like the Captain.”
“Captain?”
Instead of answering, Chang advanced past her to the front door and quietly closed it. The innkeeper pursed her lips.
“I do not think there will be room at table—”
A movement in the kitchen caused Chang to turn. A burly young man with his sleeves rolled up and his hands black with coal dust stood in the doorway.
He stared darkly at Chang. “Mrs. Daube?”
Chang held out an open palm, his words deliberate and simple. “I require this Captain. Is he alone?”
“What Captain?” called the one with dirty hands.
“We do get so few travelers in Karthe,” began the woman.
Chang ignored her. He stepped to the staircase, drawing the hunting knife and reaching the first landing in two long strides. The rooms above him were dark and silent. Normally he would not trust his sense of smell, but even he could detect the reek of indigo clay… yet there was no trace. Chang darted up to the upper landing, bracing for an attack. When none came he stepped quickly into each room, looking behind the doors and under the beds. When he reappeared from the third, he found Mrs. Daube on the lower landing, holding a lantern, her eyes fixed on the wide-bladed weapon in his hand.
“When did he go?” Chang asked.
“I'm sure I haven't—”
“There has been murder, madame—more than one innocent life taken—in the north.” He returned the knife to his belt. “This Captain came to Karthe and then rode north, did he not?”
Mrs. Daube frowned, but did not deny it. Chang gently took the lantern from her hand.
UNDER LANTERN light, the three rooms revealed nothing. With a sudden thought, Chang sat on the bed of the center room and pulled the book of poetry from his coat. He folded the spine back and scrawled a terse warning on the open page to whoever followed. He bent the corner of the page and stuffed the book beneath the pillow. A futile gesture, but what wasn't?
When he reached the kitchen, the young man had installed himself behind the table, gripping a mug of beer, his blackened hands reminding Chang of an animal's paws. Mrs. Daube muttered bitterly, moving efficiently between her stove and table, tending a large number of steaming and bubbling pots while slicing a loaf of bread, pouring a mug of beer, and placing salt and butter
in front of an empty chair. She looked up and saw Chang at the door.
“It will be two silver pennies,” she announced.
“I thought there was no room.”
“Two pennies,” she replied, “or you are welcome to go elsewhere.”
“I would not dream of it.” Chang reached into his pocket and came out with two bright coins. “What an excellent-seeming meal. You must be the finest cook in Karthe village.”
Mrs. Daube said nothing, looking at his hand.
“We have not understood each other,” continued Chang. “I am strange to you—it is only natural for a woman to have suspicions. Will you sit with me, that I may explain, as I ought to have done when first I reached your door?”
He smiled, impatient, tired, and wanting nothing more than to shove the woman into a seat so hard as to make her squawk. She sniffed girlishly. “As long as Franck is here, I am sure you will be civil.”
She sat at the table, helping herself to a slice of thick black bread. She chewed it closely, like a rabbit, peering over the slice at her guest. Franck eyed the knife in Chang's belt and took another pull of beer. Chang remained standing, the various mashed piles suddenly nauseating.
“My name is Chang.” He sighed heavily for their benefit, as if deciding against his better instincts to trust them. “As you have guessed, I too am from the city, to which I must return as soon as possible, by train. I am in Karthe to find this Captain and his men.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Daube. “The Captain was a proper gentleman, you are a—a—just look at—at—at…”
Her twitching fingers stabbed at his ruined leather coat, his unshaven face, and then up at his shuttered eyes.
“I am indeed,” Chang agreed gravely.
“And admitting it!” sneered the woman. “Proud as a peacock!”
Chang shook his head. “And I'm sure neither the Captain nor the men with him could hide what they are any better—soldiers for the Queen, on a secret errand. At times such work requires the efforts of men like myself, who ply the darker ways of life, if you will understand me.”
“What secret errand?” whispered the young man, his upper lip wet with beer froth.
“And why were you waving that wicked knife about?” asked the innkeeper, still suspicious.
“Because terrible things have happened up north,” said Chang. “You will remember Mr. Josephs.”
“Mr. Josephs and the Captain rode together,” said Franck.
“Then the Captain will know what attacked his fellow. I myself was to meet them by way of a fishing vessel—you will see I have no horse—but Mr. Josephs was killed.”
“Killed!” gasped Mrs. Daube.
“Dead as a stone. And the Captain driven away… by something” He paused, giving them both significant looks.
“What is the secret errand?” the young man whispered.
Chang sighed and glanced quickly back into the common room, then leaned forward, speaking low, wondering how much time he still had to reach the train. “There is a sunken craft, of an enemy nation, driven to the rocks, a craft containing certain stolen documents… detailing hidden ways where an unprincipled foreigner might enter the Queen's unguarded treasury.”
Mrs. Daube and her man were silent, and Chang could sense the breathless reverberations of his last word within their minds.
“You still have not said why the likes of you would be part of it,” she said.
Chang smiled, the better to resist his natural impulses in the face of such disdain. “Because the documents are in code, a complicated cipher that only a man like myself—or a certain elderly savant of the Royal Institute—is able to make clear. With the old gentleman too feeble to make the trip, only I can tell the Captain if the documents are genuine. If I do not, my own debts to the Crown—for you are right, I have been a criminal—will not be paid. Thus, I must ask you again, for your own souls, if you know where I may find the Captain.”
“What will you do with those, then?” Mrs. Daube nodded at the hand that held the silver pennies.
Had she listened to a single word? He slapped the coins onto the table top. “There is no time—”
“I have not seen him,” said Mrs. Daube with a smirk. “And as you have seen, neither he nor his fellows are in Karthe.”
The innkeeper's hands darted out to collect the coins. Chang caught her wrist. Her expression hovered between fear and greed.
“What I've said is true, Mrs. Daube,” he whispered. “Pitiless murder. If I find you have lied to me, you are doomed.”
CHANG SWEPT back to the street and had not walked five steps before the sudden sound of a galloping horse rose out of the darkness behind him, from the north. He had just time to see the looming shape of the animal before flinging himself clear of its hoofs. He winced—one knee had landed on a stone—and looked up, but the rider was already beyond sight, tearing through the whole of Karthe in a matter of seconds. Could this have been another one of the Captain's men, racing to meet him at the train? But how would they have coordinated their rendezvous? Chang was sure that without his own intervention, the Captain and Josephs would still be doing their vicious work in the fishing village.
And what was that work? They'd known of him—“the criminal”— which meant they must have known of Svenson and Miss Temple as well. But the soldiers’ primary errand must have been to recover the airship and any survivors. Perhaps they'd seen enough of the Iron Coast to assure themselves there were none, and that the craft lay stricken beyond salvage. But none of that explained the origin of this new rider, nor the terrified white horse that stank of indigo clay.
AS HE came in sight of the stables he saw young Willem pushing the door closed. Chang waved, but he was too far away in the dark. He kept on until he reached the muddy yard and paused, looking above him at the sky. Six o'clock at the latest—he still had an hour. Chang straightened his coat on his shoulders, rapped his fist on the door, and called out for the boy. There was no reply. He pulled on the door. It had been barred. He pounded again, then pressed his ear against the gap… the muffled sound of horse hooves… voices—they must have heard him… was someone else preventing Willem or Christian from opening the door?
Directly above was a wooden half-door for loading hay into the loft. Chang set his foot on the door handle and launched himself up.
He balanced for one precarious moment with one knee on the rotten lip above the doorway before stabbing a hand beyond it to the loft door. At his touch it swung open just enough to slip a hand through the gap. It was held with a loop of rope, and he wormed his arm in. The rope was knotted. The wooden lip sagged beneath his weight. If it gave way he would most likely break his arm, jammed as it was into the loft. Chang swore under his breath, pulled his hand free, and fished out the knife. He sliced through the rope with one stroke.
The loft door swung open. Chang tossed the knife onto the straw and hauled his body up and in. He reclaimed the knife and picked his way silently to a hole sawn in the floor, through which rose the end of a wooden ladder. Below, he heard more clearly: Willem stowing the new horse into a stall… and the voices—just the boy… no, two boys… or was there a woman?
His blood suddenly ran cold. Chang slipped down the ladder, dropping the last five rungs to land on his feet in the straw.
THE CONTESSA di Lacquer-Sforza stood near the doorway of the tack room.
When had he last seen her? On the airship… she had just slaughtered the Prince and Lydia… her eyes had been wild, like a blood-soaked bacchante, like a sense-drugged Minoan priestess with an axe, driven to violence merely by holding two blue glass books in her bare hands. Then she had fled to the rooftop, black hair whipped by the wind…
Chang carefully stepped away from the ladder.
Behind her sat Christian, insensible in a chair. At her feet was an oddly shaped trunk, like a leather-bound octagonal hat box.
“Contessa.”
“Cardinal Chang.”
She was tired, and her head tilt
ed to the side as she spoke, as if to tell him so—that she was only a woman, and one who, however resourceful, stood near the end of her rope. In truth, Chang had never see the Contessa look so… human, so subject to fate. Her hair was pinned back without care and her pale face uncharacteristically drawn with fatigue. The dress was, for her, extremely plain, a cheap sort of silk that had been dyed violet—someone's wedding dress refit for fancy usage, and he wondered whose home she had ransacked to find it. He saw no weapon in her hands, but that meant nothing—the woman was a weapon in herself.
He turned at the sound of Willem emerging from the stall—the horse behind him was spent but not visibly deranged. The boy cradled a canvas-wrapped bundle in his arms.
“I have your parcel from the saddlebag—” he began, but his words stopped when his eyes met Cardinal Chang's.
“It is all right, Willem,” the Contessa said, quite calmly. “The Cardinal and I are old friends.”
Chang snorted.
“I understood your wounds to be quite mortal,” she said.
“I understood you to be drowned.”
“One's life is indeed a parade of disappointment.”
She stretched the fingers of each hand, like a cat rising up from sleep. Chang did not shift his gaze from hers, but pitched his voice to the boy.
“Willem, you must leave. Set her parcel down and go home.”
The boy's eyes darted to the Contessa, and then to Chang. He did not move.
“He will not harm me, dear,” said the Contessa softly. “You may do what you like. I am grateful for your kindness.”
“I won't leave you,” whispered the boy.
“She is not your mother!” barked Chang, and then muttered, “You do not have eight legs…”
The Contessa laughed, a throaty chuckle, like dark wine poured in a rush. “Cardinal Chang and I have much to… discuss. You may be sure I am not in danger, dear Willem.”
The boy looked at Chang with a new distrust but slowly set down the canvas bag. Chang backed away to give him room, waiting as the boy shifted the bar and slipped out the door. Chang snorted again and spat into the straw.
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