Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  With a violent start, Skelbrooke dropped his scimitar. It fell clattering on the tile floor, drawing all eyes in his direction. For in one brief flash of intuition, all the facts had fallen into a neat, comprehensible pattern in his mind. Yet the puzzle revealed was so fantastic, the whole thing so wildly improbable, that he was not absolutely positive that he believed any of it himself.

  Certainly, thought Skelbrooke (as he bent with a word of apology to pick up the blade), certainly none of this was anything he might communicate to Sera Vorder in a letter—not if he expected her to credit a single word. No, he decided, he would have to travel to Zar-Wildungen in person and arrange to speak to Sera privately. Once he had convinced her, it would be up to Sera, in her turn, to convince Elsie that a plot existed against her.

  Yet his present perilous business still demanded his immediate attention. He could not leave Thornburg until that was finished, lest the prey he had marked for himself slip right through the net he was so carefully weaving, and escape altogether.

  But three days to complete his business, four at most—and then two days on the road to Zar-Wildungen, if he traveled swiftly and encountered no delays along the way—he should be there inside a week. And Elsie and the Jarl were not even betrothed; the young lady was not in any immediate danger.

  He felt confident that he would reach the Duke's estate with ample time to spare, in plenty of time to prevent a wedding . . . and a blood-letting.

  CHAPTER 29

  In which Skogsrå learns more of the Duchess's Intentions.

  The road between Lüftmal and the larger town of Pfalz was well maintained, and the Duchess and her party traveled along at a steady clip for perhaps five miles. But then the road divided, and the coach, and the lighter carriage following behind, deserted the broad and easy way for a winding country lane, leading toward the Duke of Zar-Wildungen's country estate.

  The lane soon became rutted and bumpy, heavy going for the big berlin, which jounced and bounced in such a way that the ladies inside were much shaken. But Jarl Skogsrå, in his well-sprung cabriolet, and his companion Mr. Budge, took the bumps lightly and arrived at the iron gates of the Wichtelberg still comparatively fresh.

  From there, the way was smoother; a gravel-covered drive wound through the park in wide, leisurely loops. The Duchess shook out her skirts and righted her bonnet, took a reviving whiff of hartshorn, and opened her fan. The two girls, recovering more swiftly, each took a window. The drive continued on for almost a mile through wooded country, then past a lake and down an avenue lined with ash trees, before Sera and Elsie caught their first glimpse of the house.

  Located on rising ground above the lake, the manor was a great rambling dwarf-built structure of whitewashed stone, reached by a series of marble terraces. The coach pulled up before a flight of low steps. The Duchess alighted first, followed by Sera, and then Elsie.

  A broad-shouldered young man in an exquisitely tailored coat of blue superfine appeared on the terrace above. He ran down the steps and presented himself to the Duchess with a very pretty bow.

  "My dear boy, how delightful to see you again," said the Duchess. "Allow me to present you to my companions. Miss Seramarias and Miss Elsie Vorder: this gentleman is Baron Vodni.''

  The Baron had an open countenance and a fresh complexion. He wore his own hair, carelessly tied back, with one dark lock straying romantically across his brow. He looked, thought Sera, like a man who lived in the country and liked it. He had an easy, graceful way about him, as he took first Elsie's hand and then Sera's, each time executing an elegant bow.

  Then he turned to greet Jarl Skogsrå, who was just dismounting from his carriage. "My old friend, you look fagged to death. The journey was undoubtedly a difficult one. But you must not exhaust yourself, really you must not," said Vodni, with a wide grin. "For the sake of your friends, my dear Skogsrå, you must make every effort to guard your health."

  "I thank you," said the Jarl, with a characteristic grimace, "my health remains excellent—you young popinjay—and I am not so many years your senior."

  Baron Vodni continued to smile brightly. "But of course—a decade or two—what is that?"

  It was evident, at least to Sera, that the two men disliked each other heartily, and the Baron rose in her estimation accordingly. Certainly there was nothing mocking or objectionable in his manner when the Duchess introduced him to Hermes Budge. "The Duke sent me down to welcome you, sir. He is resting at the moment, but he hopes to entertain you in his study this evening."

  The baron fell into step with Sera as they crossed the marble terrace. "Seramarias is a charming name. The mythical gemstone of incalculable price. 'Radiant Seramarias, which men have sought . . . ' I fear that I have forgotten the rest of the verse, but perhaps it will return to me."

  "Are you a poet, my lord?" asked Sera, with a frown. She was not eager to make the acquaintance of another poetical young noblemen.

  "Alas, no," said Vodni, with unimpaired good nature. "Though I once had aspirations along those lines. Not a poet, Miss Vorder, but the Duke of Zar-Wildungen's secretary."

  "The Duke's—" Sera experienced a momentary confusion. "Perhaps I misheard the Duchess. It is . . . it is Baron Vodni, is it not?"

  "Baron Nicolai Vodni; but the title is little more than a courtesy," he replied. "In my family, we are all barons and baronesses. It is the custom of our country, where titles are more easily come by than money to live on. My uncle does own a fine estate near Katrinsberg, which he inherited from my grandfather, but in Ruska as elsewhere the younger son of a younger son is often obliged to work for his living.

  "You must not think that I am complaining," he added cheerfully. "Apart from my blighted poetic ambitions, my situation suits me very well. And I believe that a man as energetic as I am requires a profession, to keep him out of mischief."

  The Duchess's personal attendants, along with the house servants, were lined up to greet her in the great marble entry hall. She assigned a maid to Sera and Elsie and delegated a footman to act as valet to the Jarl and Mr. Budge.

  "I believe," she told her guests, as she handed Sebastian the ape over to her butler, "there is time enough for anyone who wishes to take a brief rest before dressing for dinner. But for myself, I am eager to see the Duke. You will accompany me, Vodni?"

  "It will be my pleasure," said the Baron, offering her his arm.

  "I have no desire to rest," said Skogsrå: "I find myself restless, not tired at all. With the Gracious Lady's permission, I will accompany her as well."

  The Gracious Lady lfted an eyebrow, but made no demur, not even when Skogsrå followed her and Vodni out of the hall and down a broad corridor lined with suits of armor and ancient portraits.

  "And what do you think of the young ladies, my guests?" the Duchess asked the Baron, as they moved in the direction of the east wing, where the Duke's rooms were located overlooking the lake. "Are they not both of them delightful young women?"

  "Always remembering," Jarl Skogsrå put in, with a slight baring of his teeth, "that Miss Elsie Vorder is reserved for me."

  Baron Vodni made a dismissive gesture. "And you are entirely welcome to her, so far as I am concerned. I hasten to assure you that she is not to my taste. The other one, however—so handsome and spirited as she appears to be—I find myself enchanted, thoroughly enchanted. With the Gracious Lady's permission, I should like very much to become better acquainted with Miss Seramarias Vorder."

  "And so you shall," said the Duchess, obviously pleased. "So you must. I confess that I had hoped a mutual attraction might develop. By all means, become friends with her, win her trust if you can. Perhaps then she will confide in you.

  "Although I must warn you," she added, with a mischievous sidelong glance at the Jarl, and a gurgle of laughter, "that our friend Skogsrå would have us believe the girl a monster of iniquity. A kind of agent sent to spy on us, and to rob me of all that I own. That being so, you might wish to tread carefully. The girl is clearly much deeper than y
ou or I would ever suspect."

  The Duchess and Vodni had time for a good laugh at Skogsrå's expense before they reached the Duke's rooms. There, the Duchess dismissed them both and disappeared inside the Duke's bedchamber. Skogsrå stood in the corridor, glaring at the door she had just closed behind her.

  "Now, what occasions this black look?" asked Vodni. "Is it possible that you have designs on both of these girls—that you intend to woo them both at the same time?"

  "I intend nothing of the sort. I intend only to obey the instructions of the Gracious Lady," the Jarl replied, with an air of great injury. "I do all as she instructs me, I am entirely at her service, and yet she continually mocks me. A monster of iniquity, she says. And what is the Duchess herself—requiring you to gain the young woman's confidence—and all this time you are both doing your utmost to steal the secrets of her grandfather? If the girl spies on her, is it any wonder?"

  Vodni only laughed again. "Steal the secrets of her grandfather? But how unjust of you to say so! The information we have so far obtained was all bought and paid for, and this Gottfried Jenk has been living on the Duchess's bounty these many weeks. I will admit that some deception has been necessary, and the alchemist has been led to believe that it is the Duke who is his benefactor, but as for stealing—"

  "And is it not stealing to publish the results of his experiments before the man Jenk is able to do so?" said Skogsrå. "The Duchess wishes to claim all of the credit for herself. You open your eyes . . . you feign surprise. Do you pretend that her motives are not exactly as I have described them?"

  "Pretend?" said Vodni, with another annoying laugh. "I pretend nothing. The Duchess's motives are purer than you guess. She does not intend to publish the results of Jenk's experiments; she wishes to duplicate them. She wishes, my dear Skogsrå, to become a mother."

  The Jarl's amazement was written on his face.

  "But yes, I promise you that this is so," said Vodni. He turned away from the door and started briskly down the corridor, forcing the Jarl, who wished to hear more, to lengthen his own limping gait in order to keep up with him. "These half-blood fairies—even three-quarter fays like the Duchess—they generally have difficulty producing children of their own. Some families are more fortunate than others: their children are few but the line breeds true. But for the less fortunate, well, conception itself is easy, they are as prolific as rabbits, but their offspring are often so poorly made that they die in the womb—or emerge so grotesquely deformed, so wildly eccentric in their appearance, they bear no resemblance to either race.

  "It is because they are so very much worse than barren that some of these hybrid fairies take a burning interest in such matters as childbirth, infants, and naming ceremonies," he added. "It is the reason they are so eager to offer themselves as godparents."

  The Jarl sneered nastily. "And arrange such marriages for their godchildren as the Duchess wishes to arrange for Elsie Vorder? It is a wonder that the mothers and fathers of these infants should be so gullible."

  Vodni gave a slight shake of his head. "The Duchess is no one's godmother—certainly not Miss Elsie Vorder's. I do not perfectly understand why she pretends that she is. Nor has the Gracious Lady any living children—not by the Duke, or by any of the other Men, fairies, gnomes, or dwarves she has taken as her lovers over the years. I beg your pardon: not any children that she is prepared to acknowledge. And so she is obsessed, obsessed with this idea that, even though she cannot bear a child, she can at least play a part in creating a homunculus—a tiny, tiny child, but otherwise perfect."

  The Jarl continued to sneer. "Very affecting. Yes, you spin an affecting tale, my dear Vodni. But I am not so certain that I am ready to believe it."

  "Believe what you please," Lord Vodni invited him cordially. "But do not be hasty in drawing your conclusions, particularly where the Gracious Lady is concerned. She is considerably more complex, my friend, than you seem to think."

  CHAPTER 30

  In which Our hitherto Resourceful hero finds his

  Powers severely Taxed.

  The Sultan's Jewelbox was a high-class brothel and bagnio on the eastern bank of the Lunn, catering to a large clientele. The girls were comely, clean, and amiable, the oriental baths luxurious, and the suppers served there both elegant and cheap. The riverside location was particularly advantageous, allowing the proprietor to run a lucrative business on the side: a traffic in opium, illegal spirits, and other contraband goods. Moreover, his girls were discreet—he made very certain of that—for those who gave evidence of seeing or saying too much had a habit of disappearing.

  Of the origins of the man, little was known: he dressed like a gentleman, swore like a sailor, drank like a fish, whored like—In brief, his appearance was good but his habits deplorable. He went by the name of Mr. Jagst.

  To the Jewelbox one warm evening came a man with a nautical gait, a hard-looking rascal with a number of scars seaming his face, though he dressed like a man of considerable means. He presented himself at the door, giving his name as Captain Melville, and was promptly escorted to a boxlike room at the top of the house, a room of bare boards and broken-down furniture.

  Mr. Jagst greeted him, thin-lipped and grey-eyed, and coldly invited him to take a seat on a low settle located next to the door. Mr. Jagst was seated in a spindle-legged chair by the fireplace, with a decanter of brandy and two glasses on a table beside him.

  "I do not believe we have met before, though word of your exploits precedes you through our mutual acquaintance," said Mr. Jagst. "But I am interested to hear rather more about your ship."

  Captain Melville removed his tricorn and held it to his breast. "Fancy's Fool, your worship, as trim a sloop as you could wish for to see. A hundred tons with a shallow draught and—"

  "And accordingly very fast," said Mr. Jagst. "But can she fight—as in the instance of an encounter with excise men? How many cannon does she boast?"

  "She prefers to run, not fight, sir—that's cheaper in the end—but she's equipped with six cannon and four swivels guns," the Captain replied earnestly. "She could carry more, but 'twould slow her down. I makes my money delivering goods cheap, fast, and secret."

  "Yes . . ." said the pimp, looking him over very carefully and comparing his rough way of speaking with his prosperous appearance. "And apparently successfully. But the goods I ship are often quite expensive; they require a certain amount of care. And the young women, in particular, their value depends on whether they reach their destination intact—they are examined before they are bought and paid for. Will you be able to discipline your men?"

  Captain Melville grinned, displaying strong yellow teeth. "Trust me for that, your worship."

  Mr. Jagst poured a glass of brandy and handed it to his visitor. "That sounds satisfactory, so far as it goes. But are they discreet? Can you depend on the lot of them not to talk too much while they are in port?"

  "Better than discreet," said the Captain, his grin broadening. "My whole crew is men from the Isle of Mawbri—they don't speak a word of your local lingo. Not a single word."

  Mr. Jagst looked gratified. He poured a glass of brandy for himself. "I believe, Captain Melville, that we can do business."

  They spent an hour in negotiations, during which time Captain Melville made rather free with the liquor, and they hammered out a deal rather more advantageous to Mr. Jagst than might have been the case had the Captain been sober.

  Pleased by these arrangements, Jagst unbent sufficiently to escort his new associate to the top of the stairs. "A pleasure to do business with you, sir," said the Captain.

  "And with you," replied the pimp. "I have an idea we may be about to embark on a very lucrative association."

  "It won't be my fault if it ain't!" said the Captain, with a rather boozy grin. "Fancy's Fool shall prove our fortune, Mr. Jagst, I warrent you!"

  Mr. Jagst watched his visitor's unsteady progress down the stairs, standing in the hall at the top of the steps. "Well, well," said a jocular vo
ice. "Quite a surprise? Yes, quite a surprise."

  Mr. Jagst glanced down to the end of the hall. A decidedly disheveled Lord Krogan stood there in his breeches and his shirt sleeves, leaning against a door frame. "Now, what did you and his lily-white lordship find to talk about?"

  "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Jagst. "I don’t quite understand . . ."

  "The fellow was here just a moment past, the man you spoke to a minute since," said Krogan. His wig had slipped down over one ear, the back of his shirt was hanging out behind, and one of his stockings drooped down around his ankles. Mr. Jagst regarded him with ill-disguised disdain.

  "You are referring, I take it, to my late visitor, Captain Melville?"

  Lord Krogan began to chuckle. "Captain Melville . . . was that what he told you? Blister me! His bleeding lordship's a liar as well as a hypocrite."

  Mr. Jagst frowned at him. "You are telling me that the man who was just here was not exactly as he presented himself to be?" Mr. Jagst narrowed his eyes. "But you are perhaps a little tipsy, Lord Krogan. Is it possible that you have mistaken the Captain for somebody else?"

  "Not likely," said Krogan, all his good humor gone in an instant. "I grant you there was something queer about his face and his manner of speaking, but I knew the voice—I couldn't be mistaken about the voice."

  He took several steps down the narrow hallway, and Mr. Jagst was forced to conclude that he was probably not so very drunk as it might appear. "You tell me," said Lord Krogan. "Supposing you found yourself, one fine night, on a dark, deserted lane, with the point of a rapier pricking your throat, and the man behind it very white and very grim, threatening to hamstring and geld you if you ever again put your tongue to the name of a certain young woman—would you be inclined, thereafter, to forget or mistake his voice?"