Falconer's Quest (15 page)
“Aye, sir!” Matt was dressed for the occasion in the coat of another middy, a boy so large the coat’s edge scraped upon the deck and Matt had to sweep the arms up to free one hand for a salute. “Welcome aboard, sir.”
Reginald Langston had ordered fresh provisions from his company’s larder, and they ate well enough. Matt ate with the midshipmen in a small alcove behind the galley. In spite of the fine meal, dinner was a subdued affair. Not morose, rather the reflective quiet of men uncertain of this newcomer. Amelia Henning had elected to join the captain’s table, dressed in what clearly was a new frock from Langston’s local emporium. High-necked and without adornment, it was saved from appearing severe by its soft silk fabric and dove-gray color.
Bernard Lemi must have sensed the men’s uncertainty. Yet their guest made no attempt to break through their reserve with loud banter or familiarity. Harkness asked a few questions of Lemi’s background, which he answered fully. Otherwise, he accepted the silent hospitality with a calm of his own, clearly content to wait for whatever might come.
Over a first course of fresh trout and eels, Amelia Henning said, “I cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Mr. Langston.”
“It is nothing, ma’am. A mere trifle. I am delighted you find the frock appealing.”
“I was not speaking of the dress, though it is perhaps the nicest I have ever worn.” Indeed, Amelia Henning looked a proper lady this night. The worst of her sunburn lesions were healed over, and her hair was determinedly tied back with a length of gray ribbon that matched her new dress. “I meant for everything. You face your own trials and loss. Yet you have remained a gentleman and more.”
She took in the men seated at the table with her eyes and her words. “A true saint in the company of saints.”
Harkness murmured, “My dear lady.”
“You have put up with my solitude and my worries, and done so without protest. You have asked nothing of me save what was required to unite me with my daughter.” Her eyes glistened like rain-washed gemstones. “I have nothing to offer save prayer, but this do I offer you with a sincere and trusting heart. You shall all be counted among those I bring before God. For the rest of my days.”
The silence was finally broken by Captain Harkness, who said, “Madam, were you to plant a chest of jewels upon my table, I could not feel wealthier than I do in this moment.”
“Nor presented with a gift I less deserve,” Reginald agreed. “Though which I accept with heartfelt thanks.”
“Amen,” Bivens echoed. “I say, amen.”
“We share in your own distress as well,” Falconer said. “And pray for your swift reunion with your child.”
“Daily,” Harkness agreed.
Bernard Lemi showed genuine confusion. He stared at one face after another. Falconer glanced over, but not for long. He knew the young man’s bewilderment all too well. It was not so long ago that he would have felt the same. In the company of men who stood and acted like warriors. Yet who spoke of a higher discipline and a greater calling. And who used such words as
prayer
and
hope
with the same confidence as they might comment upon the rising sun.
Reginald asked, “Where are you from, Mrs. Henning?”
“Philadelphia. My father was a pastor and then taught at seminary. My husband’s family were missionaries in the province of California. We met when he came to do his seminary training.”
They spoke of inconsequential matters through the second course, a stew of lamb and potatoes and fresh vegetables from the local market. While Soap and another sailor removed their plates, the steward said, “Begging your pardon, sir. But the gentleman guest brought a great box with him and said I should serve it up as your dessert.”
“I hope that is permitted,” Bernard Lemi said. “I thought you might like to sample some delicacies of Marseilles.”
They finished off the meal with perhaps the finest sweets Falconer had ever tasted, small tartlets of some feather-light pastry filled with an astonishing variety of flavors—blackest chocolate, lemon custard, vanilla, cinnamon, cherry. They exclaimed over one essence after another, and still they came. When they could eat no more, Harkness ordered the rest to be shared with the midshipmen. “Never knew a lad who could not eat his own weight in sweets.”
Captain Harkness then fiddled with his coffee, clearly uncertain whether to ask the banker to let them discuss the matters before them in solitude. Falconer remained silent. This was the captain’s decision.
As though in response to the unspoken, Lemi asked Falconer, “Did Raban know I brought you?”
“He did.”
“No doubt he accused me of cowardice.”
Falconer hesitated, then confirmed, “In a manner of speaking.”
The cabin’s oiled woodwork shone ruddy in the candlelight. The faces about the table were cast in taut shades of light and dark. All eyes remained upon the banker as he flattened the tablecloth with a slow sweep of his right hand.
“My best friend—my only friend in these parts—he is in terrible debt to Raban. You do not…you cannot imagine…” He hesitated, then lifted his gaze to the woman seated across from him. “Forgive me, madam. I should not speak of such things.”
“We are a company who have been made close through common wounds and weaknesses,” she replied. “As for myself, what I have endured over the past half year has left me immune to shock, monsieur.”
Bernard Lemi nodded slowly, as though the motion helped him absorb what he had just heard. “I paid off my friend’s debt. Once, and then again. But he is addicted to the dice. And the dice have made him Raban’s slave. I confronted Raban. I threatened him, demanded satisfaction in a duel.” He glanced at Falconer. “You met his guard?”
Bivens said to the captain, “A veritable beast of a man.”
“Raban said if ever I spoke to him again, he would set his guard upon my friend.” Another apologetic glance at Amelia, then he added, “The giant enjoys inflicting pain. Raban…”
There was no need for Bernard to finish the thought. Falconer saw Harkness and Reginald exchange both a glance and a nod. He took that as his cue. “With your permission, Captain?”
When Harkness waved assent, Falconer reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the two silver boxes. He set them in the middle of the table. “Raban gave these to Lieutenant Bivens.”
Bernard Lemi blanched. He said nothing as Reginald reached over and opened the first box, though Falconer could see that it required all the young man’s strength not to turn away.
Reginald Langston pulled up a lock of dark hair tied with a bit of gold chain.
“Hair.” Bernard Lemi sighed the word and slumped down into his chair. “Only hair.”
The second box held the same, except that the hair was blond. The entire table watched as Amelia Henning reached out and accepted the fragment with trembling fingers.
She declared softly, “It is Catherine.”
Harkness cleared his throat. “Forgive me, madam. But a simple bit of blond hair could—”
“Do you think I might mistake a lock from my own daughter’s head?” The woman seemed utterly unaware that she was weeping. “It is feather soft, just as hers. And you see this curl? No, Captain. This belongs to my Kitty.”
“Very well.” Harkness looked a question at Reginald. “Sir?”
“I wish I could be so certain, but I can’t,” Reginald replied. “I haven’t seen Byron in several years, and we were never close. All I can attest to is that Byron’s hair was this color.”
“We will take it for the moment as confirmation,” Harkness decided. “We have little choice.”
Reginald turned to the banker. “Did you know my stepson?”
“Not well.” Bernard hesitated, then added, “Byron did not…well, he did not get along with your agent, sir.”
“That is putting it mildly. Speak your mind, I beg you. Whatever you might say can hardly be worse than what the agent told me this afternoon.”
Bernard took a long breath, then confessed, “Your son hated any form of labor. Your agent lives for nothing else. Their quarrels were legendary. They once came within a hairsbreadth of exchanging blows inside our bank.”
Falconer guessed at what Bernard was not saying. “And Raban?”
“Byron spent more time than was healthy in the chambers above Raban’s café,” Bernard allowed.
Reginald said to Falconer, “My agent was a senior clerk in London. He is a man who devours ledgers as others might a fine meal. He is narrow in his build and narrow in his habits. He and my stepson would have nothing whatsoever in common.”
“I fear you are correct,” Bernard agreed.
Thunder rumbled through the rear windows, this time more than close at hand. Falconer rose from his chair. “With your permission, Captain, I would like to borrow Soap and a few other men.”
“For what purpose?”
In reply, Falconer asked the banker, “Would you think Raban is watching our vessel?”
“I have no doubt of it whatsoever. Raban feeds on information.”
“I think it is time we turned the tables on our foe,” Falconer said to the captain.
Thunder continually rolled across the horizon where the sun dropped into the sea, streaking the clouds with reflections from the city’s ruddy colors. When the rain finally arrived, Falconer was ready. He and his small band moved swiftly.
The deluge was just what they needed. It turned the narrow lanes behind the Hôtel de Ville into cobblestone rivers. The quarter was empty save for rain and the sound of nighttime revelry from behind shuttered windows, and Falconer might as well have had the entire Panier district to himself. Falconer took refuge beneath the largest cloak he had found on board their ship—one so vast it covered his head and shoulders like an oilskin tent. He signaled to his team. Soap and the two sailors who had guarded their back that afternoon turned and raced off. Falconer quickly stepped into a shadowed alcove, hoping that anyone who had been watching was following the larger band. When he could identify no one else through the mist, he hurried away in the opposite direction.
Their plan was simple enough. The weather had merely improved their chance of success. The sailors were to lead Raban’s spies on a merry chase around the Panier district at a trot until any chasers were weary and then head back to the ship. Falconer, however, had another purpose in mind.
Falconer arrived at Raban’s café and slipped into the alley opposite the main entrance. He crouched in a doorway and studied the main thoroughfare. A trio of sullen donkeys pulled empty carts. The drovers were huddled far down within their cloaks and blind to all save the road ahead. Four men emerged from the café, shouting words Falconer could not understand. Rain poured in a steady stream over Falconer’s hideaway.
An hour passed. Falconer could not decide whether he was pleased with how easily he returned to the old ways. All he knew for certain was that patience was crucial for a hunter. And toward the end of his second hour in the doorway, his waiting was rewarded.
A narrow-faced man with the deep-set scars of a former prisoner stepped from a door opposite Falconer’s hideaway. The open doorway revealed a hallway and stairs. The giant guard Falconer had bested that afternoon filled the hallway behind the first man. Falconer crouched lower, huddled within the cloak, hoping the shadows and the veil of rain would keep him invisible. The narrow man slipped a hood over his face and stepped into the rain. The guard who followed gave the rain no notice at all. He was dressed as he had been that afternoon—the same leather vest, the same pair of curved blades tucked into the broad belt. Only the copper wristbands, the ones Falconer had crushed, were gone.
The giant stepped into the rain, his shaved head and bare arms instantly awash. He followed the narrow man down the alley and out into the thoroughfare, where they turned toward the harbor and the ship. Falconer had the confirmation he had sought. Raban’s messenger was headed to the ship, with Raban’s private guard as his protector. Which meant Raban was exposed.
Falconer waited another ten minutes, fifteen. Then he rose from his crouch and slipped across the alley. He tested the door and found it locked as he had expected. But the yellow brick which formed the doorframe was ancient and crumbling. Falconer took a two-fisted grip upon the iron ring which made the door’s handle. He lowered his shoulder until it was flush with the sound of the rattling lock. He heaved.
The door crunched free of its lock. Falconer could not tell how much noise it made, his heart thundered so. He had retained his grip on the center ring to keep the door from crashing back against the wall. He entered the flagstone hall, shut the door, and let his oilskin drop to the floor. He waited with his mouth open, breathing shallowly, listening.
The hall was empty and lit by a series of oil lamps fastened to the wall. The café was beyond the wall to Falconer’s right, and from it came the raucous sound of men making merry. He heard an Arabic lute and pipe and drums, and the clink of finger cymbals. The men began clapping and shouting louder still. A belly dancer, Falconer decided, assuming the café’s din must have been enough to mask his entry.
He made his way soundlessly up the stairs. The steps were pickled oak, pale as smoke and hard as iron. Twice Falconer heard a rise in the café’s noise level, for the wall between the stairs and the café held small spy holes masked as peaked wooden carvings. From the café side they would appear as mere ornaments set high above the action. Yet from this vantage point all could be observed in utter secrecy.
At the second-floor landing, the stairs curved around a closed door. He passed further spy holes which emitted pungent odors, the clatter of dice on wood, and the brittle sound of women laughing.
On the third-floor landing, the stairs opened into a domed foyer, painted as in an Arabian palace. Falconer slipped through the curtained entrance, his footsteps silenced by layers of Berber carpets. He moved swiftly, hunting now with his ears as much as his eyes. He passed through one room, another, a third, each larger and more ornate than the last. All were empty.
Then he heard birdsong. And a gasp. A tray clattered to a wooden floor. Falconer flew in the direction of that sound and came upon a servant in the act of pulling a pistol from his cloth belt.
