The Black Star (Book 3) (16 page)

At the hotel entrance, a doorman examined them, then saw Cee and smiled. His eyes moved to Dante and Lew and his expression flickered with amusement. As he led the three of them up a grand staircase to a rug-padded hallway, Dante understood: the doorman believed Dante and Cee were wealthy blue-bloods who'd paid Lew for a night of fun.

As that made it less likely they'd be interrupted, Dante was content to maintain that illusion. He followed the man to the reserved room, tipped him, and winked. The doorman closed the door and padded away down the hall.

Dante went to the window and parted the curtains. Bubbled glass filled the panes, presenting a sweeping view of the dim street. "Which one?"

Cee moved beside him and pointed to a house almost directly across from them. "That's it. Look like a Blays house to you?"

"A Blays house would be walled with rum bottles and roofed with swords cleaned to an obsessive degree. Side note—if he invites you over, I wouldn't visit on a windy day."

"If he learns I'm the one who brought you to him, I doubt he'll be inviting me anywhere."

He dragged a chair to the window. "Douse the lights. You'll have to entertain yourselves in the dark."

"I'll keep the heavy breathing to a minimum," Cee said.

He scowled. They took a couple minutes to settle in, then blew out the candles, casting the room into darkness. Dante sat and waited. The cold of the night seeped through the window, chilling his hands and face. Dunvern Street was one of the capital's nexuses, a hotbed of trade, fashion, and society. Though it was well after dark, the road thrummed with pedestrians, riders, and carriages. Red-uniformed watchmen patrolled the way, protecting the taxpayers. Many of whom were escorted by personal bodyguards as well.

It was a veritable crowd, but no one approached the pink manor. As the night deepened, the street calmed. Only the watchmen remained. The watchmen and Dante.

Dawn poked through the gap in the curtains. Blankets stirred behind him.

"Have you been there all night?" Lew croaked.

Dante didn't turn. "What do you think?"

"That you're cranky when you haven't got any sleep. Want a break?"

"Will you know him if you see him?"

"I'll wake you if anyone comes or goes from the house."

Dante sighed and stood, staggering on his stiff legs. "A nap might do me some good."

Lew sat in a nest of blankets on the floor. Cee had claimed the poster bed and was stirring, woken by their voices.

"You look like a dried-up frog," she laughed. "I'm guessing you haven't seen him?"

"With such uncanny powers of deduction, it's no wonder you're so good at your job." Dante shrugged off his coat and draped it over a chair. Lew replaced him at the window. Dante stretched his legs, wandering closer to Cee. "Speaking of, I need you to hit the streets again. I have to know more about what Blays is doing here."

Cee rubbed her eyes and stretched an arm above her head, elbow torqued. "I've got a contact on the other side of the hill. I'll see what she's heard. Right after I've had some damn tea."

That sounded pretty good, but sleep sounded even better. Dante installed himself in the bed, which smelled like hotel perfume and Cee's skin, and quickly drifted into the realm between consciousness and proper sleep. He stayed there some time, vaguely aware of the noise of Cee preparing to depart. As soon as the door clicked, he fell into a dead slumber.

A hand shook his shoulder. He smacked at it and it slapped his face. He jolted upright, feeling dizzy and sick from too little sleep, head pounding. Lew pointed at the window. Dante's heart drummed his ribs. He ran to the window. Outside the pink house, a sleek carriage sat in the noon sun. A man hunched inside it with one hand on the running board, fishing around its floorboards, back turned to the hotel.

The man straightened, put whatever he'd found into the pocket of his sweeping coat, turned, and looked Dante straight in the eye. Or so it felt—in truth, Dante watched through the narrowest sliver of window, obscured by a heavy curtain and the glare of the sun on the glass. In the street, the man planted his palms on the small of his back and leaned back until it looked like he'd snap in half. Dante had seen that stretch a thousand times before. He moved to the side of the window.

"Well?" Lew said. Dante nodded blankly. Lew gestured frantically. "
And?
"

"We wait for Cee."

He sent Lew down for tea. He hadn't known how he'd feel at this moment, but he hadn't expected this...numbness. He had no idea what to do next. Ironically, if he and Blays had still been companions, Blays would have come up with the perfect solution in a trice. They had complemented each other, improvising their way through a thousand different disasters. Three years later, Dante still wasn't used to making decisions without having his thoughts challenged and improved at every step of the process.

Lew returned with tea. Dante thanked him. More words almost followed, but something stopped him.

Cee got back a few hours later. "We're in luck. Dunvern Street is as incestuous as the royal family."

Lew wrinkled his nose. "What's so lucky about
that
?"

"My person knows a person. Their person's already agreed to speak to us. Tonight."

Dante refilled his mug. "Tell me it's not another trip to that above-ground sewer we visited the other night."

"It's a temple," Cee said. "Will that work? Or will you burst into flames if you step inside?"

"The temple might," he said. "But that's its problem."

With the meeting hours away, Dante caught another nap. Cee got out a deck of cards, cajoled Lew into playing, and methodically fleeced him of every penny in his pockets.

The hour arrived. Once more, they donned their fancy garb and hit the streets. It was close to midnight and except for a few intoxicated revelers, the only other travelers on Dunvern Street were the city guard. Dante made a show of chatting about the party they were on their way to crash, chuckling heartily. Cee strode ahead, turning down a leaf-strewn alley that opened into a pedestrian mall. She crossed this without a second glance, taking them to a stone staircase set in the side of a hill.

After a brief stretch of wooded parkland, the ground leveled and cleared. The temple topping the hill was from an earlier age, but even at a distance, its hexagonal spire gave it away. It was dedicated to Taim. Father of time—and judgment. Dante couldn't help wondering if there was a symbolic element to their contact's choice of location.

The base was hexagonal, too, capped by a slate dome. Out front, a pedestal displayed a small blue flame, burning unattended. Cee took them around the back, where a viciously narrow staircase had been wrought into a seam in the temple. Their boots scuffed on the steps. The temple dome was painted with silver points—a map of the night sky.

Eighty feet up, the top of the dome flattened into a platform, allowing a view of the city and access to the spire. A shadow moved from the spire and stood across from them. "Why do you want to know about Pendelles?"

Dante had no idea which lie was best. "I believe he might not be entirely trustworthy."

"Do you represent the king?" the woman asked.

"Far from it. Do you?"

She laughed sourly. "I represent one of the many people the king has wronged."

"That being?"

"A lady who deserves better than to be run over roughshod." She slitted her eyes. "That's all you need to know."

"Fair enough," Dante said. A breeze picked up, and though his footing was perfectly sound, he couldn't stop himself from throwing out his hands for balance. "So what is Pendelles doing in Setteven?"

"Are you aware of bossen?"

"The clothes? Like the norren make?"

"And are you aware it is the most prized object in the land? Pendelles practically has a monopoly on it—and he's about to turn that monopoly over to the king."

"What?" Dante blurted. "Why?"

The servant made a face. "Why do you think? To get filthy, stinking rich. My lady had a deal in place, but when Moddegan caught wind of it, he decided to snatch it up for himself. Pendelles couldn't say no to the king. He was probably happy for the chance to acquire a tie to the throne."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dante managed, head spinning. "Then anything more you can tell me will serve both our aims."

"The deal goes down in two days." The woman grinned ruefully at the spire. "That's why I came here. Figured I'd beseech Taim to knock the palace to the ground."

"You never know. Thank you for your time." Dante bowed and headed back down the steps. Back on the ground, he turned to Cee. "Good work."

"I know," she said. "Now can we get back to Narashtovik and fit me for my new uniform? I'll look deadly in black and silver."

"Just one more step." He gazed into the night. "Blays is no longer the man I once knew. It's time to expose his true colors to the king."

8

Taya absorbed his story of the meeting as thoughtfully as ever. When he finished, she said, "Have you thought about
why
Moddegan is offering to buy you out?"

Blays shrugged. "So he can fill his basement with coins and swim around in them like an avaricious duck?"

"In your pursuit of the duke, you've been blathering far and wide about the deal for weeks. The king's known about it at least that long. Possibly since the first day you mentioned bossen. Why swoop in now?"

He went still, following the lines of her logic. "To hide something. To protect the duke. His nephew."

Taya nodded once. "The duke couldn't afford the bossen, so he thought to steal it instead. Somehow, Moddegan was led to believe you knew who was behind the attack on our wagons—and now he's buying your silence."

"You're devious, aren't you? Should I be hiding the kitchen knives when I sleep?" Blays folded his arms and watched Dunvern Street through the window. "Followup question: so what?"

"That the king is duping you?"

"He's buying my bossen, isn't he? He'll have more than anyone in Setteven. He won't flip it the next day. He'll try to dribble it out to maximize his investment. Meanwhile, we flood the market beneath him."

"This is significantly more dangerous than going after the duke. Dilliger is a cad, a fool. If he were to go bankrupt, the court would echo with 'I told you so.'"

"Whereas the king is far too savvy to sink his wealth into a bum horse."

Taya lifted her finger and pointed it at him. "Meaning he'll pin the blame on the horse trader."

"He's fettered by the inconvenient fact his nephew tried to rob me. If he tries to come after us, he risks exposing Dilliger
and
his own attempt to cover up the crime."

"And if he loses his fortune, revenge might throw reason out the window." She circled her finger on the arm of her chair. "I'll work on finding direct evidence between Duke Dilliger and the bandits. If Moddegan winds up coming for us, it would be nice to have a dagger and not an empty sheath."

"Agreed. Time to order more bossen into Dollendun, too. Oh, you know what else you should do? Start thinking of how you'll spend our upcoming hoard of riches. I was thinking of buying a fleet, personally. Seems useful."

They both knew the funds generated from this venture would go right back into bringing Gask to its oppressive knees, but it was amusing to pretend. Anyway, they'd been building to this for so long that no one could blame him for feeling buzzed.

And through dumb luck—or, more accurately, due to a ruthless, singleminded, months-long campaign—they had come further than he'd ever imagined. The bossen gambit wouldn't be enough to wreck Moddegan by itself. But the kingdom had been sorely lacking in free labor since the norren had wrested themselves from their chains, and with fewer taxes out of Gallador and none at all from the newly-independent Narashtovik, the once-mighty Gaskan Empire was looking a little shabby around the edges. A bit wobbly. A good shove would only knock it further off balance. And if some other disturbance came along after that...

Enough dreaming. He had just three days until he'd return to the palace and seal the deal. He still had to bring the bossen in from the country. Now that he'd struck a bargain with the king himself, he didn't
think
there would be any more attempts to steal it, but you never knew. Once the goods were on the move into the city, he didn't intend to let them out of his sight until he shook hands with Moddegan and replaced the crates of clothes with chests of silver.

He spent the rest of the day down at the warehouse preparing it to shelter the wagons. The next day, while Taya pursued gossip and intrigue, he rode to the country and drove the bossen back to Setteven. They parked the wagons in the warehouse. He and the guards set up beds there, maintaining a constant vigil over their prize.

The sun rose on the day of the deal. He dressed in his finery, even the ridiculous little tricorner hat currently in vogue. A squadron of redshirted cavalry arrived at the warehouse while he prepared, augmenting his guards. There were perks of doing business with the crown.

Bathed and outfitted, Blays strolled into the daylight and saluted the commander of the cavalry. "Shall we?"

The man nodded. Blays climbed into his carriage. The procession rattled over the cobblestones, barged its way across town, and crossed the causeway to the palace. The wagons ground to a stop in the gravel.

There existed the chance, however remote, that Moddegan was on to them, and that this was an elaborate counter-sting. In case things went bad, he'd arranged for Taya to bug out with the wagons and hide at a safehouse in the country. Paranoid, but when you were dealing with this much money, there was no such thing as being too cautious. There outside the palace, Blays nodded to her and she nodded back.

He was met by the same servant who'd summoned him to the king three days ago. As the two of them walked inside, guards and teamsters moved the wagons around the side of the palace to conduct the physical exchange of bossen and hard currency, which would be inspected by Moddegan and Pendelles' staffs. The two of them were too lofty to degrade themselves by being concerned with money.