Daughter of Mystery (24 page)

Barbara simply nodded once more and left.

* * *

If she hadn’t been taking such pains to move unrecognized, she might not have noticed that she was being followed. He was a very ordinary-looking man—the sort you might see on any street corner. But not on
every
street corner. And now that she’d taken note of him, she thought perhaps this wasn’t the first time she’d seen him.

Trying not to give any hint of her notice, she changed her route with a thought to drawing him off to a more lonely place and ensuring that she had only one tail to deal with. There was an empty warehouse she knew of—not one of Margerit’s, that would risk tying the matter back to her. Once, the building had stood along the branch of the river that ran behind Escarfild Island. But when the river shifted and that branch silted up it had been allowed to decay and now the flooring was too uncertain to store anything substantial. In another decade, it would collapse in on itself and no doubt fresh buildings would take the debris as a foundation. But for now, it was a place where one could have hopes of having a private conversation…or leaving a body where it might take some time to be found.

As she slipped through the broken door—taking care to leave clear footprints in the muddy road running by—it occurred to her that simply disposing of him would not only be simpler but would be safer as well. If she could manage even minimal surprise, she had no doubts of her ability to kill a man efficiently. But disabling and immobilizing him enough for questioning—that was another matter. The most important rule that her first instructor had impressed on her was that if she let it come to grappling, she had already lost the fight. That rule held whether he had only a knife or carried a pistol.

If it were still the baron she answered to, she would have felt on surer ground. That was a conversation they had had when she first learned to fight. But Margerit…she tried to imagine asking,
Maisetra, under what conditions may I kill on your behalf without asking permission first?
And then, the baron had had enough influence not to worry about repercussions. Margerit didn’t have the same resources. So it was necessary to be more careful and thus to take more risks.

She eased her way around the edge of the room, avoiding the rotted spot in the center where the boards sagged and dodging around the empty crates still littered about. She laid the book in its wrappings on top of a crate by a window whose shutters hung crazily enough to let in a band of light. Just so—so that he’d see it and move
that
way. She stripped off the fashionable coat and hat and stuffed them out of sight behind the box. Her pinned-up hair would give her away if he saw it, but that was the least of her worries at the moment. Using the sturdiest of the crates she leapt up to grab a rafter and swung herself up into the shadows under the roof.
Blessed Saint Barbara watch over me!
she thought—not a proper prayer, but perhaps her namesake wouldn’t mind.

When he came through the door she froze. He did as well—looking and listening until he was satisfied. No pistol in sight, so she didn’t have that to worry about. He advanced cautiously across the floor until he felt the weak spot, then retraced and looked around again. As she’d planned, he spotted the package. She’d been carrying it openly enough; he would know it for hers.

He scanned the room again, saw her tracks in the dust and followed them along the safe footing. When he passed beneath her, she dropped.

There were three possibilities. She could hit him harder than she meant and have a corpse to dispose of after all. She could miss her mark entirely or fail to bring him down. Or…she swung against his back, knocking him forward, and grabbed his coat to ensure she followed him down to knock the wind out of him. She didn’t pause to see if she’d knocked him senseless but pulled off her stupid fashionable neckcloth and used it to tie his hands behind him. He groaned and tried to kick as she used his own less savory cravat to do for his ankles. Then she stepped back out of the reach of any thrashing and retrieved her coat and hat. The truth was better kept under another layer and the hat once again hid her pinned-up braid. Secure in her masculine disguise, she drew out her knife and skirted carefully around her prisoner to where he could see her.

“Explain yourself,” she said coldly.

There was a flash of panic in his eyes as he took in what had happened, but it was replaced immediately by bravado. No doubt, Barbara thought ruefully, he had correctly concluded that if he were still alive at this point he was likely to remain so. A pity, but there was no help for it.

She crouched closer—still out of reach of even the most extreme contortions—and twiddled the knife so that it caught his eye. “Explain yourself,” she repeated.

“I don’t suppose I could have been looking for a dry place to sleep,” he offered without any attempt at sincerity.

Barbara shook her head.

“Did you think to slip around unseen? He knows who you are. He’s always known.”

“He?” Barbara prompted.

“My employer.”

A long minute stretched out as she waited for him to continue, but no details were forthcoming. “And why should your employer be concerned with my comings and goings?”

“He wants what’s his. He’s been patient a long time but his patience is running thin.”

Estefen
, she thought immediately. That was no surprise. But what was his angle in this? “Tell the baron that he should trade patience for resignation. He’s received everything that’s his. The rest belongs to others. And you might want to consider that the last hireling of his I crossed paths with is dead.”

Genuine confusion crossed the man’s face mingled with the return of fear. “Baron? I know better than to get tangled up with titled folk. This is strictly business.” He added with a touch of panic, “You get no special license for killing me over your own private affairs.”

Barbara laughed outright at that. “I have no private affairs. If this is nothing to do with my…ah…employer, then you have the wrong mark entirely.” She stood up and slipped the knife back in its sheath. She could safely leave him. Eventually his shouting would bring someone to cut him loose.

“Oh no, Barbara No-name. My employer knows exactly who his debtors are.”

She froze. It wasn’t the piercing of her male disguise—she’d known that would fool only casual observation—or the use of her name. It was the implication of some deeper truth. One that even she wasn’t privy to. “If your employer knows that much, then he knows I haven’t a penny of my own and he can whistle for whatever debts he claims.”

“I’m sure there must be someone who considers your life of some value. Perhaps some legacy you could lay hands on? Your mistress has a few pretty pennies and might find it worth it to—”

The knife was back out in a flash and pressed closely into the line of his jaw. “Now you do make this about the maisetra and within my legal mandate. Would you care to reconsider?”

When she released the pressure sufficiently to allow him to speak he offered, “I’ll take your answer back to my employer.”

Seeing that he believed her intent, Barbara withdrew before his fear drove him to struggle further. Always best to keep the illusion of control. “I’ll be watching for you.” And as an afterthought, “All of you.”

After she had retrieved the book and was heading for the door he made a small noise. Without looking back she said, “Shout if you like.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Margerit

Aunt Bertrut’s strictures about an afternoon lay-down before a late evening were finally beginning to make sense. Feminine frailty had nothing to do with it; early mornings over readings and translations made for a long day. Margerit glanced at the angle of the pale wintry sun and it told her Maitelen would soon come scratching on her door to lay out the evening’s clothing. But this time she began with, “Maisetra, that armin wants to speak with you.”

Margerit wrapped a dressing gown around herself, not wanting to go to the trouble of dressing twice, and said, “I wonder what it is that Barbara can’t take care of.”

“Barbara isn’t back yet,” the maid offered.

She felt a twinge of guilt and concern. Had book shopping indeed turned into a hazardous venture? If there were anything sure in the world, it was Barbara’s reliability. She hurried downstairs and down into the servants’ level where she found Marken waiting.

“I’m supposed to be off tonight,” he began with his usual lack of ceremony, “but she’s not back yet and I know you’re planning to go out and she’d have my hide if I left you on your own.” Margerit had noticed that for Marken there was always only one “she.” He seemed to regard Barbara with an odd combination of the affection due a younger sister and the deference due a commanding officer. “So I was wondering,” he continued, “if she’d mentioned anything about it to you?”

Margerit shook her head, but before she could feel serious concern, there was a bustle in the corridor leading off to the back gardens and Barbara herself entered, carrying two bundles. The roll of clothing tucked under one arm was of no interest, but the other was a large, rectangular, paper-wrapped package.

Barbara took in the scene and gestured briefly to Marken, in a single movement acknowledging and releasing him. Then she held out the package to Margerit saying, “I suggest you wait to examine it until you have plenty of time.”

She sighed. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to send my excuses to Maisetra Enien because I’d rather stay home and read!”

* * *

Throughout the evening she almost managed to leave off thinking of the package—now lying on the library table—long enough to make pleasant conversation over dinner. And she kept herself from mentioning the acquisition when she briefly saw Antuniet at the concert afterward, in part lest Barbara should overhear and make guesses and in part because she wanted to wait until she had something of substance to discuss.

But when midnight had passed and she was back home and had changed her gown for nightclothes, she sent Maitelen to bed and took up a candle to slip back downstairs to the library. She had expected the room to be dark and cold. Instead a cheery fire was glowing in the grate and all the lamps were lit. And in her usual chair, next to the table where the unopened package lay, Barbara waited with an amused smile playing on her lips.

A laugh burst out. “You know me better than I do myself! I swear I planned to wait for morning.”

As she picked the knots out of the string and gently unwrapped the volume, Barbara stood beside her and told a tale like something out of a gothic novel: cramped rooms filled with sinister objects and a mysterious proprietor; secret treasures and the fortunes of war; and speculations that might be made of the book’s history. Margerit guessed that the tale was both embroidered for effect and edited for—well, there seemed to be odd gaps, but no doubt Barbara had her reasons.

When she opened the cover, trying not to damage the binding more than time and ill-handling already had, the significance of what had come into her hands struck her. On impulse she turned and threw her arms around Barbara exclaiming, “I knew you’d find it! I knew it! This is—”

She turned back to the table. Barbara’s arm had begun a movement but it shifted to resting across her shoulder as they both bent over the book and began to take stock of its contents in greater detail.

By the time the lamps began to gutter and require trimming a third time, there was a sheaf of papers with closely-spaced notes and lists scattered across the table. As Barbara made the rounds to adjust the lamps, she coughed deliberately and Margerit looked up to see the palest glow of dawn peeking through the curtains. And now that she listened, in the depths of the house she could hear the sounds of the kitchen staff beginning their day.

“Aunt Bertrut will kill me,” she muttered without conviction.

“More likely she’ll kill me,” Barbara offered, and grinned. “But that’s my job, after all—to throw myself in the path of danger for your sake!”

Margerit found herself yawning uncontrollably as if the mere realization of the hour had brought on exhaustion. “I suppose it’s too late to sneak into bed unnoticed and too early to claim I’ve already slept. There’s no help for it. At least I have no classes this morning.”

“Whereas I,” Barbara countered, pulling back the curtain to gauge the hour more closely, “have a lesson with Perret in less than two hours.”

“Oh! I’d forgotten,” Margerit said contritely.

Barbara turned back from the window. “Nonsense. Do you think I expect you to keep track of my duties? And did you think I’d miss out on this?” She swept her arm out to take in the product of their night’s work. “I’ll do well enough. Perret will say it’s good practice to work tired.”

Margerit tidied their working notes and weighted them against errant drafts. The servants knew better than to move or disturb anything in this room. She began snuffing the wicks on the lamps—there would be enough stray tendrils of dawn to find her way up to bed—when a stillness made her look up. Barbara was tracing a finger over the decorations on the book’s cover and considering it with a fixed gaze.

“What is it?” Margerit asked.

“Who was it who told you to read Gaudericus?”

Last time, she had evaded the question. It occurred to her briefly to lie. But then a guilty anger bubbled up insider her. “Antuniet,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral rather than defiant.

If Barbara had questioned her—had warned her or given so much response as a weary sigh—she would have been ready with her defense. But she said nothing; did nothing except turn back to close the curtains against the now-rosy light.

Against all logic, Margerit felt angry. The camaraderie of the night had faded away. She pulled her robe more closely about her and left without another word.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Barbara

Although LeFevre came by the house two or three times a week for ordinary business, Barbara had questions for him that were not ones she cared to have overheard. So at her next free afternoon she made her way to the Lamsiter district that he called home in Rotenek. He’d always declined the baron’s offer to take residence at Tiporsel, preferring a small measure of privacy and independence. His apartment itself was fairly small—just a few simply furnished rooms above his business offices which he shared with his secretary Iannipirt. Barbara knew the appearance was deceiving: he owned the entire block in which those rooms were located. Another man might have picked up a taste for luxury from associating with the baron but LeFevre’s bond with him had been forged in the early days when ruthless penny-pinching and shrewd dealings had built the fortune that made the later luxuries possible.