Seven Dreams (3 page)

And then: a note!
Jisp painstakingly nosed her way over the scrawled words as Teyo
fought to focus both on that and the shoes of the gentleman before
him.
Midnight by the fountain,
it said. Teyo’s heart beat a
little faster.
Do not wear your...
oh. The next word was a
vulgar term for women’s undergarments.

Teyo muttered
something under his breath as he hung up the next cloak. He was
disappointed, though he couldn’t help feeling a flicker of appalled
fascination as well. Did the high-and-mighty truly attend grand
society events without their underwear, and engage in scandalous
trysts in their hosts’ gardens? So much for all their vaunted
propriety.

Jisp continued
with her explorations without any further excitement. The flow of
guests was at last beginning to wane, and Teyo was prepared to give
up, when he noticed that Egg was trying to attract his attention.
She made a surreptitious signal, which he translated as: Kitchens,
half an hour.

Jisp had
completed her survey of the pockets of Dame Halavere’s guests, but
she was so well entertained that Teyo left her to rummage as she
wished. There was little danger of her being discovered, in spite
of her bright colours; she had an unerring nose for danger and a
remarkable talent for disappearing at a second’s notice. He passed
the appointed half-hour in the scrupulous performance of his
duties, a footman to the core, and by the time it was over new
guests had ceased to arrive, and Teyo was free to depart. He did so
speedily, lest his temporary superior, the butler, appear at an
inopportune moment and order him elsewhere.

The kitchens were
in chaos, of course. A banquet for hundreds of people had to be
prepared, and everything
must
be perfect. Regaled with the
sights and aromas of myriad glorious dishes, Teyo was briefly sorry
that it would not be possible for him to partake of it. But he was
able to palm a tiny fruit tart on his way through, together with a
second one for Egg. They were warm in his hand as he slipped
through the rear door into the pantries, and down a flight of steps
at the back.

He and Egg had
explored the house earlier that day, and agreed upon a meeting
point. A disused storeroom lay behind a broken door in the cellar.
Egg had left the leaning door open several inches, and Teyo slipped
inside.

It was almost
fully dark. Egg had a tiny glow-lamp for purposes such as these,
and she had muted its already subtle light by covering it with a
lightweight cloth. Fine cambric, he judged, with a pretty lace
border. She had filched a handkerchief from one of the lady
guests.

‘
Resourceful,’ he murmured, indicating the handkerchief with a
nod.

Egg flashed her
wide, mischievous grin. ‘I am. Thank you. Find anything
much?’

‘
A
very,
very
steamy love-note,’ Teyo replied, widening his
eyes.

Egg coughed.
‘Anything relevant?’

‘
About
eighty snuffboxes and a truly appalling number of handkerchiefs.
Oh, and Mr. Archiban Binker is to wed Miss Tia Wennan after all,
though it was not thought that he would come up to the
mark.’

Egg nodded
wisely. ‘Wonderful news. I was wondering when those two would get
together. Meanwhile, I have been hugely successful.’

‘
In
that case, you win food.’ Teyo handed her a fruit tart, and
devoured his own in one bite.

‘
Thanks,’ Egg said, her mouth already full of pastry. ‘Do I win
two?’

Teyo shook his
head. ‘The degree of your brilliance has yet to be demonstrated. It
is not yet certain that you merit two.’

‘
You
merited one without doing anything at all!’ Egg
protested.

‘
That’s different. I was the thief of this operation: I get
spoils.’ Teyo folded his arms.

Eg sighed. ‘Fine.
Come with me.’

This, Teyo had
not expected. He followed her out of the pantry, keeping a cautious
eye out for passing staff. Egg led him to the other side of the
spacious cellar, and Teyo became gradually aware of a faint sound:
the sound, perhaps, of somebody writhing about and trying, mostly
unsuccessfully, to shout around some kind of obstruction in the
mouth. Egg threw open the door to one of the liquor rooms and
whipped the handkerchief off her light-globe as she did so,
allowing its light to blaze much brighter.

The room beyond
was full of fat wooden barrels, probably containing brandy. It also
had an occupant. A man in groom’s attire was lying face-first over
one of the barrels, his legs and arms trussed up with something
that looked suspiciously like stockings. Teyo raised an eyebrow at
Egg, who shrugged.

‘
What
the—’ she said loudly as she stepped forward. ‘Oh, my giddy
goodness! Are you all right?’ She had developed the broad vowels
and drawling intonation of a local country lass, and when she ran
forward to assist the captive, her demeanour was of shock and
charmingly dim-witted concern. She soon managed to untangle the
stocking which bound up the man’s hands, while Teyo ripped away his
gag and the bindings on his legs. He got a good look at the
captive’s face in the process, and understood at once why Egg had
stuffed him in the brandy cellar.

‘
Of
course I’m all right!’ spat the man, and shoved past Egg without
another word. He vanished through the door, leaving Egg to waggle
her eyebrows at Teyo in an intolerably smug fashion.

Because Teyo had
seen the man before, of course. His younger years had been neither
as productive nor as respectable as he might have liked; he had, to
his regret, been a member of the Yllandu. It was never easy to
extricate oneself from such an outfit, but Teyo had managed it at
last. He had offered himself to the Torwyne Agency of Irbel, and
been accepted. For the past four years he had been working with
Serena, Fabian and Egrenne to oppose everything the Unspeakables
attempted to do in Irbel or Nimdre.

Egg’s captive was
Yllandu. He had joined the organisation just as Teyo was leaving,
and the two had never been acquainted. He had a distinctive face,
however: pale and violently freckled, with a nose that veered
sharply to the left.

‘
And
now we follow,’ Egg said proudly, and darted after the escapee.
Teyo wandered after, pausing only briefly when the returning Jisp
opted to scarper up his trouser-leg.

Serena had danced
once with Fabian, once with the lively and
very
handsome
Lord Darnwell, and once each with Mr. Rostover and Mr. Brackly.
‘Both
so
eligible,’ she breathlessly confided to Fabian a
little later, as she downed a glass of punch.

‘
Can
you not stop dancing for five minutes?’ he returned in a
disapproving tone. His eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke,
ostensibly gazing with suitably admiring intensity at all the
prettiest young ladies present. Serena knew that he was actually
keeping an eye on Dame Halavere.

‘
It
must be my gown,’ she said modestly, lightly touching the silk. ‘It
puts the gentlemen in such a
fever
of admiration, how can I
be expected to resist?’ She smiled winningly.

‘
We
have work to do,’ he reminded her in a low voice.

‘
I am
working.’

‘
You’re flirting.’

‘
That
can be work.’ Serena finished her punch, set down her glass and
swapped with Fabian. It was his turn to busy himself about the
punch-bowl, and hers to maintain a surreptitious scrutiny of Dame
Halavere’s movements, together with those of any other guest who
might be behaving in unexpected ways. She noticed one gentleman —
Trimble, his name was; an incorrigible libertine — slipping out of
the rear door with Mrs. Vasher. Both were notoriously free with
their favours, and Mrs. Vasher was doing far too much giggling for
Serena’s taste.

‘
Probably she is not even wearing underwear,’ Serena muttered
under her breath.

‘
What
was that?’ whispered Fabian around his punch-glass.

‘
Nothing.’

Nothing else
untoward occurred. Dame Halavere was dancing with Sir Kunley Prosh,
a gentleman of advancing years who Serena instantly dismissed as a
candidate for intrigue. He was far too simple-minded. He danced
rather poorly — only his great wealth made him tolerable either as
a ball-guest or a partner, she suspected — and smiled at his pretty
partner in such a fatuous way that Serena felt reassured: nothing
of the remotest interest could be going on inside
that
head.

When the dance
came to an end, Halavere rejected the invitation of the next
gentleman to approach her and made her way towards the garden
doors.

Two men came
towards Serena at the same moment, their intentions writ large upon
their amiable faces, and she made a noise of frustration. ‘I should
have brought Teyo into the ballroom,’ she hissed at
Fabian.

‘
What?’ he blinked. ‘Why?’

‘
Because then we could have pretended to escape into the garden
for a daring tryst, and I would not be stuck with these
people.’

‘
Would
it have been pretend?’ Fabian asked with interest.

‘
Naturally.’

‘
Probably?’

‘
We’re
going to have to do it the other way,’ she sighed.

‘
Oh,
no,’ Fabian muttered. ‘Please don’t do that again—’

His entreaties
went unheeded. Just as her first would-be dance partner arrived
with proffered hand, Serena began to sway slightly on her feet, her
hand lifting to her forehead with an intriguing little fluttering
motion. ‘Oh,’ she whispered faintly, ‘I do feel so
very...’

She was not, in
her weakness, able to utter another syllable before she sank into
an elegant swoon. For a second, she thought that Fabian was not
going to catch her after all. She shot him a glare from under her
eyelids and, with a sigh, he broke her fall with every appearance
of solicitude. Gone was Fabian Carterett, replaced by the perpetual
boredom and faint, spoiled sneer of Lord Bastavere.

‘
Oh,
no, is it the vapours again?’ he murmured with becoming concern.
‘My poor, dear sister. What could be causing these repeated fits? I
do hope it is not anything fatal.’

Serena was too
artfully unconscious to be able to attempt any reply, though she
made a mental note to smack him for it later. A little crowd had
gathered around her, thrusting several bottles of smelling-salts
under her nose at once. The aroma made her cough, her eyes watered,
and she was obliged to recover.

The operation
proceeded with well-practiced ease from there. In a trice, Fabian
had explained to the company with brotherly concern that his sister
required a little air; he had elbowed away the solicitous advances
of the gentlemen and fended off the (largely feigned) concern of
the ladies. He gently shepherded Serena out into the gardens,
reassuringly unaccompanied, and there she underwent an instant and
miraculous recovery.

‘
You
are so very
good
at that,’ she said, beaming.

‘
I’ve
had a lot of practice,’ he said dryly, offering her his arm. ‘I
begin to think ballrooms are hazardous to your health. You cannot
enter one without falling into a swoon.’

‘
Quite
right. I will have to give up the dancing and the flirting, and
leave them both to Egg.’ She took his arm and they promenaded
serenely through the darkened gardens, their path lit by way of
dozens of light-globes floating just overhead.

It did not prove
difficult to locate Dame Halavere. She had left a trail of heavy
perfume, so powerful as to outdo even the exotic flowers for
dominance. Serena followed her nose.

The garden was
laid out in an ornamental arrangement, framed by tall hedges which
divided it up into sections. Halavere’s trail led through a
corridor of red-blooming vines and past a grand marble fountain.
Serena thought she could hear giggling coming from behind one of
the hedges. Fabian tried to turn towards it, but Serena pulled him
back, shaking her head.

‘
Not
Halavere,’ she muttered, with an expressive roll of
her eyes.

Fabian snorted.
‘I like this party.’

‘
I
can’t tell you how uninterested I am in hearing about that. Come
on, this way.’

The soft scrunch
of feminine footsteps on gravel sounded from somewhere ahead, and
Serena and Fabian came to a halt. Peeping around a hedge, Serena
observed Dame Halavere, but dimly visible in the moonlit darkness,
lingering in a corner of the hedge.

‘
She’s
skulking,’ she reported in a faint whisper.

‘
It’s
always so promising when they skulk,’ Fabian replied with approval.
He peered around Serena’s shoulder and added, ‘This is an
especially promising skulk. She is certainly waiting for
someone.’

‘
Undoubtedly,’ Serena murmured. ‘Perhaps we could talk about it
later?’

Fabian gave one
of his soft snorts, and subsided. They waited in silence, until
Serena’s straining ears caught the sounds of another set of
approaching footsteps: heavier, probably male. The newcomer came
into view moments later, and Serena could not repress a smile of
mingled satisfaction and amusement. He was dressed as a groom,
though his disguise was mediocre at best. He had none of the air of
a man of the stables; he displayed the peculiar combination of
swagger and furtiveness that marked out all the most desperate
characters, and even the once-broken nose of a born brawler. It
could virtually be considered a uniform among the Unspeakables. Why
could criminals never display any imagination?