Swordpoint (6 page)

It was hopeless. The fireworks must be almost over, and Michael saw that he was to be nothing more on the swan boat than one of a party of friends. The duchess treated him no differently than any of the others; if possible, with more distance, since she knew him the least well. Moodily he slung back a draught of burgundy, and picked at his duck. At least she hadn't mocked him as she had Horn, when the fool went on and on about the fireworks he had seen in better days. Horn hadn't the wit to catch the two edges of her meaning. Michael had, but much good it was doing him. He had laughed at her sally, but she turned her eyes then to Lord Ferris.

Why Ferris? Was he better dressed than Michael? He was certainly more powerful; but the duchess wasn't interested in politics. Her money, wit and beauty were all the power she needed, Michael thought. Ferris was dark where he was fair. Ferris wasn't even whole. He'd lost one eye as a boy, and what was otherwise a handsome face was unbalanced by a stark black eye-patch. An affectation: he might at least have had a number of them made to match his clothing. Well, Ferris was not the only one with an attractive eccentricity. Michael himself was already deep enough in the adventures of the sword to cause a minor scandal. Just because he kept it hidden beneath a well-groomed exterior.

He must find some way to tell her what he had done at her prompting; some way to get her alone, away from these others.

There was a sudden silence. The fireworks seemed to have ended. The others were exclaiming with disappointment, while servants cleared the fifth course away, and lowered the sides of the pavilion again. The duchess gestured to a footman, who nodded and headed for the stern.

'If no one minds,' she explained to her guests, 'I think we should make our way out of this press before everyone else starts trying to. I know Lord Ferris has somewhere else to go tonight, but the rest of you may want to come into the house to warm up after.'

'Oh?' Lord Horn leaned over to the chancellor. 'Are you by any chance attending Lord Ormsley's little card party?'

'No,' Ferris smiled. 'Business, I'm afraid.'

The duchess rose, gesturing to her guests not to. 'Please, stay comfortable. I'm only going forward for a little air.'

Michael's skin tingled. It was as though she had read his mind. He would give her a moment, and then follow.

The final volley of fireworks was a fugue of sound and light. Colours followed upon one another in ecstatic arcs, each higher and more brilliant, until the splendour was almost unbearable.

An awed but hopeful silence followed the last sparks down into the river. But the sky remained empty, a neatly folded blanket of stars on the bed of night. People shivered, then shrugged.

Alec finally turned to Richard. 'Do you think', he asked avidly, 'that an exploding firework could kill you?'

'It could,' Richard answered. 'You'd have to be sitting right on top of it, though.'

'It would be quick,' said Alec, 'and splendid, in its way. Unless you kept it from going off. Nimble Willie shifted from foot to foot. 'Oh. Hello, Willie. Come to pick -' Richard shook his head, indicating the tradesmen behind them. ' - Come to see the fireworks?'

Once more the trumpets sounded, though less enthusiastically than they had at the start. Across the river the crowds were milling apart. The barge torches were being relit, and the string quartet had begun making a squeaky go at jollity. On the swan barge a woman emerged at the prow and stood facing into the wind that ruffled her cloak of fine white fur.

'There,' Alec told Richard drily. 'You may admire the owner of your favourite boat. That's the duchess,'

'She looks beautiful,' Richard said in surprise.

'Anyone would', said Alec tartly, 'in a great white boat in the middle of the river. You ought to see her up close.'

It was hard to tell what he meant when he talked like that, as though he were making fun of himself for speaking, and you for listening. Richard had heard other nobles use that tone, though not, in general, to him. Nimble Willie, who had never enjoyed any nobleman's conversation, cleared his throat. 'Master St Vier...'

He beckoned, like a small boy with a robin's nest to show. The two men followed him into a corner of the wall out of the wind and most people's sight.

The little thief brushed away the lock of hair that always seemed to be hanging over his nose. 'Ah, now. I just wanted to say, there's been someone asking for St Vier these past two nights at Rosalie's.'

'There,' Alec said to Richard. 'I knew we shouldn't have gone to Martha's - although it was he himself who had insisted on it.

'And this man', Willie persisted, 'has gold, they say.'

'In Riverside?'Alec drawled. 'He must be mad.'

St Vier said, 'Why wasn't I told about this before?"

'Ah,' Willie nodded sagely. 'He's paying, see. Putting out a bit of silver for word to get passed on to you. Two nights running, that's not bad.'

'You want us to stay away another night?' the swordsman asked.

'Nah. My luck to find you, but there are probably others out looking, by now.'

'Right. Thanks for your trouble.' Richard gave the pickpocket some coins. Willie smiled, flexed his nimble fingers, and folded into the darkness.

'How the simple people do love you,' said Alec, looking after him. 'What happens when you don't have any money?'

'They trust me', said Richard, 'to remember when I do.'

A moment of silence fell when the duchess left the pavilion. All her guests were experienced socialisers, but the departure of their hostess demanded a hiatus of reorganisation.

In agony Michael listened to Chris and Lady Halliday talking about the weavers' revolt in Helmsleigh. Every second was precious; but he must not hurry out after her. At last he judged enough time to have passed. It being impossible to slip away unnoticed, he yawned extravagantly and stretched his arms as far as he was able in his fitted jacket.

'Not tired already, my dear?' said Horn.

'Tired?' Michael smiled his sweetest smile. Now that he was about to get what he wanted, he could afford to be tolerant. 'How could I be tired in such pleasant company?'

'Wine always makes me sleepy,' Lady Halliday said in a sombre attempt at graciousness. Lady Helena allowed that it did her, too, but she would never dare to admit it before gentlemen. Satisfied that attention was diverted from his movements, Michael began to rise.

Like a filigreed anvil, Lord Horn's hand descended on his

shoulder. 'Do you know,' Horn leaned over to confide in him, 'when I first knew Ormsley he barely knew ace from deuce? And now he's giving exclusive card parties in that great big monstrosity his mother left him.'

Michael murmured sympathetically, and kept his muscles tensed to rise. 'I gather', Horn said, 'that you are not engaged tonight?'

'I'm afraid I am.' Michael tried to smile, keeping one eye nervously on the doorway. He thought he could just see the white glow of the duchess's fur outside. At least Horn was no longer touching him; but he was looking slyly at Michael, as though they shared some understanding. It conveyed roguish charm with a confidence more appropriate to a younger man.

'You certainly are kept busy,' sighed Horn, lowering his eyelids alluringly.

'As busy as I can manage,' Michael said, with the arrogant glibness that is the opposite of flirtation. He saw Horn's face freeze, and added, 'I do try to keep my dignity.'

It was needlessly cruel - and hypocritical from a man met climbing out of a window. But Horn must learn sometime that ten years had passed since the days of his glory were even possible - and besides, the duchess had just appeared in the doorway, flushed and beautiful, like some river goddess, crowned with stars. Michael felt his heart knot in a little hard lump that slid down into his stomach.

'It's snowing,' the duchess said. 'So lovely, and so inconvenient. Fortunately there's plenty to eat if we're slowed by

it.'

She seated herself in a flurry of fur. The diamonds of snow that spangled her hair and shoulders glittered for a moment in the candlelight before vanishing in the heat. 'Now, I am sure you were all too polite to talk about me, so what gems of conversation have I missed?'

Lady Helena tried to match her banter, but fell short at brittle affectation: 'Only the delight of Christopher telling us all what a hero he was at Helmsleigh.'

'Ah.' The duchess gave Lord Christopher a serious look. 'The weavers are of some importance.'

'To my tailor, anyway,' said Horn jovially. 'Local wool, he

claims, will soon become inordinately priced. He's trying to sell me all of last year's colours at a bargain.'

Across the table, Lord Ferris raised the eyebrow not covered by his patch. 'Hard to keep your dignity in last year's colours.'

Michael bit his lip. He hadn't meant his put-down of Horn to be public, much less to be taken up by others.

Horn inclined his head courteously. 'I believe my tailor and I will reach an accord. He has known me for many years, and knows I am not to be trifled with.'

The lump in Michael's stomach did a little somersault.

Ferris said to Diane, 'I suppose we must call Lord Christopher one of Lord Halliday's circle, if so great a chancellor may be said to have something so small as a circle. But on behalf of my own office I must commend his work at Helmsleigh.'

'You're kind,' Lord Christopher murmured, assuming the stoic look of those forced to witness their own praise publicly.

'He isn't, really,' the duchess told him. 'My lord Ferris is horribly ambitious, and the first rule of the ambitious is never to ignore anyone who's been of use.'

General laughter at the duchess's wit broke the tension.

There were four more courses in almost an hour of slow rowing before they found themselves once again at the Tremontaine landing. When they arrived they were all a little cold, a little tipsy, and very full.

All Michael wanted was to be off the barge and away from this disastrous group. The duchess had first led him on, and now she was making him feel like a fool - and, worse yet, act like one. But Ferris had no right to take a private comment and use it against Horn, in a way designed to stir up ill-feeling. Now Horn was sulking like a child over nothing at all. If Horn himself had been more subtle, Michael would not have been forced to be so overt in his rejection. Horn spent the rest of the trip directing his attention everywhere but to Michael. Michael preferred it to his flirtation. The man was carrying on as though he'd never been turned down before, a situation which Michael considered most unlikely.

Despite his later appointment, Lord Ferris was induced to join the party inside the duchess's mansion for a hot drink. And despite his desire to get away, Michael felt it went against his

dignity to leave before Ferris did. He knocked back his punch, and found the warmth of it dissolved some of the lump in his stomach. When Ferris called for his cloak, though, Michael did also. Diane said all the right things about how he really should stay; but there was no special light in her eyes, and he didn't believe her. She did escort both him and Lord Ferris to the door, and there she let Michael kiss her hand again. It was probably the punch that made him tremble as he took it. He looked up into her face, and found a smile so sweet fixed on him that he blinked to clear his eyes.

She said, 'My dear young man, you must dome again.' That was all. But he lingered outside under the portico while the groom patiently held his horse for him, wanting to turn back and ask her whether she meant it, or to hear it again. A pair of missing gloves occurred to him, and he started back to the door. Through it her voice came clear to him, addressing Ferris: 'Tony, whatever were you tormenting poor Horn about?'

Ferris chuckled. 'You noticed that, did you?'

It was a voice of extreme intimacy. Michael knew the tone well. The door opened, and he pressed back into the shadows, to see the duchess's white wrist pressed to Ferris's lips. Then she took a chain from around her neck and drew it across his mouth once before giving it to him.

Before his own reaction could betray him, Michael was out of the shadow of the house and up on horseback. And now he knew something about the duchess that no one else even suspected. And he wished, on the whole, that he were dead, or exceedingly drunk.

Bertram was able to oblige him in the latter. But even while dizzily wrestling in his friend's appreciative grasp, striving for oblivion, Michael was thinking of whether he could hurt her with it - just enough to give him what he wanted.

Chapter VIII

It had started to snow again by the time they got to Rosalie's. Soft flakes formed out of the darkness just before their eyes, falling like stars. Alec followed Richard down the steps and into the tavern, ducking under the low lintel. Rosalie's was in the cellar of an old townhouse. It was reliably cool in summer and warm in winter, always dark and smelling of earth.

The tavern's torchlight dazzled their eyes. Their clothes were steaming in the heat, their noses assaulted by the smells of beer and food and bodies, their ears by the shouts of gamblers and raconteurs.

As soon as Richard was spotted someone shouted, 'That's it, everybody! No more free drinks!'

'Aww,' they chorused. The serious dicers turned back to business, the serious drinkers reminded each other that life was like that. Certain of the Sisterhood came forward hoping to tease-Alec, who would snap their heads off before he let them make him blush.

'Who told you about it this time, Master St Vier?' asked Half-Cocked Rodge, a local businessman. 'I've got my money on Willie.'

His partner, Lucie, leaned across the table. 'Well, you can lay odds it wasn't Ginnie Vandall!'

The laughter this provoked meant something. Richard waited patiently to find out what it was. He had a guess.

Rodge made a place for him at his table. Lucie explained, 'It's Hugo, my heart. Ginnie's bonny Hugo is after your job. Must have heard about the silver, and thought of gold. So Hugo walks in here last night, bold as you please, first time he's been here in months, he knows good and well this is your place for work. And he goes right up to this noble, tries to get his interest, but the man's no fool, he isn't having any.'

'I'd like to meet this Hugo,' said Alec doucely from where he stood behind Richard, leaning against a post.

Rosalie herself brought Richard some beer. 'On me, old love,' she told him; 'you wouldn't believe the business you've brought me the last two nights by not being here!'

'Don't I get any?' Alec enquired.

Rosalie looked him up and down. The tavern mistress was conservative: to her he was still a newcomer. But Richard stood close to him these days, and she'd already seen a few fights fought in his defence; so she called for another mug for him. Then she settled down to argue with Lucie. 'It's not a noble,' Rosalie said. 'I know nobles. They don't come to this place, they send someone else to do the arrangements for them.'

'It is so one,' Lucie insisted. 'He talks like one. You think I don't know nobles? I've had a dozen; ride you up in their carriages on the Hill, put you to bed in velvet sheets and serve you hot breakfast before you go.'

Richard, who really had had nobles, smiled; Alec sniggered.

"Course it's a noble.' Mallie Blackwell had joined the fray, leaning with both palms on the table so that her charms dangled in front of their faces. 'He's in disguise. That's how you can tell 'em. When they come down to the Brown Dog to gamble, the nobles always wear their masks. I can tell you, I've had a few.'

'It isn't a mask,' Rosalie said. 'It's an eyepatch.'

'Same thing.'

'Oh, really?' asked Alec with elaborate nonchalance. 'Which eye? Does it change from night to night?'

'It's his left,' Rosalie attested.

'Oh,' said Alec softly. 'And is he a dark-haired gentleman with -'

'Hugo!' a joyful roar greeted the newcomer for the benefit of all. 'Haven't seen you in a boa's age!'

Hugo Seville made a stunning picture standing in the doorway, and he knew it. Hair bright as new-minted gold curled across his manly brow. His chin was square, his teeth white and even, revealed in a smile of confident strength. When he saw who Rodge was sitting with, the smile faltered.

'Hello, Hugo,' Richard called, cutting off his retreat. 'Come and join us.'

To his credit, Hugo came. Richard read the wariness in his body, and was satisfied that he would make no more trouble. Hugo's smile was back in place. 'Richard! I see they've found you. Or haven't you heard yet?'

'Oh, I've got the whole story now. Sounds like it has possibilities. I haven't had a really challenging fight since Lynch last month.'

'Oh? What about de Maris?'

Richard shrugged. 'De Maris was a joke. He'd got fat, living on the Hill.' Hugo nodded gravely, keeping his thoughts to himself. De Maris had beaten him once. 'Oh, Hugo,' St Vier said, 'you won't know Alec.'

Hugo looked over and slightly up at the tall man standing behind St Vier. He was watching Hugo as if he were an unusual bug that had fallen into his soup.

'I'd heard,' Hugo said. 'Ginnie told me there was a fight at Old Market.'

'Oh, that Hugo!' Alec exclaimed, his face animated with innocent curiosity. 'The one who pimps for Ginnie Vandall!'

Hugo's hand leapt to his sword. Rodge let out a chuckle, and Lucie a gasp. The buzz of conversation at nearby tables trickled to nothing as all eyes focused on them.

'Hugo's a swordsman,' Richard told Alec, unruffled. 'Ginnie manages his business for him. Sit down, Hugo, and have a drink.'

Alec looked down at Richard, sitting calm and easy, one hand on his mug. Alec's lips parted to say something; then he only licked them and took a drink, his eyes fixed on Hugo over the rim of his mug.

They were green eyes, bright in the angular face, like a cat's. Hugo didn't like cats. He never had.

‘I beg your pardon,' the young man said, smooth as a nobleman. 'I must have been thinking of some other people.'

‘I can't stay,' Hugo said, sitting uncomfortably. 'I have to meet someone soon.'

'Well, that's all right,' Richard said. 'Tell me about this man. What did you think of him?'

Hugo could pay for his gaffe with information. It wasn't like him to try to steal Richard's jobs. Richard guessed that he had been unable to resist the money smell.

Hugo made much more money than Richard did. He was in great demand on the Hill for lovers' duels, and as a ceremonial wedding guard. He was dashing and gallant, well dressed, graceful and fairly well mannered. He had not taken a challenge to the death in years. Hugo was a coward. Richard knew it, and a few others guessed it, but they kept their mouths shut because of Ginnie and the money he was making. Hugo's nerve had broken years ago, at a time when he was still fighting dangerous fights. He could have turned to alcohol to see him through a few more duels before it betrayed him; but Ginnie Vandall had seen the possibilities in Hugo and turned him from that path to a more lucrative one.

Richard appreciated Hugo. Now that St Vier's reputation was flourishing, the nobles were always after him to take dull jobs that challenged nothing except his patience. Richard turned them over to Hugo, and Hugo was glad. Hugo's income was steadier; but when a man was marked for killing, or a point needed to be made in blood, it was St Vier they wanted, and they paid him what he asked.

'Everyone here', Richard prompted, 'seems to think he's a lord. Except Mistress Rosalie. What would you say?'

Hugo's flush was just discernible in the dim light. 'Hard to tell. He had the manner. But then, he might have been putting it on. He glared in Alec's direction. 'Some do, you know.'

'Let's face it,' said Rodge; 'we wouldn't know him if it was Halliday himself. Who's ever seen any of 'em up close?'

'I have,' said Alec coolly. Richard held his breath, wondering if his proud companion were going to declare himself.

'Lucky you! Where? Was he handsome?'

'At University,' Alec said. 'He came and spoke after there'd been a riot over the city's tearing down some student lodgings. He promised to found a scholarship and some new whorehouses. He was very well received: we carried him on our shoulders, and he kicked me in the ear.' They laughed appreciatively at that, but Alec seemed unaffected by his new popularity. He said sourly, 'Of course you'll never see Halliday here. There are too many important people who want to kill him already; why should he come down here and let just anyone do it for free?' Alec slung his cloak around his shoulders. 'Richard, I'm off. Let me know if the eyepatch changes eyes.'

'Don't you want to stay and see for yourself?'

'No. I do not.'

Alec made his way across the tavern with his usual posture: head thrust forward, shoulders slumped, as though he were expecting to run into something. Richard looked curiously after him. After the fight at the Old Market Alec was probably safe enough on the streets, but his mood seemed strange, and Richard wondered what had made him leave so suddenly. He thought he'd go after him, just to ask; just to see what he'd say and listen to him talk in that creamy voice... the one-eyed messenger could come again tomorrow night if he really wanted him. Richard excused himself and hurried after Alec, who had stopped in front of the door as it opened inward. A tall man in a black felt hat came in. Alec looked up sharply at him, then brushed past, almost elbowing him aside in his haste to get up the stairs. Richard was about to follow when the man removed his hat, brushing snow off the crown. His left eye was covered with a black patch. He had turned his whole head to look over his shoulder after Alec. Then he slammed the door shut behind him, and turned and saw Richard.

'Dear me,' he said wearily, 'I hope you're not another unemployed swordsman.'

'Well, I am, actually,' said Richard.

'I'm afraid my needs are quite specific'

'Yes, I know,' he answered. 'You wanted St Vier.'

'That is correct.'

Richard indicated an empty table. 'Would you like to sit by the fire?'

The man's mouth froze in the act of opening; then it stretched into a smile, a speaking smile that conveyed understanding. 'No,' he said courteously, 'thank you. If you won't be too cold there, I would prefer a corner where we will not be disturbed.'

They found one, between a support-beam and the wall. Richard folded himself neatly into his seat, and the stranger followed, taking care with the placement of his clothes and the end of his sword. It was an old-fashioned, heavy sword with an ornate basket handle. Carrying it exposed him to the danger of a challenge, but not carrying it left him looking more vulnerable than he would wish.

The man's face was long and narrow, with a dark, definite jawline, heavily shadowed. Above it his skin was pale, even for winter. The cord of his eyepatch disappeared into hair as dark as a crow's plumage.

Unbidden, Rosalie brought two mugs to the table. The one-eyed gentleman waved them away. 'Let us have wine. Have you no sack? Canary?'

The tavern mistress nodded mutely, and snatched the beer-mugs back. Richard could have told him that Rosalie's wine was sour, her sherry watered; but no one had asked him.

'So you're St Vier,' the man said.

'Yes.' The stranger's face went opaque as he scrutinised the swordsman. None of them could ever resist doing it. Richard waited politely as the man took in his youth, his uneven good looks, the calm of his hands on the table before him. He was beginning to think this was going to be one of the ones who said, 'You're hardly what I expected,' and try to proposition him. But the stranger only nodded curtly. He looked down at his own gloved hands, and back at Richard.

'I can offer you 60,' he said softly.

It was a very nice sum. Richard shrugged. 'I'd have to know more about it first.'

'One challenge - to the death. Here in the city. I don't think you can quarrel with that.'

'I only quarrel on commission,' Richard said lightly.

The man's lips thinned out to a smile. 'You're an agreeable man. And an efficient one. I saw you fight off two men at Lord Horn's party.'

'You were there?' Richard hoped it might be a preface to his identity; but the man only answered, 'I had the fortune to witness the fight. It's a mystery to everyone still, what the whole thing was about.' His one eye glinted sharply; Richard took the hint, and returned it: 'I'm afraid I can't tell you that. Part of my work is to guard my employers' secrets.'

'And yet you let them employ you without any contract.'

Richard leaned back, entirely at ease. He had a fair idea of where this was going now. 'Oh, yes, I insist on that. I don't like having my business down on paper in someone's drawer.'

'But you open yourself up to a great deal of danger that way. Should any of your duels be investigated, there is no written proof that you are anything but a casual murderer.'

St Vier smiled, and shrugged. 'That's why I'm careful who I work for. I give my patrons my word to do the job and to keep quiet about it; they have to be trusted to know what they're doing, and back me up if need be. In the long run, most people find they prefer it that way.'

Rosalie returned with two dusty pewter goblets and a flagon of acidic wine. The man waited until she had gone before saying, 'I'm glad to hear you say so. I've heard your word is good. That arrangement is suitable.'

When he drew off one of his gloves, the expensive scent of ambergris drifted up. His large hand was as creamy and well tended as a woman's. And when he lifted the flagon to pour out the wine, Richard saw the marks of rings still pale on his bare fingers. 'I am prepared to pay you 30 in advance.'

Richard raised his eyebrows. No point in pretending that half in advance wasn't unusually generous. 'You're kind,' he said.

'Then you accept?'

'Not without more information.'

'Ah.' The man leaned back, and drained half his cup. Richard admired the self-control that let him lower it from his lips without an expression of disgust. 'Tell me,' he asked, 'who was that tall man I passed, coming in?'

'I've no idea,' Richard lied.

'Why do you refuse my offer?'

Richard said in the comradely tone that had so bemused Lord Montague over his daughter's wedding, 'I don't know who you are, and I don't know who the mark is. You can offer me all 60 in advance, I still can't give you my word on it.'

The gentleman's eye glared at him with the intensity of two. But he kept the rest of his face blandly civil, contriving even to look a bit bored. 'I understand your need for caution,' he said. 'I think I can set some of your fears to rest.' Slowly, almost provocatively, he removed his other glove.