Falconer's Quest Page 12

  “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.

  Chapter 17

  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.

  “Easy now.” Falconer did not test the man’s strength. He did not need to. The servant was wide-eyed and trembling with terror. Keeping his voice level but stern, Falconer said, “You would not want that to go off and hurt someone.”

  He doubted the man understood him. Nor did it matter. For the fight was not in him. Falconer removed the pistol, a long-barreled gun with a handle chased in silver. He held the waiter by his collar and trained the gun at a figure seated in a thronelike chair. The ivory mouthpiece of another water pipe dangled from an astonished open mouth. A young woman in Arab dress of balloon leggings sought enough air to scream. “Tell her to be quiet.”

  But Raban was too astonished to speak.

  “You. Come here.” When the woman did not move, Falconer instead pulled the servant forward by his collar. The servant protested weakly, but only until Falconer glared a warning. He forced the servant behind Raban’s chair. With the gun trained on their master, he used his other hand to press first the servant and then the young woman down u
ntil they were seated upon the floor.

  “You…you can’t be here.”

  “But I am.” Falconer stepped back until he rested against the side wall, able to observe both the trio and the entrance. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “My men—”

  “Are on their way to the ship. Where they will engage in some scheme you have cooked up.” A bird with a bell attached to one claw flitted about a gilded cage. The cage was suspended from a ceiling beam, between two silver oil lamps. A lute rested on the wall beside a cushion, where no doubt the young woman was intended to sit and entertain her master. Falconer could not help but ask, “Is she a slave?”

  The eyes hooded over. “Don’t tell me you are one of those.” Raban obviously was trying to gain control of the situation.

  “I take that as a yes.”

  “What an utterly wasted sentiment. She is quite happy as she is.” When Raban adjusted himself in his seat, Falconer’s pistol followed every movement.

  He resisted the urge to argue further. “To the matter at hand.”

  “Indeed.” Raban’s hiss returned, no doubt now certain Falconer was not there to do him harm. “I assume you are here to make plans to enrich yourself.”

  “On the contrary. To enrich you.” Falconer slipped out a leather purse and tossed it over. Raban squealed in genuine fear until he heard it clank when it hit the carpet at his feet. “Open it.”

  The merchant untied the knot and released a stream of gold into his lap. His robe was ornate and chased in silver thread, though pale in contrast to the coins in his lap.

  “Two hundred and fifty sovereigns,” Falconer said.

  Raban let the coins clink between his fingers. The young woman murmured softly. Raban smiled in her direction, a humorless gesture, one that boded ill. The woman either did not notice or chose not to care. Raban glanced at Falconer, his gray eyes scornful. “Here, I shall show you how happy are my little band.”

  “Slavery is outlawed in France.”

  “But this is not France, John Falconer. This is Le Panier.” Raban handed out a coin each, first to the servant and then to the girl. Raban allowed the young woman to capture his hand and kiss it in gratitude. “Do they appear sorrowful to you, John Falconer?”

  Falconer’s voice grated with the strain of keeping his anger tamped down. “Either you will return my gold or you will agree to my terms.”

  “But of course, John Falconer.” He turned Falconer’s first name into the French counterpart, Jean. “Only tell me what you wish. If it is within my grasp…”

  “How long will it take you to get word to La Rue?”

  “Three days, four at the most.” He returned his attention to the young woman, stroking the side of her face, mocking Falconer with his eyes. “Why?”

  The young woman’s eyes were as void of life and hope as any Falconer had ever seen. His former sorrow and guilt and rage now fueled a cauldron within his heart. “Tell La Rue exactly this. We will rendezvous with him ten miles off the coast of Tunis. He will bring the two captives. We will exchange them for gold.”

  Raban continued stroking the woman’s face as he faked consideration. The woman stared into the nothingness before her, her face a thousand years old.

  Raban said, “La Rue will not come alone, John Falconer.”

  Falconer gave no indication this was exactly what he was intending. “We will then pay you the same amount again upon our return, so long as the two captives are safe and unharmed.”

  Chapter 18

  The next six days passed pleasantly enough. Harkness permitted his men to disembark to go into Marseilles in groups of at least two, preferably three, when not on watch. The officers, as well as Amelia Henning and the master, never set one foot on land alone. Sailors could not bear arms in a foreign port, but no one could force them to give up their billy clubs or working knives. These they wore in plain view. Ordered to remain outside the Panier district, they all were able to avoid trouble.

  Each day Falconer took Matt out for a walk about Marseilles. They visited the emperor’s museum, which was largely given over to prizes taken from Napoleon’s various conquests overseas. They visited ancient churches. They ate in a trio of restaurants. They watched the people. On the sixth day, their last but one at port, Falconer packed a rucksack with provisions and told Matt he would walk the young lad’s legs off. Matt took it as the challenge that it was, responding with a brilliant smile, the first since they had docked in the city. The expression drew Ada into a clarity Falconer had not known for several weeks, sharp and strong enough that he felt anew the dagger of loss.

  Four of them left the ship, father and son accompanied by Soap and Bivens. The two sailors claimed nothing would suit them better than a chance to walk in a straight line until their strength gave way.

  They left the city by the so-called northwestern gate, though in truth the city’s medieval walls were little more than crumbling relics. Owners of outlying homes had stolen stones from the fortifications, leaving holes big enough to send armies through. Beyond the gate was yet another market, this one for regional farmers who displayed heaps of late fruit and bleating animals and ropes of fresh-made sausages. There they purchased a loaf of rosemary-scented flatbread, a chunk of glistening cheese, and fresh-churned butter. They followed a road that ran through a copse of trees before joining with the first of the neighboring slopes. They finally halted when a pair of hills and valleys separated them from the port. The day was clear, the clouds shepherded by a wind fresh enough to dry Falconer’s sweat as soon as it was formed. They took their water from a swift-flowing stream that meandered through the valley.

  The meal completed, Falconer and Matt left their friends lolling beneath an elm and started slowly up the next slope. Sheep bleated in the pastures to either side of the road. Further east, flax grew upon the hillside beneath a crest of blooming myrtle. At least Falconer thought it was flax, with its silver face revealed under the rising wind. Falconer reckoned it late for the myrtle to be in full bloom, but the months ran differently here, he thought. Falconer had sailed the Med any number of times and knew it possessed a woman’s lovely ability to reveal an astonishing variety of moods and seasons.

  Falconer waited until Matt selected a seat upon a likely looking log to say, “There’s been something I’ve meant to ask you about, lad.” He planted a boot on the log beside his son. “But shipboard life means that private conversations are hard to come by. If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak about it now.”

  He knew he was speaking too formally. But truth be told, he had no idea how to broach such a subject with the boy. It was one of many areas where he sorely felt his lack of experience with children. “The day you climbed to the topsails, when you came down, you spoke of harboring fears. Do you remember that, lad?”

  Matt squinted into the distance. The earth dropped away from their perch, tumbling down to where a creek glistened silver and a dusty road climbed the next hillside. He might have nodded. Or perhaps he simply drew himself in more tightly.

  Falconer plugged forward determinedly. “I was wondering—that is, would you care to speak with me about the fears you hold?”

  A bird not far different from a robin took up station in a neighboring oak. Falconer hoped the birdsong would not be the only response. Finally the boy spoke in a voice that blended with the wind. “Sometimes I don’t know why I’m afraid.”

  “And other times?”

  “I remember losing Mama.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll leave you alone, son?” Falconer resisted the urge to take Matt in a massive embrace. “I have given my word to Reginald Langston that I would try and help free Lillian’s son. But I have other oaths that I must fulfill. Some to God, others to Ada. I confess that it is difficult at times to balance them. This has become one point that I pray most over. That and a true answer to our quests, most especially the one you and I share together. But say the word, son, and I will retreat from the quest to rescue the prisoners.�
��

  Matt turned and looked at him. “Has God ever spoken to you, Father John?”

  Of all the things he might have expected to hear from Matt, this was not one of them. “Aye.”

  “What was it like?”

  Falconer took his time walking around the log. He slowly settled down beside his son. “Do you remember Serafina? Of course you do. I once asked her the very same thing. She told me that God spoke to her most clearly in the small, quiet moments of life, and the most ordinary parts of her day. I do not think I ever heard God’s voice any clearer than in the love your dear mother gave to me every day of her life on earth.”

  Matt rubbed at his eyes, two swift motions. “I’ve been so angry with God.”

  “I can well understand that, Matt.”

  “At first I thought the bad storm was because of me.”

  Falconer comprehended the boy’s words all too well. He selected his words carefully. “If God chose to punish us for all the times we fail to act as we should, especially when life delivers its blows, I would be the first to reap the whirlwind.”

  This time, Matt’s nod was more fully formed. “I knew it was wrong to think like I did. Master Soap, he was scared too. That’s why I sang. And I saw I couldn’t be angry or scared and still be able to sing. I could be one way or the other. Not both. Master Soap thought I sang for him. But I sang for me, Father John.”

  Falconer found it necessary to clear his throat. “Is that why you sang for Mrs. Henning?”

  “No…well, yes. In a way. In the storm, I saw how singing helped me push away the anger and the fear. No, not push…”

  “You made a choice,” Falconer suggested. “The singing held you to your chosen course.”

  “I sang for Mrs. Henning because I wanted to help her hold to God in spite of her worries over Kitty.” Matt glanced over, his tight gaze fashioned by staring toward the westering sun. “Did I do right, Father John?”