Goblin Moon (36 page)

“Always remembering,” Jarl Skogsrå put in, with a
slight baring of his teeth, “that Miss Elsie Vorder is reserved for
me.”

Baron Vodni made a dismissive gesture. “And you are
entirely welcome to her, so far as I am concerned. I hasten to
assure you that she is not to my taste. The other one, however—so
handsome and spirited as she appears to be—I find myself enchanted,
thoroughly enchanted. With the Gracious Lady’s permission, I should
like very much to become better acquainted with Miss Seramarias
Vorder.”

“And so you shall,” said the Duchess, obviously
pleased. “So you must. I confess that I had hoped a mutual
attraction might develop. By all means, become friends with her,
win her trust if you can. Perhaps then she will confide in you.

“Although I must warn you,” she added, with a
mischievous sidelong glance at the Jarl, and a gurgle of laughter,
“that our friend Skogsrå would have us believe the girl a monster
of iniquity. A kind of agent sent to spy on us, and to rob me of
all that I own. That being so, you might wish to tread carefully.
The girl is clearly much deeper than you or I would ever
suspect.”

The Duchess and Vodni had time for a good laugh at
Skogsrå’s expense before they reached the Duke’s rooms. There, the
Duchess dismissed them both and disappeared inside the Duke’s
bedchamber. Skogsrå stood in the corridor, glaring at the door she
had just closed behind her.

“Now, what occasions this black look?” asked Vodni.
“Is it possible that you have designs on both of these girls—that
you intend to woo them both at the same time?”

“I intend nothing of the sort. I intend only to obey
the instructions of the Gracious Lady,” the Jarl replied, with an
air of great injury. “I do all as she instructs me, I am entirely
at her service, and yet she continually mocks me.
A monster of iniquity,
she says. And what is the
Duchess herself—requiring you to gain the young woman’s
confidence—and all this time you are both doing your utmost to
steal the secrets of her grandfather? If the girl spies on her, is
it any wonder?”

Vodni only laughed again. “Steal the secrets of her
grandfather? But how unjust of you to say so! The information we
have so far obtained was all bought and paid for, and this
Gottfried Jenk has been living on the Duchess’s bounty these many
weeks. I will admit that some deception has been necessary, and the
alchemist has been led to believe that it is the Duke who is his
benefactor, but as for stealing—“

“And is it not stealing to publish the results of his
experiments before the man Jenk is able to do so?” said Skogsrå.
“The Duchess wishes to claim all of the credit for herself. You
open your eyes . . . you feign surprise. Do you pretend that her
motives are not exactly as I have described them?”

“Pretend?” said Vodni, with another annoying laugh.
“I pretend nothing. The Duchess’s motives are purer than you guess.
She does not intend to publish the results of Jenk’s experiments;
she wishes to duplicate them. She wishes, my dear Skogsrå, to
become a mother.”

The Jarl’s amazement was written on his face.

“But yes, I promise you that this is so,” said Vodni.
He turned away from the door and started briskly down the corridor,
forcing the Jarl, who wished to hear more, to lengthen his own
limping gait in order to keep up with him. “These half-blood
fairies—even three-quarter fays like the Duchess—they generally
have difficulty producing children of their own. Some families are
more fortunate than others: their children are few but the line
breeds true. But for the less fortunate, well, conception itself is
easy, they are as prolific as rabbits, but their offspring are
often so poorly made that they die in the womb—or emerge so
grotesquely deformed, so wildly eccentric in their appearance, they
bear no resemblance to either race.

“It is because they are so very much worse than
barren that some of these hybrid fairies take a burning interest in
such matters as childbirth, infants, and naming ceremonies,” he
added. “It is the reason they are so eager to offer themselves as
godparents.”

The Jarl sneered nastily. “And arrange such marriages
for their godchildren as the Duchess wishes to arrange for Elsie
Vorder? It is a wonder that the mothers and fathers of these
infants should be so gullible.”

Vodni gave a slight shake of his head. “The Duchess
is no one’s godmother—certainly not Miss Elsie Vorder’s. I do not
perfectly understand why she pretends that she is. Nor has the
Gracious Lady any living children—not by the Duke, or by any of the
other Men, fairies, gnomes, or dwarves she has taken as her lovers
over the years. I beg your pardon: not any children that she is
prepared to acknowledge. And so she is obsessed, obsessed with this
idea that, even though she cannot bear a child, she can at least
play a part in creating a homunculus—a tiny, tiny child, but
otherwise perfect.”

The Jarl continued to sneer. “Very affecting. Yes,
you spin an affecting tale, my dear Vodni. But I am not so certain
that I am ready to believe it.”

“Believe what you please,” Lord Vodni invited him
cordially. “But do not be hasty in drawing your conclusions,
particularly where the Gracious Lady is concerned. She is
considerably more complex, my friend, than you seem to think.”

Chapter
30

In which Our hitherto Resourceful hero finds his
Powers severely Taxed.

The Sultan’s Jewelbox was a high-class brothel and
bagnio on the eastern bank of the Lunn, catering to a large
clientele. The girls were comely, clean, and amiable, the oriental
baths luxurious, and the suppers served there both elegant and
cheap. The riverside location was particularly advantageous,
allowing the proprietor to run a lucrative business on the side: a
traffic in opium, illegal spirits, and other contraband goods.
Moreover, his girls were discreet—he made very certain of that—for
those who gave evidence of seeing or saying too much had a habit of
disappearing.

Of the origins of the man, little was known: he
dressed like a gentleman, swore like a sailor, drank like a fish,
whored like—In brief, his appearance was good but his habits
deplorable. He went by the name of Mr. Jagst.

To the Jewelbox one warm evening came a man with a
nautical gait, a hard-looking rascal with a number of scars seaming
his face, though he dressed like a man of considerable means. He
presented himself at the door, giving his name as Captain Melville,
and was promptly escorted to a boxlike room at the top of the
house, a room of bare boards and broken-down furniture.

Mr. Jagst greeted him, thin-lipped and grey-eyed, and
coldly invited him to take a seat on a low settle located next to
the door. Mr. Jagst was seated in a spindle-legged chair by the
fireplace, with a decanter of brandy and two glasses on a table
beside him.

“I do not believe we have met before, though word of
your exploits precedes you through our mutual acquaintance,” said
Mr. Jagst. “But I am interested to hear rather more about your
ship.”

Captain Melville removed his tricorn and held it to
his breast.
“Fancy’s Fool,
your worship,
as trim a sloop as you could wish for to see. A hundred tons with a
shallow draught and—“

“And accordingly very fast,” said Mr. Jagst. “But can
she fight—as in the instance of an encounter with excise men? How
many cannon does she boast?”

“She prefers to run, not fight, sir—that’s cheaper in
the end—but she’s equipped with six cannon and four swivels guns,”
the Captain replied earnestly. “She could carry more, but ‘twould
slow her down. I makes my money delivering goods cheap, fast, and
secret.”

“Yes . . .” said the pimp, looking him over very
carefully and comparing his rough way of speaking with his
prosperous appearance. “And apparently successfully. But the goods
I ship are often quite expensive; they require a certain amount of
care. And the young women, in particular, their value depends on
whether they reach their destination intact—they are examined
before they are bought and paid for. Will you be able to discipline
your men?”

Captain Melville grinned, displaying strong yellow
teeth. “Trust me for that, your worship.”

Mr. Jagst poured a glass of brandy and handed it to
his visitor. “That sounds satisfactory, so far as it goes. But are
they discreet? Can you depend on the lot of them not to talk too
much while they are in port?”

“Better than discreet,” said the Captain, his grin
broadening. “My whole crew is men from the Isle of Mawbri—they
don’t speak a word of your local lingo. Not a single word.”

Mr. Jagst looked gratified. He poured a glass of
brandy for himself. “I believe, Captain Melville, that we can do
business.”

They spent an hour in negotiations, during which time
Captain Melville made rather free with the liquor, and they
hammered out a deal rather more advantageous to Mr. Jagst than
might have been the case had the Captain been sober.

Pleased by these arrangements, Jagst unbent
sufficiently to escort his new associate to the top of the stairs.
“A pleasure to do business with you, sir,” said the Captain.

“And with you,” replied the pimp. “I have an idea we
may be about to embark on a very lucrative association.”

“It won’t be my fault if it ain’t!” said the Captain,
with a rather boozy grin.
“Fancy’s Fool
shall prove our fortune, Mr. Jagst, I warrent you!”

Mr. Jagst watched his visitor’s unsteady progress
down the stairs, standing in the hall at the top of the steps.
“Well, well,” said a jocular voice. “Quite a surprise? Yes, quite a
surprise.”

Mr. Jagst glanced down to the end of the hall. A
decidedly disheveled Lord Krogan stood there in his breeches and
his shirt sleeves, leaning against a door frame. “Now, what did you
and his lily-white lordship find to talk about?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Jagst. “I don’t quite
understand . . .”

“The fellow was here just a moment past, the man you
spoke to a minute since,” said Krogan. His wig had slipped down
over one ear, the back of his shirt was hanging out behind, and one
of his stockings drooped down around his ankles. Mr. Jagst regarded
him with ill-disguised disdain.

“You are referring, I take it, to my late visitor,
Captain Melville?”

Lord Krogan began to chuckle. “Captain Melville . . .
was that what he told you? Blister me! His bleeding lordship’s a
liar as well as a hypocrite.”

Mr. Jagst frowned at him. “You are telling me that
the man who was just here was not exactly as he presented himself
to be?” Mr. Jagst narrowed his eyes. “But you are perhaps a little
tipsy, Lord Krogan. Is it possible that you have mistaken the
Captain for somebody else?”

“Not likely,” said Krogan, all his good humor gone in
an instant. “I grant you there was something queer about his face
and his manner of speaking, but I knew the voice—I couldn’t be
mistaken about the voice.”

He took several steps down the narrow hallway, and
Mr. Jagst was forced to conclude that he was probably not so very
drunk as it might appear. “You tell me,” said Lord Krogan.
“Supposing you found yourself, one fine night, on a dark, deserted
lane, with the point of a rapier pricking your throat, and the man
behind it very white and very grim, threatening to hamstring and
geld you if you ever again put your tongue to the name of a certain
young woman—would
you
be inclined,
thereafter, to forget or mistake his voice?”

Mr. Jagst considered very carefully before he
answered. “No, Lord Krogan, I am under the impression that I would
not.

“But if not captain of the sloop
Fancy’s Fool—
then who is this man, and how does he
occupy himself when not lurking in the dark, championing nameless
young women, and making horrid threats? His lordship, you
said?”

Lord Krogan adjusted his wig. “Thought I told you his
name before: ‘twas Francis Love Skelbrooke, the Imbrian poet.”

Two nights later, according to their agreement,
“Captain Melville” returned to the Jewelbox to make the final
arrangements. But when the servant ushered him into the attic room,
he found Mr. Jagst awaiting him with a brace of pistols in his
hands, and two rough-looking seamen flanking the door.

Hardly had the visitor expressed his surprise at this
irregular reception, when one of the sailors pulled his arms behind
him and bound them with a short length of rope.

“Good evening, Lord Skelbrooke,” said Mr. Jagst. “It
is so very kind of you to visit me, for it spared me the trouble of
having you brought.”

“Guess you’ve made some sort of a mistake,” said the
prisoner. “Don’t reckon I know who you’ve taken me for, but—“

“Spare me these protests,” said Mr. Jagst, “I am
informed that the face you are wearing is in fact not your own.
Having some experience in these matters, I am aware these spells
can seldom be maintained when the magician is subjected to great
pain or distress.”

Though the evening was sultry, a small fire was
smoking on the hearth. Mr. Jagst picked up a poker and thrust it
into the heart of the flames. “Call it morbid curiosity if you
will, but I have conceived a strong desire to see what you actually
look like.” He spoke curtly to the two sailors. “Remove his shoes
and his stockings.”

This, however, was only accomplished after a long and
furious struggle. Yet eventually it was done, and Jagst’s seagoing
minions bound the still resisting prisoner to the chair, then
tipped it back and held it in place.

By that time, the tip of the iron was glowing red. “I
must say, you are very good at this. The mere prospect would be
sufficient to make most men lose their concentration.” Mr. Jagst
moved in closer, poker in hand. “Almost . . . you have me
convinced.”