All The King's-Men (The Yellow Hoods, #3) (20 page)

“It will do,” said the woman, settling the matter.

He led the way through the maze of tall bookcases to a pair of maroon velvet chairs. He stiffened as he realized that only one of them had a side-table.

She gracefully maneuvered around Simon and sat in the chair with the side-table. “Sit,” she said, gesturing with a red nail-polished hand. “I know how much you enjoy that seat.”

Simon stared at the empty seat uncomfortably. He was repulsed by the idea of sitting where he’d planted others and tormented them. He kicked himself for having chosen the wrong sitting area. 

“Simon?” asked the woman. There was a familiarity in her tone that surprised him.

He scratched the back of his head as he tried to think of a different solution. Finding none, he sat.

The woman leaned forward. “Isn’t that better? Now we can discuss the Abeland problem. You know how critical it was to our plans that you handle this properly, and yet, you made a mess of things. This needs to be addressed anew, doesn’t it?” she asked venomously.

Simon’s face went white, and he bowed his head. 

“Please, Simon. Don’t you expect us to know such things? We have ears everywhere. We have news run on the wind back to us,” she said, gesturing about with red-nailed fingers. She watched the discomfort play out on Simon’s face. “I can see that I’m going to need to resolve the Abeland situation. You just aren’t filling me with confidence. It’ll be fun seeing him again; it’s been a long time.”

Simon nodded as he shifted in his seat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Cleeves coming with the tea tray. He gestured with his head for Cleeves to hurry up, and as Cleeves tried, he tripped and fell. The china dishes smashed, the metal tray clanged as it skidded on the marble floor, and tea and cream went everywhere. 

Simon’s face went red with rage, but he stayed anchored to the spot, glancing at the red-hooded woman.

The woman jumped up instinctively, her hood slipping back for a split-second, revealing a scarred, heart-shaped face. Her hair was black with streaks of gray. Her skin was blotchy, signs of an illness not long past. 

Simon stared at the floor, hoping she hadn’t noticed. His blood froze as he realized who the woman was, as impossible as it seemed. He couldn’t believe that he’d been coordinating his treachery with
her
. His mind was reeling at the implications. He, like everyone else, had thought her dead.

The woman hastily pulled her hood back up, glaring at Cleeves, who had been staring at her. She turned to face Simon, her eyes biting into his soul, her voice harsh and angry. “It’s that type of impatience, that type of incessant need to manipulate things, that will cost you greatly. Trust me when I say that the Fare has never allowed anyone to jeopardize its goals, not for hundreds of years.”

Simon didn’t move a muscle. He’d seen over the years what they did to anyone they were displeased with, and it chilled him to the bone.

The red-hooded woman watched Cleeves trying to pick up the pieces, settling herself. After a minute or two, she said, “This will cost you, Simon. You will get instructions shortly.” She turned and left.

Simon listened to the subtle sound of her soft boots gliding along the floor towards the main doors. His mind was like a clogged machine. He couldn’t get past the realization of who she was.

“Oh,” said the woman sweetly. She had paused by the door. “I have a present for you. A little thank-you for helping convince Richelle to create her Order of the Red Hoods, which allowed us to walk out in the open.” There was the familiar sound of a brass tube being dropped on a worktable somewhere in the study. “It seems that someone got their hands on some interesting plans in Palais. Plans from one Nikolas Klaus. We expect you’ll be able to give us a written report on them in a few weeks. If you can’t have it done by then, well, you’ll have answered the question of whether or not there is a role for you in the next phase of our plans.” 

Simon, his hands in his lap, stared at the floor. “Thank you,” he said grudgingly. “I will not fail you.”

“No, you won’t, and it was no trouble,” said the woman. “We’ll be in touch.”

As the library door closed, Simon let out a huge sigh and put his head in his hands. How had his reckless desire to become the master of the grand game turned him into a pawn? The last of the petty victories, like tormenting Abeland, were now meaningless. He couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter who won in the end, he was going to lose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Not a Moment to Breathe

“That was a nice horse you gave them,” said Abeland, turning to Bakon. 

They’d parted ways with the woman and her father twenty minutes before, as Abeland and Bakon turned on to a dirt road that bent away from the Belnian capital of Relna. Bakon shrugged. “They needed it more than I did.” 

Abeland nodded. “Are you typically a good man?”

Bakon shrugged again. “I don’t know. Sometimes.”

“Ah, there’s my abode,” said Abeland, pointing to a white manor as it came into view.

“Not exactly a humble one,” said Bakon, realizing it was enormous.

“Nor my most immodest one, either,” replied Abeland, smiling. He found himself regularly glancing at Bakon, trying to figure out where he knew his face from.

“You should have gone with them. The woman seemed interested in you,” said Abeland. 

 “I’ve got a—” Bakon stopped his answer and mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about it. So this is your place? Is anyone even home?”

As Bakon got closer, he realized that the manor was smaller than he’d first thought; but still, it was a stately home with a sense of grandeur. The gardens in front of the house were overgrown, with some weeds more than four feet tall.

“Well, the gardener isn’t, that’s for certain,” said Abeland, grinning.

“How’s your breathing doing?” asked Bakon, stopping and scanning around for anything to be concerned about.

“I’m doing okay. Some of the tightness in my chest is slowly returning,” said Abeland, stopping for a moment. “It seems Simon’s lack of chemistry skill is helping me, for once. He simply doubled the concentration, which was very much what I needed. He could have created something truly nasty. I’ll have to repay him for that one day.”

Bakon wondered who Simon was, but figured it best not to ask. He was certain that Abeland hadn’t fully recovered yet from the drug. He couldn’t imagine a man like him letting a name slip by accident, and wasn’t sure what he’d do if he realized his mistake. During the walk with the woman and old man, Abeland had demonstrated his charm and ability to answer questions with as little actual information about himself as possible. Every now and then he’d slipped, often having a momentarily confused look on his face.

“I should warn you,” said Abeland, stepping in front of Bakon. “There might be a very angry—”

“Abeland? Is that you?” screamed a woman’s voice from a second-floor window.

“—woman,” finished Abeland, turning around. “Never mind. By the way, thanks for saving my life. You might need to do it again in a moment,” he said half-jokingly.

A woman in a light-blue dress with curly, light-brown hair came racing out of the house. “Abeland! How dare you—what happened to you?”

Abeland smiled uncomfortably. He had originally planned to be away for six months, instead of the year and a half he’d been gone. He was honestly surprised to find her home, given the remarks she’d made when he left. She’d waited for Abeland to drop the secrecy around their relationship and marry her, and he hadn’t been ready. That, however, now seemed like thoughts of a different man altogether.

Scratching his beard, Abeland said, “Hello, Lana. I would have been home earlier, but Simon and some old friends asked me to hang around for a bit… in prison. I just decided I’d had enough and needed to come home. I guess I lost track of time.”

Lana curled her lip and glanced at Bakon quizzically.

Bakon took the cue and extended his hand. “My name is Bakon Cochon.”

“Ha!” snapped Lana. “You couldn’t have made up a more fake name?”

Bakon clenched his jaw. “It’s my name.”

“Oh,” replied Lana, embarrassed.

Abeland nodded towards Bakon. “This man saved my life, so if you’re done making him regret it, I’d love to go inside. I need a shower, a shave, and a good meal.” Abeland gestured forwards.

“Well, we only have one cook left,” said Lana, turning to go.

“Is it Margaret?” asked Abeland hopefully.

“No, it’s Alfonso,” retorted Lana.

“Hmm, maybe leaving the prison before lunch was a bad idea,” sighed Abeland.

Bakon was about to wipe his mouth with his hand when he caught a glimpse of Abeland using a napkin. Remembering his manners, he found a napkin and wiped his face properly.

He sat across the rugged kitchen table from Abeland. The kitchen was bigger than Bakon’s house, with white cabinets that went up to the twelve-foot-high ceiling. The blue walls gave the room a sense of warmth.

The shower had been an interesting experience and taken a few minutes to get right. He knew none of the servants would complain about the mess he’d made, but wondered what they’d say to each other. The guest room was so grand that Bakon found it hard to imagine why someone would build something so big. 

The shirt Abeland had loaned Bakon fit remarkably well, which surprised Abeland. He hadn’t noticed how similar their height and build were. He examined Bakon’s eerily familiar face, now clean-shaven, and wondered.

Abeland folded his napkin and placed it on his empty plate. “Something’s on your mind, and I’m guessing it’s not having a third one of Alfonso’s tasty sandwiches.”

Bakon smiled and gazed at his crumb-filled plate. “No, that was amazing. I was worried when you made those comments outside.”

Abeland smiled. “Well, if I’d said it was going to be excellent, you might have expected something greater than you got. There’s a lot to the psychology of things that one should consider.”

There was something in the way Abeland said that last sentence that reminded him of the way that Nikolas usually spoke. Bakon looked up from his plate. “I’m trying to find someone,” he said uncomfortably.

Abeland snapped his fingers, getting Alfonso’s attention. He waved him away.

Bakon glanced over his shoulder at the departing servant. “I didn’t mean—”

“Now that I’m cleaned up and have had a reasonably good meal, I have some of my better habits coming back to me. Making sure there are no unintended ears is one of them. Now, before we start talking, I need a dose of my breathing medicine. Care to accompany me to my den?”

They walked through the grand, echoing corridors of the manor, arriving at the oak double doors of the den. Opening them revealed a room with bookcases lining the walls, two chairs, and a fireplace. 

In the middle of the room was a huge wooden chair, reinforced with steel. It had two bronze arms that held a huge metallic-and-glass helmet, with ribbed tubes coming out of it. The tubes connected to a desk-sized apparatus with levers and buttons that sat behind the huge chair.

“Before you ask—no, it is not some type of torture device,” said Abeland, smiling. “This is my breathing machine. It infuses the medicine I make directly into my lungs and exercises them.” He stared disappointedly at three pegs on the wall where his custom-designed monocles would normally be. He wondered what Lana had done with them.

 “How often do you need to use this?” asked Bakon, trying to make heads or tails of the machine.

Abeland thought back. It had been a while. “I was using it about twice a month previously. I had a version of this I brought with me to Jannia. I’m not sure what happened to it. I have another one at my father’s main house outside of Teutork. I’ll need to use it every couple of days to stretch my lungs and force the medicine into them. After about a month, I should be able to reduce the frequency.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Bakon, curious.

“It’s uncomfortable but—”

Suddenly, there was a loud rumble.

Bakon and Abeland looked at each other.

“That sounded like—” said Abeland.

“A cannon,” finished Bakon, his eyes wide.

Abeland ran over to one of the bookcases and flipped down a fake shelf of books. He quickly moved his finger along a dozen fluid-filled vials.

 “Maybe this one,” he said to himself, taking one and holding it up to the gas light. “No, too old.” He rifled through the other vials. “They’re all too old.” He flipped the shelf back up and shook his head.

“Are you going to be okay?” asked Bakon, wishing he’d kept the pistol from the thugs.

“Only one way to find out,” said Abeland, hurrying out of the den, a hand on his chest as it started to constrict. 

Abeland and Bakon ran through the corridors to the main hall, where they found soldiers and a smoking cannon. The front entrance had been blown to pieces.

Lana was standing with the soldiers. “There he is!” she yelled. “I want him dead!”

Skidding on the black marble floor, Abeland grabbed Bakon by the shoulder and pulled him back into the corridor. “I guess she’s a bit more mad than I’d thought. Head for the den!”