Heir of Thunder (Stormbourne Chronicles Book 1) (21 page)

The wagon trundled along the cobblestone streets of Pecia,
bumping and jarring. I rubbed intimate hips and shoulders with my companions.
No one spoke, but their downturned mouths and flashing eyes conveyed misery and
anger.

Thankfully, the ride was short. The driver’s voice carried
through the wooden walls of our wagon when he called his horses to a halt and
shouted to our escorts. Tension and nervousness swelled in our little hold, and
the Fantazikes looked at each other with worried glances. The wagon’s iron
gates swung open, and the hinges squealed like a high-pitched alarm, announcing
our arrival.

The politzen jabbed rifles in our direction, ordering our
exit in gruff commands and gestures. When one younger Fantazike men tripped at
the wagon’s threshold and fell against a guard, another uniformed bully crashed
his rifle stock into the young man’s temple. Blood bloomed from the wound and
Gren’s legs crumpled.

I uttered a cry of protest. Someone else sobbed, but the politzen
shuffled everyone away before anyone formed a rebuttal for the boy’s mistreatment.
A large guardsman wrenched the young Fantizike from the road by his armpit and
dragged him away like a child might drag a stuffed dolly off to bed.

I was the last to mount an exit, but when I stepped forward
into the light of the streetlamp, two guards crossed their rifles in front of
me and pressed them against my thighs forcing me to take a step back or lose my
balance. I watched the last of my traveling companions trickle through the
stone arch doorway of the politzen headquarters. The tall rock and mortar
building peered ominously over the street in homage to Pecia’s penal system,
and urged all who entered to abandon their hope.

The leader of the politzen, the one who had been spat upon
at the Fantazike’s camp, appeared at the doorway of the wagon. “My dear,” he
said in accented Inselgrish. “I shall have the pleasure of your company for a
while longer. This is no place for a lady such as yourself, hmm?”

“What do you mean? Where are you taking me?” If I hoped for
rescue or release, it would have been with the Fantazikes when the rest of
their clan came to pay their fines and taxes. If the politzen separated me from
them, I would be alone and forgotten.

“Please take your seat, Madame. Your journey will be brief
and you shall find your accommodations much improved.” He dismissed me with a
curt nod.

I started to ask another question, but he turned and marched
away. The remaining guards slammed the iron gate, and the wagon started with a
jolt, setting me hard on my rear. I clenched the edge of my bench and closed my
eyes.

“Father, please...” I begged him with an unnamable plea. I
was anxious about my captivity before, but now, separated from the Fantazikes
and moving away from the jail, I couldn’t begin to guess what was in store for
me. A cold ball of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach.

The captain of the politzen had not lied when he said my
journey would be brief. We traveled a short distance and made only a few turns
before we stopped. The driver yelled something, and the protesting gate at the
rear of the wagon opened again.

The captain stood at the tailgate with his palm upraised,
waiting for me to accept his assistance. Several of his men had assembled
nearby holding weapons at their sides. No doubt they were loaded, primed, and
ready should I decide not to cooperate. The captain took my elbow as I stepped
down to a walkway lining the street in front of a row of impressive townhouses.
He motioned to one of his men who produced a ring of keys and removed my cuffs.

“This is the residence of Monsieur Ruelle
Thibodaux,”
the captain said. “You shall find his hospitality much more welcoming than what
you received among the Fantazikes.”

“The Fantazikes were perfect hosts.” I rubbed
my wrists. “I have no complaints.”

The captain snorted, but said nothing further
.
My gaze roamed over the broad expanse of Monsieur Ruelle Thibodaux’s
brownstone—
one of many located in a residential district unsullied by
the shadow of the politzen headquarters and jail.

Surrounded by the captain and his officers, I had no choice
but to follow when they moved en masse up the steps to the front door. The
captain lifted a big brass knocker threaded through the mouth of a grimacing
beast and pounded the wooden door. Moments later a shrunken old man in starched
livery and a dark suit opened the door, revealing a cavernous, but elegant
foyer behind him.

“Capitaine Trousseau,” the servant said in a grave voice. He
kept his eyes trained somewhere around the top of the captain’s knees.

Trousseau answered in Gallandic and said something
unmistakably commanding.

The butler nodded and motioned for us to enter. He led us
into a darkly paneled room lit by a dim, gas powered chandelier. A silk rug
woven in rich hues muffled our footsteps. The rooms smelled of tobacco smoke
and old paper, much like my father’s library.

The captain took hold of my shoulder and directed me toward
one of the velvet settees in the room. Two more seats like the one on which I
sat faced each other across a small, low table covered with a white lace cloth.
Several other chairs, high backed and covered in leather or stiff brocade,
squatted around the room. An imposing desk hunkered in the corner.

“Would you care for tea?” The butler asked in Inselgrish,
pausing as he made his way out of the room.

The captain shook his head. “No, just get Thibodaux. I do
not care to linger here any longer than necessary.” He removed his tall black
cap and carried it in the crook of his right arm. A long saber rested
ceremoniously at his hip and extended down to his knee, reaching to the top of
his tall black boot. He noticed me examining him, turned, and gave me a knowing
sort of sneer.

I dropped my gaze and studied my hands folded together in my
lap. In the prolonged silence, the ticking from a clock on the fireplace mantle
grew louder, keeping rhythm with the blood pounding in my ears. Questions
multiplied in my head until the barricade of my lips could no longer hold them
back. “Can you tell me nothing?”

Captain Trousseau canted his head and pursed his lips. “It
is not for me to say. I was given instructions and I have carried them out.”

“But who is
Thibodaux, and what does he want
with me?”

“Do not ask so many questions,” he said,
turning his back to me.

The clock ticked three hundred more times—I
counted each one—before the butler returned and held open the door for a large
man whose well-fed belly protruded before him.

“Captain Trousseau, I see you’ve performed
your duties with great efficacy as usual. Martin will see you out.” Thibodaux
spoke in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice that made him comical, but I didn’t
dare laugh, even if I had felt like it, which I didn’t.

He bowed and grasped Captain Trousseau’s hand,
exchanging a small envelope during the gesture. Trousseau nodded, tucked the
envelope in a pocket as he swept his cap back on his head and followed the
butler out of the room.

Ruelle Thibodaux turned and studied me for
several more ticks of the ominous mantle clock. Small eyes peered at me above a
bulbous nose and plump cheeks. His corpulence masked his age, but his dark gaze
indicated wisdom and experience. Although not a handsome man, something about
him struck me and grabbed my attention.

“M’lady,” he said, “would you prefer to be
addressed as Grace, or maybe Evelyn Stormbourne, or shall I go on and refer to
you as Lady Thunder, your rightful title?”

My mouth fell open. I choked and wheezed. To
be known so thoroughly by someone so utterly strange.... Thibodaux read my
confusion, the way my jaw hung open like a gasping fish, and he uttered a sound
that came out rather like a giggle in his feminine voice. I felt no inclination
to join in the levity.

“Your father never spoke of me at all?” He
frowned, pouted, and batted his eyes at me.

“N-no,” I stuttered, straining to get the word
out past my comatose tongue.

Thibodaux shrugged, which tightened the fabric
of his already straining suit coat. “It’s probably just as well. And I presume
you’ve never heard of
Le Poing Fermé
?”

I shook my head and stared, still dumbfounded.

“Ah, that is probably also just as well. You
undoubtedly have many questions, but I am in no mood to play your tutor today.
I have much business to attend to. Martin has prepared a room for you. He will
see to your needs.”
Thibodaux paused and scanned me from foot to head
and back down again. “I’ll have the maid find something more suitable for you
to wear. The Fantazike stink is thick upon you.”

With that, he sashayed from the room, moving with surprising
delicacy for a man of his size. Martin waited for me, but kept his eyes lowered
while I tried to pick my jaw back up from the floor.

“M’lady, if you will follow me,” Martin said when I
recovered my composure.

“I’m probably wasting my breath, asking you for information,
aren’t I?”

“Yes, but the room that Monsieur has selected for you is
comfortable and private should you need some time to collect your thoughts and
recuperate from the events of the afternoon.”

I rose to my feet, crossed the room to Martin’s side, and
devoured the pittance of sympathy he had thrown me. “I guess I don’t have any
better options, do I?”

Martin raised his eyes to mine for the briefest instant. He
looked away and shook his head. “No, m’lady. You do not.”

***

My bedroom window looked over an ornamental garden filled
with statues of nubile young bodies in athletic poses. A fountain in the center
gurgled, spitting out silvery water that reflected the moonlight. I had tried
opening my window when Martin first left me alone in the room hours ago, but it
wouldn’t budge. When I tried the door, I found it bolted. Too bad I had never
tried my hand at picking locks like the dexterous Morello, but I had never
lived in that kind of household. We never kept secrets at Fallstaff, or so I
had believed. Lately I had come to suspect my father had kept many things from
me.

True to his word, Thibodaux sent a maid to the room I now
occupied—a chamber furnished with a scrolled, wrought iron bed covered in a
silk duvet dyed a dusky sapphire that matched the rugs and brocade drapes. The
maid presented a bundle of clothing to me, but as I opened my mouth to refuse
them, the master of the house arrived at my door. He wore a formidable
glower—quite a feat for his fleshy features.

“Before you refuse,” he said, “and I can see by your
impudent stance and that livid look on your face that you indeed intend to
refuse, I will tell you that you have little choice in the matter. You will
find something appropriate to wear for a dinner in my home this evening. Guests
are attending and you will be presentable.”

“Why should I?” I asked, feeling wholly unaccommodating. It
troubled me that this man knew my alias as well as my true name and
inheritance. I intended to have the truth from him before I offered my
cooperation.

“Because if you do not,” he said, “you will find your
accommodations much less hospitable and my temper not so agreeable.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” It sounded childish, even to me. In
truth, Thibodaux petrified me.

He giggled again. “Child, you are so terrified that I can
hear your knees knocking together.” His expression turned severe. “Do as I say.
I have the power to make you regret it if you cross me.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving me with a
shuddering maid.

Placating Thibodaux’s temper until I better understood his
capabilities seemed a smart idea. Perhaps cooperation would lead me to answers.
Also, if it allowed me out of the room, then joining him for dinner might
present an opportunity for escape.

The maid and I plowed through a stack of gowns, none
obviously suitable for my dark hair and ruddy skin, until we came across a
royal blue dress that caught the light and shimmered in a way that reminded me
of my Thunder Cloak. At the thought of it, my knees went wobbly, and I plopped
down on the edge of the bed, letting despair wash over me in a moment of
self-pity.

The maid did not speak my language, but patted me
sympathetically before taking my hand to lead me to a mirror in the attached
dressing room. She held the gown before me and my reflection revealed how the
color complimented my hair and eyes. I had no sense of Gallandic fashion, so I
couldn’t say how long the dress might have been stored based on the style, but
it smelled of camphor and dust.

“Alright,” I said, nodding. “Let’s get this over with.”

The maid understood my capitulation and wrangled me into
layers of stays and undergarments. In all my years, I had never worn anything
quite so complicated. Father rarely spent his funds on sumptuousness like balls
and state dinners. After his death, we never found much excuse to host guests,
and Gerda had never insisted on dressing me more femininely, the gods bless her.

The maid refused to allow me to see myself as she arranged
my hair, but after I slipped my feet into a pair of too-small slippers, she
tugged me back to the full length looking glass and watched as I stared at the
strange woman in the reflection. She did not resemble the girl in the mirror at
The Silver Goose at all.

The dress could do nothing to mask the prominent jaw and
chin I inherited from my father, but the corset sucked things in and pushed
things up to give me a novel and feminine allure. The blue in the gown’s
material made my skin seem fine as poured cream, and the maid had combed, curled
and pinned my hair into a mane of glossy, chestnut ripples that cascaded over
my bare shoulders.