shook his head, rubbed his neck. A lone mitten dangled from his needles, at the end of an implausibly long wrist. Sometimes his hands knew the pattern too well; there was such a thing as being too distracted.
“What is it, lad?”
“This came for you today.”
Longchamp took the envelope. It was addressed to
Sergeant Hugo Longchamp, Marseilles-in-the-West
. No return address.
The boy hovered nearby, displaying a depressing lack of guile. Longchamp said, “Well done, Corporal. You can rest well tonight knowing you’ve served the king with singular and noteworthy dedication.” The boy blinked at him. “Now, get the hell out of my fucking shadow before I feel the need to dosomething about it. Make yourself useful and goose that fire while you’re at it.”
The lad, who looked barely old enough to shave, put another log in the fireplace and set about stoking the coals. The fire crackled, each pop wafting the scent of yellow birch through the room. Longchamp studied the handwriting on the envelope. He’d seen that script before.
Paranoia was always her way. But then, as she might have told him: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t plotting against you. New France’s enemies had plotted against it for centuries.
The seal hadn’t been obviously broken. Which meant exactly nothing. Anybody with half a brain could steam an envelope open. Especially one sealed with cheap Dutch adhesives, as this one had been. French glues weren’t defeated so easily; it was de rigueur among the courtiers of New France to use tamperproof adhesives when sending notes to one’s lovers. But this wasn’t such a thing.
With a pocketknife he slit the narrow edge of the envelope. He shook out a single slip of paper. It read:
December 1, 1926.
It’d been in transit for a while, then.
Salutations, cher Hugo.
Longchamp sighed. Hell. It was her.
I’ve sent a copy of this letter to my successor, but I fear it will land crumpled and disregarded in that one’s commode. Further, my current circumstances leave me isolated from more trustworthy means of communication. But this information is urgent and must be risked. You, dear Sergeant, are my backup. Lucky you.
You must watch for a man who goes by the name Visser. Lately of The Hague, where for years he was the head pastor of the Nieuwe Kerk, but recently he’s come to New Amsterdam, where he was present at the murder of several canalmasters of the O. G.
Visser is not what he seems. He may lean on his time in the Central Provinces to travel as a man of the cloth, even if he comes north. Question him if you can. But beware: He is dangerous.
In other news, I believe I’ve found our missing friend. You’ll be unsurprised to know I was right. I hope to see him soon; I’ll send your regards.
Ah. So she’d found duc de Montmorency, then. She’d suspected him for a secret tulip-sniffer, and when banished, she’d become obsessed with hunting the man.
In that vein, I advise checking your inventories. Not the manifests—physical visual inspections. You may find reason to be displeased, I fear.
Watch for the pastor.
Yours,
B.
P. S. Thank you for your gift. I wear it even now.
Berenice Charlotte de Mornay-Périgord. The former vicomtesse de Laval. The former Talleyrand, and—setting aside her astounding propensity for hubris—a damn good one, too, until the end. After her banishment she’d been replaced by the marquis de Lionne, who’d lusted after the Talleyrand title for years, and who, having finally landed it, had no idea what to do about it.
Longchamp sighed. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lord, preserve me from the machinations of stubborn one-eyed ex-vicomtesses.
Her signoff gave him a smile, though, and that was no mean feat these days. She still had his gift. He’d had a glass eye fashioned to replace the one she’d lost to the military Clakker in her laboratory. A going-away and good-luck token, of sorts. That she was still
“What is it, lad?”
“This came for you today.”
Longchamp took the envelope. It was addressed to
Sergeant Hugo Longchamp, Marseilles-in-the-West
. No return address.
The boy hovered nearby, displaying a depressing lack of guile. Longchamp said, “Well done, Corporal. You can rest well tonight knowing you’ve served the king with singular and noteworthy dedication.” The boy blinked at him. “Now, get the hell out of my fucking shadow before I feel the need to dosomething about it. Make yourself useful and goose that fire while you’re at it.”
The lad, who looked barely old enough to shave, put another log in the fireplace and set about stoking the coals. The fire crackled, each pop wafting the scent of yellow birch through the room. Longchamp studied the handwriting on the envelope. He’d seen that script before.
Paranoia was always her way. But then, as she might have told him: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t plotting against you. New France’s enemies had plotted against it for centuries.
The seal hadn’t been obviously broken. Which meant exactly nothing. Anybody with half a brain could steam an envelope open. Especially one sealed with cheap Dutch adhesives, as this one had been. French glues weren’t defeated so easily; it was de rigueur among the courtiers of New France to use tamperproof adhesives when sending notes to one’s lovers. But this wasn’t such a thing.
With a pocketknife he slit the narrow edge of the envelope. He shook out a single slip of paper. It read:
December 1, 1926.
It’d been in transit for a while, then.
Salutations, cher Hugo.
Longchamp sighed. Hell. It was her.
I’ve sent a copy of this letter to my successor, but I fear it will land crumpled and disregarded in that one’s commode. Further, my current circumstances leave me isolated from more trustworthy means of communication. But this information is urgent and must be risked. You, dear Sergeant, are my backup. Lucky you.
You must watch for a man who goes by the name Visser. Lately of The Hague, where for years he was the head pastor of the Nieuwe Kerk, but recently he’s come to New Amsterdam, where he was present at the murder of several canalmasters of the O. G.
Visser is not what he seems. He may lean on his time in the Central Provinces to travel as a man of the cloth, even if he comes north. Question him if you can. But beware: He is dangerous.
In other news, I believe I’ve found our missing friend. You’ll be unsurprised to know I was right. I hope to see him soon; I’ll send your regards.
Ah. So she’d found duc de Montmorency, then. She’d suspected him for a secret tulip-sniffer, and when banished, she’d become obsessed with hunting the man.
In that vein, I advise checking your inventories. Not the manifests—physical visual inspections. You may find reason to be displeased, I fear.
Watch for the pastor.
Yours,
B.
P. S. Thank you for your gift. I wear it even now.
Berenice Charlotte de Mornay-Périgord. The former vicomtesse de Laval. The former Talleyrand, and—setting aside her astounding propensity for hubris—a damn good one, too, until the end. After her banishment she’d been replaced by the marquis de Lionne, who’d lusted after the Talleyrand title for years, and who, having finally landed it, had no idea what to do about it.
Longchamp sighed. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lord, preserve me from the machinations of stubborn one-eyed ex-vicomtesses.
Her signoff gave him a smile, though, and that was no mean feat these days. She still had his gift. He’d had a glass eye fashioned to replace the one she’d lost to the military Clakker in her laboratory. A going-away and good-luck token, of sorts. That she was still
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