through the dark street to the waterfront, used the ring to requisition the ducal barge, ignoring the bargeman’s muttered complaints. An hour later, after a chilly crossing, with the first twinges of a hangover stabbing at his temples, he stepped ashore on the west bank of the lake. A narrow, rutted track led up from the jetty into the forest.
“Is that the way the Lady Andragorre’s party went?” he inquired of the shivering boatman. “Up that cowpath?”
“Yeah—if you can call it a party, on a night like this.” The man blew on his hands. “Snow’ll fly before dawn, mark my words, squire.”
“Swell,” Lafayette said into his turned-up collar. “That’s all I need to make this a perfect night.” He set spurs to the horse and moved off into the blackness among the trees.
Six
For the next two hours Lafayette followed the winding trail steadily up among the giant trees, past looming boulders and small, rushing streams which spilled down over moss-grown rock formations. The marks of wheels were visible intermittently in the dust, overlain by the hoofprints of the escort. His head throbbed. The cold wind slashed at him through his cloak. As far as evidence to the contrary indicated, he was making no progress whatever.
“It’s probably a wild-duck chase,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ve done nothing but blunder from the beginning. First, by not insisting that that chap Pratwick put me through to his supervisor. But I was so rattled I hardly knew where I was— and still don’t, for that matter. Melange. Who’s ever heard of it? And Port Miasma: a pesthole if there ever was one ...”
And he’d goofed again by getting mixed up with Swinehild. Strange, her looking so much like Adoranne. Poor kid, she’d been badly enough off before he arrived. He’d only been here twelve hours or so, and already he’d broken up a home.
And then being idiot enough to fall afoul of the cops; and then that supreme triumph of the blunderer’s art, leaping at Daphne’s—that is, Lady Andragorre’s—carriage. He should have known she wouldn’t know him; nobody around this insane place was what they seemed. And then all that persiflage with the duke ...
“Why did I sit around half the night trying to drink Rodolpho under the table, while Lady Andragorre rode off into the distance?” he groaned. “In fact, why am I here at all? If I do find her, I’ll probably end up getting that riding crop Rudy mentioned across the chops for my pains. But what else could I do? If she isn’t Daphne, she’s her twin. I can’t very well let her fall into the clutches of this Lorenzo the Lanky character. Or is it Lancelot the Lucky?”
He shifted in the saddle. The cold had numbed his toes and ears and fingers. Was he gaining on the quarry or falling behind? The tracks looked no fresher than they had when he started.
He flapped the reins, urging his mount into a canter. The beast clattered up the trail, snorting steam, while Lafayette crouched low on its neck, ducking under the pine boughs that brushed his back. He rounded a turn, caught a glimpse of something bulky blocking the path ahead. He reined in sharply.
“Oh-oh,” he said, feeling a sudden dryness in his mouth. “Dirty work’s afoot ...”
It was Lady Andragorre’s pink coach, standing silent in the center of the track, one door swinging in the gusty wind. Lafayette dismounted, wincing at the ache behind his eyes, walked up beside it, glanced into the rose-velvet interior. A lacy handkerchief lay on the pink lamb’s-wool rug. He picked it up, sniffed it.
“Moonlight Rose, Daphne’s favorite,” he groaned.
The traces, he found, had been cut. There was no sign of the four splendid blacks, or of the escort, other than a confused spoor leading on up the trail.
“Funny there are no bodies lying around,” Lafayette muttered. “But I suppose the cowardly louses surrendered without a struggle.” As he turned back toward his horse, there was a crackling in
“Is that the way the Lady Andragorre’s party went?” he inquired of the shivering boatman. “Up that cowpath?”
“Yeah—if you can call it a party, on a night like this.” The man blew on his hands. “Snow’ll fly before dawn, mark my words, squire.”
“Swell,” Lafayette said into his turned-up collar. “That’s all I need to make this a perfect night.” He set spurs to the horse and moved off into the blackness among the trees.
Six
For the next two hours Lafayette followed the winding trail steadily up among the giant trees, past looming boulders and small, rushing streams which spilled down over moss-grown rock formations. The marks of wheels were visible intermittently in the dust, overlain by the hoofprints of the escort. His head throbbed. The cold wind slashed at him through his cloak. As far as evidence to the contrary indicated, he was making no progress whatever.
“It’s probably a wild-duck chase,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ve done nothing but blunder from the beginning. First, by not insisting that that chap Pratwick put me through to his supervisor. But I was so rattled I hardly knew where I was— and still don’t, for that matter. Melange. Who’s ever heard of it? And Port Miasma: a pesthole if there ever was one ...”
And he’d goofed again by getting mixed up with Swinehild. Strange, her looking so much like Adoranne. Poor kid, she’d been badly enough off before he arrived. He’d only been here twelve hours or so, and already he’d broken up a home.
And then being idiot enough to fall afoul of the cops; and then that supreme triumph of the blunderer’s art, leaping at Daphne’s—that is, Lady Andragorre’s—carriage. He should have known she wouldn’t know him; nobody around this insane place was what they seemed. And then all that persiflage with the duke ...
“Why did I sit around half the night trying to drink Rodolpho under the table, while Lady Andragorre rode off into the distance?” he groaned. “In fact, why am I here at all? If I do find her, I’ll probably end up getting that riding crop Rudy mentioned across the chops for my pains. But what else could I do? If she isn’t Daphne, she’s her twin. I can’t very well let her fall into the clutches of this Lorenzo the Lanky character. Or is it Lancelot the Lucky?”
He shifted in the saddle. The cold had numbed his toes and ears and fingers. Was he gaining on the quarry or falling behind? The tracks looked no fresher than they had when he started.
He flapped the reins, urging his mount into a canter. The beast clattered up the trail, snorting steam, while Lafayette crouched low on its neck, ducking under the pine boughs that brushed his back. He rounded a turn, caught a glimpse of something bulky blocking the path ahead. He reined in sharply.
“Oh-oh,” he said, feeling a sudden dryness in his mouth. “Dirty work’s afoot ...”
It was Lady Andragorre’s pink coach, standing silent in the center of the track, one door swinging in the gusty wind. Lafayette dismounted, wincing at the ache behind his eyes, walked up beside it, glanced into the rose-velvet interior. A lacy handkerchief lay on the pink lamb’s-wool rug. He picked it up, sniffed it.
“Moonlight Rose, Daphne’s favorite,” he groaned.
The traces, he found, had been cut. There was no sign of the four splendid blacks, or of the escort, other than a confused spoor leading on up the trail.
“Funny there are no bodies lying around,” Lafayette muttered. “But I suppose the cowardly louses surrendered without a struggle.” As he turned back toward his horse, there was a crackling in
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