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    The King of Shadows
    The King of Shadows
    The King of Shadows
    Ebook770 pages12 hours

    The King of Shadows

    By Robert McCammon

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    A search for a sorcerer’s mirror may shatter a man’s mind in this colonial-era thriller by the New York Times-bestselling author of Cardinal Black.
     
    In the year 1704, Matthew Corbett is about to go up against an antagonist completely different from any he has faced before. On a trip to Italy to track down Brazio Valeriani and information about the mirror created by his father, the sorcerer Ciro, Matthew and Hudson Greathouse find themselves marooned on a beautiful island known as Golgotha—a place that hides a multitude of secrets and puts both of them at terrible risk. 
     
    The islanders welcome them with a massive feast—but as the island pulls them deeper into its influence, the castaways struggle to maintain their grip on reality, even their very identity. Matthew must keep his wits about him and solve the mystery enshrouding the other side of the island, where an active volcano looms and an elusive creature lurks…
     
    This new novel in the series by the five-time Bram Stoker Award winner is a compelling concoction of history, mystery, adventure, and terror that takes us deeper into the early eighteenth-century world of Matthew Corbett, his compatriots, and his mortal enemies.
     
    “This popular series takes us to a long forgotten time with characters who never fail to entertain.” —The Florida Times-Union
     
    “The Corbett novels are rich, atmospheric stories, the kind of historical mystery that makes the reader feel as though he really has stepped back in time.”—Booklist 
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJun 28, 2022
    ISBN9781504076708
    The King of Shadows
    Author

    Robert McCammon

    Robert McCammon (b. 1952) is one of the country’s most accomplished authors of modern horror and historical fiction, and a founder of the Horror Writers Association. Raised by his grandparents in Birmingham, Alabama, Bram Stoker and World Fantasy Award–winning McCammon published his first novel, the Revelations-inspired Baal, when he was only twenty-six. His writings continued in a supernatural vein throughout the 1980s, as he produced such bestselling titles as Swan Song, The Wolf’s Hour, and Stinger. In 1991, Boy’s Life won the World Fantasy Award for best novel. After his next novel, Gone South, McCammon took a break from writing to spend more time with his family. He did not publish another novel until 2002’s Speaks the Nightbird. Since then, he has followed “problem-solver” Matthew Corbett through seven sequels, in addition to writing several non-series books, including The Border and The Listener. McCammon still lives in Birmingham.

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      The King of Shadows - Robert McCammon

      The King of Shadows

      A Matthew Corbett Novel

      Robert McCammon

      One

      Departings and Arrivings

      One

      Chin up, said Matthew Corbett.

      It did no good.

      At four o’clock on a cold morning, the third week of January in the year 1704, the sun had not yet risen over the solemn sea to the east of London. Nor had it yet risen over the solemn scene now taking place upon the Leslie and Silverstone Shipping Company’s Wharf Number Four, where the vessel Lady Barbara was being readied among the forest of masted ships for its voyage to the town of New York, scheduled to be guided from its berth at six o’clock by the sturdy longboats and the pilotmen with shoulders like the cliffs of Dover.

      The morning of departing had arrived. Walking hand-in-hand with Berry Grigsby on her way to the three-master, Matthew had meant his statement as a measure of encouragement, for it seemed to him that if Berry’s chin drooped any lower she'd be thumping it across the planks. But it had also occurred to him that Chin up might be something the hangman would say to the condemned as the rope was secured around the neck, so fie on that sentiment and he wished it had remained unspoken.

      It was a grim day. Grim thoughts did not help the grimnity. But as much as he despised the moment—and how very much she despised it, to the point of bitter tears—it had to be conquered as all disagreeable things must, face-on and—yes—chin up.

      To be truthful, as the couple trudged along the wharf toward the sound of what was likely the worst fiddle skreeling and drum boomathomping Matthew had ever heard, he was fighting bitter tears of his own. He thought of how horrible it was … how terrible—two terms that could not fully convey the wretched spirit of the moment—that he had only recently saved the woman he loved from a descent into drug-induced mindlessness, and now he had to put her aboard a ship bound for the New World … and might not see her again for an entire year, perforce of his own looming journey to Italy. And that journey to be undertaken with and in service to the criminal mastermind Professor Danton Idris Fell, the same villain who was responsible for the near erasure of Berry’s mind. How the twisted mouth of Fate must be laughing at that one!

      Matthew thought of encouraging himself with a Chin up, but it likewise would do no good. His grip on Berry’s hand was unbreakable. They both wore newly purchased hooded coats lined with woolen fleece—did you have to spend so much? the professor had asked as he’d been presented the bills—and close behind them came two hired men pushing on wheeled carts the pair of trunks that held Berry’s other newly purchased clothing suitable for a three-month journey across a wintry Atlantic. My God! Will I have any money left after this escapade? the professor had lamented as the merchants’ demands were laid out before him like so many playing cards of a losing hand.

      Sir, Matthew had replied, you have yet to buy my own wardrobe and accompaniments, as well as those of Hudson Greathouse, and I submit to you that none of those items will be the familiarities of a pauper.

      Professor Fell had made a noise like steam hissing from a kettle and Matthew thought the man’s round wire-rimmed spectacles had nearly slipped off his nose of their own accord, but otherwise the mastermind of crime had merely sunken down a few inches into his chair in his suite at the Emerald Inn.

      As they continued along the maze of wharves toward their destination, Matthew and Berry saw employees of the shipping company standing with lanterns directing them on, as they would be directing the other passengers, the luggage carters, the wagons bringing in cows, chickens and pigs as victuals for the trip, and all the sundry assortment of items and cargo that made such a jaunt possible. Matthew found Berry pressing closer to him, and himself to her. How short now the hours seemed! Impossible that yesterday had passed so quickly, and how fast the time of departing had arrived!

      I want to know, Berry had said at their supper table last night, while the merrymakers at the White Horse Tavern had continued to make merry, the girl with her guitar drifted about the tables and sang sweet songs of love found and love lost, and all the world seemed to be ignorant behind its happy ale-tipsy face of the time burning down between the two lovers that would see them split asunder until who knew when.

      Yes, Matthew had replied, because he knew quite well what she wanted to know.

      But where to begin, and how to explain it? He had looked into her face and saw that now the question must be answered, and though he had put it off time and again it had to be reckoned with this moment, and no later.

      By the soft candlelight that glowed from the taper on their table he thought she was a lady of rare beauty, both without and within, and he was not worthy of such a gift of love. This eve Berry wore one of her new gowns in the color of pale violet, with its elegantly ruffled neck and sleeves. Matthew wouldn’t dream of saying so, but he knew she was aware that aboard ship mold crept about like a sodden thief, and such a gown was likely now seeing its most romantic hour. And romantic it was. Matthew took admiration anew and afresh—as it seemed he did every time he looked at her—in her cascade of coppery-red curls peaked by a violet hat, her clear blue eyes, her strong chin, the dash of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. But mostly he saw in her face that she loved him, and for that love had crossed the Atlantic to be at his side. A foolish endeavor, to be sure, but what was love without a little foolishness in the mix? A gamble of the heart, it might be said. It occurred to him that no one among the well-dressed patrons of the White Horse might have guessed that little more than a month ago this creature of charm and beauty had been deluded by a drug into believing she was the daughter of an insidious couple in Fell’s village of Y Beautiful Bedd where the professor confined a score of both enemies and cohorts in crime, and she had very nearly not been delivered back from the abyss of insanity.

      Neither would anyone here have guessed that Matthew Corbett himself—black-haired, gray-eyed, a handsome young gentleman dressed to the tens and eliciting admiring appraisals from many of the feminine occupants of this establishment—had been a recent inhabitant of Newgate Prison, was likely the last surviving member of the Black-Eyed Broodies street gang, and little more than a month ago had been fighting for his life—and for Berry’s—alongside one of Fell’s murderous henchmen, Julian Devane by name. The only telltale of a rather rough journey through life was the curved scar across Matthew’s forehead, courtesy of a bear’s claw, but even that did not spell the entire story, nor did he wish it to be told beyond the rather fevered writings in New York’s broadsheet The Earwig, operated by Berry’s grandfather Marmaduke. And fortunate it was that Berry had only inherited her grandda’s insatiable curiosity and strength of purpose rather than his pop-eyed presence, though indeed she had been blessed with a noble forehead capable at one time of breaking to smithereens the nose of a villainous doxy named Charity LeClaire.

      All that was in the past. However, the past was preamble to both present and future.

      The time had arrived.

      Matthew began. You recall our … um … visit to the Chapel estate.

      Lest I try to forget, she said, with a twist of the mouth. Yes. Certainly. Well. He didn’t wish to dwell on the fact that a mound of horse manure had saved them both from having their eyes plucked out by Simon Chapel’s trained hawks. When I went back to the estate, after all that was over, I found a book. He hesitated. In for a penny, in for a hundred pounds.

      A book, she repeated.

      "Now … please bear with me. The book I found … is a volume titled The Lesser Key Of Solomon. A very interesting publication, and as I later discovered rare in its distribution."

      All right. So you found a religious tome. What of it?

      "A religious tome … not exactly … except perhaps to some. The volume in Chapel’s library was hollowed-out as a hiding place for a key to another book holding a bag of money. Only it wasn’t a book, it was a box made to look like a … well, anyway … the curious thing is that I discovered a second copy of The Lesser Key Of Solomon in Fell’s library on Pendulum Island, and a third copy in his house at the village."

      I wouldn’t have thought of that man as being religious!

      Ah, said Matthew, and now came the blast of the cannon though delivered as meekly as a mouse’s mew. The tome is a catalogue of the demons of Hell, with their descriptions and purposes. Also instructions on how to summon them for particular needs. He kept his eyes on his wineglass, but even so he saw her give a start that was so severe the breeze from it almost killed the candle.

      "What?"

      He fortified himself with a drink of claret. To go on? He must. It is Professor Fell’s intent to use that book in determining which demon to call up from a mirror created by a sorcerer in Italy just for that purpose. And now he did raise sickly eyes upon a face which a moment before had been glowing but now appeared as gray as a scrubbed-out washrag. You see? he said, with perhaps the most absurd half-hanging grin he’d ever managed to impose upon his mouth.

      Oh my Lord, Berry breathed when she could find the air. "Have you come all this way to lose your senses?"

      Furthermore, Matthew trudged on upon this sulphureous surface, I have bargained with the professor to help him in his efforts to find the mirror. Again, the weight of his dumb grin shamed his face. Now really … don’t look like that! Such a thing can’t be true!

      My ears, she said, her eyes wide. I can’t be hearing this! Am I still drugged?

      I bargained with Fell, Matthew said, to let me leave the village and find the stolen book of potions that would return you to reality. Also … that he would put both you and Hudson on a ship back to New York, and be done with any idea of revenge he might have in mind for my … um … past transgressions against him on behalf of the Herrald—

      "Madness, she interrupted. He’s mad. And he has infected you with it! Matthew, are you even hearing yourself?"

      Believe me, I wish I wasn’t.

      I think, she said, I need something stronger than this wine! Matthew … are you telling me you intend to help Professor Fell call up a demon? From Hell itself?

      Did his face want to slide down off his skull? He gave a nervous little laugh. You make it sound a bit ridiculous.

      "It is insane! And you a man of such intelligence! Or at least I presumed so! Not only to speak of the insanity of it, but the … the …" She struggled for a further description.

      Evil of it, he supplied.

      Evil of it! Yes! Thank you very much! Berry realized her voice had gotten away from her and was reaching other tables. She spent a moment composing herself, while Matthew had another drink that finished off the glass. No, she said at last, more quietly but no less fervently, "I would never put myself in the position of barring your way to any advancement, but I’ll put myself in the path of your eternal damnation at the hands of that … that maniac. You can’t do it, Matthew! No! Tell me you won’t do it!"

      Hear me out, he said, and the tone of his voice might have had in it some of Julian Devane’s matter-of-fact gravity, because it froze from escape the next words intended from Berry’s lips. Let me explain about why Fell kidnapped the opera star, Madam Candoleri. It wasn’t to secure her, but to get her makeup girl Rosabella. It seems Fell discovered that Rosabella is a cousin to a man named Brazio Valeriani and saw him three years ago at the funeral of Valeriani’s father in Salerno. That’s in Italy.

      "I am a teacher and I know my geography," she replied, with a suitable mixture of fire and ice.

      Yes, of course. Pardon. Anyway … I found out from Rosabella that Valeriani’s father Ciro had an interest in science and had created something that he tried to destroy but was unable to. His death was suicide by hanging. But every year on her birthday, Rosabella received the gift of a hand mirror Ciro had fashioned in his workshop, so obviously he had an interest not only in science but also the art of mirror-making.

      Matthew paused to take a breath. He thought Berry might interject, but she remained silent.

      He went on. "When Julian and I were on our … mission … I found out from someone else the whole story of this supposedly enchanted mirror, if such is to be believed." He’d decided there was no need to bring the name of Cardinal Black into this. Best hope that thing had either frozen to death or crawled back to his hole after their escape from Samson Lash. The tale—and I shall take this with a handful of salt, as you should—is that the death of Ciro’s wife threw his mind off-balance and he began to be intrigued by the darker arts. He in time paid to be introduced to an aged man who I suppose one could call a wizard, a sorcerer, a warlock … whatever the proper term would be. By name Senna Salastre, who according to my informant was well-known to the sort of individuals who follow such things, and who passed away last August at the age of ninety-four. But Salastre helped Ciro with the construction of a free-standing, full-length mirror and—as I understand—added the reflective element from his own workshop. The purpose for the thing was to summon a demon from Hell, and the mirror would serve as the passageway.

      "Insane," said Berry, but then returned to silence.

      "Yes. Possibly so. Probably so," he corrected, though bursting at the gate of his mind was an episode he had so far been successful at forgetting or even pretending had never happened: a night ride in service to a strange client named Karlis von Eissen, on behalf of an even weirder individual named Walloch Bodenkier, bringing Matthew into the midst of a war between …

      Well … they were made of nightmares, whatever they’d been. And in speaking of the mirror with Hudson, the Great One himself had said Think on it. What if it’s real? Now don’t speak and don’t roll your eyes like that. You and I both know there’s plenty out there that can’t be put into little boxes or tied up with neat little bows.

      And, for sure, Hudson was correct.

      "Of course, insane! Matthew amended to Berry. But … according to what I was told … and keep the salt at hand, as I’ve said … Ciro may have tried to call a demon through the mirror, lost his nerve—or came to his senses—and damaged it enough to close the passageway in time. Later … he may or may not have repaired it, and then hanged himself. But where it is now is the problem."

      Which you wish to solve for the professor, Berry said. Is he paying a fee to the Herrald Agency?

      "Yes, he is. The clothes you and I are wearing, the food and wine we’re enjoying, the hotel … the nights we’ve spent together … your life, and your freedom. Most certainly the best value for service the agency’s ever received."

      "I think, the worst. If a man of his ilk could get hold of such a thing and it was actually true … oh my Lord, Matthew! What might become of the entire world?"

      It’s not true. It can’t be. God Himself wouldn’t let such a thing exist.

      Maybe God Himself damaged it through Ciro enough to stop the demon from coming out. Maybe then … Satan himself went to work entrancing Ciro to fix it, and after that was done the man realized he couldn’t destroy it and—

      Now who’s talking insanities? Matthew said quietly, though the idea of a man being caught between two powers at eternal war made sense to him, due to his own experience. This is my belief: if indeed the mirror still exists and it can be found, it’s going to be simply an object of furniture. Yes, it may have been aided in its manufacture by a man who believed himself—and whom others may have believed—to have been a sorcerer of sorts, but in the end … only a mirror, no more than that. As I say, if any part of it still exists.

      "Somewhere in Italy? How do you know it’s not elsewhere? How can you know?"

      Not for any surety. But I know something that the professor has not known: where to begin. I’ve told him we are sailing for Venice, but nothing else.

      And why Venice in particular?

      Because, Matthew said, in speaking with Rosabella, she told me that at Ciro’s funeral Brazio inquired of her age. When she told him she was thirteen, he made the comment that thirteen years was a good age for wine, and especially for Amarone. It started me thinking that Brazio might be involved in the wine business there, possibly himself the owner of a vineyard. Later I learned that Amarone comes from the province of Verona, the Veneto region near Venice. Therefore: a starting point.

      So first you’re searching for Ciro’s son? And that’s why the professor wanted information from Rosabella?

      Exactly. Matthew leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The brunt of it was done. To be perfectly exact, I told the professor I would find Brazio for him. The rest about the mirror is not my responsibility.

      I would think hard about that last statement, she countered. "If you believe he’s going to release you after you find the son and before the mirror can be found, I suspect I may know him better than you do. After all, you will have proven yourself a success … in the worst possible way."

      True, Matthew thought, but he didn’t speak it. He sat silently for a moment, listening to the strolling girl with the guitar sing The Lamentation of Cloris, which seemed fitting at the moment due to the amount of time he and Berry were to be absent from each other. If Berry followed the path of Cloris, out of despair at their parting she would be opening her heart and bed to Ashton McCaggers, which was a most disagreeable image to have in mind.

      And as if reading that mind, or perhaps seeing the dour expression on Matthew’s face, Berry asked, "How long must you search for this man? A year? Two? Five? And also he may not have any knowledge at all of this mirror. Likely he sold it to a junk dealer after his father’s funeral."

      A possibility. As for the timeframe, I believe a trip to the Amarone vineyards of the Veneto region may show quick results, one way or the other.

      "May, she repeated, and shook her head. You should’ve had a lawyer draw you up a contract."

      The only lawyer in that bunch, said Matthew, is probably so addled by Fell’s drugs that he thinks he’s living in Sherwood Forest with the merry men. No … I have your life as a contract, and that’s good enough for me.

      But why isn’t Hudson going back to New York, as well?

      I tried. He resisted. And that was all Matthew needed to say.

      She reached for his hand, grasped it and squeezed. Her eyes were brimming, but the tears were yet to fall. I am on the razor, she said, keeping her voice composed with a mighty effort. "I dread like … like hell … for you to do this, but I know you. I know that when you make a promise you feel it’s your duty to keep it, even in a situation as despicable as this. If you were to join me onboard the ship home I would rejoice to the angels, but instead I have to give you over to the devils because that’s your promise. And now the tears did drop, and getting a glimpse of their glimmer the guitar girl turned away to aim her lamentations in a less emotional area. I love you, Matthew, and I love your sense of duty. But I must tell you: I hate this moment like the blackest sin."

      I’m not too fond of it, either, he said, with the most gentle smile he could muster. He leaned forward to give her a kiss on a damp cheek. More intimate kisses would come later, minus an audience. Let’s order another bottle, shall we? he asked. And I have an idea. He got up, went to the guitar girl and at her pause asked her to come to the table and sing the first verse of Lavender’s Blue.

      She came along when Matthew had seated himself, and after strumming the first few chords she began singing in her high, soft voice.

      "Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green,

      When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen.

      Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?

      ’Twas mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so."

      Perfect, said Matthew with his arm around Berry, who seemingly had melted into him. Thank you very much. And he sweetened his thanks with a large tip of Professor Fell’s money that had likely been secured by cutting someone’s head off.

      Two

      Therefore by following the trail of men with lanterns through what seemed its own city of docks and ships, at length Matthew, Berry and the hirelings pushing her baggage cart came to the Lady Barbara, where the usual chaos of morning departure was in full-throated bellow. And bellow it truly was, for orders were being shouted about and general hollering made in competition with the band of fiddlers, drummers, trumpet players, capering gypsies, jesters and jugglers who all wanted a piece of the pie from the passing pockets. Up the passenger gangplank toward the bow marched an elderly couple holding onto each other as if in terror of being swept away by the sheer noise of the place, while at the same time two cows were being pushed up the cargo gangplank at the stern. Over on one side of the dock a pig squealed in a slatted crate and on the other side chickens flapped and squawked in their own enclosure. All in all, a necessary madness.

      Come on, you louts! shouted a broad-shouldered, brown-bearded mountain in a brass-buttoned coat and a tan-colored woolen cap atop his summit. He was directing his attention toward Berry’s baggage handlers, and in the light of the ship’s lanterns he looked positively fiendish. Get that garbage aboard! Then seeing Matthew and Berry he gave a sweet smile, doffed his cap in a bow to display a hairless skull and said just as loudly, Don’t mind my mouth, it’s all garbage to me! Miss, you’re the lady takin’ the special cabin?

      I don’t know if—

      Yes, she is, said Matthew, himself having to nearly shout his own throat raw. The professor had promised as comfortable a trip as his finances and the Lady Barbara could afford. "It’s all ready for you! Done up in paint pinker’n a baby’s ass, got a nice soft bunk—I mean to say, a real bed—and a dresser, a clothes stand, everythin’ right off Strand Street and shinin’ like two dozen candles in a Sabbath church. I’m Captain Stoneman, pleased to be of service."

      Glad to meet you! Matthew fired back. You fit your name!

      What? Lit my flame? No, I don’t do no smokin’ and there’s none been done in her cabin, so none’s the worry to a sensible nose.

      Very sensible, Matthew agreed.

      Everybody, pick up your balls and get movin’! Stoneman hollered to everyone in general who was so equipped. Then the cap went back on and the mountain moved away, as crew and baggage men scurried about.

      Pardon me, said someone close behind Matthew and Berry. Might I ask why the lady is deserving of such a special cabin?

      They both turned to find themselves confronted by the tall figure of a man wearing a fur-collared coat and a fur-trimmed tricorn. Matthew’s first impression was that the gent was about forty, had a well-maintained light brown mustache and goatee and blue eyes in a sharp-nosed, foxish face. He was wearing deerskin gloves, his fingers interwoven before him as at his back his own crew of handlers struggled with trunks seemingly as big as wagons.

      I overheard, said the man. "Though in this din, my ears are nearly cracked. So … is this lovely young creature somehow deserving of a special cabin? I mean to ask: is she of important reputation or parentage?"

      She can afford the luxury, Matthew replied. He’d already noted—as had Berry—that the fellow’s eyes had travelled up and down her body and paused at places of speculation.

      "Indeed. Wealthy, then? And you are…?"

      Who I am, said Matthew. Your name, sir?

      Oh, of course. My bad manners are unfortunately on display. I am Reginald Goolbie.

      Ah, Matthew said, as if that meant anything.

      The eyes kept travelling. ‘Rowdy Reggie’ to my friends, he went on. Buyer and seller of fine jewelry. Your neck, dear one … would seem created for a string of the most magnificent pearls.

      Which you happen to have in your baggage? Matthew asked. He started to put his arm around Berry but she beat him to it by putting her arm around him.

      Goolbie’s eyelids flickered only the faintest bit. But of course, sir. You and this beauty are travelling together to New York?

      This beauty, said Matthew, with a stiffening back, is travelling alone, but I intend on asking her to marry me when I also return to New York.

      Oh. I see. Tap tap went the gloved fingers on his pursed lips. "Meaning you have not yet asked her to marry you? That’s a pity. And when, sir, will you be travelling to New York?"

      Soon, said Berry. Very soon. And whether Matthew has asked me or not, the answer to that question will be yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

      Matthew had thought about posing this question in a formal way, but the moment seemed wrong. Wrong after she was recovering from her ordeal at Fell’s village, wrong until he’d told her why he was going to Italy, and wrong afterward up to this moment. And now … to ask her to marry him on this dock, surrounded by cows, pigs, chickens and foxish philanderers? Wrong again. And perhaps there was another reason, deep down: what if it really was years before he could get back to New York? What if he never returned? Having her wait for her groom for years, and grow old waiting for someone who might never again step off a ship?

      Wrong.

      No, it should be done formally in New York, with all this behind the both of them. For now it was enough to know that Berry understood and welcomed his intention, and that alone would have to do until Italy, magic mirrors, dead sorcerers and Professor Fell were all fading figures in the past.

      A pity, Rowdy Reggie repeated. I do have many samples of beautiful items in my belongings. He was speaking now directly to Berry. I understand there are only six or seven other passengers. It’s a long journey. He gave a slick smile. There will be plenty of time for you to see what I’m carrying. At the same time he shifted his balance, just so his rather grotesque meaning would be applied like a hammer to the forehead.

      I’m sure I’d rather not see, Berry said.

      Oh, but I am an expert at the delight of women! Knowing what sort of jewels give them the most excitement, is my meaning. Yes, very much the expert. May I ask your name, since we shall be travelling companions on the long journey ahead of us?

      Your bad luck, she said.

      His face didn’t lose the slick smile but something in his eyes retreated. At least for the moment, Matthew thought. This individual would never give up trying to expose his jewels to whatever woman drew his fancy.

      Pardon me, then, said Rowdy Reggie. I shall say it was a pleasure meeting the both of you and … sir … I do hope your return to New York will not be too late.

      Too late for what? Matthew inquired.

      "For everything," was the rather tight-lipped response, and then Rowdy Reggie motioned with a disdainful hand for his wagon-sized trunks to be hauled up the gangplank and he strode away.

      He didn’t get very far before it hit him.

      The slip of a boot on a smear of cow flop might only discomfit some individuals. For Reginald Goolbie it spelled the disaster of destroying his balance as if he’d been blunderbussed at the kneecaps, making him stagger three steps, careen off the pig’s crate and then stagger three more … though unfortunately for him, only two of those steps had timbers beneath them. With a hoarse yell he toppled over the other side of the dock into the cold and dirty water. Matthew and Berry could only stand and watch as Captain Stoneman ordered a rope to be thrown to the flailing figure, and when the dripping mess came out Rowdy Reggie was more of a Sad and Soggy Sight, minus his fur-trimmed tricorn and with his hair plastered down over his face like one of the professor’s tentacled sea curiosities. Matthew heard Berry give a little giggle, which she hid—mostly—under her hand, and knowing her past relationship with the forces of luck both good and bad he declined the impulse to ask if she didn’t have a bit of sorcery in her as well.

      The excitement over and Rowdy Reggie raging and stamping about as if in a bizarre dance with the gypsy girls who capered around him, Matthew and Berry went aboard the Lady Barbara. Captain Stoneman himself led them to a forward hatch, down an angled ladder that served as a stairway—care must be taken here not to brain one’s noggin upon any overhead planking—past a storeroom full of barrels of more victuals and kegs of fresh water, and along a short passage to an open door and a small but comfortable and pink-painted cabin. Indeed there was a bed, as narrow as it was, a clothes-stand and a dresser with her own washbowl and a supply of clean towels. Fresh linen on the bed, Captain Stoneman said, and also he indicated a key upon the dresser top that fit the door’s outside lock. Inside is this here latch, good and proper, he said, with a pickle-sized forefinger on it. "The crew’s to be trusted. Been servin’ the Lady Barbara back and forth six trips now, most of ’em’s been with me the lot. Ain’t need for a worry about your safety. And you can have your meals brought to you in your cabin, if you please. He gave a rather embarrassed grin. Ol’ Henry’s never been paid the number offered for this space. Used to be a pen where we kept the goats, but you see we fashioned it up, put a door on it and cleaned it out to a very spot."

      Commendable, Matthew said. There was not a bit of goatishness in the cabin, it was true. Everything clean and quite stylish, in its own nautical way. He doubted he’d see a third of this kind of space aboard the Essex Triton when it sailed for Venice morning after tomorrow. On that ship Professor Fell—travelling as John Lamprey—would be sleeping in the special cabin, whereas he under the name of Matthew Spottle, Hudson Greathouse, Fell’s four men Hugh Guinnessey, Elias Kirby, Aaron Sanderson and Rowan Dawes would be afforded hammocks in the lower guts.

      I’d prefer to take my meals with the others, Berry said. A long voyage … no need not to be sociable. And it was likely, Matthew mused, that before the voyage was over a certain jewelry salesman would have so much bad luck he would wish he’d taken his own private raft over the Atlantic and rowed himself to New York.

      Very well, then! said the captain. I like that spirit! ’Minds me of my own daughter, bless her soul. Something sad passed across the rugged face. No longer on this earth, but I have her here. He put his hand against his heart. Then in the next second he was again all scrimshaw and hardtack, obviously proud of the work done here for the lady’s comfort. Lantern’s there for the convenience. He pointed to it on a shelf beside the bed. Supply of wicks for you, and your own tinderbox. Beg your pardon not to set my ship alight, so if you’re needin’ I’ll have someone come by and flame the lamp for you.

      I can handle a tinderbox, Berry said, but thank you for the offer.

      Chamberpot under the bed, he continued. So’s you won’t have to share with nobody. I’ll have someone clean it for you every day or so. Will you be requirin’ both those trunks?

      No, only the one with the blue leather grips.

      Yes’m. I’ll have it brought in from the hold after we set sail. Shore bell will be rung in near an hour, the captain said to Matthew. ’Til then, I’ll leave you to your own. He gave Matthew his own form of slapdash salute, bowed creakily for the lady and took his departure, cannily closing the door at his back.

      All the comforts of home, Berry said when Stoneman had gone, and then she sat down on the bed with a sigh of resignation and a further spring of tears to the eyes. I can say no more to change your mind, can I? No need to answer, I know that thought’s in vain.

      But still appreciated. Matthew sat beside her and took her hand. We have an hour. It should be used to the limit of its seconds.

      Matthew knew what he wished to do, and mayhaps Berry wished it also, but the decorum of a gentleman and lady did not accept such even in these heart-rending circumstances. Matthew did stand up and latch the door, and for the next hour they lay together on the bed as if melded one-to-one, and when the shore bell rang out its strident voice of parting they had kissed each other nearly into oblivion. Then Berry went with him back upon the deck where the lines were being readied for the ship to be rowed out from its berth by the pilotmen, and several of the other passengers—minus the rowdy one—were standing to wave farewell to their own well-wishers on the dock.

      The first edge of purple light was showing to the east. Matthew stood with his arms around his bride-to-be, and she holding him, and in the freshening breeze of morning he said, I’ll be home soon. I promise, he nearly said, but he could not utter that uncertainty.

      I want you to be careful, she said, with her head against his shoulder. That man … he’s leading you into such danger I can’t stand to think about it.

      Well, don’t think. Just believe it’ll all turn out. Anyway, Hudson’s led me into danger before and I’m still here.

      You know who I’m talking about! Berry looked into his eyes and gave him what he was hoping to see: a small, wistful but genuine smile. I wish I knew sorcery myself! If I was a witch I’d turn him into a toad!

      Many women have said that about Hudson, I’m sure.

      Off you go, sir. It was Captain Stoneman, a frigate coming up alongside two connected sloops. Got to secure the gangplank. He caught the emotion of the moment. Not to worry, I’ll make sure the lady enjoys a safe and uneventful voyage.

      Thank you, Matthew answered, but knowing Berry he somehow doubted that any voyage she took in life—whether at his side or not—would be uneventful. Even as he thought that, he caught sight of Rowdy Reggie in a fresh suit, coat and tricorn slinking around the deck.

      I’ll treat her as I would my daughter, said the captain, who noted Matthew’s notation of Sir Jewels. All is in order.

      My thanks, again. Matthew moved toward the gangplank with Berry still part of his arms and legs, and certainly his heart. I will say farewell for now, he told her. He felt tears burning his own eyes, and they were mirrored in hers. He figured that he was about a cry away from throwing Professor Fell over and going back down to Berry’s cabin with her, but … no … a bargain had been made and must be kept. He kissed her, she kissed him back, she whispered, "Forever" up next to his ear, and with that he walked down the gangplank and stood watching while it was pulled up and the distance between himself and the woman he loved increased by just that much.

      Ropes were thrown off. Bells clanged again. The Lady Barbara, its lamps ashine, creaked as the lines to the longboats grew taut at the bow, and in another moment the ship moved out of its berth with a soft exultation of wind and water as if eager for the jaunt. Once out into the river the sails would be dropped and the vessel would bloom like a white rose against the purple dawn. It would be a winding path along the Thames to the sea. Matthew was determined to watch it out of sight, and so his last view of the Lady Barbara as the sun was rising was the coppery-red-tressed figure at the stern, waving her goodbye.

      For now, at least. But forever was a promise for the future, and Matthew was going to do his damnedest to make sure it came true.

      At last he walked back along the wharf in company with some of the other passengers’ relatives or friends, and in company also of the now-silent drummers, trumpeters, fiddlers and dancers who trudged along in search of another circus. In time Matthew came upon his own personal jester, seated upon a pile of crates.

      Thought you’d come to your senses and decided to boot the boss, Hudson said.

      No, I’m in for the play.

      She go out well?

      Well enough.

      Best it could be, I suppose.

      Yes, Matthew said.

      Hudson stood up. The big man loomed larger still in his new coat of black bearskin, along with his new black tricorn trimmed in red. You all right?

      Again … well enough.

      Sounds like you’re in need of a breakfast fit for a king. I myself am starving. How about we go spend as much of Fell’s money as is humanly possible?

      I’m for that.

      The two men walked away from the docks into the face of a cold wind. The city was already a beehive of activity, coaches and wagons trundling about, the streets loaded with pedestrians scurrying hither and yon, smoke swirling from high chimneys and the heartbeat of London a steady thrum … thrum … thrum that was not only heard but could be felt in the pit of the stomach.

      One thing I regret, said Matthew with a frown as they strode toward the tavern that Hudson sought, "is that I failed in my promise to get Madam Candoleri, Di Petri and Rosabella out of the village. If I could, I would’ve gotten everyone out. But … I couldn’t, and I’m going to have to live with that. God only knows when they’ll ever be able to get out of there."

      Hm, Hudson said. Well … maybe God isn’t the only one who knows.

      What’s that supposed to mean?

      "I mean … God moves in mysterious ways. Ah, here’s the Golden Star! Kirby says it’s got the prettiest servers and best breakfast in the Holborn district. So I’m going to flirt like a devil and eat until my stomach bursts, because as far as I know there are no pretty girls on the Essex Triton and the food will be like leather and nails. Come along, come along!" Matthew followed. He intended after breakfast and before returning to the green embraces of the Emerald Inn to find a bookseller, and spend even more of the professor’s funds for some worthwhile tomes suitable for putting the grief of parting with Berry at rest for a while, and also for concentrated study on the long journey. But he had a horrible thought as they entered the Golden Star: not about the dangers ahead, the catalogue of demons or raising a spirit of evil from the depths of a haunted mirror …

      … but about the fact that aboard the Triton he was going to have to share a chamberpot with Hudson Greathouse.

      The stuff of nightmares, to be sure.

      Three

      Three weeks and three days after the Essex Triton had been rowed from its berth and set on its voyage to Venice, lights glinted in the dark across a Welsh landscape crusted with newly fallen snow.

      The cold was bone-cracking. Wind seemed to be blowing from every direction, all of it bitter. Desmond Stalker, clad in his heavy brown fearnaught with a woolen cap pulled low over his brow, cursed the weather and peered again through the spyglass mounted on its tripod.

      What do ya see? McBray asked at his side in a breath of steam.

      Lanterns movin’. Six, looks to be. I’m guessin’ four hundred yards.

      ’Bout where they put the stakes down, then.

      The same. Stalker straightened up. This was one hell of a mystery. He was standing on the walkway atop the look-outs’ wall guarding Y Beautiful Bedd, nearly directly above the new wooden slab of a gate that had been fashioned to seal the place as it should be. With him, along with McBray, were Fell’s men Gravelling, Wickett and Jaggers, all of them tightly bundled and one might also say tightly wound, for the day’s observations had been both a puzzle and a disturbance. What do ya think they’re doin’ out there? Wickett, a blackmailer by trade and inclination, leaned forward to take a look through the glass and was swatted away by Stalker’s black-gloved hand.

      Leave that be, Stalker commanded. And if I knew, I’d tell. As village leader appointed by Professor Fell after the group had departed for London, he had the authority to give orders to even the most dangerous and unstable of the professor’s remaining henchmen … which would be the thin, bespectacled and mostly silent Edgar Jaggers, who had come into Fell’s employ after multiple murders involving decapitations and the painting of his victims’ walls with gore.

      Don’t like it, said Gravelling, with a shiver. We should’ve taken a step while it was still light.

      Maybe. Stalker watched the glints moving about. Didn’t like the cut of that gent on the horse. Looked like he was too familiar with that musket.

      The wind hissed and shrilled. Behind the five men, Y Beautiful Bedd was asleep and dark except for a few remaining lamps in windows. Over on the seaward side, three more of Fell’s men guarded the opposite wall, their own lanterns ashine as they walked the ramparts back and forth the length of the village.

      Stalker looked up, saw stars beginning to show between the racing clouds. He figured the time to be nearing three o’clock. His tongue probed the holes in his mouth where that damned Hudson Greathouse had knocked out two of his teeth. If he’d had his way he would’ve cut that bastard’s arms off and thrown him in a room with Jaggers and a sharp axe, but no … the professor had use for him. Hell of a way to run a village.

      During the afternoon, Gravelling on lookout had called for Stalker to come take a gander at some activity going on across the wintry plain. Stalker had watched through his glass as two men who’d gotten out of a canvas-covered wagon four hundred or so yards away set up a land surveyor’s scope aimed at the village’s gate as a third man sat astride a horse cradling a musket. While the two men fiddled with the scope’s dials and seemed to be making notes in a book, the gent with the musket had simply been content to sit there and observe both the surveyors and the village while smoking a big-bowled pipe. But it was obvious the pipe smoker was on guard, and the musket ready for action.

      A curious scene, to say the least. Within a few minutes word spread through the guards and the wall was crowded with eyes watching the procedure of the two surveyors pounding red stakes into the earth in a triangular formation, with the figure’s apex directed toward the village.

      After that was done, a tent was hauled out of the wagon and pitched next to the arrangement of stakes. The two surveyors went in out of the cold while the pipe smoker with the musket pulled a rocking-chair from the wagon, planted it in the snow at the center of the triangle and sat there rocking and smoking with the musket across his lap as if the February cold was no less comfortable than a morn in May. A broad-shouldered and stocky man, he looked to be through the spyglass. A rugged type. Would have to be, to weather this weather. Wearing a black tricorn with a crimson band and a gray overcoat with a collar of black fur. The spyglass showed a face like a chunk of carved rock and hard eyes that fixed unwaveringly upon the village through his spirals of pipe smoke.

      All in all, this gent scared Stalker to the marrow of his bones. But as leader he could show no apprehension, and so he said to the others gathered around him, Everybody just keep calm and carry on. Though it was spoken with a voice so tight with apprehension it could’ve served as a clothesline for a suit of armor.

      Now, in the blustery dark past three in the morning, the wind carried to the ears of the watchful guards the sounds of creaking and clanking, here one second and gone the next. Likewise the voices of men, made ghostly by the distance and the elements. Stalker’s glass picked out a fire being lighted in a large iron pot. By the firelight he could make out figures moving around with their lanterns, obviously under direction for some task at hand. A horse whinnied, possibly annoyed at being out in this cold when a warm stable stall would be the preference.

      What’s happenin’? Gravelling asked.

      Shut, Stalker growled. I’ll tell when I got a figger on it. But he could not get a figger on it, not by a long shot.

      He was nearing his wit’s end. Having to manage this damn place, and now what might be a friggin’ carnival being set up on their doorstep. What would the professor do? If Stalker had his way he’d be quits with this place. With the new drug doctor dead and—he’d heard—the book of potions to keep these blokes and biddies in their trances having been burned by Julian Devane, the place was akin to a madhouse with all the caterwauling and complaining, especially at suppertimes. People bursting into tears and screams in the street, and that was speaking of some of the less sturdy-willed guards. It was getting to be that you couldn’t walk into the Question Mark for a tankard of ale without getting earblasted and half-assaulted by somebody coming out of their twilight, and it was making for a most disagreeable life. Peace and quiet, it was not. And now this new affront to their solitude, but what the hell was it?

      Hey, look there, McBray said. Somebody comin’. Stalker didn’t need the glass to see that a torch was approaching the gate. An eye to the glass revealed the details of that geezer with the hard-bitten countenance on his horse, holding the torch aloft and advancing like he was parading down Park Lane. There was no sign of the musket, but Stalker saw an item hanging on a leather cord from the saddle that he couldn’t quite make out.

      The man in the black tricorn and the fur-collared coat halted maybe thirty feet from the gate, as every man on the rampart above but Jaggers—who nursed a fear of firearms—held their pistols on him.

      Still holding the torch high, the new arrival reached down and pulled up to his mouth on its leather cord a wooden speaking-horn, through which he directed the question: Who’s in charge there?

      Bloody Bones and Raw Hide! Stalker shouted back. You want to meet ’em?

      Very humorous, thank you for that chuckle, said the man through his speaker in an easy, unhurried voice. I’m going to presume you’re in charge?

      Presumin’ your life away, is what you’re about to do!

      Don’t be nervous, sir. Professor Fell wouldn’t be, if he happened to be on the premises. Which he is certainly not.

      Huh? Well now, how do you— Stalker caught himself. "Who, exactly?"

      It’s too cold for games. Professor Danton Idris Fell is not in his village. He is currently at sea, I do believe. Therefore I’m again presuming that you’re the man to make decisions.

      Maybe I am!

      "Then here’s your first point of decision. My name is Gideon Lancer. I am officially known as Sheriff Lancer. I have come—along with my own show of persuasion—to free your prisoners and escort the rest of you to the gaol in Bristol. It is your first point to decide whether the second point is easy or difficult, and how many of your men you wish to see killed before dawn."

      "The cheek of that bastard!" Gravelling seethed, next to Stalker.

      God’s mercy, we been found out! Wickett quailed.

      Shut your traps! Stalker snapped. We ain’t goin’ nowhere, so don’t lose your nuggets. Then, to Gideon Lancer in another shout: Fine talk for a man lookin’ at four pistols aimed at his brainpan!

      Ah. Somehow I was sure of that. See this torch? Lancer paused for emphasis. Mark it well, because if it falls to the ground the instruction for the crew of the cannon aimed at your gate is to immediately open fire with their five-and-a-half-pound balls. That will make relatively quick work of your supposed security, and then the dozen mercenary soldiers I have recruited for this task will rush in wishing to dip their swords and daggers in criminal blood and shoot a few nasty scoundrels with their double-barreled pistols. Paint that picture in your minds, won’t you?

      There was silence on the rampart but for the hiss and keen of the wind.

      Then Edgar Jaggers said in his soft and cultivated Oxford accent, Bring six prisoners up here and give me a sharp axe. Tell the gentleman that for every knock of a cannonball against our gate, a head shall bloody the snow.

      Oh, shut the fuck up! Stalker said. "This is serious!" But it was a thought, and he shouted down to Lancer, You start blastin’, we start killin’ the professor’s guests. How about them apples?

      Sour and wormy, came the reply. If you’re the man named Stalker, let me remind you that my information tells me not all of Fell’s men are murderers. If any of the ‘guests,’ as you put it, are killed by your hand, then all of you will be complicit in that crime and all—even the most lowly forger—will be going to a swing party in Bristol.

      "How the hell do you know my name?"

      I was informed that you’re the leader in the professor’s absence.

      "Informed? By what damned bird?"

      A very large fowl, Gideon Lancer thought, but he remained silent.

      Some weeks ago, he’d received a letter written by Hudson Greathouse, posted from the Emerald Inn in London to his office in the village of Whistler Green.

      Hello Giddy, it had begun. Been a long time, has it not? Those were the days. I understand you met my associate Matthew Corbett, and I thank you for the help you gave him. He needed it. I could go on about our glories of the past, but I have a present-day glory for you if you want to now give help to some people who desperately need it, as well. I believe you recall the name and reputation of Professor Fell, whom we’ve now identified by the more complete name of Danton Idris Fell. Yes, that very same who bedeviled us and caused the death of Richard Herrald. I hope you’re interested in causing him a bit of devilment in return.

      Hudson had gone on to give the locality of Y Beautiful Bedd, its layout, and his explanation that to his counting nearly sixty people were

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