Legend of the Storm Hawks

Silver Fox

Silver Fox~

Nigel Willoughby

Jorendon

Much later that night and nowhere near his townhouse, Nigel climbed from his carriage alone.

Parked beneath a streetlamp on a deserted side street, grizzled old Pawley climbed inside the empty carriage to snooze until his return. His driver was accustomed to his discreet nocturnal excursions.

Nigel wore a plain brown cloak, his long white hair hidden, and his tweed cap’s brim pulled down low. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked the three blocks that took him to the vibrant, irreverent, and deliciously perilous district known as Cabbagetown.

For decades, the seedy slum had drawn immigrants with its cheap housing and proximity to work in the busy harbor. Over time, a few ambitious entrepreneurs began rising from Cabbagetown’s colorful patchwork of cultures. Some chose to stay amongst their own rather than leave for the nicer parts of town. The district Nigel had always found so invigorating was experiencing a rebirth of late. He glanced up approvingly as he passed a newly renovated tearoom shouldered in beside a ramshackle old inn.

Around the next corner, a fox-shaped wooden sign swung in the breeze. Nigel smiled and quickened his steps. The Silver Fox brothel beckoned.

He’d been frequenting the establishment for years. Anyone observing his clandestine visits in mediocre disguises shrugged and looked the other way. The venerated Lord Nigel Willoughby’s predilection for the Silver Fox’s hospitality was the worst kept secret in Jorendon.

Drunken singing and raucous laughter greeted his approach. Hazy light seeped under the door, curling around his ankles like a friendly old cat.

The Silver Fox was busy tonight. The heady blend of sweat, tobacco, and perfume permeated a lounge crowded with men in varying degrees of drunkenness groping women in corresponding degrees of undress. A rowdy bunch gathered around a turbaned magicker. The charlatan drew guffaws and whistles as he pulled a silver deira from one of the women’s more scandalous crannies. Nigel laughed and tossed the enterprising fellow a copper.

The Silver Fox’s petite proprietor was at her customary table in the far corner of the room. Nigel admired her beguiling smile as she relieved another client of his coin. The dusky woman on the man’s arm wore a band of orange silk across her ample breasts, and a filmy skirt hung low on her hips. With a throaty laugh, she pulled her patron up the stairs.

Lucinda stowed the man’s coin in her filigreed strongbox. Lamplight shimmered off her raven hair and accentuated her sculpted bronze cheeks. The Talluan beauty’s forty-and-two years of age would surprise anyone who hadn’t known her as long as he had. Her sultry eyes swept the room and fixed on his. She arched one perfect eyebrow.

“Atohi Mico,” she welcomed him with the Estean name she’d chosen for him years ago.

“Lucinda, my dear.” He pressed his lips to her hand, savoring the sweet pine of her favorite lotion.

He darted a glance to the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen and back rooms. She nodded affirmation and rested two fingers against her cheek. He made his way to the appointed room.

Nigel opened the door and found his informant waiting.

“Walter surprised me today,” he said, dispensing with formalities. “He’s in contact with Anne.”

“That’s worrisome,” said Peder Griffith. “Deighton has been feeding Anne’s fervor some potent fuel.”

“Franz. Tell me his part in this.”

“Even in the most unlikely of marriages, a bond can grow if it’s sown in fertile common ground. Franz converted.”

“Converted?”

A Cadron prince leaving the Orthodoxy made no sense. Only one kingdom preferred royalty of Anne’s faith. Franz was preparing to come to Innis.

“That’s what he claims. Anne’s letter congratulating the Beacon affirmed her devotion to the Church of Innis and extolled her dear husband’s burgeoning faith. Deighton clamped his teeth into her like a Talluan alligator.”

“She trusts him?”

“She’s made considerable pledges to the Church’s treasury.”

Anne could prove an easy convert to Deighton’s fanaticism. And Deighton would be far more likely to collect on those pledges if Anne were closer at hand.

“Bishop Moseley is busy fanning the flames,” said Peder. “He has Remerton and Lewsland aligned behind Deighton’s bigotry now.”

Perhaps it was time Remerton misplaced one of its more troublesome residents.

“What of Danyl?” said Peder.

“Alive and well and championing justice. It’s best if few know where,” said Nigel. “Danyl made the bold choice. You would be proud.”

Peder’s friend might not survive his chosen path, but Nigel admired him for walking it, nonetheless. Soon, word of the availability of his services would make it to a select few worthy of guarding the secret. This time, no one would know where to find the Pelican’s roost.

Not even Nigel.

“Thank you, Peder.” He extended his hand to his reluctant informant. “I understand your reservations about providing this information. I hope you understand the importance of continuing to do so.”

“Information is a coward’s weapon, but it’s the only one I have to wield.” Peder pulled his cloak’s hood down to hide his face and left.

Nigel stopped outside another door and tapped. A dignified middle-aged man let him in, and a young girl in a fine velvet gown sprang to her feet. She had her father’s proud profile and brown skin.

Abu Bakari immigrated to Innis fifteen years ago, and his family still held considerable land and power on the distant continent of Wodi. Bakari was one of the most successful entrepreneurs in Cabbagetown, having established his family’s salt and spice trade in numerous shops around Jorendon. The astute merchant owned taverns, inns, and the renovated tearoom Nigel passed on his walk to the Silver Fox.

Every informant comes with an agenda.

Abu Bakari hated Larad. He hated the language, the food, the climate, and especially the people. He hated the Laradish ships monopolizing the southern trade routes, keeping down the prices of Wodian exports. He hated the Laradish slavers raiding the Wodi coast, stealing away men, women, and children to work the fields on Philippeon estates or in the mines of Talluan island colonies.

Nigel suspected Bakari’s visit might have something to do with Larad.

“My daughter,” Bakari said brusquely.

Nigel offered the girl a courteous bow, but he never asked or offered names unnecessarily.

“Tell him what you saw,” Bakari commanded in gruff, accented Innish.

“Minister Langdon dined at our harbor inn yesterday. He often comes for the minted lamb skewers.” The girl rocked on her toes, eager to share, and Nigel waited for her to get to the point.

“We had a table of Laradish naval officers there, too,” she said. “One got up to use the privy and almost knocked a pitcher of ale from my hands. The rude pig didn’t even apologize.”

Nigel shook his head, commiserating over the affront to her dignity.

“Then, Minister Langdon got up and followed the Laradian out to the courtyard.”

“Finding that curious, you listened, of course.” Nigel smiled, lending her an excuse for eavesdropping on her father’s customers.

“Of course,” she said. “Minister Langdon gave the Laradian a letter. He said those were the names of the ones he needed released from prison. The Laradian said he’d see it done. I didn’t hear the rest. But before they went back inside, Minister Langdon kissed him.”

Nigel considered her a moment.

“A brush on the cheek, as is the custom in Larad?”

“I’d have little reason to mention that, would I?” The girl rolled her eyes. “This was a lover’s kiss. I’m old enough to know the difference.”

Bakari frowned at his brash daughter. She lowered her eyes and folded her hands demurely.

Langdon’s romantic encounters were of no interest to him. He’d long known the man was a fool for a handsome face and a broad chest. But an officer in Larad’s navy, and one willing to do him favors, was another matter. How had Langdon become so close to someone of significance in Larad, someone with enough influence to secure the release of…whom?

Who sits in a Laradish prison and matters to Geoffrey Langdon?

“Thank you for coming, Manser Bakari,” he said. “This is of great interest to me.”

“Keeping your king’s eye on Laradish devils is of great interest to me.”

Bakari ushered his daughter out and left Nigel to puzzle through Langdon’s connection to prisoners and naval officers. None of it fit, and he still hadn’t decided how to handle Anne’s newfound interest in Innis. He sighed and decided he would make no sense of it tonight.

He stuck his head inside the hot, cluttered kitchen. The burly cook was chopping onions with murderous exuberance.

“Rafe, tell her I’m done.”

The ruddy-faced cook grunted and wiped skillet-sized hands on his apron. Bands of white linen wound tightly around his head suggested a bald pate bigger than any helm on any soldier Nigel had ever seen, but the black mat carpeting his neck argued otherwise. The Silver Fox’s cook was one hairy behemoth.

Nigel climbed four flights of stairs crisscrossing the brothel’s rear wall. He let himself in the apartment’s back door and tossed his cloak across an overstuffed settee. He leaned a hand on its gold brocade back and pulled off his boots, then unlaced the tweed breeches making his legs itch.

At the credenza, he filled a goblet from a wine carafe. He sniffed and judged it an excellent Brescan vintage. He carried it to the bedroom and set it beside an open book on the bedside table. He slid under the coverlet on her side of the bed, curious to see what she was reading. As he propped pillows behind his back, the soft brush of her slippers signaled her entrance.

Nigel was as struck by her distinctive beauty as he’d been the first time he laid eyes on her. She perched on the edge of the bed and gathered her long black hair around her shoulder. He worked the pearl buttons down the back of her gown.

“That did not take long,” she said in the melodic accent of the Este. “No reluctant tongues tonight?”

“The worst news is the quickest to deliver.” His fingers skimmed her bare back. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

Lucinda slid her arms from the sleeves and let the gown drop to the floor. The years had been kind to her body, still lithe and unmarked by childbearing. He gave an appreciative murmur and lifted the coverlet for her to join him.

For one precious hour, he stopped being Lord Nigel Willoughby and made love to his wife.

Chapter 32