Margaret Weis - Shadow Raiders

Rodrigo handed Stephano the letter. He glanced over it, then turned to Dargent.

“And, knowing the countess, she’ll send me to debtor’s prison if my bill is not paid. What’s this about?” Stephano asked.

“I am sorry, Captain,” Dargent murmured. “I was not apprised.”

“Like Hell you weren’t,” Stephano said, sneering. “You know all the countess’ dirty little secrets.”

“Perhaps it’s a job,” Rodrigo suggested in a low voice. “We could use the work. The countess pays well and on time.”

“She might say it’s a job for her, but we would really be working for the king,” said Stephano bitterly, not bothering to lower his voice.

“Pays well,” Rodrigo repeated. “On time.”

Stephano watched the first letter dwindle to ashes, then said abruptly, “Tell the countess I will attend her at nine. I’ll hear what she has to offer. I can always say no.”

“And if you say no, we can always move to Estara,” said Rodrigo. “Our creditors might not find us there.”

Dargent bowed. “I will show myself out, Captain.”

“You do that,” said Stephano.

He waited until he heard the front door close, then he picked up his hat and cloak and said shortly, “I’m going for a walk.”

“Want company?” Rodrigo asked.

“No,” said Stephano.

“What do I tell the others?”

“What you like,” said Stephano.

Rodrigo returned to the kitchen alone. Miri, Gythe, Dag, and the cat all looked at him expectantly. Benoit was again pretending to be asleep, but he had his head cocked to hear.

“Benoit told us the man was from the countess,” said Miri. “Is it a job? Will Stephano take a job from her?”

“God knows,” said Rodrigo, throwing up his hands. “Most of the time, Stephano de Guichen is a rational man. But he loses his head completely when it comes to his mother.”

THE NEXT DAY, STEPHANO ROSE AT HIS USUAL TIME. He ate breakfast, ran through his daily fencing practice, washed, and dressed. Hearing the sound of the carriage arriving at the door, he shouted to Benoit that he was leaving and descended the stairs that led to the main entryway. Stephano cast an uncaring glance at himself in the mirror, put on his hat (which he noted had been brushed, the brown plume fluffed up a bit) and was almost ready to go out the front door when Rodrigo opened it and walked inside.

“I was just on my way to join you at the palace,” said Stephano. “I thought you were ‘visiting a friend.’ ”

Rodrigo regarded Stephano’s green breeches, which were tied below the knee, his dark green stockings, light green waistcoat, and dark green coat, lacking adornment, with frowning disapproval.

“I thought I might find you in this state. One reason I returned early. We are attending court, not storming the battlements at Vertin. Benoit!”

“I wash my hands of him, sir!” came the querulous response from the kitchen.

“Back to the dressing room,” said Rodrigo, placing his hand on Stephano’s shoulder and shoving him toward the stairs.

Seeing Stephano’s rebellious look, Rodrigo added briskly, “Pays well, on time.”

“You’ll find his court clothes laid out on the bed, sir!” Benoit called from below.

Stephano heaved a sigh and allowed himself to be propelled up to his dressing room. “I’m only doing this for Miri and the others, Rigo. If it were up to me, I’d starve before I went groveling to my mother.”

Once Stephano was properly attired, Rodrigo inspected him. “The sleeves are frayed at the cuffs. The coat is at least two years out of fashion, but the material is of the finest quality and the style is classic, so I am not completely ashamed to be seen at court with you. Let me tie your cravat.”

With a suffering air, Stephano let his friend tie the white cravat, edged with a hint of lace, around his throat, and regarded himself in the mirror. He privately conceded that he did look good. The knee-length silver-trimmed coat was fitted at the waist, and powder blue in color with turned back cuffs that showed the lace-edged sleeves of his white shirt. His waistcoat was of blue-and-green brocade. He wore breeches of the same blue color tied with ribbons below the knee, white stockings, and black shoes. His rapier hung from an embroidered baldric draped over his shoulder.

Stephano steadfastly refused to wear the powdered wigs then fashionable in the royal court. His sandy-blond, shoulder-length hair was tied at the back of his neck with a blue ribbon. He was clean-shaven, a task he performed himself, given that Benoit’s hands were too shaky these days to be trusted with a razor. Stephano’s blue eyes were changeable, becoming gray with anger or determination. He was of medium height with the light-muscled, fine-boned build of a Dragon Knight and an upright military bearing. His face tended to be stern and unsmiling, except when he was around his friends, at which time he would relax and lower his guard.

Rodrigo draped his arm around his friend’s shoulder and regarded the two of them in the mirror.

Unlike Stephano, Rodrigo was dressed in the latest fashion. His long, fitted coat was mauve, decorated with gold buttons and golden embroidery. His deep cuffs were a darker mulberry. His shirt was dripping with lace, and he wore a lace collar. His stockings were white. He also did not wear a wig, preferring to show off the brown curls that framed his face. Women termed his brown eyes “melting.” His face was long, his chin slightly pointed. His mouth quirked with fun and good humor. He was hopeless with a rapier and terrifying to his friends with firearms. His tongue was his weapon, he liked to say.

Rigo-as he was known-was thirty-three, and he and Stephano had been firm friends from childhood, despite their contrasting natures. Stephano was energetic, resolute, disciplined (except when it came to money). Rodrigo was indolent, vacillating, with not an ounce of self-discipline (except when it came to money).

Rodrigo was also a brilliant crafter and could have risen to the top of that profession, but he had studied magic only sporadically, dabbling in what interested him and forgoing the rest. Consequently, he had been thrown out of the University, to the dismay of his parents, who, however, continued to dote on him. He was the spoiled third son, with no income other than what he earned with the Cadre of the Lost and a modest stipend from his parents. Rodrigo was most at home in drawing rooms and salons. He knew everyone in court, knew the gossip about all of them, and he acquired most of the Cadre’s jobs.

Rodrigo smiled. “You would never know I was forced to pawn your dress sword to pay for the carriage.”

“You did what?” Stephano demanded, rounding on his friend. “My sword with the gold basket hilt? That was a gift-”