The Providence Rider (13 page)

Matthew saw the town of New York fading away behind them. It did appear gray, at this distance and in this light.

Farewell to the gray kingdom, he thought. For whatever he used to be and whoever he once was, he could no longer be. He had thought himself having to grow solid stones to meet the threat and violence of Tyranthus Slaughter. But now he realized that grisly adventure might have been a garden walk compared to this journey.

So farewell to the gray kingdom, for his mind must be clear and his vision sharp. He must be more Matthew Corbett than ever before. And, he thought grimly, God help Matthew Corbett.

The
Nightflyer
turned to secure its course. A dolphin leaped before the bow. Rays of sunlight streamed through the clouds to brighten the sea, and Matthew hobbled behind Madam Chillany in search of a good breakfast and a glass of sleep.

As the days passed, as the ship sailed across an ocean that might be both calm and turbulent in the same day, as the rain showered down from dark clouds and then the sun burst forth from the midst of darkness, as the pallid moonlight glittered upon the luminous waves and the bright blue ribbons of sea creatures moved on their errands of life and death, Matthew felt himself healing.

He was aided in this regard by the doctor, Jonathan Gentry by name. Gentry came by his cabin to see him in the mornings after breakfast and in the evenings before supper was served. Sometimes medicinal tea was brought, sometimes Gentry unpeeled the plaster under Matthew’s left eye to check the stitches, and then he applied a green salve and put the plaster back as it was. The doctor gave him a cake of grassy-smelling soap and told him to keep everything clean, for this Atlantic travel was a nasty business and all sorts of mold grew from the grime a ship carried. Not to mention the rats that crawled about so freely they were given pet names by the sailors.

Matthew always posed the same three questions to Dr. Gentry. One being, “Are Berry and Zed well-treated?”

And the answer to that, always the same: “Certainly they are.”

The next question following: “May I see them?”

“Not quite yet.”

The third question: “When am I to hear what Fell’s problem is?”

And its answer: “In time, Matthew.” Then: “Make sure you get out on the deck for your walk. Yes?”

Matthew always nodded. In fact, he greatly looked forward to his walks on the deck. No matter if it was raining or the sun shone, Matthew walked ’round and ’round the ship, taking in the tasks being performed and the occasional glimpse of Captain Jerrell Falco, an austere figure in black suit, black cloak and black tricorn to match the blue-black sheen of his ebony flesh. The captain had a white goatee, and he carried a twisted cane that he had no qualms about using across the back of a slow seaman. Matthew had noted there were several Africans or black Caribees among the crew, as well as a few yellow skins from the Far East. If anything, the ship was worldly. Matthew found himself with books to read. They were delivered in a basket to his cabin, and they carried the faint hint of a woman’s perfume. It seemed to him that either Aria Chillany liked the idea of bruised flesh under her hands, or she was toying with him. The books were Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
,
King Lear
and
Julius Caesar
, a philosophical tome concerning the earth’s place at the center of the universe, and a fearsomely blasphemous book explaining how God was a creation of the mind of Man. Matthew figured just opening that book in some communities might earn a backburn of whiplashes if not a noose around the neck. Still, he thought he might read it. After all, the books aboard this ship had to have earned the approval of Professor Fell, therefore some view of Fell’s mental state might be gleaned from the reading.

To be sure, Matthew found no fault with his cabin or with the way he was being pampered. And pampered was indeed the correct word. Though no human element could correct the roll of the ship, the drumming of waves against the hull or the constant creaking and crying of timbers, every human element aboard the
Nightflyer
seemed intent on treating Matthew as a valued guest. A glass of wine—drugged or non-drugged, as he wished—was only the ringing of a silver bell away. His food was not only palatable, it was damned good. Yet he might tire of fish, the daily catch was spiced to his liking. His clothing had been washed and pressed by a hot iron. His boots wore a shine. As much as was possible aboard an ocean-going vessel, his cabin was spacious and clean. His bed was a four-poster, the legs pegged down to prevent movement with the ship. The person who came in to change the candles did so on a daily basis and was not stingy with the wax. And, most tellingly, the door to Matthew’s cabin was never locked from the outside. If he required privacy and latched it himself, that was fine, yet he was never forced to feel like a prisoner. One afternoon a knock at his door introduced him to an elderly man who came in with a measuring stick and piece of chalk and proceeded to take his measurements of arm, leg, chest and so forth and then left without a word.

Of course there were some places Matthew could not go. He was cautioned by Gentry not to wander around belowdecks, as he might pick up some unfortunate fungus or infection that would not do his condition any good. Also, there were several locked doors he came to that were obviously not going to be opened for him, and he presumed one of those led down to the brig. But as long as he stayed out of the way he was encouraged to be up on the deck, and several times Gentry had shared dinner with him in the doctor’s own cabin, which was perhaps one half the size of Matthew’s and not nearly so well-fashioned. Gentry was an interesting conversationalist, focusing mostly on his travels through South America, the Caribbean, Italy, Prussia, China, Japan and elsewhere, but not a word would come from him regarding either the professor or the reason behind this endeavor.

And so it was with real interest that after the passage of six days, and after Matthew had made his morning rounds of the deck under a blue sunlit sky that projected an amazing warmth for this time of year, he returned to his cabin to continue his reading of
The
Tempest
and was roused from his comfortable chair by a rap at the door.

“Yes?” he asked mildly, for he had learned there was no sense or need to be rude in this situation.

“Dear Matthew,” said the raven-tressed woman on the other side, “I’ve brought you something.”

It had been several days since he’d laid eyes upon Aria Chillany. He had to admit she was an intensely beautiful woman and his eyes had missed such beauty in the midst of all these ragged and hard-bitten sailors. Therefore he put the folio aside, got to his feet and—marking the fact that this cabin made at least two of his dairyhouse home—he crossed to the door and opened it.

“Good morning,” she said with an honest smile, yet the sapphire-colored eyes were always wary. “May I come in?”

He stepped back and motioned her to enter, and she closed the door at her back.

She was wearing a lilac-hued gown and a dark blue jacket trimmed with black leather. Her hair copiously cascaded along her shoulders and down her back. She smelled of an exotic incense, with an undertone rather like a sugared, hot and slightly burned coffee. She took him in with her direct stare. “You’re mending nicely.”

Was some witticsm called for here? He decided to say only, “Thank you.” He also had realized that the shaving mirror was becoming kinder to him. The worst of the bruises only showed faint blue, the cuts were scabbed over and this woman’s ex-false-husband was coming in the afternoon to remove the plaster and the stitches. Matthew was free of pain and everything seemed to have settled back where it needed to be. This was, he’d decided, more of the effects of deep and healing sleep brought on by the drugged wine than any other of Gentry’s ministrations.

“Here,” she said, and gave him a rolled-up parchment secured with a black cord.

“What is this?”

“Your future,” she told him. Her gaze wandered over to the dresser and atop it the brown clay bowl holding two apples, an orange and a lemon that were brought to him on a daily basis. Without asking, she moved to the bowl with a crisp rustle of underclothes, selected an apple and bit into it. She chewed and watched him as he opened the parchment.

Matthew saw it was someone’s life history, scribed in black ink by a steady and very disciplined hand. The title was
The Life And Times Of Nathan Spade
.

“And exactly who is Nathan Spade?” Matthew asked.

“That would be
you
,” said Madam Chillany, as she crunched another bite of apple.

He scanned the document. It proclaimed a false birthday, and a birth year that made Nathan two years the elder. It described a hardscrabble childhood on a farm in Surrey. A younger brother, Peter, died as an infant. Mother—Rose by name—perished from consumption. Father Edward was ambushed by a highwayman and his throat slashed for a palm’s weight of measly coins. Therefore Nathan went into the world as a bitter twelve-year-old with many miles to walk and many scores to settle against the whole of humankind. His first occupation: rolling the drunks at a London dockside bordello and cleaning up the mess they left—whether vomit, blood or other.

“Charming,” said Matthew. He stared into the woman’s eyes, forcing his expression to remain stony and unflinching. “What is this
about
?”

“Obviously,” she answered, “your new identity.”

“And why would I need one?”

She continued to eat her apple with leisurely bites. She smiled faintly, the smile of a predator. She came around behind him, and he allowed it. She leaned forward and said quietly into his right ear, “Because being Matthew Corbett, problem-solver for the Herrald Agency, would hasten your death where we are going. You would not last a day, darling Matthew.” Her forefinger, wet with juice, played with his hair. “Some of the personages you are going to meet knew Lyra Sutch. They would not like to know the part you played in her tragedy. Your name is already being bandied about. Therefore the professor wishes to protect you…from them, and from
yourself
.” The last word was concluded with a nip to Matthew’s ear. Playful or not, she had sharp teeth.

He decided it was best, after all, not to let her get behind him, and therefore he turned to face her and backed away a pace.

“Oh,” Aria said, her face placid and self-composed but her eyes on him as if he were the most luscious apple to be plucked, “you shouldn’t be afraid of me, darling. It’s those others you should fear. The ones you’re going to meet.”

“Who are they, exactly?”

“Associates. And friends of associates.” She came toward him a step, and again he retreated. “You have been invited to a gathering, Matthew. A…
festivity
, if you will. That’s why you need the new identity. So you will…shall we say…fit in.”

He read a few more lines of the document. “Hm,” he said. “Spade murdered his first victim at the age of fourteen? He was involved with one of the prostitutes and he killed a jayhawk?” A jayhawk, in this instance, being a man who attempts to remove a prostitute from one ill abode to another, using either flattery or force.

“Yes,” said Aria. “The jayhawk beat her terribly one night. Broke her beautiful nose and vowed to cut her open and watch her guts slide out upon the floor. And do you know what, dear Matthew? Her name might have been Rebecca.”

That took a few seconds to sink in. He held up the parchment. “I thought this was a work of fiction.”

“Fiction is often the echo of truth,” she answered, her focus steady upon him. “Don’t you think?”

Matthew studied her face. Her nose was indeed a little crooked, yet still beautiful. He wondered what those eyes had seen. Or perhaps he really did not wish to know.

But one bit of information he did desire. He decided now was the moment to reach for it. “I’m presuming you were the woman with the blue parasol that day at Chapel’s estate? When he put his birds on us?” He was speaking here of an incident that had occurred during the summer, in his investigation concerning the so-called Queen of Bedlam.

“I was. And happy we all are now that you did not succumb to that fate.”

“I’m presuming also you got out through the hidden tunnel? The one that wound down to the river?” He waited for her to nod. “Tell me this, then. What happened to the swordsman? The Prussian,” Matthew emphasized. “He called himself Count Dahlgren.” Matthew and the count had been locked in deadly combat, and but for a silver fruit tray one young problem-solver would have found himself run through by a wicked dagger. Though Dahlgren had been wrapped in a pair of curtains and clouted into a goldfish pond, his left arm broken at the wrist, still the enigmatic Prussian had escaped capture that day, and had disappeared.

“I have no idea,” Aria answered. “That’s the truth.”

Matthew believed her. He hated loose ends. Dahlgren was definitely a loose end. Moreover, Dahlgren was a loose end who could still manage a sword and surely bore a Prussia-sized grudge against the adversary who’d bested him. The question was still unanswered: where had Dahlgren gone, and where was he now?

Surely the count was not waiting for him at the end of this voyage, Matthew mused. But he felt sure that somewhere, at sometime, he would meet Dahlgren again.

Matthew decided to try another angle to one of his three questions, now that he had this parchment and some idea that he was being required to playact the part of a rather nasty young killer. Obviously, a great deal of thought and preparation had been put into the professor’s plan…whatever it was. “I want to see Berry and Zed.”

“That’s not possible. I believe that Gentry has assured you—”

“You’re speaking when you should be listening,” Matthew interrupted. “You must not have heard. I’m not asking, I’m telling.” He rolled up the parchment and wrapped it with the black cord. “I want to see Berry and Zed.
Now
.”

“No,” she said.

“And why not? Because if I see what condition they’re being kept in, I may refuse to go along with this…
nonsense
?” He flung the parchment across the room to land in the far corner. “All right, then. You go tell Sirki I refuse to leave the ship when we dock wherever we’re going. Tell him they’ll have to carry me out on a stretcher, after all. Tell him—”

“I’ll tell him,” Aria agreed, “to kill them. Starting with the girl.”

Matthew forced a harsh laugh. He and the woman might not have swords, but they were fencing all the same, and damned if she wasn’t as good at using her own weapon as Dahlgren had been with his. “You will not,” said Matthew, and now he approached her. She stood her ground and lifted her chin. “Sirki vowed Berry would be returned safely to New York, and myself as well. His anger toward Zed will have passed by now. I have the feeling he might be an honorable man, in his own way.”
And you
a dishonorable woman in all ways
, he might have added. He continued right up to her, as if he owned the very air she breathed. He had already decided he had very little to lose in this situation, and he must show himself to be a powerful force. As much force as he could masquerade under, to be honest. A look of uncertainty passed only briefly across Aria’s face before she righted her ship. She stood firm and defiant before him, and she started to take another bite of the dwindling apple.