Текст книги "Lord John and the Hand of Devils"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
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Grey found himself pressed into a place near the wall. One figure, robed in a cardinal’s red, came forward, and Sir Francis Dashwood’s voice intoned the beginning of the rite. The rite itself was a parody of the Mass, enacted with great solemnity, invocations made to the Master of Darkness, the chalice formed of an upturned skull.

In all truth, Grey found the proceedings tedious in the extreme, enlivened only by the appearance of a large Barbary ape, attired in bishop’s cope and miter, who appeared at the Consecration. The animal sprang upon the altar, where it gobbled and slobbered over the bread provided and spilled wine upon the floor. It would have been less entertaining, Grey thought, had the beast’s ginger whiskers and seamed countenance not reminded him so strongly of the Bishop of Ely, an old friend of his mother’s.

At the conclusion of this rite, the men went out, with considerably less solemnity than when they had come in. A good deal had been drunk in the course of the rite, and their behavior was less restrained than that of the ape.

Two men near the end of the line seized Grey by the arms and compelled him into a small alcove, around which the others had gathered. He found himself bent backward over a marble basin, the robe pushed down from his shoulders. Dashwood intoned a prayer in reverse Latin, and something warm and sticky cascaded over Grey’s head, blinding him and causing him to struggle and curse in the grip of his captors.

“I baptize thee, child of Asmodeus, son of blood…” A kick from Grey’s foot caught Dashwood under the chin and sent him reeling backward. A hard punch in the pit of the stomach knocked the breath from Grey and quieted him for the remainder of the brief ceremony.

Then they set him on his feet, bloodstained, and gave him drink from a jeweled cup. He tasted opium in the wine, and let as much as he dared dribble down his chin as he drank. Even so, he felt the dreamy tendrils of the drug steal through his mind, and his balance grew precarious, sending him lurching through the crowd, to the great hilarity of the robed onlookers.

Hands took him by the elbows and propelled him down a corridor, and another, and another. A draft of warm air, and he found himself thrust through a door, which closed behind him.

The chamber was small, furnished with nothing save a narrow couch against the far wall, and a table upon which stood a flagon, several glasses…and a knife. Grey staggered to the table, and braced himself with both hands to keep from falling.

There was a strange smell in the room. At first he thought he had vomited, sickened by blood and wine, but then he saw the pool of it, across the room by the bed. It was only then that he saw the girl.

She was young and naked and dead. Her body lay limp, sprawled white in the light, but her eyes were dull and her lips blue, the traces of sickness trailing down her face and across the bedclothes. Grey backed slowly away, shock washing the last remnants of the drug from his blood.

He rubbed both hands hard across his face, striving to think. What was this, why was he here, with the body of this young woman? He brought himself to come closer, to look. She was no one he had seen before; the calluses upon her hands and the state of her feet marked her as a servant or a country girl.

He turned sharply, went to the door. Locked, of course. But what was the point? He shook his head, his brain slowly clearing. Once clear, though, no answers came to mind. Blackmail, perhaps? It was true that Grey’s family had influence, though he himself possessed none. But how could his presence here be put to such use?

It seemed he had spent forever in that buried room, pacing to and fro across the stone floor, until at last the door opened and a robed figure slipped through.

“George!”

“Bloody hell!” Ignoring Grey’s turn toward him, Everett crossed the room and stood staring down at the girl, brows knit in consternation. “What’s happened?” he demanded, swinging toward Grey.

“You tell me. Or rather, let us leave this place, and then you tell me.”

Everett put out a quelling hand, urging silence. He thought for a moment, and then seemed to reach some conclusion. A slow smile grew across his face.

“Well enough,” he said softly, to himself. He turned and reached toward Grey’s waist, pulling loose the cord that bound the robe closed. Grey made no move to cover himself, though filled with astonishment at the gesture, given the circumstances.

This astonishment was intensified in the next instant, as Everett bent over the bed and wrapped the cord round the neck of the dead woman, tugging hard to draw it tight, so the rope bit deep into flesh. He stood, smiled at Grey, then crossed to the table, where he poured two glasses of wine from the flagon.

“Here.” He handed one to Grey. “Don’t worry, it’s not drugged. You aren’t drugged now, are you? No, I see not; I thought you hadn’t had enough.”

“Tell me what is happening.” Grey took the glass, but made no move to drink. “Tell me, for God’s sake!”

George smiled again, a queer look in his eyes, and picked up the knife. It was exotic in appearance; something Oriental, at least a foot long and wickedly sharp.

“It is the common initiation of the brotherhood,” he said. “The new candidate, once approved, is baptized—it was pig’s blood, by the way—and then brought to this room, where a woman is provided for his pleasure. Once his lust is slaked, an older brother comes to instruct him in the final rite of his acceptance—and to witness it.”

Grey raised a sleeve and wiped cold sweat and pig’s blood from his forehead.

“And the nature of this final rite is—”

“Sacrificial.” George nodded acknowledgment toward the blade. “The act not only completes the initiation, but also insures the initiate’s silence and his loyalty to the brotherhood.”

A great coldness was creeping through Grey’s limbs, making them stiff and heavy.

“And you have…have done this?”

“Yes.” Everett contemplated the form on the bed for a moment, one finger gently stroking the blade. At last he shook his head and sighed, murmuring to himself once more. “No, I think not.”

He raised his eyes to Grey’s, clear and shining in the lamplight. “I would have spared you, I think, were it not for Bob Gerald.”

The glass felt slick in Grey’s hand, but he forced himself to speak calmly.

“So you did know him. Was it you who killed him?”

Everett nodded slowly, not taking his gaze from Grey’s.

“It is ironic, is it not?” he said softly. “I desired membership in this brotherhood, whose watchword is vice, whose credo is wickedness—and yet had Bob Gerald told them what I am, they would have turned upon me like wolves. They hold all abomination dear—save one.”

“And Robert Gerald knew what you were? Yet he did not speak your name as he died.”

George shrugged, but his mouth twitched uneasily.

“He was a pretty lad, I thought—but I was wrong. No, he didn’t know my name, but we met here—at Medmenham. It would have made no difference, had they not chosen him to join us. Were he to come again, though, and see me here…”

“He would not have come again. He refused the invitation.”

George’s eyes narrowed, gauging his truth; then he shrugged.

“Perhaps if I had known that, he need not have died. And if he had not died, you would not have been chosen yourself—would not have come? No. Well, there’s irony again for you, I suppose. And still—I think I would have killed him under any circumstance; it was too dangerous.”

Grey had been keeping a watchful eye on the knife. He moved, unobtrusively, seeking to get the corner of the table betwixt himself and Everett.

“And the broadsheets? That was your doing?” He could, he thought, seize the table and throw it into Everett’s legs, then try to overpower him. Disarmed, they were well-matched in strength.

“No, Whitehead’s. He’s the poet, after all.” George smiled and stepped back, out of range. “They thought perhaps to take advantage of Gerald’s death to discomfit Sir Richard—and chose that method, knowing nothing of his killer or the motive for his death. The greatest irony of all, is it not?”

George had moved the flagon out of reach. Grey stood half naked, with no weapon to hand save a glass of wine.

“So you intend now to procure my silence by claiming I am the murderer of this poor young woman?” Grey demanded, jerking his head toward the still figure on the bed. “What happened to her?”

“Accident,” Everett said. “The women are drugged; she must have vomited in her sleep and choked to death. But blackmail? No, that isn’t what I mean to do.”

Everett squinted at the bed, then at Grey, measuring distance.

“You sought to use a noose for your sacrificial duty—some mislike blood—and though you succeeded, the girl managed to seize the knife and wound you, severely enough that you bled to death before I could return to aid you. Tragic accident; such a pity. Move a little closer to the bed, John.”

Never think a man is helpless, only because he’s fettered.Grey flung his wine into Everett’s face, then smashed his glass against the stones of the wall. He whirled on a heel and lunged upward, jabbing with all his might.

Everett grunted, one side of his handsome face laid open, spraying blood. He growled deep in his throat, baring bloody teeth, and ripped the blade across the air where Grey had stood a moment before. Half blinded by blood and snarling like a beast, he lunged and swung again. Grey ducked, was hit by a flying wrist, and fell across the woman’s body. He rolled sideways, but was trapped by the folds of his robe.

The knife gleamed overhead. In desperation, he threw up his legs and thrust both feet into Everett’s chest, flinging him backward.

Everett staggered, flailing back across the room, half-caught himself, then froze abruptly. The expression on his face showed vast surprise. His hand loosened, dropping the knife, and then drew slowly through the air, graceful in gesture as the dancer that he was. His fingers touched the reddened steel protruding from his chest, acknowledging defeat. He slumped slowly to the floor.

Harry Quarry put a foot on Everett’s back and freed his sword with a vicious yank.

“Good job I waited, wasn’t it? Saw those buggers with their lanterns and all, and thought best I see what mischief was afoot.”

“Mischief,” Grey echoed. He stood up, or tried to. His knees had gone to water. “You…did you hear?” His heart was beating very slowly; he wondered in a dreamy way whether it might stop any minute.

Quarry glanced at him, expression unreadable.

“I heard.” He wiped his sword, then sheathed it, and came to the bed, bending down to peer at Grey. How much had he heard, Grey wondered—and what had he made of it?

A rough hand brushed back his hair. He felt the stiffness matting it, and thought of Robert Gerald’s mother.

“It’s not my blood,” he said.

“Some of it is,” said Quarry, and traced a line down the side of his neck. In the wake of the touch, he felt the sting of the cut, unnoticed in the moment of infliction.

“Never fear,” said Quarry, and gave him a hand to get up. “It will make a pretty scar.”

“Lord John and the Succubus”

In 2003, I was invited to write a novella for an anthology edited by Robert Silverberg, titled Legends II: New Short Novels by the Modern Masters of Fantasy.I had slight reservations—as my World of War Craft–playing son asked, seeing the contract, “Since when are you a modern master of fantasy, Mom?”—but(a) was very flattered to be asked to share a volume with George R. R. Martin, Terry Brooks, and Orson Scott Card, and(b) I’m inclined to regard the notion of literary genres in the same light as a Chinese menu, and (c) if I had a family motto, it would probably be “Why not?” (the accompanying coat-of-arms being a stone circle quartered on a field of azure and crimson with rampant hippogriffs). So I did.

However, I had the same concerns regarding the main characters of the Outlander books that obtained when I wrote “Hellfire.” Reflecting that it had worked once, so why not?, I decided to call Lord John into active duty once more.

The difficulty being, of course, that Lord John Grey is not a time-traveler, nor yet a telepath, a shape-shifter, nor even an inhabitant of an alternate universe loosely based on the history and culture of Scotland or Turkestan. But, on the other hand, there was no requirement that the main character of this putative novella be himself a creature of fantasy—and a story in which a perfectly normal (well, more or less) hero comes into conflict with supernatural creatures is a solid archetype. Hey, if it was good enough for Homer, it’s good enough for me.

And so, “Lord John and the Succubus” was published in 2004, as part of the Legends IIanthology. In terms of Lord John’s chronology, this story follows the novel, Lord John and the Private Matter,and in it, we renew our acquaintance with Tom Byrd, Lord John’s valet, and his friend, Stephan von Namtzen. Set in Germany (which didn’t actually exist as a political entity at the time, but was a recognizable geographical region) in the early phases of the Seven Years War, “Succubus” is a supernatural murder mystery, with military flourishes.

Historical note: Between 1756 and 1763, Great Britain joined with her allies, Prussia and Hanover, to fight against the mingled forces of Austria, Saxony—and England’s ancient foe, France. In the autumn of 1757, the Duke of Cumberland was obliged to surrender at Kloster-Zeven, leaving the allied armies temporarily shattered and the forces of Frederick the Great of Prussia and his English allies encircled by French and Austrian troops.

Chapter 1

Death Rides a Pale Horse

Grey’s spoken German was improving by leaps and bounds, but found itself barely equal to the present task.

After a long, boring day of rain and paperwork, there had come the sound of loud dispute in the corridor outside his office, and the head of Lance-Korporal Helwig appeared in his doorway, wearing an apologetic expression.

“Major Grey?” he said “Ich habe ein kleines Englische problem.”

A moment later, Lance-Korporal Helwig had disappeared down the corridor like an eel sliding into mud, and Major John Grey, English liaison to the Imperial Fifth Regiment of Hanoverian Foot, found himself adjudicating a three-way dispute among an English private, a gypsy prostitute, and a Prussian tavern owner.

A little English problem,Helwig had described it as. The problem, as Grey saw it, was rather the lackof English.

The tavern owner spoke the local dialect with such fluency and speed that Grey grasped no more than one word in ten. The English private, who normally probably knew no more German than “ja,” “nein,”and the two or three crude phrases necessary to accomplish immoral transactions, was so stricken with fury that he was all but speechless in his own tongue, as well.

The gypsy, whose abundant charms were scarcely impaired by a missing tooth, had German that most nearly matched Grey’s own in terms of grammar—though her vocabulary was immensely more colorful and detailed.

Using alternate hands to quell the sputterings of the private and the torrents of the Prussian, Grey concentrated his attention carefully on the gypsy’s explanations—meanwhile taking care to consider the source, which meant discounting the factual basis of most of what she said.

“…and then the disgusting pig of an Englishman, he put his [incomprehensible colloquial expression] into my [unknown gypsy word]! And then…”

“She said, she said she’d do it for sixpence, sir! She did, she said so—but, but, but, then…”

“These-barbarian-pig-dogs-did-revolting-things-under-the-table-and-made-it-fall-over-so-the-leg-of-the-table-was-brokenand-the-dishes-broken-too-even-my-large-platter-which-cost-six– thalers-at-St.Martin’s-Fair-and-the-meat-was-ruined-by-falling-onthe-floor-and-even-if-it-was-not-the-dogs-fell-upon-it-snarlingso-that-I-was-bitten-when-I-tried-to-seize-it-away-from-them-andall-the-time-these-vile-persons-were-copulating-like-filthy-foxeson-the-floor-and-THEN…”

At length, an accommodation was reached, by means of Grey’s demanding that all three parties produce what money was presently in their possession. A certain amount of shifty-eyed reluctance and dramatic pantomimes of purse and pocket-searching having resulted in three small heaps of silver and copper, he firmly rearranged these in terms of size and metal value, without reference as to the actual coinage involved, as these appeared to include the currency of at least six different principalities.

Eyeing the gypsy’s ensemble, which included both gold earrings and a crude but broad gold band round her finger, he assigned roughly equitable heaps to her and to the private, whose name, when asked, proved to be Bodger.

Assigning a slightly larger heap to the tavern owner, he then scowled fiercely at the three combatants, jabbed a finger at the money, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that they should take the coins and leave while he was still in possession of his temper.

This they did, and storing away a most interesting gypsy curse for future reference, Grey returned tranquilly to his interrupted correspondence.

26 September, 1757

To Harold, Earl of Melton

From Lord John Grey

The Township of Gundwitz

Kingdom of Prussia

My Lord—

In reply to your request for information regarding my situation, I beg to say that I am well-suited. My duties are…

He paused, considering, then wrote interesting,smiling slightly to himself at thought of what interpretation Hal might put upon that,

…and the conditions comfortable. I am quartered with several other English and German officers in the house of a Princess Louisa von Lowenstein, the widow of a minor Prussian noble, who possesses a fine estate near the town.

We have two English regiments quartered here: Sir Peter Hicks’s 35th, and half of the 52nd—I am told Colonel Ruysdale is in command, but have not yet met him, the 52nd having arrived only days ago. As the Hanoverians to whom I am attached and a number of Prussian troops are occupying all the suitable quarters in the town, Hicks’s men are encamped some way to the south; Ruysdale to the north.

French forces are reported to be within twenty miles, but we expect no immediate trouble. Still, so late in the year, the snow will come soon, and put an end to the fighting; they may try for a final thrust before the winter sets in. Sir Peter begs me send his regards.

He dipped his quill again, and changed tacks.

My grateful thanks to your good wife for the smallclothes, which are superior in quality to what is available here.

At this point, he was obliged to transfer the pen to his left hand in order to scratch ferociously at the inside of his left thigh. He was wearing a pair of the local German product under his breeches, and while they were well-laundered and not infested with vermin, they were made of coarse linen and appeared to have been starched with some substance derived from potatoes, which was irritating in the extreme.

Tell Mother I am still intact, and not starving,

he concluded, transferring the pen back to his right hand.

Quite the reverse, in fact; Princess von Lowenstein has an excellent cook.

Your Most Affec’t. Brother,

J.

Sealing this with a brisk stamp of his half-moon signet, he then took down one of the ledgers and a stack of reports, and began the mechanical work of recording deaths and desertions. There was an outbreak of bloody flux among the men; more than a score had been lost to it in the last two weeks.

The thought brought the gypsy woman’s last remarks to mind. Blood and bowels had both come into that, though he feared he had missed some of the refinements. Perhaps she had merely been trying to curse him with the flux?

He paused for a moment, twiddling the quill. It was rather uncommon for the flux to occur in the cold weather; it was more commonly a disease of hot summer, while winter was the season for consumption, catarrh, influenza, and fever.

He was not at all inclined to believe in curses, but did believe in poison. A whore would have ample opportunity to administer poison to her customers…but to what end? He turned to another folder of reports and shuffled through them, but saw no increase in the report of robbery or missing items—and the dead soldiers’ comrades would certainly have noted anything of the kind. A man’s belongings were sold by auction at his death, the money used to pay his debts and—if anything were left—to be sent to his family.

He put back the folder and shrugged, dismissing it. Illness and death trod closely in a soldier’s footsteps, regardless of season or gypsy curse. Still, it might be worth warning Private Bodger to be wary of what he ate, particularly in the company of light-frigates and other dubious women.

A gentle rain had begun to fall again outside, and the sound of it against the windowpanes combined with the soothing shuffle of paper and scratch of quill to induce a pleasant sense of mindless drowsiness. He was disturbed from this trancelike state by the sound of footsteps on the wooden stair.

Captain Stephan von Namtzen, Landgrave von Erdberg, poked his handsome blond head through the doorway, ducking automatically to avoid braining himself on the lintel. The gentleman following him had no such difficulty, being a foot or so shorter.

“Captain von Namtzen,” Grey said, standing politely. “May I be of assistance?”

“I have here Herr Blomberg,” Stephan said in English, indicating the small, round, nervous-looking individual who accompanied him. “He wishes to borrow your horse.”

Grey was sufficiently startled by this that he merely said, “Which one?” rather than “Who is Herr Blomberg?” or “What does he want with a horse?”

The first of these questions was largely academic in any case; Herr Blomberg wore an elaborate chain of office about his neck, done in broad, flat links of enamel and chased gold, from which depended a seven-pointed starburst, enclosing a plaque of enamel on which was painted some scene of historic interest. Herr Blomberg’s engraved silver coat buttons and shoe buckles were sufficient to proclaim his wealth; the chain of office merely confirmed his importance as being secular, rather than noble.

“Herr Blomberg is bьrgermeister of the town,” Stephan explained, taking matters in a strictly logical order of importance, as was his habit. “He requires a white stallion, in order that he shall discover and destroy a succubus. Someone has told him that you possess such a horse,” he concluded, frowning at the temerity of whoever had been bandying such information.

“A succubus?” Grey asked, automatically rearranging the logical order of this speech, as was hishabit.

Herr Blomberg had no English, but evidently recognized the word, for he nodded vigorously, his old-fashioned wig bobbing, and launched into impassioned speech, accompanied by much gesticulation.

With Stephan’s assistance, Grey gathered that the town of Gundwitz had recently suffered a series of mysterious and disturbing events, involving a number of men who claimed to have been victimized in their sleep by a young woman of demonic aspect. By the time these events had made their way to the attention of Herr Blomberg, the situation was serious; a man had died.

“Unfortunately,” Stephan added, still in English, “the dead man is ours.” He pressed his lips tightly together, conveying his dislike of the situation.

“Ours?” Grey asked, unsure what this usage implied, other than that the victim had been a soldier.

“Mine,” Stephan clarified, looking further displeased. “One of the Prussians.”

The Landgrave von Erdberg had three hundred Hanoverian foot troops, raised from his own lands, equipped and funded from his personal fortune. In addition, Captain von Namtzen commanded two additional companies of Prussian horse, and was in temporary command of the fragments of an artillery company whose officers had all died in an outbreak of the bloody flux.

Grey wished to hear more details regarding both the immediate death and—most particularly—the demoniac visitations, but his questions along these lines were interrupted by Herr Blomberg, who had been growing more restive by the moment.

“It grows soon dark,” the bьrgermeister pointed out in German. “We do not wish to fall into an open grave, so wet as it is.”

“Ein offenes Grab?”Grey repeated, feeling a sudden chill draft on the back of his neck.

“This is true,” Stephan said, with a nod of moody acquiescence. “It would be a terrible thing if your horse were to break his leg; he is a splendid creature. Come then, let us go.”

What isa s-succubus, me lord?” Tom Byrd’s teeth were chattering, mostly from chill. The sun had long since set, and it was raining much harder. Grey could feel the wet seeping through the shoulders of his officer’s greatcoat; Byrd’s thin jacket was already soaked through, pasted to the young valet’s stubby torso like butcher’s paper round a joint of beef.

“I believe it is a sort of female…spirit,” Grey said, carefully avoiding the more evocative term “demon.” The churchyard gates yawned before them like open jaws, and the darkness beyond seemed sinister in the extreme. No need to terrify the boy unnecessarily.

“Horses don’t like ghosts,” Byrd said, sounding truculent. “Everybody knows that, me lord.”

He wrapped his arms round himself, shivering, and huddled closer to Karolus, who shook his mane as though in agreement, showering water liberally over both Grey and Byrd.

“Surely you don’t believe in ghosts, Tom?” Grey said, trying to be jocularly reassuring. He swiped a strand of wet fair hair out of his face, wishing Stephan would hurry.

“’Tisn’t a matter of what Idon’t believe in, me lord,” Byrd replied. “What if this lady’s ghost believes in us? Who is she, anyway?” The lantern he carried was sputtering fitfully in the wet, despite its shield. Its dim light failed to illumine more than a vague outline of boy and horse, but perversely caught the shine of their eyes, lending them a disturbingly supernatural appearance, like staring wraiths.

Grey glanced aside, keeping an eye out for Stephan and the bьrgermeister, who had gone to assemble a digging party. There was some movement outside the tavern, just visible at the far end of the street. That was sensible of Stephan. Men with a fair amount of beer on board were much more likely to be enthusiastic about the current prospect than were sober ones.

“Well, I do not believe that it is precisely a matter of ghosts,” he said. “The German belief, however, seems to be that the succubus…er…the feminine spirit…may possess the body of a recently dead person, however.”

Tom cast a look into the inky depths of the churchyard, and glanced back at Grey.

“Oh?” he said.

“Ah,” Grey replied.

Byrd pulled the slouch hat low on his forehead and hunched his collar up round his ears, clutching the horse’s halter rope close to his chest. Nothing of his round face now showed save a downturned mouth, but that was eloquent.

Karolus stamped one foot and shifted his weight, tossing his head a little. He didn’t seem to mind either rain or churchyard, but was growing restive. Grey patted the stallion’s thick neck, taking comfort from the solid feel of the cold, firm hide and massive body. Karolus turned his head and blew hot breath affectionately into his ear.

“Almost ready,” he said soothingly, twining a fist in the horse’s soggy mane. “Now, Tom. When Captain von Namtzen arrives with his men, you and Karolus will walk forward very slowly. You are to lead him back and forth across the churchyard. Keep a few feet in front of him, but leave some slack in the rope.”

The point of this procedure, of course, was to keep Karolus from stumbling over a gravestone or falling into any open graves, by allowing Tom to do it first. Ideally, Grey had been given to understand, the horse should be turned into the churchyard and allowed to wander over the graves at his own will, but neither he nor Stephan was willing to risk Karolus’s valuable legs in the dark.

He had suggested waiting until the morning, but Herr Blomberg was insistent. The succubus must be found, without delay. Grey was more than curious to hear the details of the attacks, but had so far been told little more than that a Private Koenig had been found dead in his quarters, the body bearing marks that made his manner of death clear. What marks? Grey wondered.

Classically educated, he had read of succubi and incubi, but had been taught to regard such references as quaintly superstitious, of a piece with other medieval popish nonsense like saints who strolled about with their heads in their hands or statues of the Virgin whose tears healed the sick. His father had been a rationalist, an observer of the ways of nature and a firm believer in the logic of phenomena.

His two months’ acquaintance with the Germans, though, had shown him that they were deeply superstitious; more so even than the English common soldiers. Even Stephan kept a small, carved image of some pagan deity about his person at all times, to guard against being struck by lightning, and the Prussians seemed to harbor similar notions, judging from Herr Blomberg’s behavior.

The digging party was making its way up the street now, bright with sputtering torches and emitting snatches of song. Karolus snorted and pricked his ears; Karolus, Grey had been told, was fond of parades.

“Well, then.” Stephan loomed suddenly out of the murk at his side, looking pleased with himself under the broad shelf of his hat. “All is ready, Major?”

“Yes. Go ahead then, Tom.”

The diggers—mostly laborers, armed with spades, hoes, and mattocks—stood back, lurching tipsily and stepping on each other’s shoes. Tom, lantern held delicately before him in the manner of an insect’s feeler, took several steps forward—then stopped. He turned, tugging on the rope.

Karolus stood solidly, declining to move.

“I told you, me lord,” Byrd said, sounding more cheerful. “Horses don’t like ghosts. Me uncle had an old cart horse once, wouldn’t take a step past a churchyard. We had to take him clear round two streets to get him past.”