Lord John and the Hand of Devils Read Free Page B

it’s not Bob Gerald!”
    Lord John whipped round in his chair. Sure enough, the late-afternoon sun struck sparks from a fiery head, bent as its owner emerged from one of the stalled sedan chairs. Gerald straightened, face set in a puzzled frown, and began to push his way into the knot of embattled bearers.
    “Whatever is he about, I wonder? Surely—Hi! Hold! Hold, you blackguard!” Dropping his glass unregarded, Quarry rushed toward the door, bellowing.
    Grey, a step or two behind, saw no more than the flash of metal in the sun and the brief look of startlement on Gerald’s face. Then the crowd fell back, with a massed cry of horror, and his view was obscured by a throng of heaving backs.
    He fought his way through the screaming mob without compunction, striking ruthlessly with his sword hilt to clear the way.
    Gerald was lying in the arms of one of his bearers, hair fallen forward, hiding his face. The young man’s knees were drawn up in agony, balled fists pressed hard against the growing stain on his waistcoat.
    Quarry was there; he brandished his sword at the crowd, bellowing threats to keep them back, then glared wildly round for a foe to skewer.
    “Who?” he shouted at the bearers, face congested with fury. “Who’s done this?”
    The circle of white faces turned in helpless question, one to another, but found no focus; the foe had fled, and his bearers with him.
    Grey knelt in the gutter, careless of filth, and smoothed back the ruddy hair with hands gone stiff and cold. The hot stink of blood was thick in the air, and the fecal smell of pierced intestine. Grey had seen battlefields enough to know the truth even before he saw the glazing eyes, the pallid face. He felt a deep, sharp stab at the sight, as though his own guts were pierced, as well.
    Brown eyes fixed wide on his, a spark of recognition deep behind the shock and pain. He seized the dying man’s hand in his, and chafed it, knowing the futility of the gesture. Gerald’s mouth worked, soundless. A bubble of red spittle swelled at the corner of his lips.
    “Tell me.” Grey bent urgently to the man’s ear, and felt the soft brush of hair against his mouth. “Tell me who has done it—I will avenge you. I swear it.”
    He felt a slight spasm of the fingers in his, and squeezed back, hard, as though he might force some of his own strength into Gerald; enough for a word, a name.
    The soft lips were blanched, the blood bubble growing. Gerald drew back the corners of his mouth, a fierce, tooth-baring rictus that burst the bubble and sent a spray of blood across Grey’s cheek. Then the lips drew in, pursing in what might have been the invitation to a kiss. Then he died, and the wide brown eyes went blank.
    Quarry was shouting at the bearers, demanding information. More shouts echoed down the walls of the streets, the nearby alleys, news flying from the scene of murder like bats out of hell.
    Grey knelt alone in the silence near the dead man, in the stench of blood and voided bowels. Gently, he laid Gerald’s hand limp across his wounded breast, and wiped the blood from his own hand, unthinking, on his cloak.
    A motion drew his eye. Harry Quarry knelt on the other side of the body, his face gone white as the scar on his cheek, prying open a large clasp knife. He searched gently through Gerald’s loosened, blood-matted hair, and drew out a clean lock, which he cut off. The sun was setting; light caught the hair as it fell, a curl of vivid flame.
    “For his mother,” Quarry explained. Lips tightly pressed together, he coiled the gleaming strand and put it carefully away.

Part II

    Intrigue
    T he invitation came two days later, and with it a note from Harry Quarry. Lord John Grey was bidden to an evening’s entertainment at Joffrey House, by desire of the Lady Lucinda Joffrey. Quarry’s note said simply,
Come. I have news.
    And not beforetimes,
Grey thought, tossing the note aside. The two days since Gerald’s death had been filled with frantic