A boisterous crowd packed the Nightingale. Inside, Archambeau used his bulk to push through the crowd, ignoring the disgruntled looks and curses his actions received.
A haze of smoke from cigars and cigarettos made my eyes water, and underneath it all was a smell of beer and unwashed bodies. It made a woman question the sanity of why bother to perfume her bath and wear an elegant dress that cost as much as a year’s earnings to slum in such a place.
I bumped into the duke’s back when he stopped to hand a server a wad of bills. After taking his time to examine each bill as if we were trying to cheat him, the server cocked his finger for us to follow him. He made his way to a table near the stage where a man and two women were sitting. The women wore heavy stage makeup with red lips and eyes like black holes; their skimpy dress showed leg all the way to the knee.
“Scram,” said the Nightingale man. The women hopped up immediately and left, but the man rolled back in his wooden chair, putting hands in his pockets, striking a defiant pose. “What if I don’t want to?”
The waiter gave a swift kick to the front of the chair, tipping it over and sending the man sprawling. His victim tried to gain his feet, receiving a kick to his head that sent him splattering back to the floor face down. Someone from the crowd emerged, a giant among the other men, with a boulder head sitting on a mountain body. Without further ado, he dragged the injured man away. Throughout the incident, the raucous din in the Nightingale never stopped.
Archambeau bent over and righted the discarded chair. “Have a seat, madame.”
I took it, but was careful not to let my fur slip to touch a floor sticky with blood and beer. Archambeau took a chair next to mine, and the waiter left with our order, along with more money.
Less than ten feet from our table was the stage where an act of three little dogs were jumping through hoops. They were being ignored by almost everyone in the room, but when it ended, I applauded vigorously. The trainer gave me an elaborate bow. Archambeau tossed some coins up on the stage, which made the three dogs stop what they were doing and give our table a series of adorable tricks.
The waiter returned to set down two mugs of beer. After he left, I told Archambeau, “How do we begin?”
“Relax, Chalamet, and have some patience. When you fish, you don't scream at them to jump on your hook.”
“I’ve never fished, so wouldn’t know.”
"Don’t worry— the money I’m spending has already attracted their interest. No. Don’t look around. Watch the stage."
The next act was two clowns, both dressed in floppy men’s clothes with a bright plaid pattern. They tipped their top hats to the crowd while taking a wide bow, earning them a few drunken cheers. Someone from the back yelled an obscenity.
The pantomime act was one of crude humor: pelvic thrusting, pratfalls and splits, interspersed with punches and slaps. The female clown was the butt of all the jokes, which seemed to please the crowd but I only wished a dog from the previous act would rush in and bite the man kicking her.
Archambeau must have noticed my mood. “Not amused?”
“No.”
Disgusted, I moved my attention to the audience, examining them with an interest I made casual. Most of them looked to be locals, men wearing baggy working-class coats, with colorful cotton handkerchiefs tied around their throats instead of the white muslin cravat that Archambeau wore. Not as many women, but those that I did see wore gaudy dresses that didn’t match their dour expressions. I found the place depressing in its crudeness and poverty.
Seeing both of our mugs empty, I asked Archambeau, “You didn’t drink that?”
“That swill? Not likely. Ditched it under the table.”
As the server hurried by, Archambeau flashed a folded bill between his fingers and the man stopped. “Do you have any wine? I’m celebrating tonight.”
The waiter vanished almost as quickly as the money. After he left, I muttered, “This is a waste of time. We won’t find her sitting at this table.”
“Maybe not her, but I’ve already found someone here who I didn’t expect.”
“Who?”
“One of the Perino ambassadors, and it looks like he’s waiting for someone. He’s sitting almost directly across from us at the other end of the room.”
I swept my eyes past the area Archambeau indicated, and saw a much older man with white hair who wore the standard business garb of a merchant. That was all I could gain before the crowd shifted, blocking my view.
“Do you think he’s here about the tiara? But why? The king will give it to them soon enough.”
“If they can bypass royal authority and grab it, it would probably soothe their feelings of having lost it in the first place. It seems too coincidental he would be here at the same time as us. Perhaps he also waits for the appearance of Gabrielle Meijer.”
The clowns ran off the stage and suddenly the men started clapping and hooting as a trio of dancing girls pranced on stage, swinging their short skirts. Two of the three were the girls who had been at our table.
Their dancing wasn’t elegant, but they did it enthusiastically. The crowd roared and everyone started pounding on the tables to the time of the piano music being hammered out by a man who had no respect for a tune.
The waiter reappeared to set down two glasses and a bottle. From the corner of my eye, I saw a tall blond man in a black and scarlet uniform shoving himself through the crowd. Jacques had arrived.
“Girls!” he shouted happily. “I’m back!”
He threw a scattering of coins on stage before grabbing an empty stool and joining a table of others wearing military coats. With the coins, the kicks on stage grew higher and everyone greeted the show of more leg with wild applause.
“She shouldn’t be up there,” said Archambeau, confusing me.
“Who?”
“Nicole.”
Oh, no. This was not a good time for the duke’s ghostly companion to come awake. As he stared at the third girl, I suggested in a mild tone of voice, “I don’t think that’s Nicole.”
“Why is she here? She promised to leave him.”
The dancers finished their performance and immediately stepped down into the audience to be greeted with suggestive shouts, and grabs at their waists or arms. But the women were savvy to their games and moved like slippery eels through the crowd.
Archambeau’s ghost waved to the one that had grabbed his attention, and after she spoke with our server, she made her way to us.
“Hello, gorgeous,” she said to the duke as she sat down. She showed no interest in me; her big brown eyes, outlined in black with bright blue eyeshadow, were only for the man at the table.
“Waiter!” called Archambeau’s ghost. When the server appeared, he said, “Whatever this lady wants, please bring.”
“Oh, I want so many things,” said the dancer, batting her eyes at him. This close, she wasn’t as young as she had appeared from the distance, and her face showed a rapacious cunning learned from hard years.
“Nicole, how I’ve missed you!”
“You can call me whatever you want, handsome,” was her answer.
“Please come back, Your Grace. Shove him away,” I begged Archambeau, but he was too far gone. This was exactly what I had feared: the duke had lost control of his possession; it was pulling vigorously from the crowd's raw power and it would take time for the ghost to wear itself out and leave.
Through the parting of the crowd, I saw a stranger, a thin man with a skimpy mustache, approach the Perino delegate. I dug my elbow into the duke’s ribs, and hissed at him, “Someone has joined our ambassador.”
Lost in love memories, he was holding the dancer’s hands as the ghost poured all of its attention upon the woman he had mistaken for his old lover. There was no shaking the spirit out of the duke; not when it had a powerful fixation to keep it motivated.
The Perino man rose from his seat and left with Mysir Mustache. Jacques didn't notice my intent stare or the quick jerk of my head towards the two leaving. He was at the bar, his back to me, buying a round of drinks for his new brothers-in-arms.
“I think I shall go to the ladies' powder room. Where is that?” I asked the show girl.
The dancer thrust her chin, pointing off in a direction behind us. I doubt she heard my thanks, for Archambeau was now stroking her cheek. Restraining a desire to slap his hand down, I left. I was not as successful in negotiating my passage as the dancers, for someone tried to grab me as they offered to take me home.
“Another time, mysir,” I said, pushing him away.
My quarry had exited to another room and, entering it, I saw a gambling den. Men and women were playing at cards, piles of coins and bills on the tables. No one spared a glance at me. The two men passed through another door, and quickening my step, I followed.
But I was too slow, for when I entered a corridor with many other doors, I didn’t know which they had taken. Suddenly, one of them flew open, almost hitting in my face, and forcing me to take a step back. It was the animal trainer, with two of his dogs yapping at his heels, and the third in his arms.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I was to meet a friend back here. A man with white hair?”
“Just went in— third door down on the right.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Come along, girls, time to take a break outside.” They left using the door at the end of the hall, which must have been an exit, as I felt a draft of cool air.
At the door the trainer had shown me, I stopped. The question really was how to proceed without Jacques or Archambeau. Before I could decide, a high-pitched scream sounded from within and, without thinking further, I pulled out my gun and rushed inside.
It was a storeroom, full of extra furniture and stage props. Huddled in one corner was the screaming woman, her hands on top of her head, as Mysir Mustache was shaking and shouting at her. “Stop being crazy and give it to me, Gabby!”
To my right, the ambassador stood against the wall, pretending as if nothing was happening.
“Unhand her!” I demanded.
What I hadn’t accounted for was someone being behind the door. A man sprung forward and hit my outstretched arm, and the gun went flying from my hand. He grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms and though I struggled, kicking as hard as I could, he held me easily. He was the big man who had dragged the man away from our table.
“Who’s this pigeon?”
“I dunno,” said Mysir Mustache, letting go of the girl in surprise.
From him calling her Gabby, and her doll-like face, I guessed she was Giles Monet’s missing girlfriend. Her round childish face was weeping and on her head, almost obscured by her hair, was a gold tiara with three egg-sized rubies. It looked far too heavy for her small head.
The tiara grabbed my attention. It was a spectacular piece of ancient primitive make, not at all like the delicate pieces popular today. But what was the most fascinating thing about it was the tiara started singing to me, throwing images in rapid succession into my mind. It wasn’t human speech, but more like ghostly impressions I would receive when in a trance state.
I felt my body relax, growing languid under its spell, even as I resisted.
Take me, release me, take me, free me…
“Do any of you realize that a ghost dragon possesses that tiara?”