orders, same as us.”
“And murdering officers?” Jack had asked.
Private Jones had given an exaggerated shudder. “They’s the ones as
believes
,” he had said, and that was all.
The woman who called herself the Pink Carnation believed. She believed enough for both of them. And that was enough to make Jack run straight for Madrid.
So why hadn’t he?
There was the money, Jack reminded himself. The Carnation could taunt him all she liked about the jewels of Berar, but he hadn’t stolen them for himself, hadn’t kept them for himself. The money Wickham paid him, out of whatever shadowy funds, paid for his food, his lodging, and the clothes on his back. Carnation or not, the woman had known the code phrase; there was no getting around it. If Wickham wanted to send him off on a fool’s errand, Jack would tug his cap and say, “Thank you very much, sir.”
But it didn’t mean he had to get himself killed in the process.
Across the room, a group of French dragoons had taken over one of the long tables, shoving the previous inhabitants out of the way. Jack wondered what it was about conquest that did such nasty things to one’s disposition. At home, these might be perfectly reasonable men. They probably cheated their tailors and lied to their wives and such other sins to which gentlemen were prey, but he doubted they would muscle their way into a Paris tavern with quite the same swagger, or shove the peasantry out of the way with such lordly insolence.
So much, Jack thought wryly, for
liberté
,
fraternité
, and
egalité
. Fine words to fly on the side of a flag, but not when one was dealing with a subject population.
The dragoons’ tempers hadn’t been improved by the long and arduous march from France to Lisbon. From the leopard skin on their hats, he could tell these were officers, but their uniforms bore the signs of hard wear, the white breeches mud-stained, the green coats hastily patched, and more than one pair of tall black boots the wrong size for the wearer.
They were young, all of them, from the stripling at the end of the table to the lieutenant with his long locks bragging of his conquests among the women of Almeida. Young and scared and trying to pretend to be neither.
“Your wine is poor as piss!” one of the dragoons shouted, lobbing a charred sardine at José’s retreating back.
“Yes, bring more of it!” added another, contributing his own sardine to the fray. “And meat, man! Meat!”
“There might be more of it if you vultures hadn’t eaten it,” muttered a man at one of the other tables.
In Portuguese, mercifully, or, Jack was sure, there would be a resulting fray that would make the events in Rossio Square look like a tea party.
Bernardo cast a look of pure hatred at the dragoons, his chins dragging down in disgust. “They’ll get theirs when the Queen comes back.”
“It’s a long trip to Brazil.” Jack rocked back against the wall, swinging one foot up onto the table. “We’ll not be seeing our Queen come again for some time.”
Bernardo tapped a finger against the nose. “Not so far as you might think. There’s some as say—” He broke off, an expression of drunken cunning crossing his face as he glanced across the room at the French dragoons.
Jack shook his head. “If words were coins . . . Talk is cheap, my friend.”
“Not always.” Bernardo lowered his third chin into the space where Jack presumed his neck must be. “My wife’s sister was a waiting woman in the Queen’s apartments. . . .”
It was no use to press for information. Even if the poor, sodden fool had any, pressing would only make him turn mum. The best way to get people to talk was to say nothing at all. So Jack didn’t. He merely tipped the carafe over the other man’s glass, filling it once more to the brim.
Bernardo nodded his thanks. “Look to the north, she says. Look to the north.” And then, almost inconsequentially, “The Bishop of Porto is a good man, they
“And murdering officers?” Jack had asked.
Private Jones had given an exaggerated shudder. “They’s the ones as
believes
,” he had said, and that was all.
The woman who called herself the Pink Carnation believed. She believed enough for both of them. And that was enough to make Jack run straight for Madrid.
So why hadn’t he?
There was the money, Jack reminded himself. The Carnation could taunt him all she liked about the jewels of Berar, but he hadn’t stolen them for himself, hadn’t kept them for himself. The money Wickham paid him, out of whatever shadowy funds, paid for his food, his lodging, and the clothes on his back. Carnation or not, the woman had known the code phrase; there was no getting around it. If Wickham wanted to send him off on a fool’s errand, Jack would tug his cap and say, “Thank you very much, sir.”
But it didn’t mean he had to get himself killed in the process.
Across the room, a group of French dragoons had taken over one of the long tables, shoving the previous inhabitants out of the way. Jack wondered what it was about conquest that did such nasty things to one’s disposition. At home, these might be perfectly reasonable men. They probably cheated their tailors and lied to their wives and such other sins to which gentlemen were prey, but he doubted they would muscle their way into a Paris tavern with quite the same swagger, or shove the peasantry out of the way with such lordly insolence.
So much, Jack thought wryly, for
liberté
,
fraternité
, and
egalité
. Fine words to fly on the side of a flag, but not when one was dealing with a subject population.
The dragoons’ tempers hadn’t been improved by the long and arduous march from France to Lisbon. From the leopard skin on their hats, he could tell these were officers, but their uniforms bore the signs of hard wear, the white breeches mud-stained, the green coats hastily patched, and more than one pair of tall black boots the wrong size for the wearer.
They were young, all of them, from the stripling at the end of the table to the lieutenant with his long locks bragging of his conquests among the women of Almeida. Young and scared and trying to pretend to be neither.
“Your wine is poor as piss!” one of the dragoons shouted, lobbing a charred sardine at José’s retreating back.
“Yes, bring more of it!” added another, contributing his own sardine to the fray. “And meat, man! Meat!”
“There might be more of it if you vultures hadn’t eaten it,” muttered a man at one of the other tables.
In Portuguese, mercifully, or, Jack was sure, there would be a resulting fray that would make the events in Rossio Square look like a tea party.
Bernardo cast a look of pure hatred at the dragoons, his chins dragging down in disgust. “They’ll get theirs when the Queen comes back.”
“It’s a long trip to Brazil.” Jack rocked back against the wall, swinging one foot up onto the table. “We’ll not be seeing our Queen come again for some time.”
Bernardo tapped a finger against the nose. “Not so far as you might think. There’s some as say—” He broke off, an expression of drunken cunning crossing his face as he glanced across the room at the French dragoons.
Jack shook his head. “If words were coins . . . Talk is cheap, my friend.”
“Not always.” Bernardo lowered his third chin into the space where Jack presumed his neck must be. “My wife’s sister was a waiting woman in the Queen’s apartments. . . .”
It was no use to press for information. Even if the poor, sodden fool had any, pressing would only make him turn mum. The best way to get people to talk was to say nothing at all. So Jack didn’t. He merely tipped the carafe over the other man’s glass, filling it once more to the brim.
Bernardo nodded his thanks. “Look to the north, she says. Look to the north.” And then, almost inconsequentially, “The Bishop of Porto is a good man, they
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