Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

However, a view of the Pavilion was not Truthful’s main object.

“Where would I find the Black Lion Inn?” she asked Sergeant Ruggins, who was as usual surveying anyone who came within ten feet of her with a suspicious gaze.

“You don’t want to go there, milady,” said Ruggins. He pointed to the mass of closely-set buildings to the south and west of the Pavilion. “In them narrow lanes, anything could happen.”

“I see,” said Truthful. “Very well. We shall go back.”

The return walk took a little longer, as Truthful encountered several people she knew who could not be ignored, unseasonably in Brighton for the Otterbrook’s ball. One was the unfortunate Mister Trellingsworth, who had become emboldened by Truthful’s kindness at Lady Mournbeck’s ball and was fair to becoming a nuisance. Luckily he soon found that the shade of his green coat and green pantaloons clashed with Truthful’s own green ensemble, so he had to regretfully deny himself the privilege of walking with her.

On Truthful’s return she discovered both the Marchioness and the Dowager Countess had retired to recoup their energy before dinner, which was to be served at the compromise time between city and country hours of seven o’clock. Truthful yawned and declared to Parkins that she also would take advantage of a short nap, and there was no need for anyone to attend to her until half an hour before the appointed hour to dine.

But Truthful did not take to her bed. Instead she carefully dressed in her masculine attire, affixed her moustache, loaded her pistols and put them in the pockets of her driving coat. Then, disarraying her hair with clawed fingers, she pulled her hat down on her head and crept through the house to the stables at the rear, narrowly avoiding two of the maids.

As she had expected, one of Harnett’s men was watching the gate, and there were two grooms in the stableyard. Truthful considered them for several seconds, wondering how she could get past. One leaf of the gate was open, but the guard stood smack bang in the middle, and there was no way of crossing the yard without being seen by the grooms.

As she was pondering this problem, her eyes ran across the horse-boxes, and stopped as she saw one very familiar bay mare. But what on earth was Stephen’s horse doing here?

Truthful pursed her lips and wondered if she was going mad. The white patch was very distinctive, but there had to be at least a slim possibility that some other horse might have the same one.

She dismissed this puzzle as looking at the horses had given her an idea. Watching the men carefully, she quickly ducked out from her cover by the door, slid back the bolts fastening the closest horse-box and retreated to the shadows again.

The mare inside, a riding hack of no great nobility, watched as the gate of her horse-box slowly swung open. But she did not take advantage of this freedom, flicking her ears instead in irritation or even fear at this unlooked for motion.

“Oh you silly animal,” whispered Truthful. “Walk on. Walk on!”

Whether the horse heard her whisper, or felt some of Truthful’s magic, she did step out of the box. And stopped again, lowering her head to snatch up some fallen straw.

“Go!” whispered Truthful. “Make a fuss!”

The horse blinked and twitched her ears again. Seeing another swathe of straw, she idled over to it, but this time her hooves rang clear on the cobbled floor —finally catching the attention of the grooms.

“Here, Christie’s out!” called one. He came walking quickly back, his companion at his heels.

“Wolves!” whispered Truthful, investing her words with power. “Bears! Donkeys and wild dogs!”

Christie’s amiability disappeared at once. She reared violently, sending both grooms flying back on their behinds. As they struggled to get up, the mare dashed between them, heading for the open gate. The guard there, no coward, stood his ground until the last second, and snatched at the horse’s halter as she passed. Catching it, he was dragged through the gateway and off, cursing and bellowing for assistance.

Truthful ran past the grooms, calling out “Hold on!” as gruffly as she could manage. But once past the gate, she turned left, where horse and guard had bolted right, towards the seafront.

Walking briskly with her head down and one hand clapped on her hat to keep it in place, Truthful was soon back at the Steine. Cutting across it, she entered the narrow lanes of the old town, and began to look for the Black Lion.

It was darker here, where the buildings crowded together, and the people were not at all of the quality to be found promenading about the Steine. But Truthful was relieved to notice they were generally respectable citizens. This was an area of some industry, with shops and workshops in abundance, and much business being done. Truthful particularly noticed a tinsmith, a baker that smelled quite wonderful, and a shop full of the most interesting wooden toys.

And at last, there was the Black Lion. Truthful paused to eye the battered hanging sign and was considering whether she should enter or not when a hand suddenly gripped her elbow with considerable force.

“Stephen!” hissed a familiar voice close to her ear. “What are you doing! You mustn’t be seen here dressed like that!”

Truthful turned around, the grip lessening, and came face to face with Major Harnett. Not the ink-stained writer of Paternoster Row, nor the elegant gentleman of White’s. Not even the sodden survivor of his bowsprit experience. This was Harnett as a common labourer, his face dirty, his coat of some cloth a close cousin to a sack, and his trousers truly unmentionable.

“By God!” he said, his grip once again tightening. “No!”

“Unhand me!” croaked Truthful, struggling against his grip.

Surprisingly, Harnett let go. Even more surprisingly, he truckled low and tugged his forelock, at the same time speaking urgently in a whisper.

“Tru . . . damn it, you are in great danger! Follow me, I beg you!”

Truthful hesitated for a moment. Harnett looked up at her, and she saw fear in his eyes. Fear for her, she realised with a pang. Nodding her head, she indicated she would follow. Harnett immediately led her down the narrow lane, around a corner and into the doorway of a modest tea merchant’s shop. The door opened at once, Harnett rushed in, and Truthful followed.

A man in a shopkeeper’s garb slid a pistol back into the front pocket of his green apron and stood aside. Harnett nodded to him, took Truthful by the elbow and led her upstairs. Passing the doorway of a chamber on the second floor, Truthful saw a man looking out between the curtains of the window there into the laneway, down at the front entrance of the Black Lion.

“Anything?” asked Harnett, pausing.

The man shook his head. Harnett nodded and led Truthful up to an empty chamber on the third floor, which also overlooked the lane, the curtains similarly drawn to create a narrow viewing aperture. A chair set by it indicated the position of another watcher, though it was currently not occupied.

As soon as they were in this room, and the door shut, Harnett exploded.

“I will break Ruggins for this! You could have been killed! What were you thinking!”

“I thought I was merely to be in danger of kidnapping,” sniffed Truthful. “In which case I would hope you to rescue me.”

“Not if you are presumed to be Stephen,” said Harnett, his face set. “Plathenden doesn’t need him, and she knows he is working with me.”

“Oh,” said Truthful. She hadn’t thought of that. “I just wanted . . . you were taking so long, and I must recover the Emerald!”

“Can you not leave well enough alone?” asked Harnett in exasperated tones. “If you had gone into that tavern . . . a knife in your back . . .”

“Well, I did not go in,” said Truthful. “And I have not got a knife in my back. Is Lady Plathenden in there?”

“Not yet,” said Harnett. “But we have proven she owns the place, and she has been seen in Brighton. That is why we are ‘taking so long’! We must watch and wait, here and two other houses where she may turn up. One such watch is by your cousins, in the guise of clay-diggers, which is why I had the terrible shock of seeing Stephen Newington-Lacy attired as a gentleman, expressly against my orders and not only that, simply strolling up to the Black Lion as if he had not a care in the world!”

“I am sorry,” said Truthful. “But if you simply told me what was going on I wouldn’t need to investigate for myself!”

“I will have to send for Sergeant Ruggins to escort you to your lodgings, as soon as I may,” said Harnett heavily. “We are devilishly shorthanded. But once home, I trust you will assume your . . . your feminine identity and stay safe!”

“I don’t wish to stay safe,” said Truthful. She strode over to the chair and sat down, twitching the curtain aside. “I can watch too!”

Harnett clenched his fists, but did not immediately answer. Truthful snatched one glance at him, then set her face towards the lane below.

“Truthful, I know I have been angry with you, unwarrantably so. We have been at odds and misunderstood each other,” said Harnett, speaking slowly and with obvious effort to stay calm. “But please hear me. Lady Plathenden is a very dangerous woman, of great resources. She leads a large number of men, and women too, who will stop at nothing to do her bidding. She is a malignant sorcerer, and you are at great risk from her. If she has not yet mastered the Emerald then she will want you to help further her aims. If she has, then she will want you dead in order to have no rival for its powers. So you must go where you will be safe!”