Cardinal Black

Cardinal Black

A Matthew Corbett Novel

Robert McCammon

One

Into the Storm

One

“Hear me well,” said Gardner Lillehorne, resplendent in his overcoat of peacock blue with rolled cuffs of pigeon’s-blood crimson. Atop his head was a selfsame blue color tricorn whose red band clasped a single white dove’s feather. He was, as the popular saying of the day went, birded up.

His thin ebony mustache twitched upon an equally thin upper lip, while at the downward point of his chin the perfectly trimmed goatee was yet another point, downward. “Well,” he repeated, his small black eyes aflame in the low light of a December’s late afternoon. “I am the honorable assistant to the High Constable. As such I have the power to slam the law down upon you like a two-ton cannon upon a penny’s-weight mouse if you fail to comply with what I have demanded. I have neither the time nor the patience to dally with you an instant longer, therefore I shall ask you only once again before I am compelled to move to action … will you, or will you not?”

“But … sir,” said the ten-year-old boy, whose gray clothing was indeed mouse-colored and yet ample enough to withstand if not the weight of a heavy cannonfall the tremble of light snowflakes that were beginning to swirl down on the streets, alleyways, crossroads, courtyards, gardens and garrets of cold but bustling Londontown. “It’s just five pence!” the young salesman went on, as snow dappled his black woolen cap. “Surely, sir, you can afford—”

“My ability to afford is not the issue. I—”

“Not the issue!” spewed the rough voice and flecks of spittle from the mouth of Lillehorne’s florid-faced henchman and companion in chicanery by the name of Dippen Nack, who stood just behind his master as any good dog should.

“Nack! I shall speak for myself, thank you!” said the master to the hound in a tone of sharp rebuke, and the two-legged canine pulled his neck in a little tighter to his fur-trimmed fearnaught. Though short and squat by nature, Nack wore beneath his garish purple tricorn hat an ornately curled and powdered white wig that nearly towered over Lillehorne’s shoulders.

Lillehorne returned his attention to the boy, who he determined was not going to get away with ignoring this demand, which seemed now more important than ever simply for the principle of it. Lillehorne lifted his ebony cane with its hand-grip of a silver lion’s head and placed the tip against the boy’s right shoulder, beneath which was the leather pouch that held the solitary object of his desire.