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dusting of
snow.
    The Danube was a wide, gray line
between the two cities, dotted with fishing boats and ferries and great flocks
of crows; their high-pitched cackles bounced back at him across the waves.
    The balcony curtains swelled and
folded, gently tapping his legs. The breeze lifted his hair. He’d already
undone his waistcoat and settled in with his sherry to watch the birds when the
floorboards outside his room squeaked, and stopped, because someone had paused
at his door.
    Zane had his pistol primed when
the knock came.
    “Monsieur? Monsieur Lalonde?”
    He
placed his foot against the door, held the pistol down at his side, out of
view, and turned the knob. A lanky man with watery blue eyes looked back at
him. “Oui?”
    “My deepest regrets for
disturbing you, sir,” said the hotel clerk in French. “You were left a missive
at the front desk just now.”
    The man held out his hand. A
cream-colored envelope rested on his palm, Zane’s name—his real name—and
room number inscribed in lavish script upon the vellum.
    For a moment he only stared at
it. The clerk waited, his narrow face betraying nothing. Zane closed the door,
stuck the pistol into the waistband of his breeches at the small of his back,
then opened the door again and took the envelope from the man’s hand.
    “Merci.”
    He found a coin in his pocket—God
knew which country it was from—and flicked it to the clerk, who smiled and
bowed and retreated down the sconce-lit corridor.
    When the door was bolted again,
he broke the wax seal.
     
    Veuillez nous joindre pour notre
célébration le samedi, 31 octobre, à  neuf heures du soir.
    Le dîner sera accompagne d’un
orchestre.
    Le Comte du Abony
     
    Zane looked up from the
invitation, frowning. Samedi was Saturday, today. Tonight.
    Someone knew of him. Someone knew
he was here; he’d never heard of a Comte du Abony; he could not imagine how the
fellow had heard of him. Unless the drákon had somehow managed it, had
figured out where he was going to be and when…
    But they would not know his room
number. And Rue would never make the mistake of revealing his name.
    He glanced once more at the river
outside, then quickly drew the curtains. He stood motionless against the
silk-papered wall, fading into shadow with the falling night while his thoughts
bled into theories and conspiracies and extremely improbable coincidences.
    Through the sheer organza he saw
a crow land atop the stone rail of the balcony; it peered at him sideways with
fiercely black eyes, then shoved into the air again.

    The Comte du Abony lived in an
actual palace. Zane had walked to it, because it turned out not to be far from
the fashionable King’s View, and the clerk had made it politely clear that even
an Englishman could find it if he kept to the main boulevards. To guide him, he
had the address and the surprising brilliance of the street lanterns, which
dangled from fanciful iron posts twice as tall as a man.
    He supposed only a very great
fool would openly respond to the cordially worded card in his pocket. And
anyone who knew his name would also know that Zane was no fool.
    Yet he was going. He was walking.
He had his dirk and his rapier and his wits; he had his best court clothing;
whoever the hell this comte was, Zane meant at least to get a good look at him.
And then, should the man wander off alone—too much wine, a willing
woman—perhaps they might exchange a few words….
    In any case, he wouldn’t risk
spending the night in the hotel, not now, and for that alone Zane felt a
particular urge to inflict a bit of pain upon someone. His walking stick tapped
the pavement very lightly. His gold-buttoned tricorne was tipped aslant over
his wig, rakish, but it was only so that he could keep his sights clear. He
nodded amicably to the passersby who nodded to him, studying their faces, following
his senses and the clerk’s directions, and the growing line of coaches crowding
the streets.
    Sedan chairmen hauling