Boots for the Gentleman Read Online Free

of furniture he owned. He draped his shirt and trousers over the headboard. He’d need to wash them, and his body, in the copper basin. But it could wait for morning. Going into Neroche always exhausted Querry. He stretched out on his back and folded his arms beneath his dark hair.
    Tomorrow, he could pay his rent. He could sell the jewelry he’d taken and probably earn enough to buy food for the next few weeks. He needed another candle, bullets for his pistols, and some steel tubing. He sighed and listened to the contented purr of the cats.
    It could be worse, he told himself. He didn’t have much, but he had a roof over his head and enough to eat. He had his freedom. At least he could say that nobody owned him, not gin nor a drug, nor the factories, nor the gentleman. To be able to say that was priceless.

Chapter Two

    G AINING access to the royal archives proved much simpler than one would think. Even though Royal Guards stood at the entrance in their archaic breeches, hose, and lacy ruffs, all Querry had needed was an open window. He found one, and in no time stood among the musty books, documents, and scrolls.
    Head down, he slinked among the stacks. The monarchy required permits of those who wished to study here. Querry supposed there were plenty of secrets they’d prefer to leave buried among the mountains of paper. He found the stairs and descended all the way to the lowest level, home of the oldest and rarest documents. No sun reached here. Fancy gas lamps affixed to the walls provided light and their familiar scent. The place reminded Querry of a tomb, silent and still. He searched about and soon realized the floor was arranged like a wheel. Long hallways formed by tall, wooden shelves met in the center. There, beneath a chandelier hanging from a chain, a young man worked at a desk.
    Smiling, Querry watched for a few minutes as the man, with thick, dirty blond hair and oval spectacles, wrote with a quill pen. His right hand reached for the ink well as his left thumb made its way to his mouth.
    “Still biting your nails?”
    The young man dropped his hand like it had been slapped. He scanned the darkened corridors around him. After letting him go for a bit, Querry stepped into the light and approached the desk. A little brass plaque read “Reginald Whitney, Chief Royal Archivist.”
    “You can’t be here, Querry,” said the young man.
    “And yet here I am.”
    “How did you get past the guards?”
    “Easy.”
    “And what do you want?” the archivist asked, sounding both exasperated and exhausted.
    “It’s nice to see you, too, Reg.”
    “So, you just dropped in for a visit?” Reg asked, raising one shapely eyebrow.
    Querry bit his lower lip and looked guiltily at his shoe.
    “As I suspected,” Reg said.
    “I just need the tiniest favor,” Querry replied. “Do you think you can help me?”
    Reg sighed. “I know I owe you, Querry. All those years that you looked out for me in that hell hole they called an orphanage, and later when they shipped us off to that factory.”
    Damn, that hurt. It hurt so much, and so unexpectedly, that Querry’s words fell unplanned from his lips. “You think I did that so you’d owe me later, Reg? I came here because I thought we were friends. Back then, in the workhouse and in the factory, I looked out for you because you were the only thing I had to live for. I—”
    Now Reg looked away, ashamed. His skin shone pale in the gaslight, the dark under his hazel eyes accentuated.
    “Have you been sleeping?” Querry asked.
    Reg brightened a little, even forcing a smile. He slid his glasses down his nose, folded them, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his coat. “Mother hen, just like when we were boys.”
    “Are they keeping you here late?” Querry persisted.
    “No, it’s Mum and Dad. They’re on me night and day about marrying. Apparently a royal archivist is good enough to wed an ugly daughter of the aristocracy. They finally see their chance to