Benoit looked wary. “I might, my lady.”
“Relax, Benoit. I will not demand that you tell me. But I would appreciate knowing when you hear from him.”
“I will, my lady,” said Benoit, bowing once again, then exiting the closet in company with Maria.
Left alone, the countess blew out the lamp and stood in the darkness for long moments, twisting the ring on her finger, before leaving the wardrobe and going to her sitting room. Summoning her valet-de-chambre, Dargent, the countess told him to dispatch one of her agents to find out information regarding the mysterious Sir Richard Piefer.
Dargent left swiftly upon his errand, and the countess returned to the library. Sophia tried to rise as the countess entered, but the princess was hampered in this effort by the spaniel, which had once more planted himself on the hem of her skirt and refused to budge.
“Bandit, you are a bad dog,” said Sophia, scolding him by kissing him on the top of his head.
The countess languidly resumed her seat. “I am sorry I was absent so long, Your Highness. Now, tell me about the situation in Braffa.”
Sophia shooed away the spaniel, rose to her feet, and came over to stand before the countess to recite her lesson.
“Estara and Travia both claim the island nation of Braffa because of its valuable resource known as the Blood of God, which is a form of the Breath that has been transformed into a liquid and can be used to power airships. The grand bishop favors the claim of Estara over Braffa because the Church has more influence in that country. The king, my father, says that we have stronger ties to Travia and he favors their claim.”
“What about the city-state of Braffa?”
“The Braffan council wants to refuse both claims and remain independent.”
Sophia went on to describe how a city-state differed from a monarchy. As she was talking, the countess happened to glance down at the letter she had been about to read when she had been obliged to leave to speak to Benoit. The letter was from her principal agent in Freya. A name in the letter caught her attention. A chill came over the countess. She longed to read the letter, but she did not want to hurt Sophia’s feelings by dismissing her. Too often the girl had been told to “run along and play.”
“And what about our longtime enemy, Freya?” the countess asked. “Which side do they support and what role does the Blood of God and the Freyan Navy play in this dispute?”
Sophia’s eyes widened in dismay at the question. She bit her lip. Her cheeks flushed.
“The Freyan Navy? I’m not certain, my lady…”
“We talked about the Freyan Navy during our last lesson,” said the countess, and she added with a slight smile, “Perhaps some cakes and hot chocolate would help your thought process.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure they would!” Sophia cried, laughing and clapping her hands.
The countess rang a small silver bell and Maria appeared. The countess gave her order. Maria returned bearing a tray on which gold-rimmed plates of the finest porcelain bore small cakes decorated with sugared violets, bonbons, and spiced nuts. The tantalizing smell of coffee mingled with the aroma of hot chocolate.
“May I be hostess, my lady?” Sophia asked eagerly. “Mama never lets me pour. She fears I will spill on my gown.”
The countess said she would be honored if the princess would serve her. Sophia was delighted. She took her duties as hostess quite seriously, her first task being to remove Bandit from the chair on which he had jumped with the intent of helping himself to cake. Sophia laughingly asked him which he wanted and made him choose by holding his small nose over each cake. Once Bandit had made his decision, which he did by licking a cake before Sophia could stop him, the princess hovered over the cake tray, selecting the very best delicacies for the countess and arranging them attractively on the plate. After that, Sophia had to make a decision on which cakes she wanted. All this took a considerable amount of time.
While Sophia was thus happily engaged, the countess was at liberty to read her letter, which was written in code, made to appear as nothing more than two ladies exchanging the latest gossip in case the missive should be intercepted.
Our dear friend, Honoria, has not been in attendance at the royal Freyan court recently.
“Honoria” was her code name for Sir Henry Wallace.
Honoria’s unexpected absence is of great concern to her friends and has become the cause of much speculation. I have asked around, but no one knows where she is or what has become of her. I confess that I am quite worried and I know that you will be concerned, as well.
I will tell you what I know. Rumor has it that a short while ago Honoria received a mysterious package delivered to her by a merchant sailor. No one knows what was in the package, but after she received it, she departed at once for her estate. I have heard nothing of her since.
Now you know, my dear, that my curiosity is enough to kill any number of cats, and I decided to find out more about this mysterious package. I have a friend who is in the custom office and he was obliging enough to provide me with a manifest for the two merchant vessels that were in port at the time. A package recorded on the manifest was addressed to Honoria. The contents were described as: one pewter tankard! An odd gift for our elegant friend!
But here is a most strange coincidence that will amuse you. As I was reading the manifest, I came across the name of one of your friends. You happened to mention the name to me in your last correspondence: Manuel Alcazar, that merchant sailor from the city of Westfirth. Or was your friend Pietro Alcazar? I can’t recall. Perhaps they are relatives. Isn’t it funny that I should happen to run across his name on this manifest? A small world, as they say!
The following was added in a postscript, obviously written in haste.
I have just received news that is most shocking. It seems a small boat bound for Rosia has disappeared into the Breath in a dead calm. All hands are feared lost. This happened about the same time our dear Honoria vanished. You don’t suppose she was aboard? Ah, it is too dreadful to contemplate! Still, she has as many lives as the aforesaid cat. I will let you know the instant I hear more about our missing friend.
The countess allowed the letter to slip from her hands. She sat staring at a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess on the desk. She did not see the shepherdess, she did not see the room around her, she did not hear Sophia’s gentle voice.
“My lady, are you ill?”
The countess blinked and hurriedly left the dark streets and cul-de-sacs in which her mind was wandering. She had the impression this was the third time Sophia had spoken. The countess put her hand to her temple and gave a wan smile.
“I am sorry, Your Highness, but I fear that I am not feeling quite well.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” asked Sophia in alarm, setting down the cup of chocolate she had been holding. “Can I fetch your smelling salts? Some wine?”
“If you could ring for Maria, Your Highness,” said the countess faintly. “I fear we will have to postpone our lesson for the day. Besides, Her Majesty the Queen will be wondering where you are. I would not have her angry at me.”
Sophia rang the silver bell. “I hope you feel better, my lady,” she said anxiously. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“I will be fine, Your Highness,” said the countess. “It is but a sudden indisposition.”
Sophia nodded, her eyes soft with concern. She gathered up Bandit and, with a fond look, left the countess’ chambers. When the countess could no longer hear the sound of the girl’s rustling petticoats, she turned to Maria.
“Find Dargent,” the countess said. “The matter is urgent.”
Maria obeyed with alacrity. When she was gone, the countess picked up the letter and, lighting a candle on her desk, held the paper to the flame. Once the letter had caught fire, the countess dropped the burning paper onto a plate and waited until it was consumed, then ground up the ashes with a coffee spoon and dumped them into the silver cof
feepot.
Dargent entered her room. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”
“I must speak with Stephano’s retainer, Benoit. He was here a short while ago. He may still be in the servants’ hall. If not, go to my son’s home and bring Benoit back here immediately. It is of the greatest importance that I communicate with him.”
Dargent bowed and departed.
The countess rose to her feet and began to pace back and forth, clasping and unclasping her hands and twisting the little ring.
Dargent traveled swiftly to Stephano’s house in the wyvern-drawn carriage kept by the countess for his exclusive use. Dargent was out the carriage door almost before the wyvern’s claws had scraped the pavement. He knew the countess. He had heard the quaver of fear in her voice.
He ran to the door and raised his hand to knock, then he froze on the door stoop. He had no need to knock. The door was open, ajar. Dargent had been to Stephano’s house many times, and he knew Benoit would not be so careless as to leave the entrance unlocked. Dargent drew his pistol. Cocking the hammer, he gave the door a shove.
He entered slowly and cautiously. He looked behind the door, saw no one there.
“Benoit?” he called.
No answer.
Dargent went to the kitchen, where he knew Benoit liked to reside, and found a scene of destruction. Cabinet doors gaped wide, their contents strewn all over the floor. A marble bust of King Alaric lay smashed on the floor. Sacks of flour had been slit open and dumped out. Barrels were split apart and chairs upended.
Dargent hastened through the kitchen to look out the rear door, but found no one there. He returned through the kitchen and went across the hall to Benoit’s room. The bed had been overturned, clothes pulled out of the wardrobe. Still holding the pistol, Dargent made his way stealthily up the stairs. He was fairly certain the searchers had completed their work and were gone, but he was not taking any chances.
The searchers had been thorough; he had to give them credit for that. They had taken the paintings from the wall to look behind them. They had broken into locked chests, removed papers and letters from the bureau. They had even gone through all the books, taking them down from the shelves, flipping through the leaves, and throwing them down on the floor when they were finished.
Now certain that he was alone, Dargent lowered his pistol and released the hammer. He wondered what the searchers had been looking for, wondered if they had found it.
Shaking his head, he called out again, “Benoit! Are you here? It’s Dargent! The countess sent me!”
There was always a chance the old man might be hiding in a closet, but, again, no answer. Dargent had not truly expected one. He went back into the kitchen and knelt down to examine the splatters he’d seen on the floor. He dipped his fingers in them.
Blood. Fresh blood.
Dargent sighed deeply. He guessed that the old man had returned from the palace to catch the searchers in the act. They had beaten him, then had either kidnapped him to see what he knew or they’d taken away the corpse. Leaving the house, Dargent told his carriage driver not to spare his whip.
The countess received the disturbing news regarding the ransacking of Stephano’s house and the disappearance of Benoit with a raised eyebrow and a deepening of the frown line on her forehead.
“Thank you for trying,” she said to Dargent. “You may go now.”
When he was gone and she was alone, the countess sank down in her chair. She tried to think what to do, how to warn Stephano that he was about to unwittingly cross swords with Sir Henry Wallace, spymaster, assassin, a man she considered the most dangerous man in all the world.
The countess had agents in Westfirth. She could alert them, tell them to find Stephano. She ruled that out. Sir Henry had his own agents in Westfirth and his agents knew her agents, just as her agents knew his. In using any agent to warn Stephano to keep away from Sir Henry, she might inadvertently lead Sir Henry right to him.
Yet, if she did not warn Stephano…
Night was falling. The servants came to light the candles. The countess sent them away. She preferred to sit alone in the darkness, her head resting on her hand. She would have to apprise His Majesty of the situation regarding Sir Henry Wallace or at least some part of the situation, the part she chose to tell. Alaric would be upset, but she knew how to handle him. He was not the problem that concerned her, deeply concerned her.
Closing her eyes, the countess brought Stephano’s face to mind; the face so like his father’s that her heart constricted with pain every time her son smiled.
“Julian, my love, my own dear love,” Cecile de Marjolaine whispered softly, “Be with our boy!”
Chapter Eleven
Man is imperfect and thus our understanding of God is imperfect. This lack is most evident in the understanding of God’s gift, Magic. We have learned to use magic for His glory, but I fear there are those who seek to use magic for His downfall. Beware the quiet night, when the dark voice whispers in your ear, for the magic in his voice is corruption.
– Writings of Saint Dennis
SIR ANDER MARTEL WAS KNIGHT PROTECTOR to Father Jacob Northrop, a priest representing that most mysterious and greatly feared order of the Church known as the Arcanum. As Knight Protector, Sir Ander had pledged before God to hold the life of this priest as a sacred trust, to lay down his own life in defense of the priest, to protect and shield him from all harm.
Far easier pledged than done, Sir Ander gloomily reflected as he removed the cuirass, marked with the emblem of the Knight Protectors, and enhanced with magical constructs, his helm and other accouterments before placing them in the yacht’s built-in storage locker. He kept his armor and his weapons close to hand. One never knew, when traveling with Father Jacob, when they would be needed.
Sir Ander flung himself down in a chair and tried to sleep, without success. Whenever he started to drift off into slumber, lulled by the gentle swaying of the airborne yacht, he saw again the horrific scenes of last night’s bloody debacle in the town of Capione and was jolted back into unpleasant wakefulness.
Sir Ander looked with envy and some bitterness at his companion, Father Jacob, who was sleeping quite soundly. The priest slept in the same position always, lying on his back, his hands resting on his chest, fingers clasped, his body completely relaxed.
Never mind that eleven soldiers had lost their lives last night, half a city block had been destroyed, and months of careful planning had literally gone up in flames. Never mind that the yacht, specially designed for a priest of the Arcanum, was now speeding through the night in reply to an urgent summons from the grand bishop. Father Jacob could still sleep soundly and even, to add insult to injury, snore.
“The mind is the ruler, the body is the subject,” Father Jacob often said. “When the mind tells the body it is time for sleep, the body should obey. The inability to fall asleep when and where you desire means your body is tyrannizing your mind; something I never permit.”
Sir Ander shifted about on the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. He could have made up the yacht’s other bed, which was now a bench, but Sir Ander disliked lying down when the yacht was airborne. The swaying motion always made him feel slightly queasy.
He thrust out his long legs and settled himself in the chair, chin on his chest, and gave up the fight for sleep. He was once more in the flames and smoke of the battle last night, a battle they thought they had won, only to discover that even with all their careful plans, their quarry, a man known to his deluded followers as the Warlock, had managed to escape…
The soldiers who had survived the assault and finally fought their way into the coven’s hideout searched among the dead on orders of Father Jacob. They found a body in the wreckage that matched the description of the Warlock: a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years of age with blond hair, blond beard and mustache, and intense blue eyes. Those blue eyes were now wide open and staring in death. They could not tell how he had died. There was no blood o
n the corpse, no sign of a wound.
The soldiers set a guard over the room and sent word to Sir Ander and Father Jacob that they had found the Warlock and that he was dead. No one went near the corpse. Father Jacob had warned the soldiers that if they found their way into the Warlock’s inner sanctum, they were to be careful not to touch anything-an order the soldiers were happy to obey.
The room was below ground level; the walls and floor lined with stone. Two rows of thick wooden pillars supported a vaulted stone ceiling. On the pillars were sigils of warding and protection. Brass lamps shed a dim light throughout the room. Small cells had been built in the middle of each wall. Iron bars enclosed each cell, leaving just room enough for a person to stand. Each contained the body of one of the coven’s many victims. All of them had died horribly, in some depraved manner.
Sir Ander was not a crafter. He did not have a magical bone in his body, as the saying went. Yet he was able to feel the dark magic in that room hiss and sputter like the fuse of a bomb. Bodies of the Warlock’s allies lay on the floor, some torn apart by bullets, others burned to death, victims of their own black magic gone awry. All the victims were young, none of them above twenty years of age. Sir Ander had seen death in many gruesome forms on the field of battle, but the horror of this sight, as he entered the room, made his stomach roil.
“God save us!” whispered a voice at his elbow.
The knight turned to find Brother Barnaby standing at his side. Sir Ander was startled. He had not realized Brother Barnaby had tagged along after them. The young monk was always so quiet and self-effacing, one tended to forget he was around.
Barely in his twenties himself, Brother Barnaby was slight of build, with intelligent brown eyes and a fine-boned face. His skin was the onyx color of those who dwell in the Galiar region, east of Argonne. His hair was blue-black, shaved in the tonsure. Despite his appearance, he was strong and capable, far stronger than he looked.
Sir Ander regarded the young monk with concern.
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