Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  Inside the small, shadowy foyer, a knight sat at a desk, sorting through paperwork. The knight looked up on hearing the doors open. Sir Ander smiled to see him.

  “Sir Conal!”

  “By Heaven! Ander Martel,” exclaimed Sir Conal, rising from his chair. “You’re still alive? I thought those black magicks you fight would have claimed you at last.”

  “Ah, that’s nothing to jest about, my friend,” said Sir Ander, clasping his friend’s hand and shaking it heartily. “And what about you? I consider black magic to be good wholesome fun compared to the politics of the grand bishop’s court.”

  “You speak a true word there,” said Sir Conal with a grimace. “Give me a moment and I will order a room made ready-”

  “I can’t stay, I’m afraid,” said Sir Ander. “Father Jacob is being dispatched to Saint Agnes.”

  “I heard about that,” said Sir Conal, his face darkening. “A sad business.” He raised an eyebrow. “So the Arcanum is involved. That’s interesting.”

  “Too damn interesting, if you ask me,” Sir Ander grunted. “Anyway, while my charge is conversing with the grand bishop, I’m here on the chance those new pistols I ordered from the Royal Armory were delivered. And to pick up my mail.”

  “Ah, yes, those pistols,” said Sir Conal.

  The two men were the same age and had fought and studied together. Sir Conal was a short, pugnacious man with grizzled hair and the neck of a bull. He had always been a rough-and-tumble kind of fellow, never happier than when he was knocking sense into the heads of young squires. Sir Conal had been in charge of teaching hand-to-hand combat. Sir Ander had been about to ask why his friend had been relegated to desk duty and then he saw Sir Conal pick up a cane and was thankful he had kept quiet.

  Sir Conal limped painfully from out behind the desk. Seeing Sir Ander’s look, Sir Conal gave his right leg an irritated slap.

  “Damn knee keeps going out on me. Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch sometimes. Fool healers can’t do anything to fix it. Just old age, they say.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Sir Ander said. “The knighthood must miss your expertise on the drill field. Or maybe they don’t.” He rubbed his jaw and smiled ruefully. “I can still feel a punch or two you landed on me.”

  “As I recall, you had an unfortunate tendency to keep dropping your right fist. Left you wide open,” said Sir Conal. Seeing a squire coming down the hall, he raised his voice in a shout, “Master Arthen, watch the desk.”

  The squire made his obeisance to the two older knights and hastened to obey. Sir Conal and Sir Ander walked the familiar passages leading to a spiral staircase that wound down below ground level.

  Once on the lower floor, they passed the iron-banded and magically protected steel doors of the treasury and those of the wine cellar, whose doors were almost as well guarded. Sir Ander looked forward to drinking one of the knighthood’s fine wines with his supper. Conal halted when they came to a large chamber known simply as the “Storage House.”

  The large chamber was divided into numerous stalls, each with its own gate. Every active member of the Order based out of the motherhouse had his own stall. Above each was a small plate with the knight’s personal arms painted on it. When a knight died, his personal effects were returned to his family, his stall was given to another knight. His arms remained on the gate.

  Sir Ander picked up the key ring which hung from the wall and, sorting through the numerous keys, found the one that opened his gate. Inside was a small table and an oak chest with his name carved on the top, a gift from his mother. The chest contained all his personal items. He glanced at it, but did not open it. Too many memories: some good, more not so good. All precious, too precious to be disturbed. A few pieces of armor that he’d worn when he was young lay rusting in a corner, along with his ceremonial armor. The last time he’d worn that armor had been at the funeral of his friend and mentor, Sir Edward.

  A leather pouch rested on the table along with a large wooden box stamped with the seal of the Armory. Sir Ander opened the pouch and took out his letters. Four were from his second brother’s third wife and would provide him with news of his family back in Travia. Seven were written on expensive paper, sealed with lavender wax. The insignia on the seals was a bumblebee. He smiled and slid the letters into the breast pocket of his coat. He would read them in the privacy of the Retribution.

  He looked at the box from the Royal Armory. “So the pistols are here,” he said. “I didn’t really expect them so soon. I only ordered them a short time ago.”

  He was wondering uneasily if he had the funds to pay for them. The Knighthood provided him a stipend to be used for his expenses when he was attending Father Jacob. The money was intended for food and lodging and clothes and Sir Ander had to account for every penny. The funds were not intended to be spent on such luxuries as specially designed pistols. He lifted the lid.

  Six pistols lay nestled in a velvet-lined tray.

  “Beautiful weapons,” said Sir Conal.

  “They truly are,” Sir Ander agreed.

  He lifted one of the pistols from the velvet-lined case. The stock was carved of burled red wood. The mechanism was polished steel. Silver-andbrass inlays swirled about the trigger lock.

  “How well do they work?” Sir Ander asked his friend with a smile.

  “How should I know?” Sir Conal wore an expression of innocence, belied by a gleam of amusement in his eye.

  “Because this pistol has been fired,” said Sir Ander, grinning. “And because you were the only person who knew I had ordered them and since you are now on desk duty, you would have been the one to receive them when they were delivered.”

  “You’ve been with that puzzle-solving priest of yours too long,” said Sir Conal, snorting. “You’re even starting to sound like him. I knew you’d want someone to test them, to make sure they worked and send them back to be fixed if they didn’t.”

  “So I ask again, did the pistol work well?”

  “Considering that there is not a single magical construct anywhere on it, yes, it worked very well. I have to say I was amazed. I was able to hit the target nine times out of ten and the last was my fault. Damn knee went all wobbly on me, threw off my aim.”

  “Excellent. But I see you didn’t test all of them,” said Sir Ander.

  He looked over the weapons, then lifted another out of the box. On the side of one of the pistols, opposite the hammer, was a silver plate engraved with a winged wolf holding a sword-Sir Conal’s device.

  “For you my friend,” said Sir Ander, handing over the pistol and a matching powder flask.

  Sir Conal stared. “You’re not serious!”

  “Unfortunately, I am,” said Sir Ander. “Deadly serious.”

  “Pistols that don’t rely on magic,” said Sir Conal, studying his gun with obvious pleasure, but also with a look of puzzlement. “Can I ask why?”

  “You can ask, but I’m not going to answer,” said Sir Ander. “And you can’t tell a soul that you own one.”

  “You know me, my friend. I keep my mouth shut. What did you say to Master Gaston at the Armory when you put in the order for pistols that are purely mechanical? He must have been curious.”

  “I told him that Father Jacob tends to be irresponsible in tossing about magical spells and that I feared that if his magic went awry around the weaponry, he’d blow himself up and the rest of us along with him. Which is not exactly a lie,” Sir Ander added dryly.

  “I see. I’ve heard rumors…” Sir Conal paused, then said, “I sometimes wonder what would happen to weapons imbued with magic if for some reason the magic ceased to work. Pistols wouldn’t fire-”

  “Or they would blow off your hand,” said Sir Ander. He fixed Sir Conal with an intense gaze. “That’s what they are, you know. Just rumors.” He paused, frowning down at the guns, and then said impulsively, “I wish-” He stopped and sighed.

  “Wish what?” asked Sir Conal.

  Sir Ander forced a smile. “I
wish I was drinking some of that remarkable old port I know you have stashed away in the wine cellar.”

  He took two pistols and powder horns from the box and then closed the lid, leaving three pistols inside. “I’ll leave these here. In case.”

  He didn’t say in case of what, but Sir Conal nodded gravely. Sir Ander shut the gate to his storage cell and locked it and returned the keys to the ring on the wall.

  “We’ll pick up a bottle of port on our way past the wine cellar,” said Sir Conal.

  “I’ll meet you in the dining hall,” said Sir Ander. “First I want to stop by the chapel and pay my respects to God. Then I need to go to the Bursar’s to make arrangements to pay for these pistols.” He gave a shrug. “Good-bye military pension.”

  “I am certain God will be glad to hear from you,” said Sir Conal, “but you need not bother the Bursar. The pistols are a gift, it seems. Someone else has paid for them.”

  “A gift?” Sir Ander repeated, astonished.

  “The bill came in from the Armory marked ‘Paid.’ ”

  “But who?” Sir Ander asked, puzzled. “Not Father Jacob. He doesn’t know anything about them.”

  “You must have a secret admirer,” said Sir Conal.

  Sir Ander remembered the letters with the lavender seal, and he flushed. He knew who had paid for the pistols and was pleased, at first, to think that Cecile de Marjolaine was thinking of him. On reflection, he was not so pleased. He was glad he did not have to impoverish himself in order to pay for the pistols, but he didn’t like the thought that the countess was spying on him.

  Sir Ander had not seen Cecile de Marjolaine in years, although they did frequently correspond. Sir Ander had been to court. He knew the ways of the court and he knew Cecile de Marjolaine. Thinking of her, he remembered the desperate battle she waged all alone and regretted his twinge of resentment. He thought he knew why she was watching him, why she had given him the pistols.

  Sir Conal had been observing his friend’s face and said with a grin and a wink, “Ah, these pistols came from some lady.”

  “A very great lady,” said Sir Ander gravely, and he and Sir Conal left to pursue their reunion over a bottle of port, which was every bit as good as Sir Ander had remembered.

  Father Jacob arrived at the motherhouse of the Knight Protectors in a foul mood. He barked at the startled young squire on desk duty, demanding where to find Sir Ander. The squire said politely that he didn’t know, but he would go look. Father Jacob told the squire he was a blithering idiot and began shouting Sir Ander’s name in a thunderous voice that echoed off the rafters.

  Confronted by the fearsome black cassock of the Arcanum and a priest who appeared to be more than a little insane, the squire bolted from the desk and ran in search of Sir Ander. He had already heard the commotion and, sighing, drank the last of his port. He hurried down the stairs to find Father Jacob pacing back and forth impatiently.

  “There you are!” Father Jacob snapped in a tone that implied that he’d been waiting for Sir Ander for weeks.

  “Here I am,” said Sir Ander imperturbably. “I was thinking we might take supper-”

  “The devil with supper! We are leaving now. I have sent Brother Barnaby to ready Retribution. I will meet you at the landing site. And don’t dawdle!”

  The priest glared at him, turned on his heel, and stalked out.

  Sir Ander heaved a deep sigh, then shrugged and gave a rueful smile.

  “Something’s up, seemingly,” he said to Sir Conal, who had limped after him. “So much for supper and another glass of that wonderful port. Farewell, Conal. Use the gift in good health.”

  “Farewell, my friend,” said Sir Conal. He cast an apprehensive glance after Father Jacob. “And good luck!”

  The two friends shook hands and then embraced. With the taste of the port, like drinking honeyed chocolate, warming his mouth, Sir Ander departed the motherhouse, new pistols tucked into his belt, the letters in his inner coat pocket.

  Arriving at the landing site, he found Brother Barnaby fussing over the wyverns. Father Jacob was nowhere to be found.

  “He’s inside the yacht,” said Brother Barnaby in a low voice, “writing a dispatch to be sent to Master Savoraun by swift courier. He’s in a terrible state!” he added in a whisper.

  “What happened with the bishop? Why the rush?” Sir Ander asked, glancing askance at the yacht and keeping his voice down.

  “I will let Father Jacob tell you himself,” said Brother Barnaby circumspectly. “You know that I sometimes misspeak.”

  “I know that you strictly observe your vow of secrecy,” said Sir Ander with a smile. “Even when it comes to me. And I honor you for it.”

  Brother Barnaby’s dark skin darkened further with pleasure and embarrassment. The young monk scratched one of the wyverns on its head between its eyes. The wyvern gave a rumbling sigh of pleasure, while its partner attempted to shove its head under Brother’s Barnaby’s soothing hand. Sir Ander reflected that if he tried petting a wyvern, he would end up missing an arm.

  “The wyverns haven’t had nearly enough rest,” said Brother Barnaby with a fond and worried look for his beasts. “They can travel only a couple of hours before we will be forced to stop. I tried telling Father Jacob…”

  “Useless,” said Sir Ander. “When he’s in this sort of mood, a sixty-four-gun ship of the line couldn’t stop him. Don’t worry. Once he’s stomped around the yacht for an hour and aired his frustrations, he’ll calm down. Of course, we’ll have to listen to him-”

  The hatch banged open and Father Jacob came bounding out. He looked around, then glowered.

  “Where’s that godforsaken courier!” he demanded, waving his letter. “Why isn’t he here by now?”

  “You only just sent for him-” Brother Barnaby began.

  “The man is on the way,” said Sir Ander, seeing the wyverns bristle at the priest’s strident tones. “I’ll take charge of your letter, see that the courier gets it.”

  “Complete incompetence!” said Father Jacob, scowling. “I’ll be inside the yacht. Let me know when he comes.”

  He disappeared. The hatch banged shut.

  “Perhaps I should go look for the courier,” Brother Barnaby said worriedly

  “No, you won’t, because then he’d be in an uproar as to where you’d gone,” said Sir Ander. “Just keep pampering your wyverns. I’ll take this opportunity to read my mail. Let me know when the courier arrives.”

  Brother Barnaby nodded and continued fussing over his charges. Sir Ander walked over to a bench beneath a shady maple tree and sat down. He quickly scanned the letters from a family he scarcely knew (he could never keep track of the various nieces and nephews) and then, with a feeling of pain mixed with pleasure, he drew out the letters with the lavender seals.

  He was aware of a faint scent of jasmine as he broke the first seal. The scent evoked memories. He could envision Cecile quite clearly; even hear her voice speak from the firm, feminine handwriting on the pages.

  She wrote to him often, at least once a month and sometimes more. He wrote to her sporadically. Sir Ander disliked writing letters. He wasn’t any good at it. He never knew what to say. Most of his work for the Arcanum he was forbidden to talk about, and the rest of his life was mundane. He was aware that his lapse in responding to her letters did not bother Cecile. She wrote to him for one reason and that was to keep him informed about his godson, Stephano.

  Always mindful that letters could be intercepted, Cecile buried any information of true importance in a mire of the trivial. Indeed, examining the seven letters, Sir Ander noted signs that the latest one, dated only two days ago, had been opened. Someone had passed a hot knife under the wax seal, leaving the seal intact but permitting the snoop to read the letter’s contents. The snoop had been careless, however, having allowed the seal to partially melt.

  The snoop had wasted his time. Cecile’s letter to Sir Ander was that of one old friend to another, filled with news of the court, talk
of the latest fashion, a witty description of a party given aboard the royal barge, expressing admiration for a young musical prodigy who was taking the court by storm, and discussion of her problems managing her estate. He enjoyed her writing; he would take time to savor the letter later, in the lonely hours of the evening. For now, he was curious as to why someone had gone to so much trouble to intercept this particular letter. He read it before reading the others.

  Sir Ander found nothing in it that would mean anything to anyone else and he decided the letter had probably been opened at random: just someone checking on the countess. The last sentence meant a great deal, but only to him.

  When all else fails, know that you can still rely on my friendship and this small token of my esteem.

  “When all else fails,” Sir Ander softly repeated the words.

  All else-including magic. She was letting him know she was aware of Father Jacob’s investigations. But then, of course she would know. Probably the king himself had told her.

  And Cecile had told Sir Ander. She trusted him; perhaps he was the only person in the world beside Stephano she could trust. Her friend and her son.

  The thought warmed him.

  Sir Ander was tall and well-built with an upright, military bearing. Years ago, when he had courted the young and beautiful Cecile de Marjolaine, he had been considered handsome. Over the years, his strong-jawed face, that had once exuded rakish confidence, had softened, becoming graver, more serious. His smile was generous and lit his eyes. Father Jacob was volatile, a bomb liable to go off at any moment, leaving debris and destruction in his wake. By contrast, Sir Ander was reliable, steady. Women were drawn to him. He was fifty years old and he knew many women who would have happily and proudly called him “husband.” He had never married. He would never marry. He would always remain faithful to his own true love.

  Sir Ander carefully folded Cecile’s letter (more valuable to him than the pistols) and placed it along with the other unread letters in the inner pocket of his coat. He then rose to his feet to greet the courier.