“You must!” said Father Jacob testily. “Unless you’ve gone deaf.”
“Nothing but dripping water…”
“That’s it!” Father Jacob exclaimed. “The sound of dripping water!”
Sir Ander sighed wearily, let down the hammer and slid the pistol back into his pocket. “Is that all?”
“Why do we hear the sound of dripping?” Father Jacob stood staring at the bricks. “Don’t you find that curious?”
“It’s late, Father. We still have work to do. You need to interview Brother Paul and the dragon brothers.”
Father Jacob shook his head turned away. They walked back down the narrow corridor and emerged into the bright sunlight, blinking their eyes. Sir Ander checked his pocket watch and was surprised to see that it was almost four of the clock in the afternoon. The day had been long in some respects and passed by far too swiftly in others.
“I have decided on second thought that you should go talk to the two dragons,” said Father Jacob. “They are more likely to be open with you-a fellow soldier-than with me.”
“What do you want me to ask them?”
“I want to know the truth about what they saw the night of the attack.”
“But they weren’t even here at the time,” Sir Ander said, puzzled. “They live twenty miles away. They couldn’t have seen anything.”
“I think they were here. I think they did see something,” said Father Jacob. “Something that scared them enough to volunteer for patrol duty.”
“If you say so,” said Sir Ander. “I’ll go speak to them now.”
“And I will talk to Brother Paul.”
Father Jacob started to walk away, then paused and turned to stare, frowning, into the darkness of the catacombs.
“Why is the water dripping?” he muttered.
Father Jacob spent the next two hours in a most unsatisfactory interview with Brother Paul. He came out of the meeting thinking he might as well have spent ten minutes. Brother Paul was of little help. He knew that Albert had found a journal and had taken it back to his yacht. That was apparently all he knew or even cared about. Brother Paul had not read the journal.
“Reading is very difficult for me, due to my poor eyesight, Father,” he said.
Brother Paul wasn’t the least bit interested in the writing of a prince-abbot or the fact that Saint Dennis had spent time here.
“The words of God are the only words that have meaning,” said Brother Paul.
As for the person who could have stolen the journal, “I have prayed for the thief’s soul,” said Brother Paul.
Father Jacob asked the monk about the night of the attack. Brother Paul had been sequestered in his dwelling in the wilderness. Weary from his day’s work helping the nuns by working in the fields, he had fallen into a sound sleep. The first he knew of the attack was when he had been awakened by flashes of green fire in the sky.
Regarding the young woman, the sole survivor, he said he had found her in a pitiful state. She had been in the sanctuary when the demons entered. One of them struck her. She fell to the floor, stunned, and waited to die. The demons surged past her and she realized they assumed she was already dead. He had recorded in his report to the grand bishop everything she had said to him. He had nothing to add.
“According to what you wrote,” said Father Jacob, referring to the report, “the nun said that when the demons were smashing the windows, one of the demons was hit by shards of glass and ‘the demon yelped.’ Do you remember that?”
“I am afraid I don’t, Father,” said Brother Paul. “I was shaken by the terrible events of that night as you might expect.”
“Yet you were able to write this report…”
“It was my duty, Father,” said Brother Paul simply. “God guided my hand.”
He blamed himself for the young woman’s death. “I had not slept in many nights and I dozed off. When I woke up, she was gone.”
Father Jacob continued probing and prodding, but Brother Paul never wavered in his account. He did not grow confused, frustrated, or angry. He answered every question readily, patiently. At the end of the interview, he thanked Father Jacob.
“I want to do everything I can to help,” said Brother Paul.
He declined an offer to partake of their evening meal and spend the night with them.
“You realize, Brother, that you could be in danger,” Father Jacob warned. “It would be safer for you to remain here with us.”
“God is my sword and my shield, Father,” said Brother Paul as he departed. “He protects me.”
Twilight tinged the mists of the Breath pinkish red, reminding Father Jacob of the bloodstained water in the buckets. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly through the fading light, leaving the abbey compound, heading for the yacht and an early bedtime. He planned to spend tomorrow sorting through the mess in the library.
One of the dragons was back on patrol in the skies. In the distance, Father Jacob could see the sails and ballast balloons painted with the Rosian flag of the naval cutter as she took up a station out in the Breath.
“Father!” Sir Ander called. “Wait for me!”
Father Jacob turned to see his friend coming around the corner of the wall. He waited for him to join him and noted that he was alone.
“What did you do with Master Albert and Brother Barnaby?”
“Albert went back to his yacht. He was falling asleep on his feet. Brother Barnaby is with his wyverns. He says something is still bothering them. He thinks it’s the presence of the dragons. He asked if he could spend the night in the stables. I gave him permission. I hope that’s all right. It means I’ll have to do the cooking.”
“Fortunately, I have little appetite,” said Father Jacob. “How did your talk with the dragons go?”
“You were right, Father. The brothers had been flying close to the abbey that night. They usually eat the goats they raise themselves, but every so often they develop a taste for venison. In essence, they were poaching. The deer they were hunting happened to be on the abbey’s land. That’s why they didn’t want to say anything.”
“I am certain the grand bishop can spare a few,” said Father Jacob dryly. “I hope they know we will not turn them in.”
“I assured them we would keep quiet. And you were also right. They did see the attackers,” said Sir Ander.
“Excellent news!” Father Jacob exclaimed, excited. “Dragons are creatures of good common sense and practical turn of mind. They do not believe in our God or in our Heaven or our Hell. No demons or giant bats for them. What did they see?”
“Demons,” said Sir Ander. “Riding giant bats.”
Father Jacob heaved a sigh.
Chapter Eighteen
God’s voice pours forth the Song of Magic. Man has learned to create constructs some liken to a symphony. But what if that symphony were written in a minor key? What dread voice would sing the counter notes?
– On the Nature of Magic by Saint Dennis
THE BENCHLIKE BED IN THE YACHT SEEMED UNUSUALLY comfortable to Sir Ander, or perhaps he was just uncommonly weary. Brother Barnaby’s chicken stew, cooked in a kettle over an open fire, lay pleasantly on the stomach. Sir Ander and Father Jacob had not been forced to rely on the knight’s cooking after all, though his cooking wasn’t bad, as far as he was concerned. He liked boiled beans and salt pork. Brother Barnaby had fixed supper, then returned to the stables to be with his wyverns, which remained uneasy. The dragons did not fly at night, but took turns resting in a nearby field in case they should be needed.
Sir Ander stretched out on the wooden plank bed with its goose down mattress, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. It was good just to lie still and let the sad events of the day sift through his mind, like sand between the fingers. He listened with drowsy amusement to Father Jacob fidgeting and rolling about restlessly.
“Your body tyrannizing your mind?” Sir Ander asked.
“There is nothing wrong with my mental discipline.
Something is bothering me, that’s all,” said Father Jacob irritably.
Sir Ander smiled in the darkness and, rolling onto his side, he dragged the blanket over his head and fell asleep.
He was awakened by an explosive shout from Father Jacob. Whenever Sir Ander accompanied the father on a dangerous investigation (and most of the investigations performed by members of the Arcanum fell into that category), he slept in his trousers and shirt, his boots by the side of the bed, one of his pistols within easy reach beneath his pillow.
Sir Ander was instantly awake, his hand sliding beneath the pillow to take hold of the gun. “What? What is it?”
Light flared, magical light that half-blinded him. He had a glimpse of Father Jacob’s face, eager and excited, bent over a “glow worm”-a type of lantern whose light came from magical sigils embedded inside the glass panels. When he could see, Sir Ander found Father Jacob buttoning his long black greatcoat over the black cassock.
“You’ll need your coat, as well,” said Father Jacob. “The night air has a definite nip to it.”
Sir Ander yawned. “What time is it?”
“Near midnight. I’m sorry to wake you, but this is important.”
Sir Ander sighed and swung his feet out of bed. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the abbey. Bring the pickax.”
Sir Ander stared. “What for?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Father Jacob. “We’ll need a shovel, as well.”
“The ax and shovel are in the storage compartment in the rear.” Sir Ander thrust his feet into the boots, struggled into his coat, tucked his pistol into the inner pocket, buckled on his sword belt, ran his hand through his hair, thought about wearing a hat and decided against it, and yawned again.
Father Jacob snapped his fingers and another glow worm lantern burst into light. Leaving one lantern for Sir Ander, Father Jacob opened the door and went out. Sir Ander could hear him rummaging about in the storage compartment. Picturing the havoc the impatient priest was causing in his search, Sir Ander grabbed the lantern and hastened outside.
He found the pickax and shovel and picked up the other tools the priest had hurled onto the grass. Father Jacob did not wait but headed for the abbey. Sir Ander could see the bright white light of the glow worm swinging back and forth from the priest’s hand.
He hefted the pickax and shovel and followed. The night was clear, the mists of the Breath shredded to wisps and tatters by a chill wind coming down from the distant mountains. Stars crusted the sky. A sliver of moon glimmered palely on the horizon.
The two dragon brothers, slumbering in the field, were bulky black hulks against the starlight. One slept on his side, like a horse, his legs stretched out, his head on the grass. The other slept on his belly, legs tucked beneath him, his neck curled about his feet, his head almost touching his tail which was wrapped around his hind legs.
“So why haul me out of my warm bed?” Sir Ander asked.
Father Jacob made an impatient gesture for him to be quiet and kept walking. Sir Ander was accustomed to the priest’s sudden after-dark escapades and he said nothing more, knowing he would be wasting his breath. He spent the time trying to goad his sleep-fogged mind into wakefulness.
Father Jacob did not enter the cathedral, as Sir Ander had expected, but went swiftly around to the back. Sir Ander thought now he knew where they were going and why. When they came to the gate that led into the catacombs, he called a halt.
“It’s the dripping water, isn’t it?”
“The sound of the water kept nagging at me. That’s the reason I couldn’t sleep,” said Father Jacob. “Then I figured out why.”
He thrust open the gate and walked inside. Sir Ander remained standing at the entrance. He threw the pickax and shovel on the ground.
“I’m not going to desecrate a tomb, Father,” Sir Ander said.
Father Jacob scowled, displeased.
Sir Ander faced the irate priest calmly and shook his head. “Not for you or the Arcanum.”
Father Jacob stood silently regarding his friend for a moment, then he bent down to retrieve the ax and the shovel.
“I know you will think I am being irrational, Ander,” Father Jacob said earnestly, “but I believe the murdered nuns are trying to tell me something. Keep watch. See that I’m not disturbed.”
He entered the catacombs alone. Sir Ander watched the light of the glow worm until it disappeared into the darkness. He stood outside in the whipping wind, pulling his coat collar up around his ears and wishing he’d worn his hat. After several moments, he heard the faint sounds of a pickax ringing against stone. Sir Ander could stand it no longer. He entered the catacombs.
Sir Ander did not believe in ghosts, but he conceded that there were far more pleasant places to take a midnight stroll than a dark burial chamber. The white-shrouded figures shone with an eerie pallor in the lantern light. The dark eye holes in the skulls seemed to be watching him. The sounds of the pickax grew louder. He came upon Father Jacob raising the ax over his head, prepared to bring it down. He was not attacking the tomb-to Sir Ander’s vast relief. The priest was chopping up the floor beneath the tomb.
The floor was lined with bricks, as were the walls and the arched ceiling, making it difficult to determine where the brick floor left off and the wall began. The bricks beneath the tomb were still wet and glistening from the bloody water they had poured around it.
Father Jacob brought the ax down so near his boot that Sir Ander winced.
“Here, Father, I’ll do that,” he said, hurrying forward. “You’re liable to cut off your foot.”
Sir Ander took hold of the pickax. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why we are down here in the middle of the night breaking up bricks.”
“There’s your answer,” said Father Jacob in satisfaction. “Look.”
He held the lantern over the portion of the broken brick floor. Sir Ander peered down and for a moment saw nothing except cracked and broken pieces of brick. Father Jacob pushed aside some of the rubble, then thrust his hand into the opening. His hand disappeared up to the middle of his forearm.
Sir Ander stared down into the hole.
“All right, Father, I’m baffled. How did you know there was a false floor?”
“I heard the water dripping,” said Father Jacob triumphantly. “Water poured onto bricks set into the ground might drain through the rock and could make a dripping sound. I didn’t pay much attention at first. But then the water kept dripping. You can hear it still dripping even now.”
Sir Ander listened and, sure enough, he could hear, very faintly, a drip and then another, like raindrops falling from the eaves after a summer shower plopping monotonously into the grass.
“And look at this!” Father Jacob spoke a word and passed his hand over the bricks. They began to shine, though very, very faintly. “These are laced with magical sigils. Masonry sigils, designed to give added strength. The sigils are very old. There is almost nothing left of them now.”
Father Jacob rose and walked over to a different portion of the floor and did the same thing, passing his hand over the floor. No light shone.
“These bricks have no sigils. They did not need extra strengthening. If you were to look beneath them, you would find dirt.”
Father Jacob pointed to the base of the tomb. “When you slide your fingers in here, you can feel the bricks crumbling. That’s where the water seeped through and made the dripping sound. The blood of the martyrs. The nuns trying to tell me something.”
Sir Ander shivered in the darkness. “But why reinforce bricks used in a floor?”
“Because if you are down below, these bricks are no longer the floor. They are the ceiling.”
“Of course.” Sir Ander grunted. “I’m still half asleep. So you’ve found a chamber hidden beneath the tomb. What do you think it is? The abbey treasure vault? The monks were said to have amassed great wealth.”
“Enlarge the opening,” said Father Jacob. “Enoug
h for us to shine our lights down there.”
Sir Ander went to work and had soon chopped open a large hole. He and Father Jacob lay on their bellies, flat on the ground, and lowered their glow worm lanterns into the hole as far as their arms would reach.
In a child’s tale, Sir Ander reflected, we would be rewarded with the sight of our lights gleaming off stacks of gold and piles of rubies and diamonds and emeralds.
But this wasn’t a child’s tale. This was Father Jacob. What they found appeared to be a classroom. The light from their lanterns illuminated a rectangular-shaped chamber, containing four writing desks and a large wooden table that was empty save for six leather-bound books stacked neatly one atop the other. Book shelves lined two of the four walls. They were empty, as well. The other two walls were made of slate planed flat and smooth. Floor, books, table, desks, and walls were all covered with thick dust. Sir Ander could see rivulets of water running through the dust on the floor from where it had dripped from the ceiling.
“Damned odd place to build a classroom,” said Sir Ander.
“Not if you are working on a project that will forever change the Church and its teachings,” said Father Jacob. “You would want to work somewhere in private. And if you are a prince-abbot and you desperately need to hide something, what better place.”
Sir Ander let out his breath in a soundless whistle. He stood up, took hold of the pickax and began to enlarge the hole. The floor of the class room was about ten feet beneath them, a short drop. Father Jacob was about to jump for it, when Sir Ander took hold of him.
“Perhaps someday humans will devise the ability to fly like birds, Father, but we have not managed to do so at present. Once we are down there, we will need a way to get out.”
“Ever practical,” said Father Jacob. “You will find rope in the stables.”
“I don’t like the thought of leaving you here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” said Father Jacob. “The nuns brought me here. They will keep me company.”
Sir Ander gave up the argument. He left the catacombs and made his way to the wyvern stables. Brother Barnaby was fast asleep in one of the stalls, lying on a blanket spread over straw. The two wyverns were as near him as they could crowd. One had his head draped over the monk’s legs. The wyverns woke when Sir Ander entered, raised their heads, and glared at him balefully. So long as he didn’t come near, they were quiet. He found a coil of rope and left. Brother Barnaby never stirred. Looking back, Sir Ander saw the wyverns still watching him.
Shadow Raiders tdb-1 Page 30
