Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  He carried the rope into the catacombs and fastened it around the tomb. He felt a twinge of guilt, and hoped the abbess wouldn’t take offense. Father Jacob cast a magical spell on the rope to make certain it held secure. He lowered himself first. Sir Ander sent down the lanterns, then descend.

  Father Jacob went straight to the books. He held out his hands, murmured some words, and gave a satisfied nod. “As I thought. Cividae cast spells of protection on them. Very powerful spells. He was a good crafter, our prince-abbot. It will take time to dismantle them.”

  Father Jacob set to work, moving and shifting and plucking at sigils and constructs, which was tantamount to dismantling a cobweb strand by silken strand. Sir Ander walked around the room, flashing his light on the writing desks. Brushing away the dust, he looked at the ink splotches and found initials carved in each desk: D, C, M, M.

  “So they were all here,” Father Jacob murmured, awestruck. “The Four Blessed Saints: Saint Dennis, Saint Charles, Saint Michael, and Saint Marie.”

  “And an ‘X,’ ” said Sir Ander, pointing to a fifth desk that had been shoved into a corner.

  “X,” said Father Jacob, frowning in puzzlement. “Why would there be a desk marked with X?”

  “X marks the spot,” said Sir Ander. “Perhaps this desk has something hidden in it?”

  “Perhaps,” said Father Jacob, though he didn’t sound convinced.

  Sir Ander studied the desk with the X, but couldn’t find any hidden drawers or secret nooks. He shrugged and turned away. Another thought had occurred to him.

  “This was a monastery not a nunnery back then,” said Sir Ander. “How did Saint Marie manage to live in an abbey inhabited solely by men?”

  “Marie was reputed to have been such a brilliant crafter that she was granted permission to attend the University at a time when only male students were accepted,” said Father Jacob. “Popular myth has it that she dressed in men’s robes and shaved her head in a tonsure in order to fit in. Perhaps the myth was true.”

  Sir Ander could well imagine her three friends and colleagues sneaking her into the abbey, especially if the prince-abbot was aware of the deception. But if the X was for Marie then who did the other M represent?

  Looking at the desks, Sir Ander had the strange impression that time had gone backward. If the four saints had walked through that door, he would not have been much surprised. He could see the four so clearly, each sitting at these very desks, working in comradely silence or gathered around the long table discussing their research.

  When he found himself almost seeming to hear their voices, he shook the fancies out of his head and muttered, “I’ve got to get some sleep!”

  He inspected the slate walls and was surprised to find chalk markings-diagrams of what he assumed were magical constructs. He was about to mention these to Father Jacob. The priest was deeply engrossed in his work and Sir Ander decided not to interrupt him. Thinking he’d leave the father to his work and see what lay beyond this curious room, Sir Ander went over to the door, opened it, and gasped.

  “Good grief!” he said, startled, nearly walking into a plaster wall.

  Father Jacob glanced around. He halted in his work, his brows raised.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  Sir Ander rapped on the wall. “Not very sturdy.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. It was intended to conceal the existence of this room.”

  Father Jacob walked over to the diagram. Sir Ander joined him. “I saw you looking at these. Do you know what they are?”

  “Some sort of magical constructs-”

  “Constructs such as I have never seen. Magic used in a way I have never seen. I will have to study them further, but I believe we are looking at the constructs of contramagic,” said Father Jacob. He breathed a soft sigh. “You were right when you said this was a treasure trove, my friend. It holds a wealth of knowledge.”

  “Dangerous knowledge,” said Sir Ander grimly. “Some people would say it should have never been brought into the world.”

  “That is where some people would be wrong,” said Father Jacob, flaring in anger. He slammed his hand on the table, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Damn it, when will mankind learn to stop fearing knowledge? Fools believe that by burning books they can burn away the truths the books hold! God knows what He is about. Every action has its equal and opposite reaction. The same applies to the science of magic. I say to you now, Ander, we would be far better off if we had been studying contramagic all these years instead of denying its existence. We would not now be facing utter ruin!”

  Father Jacob was literally shaking with the force of his passion. Sir Ander felt himself properly reprimanded.

  “I am sorry, Father. You are right. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “That is the problem, my friend,” said Father Jacob with a weary smile. “The Church never permitted you to think. And I am sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  “Do you want me to knock down this wall?” Sir Ander asked.

  Father Jacob shook his head. “Not tonight. We must transport these books to the yacht where I can study them. We will return first thing tomorrow morning and then you may knock down the wall.”

  “So are these the writings of Saint Dennis the prince-abbot mentioned in the journal, Father? The writings the demons were searching for?”

  “We are about to find out.”

  Like a bard striking the strings of a harp, Father Jacob strummed the air with his fingers. He blew on the dust-covered book and then gently brushed off more dust with his hand. The cover was plain, devoid of decoration or title. He carefully opened the book’s cover and looked at the writing on the first page.

  “Bring the lantern closer.”

  Sir Ander held the lantern over the book. Light spilled on the pages. The title and subtitle were written in Rosaelig, which he did not know. But he could read the four names penned beneath: Dennis, Charles, Marie, Michael, and one word: Contramagic.

  The two men were silent, both of them thinking of the impact this revelation would have upon a church which taught that contramagic did not exist, could not exist.

  “You were right, Father. What does the rest of the writing say?”

  “Notes and Collective Thought on the Science of Contramagic.” Father Jacob paused, then continued reading, “Silencing of the Voice of God.”

  Sir Ander felt a shiver go through him. Father Jacob stared off into the darkness.

  “This is why the demons want the books!”

  “What do you mean?” Sir Ander asked tensely.

  “They want to silence the Voice of God,” said Father Jacob. “They want to find a way to utterly destroy the magic. And since almost everything in this world is built using the magic, this means they are trying to find a way to utterly destroy us…”

  Father Jacob continued to study the book, staring intently at the title, minutely examining each letter, frowning over it and muttering to himself.

  “I need more light,” he complained. “It looks as if some of the writing on this page has been magically expunged.”

  “Then let us go back to the yacht,” said Sir Ander, with a jaw-cracking yawn. “You can read and I can sleep.”

  Sir Ander climbed the rope first, waiting up top for Father Jacob to attach the books to the rope. Sir Ander hauled them up. Last came Father Jacob, climbing the rope nimbly.

  “Wait a moment before we go,” said Father Jacob, frowning at the hole in the bricks. “I don’t like to leave that unguarded.”

  “No one’s likely to come down here,” said Sir Ander, who wanted only to crawl into his bed.

  “Still, you never know,” said Father Jacob. “Someone was here poking about. I saw the traces when we first arrived.”

  “Probably the nuns. Caring for the dead.”

  “Perhaps, but the prints were recent. Someone tracked in mud and bits of grass. The mud was still damp.”

  “All right, but if we’re going to make it look as if
nothing had been disturbed, we shouldn’t leave this mess lying about,” said Sir Ander. He picked up a chunk of brick and threw it down into the hole.

  “An excellent thought, my friend,” said Father Jacob.

  “I have one or two on occasion,” said Sir Ander.

  Father Jacob helped toss the evidence that they had been digging down into the hole. When they had cleaned up, he knelt down on the edge of the hole, spoke several words, and traced a pattern in the air with his hand. The hole vanished. Sir Ander found himself looking at dirt. His magical construct laid, Father Jacob picked up a rock and threw it at the center of the hole. Blue light flashed. The rock bounded off.

  Sir Ander and Father Jacob left the catacombs. Father Jacob placed another magical spell on the rusted gates, a spell that would give anyone who tried to enter a most unpleasant shock. They carried the books back to the yacht and placed them on the table. Sir Ander undressed down to his shirt and trousers, slid his pistol beneath the pillow, hung his sword belt on a hook, pulled off his boots, and lay down with a contented sigh.

  “I suppose you’re going to stay up all night reading,” said Sir Ander.

  “Will the light bother you?” Father Jacob asked.

  Sir Ander grabbed his tricorn, placed it so that the brim shielded his eyes. He took one last look at Father Jacob, sitting in the lantern’s glow, the book open on the table before him. He seemed to devour, rather than read.

  Sir Ander smiled and closed his eyes. He slept so deeply that when he heard the boom of cannon fire, he did not wake at first.

  He thought it was still part of his dream.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That portion of the Breath that provides lift for our world can be isolated, purified, and concentrated. We can then charge that gas using constructs to evenly distribute magical energy throughout. This process creates considerably more lift than found in nature and allows us to build large flying ships capable of carrying men and goods. Our constructs safely manage the level and consistent flow of magical energy into the various devices used for holding the lift gas, giving the helmsman full control over his vessel’s buoyancy

  – Basic Marine Crafters textbook

  WHILE FATHER JACOB AND SIR ANDER WERE ENTERING the catacombs, following the call of the blood of the martyrs, Stephano and his comrades were looking forward to spending a second uncomfortable night aboard the Cloud Hopper, lost in the Breath.

  At least the houseboat was no longer sinking. Miri was a “channeler” of magic, and twice that day she had made the perilous climb up the swaying mast to reach the main balloon and used her channeling abilities to keep the magic flowing into the constructs, to keep the balloon from deflating.

  A channeler was a person who could “channel” magical energy, send the magic flowing through existing constructs. A channeler was not gifted enough in magic to be able to draw sigils and create new constructs. Some channelers could act as a conduit for the magic, transfer it from one sigil to another by touch. If Rodrigo had drawn one of his famous diagrams, it would have three sigils, A, B, and C in a line. If B was broken, a channeler could form a bridge between A to C, keep the magic flowing.

  The climb up the wet mast in the dark, by feel alone, was dangerous even for Miri, who had spent her childhood racing up and down the mast just for a lark. Once up there, she had to cling to the slippery wood with one arm, while she reached up to the balloon to channel magic directly into it. Since the constructs that evenly distributed the magical energy were set inside the balloon, charging the lift gas in this manner would have only limited, short-term success.

  Dag, his face creased with worry, stood beneath the mast, peering upward in a vain attempt to see Miri through the thick mists. Perhaps he had some thought of catching her if she fell, though they all knew that if she did fall, she would likely pitch straight into the Breath.

  “Miri’s skills are really what’s been keeping the Cloud Hopper afloat all these years,” Rodrigo told Stephano. “She was able to use her channeling abilities to reroute the magic around, above, over, and under all of Gythe’s protection spells.”

  The two were down below in the hold, where Stephano was rooting around in the trunk Benoit had packed in preparation for his master’s journey. A lantern, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, swayed back and forth as the boat rocked in the currents of the Breath.

  This night was going to be colder than the night before and he was digging out his old flight coat. Benoit had, of course, dumped the coat at the very bottom, hiding it beneath frilly shirts and dress coats and trousers, stockings and underwear. Benoit had packed as if Stephano was making a grand tour of the continents, not a trip to the unsavory city of Westfirth.

  Stephano didn’t answer. He was in a bad mood. He knew he was in a bad mood and he knew why-his friends were in danger, he couldn’t get them out of danger, and it was his fault they were in danger in the first place. And he was jealous.

  He needed to be doing something. He had never been the kind of officer to lead from the rear. He had been at the head of the charge, fighting the foe head-on. Dag was working to repair the damage done to the propeller. Gythe and Rigo were working to fix the magic. Miri kept the ship afloat. Stephano was reduced to pacing the deck in company with the cat. And even Doctor Ellington played his part, boosting morale by rubbing around their ankles.

  As for Miri, Stephano had no reason to be jealous. He loved her as a friend; his closest friend next to Rodrigo, but still a friend, not a lover. Dag was like a brother to him, a good man worthy of any woman’s love. Stephano wanted both his friends to be happy, so why wasn’t he happy for them? Perhaps, Stephano admitted sourly to himself, he had fondly imagined Miri loved him. It had come as a shock to find out that she was in love with someone else. His heart was bruised, his pride wounded.

  Because he was in a bad mood, he needed someone to blame, and Rodrigo was close at hand.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” Stephano said, pulling out linen drawers and lace-edged shirts and tossing them onto the floor. “We’ve been sailing on the Cloud Hopper for four years, and I can’t help but wonder you never noticed until now that the magic on this boat was in such a bloody mess!”

  “But, my dear fellow, why should I have paid any attention to the magic?” Rodrigo asked, picking up the clothes Stephano was hurling about. He looked truly astonished at the thought, and that irritated Stephano even more.

  “Because you’re a bloody crafter!”

  “A mere dabbler in the art,” said Rodrigo. “A theorist, a philosopher. When I set sail, I watch with pleasure the panorama of the passing shoreline. I admire the picturesque little villages, the grandeur of the mountains. I do not spend my time dissecting magical constructs on the hull.”

  “Well, maybe you should!” Stephano said angrily. “Make yourself useful!”

  “Like I’m doing now?” said Rodrigo with quiet dignity.

  Stephano remembered belatedly that his friend had been awake all last night, working with Gythe to try to find a way to solve their predicament. They had worked all that day, taking a break only for meals.

  “I’m sorry,” Stephano muttered. “It’s just… I feel so damn useless!”

  “You are our captain,” said Rodrigo. “You give us guidance, inspiration. You boost our spirits-”

  “Oh, go jump in the Breath,” Stephano told his friend, though he couldn’t help but smile.

  Rodrigo found Stephano’s flight coat at the bottom and handed it to him. He then folded Stephano’s clothes and carefully repacked them.

  “I may have thought of a way out of this,” he said as he worked. “I’m going to go to my hammock and sleep on it. I sent Miri and Gythe to bed, as well. You should get some rest yourself.”

  “I napped some this afternoon,” said Stephano, adding bitterly, “I didn’t have anything else to do. I’ll stand watch.”

  Rodrigo nodded and left, rubbing his eyes and heading for his hammock.

  Stephano picke
d up the flight coat. The smell of leather seemed to warm the dank air of the hold, brought back memories of the best and happiest time of his life. Putting on the green coat, meant to blend in with the greenish-blue scales of a dragon, was like reuniting with a dear friend. The calflength garment, made of the finest quality leather, was slightly fitted at the waist, though loose enough to hide several inner pockets and a sheath for a small pistol.

  Brass buttons, engraved with a winged sun with a vertical sword thrust through the center of it-the emblem of the Dragon Brigade-adorned the front. The padded coat had a high collar and a mantle that covered his shoulders. The mantle was deliberately designed to flap in the wind when he rode, throwing off the aim of anyone shooting at him. The coat was split in back, allowing the wearer to sit in a saddle and keep his legs covered.

  Two dragons made of contrasting colors of leather had been appliqued on the coat, one on each breast. Trimmed in gold thread, the dragons faced each other. The workmanship was exquisite, detailed down to the scales and claws and done in deep red, gold, and purple. Only the Lord Captain of the Dragon Brigade could wear a flight coat with dragons of those colors.

  The coat had cost him dearly. Upon his promotion, his mother had offered to commission a coat for him as a gift. Stephano had proudly refused. He had spent every last silver rosun he possessed to have this coat made to his specifications, including magical constructs to keep the wearer warm and protect against enemy gunfire, flying shrapnel, and the like.

  The coat was worn, well-worn. He’d noticed a month ago that the stitching was wearing thin and one of the buttons was loose. He had told Benoit to see to the mending and, looking at the coat, he was astonished to find out that his old retainer had actually done what he’d been asked to do.