He yanked out the blade and James Harrington fell onto an overturned table, bounced off it and rolled to the ground. He lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, blood dribbling from his mouth.
Stephano fell back, gasping for breath. What with the heat and excitement and loss of blood, he felt suddenly giddy. As he leaned back against a table and tried to keep from passing out, he was vaguely aware of the clerk who had begged him not to kill Harrington kneeling by the corpse. Stephano and he didn’t pay much attention, though he wanted to tell the fellow not to waste his time. Harrington was most certainly dead. He did think it odd that the pudgy man was frantically searching Harrington’s pockets.
The clerk yelled something at Stephano and then jumped to his feet and was gone. Stephano stared after him, wondering if he’d heard right. Before he could react, whistles sounded in the street and Rodrigo was beside him.
“Constables,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”
“Which way?” Stephano asked.
“Over the garden wall,” said Rodrigo. He looked at Stephano’s bleeding leg. “Can you manage?”
“Do I have a choice?” Stephano returned, hobbling along beside his friend.
“This or prison,” said Rodrigo.
The stone wall proved to be more decorative than functional. They clambered over it, Stephano wincing and grunting and Rodrigo doing what he could to help. They floundered through some ornamental hedges, trampled flower beds, and dodged rose trees in tubs.
“First you get shot, now stabbed,” Rodrigo grumbled. “If you’re going to keep this up, I will have to start bringing along a wheelbarrow to haul your sorry ass back home.”
“Don’t make me laugh. My ribs hurt!” Stephano pleaded.
They floundered their way through the park. People stopped to stare at Stephano, who was covered in blood. Such sights were not unusual in Westfirth, however, and most shrugged and went on about their business.
Stephano and Rodrigo emerged from the park onto Haymarket Street, which ran parallel to Threadneedle, and was one of the busiest streets in Westfirth. Rodrigo hailed a cab. A hansom cab rolled to a stop. The driver looked down at Stephano, noted the blood on his clothes, and shook his head.
“He’ll ruin the h’upolstery,” he said indignantly.
Rodrigo looked into the cab, saw that the “h’upolstery” was faded, cracked, ripped, and disgorging stuffing.
“A little blood might be good for it,” he told the driver. “I’ll pay double.”
The driver gave a nod. Rodrigo opened the door and pushed Stephano inside. The driver whipped up the horses before Rodrigo had the door shut, and the cab rattled off through the streets.
“Sorry about your lavender coat,” said Stephano, eyeing the blood smears on the fine fabric.
Rodrigo smiled. “Good thing I just ordered a new one.” He began to inspect his friend’s wounds, opening Stephano’s shirt and peering at them.
“They don’t look very severe to me.”
“What do you know?” Stephano groaned. “My ribs hurt like hell.”
“Don’t be such a baby. The bleeding in your shoulder has stopped. There’s a big gash down your side, but the blade didn’t penetrate to the bone.” Rodrigo took out a handkerchief, wadded it up. “Here, press that against your leg. I’m getting to rather like bandaging wounds. Perhaps I’ll study to be a surgeon.”
Stephano did as ordered and held the handkerchief against the gash in his leg. “Speaking of surgeons, did you see that man kneeling over the body?”
“I didn’t see the body,” Rodrigo answered. “I was trying to reach you, which wasn’t easy, given the fact that I had to wade through a sea of overturned furniture and hysterical women. Why? What did he do?”
“I thought he was trying to save that bastard,” said Stephano. “But then he began to rifle the man’s pockets and he started swearing. I heard him say, ‘You bloody fool, you just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!’ And then he was gone.”
“He mentioned the name Henry Wallace?” Rodrigo asked, astonished. “Did you see what the man looked like?”
“He had on a big hat and a gray cloak,” said Stephano.
“That describes about half the population of Westfirth,” said Rodrigo. He was silent a moment. They were both silent, thinking, and not much liking their thoughts.
Rodrigo spoke first. “I guess we know now that Henry Wallace is here in Westfirth, probably with Alcazar.”
“And I’m guessing Wallace now knows we’re here,” said Stephano. “And that we’re looking for Alcazar.”
“And that someone else is looking for him, too.”
Stephano grinned. “Just as long as they’re not riding giant bats.”
“Amen to that, my friend,” said Rodrigo.
Dubois had never in his life been so frustrated. He had tried to keep sight of the elderly priest, but Wallace had been too quick for him. When Dubois saw one of the serving girls assisting the priest to leave the scene of the fight, he had attempted to go after them, but by then bullets were flying, tables and chairs and stools were in his way, naval officers interfered, swords flashed. When Dubois next looked, the priest had vanished.
Dubois’ only hope had then been to keep track of James Harrington; Captain de Guichen when killed Harrington, all Dubois’ plans and efforts were gone with the jab of a rapier.
Dubois took a chance searching through Harrington’s pockets, with Guichen standing over the body, but Dubois was desperate to find a note or a key or anything that might lead to Sir Henry.
Harrington had nothing on him. Frustrated, Dubois lost his head and gave voice to his anger.
“You are an idiot,” he said furiously to Guichen. “You just killed any chance of finding Henry Wallace!”
Dubois scuttled out of the cafe, exiting through the rear door just as the constables were entering the front. In the street, Dubois looked about for the elderly priest, but, of course, Sir Henry was long gone.
Dubois sighed and reflected that Captain de Guichen, who was also on the trail of Alcazar, was once again his only hope. Dubois regretted his uncharacteristic outburst in the cafe. He did not often lose his self-possession, but he’d been going for days on little sleep and less food. Dubois rubbed his aching head and plotted his next move.
There was no need to follow Captain Guichen. The man had sailed from Evreux on a Trundler houseboat with his Trundler friends. They would be docked in the Trundler village.
Dubois hailed a cab.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bitter End: the last part of a rope or chain. The term has passed into common usage so that: “One hangs on until the bitter end.”
– Anonymous
SIR HENRY WALLACE, IN HIS GUISE AS THE ELDERLY PRIEST, hobbled slowly across Threadneedle Street. He paused a moment in a doorway, leaning on his cane, pretending to rest as he watched the commotion outside the Four Clovers. The constables arrived with much blowing of whistles and a great show of energy. They promptly arrested several people who had nothing to do with the affair, including the two gentlemen who had been attempting to revive the fainting ladies, and the serving girl who had crashed into Rodrigo on the grounds that she had helped the miscreants escape. The crowd lingered in hopes of seeing the body and eventually the constables emerged from the cafe bearing the corpse on a shutter. Although his face had been decently covered with a handkerchief, Sir Henry recognized James Harrington. He watched impassively as they carted his dead agent away, most likely to a pauper’s grave, since he had little money and no one would claim the body. Certainly not Sir Henry, who pronounced James Harrington’s epithet.
“Bloody fool!”
Sir Henry had entered the Four Clovers that day in a good mood. Alcazar’s brother’s ship, the Silver Raven, was due to sail into port tomorrow. He and the journeyman could at last leave Westfirth. Sir Henry had heard from one of his underworld contacts that inquiries were suddenly being made around Westfirth regarding a man named Sir Henry
Wallace. A well-dressed, well-spoken, handsome young man and a former mob enforcer were both looking for Wallace.
Henry had no idea who these people were-agents of the countess, agents of the grand bishop? It didn’t much matter. He cursed Harrington, whose stupidity had set the hounds on his trail. He did not think they would be able to find him, for he had taken excellent precautions, but his good mood had evaporated.
Henry waited a moment hoping to see if the constables were going to arrest Captain de Guichen. He did not see them hauling the captain away, and he thus gathered gloomily that the captain had escaped.
Sir Henry resumed his walk. He hobbled down the street until he found a small, neighborhood church and went inside. The church was empty except for two old women in black shawls who were lighting candles for the dead. Both made a reverence to the elderly priest as they passed him on their way down the aisle and out the door. He waited until they were gone, then sat down in a pew near an open window and fished out the folded letter sent to him by Sloan.
Sloan’s handwriting, usually so neat and precise, was in some places almost illegible.
My lord, I run the very great risk of writing to you, which I would never do were the matter not of the greatest importance. A dire and most terrible event has occurred. Before I relate the circumstances, I want to assure you that your lady wife and unborn child are both safe. By the grace of God, the family was not in residence. Your lady wife, feeling lonely in your absence, decided on a whim to accept the long-standing invitation of Her Majesty the Queen to return to court for her lying-in. If she had not made this sudden decision, I would not be writing this to you. I would be dead.
As it was, I traveled with your lady wife to court. Seeing her safely settled in the palace with every comfort, I returned to the manor alone. I arrived before dawn to find a horrific sight. The roof of the manor house was ablaze. The exterior walls were charred and blackened as though they had been struck by cannon fire, which was what I first thought had occurred. And then I beheld the real cause-demonic looking creatures with eyes of orange flame riding on gigantic bats, hurling green fire at the walls. (The words “green fire” had been heavily underscored.)
My horse was crazed with terror and nearly threw me from the saddle. I managed to regain control and rode into the woods before the creatures saw me. I remained in hiding, watching, until the bats and their riders left with the rising of the sun.
Once I was certain the attackers were gone, I rode to the manor house to see if there was anyone who could tell me what had transpired. I am not a squeamish man, having seen much in the service of my country. Yet the horrible sight that met my eyes nearly caused me to lose my senses. The people who had not died in the fire had been slaughtered in a most gruesome manner. I found limbs and even heads scattered about the blood-soaked grass. The bats had torn apart the bodies and undoubtedly devoured them.
We were fortunate, my lord, that there has not been much rain and that the grass was dry. I helped the flames spread and saw to it that the fire consumed the bodies and wiped out all traces of the true nature of the attack.
News spread quickly, however. Everyone in the village had seen the flames and smoke and rushed to view the destruction. I rode swiftly to Haever to apprise your lady wife and Her Majesty of what had occurred before they heard any wild rumors. Though I pleaded ignorance as to the attackers, I hinted at the Rosians. Her Majesty is already blaming them, and there is talk of war.
Finally, I paid a call upon your former associate. You will know of whom I speak and also why I mention her in connection with this tragedy. Her house is still as it was eight years ago-closed, empty, vacant. I made discreet inquiries and learned that a young associate of hers, a depraved young man of about seventeen, who calls himself the Warlock and is wanted in connection with a string of gruesome murders, is known to be in Westfirth and is making inquiries regarding you. I urge you to take precautions, my lord. (That was also underlined.)
I await your orders.
Franklin Sloan.
The letter slipped from Sir Henry’s nerveless fingers. Sweat broke out on his neck and chest. He stared, unseeing, into the chancel. His first thoughts were of his wife and child and he found himself trembling at the thought of how narrowly they had escaped a horrible death. Sir Henry muttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks and then, chastising himself for his weakness, pulled himself together and began to think about the incident coldly and rationally. What did this portend? Who had attacked him? He discounted Sloan’s incredible tale of demons. The man had ridden all night. He’d been short on sleep. Sloan’s final paragraph at the end of the letter hinted at an answer-a very disturbing answer.
Ten years ago, Sir Henry had met an extremely attractive and mysterious woman named Eiddwen, a Trundler name, though she was not a Trundler. With her blue-black hair, gold-flecked black eyes, and olive complexion tinged with dusky rose, she appeared to be of Bruond extraction. An orphan raised by nuns in a Freyan orphanage, she did not know her parents. Judging by her way of shrugging off the matter, she did not care to know them. She had been given her name by the nuns, who told her that Eiddwen meant “blessed” or “holy.” She had no surname.
“I am a child of every man,” she said. She always smiled when she said it, but by the arch in her black brows and the shimmer of the golden flecks in her eyes, she was more than half serious.
Sir Henry was introduced to Eiddwen at the hunting lodge of the Baron of Gahllendale, Lord Brobeaton, during the shooting season. Like many single young women of no family and no means, Eiddwen was serving as a hired companion to the baron’s mother, an elderly woman confined to her wheeled chair. The old woman had been passionately fond of hunting in her youth and though she could no longer ride to the hounds, she enjoyed listening to the horn calls and the baying of the dogs and reliving her most memorable moments. Eiddwen’s duties were light; she read to the old lady, pushed her about the garden in her wheeled chair, and listened patiently to her tales.
The baron had invited a great many guests to his lodge and the men were united in their opinion that Eiddwen was one of the most beautiful women they had ever seen. The women were united in their jealousy of her, but that soon faded. The twenty-six-year-old young woman was not flirtatious. She evinced no interest in “catching” a rich husband, nor was she prone to stealing the husbands of others. Men and women alike thought her too severe, too serious-minded. Some proclaimed her “dull.”
Eiddwen’s clothes suited her station in life. Her dress was simply cut of black, serviceable cloth, with tight sleeves to the wrist, a form-fitting bodice that buttoned from the waist to the neck unrelieved by even a hint of lace, and a long skirt that fell from the V-shaped bodice. Her plain attire served to emphasize her striking appearance.
Eiddwen did not “do” her hair, for she had no ladies’ maid. She twisted it in a chignon. During the day, long tendrils of black curls would often escape from their captivity and twine down her long, slender neck. Her only adornment was a slender golden chain she wore around her neck from which hung some sort of pendant that appeared to be a sea-going knot done in gold. She termed it a good luck charm.
Eiddwen was not a flirt, but she did have the ability to fascinate, and Sir Henry found himself fascinated. He was, at the time, unmarried. He was considered an eligible catch, and he was prepared to be caught by Eiddwen, for he was rich and powerful enough to overlook the fact that she had no family and no money. He was pleased to find out that she was interested in him, then astonished to discover that her interest had nothing to do with matrimony.
The old lady spent the afternoon napping, which left Eiddwen free to pursue her own interests. She arranged a tryst with Sir Henry, inviting him to take her rowing upon the lake. When they were alone in the rowboat, she laid out her plan. Sir Henry listened in amazement.
Eiddwen explained coolly that she had managed through various means to become acquainted with the baron and to be hired as the old lady’s companion for one purpose-t
o arrange this meeting with Sir Henry, a meeting that would appear to be accidental.
“I am not what I seem,” said Eiddwen. She sat in the stern of the rowboat, facing him, her black hair blowing about her. While she talked, she would sometimes reach up to play with a curling tendril.
“I am a member of a group of people who have a single goal and that is the utter destruction of Rosia. To this end, my associates and I have developed a weapon that has the power to destroy magic. Ah, you laugh, Sir Henry, but I assure you I am quite serious. I would prove it to you, but we lack the funds to build it. We were wondering if you might be interested in assisting us.”
Sir Henry was interested, though cautious. The two arranged a meeting in Haever in a house located at the end of the street in a quiet, upper middle class neighborhood. Court gossip had it that Eiddwen had been established in this house by Sir Henry as his mistress. That was true, in part. Sir Henry paid for the house, but Eiddwen was not his mistress. She had repulsed his advances with a firmness that left no doubt she wanted a business relationship, nothing more.
As time passed, he found himself wondering how he had ever thought her desirable. Eiddwen was ruthless, single-minded, determined. One might say she was a female version of himself, but with a dark, underlying passion for something unknown that chilled even Henry’s blood. He recalled vividly the night she showed up with the plans for the weapon and explained the theory behind it.
“The weapon is powered by contramagic,” she said.
Henry frowned in displeasure. “That is nothing to jest about, Eiddwen. Even to speak the word is to risk imprisonment and death.”
In answer, Eiddwen lifted a strange-looking weapon and fired. Green flame struck the cellar wall. The fire left burn marks on the brick.
“Examine it,” said Eiddwen. “You will find that the sigils placed on the bricks by the crafter masons have been obliterated. The contramagic does not merely break sigils. The beam erases them, as though they had never been.”
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