Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  Stephano gestured with the pistol. “Interesting story. Too bad I don’t believe it. Come along with me, Monsieur Dubois, and we’ll sort all-”

  He was interrupted by a scream from below and Miri’s we’re-caught-in-a-raging-storm-and-the-mast-is-falling bellow. “Stephano! Company!”

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  “You bastard,” muttered Stephano, eyeing Dubois. “That shot you fired wasn’t an accident. It was a signal!”

  Stephano turned halfway, just as a man with red hair and beard plummeted through the door and seized hold of his arm, trying to wrest the pistol from his hand. Stephano’s pistol went off. Dubois gave a cry and clapped his hand over his shoulder and staggered backward.

  Red Dog knocked Stephano to the floor and tried to get his hands around Stephano’s throat. Miri entered the room to find the two men wrestling and rolling about. She grabbed hold of a chair and smashed it over Red Dog’s head. He groaned and rolled off Stephano, who heaved himself to his feet. Miri bashed Red Dog in the head with the chair’s leg. He went down and did not get up.

  Below, the landlord was out in the street, blowing a whistle, summoning the constables. More footfalls sounded on the stairs. Stephano motioned for Miri to wait behind the door with the chair leg, ready to bash whoever came in. Stephano hurried over to Dubois, who had collapsed into a chair. He was still conscious, his hand pressed against right shoulder. Blood welled out from beneath his fingers.

  Stephano gave the wound a cursory examination. “You’ll live. The bullet took out a hunk of meat, that’s all. On your feet. We need to get out of here. I’m sure you don’t want to deal with the police any more than I do.”

  Dubois didn’t budge. “Left pocket.”

  “There’s no time-” Stephano began.

  “Look in my left pocket, Captain,” said Dubois sternly, indicating with a nod the coat he was wearing.

  Stephano glared at him, then, thinking Dubois might have some sort of document that would placate the authorities, Stephano reached into Dubois’ coat.

  “The leather case,” Dubois instructed. Lifting his left arm slightly to allow Stephano access, he gasped in pain and kept pressure on the wound. Stephano was drawing out the case, when Dag came running into the room, his musket in his hands.

  “Stephano, I heard about Miri-” he cried, just as Miri emerged from behind the door, brandishing the chair leg.

  “What are you doing here?” Dag gasped, goggling at Miri.

  “What are you doing here?” Miri demanded.

  Doctor Ellington didn’t wait to find out what anyone was doing here. The cat leaped off Dag’s shoulder and made a run for the stairs. Gythe, coming in behind Dag, reached down and deftly scooped up the fleeing Doctor before he shot out the door.

  “Oh, my God,” Stephano groaned.

  He had been reading the document he had just removed from the leather billfold. He looked from Dag to Miri to Red Dog, who was rubbing his head and staring around groggily, to Dubois, bleeding on the sofa.

  “What’s gone wrong now?” Miri demanded in dire tones.

  “This man… uh… works for the Church. He’s Grand Bishop Montagne’s agent.” Stephano heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair.

  “You just shot an agent for the grand bishop?” Miri cried, scandalized.

  “I didn’t mean to!” said Stephano.

  Gythe frowned, touching her lips and making a face as though tasting something bad.

  “Maybe he’s lying,” Miri translated.

  “Read the paper on the desk,” Dubois instructed. He closed his eyes and bit his lip against the pain.

  “Gythe,” said Stephano, “keep watch.”

  Gythe and the Doctor went over to the window, while Miri hurried to examine the document.

  “It’s from the grand bishop,” said Miri. “The document instructs the archbishop and Lord Mayor of Westfirth to close the harbor. It’s signed and sealed…”

  Her brow furrowed. “But if this man, Dubois, is working for the bishop, then why did Russo tell us that Dubois was working for Sir Henry Wallace?”

  “Wallace!” Dubois cried, his eyes opening. He sat up in the chair. “What about Wallace?”

  Stephano didn’t answer. He was staring at Dag, suddenly realizing amidst the confusion that the mercenary was in the room.

  “Dag, what are you doing here?” Stephano demanded.

  “Russo told me Miri and Gythe had been kidnapped,” Dag said wretchedly. “He told me you needed help…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Where’s Rigo?” Stephano asked tensely.

  “He didn’t come with me,” said Dag. “He didn’t want me to leave. He must have known… Oh, God, Stephano! Now I know where I’ve seen that Russo before! I kept thinking he looked familiar. At the ambush at Bitter End! He was the man in the greatcoat… I saved his goddamn life!”

  “And Father Jacob told us that man was Henry Wallace. So this Russo is really Sir Henry Wallace and now Wallace has hold of Alcazar and Rodrigo,” said Stephano.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Dag miserably, “That bastard fooled me completely.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Stephano. “He fooled all of us.”

  Gythe, standing at the window, snapped her fingers to draw their attention. She pointed down at the street and made a gesture with her hands intimating the tall hats worn by the constables.

  “I think I’ll just let them arrest me,” said Stephano. “They can charge me with being an idiot. I’ll plead guilty.”

  “You can’t stay here. You have to stop Wallace, Captain,” said Dubois sharply. “Alcazar must not reach Freya!”

  “And how do you propose I do that, sir?” Stephano demanded bitterly. “The constables are on their way up the stairs and Sir Henry Wallace is on his way to the docks and he’s holding my friend hostage!”

  “That friend would be Monsieur de Villeneuve?” asked Dubois.

  “You seem to know all about me,” said Stephano grimly. “Yes, my friend is Monsieur de Villeneuve.”

  “Ironic,” murmured Dubois. “It was Sir Henry Wallace who gave the order to have Ambassador de Villeneuve assassinated. I don’t suppose your friend knows that.”

  “No,” said Stephano. “Probably just as well he doesn’t.”

  “I will deal with the constables, Captain,” said Dubois. “Go into the bedroom. Enter the wardrobe. Inside is a false back that opens onto a staircase which leads to the servants’ quarters. Exit through the kitchen door into a secluded garden. From that point, you are on your own.”

  Stephano motioned for everyone to do as Dubois said. Dag led the way, with Gythe and Miri and the Doctor following. Stephano remained a moment. He could hear the constables pounding up the stairs. “I am sorry I shot you, Monsieur. I don’t suppose you have any idea where Henry Wallace might be going?”

  Dubois gave a faint smile. “Pietro Alcazar has a brother, Manuel. He serves on a merchant vessel docked in the Foreign Commons. The name of the ship is the Silver Raven.”

  Stephano was halfway through the bedroom door when he stopped, turned around. “You’re going to order the navy to sink that vessel, aren’t you?”

  Dubois inclined his head. “Alcazar must not be permitted to reach Freya alive, Captain.”

  “Give me a chance,” Stephano pleaded. “Let me try to capture the vessel and keep everyone alive, including Alcazar and Rodrigo.”

  Dubois gave a faint smile. “God go with you, Captain. And give your esteemed mother my regards.”

  Stephano slammed the door shut behind him and pretended he had not heard. He waited a moment to make certain Dubois did not betray them. He listened to the constables enter. Dubois gave them some sort of story about thieves and told them that the man who had shot him had gone out the window.

  Stephano could not risk waiting longer. He entered the wardrobe, passed through the false back, and hurried down the dark and narrow stairs that led from the servants’ quarters in t
he top of the inn to the kitchen area below. He found his friends waiting for him in a garden surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence and tall walnut trees whose intertwined branches effectively shielded them from view of the constables.

  Stephano opened the garden gate carefully, afraid the hinges would creak. The hinges were silent, and he noticed they’d been oiled. Dubois thought of everything. Stephano and his friends filed quietly out. The two nuns walked demurely down the street away from the inn. Stephano and Dag with the Doctor back in his accustomed place on his shoulder strolled along behind.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Stephano saw constables up on the roof, while others took up positions in the front of the inn. More would be inside, continuing to talk to the grand bishop’s agent, Monsieur Dubois, who was going to be giving the order to the Royal Navy to blast Wallace’s ship-and Rodrigo-out of the Breath unless Stephano could find a way to stop Wallace before that happened.

  “What a rotten day! I wonder what the Hell else can go wrong?” Stephano asked himself morosely.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Our eyes wept for our emerald Isle as Glasearrach sank into the Breath. Our hearts wept as our brethren fell to their deaths. Our people wept as God cast us out.

  – Trundler Ballad,

  “The Sinking of Glasearrach”

  THE MORNING HENRY WALLACE FOUND EIDDWEN’S visiting card, Sir Ander entered the archbishop’s dining room in search of a late breakfast.

  Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby had been up much of the previous night, standing on the battlements, observing with interest the naval ships moving swiftly through the Breath to interdict any vessel trying to slip out following the closing of the port. The shore batteries located in the concrete bunkers beneath the battlements were fully manned, though only a few guns had been run out to fire a warning volley of powder and wadding, warning irate ship captains that the port-closing would be enforced. The navy caught several ships trying to escape; mostly small boats loaded with contraband.

  Sir Ander had explained the naval strategy to Brother Barnaby, pointing out how the larger naval vessels took key positions around the bay while the city’s gunboats moved inside the bay. The smaller gunboats were twenty-four feet long, each mounting a cannon that fired a twenty-four-pound ball. Six armed marines were aboard every gunboat. If a fleeing vessel failed to stop, the marines would fire their muskets. If that failed to persuade the captain, the gunboat would fire the cannon to disable the ship and force it to land. One such vessel was now perched on the roof of a nearby warehouse. Brother Barnaby had never seen such a spectacle, and he had watched in fascinated awe.

  Father Jacob had not been on the battlements with them. He had summoned agents of the Arcanum who were currently in Westfirth to the Old Fort, then sent them out to search for the Sorceress and her young disciple known as the Warlock. Father Jacob was hoping that the embargo would keep the Sorceress trapped in this city. Agents were stopping all wyvern-drawn carriages in and out of the city. All overland routes were under surveillance.

  Following his meeting, Father Jacob had been engaged in researching the object he had salvaged from the ambush. He had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. At about midnight, Sir Ander had knocked on Father Jacob’s door to see how he was faring. His knock receiving no response, Sir Ander had opened the door softly and quietly.

  He had seen Father Jacob hunched over a table covered with a white sheet, taking measurements of the blackened lump and recording them in a book. Sir Ander had watched a moment, wondering what Father Jacob had discovered, if anything. Sir Ander had known better than to disturb his friend while he was at work. He had closed the door and gone off to his bed.

  This morning, Sir Ander was alone in the dining room. A servant informed him that archbishop had dined early and gone to see how the work was coming on the cathedral. Brother Barnaby had also dined and had left word for Father Jacob that he would be in the archbishop’s private chapel, praying. The servant had not seen Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander assumed the priest had once again fallen asleep over his work. The servant poured coffee. Sir Ander helped himself from the collation on the sideboard. He was dishing out his favorite: Freyan sausages known as “blood pudding,” when he heard Father Jacob’s voice resounding through the palace, shouting Sir Ander’s name in strident and impatient tones.

  Sir Ander sat down at the table and began to eat his sausages. The servant looked at him, startled.

  “The priest is calling for you, my lord. Should I tell him you are in here?”

  “No,” said Sir Ander calmly. “He’ll find me soon enough. I plan to finish my breakfast.”

  Still shouting, Father Jacob burst through the doors with a bang, bounding into the room with such energy that the servant, who was accustomed to the elegant, refined manners of the archbishop, jumped and spilled the coffee.

  “Here you are, Ander!” cried Father Jacob in a peevish tone.

  “Eating breakfast,” said Sir Ander calmly. He pointed to his plate with his fork. “Blood pudding. Excellent. You should have some.”

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” said Father Jacob.

  “And now you’ve found me,” said Sir Ander, savoring his sausage.

  “I need you to come with me. Now! Where is Barnaby?”

  “In the chapel,” said Sir Ander.

  Father Jacob asked the servant to prepare a basket of food and a bottle of wine. When the servant left to carry out the order and they were alone, Father Jacob turned to Sir Ander.

  “I know you are always armed, my friend,” he said gravely. “But it might be wise to take extra precautions.”

  Troubled by the priest’s grim expression, Sir Ander stood up, gulping his hot coffee and burning his tongue.

  Father Jacob went off to fetch Brother Barnaby. Sir Ander returned to his room, put on his light chain mail vest, set with the magical constructs and buckled on his sword belt. He loaded the dragon pistol, placed one of the nonmagical pistols in a concealed pocket and thrust the other in his belt. He grabbed his helm.

  He found Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby waiting in the entry hall. Father Jacob was on the move immediately, walking in such haste that his long strides caused his cassock to ride up around his shins. Brother Barnaby, armed with his portable writing desk, had to almost run to keep up. He flashed a look at Sir Ander, asking silently if he knew what was going on. Sir Ander shook his head.

  Father Jacob strode rapidly through the halls of the Old Fort and headed out for the battlements. Sir Ander thought this was their destination, and he was startled to see the priest keep going.

  The battlements extended from one guard tower to another for a distance spanning many hundred feet. In the guard towers, the bored soldiers were relieved to have some amusement to break up the tedium of their watch, observing with interest the attempts by the navy to enforce the blockade. Although the Old Fort had not been occupied for years, the moment the archbishop expressed his desire to move into it, the lord mayor found that he was suddenly extremely attached to the site and did not want the Church to commandeer it. He had taken his grievances to the king, who had gone to the grand bishop. The result was that the Church paid the city of Westfirth handsomely for use of the Old Fort. The soldiers who guarded the Old Fort were under the command of the lord mayor. The archbishop had his own guards, whose main duty was to protect His Reverence’s person.

  The archbishop’s soldiers patrolled the archbishop’s living quarters. The Westfirth guards were responsible for the rest. There being no enemy to guard against, the only excitement for either force these days was the occasional skirmish between the Mayor’s soldiers and those belonging to the archbishop when one or the other crossed the demarcation line.

  The soldiers in the guard towers saw Father Jacob in his black cassock and Sir Ander in his chain mail armor, his sword clanking at his hip, and looked at each other with raised eyebrows. All breathed a little easier when the Arcanum priest passed them by.
>
  “Where are we going?” Sir Ander ventured to ask, as they walked by the third guard tower.

  In answer, Father Jacob pointed to top of the cliff, to the Bastion, the crumbling remains of the abandoned outpost that had once belonged to the Dragon Brigade. The outpost was situated high on a peak above the Old Fort. Sir Ander gaped in dismay at the series of winding steps cut into the rock that led up the side of the cliff.

  “Beautiful day for a climb, isn’t it?” said Father Jacob in hearty tones. “Did you know that the dragon bastions are fairly modern, dating back only about seventy years? The bastions are historically important because they are different from those found in the dragon homeland. I have never had a chance to fully study the Westfirth Bastion. No one ever goes there now,” he added with emphasis. “More’s the pity, eh, Sir Ander? You have long said the Dragon Brigade should have never been disbanded. Let us go take a look.”

  Sir Ander understood. Father Jacob needed a place to speak to them in absolute privacy, a place where there was not the slightest chance they could be overheard. He braced himself for the climb and was thankful he had decided to wear chain mail and not his heavy breastplate.

  The trek up to the top of the cliff did not prove as difficult as Sir Ander had anticipated. The stairs did not ascend straight up, but were cut into the side in a zigzag manner so that the ascent was not particularly arduous. Sir Ander was rewarded for his efforts by a magnificent view of the city of Westfirth and the mists of the Breath in the harbor.

  “Humans were stationed here, as well as dragons,” said Father Jacob when Sir Ander remarked that the climb was not as bad as he had anticipated. “Your godson, Captain de Guichen, must have made this trek often.”

  Neither Sir Ander nor Brother Barnaby had been in a dragon bastion before and despite the seriousness of the situation, they both looked about with interest as they walked the empty halls formed of stone laid by dragons. The Bastion was built in a circle with halls and rooms radiating from an enormous courtyard of stone. In the center of the courtyard were traces of a mosaic depicting the emblem of the Dragon Brigade: a blue-green dragon in flight, wings extended, on the background of a red-and-golden sun.