“Who was following us? The monks?”
Dag shook his head in perplexity. “If it was the monks, they wanted us to know we were being followed. The monks of Saint Klee would have never been so careless as to let us spot them.”
“Who else could it be?” Miri asked.
Dag gave a wry smile. “Maybe a jealous husband looking for Rigo.”
“I’m serious,” Miri said irritably.
“Honestly, I don’t know, Miri,” Dag said with that overly patient tone that made her want to hit him. “Whoever it was, we’ve lost them.”
Miri sighed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just … I’m tired of this way of life, Dag. I used to think our adventures were fun and exciting. Not anymore. Everything that’s happened lately—being stranded on that island, fighting for our lives at that refinery, and now Stephano and Rigo gone, maybe forever.” She shivered. “I am afraid all the time. I don’t want to live in fear.”
“This has been hard on all of us,” Dag said.
“Has it?” Miri retorted, adding bitterly, “You and Stephano seem to thrive on dodging bullets. One day one of them is going to find you. I don’t want to be around when that happens.”
Dag said nothing. He petted the Doctor on his shoulder to keep him from howling and kept watching the Cloud Hopper. Gythe linked arms with her sister, resting her cheek on Miri’s shoulder in silent sympathy and looked at her with eyes that seemed to plead for her to understand.
Understand what? Miri had no idea and she was too tired and upset to delve deeper into one of her sister’s fey moods.
The street that ran along the dock was lined with warehouses and businesses that provided services used by the boats and barges that plied the channel. The streets were busy during the day, nearly empty at night. The sounds of laughter and music could be heard, coming from one of the taverns.
Moonlight bathed the boat, washed out all the hull’s bright colors. The sails were down, the balloon hung limply from its tethers. If anyone had sneaked on board, the person was hiding in the darkness.
Gythe tugged on Miri’s sleeve, pointing to her feet and to her belly. “My feet hurt from walking. I’m tired and hungry.”
“You’re the one who set the bread on fire,” Miri reminded her crossly.
Gythe made a face, pursing her lips and thrusting out her chin, mimicking a child’s pout. Miri couldn’t help but smile.
“I doubt there’s any food on board,” she said. “The constables probably ate everything.”
Gythe looked so horrified that Miri began to laugh. She was pleased to see Gythe behaving much more like her old self.
“I think it’s safe,” Dag announced.
Miri eyed him. “You say it’s safe and yet you’re checking to make certain your pistols are loaded.”
“I’m only taking sensible precautions, Miri,” Dag answered. “You two should wait while I go ahead—”
“It’s my boat,” Miri stated. “If there’s danger, I’ll deal with it. Come along, Gythe.”
She crossed the street, the wind ruffling her cloak behind her. Gythe ran after her. Dag, sighing, hurried to keep up with them, his boots thudding on the pavement.
Miri examined the Cloud Hopper, worried that her beloved boat might have been damaged while it was in the impound yard. Her gaze went to the masts, the furled sails, the sagging balloon. Everything appeared to be shipshape. In fact, as she drew closer, she could smell the odor of fresh paint and she saw that their old patched balloon had been replaced with a new one. Miri sniffed. She supposed the countess meant the repairs as an apology. Miri was not inclined to be mollified.
“You stay here with Dag,” she told Gythe.
Gathering up her skirt, Miri jumped nimbly from the dock onto the deck, deaf to Dag’s pleas for her to lower the gangplank so that he could board and search the boat.
Miri walked the familiar deck, glad to be home. Placing her hands on her hips, she called out, “If anyone is hiding on my boat, you better show yourself now! I warn you. I’m not in the mood for more surprises this night!”
She lit the lamp that hung on a hook over the binnacle. With the lamp in one hand and a belaying pin in the other, she went down the stairs that led below deck. She shined the light into the cabin shared by Rodrigo, Stephano, and Dag when they were aboard, then searched the cabin she shared with Gythe and inspected the galley and the storage room.
Returning to the upper deck, she lowered the gangplank.
“No one lurking about,” she reported to Dag as he came on board. “You can put your pistols away.”
He cast her an exasperated glance, but was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. Dropping the Doctor onto the deck, Dag clumped down the stairs, probably going to see for himself. The cat dug his claws into the wood, stretched, and took a turn around the deck.
“The larder’s stocked with more food than we can eat in a year,” she told Gythe, as her sister came on board.
Gythe stood gazing around in amazement, taking in the fresh paint and the new sail. “Who did this?”
“The countess, I suppose,” said Miri. “Her way of apologizing.”
“Countesses don’t apologize,” Dag said, coming back on deck. “Not to people like us.”
“Find anyone hiding under the beds?” Miri asked archly.
Dag gazed at her a moment, then shook his head. He was obviously upset with her, but, as usual, he was going to keep his anger bottled up inside. Dag had to understand. The Cloud Hopper was her boat, her responsibility.
“Gythe, haul up the gangplank,” she said.
“What about D’argent?” Gythe signed worriedly.
“It’s too late for him to come tonight. I’ll fix us something to eat. Dag, you’ll find your bedding and some of your clothes in your cabin.”
She was heading below and Gythe was about to draw in the gangplank when they heard the sounds of horses’ hooves and the rattle of a carriage driving over cobblestones. The carriage pulled up in front of the Cloud Hopper. Before the driver could reach the door it opened and D’argent sprang out.
“Good news!” he called.
“About time,” Miri said, trying to sound curt. She had trouble keeping her voice from quivering. “Come on board, sir. Gythe, fetch the Calvados.”
D’argent hurried up the gangplank. The night was warm, the air still. They sat at the table on the deck beneath the stars, the mists of the Breath curling around them.
Gythe brought the bottle of the famed Trundler liquor. Dag carried mugs. D’argent politely refused Miri’s offer to dine with them, saying he still had work to do and he had to return to the palace. He did accept a glass of Calvados.
“God knows I need this,” he said. He seated himself, took off his hat, and rested it on his knee. He raised his glass. “A drink to His Highness, Prince Alaric Renaud.”
“Why are we drinking to him?” Miri asked.
“Without His Highness, I would most likely be the bearer of bad news,” said D’argent. “I will tell you what happened. Upon arriving at the palace, I sent a message to His Majesty, saying I needed to meet with him on a matter of the utmost urgency. The king granted me an audience. When I arrived in the audience chamber His Majesty was not alone. Prince Renaud was there, as well.”
“The prince is lord admiral of the navy,” said Dag, frowning in puzzlement. “Why was he there?”
“His Majesty is under a great strain,” D’argent replied gravely. “If the countess were here…”
D’argent did not elaborate. He had no need. They knew enough of palace intrigue from Rodrigo to fill in the words he had not spoken. Alaric needed someone to tell him what to do. He generally turned to the countess. Since she was not here, he had summoned his son.
D’argent continued. “I explained to King Alaric how Rodrigo had come up with this method for bridging the damage caused by the contramagic. I showed him the book, Rodrigo’s drawings and notations. His Majesty was appalled and shocked by the very thought of us
ing contramagic, and at first refused to look at them.”
D’argent sighed and toyed with his glass of Calvados. “To speak bluntly, the king is overwhelmed. He did not believe in the existence of the Bottom Dwellers or contramagic. He has since learned that contramagic is about to bring down his palace and that the Bottom Dwellers are responsible.”
“How did he find out about the Bottom Dwellers?” Dag asked.
“His Highness is, as you say, lord admiral in charge of the northern fleet. Somewhere between Rosia and Travia, his flagship, the Hornet, became separated from the rest of the fleet in a thick fog. Catching a single ship alone, the Bottom Dwellers apparently thought they had found easy prey, for they attacked with only a small force. Too late they learned they were attacking a royal naval flagship. The battle was short. The Hornet killed or drove off the enemy and even managed to capture one alive. The prisoner talked proudly of his people, how they lived at the bottom of the world, how their leader, a man named Saint Xavier, was destined by God to destroy us.”
Miri looked at Gythe. The Bottom Dwellers had told her much the same. She should be smiling in triumph, saying, “I told you so!”
Gythe didn’t seem to have heard. Doctor Ellington had jumped in her lap and she was stroking his fur and gazing vacantly at the boardwalk shining silver in the moonlight.
Where is she? Miri wondered. What is wrong with her?
I’ll give her a dose of cod liver oil before bed, Miri decided, and turned her attention back to D’argent.
“Prince Renaud studied Rodrigo’s drawings. The prince is a crafter, a rather gifted one. He understood at once that Rodrigo’s plan to save the palace could work. Encouraged, I told him about Stephano’s idea to renovate the old Fort Ignacio and sail it Below, carry the war to the Bottom Dwellers. His Highness knows Stephano from the days of the Dragon Brigade and spoke quite highly of him. I had heard from the countess that the prince did not agree with his father’s decision to disband the Brigade. Be that as it may, the prince is intrigued by the plan.”
“So what was decided?” Miri asked eagerly.
“Prince Renaud is a cold, dispassionate man; a man of wisdom and intelligence. In that, he takes after his grandfather,” D’argent added with a wry smile. “The prince persuaded His Majesty to write a letter to the grand bishop, urging him in the strongest words possible to free Rodrigo and Stephano.”
“A letter? Is that all?” Miri was dismayed.
“Mistress Miri, that is everything,” said D’argent, smiling. He picked up his hat and rose to his feet. “And now I must return to the palace to wait for the letter so that I can arrange for its immediate delivery. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He was walking down the gangplank, when he turned back to speak to them. “I forgot to mention. I have news of Benoit. He is resting comfortably, so you need not worry about him. I again urge you to leave the city. The grand bishop won’t receive the letter until tomorrow at the earliest. You might still be in danger.”
“We plan to leave at dawn,” said Miri. “Not safe to sail at night.”
“Likely you’ll see Stephano before we will,” Dag added. “Tell him we’ll meet him at the fortress. If something goes wrong, you can send a message to us there.”
D’argent promised he would. He wished them a safe journey and took his leave. Miri gazed after him, her brows drawn together, her lips pursed in a frown.
“Nothing but a letter.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Seems the king could do better—issue a writ or a decree or something.”
“There’s politics behind it,” said Dag. “You can be sure of that.”
“You think they’ll be set free?” Miri was dubious.
“D’argent seems to think so and he should know. God knows I don’t,” Dag said.
Gythe lifted the Doctor from her lap and handed the cat to Dag.
“I’m going to fetch supper,” she signed. “The larder is filled with good food for a change.”
She smiled at Miri to let her know she was teasing.
Miri offered to help, but Gythe told her to rest. She served cheese, apples and figs, dried beef, and ale. The cheese was Guundaran, imported. The figs came from the Aligoes Islands. The ale was excellent—nut brown and slightly bitter. Dag drank two mugs of it, proposing a toast to D’argent and another to absent friends.
Gythe went below soon after eating, saying she was going to wash up. Miri watched her go with concern.
“She nibbled at her food and barely touched her ale,” said Miri.
“She’s worried about our friends,” said Dag. “I’ll take first watch.”
Even as he spoke, he gave a great, jaw-cracking yawn.
“You haven’t had a good night’s rest in a month,” said Miri. “I’ll keep watch. You go to bed. I can’t sleep anyway. Something’s wrong with Gythe. There’s that monk, Brother Barnaby. She claims she hears him talking to her. You know she thinks she’s in love with him.”
“You need Rigo for help with such stuff as that, Miri,” said Dag, clearly uneasy. He yawned again. “I guess I will turn in. Wake me when you need me to take over.”
Miri promised she would. Dag hauled in the gangplank and then clomped down the stairs. She heard him rummaging about the cabin, arranging the pallet on which he slept. Unlike Stephano and Rodrigo, Dag didn’t like sleeping in hammocks. After a while, she heard his rumbling snore.
Miri went to the galley to help Gythe with the washing up. Instead she found her sister asleep, snuggled in bed with Doctor Ellington draped over her feet.
Miri smiled and washed the dishes. Going back on deck, she sat down in a chair in the moonlight. The Cloud Hopper was securely moored with ropes aft and forward. The air was calm, fresh-washed after the rain. The boat rocked slightly with the faint eddies and currents of the Breath.
Miri had assumed that worry and anxiety would keep her awake and she was startled to rouse from a nap she had never meant to take. She didn’t feel well. Her head seemed to swell. Her hands and feet tingled. She stood up to go wake Dag, but she was sick and dizzy and couldn’t walk straight. She staggered across the deck, fetching up against the helm.
She clung to the brass panel, trying to keep herself upright. She knew dimly that she’d been drugged and she fought against the effects of the narcotic as long as possible.
She lost her grip on the brass panel and her hold on consciousness at the same time.
* * *
Gythe lay in bed, staring into the darkness, making herself wait until she was sure the potion she had mixed into the ale had done its work. The potion was harmless—some herbs and a little song, sung beneath her breath, that would induce sleep. The bitter taste of the ale concealed the taste of the herbs. Judging by the sound of his snoring, the potion had worked on Dag.
Gythe worried about Miri, who had not drunk that much ale. She listened closely, and when she could no longer hear her sister stirring about on deck she decided she had waited long enough.
She gently moved the Doctor, petting him to keep him quiet. The cat grumbled, but didn’t wake. Gythe put on her soft slippers, then donned her clothes—the traditional Trundler garb of pantaloons and skirt and blouse. She stealthily slipped on deck, fearful of finding Miri awake and angry.
She found Miri asleep on the deck beneath the helm. Gythe gazed at her sister and her eyes filled with tears. She resolutely blinked them away. Lighting the lamp, she held it high and swung it back and forth three times. She waited, then swung the lamp three more times. Staring intently into the darkness, she saw an answering light, moving back and forth.
She hung the lamp on its hook and ran back downstairs. She gave the Doctor a blessing and a kiss on the top of his head. Stopping at the door to Dag’s cabin, she drew a good luck sigil on it, silently thanked him and begged his forgiveness.
The sound of hoofbeats sent her hurrying up on deck. Three men on horseback waited in front of the boat. One of the men dismounted and walked closer, watching her expectan
tly.
Gythe was suddenly terrified, and couldn’t move. Her heart seemed to fill her throat. The man was wearing a cloak, but she could see beneath it glimpses of the demonic armor worn by the Bottom Dwellers. Gythe stared at him, trembling so she had to put her hand on the table to support herself.
The man was not wearing a helm. His face glimmered white in the moonlight. His eyes were dark. His hair was long and lank and might have been red in color, though the moonlight made it seem gray.
“You are Gythe,” the man said.
He spoke the Trundler language, though with an odd accent. The words sounded thicker, older.
Gythe managed a little nod.
“I am Patrick. Brother Barnaby sent me.”
At the sound of the monk’s name, Gythe felt her fear ease.
“Are you ready?” the man asked. “We should not linger.”
His voice was deep and harsh, but she was no longer afraid of him. Gythe bent over Miri and kissed her. Her tears fell on Miri’s face. She reached into her pocket, took out the note she had written, and laid it on the deck beside Miri.
“I am sorry! I am so sorry. I hope you understand!” Gythe told her sister silently.
Patrick gave an impatient cough. Gythe rose to her feet. She did not lower the gangplank, but jumped nimbly from the boat to the dock.
“You will ride pillion with me,” he told her.
Gythe nodded to show she understood. Brother Barnaby must have told the men she was mute, for Patrick didn’t seem surprised that she didn’t audibly respond. He picked her up and was about to lift her onto his saddle.
“Let her go!” Miri ordered, her voice slurring. “Or I will blow off your head.”
Gythe turned to see her sister clinging to the rail with one hand and aiming a pistol at them with the other. The pistol wavered in her shaking hand.
“She thinks you’re abducting me!” Gythe signed frantically. “Let me go to her. I’ll explain—”
“There is no time!” said Patrick.
“She will shoot you!” Gythe clutched at him, trying to make him understand. “Please!”
“Go on then. But be quick.”
The Seventh Sigil Page 5
