The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  “Who is ‘E’?” Alan asked. “Do you know?”

  “Unfortunately I know all too well,” said Sir Henry in grim tones. “E is for Eiddwen.”

  “What does the letter mean about sabotaging a dwelling?”

  Sir Henry gazed down at the letter, thoughtful. “Do you remember when we were in Capione, at her house? We found Dubois there and he recognized her masquerading as a duchess in the royal palace—”

  Alan gasped in sudden understanding. “Eiddwen sabotaged the royal palace of Rosia! I wonder what she did to it?”

  “Simon will know. We will ask him tomorrow.”

  Alan turned the letter over. “Who sent this, do you suppose?”

  “Look at the signature.”

  “What signature?” Alan peered at the letter again. “It’s not signed.”

  “The small drawing of the bee in the lower left hand corner. That warning came from the agents of the Countess de Marjolaine. Probably D’argent.”

  “But she’s your worst enemy!” Alan protested. “The countess would be happy to see you gutted, your head on a pike. Why would she warn you?”

  Henry flung himself back in the seat, crossed his arms and stretched out his legs. He frowned down at his boots. “What I told you before, Alan. The world is at war. And the world is losing. Freya and Rosia are going to have to stand together in this.”

  “Eiddwen has tried before to have you assassinated, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “You should request police protection. Not so much for yourself,” he added hurriedly, seeing Sir Henry shrug. “I fear for Lady Anne and your son.”

  Henry was immediately concerned. “A good suggestion, Mr. Sloan. Tell the police to station constables outside my house. And find out if the detectives have investigated any particularly gruesome murders lately. Murders that might be related to blood magic.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Alan was grim. “I remember that blood-splattered wine cellar in Capione. The woman is a monster. Why do you think she’s here?”

  “As we were discussing, Freya has been spared,” said Henry. “The Bottom Dwellers have dealt serious blows to Braffa, Travia, Estara, and Rosia. I fear that now it is our turn.”

  * * *

  Eager to see his wife and child, Henry hurried through dinner at his club, bathed and shaved in the rooms he kept there, and changed into clothes more suited to a diplomat than to a spymaster. He left Alan to enjoy his own pursuits, offering to pick him up in the carriage tomorrow to visit Simon.

  The city home of Sir Henry Wallace was located on Regent Street. His neighbors tended to be those who had earned their fortunes and their titles, not inherited them. The four-story house, built of red brick with a gleaming white door and white-framed windows, was elegant and unassuming, as suited a diplomat, a statesman, and adviser to his wife’s aunt, the queen. One would never know that inside this modest dwelling lived one of the most powerful and most dangerous men in the kingdom.

  Henry noted with approval two constables strolling up and down the sidewalk in front. They saluted him as he stopped to speak to them.

  “Thank you for keeping an eye on things, Officers.”

  “Our pleasure, sir,” said one. “We have a man stationed around back, as well.”

  Sir Henry nodded and went to the door. The footman met him, took his cloak and hat, and told him that Lady Anne was waiting for him in the drawing room.

  “Has Mr. Sloan returned?” Sir Henry asked.

  “No, my lord,” the footman replied.

  “He must be having trouble finding Simon’s house,” Sir Henry said to himself with a chuckle.

  He instructed the footman to let him know when Mr. Sloan arrived and then hurried up the stairs to greet his wife. The drawing room was located on the second floor. Small and intimate, the drawing room was where the master and mistress could “withdraw” from the world, spend quiet time together. It was situated in a corner of the house, with two windows—one facing the street, the other overlooking the small area of grass, trees, and neatly trimmed hedges that separated their house from the home of their neighbor.

  The room, done in shades of rose and mauve, had been designed and furnished to Lady Anne’s specifications. He opened the door softly to find her seated by the window, reading a book. She was so absorbed she did not hear him enter. He stood gazing for a moment, taking the time to let the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers blot out the remembered stench of blood and gunpowder and death. Henry cherished his house as an island of peace and refuge in a sea of danger and tumult.

  When he stepped inside and shut the door, Lady Anne looked up, dropped her book to the floor, and ran to him with open arms. He embraced her and held her fast.

  Lady Anne Wallace was much younger than her husband. She was slight of build, shy and withdrawn, with brown hair and large brown eyes. She and her wealth had been a gift to Henry from the queen in thanks for his service to his country. Henry had been astonished to discover that his wife was in love with him and even more astonished when he realized that he himself had fallen in love with her.

  “I will ring for tea,” said Anne, emerging from the embrace with pink cheeks and mussed hair.

  “How is little Harry? I want to see him.”

  “He is fretful. Nurse Robbins says he may be cutting a tooth, though I think two and a half months is too early. I’ll have her bring him down,” she said, as she rang for the servant.

  The tea arrived at the same time as Nurse Robbins entered carrying young Henry Alan Randolph. The baby had indeed grown considerably, even in the weeks he’d been gone. Red-faced and bald, he was chewing determinedly on one of his fists and was covered in drool. Henry insisted on holding him, to the dismay of Nurse, who hovered near, expecting disaster.

  Holding the baby around the waist, Henry began tossing him gently into the air. Young Harry, far from being upset, gurgled and laughed. Shocked, Nurse Robbins started to intervene.

  “Go to the kitchen, Nurse, and have your tea with the other members of the staff,” said Anne. “We’ll bring Harry up in time for bed.”

  “If you’re certain, my lady…,” said Nurse Robbins in dubious tones.

  She lingered at the door, in case they changed their minds. Henry made a face at her, and Nurse Robbins sniffed indignantly and fluttered out of the room.

  “Silly old cow,” said Henry.

  “Don’t offend her, dear. She is quite good with Henry and good nursemaids are hard to find. Should I pour you some tea?” Anne asked.

  “Not just yet,” said Henry. “I’m going to reacquaint myself with my son.” He tucked the baby in the crook of his arm. “What a brave boy he is. See how he looks at me. He couldn’t possibly remember me. Any other baby would be screaming its head off.”

  “He knows his father,” said Anne, pleased

  “I really believe he does,” said Henry.

  Holding the child in his arms, he stood near his wife’s chair, gazing out the window, thinking that he was never so happy as here. He glanced behind to see his wife picking up the teapot.

  Blinding green light blazed into the room. The light was brighter than the sunlight, illuminating every part of the room. Henry stood stock still, staring. Ann half turned, gazing in astonishment at the brilliant light.

  “Merciful heaven—” she began.

  Henry grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her out of the chair, overturning the tea table and spilling the tea.

  “We have to get out of here!”

  Anne stared at him, frightened. “Henry, what—”

  “We have to get out of here now, my dear,” Henry repeated. “Hold Harry.”

  He thrust the baby into his wife’s arms. Anne clasped her son tightly. She was frightened, but calm. She had no idea what was going on, but she trusted her husband to deal with it. Henry put his arm around her and they ran for the door. He had his hand on the door handle and was starting to open it when he heard a rumbling sound and felt the house give a great shudder.

  Pl
aster fell from the ceiling, covering them in dust. Henry could hear the wooden beams in the ceiling creak and groan. The house was starting to collapse.

  He pushed Anne ahead of him out the door and onto the landing. Screams and cries were coming from the kitchen where the servants were gathered, having their tea.

  “Get out!” Sir Henry bellowed. “Run!”

  His warning echoed through the house. The servants’ hall was below street level. He hoped they had heard him and that they would all escape before they were buried alive.

  He put his arm protectively around his wife and child, holding them close as they hurried down the stairs. The front door was two flights lower. He could see it through the dust and falling plaster. A great rending and snapping sound came from overhead. Henry glanced up, saw the ceiling give way. He hunkered down, shielding his wife and son with his body as a huge wooden beam crashed through the ceiling and onto the stairs.

  Dust and debris cascaded down on top of them. Henry was aware of objects striking him, but he was so concerned about his wife and child he scarcely felt the pain. He held Anne tightly. She pressed close against him, covering the baby’s head with both her hands and bending over him. Henry could feel her trembling, but she remained calm, murmuring soothing words to the baby. Little Harry was in a frenzy; frightened of the noise and objecting to being half smothered.

  When the debris quit falling, Henry opened his eyes and blinked away the dirt and grit. The beam had landed on the stairs right in front of them, missing them by a hand’s breadth. He looked up to see a gigantic hole in the ceiling. Cracks appeared in the wall, and windowpanes had broken, the glass falling inside and out. The house continued to shake. Any moment it might tumble down on top of them.

  Henry assessed the situation. The wooden beam lay across the stairs, blocking their way. The stairs were covered in broken glass and rubble. Henry stood up, shaking off bits of plaster.

  “Stay down,” he warned his wife.

  She remained crouched on the stairs, holding the baby protectively, shielding him with her own body. She gave Henry a smile, letting him know she had faith in him. He wished he felt as confident. Putting his shoulder against the beam, he tried to shift it. The beam was heavy, firmly wedged against the wall.

  “It won’t budge,” he said to his wife.

  Now he could smell smoke and hear the crackle of flames. Something somewhere close had caught fire. The smoke was growing thicker. Through it, he could see flashes of orange. The fire was spreading rapidly.

  Lady Anne was coughing. She drew her handkerchief from her pocket and covered the baby’s mouth and nose.

  “Sir Henry!” a voice called from the front door. “Where are you?”

  “Mr. Sloan! Thank God! The main stairs!” Sir Henry shouted, choking in the smoke. “Up here!”

  “Don’t go in there, Mr. Sloan!” Henry heard one of the constables cry. “It’s too dangerous. The house is going to fall down!”

  “If you do not want to lose your hand, sir,” said Mr. Sloan sternly, “I suggest you let go of my arm.

  As Mr. Sloan ran into the entryway a chunk of the ceiling fell, hitting him a glancing blow on the shoulder. He made his way through the rubble to the stairs, paused a moment to tie a handkerchief around the lower part of his face, and began to climb, his boots crunching on broken glass. He hurled aside larger chunks of debris.

  The staircase rocked and lurched. A section of the balustrade broke off and fell to the floor below. For a heart-stopping moment, Henry feared the staircase would give way beneath them. Lady Anne gasped and closed her eyes, clinging to her child and whispering prayers. Henry grabbed hold of the beam to keep from falling. Mr. Sloan braced himself, his hand against the wall.

  When the staircase stopped moving and the dust cleared, Henry saw that it had come loose from the wall and was canting sideways, leaning precariously. The entire staircase could go at any moment. As luck would have it or perhaps because of Lady Anne’s prayers, the shifting of the stairs had opened up a small gap between the beam and the wall. Henry looked back to see the orange glow brightening. He put his hand over his nose and mouth and crouching low to escape the smoke, clasped his wife in his arms.

  “When Mr. Sloan comes, my dear, hand him the baby, then crawl out under the beam.”

  “What about you?” Anne asked, regarding him anxiously.

  “I will be right behind you.”

  Mr. Sloan continued to climb the stairs, moving slowly and carefully so as not to trigger another shift until he finally reached them.

  “Take the baby, Mr. Sloan!” Henry told him. “And Lady Anne!”

  Anne thrust the child through the gap underneath the broken beam. Mr. Sloan grasped the baby and did what he could to assist Anne, whose long skirts hampered her ability to crawl through the gap herself.

  Henry coughed and tried to hold his breath. A loud crash came from outside. He guessed that a chimney had toppled.

  Anne was finally through the gap. She tried to walk and swayed dizzily, the smoke making her light-headed. Mr. Sloan took hold of Anne around the waist. Carrying the baby, he assisted her down the stairs. Henry crawled through the gap and hurried after them, slipping and sliding in the debris.

  He caught up with Mr. Sloan and his wife and child. The stairs quaked and shook beneath their feet. They made it to the ground level and dashed through the entryway and out the front door. Mr. Sloan, carrying the baby, ran ahead of them. Henry was the last out, helping his wife. Once out, her strength gave way and she fell. Henry gathered her up in his arms on the run.

  Behind him, he could hear the house crumble. Bricks and mortar cracked, wood beams splintered, and glass shattered. Flames shot out one of the upper windows, as another chimney crashed to the ground. Then, with a horrendous snapping and creaking sound and a deafening boom, the house vanished in a cloud of dust and debris that roiled across the lawn, driving back a crowd of gawkers.

  Henry’s own strength gave out. He could feel his knees start to buckle and he was still carrying his wife. One of the constables saw his trouble and came to his aid. Lifting Anne gently in his arms, the constable lowered her to the grass.

  “Let me see her. I’m a physician,” said a man who looked vaguely familiar. He smiled to see Henry looking at him confusedly and added, “I am your neighbor, Sir Henry. The next house over. I was in my carriage, heading out on my rounds when I heard the explosion and came to see if I could help.”

  He knelt beside Anne, loosened her stays, felt her pulse and listened to her lungs.

  “How is she?” Henry asked anxiously.

  “She has suffered no ill effects, my lord. She is already starting to come around.”

  Anne’s eyes fluttered and opened. She looked at Henry and her brow creased. “Little Harry? Where is he?”

  “He is fine,” said Henry, smiling in reassurance. “He is with Nurse Robbins.”

  The nurse, her face streaked with tears and grime, was holding the baby in her arms, rocking him soothingly.

  Anne breathed a sigh of relief. “Did all the servants escape?”

  Henry took hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. “I’ll find out. You are not to worry.”

  “Our house?” Lady Anne asked with a catch in her throat.

  “Gone, my dear,” said Sir Henry. He added cheerfully. “We’ll find another.”

  “Henry, what happened?” Anne asked softly, grasping his hand tightly. “I saw a strange green light and then the house shook—”

  “I think the house was struck by lightning,” said Henry.

  “Lightning, Henry?” Anne looked into his eyes and faintly smiled.

  She didn’t believe him, but her faith and trust in him was implicit. Henry’s heart swelled with love. He realized how close he had come to losing her and his little son.

  “My dear Mouse! Take care of yourself and our boy,” he said in a choked voice.

  He kissed her on the forehead and left her in the physician’s capable hands. He
rose to his feet to find Mr. Sloan at his elbow.

  “How are you, sir?” Mr. Sloan regarded Sir Henry in concern. “You are bleeding.”

  “Am I?” Sir Henry asked vaguely.

  He hadn’t realized until now he was hurt. He looked down to see blood on his shirt. His head ached and he felt a throbbing pain in his back near his right shoulder.

  “Cuts and bruises, nothing serious,” he said dismissively. “We need a quiet place to talk.”

  “The physician’s carriage, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, indicating a black phaeton standing near the curb. “He was leaving for his rounds when he heard the explosion. I do not think he would mind if we used it.”

  “An excellent idea, Mr. Sloan.”

  He motioned for Mr. Sloan to join him inside the small phaeton. The open-air carriage did not keep out the noise or the acrid, sickening smell of smoke, but it did offer them a modicum of privacy.

  “Your orders, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Take Lady Anne and my son to the palace. Tell Her Majesty what happened.”

  “What has happened, my lord?”

  “The house was hit by a green beam weapon,” said Henry grimly. “I think you know who ordered the attack.”

  “Do I tell Her Majesty the truth, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked. “Do I tell her about Eiddwen?”

  Henry mulled this over. “Yes, you had better do so. The queen should be prepared. Have the palace guards keep watch on my wife and child around the clock.”

  “Yes, my lord. Where will you be?”

  “I’m going to my club. After you have Lady Anne settled and you have spoken to the queen, meet me there.”

  “I have news for you, my lord, that may have bearing on this attack,” said Mr. Sloan. “I was coming to tell you. The police recently discovered the body of a young woman who had been tortured and murdered. She was a prostitute, so they did not investigate as thoroughly as they might have. The description of the wounds on the victim is consistent with those on the bodies found at Capione.”

  Sir Henry pressed his lips together, gave a tight nod and muttered, “Eiddwen.”

  “If there is nothing more, my lord, I will order your carriage for Lady Anne.”