“Thank you. You are armed, Mr. Sloan?”
Mr. Sloan drew aside his coat to reveal his pistol. “I have another in my boot, my lord.”
The crowd of gawkers was growing, drawn by the arrival of the horse-drawn fire engine that rattled and clanged along the street. Henry waited with his wife until Mr. Sloan brought the carriage around. Henry was able to assure her that all the servants had escaped without harm. Once his wife and his child were safely inside the carriage, attended by Nurse Robbins and Mr. Sloan, Henry turned to deal with the inevitable questions.
He had refused to speak to the two constables who had been outside his house until his wife was gone. They came forward along with a news reporter who had chased after the fire engine in hopes of getting a story. When the reporter attempted to sneak up behind the constables, one of them caught him and angrily ordered him to remove himself, going so far as to threaten him with his nightstick.
“I am pleased to see you gentlemen are not hurt,” Sir Henry said to the constables.
“No, my lord. Thank you, my lord. We saw the light and heard the blast and, seeing as how there was nothing we could do…”
“You took to your heels,” said Sir Henry. “Quite wise.”
The constable was flustered, but not to be deterred from his pursuit of the truth. “We were wondering if you could tell us what happened, my lord.”
“What did you men see?” Sir Henry countered the question with a question.
“Bright green light, my lord.”
“A beam of green light, my lord,” said his partner, elaborating. “Like a beam of light shining from a bull’s-eye lantern.”
“That’s right,” said his partner. “Only brighter.”
“A beam of green light,” Sir Henry repeated, pursing his lips. “You will forgive me if I find that hard to believe, Officers.”
“You must have seen it, my lord,” said one.
“As it happens, I was facing away from the window at time,” said Sir Henry blandly. “All I know is that one moment my lady wife was pouring tea and the next moment our house was falling down around our ears. I remember thinking at the time we’d been hit by lightning. Did this green light shine from the sky?”
“Well, yes, my lord,” said one.
“A clear blue sky,” his partner added. “Not a cloud in sight.”
“I’ve heard of such phenomena before. They call it heat lightning or something,” said Sir Henry. He put his hand to his forehead. “Forgive me, Officers, but I really am not well. My head is throbbing. I cannot think clearly. I am worried about my wife who has gone to stay in the palace with her aunt, the queen. Please excuse me, but I really must be on my way.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the constable resignedly. He touched his hat. “Thank you, my lord. I hope your lady wife is going to be well.”
Mr. Sloan had thoughtfully ordered another carriage for his master. Henry was glad to climb inside, away from the onlookers, the noise, and the smell of smoke and the dust that still hung in the air. He started to pull down the shade, then paused to take a last look at his home—a smoldering pile of rubble being doused with small streams of water from the fire hoses.
He thought of those terrifying moments on the staircase, holding his wife and little child in his arms. He had been in desperate and dangerous situations before, but he had never known such cold, bowel-twisting terror as when he feared that any moment they might be crushed to death in the collapse of the building.
He shut the curtains as the carriage rolled off down the street, then sank back in the seat and closed his burning eyes. A single tear slid down his thin cheek. He gritted his teeth and tried to keep another tear from falling.
11
I have my brain. Legs are superfluous …
—Simon Yates
As the sun was setting, Henry arrived at his club, the Naval Club. Membership was exclusive to naval officers, and though Henry had never served in the navy, he had worked in the admiralty and was a member of the committee that approved naval funding. He was also either generally feared or admired and when Admiral Baker and Alan had proposed him for membership, not a single member had voted against him.
The doorman welcomed Henry with an understanding look and murmured sympathy. Apparently news of the disaster had spread. Henry avoided the sitting room and the library, where members would be reading the evening papers, drinking brandy, and talking about him. He went immediately to his private room to bathe, examine his injuries, and change clothes. He was standing half naked in front of a mirror, peering over his shoulder at an ugly bruise on his back, when there came a banging on the door. Alan bounded into the room.
“Henry, I just heard what happened! Are you all right? Lady Anne? Your son?”
“We are all fine,” said Henry. “I sent Lady Anne and little Harry to the palace under the care of Mr. Sloan.”
“Some of the chaps were saying you were dead.” Alan flung himself into a chair and mopped his brow. “That’s a nasty cut on your head. You should have the healer take a look.”
“Nonsense,” said Henry. “Patch it up, will you? There are some plasters in that drawer.”
Alan cleaned the wound and applied a sticking plaster. Henry grimaced as he shoved his arm into the sleeve of a clean shirt, drawing it tenderly over his injured shoulder.
“Are you hungry?” Alan asked.
Henry shook his head. “I could use a brandy.”
Alan poured two large brandies into cut crystal snifters. Henry drank the first in a single gulp. Alan poured his friend another.
“Do you want something eat?”
Henry shook his head. “Not here. Too many damn fool questions. We’ll dine out.”
Alan was silent a moment, seemingly embarrassed. Then he could contain his curiosity no longer.
“If you’ll forgive a damn fool question, Henry, what happened?”
Henry smiled. “I forgive a damn fool question from you.” Motioning his friend closer, he said in a low undertone, “The house was hit by a green beam weapon.”
“Good God!” Alan exclaimed, regarding Henry in horror. “The Bottom Dwellers. They tried to kill you!”
“And nearly succeeded,” said Henry drily.
“A green beam weapon…” Alan sipped his brandy, frowning in puzzlement. “How is that possible? The alarm would have been raised if any of their black ships had been sighted in the skies above Haever.”
“It wasn’t a ship,” said Henry.
“What was it then?”
Henry drank his brandy, gazing unseeing at his reflection in the mirror. He set the empty snifter down.
“Eiddwen.”
Alan sucked in a breath and let it out in a muttered curse. Rising to his feet, he walked to the window and drew the curtain closed.
“Blasted female could be anywhere out there.”
“But she couldn’t have fired the green beam weapon from anywhere. Judging by the angle of the beam, I would guess she was shooting at the house from a rooftop of a nearby building.”
Henry reached to his waistcoat, drew out his watch, only to find that it had stopped working at precisely the moment the house had begun to collapse.
He placed the broken watch on his nightstand.
* * *
Early the next morning, in a gray and cloudy dawn, Henry and Alan, accompanied by Mr. Sloan, flew on griffins to the site where Henry’s house had stood. The neighborhood was quiet at this early hour. Only the servants were awake, going about their duties. The street was otherwise empty. Gawkers would doubtless arrive later in the day, but for now, nobody impeded their grim task.
The three men flew over the wreckage, viewing it from various angles before landing. They left the griffins to rest on the ground, their wings folded, waiting patiently for their return, and went to more closely examine the wreckage.
Henry had been too shaken, too worried about his wife and child to pay much attention to the destruction yesterday. This morning he had ascertaine
d from Mr. Sloan that Lady Anne and Little Harry were well, both recovering from the shock. Lady Anne had sent Henry her love and begged him to be careful.
Henry frowned at the last.
“I fear she does not believe your explanation of the house being hit by lightning, my lord,” Mr. Sloan told him. “I am convinced that Lady Anne knows more than we realize.”
“My clever little Mouse,” Henry said, smiling proudly. “She is a brave and intelligent woman.”
“Indubitably, my lord,” Mr. Sloan agreed.
Henry gazed at the wreckage in awe. The back wall and a portion of the north wall of his four-story house were all that remained standing. The rest of the dwelling was nothing more than an enormous pile of bricks, charred and cracked beams, plaster, pulverized furniture, and shattered glass.
The silence was awful, broken only by horrible creaking sounds as the pile settled. The smell of burning filled the air.
“You’re certain it was a green beam weapon, Henry?” Alan asked. “This looks like a bomb exploded!”
“Green light, bright as the sun, blazed through the window,” said Henry. “I knew what it was the moment I saw it. Still, we need proof. Mr. Sloan is going to examine the debris. You know what you are looking for, Mr. Sloan?”
Mr. Sloan went to the front of the house, picked up what was left of a brick and studied it closely. He tossed it back on the pile and picked up another. He examined bricks, splintered pieces of wood, and slivers of glass. He studied them from the front, the back, and the sides.
Henry cleaned off a stone bench in what had once been the garden, then sat down. Folding his arms, he extended his legs and fixed his gaze upon Mr. Sloan. Alan sat down beside him, but he was almost immediately back on his feet, pacing restlessly.
“Good God, Henry, how can you be so nonchalant? That bloody female has now tried three times to have you killed!”
“Third time’s a charm, as they say,” remarked Henry.
“Don’t joke about it,” said Alan angrily.
“What would you prefer me to do, Alan? Break into tears? Go into hiding? We’re not yet certain it was a green beam weapon. I have only the evidence of my own eyes and it is possible I could be mistaken.”
“True,” said Alan caustically. “The possibility exists that God struck you with a thunderbolt.”
Henry smiled. “We always assume God is on the side of Freya. He might be Rosian for all we know, in which case he would have no compunction about smiting me. Ah, Mr. Sloan, what have you found?”
“First, my lord, may I say it is my firm belief that God is on the side of Freya.”
“Good to know that God is a patriot, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry gravely.
“As to the attack, you were right, my lord. The house was hit by one of the Bottom Dweller’s green beam weapons. When the green beam hit, the contramagic destroyed the constructs that are in the mortar, the wood frames, the glass. In addition to that, the tremendous heat from the beam destroyed the magical constructs in the bricks, which caused the walls to collapse.”
“My next house will be built without magic,” said Henry.
“I fear that might be difficult, my lord.”
“I fear so, too, Mr. Sloan. Speaking of which, you should send the servants to our country estate until we can find a suitable house to let here in the city. Lady Anne and my son will remain in the palace under guardianship of Her Majesty. I trust they will be safe there…”
His words died away. The thought was in his mind, in the minds of them all, that none of them was safe anywhere.
“So where the devil did this green beam come from?” Alan asked after a moment.
“I’ve been thinking about that. The weapon could have been mounted on a roof,” said Henry. “The Bottom Dwellers did something similar when they attacked me in Westfirth. Do you agree, Mr. Sloan?”
“I do, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “From what you describe, you observed the beam striking the upper level of the house near where you were standing.”
“If that is the case, the Bottom Dwellers would have been relatively close by,” said Alan. “Otherwise buildings would obstruct the view and they wouldn’t be able to get a clean shot. If we flew over the area, we might find some evidence.”
* * *
The three men waited until the morning sun burned off the fog, then once more mounted the griffins and set out, flying low over the rooftops of neighboring buildings. Their search did not take them long. Only a few blocks from Henry’s house they saw an odd-looking object on top of a building that had once, according to the faded sign, housed a wheelwright’s business. The three landed the griffins on the roof and went to investigate.
Mr. Sloan picked up the object and held it up for inspection.
“That looks like a mount for a swivel gun,” said Alan. “Only bigger.”
“Is there magic on it, Mr. Sloan?” Henry asked.
“There is, but I do not recognize any of the constructs that were used in the manufacture of this thing,” said Mr. Sloan. He held it gingerly. “If I were to hazard a guess, I would say they might well be contramagic.”
“Look at this,” said Alan, who had been snooping around in a corner.
He picked up a metal disk with a crystal gleaming in the center. “There’s three of these things over here. What do you suppose they are?”
“I have no idea, but treat them carefully, Alan,” said Henry. “Mr. Sloan, take charge of them.”
Mr. Sloan placed the three disks in his leather satchel.
“Looks to me as if whoever was here had to beat a swift retreat,” said Alan. “They carried off the weapon, but they were in such a hurry they left behind the mount and the ammunition.”
“They also forgot these, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.
Reaching down, he picked up a pair of leather gloves and brought them over for closer inspection.
The gloves were soft leather, finely made, and far too small to fit their hands.
“Those are a woman’s gloves,” said Alan in a low voice. “Dog’s bollocks, Henry! Eiddwen fired that weapon herself! She took the gloves off in order to trigger it and didn’t have time to put them back on.”
The three men looked at each other. Henry’s brows came together. Mr. Sloan was grim.
Alan and Henry left the griffins on the roof in the care of Mr. Sloan and descended the stairs of the empty structure. They reached the street level and went looking for the constable who regularly patrolled this area.
They found him walking his beat. He touched his hand to his hat in a polite salute.
“Constable, I am interested in purchasing this building.” Henry indicated the former wheelwright’s establishment. “I was wondering if you had received reports of any trouble with vagrants.”
“Odd you ask, sir. We don’t get many vagrants in this neighborhood. Never had a problem until yesterday afternoon,” the constable reported. “I was walking my beat when I saw a flash of bright light on the roof. I thought it strange, sir. Had a kind of green tinge to it. I started to go up to investigate, when I heard the clanging of the fire bells and one of the other constables comes running. Seems that a house exploded and the captain wanted all of us to report to him there. I was just going to check the building today to see if the vagrants had cleared out.”
“No need, Constable,” said Alan. “We’ve been up there. Nothing is amiss.”
“As for the bright flash of light, I’ve heard the house was hit by lightning,” Henry added. “Perhaps that was what you saw.”
“I did hear that same report, sir. That must have been it. To think I saw it!”
The constable touched his hat again and walked off, marveling. Henry and Alan went back inside the building and began climbing the four long flights of stairs that led to the roof.
“Now we know why Eiddwen left in such haste,” said Alan. “She was afraid the constable would return to investigate.” He drew out his watch. “We should make haste ourselves or we’re going to be
late for our meeting with Simon. We’ll have to travel by air to get there. That blasted house of his has floated off to other side of the river. And we can’t take the griffins. Simon has nowhere to stable them.”
“We will send Mr. Sloan back to the club with the griffins and take a hansom cab,” said Henry. “Mr. Sloan can meet us at the house.”
They continued to climb.
“Henry,” said Alan after a pause to catch his breath, “if Eiddwen wanted to kill you, why did she go to all this trouble? Why blow up your house when she could have just as easily blown off your head with a gunshot?”
“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” said Henry. “She wanted to utterly destroy me, kill me and my wife and my child. Level my house, my ‘safe haven’ from the world. And if I, by some miracle, survived, she hoped to put the fear of God in me.”
“Did she, Henry?” Alan asked, struck by a note in his friend’s voice. “Did she put the fear of God in you?”
“I must confess she did, Alan,” Henry admitted after a moment. “Last night as I lay in the darkness, remembering those horrible moments when I thought I was going to lose all that I loved, I told myself I would pack up my wife and child and leave Freya, leave this life of intrigue, travel to some safe haven…”
“If what you say is true about these Bottom Dwellers, Henry, that they are waging war on the world, nowhere is safe from them,” said Alan.
“Which is what I realized when I woke up this morning,” said Henry. “And now we must go see if we can locate Simon.”
* * *
Given that Rosia’s beautiful floating palace was considered one of the wonders of the world, Freyans claimed to possess another wonder. Or if not a wonder, then certainly one of the world’s oddities: a flying house.
Welkinstead, the flying house of Simon Yates, had once belonged to Dame Winifred Ufford. A gifted crafter, renowned scientist, and artist, she was described by polite society as “eccentric.” She had designed her house to fly because she “was sick and tired of looking out the window at the same old thing day in and day out.”
Her house didn’t exactly fly. It “drifted with panache,” as Dame Winifred was fond of saying.
The Seventh Sigil Page 19
