Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  Mr. Sloan entered, carrying his peacoats underneath his arm. The proprietor, Mistress Brown, a crafter who had taken over the business after her husband had run off with a wine merchant’s daughter, was exceptionally skilled at her work. She could have found employment in any of the larger magical houses had she not been left to care for two little boys.

  Mistress Brown had been struggling to make ends meet before being discovered by Mr. Sloan, who always kept an eye out for talent. He had given her one or two jobs and had found her to be efficient and very discreet. After that, he had placed her on retainer, making life much easier for her and her children.

  Mistress Brown was with a customer when Mr. Sloan entered. She smiled at him and hastened to get rid of the customer, who wanted magical constructs placed on a set of crockery to stop the clumsy kitchen girl from breaking them.

  After the customer left, Mr. Sloan greeted Mistress Brown, then added, “It might be well if you were to close for the day, ma’am.”

  Mistress Brown obeyed immediately. She lowered the shutters, shut the curtains, and locked the door. She and Mr. Sloan repaired to a back room where she did her work. The walls were lined with bookcases containing books on constructs. A large table took up most of the area. She lived above the shop. Mr. Sloan could hear the sound of small boots thudding on the floor over their heads.

  “It sounds as if your boys are thriving, ma’am,” said Mr. Sloan politely.

  “They are indeed, sir, thank you. And thank Sir Henry for placing them in such an excellent school. I could have never afforded such a luxury myself. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Sloan?”

  “I need magical constructs on these two jackets, ma’am,” said Mr. Sloan. He laid the peacoats down on the table. “Protective constructs, guarding against the usual—bullets, knife blades.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sloan. I can place those on the fabric in either ink or embroidery. The embroidery will take longer, of course, but will be more lasting.”

  “Ink if you please, ma’am. I need these immediately. I will wait for them, if that is convenient.”

  “Quite convenient, Mr. Sloan,” said Mistress Brown. “I’ll just get started—”

  “One more thing, ma’am,” said Mr. Sloan. “I need you to add constructs to protect against contramagic.”

  Mistress Brown stared at him. The color drained from her face. She forced a smile.

  “You will have your little jest with me, Mr. Sloan…”

  “I never jest, ma’am,” said Mr. Sloan. “I am very much in earnest.”

  “Mr. Sloan, what you ask is impossible,” said Mistress Brown in hushed tones. She cast a fearful glance at the room above and added, “Not only that, sir, we could both be arrested for talking about such evil!”

  Mr. Sloan gazed at her intently. “You are a gifted crafter, ma’am.”

  “The most gifted crafter in the world could not do what you ask, Mr. Sloan. In order to build a construct that would protect against … what you ask, I would first have to have studied … that sort of magic. That is forbidden.”

  Mr. Sloan had expected the answer. Still, he and Sir Henry had thought it worthwhile to try.

  “Very well, mistress. I understand. I assume I can trust to your discretion?”

  “You may, Mr. Sloan,” said Mistress Brown. She started to say something, then checked herself.

  “Yes, Mistress Brown? Speak freely.”

  “I fear you are in some sort of terrible danger, Mr. Sloan. Perhaps I could add something more to the coat—”

  Mr. Sloan recalled the green fire weapons. “A good idea, ma’am. Constructs that guard against flame would be a welcome addition.”

  “That I can easily do, Mr. Sloan,” said Mistress Brown with a relieved smile. “If you would take a seat in the waiting room, I will set to work.”

  Mistress Brown spread one of the peacoats out on the table. Dipping a steel pen in ink, she began to painstakingly draw the complex magical constructs on the coarse fabric. Mr. Sloan watched a moment, then went to the waiting room and sat down in a stiff-backed chair. He took out a well-worn book containing the writings of the saints and began to read it, as was his daily habit.

  * * *

  Sir Henry parted cordially with Admiral Baker, wishing him a prosperous and safe voyage. Admiral Baker wished Sir Henry good luck with the demon hunting and ordered his carriage to take him to the wharf. Sir Henry returned to his home in Haever.

  He indulged himself by going to the nursery to play with the baby. The nursemaid stood looking on in stern disapproval. A father was meant to see his child only at teatime, when Baby had been washed and dressed and was deemed suitable for presentation. The father might perhaps chuck the baby beneath the chin or pat its little head. The idea that a father should actually set foot in the nursery, pick up Baby, and play with him was shocking.

  “I almost gave notice,” the nursemaid confided to the cook. “Such goings-on in a respectable household. It’s not natural.”

  Sir Henry left the nursery to seek out his wife. He found her arranging a bouquet of flowers in the drawing room.

  “I will be working late at the palace tonight, little Mouse,” he told her. “Do not wait up for me.”

  Lady Anne made a face. “We are to dine with the Winterhavens, my dear. Had you forgotten?”

  “You must make my excuses,” said Sir Henry. “Affairs of state.”

  “Poor Henry,” said Anne, gently touching his face as he bent to kiss her. “You do not take a moment’s ease. My aunt works you too hard. I will complain to her that I never see my husband.”

  She said this with a mischievous smile. Lady Anne’s aunt was the queen.

  Sir Henry gave her a kiss. “Enjoy yourself tonight, my dear, but you must not stay out late. Are you certain you should go? You look tired.”

  He spoke in anxious tones as he regarded his wife worriedly. Lady Anne was small boned, with delicate features and large eyes, resembling the “Mouse,” which was Henry’s pet name for her.

  “I am fine, my love,” said Lady Anne, smiling up at him. “Lady Winterhaven needs me to make a fourth at whist. I will be home before midnight, I promise.” She gave a charming little pout. “I don’t suppose you could make me the same promise? That you will be home before midnight?”

  “I fear not, my Mouse,” said Sir Henry. “This Braffa mess … I have reams of paperwork…”

  He kissed her, marveling as always how she could possibly have come to love him. Equally marvelous was the idea that he had fallen in love with her.

  * * *

  Sir Henry did not travel to the palace, as he had told his wife. He ordered the coachman to take him to a small apothecary shop. Sir Henry entered and nodded to the proprietor, who was busy grinding up something with a mortar and pestle while a customer waited. The proprietor gave a slight jerk of his head toward the back. Sir Henry continued on through a door into a large office, where he found Mr. Sloan waiting for him.

  “I see you have the coats, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Yes, my lord. I asked Mistress Brown about the contramagic. She refused to accede to the request. I am afraid I distressed her with the question, my lord.”

  “It was worth a try, Mr. Sloan. Oddly enough, I find myself in agreement with my old foe, Father Jacob. We will rue the day we banned the study of contramagic.”

  Sir Henry and Mr. Sloan changed clothes, putting on slouch hats and the shabby-looking peacoats now embellished with protective magical constructs. Both men armed themselves with several loaded pistols, which they dropped into capacious pockets. Sir Henry added a stowaway pistol, and Mr. Sloan thrust a large knife into his boot. Both carried small bull’s-eye lanterns, which they wore on lanyards around their necks. These small lanterns contained glowing magical constructs behind shutters that concealed the light.

  “As I did not think it would be wise for us to be seen carrying your newly acquired rifles, my lord, I concealed two of them at the salvage yard. They are loaded and ready for use.”


  “We are facing one man, Mr. Sloan, not an army,” said Sir Henry with some amusement. He grew more serious. “And the goal is to take this man alive for interrogation. We know he is using a contramagic weapon. That means he is likely one of the Bottom Dwellers and he is in contact with Eiddwen. The information he could provide us will be invaluable.”

  Mr. Sloan nodded to indicate he understood. “Still, one should always be prepared, my lord.”

  “True, Mr. Sloan. I have not had a chance to practice with the new rifles,” Sir Henry added, adjusting the bull’s-eye lantern around his neck.

  “I believe you will be impressed with the accuracy and ease of firing, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  They waited until the customer was gone and the shop empty before they left. One reason Sir Henry had selected an apothecary shop as cover for his operations was that all manner of people, from fine gentlemen to humble street sweepers, could be seen coming and going and not raise suspicion.

  Mr. Sloan had a carriage waiting. He mounted the driver’s box, while Sir Henry took his seat in the back. They set out through the streets of Haever just as night was falling and the lamplighters were plying their trade. The rain clouds had moved off.

  Henry gazed out the window. Men were leaving work, entering the taverns for a nightly “wet.” Women were sitting on the doorsteps, gossiping with their neighbors and shouting at children to come home for supper. In the well-to-do parts of the city, men and women were dressing in their finest, putting on their jewels, preparing to go to dinner or to the theater or the opera. Nursemaids were putting the children to bed.

  Henry felt a sudden surge of love for these people, his people, from the whore plying her trade on the corner to Her Majesty the queen, from the ragged street urchin to his own dearly beloved baby son. His people; his responsibility. He was tasked with guarding them, keeping them safe.

  He touched the pistols in his pockets and reflected that these people would never know what he had done for them, how many had died by his command because he deemed them a danger to his plans. Her Majesty knew some of what he did, but certainly not all. Ignorance is truly bliss.

  He thrust out his long legs, folded his arms, leaned back comfortably in the leather seat, and pulled his hat over his face to take a brief nap. He woke as the carriage pulled up to an inn located near the salvage yard.

  Mr. Sloan entered the inn and returned with one of Sir Henry’s trusted operatives. The man unhitched the horses and led them into the stables behind the inn.

  “Fields will have the carriage waiting for us upon our return, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, referring to the operative.

  “Very good, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry.

  Mr. Sloan and Sir Henry proceeded to the shipyard on foot. The neighborhood was a rough one and both men kept their hands on their pistols. They stayed in the shadows, walking around the pools of radiance cast by the streetlamps. Sir Henry considered it highly unlikely anyone was watching them, but he had lived as long as he had by never taking chances.

  Keeping in mind that Eiddwen’s agent had probably secured a job in the salvage yard, the agent would have to find a place to hide himself when the yard closed and the workers departed. Even then, Alcazar often worked far into the night, which meant that his guards and apprentices would also be present. With tenement housing only a block away, and two taverns that did not close until midnight, the intruder would be forced to remain until the early hours of the morning to experiment with the panels. He would not want anyone to see flashes of green fire or hear the muffled sound of the weapon going off.

  Sir Henry fit the key to the gate in the fence surrounding the salvage yard and he and Mr. Sloan entered silently. Sir Henry had ordered Alcazar to leave his workshop on time tonight. Alcazar had not asked questions. Knowing Sir Henry was angry over the journeyman, he’d been only too happy to obey.

  Mr. Sloan and Sir Henry dared not risk using the bull’s-eye lanterns in case the intruder should see them. The glow from streetlamps provided light enough for them to find their way through the salvage yard. They concealed their movements by ducking behind stacks of wood from ships in various stages of dismemberment.

  Mr. Sloan had selected as a vantage point the hulk of a ferry that had caught fire on one of the inland seas. The fire had broken out while the ferry was docked and she had gone down in shallow water, which made for an easy salvage. The two men settled themselves inside the hulk on planks of wood stretched between sawhorses. They were about ten yards from Alcazar’s workshop and the gunboat. They settled down for a long and tedious wait that might come to nothing.

  A distant church bell tolled the hours. The time between strikes seemed so long that Sir Henry was starting to wonder if the blasted clock was broken. He had nearly reached the conclusion that their intruder was not coming when Mr. Sloan touched his arm and indicated a shadowy figure approaching the gunboat. Sir Henry’s heart quickened with excitement.

  The intruder was about six feet from the gunboat when he stepped into the light. Sir Henry caught a glimpse of a face out of hell. He and Mr. Sloan exchanged rueful glances. They had neither of them considered that the Bottom Dweller might have changed from his work clothes to his demonic armor.

  The fact that he had done so made perfect sense, Sir Henry thought. He would not only have excellent protection, but if anyone happened to report seeing a demon in a salvage yard, the person would probably be locked away in an asylum.

  Mr. Sloan had lifted his bull’s-eye and was about to raise the shutter to shed light on the intruder when Sir Henry nudged him. The Bottom Dweller had no idea he was under surveillance. Sir Henry wanted to see what the man did.

  The intruder lifted a device that resembled a small cannon and rested it against his shoulder. Sir Henry recognized the weapon. He’d had an extremely close and unpleasant look at such a gun when Bottom Dwellers had ambushed him and Father Jacob in Westfirth. The intruder aimed the weapon at a panel on the gunboat—a different panel from the one he had previously chosen—and fired. A ball of green flame struck the panel. The green fire hit the steel panel and fizzled out.

  Sir Henry could barely keep himself from raising a cheer. Ironically, he was grateful to the Bottom Dweller, for this test could not have been conducted without him. The intruder made some adjustment to the weapon, and then fired again at the same panel, though in a different part of the panel, with the same result. Sir Henry had seen enough.

  He raised his pistol and nudged Mr. Sloan, who uncovered the bull’s-eye, sending a beam of bright light stabbing through the darkness. The intruder whipped around. He was wearing the hideous demon-faced helm and leather armor, the same one Sir Henry remembered from the Bottom Dwellers in Westfirth.

  “You have two pistols aimed at your heart,” Sir Henry said coolly, cocking one of his pistols as Mr. Sloan cocked his. “Drop your weapon and surrender.”

  Instead of obeying, the intruder raised the gun.

  “Damn!” Sir Henry swore. “Try to only wound him, Mr. Sloan. I want him alive.”

  Two pistol shots rang out almost simultaneously. The Bottom Dweller staggered as the bullets struck him. He did not fall, nor did he drop his weapon.

  Green light flared. Mr. Sloan bellowed a warning and threw himself in front of Sir Henry. The ball of green fire caught Mr. Sloan in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending him flying. His bull’s-eye lantern shattered, the light went out. Sir Henry was half blinded. He could see nothing for a moment except a dazzling blur of green.

  “Mr. Sloan!” Sir Henry called, drawing a second pistol and ducking down behind a crate.

  No answer.

  Sir Henry rubbed his eyes until the blur went away. He could not find the Bottom Dweller in the darkness, but he could hear harsh breathing, shuffling feet, muffled swearing, and then the sound of a metal object hitting the ground. A noxious odor filled the air. Sir Henry choked, coughed, and hurriedly covered his mouth and nose. He kept his pistol raised, still searching for the Bot
tom Dweller, even as he tried to find out what had become of Mr. Sloan.

  “Franklin! Where are you?” Sir Henry yelled, risking inhaling the fumes. He coughed again.

  Hearing a groan and seeing a sudden flicker of green flame out of the corner of his eye, he rose from behind the crate to see Mr. Sloan on the ground. His coat had caught fire, but the flames were dying out. Sir Henry coughed again. The smoke must be poisonous, for he was starting to feel light-headed.

  He started to go to Mr. Sloan. He heard pounding footfalls and the demonic face was suddenly right in front of him, so close Henry could see the glittering eyes behind the helm. The intruder grabbed Sir Henry by the throat. Desperate to fend off the attack, feeling himself losing consciousness, Sir Henry pressed his pistol against the man’s ribcage and fired. The man grunted, stumbled, and sagged to the ground.

  Sir Henry knelt beside the Bottom Dweller, seized hold of the helm and tore it off. The man’s skin was chalk white, his huge eyes black and glittering with hatred.

  “Who sent you?” Sir Henry gasped, grasping the man by the leather breastplate and shaking him. “Did Eiddwen send you?”

  The man’s lips twisted in fury and he said something Sir Henry couldn’t understand.

  “Was it Eiddwen?” he asked again.

  The life drained from the eyes, and before Sir Henry knew what was happening, the corpse burst into flames, burning Sir Henry’s hand. He cursed and scrambled backward to escape the searing heat. He could hear the burning flesh pop and sizzle. The stench made him gag.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Mr. Sloan called weakly.

  “Rest easy, Mr. Sloan. I am fine. The intruder is dead, more’s the pity. Let me see what happened to you.”

  Sir Henry hurried over to where Mr. Sloan was trying to struggle to his feet. Sir Henry pushed Mr. Sloan gently back to the ground, lit his bull’s-eye to examine him.