Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  “I am glad to see you well, Stephano,” she said languidly.

  Stephano bowed over his mother’s hand. She touched his palm with her fingertips as cold as the diamonds that adorned them. She then gave her hand and a smile to Rodrigo.

  “Monsieur de Villeneuve. Permit me to offer my personal condolences on the death of your father.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” said Rodrigo, bowing.

  “We will dine in an hour. Please be seated,” said Cecile.

  She sat with her back straight, no slouching. Stephano perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair and thought longingly of his own warm kitchen and his friends gathered around the table. That made him think of Miri; he banished the thought hurriedly.

  “No other guests tonight?” he asked, glancing about the drawing room.

  He had been in this room only once before, on the occasion of his commission in the Dragon Brigade. Then the room had been filled with light and people, drinking and talking and laughing. He had not observed many details then for he had been floating on a cloud of happiness and pride. The room was dark now, lighted by only a few elegant lamps set here and there on small tables.

  “We are in the period of mourning over the collapse of the Crystal Market,” said Cecile. “During this time, gatherings are considered de trop…”

  “Ah, yes, I was shocked to hear about the collapse,” said Stephano. “A terrible tragedy. Is the cause known?”

  “It is under investigation, I believe,” Cecile replied.

  “Benoit said he heard that crafters who had been in the vicinity when the market hall collapsed were rounded up and whisked away,” said Rodrigo.

  Cecile gave a cool smile. “Dear Benoit. He does enjoy listening to drivel. Will you take some wine?” She motioned to a servant, who came forward to pour a ruby-colored liquid into crystal goblets.

  Rodrigo held the goblet to the light, admiring the color. He put the glass to his lips, rolled the wine on his tongue, swallowed, and closed his eyes in bliss.

  “To think I went for weeks without such sustenance.” Rodrigo gave a delicate shudder. “I have no idea how I survived.”

  “Not to mention, Mother, that Rigo here had to bathe in a creek and eat fish soup on a daily basis.”

  “And leave my shoes behind,” Rodrigo said mournfully. “You cannot imagine, Your Grace, the deprivations we endured.”

  Stephano happened to glance at his mother as they were jesting. She had turned exceedingly pale, and tears glimmered in her eyes. He was so astonished at the sight of his mother exhibiting emotion that he looked at Rodrigo to see if he had noticed.

  Rodrigo was motioning to the servant to pour him another glass of wine, however, and when Stephano turned back, his mother’s face was cold, without expression. No trace of tears. They must have frozen.

  “I know it’s not fashionable, Mother, but let’s have dinner now,” said Stephano abruptly, breaking in on Rodrigo’s tale of how the cat, Doctor Ellington, had one day climbed a tree and refused to come down. “All that talk of fish soup has made me hungry.”

  Rodrigo coughed and cast Stephano a rebuking glance. Stephano knew he was being rude, but he didn’t care. He wanted away from this place, away from his mother, away from the fine crystal and the smell of perfume and roses and noiseless servants gliding about on thick carpeting.

  His mother smiled. “One can tell you were marooned on an island, Stephano. You have forgotten your manners. Dinner will be served in an hour and not before. You might enjoy dining on underdone beef, but I do not.”

  Stephano, ignoring the servant, poured himself another glass of wine. For lack of anything else to do, he walked over to the fireplace and stared unseeing at a figurine of a shepherdess. Cecile turned to Rodrigo.

  “I am most intrigued by whatever it is you are keeping in the velvet sack, monsieur.”

  “A trifle, Your Grace, which I thought you would find amusing,” said Rodrigo lightly.

  Lowering his eyelids, he cast a glance at the servant.

  Cecile saw the glance and understood. Telling the servant they would wait upon themselves, she dismissed the man. Rodrigo was about to open the velvet sack. Cecile shook her head.

  “Stephano, I feel a draft. Please ascertain if that door is shut.”

  Stephano walked over to the door. He yanked it open, to find the servant standing outside.

  “What are you doing?” Stephano demanded.

  “I thought I would wait here in case madame wanted anything,” said the servant in some confusion.

  “She won’t,” said Stephano.

  “Very good, my lord,” said the servant and bowed himself away.

  Stephano looked up and down the hallway and saw no one else. He shut the door and turned back.

  “Who is he spying for?”

  “The grand bishop,” said Cecile in bored tones.

  “Then get rid of him!” said Stephano, adding sarcastically, “Oh, no, I forgot. That’s not how the game is played, is it, Mother? You keep him around because you know he’s the grand bishop’s agent and therefore you can feed him the information you’d like the grand bishop to know. But since the grand bishop undoubtedly knows that you know, what the devil is the point?”

  “Forgive him, Your Grace,” said Rodrigo. “I’ve tried my best to educate him, but one can only do so much.”

  “I understand, monsieur,” said Cecile. “I appreciate your efforts.”

  Rodrigo drew the pewter tankard from the velvet sack and handed it to the countess. She saw an ordinary-looking vessel, as could be found in any number of taverns, and looked back at Rodrigo, mystified.

  “A fine specimen of its kind, no doubt,” she began, “but I fail to see…”

  “The gift is not from me,” said Rodrigo. He drew his chair closer. “I am but the messenger. The gift is from Sir Henry Wallace.”

  Cecile said nothing. Her eyes flickered. She bid Rodrigo to continue with a look.

  “The tankard was crafted using the magical enhancements developed by Pietro Alcazar that strengthen steel,” said Rodrigo in hushed tones. “The journeyman sent this tankard to Wallace, who tested it and recognized the value of this innovation. This tankard brought Sir Henry to Rosia at peril to his life. He apprehended Alcazar with the intent of taking both the journeyman and the tankard back to Freya.”

  “He succeeded,” said Cecile.

  “The man is deucedly clever, Your Grace. We failed to stop him from abducting Alcazar and nearly got ourselves killed in the process. Still, we did come away with this. Sir Henry gave this to me, before he left us on that island. He said to present this to you, with his compliments.”

  “But … Why would he do such a thing?” Cecile stared at the tankard in perplexity. “Such magically enhanced steel will give Freya an immense advantage over us. It might even give them victory! Why share this knowledge?”

  “The fact is that we would have developed these constructs anyway,” said Rodrigo, adding with becoming modesty, “Truth be told, I advanced the theory of the magically enhanced steel myself. I wrote a small treatise on it. Alcazar read my treatise and went on to prove my theory was correct.”

  “You knew this invention was possible?” Cecile asked, amazed. “And you did nothing?”

  “It was a theory, Your Grace,” said Rodrigo with a charming smile. “A theory concocted after a night of drinking what I recall was extraordinarily bad brandy. Oh, the sad life of a student.

  “But never mind all that,” he continued. “What’s important is that Wallace knew I had developed the theory. He knew I knew and so he gave me the tankard. But there is another reason, a more important reason, Your Grace.”

  “And what might that be?” Cecile asked, eyeing him coldly.

  Rodrigo left his chair. He walked over to her and said softly, “Contramagic.”

  Cecile’s eyes widened. She rose to her feet with a silken rustle.

  “Congratulations, Rodrigo,” said Stephano. “You’ve shocked my mother.�
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  “What do you know of contramagic, monsieur?” asked the countess. “Did you write a treatise on that, too?”

  “I could have, Your Grace,” said Rodrigo. “But we all know what would have happened to me. While we were on the island, the tankard withstood a direct hit from the green fire from the Bottom Dwellers—”

  “You know the truth about them?” the countess asked, astonished. She answered her own question. “But, of course. You met with Father Jacob. Sir Ander told me as much. Pray go on.”

  “The tankard was not damaged,” said Rodrigo.

  “Whereas when the contramagic fire hit the cannons on the Royal Lion, it erased all the strengthening constructs. When those cannons fired, they exploded, taking out the entire gun deck and igniting the ship’s powder magazine. The Royal Lion blew apart, killing everyone on board,” said Stephano, adding in grating tones, “Are you spying on me now, Mother? Talking to Sir Ander?”

  “Sir Ander is my friend,” said the countess, her eyes flashing. “He wrote to me of his great pleasure in meeting you. Though I must say the way you are behaving I can’t think why.”

  Stephano remembered Sir Ander had been gracious and kind to him, how warmly he had spoken to Stephano of his father.

  “Forgive me, Mother,” said Stephano. He reflected with a sigh that he rarely endured an audience with his mother during which he didn’t end up apologizing for something. “I did enjoy meeting Sir Ander. He is an excellent man. Please overlook my words. Too much wine on an empty stomach.”

  He meant the last remark to be funny, but he couldn’t help thinking of the lean meals, the fear they would be stranded on that accursed island, and he put more feeling into his words than he had intended. His mother regarded him a moment.

  “I am the one who is thoughtless. Of course you would be hungry. I will order dinner to be served immediately.”

  Cecile turned her lustrous eyes upon Rodrigo. “I know why Sir Henry sent the tankard to me. These Bottom Dwellers are a threat to us all. He foresees a time when our two countries will be fighting as allies, fighting for our very existence, perhaps. Therefore, Monsieur de Villeneuve, I ask you to report to the royal armory tomorrow morning. Bring with you a copy of your treatise. I will meet you there. I will explain to Monsieur Douver, the master armorer, that you will be in charge of supervising the production of the steel—”

  Rodrigo’s jaw dropped; his eyes widened. He was—for the first time Stephano had known him—struck dumb.

  “Congratulations, Mother,” said Stephano, amused. “You’ve shocked Rodrigo.”

  “My dear lady,” said Rodrigo, finding his voice. “You are not in earnest—”

  “I am always in earnest,” said Cecile, a frown line marring her forehead. “Is there a problem?”

  “A problem!” Rodrigo gasped. “Me! In an armory! With … with dirt and … and … smelting!” He appealed to Stephano. “They smelt there, don’t they? I believe I heard that they smelt in armories. I can’t be anyplace where men smelt!”

  The countess’s frown deepened.

  “Consider making this ‘sacrifice’ for your country, monsieur,” she said caustically.

  Rodrigo recovered himself. “If I can find it, I will send your master armorer a copy of the treatise, Your Grace. That is the best I can do. I am leaving tomorrow to travel to Argonne to visit my mother.”

  “Are you?” Cecile asked in a dangerous tone that made Stephano shiver.

  Rodrigo blanched a little, but kept smiling. “I am, Countess.”

  Cecile put her hand on the door handle and looked at Stephano. “I must speak to the servants. Talk to him.”

  She left the room. Stephano could tell his mother was angry by the way she held her head, the tap of her heels, even by the irate swishing of her gown. He realized, after a moment, that the pewter tankard was gone. He had never seen his mother remove it.

  Rodrigo was pouring himself another glass of wine. “I don’t believe I have ever suffered such a severe shock. Not even when the Bottom Dwellers shot me.”

  “Stop clowning, Rigo,” Stephano said. “I hate to say it, but in this instance my mother is right. Rosia needs that magically enhanced steel. You can’t make a joke of this.”

  “Stephano, I understand. I do,” Rodrigo said earnestly. “I love my country as much as the next man and if I thought I could help, I would. But I would be completely useless, I assure you. Smelting.” He shuddered.

  “It might be an adventure,” Stephano suggested.

  “I’ve had adventure enough for a lifetime, my friend,” said Rodrigo. “Plead to your mother on my behalf. She’ll listen to you.”

  “Since when,” Stephano muttered.

  When the countess returned, she asked Rodrigo for his arm and he complied, escorting her down the hall. Stephano moodily followed. They entered a room that was ablaze with candlelight gleaming in the crystal wineglasses and shining off the polished silver. Servants stood behind each chair, while other servants hovered nearby, waiting to bring in the silver tureens with the soup course and pour the wine.

  The countess indicated that Rodrigo should sit at her right hand. He was in his element, talking of music and the opera, asking the countess what he had missed in his absence and when that topic languished, shifting the conversation effortlessly to the political situation in Braffa.

  The countess listened with her customary calm demeanor and kept the talk flowing smoothly. Stephano spoke when required and then only in monosyllables. His appetite was ruined. He ate the marvelous food without tasting it and drank sparingly of the wine. Every so often, his mother would turn her gaze on him.

  She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Stephano understood her silent communication. He knew the importance of this invention. He knew that lives were at stake. He knew, better than most, the dreadful nature of the enemy. And all the while, Stephano tried to picture Rodrigo in the royal armory, sweating in the heat of the forge fires, shouting to make himself heard over the din of hammering, covered in the soot that turned the skin permanently black.

  At the end of the meal, the servants placed the port on the table, along with cheese and walnuts and grapes. The countess rose, pleading fatigue.

  “I will leave you gentlemen to your wine. Ring the bell when you wish to leave. The servants will see you out.”

  Stephano and Rodrigo rose to their feet. The countess swept out, casting Stephano a final piercing look, silently ordering him to deal with Rodrigo. Stephano dismissed the servant, and began to pace restlessly.

  Rodrigo forked a bit of cheese, savoring it. He reached for the decanter. “Will you have some?”

  Stephano shook his head. “You’ve drunk enough for both of us.”

  “I am making up for lost time, my friend,” said Rodrigo, who was in an excellent mood. He burst out rapturously, “Your mother is a wonderful woman! You malign her. She was charming to me at dinner. She said nothing, of course, but I believe she has given this matter of the magical steel considered thought and concluded I was right. I shall not smelt.”

  Stephano remembered the look his mother had flashed at him as she went out the door. The look had not been charming.

  “I’m not so sure of that, Rigo,” said Stephano, sighing. “I’m sick of this place. Let’s go home.”

  “Agreed,” said Rodrigo. “I’ll just take the port with us. It looks lonely.”

  Picking up the crystal decanter, he tucked it lovingly under his arm.

  24

  I would far rather be on the field of battle than in my mother’s drawing room. On the battlefield, you know your enemy. You are surrounded by friends and comrades to whom you entrust your life. At court, the enemy is all around you, yet you have no idea who they are. You must live your life as if you were behind enemy lines, waiting to be discovered. Soldiers share a camaraderie born in conflict. Courtiers share paranoia, born in mistrust. And yet my mother seems to revel in it.

  —Stephano de Guichen, in a letter to Sir Ander Martel
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br />   During the carriage ride home Rodrigo drank port and sang arias, even attempting to sing all four parts of a quartet and coming closer to succeeding than Stephano would have thought possible. He was achingly sober and spent the ride staring through the windows at the streetlamps: landbound stars that followed the streets in sparkling lines, straight or curved, crossed and crisscrossed.

  He looked back at the Sunset Palace. The magical stone that had been radiant with the hues of the sunset now glimmered softly with moon glow. Here and there a light shone in one of the mullioned windows.

  The ships of the royal navy floated above the palace. They were rigged with their running lights—brass lamps—shining red and green. Men would be awake on board the ships: the officer of the watch making his rounds; the lookouts keeping watch … for Freyans.

  Beyond the lights of Evreux was the Breath, a ridge of solid darkness dividing the glittering darkness of the city from the glittering darkness of the starlit heavens. A few lights shone in the Breath: a merchant ship sailing into port; a patrol boat guarding the shoreline.

  He looked out into the night and thought how much he loved his country, his people. His father had loved his country. Julian de Guichen had died for his country, though since he had been executed as a traitor, there were few who would ever know that or believe it. Stephano listened to Rodrigo singing and wondered how he was going to manage to persuade his friend to work in the royal armory.

  Every man had his price, so they said. Stephano reflected gloomily that there was not enough velvet, satin, silk, and lace in the world to convince Rodrigo to enter a foundry.

  No use talking to him tonight, he thought, listening to yet another aria. Stephano resolved to speak seriously to his friend in the morning.

  They arrived home as the clocks were chiming one. The neighborhood was quiet. It was a respectable neighborhood; everyone went to bed at a decent hour. The only light was a streetlamp about half a block down. Benoit would be sitting up waiting for them, cozily tucked in his chair by the kitchen fire. Stephano opened the front door, calling for Benoit as he entered so that he didn’t alarm him.