He should not have been surprised. Sir Ander had been a close friend to Cecile de Marjolaine for many years. He was devoted to her, and she valued him above most others. Sir Ander was no ordinary spy, however. The fact that the countess had sent her trusted friend on this assignment meant that it was one of the utmost importance.
Sir Ander Martel was a Rosian, a Knight Protector who had once worked for Father Jacob Northrop, a member of the feared Arcanum and a foe of Sir Henry Wallace. Despite the fact that Sir Henry and the cleric had been on opposing sides for years, dire circumstances had thrust them together in a desperate battle to save Freya from being broken apart by the evil magicks of the Bottom Dwellers.
The avowed enemies had been transformed into comrades-in-arms, fighting a terrible battle that had very nearly cost them their lives. Mr. Sloan had not been present at the battle, but he had been the one to locate the critically wounded men, and his timely arrival had saved them all, including Sir Ander and his charge, Father Northrop.
Mr. Sloan had not seen Sir Ander since that dreadful day. He had heard that he had been honored by the king for his service and that he had since retired from the military, due to an illness he had contracted when he had traveled Below. Having recovered, apparently he now had a new occupation: the countess’s spy.
Colonel Smythe welcomed his guests and offered to escort them to their quarters, inviting them to take rest and refreshment after their journey.
Prince Thomas was looking about the fort in a puzzled manner.
“I came here to review the troops, Colonel, but I do not see any troops to review,” said Thomas.
“The troops are away on maneuvers, Your Highness. If I had known in advance you were coming—”
“A last-minute decision,” said Thomas. “When I was with the Rosian navy, the officers asked me so many questions about my army that I felt an utter fool not being able to answer them. I am sorry I cannot stay long this time. I have other obligations to fulfill. But next time, when I return, I intend to stay at least a month.”
“We will be honored,” said Colonel Smythe. “I was thinking that after you have rested, you would be interested to observe the progress we have made refitting the ships to use the crystals you and His Grace were responsible for obtaining.”
“By God, I would be interested to see that!” said Phillip. “Especially given the ordeal we went through to obtain them. I will never forget being forced to listen to that lecture on the ‘Magical Properties of Liquid Breath Before and After the Distillation Process.’”
“And I will never forget dodging bullets and our boat sinking beneath us,” said Thomas with a laugh. “Still, I owe those crystals a debt of gratitude. They introduced me to a most remarkable woman. We will have something to eat, Colonel, for we are famished, and then we will go see your ships and our crystals. Is that plan amenable to you, Lord Ander?”
“I am game for anything, Your Highness,” said Ander.
“I thought Your Lordship was here to study the architecture,” Thomas said.
“I can do that later, Your Highness,” said Ander. “I have heard a great deal about these Tears of God, but I have never seen them. I would be glad to accompany you to view the ships.”
Colonel Smythe expressed his pleasure and took them to the mess hall, while aides carried their belongings to their quarters.
Mr. Sloan retreated to his room and posted himself at the window, eating a sandwich, reading the Scriptures, and keeping watch on the movements of his guests. The prince must have been eager to see the ships, for they soon emerged from the mess hall. Smythe had their horses waiting and they rode out, accompanied by one of Smythe’s aides.
The journey would take at least half an hour each way. The colonel had promised to keep the prince and his party in the shipyard for at least an hour, perhaps longer.
The fort was quiet, and the sentries posted at the gate and those on the ramparts chatted together or stood yawning, looking bored.
Mr. Sloan laid down the book of Scriptures, picked up the drawings he had made of the magical constructs on Smythe’s office door, and set out.
Mr. Sloan crossed the compound and walked to the Commander’s House. He stopped to talk to the stable master in passing, recalling Sir Henry’s advice: “When engaged in some nefarious activity, do not, for God’s sake, look nefarious! A confident demeanor instills trust in the observer. Act as though you have a perfect right to be there.”
Mr. Sloan had given orders that a sentry be posted outside the door of the south wing. Approaching the man, Mr. Sloan assumed a stern air and barked sharply, “Corporal, have you seen that fellow Trubgek around here this afternoon?”
“No, Lieutenant,” the sentry replied, startled.
“He has not tried to obtain entry?”
“No, sir. Not while I have been on duty.”
Mr. Sloan appeared relieved. “I have received some disturbing information regarding him. Keep watch. I will see if he has somehow managed to find a way inside.”
Mr. Sloan entered the south wing, then closed and locked the door behind him. He walked down the corridor that led to the north wing, opened the connecting door, and arrived at Smythe’s office.
The interior of the building was silent. The hall was dark, for it had only one window that admitted very little sunlight. In the darkness, the constructs gave off a faint blue glow.
Mr. Sloan consulted the diagram he had made of the constructs and began systematically to remove them. He first dismantled those that were the most difficult, the constructs that protected the lock and the handle. He had to be extremely careful, breaking them down sigil by sigil in the correct order. If he made a mistake, the blast would blow off his hands.
After the blue glow faded from the handle, he removed the constructs on the door itself. These were designed to alert Smythe if anyone tampered with the door. If triggered, the magic would cause the wood to expand and contract with sharp crackling pops that went off like gunshots.
This done, Mr. Sloan paused to draw in a breath. If he had miscalculated, he would find himself without hands, or at least be in for a very nasty shock. He placed his hand on the door handle and, with fast-beating heart, cautiously opened it a crack.
Nothing happened. Breathing easier, Mr. Sloan slipped inside the office and shut the door behind him. If for some reason Smythe returned early, he would notice at once that his constructs were gone. That could not be helped, however. Mr. Sloan was armed both with a plausible explanation and a pistol and felt himself ready for any eventuality.
He lighted the lamp, then removed his pocket watch, opened it and placed it on the desk. He had allotted himself one hour for his work.
Bookshelves on the wall were lined with volumes on military history and treatises on military discipline. If he were conducting a thorough search, he would have gone through all those looking for letters hidden among the pages. Given what he knew of Smythe, however, Mr. Sloan did not consider it likely that the colonel would keep letters.
He picked up the lamp and squatted down to look in the grate of the small fireplace. The grate was covered with a thin layer of ash and bits of charred wood. As he suspected, Smythe burned his correspondence. Mr. Sloan found three blackened fragments of what appeared to be letters. He carefully lifted these out. One disintegrated between his fingers, but he was able to salvage two remains, both of them the corners of burned letters.
He pictured Smythe holding the letter by the corner as it caught fire, then dropping the flaming paper into the grate.
Mr. Sloan placed the fragments carefully between the pages of his book of Scriptures, consigning them to God’s protection, and then turned his attention to the accounts. He first picked up the account book and opened it to this week’s date at the top of its ruled pages, along with the headings “Cash Paid” and “Cash Received.”
He settled down to review Smythe’s monetary transactions. By the time the little watch chimed the hour, Mr. Sloan had found enough information t
o confirm Sir Henry’s worst fears and add new ones.
Mr. Sloan gazed at the watch. He was tempted to stay longer, try to discover more. He did not push his luck, however. The information he had already learned would be extremely valuable to Sir Henry. He dared not take the risk.
Mr. Sloan returned the ledger books to their proper place and looked about carefully to make certain nothing else had been disturbed. He extinguished the lamp, rose to his feet, and opened the door a cautious crack.
The hall was empty. He shut the door, locked it, and following the diagram, replaced the warding constructs.
He returned to the south wing, made a perfunctory search of Phillip’s belongings, and, as expected, found nothing of interest with the exception of a folded handkerchief tucked beneath his pillow. The handkerchief was stained with what Mr. Sloan at first took to be blood. He sniffed at it and realized to his astonishment that the splotches were chocolate.
He could not fathom why Phillip would be carrying about a chocolate-stained handkerchief, nor why it alone should be carefully folded and placed beneath his pillow, when he had carelessly strewn the rest of his clothing about the room.
Mr. Sloan deemed the handkerchief an unimportant mystery he did not feel called upon to unravel. He left the south wing by the front door, making certain to say something to the sentry in passing. He reminded the man to keep an eye out for Trubgek.
If word got back to Smythe, Mr. Sloan could always claim he had heard a disturbing rumor about the strange man and had been concerned for the safety of the prince.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mr. Sloan was safely back in his room when he heard a bustle at the gate indicating that Smythe and his guests had returned. He glanced out the window to see the four ride into the compound. Men came running to help them dismount and to care for the horses.
The visit must have gone well. Prince Thomas appeared to be in a good humor. He stood for several moments in the compound, talking and laughing with Phillip and Smythe.
Sir Ander was slow to dismount, and he grimaced when he walked, giving every evidence of being saddle-sore. He made his excuses and began to hobble toward the Commander’s House.
Mr. Sloan observed Sir Ander stop to gaze in confusion at the two doors, as though trying to recall which door led to his quarters. He chose the door to the north wing and Smythe’s private quarters. The colonel saw the knight’s mistake, but the prince was talking with him and he could not very well run off.
Sir Ander blundered in through the wrong door and disappeared. When Smythe was at last able to free himself, he immediately headed for the Commander’s House to retrieve the errant knight.
Sir Ander eventually reappeared, looking profoundly embarrassed. Mr. Sloan saw with amusement that a good deal of the knight’s stiffness had vanished. He accompanied the prince and Phillip, who had decided to climb the stairs leading to the ramparts to observe the view.
Sir Ander had managed to enter the north wing, but what could he possibly have hoped to accomplish in such a short span of time? He must have been aware that Smythe had seen him. Indeed, everyone in the compound had seen him.
What was he searching for? Why had the countess sent him here?
Such speculations were useless, and Mr. Sloan dismissed the matter from his mind. He was about to engage in delicate magic and he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. He made certain his own door was locked.
Sitting down at his desk, he picked up a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and drew four sigils on the page: one at the top, one on each side, and one at the bottom. He then drew a line connecting each of the sigils, one to the other.
Carefully removing the first scrap of burned paper from the pages of the Scriptures, he laid it on the desk and held the sheet of paper with the sigils over it.
The partially destroyed letter had two separate components: the ink and the paper. If his spell worked as planned, the magical construct crafted on the sheet of paper should gently pull the ink from the burned paper and transfer it to the sheet on top so that he could read what had been written.
He had only one chance, for the spell would destroy the original letter. Mr. Sloan focused his thoughts on the magic. As he touched each of the sigils he had drawn on the paper, tracing them with his finger, the constructs began to glow. The black ink shone with a faint blue light.
He laid the glowing paper on top of the charred remains of the letter, and smiled as the two merged, proving the efficacy of his constructs. The glowing sigils appeared to absorb the burned letter, then the glow faded away.
When he read what was visible on the letter, he frowned down at the sheet of paper. His magic had recovered what appeared to be a valediction. The writer had not provided a signature (much to Mr. Sloan’s disappointment), but had closed the letter with these words: To the Day of Talionis
Mr. Sloan quirked an eyebrow.
He was familiar with the legal term lex talionis, which meant “law of retaliation”—more specifically, the type of retaliation in which the punishment reflected the crime. Under this law, a blood mage who had drained his victims of blood in order to enhance his evil magicks would not be hanged for murder. He would instead be sentenced to be himself drained of blood, forced to endure the same slow and agonizing death as his victims.
Some strict Fundamentalists advocated a return to lex talionis, which system had its origins in the tumultuous time of the Dark Ages. They pointed to various writings of the saints that seemed to promote such punishment. Mr. Sloan could also find writings of the saints that denounced it. He knew of no day in the Fundamentalist religious calendar termed the Day of Talionis and he wondered if the ominous-sounding name had something to do with restoring Prince Thomas to the throne.
Mr. Sloan was deeply concerned. He needed to know more about this Day of Talionis; he turned to the second fragment hoping it would provide additional information. He repeated his crafting, drawing the sigils and placing the paper over the charred fragment to draw the words off the letter. He was left with a partial sentence.
—hard to find those who know both magic and contra—
This letter had a signature.
Gaskell.
In the conversation Mr. Sloan had overheard, Smythe had sent Trubgek to Freya in order to talk to a man named Gaskell, who was refusing to work with Smythe. Yet here was evidence that Smythe and Gaskell were already engaged in correspondence, which was at odds with what Smythe had told Trubgek. Presumably, Smythe had lied to Trubgek.
Mr. Sloan did not see how this letter provided much help. He could not fault Smythe for fabricating a story designed to remove Trubgek from the camp before the prince’s arrival. As for this Gaskell, he would inform Sir Henry and he and Simon would undoubtedly try to find him, but the odds were against them. The name was a fairly common one in Freya and they would have no idea where to even start looking.
The partial sentence was intriguing. “Hard to find those who know both magic and contra—” The obvious answer was contramagic. “Hard to find those who know both magic and contramagic.” That was not much help, however, since the description could be applied to a majority of crafters in Aeronne.
Contramagic had been outlawed by the Church for centuries, up to the time of the war of the Bottom Dwellers when Father Jacob had famously discovered the seventh sigil that bound the two together. Magic and contramagic were now being taught together, but people had been told for so long that contramagic was evil that crafters were loath to work with it, and parents refused to let their children study it.
Mr. Sloan rubbed his forehead, discouraged. Though he had gained a good deal of information from the ledger, he felt he had uncovered more questions than he had answered.
He could not sit here moping. The day was advancing and he had to impart to Sir Henry the information he had discovered. Mr. Sloan was accustomed to writing in code, but he deemed the information so vital that he dared not risk any misinterpretation. Besides, he was not going to mail the le
tter. Now that he knew Miss Nettleship had arrived in Bheldem, he would request a day’s leave and deliver it to her directly.
He found it odd, for he generally did not like or trust journalists, but he had come to have a very high opinion of Miss Nettleship.
Mr. Sloan completed his letter and placed it in a packet. He did not seal the packet, however. Smythe was dining with the prince and his friends tonight. Mr. Sloan decided to take the opportunity to search Smythe’s office one more time, hoping to find out more information regarding the Day of Talionis.
Colonel Smythe would be entertaining his guests in the mess hall. He had named a late hour, nine of the clock, in order to give everyone time to rest from their exertions of the day. Prince Thomas, Phillip, and Sir Ander were punctual, as became military men, emerging from the south wing of the Commander’s House just as Mr. Sloan’s pocket watch marked the hour. Colonel Smythe was waiting at the entrance to the mess hall to welcome them and usher them inside.
The colonel eschewed the elaborate dress uniforms worn by his counterparts in other armies, adorned with gold braid, frogs, and epaulets. He wore his customary uniform, which was plain, simple, and serviceable. The prince, Sir Ander, and Phillip were likewise informally dressed, wearing practical clothes in somber colors suitable for travel: shirt, cravat, breeches, long coats.
Mr. Sloan saw them enter the mess hall. He waited another half hour to give everyone a chance to settle in, then headed for the Commander’s House.
He greeted the sentry on duty at the Commander’s House, saying that Colonel Smythe had asked him to check the royal quarters to ensure that all was secure.
He did a cursory sweep of the south wing, in case the sentry was paying attention, which he probably wasn’t.
The hour was about ten of the clock. Mr. Sloan did not expect them to return to their rooms until after midnight.
He opened the door that connected the two wings. The hall was dark and empty. The magical constructs on the door to Smythe’s office gave off a faint glow.
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