Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  Rodrigo put his hand to his stinging cheek and stared at the man in astonishment. “What the devil did you do that for?”

  “Because you, sir,” said Valazquez in passionate tones, “are a most consummate villain and a scoundrel! I accuse you of having besmirched the honor of my sister and insulting my family. What have you to say for yourself, sir?”

  “‘Besmirched,’” said Rodrigo, opening his eyes wide. “Who talks like that these days?” He gave a light laugh. “Admit it, young sir. This is a practical joke. Lady Rosalinda put you up to this, didn’t she?” He turned to Stephano. “She has never forgiven me for the time I hid the frog in her glove box-”

  Stephano had been watching the faces of the two men, and he said in an undertone, “They’re not joking.”

  “Oh, come now,” said Rodrigo, turning back to Valazquez. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Sir Richard was a witness!” cried Valazquez in anger, indicating his friend, who bowed again in acknowledgment. “He saw you leaving my sister’s bedroom in the middle of the night a fortnight ago.”

  “And I would ask one question of Sir Richard,” said Rodrigo. “What the devil were you doing watching this man’s sister’s bedroom in the middle of the night?”

  “Do you doubt the word of a gentleman?” Valazquez demanded vehemently.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Rodrigo, bowing. “I thought Sir Richard said he was a Freyan.”

  It took Piefer a moment to realize he had been insulted. When he did, his face darkened. Valazquez was incoherent with rage, reduced to sputtering.

  “Perhaps I can settle this,” Rodrigo continued smoothly. “My lord Valazquez, I recall spending a most enchanting evening a fortnight ago with a young woman who read poems to me as I rested my head on her white thighs-”

  “Rodrigo!” Stephano exclaimed, scandalized.

  “You lie! My sister, sir, cannot speak your language,” said Valazquez.

  Rodrigo frowned thoughtfully. “Her sumptuous curves, her large, round breasts-”

  “My sister is slender and petite!”

  “Ah, you see?” said Rodrigo, smiling. “This proves it. We are talking about two completely different young women. I bid you a good evening.”

  He started to turn away, as though the matter was concluded.

  “All this proves is that you are a rogue and a coward!” said Valazquez, trembling with rage. “What of this?” He took from his doublet a packet of letters, tied with a red ribbon, and thrust them at Rodrigo. “Do you deny you sent these to my sister? Her duenna found them tucked under her pillow.”

  “Of course, I deny it,” said Rodrigo. “That’s not my handwriting. But even if I had written them, a letter beneath her pillow doesn’t prove that I was beneath the sheets.”

  Valazquez flushed in fury and reached for the hilt of his sword. But before he had his sword out of the scabbard, Stephano was holding his rapier’s tip at the young man’s chest. Piefer hurriedly intervened.

  “Gentlemen, this is neither the time nor the place,” he said urgently. “The police might return at any moment!”

  Stephano held his rapier on Valazquez until the young man slammed his sword back down into the scabbard, then Stephano returned his blade to its scabbard, though he kept his hand on the hilt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dag standing alert, his hand beneath his jacket where he kept his stowaway pistol.

  “You should not interfere, Captain,” Piefer was saying. “The quarrel of Lord Juan Diego is not with you, but with your friend. There is only one way to settle this matter and that is on the field of honor.”

  “You make the arrangements, Sir Richard,” said Valazquez. “If I stay here any longer, I will gut this wretch like a pig.”

  Casting a glance of utter contempt at Rodrigo, Valazquez stalked off, walking over to stand beneath one of the oak trees.

  Rodrigo looked utterly bewildered. “Arrangements. But this is a jest…

  “I’m afraid not, my friend,” said Stephano gravely. “Your sins have caught up with you.”

  “I didn’t write to the girl!” Rodrigo protested.

  “Stand over there and be quiet,” Stephano ordered in exasperation.

  Rodrigo did as he was told, though he continued to listen anxiously.

  “I will act as second for Lord Juan Diego,” said Piefer.

  “And I will act as second for Monsieur de Villeneuve,” said Stephano. “As the challenged party, we have the choice of weapons.”

  “That is true,” said Piefer. “What do you propose?”

  “Pistols,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo bounded forward and plucked at Stephano’s sleeve. “Pistols! What are you doing? You remember what happened the last time I fired a gun-”

  “You stand a better chance with pistols than you do with a sword,” said Stephano. He turned back to Piefer. “Where shall we meet, my lord?”

  “Are you familiar with the cemetery of the Church of Saint Charles, Captain?” Piefer asked politely.

  “I am, my lord,” said Stephano.

  “The cemetery is quiet, out of the way, suitable to such affairs as this-”

  “And you can just bury me while we’re there!” Rodrigo groaned. “Save time, trouble-”

  “I propose we meet at the cemetery at the hour of six of the clock in the morning if that is agreeable to you, Captain,” Piefer concluded.

  “It is most agreeable,” said Stephano. He bowed. “Your servant, my lord.”

  “Your servant, Captain.” Piefer bowed to Stephano.

  Piefer did not bow to Rodrigo, but cast him a cold glance and then turned on his heel and walked away to join Valazquez.

  Watching Piefer, Stephano experienced again the feeling that something about this man was familiar. Stephano had not met Piefer at court. Stephano had not been to court in months. He watched the Freyan with the disquieting feeling that the answer was important and that it was teetering on the tip of his brain.

  Stephano gave up. Whatever it was, he couldn’t take time to concentrate. He had to think of Rodrigo who was facing certain death.

  The afterglow lit the sky, but the shadows were dark beneath the oak trees and the park was almost deserted when Stephano gave the private signal to Dag, Miri, and Gythe that he would be in touch with them later. There was nothing they could do.

  The three had all witnessed the incident, and they had heard enough of Valazquez’s ravings to figure out what had transpired. Stephano could tell at a glance what they were thinking.

  Dag had never approved of Rodrigo, and he obviously believed in his guilt. Miri rolled her eyes and shook her head. She could never understand men and their need to settle such matters with bloodshed. Gythe was troubled and unhappy. He saw her try to come comfort Rodrigo, but her sister stopped her. The Cadre had to keep up the pretense that none of them knew each other.

  Dag gathered up Doctor Ellington, put the cat on his shoulder, and waited for Gythe to pack up the harp. Always protective of the two women, he would see to it they reached the Cloud Hopper safely. Dag cast Rodrigo a final stern and dour glance before he left.

  “Stephano,” said Rodrigo when they were alone. “You have to get me out of this duel. I don’t know one end of a pistol from another.”

  “I’m not certain I can, Rigo,” said Stephano with a sigh. “I always told you something dire was bound to happen. The way you carry on-”

  “But I swear to you I never touched that wretched girl! Well, perhaps I did touch her, but nothing more than a kiss on the hand.”

  “They have the letters you were imprudent enough to write to the girl.”

  “I didn’t write those letters.”

  “No one will believe you-”

  “Meaning you don’t believe me,” said Rodrigo with a faint smile. He added wistfully, “We could sail off on the Cloud Hopper tonight. We were going to Westfirth in the morning anyhow. Just make an early start?”

  “Rigo,” said Stephano, laying his hand on his friend’s
shoulder, “this is an affair of honor. Think what would happen if you ran. You would be branded a coward. You would no longer be admitted to court or to any of the elegant parlors or salons you love to frequent. Besides, this affair doesn’t affect you alone. Your father may be an ambassador, but his favor with the king is tenuous at best. Think of the disgrace that would fall on him and your mother and your older brothers if the story circulates that you basely fled-”

  “Enough, enough,” said Rodrigo. He had been standing with his head lowered. He gave a thin smile. “Can you make me an expert marksman in one night?”

  Stephano thought back to the one time he’d tried to teach his friend to handle a gun and he shuddered.

  “It’s late to be practicing with a pistol,” he said evasively. “The neighbors would call the police.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I doubt practicing would do me any good anyway. Perhaps this foul Valazquez is as poor as shot as I am,” Rodrigo said hopefully.

  “Perhaps he is,” said Stephano, striving to be cheerful, though he gave an inward sigh. He had heard of Valazquez. The young man had fought any number of duels. He was a good swordsman and had a reputation as a crack shot.

  “I tell you, Stephano, I am innocent,” said Rodrigo, as they turned their steps toward home.

  “I know, my friend, I know,” said Stephano, glad for the darkness that hid the sorrow on his face.

  There had been one other witness to the encounter in the park besides Miri and Gythe and Dag. Dubois watched Valazquez and Harrington, in the guise of “Sir Richard Piefer” depart. Dubois had observed the signals between Captain de Guichen and the Guundaran mercenary (as Dubois judged from Dag’s clothes and military manner). Dubois had watched the mercenary gather up his cat and leave in company with the two young Trundler women. Dubois saw Captain de Guichen and his unfortunate friend leave the park.

  After all of them had gone, Dubois walked over to the bench where Captain de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve had been sitting. He found the book they had left behind, forgotten in the turmoil. The title was embossed on the cover and he could just barely read the imprint of the letters in the sun’s dying glow: The Crafter’s Guide to Metallurgy.

  Night’s shadows closed around Dubois, both figuratively and literally. He had the feeling something of immense importance was about to happen and he was groping about in the darkness, unable to see the danger that was perhaps right in front of him.

  What game was Harrington playing? Why was he now disguised as a titled Freyan noble in company with the impressionable and not very bright youth, Valazquez, the son of the Estaran ambassador to Rosia? Why had Harrington, the instigator of the challenge, seen to it that the charge was made against Rodrigo de Villeneuve? Captain de Guichen was the threat.

  Dubois could not figure any of this out, but he knew one fact for certain. Sir Henry Wallace was the thread that ran through all these seemingly disparate incidents and tied them together. Harrington was Sir Henry’s agent. Find Sir Henry. Find answers.

  Arriving at his lodgings, Dubois collected the reports from his agents that were waiting for him. He glanced through them and tossed them irately in the fire. None were any help. He ate a quick supper, then went to his bed. He had to be up early.

  Dubois had a duel to fight.

  Chapter Six

  Since the invention of the pistol, crafter armorers have been exploring magical means to make weapons more durable and accurate. Constructs are placed on the barrel to strengthen the steel in order to produce lighter weapons. Targeting constructs carefully set inside the barrel aid a pistol’s accuracy. These constructs are melded with others to provide basic protection from the elements, keep the barrel from rusting, etc. Because of the heat and energy generated during use, weapons that are enhanced by magic require yearly examination and repair of the constructs.

  - An excerpt from “Constructs and Their Use in the production of Weapons and Armor” by Master Gaston Bondrea Grand Master, Rosian Armorers Guild

  RODRIGO SAID NOTHING DURING THEIR WALK back to the house that evening. When they arrived, Stephano suggested they have a glass of wine.

  “Since we’re once more in funds,” he added, trying to seem cheerful.

  Rodrigo shook his head. “I’m going to my room.”

  “Do you want company?” Stephano asked.

  Rodrigo hesitated, his hand on the balustrade, then said quietly, “I have to write a letter to my father and mother.”

  He walked slowly up the stairs. Stephano felt a choking sensation in his throat and turned away quickly. This letter would be a difficult one to write. Rodrigo was the youngest child, the spoiled child, the mischievous imp whose antics had delighted his fond parents who could never see a fault in their brilliant, talented son. And now he was telling them good-bye-forever. Stephano could not imagine how the terrible news of Rodrigo’s death would affect his loving parents.

  He cursed stupid sons of barons and their equally stupid and gullible sisters and hung up his baldric, flung off his coat, and threw his hat at the bust of King Alaric. The hat fell on the floor and Stephano left it there. He entered the kitchen to find Benoit and young Beppe seated at the table, finishing up the remnants of a cassoulet of white beans and chicken.

  Beppe leaped to his feet at the sight of Stephano and gave a salute. His dearest wish, since he had met Stephano, was to be a Dragon Knight. Benoit cast a glance at the hat on the floor and groaned and began to rub his leg.

  “Don’t disturb yourself,” said Stephano caustically. “I’ll pick it up later. Beppe, I’m glad you’re here. I need you to run an errand.”

  “Of course, Captain,” said Beppe, pleased.

  Stephano dashed off a note to Miri and Gythe and one to Dag, telling them that he both hoped and expected that he and Rodrigo would meet them the next day at the Cloud Hopper and that the ship should be ready for travel. He warned them not to come to the house, as it was likely under surveillance, though he had no idea who was watching or why.

  “Deliver these letters,” said Stephano, “and then go home. Here’s some money.”

  “That’s a lot, Captain,” said Beppe, his eyes wide.

  “I’m sure we owe you back pay,” said Stephano dispiritedly.

  “Yes, Captain, thank you, sir.” Beppe started to leave, then turned back. “Is anything wrong, Captain?”

  “No more than usual,” said Stephano, with an attempt at a smile. “Now run along.”

  Beppe gave another salute and dashed off.

  Stephano, knowing it would be useless to ask Benoit, went to the storeroom fetch his own beer. The barrel was once more full.

  “How was court, Benoit?” he asked. “Any message from my mother?”

  “Your honored mother the countess has heard nothing more about the matter at hand, sir,” said Benoit. “She bids you a safe journey.”

  Stephano sighed and sat down. If Rodrigo survived, the Cadre would go to Westfirth to continue the search for Alcazar. The chance of Rodrigo surviving being highly unlikely, Stephano guessed he would spend tomorrow planning his friend’s funeral. He drank the beer, stared into the empty mug, then suddenly swearing viciously, he flung it at the fireplace. The crockery mug shattered.

  Benoit eyed the remains. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

  “Like I give a damn!” Stephano said savagely.

  “What is wrong, sir?” Benoit asked. He rose to his feet without a trace of infirmity to face Stephano. “I have a right to know.”

  Benoit had ridden with his master, Sir Julian, to the convent to bring home his newborn child. Sir Julian had placed the baby in Benoit’s arms and said, “Benoit, meet my son. Care for him as you do me.”

  Stephano rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head in his hands and dragged his fingers through his long hair. His face was pale, haggard.

  “Sir,” said Benoit, sounding fearful, “tell me-”

  “Rodrigo’s very likely going to die tomorrow,” said Stephano.

&
nbsp; “Oh, my God, sir!” Benoit grabbed hold of the edge of the table for support. “The king didn’t find out about-Master Rodrigo’s not going to be executed-”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” said Stephano wearily. “A duel. A bloody, stupid duel.”

  He described what had happened in the park.

  “Master Rodrigo claims he’s innocent, sir,” said Benoit.

  Stephano gave a wan smile. “Master Rodrigo always claims he’s innocent.”

  “That’s true, sir,” the old man admitted. He set to work with unusual energy, filling the teakettle with water and placing it on the hob, stirring up the coals, adding wood to the fire.

  “What are you doing?” Stephano asked.

  “Fixing a honey posset for Master Rodrigo, sir. It will help him sleep. He will need all his faculties for the morning.”

  “I doubt if his ‘faculties’ are going to be that much help,” Stephano muttered.

  Benoit disappeared into the storeroom. He was gone several moments, then returned carrying a crock of honey and a small, dust-covered jug.

  “I don’t suppose I could have a tumbler full of whatever is in that jug?” Stephano asked.

  “For illness only, sir,” said Benoit. He cast Stephano a sharp glance. “You need to be sober. It’s up to you to find a way to save him.”

  “There’s nothing I can do this time, Benoit,” said Stephano.

  “You’ll find a way, sir,” said Benoit stoutly.

  Stephano only shook his head. He watched while Benoit concocted the posset, mixing the contents of the mysterious jug with honey and boiling water.

  “I’ll take that to him,” Stephano offered. “Save you a trip up the stairs.”

  “I will take it, sir,” said Benoit with dignity. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Stephano followed the old man as he hobbled up the stairs. He heard Benoit’s gentle knock, saw him open the door softly and carry the steaming mug inside. Stephano sighed deeply and went to his own room.

  Benoit’s posset contained rum laced with opium, with the result that Rodrigo slept quite soundly, while Stephano passed a wretched night, trying in vain to think of some way to save his friend’s life. He was so desperate he even considered traveling to the palace to appeal to his mother. On sober reflection Stephano realized there was nothing even the powerful countess could do. Rodrigo had made his bed, so to speak.