Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  Father Jacob was different. He knew magic, understood magic. The magic was in his heart and his soul, yet also in his brain. He was disciplined, controlled, and that made him powerful and dangerous.

  “But only to those with evil intent,” said Father Jacob.

  Stephano gave a start, amazed and not at all pleased.

  “Do not be alarmed, Captain,” said Father Jacob with a chuckle. “I cannot see into your head. I simply followed your thought process on your face. We were speaking of your friend as being a savant. I said I was a savant. You then began to compare the two of us, and I could see by the narrowed eyes and the dark glances you gave me that I come up short.”

  By this time they had arrived at the docks-three large piers extending into the Breath. The large ships would dock at the piers, while smaller ships that flew primarily over land would tie off onto one of the tall wooden posts that had been built for that purpose on top of the cliff. Half a dozen buildings served to store cargo and provide lodging for sailors. All stood empty now.

  The Cloud Hopper was docked at the far pier. The naval cutter had docked at the first pier, though “crashed” would be a truer description. The Suspicion’s crew worked frantically, trying desperately to find some way of keeping the battered ship from sinking. Father Jacob stopped, saying he needed to speak to the captain.

  Stephano hurried onto the Cloud Hopper. Dag and Rodrigo were waiting for him.

  “So a priest of the Arcanum is paying us a visit. This should be interesting,” said Rodrigo with a quirk of his eyebrow that Stephano knew all too well.

  “It better not be,” Stephano said in warning tones. He was about to add more when Dag seized hold of his arm and dragged him off to the forecastle.

  “That priest is from the Arcanum,” Dag said. His eyes were wide. His hand trembled.

  “He’s here to help Gythe,” said Stephano, wondering what all this was about.

  “Maybe not,” said Dag in a low voice. “Maybe he’s come for me.”

  “Why?” Stephano asked, baffled.

  “Because of… you know,” said Dag, his eyes cast down. “I’m going to Hell. Maybe he’s come to take me.”

  Stephano heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. He was feeling exactly the way he’d felt when he’d been desperately trying to control that blasted runaway horse. Some strange malady was affecting Gythe, an Arcanum inquisitor was coming aboard, Rodrigo was up to some sort of mischief, and now Dag-known for his courage and coolness under fire-had completely lost his mind.

  Stephano gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Dag, all Hell is breaking loose-literally. I need someone I can count on, someone to watch my back. I need you. Don’t let me down.”

  Dag blinked at him and then gave a rueful, half-ashamed smile. “Sure, Captain. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  By now the monk was coming on board. Stephano hurried over to greet him. “Dag, this is Brother Barnaby. Take him down to Gythe, will you?”

  Dag escorted the monk below to where Miri was keeping watch over her sister. Stephano went back to talk to Rodrigo, who was lounging against the ship’s rail, gazing at the priest.

  “Whatever you are plotting, forget it,” said Stephano. “I want that priest on and off this boat without incident.”

  “Trust me. It won’t be that easy, my friend,” said Rodrigo.

  Father Jacob had gone first to visit the naval cutter, whose crew had been working feverishly to keep the ship from sinking. Their efforts had been in vain. The crew had given up the fight to save their ship and were now hastily unloading what stores and supplies they could salvage, hauling them down a gangplank to the dock. The dead still lay on the deck. The captain and sailors had not had time to tend to them.

  Father Jacob waited until the sailors had rolled a barrel down the gangplank, then he boarded the ship and went to speak to the harried captain, who was the last man remaining.

  “Father, you shouldn’t be here!” the captain said, seeing him approach. “Suspicion is sinking beneath us! She’ll go down any moment!”

  “I came to say a prayer for your dead,” said Father Jacob coolly.

  The ship was, indeed, sinking slowly beneath them. The crew on the dock were shouting for them to come off, they couldn’t keep the gangplank in place much longer. Father Jacob paid no heed. He went to stand in front of the row of bodies: the youngest, a powder boy, age nine; the eldest a grizzled veteran with a pegleg.

  Father Jacob raised his voice in prayer. The crew on the docks fell silent. Hats off, they stood with their heads bowed. The captain removed his hat, held it over his breast. Amazingly, the ship remained steady. One of the sailors would swear later he saw God’s hand beneath it, holding it up.

  “He’s got guts, that priest,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano grunted.

  His prayer concluded, Father Jacob raised his hand in blessing, and then he and the captain literally ran for their lives across the faltering gangplank. The captain, the last to leave his ship, was standing on the gangplank when it gave way. He was saved from falling into the Breath by Father Jacob, who caught hold of him and dragged him bodily onto the dock.

  Father Jacob spoke a few words of comfort and prayer to the sailors who had been wounded and lay on the ground on litters. The ship’s doctor, a healer, was busy among them. Seeing they were in good care, Father Jacob said a final word to the captain, who looked at him grimly and then shrugged and went back to work.

  As Father Jacob walked toward the Cloud Hopper, he looked suddenly very tired.

  “I wonder what that talk with the captain was about,” said Stephano.

  “He put them under Seal,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano frowned. “What does that mean-being put under Seal?”

  “That refers to the Seal of the Arcanum. Those men will be hauled off to the Citadel, kept locked up.”

  “But why?” Stephano demanded.

  “My dear fellow, you can’t have sailors roaming about the world claiming their ship was sunk by demons,” said Rodrigo.

  “So that’s why he came with the monk,” said Stephano grimly. “He’s going to try to muzzle us. Well, he can’t. We have to get to Westfirth. We’ve lost time enough already. Which reminds me,” said Stephano, fixing Rodrigo with a stern eye, “I’m putting you under Seal. You are not to say a word about Alcazar or the duel or anything related to our job.”

  “Stephano, you wound me,” said Rodrigo, offended. “You know that I am the soul of discretion.”

  Stephano had no time to respond. In the absence of Miri, he had to greet Father Jacob as he boarded the houseboat. The priest stood looking about with a casual air that did not fool Stephano. He saw Father Jacob’s gaze go to the helm, the scorch marks on the deck, the damage done to the houseboat.

  “Welcome aboard, Father,” said Stephano in not very welcoming tones.

  He had a mind to confront the priest immediately, demand to know if they were going to be placed under Seal. He decided to hold his peace, at least for the time being. What was important now was Gythe.

  “Rodrigo de Villeneuve,” said Stephano, introducing his friend, who came up behind him. “Father Jacob Northrop.”

  Rodrigo gave a graceful bow and said, with a mournful air, “I owe my dismissal from University to you, Father Jacob.”

  “Indeed?” The priest raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes. It had to do with that book of yours, the Metaphysics of Magic: How Magic relates to Being, Knowing, Substance, Cause, Identity, Time, and Space. Our professor was expounding upon it and making a complete pig’s breakfast of it. When I pointed out where he had gone wrong in his thinking-if one wants to call it thinking-he ordered me to leave and never darken the door of his classroom again.”

  “And were you right?” Father Jacob asked, his lip twitching.

  “Oh, yes,” said Rodrigo. “That is what galled him.”

  “De Villeneuve,” Father Jacob repeated the name thoughtfully. “I seem to
recollect hearing something about an incident involving you and the grand bishop’s miter…”

  “The man has no sense of humor,” said Rodrigo.

  Father Jacob smiled. “I must go see how Brother Barnaby fares with his patient. But I look forward to hearing your views on the Metaphysics of Magic.”

  He gave a friendly nod and was going below when Rodrigo said airily, “Or perhaps you and I could talk about a new theory I was thinking of writing about. I plan to call it, The Metaphysics of Green Fire Destroying Magic.”

  Father Jacob stopped walking and turned to look back at Rodrigo.

  “You know, Monsieur, that such a thing is not possible. Magic is the Breath of God and cannot be destroyed. You are talking heresy,” said Father Jacob.

  The priest’s manner was not threatening. His voice was calm and his eyes mild, yet Stephano felt the danger, like lightning in the air. The hair rose on his arms, a shiver went down his spine. Rodrigo heard the danger. He glanced at Stephano, looked away, kept quiet.

  “I trust, however,” Father Jacob continued, “you were jesting. You are known for your sense of humor, I believe.”

  “No one takes Rigo seriously, Father,” Stephano assured him.

  “That’s true,” said Rodrigo, gulping.

  Father Jacob smiled. “I would have given a great deal to see the grand bishop’s miter go sailing about the dining room.”

  He proceeded down below.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Father,” Stephano called after him.

  He turned to Rodrigo, who was gazing after the priest with a certain amount of awe.

  “What a terrible old man! I know exactly how people feel when they encounter a basilisk. Those eyes of his froze my feet to the deck.”

  “Too bad he didn’t freeze your tongue!” Stephano said furiously. “Soul of discretion, my ass! I don’t know what you were talking about, but I’m guessing that if we weren’t going to be put under Seal before, we sure as Hell are now. I have to go. Just keep that mouth of yours shut!”

  Rodrigo gave a doleful nod. Stephano dashed down the stairs to find Father Jacobs staring at a smeared puddle of blood on the floor. Stephano was sweating, and he realized he was still wearing his heavy flight coat. He took it off and tossed it on a crate.

  “That blood belongs to a demon,” said Stephano, hoping to turn the subject away from Rodrigo. “I believe this particularly demon led the attack.”

  “How do you know that?” Father Jacob asked curiously.

  “He wore some type of knotlike device on his armor, and he was using whistles to direct the troops. He tried to board our boat. We think he was after Gythe. I shot him, but he didn’t die. Rigo killed him.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a body I could examine,” asked Father Jacob eagerly.

  “Not anymore,” said Stephano. “The body was incinerated by the same green fire that destroyed our magic. Dag said it appeared to be generated by the armor the demons wore.”

  “An interesting theory your friend, Villeneuve, has advanced,” said Father Jacob, staring fixedly at the blood. “Green fire destroying the magic.”

  Stephano wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Relax, Captain,” said Father Jacob. “I am not such ‘a terrible man’ as your friend seems to think. Where is the young woman who is ill?”

  “Gythe’s quarters are this way, Father,” Stephano said.

  As they continued down the passageway, Stephano heard Gythe’s voice, singing softly. A chill went through him. She was singing a nursery rhyme. He found Dag standing in the doorway of the room where the sisters slept. His hands and face and uniform were black with gunpowder residue and red with blood, some of it his own. Doctor Ellington was curled up on Dag’s shoulder. Seeing the priest, Dag whipped off his hat and ducked his head, muttering something no one could hear. He flattened himself against a bulkhead, allowing Father Jacob to squeeze past him.

  “A very handsome cat,” said Father Jacob, pausing to regard the Doctor, who was regarding the priest with slit-eyed dislike. The cat’s hackles rose, he sank his claws into the padding on the coat. “What is the name?”

  Dag hastily reached up his hand to try to soothe the ruffled cat. “Doctor Ellington, Father.”

  “Doctor Ellington,” Father Jacob repeated in admiring tones. He wisely made no move to pet the Doctor. “Interesting name. There’s a story involved, I’ll wager. I look forward to hearing it.”

  Stephano and Dag exchanged grim glances. The priest sounded as though he intended to stick around for awhile.

  Father Jacob entered the room with silent and measured tread. Stephano went in after him. The cabin was crowded. Despite having removed his coat, he was still sweating.

  Gythe sat huddled in a corner, her knees drawn up to her chest, playing with some of Doctor Ellington’s yarn, twining the strands around her fingers to form a Cat’s Cradle and singing to herself in a high, shrill voice.

  Brother Barnaby knelt down in front of her. “May I play your game with you?”

  Gythe looked at him and laughed and held out her hands with the yarn twined around them to him.

  Brother Barnaby took hold of yarn that was in the shape of the Cat’s Cradle, tugged at the crossed strings, and pulled them out from the center. He twined the yarn around his fingers to form the Soldier’s Bed. Gythe clapped her hands and then took hold of the yarn and plucked it off and held up the configuration known as the Candle.

  Miri sat on the bed. Her face was drawn and strained with fear. Intent upon Gythe, she hadn’t heard Father Jacob enter. The priest kept his distance, silently watching, assessing.

  “At least Gythe is conscious,” said Stephano.

  “The moment the good Brother put his hands on her, she stopped twitching and moaning,” said Dag. “She relaxed and woke up and smiled. But when Miri tried to talk to her, she climbed out of bed and ran to sit in the corner.”

  Miri heard them talking and looked around. Seeing the priest, she rose to her feet and stretched out her hand.

  “Papa Jake!” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re here. Thank God!”

  Stephano stared in astonishment. He dimly remembered hearing Miri talk about a priest who defied Church law by administering sacraments to the Trundlers. The nomadic people had been declared apostates, after openly rebelling against the Church centuries ago, following the deliberate sinking of their island homeland. Some wondered why the Trundlers wanted the blessing of a God in which they didn’t believe, but though they may have renounced their faith, they had retained a superstitious trust in the sacraments, especially those that marked passages in life such as baptisms, marriages, and the last rites.

  A priest known affectionately as Papa Jake often visited the Trundlers to perform the rites. He was one of the few priests welcome among them, for he did not preach at them or harangue them or threaten them with hellfire and brimstone if they didn’t change their wicked ways.

  Father Jacob greeted Miri in her own language, speaking soothing words of comfort. When she began to cry, he embraced her, patting her on the back until her sobs lessened and she grew quiet. Miri blinked her shimmering eyes and looked up at him.

  “I am so glad you are here, Papa,” she said. Her clothes were stained and torn; her face smeared with tears and gunpowder. “You must say a prayer for Gythe. Give her your blessing.”

  “We will all pray together,” said Father Jacob.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder, including Dag and Stephano, and knelt on the scorched planks where the demon had died. Miri sank down beside him, her hands clasped, her disheveled hair falling about her shoulders. Dag hurriedly removed Doctor Ellington from his shoulder and dumped him on deck. The cat stalked out into the passageway. Stephano could see yellow eyes gleaming in the shadows. Dag, with some effort, managed to lower himself to his knees. He clasped his hands and bowed his head.

  Stephano was the only one still on his feet, and he had the feeling Father Jacob knew it, though the pries
t had his back turned and his head bowed. Stephano joined the cat in the shadows of the corridor. He and God were on speaking terms, but Stephano was not yet ready to kneel to Him or anyone. He did bow his head and, in his heart, he joined in the prayer. Father Jacob spoke in the Trundler language, of which Stephano knew only a smattering. He couldn’t understand the words, but he could hear in the priest’s rich, mellifluous voice his compassion, his steadfast faith.

  Stephano did not know what to make of the enigmatic Father Jacob.

  The prayer ended. Miri rose to her feet, wiping her eyes and unwittingly smearing gunpowder residue across her face.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. He put his arm around her shoulders and spoke a few soft words to her. She smiled and went to sit on the floor beside Brother Barnaby. Father Jacob assisted Dag to his feet. The big man’s face was flushed; he didn’t seem to know where to look.

  “Thank you, Father,” he mumbled.

  “Let us leave them,” Father Jacob said, herding Dag out into the narrow passageway where they encountered Stephano and the Doctor. The cat hissed at the priest. Dag made a grab for the cat. He missed. Doctor Ellington dashed into the cabin where Brother Barnaby was still playing Cat’s Cradle with Gythe, each of them taking turns forming the yarn into various configurations.

  The cat ran to Gythe and, lifting his paw, began batting at the yarn. Brother Barnaby reached out to pet the Doctor, who arched his back beneath the monk’s touch and purred loudly.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said Dag, flushing even more deeply. “The Doctor’s making a nuisance of himself. I’ll fetch him-”

  “The cat is trying in his own way to help her,” said Father Jacob, halting Dag. “Never discount love, no matter how small the heart that offers it.”