“Believe me, you little prick, I would like nothing better than to kill you. But I need someone to take a message to Eiddwen and you’re all I’ve got,” said Henry. “First, what does she want with me?”
The Warlock’s answer was a sneer.
Henry regarded him grimly. “Very well. Then tell her this. I’m no threat to her. I have no interest in her twisted affairs. And you can also tell her that if she ever tries to harm my family again, I will track her to the farthest ends of the seven continents. I will track her to the very depths of Hell if I must. And when I find her-and I will find her-she will be very, very sorry. You tell her that-when you wake up.”
Henry slammed the pistol into the Warlock’s face. He heard the crunch of bone. The young man fell unconscious. The next problem was what to do with him. It would never do for the constables to discover him.
The sight of a heavily laden barge creeping along in the canal gave Sir Henry an idea. He dragged the unconscious young man over to the side of the canal, waited for the barge to draw near. When the barge was directly underneath him, Henry tipped the Warlock over the side and watched him fall. The young man landed on a tarp-covered pile of whatever goods the barge was hauling. He lay there, unmoving, as the barge drifted slowly on its way. Sir Henry continued down Canal Street.
All this time, through smoke, green fire, and blood, Henry Wallace had kept hold of the pewter tankard, his key to the destruction of Rosia, providing proof that Alcazar had succeeded in producing magic-reinforced steel. Henry had a sudden, terrible thought. The tankard had taken a direct hit from the green fire. The magical sigils that reinforced the steel would have been destroyed, like the sigils in the leather satchel or those in his greatcoat-or those on board the ill-fated cutter, Defiant, when the ship had been attacked by the green-fire weapon. The tankard was now worthless. A prey to gloom, he stopped beneath a gas lamp and drew out a monocle set with magical sigils. He flicked the sigils with a fingernail, and they burst into glowing light. He held the monocle to the tankard.
“I’ll be damned!” Sir Henry breathed, awed.
He did not believe his eyes. He ran his hands over the tankard’s surface, the pewter’s cold, smooth, unblemished surface.
The contramagic that had sunk a naval cutter and toppled a stone watchtower had no effect on this pewter tankard.
The astounding possibilities burst like a skyrocket in Sir Henry’s brain. He did not have time to consider them. His cover was destroyed. Eiddwen knew he was in Westfirth. Father Jacob knew he was in Westfirth. The countess’ bastard son, Stephano de Guichen, undoubtedly by now knew Sir Henry was in Westfirth.
Time to leave Westfirth, whether Pietro Alcazar liked it or not.
Dubois could have also been added to Sir Henry’s list, because he knew Sir Henry was in Westfirth and he was elated. His persistence in following Stephano de Guichen had paid off, though not quite in the way Dubois had expected.
Fearing that time was running out and the chance to nab Sir Henry Wallace on Rosian soil would slip through his fingers, Dubois had made the desperate decision to take Stephano de Guichen into custody. Dubois would use the “murder” of James Harrington as an excuse to arrest Lord Captain de Guichen and interrogate him. Dubois was well aware that arresting the captain would be difficult, if not downright dangerous. He knew the captain’s “Cadre” of comrades and their readiness to defend him. He also knew that the countess would shake Heaven and earth with her rage when she found out that her son had been arrested. Dubois spent the afternoon assembling a group of agents, all the while keeping watch on those who came and went from the Cloud Hopper.
When Gythe and Dag left the boat to go fetch Brother Barnaby, Dubois saw them depart, but paid no heed. He was still waiting for his agents to arrive to launch his assault. He had his men assembled and was just about ready to make the arrest, when Dag and Gythe returned with the monk in tow. Dubois recognized the monk. That morning, Dubois had gone to pay a visit to the archbishop, to deliver the grand bishop’s orders, and he had observed the monk in company with Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum.
Dubois was startled and not pleased. Here was a question he could not answer. How did Father Jacob know Captain de Guichen? Were they friends? Was the captain working for the Arcanum now? If so, what would the Arcanum do if Dubois arrested Captain de Guichen? Dubois was prepared to deal with the fury of the Countess de Marjolaine, but he did not want to offend the Arcanum.
Brother Barnaby was a healer. The captain had probably sent for him to treat his wounds. That much, at least, made sense. Dubois was trying to make up his mind whether or not to proceed when the captain’s mercenary friend and the monk left the boat, going somewhere in haste. The monk looked worried. The mercenary looked very grim and was armed to the teeth.
Dubois’ nerves tingled. Something dire was happening and it might be connected with Sir Henry Wallace and the missing journeyman. Dubois was not quite sure how the monk fit into all this, but he would worry about that later. Leaving a number of his men to keep an eye on the Cloud Hopper, Dubois took with him one of his most trusted agents, a man known as Red Dog. The two followed Dag to Bitter End Street, arriving in the midst of the ambush.
Hearing explosions and the sound of gunfire and smelling smoke, Dubois and Red Dog took cover. Dubois peered out from behind a building and did not believe his eyes. He actually rubbed them to make certain he was not seeing things.
“God save us!” Red Dog gasped, joining him.
Father Jacob Northrop, priest of the Arcanum, his Knight Protector, and Sir Henry Wallace, the man for whom Dubois had been long searching were under attack-by fiends from Hell.
Dubois’ neatly organized mind reeled, incapable of belief. He even wondered for an agonized moment if someone had slipped opium into his mutton stew. The sight of the calm and cool soldier, Dag, lifting his musket to his shoulder and firing at one of the demons, the sound of the shot and the acrid smell of gunpowder was all very real and prosaic and comforted Dubois. One look at his agent, whose eyes were bulging and mouth gaping, and Dubois realized that if this was a drug-induced dream, then they were both dreaming it. Knowing this to be impossible, Dubois felt better. His mind reverted back to its normal logical operation. He ignored everything else and concentrated on Sir Henry Wallace.
“He’s on the move!” Dubois said, indicating Sir Henry. He shook his dazed agent, who was still staring at the demons. “Be quick!”
Sir Henry was at that moment marching the Warlock down the alley. Dubois and Red Dog followed from a safe distance. They watched Henry pistol-whip the young man and dump him onto the passing barge. They kept to the shadows as Sir Henry paused beneath the gas lamp to look at an object he’d been carrying; an object Dubois thought at first was another pistol. The light gleaming on pewter proved Dubois mistaken. Of all the amazing events of the evening, this was the most puzzling. Sir Henry had waded through hellfire and blood, and instead of fleeing for his life, he had stopped to study a pewter tankard. Dubois could make nothing of this, and it bothered him.
Sir Henry appeared extremely pleased with his tankard. He smiled all the way down Canal Street and chuckled to himself as he turned onto the Street of Saints. Every so often, he would glance behind to see if he was being followed. Dubois made certain Henry didn’t see a thing.
Sir Henry came to a halt at the head of the Street of Saints. He removed the coat he’d been wearing, folded it carefully, and placed the coat over his arm, deftly using it to conceal the pewter tankard. Beneath the coat, he was wearing evening clothes, such as a gentleman might wear to pay a visit to one of the gambling houses: black velvet coat discreetly trimmed in dark red, black stockings with dark red aiguillettes at the knees, a white silk cravat. He had lost his hat in the battle. He drew a black silk mask from a pocket and tied it around his face, then walked briskly for about six blocks until he arrived at one of the city’s more exclusive bordellos.
The clock in a nearby church chimed seven times. The hour was e
arly; the house’s clientele would not arrive until much, much later. Henry did not enter the house. He spoke to the doorman, who greeted him familiarly, despite the fact that Henry was wearing a mask. Those visiting such establishments often concealed their true identities.
Dubois moved closer, gliding behind a hedge in order to eavesdrop on the conversation. Sir Henry told a tale of having been waylaid by thieves. The doorman listened in shock and deprecated the lack of police vigilance in the city. Sir Henry wondered if he could be given a ride to his lodgings. The doorman replied that the bordello’s carriage was always at the disposal of their favorite clients. The doorman summoned a page, who was sent round to the stables. Within moments, an enclosed carriage drove up to the front.
“Blue Parrot,” the doorman told the driver, who was assisting Sir Henry to enter.
“He’s getting away! Let’s grab him now,” said Red Dog, spoiling for some action.
“We can’t. He has not broken any law,” said Dubois.
“He’s a goddam spy!” said Red Dog.
Dubois explained. “Henry Wallace is also a diplomat. We are not at war with Freya. Sir Henry would say he was here on business for his government and would claim diplomatic immunity. We need to catch him with the journeyman trying to flee the country. I’ll follow Sir Henry. You go back, assemble the men, and meet me…”
Dubois paused, thinking.
“At the Blue Parrot?” Red Dog asked.
“No, not there. Wallace might see us and give us the slip. We will meet at the Masons’ Guildhall. It’s a block north of the Parrot.”
“What about Captain de Guichen? Should I leave people to watch his bo at?”
“Forget him. He has served his purpose.”
“What about them demons?” Red Dog asked.
Dubois had actually forgotten the demons in his excitement. He brought to mind the report the grand bishop had sent him. The nun had described the abbey’s attackers as “demons hurling balls of green fire.”
“We will deal with them later,” said Dubois. To his mind, Sir Henry was the primary devil.
“I guess the boss’ll take care of ’em,” said Red Dog, referring to one of the heads of the criminal gangs that ran Westfirth.
Red Dog left to assemble his comrades. Dubois, who was not an exclusive customer of the bordello, had to summon his own cab. As he rolled off toward the Blue Parrot, Dubois reveled in his victory. At long last, he would have enough evidence to send Rosia’s most dangerous foe, Sir Henry Wallace, to the gallows.
What were fiends from Hell compared to that!
Chapter Thirty-Four
In my years serving the Arcanum, I have seen enough evil in this world to know that we do not need the Devil to create Hell. Hell is the destruction of hope and the loss of faith brought on by man’s inhumanity to man.
– Father Jacob Northrop
DAG AND BROTHER BARNABY WERE ON THEIR WAY to Bitter End Lane and were still several blocks away when they heard the first explosion and saw green fire light the sky.
“Demons!” Brother Barnaby gasped.
Dag shook his head and muttered, “Damn!” He had been planning to approach cautiously, holding back, not wanting to make his presence known until he first ascertained that Father Jacob was truly in danger.
No need for caution now. Dag broke into a run.
“Stay put, Brother!” he shouted behind him.
Brother Barnaby had no intention of staying anywhere. He paused only long enough to hike up the skirts of his long robes. Frantic with fear for Father Jacob and Sir Ander, he fumbled at the cloth. Suddenly other hands were helping him, deft fingers tucking folds of the hem securely into his belt.
Brother Barnaby looked into Gythe’s blue eyes. Startled, he seized hold of her.
“Child, you shouldn’t be here!” Brother Barnaby said in dismay.
Gythe’s fingers were cold. She was shivering with fear. She shook her head, however, and gave him a tremulous smile. Wrenching free of his grasp, she ran after Dag.
“Gythe, come back!” Barnaby shouted.
Dag heard the monk’s shout and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Gythe running toward him, he scowled and motioned peremptorily that she was to keep out of the fight. Gythe stopped and stood in the middle of the street, staring in horror at the demons. Brother Barnaby caught up with her. Not knowing what else to do, he shoved her into a recessed doorway.
“You will be safe here,” Barnaby said, praying he was right. “Stay until we come for you.”
Gythe gave a shuddering nod and Barnaby left her to follow Dag into the smoke and fire.
Gythe remained crouched in the doorway where Brother Barnaby had told her to stay. She saw bright flashes of green light, but this time the magic didn’t hurt her, not like when the magic was hitting the protective spells she’d woven around her boat. She had trusted that she and Miri and the others were safe on the boat with the spells wrapped around them, like silkworms in a silken cocoon. But then the cocoon had caught fire.
She ran away from the fire, hoping to find the time she had been happy and unknowing. But the world was dark. She couldn’t find the path. And she could still feel the pain, no matter how far she ran. When the pain finally stopped, Gythe realized she didn’t know how to get back. She huddled in the darkness, alone and terrified, and then she heard a man’s voice, gentle and soothing, calling her name.
She was afraid to answer, but she hoped the man would find her, for he sounded warm and caring. She began to hum a little song to keep up her spirits, and the man heard the song and found her in her hiding place. A monk held out his hands to her, and she took his hands and he led her safely home.
But the monk had not been the only one to hear her song. Far, far, far away was a drumbeat, soft as a heartbeat, but not as steady. The beat was slow and erratic and frightening. And there were the voices far away as the drumbeat. The voices were not gentle. They were terrible voices: hurtful and cruel and filled with hatred.
The voices ebbed and flowed like the currents of the Breath. Here in the street the voices were suddenly strong, voices of fury and rage. Voices of killing. Blood and death and hatred.
Gythe began to hum a song, a little song. Whenever she sang in the park and played her harp, people stopped talking. They fell silent to listen. She hummed desperately, hoping the voices would fall silent and they would stop hurting her friends.
The voices didn’t grow silent, but they changed. They sounded bewildered. They called to her. Like the demon who had come on board the ship. The demon had been trying to find her.
Gythe hummed her little song to try to drown out the sound of gunshots. She put her fingers into her ears and closed her eyes, and the voices were again talking about pain and death and hatred.
Accusing voices. “You left us to die here below!”
“It wasn’t our fault!” Gythe wept, her silent voice answering all the others, those who were also silent. “We couldn’t hear you. We didn’t know…”
When Dag saw Father Jacob and Sir Ander lying in the street, he was certain they were dead. He could not see them clearly, with the smoke swirling about, but neither man was moving. Dag had made a swift assessment of the situation as he came up on it. Two demons were on the rooftop of a warehouse with what appeared to be a mounted swivel gun. They had not yet seen him. At the end of the lane, a man stood with his hands in the air. Two demons were in front of him, their weapons aimed at him. He was obviously pleading for his life. In a bold move, the man fired at one of the demons and threw whatever he’d been holding in his other hand at the second demon.
Dag did not know this man, but any enemy of the demons was a friend of Dag’s. He shouted for the man to duck. The stranger reacted with a speed which indicated he’d done this sort of thing before. He hit the pavement. Dag fired his musket and had the satisfaction of seeing half a demon’s head dissolve into a bloody mess. The man was on his feet before the smoke cleared. The man fired another pistol at someone who had appar
ently been hiding in the alley and then kept on going, leaving Dag and his friends to fend for themselves.
Dag shrugged. He supposed he couldn’t blame the gentleman. He looked up to see the demons training their swivel gun on him and made a backward scramble to take cover against the same warehouse the demons were using to mount their assault. Expecting grapeshot, Dag was startled to see the swivel gun shoot a ball of green fire. The flames struck the pavement right where he had been standing. The blast flattened Dag back against the wall. Smoke stung his eyes; chunks of cobblestones slammed into him. Fortunately, his steel breastplate protected him from the worst.
Dag swiftly and expertly reloaded the musket and looked up to see what the demons were doing. They had mounted the swivel gun on the roof directly above him. The demons could look down and see him, but they could not bring their weapon to bear on him. Dag had counted on this when he chose his cover. Seeing their heads poking over the edge, Dag fired the musket. The heads vanished.
Dag reloaded. So long as he stood in this place, directly beneath the swivel gun, the demons could not hit him. The moment he moved, the green fireballs would blow him apart. He was considering his options when suddenly he didn’t have any.
Brother Barnaby came running into Bitter End Lane, heading straight for Father Jacob. Dag looked up to see the gun’s muzzle swinging about, taking aim at the monk. Dag swore roundly and fired the musket at the demons. Not waiting to see if he’d done any damage, he slung the gun by its strap over his shoulder, lowered his head, and charged across the street. He slammed into Brother Barnaby and they both went down. Dag shielded the monk with his body as a green fireball exploded in the air above them. Dag could feel the heat radiate through his armor.
He scrambled quickly to his feet. Brother Barnaby was dazed, probably wondering what had hit him. Dag seized hold of the monk by the collar of his habit and dragged him into the shadows of a building, hoping without much hope that they were out of range of the swivel gun. Once there, Dag let loose of the monk and took the opportunity to reload the musket.
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