Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  The agent was limp, unconscious. Stephano rolled him over to find that the agent had hit his head on the edge of the curb. Stephano examined him. His skull was cracked and bleeding, but he was breathing. Stephano took hold of the man by the shoulders and dragged him into one of the horse stalls and dumped him in the hay. He’d wake up with the world’s worst headache, but at least he’d wake up.

  Stephano had been toying with the idea of questioning the agent at gunpoint, asking him for information about his boss. That was obviously no longer an option. Stephano left the mews. Looking back toward the boarding house, he could not see Monsieur Russo, but he figured he was watching. Stephano touched his hat and continued down the street, heading in the direction Miri and Gythe had taken as they followed Dubois.

  The sisters had a good head start on Stephano, but Gythe would leave a trail for him. When he came to an intersection of two streets and needed direction, he looked about and almost immediately saw a ball of bright white light dancing among the lower branches of a flowering shrub. Known as “fireflies,” these sparkling balls were among the first magical spells taught to children, for they could be created by drawing a single, simple sigil on a bit of paper.

  The fireflies have no particular use, other than to introduce children to the wonders of magic. (And entertain cats. Doctor Ellington was particularly fond of chasing them around the deck.) Fireflies do not generate heat and are not harmful. Those created by children generally last only a few moments. Gythe’s fireflies lasted hours, however. She could even cause them to glow different colors.

  Gythe and Stephano had worked out a code, so that he or Dag or anyone else in the Cadre could tell by the number of fireflies what direction the subject had taken, or if Gythe and Miri had lost the subject, or if the subject had entered a building or jumped into a cab, and so on. Anyone seeing the fireflies flickering in a bush or sparkling in a gutter would merely assume that children had been playing with magic and would think nothing of it.

  Stephano’s main worry was that Wallace’s agent, Dubois, would have taken a cab to his destination, in which case they would lose him. Stephano and Rodrigo and Gythe had tried to develop spells that could be thrown onto the back of a cab in order to track it through the streets, but thus far they had met with only limited success. Traffic tended to obliterate or displace any sort of magical markers left on the pavement and if the cab was drawn by a wyvern and took to the skies they’d lost the person for good.

  Fortune smiled on Stephano. Dubois walked back to his lodgings, which were not far from the boarding house. Miri and Gythe had no difficulty following him. Stephano followed the firefly directions and found the sisters sitting on a low wall-two weary nuns taking their ease.

  “He’s in there,” said Miri, indicating a small inn in a residential neighborhood.

  “For how long, I wonder,” Stephano said.

  “Oh, he’s going to be there for some time,” said Miri complacently. “Gythe and I went inside to ask the landlord for a donation to our Home for Wayward Children. We heard this Dubois fellow tell the innkeeper to have his dinner sent up to his room. He also said that if anyone came asking for him, to send them in to him immediately.”

  “Excellent!” said Stephano, and he added teasingly, “Did you get any money for your wayward children?”

  Miri held up a coin. “I figure I’ve earned it,” she said with a wry smile.

  “I’m truly sorry I brought all this trouble on you, Miri,” said Stephano ruefully. “Am I forgiven?”

  “So long as you convince Dag I did not poison his cat,” said Miri feelingly.

  Stephano leaned his head under Miri’s wimple and gave her a kiss, causing two women walking past to glare at him in shocked reproof.

  “And now,” said Stephano, reaching into his jacket to give the dragon pistol a reassuring touch, “let us go ruin the dinner of Monsieur Dubois.”

  Sir Henry Wallace watched with satisfaction as Stephano removed Dubois’ agent. Wallace still had a problem, however, in the form of Dag Thorgrimson. Henry had not counted on Stephano leaving the mercenary and Rodrigo behind with orders to escort Alcazar to the ship. Henry considered shooting Dag, but the mercenary’s competence in handling his weapons and the fact that he was holding a loaded musket forced Henry to dismiss that notion. He might try bribing him, but one look at Dag’s ugly, loyal face, his stalwart, soldierly mien, and Henry knew bribery was not going to work.

  Henry sat at the table, half-listening to Rodrigo and Alcazar talk, considering ways to get rid of Dag.

  After imbibing several glasses of wine, Alcazar had recovered quite remarkably from his fright. He and Rodrigo were discussing Alcazar’s job as a journeyman with the Royal Armory. Alcazar, aware of Sir Henry’s eye on him, had been careful not to mention anything regarding his discovery up to this point. But now the wine had gone to his head. He was chatting away happily when suddenly something seemed to strike him.

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but did you say your name was Villeneuve?” Alcazar asked.

  “I did, sir,” said Rodrigo.

  “Rodrigo de Villeneuve? The man who wrote the treatise on Magic and Metallurgy?”

  “The same,” said Rodrigo, delighted. “Have you read it?”

  “My dear sir,” said Alcazar with emotion, reaching out to clasp Rodrigo by the hands, “it was your brilliant theories that led me to my discovery-”

  At the word, “discovery,” Sir Henry’s attention snapped back to the conversation. He fixed Alcazar with a hard, glittering stare that froze the words in the journeyman’s mouth and ended the conversation in mid sentence. Henry turned his attention to Rodrigo, who was humming a popular aria and accompanying himself on the table, running his fingers over the table as though it were a pianoforte. Rodrigo appeared to be completely self-absorbed, giving no indication that he had heard Alcazar’s babbling, much less understood the importance of what he’d said.

  But Sir Henry was not fooled. He had caught the quick gleam of intelligence in the brown eyes and the smile of cynical amusement on the sensitive mouth.

  “I do not trust you, Monsieur,” said Henry Wallace to himself, gazing at Rodrigo from beneath half-closed eyelids. “Captain de Guichen is not the type of man to have a fool for a friend.”

  Sir Henry rose to his feet. He saw Dag shift his hand to the trigger of the musket.

  “I’m only going to take a look outside,” said Sir Henry, and he walked to the window.

  Several people were moving along the street. Sir Henry dismissed all of them as being unsuitable and eventually settled on a man dressed in shabby clothes who was walking slowly, peering at the houses, as though searching for an address. Henry summoned Dag.

  “That man is one of my agents. I’m going to go speak to him. Remain here where I can summon you if I have need.”

  Dag nodded silently and, putting down the musket and, keeping his hand on a pistol beneath his coat, took up his station near the entrance to the boarding house. Henry hurried outside and ran out into the street. He stopped the man by flinging an arm around the stranger’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry to detain you, friend,” said Sir Henry. “But there is a silver petal in this for you if you will stand here and converse with me a moment. How do you find the weather? I fear we may have rain this afternoon. There is a smell of thunder in the air. What do you think?”

  “I think it is uncommonly hot, sir,” said the man, seeing the glint of silver in Sir Henry’s palm.

  “An astute observation,” said Sir Henry. “Here is your money. Off you go.”

  He clapped the stranger on the shoulder, then turned and walked back into the house, leaving the stranger to stare after him a moment, then shrug and continue on his way.

  Sir Henry motioned Dag to accompany him back to the room where Alcazar and Rodrigo were pouring more wine.

  “I fear I am the bearer of bad news regarding your friends, the two young women,” said Henry. “My agent brought word. Dubois discovered t
he two women were following him. He and his agents seized them and carried them off. Your help is needed at once.”

  Dag’s face creased in worry. He scooped up Doctor Ellington, settled the cat on his shoulder, then reached for his musket.

  “You coming, Rigo?” Dag demanded, glowering.

  Rodrigo remained seated.

  “Stephano told us to stay here,” Rodrigo said, playing a silent sonata.

  Dag glowered. “You stay, then. God forbid you should get your clothes dirty.”

  “Dag,” said Rodrigo quietly, “I think we should do what Stephano says.”

  At this, Dag hesitated. He was clearly worried about the welfare of the women, but he was also worried about disobeying Stephano’s orders. Henry took charge.

  “Captain de Guichen could not have foreseen this development. You should go help your friends, Thorgrimson,” said Sir Henry. “Monsieur de Villeneuve and I will remain here until you return.”

  Dag looked relieved. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Dag,” said Rodrigo, his voice taking on a note of urgency. “You should stay. This man is-”

  Sir Henry reached into his coat, drew a small stowaway pistol and, using his coat to shield the weapon from Dag’s sight, aimed the pistol at Rodrigo’s heart.

  “This man is what?” Dag asked impatiently.

  “-going to fetch another bottle of wine,” said Rodrigo.

  Dag shook his head in exasperation and hurried out the door, carrying the musket. The Doctor rode on his shoulder, tail switching as he dug in his claws to keep hold.

  Rodrigo glanced at the gun and smiled.

  “You know who I am,” said Sir Henry.

  “Although we were never formally introduced, I believe I have the dubious pleasure of addressing Sir Henry Wallace,” said Rodrigo.

  “Your servant, sir,” said Sir Henry.

  Alcazar was blinking at them both in drunken confusion. “Sir Henry? Who’s that? This man is not Sir Henry. His name is Russo…”

  Henry gestured at Alcazar with the pistol and told him to shut up. Alcazar stared at the pistol, gulped, hesitated, then pushed himself up from the table.

  “I don’t feel good,” he said and tottered unsteadily toward the bedroom.

  Rodrigo looked after him, then looked back at Sir Henry.

  “It is true, then. That journeyman, Alcazar, developed a formula for strengthening metal using magic. I theorized it might be possible, you know,” Rodrigo added, with a shrug, “But I never put my theories to the test. Too much bother.”

  He hummed a waltz and ran his hands over the imaginary keyboard. Then he stopped, his fingers hovering. “That confounded theory is the reason you wanted to kill me!”

  Rodrigo pondered this a moment, then continued his playing. “Stephano and I both wondered. We couldn’t figure out why anyone would go to such lengths to get rid of me.”

  “When the countess figured out that Alcazar had succeeded where so many others had failed and that he was now working for Freya, she would have dug around until she discovered that treatise of yours, then put you to work to re-create the procedure.”

  “Put me to work…” Rodrigo repeated the words with a soft chuckle. “Some things are impossible, sir, even for the countess.”

  “Once Alcazar is back, we will leave for the docks,” said Sir Henry. “I will be requiring the pleasure of your company.”

  “The harbor is closed,” Rodrigo observed. “The authorities will not allow your ship to depart. If you attempt to run, the shore batteries will open fire on your ship.”

  “Not when I have a hostage on board. Captain de Guichen would certainly never permit a friend of his to come to harm, sir,” said Sir Henry.

  “And how is Stephano to know I’m aboard your ship?” Rodrigo performed an intricate cadenza.

  “Oh, he’ll know,” predicted Sir Henry with a smile.

  Rodrigo thought this over and played a second silent sonata. “A mere former captain doesn’t wield much authority with the admirals of the Royal Navy.”

  “Ah, but the son of the Countess de Marjolaine is not a mere captain, sir,” said Sir Henry.

  Rodrigo sipped his wine and conceded that this was true. “We are sailing to Freya, I suppose?”

  “Some of us are sailing to Freya, Monsieur,” said Henry gravely. “One of us, I fear, will be dropped into the Breath. After you are no longer of use to me.”

  “Ah,” said Rodrigo. “Of course. If you don’t mind my asking, sir, was it this Dubois person who shot your friends in there?”

  “A private quarrel,” said Sir Henry with an apologetic air. “I fear I cannot discuss it.”

  Rodrigo dashed off a saraband. “You appear to have a vast number of enemies, Sir Henry.”

  “Let us simply say that I will be extremely glad to leave Rosia, Monsieur de Villeneuve,” said Henry Wallace with feeling.

  Alcazar returned. His coat had been hastily thrown on. None of the buttons were buttoned correctly and his collar stuck up behind his ears.

  Sir Henry gestured with the pistol. “Time to go, Monsieur de Villeneuve. Take charge of this drunken idiot. Keep him on his feet.”

  Rodrigo took hold of the unsteady Alcazar, who was green about the nose and mouth and continuing to mumble that he didn’t feel well. On their way out the door, Rodrigo stopped and turned to face Sir Henry.

  “I was wondering…”

  Henry thrust the barrel of the gun into Rodrigo’s ribs.

  “Yes? What?”

  “Could we stop by my tailor?” Rodrigo inquired. “It’s on the way.”

  Stephano and Miri discussed their plans as they walked slowly toward Dubois’ lodging. A modest sign referred to this inn as The Ivy, an appropriate name considering that much of the brickwork of the three-story building was covered with green leaves and trailing vines. The inn housed few guests, apparently, for most of the windows to the rooms were closed and shuttered. One window belonging to a corner room on the second floor was open, admitting sunlight and fresh air, and providing an excellent view of the main street and a side street. Stephano kept an eye on the window of that room, but saw no one.

  “You have that paper with the king’s seal Russo gave you,” Miri was arguing. “I think you should summon the constables and have them arrest this Dubois.”

  Stephano shook his head. “By the time I found the Chief Constable and showed him the paper and convinced him the seal was real and the crisis was real and that I’m real and I’m who I say I am, he would have to collect his men and they’d have to march here, by which time Dubois could be on the move again and we’d never catch him. Besides,” said Stephano, checking to make certain his pistol was loaded, “I don’t exactly trust Monsieur Russo or his paper.”

  “I gathered that when you left Dag with him,” said Miri. “What are we going to do with Dubois once we have him?”

  “I will take him along to Monsieur Russo, collect everyone involved in the same room, hold them all at gunpoint, and see if we can sort this out,” said Stephano. “We’re going to make this apprehension quick and quiet. You and Gythe keep the landlord occupied while I speak to Dubois. Are you ready, Sisters?”

  “We’re ready,” said Miri crisply. “Gythe, dear, time to feel faint.”

  Gythe smiled and winked at Stephano. She put her hand to her forehead. Her eyes rolled back. She swayed on her feet. Miri cried out in alarm. Stephano lifted Gythe in his arms and carried her inside the inn.

  “The sister has fainted,” he told the landlord.

  “Sister Catherine is feeling ill from the heat,” Miri told the landlord. “Could she rest here a moment, Monsieur? This room is so lovely and cool.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the landlord, hovering near. He turned to a servant. “Fetch some brandy for the sister. Take her into the parlor, sir.”

  Stephano carried Gythe into a room off the main lobby and laid her gently on a couch.

  “Thank you for coming to our aid, Monsieur,” said
Miri.

  Stephano bowed. “My pleasure, Sister. I happened to be here myself on business. Do you require my assistance for anything else?”

  Miri assured Stephano that he was no longer needed. He turned to the landlord, who was hovering over the young and very beautiful nun, asking if she would like something to eat and shouting once more for the brandy.

  “I came to see Monsieur Dubois,” Stephano said, interrupting. “What room is he in?”

  “What? Who? Oh, room number 6,” said the distracted landlord.

  Grinning, Stephano dashed up the stairs. He moved swiftly, treading softly. Entering the hall, he found the door with a brass number 6 nailed to it at the top of the stairs. Stephano gently tried the door handle and found it locked. He rapped on the door smartly.

  “Who is it?” a mild voice called.

  “Your dinner, sir,” said Stephano in servile tones.

  He heard the shuffling of papers, footsteps, then the key turning. The moment Stephano heard the lock click, he kicked open the door and jumped inside, his pistol drawn and aimed at Dubois.

  Stephano came to an abrupt halt. Dubois stood with his pistol aimed at Stephano. The two men faced off, each with a pistol aimed at the other.

  Dubois suddenly recognized his assailant.

  “Captain de Guichen!” Dubois exclaimed and raised his weapon, pointing the gun at the ceiling. Unfortunately, due to amazement or perhaps out of nervousness, Dubois inadvertently squeezed the trigger. The gun went off, blowing a hole in the plaster.

  At the sound of the gunshot, cries and shouts came from below. The landlord was demanding to know what the devil was going on, and Miri was crying out that Sister Catherine had fainted once again. Stephano waved away the smoke, all the while keeping his pistol aimed at Dubois. Miri could be counted on to deal with the landlord.

  “What is the meaning of this armed invasion, Captain de Guichen?” Dubois demanded with indignation.

  “You can cancel your plans to kidnap Alcazar today, Monsieur,” said Stephano in pleasant tones. “Be so good as to inform your master.”

  “Kidnap! Alcazar!” Dubois gasped. “My ‘master,’ as you refer to His Eminence, Captain, is trying to rescue Alcazar, not kidnap him.”