“Lace cuffs. Attending the ball tonight?”
“We are entertaining nobility,” Sir Ander said. “A change from the usual assortment of thieves, warlocks, and murderers you generally invite.”
He inspected the room. The library was small and cozy, and smelled pleasantly of leather and vellum. A thick carpet dampened sound. The walls were lined with bookshelves with nooks in between to hang paintings. The furniture consisted of comfortable leather reading chairs, hassocks, and several writing desks. A bottle of very fine sherry stood on the sideboard, along with a plate of small cakes. Father Jacob had lit a single lamp.
“I’ll wait at the palace’s front entrance to meet them,” Sir Ander offered. “I don’t trust the servants and I want to see if either of them has been followed.”
“Not to mention spending a few moments alone in the company of the beautiful countess,” said Father Jacob.
“You are fortunate I took an oath to God to protect you,” said Sir Ander. “Otherwise I’d kill you myself.”
Father Jacob laughed and continued reading his book.
Sir Ander walked the corridors that led to the palace entrance. As the archbishop had said, the palace was almost empty. The halls were dark, doors closed. He could hear his boots echoing on the marble floor.
Guards stood at the double doors of the entryway, along with a bored footman to deal with any visitors. Sir Ander nodded to the guards, walked out the doors, and stood on the steps to admire the view. From here he could look out over the city of Westfirth and the harbor beyond. The royal barge was aglow with lights, as preparations were being made to receive the guests. The yachts belonging to the members of the nobility were also shining with light, as were the ships of the fleet. In the city, lights gleamed from the windows and on the streets, where the lamplighters were going about their nightly business.
Several ornately designed lamps shed light on the steps leading up to the palace. A few people were in the street—servants hastening upon some errand for their masters or citizens going to view the festivities. Sir Ander observed them keenly, watching to see if any stopped in the shadows. He was checking his pocket watch to ascertain the time when he heard the sound of footsteps and saw a monk mounting the stairs. The monk was carrying a leather satchel and wore dark-tinted spectacles.
Sir Ander recognized Brother Paul.
“Is that you, Sir Ander?” Brother Paul asked as he reached the top of the steps. “Forgive me, but it is difficult for me to see this time of night.”
“I am out taking a breath of fresh air,” said Sir Ander.
“I heard Father Jacob is fully recovered,” said Brother Paul. “God be praised. I was praying for him.”
“I’m certain your prayers were helpful, Brother,” said Sir Ander politely. He glanced at a nearby clock tower. The time was almost at hand. “Do not let me keep you from your business.”
Brother Paul seemed in no hurry to depart. “I was supposed to return to Evreux, as you know. I have just received word that the grand bishop requires me to remain to make certain all goes well with His Majesty’s visit. I will be spending the night in the palace. I would like to pay my respects to Father Jacob. Perhaps tomorrow I—”
“We will be leaving for the Arcanum,” said Sir Ander curtly. “I will let Father Jacob know he has been in your prayers.”
“God’s blessing on you, sir,” said Brother Paul. He walked off slowly, squinting through his spectacles as he entered the palace.
The guards, recognizing the grand bishop’s messenger, waved Brother Paul on past. The footman appeared surprised at the monk’s arrival at this time of night and didn’t quite know what to do with him, since the archbishop would not be holding audience until the following morning. Brother Paul said he had been given a room and he knew the way. When the footman let him pass, Sir Ander kept an eye on the monk until he had disappeared in the darkness.
“I don’t trust that fellow,” Sir Ander muttered to himself. “I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t see his eyes.”
The next moment, he forgot all about Brother Paul. The clocks in the churches of Westfirth chimed eight times as a hansom cab rolled up to the entrance. The driver alighted, opened the door, lowered the step, and assisted his passenger to descend.
Sir Ander smiled. In an age where it was fashionable to be late, to make an entrance, the countess had the reputation of being invariably punctual.
She had come alone. Sir Ander hastened down the steps to meet her. She wore a heavy cloak, and her face was veiled. She raised the veil to smile at Sir Ander. Her eyes reflected the lights of the night.
“Thank you for coming,” Sir Ander said, taking her hand. “I am sorry to take you away from the royal gala.”
“A mysterious summons to meet with the enigmatic Father Jacob. I would not have missed this for all the galas in Rosia,” said Cecile.
In that moment, another cab rolled up. A short pudgy man descended. He caught sight of Sir Ander and walked over to greet him. Seeing a lady at Sir Ander’s side, Dubois made a bow and took off his hat. Cecile gave a perceptible start.
“Dubois!” she exclaimed.
“Countess de Marjolaine,” Dubois returned, startled and sounding not entirely pleased.
“What is the meaning of this, Sir Ander?” Cecile asked in a tone cool with displeasure. “Why is this man here?”
“I should like to know why the countess is here,” said Dubois.
“Father Jacob will explain to you both,” said Sir Ander.
He offered his arm to Cecile. She hesitated, regarding him intently, then took his arm and permitted him to lead her into the palace. Dubois followed alongside, rubbing his chin and shooting glances into the shadows. They walked in silence through the empty corridors. When they came to the library, the door stood open. Father Jacob, formally attired in his long black cassock, red sash and biretta, was waiting within. He greeted his guests politely and invited them to be seated. He had arranged three chairs in a circle, one for himself and one for each guest.
Sir Ander closed and locked the door. He helped Cecile to remove her cloak and placed it on the back of another chair. Dubois chose to remove his own greatcoat, and kept it with him.
“Countess de Marjolaine.” Father Jacob assisted her to a chair. “Many years have passed since I had the pleasure of being in your company.”
“The last time we met we had a spirited discussion on the writings of the Chevalier Duvalle,” said the countess.
“You espoused his political philosophies, as I recall,” said Father Jacob.
“And you opposed them,” said the countess with a smile, unable to resist the priest’s charm. “We lost track of the hours.”
“And angered all your other guests, who could not understand what we found so interesting.”
The countess took her seat and drew the veil from her face. Father Jacob turned to greet the grand bishop’s agent.
“Monsieur Dubois, I understand I have you to thank for the fact that I am not incarcerated in a lunatic asylum.”
“I am glad to see you recovered, Father,” said Dubois. “Though I admit I am greatly puzzled as to why you have summoned me here.”
“All will be explained,” said Father Jacob. “Countess, may I offer you a glass of sherry? Monsieur Dubois? No? Then I think we may move on to business. Sir Ander, I have laid the magical trap on the door. Anyone who decides to polish the key hole with his ear will receive a most unpleasant shock.”
Sir Ander nodded and took up his position by the door.
Father Jacob sat with his elbows on the arms of the chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together. He looked first at the countess and then at Dubois. The lamps were low. Most of the room was in shadow. A single lamp shone on a table near the three who had come together. Father Jacob’s eyes, beneath lowered brows, glittered in the light.
He studied his guests for a moment, then said abruptly, “The reason I decided to entrust my discoveries to y
ou both is this: each of you has influence with the two most powerful people in the realm, His Majesty King Alaric and Grand Bishop de Montagne. These powerful men trust you, they will listen to you. I assure you I am not being overly dramatic when I say that this night, I place the fate of millions in your care.”
Cecile sat quite still, her hands folded, her beautiful face expressionless. She said nothing.
Dubois sank back in his chair, keeping his face in the shadows. “Why don’t you speak to the king and the grand bishop yourself, Father?”
“His Majesty does not trust me because I am a Freyan,” said Father Jacob. “I doubt if I could gain access to the royal presence.”
Cecile inclined her head to acknowledge that Father Jacob was right.
“As for the grand bishop, just before the attack on Westfirth,” Father Jacob continued, “I sent His Eminence an urgent message, begging for an audience, telling him I had information regarding the men who had attacked the abbey. The grand bishop refused to see me. In my desperation, I turn to you, Monsieur Dubois. His Eminence must hear the truth.”
Cecile stirred slightly. Silk rustled and a hint of perfume scented the air.
“You claim to have discovered information about these ‘men,’ Father,” she said. “I take it they are not demons from hell.”
“They are not demons,” said Father Jacob. “Although they do have one thing in common with the damned. Both have suffered torments we cannot imagine. Nor are they Freyan, as I suppose you must know from the reports of your agents.”
Cecile smiled slightly. “They are not demons and they are not Freyan. Then who are they, Father Jacob?”
“They call themselves Bottom Dwellers.”
“How do you know this?” Dubois asked, skeptically. “You sound as if you have spoken to them.”
“They did not speak to me, but they did talk to a young monk in my service and also to a Trundler friend of mine. In one instance, the Bottom Dwellers were seeking information. In the other, they were drawn to her by the fact that she is a savant and a Trundler.”
“Bottom Dwellers,” Dubois repeated, frowning. “The name means, I presume, that they dwell at the bottom. My question is: the bottom of what?”
“The bottom of the world, monsieur,” said Father Jacob gravely.
Cecile raised an eyebrow.
Dubois gave a disbelieving cough. “Forgive me, Father, I know you have been ill—”
“And that a surgeon drilled a hole in my head,” said Father Jacob with a wry smile. He sighed, and his brow furrowed. “I assure you both that I am well and I am sane. I am also in deadly earnest. I begin by asking what you know of the sinking of the Trundler isle of Glasearrach?”
The countess looked startled. “The island was home to the infamous Pirate King. When his raids on ships disrupted trade and threatened to bring down the world economy, the Council of Bishops and the rulers of all nations came together to attack the island with magicks, casting it down into the Breath.”
Father Jacob nodded and continued the tale. “The Pirate King, whose name was Ian Meehan, was holed up in his stronghold on the island, along with many of his followers. In addition, many thousands of innocent Trundlers who made their homes on that island were present when Glasearrach was attacked. History claims that these people perished when the island sank into the bitter cold mists of the Breath. I believe they survived.”
Sir Ander saw Cecile unconsciously twisting the ring on her left ring finger—a habit of hers. He was the only person in the world who knew the significance of the plain gold ring, the simple luster of which was lost amidst the brilliance of the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds sparkling on her other fingers. Of all the jewelry she owned, this ring was most precious to her.
Sir Ander’s heart ached with the memory. He had been present when Julian had given her that ring, the night before he died. Sir Ander saw that Father Jacob noticed, and the priest’s gaze shifted to the ring. When Cecile saw the priest’s eyes flicker and realized what she was doing, she covered the ring with her hand.
“You theorize, Father, that these Trundlers survived the poisonous atmosphere and bitter cold and that their progeny have now come back to claim terrible revenge.”
“I believe this to be true, Countess,” said Father Jacob.
Dubois shook his head. “You have the reputation of being a brilliant man, Father, but that is impossible. Scientific fact—”
“Pardon me, monsieur, but science has no facts when it comes to the Breath,” said Father Jacob. “Science has theories that have not been proven.”
“Because they cannot be proven,” Dubois argued. “Those who have descended that deep into the Breath have never lived to return to tell us.”
“Until now,” said Father Jacob gravely. “Let me explain. The Bottom Dwellers always destroy the bodies of their dead. Why? To prevent us from discovering the truth about them. When they ambushed me in Westfirth, they burned the bodies of those who were killed. But I managed to rescue a helmet from the flames.”
“What could the helmet of a dead man tell you, Father?” Cecile asked.
“A great deal,” said Father Jacob. “The helmet was covered in human skin.”
Cecile stared at him in appalled silence. Dubois’s eyes narrowed.
“I cast a Corpse Spell,” Father Jacob continued.
“A spell with which I am not familiar,” said Cecile coolly.
“That is because only members of the Arcanum are permitted to cast it, my lady,” said Dubois. “Though I believe, Father, you are supposed to have permission from the provost first—”
Father Jacob waved this away as unimportant.
“The energy of a living person remains with the body for a long time after death, Countess,” he explained. “The Corpse Spell allows the caster to summon the ‘ghost’—”
Sir Ander heard a muffled sound in the hall, as of someone shutting a door somewhere in the distance. He opened the library door a crack and peered out into the darkness.
All was quiet. The doors to the adjacent rooms did not appear to have been disturbed. Sir Ander shut the door and made a sign to Father Jacob, who saw, nodded, and continued talking as though nothing were amiss.
“Contrary to popular opinion, I could not speak to the unfortunate man whose skin had been used to make the helm, but I was able to perceive what he looked like. I saw his face. I felt his pain. His skin had been flayed from his body while he was still alive. He had the extremely pale skin of a person who has never lived in sunshine. Given this and the fact that these people refer to themselves as ‘Bottom Dwellers’ and that they have a connection to Trundlers, I came to the only logical conclusion: They are the descendants of those who survived the sinking of the doomed isle of Glasearrach.”
Sir Ander heard another sound: footfalls. Someone was coming down the hallway, walking with apparent innocence, for the footfalls were not creeping or stealthy. The person walked up to the door and knocked.
Sir Ander glanced at Father Jacob, silently asking if he was expecting anyone. Father Jacob shook his head. The countess and Dubois turned in their chairs; the countess drawing the veil over her face.
“Who is there?” Sir Ander called, opening the door a crack to see.
A man seized the door from Sir Ander, forcing it open. Bright light flared. An object flew past Sir Ander’s shoulder, nearly striking him. The person fled, running down the hall.
Sir Ander started to pursue him.
Father Jacob stopped him with a sharp exclamation. “Ander, look at this!”
The object that had been hurled into the room lay on the floor, near the chair in which Dubois was sitting. The object was what was known as a “bulge pot”—a round iron kettle with a bulge in the center used for cooking over an open fire. The pot was fitted with a lid and rolled around a few seconds on the floor, before settling on its side.
Father Jacob and Dubois had both risen from their chairs and were bending to examine the pot. Cecile remained seate
d. Removing the veil, she gazed at the pot with amused interest.
“Your supper, Father Jacob?” she asked languidly.
Green light suddenly flared, emanating from sigils engraved on the pot. Father Jacob and Sir Ander exchanged glances; both of them thinking the same.
“This is a bomb,” said Sir Ander. “Father, take the others and run—”
“No time!” Father Jacob said sharply. He squatted down, placed his hand above the bulge pot, directly over the glowing sigils. Blue light spread from Father Jacob’s hand, causing the green glowing sigils to dim slightly.
“Jacob, what the hell are you doing?” Sir Ander demanded.
“The magical sigils on the bomb were activated when the bomb hit the floor. I’m using my magic to disrupt the flow.” Father Jacob glanced up at Sir Ander. “My spell won’t last long.”
Sir Ander nodded. He knew the significance of that terrible green glow. Even as he watched, the blue glow was starting to fade, the green glow strengthening.
“You are a savant, Father!” Dubois was saying urgently. “Use your power to diffuse the bomb’s magic!”
“I cannot, monsieur,” Father Jacob answered gravely. “These constructs are contramagic.”
“Contramagic!” Dubois sucked in a breath.
Cecile leaned forward, regarding the bomb with interest.
“Sir Ander, this bomb is undoubtedly filled with grapeshot,” said Father Jacob. “You should escort the countess and Monsieur Dubois from the room—”
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” said Sir Ander, watching the blue glow diminish as the green glow gained strength. “Any movement near the bomb may very well set it off.”
“Sir Ander—” Father Jacob began to argue.
“Father Jacob, shut up,” said Sir Ander, “and do exactly as I say. Countess and Monsieur Dubois, I would be obliged if you would both take cover behind that heavy desk. Move carefully. For God’s sake, don’t bump into anything or knock something over!”
Cecile did as she was told, rising from her chair, gathering up her long skirts, and gliding to the massive oak desk. She took her place behind it, but did not immediately crouch down. Dubois sidled across the floor, keeping a wary eye on the bomb. He reached the desk and stood watching.
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