“Whatever you are going to do, Ander, you had better hurry!” Father Jacob said tensely. “My magic is failing.”
The blue glow was almost gone.
Sir Ander held his hand over the pot’s handle.
“When I say the word, Father, let go of the bomb and dive for cover.”
Father Jacob nodded.
“Now!” Sir Ander yelled.
Father Jacob let go of the bomb and rolled over backward. Sir Ander seized hold of the pot—now glowing bright green. Whipping around, he flung the bomb out into the hallway, heaving it as far as he could. He slammed the door shut, pressing his body against it as the blast went off.
The floor shook. Books tumbled off the shelves. Paintings fell from the walls. Dust and bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling. The blast blew the door off its hinges, knocking Sir Ander to the floor. Grapeshot struck the one lamp that was lighted, shattering it and plunging the room into darkness.
Sir Ander must have lost consciousness, because the next thing he knew, Father Jacob was bending over him. Dubois was shining a dark lantern directly in his eyes.
“How are you?” Father Jacob asked in concern. “You hit your head on the back of a chair.”
“A bump, that’s all,” said Sir Ander, shielding his eyes and grunting in pain. “Move that damn light! What about you, Father?”
“I am fine,” said Father Jacob.
“As am I,” said Dubois. He shifted the dark lantern away from Sir Ander.
“Where is Cecile?” Sir Ander asked worriedly, struggling to sit up.
“I am here, covered in dust and plaster, but otherwise unharmed.”
Cecile knelt on the floor beside him and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. Her blue eyes were warm and soft with admiration. “What you did was incredibly brave, Sir Ander.”
Sir Ander flushed as if he were eighteen and not fifty. He fended off Father Jacob’s offer of assistance and rose a little groggily to his feet.
“The blast was loud. Half the palace will be descending on us,” Sir Ander warned.
“Countess, you and Monsieur Dubois should not be found here with me,” said Father Jacob. “But we have yet a few moments and I must tell you about contramagic.”
“Father Jacob, you are speaking heresy—” Dubois began.
“Such ‘heresy’ almost killed you, monsieur! I will continue to speak heresy until dunderheads such as the grand bishop listen to me!” said Father Jacob angrily. “That bomb was charged with contramagic. The green beam that sank the Royal Lion was contramagic. The beam that knocked down a tower in northern Freya was contramagic. The beam that nearly sank the cutter Defiant was contramagic. Research those. You will discover the similarities. The Bottom Dwellers are skilled in the use of contramagic, as well as blood magic, as evidenced by the helm made from human skin.”
“A blood magic sacrifice,” said Dubois.
“Precisely. The Bottom Dwellers attacked us with weapons of contramagic and we had no defense against them, just as I had no way to defuse that bomb. Why? Because the church pronounced this magic evil and forbade anyone to study it!”
Father Jacob slammed his fist down on the desk, sending dust into the air. “That must change!”
Cecile and Dubois stared at him, startled by his passion.
Father Jacob pointed at the destruction in the library. “Do you want proof? The very fact that someone tried to silence me proves that I am right!”
“If you are right, what do these Bottom Dwellers want, Father?” Cecile asked, troubled.
“They want to silence the Voice of God, Countess,” Father Jacob replied gravely. “And if we do not find a way to stop them, they will do so.”
Sir Ander could hear muffled cries in the corridor, people coming to investigate.
“Father—” he said urgently.
“Yes, Sir Ander. Countess, Monsieur Dubois, the two of you should leave at once,” said Father Jacob. “I will return to the Arcanum as soon as the ports open. Contact me there if you have need of me. Please convey all this information to His Majesty and to the grand bishop.”
Dubois did not immediately obey. He stood lost in thought. Then he gave a slow nod and murmured, “Well, well, well. This begins to open my eyes. I thank you, Father.”
He slid shut the dark lantern, extinguishing the light, and disappeared into the dusty darkness without another word. Cecile lingered, watching Father Jacob pick up one of the broken lamps. He traced a construct upon it and a soft glow lit the room. Dust continued to drift down from the ceiling.
“You should leave before someone finds you here, Countess,” said Sir Ander.
She smiled, unconcerned, refusing to be hurried, and reached out her hand to Father Jacob.
“Once again you have provided me with an entertaining and enlightening evening, Father. You have given me much to consider and reflect upon. I will speak to His Majesty.” Cecile gave a little sigh. “Do not depend upon my words changing his mind.”
Father Jacob took her hand in his own. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Sir Ander…” Cecile turned to him and touched his hand.
Sir Ander winced in pain. Cecile was quick to notice and lifted his palm to the light.
“It’s nothing,” he said, embarrassed. “The handle of the pot was hot to the touch.”
“Hot enough to give you a severe burn,” said Cecile in rebuking tones. She placed a delicate finger on his palm, traced a construct and spoke a word. The pain in his hand eased. She smiled up at him.
“I am a bit rusty at my magic. I so rarely have a chance to use it. I am glad to see that I have not lost my touch.”
Sir Ander helped her climb over the wreckage of the door. Outside in the corridor, the floor was littered with plaster and molding and chunks of stone that had fallen from the walls and ceiling. A large wooden beam had come down, blocking the hall.
“Go in this direction,” said Sir Ander, gesturing. “When you reach the end of the hall, follow the corridor to your right. That will lead you to the garden. Once you are there, you will be able to circle around to the front of the palace.”
Cecile gave a complacent nod.
“Perhaps I should go with you,” he said worriedly. “The halls are pitch dark—”
“We should not be seen together,” she admonished him. “Besides, Father Jacob needs you. Do not worry about me. I know how to find my way through the darkness. I have been doing it all my life. Farewell, dear friend. If you should hear from Stephano—”
“I will let you know at once,” he assured her.
Drawing the veil over her face, Cecile touched his hand gently and left him.
Sir Ander remained by the ruins of the door, listening to her measured footfalls and the rustle of her skirt until the sounds faded in the distance. Sighing, he turned back to find Father Jacob watching him.
“A singular honor, my friend,” Father Jacob said. “To earn the trust and regard of such a remarkable woman.”
“We have known each other for many years,” said Sir Ander gruffly. He closed his palm over the construct she had traced on his hand and felt the warmth of her friendship. He changed the subject.
“People will be here any moment. What do we tell them, Father?”
“You and I were in the library, peacefully reading, when the door opened and someone threw in a bomb. You picked up the bomb and tossed it out.”
Out in the corridor, they could hear men exclaiming over the destruction as they began to clear away the rubble.
“You know you acted like a bloody fool, Ander,” Father Jacob added, eyeing the wreckage. “Picking up that bomb. You could have been killed.”
Sir Ander touched a hand to his ear. “I’m a bit hard of hearing from the blast, Father. Did I hear you say, ‘Thank you, Ander, for saving my life’?”
Father Jacob smiled. “Perhaps I should say, ‘Thank you, Ander, for being a bloody fool.’”
He grew more serious. “I don’t suppose you saw the a
ssassin?”
“I caught a glimpse of the person, but the hallway was too dark to see details. A man, I would say, judging by the height and the amount of strength it would take to throw the bomb. Given the use of contramagic, it must have been a Bottom Dweller.”
Sir Ander shook his head. “I will be glad to get you back to the safety of the Arcanum. Though I hate leaving Westfirth without some news of Brother Barnaby.”
“God has him in His care, my friend,” said Father Jacob. He heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair, absently knocking off the biretta. “We’ll have to find some way to explain this to the archbishop.”
“I’m guessing we don’t mention the bomb was contramagic,” said Sir Ander.
“We do not,” said Father Jacob solemnly. “He’d lock us both up in the asylum.”
11
No one trusts Trundlers, which means, in a sense, that everyone trusts us.
—Trundler adage
The captain of the palace guard arrived on the scene to investigate the explosion. Father Jacob excused himself, saying he was worn out by all the excitement, and he would return to his room. Sir Ander remained to answer questions. He wasn’t much help, for he had not seen the bomber and he could not offer a description of the bomb, explaining everything had happened too fast. The captain said he supposed a great many people must have reason to want Father Jacob dead. Sir Ander agreed and asked if the captain would provide a guard for the remainder of Father Jacob’s stay. Father Jacob would protest, he knew, but this time he wasn’t going to have his way.
Sir Ander returned to the priest’s room to find the door locked. He approved the precaution, though he was astonished that Father Jacob would think of it. He knocked on the door. Father Jacob opened it, and glanced outside.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” said Sir Ander.
Father Jacob opened the door wide enough for Sir Ander to enter, then closed it behind him and locked it again. Sir Ander stood staring. The room had been ransacked; clothes strewn about, books pulled from the shelves, and furniture overturned.
“They were looking for the books of the saints,” said Father Jacob.
“They didn’t find them—” Sir Ander asked, alarmed.
“The books are safe.”
Father Jacob led him to one of the trunks. The lock had been forced, the lid opened. Sir Ander looked inside. The trunk appeared to be empty. As Father Jacob drew a construct in the air, sigils flared and the books of the saints shimmered into view, lying at the bottom, no longer hidden from sight by the priest’s magic.
“This means the Bottom Dwellers know you have the books,” said Sir Ander.
“I fear I am to blame,” said Father Jacob. “My conversations with Saint Marie were, as I understand it, the subject of much gossip. The Bottom Dwellers must have found out and assumed I was conversing with the saint because I had read the books she and the others wrote.”
Sir Ander was grave. “Worse than that, I’m afraid. You talked of contramagic with Saint Marie.”
“Ah, did I?” said Father Jacob. “That was unfortunate.”
“Sister Elizabeth was in the room and she heard you. She wouldn’t say anything to anyone, though.”
“There were guards at the door. Servants in the hall. Sister Elizabeth might have said something to her superior, Father Diego, who could have mentioned it to the archbishop, who could have reported it to the grand bishop. They might have been overheard by secretaries or servants, any one of whom could be an agent for the Bottom Dwellers.”
“You believe that there are people here who are actually working to help those fiends?” Sir Ander asked, frowning.
“Of course,” said Father Jacob. “Someone knew of Albert’s discovery of the prince abbot’s journal, remember. That person stole it, read about the writings of the saints, and contacted the Bottom Dwellers, who attacked the abbey to search for the books.”
“That’s true,” said Sir Ander. “I had forgotten about the theft.” He glanced around at the mess. “We were going to pack all this up tomorrow anyway. You get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
“You need sleep more than I do. I’ve been flat on my back for weeks,” said Father Jacob with a smile. “Lie down. I have an important letter to write.”
Sir Ander didn’t argue. He was exhausted and his head hurt. He washed off the dust and blood and then lay down on the camp bed, shading his eyes from the light with his hat. He tried to forget the throbbing of his head by recalling every word Cecile had spoken to him, every graceful gesture. He could still feel the gentle touch of her hand on his. Holding this dear memory close, he fell into an exhausted sleep.
He was wakened by a knocking on the door. The hat had slipped from his face and he blinked at morning light shining through the window. Father Jacob had quit writing and was now reading. He had not noticed the sound of knocking or, if he had, he was ignoring it. Sir Ander left his bed and opened the door a cautious crack. A soldier of the Old Fort stood in the hallway.
“Good morning, Sir Ander,” said the soldier, saluting. “I’m sorry for waking you, but there’s someone asking to speak to you. A dragon.”
“A dragon?” Sir Ander repeated stupidly, still groggy with sleep.
“Yes, sir,” said the soldier. “The dragon gave me his name, but the name was longer than he was. Drollgerfig or something like that…”
“Droalfrig,” said Sir Ander, coming to full wakefulness. “Sergeant Droalfrig.”
“Yes, sir, that would be it. The dragon said he and his brother will meet you at the Bastion at midday.”
“Sergeant Droalfrig and his brother,” Sir Ander remarked, shutting the door. “I haven’t seen Hroal since the attack on Westfirth when he warned us the Bottom Dwellers were heading this way. I hope the brothers are not bringing more bad news.”
“You best speak with them,” said Father Jacob. “First, though, I need you to go to the shipyard to make certain the yacht is in readiness. I received a message from the archbishop this morning. He is thankful we were not hurt in the explosion. He knows we would like to leave as soon as possible. He has granted us permission to sail today.”
“I’ll bet he has,” Sir Ander said, grinning.
“I sent a message to Master Albert. He will meet you at the shipyard. We will need to hire wyverns and a driver. Unless you want me to drive?” Father Jacob spoke hopefully.
“I will do the driving,” said Sir Ander sternly.
He poured water in the washbowl, borrowed Father Jacob’s razor, and began the morning ritual of shaving.
Father Jacob frowned. “I like driving—”
“Right into the side of a mountain,” said Sir Ander.
“I have told you repeatedly the accident wasn’t my fault,” Father Jacob said testily. “There was a freak wind gust…”
He fell silent. Sir Ander looked in the mirror to see Father Jacob sitting with his finger marking his place in the book, gazing off into the distance. The pain their jests were trying to cover was like a pall in the room.
“I miss Barnaby,” said Father Jacob.
“So do I,” said Sir Ander.
He washed off the razor and wiped his face with a towel. Going to his room, he swiftly packed his things. He had few personal possessions with him—clean shirts and undergarments, his dress uniform, pistols, sword, and the current book he was reading: an account and analysis of the Blackfire War.
Returning to check on Father Jacob, Sir Ander found the priest had gone back to his reading. “You need to start packing.”
Father Jacob paid no attention. Sir Ander buckled on his sword and made certain his pistols were loaded. He was halfway out the door when Father Jacob said suddenly, “The Trundler village is near the shipyard, isn’t it?”
“Not far from it,” said Sir Ander. “Why?”
“I want you to contact Angus McPike. Tell him I need to speak to him. You might also ask him if he’s heard word of his nieces.”
Sir
Ander was puzzled. “Why would I ask about his nieces?”
“Because Miri and Gythe McPike were with the countess’s son, Lord Captain de Guichen, during the attack on Westfirth. Angus might have heard word of them. You could tell the countess, see her again before we leave,” said Father Jacob mischievously.
“Start packing,” Sir Ander growled.
He was glad to get out in the fresh air, away from bombs and annoying priests. He decided to forgo a hansom cab and walk to the shipyard where the yacht had been towed for repairs.
Only a month had passed since the attack and most of the wreckage left behind had been cleaned up. The exception was a large merchant ship that had crashed onto the roof of a warehouse. Workers were in the process of dismantling the ship. The shipyard was doing a brisk business, repairing damaged ships and boats.
Sir Ander found Master Albert waiting for him to inspect the yacht and make certain it was ready to sail.
Master Albert Savoraun had been friends with Father Jacob and Sir Ander for many years. They had first met him when Father Jacob was investigating the mysterious attack on the naval cutter Defiant. That had been the first time they had encountered contramagic. Years later, when Albert had stumbled upon a journal mentioning contramagic in connection with the four saints, he had alerted Father Jacob. Unfortunately the discovery brought the Bottom Dwellers to the abbey, where they had gone on a hate-filled rampage, slaughtering the nuns.
“I was glad to hear that Father Jacob has recovered, Sir Ander,” said Albert, shaking hands with the knight. “When weeks passed and there was no change, I feared the worst. I trust he is fully restored to health?”
“He’s as cantankerous as ever, if that’s what you mean,” said Sir Ander, grinning.
They toured the yacht, which had suffered extensive damage from the green fire, requiring the replacement of the port- and starboard-control conduits along with large portions of the hull.
“The crafters tried to place magical constructs over the damaged portions,” said Albert. “The attempt failed. No one understands why. The crafters have never seen anything like this.”
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