Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  “You may thank the knight for saving the life of the Countess de Marjolaine, as well. She was also in the room when the attack was perpetrated.”

  “The countess! You and the countess! Both meeting with Father Jacob.” The grand bishop glowered and put his hand on his stomach. “What was the meeting about?”

  Dubois did not immediately answer. He turned around in his chair to look toward the large antechamber where the monsignor and members of his staff worked and greeted those seeking an audience with the grand bishop.

  “They are in the cathedral,” said the grand bishop, understanding Dubois’s silent question. “Monsignor is directing the preparations for this evening’s Midsummer service.”

  “If Your Eminence does not mind, I will check to see that no one is in the antechamber.” Dubois went to the door, opened it, peered out, closed it, turned the key in the lock, and resumed his seat.

  “I am not going to like this, am I?” Montagne asked with a heavy sigh.

  “I fear not, Eminence,” said Dubois.

  He went on to make his report on Father Jacob’s theory of the Bottom Dwellers, quoting the conversation verbatim, including everything said by Father Jacob, himself, and the countess.

  As he talked of the priest’s theory that the attackers were not Freyan, but people who lived at the bottom of the world, the grand bishop interrupted with a snort.

  “Ineffable twaddle,” he stated. “You say the surgeon drilled a hole in the man’s head. His brains must have leaked out. People who live at the bottom of the world indeed!”

  “People skilled in the use of contramagic,” said Dubois.

  The grand bishop had been twiddling the silver seal, switching it back and forth from one hand to the other, tapping it on the desk. At Dubois’s words, Montagne froze. He stared at the silver seal as though wondering what it was, then deliberately laid it down on the desk.

  “I am going to pretend I did not hear you speak heresy, Dubois,” Montagne said sternly. He rose to his feet. “I think you should leave now.”

  Dubois stood up. “The bomb that came so near to killing us was set with contramagic constructs.”

  The grand bishop stiffened. His countenance altered. He unsteadily sank down in his chair, as if his legs would no longer support him. He motioned for Dubois to be seated.

  “Tell me,” was all Montagne said.

  “The bomb was a crude device, Eminence. A kettle packed with gunpowder such as any anarchist might make. Yet, in one aspect, it was quite remarkable. The device designed to cause the bomb to explode was powered by constructs of contramagic.”

  Montagne fixed Dubois with a cold stare.

  “You are my most trusted agent, Dubois, but even you can go too far.”

  “It is because I am your trusted agent that I must tell you what I saw, Eminence,” Dubois returned. “Otherwise your trust would be misplaced. I saw the constructs on the bomb myself. They glowed green and were like none I have ever seen before.”

  “Are you a crafter, Dubois?”

  “God did not so bless me, Eminence. I am a humble channeler.”

  “Then you could not possibly know if you were looking at contramagic or pea soup!” said the grand bishop angrily.

  Dubois was not a crafter, but channelers worked with magical constructs and Dubois, with his amazing memory, was familiar with many thousands of these constructs. He knew their derivation, understood how and why they worked. He had been aware the moment he saw those on the bomb that the green glowing constructs were like no other constructs. They were familiar, used the same basis six sigils: earth, air, fire, water, life, death, but they were put together wrong. Something made them alien, strange.

  Dubois inclined his head in acknowledgment and did not argue. He would not win the argument and he would succeed only in further angering the grand bishop. Dubois had done his job, made his report. Let the grand bishop do with it what he would.

  “The countess saw this green glowing bomb, too, I suppose,” said the grand bishop. “What did she make of it?”

  “She did not say, but she listened to Father Jacob with great attention.”

  “The countess is an intelligent woman. She would not believe this lunacy,” said Montagne with a smile.

  The smile was ghastly, so obviously false that Dubois winced. He pitied the man. Montagne was sincerely devoted to the church and to his God. He might have his faults, ambition among them. But he was at heart an honest man, a devout man, a man with no skill at deception or deceit.

  “I think it possible the countess finds Father Jacob’s theory plausible,” said Dubois.

  The grand bishop heaved a deep sigh and then belched. “My poor stomach! I won’t be able to eat for a week! The countess has undoubtedly taken this wild tale to the king. I must go to the palace immediately, attempt to undo whatever damage she has done.”

  “I doubt very much if His Majesty will believe her,” said Dubois. “It is in King Alaric’s interests to believe these attackers are Freyan.”

  “They are Freyan, Dubois,” said Montagne angrily. “Not so-called Bottom Dwellers! I am surprised that you, a rational man, could believe it. Do you have anything else to report?”

  Dubois understood that he was being asked to leave and he dutifully rose to his feet.

  “Only a question, Eminence. If I might change the subject—”

  “Please do!” the grand bishop said through gritted teeth.

  Dubois inclined his head. “What does Your Eminence know of the Duquesa de Plata Niebla?”

  The grand bishop was confounded. The subject was so far afield he had to pause a moment to try to put a face to the name.

  “The duchess of where? Oh, yes, I remember. All I know is that she is said to be wealthy and she is a fine-looking woman. Why?”

  “In other words, you know very little,” said Dubois, frowning. “Everyone seems to know very little. We cannot be too careful about those who are close to the person of His Majesty, especially in these troubled times. You will not mind, Eminence, if I pursue a line of inquiry regarding the duchess?”

  “An excellent notion, Dubois,” said Montagne heartily. “His Majesty’s safety is of paramount importance.”

  He walked over to Dubois and placed a large and heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “Pursue this mad Bottom Dwellers notion no farther, Dubois. Let this go. For your sake. For the sake of us all…”

  The grand bishop gave Dubois’s shoulder a squeeze that was meant to be affectionate, but which ended up being painful, for the shoulder he squeezed was the one in which Dubois had been shot. Dubois winced, murmured he would consider the grand bishop’s advice, and left through the tapestry.

  As he traversed the secret passageway, he reflected on the grand bishop’s enigmatic warning. For your sake, Dubois could understand. He was in danger of being declared a heretic. What intrigued him was the last line.

  For the sake of us all …

  He wished His Eminence would tell him the truth. He would guard the grand bishop’s secrets with his life, but he could not guard them if he did not know the secrets his master was so desperate to conceal.

  * * *

  The Countess de Marjolaine had finally been granted an audience with His Majesty. She had sent him a message telling him she had received important information regarding Sir Henry Wallace. The king had sent back an immediate reply, ordering her to attend him at once. Alaric hated Freya with a profound and abiding passion, and his antipathy for Henry Wallace ran deeper than that. Alaric blamed Wallace for a failed attempt on his life.

  The king was in his private chambers. The countess met him in the room Alaric liked to call his “study.” Shelves were lined with leather-bound, gold leaf–embossed volumes that he had never read. The walls were adorned with a portrait of his father, hunting scenes, and a very fine painting of the floating palace at sunset.

  A large window looked down upon the city of Evreux, many hundred feet below. The most notable feature in the
landscape was the grand bishop’s palace. Alaric liked to stand here and reflect upon the fact that he floated in the clouds while his former friend and bitter political rival, Ferdinand de Montagne, was stuck down on the ground.

  The king’s secretary admitted Cecile. She found Alaric standing at the window, as was his wont, admiring the ships of the royal navy patrolling the skies around the palace.

  “The Countess de Marjolaine, Your Majesty,” said the secretary.

  The king turned. Cecile made a deep curtsy. Alaric responded with a frown and a peremptory gesture for her to come join him.

  Alaric Le Fevre was fifty-four years old. He was a tall man, slender, with a long narrow face, a long aquiline nose, a wide mouth with thin lips. He sported a narrow brown mustache and a beard that was trimmed to come to a point in front. His brown hair was starting to go gray and he often wore wigs to conceal it. His brown eyes were unreadable, and his expression generally guarded and wary. His followers said he was a master at concealing his thoughts. His detractors said that he had no thoughts to conceal.

  He and Cecile had been lovers many years ago. She had slept with him for one reason—to gain influence over him. She knew his many weaknesses and his few strengths. She despised him, but she was loyal to him and worked hard to further his interests, because his interests were the interests of her country. She was loyal to him for another reason: King Alaric alone stood between Cecile de Marjolaine and the many political enemies she had made over the years.

  “What has that fiend, Wallace, done now?” Alaric demanded, scowling.

  “Freya is preparing to send their fleet to Braffa, Your Majesty,” said Cecile.

  “Are they, by God?” Alaric said, his face lighting with pleasure. “Going to Braffa! We scared them off.”

  He chuckled and looked out proudly at the Spirit of Rosia, which had just sailed into view.

  Cecile bit her lip and gave an inward sigh.

  “Your Majesty, I fear this news is not cause for celebrating—”

  Alaric swung round on her. “What do you mean, Countess? Of course, the news is good. If the bloody Freyan navy is heading to Braffa, they won’t attack us.”

  “If the Freyan fleet succeeds in reaching Braffa, Freyan ships could blockade Braffa and the refineries that produce the Blood of God, cutting off our supply.”

  The countess gestured toward the Spirit of Rosia. “Our new ships rely on the liquid form of the Breath to stay afloat. Without the lift gas, our fleet will be languishing on the ground.”

  Alaric scowled at this news, which did not suit him. He had to admit she was right, but it still it did not suit him.

  “What do we do?” he demanded.

  “You must order the fleet back to Braffa immediately,” said Cecile.

  Alaric’s scowl deepened. “That will leave us unprotected. This may all be a Freyan trick. They needed only one ship to destroy the Royal Lion at Westfirth, using that infernal secret weapon of theirs.”

  “I have news with regard to that attack, Your Majesty,” said Cecile. “I met with Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum. He made a study of the attackers. They were the same as those who murdered the nuns at the Abbey of Saint Agnes. They are not Freyan.”

  She went on to relate to the king, as Dubois had related to the grand bishop, how the attackers were known as Bottom Dwellers, descendants of the survivors of the sinking of Glasearrach. She did not tell him about the bomb, for she would have to bring up Sir Ander Martel. Alaric’s memory was long, especially for those he hated. He would ignore the assassination attempt completely to focus upon the fact that Martel had been a friend of Julian’s.

  As Cecile spoke, she saw Alaric’s thin lip begin to curl in scornful disbelief before she was halfway through her account. When she went on to mention contramagic, she saw she had lost him completely.

  “Magic that isn’t magic.” Alaric gave a contemptuous laugh. “We have never heard of anything so stupid. Not to mention the church considers it heresy. You should not be talking about such evil.”

  He eyed Cecile coldly. “This Father Jacob Northrop is Freyan.”

  “True, Your Majesty.”

  “That explains everything,” said Alaric with a shrug.

  He stood very tall, put his hands behind him, and turned his back on her.

  “We will speak to the grand bishop about this Father Jacob. We will see what Montagne has to say.”

  Alaric expected to frighten her by naming the grand bishop. The king assumed Montagne would refute her claims and side with him on the question of Freya. Alaric and Montagne might be foes at the moment, but the king was always one to hedge his bets.

  Cecile had foreseen his use of this tactic and she was prepared.

  “Indeed, I was about to urge Your Majesty to speak to His Eminence,” said Cecile.

  “You were?” Alaric slightly turned his head. His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Ask the grand bishop about the collapse of the watchtower in northern Freya and the attack on the cutter Defiant. Ask him if those were the result of contramagic. He will find it difficult to deny the charge. If he does, say you have proof.”

  “Do we have proof, Countess?”

  Cecile raised an eyebrow. “Does that matter, Your Majesty?”

  She had placed Alaric in a quandary. She was well aware he didn’t believe a word she had said about contramagic or about the Bottom Dwellers, having convinced himself the attackers were Freyan. Yet she knew Alaric would dearly love the idea of accusing the grand bishop of lying, putting Montagne on the defensive.

  “I do so love watching Montagne squirm.”

  The king chuckled, and was about to give her what she knew would be a favorable reply, when their conversation was interrupted by a commotion outside the door.

  A shrill voice cried out, “I am your queen. I go where I will! I don’t care what your orders are, you stupid man. Open this door immediately, sirrah, or I shall have you flogged!”

  The door opened. The secretary cast an apologetic glance at the king, who rolled his eyes and muttered something beneath his breath as his wife swept into the room.

  Queen Annemarie was tearful, distraught. She pressed her handkerchief to her nose and sniffed loudly. Behind the handkerchief and the tears, her eyes were shrewd, suspicious. Despite the fact that Cecile and Alaric had not slept together for over twenty years and that Alaric was currently conducting an affair with the sixteen-year-old daughter of a marquis, the queen was as jealous of Cecile now as she had been twenty years ago.

  Alaric let the world know that he admired and respected Cecile, and valued her advice. He trusted Cecile, shared confidences with her, while he would not tell his despised wife what he had eaten for breakfast. Annemarie watched for every opportunity to try to catch the two in some compromising situation, hoping to force Alaric to cast off Cecile, banish her from court.

  As Cecile curtsied to the queen, she caught a glimpse of the Duquesa de Plata Niebla hovering in the doorway, not daring to enter the king’s private chambers. The duchess was accompanied by a handsome young man. Cecile had heard about the duchess’s nephew, whose romantically dark good looks were being discussed behind all the fluttering fans in court.

  The king glowered. He knew his wife was putting on a show and he knew the reason why. He did not bother to hide his contempt.

  “You know we dislike these interruptions. We were in the middle of business. Disturbing reports have reached us out of Freya.”

  “I am sure this news from Freya could not be nearly so distressing to you as the fact that your daughter is near death!” Annemarie cried, her bosom heaving. “I have sent for the physicians!”

  The one soft spot in this hard man was his daughter, Sophia. He changed in an instant from despot to doting father.

  “Sophia? Is she ill again?” the king asked anxiously. “What is the matter?”

  The queen made the most of her victory. “Her headache was so terrible, she fainted from the pain. I fear if we cannot f
ind her darling, she may die!”

  “‘Darling’? What darling?” The king was confused.

  “Bandit is missing!” the queen wailed dramatically. “We have searched and searched, but he is nowhere to be found! The duchess believes the loss of her pet brought on this latest attack. When Sophia came to, all she could talk about were drums. Of course, she meant her dog.”

  “Her dog!” The king stared at his wife in amazement. The look on his face was so comical that Cecile had to turn her head to hide her smile. “This is about a dog?”

  Bandit was the princess’s spaniel and he was aptly named, for he was a little thief with a fondness for iced cakes and shoe leather. The dog disappeared about once a week. He was generally discovered in the larder begging for treats from the cook or hiding beneath someone’s bed, chewing on a slipper.

  Sophia was a sensible young woman. Though she doted on Bandit, she would not fall ill just because her dog was missing yet again, Cecile reflected, concerned. Sophia had spoken of drums before, hearing the sound of drumming when her headaches were very bad. If she said drums, she meant drums. Not dogs …

  The queen gave way to hysterics. The duchess, with a curtsy and an apologetic glance at the king for her intrusion, hurried in to comfort the queen. The young man remained in the doorway. He looked embarrassed, not knowing what to do with himself.

  The secretary returned.

  “Monsieur D’argent,” he announced, and D’argent entered the room in haste.

  Cecile forgot about the princess and her dog. D’argent’s expression was grave. He would never have presumed to enter the king’s chambers except for some urgent reason.

  “Your Majesties, forgive the sudden intrusion. I am the bearer of terrible news—” D’argent paused, looking from the sobbing queen to the king. “But then, you have heard—”

  “If you are here about that blasted dog—” the king began.

  “Dog?” D’argent shook his head. “I am not here about a dog, Your Majesty. The glass walls of the Crystal Market have shattered. The market was filled with hundreds of people shopping for the Midsummer’s Eve feast. They cannot begin to count the number of dead.”