Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “Play devil’s advocate, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry.

  “This is simple magic, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Some crafter has strengthened this tankard with magical constructs.”

  “Do you see any constructs on the vessel, Mr. Sloan? As I recall, you have some talent for magic.”

  “I am not a crafter, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “I lack the power to create magical constructs. I do, however, have some small abilities as a channeler, which means I can use existing constructs to cause the desired magical effect.”

  Sir Henry smiled. “You are a humble man, Mr. Sloan.”

  “As God requires us all to be, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan gravely.

  “Which is your humble way of saying that if there were any magical constructs hidden on this tankard, you would see them.”

  “The sigils that cause the magic would be visible to me, yes, my lord.” Mr. Sloan studied the tankard with narrowed eyes. He peered inside it and turned it upside down.

  “No sigils, my lord.” He looked at Sir Henry with astonishment. “And yet, this must be magic, my lord.”

  “Either magic or a miracle sent to us by Our Heavenly Father, Mr. Sloan. And I doubt if Our Heavenly Father is taking an unusual interest in tankards these days,” said Sir Henry dryly.

  He was trying to appear calm, but he heard the slight tremor of excitement in his voice and he knew Sloan could hear it, too, by his next question.

  “My lord,” said Mr. Sloan, after a moment’s hesitation, “if this is magic and yet we see no magic what are we looking at?”

  “The future of warfare, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Henry. “We have tested it and found it worthy. This simple tankard does not hold ale. It holds victory.”

  Mr. Sloan did not understand, but he was not there to understand. He was there to follow orders, and Sir Henry was now proceeding to issue them.

  “We have much to do and very little time to do it. I am going to set in motion Operation ‘Braffa,’ as we discussed. A trifle earlier than I had intended to move, but I need the eyes of Rosia to be looking in a different direction, and destabilizing the government of one of her allies should do that nicely. Meanwhile I need you to ride with all speed to my good friend, Admiral Baker. He will be in bed, but you will wake him and give him a note.”

  Mr. Sloan was supplied, as always, with a writing kit, consisting of a pen, a small bottle of ink, sealing wax, and several blank sheets of note paper, all of which he carried in a compact wooden box tucked into the pocket of his long, black coat. He produced these and handed them to Sir Henry, who wrote swiftly, with large, bold strokes.

  I require immediately a fast ship with an experienced crew and a captain who knows how to keep his mouth shut.

  “Give this into the admiral’s hands.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Sir Henry gazed long at the tankard, then he frowned at the letter. Taking up the pen, he crossed out the words: a captain who knows how to keep his mouth shut and scribbled something else. Sir Henry folded the letter. Mr. Sloan dripped the sealing wax on the fold. Sir Henry pressed a signet ring he wore in the wax. He did not sign the letter.

  “The admiral will know my seal,” said Sir Henry.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “When he has read the letter, you will take the usual precautions.”

  “Of course, my lord. The letter will be magically burned to ashes, the ashes stirred, and then mixed with wine and tossed into the slop jar.”

  Henry nodded and the two men parted.

  As Mr. Sloan left upon his errand, he reflected that he had seen much in his thirty-five years, twenty-two of which had been spent in the service of his country. He was noted for his extraordinary calm. He was never rattled, rarely impressed. Yet now, as he hurried to the stables, he noted that his hand, which was holding the letter, was shaking with excitement.

  Sir Henry had written, beneath the slashed-out words, this sentence:

  I need a captain and crew who are expendable.

  Chapter One

  Scripture tells us the Breath of God is the echo of God’s voice. The magic in the Breath is the Word of God. The Breath of God upholds the seven continents and the thousands of small islands that make up the world of Aeronne. The Breath contains a gas that gives lift to the ships that carried the Four Saints in their blessed efforts to spread the Word of God across Aeronne and establish the Church of the Breath. The Breath separates the world above from the Hell below where dwells the Fiend and Foe of God, Aertheum.

  Praise God in his Greatness.

  —From the writings of Father Osric Eihnhardt,

  Church Historian

  THE EVENTS THAT WOULD EVENTUALLY SHAKE the foundations of the Church of the Breath of God, threaten to topple two monarchies, and plunge the world of Aeronne into war began simply enough in a modest house on the Boulevard of Saints, city of Evreux, continent of Rosia, year of Our Lord, 516 DT (abbreviation for Dark Tide) at six of the clock in the evening and began with the words, “We are broke.”

  The words were spoken by one Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve to his friend, Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen, formerly of the Dragon Brigade, and they would never be recorded in any history book.

  Rodrigo placed an iron-banded heavy wooden box on the table where the members of the Cadre of the Lost were finishing supper. He touched the box and a magical sigil flared into light, warning anyone trying to tamper with the box that he was about to meet a most unpleasant fate. Rodrigo removed the sigil by tracing another sigil over it, then thrust an iron key into the lock, turned it, and opened the lid. He removed three small cloth bags, and placed a bag in front of Dag Thorgrimson, another bag in front of Miri McPike, and a third in front of Miri’s younger sister, Gythe. He then brought out a slim leather-bound ledger and thumped it down on the table.

  “That doesn’t bode well,” said Dag, eyeing the ledger gloomily.

  “Nor does the heft of this,” said Miri. “So much smaller than the job we did for that bastard, Le Marc.”

  She measured the weight of the coins in the cloth bag with her hand, then opened it and poured the contents into her palm. The small pile was comprised mostly of large copper ten-pennies with a few small silver coins thrown in.

  Rodrigo opened the ledger. “That’s because we had bills to pay. I paid for the repairs on the Cloud Hopper and for a crafter to fix Dag’s stowaway pistol and I compensated the Han brothers for their services. You know the Han brothers—payment at once for services rendered, or they break your kneecaps.”

  He cast a severe glance at Dag. “That gunsmith crafter friend of yours was extremely expensive.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” said Dag imperturbably. “Especially with a weapon that can blow off my hand.”

  “I notice you and Stephano didn’t take a share of the money,” said Miri, frowning

  “I told you,” said Rodrigo, “we’re broke. For the moment, Stephano and I can survive. I have my allowance. Our esteemed captain has his military pension—such as it is.”

  He looked at Stephano and added, with an exasperated sigh, “Would someone wake him up?”

  Stephano heard Rodrigo’s voice, but he wasn’t attending to the words. He had taken a sip of the Duke of Bourlet’s favorite red wine and was holding the liquid in his mouth as he had been taught, detecting the various flavors: black fruit, chocolate, leather, and violets. The taste brought back memories: the smell of the herbs and spices used to marinate the roasted beef, the sound of his father’s ringing laughter, the sparkle of the crystal goblets in the candlelight, the sense of warmth and camaraderie, the sense of family.

  Stephano swallowed the wine, the last dregs left in the glass. He kept his eyes closed. Beneath his hand was fine linen, silver knives and forks and spoons, porcelain plates painted with dragons. Cut roses in crystal vases added their own scent to the air. He was fifteen and the fifteen-year-old Stephano looked around the table at his family and friends and knew that
he was blessed . . .

  “Stephano,” said Miri, giving his arm a shake.

  “I’m here,” said Stephano.

  He held a cracked crockery mug filled with beer, not wine, and not very good beer at that. Beneath his hand was the wood of the kitchen table, a tin plate, a knife that didn’t match the spoon, and a fork with a bent prong. The smell of a stewed chicken, boiled greens, and warm bread filled the small kitchen. The raspberry jam and butter had ended up, once again, in front of Dag.

  Miri had noted its movement and was whispering something, with a giggle, to Gythe. Her sister smiled and caught hold of Doctor Ellington just as he jumped onto the table in the fond but vain hope that no one would notice a twenty-pound, orange-striped tabby cat licking the butter. Gythe bumped heads with the cat, whose rumbling purr resonated around the small kitchen, then handed the bag of coins back to Rodrigo. She made a sign with her hand.

  Miri translated, “We will contribute our share to the cause.”

  She tossed her bag back to Rodrigo.

  “What the Hell,” said Dag. “Who needs to eat?” He handed over his bag.

  Thirty-four-year-old Stephano de Guichen looked around the table at this family, at those who had become his family, and knew that he was blessed.

  “I heard you,” said Stephano, sighing. He kicked out a chair and propped his booted feet up onto it and leaned back. “You said we were broke.”

  “Perhaps I overstated the case a bit to catch your attention,” said Rodrigo. “Let me put it this way—we are in less crushing debt than we were before the job.”

  “In other words, they’re not going to throw me in debtor’s prison today,” said Stephano.

  “Today,” Rodrigo emphasized. “I make no guarantee for the morrow. If you would like to see the bills, we have them from the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker—”

  “Very funny,” said Stephano, growling. He glanced over his shoulder at an elderly man seated in a rocking chair in a cozy corner by the kitchen fire. “We are finished, Benoit. You may clear. And I’d like another mug of beer.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Benoit, and, reaching for his cane, he made a feeble attempt to rise from the chair.

  He sank back down with a groan.

  “What’s wrong now?” Stephano asked testily.

  “Touch of gout, sir,” said Benoit. “The old complaint. But, you notice, sir, that I don’t complain. If you’ll give me a moment, sir . . .”

  Benoit placed his gnarled hands on the arms of the rocking chair and tried again, pitifully, to heave himself to his feet. He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye. They sat at the table, waiting. Benoit gave another groan.

  Miri bit her twitching lip. Exchanging laughing glances with her sister, she rose briskly to her feet, walked over to the old man, and rested her hands on his shoulders.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Benoit,” she said solicitously, giving him a soothing pat. “Gythe and I will do the clearing and the washing.”

  “Ah, thank you, my dears,” said Benoit gratefully.

  Stephano glared at the old man, who pretended not to see as he settled himself comfortably back in his chair. Grabbing his mug, Stephano followed Miri into the cold storage room, where Gythe was placing the butter on a high shelf, out of the reach of Doctor Ellington.

  Miri turned to face Stephano and, winking, said loudly, “I think it’s a disgrace, the way you make that poor sick old man wait on you hand and foot.”

  “He’s the family retainer! It’s his job!” said Stephano, pitching his voice so that Benoit could hear. “And poor sick old man, my ass! Only this afternoon I saw Benoit running down the street in hot pursuit of one of the local lads who had snatched his wig off his head. The lad outdistanced him, but not by much.”

  “He’d have been sorry if I’d have caught him!” Benoit stated, shaking his cane.

  Stephano and Miri looked at each other and laughed.

  “And, by the way,” said Stephano, grinning, “when did you ever see Benoit wait on me or anyone else?”

  Stephano reached for the beer pitcher and saw that it was empty. He gave the barrel an experimental kick. The barrel rang hollow. The beer, too, was almost depleted and there wasn’t money for more. His grin vanished. He heaved a sigh and handed Miri the mug for washing.

  “Benoit has free room and board, and I never knew one old man could eat so much. As for drink, he always has such a pleasant beery smell about him.” Stephano kicked the barrel again and muttered, “I should chuck him out into the street.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Miri asked pertly.

  She left the cold room and returned to the kitchen, where she took out the washtub and filled it with hot water from the kettle. Gythe, escorted by Doctor Ellington, returned to the table and picked up the plates and mugs and flatware.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Miri said, answering her own question. She plunged the plates into the water and began vigorously scrubbing. “He is the old family retainer. The only family you have.”

  Stephano reached into the washtub, took hold of Miri’s red, sudsy hands, and brought them to his lips. “Not the only family. I was thinking that this evening.”

  He smiled down into Miri’s green eyes and brushed a lock of flame-red hair back from her pretty, sun-freckled face. The two had met five years ago; the night Stephano had resigned his commission as an officer in the Dragon Brigade. All he had ever aspired to do in his life was to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and be a Dragon Knight. He had served proudly in the Dragon Brigade for almost ten years. But King Alaric had disbanded the Dragon Brigade, claiming his “modern” navy had no need for dragons. Stephano had resigned in furious protest, and the admiralty had been only too happy to accept his resignation.

  That night, Stephano had put on his full dress uniform with the dragons embroidered on the leather flight coat and then thrown his commission into the fire. Then he sat, watching his past burn to ashes, drinking to his own misery. He was alone; his friend Rodrigo having traveled to visit his parents in the Duchy of Argonne, where they had been exiled.

  Stephano had gone out for a walk, taking a bottle of wine with him for company. He had wandered the streets of Evreux, paying no heed to where he was going. He found himself near the dockyards, where a host of Trundler houseboats, notable for their brightly colored balloons and sails, and short, stubby wings, had taken up residence. In a field nearby, the Trundlers were having some sort of celebration, perhaps a wedding or a funeral. With them, it was hard to distinguish which.

  The Trundlers were rovers, belonging to no country, paying allegiance to no king or queen. They were loyal only to their own people. Governments down through the years had given up attempting to impose any sort of regulation over them, perhaps out of some sort of sense of world-encompassing guilt; these nations having come together to defeat and sink Glasearrach, the island the Trundlers had once called home, with heavy, though unintentional (so the governments claimed) loss of life.

  Trundlers had their own laws. They tried those who broke them in their own courts. Trundler laws differed somewhat from the laws imposed by kings and princes. Smuggling and thieving were viewed with a tolerant eye since one had to earn a living, whereas murderers could be executed on the spot.

  Sometimes such small differences in the legal system did tend to cause friction between Trundlers and the local authorities, who occasionally tried to raid Trundler gatherings. Thus, the sight of Stephano, wearing his full dress uniform, with his sword at this side, had roused intense and immediate suspicion among the young men of the Trundler community.

  Six young toughs, strong and muscular, armed with clubs and flaming torches, had confronted Stephano. He could have apologized and talked his way out, but he was in a mood for a fight. The next thing he knew, he had been lying on the ground, his skull cracked, pain everywhere, looking up into the flashing green eyes and freckled face of a lovely young woman.

  She had examined him,
then had risen to her feet and immediately began to lay into the young men, hitting and slapping them and kicking them in the shins.

  “Can’t you see the dragon he’s wearing, you daft buggers?” she had cried.

  The young toughs had crumbled beneath her fury, mumbling in their defense that: “it was dark;” “a king’s man is a king’s man;” “he should’ve said something;” and the like until the woman had grown weary and they had been able to escape her wrath.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” the woman had said to him, rubbing her stinging palms. “The young fools didn’t know who you were.”

  Stephano had smiled at her blissfully and then thrown up on her shoes.

  He had regained consciousness in a houseboat belonging to the woman’s uncle, where he was a guest for the next week until the young woman deemed he was healthy enough to leave. Her name was Miri, she had told him, and she was a Trundler Lore Master. Since most Trundlers could neither read nor write, Miri and those like her were responsible for keeping the Trundler history, the old tales and legends, alive.

  Miri had realized that simply handing down histories from one generation to another had resulted in inaccuracies and contradictions. Most Trundlers didn’t care, but Miri wanted to know the truth behind the myths, and she had decided the only way to find out was to seek the facts in books and that involved learning to read. She had taught herself, with the help of a priest, and had learned the fascinating fact that the history of the Trundlers and those of the great dragon families were entwined, though just exactly how was lost in the mists of time. Miri had longed to talk to the dragons about this and had sought an invitation into the households of the noble dragon families. They had looked down their long and elegant snouts at a Trundler and never even bothered to respond. Then Stephano, a former Dragon Knight, had come into her camp, and her cousins had beaten him senseless.

  Miri had healed his wounds, and he had gained her access into the houses of some of the dragons with whom he had served. She and Stephano were close in age; both having been around thirty at the time, and it was inevitable that they became lovers.