Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  Any number of beautiful ladies of the court would have been happy to invite the dashing young former captain of the Dragon Brigade to their salons or even their beds to listen to his troubles. For reasons of his own, Stephano did not trust beautiful ladies of the court.

  He trusted Miri, who was always honest—brutally so. Their relationship had been complicated over the years. Once he had thought he was in love with her and once she had thought she was in love with him. If these periods had coincided, the relationship might have worked. As it was, there had been confusion, hurt feelings, tears, and recriminations. Then, one night, as they lay in bed talking, they came to the realization they were friends.

  “So much more comfortable than being lovers, my dear,” Miri told him. That night, she ended the affair.

  “I want you to meet my sister,” she said. “And I only invite friends to my home. Never my lovers.”

  Home was the sisters’ houseboat, the Cloud Hopper.

  Stephano might have smiled at this notion of Miri’s that only those she considered friends were allowed to visit, but when he met Gythe, he realized that Miri had honored him with a special trust, one he would forever cherish.

  Gythe was twenty-one—fourteen years younger than her sister. But she seemed more like a child of fourteen. She was beautiful, with hazel eyes and hair the color of champagne. Where Miri’s eyes glinted with green flashes of laughter and merriment and her legendary temper, Gythe’s eyes were wandering, searching, shadowed. She never spoke a word. She was not mute, for though she would not talk, she could sing, accompanying herself on the harp.

  “Gythe’s never been quite right since ‘Then,’ ” Miri would always say of her sister. Miri never told Stephano what happened “Then . . .” When he once hinted that he would like to know, Miri said brusquely, “No good will come of talking of it.” By the glint in her green eyes, he knew to let it drop.

  Stephano guessed “Then” had something to do with the deaths of their parents and the fact that the two girls were on their own, but beyond that, nothing more.

  He was thinking all this, remembering. Miri’s laughter brought him back to the kitchen.

  “If we’re a family, we’re the bloodiest, messed-up family there ever was, my dear,” Miri told him.

  “You’re right there,” said Stephano.

  When the dishes were done and Miri had returned from dumping the water out of the wash bin, Dag placed his large hands on the table and levered himself slowly to his feet. The table, which was made out of a butcher’s block and was heavy and solid, groaned a bit beneath the big man’s weight. Dag Thorgrimson was six-foot-two, a Guundaran mercenary, and he was also part of the “bloodiest, messed-up” family. He and Stephano had met on opposing sides of a battle eight years ago—a battle Stephano had always considered both sides lost.

  “We should be starting for home, girls,” said Dag in his deep, grave voice.

  He was invariably grave, serious, and earnest; he rarely smiled. He dressed in plain black clothing. His hair was cut short in the military style, and he had the straight and upright bearing of the soldier he had been for many years. He would speak of his past only to say proudly that he had served in the army since he was eight years old, his sergeant father having made his son a drummer. Dag had fought in his first battle at the age of twelve.

  Dag and Stephano would often talk of battles in which Stephano had fought. Dag would share his opinion on the strategy or the tactics involved, but he had only once spoken of his own experience, and that had been when Stephano had wanted to hire him to help with a small job.

  Dag told Stephano his story, saying that it was only right “the captain” should know what had happened before Stephano put his trust in him. Dag told a horror tale of flame and blood, men dying all around him, men dying because he had ordered them to their deaths. Dag had been the sole survivor. Stephano had listened and, at the end of the recitation, which Dag had made in a low voice, never lifting his head, Stephano had taken the man’s hand and shaken it and said in a husky voice that he would be honored to serve with him.

  Dag had looked up, perplexed. “Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Captain. I ordered those men to die!”

  “I understand better than you do, seemingly,” Stephano had answered. “And don’t call me ‘captain.’ We’re neither of us in the service of any king. Neither of us will ever order any man into any king’s battle again. Let Their Majesties look after themselves.”

  Miri took down her cloak from the hook on the wall. Gythe picked up the cat.

  “If you will settle Doctor Ellington, child,” said Dag, turning his back to Gythe, who, with great care, placed the cat on Dag’s shoulder.

  Doctor Ellington dug his claws into the quilted shoulder padding Dag had added to his coat and purred loudly. Wherever Dag went, the Doctor went with him, riding proudly on the man’s shoulder, boldly challenging the world with golden eyes, his striped tail waving like a flag.

  “I’ll walk with you,” said Stephano, taking up his hat.

  Miri was fussily wrapping a cloak around Gythe’s slender shoulders, Dag was putting on his hat, and Stephano was starting to open the door when Rodrigo, who had been out of the room, visiting the chamber pot, returned. He saw them preparing to leave and came to an abrupt stop.

  “Where do you all think you are going?”

  “Home,” said Miri, adding teasingly, “to revel in our riches.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not,” said Rodrigo severely. He pulled out a chair and pointed to it. “We are all of us going to stay here until we figure out how to solve our deplorable financial insolvency.”

  The four looked at each other, sighed, and came trailing back. Stephano took off his hat and tossed it onto a marble bust of His Majesty, King Alaric, which graced a table. The marble bust had been a gift from a grateful nation to Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen of the Dragon Brigade for meritorious action. Rodrigo had once asked Stephano why he kept the bust. Stephano had replied that on days when he woke feeling a brotherhood with all the world, the sight of the king’s face reminded him that there was still one man on this world he hated.

  Dag removed his own hat and sat with it in his lap. Miri and Gythe took off their cloaks and sat down at the table. They stared at each other blankly. The only sound was Doctor Ellington’s throaty purr. The cat perched on Dag’s shoulder, his eyes golden slits, kneading his claws into the padding.

  “Come now,” said Rodrigo at last. “Someone must know somebody who is trying to smuggle jewels to his exiled family or wants to avoid paying the king’s tax on a shipment of brandy. You, Miri, have you talked to your Trundler uncle and myriad Trundler cousins? Do they have any jobs for us? Dag, what about your underworld connections?”

  Dag’s face darkened. His brow came together. His hand, resting on his knee, clenched to a fist.

  “Now, now, my friend,” said Rodrigo soothingly, “it’s no use pretending you did not once break legs for a living . . .”

  Dag scowled. Stephano saw Rodrigo’s life flash before his eyes and he was about to intervene when the meeting was interrupted by the sound of wyvern wings and the clatter of a carriage coming to rest on the cobblestones outside the house. The wyverns’ raucous croaks were followed by the voice of the driver shouting at the beasts to settle.

  Stephano and his friends all looked at one another. Judging by the sounds of the jingling harness, the scraping of claws on stone, and the wyverns hissing and snorting, the carriage had stopped right outside the front door. Someone arriving in a carriage—a large, airborne carriage—at this hour . . .

  “I smell money,” said Rodrigo, his nose twitching.

  There was a clatter and a scraping noise. The driver was lowering a step for the convenience of the carriage’s passenger. Then came the bang of the door knocker.

  Stephano turned to Benoit, who was pretending to be asleep in his chair. The knock was repeated with a bit more force. Stephano cleared his throat.

  Benoit blinke
d and opened his eyes, looked about blearily, and said, “Someone at the door, sir.”

  “I know,” said Stephano.

  He sat stubbornly in his chair.

  Benoit sat in his. After a moment, the old man said wonderingly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Would you like me to answer that, sir?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” said Stephano bitingly.

  Groaning, Benoit rose to his feet and began to shuffle across the floor. “If I might suggest, sir, you and Master Rodrigo should remove yourselves to the sitting room. Unless you want your visitor to find you sitting in the kitchen. He might mistake you for the cook.”

  “By God, he’s right,” said Rodrigo. “Stephano—sitting room! Run for it!”

  The kitchen was on the ground floor at the rear of the two-story house. A back door opened out into a small patch of ground that was meant to be used as a kitchen garden, but which had been turned into an exercise yard. Benoit’s rooms were on this level, as well. On the upper floor were a sitting room, two bedrooms, and two dressing rooms for Rodrigo and Stephano, a library, and study.

  “We’ll stay here in the kitchen,” said Miri. She and Gythe and Dag remained seated. “I don’t mind being mistaken for the cook.”

  Stephano flushed. “You know it’s not that—”

  “I know,” said Miri, smiling.

  She meant that she and Gythe and Dag weren’t “hiding” in the kitchen because Stephano was ashamed of his “low-born” friends. The three kept out of sight because the Cadre of the Lost often found it advantageous for people to assume there could be no connection between the son of a noble family (albeit a noble family in disgrace), the son of an ambassador, and a mercenary and two Trundlers.

  Dag reached into the sleeve of his coat and drew from a hidden pocket a small pistol known as a “stowaway gun.” The cheaper models of these guns relied on a flint to strike a spark to fire the weapon. Dag’s pistol used magical constructs—a fire sigil carved into the metal—to accomplish the same purpose. Such pistols were expensive because they required the regular services of a crafter to maintain the magic, but Stephano saw to it that his people had only the best. Dag inspected the gun, made certain it was loaded. He nodded at Stephano to indicate readiness.

  The cat, Doctor Ellington, seeing the pistol, leaped off Dag’s shoulder onto the table and from the table to the floor. Tail bristling with indignation, the Doctor stalked off to the cold room. He disliked loud noises.

  “Move! Move!” Rodrigo yelled, grabbing his coat and hustling the reluctant Stephano from behind.

  Once in the sitting room, Rodrigo put on his coat and smoothed his brocade vest. Careless of his own appearance, Stephano walked over to the window that looked down into the street. He saw the coat of arms on the door of the carriage and said, “Son of a bitch.”

  Crossing the room, he flung open the door, and shouted down, “I’m not at home!”

  “Very good, sir,” said Benoit.

  Rodrigo looked out the window and quirked an eyebrow. He remained standing by the window, a smile on his lips, humming a dance tune.

  Stephano walked over to the fireplace, where a small fire burned in the grate. Though the days were warm in late spring, the evenings were still chill. He listened to the sound of voices and heard the door bang shut. He smiled in relief and was on his way out the door to rejoin his friends when Benoit came in.

  “May I present Monsieur Dargent,” Benoit said in a loud voice. “Confidential valet-de-chambre to the Countess de Marjolaine.”

  Stephano’s face flushed in anger. “Damn it, Benoit, I told you I wasn’t home—”

  Benoit, who had now gone conveniently deaf in addition to his other infirmities, stepped aside to allow the gentleman to enter.

  “Thank you, Benoit,” said Dargent, smiling at the elderly retainer. “Good to see you again.”

  “Thank you, monsieur,” said Benoit, bowing. “Always a pleasure.” Stephano caught the flash of silver in the old man’s hand.

  “Traitor!” Stephano yelled after him as Benoit descended the stairs.

  “Perhaps next time, Master, you will answer the door yourself,” Benoit returned, pocketing the coin.

  Stephano, pointedly leaving the sitting room door open, turned back to glare at Dargent, who smiled at him pleasantly.

  “Stephano, you are looking well,” said Dargent. “And you, Master Rodrigo. You seem fit. How are your father and mother?”

  “In good health, monsieur, thank you,” said Rodrigo.

  “Your father is ambassador to Estara now, I believe,” said Dargent.

  Rodrigo bowed. “He was so fortunate to be called out of exile and given that assignment.”

  “The king’s way of making amends,” said Dargent.

  Rodrigo bowed again in acknowledgment. “His Majesty is the soul of generosity.”

  Stephano snorted and went to stand by the fireplace. He rested his arm on the mantel and stared moodily into the flames.

  “I’d invite you to sit down, Dargent, but you won’t be staying that long. What do you want?”

  “I have a letter from the countess, Captain,” said Dargent. “She asked me to deliver it into your hands.”

  Though a creature of a court known for its elegant and extravagant dress, Dargent wore tailored clothes in somber colors, as became a man of business. His stockings were snowy white, his buckled shoes polished, and they made no sound as he walked across the carpet. He was even-tempered, quiet of manner, discreet. He handed Stephano a missive that was folded like a cocked hat and sealed with lavender wax bearing the countess’ insignia—a bumblebee.

  Stephano took the letter from Dargent’s hand and tossed it into the fire.

  Dargent reached into the pocket of his vest and drew out another letter. “Her Excellency said to give you the second after you destroyed the first.”

  Stephano’s angry flush deepened. He was about to seize the letter and cast it to the same fate as the other one, when Rodrigo, moving with uncustomary speed, plucked the letter from Dargent’s hand and withdrew to the window to read it in the failing light. He gave a long, low whistle.

  “What does she want?” Stephano asked, glowering.

  “You are summoned to attend Her Excellency, the Countess de Marjolaine, in her quarters at the royal palace tomorrow morning at the hour of nine of the clock,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano glowered. “I’ll see her in—”

  “—in the palace, my friend. There’s more,” said Rodrigo. “It seems the countess has bought up all your debt. Either you favor her with your presence in the morning, or she will demand that the debt be paid in full.”

  Rodrigo handed Stephano the letter. He glanced over it, then turned to Dargent.

  “And, knowing the countess, she’ll send me to debtor’s prison if my bill is not paid. What’s this about?” Stephano asked.

  “I am sorry, Captain,” Dargent murmured. “I was not apprised.”

  “Like Hell you weren’t,” Stephano said, sneering. “You know all the countess’ dirty little secrets.”

  “Perhaps it’s a job,” Rodrigo suggested in a low voice. “We could use the work. The countess pays well and on time.”

  “She might say it’s a job for her, but we would really be working for the king,” said Stephano bitterly, not bothering to lower his voice.

  “Pays well,” Rodrigo repeated. “On time.”

  Stephano watched the first letter dwindle to ashes, then said abruptly, “Tell the countess I will attend her at nine. I’ll hear what she has to offer. I can always say no.”

  “And if you say no, we can always move to Estara,” said Rodrigo. “Our creditors might not find us there.”

  Dargent bowed. “I will show myself out, Captain.”

  “You do that,” said Stephano.

  He waited until he heard the front door close, then he picked up his hat and cloak and said shortly, “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Want company?” Rodri
go asked.

  “No,” said Stephano.

  “What do I tell the others?”

  “What you like,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo returned to the kitchen alone. Miri, Gythe, Dag, and the cat all looked at him expectantly. Benoit was again pretending to be asleep, but he had his head cocked to hear.

  “Benoit told us the man was from the countess,” said Miri. “Is it a job? Will Stephano take a job from her?”

  “God knows,” said Rodrigo, throwing up his hands. “Most of the time, Stephano de Guichen is a rational man. But he loses his head completely when it comes to his mother.”

  Chapter Two

  If one wishes to survive in the Rosian royal court, one must first understand the external politics that drive events in the world of Aeronne. The kingdoms of Bruond and Bheldem both lack internal cohesion and ambition and are currently no threat to anyone. Guundar produces the finest soldiers in Aeronne, willing to work for anyone with the correct amount of gold, mainly because there is no gold for them at home. Travia, home of the Trade Cartel, is an economic powerhouse, yet her small size makes her dependent on others for defense. Estara, birthplace of the Church of the Breath, could be a power in her own right, but has always been overshadowed by Freya and Rosia and sulks over her lowly status. Freya, the second most powerful nation in the world, has fostered an ancient hatred for Rosia, the first most powerful; a hatred that, as one can see from the bloodstained history of these two nations, is most happily and cheerfully returned.

  —Idle Musings on Rosian Politics

  by Rodrigo de Villeneuve

  THE NEXT DAY, STEPHANO ROSE AT HIS USUAL TIME. He ate breakfast, ran through his daily fencing practice, washed, and dressed. Hearing the sound of the carriage arriving at the door, he shouted to Benoit that he was leaving and descended the stairs that led to the main entryway. Stephano cast an uncaring glance at himself in the mirror, put on his hat (which he noted had been brushed, the brown plume fluffed up a bit) and was almost ready to go out the front door when Rodrigo opened it and walked inside.

  “I was just on my way to join you at the palace,” said Stephano. “I thought you were ‘visiting a friend.’ ”