Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “The Armory also looks for ways to improve those weapons and armor,” said the countess.

  “That’s a given,” said Stephano.

  The countess eyed him. The small furrow dug into her brow. “Don’t stand there hovering by the door as though you are ready to bolt any moment. Come closer, so that I don’t have to shout.”

  She was hardly shouting, and Stephano realized suddenly that there was a reason she had brought him to this garden, when usually their business was conducted in her audience chamber. Here, amid the thick foliage and trailing vines with nothing except blue sky above and the ground far below, was privacy—as much privacy as one could have in a palace populated by many hundreds of people.

  Stephano felt a prickling at the back of his neck. This job was starting to sound more interesting. He joined his mother at the wall, where she stood gazing down upon the cathedral and the large, squat, towered structures that clustered around it.

  “The Bishop’s Palace,” said the countess in reflective tones, her thoughts echoing her son’s. “Fixed firmly on the ground. His Grace moved his office, you know, to the other end of the building, so that he wouldn’t have to look out his window to see His Majesty floating above him.”

  First the Armory, now the Grand Bishop Montagne—King Alaric’s longtime friend, longer time enemy. Where was this conversation leading? Stephano kept quiet and waited to find out.

  The countess turned to Stephano; as she did so, a shaft of sunlight, filtering through the green leaves of a flowering crab tree, illuminated the scar on her lip. He had never really noticed the scar before now. The scar appeared to be an old one and he wondered how she had come by it. Some childhood accident, perhaps? Oddly, the scar made her seem more human. Perhaps that was why she always tried to conceal it by touching her lips with carnelian, the only cosmetic she deigned to wear.

  “By law, the Church of the Breath of God oversees all development of technology involving magical constructs, even at the Royal Armory,” said the countess. “Any research into new uses of magic must be approved by the grand bishop. The law has stood for centuries.”

  “I suppose such a law makes sense,” said Stephano. “Scripture says ‘from the Breath of God comes His voice and the quiet whispers of his words’ and that is magic.”

  His gaze shifted from the cathedral to the Breath as it lapped at the Rim of the bay. “The truth is, magical energy flows in the Breath. We harness the Breath with constructs and use it to lift our airships. The Breath powers our technology and augments our machines. The Breath is magic and magic is power.”

  Stephano turned to his mother. “And power without the divine teachings of the church for guidance is an ‘open door for the darkness that lies in wait for the heathen.’ ”

  “Your tutor taught you well,” said the countess dryly.

  “Actually, it was Rodrigo,” said Stephano.

  “In fact, your friend, Monsieur de Villeneuve, is one of the reasons I thought of asking you to undertake this job.”

  “If it involves the seduction of women, you’ll find Rodrigo outstanding,” said Stephano, grinning.

  “Actually I was thinking more of his outstanding skills as a crafter. At least, I am told he has such skills,” said the countess.

  “And, as usual, your spies are correct, Mother. But what have crafters and Rodrigo to do with the bishop and the Breath of God and the Royal Armory—By Heaven!” Stephano answered his own question. “His Majesty has been conducting research into new weapons technology involving magic. And he has not shared it with the bishop.”

  “You always were a smart boy,” the countess murmured.

  “What would happen if the bishop were to discover this little indiscretion?”

  “The king would be embarrassed—”

  “My heart bleeds,” said Stephano, his lip curling in a sneer.

  The countess smiled faintly. “There would be other ramifications, as I am certain you are aware.”

  The sun drifted behind a tower, throwing the garden into shadow. The countess drew her scarf more closely around her shoulders. “Sit here. The air is chill in the shade.”

  The countess took her seat on a wicker divan, surrounded by plump cushions. There was room for Stephano, and she made a polite gesture for him to sit beside her. He chose, instead, a seat on a marble bench opposite her. His rapier rang against the stone wall as he settled himself.

  Now we’re coming to it, he thought.

  “I had a visit yesterday morning from Douver, Master of the Royal Armory. Master Douver was quite agitated. It seems one of his journeyman, Pietro Alcazar, did not come to work the day before.”

  “Hardly an event likely to sink the continent,” said Stephano.

  “So one would think,” said the countess imperturbably. “Douver assures me, however, that this journeyman is completely reliable. Alcazar has not missed a day’s work since he came to the Armory six years ago. He does not chase women. He does not indulge in strong drink. He is known to be a dedicated and brilliant crafter who lives solely for his work. He is so brilliant, in fact, that he recently made an amazing discovery. He found a way to manufacture steel utilizing the Breath of God—”

  Stephano laughed. “And I can turn lead into gold. Crafters have been trying to mix metal and magic for years, Mother! It can’t be done.”

  “I am aware of this,” said the countess sharply, annoyed at the interruption. “Hear me out. Douver was so excited by Alcazar’s discovery he reported it to His Majesty.”

  “But not to the bishop,” Stephano inserted. “As required by law.”

  “He went to the king first, as was proper,” said the countess. “The king was thrilled, naturally, but also, like you, my clever son, he was skeptical. He demanded proof. Douver promised to bring a sample of this Breath-enhanced steel to His Majesty.”

  “What sort of sample?” Stephano asked.

  “Something that would appear quite ordinary—a tankard, I believe. Douver was to meet with His Majesty yesterday. When Alcazar failed to come to work, Douver was concerned that his journeyman might have been taken ill or—”

  “—he was, in fact, a charlatan who knew his fraud was about to be revealed,” said Stephano.

  “That was Douver’s fear, especially as he had allowed the king to labor under the mistaken belief that he—Douver—had developed this new metal.”

  Stephano smiled and shook his head.

  “Douver hastened to Alcazar’s rooms,” the countess continued. “He found the front door had been forced open. Furniture was upended. There were signs of a struggle. Alcazar was gone and so was the tankard he had been going to show to the king. Seeing this, Douver came to me at once.”

  “Why you?” Stephano asked, frowning.

  The countess was exasperated. “You could hardly expect Douver to go to the king! What would the fool man say? That he had lied about the fact that he had created this new metal? That he had allowed the journeyman who did create it to be snatched out from under his nose? The king would think Douver had been lying all this time. He would lose his job, if not his head.”

  “So he hoped you could get him back into the king’s good graces. Well, that should be easy for you, Mother. Just slip into His Majesty’s bed . . .”

  The countess sat quite still. Her eyes were gray as a winter sky, her face expressionless. When she spoke, her tone was smooth and cold.

  “There is a far more important consideration here, Stephano, as you would realize if you were not constantly occupied in hating me.”

  Stephano realized he had gone too far. What she said was true. He was allowing his feelings to cloud his judgment. Beyond that, his remark had been unworthy of a knight and a gentleman.

  “I beg your pardon, Mother,” he said quietly. “I should not have said that.”

  The countess stood up and took a turn or two around the garden. She twisted the little golden ring on her finger. Stephano waited in silence, still feeling the sting of her rebuke. Her next qu
estion surprised him.

  “Tell me, Stephano, if Alcazar had succeeded in producing steel that could be enhanced by the Breath of God, what would be the ramifications of such a discovery?”

  “Astounding,” Stephano answered. “Cannonballs would bounce off our warships like hailstones. Armor could withstand bullets or, conversely, bullets could punch through ordinary steel. Such a discovery would make our military invincible. But that is assuming this Alcazar actually succeeded, and I don’t believe—”

  “Someone does,” said the countess flatly.

  Stephano was brought up short. He thought this over and now understood her concern. Alcazar had disappeared, perhaps not of his own free will. Someone had snatched him. The idea of such magically enhanced steel in the wrong hands was appalling.

  “I need you to discover the truth, Stephano. Go to Alcazar’s lodging, search it, see what you can learn. You will be discreet, quiet, circumspect. No hint of what has happened must leak out.”

  “Which is why you came to me,” said Stephano.

  “I dare not trust any of my local agents,” said the countess, nodding agreement. “Not with something this important. Here is the address.”

  She reached into her bosom and drew out a piece of paper and handed it to Stephano. The address was in his mother’s own hand, bold and firm: 127 Street of the Half Moon. He thrust the paper into an inner pocket in his coat.

  “How flattering to know you actually trust me, Mother,” he remarked.

  “I do trust you, Stephano,” said the countess gravely. “Do not let me down.”

  She moved to the door and stood beside it, waiting for him to open it for her. The interview was at an end.

  Stephano stood up, pressing his hand against his rapier to keep it from striking the bench. “One question. You mentioned Grand Bishop Montagne. Is it possible that he could have found out about Alcazar?”

  “I thought of that,” said the countess. “I have made inquiries and am convinced that the bishop knows nothing. If his creature, Dubois, were in Rosia, it would be a different matter. Dubois knows, sees, hears everything. But Dubois is in Freya, attending the royal court. And now I really must go. I am late for a meeting with the Travian ambassador.”

  Stephano opened the door, and the countess swept past him with a rustle of satin and the faint fragrance of honeysuckle.

  “I hear Travia and Estara are hurling cannonballs at one another over which of the two nations owns mineral-rich Braffa,” said Stephano. “Rodrigo’s father is ambassador to Estara. He writes that the situation is grim.”

  “They are both trying to draw us into the fight,” said the countess. “I won’t allow that to happen.”

  “Shouldn’t King Alaric be handling this matter, along with his officially appointed ministers?” Stephano asked, grinning.

  “His Majesty has far more important matters to concern him,” said the countess.

  Stephano leaned near to say, “There’s not a twitch of your cobweb that you don’t feel, is there, Mother?”

  “You’ve fought the Estarans. Do you want to do so again?” the countess asked, as they passed through the sitting room and into the library.

  “I would not be given the chance, as you well know,” said Stephano caustically.

  “May I remind you, my son, that you were the one who resigned the commission which I had managed to obtain for you,” the countess returned.

  “And may I remind you, Mother, that I resigned after the king disbanded the Dragon Brigade and took away my command,” said Stephano heatedly.

  “His Majesty offered you a post—”

  “—as a lowly lieutenant on one of his new-fangled floating frigates. I am a Dragon Knight. If you think I would stoop—”

  Stephano stopped to draw in a deep breath. He was not going to quarrel with her. Not that they ever quarreled. She was Breath-enhanced steel. Words, like bullets, could never penetrate her. He came back to business.

  “If I find out what you need to know about this Alcazar, you will clear all my debts?”

  The countess glanced at him. “I said I would. I keep my word.”

  Stephano flushed. He hated to mention this next, but he had no choice. He did so with what dignity he could muster. “Rodrigo tells me that I am . . . er . . . rather short of funds right now. If you could advance me—”

  “I have given instructions for you to receive the paperwork clearing you of your debt and I have provided money for expenses,” said the countess.

  They had returned to the audience chamber. She remained standing. Business concluded, she was ready to be done with him.

  Stephano bowed. “I will take my leave, then, Madame. I will be in touch. Who do I see about the money?”

  The countess extended her hand for him to kiss.

  “My secretary, Emil,” she said, adding, with a hint of a smile, “The young man you insulted.”

  While Stephano was back in the antechamber, forced to endure Emil’s sneers while waiting for his mother’s money, one of the men he and the countess had been discussing was also being forced to wait. Only this man was waiting to clear customs, not waiting for an insufferable secretary.

  For once, the countess’ spies were wrong. Dubois, the bishop’s “creature,” as the countess had termed him, was not in Freya attending the royal court. His ship had docked at the Rosian port at about the same time the wyvern-drawn carriage containing Stephano and Rodrigo had flown over the dockyards. If Stephano had looked down and Dubois had looked up, the two men would have seen each other.

  Seeing Dubois would not have done Stephano any good, for he did not know the man. They had never met. Dubois knew Stephano, however. Dubois made it his business to know everyone who had anything to do with the politics of any of the royal courts.

  Once he was through customs, Dubois—known by everyone simply as Dubois—did not waste time. He met with several men who were waiting on the dock for him. He heard their reports and gave them instructions. These meetings with agents concluded, he hastened to a nearby inn where he always kept a horse in readiness, mounted, and rode swiftly through the crowded streets, paying no heed to the curses of those he nearly ran down.

  Upon reaching the vicinity of the Bishop’s Palace, Dubois left the horse at the stables of another inn in which he had taken up lodgings, then walked the rest of the way. He did not enter by the main gate. Instead, he went to a small gate located in the wall directly behind the bishop’s private residence. The gate was hidden in some shrubbery, and Dubois had the only key.

  The gate led into a small walled-off terrace, still filled with last autumn’s dead leaves, located at the rear of the house. A door with a lock to which Dubois also had the key opened into a long, narrow hallway.

  The hall was dark, but Dubois had walked it many times and did not need a light to find his way. At the end of the hall was another door with yet another lock. He opened this door with yet another key and entered a small closet, big enough for him and a single chair.

  Dubois walked over to the wall and pressed his ear to it. He could hear voices: the deep, resonant voice of the grand bishop and other voices he did not recognize. He could hear the bishop quite clearly for his chair was near the closet door, which was concealed by a thick, velvet curtain hanging behind the bishop’s chair. The other voices were agitated, less distinct, but Dubois was a master at eavesdropping.

  The Abbey of Saint Agnes had been attacked during the night. Many of the one hundred nuns living there had been slaughtered, the abbey burned.

  Dubois was shocked at the terrible news and was surprised he had not heard of the attack from his agents, but then he reminded himself that he had only just landed. A devout man, Dubois said a prayer for the dead. He took a seat on the chair and waited with some impatience for the visitors to leave.

  In his mid-forties, Dubois was hard to describe. Plain and ordinary to look at, Dubois fostered the appearance of being plain and ordinary. His dress and demeanor were that of a lowly clerk (a
nd a poorly paid lowly clerk at that). What lifted Dubois out of the ordinary was his extraordinary mind. He had only to look at a face and he would remember that person for the rest of his life. He had merely to peruse a document once and he could later copy it word for word, comma for comma. He could repeat a conversation verbatim, though it might have lasted hours. These amazing talents had been noticed many years ago when he was a young man by his parish priest, who had brought Dubois to the attention of the grand bishop.

  Ferdinand Montagne was grand bishop of a church that had been struggling with various problems for these past twenty years. Once a power in the world, as the world’s only true religion, the Church of the Breath of Rosia had seen that power wane. The Church of the Breath of Freya had split off and begun calling itself the Church of the Reformation. Its ministers preached that the Church of the Breath of Rosia was rife with corruption, had lost its way, and should no longer be responsible for the salvation of men’s souls.

  As if this were not trouble enough, King Alaric, who had once been a devoted follower of church doctrine and friend to the bishop (who had sacrificed a great deal for His Majesty), had started to rebel, to go off on his own. Now he was looking for a reason to end the Church’s control over the magic and take it (and the revenue it provided) for the Crown.

  Such a reason existed in the form of a terrible secret. The bishop possessed certain knowledge about the Church, about the Breath of God, about the magic—“the quiet whispers of his words” that was so dreadful, so awful, that should the king find out, he would have the excuse he needed.

  Beset by enemies without, wrestling with danger within, the bishop had needed help. He needed to know what his enemies in Freya were thinking, plotting. He needed to know what the King of Rosia was plotting, if not necessarily thinking. His Majesty left his thinking to the Countess de Marjolaine.