Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  The grand bishop required spies. He had a few, but they were not nearly of the caliber of the spies in the employ of the Countess de Marjolaine. Montagne had been impressed with Dubois and had given him one or two small jobs, which Dubois had handled with skill. The grand bishop had provided him with funds to set up an intelligence network. Dubois had handled the task with such success that for the last few years, the bishop had been able to breathe freer and sleep somewhat more soundly at night.

  The visitors departed. Dubois heard the door close. He waited another moment to make certain the bishop was alone. The only sounds were the rustle of the bishop’s cassock and the creaking of the chair as he sat down; Montagne was a large man. Over six feet tall, he was massively built. At sixty years old, he was in excellent physical condition, looking more like a wrestler than a clergyman. He wore his gray hair short, his whitish-gray beard and mustache neatly trimmed.

  Ferdinand Montagne was ambitious, political, and a true and devoted believer in God—a dangerous combination. He believed that his voice was God’s voice, his will was God’s will, and that everything the bishop did or ordered to be done was for God’s glory.

  Dubois silently opened the door of the closet, silently drew aside the folds of the heavy curtain, and silently glided out.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” said Dubois in his deferential clerk’s voice.

  Grand Bishop Montagne gave a great gasp and a start that caused his pointed, gold-decorated miter to slip from his head and fall to the floor. The bishop twisted around in his chair and fixed his man with a baleful look.

  “By all the Saints, Dubois, some day you are going to sneak up on me like that and cause my heart to stop beating. Damn it, you could at least cough or bump into something.”

  Dubois smiled slightly as he bent to pick up the miter, brush off any dust, and hand it back to the bishop. Montagne motioned Dubois to set the miter on the desk, then directed him with an irritated gesture to take a seat.

  Dubois did not immediately sit down. “I might suggest it would be well, Your Grace, if you were to send the monsignor, your secretary, and his assistants on an errand.”

  “And what would that errand be, Dubois?”

  “I need to know who has been meeting with the Countess de Marjolaine during the past few days. I need the list of visitors to date, including all her meetings scheduled for today.”

  The bishop’s face stiffened, as always when the countess’ name was mentioned. He rose to his feet, his blue, gold-trimmed cassock swishing about his ankles, and went out to speak to the secretary.

  Dubois looked about the prelate’s study, taking note of any changes that had been made in his absence. The room was lit by narrow windows, two stories high. Each window was set with beveled, leaded glass. The interior walls were lined with bookcases and rich paneling carved of cherry inlaid with rosewood and precious metals. Two andirons, each taking the form of an angel with sword raised and feet on the heads of writhing demons, stood before the gold-veined, white marble fireplace.

  Seeing nothing of interest, Dubois flipped through the papers on the bishop’s desk, his retentive memory absorbing their contents. He resumed his seat as the bishop came back into the room, closing the door behind him and turning the key in the lock.

  “I assume you were eavesdropping? You heard the news about the abbey?” the bishop asked grimly.

  “I could not help but overhear, Your Grace,” said Dubois. “I cannot imagine who would perpetrate such an outrage.”

  “I have contacted the Arcanum to investigate. Father Jacob Northrup is coming to meet with me. He would have been here by now, but he and his team were in Capione, investigating reports of that Warlock and his coven.”

  “The Warlock? What has that evil young man done now?” Dubois asked.

  “It seems he seduced the daughter of a nobleman. She ran away from home to join him and his followers. Several bodies of his young followers have been found, drained of blood, which the Warlock uses in his heinous rites. He gives the deluded children opium and lures them into orgies, then murders them.”

  “I ask myself, ‘Why?’ ” said Dubois, frowning.

  “What do you mean ‘why?’ Because he takes pleasure in killing people,” said the bishop. “He’s insane.”

  “I doubt that,” said Dubois. “He does this for a reason.”

  “Well, whatever that reason is, pray God this time Father Jacob has managed to find him and stop him.”

  “If anyone can do so, it is Father Jacob Northrup,” said Dubois.

  The grand bishop was silent, frowning. “So what are you doing here, Dubois? Your orders were to remain in Freya until the end of the summer court.”

  “Might I have a glass of wine and something to eat, Your Grace?” asked Dubois. “I am famished. I have spent the last two days traveling. I came here immediately on my arrival.”

  The bishop indicated the sideboard on which stood a crystal decanter of wine and a collation of cold meats and bread. Dubois forked beef onto a slice of bread, devoured it in a few bites, then poured himself a glass of wine and returned to his chair.

  “I fear I have more bad news, Your Grace. Sir Henry Wallace has left Freya.”

  Bishop Montagne’s eyes opened wide. His frown deepened, his face grew dark. He said a word suited more to a dockyard worker than a bishop, then added, “Where is the bastard?”

  “I have no idea, Your Grace.”

  The bishop gave a heavy sigh. “Tell me everything, Dubois.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Ever since his marriage, Sir Henry has been seen at court on an almost daily basis. His movements have been unremarkable.” Dubois shrugged. “People say he dotes upon his young wife, who is in the last few months of her pregnancy. A short time ago, however, there was a break in his routine. I was informed by my spy, a maidservant, in his household, that a wooden box had been delivered to Sir Henry by a man who had the appearance of a sailor.

  “The maid got a good look at the box, on the pretext of dusting Sir Henry’s study, and reported that the box was plain, with no writing on it, nothing to indicate its origins or what was inside. She assumed it was some gift for his wife and thought nothing of it. He did not give his wife a gift, however, and yet, oddly, the box vanished. The maid asked some of the other members of the staff, but no one knew what had become of it. Several days after Wallace received this box, he suddenly, without advance notice, moved his wife and household to his estate outside Haever. He stated as his reason his wife’s impending lying-in.”

  “What happened to this mysterious box?”

  “I do not know, Your Grace, but a most curious incident occurred after Wallace arrived at his estate. The staff was told that Sir Henry was going to be conducting scientific experiments in the kitchen and they were not to be alarmed if they heard any odd sounds. Such experiments are, apparently, not unusual for Sir Henry.

  “That night, the maid was awakened by what she swears were gunshots, followed by a loud explosion. The next morning the kitchen smelled strongly of gunpowder and was in such a mess, with pots and pans lying on the floor, that the cook threatened to give notice. The maid found several bullets, flattened, in the fireplace. Wallace left immediately afterward, telling his wife he was bound for Haever. He never arrived there. It took me two days to learn that he was no longer in Freya.”

  “You think . . .”

  “I think something important was in that box, Your Grace.”

  Montagne grunted in agreement. “Did you find out where the box came from, anything about it? You said the man who delivered it was a sailor.”

  Dubois paused for a sip of wine. He drank sparingly, preferring to have all his mental faculties unclouded by the fumes of the grape.

  “All I could find out was that two merchant vessels had docked immediately before the box was delivered. One was from Travia and the second a free trader from the Aligoes Islands.”

  “Which do you suspect?” the bishop asked.

  “Free tr
aders smuggle Estaran wine into Freya, along with other contraband. Given the fact that Estara and Travia are on the brink of war on the eastern frontier over Braffa—”

  “But Freya is neutral in this conflict,” the bishop interjected.

  “It is well known in Freya that you, Your Grace, support Estara in its claim of Braffa and that His Majesty, King Alaric, supports Travia in its claim—”

  “Say, rather, that fiendish woman, the Countess de Marjolaine, supports Travia,” said the bishop.

  Dubois nodded. “I noted the last time I was in the Travian court that it is crawling with her operatives. But, as I was going to say, this war between Travia and Estara over Braffa has resulted in a serious rift between Church and Crown here in Rosia. It might be very tempting to Wallace to heat up the fire under this cauldron, see perhaps if he can’t make it boil over.”

  “To what purpose?” the bishop asked.

  “Ah, who knows with Sir Henry,” said Dubois.

  The bishop glowered. “Do I detect a note of admiration in your voice, Dubois?”

  “One should never underestimate one’s enemy, Your Grace. I also have the highest regard for the Countess de Marjolaine.”

  A rumbling sound came from the region of the bishop’s stomach. He placed his hand on his belly. “Bah! This news has made me bilious. Pour me a glass of wine.”

  Dubois did as he was told, returning to set the goblet at the bishop’s hand. As he did so, there was a knock upon the door. The bishop gestured and Dubois crossed over to the door, opened it a crack, and received a book bound in red leather. He closed the door and once more turned the key. The bishop eyed the red leather book in Dubois’ hand.

  “Where the devil is Wallace? I don’t like it when that fiend is on the loose.” Montagne gazed moodily into his wine goblet.

  “That is what I am endeavoring to ascertain, Your Grace. That is why I asked to see who has been meeting with the countess.”

  Dubois opened the red leather book somewhere around the middle and began to read. At the top of each page was a date. Below the date was a list of names. Dubois scanned several pages. The bishop watched hopefully, but his hopes were dashed when Dubois shook his head and closed the book.

  “Nothing?”

  “The usual: favor-seekers, courtiers. Only three are in any way remarkable. Yesterday, the countess met with the Master of the Royal Armory. This morning, she met with her son, Captain de Guichen—”

  “What is so remarkable about that?” asked the bishop. He was in an ill humor and inclined to be petty. “She is his mother.”

  “The two are not on speaking terms, Your Grace, though the countess does occasionally employ her son on sensitive business. And he did fight the Estarans prior to the Dragon Brigade being decommissioned. After he left, the countess was closeted for a long time with Lord Hoalfhausen, the Travian ambassador.”

  “There, you see!” said the bishop in angry triumph. “That woman is meddling in this war, consorting with my enemies.”

  “So it would seem, Your Grace,” replied Dubois. Disappointed, he tossed the book onto the desk. “Unfortunately, this tells us nothing regarding the whereabouts of Sir Henry.”

  He rose to his feet and prepared to take his leave.

  “Keep me informed, Dubois,” said the bishop. “May God speed your endeavors.”

  “May He, indeed, Your Grace. And may He aid the labors of Father Jacob as he confounds the Warlock and discovers who murdered our Sisters in God.”

  Dubois bowed, circled around behind the bishop’s chair, parted the curtain, and entered the closet. A glance over his shoulder showed Montagne sitting with his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. He picked up the goblet, drank off the wine in a gulp, then rang a bell to summon the monsignor.

  Dubois left the palace the way he had come, passing through the small patio, out the hidden gate, and onto the street. Returning to his lodgings for a long overdue meal, he found an agent waiting for him.

  Dubois eyed him. “You’re the one who has been shadowing Wallace’s agent, right? You sent me word that Harrington had arrived in the city a fortnight ago and has been keeping to himself.”

  “Yes, sir. There has been a development. I dispatched news of this to you yesterday, but then I heard you had left Freya, so I feared you might not have received it.”

  “I did not. What has happened?”

  “Yesterday, Harrington, dressed as a common laborer, pretending to be a drunkard, spent the day in the neighborhood of the Church of Saint Michelle. He is back there again today, sir.”

  “The devil he is!” said Dubois, startled.

  “He was still there when I left. Sleeping on a bench with a wine jug in front of a statue of the blessed saint.”

  “How very strange,” Dubois murmured, frowning. “Where is it?”

  “Street of the Half Moon, sir. The church is at the southern end, near the bridge.”

  Dubois sent his agent to keep an eye on the inn where Harrington was staying. Dubois ate his meal standing and ordered a fresh horse to be saddled. While dining, he wondered what to make of this news.

  The Street of the Half Moon ran through a bustling neighborhood of shops, boarding houses, and private dwellings, most of them occupied by middle-class families. What could James Harrington, one of Sir Henry’s top agents, be doing lounging about Half Moon Street?

  Mounting his horse, Dubois rode off to find out.

  Chapter Four

  Constructs are man’s way of safely controlling and harnessing magical energy. Formed of sigils connected by lines of magical energy, constructs supplement the natural properties of matter. For example, a strengthening construct set in a piece of leather armor can render the leather resistant to a sword strike.

  It would seem that the same process should work using strengthening constructs in metal. But placing constructs in the metal during the forging process makes the metal unworkable. It becomes brittle and breaks. Armorers have always had to wait until the metal object is finished and then set the magical construct onto the metal’s surface. This process reduces the strengthening power of the magic and causes the constructs to become susceptible to damage and wear, which means crafters must constantly repair the sigils, glyphs, and lines of connection.

  Armorers down through the centuries have long sought a means to combine magic and metal. Like turning lead into gold, most believe it to be impossible.

  —An excerpt from “Constructs and Their Use

  in the Production of Weapons and Armor”

  by Gaston Bondrea

  Grand Master, Rosian Armorers Guild

  STEPHANO HAD MANAGED BY A GREAT DEAL of self-control to avoid running his rapier through the insufferable little twit of a secretary and been provided with funds for the work ahead. He was now free to leave the palace and he would have done so immediately, except he couldn’t find Rodrigo. After an hour’s searching, he and a footman discovered his friend in the music room, playing the clavichord in his usual whimsical manner for numerous laughing silk-and-satined, perfumed-and-rouged female admirers.

  Rodrigo was a very talented musician and he could have won fame as a performer and composer if he’d worked at it. As with his crafting of magic, he couldn’t be bothered. Running his fingers over the keys, he played snippets of popular compositions, adding some of his own, interspersing his playing with lively tidbits of scandal and gossip.

  Stephano did not want to enter the room, for he knew if he did, he’d be trapped into socializing. He stood in the doorway, making emphatic gestures until Rodrigo caught sight of him and ceased playing, much to the disappointment of the ladies. Rodrigo paid charming compliments, kissed all the bejeweled hands, made promises to dine with at least half of them, and at last escaped.

  Rodrigo’s first question, the moment he and Stephano were alone, was, “Did you get the money?”

  “I had to wait in my mother’s antechamber and hold my tongue while that bastard Emil informed me and everyone else in the room that my
mother was paying my debts,” said Stephano, still fuming. “Then he made a grand show of counting out the silver! Even the footmen were snickering. And I wasn’t the one who insulted him! You were the one who sneered at him for being a fourth son!”

  “True, but that’s not important. I am a third son and look how well I turned out. What is important is—did you get the money?” Rodrigo asked again.

  “After I was thoroughly humiliated,” said Stephano grimly. “I have the letters of mark from our debtors, which are now all paid off in my pocket and fifty silver rosuns for our expenses.”

  “Excellent,” said Rodrigo, with a sigh of relief. He ushered his friend through the long gallery of gleaming rosewood and black-and-white marble, decorated with landscape paintings by famous artists. At the end, a staircase led them toward an exit. “Now that we are in funds, I suggest we celebrate with a bottle of claret at some small, but elegant café, and you can tell me about the job.”

  “I’ll tell you about the job on the way home so that I can take off this bloody cravat. I feel like I’m being strangled,” Stephano grumbled, tugging at the offending object.

  A footman summoned one of the wyvern-drawn carriages. Once inside, Stephano explained the situation regarding the mysterious disappearance of Pietro Alcazar. Stephano kept his voice low, despite the fact that with the wind rushing in his ears, the driver was unlikely to hear anything short of a shout. The information was sensitive enough that Stephano did not want to take any chances. Rodrigo had to lean close to hear him.

  At the conclusion, Stephano added, with a shrug, “The job seems simple enough. We search Alcazar’s rooms, report back to my mother, and no more debts.”

  “The simplicity is what worries me,” said Rodrigo. “The countess is paying us a large sum for doing nothing more than instituting a search for some wayward journeyman? Doesn’t make sense. Your mother, unlike her son, is an astute businesswoman.”

  “My mother is not paying us for the search,” said Stephano dryly. “She’s paying us for our silence.”

  “Ah, of course. Well, as you say, a simple little job.” Rodrigo settled back in his seat.