Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “Deliver these letters,” said Stephano, “and then go home. Here’s some money.”

  “That’s a lot, Captain,” said Beppe, his eyes wide.

  “I’m sure we owe you back pay,” said Stephano dispiritedly.

  “Yes, Captain, thank you, sir.” Beppe started to leave, then turned back. “Is anything wrong, Captain?”

  “No more than usual,” said Stephano, with an attempt at a smile. “Now run along.”

  Beppe gave another salute and dashed off.

  Stephano, knowing it would be useless to ask Benoit, went to the storeroom fetch his own beer. The barrel was once more full.

  “How was court, Benoit?” he asked. “Any message from my mother?”

  “Your honored mother the countess has heard nothing more about the matter at hand, sir,” said Benoit. “She bids you a safe journey.”

  Stephano sighed and sat down. If Rodrigo survived, the Cadre would go to Westfirth to continue the search for Alcazar. The chance of Rodrigo surviving being highly unlikely, Stephano guessed he would spend tomorrow planning his friend’s funeral. He drank the beer, stared into the empty mug, then suddenly swearing viciously, he flung it at the fireplace. The crockery mug shattered.

  Benoit eyed the remains. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

  “Like I give a damn!” Stephano said savagely.

  “What is wrong, sir?” Benoit asked. He rose to his feet without a trace of infirmity to face Stephano. “I have a right to know.”

  Benoit had ridden with his master, Sir Julian, to the convent to bring home his newborn child. Sir Julian had placed the baby in Benoit’s arms and said, “Benoit, meet my son. Care for him as you do me.”

  Stephano rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head in his hands and dragged his fingers through his long hair. His face was pale, haggard.

  “Sir,” said Benoit, sounding fearful, “tell me—”

  “Rodrigo’s very likely going to die tomorrow,” said Stephano.

  “Oh, my God, sir!” Benoit grabbed hold of the edge of the table for support. “The king didn’t find out about—Master Rodrigo’s not going to be executed—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” said Stephano wearily. “A duel. A bloody, stupid duel.”

  He described what had happened in the park.

  “Master Rodrigo claims he’s innocent, sir,” said Benoit.

  Stephano gave a wan smile. “Master Rodrigo always claims he’s innocent.”

  “That’s true, sir,” the old man admitted. He set to work with unusual energy, filling the teakettle with water and placing it on the hob, stirring up the coals, adding wood to the fire.

  “What are you doing?” Stephano asked.

  “Fixing a honey posset for Master Rodrigo, sir. It will help him sleep. He will need all his faculties for the morning.”

  “I doubt if his ‘faculties’ are going to be that much help,” Stephano muttered.

  Benoit disappeared into the storeroom. He was gone several moments, then returned carrying a crock of honey and a small, dust-covered jug.

  “I don’t suppose I could have a tumbler full of whatever is in that jug?” Stephano asked.

  “For illness only, sir,” said Benoit. He cast Stephano a sharp glance. “You need to be sober. It’s up to you to find a way to save him.”

  “There’s nothing I can do this time, Benoit,” said Stephano.

  “You’ll find a way, sir,” said Benoit stoutly.

  Stephano only shook his head. He watched while Benoit concocted the posset, mixing the contents of the mysterious jug with honey and boiling water.

  “I’ll take that to him,” Stephano offered. “Save you a trip up the stairs.”

  “I will take it, sir,” said Benoit with dignity. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Stephano followed the old man as he hobbled up the stairs. He heard Benoit’s gentle knock, saw him open the door softly and carry the steaming mug inside. Stephano sighed deeply and went to his own room.

  Benoit’s posset contained rum laced with opium, with the result that Rodrigo slept quite soundly, while Stephano passed a wretched night, trying in vain to think of some way to save his friend’s life. He was so desperate he even considered traveling to the palace to appeal to his mother. On sober reflection Stephano realized there was nothing even the powerful countess could do. Rodrigo had made his bed, so to speak.

  In the small hours of the morning, Stephano went to his bookshelf and found a small, thin volume given to all officers in the navy. It was called the Codes Duello and laid down the rules of dueling. Stephano was familiar with the guide, but he read it over again, hoping to find some way for Rodrigo to honorably withdraw. Unfortunately, the book only confirmed what Stephano had known from the beginning—there was nothing to be done.

  According to the Codes Duello, Rodrigo might have been able to offer an apology to Valazquez and his sister without loss of honor except that a blow had been struck—an insult no gentleman could tolerate. The Codes offered only one hope and it was faint: as a second, Stephano had the right and the duty to attempt to reconcile the parties before blood was shed. Considering the hot-headed Valazquez, Stephano didn’t think reconciliation likely.

  The night passed slowly for Stephano and yet far too quickly. When the clock struck four, he dressed by candlelight, putting on his military-style dragon green coat and breeches with high boots and a plain waistcoat. Beneath the waistcoat he wore a lightweight, chain mail vest made of tiny riveted links of steel, each set with its own magical construct. The vest had been a gift from his Dragon Wing when he had been named commander of the Dragon Brigade. The vest weighed only ten pounds and provided better protection than a steel breastplate. A craftsman in the Royal Armory had worked three months to make it.

  How ironic would it be, Stephano thought, if that craftsman had been Pietro Alcazar.

  Wearing armor to a duel wasn’t exactly proper etiquette, but protecting himself was good, common sense. Stephano didn’t know either of these gentlemen and while he assumed they were gentlemen and wouldn’t resort to any dirty tricks, he considered it wise to take precautions.

  When he was dressed, he went to summon Rodrigo. Having expected his friend to be lying awake, a prey to anxiety, Stephano was surprised to find Rodrigo sleeping as soundly as a babe in arms. Stephano had to shake him to rouse him. Rodrigo woke groggy and disoriented, at which point Stephano sniffed at the mug containing the honey posset, smelled the opium, and yelled angrily for Benoit.

  Between the two of them, they managed to get Rodrigo out of bed, sobered up, and dressed. The laws of dueling forbade the wearing of any clothing set with magical constructs. The duel’s adjudicator—a person brought in from outside to see to it that the proceedings were handled fairly—was required to check to make certain neither opponent took such an unfair advantage. The Codes did not say anything about the style of clothing the combatants wore. Stephano insisted that Rodrigo put on a loose-fitting white shirt with overlarge, flowing sleeves. In any sort of breeze, the sleeves would flap in the wind, making aiming at a vital organ difficult.

  Rodrigo protested against the shirt, which was old and completely out of fashion.

  “He’ll probably just shoot me in the head,” said Rodrigo. “At least let me die in style.”

  “A head shot is unlikely,” said Stephano briskly, determined to be matter-of-fact. “You both will stand back-to-back with your guns in the air. At the signal, you will each walk ten paces, turn, and fire. Because Valazquez has to turn, he will be forced to fire quickly, hoping to hit you before you can get off a shot at him. He won’t have time to aim at your head. He’ll likely try to hit you in the chest, which provides a larger target and is easier to hit.”

  “So I should do the same?” asked Rodrigo. “Aim for his chest?”

  Stephano thought back to the first, last, and only time he and Dag had tried to teach Rodrigo to shoot. They had all three been extremely fortunate to escape with their lives. Rodri
go had a most lamentable habit of closing his eyes whenever the gun went off.

  “Just keep your eyes open,” said Stephano.

  “I can’t help it,” Rodrigo protested. “It’s like sneezing. Absolutely impossible to keep your eyes open when you sneeze.”

  “You will have only one shot, Rigo,” said Stephano quietly. “You have to make it count.”

  Rodrigo looked down at his trembling hands and smiled wanly. “I’m not sure it will matter whether my eyes are open or closed, my friend.”

  Stephano tried to say something reassuring, but the words wouldn’t come past the burning sensation in his throat. Down below, a clock struck five. Stephano put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Is it time?” Rodrigo asked with terrible calm.

  “It is time,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo picked up a sealed letter and handed it to Stephano.

  “For my father,” Rodrigo said. “You will take it to him if . . . if . . .” He couldn’t go on.

  Stephano took the letter and tucked it inside his waistcoat. “A sacred trust.”

  Rodrigo nodded gratefully and the two went downstairs together. Benoit stood waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  “I summoned the cab, sir,” he said in a shaking voice. “It’s waiting.”

  Benoit handed them their cloaks and hats. Stephano draped his baldric with his rapier over his shoulder. Sometimes the seconds ended up in a duel themselves. Stephano hoped that happened. He found the prospect of fighting the cold and supercilious Freyan, Sir Richard Piefer, extremely appealing.

  Benoit held a tray containing two crystal goblets filled with a goldenbrown liquid. Stephano sniffed at it and wondered how Benoit had managed to come by brandywine, which was very expensive. He did not ask.

  “To calm the nerves,” said Benoit.

  “Thank you, Benoit,” said Rodrigo, and he downed the brandy gratefully.

  He impulsively embraced the old man. Stephano felt tears sting his eyes, and he hurriedly blinked them away. Benoit wiped his nose with a large handkerchief and then bravely stood at the door to see them off.

  Stephano remembered Benoit standing in the door like that, looking brave like that, on the day his father had gone to his execution. Stephano’s stomach clenched. Bile filled his mouth. He reminded himself sternly that his friend needed him to be strong, and he drank the brandy. The liquid bit into his throat and warmed his blood. He handed the glass back to Benoit, who said softly and pleadingly, as he took it, “Keep him safe, sir.”

  Stephano gave a sorrowful shake of his head and turned away.

  The two men entered the hansom cab. Neither had shaved; neither felt his hand to be steady enough, and asking Benoit to shave them was out of the question. Stephano gave the driver directions to the Church of Saint Charles, mumbling something about attending early mass.

  The hansom driver, who was about thirty, and had the jaunty air of a racecourse tout, gave them a knowing smile and a wink. He took his seat up top and whistled to the horse.

  Stephano, glancing back, saw Benoit standing on the door stoop, a candlestick in his hand, tears running down his dried-up, leathery cheeks. The cab was pulling away when movement on the sidewalk caught his attention.

  The sun had not yet risen. The street was dark, except for Benoit’s candle, and that gave only a feeble light. Yet Stephano was convinced he saw a shadow detaching itself from darker shadows. Stephano leaned out of the open-air compartment to try to get a better view. The shadow melded with the darkness. Stephano sat back, frowning.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rodrigo listlessly.

  “I saw a man in the alley,” said Stephano. “Someone is still watching us.”

  “Probably to make certain I don’t run off,” said Rodrigo.

  “Possibly,” said Stephano, but he was not convinced.

  Rodrigo wrapped his cloak closely about him and sat back against the cushions, staring at the world he might shortly be about to leave. Stephano tried to think of something to say that would bring his friend some comfort, but everything he thought of sounded stupid and maudlin. Rodrigo’s hand, fist clenched, rested on the seat. Stephano placed his hand over his friend’s. Rodrigo responded with a pallid smile. They rode in silence to the church. Once there, Stephano asked the driver of the hansom cab to wait for them until mass was over.

  The driver gave a chuckle and another knowing wink. Sitting back in the seat, he tipped his hat over his face and settled himself comfortably. The horse began to graze on the dew-wet grass.

  “At least, you’ll save money, my friend,” Rodrigo said, as they were walking toward the site of the duel. “Going back, you’ll only have to pay for one fare.”

  Chapter Seven

  Magic, according to the church, is the echo of God’s voice. Magic is of God and therefore under the dominion of the church in order to make certain that crafters use their talents for God’s glory. What this means is that the church oversees the use and development of all magical constructs. The church is the final authority on the creation of new constructs.

  “Magic is from God and so should glorify God and serve God and his people in their work to do God’s will.”

  I say—bullshit.

  Magic is of men.

  —Introduction to treatise written by Rodrigo de Villeneuve

  prior to his expulsion from the University

  THE CHURCH OF SAINT CHARLES WAS ANCIENT, one of the first churches built in Evreux when the city was established as Rosia’s capital five hundred years ago. The church stood on a low bluff at a bend of the River Counce. According to ancient records, the original structure had been simple in design. The records listed the amount of stone and wood required, the number of crafters and laborers and masons who had worked on the church, careful notations of the money the people were paid, and a faded plan of the structure drawn up by the unknown architect. The records and the plan were all that was left of the first church. It had been burned to the ground by Freyan invaders during the Blackfire War.

  The Church of Saint Charles, patron saint of Evreux, had been rebuilt on a grander scale—a defiant gesture on the part of the Rosians after driving out the Freyans. With its delicate spires and stained glass windows, the church was now a beautiful edifice overlooking the meandering river.

  A cemetery had been established on the grounds adjacent to the church. A quiet and private place, the cemetery with its ancient mausoleums and marble monuments, sheltering trees, trimmed hedgerows, and long stretches of green grass was a favored place for clandestine meetings, whether for love or for those of a more violent nature.

  At this early hour, the pale sun was barely visible through the thick mists rising from the river. The orb looked shrunken and gave no warmth, shining with a gray-tinged light. Rodrigo and Stephano were the first to arrive, which allowed Stephano the chance to view the ground. He had not fought any of his own duels here, but he had acted as second to a fellow officer in the Dragon Brigade who had. That duel had ended as well as these things can. The two men had fought with swords. One had been grazed in the arm, the other in the chest. Since blood had been drawn, both gentlemen had pronounced themselves satisfied and had departed with honor.

  Stephano had a grim feeling today’s duel was not going to end as well. He walked the long, broad sward that formed a border between the old, graying tombstones and the low stone wall that stood between the cemetery and the river. A grove of oak, walnut, and maple trees stood outside the cemetery wall at the south end. Willow trees lined the bank of the sleepy river. The church itself was at the north end, some distance from this part of the cemetery. The duelers would face north and south, so that neither one would be blinded by the rising sun which, given the mists, was not likely to be a problem.

  The cemetery was very old. Few people were buried here anymore; only those with family vaults, and most of the ancient families had died out. The tombstones were worn and faded; the dead slept quietly.
Any restless ghosts had long since let go their tenuous grasp on the world and drifted off to a final rest. An air of peaceful melancholy pervaded the cemetery. A statue of Guardian Saint Simone, Acceptor of the Dead, stood in the center with her arms spread in welcome, her face loving and forgiving.

  The mists crept among the tombstones and rolled off the river between the trunks of the trees. Rodrigo stood quietly staring at one of the tombstones as though he could imagine himself lying beneath it. Stephano pulled out his pocket watch. They lacked fifteen minutes until the designated time. Just as he was thinking that Valazquez was going to be late or might not come at all, a black coach arrived. The elegant coach with its team of four horses and two footmen riding behind rolled to a stop next to the hired hansom cab with its driver snoring in his seat.

  Sir Richard Piefer descended, followed by two men, and then Valazquez. All of them wore black cloaks and looked rather like ghosts themselves as they walked through the mists. Stephano focused on the two gentlemen who accompanied Piefer and Valazquez. One of them was portly, slightly stoopshouldered, and walked with the aid of a silver-headed cane. He wore a shoulder-length, curled periwig beneath a black, tricornered hat. His black waistcoat barely met across his broad middle. His face was fleshy, his eyes dark and flat.

  Formal introductions followed. For the first time, Stephano met the notorious Oudell Chaunquler, unofficial official adjudicator of duels in the capital city of Evreux. Chaunquler was perhaps fifty years of age. His passion was dueling, and he was often invited to officiate. He always brusquely refused payment, though he would accept a gratuity pressed into his palm after the affair was over.

  Chaunquler was reputed to know the Codes Duello by heart, upside down and backward, and was here to settle any dispute or question that might arise. Since dueling was illegal and such matters could not be taken to court, Chaunquler’s judgment was considered final. Stephano had been feeling the weight of his responsibilities as second lying heavy on his shoulders, as his fear lay heavy on his heart. He was relieved that he could turn over the procedures of the duel to a man who understood what he was doing and would see that all was handled fairly.