Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “Dag, get down!” Stephano yelled. “Piefer’s using one of those new-fangled rifles!”

  “Is he?” said Dag, adding wistfully, “I’d dearly love to get my hands on one of those!”

  A bullet went zinging past his head. Dag had been keeping watch for the muzzle flash and, seeing it, he aimed his pistol and fired. Realizing he’d been spotted, Piefer ran out of the shadows.

  “He’s on the move,” Dag called. “Cast off!”

  “Are you sure he’s gone?” Rodrigo asked fearfully.

  “Cast off!” Dag roared.

  Rodrigo crawled on his hands and knees to reach the line, wrestled with it a moment, then managed to get it free. The Cloud Hopper started to drift away. Gythe steered the houseboat, keeping it close to the pier, and Miri yelled for Rodrigo to jump for it.

  Rodrigo had just begun to run toward the gangplank, when one of Piefer’s men leaped up suddenly from behind the fence line and brought his pistol to bear, aiming for Rodrigo. Dag saw the danger, but he was reloading and there was nothing he could do except shout a warning.

  A shot fired, coming from the vicinity of the creosote barrel. The assassin spun around from the force of the bullet and fell onto the boardwalk.

  Benoit stood up, waving the smoking pistol and shouting defiantly, “Did you see that, sir?”

  “You old fool, get out of here!” Stephano yelled. “Help me to my feet, Miri! He’s going to get himself killed!”

  “He’s taking your advice, Captain,” Dag reported, keeping an eye on Benoit, who had left his creosote barrel and was making a dash for one of the warehouses. Dag added in admiring tones, “He can move damn fast for a cripple.”

  Rodrigo raced across the gangplank. Dag heaved it in while Gythe sent power into the helm. According to the Church, channelers could touch God’s Hand as He sent magic flowing through the world and open themselves up to act as a conduit. Gythe could hear God’s voice like a song and draw His strength into herself and then direct the magical energy into the control panel’s constructs. The magical energy arced through the gas and caused the boat to begin to rise.

  The Cloud Hopper’s two airscrews began to whirl; the sails billowed. Gythe turned the starboard airscrew to full ahead and the larboard screws to full reverse, swinging the bow of the boat toward the harbor. A strong breeze filled the Cloud Hopper’s sails and the boat drifted down the canal toward the harbor. Beyond was the vast expanse and pink-tinged mists of the Breath.

  Piefer fired again as the Cloud Hopper began to put distance between them. Stephano was leaning against the rail, ignoring Miri’s scolding and her urgent attempts to make him go below. He saw the flash and heard the report and looked around anxiously. Piefer had missed apparently; everyone was safe.

  The sail billowed and the houseboat gained speed. The gap between the ship and pier widened. As Stephano watched the Freyan lower his gun, he was back in the cemetery watching Piefer lower his pistol as Valazquez’s corpse, with its shattered bloody pulp of a head, sagged to the ground.

  Sir Richard Piefer. Slouch Hat. Which was he? Who was he? A noble lord who could act the part of a drunken idler or an idler who could take the part of a noble lord? Whoever he was, he had the means and connections to hire spies and assassins and arm them and himself with rare and expensive rifles. Stephano stared at the Freyan, fixing his face in his mind.

  “I don’t know who the Hell you are,” Stephano shouted. “But you and I will meet again. That’s a promise.”

  The Freyan smiled at Stephano and shrugged with his languid grace. He thrust his pistol in his belt, tucked his rifle in the crook of his arm, and strolled off into the shadows.

  Stephano’s strength gave out. He felt himself falling and had the horrible idea he was falling into the emptiness of the Breath, but Dag caught hold of him and lowered him down. He saw Miri’s frightened face, and he smiled to reassure her, and then he sank into a dark dream in which he was driving a hansom cab through the halls of the palace, trying to find his father . . .

  Dubois had followed Harrington and the assassins as they were following Stephano and Rodrigo. Dubois had not taken part in the fight, for the crew of the Cloud Hopper seemed to have that matter in hand. He stood on the pier and watched the Trundler boat sail safely away. He recognized the big man, Dag, from the episode in the park, as well as the two pretty female Trundlers who manned and probably owned the boat. Dubois watched Harrington and his remaining assassin toss the body of their compatriot into the canal and then separate.

  Dubois tailed Harrington back to his inn. Finding his own agent still on duty in a tavern across the street, Dubois gave him the sign that he was to continue to keep an eye on Harrington, and returned to his lodgings.

  An eventful morning, Dubois thought, as he dined on roasted fowl and suet pudding.

  While he ate, he read over a report, just delivered from the bishop, further detailing the incident at the Abbey of Saint Agnes where a hundred women of God had been murdered in a most horrible and gruesome manner. A lone survivor told a very strange story. Dubois didn’t know what to make of it. The thought occurred to him that the massacre at the abbey might have something to do with Sir Henry Wallace. Dubois couldn’t see for the life of him how a missing journeyman could be connected to this terrible tragedy, but he resolved to keep an open mind. Dubois considered paying the abbey a visit.

  His meal finished, Dubois picked up the volume, A Crafter’s Guide to Metallurgy, poured himself a glass of port, and began to leaf idly through the pages. He had just finished drinking his wine when his agent arrived with news that Harrington had booked passage on a coach bound for Westfirth, leaving that afternoon.

  “He is going to report to Sir Henry,” Dubois guessed, rubbing his hands.

  He hastily packed a bag and made ready to travel. Before he left, he dashed off a letter and gave it to his agent with orders to deliver it immediately to the bishop.

  The letter consisted of one sentence:

  Find out what happened at the Royal Armory!

  Chapter Ten

  The unknown frightens us. So we employ spies to learn what our neighbors are doing, as they send their spies to watch us. We want to feel safe, but by our own actions we help continue the paranoia. We sign treaties offriendship and deliver copies to our allies in the hands of our spies.

  —Journal entry,

  Lady Cecile, Countess De Marjolaine

  THE COUNTESS DE MARJOLAINE WAS NOT HOLDING audience this day. She instructed her secretary to tell all who came to her salon that the countess was indisposed. She did admit one visitor, though not by way of the salon. Benoit obtained entry to the countess’ salon via the palace kitchen, where he was well known and well liked by the staff. Word of Benoit’s arrival and his urgent need to speak to the countess passed from the cook to the scullery maid to one of the footmen to a seamstress to Maria, the countess’ trusted lady’s maid, who brought the message to the countess.

  Maria Tutolla was sixty years old. She had been in the service of the countess for forty of those sixty years, having accompanied the countess on her return to court following Stephano’s birth. The countess treated Maria and all her servants well. She insisted that everyone in her personal staff learn to read and write and she employed a tutor to teach them. Her servants were wellpaid; their living quarters were comfortable. Contented servants do not betray their masters. This said, the countess never permitted the slightest hint of familiarity from any of her servants. Though Maria had attended the countess for forty years, she still went in awe of her mistress.

  Maria went to the kitchen, retrieved Benoit, and led him through the palace’s “servant” passages—dark, narrow, hidden hallways that led to the various dining rooms and salons of the palace’s inhabitants and guests. The myriad passages were intended for the use of the palace’s household staff, who were expected to appear the instant the mistress’ bell rang as though they had materialized out of thin air and to disappear in the same manner. Servants were not the
only people who made use of these passages, however. Noble lovers found them convenient when slipping out of one bedroom and into another. The passages were often quite crowded during the night.

  A plain wooden door led from the dark hallway used by the servants into the countess’ wardrobe. Maria opened the door with a key and a touch on a magical sigil entwined around the lock. She led Benoit into a large closet smelling of perfume, rosewood, and cedar. Maria lit a filigree lamp that stood on one of the innumerable chests containing overskirts and underskirts, cloaks and dressing gowns, negligees, petticoats, stockings, and shawls. Dainty and elegant shoes stood in a neat and orderly row along one wall. Maria pointed to a chair and indicated in a whisper that Benoit was to have a seat. The old retainer was well-accustomed to these proceedings and he settled himself comfortably. Maria passed through another door that led into the countess’ bedchamber and went to find her mistress.

  The countess was in her library sorting through a stack of letters, dispatches, and reports from her agents, separating them into three piles: those of no importance which she would give to the viscount to answer, those which required further reading, and those which demanded her immediate attention.

  Occasionally, the countess left off her sorting to look with fondness at a young girl of fifteen seated cross-legged on the floor, much to the detriment of her voluminous blue silk skirt and white lace petticoat that spilled around her in layers of folds and frills. The girl rested her elbows on the floor with the easy elasticity of youth. Her chin in her hands, she was studying a large and colorful map of the world of Aeronne. The girl’s rich chestnut hair had begun the day beautifully curled and coifed by her maids, but a romp in the hall with her spaniel had brought the curls tumbling around her face. The spaniel, a small version of the breed, with long ears and big brown melting eyes, was named Bandit, because he was fond of stealing petit fours. The dog now lay curled up asleep on the hem of the girl’s blue dress.

  Her Royal Highness Princess Amelia Louisa Sophia, known as Sophia, was the third child and only daughter of King Alaric and Queen Annmarie. The king’s two sons, both in their twenties, were now serving in the military. The king was pleased to have produced two male heirs to the throne and thus began and ended the extent of his interest in them. He had shipped them off to seminary school when they were little. After that, they had attended University and then gone into the military. The elder, Prince Alaric II, was now Admiral of the Royal Navy’s fleet in the north. The younger, Alessandro, was captain of his own airship. Neither was exceptional, though the elder had a bad reputation among the sailors for being something of a martinet.

  Sophia, the unexpected child, the late child, was the child the king adored. Alaric doted on her, gave her everything she wanted and much that she didn’t. The queen, her mother, a vain and vapid woman, cared nothing for the girl herself, but only for the wealthy and prestigious match she would make for her daughter. With this end in mind, the queen was always trying to improve her daughter’s looks. Her Majesty primped, curled, and fussed over Sophia’s hair, rouged her cheeks and painted her lips, and laced her into corsets in an effort to plump up her small breasts.

  Sophia was required to take dancing lessons and etiquette lessons. She learned to paint and to do fancy embroidery. She was not taught to read or to write for these were skills considered by her illiterate mother to be of no importance to a woman. The queen scolded Sophia when she caught her wasting time with a book, telling her daughter that men did not want clever wives.

  Between the king and queen, they might have utterly ruined their daughter. Sophia’s naturally sweet nature, a passion for music, an extraordinary talent as a magical crafter, and the countess’ tutelage saved the princess from turning out to be a spoiled and empty-headed porcelain doll.

  Early in life, Sophia had developed an attachment to the Countess de Marjolaine. No one in court could understand the attraction. The cold, cunning, devious countess and the sensitive, shy Sophia seemed an unlikely match. Their relationship had begun the day when the countess entered her music room to find the little girl of five teaching herself to play the pianoforte. The countess had recognized the child’s talent and had given her lessons. Discovering that Sophia could neither read nor write, the countess had expanded those lessons to include these skills.

  The countess did not relax her cold, dispassionate demeanor around the girl, never exhibited any affection toward her. On the contrary, the countess was often a stern and difficult taskmaster. Sophia knew the value of what she was learning and enjoyed her studies. She came to love the countess, though she was wise enough to keep her affection a secret. Sophia had learned at an early age that her mother, the queen, hated the Countess de Marjolaine, though it would be many more years before Sophia would come to understand the jealousy that prompted this hatred. All Sophia knew was that when she was with the countess, she was free to be Sophia, not Papa’s “pet” or Mama’s “darling.”

  As for the countess, she found that teaching the girl brought her a deep satisfaction she had never before experienced. She felt something akin to happiness when Sophia was with her, a feeling she had once thought she would never know again. The countess would not admit her affection for the girl. She told herself it was her duty to see to it that a princess of Rosia should be an educated and well-informed woman. The child would certainly not learn anything from her mother, who had all the intellect of an eggplant, or her father, a man of low cunning, but no particular intelligence.

  The countess was attempting to concentrate on sorting her correspondence, but her gaze often left the letters and reports to fix upon Sophia, admiring her delicate beauty and wondering irritably, not for the first time, how the queen could ever refer to her daughter as “homely and plain.”

  Sophia felt the countess’ eyes upon her and lifted her head to smile at her. Sophia’s face—minus the rouge, which she invariably rubbed off when she was out of her mother’s sight—was sweet and winsome and pale, too pale; the pallor of illness, not of fashion.

  Sophia had long suffered from severe headaches. The headaches had been mild when she was young, but they were growing more frequent and more severe. The king had brought in physicians and healers from around the world to treat her. She had been examined by the best, but no one could find a cause for her ailment. Sophia did not have poor eyesight. Her vision was perfect. She had never suffered a head injury. She did not exhibit symptoms of a brain disease; no seizures, no bleeding from the nose or ears.

  The physicians and healers had tried numerous remedies, everything from bleeding to leeches to potions that made her throw up. None helped. When the attacks came, her screams could be heard in distant halls and corridors. The pain was so bad the servants often had to lash her arms and feet to her bedposts to keep her from thrashing about and hurting herself.

  Both parents suffered almost as much as Sophia; the king because he truly cared about his daughter and the queen because she did not know how she was ever going to find a husband for her afflicted child.

  “I am glad you are feeling better today, Your Highness,” the countess said with her customary cool politeness, as she continued to glance through her correspondence. “I heard you were ill last night. Was the pain very bad this time?”

  Sophia flushed, pleased that the countess was taking an interest in her. She spoke somberly, yet rapidly, as though glad to talk about it. “The pain was horrible. It felt like someone had stabbed a hot, burning knife into my skull. When it comes, I can’t think about anything except the pain and trying to make it stop. Mama wanted me to take that bitter medicine the latest physician gave me, but I hate the way it makes me feel, as though I’m wrapped in a thick woolly blanket, and, anyway, medicine doesn’t help. I know the pain is still there, beneath the blanket, and that makes it worse. I drank the medicine to please Mama, but I spit it out after she left the room.”

  Sophia started to say something, then bit her lip and fell silent.

  “Yes, Your Highn
ess, what it is?” prompted the countess.

  “The medicine makes me sleep, but it doesn’t stop the bad dreams. I think sometimes the dreams are worse than the pain.”

  The countess stopped sorting to look with concern at her young friend.

  “Was it the same dream, Your Highness?”

  “Yes, my lady. I am in a cave lit by torches. The cave is cold. I can see my breath and I’m not wearing anything except my shift. Something is chasing me and I’m running away and the cold air makes my chest hurt. I stop because I can’t breathe and hide behind a boulder, but I keep hearing the booming footsteps coming after me. I can sense its hunger. It wants me. I start running again, and the footsteps keep coming: boom, boom, boom.”

  Sophia’s voice dropped. “What is most horrible is that it knows my name. It calls out to me, and when it does, I wake up.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Even when I’m awake, I can hear the footsteps sometimes: boom, boom, boom. I can even feel them coming up through the floor.”

  The countess was troubled. Sophia had told her about the dream before. The dream was always the same, with little variation, as if the girl were describing something real, something that had actually happened to her. Cecile was wondering whether or not to mention this to the king, thinking it might be a new symptom, when her thoughts were interrupted by her servant, Maria, coming to whisper that Benoit was waiting in the wardrobe and that he appeared agitated.

  The countess rose languidly with a rustle of silk, her skirts falling in graceful folds around her.

  “I must leave you for a moment, Your Highness. While I am gone, I want you to locate Travia and Estara and the island of Braffa on your map.”

  “I already know where they are, my lady,” said Sophia, shyly proud. She pointed out the two small continents on the map.