Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “What is wrong with the young woman, sir?” Father Jacob asked.

  “I don’t know, Father,” Stephano replied. “She has no visible wounds, yet when the demons were hurling that green fire at the boat, she was in terrible pain. Now she lies in a deep sleep from which we cannot wake her.”

  “I trust we can help her, sir,” said Father Jacob. “Is this young woman by any chance a crafter?”

  “My friend says Gythe is more than a mere crafter, Father. Rigo termed her a ‘savant.’ ”

  “I myself am a savant,” said Father Jacob. “The green fire affected me much the same way. As you see, I am a little weak in the knees, but otherwise recovered. Ah, here is Brother Barnaby.”

  Stephano said he was sorry disturbing the monk, who must be in pain from his own wounds. Brother Barnaby assured him that he was feeling much better and he was pleased to think he might be able to help. The three began the long walk down the hill toward the docks.

  Stephano glanced sidelong at his two companions. He had already formed a favorable opinion of the monk, Brother Barnaby, though he considered the young man sadly naïve, one of those God-smitten individuals who see a halo around the head of every living being. Still, there was no harm in this gentle monk and a great deal of good.

  The young monk’s brown robes were torn and stained with blood. Stephano winced at the sight of the lash marks on the slender back. Brother Barnaby walked swiftly, his weariness and pain apparently forgotten in his concern for a fellow being, for he asked Stephano questions about Gythe as they walked and nodded his head in thoughtful concern. Looking at the dark-complected face, Stephano saw openness, honesty, caring, and compassion.

  At one point, when Stephano was talking about Gythe singing, Father Jacob interrupted. “You say she doesn’t speak, but she does sing.”

  “She sang the magic that protected our boat,” said Stephano, remembering that night on the Cloud Hopper when the magic danced and blazed before his eyes.

  “Interesting,” said Father Jacob. “I was affected by the demonic green fire in a similar manner. Yet I am up and moving about, much to the dismay of Brother Barnaby.”

  “You should be in bed,” said the monk firmly.

  Father Jacob merely smiled and continued, “Yet your friend still suffers.”

  “She was terrified by the demons,” said Stephano. He hesitated. In her worry for her sister, Miri had relieved Stephano of his oath to keep their secret. He felt uncomfortable talking about it, however. “This is not the first time she has encountered these fiends.”

  “It isn’t?” Father Jacob asked in surprise.

  “When she and her sister were young girls, their houseboat came under some sort of mysterious attack. Both their parents were brutally murdered. Gythe and Miri had been staying with their uncle. Gythe jumped on board before anyone could stop her, and she saw what was left of the bodies. We think she also saw the attackers.”

  “She saw demons . . .” said Father Jacob.

  “She seemed to recognize them when they attacked the Cloud Hopper,” said Stephano. “She suddenly became a little child again. Laughing and singing to herself. Nursery rhymes . . .”

  “The sisters’ surname name wouldn’t be McPike, would it?” Father Jacob asked.

  Stephano stopped dead and turned to stare at him. “Gythe and Miri McPike. How did you know that, Father? Do you know them? How?”

  But the priest did not answer. He walked with his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, his black cassock flapping about his heels. Stephano asked again, this time with some impatience. Father Jacob still did not reply.

  “Do not be offended, Captain,” said Brother Barnaby. “He is not deliberately ignoring you. He simply doesn’t hear you. When he is like this, he wouldn’t hear a cannon if it went off beside him. As to how he knows your friends, Father Jacob has been making a study of these strange attacks on the Trundlers.”

  “So there have been more such vicious, brutal murders, Brother,” Stephano said.

  “I fear so, sir,” said Brother Barnaby. He added with a frown, his usually mild voice hardening. “No one in power except Father Jacob pays attention because the victims are Trundlers.”

  Stephano was more impressed with both the monk and the priest. “I hope you can help Gythe, Brother. I feel responsible for what happened to her. She and the others came on this accursed journey because of me.”

  “You take a great deal of responsibility upon yourself, Captain.”

  “You think God brought me here?” Stephano asked, half serious, half in jest.

  “Sometimes we do not arrive at the place where we want to go, but where God needs us to be,” Brother Barnaby said with serene faith and confidence.

  Stephano looked curiously at Father Jacob. He thought what an odd pair these two made: one whose heart was laid bare to all the world; the other watchful, keen, sharp, secretive, solitary, seeing all, telling nothing.

  Father Jacob was pale, and his face was haggard from pain and fatigue. His strong jaw was set, his eyes bright and even now, while he was abstracted, he appeared keenly aware of everything going on around him.

  A savant, Father Jacob had termed himself. One to whom magic comes easily, naturally, unlike Rodrigo, who had to work at the magic and mostly didn’t bother. For Gythe, magic was like the music she loved. She had a talent for magic as she had a talent for music. No one had ever taught her to play or sing; she had not studied with some great master at the University. She could not read the notes; she did not understand musical theory. Gythe cast magic as she played the harp—by ear, doing what she liked or, as in the protection spells, she acted instinctively, out of fear.

  Father Jacob was different. He knew magic, understood magic. The magic was in his heart and his soul, yet also in his brain. He was disciplined, controlled, and that made him powerful and dangerous.

  “But only to those with evil intent,” said Father Jacob.

  Stephano gave a start, amazed and not at all pleased.

  “Do not be alarmed, Captain,” said Father Jacob with a chuckle. “I cannot see into your head. I simply followed your thought process on your face. We were speaking of your friend as being a savant. I said I was a savant. You then began to compare the two of us, and I could see by the narrowed eyes and the dark glances you gave me that I come up short.”

  By this time they had arrived at the docks—three large piers extending into the Breath. The large ships would dock at the piers, while smaller ships that flew primarily over land would tie off onto one of the tall wooden posts that had been built for that purpose on top of the cliff. Half a dozen buildings served to store cargo and provide lodging for sailors. All stood empty now.

  The Cloud Hopper was docked at the far pier. The naval cutter had docked at the first pier, though “crashed” would be a truer description. The Suspicion’s crew worked frantically, trying desperately to find some way of keeping the battered ship from sinking. Father Jacob stopped, saying he needed to speak to the captain.

  Stephano hurried onto the Cloud Hopper. Dag and Rodrigo were waiting for him.

  “So a priest of the Arcanum is paying us a visit. This should be interesting,” said Rodrigo with a quirk of his eyebrow that Stephano knew all too well.

  “It better not be,” Stephano said in warning tones. He was about to add more when Dag seized hold of his arm and dragged him off to the forecastle.

  “That priest is from the Arcanum,” Dag said. His eyes were wide. His hand trembled.

  “He’s here to help Gythe,” said Stephano, wondering what all this was about.

  “Maybe not,” said Dag in a low voice. “Maybe he’s come for me.”

  “Why?” Stephano asked, baffled.

  “Because of . . . you know,” said Dag, his eyes cast down. “I’m going to Hell. Maybe he’s come to take me.”

  Stephano heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. He was feeling exactly the way he’d felt when he’d been desperately trying to control t
hat blasted runaway horse. Some strange malady was affecting Gythe, an Arcanum inquisitor was coming aboard, Rodrigo was up to some sort of mischief, and now Dag—known for his courage and coolness under fire—had completely lost his mind.

  Stephano gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Dag, all Hell is breaking loose—literally. I need someone I can count on, someone to watch my back. I need you. Don’t let me down.”

  Dag blinked at him and then gave a rueful, half-ashamed smile. “Sure, Captain. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  By now the monk was coming on board. Stephano hurried over to greet him. “Dag, this is Brother Barnaby. Take him down to Gythe, will you?”

  Dag escorted the monk below to where Miri was keeping watch over her sister. Stephano went back to talk to Rodrigo, who was lounging against the ship’s rail, gazing at the priest.

  “Whatever you are plotting, forget it,” said Stephano. “I want that priest on and off this boat without incident.”

  “Trust me. It won’t be that easy, my friend,” said Rodrigo.

  Father Jacob had gone first to visit the naval cutter, whose crew had been working feverishly to keep the ship from sinking. Their efforts had been in vain. The crew had given up the fight to save their ship and were now hastily unloading what stores and supplies they could salvage, hauling them down a gangplank to the dock. The dead still lay on the deck. The captain and sailors had not had time to tend to them.

  Father Jacob waited until the sailors had rolled a barrel down the gangplank, then he boarded the ship and went to speak to the harried captain, who was the last man remaining.

  “Father, you shouldn’t be here!” the captain said, seeing him approach. “Suspicion is sinking beneath us! She’ll go down any moment!”

  “I came to say a prayer for your dead,” said Father Jacob coolly.

  The ship was, indeed, sinking slowly beneath them. The crew on the dock were shouting for them to come off, they couldn’t keep the gangplank in place much longer. Father Jacob paid no heed. He went to stand in front of the row of bodies: the youngest, a powder boy, age nine; the eldest a grizzled veteran with a pegleg.

  Father Jacob raised his voice in prayer. The crew on the docks fell silent. Hats off, they stood with their heads bowed. The captain removed his hat, held it over his breast. Amazingly, the ship remained steady. One of the sailors would swear later he saw God’s hand beneath it, holding it up.

  “He’s got guts, that priest,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano grunted.

  His prayer concluded, Father Jacob raised his hand in blessing, and then he and the captain literally ran for their lives across the faltering gangplank. The captain, the last to leave his ship, was standing on the gangplank when it gave way. He was saved from falling into the Breath by Father Jacob, who caught hold of him and dragged him bodily onto the dock.

  Father Jacob spoke a few words of comfort and prayer to the sailors who had been wounded and lay on the ground on litters. The ship’s doctor, a healer, was busy among them. Seeing they were in good care, Father Jacob said a final word to the captain, who looked at him grimly and then shrugged and went back to work.

  As Father Jacob walked toward the Cloud Hopper, he looked suddenly very tired.

  “I wonder what that talk with the captain was about,” said Stephano.

  “He put them under Seal,” said Rodrigo.

  Stephano frowned. “What does that mean—being put under Seal?”

  “That refers to the Seal of the Arcanum. Those men will be hauled off to the Citadel, kept locked up.”

  “But why?” Stephano demanded.

  “My dear fellow, you can’t have sailors roaming about the world claiming their ship was sunk by demons,” said Rodrigo.

  “So that’s why he came with the monk,” said Stephano grimly. “He’s going to try to muzzle us. Well, he can’t. We have to get to Westfirth. We’ve lost time enough already. Which reminds me,” said Stephano, fixing Rodrigo with a stern eye, “I’m putting you under Seal. You are not to say a word about Alcazar or the duel or anything related to our job.”

  “Stephano, you wound me,” said Rodrigo, offended. “You know that I am the soul of discretion.”

  Stephano had no time to respond. In the absence of Miri, he had to greet Father Jacob as he boarded the houseboat. The priest stood looking about with a casual air that did not fool Stephano. He saw Father Jacob’s gaze go to the helm, the scorch marks on the deck, the damage done to the houseboat.

  “Welcome aboard, Father,” said Stephano in not very welcoming tones.

  He had a mind to confront the priest immediately, demand to know if they were going to be placed under Seal. He decided to hold his peace, at least for the time being. What was important now was Gythe.

  “Rodrigo de Villeneuve,” said Stephano, introducing his friend, who came up behind him. “Father Jacob Northrop.”

  Rodrigo gave a graceful bow and said, with a mournful air, “I owe my dismissal from University to you, Father Jacob.”

  “Indeed?” The priest raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes. It had to do with that book of yours, the Metaphysics of Magic: How Magic relates to Being, Knowing, Substance, Cause, Identity, Time, and Space. Our professor was expounding upon it and making a complete pig’s breakfast of it. When I pointed out where he had gone wrong in his thinking—if one wants to call it thinking—he ordered me to leave and never darken the door of his classroom again.”

  “And were you right?” Father Jacob asked, his lip twitching.

  “Oh, yes,” said Rodrigo. “That is what galled him.”

  “De Villeneuve,” Father Jacob repeated the name thoughtfully. “I seem to recollect hearing something about an incident involving you and the grand bishop’s miter . . .”

  “The man has no sense of humor,” said Rodrigo.

  Father Jacob smiled. “I must go see how Brother Barnaby fares with his patient. But I look forward to hearing your views on the Metaphysics of Magic.”

  He gave a friendly nod and was going below when Rodrigo said airily, “Or perhaps you and I could talk about a new theory I was thinking of writing about. I plan to call it, The Metaphysics of Green Fire Destroying Magic.”

  Father Jacob stopped walking and turned to look back at Rodrigo.

  “You know, Monsieur, that such a thing is not possible. Magic is the Breath of God and cannot be destroyed. You are talking heresy,” said Father Jacob.

  The priest’s manner was not threatening. His voice was calm and his eyes mild, yet Stephano felt the danger, like lightning in the air. The hair rose on his arms, a shiver went down his spine. Rodrigo heard the danger. He glanced at Stephano, looked away, kept quiet.

  “I trust, however,” Father Jacob continued, “you were jesting. You are known for your sense of humor, I believe.”

  “No one takes Rigo seriously, Father,” Stephano assured him.

  “That’s true,” said Rodrigo, gulping.

  Father Jacob smiled. “I would have given a great deal to see the grand bishop’s miter go sailing about the dining room.”

  He proceeded down below.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Father,” Stephano called after him.

  He turned to Rodrigo, who was gazing after the priest with a certain amount of awe.

  “What a terrible old man! I know exactly how people feel when they encounter a basilisk. Those eyes of his froze my feet to the deck.”

  “Too bad he didn’t freeze your tongue!” Stephano said furiously. “Soul of discretion, my ass! I don’t know what you were talking about, but I’m guessing that if we weren’t going to be put under Seal before, we sure as Hell are now. I have to go. Just keep that mouth of yours shut!”

  Rodrigo gave a doleful nod. Stephano dashed down the stairs to find Father Jacobs staring at a smeared puddle of blood on the floor. Stephano was sweating, and he realized he was still wearing his heavy flight coat. He took it off and tossed it on a crate.

  “That blood be
longs to a demon,” said Stephano, hoping to turn the subject away from Rodrigo. “I believe this particularly demon led the attack.”

  “How do you know that?” Father Jacob asked curiously.

  “He wore some type of knotlike device on his armor, and he was using whistles to direct the troops. He tried to board our boat. We think he was after Gythe. I shot him, but he didn’t die. Rigo killed him.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a body I could examine,” asked Father Jacob eagerly.

  “Not anymore,” said Stephano. “The body was incinerated by the same green fire that destroyed our magic. Dag said it appeared to be generated by the armor the demons wore.”

  “An interesting theory your friend, Villeneuve, has advanced,” said Father Jacob, staring fixedly at the blood. “Green fire destroying the magic.”

  Stephano wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Relax, Captain,” said Father Jacob. “I am not such ‘a terrible man’ as your friend seems to think. Where is the young woman who is ill?”

  “Gythe’s quarters are this way, Father,” Stephano said.

  As they continued down the passageway, Stephano heard Gythe’s voice, singing softly. A chill went through him. She was singing a nursery rhyme. He found Dag standing in the doorway of the room where the sisters slept. His hands and face and uniform were black with gunpowder residue and red with blood, some of it his own. Doctor Ellington was curled up on Dag’s shoulder. Seeing the priest, Dag whipped off his hat and ducked his head, muttering something no one could hear. He flattened himself against a bulkhead, allowing Father Jacob to squeeze past him.

  “A very handsome cat,” said Father Jacob, pausing to regard the Doctor, who was regarding the priest with slit-eyed dislike. The cat’s hackles rose, he sank his claws into the padding on the coat. “What is the name?”

  Dag hastily reached up his hand to try to soothe the ruffled cat. “Doctor Ellington, Father.”

  “Doctor Ellington,” Father Jacob repeated in admiring tones. He wisely made no move to pet the Doctor. “Interesting name. There’s a story involved, I’ll wager. I look forward to hearing it.”

  Stephano and Dag exchanged grim glances. The priest sounded as though he intended to stick around for awhile.