Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  Father Jacob entered the room with silent and measured tread. Stephano went in after him. The cabin was crowded. Despite having removed his coat, he was still sweating.

  Gythe sat huddled in a corner, her knees drawn up to her chest, playing with some of Doctor Ellington’s yarn, twining the strands around her fingers to form a Cat’s Cradle and singing to herself in a high, shrill voice.

  Brother Barnaby knelt down in front of her. “May I play your game with you?”

  Gythe looked at him and laughed and held out her hands with the yarn twined around them to him.

  Brother Barnaby took hold of yarn that was in the shape of the Cat’s Cradle, tugged at the crossed strings, and pulled them out from the center. He twined the yarn around his fingers to form the Soldier’s Bed. Gythe clapped her hands and then took hold of the yarn and plucked it off and held up the configuration known as the Candle.

  Miri sat on the bed. Her face was drawn and strained with fear. Intent upon Gythe, she hadn’t heard Father Jacob enter. The priest kept his distance, silently watching, assessing.

  “At least Gythe is conscious,” said Stephano.

  “The moment the good Brother put his hands on her, she stopped twitching and moaning,” said Dag. “She relaxed and woke up and smiled. But when Miri tried to talk to her, she climbed out of bed and ran to sit in the corner.”

  Miri heard them talking and looked around. Seeing the priest, she rose to her feet and stretched out her hand.

  “Papa Jake!” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re here. Thank God!”

  Stephano stared in astonishment. He dimly remembered hearing Miri talk about a priest who defied Church law by administering sacraments to the Trundlers. The nomadic people had been declared apostates, after openly rebelling against the Church centuries ago, following the deliberate sinking of their island homeland. Some wondered why the Trundlers wanted the blessing of a God in which they didn’t believe, but though they may have renounced their faith, they had retained a superstitious trust in the sacraments, especially those that marked passages in life such as baptisms, marriages, and the last rites.

  A priest known affectionately as Papa Jake often visited the Trundlers to perform the rites. He was one of the few priests welcome among them, for he did not preach at them or harangue them or threaten them with hellfire and brimstone if they didn’t change their wicked ways.

  Father Jacob greeted Miri in her own language, speaking soothing words of comfort. When she began to cry, he embraced her, patting her on the back until her sobs lessened and she grew quiet. Miri blinked her shimmering eyes and looked up at him.

  “I am so glad you are here, Papa,” she said. Her clothes were stained and torn; her face smeared with tears and gunpowder. “You must say a prayer for Gythe. Give her your blessing.”

  “We will all pray together,” said Father Jacob.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder, including Dag and Stephano, and knelt on the scorched planks where the demon had died. Miri sank down beside him, her hands clasped, her disheveled hair falling about her shoulders. Dag hurriedly removed Doctor Ellington from his shoulder and dumped him on deck. The cat stalked out into the passageway. Stephano could see yellow eyes gleaming in the shadows. Dag, with some effort, managed to lower himself to his knees. He clasped his hands and bowed his head.

  Stephano was the only one still on his feet, and he had the feeling Father Jacob knew it, though the priest had his back turned and his head bowed. Stephano joined the cat in the shadows of the corridor. He and God were on speaking terms, but Stephano was not yet ready to kneel to Him or anyone. He did bow his head and, in his heart, he joined in the prayer. Father Jacob spoke in the Trundler language, of which Stephano knew only a smattering. He couldn’t understand the words, but he could hear in the priest’s rich, mellifluous voice his compassion, his steadfast faith.

  Stephano did not know what to make of the enigmatic Father Jacob.

  The prayer ended. Miri rose to her feet, wiping her eyes and unwittingly smearing gunpowder residue across her face.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. He put his arm around her shoulders and spoke a few soft words to her. She smiled and went to sit on the floor beside Brother Barnaby. Father Jacob assisted Dag to his feet. The big man’s face was flushed; he didn’t seem to know where to look.

  “Thank you, Father,” he mumbled.

  “Let us leave them,” Father Jacob said, herding Dag out into the narrow passageway where they encountered Stephano and the Doctor. The cat hissed at the priest. Dag made a grab for the cat. He missed. Doctor Ellington dashed into the cabin where Brother Barnaby was still playing Cat’s Cradle with Gythe, each of them taking turns forming the yarn into various configurations.

  The cat ran to Gythe and, lifting his paw, began batting at the yarn. Brother Barnaby reached out to pet the Doctor, who arched his back beneath the monk’s touch and purred loudly.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” said Dag, flushing even more deeply. “The Doctor’s making a nuisance of himself. I’ll fetch him—”

  “The cat is trying in his own way to help her,” said Father Jacob, halting Dag. “Never discount love, no matter how small the heart that offers it.”

  Miri accompanied them into the passageway.

  “Papa, you look ill and tired. Don’t return to the abbey. You must spend the night with us.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Father Jacob. “But I must report back. If not, Sir Ander will be certain to come looking for me.”

  “We will see you tomorrow?” Miri asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Father Jacob replied cheerfully. “You’ll be seeing a good deal of me.”

  Stephano didn’t like the sound of that. Miri went to her sister and Brother Barnaby. Stephano and Dag escorted the priest to the top deck. The sun was sinking into the twisting coils of the Breath. The twilight was murky, unsettled. Wind gusts rose unexpectedly, singing in the rigging with a mournful sound that echoed Gythe.

  The Suspicion was gone. The captain and crew of the sunken vessel were straggling up the hill to the abbey, carrying their wounded with them on litters. Rodrigo leaned on the rail, gazing down into the swirling mists that had swallowed up the ship. He looked up, saw Father Jacob, and looked away.

  “If you please, Monsieur de Villeneuve,” said Father Jacob. “I am going to be returning to my yacht. I would appreciate it if you would walk with me.”

  Rodrigo cast Stephano an alarmed glance.

  “He can’t help you, I’m afraid,” said Father Jacob.

  “I’ll just go . . . fetch my cloak,” Rodrigo said faintly.

  Stephano, looking out into the inky sky, saw one of the two dragon brothers circling above the cathedral spires. “Do you think the demons will be back tonight, Father?” Stephano asked quietly.

  “At a guess, I would say no,” said Father Jacob. “They found what they came for. Or rather, they didn’t find it, but they no longer believe it is here.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Stephano.

  “You’re not meant to,” said Father Jacob. “Just in case, you should move your boat near the abbey walls, close to Retribution. And your proximity to my yacht will save us time in the morning.”

  “Time for what?” Stephano asked suspiciously. “Time to put us under Seal? I have important work to do in Westfirth. I give you my word of honor, Father, that none of us will say anything—”

  “I accept your word, Captain,” said Father Jacob gravely. “You are Sir Ander’s godson. No more need be said on the subject. And, that reminds me, I have been remiss in offering you my sincere thanks. You saved the day, Captain de Guichen. You and our friends, Hroalfrig and Droalfrig.”

  Stephano brushed aside the praise. “So we can sail to Westfirth?”

  “You can sail, Captain, if you will permit us to accompany you,” said Father Jacob. “The Retribution needs extensive repairs. Master Albert says that the yacht can be taken under tow to the shipyards at Westfirth.
I was thinking the Cloud Hopper could handle that job. The journey requires only a few hours, as I understand it.”

  Stephano was not certain he wanted to spend even a few hours with Father Jacob. He needed to reach Westfirth, however, to pursue the hunt for information regarding the kidnapped journeyman, Alcazar—almost forgotten in the dramatic events of the past few days.

  “Brother Barnaby can remain with Mistress Gythe,” Father Jacob continued. “I think that would be wise. The two have been through similar experiences. The demons spoke to him, as well.”

  “You think the demons spoke to Gythe?” Stephano asked, astonished.

  Father Jacob sighed and gave a grave nod. “I believe they did. They spoke to me. I didn’t answer, but I think she did.”

  Stephano was doubtful, incredulous.

  “You said the demon commander came for her, Captain,” Father Jacob explained. “Even though she was down below, locked in her cabin, the demon still found her. He was guided by her voice, as it were.”

  “I will have to speak to Miri about towing the yacht,” said Stephano, troubled. “The Cloud Hopper is her boat. But I am certain she will be more than happy to assist you.”

  “Excellent!” said Father Jacob. “I trust I will have the pleasure of seeing you and your friends later this evening after you’ve moved the boat. And now, Monsieur de Villeneuve, I await your convenience.”

  Rodrigo pressed Stephano’s hand. “You will think of me from time to time, my friend, as I sit chained to the wall in some forgotten oubliette . . .”

  “By far the best place for you,” Stephano said firmly. “If you say a word to him about Alcazar, I’ll chain you up myself.”

  Rodrigo reached inside his coat. “I almost forgot. I found this. Dag says it’s a demonic grenade.” He held out the brass plate with the diamond to Stephano, who regarded it with disgust and made no move to touch it. “He says this is what the demons used to shoot off their green fire—”

  Father Jacob swooped in with a flurry of black, plucked the brass plate from Rodrigo’s hand, and tucked it into the bosom of his cassock. The priest’s movements were so fast that Rodrigo stood staring blankly at his empty palm.

  “A remarkable find, Monsieur,” said Father Jacob. He slapped Rodrigo on the shoulder. “Perhaps I won’t have you burned at the stake as a heretic after all.”

  “He’s jesting, isn’t he?” Rodrigo asked nervously, looking back at Stephano over his shoulder. Stephano only waved and Rodrigo turned to the priest, “You’re jesting, Father, right?”

  Dag sailed the Cloud Hopper to the abbey, landing the houseboat on the ground close to Retribution. Dinner was a somber affair and didn’t last long. Brother Paul insisted that he was well enough to go minister to the captain and crew of the sunken ship, who had taken refuge in the one stable that had not been burned. Father Jacob warned everyone to keep out of the cathedral, due to the extensive damage.

  Droalfrig had flown off, at Father Jacob’s request, carrying urgent dispatches to the Arcanum. Hroalfrig’s wound was healing well. The dragon had offered to stay at the abbey, assist in its defense and make certain the sailors under Seal did not try to leave.

  “The Arcanum will send a fast ship to pick up the survivors from the Suspicion and Brother Paul and take them to the Citadel for their own protection,” Sir Ander told Stephano. “Don’t worry. They will be treated well. They won’t be thrown into an oubliette.”

  “Rigo has a vivid imagination,” said Stephano.

  He had asked Rodrigo what Father Jacob had spoken to him about.

  “He questioned me about Gythe and her magic and the demonic magic and my thoughts on it,” said Rodrigo. He paused a moment, then said, “He recommended most strongly that I keep such thoughts to myself. Then he asked if I would like to come to the Arcanum.”

  “By God, if he tries to take you—”

  “No, no,” said Rodrigo soothingly. “He wants to know if I’d like to become a priest.”

  Stephano burst out laughing.

  “Yes,” said Rodrigo. “That was my answer.”

  Dag brought over his tools and offered to assist Master Albert with the repair work on the yacht. Stephano went to check on Gythe and found her lying asleep on the floor beside Brother Barnaby, who had also fallen asleep. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hands were twined around his. Doctor Ellington slept with them, his large furry body stretched out across the monk’s ankles. Miri kept watch over them all.

  Stephano and Sir Ander had agreed to take turns on guard. Stephano took first watch. He had never minded guard duty. He liked being alone with his thoughts, and although he was bone-tired, he knew from experience that even if he went to bed, he would not be able to rest. He would relive the battle with the demons over and over, seeing it in his mind in bright flashes like strikes of lightning.

  Hearing footsteps, he turned to find Father Jacob, his black cassock tinged with silver in the moonlight, coming toward him.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said by way of explanation. “I didn’t want to disturb Sir Ander and so I thought I would come disturb you, Captain de Guichen. If you don’t object to some company?”

  “Not at all, Father,” said Stephano politely. “My own thoughts aren’t very good companions.”

  Father Jacob joined him in his pacing. They walked for a few moments in silence, then Father Jacob said, “I know you have a great many questions, Captain. You and your comrades are risking your life to help me without knowing why. I wish I could explain, but I cannot. It seems unfair.”

  “I do have one question,” said Stephano.

  “I cannot promise to answer it,” said Father Jacob.

  “I know. But I’d feel better asking.”

  Stephano paused, staring out into the Breath, where strands of mists were casting nets around the moon.

  “Did the gates of Hell open this day, Father?”

  The priest regarded Stephano intently for long moments. Then he turned his gaze toward the abbey with its shattered windows and blood-soaked ground and gave a soft sigh.

  “That depends on your definition of Hell, Captain,” replied Father Jacob.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They say fortune favors the bold, the foolish, and the prepared. Here, fortune favors the heavily armed.

  Welcome to Westfirth.

  —Graffiti, Anonymous

  LIFE HAD NOT BEEN EASY FOR SIR HENRY WALLACE these past two weeks. While Stephano and Father Jacob were battling demons, Sir Henry was battling inanity. Given a choice between fighting demons and trying to figure his way out of the present accursed predicament, Sir Henry might well have chosen the demons. At least he could have ended his problem on the blade of a sword. Which is what he was seriously considering at the present moment. As he now stood glaring at Pietro Alcazar, Sir Henry was tempted, sorely tempted, to slice the journeyman’s scrawny throat.

  Alcazar was undoubtedly a genius. He had discovered the greatest invention of the last several centuries: how to combine metal with the magical Breath of God, rendering steel strong enough to withstand bullets, gunpowder, and cannonballs. His invention would revolutionize warfare. Unfortunately, the inventor was not only a genius, he was a whimpering, whining, stubborn, piss-yellow Rosian dog of a coward.

  Sir Henry had known from the start that Pietro Alcazar was not what one might term a shining example of honor and nobility. Alcazar had, after all, offered to sell his invention to Freya, his country’s most implacable foe, dedicated to Rosia’s utter annihilation. Still, Sir Henry had expected the man to have more backbone than your average blancmange.

  Having received the pewter tankard from Alcazar’s brother, Manuel, and having tested the tankard with the help of Mr. Sloan, Sir Henry had left his pregnant young wife to make a dangerous trip to Rosia in order to meet with Pietro Alcazar and personally transport him safely back to Freya.

  The agreed-upon meeting place was the city of Westfirth, that cesspool of corruption, much loved by smugglers, pirate
s, and spies. Westfirth was an old city, founded by Freyans some seven hundred years ago and had remained loyal to Freya during the Black Fire War, fighting to the end before going down to defeat. The victorious Rosian army had not been kind to Westfirth’s citizens. Whether they were Freyan or Rosian, all were considered traitors. Bitter memories still lingered.

  Upon his arrival in Westfirth, Sir Henry sent a note to Alcazar, who lived in Evreux on Half Moon Street, arranging their meeting. Using one of his many disguises, Sir Henry had secured a suite of rooms in an inn and then waited for Alcazar.

  Alcazar received the letter, but he was having second thoughts and he tossed the letter in the fireplace—which was where Rodrigo would later find it. When Alcazar failed to arrive at the meeting place, Sir Henry, seething, acted promptly. He sent his agents, under the leadership of James Harrington (alias Sir Richard Piefer), to procure Alcazar. Harrington was to handle Alcazar gently but firmly and send him on his way, under escort, to Westfirth. Harrington was then to linger on Half Moon Street to see who took an interest in Alcazar’s disappearance and to deal with them as circumstances warranted.

  Harrington had of late proved to be troublesome. The man had begun to think too highly of himself, leading him to indulge in rash and reckless behavior. Sir Henry had more than once thought of cutting Harrington loose, but the man had two qualities that made him valuable: his ability to masquerade as anything from a chimney sweep to an ambassador and his skill with firearms.

  In this instance, Harrington delivered the goods. He and his associates swept up Alcazar in the middle of the night and carried him off. When Alcazar was escorted into Sir Henry’s presence by his captors, the first thing the journeyman saw was Sir Henry cleaning his pistols. Alcazar collapsed, senseless.

  Sir Henry revived the wretched journeyman and assured him that he was not only safe from the moneylenders, he was about to take a trip to Freya where he would become a very wealthy man. He would have his own armory, his own journeymen, everything he needed to continue his work.