Gythe removed Doctor Ellington from Dag’s shoulder. The cat’s poor stomach was rumbling louder than he could purr, but the Doctor undoubtedly knew he was destined to go back in the storage closet and he dug his claws into the big man’s shoulder. Gythe was finally forced to seize hold of the cat by the scruff of the neck and pry him loose. He squirmed free of her grasp, jumped to the deck, and made a dash for his hiding place beneath the cannon.
“How could your sister know what I was thinking?” Brother Barnaby asked.
In answer, Gythe walked up to him and touched her fingers to his forehead. Taking up his hand, she placed his fingers on her forehead and smiled tremulously. Tears shimmered in her eyes. She made a motion as of leaving, and another as of staying.
“It’s called ‘sympathetic magic,’” said Rodrigo, coming up the stairs in time to overhear the end of the conversation. “A bit out of the ordinary, but not uncommon, particularly when you take into account the fact that Gythe is a savant and you, Brother, are an extremely talented healer. She formed a connection to you. It’s all about electricity, really.”
Gythe blinked her eyes, bemused by this explanation, while Brother Barnaby seemed to find the part about electricity more alarming than helpful. They were interrupted by Dag coming up on deck with his musket, powder horn, bullets, and Stephano.
“I couldn’t stop him,” said Dag, catching Miri’s accusing look.
Stephano walked across the deck. He was favoring his bandaged thigh, but the wound had not been deep and he could walk easily enough. He was wearing only his trousers and more bandages wrapped around his ribs and his shoulder. He reeked of poultice. Rodrigo coughed and moved downwind.
“Dag says the priest could be in some sort of trouble,” said Stephano.
“It’s probably my imagination,” said Brother Barnaby, abashed.
“The brother and I will just go take a look,” said Dag.
“Fine,” said Stephano. “I’m going with you. Give me half a second to fetch my shirt and sword—”
He ran down below. Miri, her expression grim, walked over to the door, shut it, locked it, then planted herself in front of it and leaned against it. They could hear Stephano’s muffled swearing as he began beating on the door with his fists.
“Best hurry,” said Miri coolly, not moving.
Dag grinned and picked up his musket. He was already carrying two loaded pistols in his belt. He and Brother Barnaby left in haste. Miri watched the two depart, whispering a heartfelt prayer for their safety and for Papa Jake.
“And, Daiddo,” she added, referring to God by the Trundler’s affectionate term for “grandfather,” which is how she tended to think of Him, “if you could see to it that Brother Barnaby goes back to his monastery and stays there forever more, I would be eternally grateful.”
She opened the hatch. Stephano glared furiously at her. She herded him down the stairs.
“There, now,” she said, pointing to a splotch of blood spreading on the bandage around his shoulder. “You’ve broken open the wound. Gythe, I need your help.”
“The monk prayed over me,” Stephano said, as she began to strip off the bandages. “I’m fine.”
“Gythe,” Miri called, “I need you.”
No response. No sound of skirts rustling and feet running down. Miri’s heart lurched. She left Stephano and ran back up the stairs, shoving aside Rodrigo, who had been coming down to join them.
“Gythe!”
Her sister was not on deck.
Miri dashed back down the stairs. Stephano was arguing with Rodrigo, who was trying to persuade him to go back to bed.
“Stephano, you have to stop her!” Miri cried. “Gythe’s gone after Brother Barnaby!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
We are all born with a spark of God’s grace within our souls. Those who follow the path of the Fallen have found ways to steal that spark and corrupt it to their dark purposes. Those who practice blood magic use the spark of life to power their evil spells.
—Saint Marie Elizabeth,
First Provost of the Arcanum
THE ARCHBISHOP LOANED SIR ANDER AND Father Jacob his carriage and driver to take them to the mysterious rendezvous. Father Jacob would have told the driver outright to take them to Bitter End Lane. The more prudent Sir Ander insisted that they find some place near the lane so that they could approach with caution, not leap straight into an ambush. The knight made inquiries among the soldiers manning the walls of the Old Fort and came up with a suitable location.
“Take us to the Dirk and Dragon on Silk Street,” Sir Ander said, assisting Father Jacob into the carriage.
The driver looked startled. “But that’s a tavern, sir.”
“A tavern filled with sinners needing to be saved, my son,” said Father Jacob solemnly.
The driver was dubious. The archbishop certainly never went near such places. He had no thought of questioning a priest of the Arcanum, however. He whipped up the horses, and the carriage rattled off.
Inside the carriage, Sir Ander sat bolt upright, perched on the edge of his seat, his back straight. He kept fast hold of the hand strap and stared grimly out the window. He was armed with his dragon pistol and one of his nonmagical pistols and his broadsword.
“You know I don’t like this,” he stated.
Father Jacob was relaxed, leaning back against the comfortable cushions, his legs crossed beneath the long, black cassock, his arms crossed over his chest. He was gazing out the window.
“You think I do?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Sir Ander bluntly. “Anonymous notes. Mysterious assignations. Streets with ominous-sounding names. You damn well know you’re enjoying this!”
Father Jacob gave a smile. “Perhaps I do—a little. And for your information, the term ‘Bitter End’ is not ominous. It is a nautical term referring to the end of a rope.”
Sir Ander snorted, clearly not placated. “And we may have reached the end of our rope. I’ve asked around. Bitter End Lane has an evil reputation. It is only a block long. It runs between an abandoned warehouse on the south side and a balloon maker on the north. This time of night, the neighborhood will be empty. Ideal location for an ambush.”
“Or a meeting with someone who doesn’t want to be seen,” said Father Jacob. He saw Sir Ander’s frown and he added in mollifying tones, “I agree with you about the danger, my friend. But if there is a chance this woman might lead us to the Warlock, we must take the risk.”
Sir Ander sighed, shook his head, and reassuringly slid his hand inside his magically reinforced coat to touch the dragon pistol resting in its holster. Father Jacob was armed, as well. His weapons were his magic.
The carriage rolled up in front of the Dirk and Dragon. Work had ended for the day. The crafters and sail makers, rope makers and balloon makers, stevedores and wood wrights, naval engineers and architects filled the dockyard taverns. The clientele in the Dirk and Dragon actually spilled out into the street, with working men and women lounging in the shadows cast by the westering sun, pledging each other’s health in foaming mugs of ale and discussing the day’s events.
The crowd recognized the seal of the archbishop on the side panel of the carriage and met the carriage with wide grins and crude comments. The archbishop’s plan to “clean up” the city was not being well received among the tavern owners and their customers. For the moment the archbishop was more concerned with shutting down the opium dens and houses of prostitution, but the members of the Tavern League were certain they were next.
Sir Ander and Father Jacob told the carriage driver not to wait, for which he was thankful, given that the carriage was now surrounded by what he considered a drunken mob. He was off before the priest and Sir Ander had fairly set their feet to the ground. The remarks from the onlookers ceased at the sight of the priest and the knight. Sir Ander swept aside his coat to reveal the buttend of the dragon pistol. The broadsword clanked against his thigh. But it was Father Jacob in the black cassock of the Arcanu
m that caused the crowd to bury their noses in their ale mugs and sidle off.
Silk Street ran north and south, parallel to Canal Street, which was a block over. Father Jacob and Sir Ander proceeded down the street, which was named for the warehouses where the silk fabric needed in the construction of balloons was stored. The warehouses were almost identical, about four or five stories tall, built of brick and mortar and magic. The front of the warehouses opened onto the street. The back faced the canal, where the bales of silk—double wrapped in jute—were loaded onto barges.
The warehouses blocked out the sunlight and though night had not yet fallen, Silk Street was dark with shadows. The doors to the warehouses were padlocked. Sir Ander tried peering into several windows, but they were coated with dirt and grime and apparently never opened. Sir Ander could see very little. Whenever there was a gap between warehouses, they could catch a glimpse of the busy canal, crowded with barges, and the mists of the Breath beyond.
Sounds of talk and laughter from the tavern faded away. The street was silent save for their footfalls that echoed in the chasm formed by the buildings. Sir Ander followed their progress by the street names which were located on the corners of the buildings. Bitter End Lane was only a block long and ran east-west to Silk Street that ran north-south. Silk Street continued on, eventually ending at the canal.
Keeping to the shadows, Father Jacob and Sir Ander stared intently down the length of Bitter End Lane. They had deliberately arrived early, before the proposed meeting time. They watched and listened, but saw nothing, heard nothing out of the ordinary.
Clocks throughout the city began to chime six times. Sir Ander drew his dragon pistol and indicated with a nod that Father Jacob was to precede him. Father Jacob walked into Bitter End Lane, moving confidently and slowly, allowing himself to be seen. Sir Ander came behind, his gaze sweeping the street ahead and behind.
A figure, murky in the twilight, entered from the opposite end of the lane. Father Jacob could not make out much in the indistinct light, but he judged by the person’s height and the way he walked this was a man, not a woman. The stranger wore a greatcoat, a tricornered hat, and carried a leather satchel. The man saw Father Jacob at the same time the priest saw him and halted.
Father Jacob cautioned Sir Ander, who had also seen the man, to keep his distance. Sir Ander slowed his pace, but he kept within firing range and made certain the stranger got a good look at his pistol. Father Jacob advanced cautiously to meet the man, who advanced cautiously to meet him. The two came face-to-face in the gathering gloom and stopped.
Each spoke a single word. “You!”
Father Jacob and Sir Henry Wallace stood staring at each other in profound astonishment for a split second, both of them wondering what was going on. The answer was, sadly, simple to figure out.
“This is a trap,” said Father Jacob.
“I believe you are right,” said Sir Henry.
A woman’s voice, frightened, terror-stricken, called out, “Mister, please help me!”
Sir Ander heard the voice and turned to see a young woman running toward him from the direction of Silk Street. Her bodice was ripped, her skirts torn. Her hair was unbound and flew around her pale face. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear. Her hands were outstretched, beseeching his aid. She had blood on her face and her bosom, her hands and her arms.
“Help me!” she cried. “Please help me!”
“Ander, no!” Father Jacob cried, but he was too late.
The wraith, shining with an eerie red incandescence, flung her arms around Sir Ander, sending jolts, like a thousand fire-tipped needles, surging through the knight’s body. He could not scream, for the pain was in his lungs and his throat. He could not move. The wraith held him fast, paralyzing him. The cocked pistol fell from his twitching fingers to the street and fired the bullet, causing it to glance off the paving stones. Sir Ander crashed to the ground, as two orange-eyed demons appeared on the warehouse rooftop where they had been hiding.
Sir Henry Wallace had changed out of the black robes of a lawyer on the way to the meeting. Not trusting Eiddwen, he had put on a magically protected vest beneath a magically protected knee-length coat and covered that with a magically protected greatcoat. Thus attired, he had gone to the meeting site, where he was astounded and most seriously displeased to encounter his old enemy, Father Jacob Northrop. Sir Henry’s first thought was to wonder how the priest knew Eiddwen. His second thought was the realization this did not matter since they were both about to die.
Their assailant had taken care to attack the well-armed knight early in the assault. The use of a wraith was suggestive; their foe was a wielder of dark magic. Eiddwen’s underlings sometimes referred to her as the “Sorceress,” but she had told him she did not like to use magic, terming it “messy” and “wayward.”
“I like to be in control of a situation,” Eiddwen had said. “Once you let loose a magic spell, you have no idea what is going to happen. I much prefer shooting people.”
Sir Henry looked up and down the lane to see if he could find the wielder of the dark magic. Was it Eiddwen herself or one of her minions? Undoubtedly a minion. She wouldn’t want to dirty her hands. The dark magic user needed to keep the victim in sight in order to control the wraith. Sir Henry caught a glimpse of movement coming from his left, near where he had entered Bitter End Lane.
A young man, handsome, wearing a long night-blue leather coat, stood with his back against the building. This must be the Warlock of whom Sloan had spoken, terming him “depraved.” Judging by his smile, the Warlock was pleased with himself. He raised his hand, controlling the magic, guiding the wraith. His fingers had been dipped in blood. The conjuration of a wraith required a blood sacrifice. The knight lay where he had fallen, his body twitching.
“Take cover!” Father Jacob shouted.
Henry looked up to see a ball of green fire heading straight for him. He ducked behind his leather satchel, holding it over his head to shield his face from the blast.
The green fireball struck the satchel in a cascade of sparks that rained down around him. The satchel burst into flames, the leather dissolving as though it had been hit by acid. The leather had been covered inside and out with sigils and constructs. The magic would withstand gunfire, white magic, and even blood magic. Every sort of magic except contramagic.
“Shit! Bloody hell!” Sir Henry swore angrily when the flames reached his fingers, burning him. He flung the blazing satchel to the street. It landed with a metallic clatter. The pewter tankard that had been inside the satchel clattered onto the cobblestones. Henry risked burnt fingers to snatch it out of the flames. He was about to hide the tankard beneath his greatcoat, then realized it was on fire.
Tearing off the great coat, Henry looked up at the top of the warehouse and saw what appeared to be two fiends from Hell staring down at him. “Demons with glowing orange eyes shooting balls of green fire.” Sir Henry muttered an apology to Mr. Sloan for not believing him as he searched for cover. Of course, there was none. Not a barrel, not a recessed doorway, nothing. Eiddwen had chosen the site for the ambush well. Henry drew his pistol. Beside him, Father Jacob was waving his hands, surrounding himself with blue light.
“Here! With me!” Father Jacob shouted, motioning to Sir Henry.
If there was one man Sir Henry was glad to have at his back during a fight with the forces of Hell, it would be Jacob Northrup. Henry had gone up against the priest enough times to know his worth. Keeping hold of the pewter tankard, Henry dove behind the protective shield of the blue light as another blast of green fire flew from the rooftop.
The fireball hit the blue glowing shield with a concussive force that left Henry half-blind, dazed, with ears ringing, but otherwise not injured. The same could not be said of Father Jacob. He was doubled over, gasping in pain. Henry noted that the blue light no longer glowed quite as brightly.
“Who are these fiends?” Henry demanded.
“I was going to ask you the same questi
on,” Father Jacob gasped.
Henry grunted. “So that is why you saved my life?”
“All life is precious in the eyes of God,” said Father Jacob and he added, with the hint of a smile, “Even that of the snake.”
Sir Henry drew his pistol and searched for a target on the rooftop, but the demons were well out of range. He could see them at work up there, perhaps reloading their infernal weapon.
“I’m going to try to reach Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob, straightening. “I must counteract the wraith’s spell, or she will kill him.”
“I’ll cover you,” Henry offered.
Father Jacob gave a grim chuckle. “How many times have you tried to kill me? I lost count at six.”
“The enemy of my enemy . . . all that rot,” said Sir Henry.
Father Jacob shook his head, still skeptical, but he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to save the knight. As the priest prepared to make a run for the spellbound knight, Henry was at his back.
“Wait!” Henry yelled.
Another fireball sizzled down from the roof and slanted off the blue glowing shield. The blast shook the ground, cracking the paving stones. Father Jacob cried out, staggered and almost fell. Henry steadied the priest with his hand. The blue glow was definitely fading.
“How long can you keep this up?” Henry asked.
“Not long, I’m afraid,” said Father Jacob, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his cassock.
“That last blast took out the wraith, at least,” Sir Henry observed.
“So it did,” said Father Jacob with interest. “Though I don’t think it was meant to.”
The wraith had vanished. Henry glanced at the Warlock. The young man had emerged from the corner of the building and was shouting angrily at those on the roof.
The two demons behind their cannon paid no heed. They were taking aim, and Henry braced himself for the next attack. Green fire burst on the blue shield. The blue light vanished. Father Jacob cried out, fell to the street, and lay there, moaning.
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