Shadow Raiders

by Margaret Weis; Robert Krammes

  “Some of us are sailing to Freya, Monsieur,” said Henry gravely. “One of us, I fear, will be dropped into the Breath. After you are no longer of use to me.”

  “Ah,” said Rodrigo. “Of course. If you don’t mind my asking, sir, was it this Dubois person who shot your friends in there?”

  “A private quarrel,” said Sir Henry with an apologetic air. “I fear I cannot discuss it.”

  Rodrigo dashed off a saraband. “You appear to have a vast number of enemies, Sir Henry.”

  “Let us simply say that I will be extremely glad to leave Rosia, Monsieur de Villeneuve,” said Henry Wallace with feeling.

  Alcazar returned. His coat had been hastily thrown on. None of the buttons were buttoned correctly and his collar stuck up behind his ears.

  Sir Henry gestured with the pistol. “Time to go, Monsieur de Villeneuve. Take charge of this drunken idiot. Keep him on his feet.”

  Rodrigo took hold of the unsteady Alcazar, who was green about the nose and mouth and continuing to mumble that he didn’t feel well. On their way out the door, Rodrigo stopped and turned to face Sir Henry.

  “I was wondering . . .”

  Henry thrust the barrel of the gun into Rodrigo’s ribs.

  “Yes? What?”

  “Could we stop by my tailor?” Rodrigo inquired. “It’s on the way.”

  Stephano and Miri discussed their plans as they walked slowly toward Dubois’ lodging. A modest sign referred to this inn as The Ivy, an appropriate name considering that much of the brickwork of the three-story building was covered with green leaves and trailing vines. The inn housed few guests, apparently, for most of the windows to the rooms were closed and shuttered. One window belonging to a corner room on the second floor was open, admitting sunlight and fresh air, and providing an excellent view of the main street and a side street. Stephano kept an eye on the window of that room, but saw no one.

  “You have that paper with the king’s seal Russo gave you,” Miri was arguing. “I think you should summon the constables and have them arrest this Dubois.”

  Stephano shook his head. “By the time I found the Chief Constable and showed him the paper and convinced him the seal was real and the crisis was real and that I’m real and I’m who I say I am, he would have to collect his men and they’d have to march here, by which time Dubois could be on the move again and we’d never catch him. Besides,” said Stephano, checking to make certain his pistol was loaded, “I don’t exactly trust Monsieur Russo or his paper.”

  “I gathered that when you left Dag with him,” said Miri. “What are we going to do with Dubois once we have him?”

  “I will take him along to Monsieur Russo, collect everyone involved in the same room, hold them all at gunpoint, and see if we can sort this out,” said Stephano. “We’re going to make this apprehension quick and quiet. You and Gythe keep the landlord occupied while I speak to Dubois. Are you ready, Sisters?”

  “We’re ready,” said Miri crisply. “Gythe, dear, time to feel faint.”

  Gythe smiled and winked at Stephano. She put her hand to her forehead. Her eyes rolled back. She swayed on her feet. Miri cried out in alarm. Stephano lifted Gythe in his arms and carried her inside the inn.

  “The sister has fainted,” he told the landlord.

  “Sister Catherine is feeling ill from the heat,” Miri told the landlord. “Could she rest here a moment, Monsieur? This room is so lovely and cool.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the landlord, hovering near. He turned to a servant. “Fetch some brandy for the sister. Take her into the parlor, sir.”

  Stephano carried Gythe into a room off the main lobby and laid her gently on a couch.

  “Thank you for coming to our aid, Monsieur,” said Miri.

  Stephano bowed. “My pleasure, Sister. I happened to be here myself on business. Do you require my assistance for anything else?”

  Miri assured Stephano that he was no longer needed. He turned to the landlord, who was hovering over the young and very beautiful nun, asking if she would like something to eat and shouting once more for the brandy.

  “I came to see Monsieur Dubois,” Stephano said, interrupting. “What room is he in?”

  “What? Who? Oh, room number 6,” said the distracted landlord.

  Grinning, Stephano dashed up the stairs. He moved swiftly, treading softly. Entering the hall, he found the door with a brass number 6 nailed to it at the top of the stairs. Stephano gently tried the door handle and found it locked. He rapped on the door smartly.

  “Who is it?” a mild voice called.

  “Your dinner, sir,” said Stephano in servile tones.

  He heard the shuffling of papers, footsteps, then the key turning. The moment Stephano heard the lock click, he kicked open the door and jumped inside, his pistol drawn and aimed at Dubois.

  Stephano came to an abrupt halt. Dubois stood with his pistol aimed at Stephano. The two men faced off, each with a pistol aimed at the other.

  Dubois suddenly recognized his assailant.

  “Captain de Guichen!” Dubois exclaimed and raised his weapon, pointing the gun at the ceiling. Unfortunately, due to amazement or perhaps out of nervousness, Dubois inadvertently squeezed the trigger. The gun went off, blowing a hole in the plaster.

  At the sound of the gunshot, cries and shouts came from below. The landlord was demanding to know what the devil was going on, and Miri was crying out that Sister Catherine had fainted once again. Stephano waved away the smoke, all the while keeping his pistol aimed at Dubois. Miri could be counted on to deal with the landlord.

  “What is the meaning of this armed invasion, Captain de Guichen?” Dubois demanded with indignation.

  “You can cancel your plans to kidnap Alcazar today, Monsieur,” said Stephano in pleasant tones. “Be so good as to inform your master.”

  “Kidnap! Alcazar!” Dubois gasped. “My ‘master,’ as you refer to His Eminence, Captain, is trying to rescue Alcazar, not kidnap him.”

  Stephano gestured with the pistol. “Interesting story. Too bad I don’t believe it. Come along with me, Monsieur Dubois, and we’ll sort all—”

  He was interrupted by a scream from below and Miri’s we’re-caught-in-a-raging-storm-and-the-mast-is-falling bellow. “Stephano! Company!”

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  “You bastard,” muttered Stephano, eyeing Dubois. “That shot you fired wasn’t an accident. It was a signal!”

  Stephano turned halfway, just as a man with red hair and beard plummeted through the door and seized hold of his arm, trying to wrest the pistol from his hand. Stephano’s pistol went off. Dubois gave a cry and clapped his hand over his shoulder and staggered backward.

  Red Dog knocked Stephano to the floor and tried to get his hands around Stephano’s throat. Miri entered the room to find the two men wrestling and rolling about. She grabbed hold of a chair and smashed it over Red Dog’s head. He groaned and rolled off Stephano, who heaved himself to his feet. Miri bashed Red Dog in the head with the chair’s leg. He went down and did not get up.

  Below, the landlord was out in the street, blowing a whistle, summoning the constables. More footfalls sounded on the stairs. Stephano motioned for Miri to wait behind the door with the chair leg, ready to bash whoever came in. Stephano hurried over to Dubois, who had collapsed into a chair. He was still conscious, his hand pressed against right shoulder. Blood welled out from beneath his fingers.

  Stephano gave the wound a cursory examination. “You’ll live. The bullet took out a hunk of meat, that’s all. On your feet. We need to get out of here. I’m sure you don’t want to deal with the police any more than I do.”

  Dubois didn’t budge. “Left pocket.”

  “There’s no time—” Stephano began.

  “Look in my left pocket, Captain,” said Dubois sternly, indicating with a nod the coat he was wearing.

  Stephano glared at him, then, thinking Dubois might have some sort of document that would placate the authorities,
Stephano reached into Dubois’ coat.

  “The leather case,” Dubois instructed. Lifting his left arm slightly to allow Stephano access, he gasped in pain and kept pressure on the wound. Stephano was drawing out the case, when Dag came running into the room, his musket in his hands.

  “Stephano, I heard about Miri—” he cried, just as Miri emerged from behind the door, brandishing the chair leg.

  “What are you doing here?” Dag gasped, goggling at Miri.

  “What are you doing here?” Miri demanded.

  Doctor Ellington didn’t wait to find out what anyone was doing here. The cat leaped off Dag’s shoulder and made a run for the stairs. Gythe, coming in behind Dag, reached down and deftly scooped up the fleeing Doctor before he shot out the door.

  “Oh, my God,” Stephano groaned.

  He had been reading the document he had just removed from the leather billfold. He looked from Dag to Miri to Red Dog, who was rubbing his head and staring around groggily, to Dubois, bleeding on the sofa.

  “What’s gone wrong now?” Miri demanded in dire tones.

  “This man . . . uh . . . works for the Church. He’s Grand Bishop Montagne’s agent.” Stephano heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair.

  “You just shot an agent for the grand bishop?” Miri cried, scandalized.

  “I didn’t mean to!” said Stephano.

  Gythe frowned, touching her lips and making a face as though tasting something bad.

  “Maybe he’s lying,” Miri translated.

  “Read the paper on the desk,” Dubois instructed. He closed his eyes and bit his lip against the pain.

  “Gythe,” said Stephano, “keep watch.”

  Gythe and the Doctor went over to the window, while Miri hurried to examine the document.

  “It’s from the grand bishop,” said Miri. “The document instructs the archbishop and Lord Mayor of Westfirth to close the harbor. It’s signed and sealed . . .”

  Her brow furrowed. “But if this man, Dubois, is working for the bishop, then why did Russo tell us that Dubois was working for Sir Henry Wallace?”

  “Wallace!” Dubois cried, his eyes opening. He sat up in the chair. “What about Wallace?”

  Stephano didn’t answer. He was staring at Dag, suddenly realizing amidst the confusion that the mercenary was in the room.

  “Dag, what are you doing here?” Stephano demanded.

  “Russo told me Miri and Gythe had been kidnapped,” Dag said wretchedly. “He told me you needed help . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Where’s Rigo?” Stephano asked tensely.

  “He didn’t come with me,” said Dag. “He didn’t want me to leave. He must have known.... Oh, God, Stephano! Now I know where I’ve seen that Russo before! I kept thinking he looked familiar. At the ambush at Bitter End! He was the man in the greatcoat . . . I saved his goddamn life!”

  “And Father Jacob told us that man was Henry Wallace. So this Russo is really Sir Henry Wallace and now Wallace has hold of Alcazar and Rodrigo,” said Stephano.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Dag miserably, “That bastard fooled me completely.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Stephano. “He fooled all of us.”

  Gythe, standing at the window, snapped her fingers to draw their attention. She pointed down at the street and made a gesture with her hands intimating the tall hats worn by the constables.

  “I think I’ll just let them arrest me,” said Stephano. “They can charge me with being an idiot. I’ll plead guilty.”

  “You can’t stay here. You have to stop Wallace, Captain,” said Dubois sharply. “Alcazar must not reach Freya!”

  “And how do you propose I do that, sir?” Stephano demanded bitterly. “The constables are on their way up the stairs and Sir Henry Wallace is on his way to the docks and he’s holding my friend hostage!”

  “That friend would be Monsieur de Villeneuve?” asked Dubois.

  “You seem to know all about me,” said Stephano grimly. “Yes, my friend is Monsieur de Villeneuve.”

  “Ironic,” murmured Dubois. “It was Sir Henry Wallace who gave the order to have Ambassador de Villeneuve assassinated. I don’t suppose your friend knows that.”

  “No,” said Stephano. “Probably just as well he doesn’t.”

  “I will deal with the constables, Captain,” said Dubois. “Go into the bedroom. Enter the wardrobe. Inside is a false back that opens onto a staircase which leads to the servants’ quarters. Exit through the kitchen door into a secluded garden. From that point, you are on your own.”

  Stephano motioned for everyone to do as Dubois said. Dag led the way, with Gythe and Miri and the Doctor following. Stephano remained a moment. He could hear the constables pounding up the stairs. “I am sorry I shot you, Monsieur. I don’t suppose you have any idea where Henry Wallace might be going?”

  Dubois gave a faint smile. “Pietro Alcazar has a brother, Manuel. He serves on a merchant vessel docked in the Foreign Commons. The name of the ship is the Silver Raven.”

  Stephano was halfway through the bedroom door when he stopped, turned around. “You’re going to order the navy to sink that vessel, aren’t you?”

  Dubois inclined his head. “Alcazar must not be permitted to reach Freya alive, Captain.”

  “Give me a chance,” Stephano pleaded. “Let me try to capture the vessel and keep everyone alive, including Alcazar and Rodrigo.”

  Dubois gave a faint smile. “God go with you, Captain. And give your esteemed mother my regards.”

  Stephano slammed the door shut behind him and pretended he had not heard. He waited a moment to make certain Dubois did not betray them. He listened to the constables enter. Dubois gave them some sort of story about thieves and told them that the man who had shot him had gone out the window.

  Stephano could not risk waiting longer. He entered the wardrobe, passed through the false back, and hurried down the dark and narrow stairs that led from the servants’ quarters in the top of the inn to the kitchen area below. He found his friends waiting for him in a garden surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence and tall walnut trees whose intertwined branches effectively shielded them from view of the constables.

  Stephano opened the garden gate carefully, afraid the hinges would creak. The hinges were silent, and he noticed they’d been oiled. Dubois thought of everything. Stephano and his friends filed quietly out. The two nuns walked demurely down the street away from the inn. Stephano and Dag with the Doctor back in his accustomed place on his shoulder strolled along behind.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Stephano saw constables up on the roof, while others took up positions in the front of the inn. More would be inside, continuing to talk to the grand bishop’s agent, Monsieur Dubois, who was going to be giving the order to the Royal Navy to blast Wallace’s ship—and Rodrigo—out of the Breath unless Stephano could find a way to stop Wallace before that happened.

  “What a rotten day! I wonder what the Hell else can go wrong?” Stephano asked himself morosely.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Our eyes wept for our emerald Isle as Glasearrach sank into the Breath. Our hearts wept as our brethren fell to their deaths. Our people wept as God cast us out.

  —Trundler Ballad,

  “The Sinking of Glasearrach”

  THE MORNING HENRY WALLACE FOUND EIDDWEN’S visiting card, Sir Ander entered the archbishop’s dining room in search of a late breakfast.

  Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby had been up much of the previous night, standing on the battlements, observing with interest the naval ships moving swiftly through the Breath to interdict any vessel trying to slip out following the closing of the port. The shore batteries located in the concrete bunkers beneath the battlements were fully manned, though only a few guns had been run out to fire a warning volley of powder and wadding, warning irate ship captains that the port-closing would be enforced. The navy caught several ships trying to escape; mostly small boats loaded with contraband. />
  Sir Ander had explained the naval strategy to Brother Barnaby, pointing out how the larger naval vessels took key positions around the bay while the city’s gunboats moved inside the bay. The smaller gunboats were twenty-four feet long, each mounting a cannon that fired a twenty-four-pound ball. Six armed marines were aboard every gunboat. If a fleeing vessel failed to stop, the marines would fire their muskets. If that failed to persuade the captain, the gunboat would fire the cannon to disable the ship and force it to land. One such vessel was now perched on the roof of a nearby warehouse. Brother Barnaby had never seen such a spectacle, and he had watched in fascinated awe.

  Father Jacob had not been on the battlements with them. He had summoned agents of the Arcanum who were currently in Westfirth to the Old Fort, then sent them out to search for the Sorceress and her young disciple known as the Warlock. Father Jacob was hoping that the embargo would keep the Sorceress trapped in this city. Agents were stopping all wyvern-drawn carriages in and out of the city. All overland routes were under surveillance.

  Following his meeting, Father Jacob had been engaged in researching the object he had salvaged from the ambush. He had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. At about midnight, Sir Ander had knocked on Father Jacob’s door to see how he was faring. His knock receiving no response, Sir Ander had opened the door softly and quietly.

  He had seen Father Jacob hunched over a table covered with a white sheet, taking measurements of the blackened lump and recording them in a book. Sir Ander had watched a moment, wondering what Father Jacob had discovered, if anything. Sir Ander had known better than to disturb his friend while he was at work. He had closed the door and gone off to his bed.

  This morning, Sir Ander was alone in the dining room. A servant informed him that archbishop had dined early and gone to see how the work was coming on the cathedral. Brother Barnaby had also dined and had left word for Father Jacob that he would be in the archbishop’s private chapel, praying. The servant had not seen Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander assumed the priest had once again fallen asleep over his work. The servant poured coffee. Sir Ander helped himself from the collation on the sideboard. He was dishing out his favorite: Freyan sausages known as “blood pudding,” when he heard Father Jacob’s voice resounding through the palace, shouting Sir Ander’s name in strident and impatient tones.