The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  “To bring death, mayhem, chaos, and destruction,” said Father Jacob in dire tones.

  “You have encountered this woman before, Father,” said Dubois urgently. “You know how to stop her.”

  Father Jacob looked back at the walls, the constructs of contramagic. “I failed to stop her, Monsieur Dubois. I am not sure I can or if anyone can—”

  “Certainly we cannot stop her from a jail cell,” said Sir Ander caustically.

  Shrugging resignedly, Father Jacob kilted up his robes, picked up his chalk, and went back down on his knees, scrawling more constructs on the floor.

  Sir Ander stood watching him in frustration. “We have to do something, Father! Drawing pictures isn’t going to help!”

  “Unless you can find a way to break out of a prison from which no one has ever escaped, Sir Ander, I will continue to draw my pictures,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander muttered something best not repeated and flung himself on the bed. Lying with his hands beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling. Dubois cleared his desk, putting away his writing tools and the ink. He picked up the desk and, bidding Father Jacob and Sir Ander farewell, headed for the door.

  The master stood blocking the way.

  Dubois was not surprised. He was in possession of a terrible secret. The grand bishop might just skip prison and go straight to execution. Dubois waited several agonizing moments.

  “Go with God,” said the master.

  Dubois stared at the monk in astonishment. The monks of Saint Klee never spoke without reason. They did not make idle chitchat or toss out offhanded blessings.

  The master unlocked the door and held it open. Dubois passed through the door and into the sunlit courtyard.

  “Well, well, well,” said Dubois.

  He left the prison, deep in thought, wondering what he should do. He knew what he needed to do. The question was whether he had the courage to do it.

  Compared to his fellow spymasters—Sir Henry Wallace and the Countess de Marjolaine—Dubois led a relatively quiet life. He had never assassinated anyone, had never worn a disguise or sailed off in a pirate ship, or ever endured a cannonade. No one had ever challenged him to a duel or laced his coffee with arsenic.

  He had been shot once, but that was by accident, and he had almost been blown up by a bomb. Both of these terrifying experiences had served to reinforce Dubois’s notion that it was better, healthier, and far more comfortable to avoid having adventures.

  In this instance, however, Dubois was stymied. He could send an agent, but he dared not trust even his most loyal agent with such a critical and delicate mission. Dubois was planning to commit high treason and, if his plans worked out, high treason would be only the first of many crimes.

  He left the Citadel in haste, flying on griffin-back to the city of Eudaine where he took rooms at an inn. He first wrote a letter to D’argent, apprising him that Captain de Guichen and Monsieur Rodrigo had never reached the Citadel. He urged D’argent to seek them out. He enclosed the grand bishop’s release and dispatched the packet to the palace by swift courier.

  This done, Dubois ate a good meal, drank an unpretentious wine, made his arrangements, said his prayers, and went to sleep.

  The next day, Dubois set out alone on what might be his first, last, and only adventure.

  7

  One can find winning in the losing.

  —Johan Alfheisen

  The carriage stopped in front of Stephano’s house. D’argent stepped down. He paused a moment before entering, arranging his thoughts. He had to tell Benoit about Dubois’s letter, relating the grim news that Stephano and Rodrigo and the red monks who had arrested them had never arrived at the Citadel.

  The old man was still in his sickbed, recovering from what the physician termed an “incident” with his heart. D’argent had been receiving daily reports from the physician, who said that Benoit was making steady improvement. Indeed, the physician had said the old man was well enough to return to his duties. Benoit had proclaimed himself too ill, however. He remained in his bed while the Sisters of Mercy read to him, played cribbage with him, brought him his meals, and fluffed his pillow.

  D’argent had been of two minds whether or not to tell Benoit that Stephano had disappeared. He worried that he might cause a relapse, but he needed to find out if Benoit had heard anything, if Stephano had contacted him.

  D’argent had been in touch with the monks of Saint Klee, being so bold as to travel to their monastery in Evreux to talk to their master. She had agreed to meet with him, but refused to answer his questions about Stephano and Rodrigo. She would not even admit that her monks and their prisoners were missing. Frustrated, D’argent had showed her a copy of the king’s pardon.

  “If you find Lord Captain de Guichen and Monsieur de Villeneuve, please be aware that your monks have no right to take them into custody. I would be grateful, however, if your monks render them aid should they require it and that you would immediately inform me that you have recovered them.”

  The master had said nothing. She had merely bowed. D’argent had finally given up and left in extreme ire.

  D’argent took hold of the door knocker that was in the shape of a dragon and knocked quietly. A boy about twelve, acting as servant, answered the door. He took D’argent’s hat and cloak and escorted him through the darkened, quiet house to the patient’s room. D’argent found Benoit sitting up in bed, surrounded by every comfort from books to a bowl of fruit on the nightstand. A nun fussed over him.

  “The patient is progressing nicely, sir,” she said in answer to D’argent’s question. “He ate every bit of his dinner—a cold breast of boiled chicken and some custard for dessert and a mug of small ale.”

  Benoit looked very meek, but when the sister wasn’t looking, he grimaced and shook his head. D’argent expressed his relief on hearing the good news.

  “He will enjoy a visit, sir,” the sister continued, adding severely, “Mind you, Monsieur D’argent, do not allow the patient to cozen you into giving him brandy. He is permitted one small glass before bed and that is all.”

  Benoit lay back in the bed and the sister arranged the coverlet. He thanked her feebly as she picked up the dinner tray and departed the room, her wimple floating behind her. The moment she left, Benoit threw back the coverlet and hopped nimbly to his feet.

  “Let me pour you a brandy, sir,” he said, hurrying to the table on which stood the cut crystal brandy decanter. “A gift from her ladyship. As fine a brandy as I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Benoit!” D’argent exclaimed, shocked. “You should be in bed!”

  “Bah! I’m quite well or I would be if the sister would let me have food fit for a man. Small ale and cold boiled chicken!” Benoit grunted in disgust. “One would think I was a babe in arms! Do you know what they feed me for supper, sir? Gruel! That’s what! It’s a wonder I’m strong enough to walk.”

  D’argent declined the brandy, saying that he never drank strong spirits in the middle of the day.

  “Then I will take a snifter, sir, if you don’t mind,” said Benoit. “I find it soothes the stomach.”

  He poured himself a large glass, returned to his bed and settled himself comfortably. D’argent remembered the sister’s instructions, but he knew quite well that Benoit wouldn’t listen to him.

  “Have you heard word from the master and Monsieur Rodrigo, sir?” Benoit asked eagerly. “I was so thankful to hear His Majesty had pardoned them. I’ve been expecting them home any day.”

  D’argent pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “I have not, Benoit. I came to ask you the same.”

  The old man regarded D’argent intently. He sat bolt upright, almost spilling the brandy.

  “Something’s amiss, sir! Something’s happened to the master!”

  “Please, don’t excite yourself, Benoit,” said D’argent. “We know nothing for certain yet. They are missing. The monks and Stephano and Rodrigo never reached the Citadel.”

  Be
noit sank back among the pillows with a groan.

  “Can I do something?” D’argent asked in concern. “I’ll fetch the sister—”

  “No, sir, no!” Benoit said. He gestured feebly at the brandy decanter. “Another glass, sir. To aid me in recovery from the shock.”

  D’argent hid a smile as he poured another glass of brandy and brought it to the old man. As he did so, he was aware of the sound of someone knocking on the front door and voices as the servant answered. The boy entered a moment later.

  “A man to see you, Monsieur Benoit. He gave no name, sir,” said the boy, adding indignantly. “He told me it was none of my business. I left him waiting on the front stoop.”

  “Are you expecting a visitor?” D’argent asked.

  Benoit shook his head.

  “I will deal with this,” said D’argent.

  As he was leaving, he saw Benoit’s hand dart beneath his pillow, take out a loaded pistol and hide it beneath the counterpane. D’argent opened the door and stared in amazement so great he took an involuntary step backward.

  One of the largest men D’argent had ever seen stood on the stoop. His massive shoulders spanned the doorway, and he was so tall that he would have to bend down to enter. He was bald and wore no hat; D’argent guessed there were few hats that would fit this giant. His neck was thick with muscle. He wore a flannel shirt with an open collar, leather breeches, a leather weskit, thick, sturdy brogues, and a red kerchief tied around his neck. He was perhaps in his early forties. He stood straight, his hands clasped in front of him, his feet spread wide.

  Two men on the sidewalk behind him seemed almost identical to their leader. They had the appearance of stevedores, and yet there was a gleam in their alert brown eyes and an assured, confidence in their carriage that told D’argent there was much more to these men than was revealed on their very large countenances.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” said D’argent. “How may I assist you?”

  The man on the stoop was clearly the eldest. He looked D’argent over and then said imperturbably, “I am here to see Benoit.”

  “He is indisposed,” said D’argent gravely. “I would be glad to deliver a message—”

  “My message is for Benoit, sir. I’ll thank you to take me to him.” The man smiled pleasantly. “I make an unsightly lawn ornament, but you should know that I’m prepared to stand here all the rest of the day and into the night.”

  He jerked his thumb. “As are my brothers.”

  The brothers were quiet, reserved, respectful. D’argent did not feel threatened, though any one of them could have picked him up and tucked him under a massive arm. Yet they meant what they said. They would stand patiently outside the house until he complied with their request or doomsday arrived, whichever came first.

  Excellent men to have by one’s side in a crisis, D’argent realized. The sort of men who might once have served with Stephano at some point in his military career. The sort who might be serving him still.

  “May I tell Benoit your name?” D’argent asked.

  “The Han brothers,” said the man shortly.

  “Is that all?” D’argent asked.

  “That’s enough,” said the man.

  “Please wait here.”

  D’argent left the man on the stoop and went to speak to Benoit.

  “The … er … Han brothers are here,” said D’argent.

  Benoit looked wary. “Tell them the master isn’t home.”

  “The one who talked to me asked to see you. Should I let them in?”

  Benoit considered, frowning. “So long as you don’t allow those young giants anywhere near the pantry. They ate a week’s provisions in one sitting the last time.”

  Smiling, D’argent returned to the door. The three had not moved.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” D’argent said.

  The Han brothers trooped into the house, crowding the hall to such an extent that D’argent was forced to flatten himself against the wall. The three gazed steadily at him.

  “And who would you be, sir?” the first asked.

  “My name is D’argent. I am in the employ of the Countess de Marjolaine.”

  The three absorbed this information in unblinking silence. One glanced back at the carriage emblazoned with the countess’s coat of arms, which was waiting in the street, as if to confirm the information.

  “I’m Johan,” said the first. “This is Mohan and Aelfhan. What’s the matter with old Benoit?”

  “He had a bad spell with his heart. He is better, but he should not have any excitement,” D’argent warned.

  Johan nodded gravely. “I’ll see Benoit now, if you please, sir.” He glanced at his siblings. “You stay here. Keep the watch.”

  His two brothers posted themselves at windows, drawing aside the curtains slightly to see the street. Mystified, D’argent led the eldest through the hall to Benoit’s room. Johan stooped his head and went through the door sideways to accommodate his shoulders. Benoit regarded the man with narrowed eyes.

  “Well, Johan, and why have you come? The master’s not home.”

  “I’m sorry to see you laid low, sir,” said Johan, rocking back on his heels. “I heard Stephano and Rigo were taken prisoner by the red monks.”

  “Hauled away in irons like common criminals,” Benoit said heatedly. “What brings you here?” He added hurriedly, “You’re too late for dinner.”

  Johan smiled, but didn’t immediately answer. He turned to regard D’argent in frowning thoughtfulness, then turned back to Benoit.

  “This man says he’s the countess’s man. More to the point, is he a man to be trusted? Stephano’s told me—”

  “Never mind what the master’s told you,” Benoit interrupted impatiently. “D’argent’s a good friend.”

  Johan found this acceptable.

  “I’ll give this to you, Monsieur D’argent. I’m thinking you’ll know what to do.”

  Reaching into his shirt, Johan drew out a letter and handed it to D’argent. Recognizing the handwriting, he opened the letter hurriedly.

  “It is from Stephano,” he said to Benoit.

  “I knew it!” Benoit said triumphantly. “Is he all right? What about Monsieur Rodrigo?”

  D’argent scanned the letter swiftly. “They are both fine. The Arcanum’s yacht was attacked by Bottom Dwellers. They killed the monks, the yacht crashed, and Stephano and Rodrigo suffered cuts and bruises, nothing worse. He writes they are in danger and in need of money—”

  Benoit looked dour. “That’s the master for you. In danger and in need of money. Well, there’s no help for it. I best go pull him out of his scrape.” The old man started to climb out of bed. He gestured to Johan. “Hand me my trousers, young giant—”

  Both D’argent and Johan hurried to restrain Benoit.

  “You rest, sir,” said Johan, gently easing the old man back down into bed.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Benoit,” said D’argent. “I will go to them at once.”

  Benoit grumbled and argued, but in the end allowed himself to be persuaded to remain in bed. He settled back among the pillows and held out his empty snifter. “Could you fetch me a drop, young giant? I feel my heart a bit fluttery.”

  Johan took the crystal snifter. The fragile stemware that was Rodrigo’s pride and joy disappeared in his large hand. For a big man, his movements were graceful and deft. He poured a small amount of the brandy into the snifter and carried it back to Benoit. The old man glared at the small amount, but drank it swiftly, aware, D’argent was sure, that the sister would be back soon. He handed the snifter back to Johan and ordered him to “wash away the evidence.”

  “See to it the master doesn’t get himself arrested again, sir,” Benoit called to D’argent as he was leaving. “My heart can’t take much more of this.”

  D’argent promised he would. He found the sister having her tea in the kitchen and sent her to Benoit. The boy brought D’argent’s hat and cloak. Johan escorted him outside.

 
“My brothers and I are available if you need our help, sir. We think a good deal of Stephano and Rigo.”

  The two brothers silently nodded their agreement.

  “Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I am pleased to have met all of you.” D’argent held out his hand to each brother in turn. They shook his hand solemnly. He left massaging bruised knuckles.

  As his carriage rolled away, D’argent looked out the window to see the three Han brothers walking down the sidewalk, shoulder-to-shoulder. Probably how they went through life. D’argent leaned back in the carriage and recalled what he knew of the participants in the Lost Rebellion—the ill-fated cause, led by the Duke de Bourlet, that had cost Julian de Guichen his life.

  He remembered what he had been trying to recall, that the wife of the Duke de Bourlet had three nephews. She was the daughter of the Earl of Thorlburg of Travia. The three fought with the duke and were believed to have died in the battle. They were said to have been very tall, well built. Described as “young giants.”

  * * *

  The letter directed D’argent to the walled town of Eudaine on the Conce river. The Arcanum’s yacht would have flown over the town on the way to the Citadel, which was some two hundred miles to the east. The town was surrounded by rolling hills and thick forests.

  Eudaine, one of the oldest towns in Rosia, had been established on the river long before the rise of the Sunlit Empire. For centuries, the people had made a living fishing the river, selling wool, fur, and leather.

  The ancient wall that surrounded the town was now more picturesque than functional. The population had long since spilled over the wall into the surrounding countryside. The townsfolk had torn down the old gates that had once been locked up every evening at sundown.

  Now people came and went as they pleased, although since the attack in Westfirth there had been some talk among the city leaders about building new gates. Merchants had protested that locking up the town would be bad for business; the matter was left unresolved.

  D’argent’s carriage landed in a stable yard outside the town wall. When men came to unharness the wyverns and lead them into the stalls, D’argent gave orders to feed and water the beasts and have them ready to depart before sunset.