The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  As Stephano was leaving, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Rodrigo, chalk in hand, down on his knees in the dust.

  Arriving home, Stephano found Benoit peering out the window, watching for him. The old man’s face was creased with worry.

  “A letter for you, sir,” said Benoit, holding it in a trembling hand. “Arrived shortly after you left. Sergeant Dag’s handwriting. His news is urgent. You should read it at once.”

  “How can you tell it’s urgent unless you read it?” Stephano demanded.

  “It looks urgent, sir,” said Benoit.

  Stephano took the letter and glanced at the seal. “It’s been opened.”

  “Has it, sir? I’m sure I don’t know who would do such a thing. Where is Master Rodrigo?”

  “He is staying at the palace,” said Stephano, opening the letter. “You need to take him a change of clothes.”

  “You left Master Rodrigo in the palace!” Benoit cried, shocked. “The bloody thing is going to fall out of the sky! And what’s going to become of us when the palace does fall, that’s what I want to know?”

  “Just … go pack some clothes for Rigo,” said Stephano in exasperation. “Old clothes!”

  “And then there’s that letter,” said Benoit unhappily. He called back, as he began to climb the stairs. “Always bad news, letters!”

  Stephano leaned his back against the wall, with his foot to brace himself, and opened the letter. Another letter fell out. This letter was creased and folded, the ink almost faded. The first was from Dag. Stephano noted with astonishment that it was dated at least a fortnight ago and had been written from the Abbey of Saint Agnes. The letter had been a long time in transit. Since the destruction of the Abbey, hardly anyone stopped at their pier anymore. Dag must have had difficulty finding someone to carry it.

  Dag wrote letters as if he were making a report to an officer. He gave only the facts, and did not embellish the account or add many details. Consequently the letter was brief and jumped straight to the point.

  Sir,

  I’m writing this in the hope that you and Rigo have been set free. I have bad news. Gythe ran off with the Bottom Dwellers. She drugged me, but even so, I should have done something to try to stop her.

  Miri is with her, I think. I searched for some trace of the two of them, but couldn’t find any.

  Gythe left me a note, which I have enclosed. In it she told me to go to the Abbey. I did as she said, thinking I might find her here. I didn’t find her, but I did find the three young dragons: Petard, Viola, and Verdi.

  They went back to their home to discover that their home was no longer there. The Bottom Dwellers had either killed or driven out the elder dragons and set fire to the island. The three young ones had nowhere to go and so they came back to the Abbey to talk to the dragon brothers, Hroal and Droal. The young ones are fired up and they want to fight now.

  Petard wouldn’t tell me, but I suspect he’s been communicating with Gythe. He may know where she is.

  I’m leaving for the fortress as ordered, sir. I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry I failed you, sir.

  Dag

  P.S. I’m taking the young dragons with me.

  Stephano read Dag’s letter in bewilderment. He had to read it again and yet again and even then it made little sense. Gythe and Miri with the Bottom Dwellers! That would be bad enough, but it seemed Gythe had gone with them of her own free will. He opened the note and between the creases and the wear, managed to make out the writing.

  I hope the potion did no harm I have gone where I am needed you cannot follow so don’t try go to abby sant agnes you are needed pleese forgive me I luv you both not forgetting the Doctor and Stefano and Rigo luv Gythe

  Stephano sank down on a bench. The Bottom Dwellers had been communicating with Gythe or so she had claimed, saying she could hear their voices in her head. Stephano had not taken her seriously. She had claimed she could hear Brother Barnaby talking to her, as well, and Sir Ander had written to tell Stephano that Brother Barnaby had died in the attack on Westfirth.

  Either the voices were real and they had lured her away to God only knew where or Gythe was insane. At least, wherever she was, he hoped Miri was with her.

  Stephano’s first impulse was to rush off and search for them. He had to reason with himself, view this problem with cold, dispassionate logic. Dag had not been able to find them. Stephano was not likely to succeed where Dag had failed.

  He loved Miri; he had loved her for a long time. He had made up his mind to ask her to marry him. And now he had to face the terrible truth that she and Gythe had gone and he had no idea where. He might never have the chance to tell her. He might never see them again, might never know what had happened to them.

  Stephano dropped the letters to the floor and let his head sink to rest in his hands. He sat a long time in bleak despair until after some indeterminate interval a hand gently rested on his shoulder and gave him an awkward, comforting pat. Stephano was reminded of the time he had returned home after his father’s execution.

  “They’re in God’s hands, sir,” Benoit said brokenly.

  Stephano rested his hand gratefully on the old man’s hand and blinked back tears.

  “I hope He takes better care of them than I have,” said Stephano.

  He rose from the bench and went upstairs to pack.

  10

  I used to think a man’s love for his family made him weak, vulnerable. I have since come to believe such love gives him the strength of angels.

  —Sir Henry Wallace

  The Southern Expeditionary fleet had sailed to Braffa with the goal of achieving Sir Henry’s greatest triumph—Freya’s acquisition of the Braffan refineries. Unfortunately, when Sir Henry arrived at the refineries, he discovered that they had been seized by the Bottom Dwellers. Frustrated that his plans had gone awry, Sir Henry and his friend, Captain Alan Northrop, commander of the privateer gunboat, the Terrapin, had joined the Freyan naval fleet in an attempt to recapture the refineries.

  Before they even reached Braffa, Bottom Dwellers ambushed the fleet. Two black ships and their bat riders sank seven Freyan ships of the line and seriously damaged many of the rest. The flagship, HMS Invincible, might have been lost except for the heroics of Captain Northrop aboard the Terrapin. When the flagship’s balloons caught fire, threatening the main gun deck and the powder magazine, Alan steered the steel-plated gunboat between Admiral Baker’s flagship and the black ships of the Bottom Dwellers, engaging the black ships to allow the flagship time to limp away.

  The Terrapin suffered several direct hits from the green beam weapons mounted on the prows of the black ships. The steel plating absorbed the force of the blasts, but while there was not much structural damage, except for one of the air screws that had been hit by enemy fire and disabled, some of the crew succumbed to the intense heat generated by the green beams.

  The gunboat was nonetheless able to respond. It pounded the black ship with one broadside after another until the Bottom Dwellers were forced to retreat. The only injuries aboard the Terrapin were several sailors with cracked skulls and broken limbs and burns suffered by those who happened to be standing too close to the hull when the green beam struck the metal plates.

  With the flagship in tow, the Terrapin escorted what remained of the Freyan naval fleet back to Freya. Admiral Baker was wounded in the battle, having suffered severe burns on his hands and face when he pulled flaming sailcloth off one of his lieutenants. When his flagship put in for repairs at Port Fahey, the admiral and the most seriously wounded sailors were carried on litters from the ship to the city’s hospital.

  Sir Henry and Alan visited their friend before they sailed on to dock in Haever to repair the damage. They found Admiral Baker in considerable pain, though Sir Henry guessed the pain came more from the losses Randolph had suffered than from his burns. The admiral’s face was swathed in bandages that left only his eyes and the tip of his nose and his mouth visible.

  “The
y say you will recover, Randolph,” Sir Henry told his friend. “I’m afraid, though, you’ll be left with some nasty scars.”

  “Bah! I was never that pretty to begin with,” Admiral Baker mumbled dismissively.

  He reached out with his bandaged hand and with an effort that obviously gave him pain, he gripped Sir Henry’s arm.

  “The butcher’s bill was over a thousand men dead,” Randolph said, his voice quivering with anger. “Destroy these fiends, Henry! Do whatever it takes. Destroy them!”

  “I will, my friend,” said Sir Henry earnestly. “So help me, God, I will!”

  * * *

  Sailing at night, the Terrapin moved at a crawl worthy of its namesake back to its secret moorings in a junkyard in the Freyan capital city, Haever, to replace the Terrapin’s damaged air screw.

  Once it was daylight, the crew immediately began work. Captain Northrop had canceled their shore leave, but none of the men grumbled. Their mood was grim and somber, for they had seen seven ships go down in flames, and many of their comrades were dead. The sailors worked with a will, hoping to go back out to fight and sink the heinous black ships.

  The odd-looking gunboat resembled its name—HMS Terrapin, encased in a shell consisting of magically enhanced steel plates.

  Sir Henry, Captain Northrop, and the inventor of the magical steel, Pietro Alcazar, walked around the gunboat inspecting the damage in a cold, drizzling rain.

  “Look at this, sir!” said Alcazar, pointing to one of the plates on the starboard side. The smooth steel plate was marred by a crater about the size of a man’s head. “This took a direct hit. And see how well it fared!”

  “Only a dent,” said Sir Henry.

  “I’d call that more than a dent,” returned Alan heatedly. “It’s a great bloody hole!”

  “Imagine the great bloody hole the green beam would have left in the hull if it were made of wood,” Sir Henry said drily. “There would be nothing left.”

  Alan grunted and scowled.

  “The point is this, gentlemen,” said Alcazar, almost dancing in his excitement. “The constructs are still there!”

  He gazed at them expectantly. Both men stared at him blankly.

  “So the bloody constructs are still there?” Captain Alan demanded. “So what?”

  “Sir, they were hit by a green beam weapon and the constructs are still there!” Alcazar repeated.

  Alan shook his head.

  “Good God!” Sir Henry exclaimed in sudden understanding. “He’s right, Alan. This is of the most vital importance!”

  “You know what he’s talking about?” Alan asked.

  “I do,” said Sir Henry. “Father Jacob explained it to me.”

  Alan’s lip curled in a sneer.

  “Hate your brother all you like, Alan,” Sir Henry said. “But you must admit that Jacob is brilliant. He’s probably the only person in the world right now who has studied contramagic. As he explained it, the moment contramagic constructs hit ordinary magical constructs, they start breaking them apart. The contramagic will eventually obliterate them to the point where there’s nothing left.”

  He jabbed his finger at the steel plate. “The constructs are still there! Whereas, if you look at the damaged air screw that was made with ordinary steel, you will find that the constructs have been completely obliterated.”

  “That is the God’s honest truth, Captain,” said Alcazar. “I can see the constructs on the steel plate. They were weakened by the hit, but not destroyed.”

  He traced the constructs with his hand for Sir Henry who had no talent for magic and thus could not see the magical sigils strung together. “Those fiends would have to hit this spot with that beam over and over again before they could punch through this steel.”

  Alan put his hand in the crater, running his fingers over the construct. He was a crafter, though not nearly as talented as his savant brother, Jacob.

  “He’s right. I can still detect the magic. Looks like your grand experiment paid off, Henry,” Alan said.

  “For all the good it will do us,” Sir Henry muttered.

  Alan regarded his friend with surprise. Seeing Sir Henry’s embittered expression, Alan dismissed the excited Alcazar, sending him to work replacing the magic on the broken air screw.

  “I thought you’d be pleased, Henry,” said Alan when the two men were alone.

  “And what happens when the black ships appear off the coast of Haever, Alan? These fiends could arrive any day and how will we defend our homeland? We don’t have time to outfit every ship in the navy with magical steel plates!”

  “You think they will invade Freya,” Alan said.

  “I do, indeed. Thus far, they have hit Rosia, Travia, and Estara and yet left us alone. They’re plotting something dire. I sent a message to Her Majesty when we landed at Port Fahey, urging her to order the ships patrolling the Aligoes to sail for home. We’re going to need them to defend the coast, though I fear they will arrive too late.”

  The drizzle had turned into a downpour, and water dripped off their tricorn hats. They turned up the collars of their greatcoats and shoved their hands into their pockets to keep warm. As the buildings of Haever disappeared behind a curtain of gray, the sailors donned their oilskin coats and hats and kept working.

  “That begs the question, Henry. Why haven’t the Bottom Dwellers attacked Freya?” Alan asked, pondering. “All they’ve done is knock down one guard tower. The attack on the fleet was an attack of opportunity. They haven’t struck at our heart.”

  “I am hearing rumors from my Evreux agents that the Sunset Palace has been sabotaged. They expect it to fall from the skies.”

  “By God, if that happens, Rosia will be in chaos,” said Alan, adding wistfully, “If half our ships weren’t grounded, we could sail in and pick up the pieces.”

  “Don’t you think I know it!” Sir Henry said. “The world is at war, Alan, and the world is losing.”

  They walked in silence, squelching through puddles. Henry was lost in his gloomy thoughts, hardly watching where he was going. Alan nudged him and he looked up, peering through the rain to see a tall, lanky, stiffly upright figure walking purposefully toward them.

  “Here comes the inimitable Franklin Sloan,” said Alan. “No doubt he has brought the carriage. What do you say, Henry, to dinner at the club in front of a roaring fire? Some of the Woostenbroke port to lift the spirits. And a shave and a change of clothes. You don’t want to go home to your wife looking like you’ve been carried off the battlefield.”

  “An excellent idea, Alan,” said Sir Henry, cheering up at the mention of his beloved Mouse. “Especially as she believes I have been in Travia these past few weeks conducting trade negotiations.”

  They increased their pace, hurrying to meet Mr. Sloan halfway.

  “I received your message, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “I am extremely sorry to hear about Admiral Baker. I trust he will recover?”

  “So the physicians tell us,” said Sir Henry. “How fare Lady Anne and my son?”

  “Both in excellent health, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “The boy has grown a great deal. I daresay you will not recognize him. He is already cutting a tooth. Nurse Robbins assures me he is quite advanced for a child his age.”

  “The captain and I will dine at my club, Mr. Sloan, and I will change my clothes there. Tell Lady Anne that I have returned from a successful mission to Travia and I will be home tonight in time for tea.”

  “She will be most pleased to hear that, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.

  The three men boarded the carriage. Once they were out of the rain, Mr. Sloan reached into an inner pocket and drew forth two letters.

  “This came for you this morning, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, handing over the first. “Sent to your home. From Mr. Yates.”

  “How is Simon?” asked Alan.

  Simon Yates was an old friend from university, one of the “Seconds” as they termed themselves, for all of them were second sons. Simon was the inventor, the analytical and
scientific thinker of the group. He had been looking forward to a lucrative career as an attorney in the royal chancery until the four were drawn into helping to solve a mystery involving the attempted assassination of the crown prince.

  Simon had been shot and nearly killed during the pursuit of the assassin. The bullet had severed his spinal cord, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. Although he couldn’t walk, he could still think, as he liked to say. He now worked for the intelligence branch of the Freyan government.

  Sir Henry opened the letter, glanced through it, and grinned. “Typical Simon. He says: ‘Glad to hear you are home safe. Need to talk. You and Alan. Urgent. Tomorrow. Ten. Simon.’”

  “The Terrapin slipped back during the dead of night to its secret berth in a junkyard. We haven’t been docked more than a couple of hours. How did he know we were home at all, much less safe?” Alan demanded. “You didn’t tell him, did you, Mr. Sloan?”

  “I have not seen Mr. Yates for several months, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Sir Henry chuckled. “You should know Simon by now, Alan. His giant brain works day and night. Mr. Sloan, take a note to Mr. Yates. We will meet him at that crazy floating house of his at ten.”

  “You’ll have to find out where his house is moored and make certain it is going to stay put, Mr. Sloan,” Alan stated dourly. “I’ve no desire to spend half the day in pursuit of the damn thing like we did the last time.”

  Mr. Sloan promised that he would find the current location of Welkinstead, as the house was known, named for the brilliant, eccentric woman who had designed it. He handed over the second letter.

  “This arrived for you at your club, sir. Hand-delivered.”

  Henry took the letter, glanced at it. He did not recognize the handwriting. Opening it, he read it once, then read it again. He frowned deeply.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What is wrong?” Alan asked, astonished. His friend almost never swore.

  “Listen to this,” said Sir Henry. He read the letter aloud, ‘E staying with friends, sabotaged dwelling, fled. Now believed to be in your area. Beware.’”