Shadow Raiders

Chapter Three

COUNTESS CECILE RAPHAEL DE MARJOLAINE was fifty years old and the poets of the age still wrote songs to her beauty. They spoke of luxuriant silver hair, with curls falling on alabaster shoulders. Her blue eyes were likened to sapphires, her cheeks to the damask rose. Her figure was superb. Tall and slender, she moved with a languorous grace that suited her height.

Her complexion remained smooth, perhaps because no strong emotion was ever allowed to touch her. She had never been heard to laugh. No lines of joy creased her lips or crinkled the corners of her eyes. No lines of worry or care marred her forehead. The only two flaws on her lovely face were a single deep furrow slanting between her brows that deepened when she was absorbed in thought and a small, white scar on the right corner of her lip. The only sign of her age was the skin on the back of her hands. Once white and delicate, the skin was now stretched taut and crisscrossed beneath with blue veins.

The countess did not follow fashion. She set fashion. Her gown was simply and elegantly made of sky-blue satin, the skirt falling in sumptuous folds from a pointed bodice, the sleeves tight to the elbow, then flowing and lined with lace. She wore a necklace of blue sapphires and several very fine jewels on her fingers. Among these rings, lost and unremarked amidst the rubies and diamonds and sapphires, was a plain golden band, which she never took off. When she was preoccupied, she would often absentmindedly twist this little golden ring.

The countess led Stephano from her study into a library filled with books, whose leather bindings gave off a pleasant scent. The books were not merely decorative, as were books in the homes of much of the nobility, many of whom were practically illiterate. The countess had always been fond of reading and whereas the other fashionable women of the time invited the rich and the powerful to their salons, the countess preferred to invite poets and artists, philosophers, musicians, and scientists.

She and Stephano passed through the library and entered a small and cozy sitting room. Glass-paned doors opened out onto a charming patio enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. Trees of all varieties, many of them rare species imported from other countries, had been planted in tubs made of wood and stone. The trees formed a miniature forest that effectively screened the garden from view of prying eyes peering out nearby windows.

Looking through the trees in one direction, the observer could see blue sky and the deeper blue-purple of the mountains, green woods, and the sun shining off the crystalline surface of a distant lake. In the other direction rose the spires of a magnificent cathedral, surrounded by a large complex of buildings, all protected by a wall, all stuck far below on solid ground. The bottom level of the floating palace were about even with the cathedral’s bell tower.

How the grand bishop must hate that, thought Stephano, amused.

“Shut the doors,” said the countess.

Stephano complied. The countess rearranged her scarf around her shoulders, then walked over to the wall and gazed out into the cloudless blue sky. She began, unconsciously, to twist the small golden ring.

Stephano remained near the door, silent, waiting for her to speak. He had never been in her garden and he was entranced by the beauty of the view. He was also, truth be told, always a little awed and uncomfortable in the presence of his mother, though he would have knocked out the teeth of any man who said so.

“What do you know of the Royal Armory?” the countess asked abruptly, turning to face her son.

Stephano was accustomed to his mother’s manner of doing business; no pleasant niceties or idle talk. She went immediately to the heart of matter at hand. This was the last subject he would have expected his mother to bring up and he had to take a moment to think.

“The Royal Armory makes the weapons and armor for the king and the Royal Regiment, the king’s guards. When I was Commander of the Dragon Brigade”-his voice took on a tinge of bitterness-“the Royal Armory outfitted me and my company with magically enhanced riding armor and our muskets. The Royal Armory made some of the finest armor and weapons I’ve ever owned.”

“The Armory also looks for ways to improve those weapons and armor,” said the countess.

“That’s a given,” said Stephano.

The countess eyed him. The small furrow dug into her brow. “Don’t stand there hovering by the door as though you are ready to bolt any moment. Come closer, so that I don’t have to shout.”

She was hardly shouting, and Stephano realized suddenly that there was a reason she had brought him to this garden, when usually their business was conducted in her audience chamber. Here, amid the thick foliage and trailing vines with nothing except blue sky above and the ground far below, was privacy-as much privacy as one could have in a palace populated by many hundreds of people.

Stephano felt a prickling at the back of his neck. This job was starting to sound more interesting. He joined his mother at the wall, where she stood gazing down upon the cathedral and the large, squat, towered structures that clustered around it.

“The Bishop’s Palace,” said the countess in reflective tones, her thoughts echoing her son’s. “Fixed firmly on the ground. His Grace moved his office, you know, to the other end of the building, so that he wouldn’t have to look out his window to see His Majesty floating above him.”

First the Armory, now the Grand Bishop Montagne-King Alaric’s longtime friend, longer time enemy. Where was this conversation leading? Stephano kept quiet and waited to find out.

The countess turned to Stephano; as she did so, a shaft of sunlight, filtering through the green leaves of a flowering crab tree, illuminated the scar on her lip. He had never really noticed the scar before now. The scar appeared to be an old one and he wondered how she had come by it. Some childhood accident, perhaps? Oddly, the scar made her seem more human. Perhaps that was why she always tried to conceal it by touching her lips with carnelian, the only cosmetic she deigned to wear.

“By law, the Church of the Breath of God oversees all development of technology involving magical constructs, even at the Royal Armory,” said the countess. “Any research into new uses of magic must be approved by the grand bishop. The law has stood for centuries.”

“I suppose such a law makes sense,” said Stephano. “Scripture says ‘from the Breath of God comes His voice and the quiet whispers of his words’ and that is magic.”

His gaze shifted from the cathedral to the Breath as it lapped at the Rim of the bay. “The truth is, magical energy flows in the Breath. We harness the Breath with constructs and use it to lift our airships. The Breath powers our technology and augments our machines. The Breath is magic and magic is power.”

Stephano turned to his mother. “And power without the divine teachings of the church for guidance is an ‘open door for the darkness that lies in wait for the heathen.’ ”

“Your tutor taught you well,” said the countess dryly.

“Actually, it was Rodrigo,” said Stephano.

“In fact, your friend, Monsieur de Villeneuve, is one of the reasons I thought of asking you to undertake this job.”

“If it involves the seduction of women, you’ll find Rodrigo outstanding,” said Stephano, grinning.

“Actually I was thinking more of his outstanding skills as a crafter. At least, I am told he has such skills,” said the countess.

“And, as usual, your spies are correct, Mother. But what have crafters and Rodrigo to do with the bishop and the Breath of God and the Royal Armory-By Heaven!” Stephano answered his own question. “His Majesty has been conducting research into new weapons technology involving magic. And he has not shared it with the bishop.”

“You always were a smart boy,” the countess murmured.

“What would happen if the bishop were to discover this little indiscretion?”

“The king would be embarrassed-”

“My heart bleeds,” said Stephano, his lip curling in a sneer.

The countess smiled faintly. “There would be other ramifications, as I am certain you are aware.”

The sun drifted behind a tower, throwing the garden into shadow. The countess drew her scarf more closely around her shoulders. “Sit here. The air is chill in the shade.”

The countess took her seat on a wicker divan, surrounded by plump cushions. There was room for Stephano, and she made a polite gesture for him to sit beside her. He chose, instead, a seat on a marble bench opposite her. His rapier rang against the stone wall as he settled himself.

Now we’re coming to it, he thought.

“I had a visit yesterday morning from Douver, Master of the Royal Armory. Master Douver was quite agitated. It seems one of his journeyman, Pietro Alcazar, did not come to work the day before.”

“Hardly an event likely to sink the continent,” said Stephano.

“So one would think,” said the countess imperturbably. “Douver assures me, however, that this journeyman is completely reliable. Alcazar has not missed a day’s work since he came to the Armory six years ago. He does not chase women. He does not indulge in strong drink. He is known to be a dedicated and brilliant crafter who lives solely for his work. He is so brilliant, in fact, that he recently made an amazing discovery. He found a way to manufacture steel utilizing the Breath of God-”

Stephano laughed. “And I can turn lead into gold. Crafters have been trying to mix metal and magic for years, Mother! It can’t be done.”

“I am aware of this,” said the countess sharply, annoyed at the interruption. “Hear me out. Douver was so excited by Alcazar’s discovery he reported it to His Majesty.”

“But not to the bishop,” Stephano inserted. “As required by law.”

“He went to the king first, as was proper,” said the countess. “The king was thrilled, naturally, but also, like you, my clever son, he was skeptical. He demanded proof. Douver promised to bring a sample of this Breath-enhanced steel to His Majesty.”

“What sort of sample?” Stephano asked.

“Something that would appear quite ordinary-a tankard, I believe. Douver was to meet with His Majesty yesterday. When Alcazar failed to come to work, Douver was concerned that his journeyman might have been taken ill or-”

“-he was, in fact, a charlatan who knew his fraud was about to be revealed,” said Stephano.

“That was Douver’s fear, especially as he had allowed the king to labor under the mistaken belief that he-Douver-had developed this new metal.”

Stephano smiled and shook his head.

“Douver hastened to Alcazar’s rooms,” the countess continued. “He found the front door had been forced open. Furniture was upended. There were signs of a struggle. Alcazar was gone and so was the tankard he had been going to show to the king. Seeing this, Douver came to me at once.”

“Why you?” Stephano asked, frowning.

The countess was exasperated. “You could hardly expect Douver to go to the king! What would the fool man say? That he had lied about the fact that he had created this new metal? That he had allowed the journeyman who did create it to be snatched out from under his nose? The king would think Douver had been lying all this time. He would lose his job, if not his head.”

“So he hoped you could get him back into the king’s good graces. Well, that should be easy for you, Mother. Just slip into His Majesty’s bed…”

The countess sat quite still. Her eyes were gray as a winter sky, her face expressionless. When she spoke, her tone was smooth and cold.

“There is a far more important consideration here, Stephano, as you would realize if you were not constantly occupied in hating me.”

Stephano realized he had gone too far. What she said was true. He was allowing his feelings to cloud his judgment. Beyond that, his remark had been unworthy of a knight and a gentleman.

“I beg your pardon, Mother,” he said quietly. “I should not have said that.”

The countess stood up and took a turn or two around the garden. She twisted the little golden ring on her finger. Stephano waited in silence, still feeling the sting of her rebuke. Her next question surprised him.

“Tell me, Stephano, if Alcazar had succeeded in producing steel that could be enhanced by the Breath of God, what would be the ramifications of such a discovery?”

“Astounding,” Stephano answered. “Cannonballs would bounce off our warships like hailstones. Armor could withstand bullets or, conversely, bullets could punch through ordinary steel. Such a discovery would make our military invincible. But that is assuming this Alcazar actually succeeded, and I don’t believe-”

“Someone does,” said the countess flatly.

Stephano was brought up short. He thought this over and now understood her concern. Alcazar had disappeared, perhaps not of his own free will. Someone had snatched him. The idea of such magically enhanced steel in the wrong hands was appalling.

“I need you to discover the truth, Stephano. Go to Alcazar’s lodging, search it, see what you can learn. You will be discreet, quiet, circumspect. No hint of what has happened must leak out.”

“Which is why you came to me,” said Stephano.

“I dare not trust any of my local agents,” said the countess, nodding agreement. “Not with something this important. Here is the address.”

She reached into her bosom and drew out a piece of paper and handed it to Stephano. The address was in his mother’s own hand, bold and firm: 127 Street of the Half Moon. He thrust the paper into an inner pocket in his coat.

“How flattering to know you actually trust me, Mother,” he remarked.

“I do trust you, Stephano,” said the countess gravely. “Do not let me down.”

She moved to the door and stood beside it, waiting for him to open it for her. The interview was at an end.

Stephano stood up, pressing his hand against his rapier to keep it from striking the bench. “One question. You mentioned Grand Bishop Montagne. Is it possible that he could have found out about Alcazar?”

“I thought of that,” said the countess. “I have made inquiries and am convinced that the bishop knows nothing. If his creature, Dubois, were in Rosia, it would be a different matter. Dubois knows, sees, hears everything. But Dubois is in Freya, attending the royal court. And now I really must go. I am late for a meeting with the Travian ambassador.”

Stephano opened the door, and the countess swept past him with a rustle of satin and the faint fragrance of honeysuckle.

“I hear Travia and Estara are hurling cannonballs at one another over which of the two nations owns mineral-rich Braffa,” said Stephano. “Rodrigo’s father is ambassador to Estara. He writes that the situation is grim.”

“They are both trying to draw us into the fight,” said the countess. “I won’t allow that to happen.”

“Shouldn’t King Alaric be handling this matter, along with his officially appointed ministers?” Stephano asked, grinning.

“His Majesty has far more important matters to concern him,” said the countess.

Stephano leaned near to say, “There’s not a twitch of your cobweb that you don’t feel, is there, Mother?”

“You’ve fought the Estarans. Do you want to do so again?” the countess asked, as they passed through the sitting room and into the library.

“I would not be given the chance, as you well know,” said Stephano caustically.

“May I remind you, my son, that you were the one who resigned the commission which I had managed to obtain for you,” the countess returned.

“And may I remind you, Mother, that I resigned after the king disbanded the Dragon Brigade and took away my command,” said Stephano heatedly.

“His Majesty offered you a post-”

“-as a lowly lieutenant on one of his new-fangled floating frigates. I am a Dragon Knight. If you think I would stoop-”

Stephano stopped to draw in a deep breath. He was not going to quarrel with her. Not that they ever quarreled. She was Breath-enhanced steel. Words, like bullets, could never penetrate her. He came back to business.

“If I find out what you need to know about this Alcazar, you will clear all my debts?”

The countess glanced at him. “I said I would. I keep my word.”

Stephano flushed. He hated to mention this next, but he had no choice. He did so with what dignity he could muster. “Rodrigo tells me that I am… er… rather short of funds right now. If you could advance me-”

“I have given instructions for you to receive the paperwork clearing you of your debt and I have provided money for expenses,” said the countess.

They had returned to the audience chamber. She remained standing. Business concluded, she was ready to be done with him.

Stephano bowed. “I will take my leave, then, Madame. I will be in touch. Who do I see about the money?”

The countess extended her hand for him to kiss.

“My secretary, Emil,” she said, adding, with a hint of a smile, “The young man you insulted.”

While Stephano was back in the antechamber, forced to endure Emil’s sneers while waiting for his mother’s money, one of the men he and the countess had been discussing was also being forced to wait. Only this man was waiting to clear customs, not waiting for an insufferable secretary.

For once, the countess’ spies were wrong. Dubois, the bishop’s “creature,” as the countess had termed him, was not in Freya attending the royal court. His ship had docked at the Rosian port at about the same time the wyvern-drawn carriage containing Stephano and Rodrigo had flown over the dockyards. If Stephano had looked down and Dubois had looked up, the two men would have seen each other.

Seeing Dubois would not have done Stephano any good, for he did not know the man. They had never met. Dubois knew Stephano, however. Dubois made it his business to know everyone who had anything to do with the politics of any of the royal courts.

Once he was through customs, Dubois-known by everyone simply as Dubois-did not waste time. He met with several men who were waiting on the dock for him. He heard their reports and gave them instructions. These meetings with agents concluded, he hastened to a nearby inn where he always kept a horse in readiness, mounted, and rode swiftly through the crowded streets, paying no heed to the curses of those he nearly ran down.

Upon reaching the vicinity of the Bishop’s Palace, Dubois left the horse at the stables of another inn in which he had taken up lodgings, then walked the rest of the way. He did not enter by the main gate. Instead, he went to a small gate located in the wall directly behind the bishop’s private residence. The gate was hidden in some shrubbery, and Dubois had the only key.

The gate led into a small walled-off terrace, still filled with last autumn’s dead leaves, located at the rear of the house. A door with a lock to which Dubois also had the key opened into a long, narrow hallway.

The hall was dark, but Dubois had walked it many times and did not need a light to find his way. At the end of the hall was another door with yet another lock. He opened this door with yet another key and entered a small closet, big enough for him and a single chair.

Dubois walked over to the wall and pressed his ear to it. He could hear voices: the deep, resonant voice of the grand bishop and other voices he did not recognize. He could hear the bishop quite clearly for his chair was near the closet door, which was concealed by a thick, velvet curtain hanging behind the bishop’s chair. The other voices were agitated, less distinct, but Dubois was a master at eavesdropping.

The Abbey of Saint Agnes had been attacked during the night. Many of the one hundred nuns living there had been slaughtered, the abbey burned.

Dubois was shocked at the terrible news and was surprised he had not heard of the attack from his agents, but then he reminded himself that he had only just landed. A devout man, Dubois said a prayer for the dead. He took a seat on the chair and waited with some impatience for the visitors to leave.

In his mid-forties, Dubois was hard to describe. Plain and ordinary to look at, Dubois fostered the appearance of being plain and ordinary. His dress and demeanor were that of a lowly clerk (and a poorly paid lowly clerk at that). What lifted Dubois out of the ordinary was his extraordinary mind. He had only to look at a face and he would remember that person for the rest of his life. He had merely to peruse a document once and he could later copy it word for word, comma for comma. He could repeat a conversation verbatim, though it might have lasted hours. These amazing talents had been noticed many years ago when he was a young man by his parish priest, who had brought Dubois to the attention of the grand bishop.

Ferdinand Montagne was grand bishop of a church that had been struggling with various problems for these past twenty years. Once a power in the world, as the world’s only true religion, the Church of the Breath of Rosia had seen that power wane. The Church of the Breath of Freya had split off and begun calling itself the Church of the Reformation. Its ministers preached that the Church of the Breath of Rosia was rife with corruption, had lost its way, and should no longer be responsible for the salvation of men’s souls.

As if this were not trouble enough, King Alaric, who had once been a devoted follower of church doctrine and friend to the bishop (who had sacrificed a great deal for His Majesty), had started to rebel, to go off on his own. Now he was looking for a reason to end the Church’s control over the magic and take it (and the revenue it provided) for the Crown.

Such a reason existed in the form of a terrible secret. The bishop possessed certain knowledge about the Church, about the Breath of God, about the magic-“the quiet whispers of his words” that was so dreadful, so awful, that should the king find out, he would have the excuse he needed.

Beset by enemies without, wrestling with danger within, the bishop had needed help. He needed to know what his enemies in Freya were thinking, plotting. He needed to know what the King of Rosia was plotting, if not necessarily thinking. His Majesty left his thinking to the Countess de Marjolaine.

The grand bishop required spies. He had a few, but they were not nearly of the caliber of the spies in the employ of the Countess de Marjolaine. Montagne had been impressed with Dubois and had given him one or two small jobs, which Dubois had handled with skill. The grand bishop had provided him with funds to set up an intelligence network. Dubois had handled the task with such success that for the last few years, the bishop had been able to breathe freer and sleep somewhat more soundly at night.

The visitors departed. Dubois heard the door close. He waited another moment to make certain the bishop was alone. The only sounds were the rustle of the bishop’s cassock and the creaking of the chair as he sat down; Montagne was a large man. Over six feet tall, he was massively built. At sixty years old, he was in excellent physical condition, looking more like a wrestler than a clergyman. He wore his gray hair short, his whitish-gray beard and mustache neatly trimmed.

Ferdinand Montagne was ambitious, political, and a true and devoted believer in God-a dangerous combination. He believed that his voice was God’s voice, his will was God’s will, and that everything the bishop did or ordered to be done was for God’s glory.

Dubois silently opened the door of the closet, silently drew aside the folds of the heavy curtain, and silently glided out.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” said Dubois in his deferential clerk’s voice.

Grand Bishop Montagne gave a great gasp and a start that caused his pointed, gold-decorated miter to slip from his head and fall to the floor. The bishop twisted around in his chair and fixed his man with a baleful look.

“By all the Saints, Dubois, some day you are going to sneak up on me like that and cause my heart to stop beating. Damn it, you could at least cough or bump into something.”

Dubois smiled slightly as he bent to pick up the miter, brush off any dust, and hand it back to the bishop. Montagne motioned Dubois to set the miter on the desk, then directed him with an irritated gesture to take a seat.

Dubois did not immediately sit down. “I might suggest it would be well, Your Grace, if you were to send the monsignor, your secretary, and his assistants on an errand.”

“And what would that errand be, Dubois?”

“I need to know who has been meeting with the Countess de Marjolaine during the past few days. I need the list of visitors to date, including all her meetings scheduled for today.”

The bishop’s face stiffened, as always when the countess’ name was mentioned. He rose to his feet, his blue, gold-trimmed cassock swishing about his ankles, and went out to speak to the secretary.

Dubois looked about the prelate’s study, taking note of any changes that had been made in his absence. The room was lit by narrow windows, two stories high. Each window was set with beveled, leaded glass. The interior walls were lined with bookcases and rich paneling carved of cherry inlaid with rosewood and precious metals. Two andirons, each taking the form of an angel with sword raised and feet on the heads of writhing demons, stood before the gold-veined, white marble fireplace.

Seeing nothing of interest, Dubois flipped through the papers on the bishop’s desk, his retentive memory absorbing their contents. He resumed his seat as the bishop came back into the room, closing the door behind him and turning the key in the lock.

“I assume you were eavesdropping? You heard the news about the abbey?” the bishop asked grimly.

“I could not help but overhear, Your Grace,” said Dubois. “I cannot imagine who would perpetrate such an outrage.”

“I have contacted the Arcanum to investigate. Father Jacob Northrup is coming to meet with me. He would have been here by now, but he and his team were in Capione, investigating reports of that Warlock and his coven.”

“The Warlock? What has that evil young man done now?” Dubois asked.

“It seems he seduced the daughter of a nobleman. She ran away from home to join him and his followers. Several bodies of his young followers have been found, drained of blood, which the Warlock uses in his heinous rites. He gives the deluded children opium and lures them into orgies, then murders them.”

“I ask myself, ‘Why?’ ” said Dubois, frowning.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ Because he takes pleasure in killing people,” said the bishop. “He’s insane.”

“I doubt that,” said Dubois. “He does this for a reason.”

“Well, whatever that reason is, pray God this time Father Jacob has managed to find him and stop him.”

“If anyone can do so, it is Father Jacob Northrup,” said Dubois.

The grand bishop was silent, frowning. “So what are you doing here, Dubois? Your orders were to remain in Freya until the end of the summer court.”

“Might I have a glass of wine and something to eat, Your Grace?” asked Dubois. “I am famished. I have spent the last two days traveling. I came here immediately on my arrival.”

The bishop indicated the sideboard on which stood a crystal decanter of wine and a collation of cold meats and bread. Dubois forked beef onto a slice of bread, devoured it in a few bites, then poured himself a glass of wine and returned to his chair.

“I fear I have more bad news, Your Grace. Sir Henry Wallace has left Freya.”

Bishop Montagne’s eyes opened wide. His frown deepened, his face grew dark. He said a word suited more to a dockyard worker than a bishop, then added, “Where is the bastard?”

“I have no idea, Your Grace.”

The bishop gave a heavy sigh. “Tell me everything, Dubois.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Ever since his marriage, Sir Henry has been seen at court on an almost daily basis. His movements have been unremarkable.” Dubois shrugged. “People say he dotes upon his young wife, who is in the last few months of her pregnancy. A short time ago, however, there was a break in his routine. I was informed by my spy, a maidservant, in his household, that a wooden box had been delivered to Sir Henry by a man who had the appearance of a sailor.

“The maid got a good look at the box, on the pretext of dusting Sir Henry’s study, and reported that the box was plain, with no writing on it, nothing to indicate its origins or what was inside. She assumed it was some gift for his wife and thought nothing of it. He did not give his wife a gift, however, and yet, oddly, the box vanished. The maid asked some of the other members of the staff, but no one knew what had become of it. Several days after Wallace received this box, he suddenly, without advance notice, moved his wife and household to his estate outside Haever. He stated as his reason his wife’s impending lying-in.”

“What happened to this mysterious box?”

“I do not know, Your Grace, but a most curious incident occurred after Wallace arrived at his estate. The staff was told that Sir Henry was going to be conducting scientific experiments in the kitchen and they were not to be alarmed if they heard any odd sounds. Such experiments are, apparently, not unusual for Sir Henry.

“That night, the maid was awakened by what she swears were gunshots, followed by a loud explosion. The next morning the kitchen smelled strongly of gunpowder and was in such a mess, with pots and pans lying on the floor, that the cook threatened to give notice. The maid found several bullets, flattened, in the fireplace. Wallace left immediately afterward, telling his wife he was bound for Haever. He never arrived there. It took me two days to learn that he was no longer in Freya.”

“You think…”

“I think something important was in that box, Your Grace.”

Montagne grunted in agreement. “Did you find out where the box came from, anything about it? You said the man who delivered it was a sailor.”

Dubois paused for a sip of wine. He drank sparingly, preferring to have all his mental faculties unclouded by the fumes of the grape.

“All I could find out was that two merchant vessels had docked immediately before the box was delivered. One was from Travia and the second a free trader from the Aligoes Islands.”

“Which do you suspect?” the bishop asked.

“Free traders smuggle Estaran wine into Freya, along with other contraband. Given the fact that Estara and Travia are on the brink of war on the eastern frontier over Braffa-”

“But Freya is neutral in this conflict,” the bishop interjected.

“It is well known in Freya that you, Your Grace, support Estara in its claim of Braffa and that His Majesty, King Alaric, supports Travia in its claim-”

“Say, rather, that fiendish woman, the Countess de Marjolaine, supports Travia,” said the bishop.

Dubois nodded. “I noted the last time I was in the Travian court that it is crawling with her operatives. But, as I was going to say, this war between Travia and Estara over Braffa has resulted in a serious rift between Church and Crown here in Rosia. It might be very tempting to Wallace to heat up the fire under this cauldron, see perhaps if he can’t make it boil over.”

“To what purpose?” the bishop asked.

“Ah, who knows with Sir Henry,” said Dubois.

The bishop glowered. “Do I detect a note of admiration in your voice, Dubois?”

“One should never underestimate one’s enemy, Your Grace. I also have the highest regard for the Countess de Marjolaine.”

A rumbling sound came from the region of the bishop’s stomach. He placed his hand on his belly. “Bah! This news has made me bilious. Pour me a glass of wine.”

Dubois did as he was told, returning to set the goblet at the bishop’s hand. As he did so, there was a knock upon the door. The bishop gestured and Dubois crossed over to the door, opened it a crack, and received a book bound in red leather. He closed the door and once more turned the key. The bishop eyed the red leather book in Dubois’ hand.

“Where the devil is Wallace? I don’t like it when that fiend is on the loose.” Montagne gazed moodily into his wine goblet.

“That is what I am endeavoring to ascertain, Your Grace. That is why I asked to see who has been meeting with the countess.”

Dubois opened the red leather book somewhere around the middle and began to read. At the top of each page was a date. Below the date was a list of names. Dubois scanned several pages. The bishop watched hopefully, but his hopes were dashed when Dubois shook his head and closed the book.

“Nothing?”

“The usual: favor-seekers, courtiers. Only three are in any way remarkable. Yesterday, the countess met with the Master of the Royal Armory. This morning, she met with her son, Captain de Guichen-”

“What is so remarkable about that?” asked the bishop. He was in an ill humor and inclined to be petty. “She is his mother.”

“The two are not on speaking terms, Your Grace, though the countess does occasionally employ her son on sensitive business. And he did fight the Estarans prior to the Dragon Brigade being decommissioned. After he left, the countess was closeted for a long time with Lord Hoalfhausen, the Travian ambassador.”

“There, you see!” said the bishop in angry triumph. “That woman is meddling in this war, consorting with my enemies.”

“So it would seem, Your Grace,” replied Dubois. Disappointed, he tossed the book onto the desk. “Unfortunately, this tells us nothing regarding the whereabouts of Sir Henry.”

He rose to his feet and prepared to take his leave.

“Keep me informed, Dubois,” said the bishop. “May God speed your endeavors.”

“May He, indeed, Your Grace. And may He aid the labors of Father Jacob as he confounds the Warlock and discovers who murdered our Sisters in God.”

Dubois bowed, circled around behind the bishop’s chair, parted the curtain, and entered the closet. A glance over his shoulder showed Montagne sitting with his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. He picked up the goblet, drank off the wine in a gulp, then rang a bell to summon the monsignor.

Dubois left the palace the way he had come, passing through the small patio, out the hidden gate, and onto the street. Returning to his lodgings for a long overdue meal, he found an agent waiting for him.

Dubois eyed him. “You’re the one who has been shadowing Wallace’s agent, right? You sent me word that Harrington had arrived in the city a fortnight ago and has been keeping to himself.”

“Yes, sir. There has been a development. I dispatched news of this to you yesterday, but then I heard you had left Freya, so I feared you might not have received it.”

“I did not. What has happened?”

“Yesterday, Harrington, dressed as a common laborer, pretending to be a drunkard, spent the day in the neighborhood of the Church of Saint Michelle. He is back there again today, sir.”

“The devil he is!” said Dubois, startled.

“He was still there when I left. Sleeping on a bench with a wine jug in front of a statue of the blessed saint.”

“How very strange,” Dubois murmured, frowning. “Where is it?”

“Street of the Half Moon, sir. The church is at the southern end, near the bridge.”

Dubois sent his agent to keep an eye on the inn where Harrington was staying. Dubois ate his meal standing and ordered a fresh horse to be saddled. While dining, he wondered what to make of this news.

The Street of the Half Moon ran through a bustling neighborhood of shops, boarding houses, and private dwellings, most of them occupied by middle-class families. What could James Harrington, one of Sir Henry’s top agents, be doing lounging about Half Moon Street?

Mounting his horse, Dubois rode off to find out.