Shadow Raiders

Chapter Eight

DUBOIS WAS IN THE VICINITY OF THE CEMETERY well before dawn, in time to see Rodrigo de Villeneuve and Captain de Guichen arrive for the duel. Dubois was not on the grounds. He had taken up his position in a tree.

To look at Dubois, one might not think he was someone adept at treeclimbing. He had developed this skill over time, finding it useful to ascend to such perches where he could hide among the leaves, see without being seen. Dubois was also adept at climbing up trellises to sneak onto balconies or peep into windows, and he had become an expert at walking over rooftops.

Ensconced in his tree, shielded from view, Dubois settled himself comfortably. He straddled a broad limb with his legs and rested his back against the trunk.

His perch provided him an excellent view of the field of combat and the woods surrounding the cemetery. He was vastly interested to note the stealthy arrival of two other men in the woods. Both were strangers to Dubois. He watched the two slip through the mists and take up positions directly behind the cemetery wall. Both were dressed in long coats and tall boots and carried long-barreled muskets. Anyone seeing them would mistake them for two gentlemen hunting grouse.

Dubois reached into a pocket, drew out a collapsible spyglass and, extending it, put it to his eye to observe the two men more closely.

“Well, well, well,” said Dubois.

One man carried a large bore musket, while the other was armed with the new weapon known as a “rifle” for its rifled bore, which gave the shooter far better accuracy than smooth bore guns, even those with magical targeting constructs. An expensive weapon for shooting grouse. In addition, each man carried several pistols.

Obviously paid assassins, but who was paying them and who were they there to assassinate? Dubois could make an excellent guess. He reached beneath his coat to draw his own pistol, which he carried in a pistol sheath he had designed himself. Much like a sheath for a sword, the pistol sheath was made of leather attached to a strap that looped around his right shoulder. The pistol sheath allowed him to wear the weapon on his body, concealed beneath his coat, providing swift and easy access.

His pistol was double-barreled, operated by magic rather than flint. The two barrels were stacked one above the other with a single firing mechanism. The hammer and the strike plate each had deeply set sigils that sparked when they came into contact, separated by a small brass shield when the weapon was not in use. A lever near the strike plate allowed him to choose which barrel to fire. On top was a longer, lower caliber barrel, set with interlocking layers of magical targeting constructs, designed for better range and accuracy. Beneath it was a large bore barrel designed for stopping power.

The gun had been given to Dubois by the grand bishop. The weapon had been made especially in the bishop’s own armory, according to Dubois’ instructions. He checked the pistol, particularly the magical constructs, and found all was well. Not that there was ever any doubt. He invariably checked the gun before strapping on the belt.

Dubois rested the pistol on the tree limb, placed his hand on the grip, and settled himself to watch the proceedings. The sun’s rays were burning off the mists and he had a good view. His tree was only about one hundred feet away from the dueling ground. In the still morning air, he could hear most of what was being said.

Dubois smiled to see Chaunquler arrive. The old reprobate was undoubtedly in the pay of Harrington. Chaunquler was here to ensure the duel went Harrington’s way, whatever way that was.

Dubois watched and listened attentively, hoping for clues that would lead him to Sir Henry Wallace. He observed the firing of the dueling pistols and Chaunquler’s investigation of the clothing for magical constructs. Nothing noteworthy there. The duel was just about to commence when Valazquez said something that Dubois found to be of considerable interest.

The young man’s voice, heavily accented, carried well on the still air. “I would like to express my sympathy to Monsieur de Villeneuve on the death of his father.”

Rodrigo de Villeneuve had not been apprised of this news, apparently. He looked as though he’d been run over by an ox-cart.

“I regret to be the bearer of ill tidings. My father, as the Estaran ambassador, received the news yesterday. Ambassador de Villeneuve was the victim of an assassin’s bullet. The murderer escaped, unfortunately, but the authorities are doing all they can to find him. They believe that he was a Travian.”

Dubois was equally surprised to hear that the Rosian ambassador had been murdered. Dubois did not like surprises. His agent in Estara should have informed him immediately. Dubois made a mental note to replace his agent, even as he reflected on Valazquez’s explanation of the events.

The Rosian ambassador shot by a Travian. How very convenient for Sir Henry Wallace, who was suspected of fomenting the feud between Estara and Travia over Braffa. That island nation refined a substance known as the Blood of God-a concentrated, liquid form of the Breath used to power the airships of both the Estaran and Rosian fleets.

The island and its resources had long been the subject of a dispute between Estara and Travia. The two nations had nearly gone to war over Braffa, but the Church had stepped in to conduct negotiations and brought about an uneasy truce-a truce that seemed likely now to be broken, for King Alaric could not allow the assassination of his ambassador to go unpunished.

As this young man, Valazquez, was upholding the honor of his sister, King Alaric must uphold the honor of his nation. But Alaric was now in an awkward situation. The whole world knew that the king sided with Travia, and it appeared that a Travian had assassinated the Rosian ambassador. What would Alaric do? Or rather, what would the Countess de Marjolaine tell the king to do? Dubois filed the information in one of his mind’s cubbyholes and concentrated on the duel.

Captain de Guichen was attempting to use the death of his friend’s father to bring about a postponement of the duel. It seemed he might succeed. Young Valazquez was a dolt, but he was an honorable dolt. But Harrington, in his guise as Piefer, goaded Valazquez into fighting. Why was Harrington aka Piefer so keen on having Valazquez kill the wretched Rodrigo de Villeneuve? There was no doubt Monsieur de Villeneuve would die. Valazquez was known to be a superior marksman and from what Dubois had observed, Villeneuve barely knew one end of a gun from another.

Dubois watched the two combatants stand back-to-back, raise their guns, and begin to walk off the twenty paces. Chaunquler was counting. He and the others were focused on the two combatants. Dubois was watching Harrington. Just as Chaunquler was counting “ten,” Harrington lifted his hand to his face, an innocent-seeming gesture.

Dubois clapped the spyglass to his eye.

Harrington kept his hand near his face, as though scratching his jaw. Dubois could see Harrington swiftly drawing a magical sigil in the air. His lips moved, speaking the incantation. At that instant, Villenueve’s gun fired.

“It went off!” he cried in dismay. “I didn’t pull the trigger. I swear! It just went off!”

Villeneuve was right. He had not pulled the trigger. The gun had been set off by Harrington’s magical spell. But no one, not even his friend, the captain, would believe him. Chaunquler judged the shot a misfire. Valazquez would now face an unarmed opponent and, by the laws of dueling, he had the right to kill him. Harrington was smiling with satisfaction. Apparently everything was proceeding according to plan.

The two men walked out the twenty paces. Rodrigo de Villeneuve turned to face certain death. Harrington stood with his arms folded, coolly awaiting the bloody outcome.

Valazquez fired. The bullet grazed his opponent’s cheek. Valazquez lowered his pistol. The young man had abided by the rules laid down by the Codes Duello. He had satisfied his honor by drawing blood. He cast a defiant glance at Harrington.

“I would not want it said that I killed an unarmed man.”

Rodrigo de Villeneuve remained in a petrified state of terror, his eyes closed, still waiting to die. Captain Stephano de Guichen ran to his friend. Neither of them saw Harrington’s face flush in frustration and anger. Neither saw him reach into his coat and pull a pistol from his belt. Chaunquler saw everything, however, and alerted the surgeon. Both took to their heels.

Young Valazquez died instantly from a bullet between the eyes. Dubois kept his gaze on Harrington, who drew a second pistol and aimed at Villeneuve. Captain de Guichen threw himself on his friend, knocking him down and shielding him with his own body. The shot hit Captain de Guichen in the back. The bullet did no damage; undoubtedly the captain was wearing magically protected armor.

Harrington threw down this pistol and drew his corset gun from the inside pocket of his coat. Captain de Guichen was on his feet, reaching for his sword, when the two assassins opened fire. Bullets kicked up the dirt around the captain. Harrington’s men were hampered in their shooting because they did not want to accidentally hit Harrington, who was leveling the small, but deadly little gun at the captain.

Dubois swore softly. He had not wanted to reveal himself, but he could not permit Harrington to kill Captain de Guichen. Son of the Countess de Marjolaine, the captain was a factor in this complex situation of the missing journeyman.

Dubois could not kill Harrington, who was going to lead him to Wallace. He sighted down the top barrel of his pistol, fired, and shot the corset gun out of Harrington’s hand. Harrington spun around to glare at his men, thinking that one of them had shot him. The two assassins knew better. They had heard Dubois’ shot coming from somewhere off to their right and they were momentarily distracted, looking about fearfully for the unknown assailant who might shoot them next.

Captain de Guichen and de Villeneuve were wisely taking advantage of the momentary lull to run for their lives. As for Harrington, he was running, too; racing for his carriage. Dubois could not lose track of him. The two assassins were firing, reloading, and firing again. With the reverberations of the gun blasts ringing in their ears, they would not hear a thunderclap, much less the sound of Dubois hastily slithering out of his tree.

Dubois had tied his horse nearby. He had mounted and was ready to ride by the time Harrington reached the carriage and was giving instructions to the driver to follow Captain de Guichen and Villeneuve, who were haring off in a stolen hansom cab. Harrington grabbed a musket and climbed up onto the driver’s seat of the carriage as it was rolling off. Looking back, he shouted urgently for his two men to join him. Dubois waited patiently in the woods until these two had mounted their own horses and ridden past him, then he urged his horse to a trot.

Captain de Guichen was in the lead in his hansom cab. Harrington, in his carriage, raced after the captain. The two assassins galloped on their horses to catch up with Harrington. Dubois brought up the end of the line.

“Like a string of baby ducks,” remarked Dubois, chuckling.