The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series) Read online

  Dubois frowned.

  Sister Elizabeth tapped him on the knee.

  “You are the first person who has been permitted to enter the Citadel since the Council was disbanded. Everyone in the Arcanum has been placed under Seal. So how did you manage?”

  Sometimes parting with information gained information. In this instance, Dubois wasn’t revealing anything that wouldn’t shortly be known to everyone in the Citadel anyway.

  “I am here on behalf of two men who have also been arrested and brought here: Captain Stephano de Guichen and Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve. Perhaps you have seen them…”

  Sister Elizabeth shook her head. “These men you mention are not here.”

  “They must be,” said Dubois, dismayed. “They were arrested in Evreux. Their friends saw the monks of Saint Klee take them away.”

  “I wonder…” Sister Elizabeth frowned, looking thoughtful. “Did the arrest take place a week ago?”

  “Yes,” Dubois replied. “Why?”

  “I heard a report that a group of monks who left for Evreux to make an arrest did not return. They should have been back days ago. Search parties are going out to look for them.”

  “Good God!” Dubois exclaimed. “I hope nothing has happened to them. His Majesty has granted royal pardons to these two. Monsieur Rodrigo is wanted—is urgently needed—at the palace.”

  “May God save and keep them,” said Sister Elizabeth. She glanced toward the courtyard, and something she saw made her start. “Merciful saints, there is Father Pietro! The grand bishop has sent him to fetch you. I must leave before he catches me. He will want to engage me in conversation and he’s the most boring man that ever drew breath.”

  Dubois turned his head to see a priest entering the courtyard. His gaze fastened upon Dubois whose coat and hat, though they were plain and drab colored, stood out markedly amid the black cassocks and habits.

  “Are you Monsieur Dubois?” the priest called across at him. “I am Father Pietro. I have been sent to escort you to the grand bishop.”

  “He will want to tell me all about the life of the latest saint he is studying,” Sister Elizabeth said, standing up and smoothing the skirts of her habit. “The man is a font of worthless information.”

  “Speaking of saints, Sister,” Dubois asked offhandedly, “do you know anything about a Saint Dominick?”

  “Never heard of him,” said Sister Elizabeth promptly. “Ask Father Pietro. He holds a degree in theology and is a doctor of divinity, as he will be certain to tell you.”

  “Thank you for your help, Sister,” said Dubois.

  “I hope you can talk some sense into Montagne,” Sister Elizabeth added in a low mutter.

  She waved at Father Pietro. “I would love to hear about Saint Whosit, Father, but I have to hurry back to the hospital.”

  “Saint Whosit?” Father Pietro repeated, mystified. “I have never heard of him. I must look him up in the calendar.

  “I am Father Pietro,” the priest said to Dubois again, as if fond of hearing his own name. “I have been assigned to act as secretary to the grand bishop. I hold a degree in theology and I am a doctor of divinity.”

  Dubois hid his smile and said something polite.

  “The grand bishop has granted you an audience,” Father Pietro continued with the air of one conferring a great honor. Clearly he had taken Montagne’s side in this ecclesiastical war. “I will escort you.”

  “I am glad for your company, Father,” said Dubois gravely.

  They wended their way through the gardens to an old building that had once been the Hall of Offerings, as the financial arm of the Church was called. When the priestly accountants and clerks had moved into a new and more secure building on a lower level, this building had been given to the grand bishop and his staff for their use when he was in residence. He lived in a house nearby. Once the home of Saint Denis, second provost of the Arcanum, the house was furnished with its own small chapel. Montagne could worship in private, work and dwell in isolation. What dread secret was he fighting to protect? Dubois wondered as he and Father Pietro approached the hall.

  “This building was constructed during the time of Grand Bishop Alonzo Diego of Estara,” Father Pietro stated sonorously. “You will note the elaborate architraves, which were a hallmark of the period. Also the ashlar—”

  “You are a font of information, Father,” said Dubois.

  Father Pietro bowed with satisfaction.

  “I myself am writing a small volume on the monasteries of Rosia,” Dubois continued with a modest air. “I came across a reference to an old monastery in the Oscadia Mountains dedicated to Saint Dominick. I can find no one who can tell me anything about this monastery. Perhaps you know something of it?”

  “Saint Dominick the Keeper,” said Father Pietro at once. “He lived in the time of the Sunlit Empire when the Church was sending missionaries into remote parts of Rosia. He died a martyr defending his flock from an attack by fiends summoned by the ruling Brovaighn family, who had made an alliance with the Evil One.”

  “Why is he called the Keeper?” Dubois asked.

  “Because he was the Keeper of the Gates of Hell,” Father Pietro explained. “The story tells that at the behest of the Brovaighns, the ground split open and an army of fiends poured out. Saint Dominick drove them back and died fighting them. His holy blood spilled on the rocks and sealed the ground shut.”

  “And so the monastery that bears his name dates back to that time?”

  “No, no,” said Father Pietro officiously. “The monastery to which you refer was founded five hundred years ago during the Dark Ages. I am not certain why the monks chose to name it in honor of Saint Dominick. His miracle occurred in the region of Blenheim. Nowhere near the Oscadia Mountains.”

  “The monastery is still active?” Dubois asked.

  “It is still on the Church rolls,” said Father Pietro as they walked up the steps leading to the entrance. “I know nothing more beyond that. The grand bishop is within. I will announce you.”

  The gray walls of the hall were covered in ivy, their sharp lines softened with age. Trees as old as the building surrounded it, shading it from the sun. The lead-paned windows had not been replaced by the more modern mullioned variety.

  The grand bishop was the only official currently occupying the building. He had not brought any members of his staff, cutting himself off from everyone except Father Pietro, who was so self-absorbed he had no idea he was being used merely as an errand boy. The interior of the hall was cool, silent, and smelled of dust. The floor creaked as they walked down a corridor. Doors leading to other offices were closed. The office of the grand bishop was located at the far end.

  Father Pietro knocked softly on the door, then opened it to say, “Monsieur Dubois is here, Eminence.”

  “Very well,” said Montagne. He did not sound pleased.

  Father Pietro hovered near. “Should I remain, Eminence?”

  “No, Father. Return to your studies.”

  Father Pietro shut the door and left. Dubois could hear his footfalls creaking down the corridor. Despite that, the ever-cautious Dubois opened the door to make certain the priest had really, truly departed.

  Satisfied they were alone, Dubois shut the door and turned around. He was so surprised by what he saw that he was jolted out of his usual complacency. Dubois stared in dumbfounded astonishment.

  Ferdinand de Montagne was a big man, in his middle years, well above average height at six foot five, with broad shoulders, a wide girth. He had always been in excellent health, save for a tendency to dyspepsia due to a fondness for wine and rich food.

  Dubois would not have recognized the man. Montagne had lost weight. His skin was sallow. His hair was grayer, thinner and his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He was seated at a large desk, engaged in writing something in a small book, a task he would have ordinarily assigned to a member of his staff.

  “Eminence,” said Dubois, bowing. “I fear you have been ill.” />
  “The food they serve in this place is abominable. I cannot keep anything down. What do you want, Dubois?” Montagne growled. “Be brief. I am busy.”

  He held his pen poised above the paper, his finger marking his place. He regarded his agent with deep suspicion.

  “As always, I am your faithful servant, Eminence,” said Dubois with quiet reassurance.

  Montagne swallowed. He lowered his gaze, then slowly laid down the pen. Moving his hand from the book, he sat back in his chair. A muscle in his neck twitched. He closed his eyes and rubbed them.

  “I know you are, Dubois,” said Montagne wearily. “Sit down. I assume you have heard what has happened.”

  Dubois spread his hands. “Everyone is talking…”

  “Of course, they are. Fools! They know nothing. They should trust me! Why don’t they trust me? I am trying to save the Church!”

  He sighed. “But you did not come for that. Why are you here?”

  Dubois reached inside his coat and drew out the letter from the king. Rising to his feet, he laid the letter in front of Montagne, who recognized the seal with at first surprise and then anger.

  “What is this?”

  “A letter from the king.”

  “I can see that! Since when have you become Alaric’s courier?”

  “If Your Eminence will read the letter, I will endeavor to explain.”

  The grand bishop pressed his signet ring onto the seal; the magical constructs set into his ring caused the king’s seal to open. He read the letter. Dubois watched the man’s expression grow dark. Montagne reached the end, then tossed the letter onto the desk with contempt.

  “Ineffable twaddle,” he stated. “Lift tanks failing due to contramagic. Alaric must be desperate to concoct such a ridiculous tale. As for releasing Captain de Guichen and Monsieur de Villeneuve…”

  He stopped talking and fiddled with his pen.

  “I heard they never arrived,” said Dubois.

  “No secret is safe from you,” said the grand bishop caustically. “We presume they attempted to escape. The criminals will be found, however. We have sent out search parties.”

  “I hope they are found,” said Dubois gravely. “We badly need Monsieur Rodrigo. The king is telling the truth about the lift tanks, Eminence. I myself discovered the contramagic constructs that are causing the lift tanks to fail.”

  Montagne’s index finger rapped on the table. He regarded Dubois intently. Dubois met the grand bishop’s gaze without flinching.

  “How the devil do you know what contramagic looks like, Dubois?” Montagne demanded.

  “I had seen such constructs before, Eminence. They were on the bomb that exploded in the library of the archbishop in Westfirth; the bomb that nearly killed Father Jacob, Sir Ander, the countess, and myself. As Your Eminence knows, God gave me the ability to remember what I see with remarkable accuracy. The constructs were contramagic. Father Jacob said so at the time and, after undertaking some research on my own, I believe him. Just as I believe the magic that destroyed the Crystal Market was contramagic. The disastrous effect is being felt worldwide, Eminence. You cannot arrest all the crafters…”

  Montagne’s face turned livid, his brows contracted, and his eyes glittered. Dubois had the feeling that his own arrest was imminent. Nevertheless, he pressed on.

  “Your Eminence, think of the terrible political implications of this disaster for the Church. If the Sunset Palace falls from the heavens, the result will be catastrophic. Untold numbers of people will die. King Alaric is prepared to claim publicly that you had it in your power to save the castle and the city from destruction. He will produce a copy of this letter. He will produce witnesses. He will claim that you were jealous. The scandal would be—”

  “Enough!” Montagne said through gritted teeth.

  His jaw clenched, his hand clenched. He breathed hard and swallowed several more times, grimacing as though the taste in his mouth was bitter as alum. At length, he took a fresh sheet of paper, wrote something on it, signed it, sealed it.

  “I am pardoning Captain de Guichen and Monsieur de Villeneuve at the king’s behest. I hope they can find a way to save Alaric’s damn palace.”

  “Thank you, Eminence,” said Dubois with his bobbing bow. “I understand that no one is being permitted to leave the Citadel. I will require a letter of authorization, giving me permission to do so.”

  The grand bishop muttered something. Taking another sheet of paper, he wrote out the authorization.

  As Dubois approached the desk to pick up the letter and the pardons, he stole a swift glance at the page of the book the grand bishop had been reading. The passage he had marked referred to the authority of the grand bishop in regard to the Council of Bishops. Montagne must be endeavoring to justify his action in disbanding the Council.

  “Is there anything I can do for Your Eminence?” Dubois asked.

  “I wish there was, Dubois. I wish there was,” said Montagne heavily. “Close the door behind you.”

  He gestured in dismissal. Dubois bowed and left the office, walking down the creaking hall. He thought of the man sitting alone in this large and silent building, an embattled man, under siege, and he felt deep and profound pity.

  Dubois took possession of his room in the guesthouse. Locking the door, he sat down and read through the letter that authorized him to leave the Citadel. Montagne had scrawled his signature below.

  Dubois studied the letter, then dipped the pen in the ink and began to write. He had developed a talent for forgery over the years; a useful skill for an agent. He had room to remove a period and add only a few words, but that was enough.

  M. Dubois is granted permission to depart the Citadel after he has interrogated the prisoner, Jacob Northrop.

  Dubois inspected the forgery carefully. Satisfied that even Montagne might be fooled into thinking he had written the note, Dubois let the ink dry, then set forth on his mission.

  6

  You can lock truth in prison, but she will always find a way to escape.

  —Father Jacob Northrop

  People the world over shuddered at the mere mention of the dungeons of the Citadel. They told tales of the torture chambers; the dark oubliettes into which men disappeared forever; the chill, dank cells where prisoners in chains hung from the walls; the diet of moldy bread and rat meat.

  In truth, the Citadel prison was clean, well kept. The cells were not exactly comfortable, but they were open to the light and air. Prisoners were allowed to take daily exercise in a courtyard. They were fed three times a day and given water for drinking and for washing.

  The prison was situated about halfway down the mountainside, built on a promontory that jutted out into the inland sea. Walls surrounded the prison on three sides. The fourth side was guarded by the sea and a bone-breaking drop to the rocks below. Three small guard towers overlooked the prison courtyard. The complex was not very big, consisting of the cell block and two small outbuildings—one where the prison guards resided and one for supplies. The monks of Saint Klee were responsible for overseeing the prisoners.

  Only the worst of the worst were locked up in the prison. Those men and women who were placed “under Seal,” but who had not committed any crime, were housed in the guesthouses. A person might be placed under Seal for any number of reasons. Father Jacob had placed the sailors who had first encountered the Bottom Dwellers at the Abbey of Saint Agnes under Seal to interrogate them about what they had seen and heard. Those sailors had long since been released. Dubois considered it telling that Father Jacob and his Knight Protector, Sir Ander Martel, both had been locked up in prison—the worst of the worst.

  Dubois stopped at the entry gate to show his credentials and to submit to a search. He was armed with a portable writing desk, which he opened at the monk’s behest. The desk contained nothing more dangerous than pen, ink, and paper.

  “I am here at the request of the grand bishop to interrogate Father Jacob,” said Dubois.

  He hande
d the monk the grand bishop’s order. The monk read it through twice and lingered, frowning, on the last sentence.

  “Father Jacob is not here,” said the monk.

  “Then take me to him, Brother,” said Dubois.

  The monk hesitated. “I must seek the approval of the master.”

  “Of course, Brother,” said Dubois.

  If the master in turn sought approval by going to the grand bishop, Dubois was in trouble. He waited with outward complacency and inward tension.

  The master of the monks of Saint Klee was a tall, spare man with iron-gray hair, all bone and muscle. He regarded Dubois intently, giving no hint of what he was thinking. The master’s face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, his eyes deep set, dark and unreadable. His expression never changed. He registered no emotion. Dubois could not tell what the man was thinking and he felt a little flutter of his pulse, a little qualm in his gut. The master might be here to do his bidding or to escort Dubois to his own prison cell.

  The master made a gesture indicating Dubois was to accompany him into the prison. The master walked with long strides, and Dubois, with his short legs, had to hurry to keep up. He was expecting to go to the cell block and he was startled when the master entered another door, one that led into the courtyard where the prisoners exercised.

  The master crossed the courtyard. Dubois, hampered by the unwieldy desk, puffed along at his side. They came to a small building where the monks who guarded the prisoners lived when off duty. The building was a square blockhouse made of stone. Slit windows faced out over the inland sea.

  Dubois now had a good idea of what was going on. The master opened the door of the residence. Inside was a common room used by the monks for prayers, meditation, and studies. The central feature was a shrine to Saint Klee. A statue of the saint, notable for his long, blond hair, stood on an altar. A candle always burned in his honor.

  A door sealed with elaborate constructs stood at the end of the room. Dubois was impressed with their intricacy. The master removed them, then ushered Dubois through the door. What had once been the monks’ sleeping quarters had been transformed into two prison cells. There were no walls, only iron bars, so that the guard would be able to see the prisoners at all times. There were no windows. Each prisoner had a bed and a chamber pot.