Shadow Raiders tdb-1 Page 14

  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.

&nb
sp; 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.

  Chapter Nine

  The most important part of any operation is a well thought out plan. I have sent you additional funds and several of the newly developed weapons known as “rifles” to assist you. You will notice that the rifles have slow curving grooves cut into the interior of their barrels. This “rifling” provides greater accuracy than targeting constructs, but does require some practice in order to use effectively.

  – Excerpt from a letter from Sir Henry Wallace to his agent, James Harrington

  GRABBING THE BUGGY WHIP, STEPHANO SNAPPED IT over the horse’s head, urging the beast on. The cab went careening down the road with Stephano rocking from side to side and bouncing up and down on the sprung seat. Glancing back, he saw Piefer still in pursuit, again taking aim with his rifle.

  Stephano had nowhere to go. He lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Then suddenly he had more to worry about than being hit by a bullet.

  The road made a sharp curve to the right up ahead. The cab was heading into the turn at a frightening speed. The driver yelled that they were going to crash and hurled himself out of the side of the cab. The last Stephano saw of him, the driver was tumbling head over heels into a weed patch.

  Stephano tried to slow the horse, but the creature was out of control. He had his ears laid back, his eyes swiveled wildly, and spittle flew from his mouth. He plunged on as Stephano braced himself. The cab took the corner on one wheel, teetered perilously for a moment, then righted itself, landing on both wheels with a bone-jarring jounce.

  Stephano slapped the reins and snapped the whip, and they went rolling on. He looked back to see that Piefer’s driver, fighting to maintain control of a far larger carriage, sensibly slowed to make the turn. Piefer had fallen behind, but the two assassins mounted on horseback were catching up. These were the two who had been firing at him from the woods. Each brandished a pistol.

  Stephano hoped they would shoot. He was a moving target, the odds were likely that they would miss, and once they had fired their weapons, they would have to reload. They would have a hard time pouring in powder and thrusting home a bullet while riding a horse at a full gallop.

  Unfortunately, these men were too professional to make such a mistake. Holding their pistols in readiness, they spurred on their horses. They planned to catch up with the cab and simply shoot their victims once they were close.

  Stephano faced to the front, keeping his eyes on the road. The horse was starting to tire, showing signs of being winded. The two men on relatively fresh horses would easily manage to catch the cab.

  Stephano considered his options. They were grimly few. When his assailants arrived, he could jump from his seat onto one of them and knock the man off his horse. But that still left the other man and Piefer free to kill them.

  The cab was heading into another curve, but this time Stephano didn’t have to worry about overturning. The weary horse had slowed his pace and they took the corner decorously. Rounding the curve, Stephano was startled to see that they had reached the outskirts of the city.

  The road that led to the Church of Saint Charles was not much traveled. But the cab and those pursuing it were now going to be running into a stream of carts, wagons, horses, and pedestrians. The two assassins on horseback could weave their way through traffic faster than he could maneuver a cab.

  Stephano looked over his shoulder again. Thinking the two assassins would increase their pace, he was surprised to see them dropping behind, apparently in response to some order from Piefer. They were conferring with him as he leaned down from the driver’s seat.

  By Heaven, Stephano thought with elation, we might get out of this alive after all!

  He arrived at an intersection. Several roads branched out from a single lane, all heading into the city. He needed to reach Canal Street, where the Cloud Hopper was docked. Stephano guided the horse onto the Street of Kings, a narrow thoroughfare that led into the heart of the city, as Rodrigo thrust open the trapdoor through which passengers communicated with the driver and shouted up at him.

  “What are you doing? This street will be crowded at this time of day. You should take Cattle Market Road.”

  “We like crowded streets,” Stephano shouted back. “The more people the better. Look behind us.”

  “And get my head blown off?” Rodrigo asked, horrified.

  “Just look,” Stephano yelled.

  Rodrigo poked his head cautiously out of the carriage.

  “They’re still there,” he reported. “They’re still chasing us.”

  “Yes, but they’re not still shooting at us,” Stephano said. “They won’t risk firing into a crowd.”

  At least, he hoped they wouldn’t risk it.

  Rodrigo held up the pistol he’d recovered from the site of the duel and waved it in the air. “I found a hidden magical sigil on the firing mechanism! That’s what caused the gun to misfire! I told you I didn’t shoot it!”

  Stephano thought the matter over as he continued to try to negotiate the cab through the traffic. Rodrigo had been meant to die in that duel. Valazquez had been supposed to kill him.

  “Why in the name of all the saints and all the angels and God Himself would anyone go to this much trouble and expense to kill Rodrigo!” Stephano asked himself.

  The Street of Kings was of one of the most heavily traveled roads in Evreux. Stephano was doing a fair job of driving the cab, and hoped he might actually be able to reach Canal Street when the horse decided enough was enough. Exhausted, in a bad mood, wanting only its stable and oats, the animal came to a dead stop in the middle of a busy intersection.

  Stephano yelled and cajoled and plied the whip-to no avail. The horse stood with his head down, stubbornly refusing to budge. Traffic in all directions rolled to a standstill. Drovers with loads to deliver swore at Stephano and shook their fists. They were joined in their ire by the drivers of cabs and coaches and by their irate passengers. One drover even jumped off his wagon and came running toward Stephano with the idea of throttling him. Several pedestrians clustered about, attempting to deal with the horse, which added to the gridlock.

  Stephano had no idea what to do. The carriage belonging to Piefer was caught in the snarl. But the two assassins on horseback were steadily pushing their way toward him.

  Stephano flung the whip aside, dropped the re
ins, jumped out of the seat, and ran to the front of the cab.

  “Get out!” he yelled at Rodrigo. “We’re walking!”

  His friend stared at him in astonishment, wondering if he’d lost his mind, then he climbed out of the cab. Ignoring the swearing and irate shouts, Stephano and Rodrigo bolted for the sidewalk, which was now filled with interested spectators. The two elbowed and shoved and began to dodge and weave and push their way through the crowd.

  Stephano looked back to see chaos had broken out in the intersection. The drover who had been going to fight Stephano was now taking on a fellow drover. Passengers were leaning out of the carriages. People were tugging on the horse. Traffic was backing up as far as he could see. Unless Piefer abandoned his carriage, he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. The two assassins on horseback were trying their best to edge their way through the confusion, but without much better success.

  Stephano paused a moment to go over a mental map of the city of Evreux in his head, trying to figure out the quickest route to the Cloud Hopper, which was docked along one of the canals that ran through the city.

  He noticed people stopping to stare at him, but he assumed this was because he was filthy from running through graveyards and driving a cab with a crazed horse, so he did not give it much thought. He was about to say, “We can continue down this street to reach Canal,” when Rodrigo suddenly seized hold of him and dragged him into a dark alley.

  “Why did you do that? We can’t stop, they’ll catch us!” Stephano said, annoyed.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Rodrigo, pointing to Stephano’s left shoulder. “You’ve been shot.”

  Stephano looked down to see a large amount of blood had soaked through both his shirt and his coat. That was why people had been staring at him.