The Seventh Sigil Page 20

  The original house was a marble villa. As the family grew and styles changed, they had added new wings without any seeming rhyme or reason. The most unique renovation came from Dame Winifred herself, who had introduced powerful magical constructs that fortified the supporting structure of the home. The installation of lift tanks and several ship’s balloons allowed Welkinstead to rise up off the ground and go floating about the city. When Simon inherited the house, he added sails and air screws so that he could steer the contraption, rather than allow it to drift at will.

  Dame Winifred had become acquainted with Simon and his friends, the Seconds, during the famous incident when a young Henry had foiled an assassination attempt against the prince regent. The lady had taken a liking to Simon, saying their minds worked the same way.

  “Both of them are crackpots,” Alan had stated at the time.

  When Simon had suffered his debilitating wound, Dame Winifred had designed a special magical chair for his use and brought him to live with her in her wondrous house. At her death, she bequeathed the house and her immense wealth to him.

  Simon Yates was insatiably curious. He read voraciously, spoke every major language in the world and many of the more obscure languages, and subscribed to every newspaper, pamphlet, and gazette. He received so much correspondence from his many informants that the post office had assigned one person to do nothing except sort his mail and deliver it to wherever his house happened to be at the time.

  His genius was such that he could take all the disparate bits of information he absorbed, shuffle them about in his brain, and start connecting them. He used his talent to thwart plots, solve crimes, catch criminals, and discover information vital to the government, all without ever leaving his chair. He had proven himself so valuable that Henry called Simon Yates “Freya’s secret weapon.”

  Arriving at the house, which was currently drifting over the Parliament building, Alan and Henry stepped out of the wyvern-drawn carriage onto a pier that served as the front porch. They knew better than to knock or ring the bell. Simon’s manservant, Mr. Albright, would have observed their arrival and would be waiting at the door.

  Mr. Albright was a tall man, standing well over six feet, with a muscular build, and the straight, upright stance of a military man.

  After the death of the eccentric Dame Winifred, Simon had been left alone to shift for himself in the vast house. Although he had protested that he was quite capable of managing on his own, Henry had been determined to hire a suitable manservant for his invaluable friend.

  “If you insist on foisting a manservant on me,” Simon had said, “then you must find someone who won’t speak to me. I can’t abide idle chatter. And I don’t want anyone who will ‘tidy up’ or muck about with my things. And he must be completely and totally discreet. You know that I deal with a lot of sensitive information. If you can find someone like that, which I very much doubt, then I will consider him.”

  Mr. Sloan had recommended Mr. Albright as someone who would suit Simon’s exacting criteria.

  “Allistar Albright is known for his laconic manner, sir. We served many years together in the same regiment and I doubt if I have heard him say seven words in all that time,” Mr. Sloan had said.

  Simon had interviewed Mr. Albright, found him suitable, and grudgingly agreed to give him a trial. Mr. Albright had been with Simon ever since.

  Entering the house was tantamount to entering a museum (“or a freak show,” Alan had once remarked). Dame Winifred had traveled extensively and every room contained objects acquired on her journeys. Beautiful, valuable paintings adorned the walls, every one of them tilted at a crazy angle due to the movement of the house. Stuffed animals lurked in dark corners, occasionally lunging unexpectedly at startled visitors when the house was hit by a high wind. The lady collected chandeliers. Hundreds of them hung (and sometimes fell) from the ceilings, their crystal prisms casting rainbows on the walls and filling the air with faint chiming sounds.

  Ornate wooden chests contained collections—of butterflies, eggs, rare beetles and glass eyeballs. Barometers of various types were scattered about, as well as instruments designed to measure barometric pressure, rainfall, and wind speed. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with books. Having acquired more books since, with no room on the bookshelves, Simon had taken to stacking the overflow of books on the floor. The stacks of books generally toppled over whenever the house moved and had to be put to rights about once a week.

  Accompanied by the silent Mr. Albright, Henry and Alan navigated their way around the furniture and stuffed animals, both of them keeping a wary eye on the chandeliers that swayed gently with the motion of the house. They knew exactly where to find Simon and climbed the stairs to the second floor to his office. He worked here by day and most of the night, for he required only about four hours of sleep a day.

  The office was enormous, taking up most of the floor. The only other rooms on this floor were a small bedroom and the water closet. The kitchen had once been on this floor, but the lady, having arranged for all her meals to be delivered, had converted it to a scientific laboratory, and Simon had continued the arrangement for himself and Mr. Albright. Simon ate little and rarely paid attention to his food, for he always read while dining.

  Simon’s wheelchair, which the lady had designed, could roll across the floor or glide through the air. When the three arrived in his study, he propelled the chair over to greet them, reaching out to shake hands.

  “My dear Henry,” said Simon, “I heard about your house exploding. Hit by a green beam, wasn’t it? You are damn lucky you survived. That female, Eiddwen, must be behind it. She’s back in the country along with her deranged, depraved young man.”

  Henry cast an amused glance at Alan.

  “I said you would know. How did you find out? I heard word only yesterday.”

  “The two were staying in the George under false names. I suspected her when I heard the news about your house. I sent several of my agents around to the hotels with her description. The two have fled, of course. No forwarding address. You know she tried to destroy the Sunset Palace.”

  “I heard something—” Henry began.

  “She sabotaged the lift tanks. Engineers are trying to save it, but my people tell me it’s only a matter of time before the palace crashes into the lake. I don’t like it. Not one bit. Alan, I’m glad to hear the damage to the Terrapin was minimal. Alcazar’s steel works as advertised. Sit down, sit down.”

  Simon Yates was in his forties, of an age with Henry and Alan. He wore his sandy blond hair cut short so as not to have to fool with it. That, and his light blue, bright, eager eyes made him seem younger. He was always cheerful, never melancholy; never moped about, whined or felt sorry for himself. He had his work. He had his friends. And, as he was wont to say, he had humanity to entertain him.

  He led the way to his desk, steering his chair through a veritable forest of filing cabinets made of polished wood with brass fittings. Each cabinet was designated with a series of numbers and letters that made little sense to anyone but Simon. He had created this method for keeping track of all the information he collected. And though it was a mystery to everyone else, he could lay his hands on any document, paper, letter, or journal stored there within minutes.

  His desk was in a turret room located off the main chamber. Surrounded on three sides by glass, the room currently provided a magnificent view of the city of Haever and the mists of the Breath.

  An enormous telescope in one of the windows allowed Simon to get a close-up look at just about anything he desired. A large chart table stood alongside his desk, on which he had spread out a map. Behind the table was a slate chalkboard.

  Simon steered his chair to his desk, which was the size of six ordinary desks put together and had been built especially for him. Henry had no idea what the top of the desk looked like, for he had never seen it. It was covered with papers a foot deep arranged in neat, orderly piles, tied up in ribbons of various colors
.

  Henry and Alan sat down in chairs located on either side of Simon. This way, he could show them any document to which he referred. Mr. Albright, silent and unmoving, stood hands folded, in his usual place in a corner of the room. He reminded Henry of one of the stuffed animals.

  “I will explain why I sent for you,” said Simon. “You must bear with me a moment.”

  “We always bear with you, my friend,” said Henry.

  Simon grinned appreciatively and continued. “I could give you report after report. Every other country in the world has been hit by the Bottom Dwellers. Every country except Freya. They have yet to strike at our heart.”

  “Alan and I were saying the same thing yesterday,” said Henry.

  “Eiddwen did not come back just to knock down your house, Henry.” Simon pointed to a pile of documents. “Alan, toss over that bunch of newspapers, the ones tied with the green ribbon that are on top.”

  Alan did as he was asked. Simon removed the ribbon and set it aside.

  “I used green, you’ll note. I thought that an appropriate color for the Bottom Dwellers.” He held up a newspaper. “From the court records of the twelfth circuit, published in the Lowland Gazette. I will summarize. A farmer was plowing his land when he struck a large boulder partially buried in the ground. The blade of the plow broke. Are you following me so far?”

  He eyed Alan, who had yawned.

  “Broken plow,” said Alan. “Tell me quickly what happens next. I’m not sure I can stand the suspense.”

  “This gets better,” Simon promised. “The farmer swore in court he had been plowing the same field for years and never saw the boulder before. He claimed that the boulder had been placed there by a road crew the county had hired to repair the road a few miles from the farmer’s land. The farmer said the crew had dumped the boulder in his field. He sought restitution for his plow in county court. Wait, wait,” said Simon, seeing Alan yawn again. “Here comes the interesting part.

  “When asked how he knew the boulder had been put there by the road crew, the farmer testified that the boulder was covered with strange markings.”

  Henry sat forward in his chair, suddenly interested.

  “The farmer attributed the markings to the road crew. The crew foreman stated that his crew had not dug up the boulder, they had not put any markings on it, nor had they dumped the boulder in the field. He swore under oath. The judge agreed and the farmer’s suit was defeated.”

  Henry frowned and put the tips of his fingers together.

  Alan was puzzled. “Could I ask—”

  “No, you can not,” said Simon. “What you can do is look at the map of Freya I have spread out on the table and note the location of Lowland. You see it marked there with a green pin.”

  Alan and Henry dutifully noted the location of the green pin.

  “Next we have an article written by one Alberta Higgenbotham that appeared in the Slopford Herald—”

  “You’re making that up,” said Alan. “No town would name itself ‘Slopford.’”

  “Indeed I am not. The town was named for the Slopfords, a highly respected family of long standing. Now sit there and be quiet. The article is titled: ‘Spirits Active in Our Community.’”

  Alan groaned and flung himself back in his chair.

  “Mistress Higgenbotham is a well-known medium in the area, who claims to be on familiar terms with the local ghosts and spirits. She was riding in her wyvern-drawn carriage one day, when she looked down and saw several large boulders placed at regular intervals around the fields.

  “Believing this could not be a natural phenomenon, she landed her carriage to investigate. She found—note this—‘strange markings on the boulders.’”

  Simon looked at Henry as he spoke.

  “She states: ‘These markings were undoubtedly placed there by spirits attempting to communicate with us, the living.’ Mistress Higginbotham writes that she is ‘organizing a tour to visit the site, during which she will attempt to speak with the spirits. Picnic luncheon will be provided.’”

  Simon paused to see what effect this had on his readers. Henry’s frown deepened. He placed the tips of his finger to his lips.

  “Boulders with strange markings,” said Alan. “I fail to see—”

  “Look at the map,” said Simon. “Note the location of Slopford. It’s marked with another green pin. Next we come to the account in another paper of the sighting of the legendary ‘Ogre of the Barthen Moor.’ The ogre was seen walking the moor in the middle of the night. Listen to the description: ‘a face that was evil, like a fiend from hell.’ We even have a drawing made by a witness.”

  Simon handed over the newspaper clipping.

  “Bottom Dweller,” said Henry grimly. “Wearing one of their demonic helms.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Alan gave a low whistle and regarded Simon in admiration and wonder.

  “Note the location of Barthen Moor on the map. The green pin. Next I have here a story in the Hempstead paper about a magistrate accusing local hooligans of dressing up as fiends from hell and roaming about the fields at night. They terrorized a shepherd and scattered his flock. The lads denied it, but they did admit they had spent the evening drinking their own homemade distilled spirits and couldn’t actually recall what they had done. Note the location of Hempstead on the map.”

  Henry rose from his chair, walked over to the map, and stood staring down at it. “Alan, hand me that green ribbon.”

  Taking the ribbon, Henry stretched it from one green pin to the other. The ribbon formed a curved line. “I see more green pins. What else have you found?”

  “A police report from Glenham-by-the-Breath. The body of a young man was found in one of the lakes. Fishermen dragged up the body in their nets. The young man had died a horrible death, it seems. There was evidence he had been tortured, his body drained of blood.”

  Henry found Glenham-by-the-Breath’s green pin on the map and extended the ribbon.

  “One hundred miles away, in the village of Dunham, police reported finding the body of a young woman in a burning barn. The fire had been set deliberately to cover the murder. Neighbors were able to extinguish the fire before it could do much damage. The police found signs that the young woman had been tortured. I sent for the coroners’ reports in both instances.”

  “I’m guessing the killings are remarkably similar to that string of murders in Capione,” said Henry.

  “I see we were thinking along the same lines,” said Simon.

  “You sent people to investigate these boulders.”

  “I did better than that,” said Simon. “I went myself.”

  Alan and Henry stared at their friend in astonishment. They had never known Simon to leave his beloved house.

  “You must consider this important,” said Henry at last.

  “I consider it to be of the greatest importance,” said Simon gravely. “Albright, it is time for the next post delivery. If you will go fetch it—”

  Mr. Albright silently walked off, heading for the large mail basket, which was located at the rear of the house. The basket was the repository for newspapers and reports from his agents that arrived at all hours of the day and night. Mr. Albright emptied the basket several times a day and sorted through its contents, arranging them according to Simon’s instructions before bringing them to him.

  Simon continued. “While you two were battling Bottom Dwellers in Braffa, Albright and I visited Slopford, which, by the way, is a charming little town. I went to Hempstead and Dunham and Barthen Moor—every place you see a green pin. I found the boulders with the strange markings, all of them located in remote spots. In some instances, where it had not rained recently, I discovered what appeared to be bloodstains on the boulders or on the grass around them. I made a copy of the markings, which were roughly the same on every boulder. Turn the chalkboard around, Alan.”

  Alan complied, turning the chalkboard so that it faced them. He and Henry walked over to stand in front of it, study
ing the odd-looking markings.

  “I’m no crafter,” said Henry at last. “But those lines look like magical constructs.”

  “They are,” said Simon. “I am moderately skilled in crafting, as you know. Those are definitely magical constructs. They are like no constructs I have ever seen before—”

  “But I have,” said a voice.

  The three men turned, startled. Alan drew his pistol. Mr. Albright came barreling into the room, scattering the mail in all directions, and jumped in front of Simon, who glared at him.

  “Albright, we have discussed this predilection of yours for protecting me,” Simon told him tersely. “You are not my bodyguard. Return to your post. I cannot see our visitor.”

  Mr. Albright did not move. Simon glowered and tried to shift his chair. Mr. Albright had him penned behind the desk.

  “Who the devil are you?” Alan demanded.

  He had his pistol aimed at their visitor—a short, pudgy man wearing a long cloak, carrying his hat in his hand. He stood at the end of the desk gazing intently at the chalkboard. He looked travel worn and weary.

  “Don’t shoot,” said Henry. “I know him. He is Monsieur Dubois, agent for the grand bishop of Rosia.”

  “All the more reason I should shoot him,” Alan growled.

  “Please do not do anything in haste, Captain Northrop.” The speaker was Mr. Sloan, hurrying up to stand alongside Dubois. The tall secretary loomed over the little man. “When I stopped by the Naval Club to see if there were any letters, I found Mr. Dubois. He recognized me and said he had an urgent matter to discuss with you—a matter of life and death. I took the liberty of bringing him with me.”

  “There now,” said Simon. “All is well. You can go back to your corner, Albright. And please do not let this happen again.”

  Returning to his post, Mr. Albright exchanged an oblique glance with Henry, who gave a small nod of satisfaction. Mr. Albright’s eyelids flickered in response.

  “The man’s a filthy spy!” Alan was saying angrily, still aiming the pistol. “I say we shoot him anyway.”