The Seventh Sigil Page 34

  He drew near to pluck at Sir Henry’s sleeve.

  “Do you entirely trust Captain Northrop, my lord?” Dubois asked in a whisper.

  “I trust him with my life,” said Sir Henry promptly.

  He glanced back, saw Alan’s smile and shook his head.

  “Though not, perhaps, with the life of his brother.”

  22

  People like Alan who are unusually lucky are said to have made a pact with the devil. If that’s the case, I’m sure Alan will find some way to cheat the devil of his due.

  —Sir Henry Wallace

  On their arrival at the guesthouse, they found a note from the grand bishop saying that he could spare them a few moments at the hour of one of the clock. Since that hour was not far off, Henry went to change his clothes. He had brought along his finest court apparel and he was soon resplendent in green velvet pantaloons with white stockings, an embroidered satin coat over an embroidered weskit, a white cravat trimmed with lace and lace trim on his cuffs.

  He checked to make certain he had the queen’s writ with him, went over in his mind the pack of lies he was going to tell the grand bishop, then looked at his pocket watch. Almost time to go.

  He knocked on the door of Alan’s room and opened it to find his friend was not there. He discovered him outdoors in the courtyard, chatting amiably with a couple of priests. Henry summoned “Mr. North” and Alan, keeping up his role, made his excuses to the priests, saying he had to attend upon his master.

  “What did you find out?” Henry asked, when the priests had bowed and departed.

  “Quite a bit, actually,” said Alan. “Can we talk here?”

  “I shall take a stroll about the plaza while I wait for Dubois. Hold my coat,” said Henry. “The day’s frightfully warm.”

  “I would be thrilled to hold your coat, my lord,” said Alan. “Holding your coat will be the highlight of my day, my lord.”

  “Go to hell,” said Henry, grinning.

  “I will go in an instant, my lord,” said Alan, grinning back. “If you will show the way.”

  Henry sat down upon a bench and fanned himself with his hat. Alan took his proper place behind Sir Henry, drawing near to make his report.

  “I steered the conversation to these monks of Saint What’s It.”

  “Saint Klee,” said Henry. He frowned slightly. “We already have information on the monks from Dubois.”

  “Forgive me if I do not entirely trust the grand bishop’s most trusted agent. I was convinced that Dubois exaggerated their powers, but apparently he was telling the truth. If anything, he underestimated them. These monks are the very devil when it comes to martial magicks. Though it is true that they don’t kill a fellow unless they have to.”

  “They will spare us to see our necks in a noose,” said Henry drily. “Let us hope to God Simon’s invention works. You make those ready while I’m in my meeting. I’m not sure how long this will take. Montagne will probably keep me waiting to show me what a great man he is.”

  “Take your time,” said Alan lightly. “I’ve seen several extremely attractive nuns. Oh, for God’s sake, Henry, don’t look at me like that. I’m only teasing. Here’s Dubois coming to see why you are late.”

  Dubois had emerged from the guesthouse entrance and was standing in the plaza, peering about impatiently. Henry rose to his feet.

  “I must go. Help me on with my coat.”

  Alan dutifully held Henry’s coat for him. As Henry was sliding his arms into the sleeves, he said softly, “You are up to something, Alan. What is it?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” said Alan smoothly. “I plan to spend the afternoon assembling the weapons and studying the lay of the land.”

  Henry turned to fix his friend with an intense look.

  “We are here for our country, Alan. For Freya. The lives of our countrymen hang in the balance. For God’s sake, do not do anything rash.”

  “Me? Rash? I am the soul of prudence,” said Alan. “Prudence could be my name.”

  He patted Henry on the shoulder, smoothing his coat and flicking off a speck of dirt.

  “Thank you, Prudence,” said Henry.

  Alan chuckled. He made a bow with a flourish, then sauntered back to the guesthouse, calling greetings to those he met along the way. Henry kept an eye on Alan as he walked off. He didn’t like leaving him to his own devices, but he had no choice. Alan had to assemble the weapons.

  Henry commended them all to God, adjusted the lace on his cuffs, and went to join Dubois, who was frowning at his pocket watch and tapping his foot.

  * * *

  As Henry had predicted, the grand bishop kept him waiting in the antechamber, but for only an hour, however, not as long as Henry had anticipated. Henry had used the same tactic himself on occasion, hoping to rattle a visitor, and he took care not to permit himself to become angry or annoyed.

  The afternoon was fine, with a slight breeze off the inland sea to cool the air. The chairs in the antechamber were comfortable. Henry relaxed or sauntered about, looking out the window that opened into a pleasant garden. Admiring a rosebush with deep crimson blooms, he thought of his dear Mouse, who was fond of roses. He did not allow himself to think of her long, for he had to keep his mind on business. He could trust Mr. Sloan to keep her and his son safe.

  Dubois sat down in a chair, leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and fell into a light doze. A good idea, Henry conceded. They hadn’t had much sleep last night and there would be no sleep at all this night if everything went as planned.

  Henry sat down, but he could not fall asleep. He was too excited, filled with nervous anticipation.

  His main worry was Alan. Intelligent, quick-thinking, loyal, and courageous; Alan, the one man above all others Henry would choose to have at his back in a crisis. But he was also the one man more liable than any other to create a crisis. Alan’s saving grace was that he had the devil’s own luck.

  Henry rose from his chair, walked over to the door that led to Montagne’s office, and put his ear to the door. He could hear Montagne talking to someone. By his brief and respectful responses, the someone was an underling, probably a secretary. The thought occurred to him that he and Dubois were alone in an antechamber that should have been crowded with people waiting to see the grand bishop: crafter priests wanting to discuss the rebuilding of the Citadel after the attack; Sisters of Mercy here to report on the wounded; messengers from the king. There was no one even walking in the garden, enjoying the beauty of the day. If it hadn’t been for faintly heard distant sounds, Henry would have thought the Citadel had been completely deserted.

  Roaming about, he discovered a door that led to an adjoining room. He entered to find a small library and examined the titles on the shelves. They were all theological in nature, of course. He selected one and took it back to his chair. He was absorbed in reading when the door opened. The secretary emerged and said the grand bishop was at leisure to see them.

  Dubois was instantly awake and on his feet. Henry took his time, reading a few more paragraphs, just to fluster the secretary, who coughed and repeated again that the grand bishop would see them.

  “Fascinating,” said Henry.

  He closed the book and laid it down on the table.

  After carefully adjusting his lace cuffs and arranging his cravat, he followed the grand bishop’s agent inside. The secretary announced Sir Henry Wallace and Monsieur Dubois and then left them. Henry could clearly hear the man’s receding footfalls.

  He focused on them because he was having a difficult time controlling his countenance. Dubois had told him that Montagne had been ill lately. Henry was not prepared for what he found.

  He had not attended the Rosian court for well over a year. He knew King Alaric hated him, suspecting him of spying on Rosian affairs and of being involved in sundry crimes, not the least of which was the murder of the Rosian ambassador to Travia.

  Henry might have laughed off King Alaric’s public sneers and cutting remarks, which were
neither very cutting nor very bright, and attended court anyway. The true reason he had decided to stay away from Rosia was that he feared the clever and beautiful Countess de Marjolaine. She had disrupted one of his plots and come perilously close to catching him. She had seen to it that a warrant was issued for his arrest. He had returned to Rosia in peril of his life, sneaking into the country to abduct Alcazar and his magical steel.

  Thus it had been a long time since Henry had seen Montagne. The man was so altered in appearance that Henry would not have known him. Montagne did not rise to greet him. Not an insult. Henry doubted if the man could stand up.

  Montagne was a big man now gone to almost skin and bones and flab. His cassock hung from gaunt shoulders. His face was an unhealthy sallow color. Yet there was smoldering fire in his eyes when he gazed upon his longtime foe.

  “I am sorry to hear you have not been well, Eminence,” said Henry, seating himself in a chair directly across the desk from the grand bishop.

  Dubois did not sit down, but went to stand at a window, distancing himself from the proceedings.

  “I hope you were not injured in the attack of the Bottom Dwellers.”

  Montagne shot a baleful glance at Dubois.

  Henry saw the look and intervened. “I recognized from the extent and nature of the damage that this attack was made by the weapons of this particular foe. I know because they attacked my own manor house.”

  “Bottom Dwellers,” said the grand bishop, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you call them that, sir?”

  “Perhaps because that is what they call themselves,” said Henry. “We managed to capture and interrogate one of the fiends.”

  Montagne looked disappointed. He had undoubtedly been hoping Henry would say something to implicate Father Jacob.

  “I am not yet convinced that these so-called Bottom Dwellers even exist,” said Montagne, scowling. He glared at Henry. “I think it far more likely Freyans launched this assault.”

  “You do not really believe that, Eminence,” said Henry calmly. “You have received reports regarding the fall of the Braffan refineries to these Bottom Dwellers and the disastrous defeat suffered by our naval forces. Damage we were not likely to inflict upon ourselves.”

  Montagne glowered.

  Before he could speak, Henry continued. “But I did not travel all this way to discuss this enemy.”

  “Why have you come, then?” Montagne asked.

  Henry removed the falsified writ from his inner coat pocket. Rising, he laid it on the desk in front of the grand bishop.

  “You recognize Her Majesty’s seal, Eminence. I assume you know how to safely remove it,” said Henry.

  The grand bishop lifted his hand. His fingers began to shake and he hurriedly rested his hand on the desk.

  “You had better open it, sir,” he said.

  Henry obliged by removing the magical construct that had been placed on the purple wax seal. Using the grand bishop’s silver letter opener, he slit the envelope and extracted the writ.

  The grand bishop picked up the paper and read. Astonished, he looked to Dubois to verify what he was reading. Dubois inclined his head. Montagne dropped the paper on the desk and looked at Henry.

  “You know what this says, sir?”

  “I have the honor to be in Her Majesty’s confidence, Eminence,” said Henry.

  “Is she serious?”

  “Her Majesty, Queen Mary, is always serious, Eminence,” said Henry in cold, rebuking tones.

  “Yes, yes, you know what I mean,” said Montagne. “Is Queen Mary seriously considering abolishing the Church of God’s Word and rejoining the Church of God’s Breath?”

  As Dubois had said, the reunification of the two churches was Montagne’s dearest dream. Henry had offered him his heart’s desire. Unfortunately, the writ was a ruse. Queen Mary would never consider abolishing the Freyan church, which was flourishing.

  “Her Majesty is considering the possibility,” said Henry cautiously. “She would require certain assurances.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Montagne, pathetically eager.

  Henry went on to propose terms, making them up as he went along. Montagne’s face brightened and gained some color. He became animated, effusive, talking about a future that would never come to pass, a future that the grand bishop would soon discover had all been a ploy, a trick. Henry almost felt sorry for the man. When he discovered the truth, the blow would be not only to his body, but to his very soul.

  Henry glanced at Dubois, who had remained at the window. His usually mild expression was grave. Henry guessed Dubois was thinking the same. Dubois caught Henry’s look and gave an infinitesimal shrug, as much as to say, “Remember the stakes for which we gamble, my lord.”

  Henry had no need for Dubois to remind him. He kept in his mind the image of his wife and child as he agreed to the outrageous terms.

  Montagne was so pleased, he even invited them to tea. Wondering what Alan was doing and assuming it was probably good that he didn’t know, Henry accepted.

  * * *

  After Henry and Dubois had departed, Alan returned to their rooms. Making certain he was alone, and no monks of Saint Klee were hiding in the wardrobe, he locked the door and unpacked the clothes. Removing the false bottoms, he took out the objects, then dismantled the valises, parts of which he used to assemble Simon’s weapons: blowguns.

  Alan stuffed some of the blowguns with a special powder Simon had concocted. He filled others with round lead shot. He and Henry had both practiced extensively with the blowguns, learning how to fire the projectiles. Alan had developed a great degree of accuracy. He was capable of hitting a rat at thirty paces.

  “That could kill a man,” Alan had remarked, going over to examine the dead rat.

  “For use only in an emergency,” Simon had warned.

  “Kill a man…,” Alan muttered to himself.

  Running his fingers over the smooth surface of the blowgun, he smiled.

  Weapons assembled, he slid all but one of them under the mattress, just in case some inquisitive monk decided to inspect their rooms. Time to reconnoiter.

  He shook out one of the monk’s robes, took off his own clothes and struggled into the crimson robes of a monk of Saint Klee. He combed out his hair and wore it loose. His hair wasn’t long, falling only to his shoulders. If he kept the cowl over his head, no one would notice.

  He had carefully observed the monks at the carriage house and those he had seen along the way, taking note of the way they moved, how they carried themselves. He had questioned Dubois about them extensively and he was confident he could act the part.

  He examined himself in the mirror and was pleased with the result. His plan was risky, but Henry had said himself it would be good to ascertain if their disguises would work. Henry had not meant for Alan to test them in advance, but what Henry didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Alan strapped the blowgun to his forearm, inside one of the flowing sleeves. He gave his reflection a rakish wink, then assumed a monk’s impassive expression. Once he felt he had this right, he lifted the cowl over his head, opened the door a crack and peered into the hall. Since they were the only people currently staying at the guesthouse, he did not expect to encounter anyone. Seeing the hall was empty, he exited the door, locked it, and left.

  Keeping his hands folded, he emulated the deliberate pace of the monks. He tilted his head slightly downward to allow the cowl’s shadow to cover his face. He had committed Dubois’s map of the Citadel to memory and knew precisely where he was going. As he walked, he passed several priests and a couple of sisters along the way. Alan was pleased to note that none of them cast him a glance.

  He was forced to make a slight detour when he saw two monks coming toward him along the path. The monks of Saint Klee were a small, close-knit community. If they saw his face, they would instantly discover he was an impostor. Fortunately he was near an intersecting path. Turning off, he waited in the shadows of a grove of trees until the monk
s had walked by, then resumed his walk to the prison complex.

  Alan surveyed the walls with their three guard towers. Behind those walls were the notorious dungeons of the Citadel. His gut tightened, and his mouth went dry. He might well end his days inside that building, waiting for the executioner.

  Alan smiled grimly. Fear was a dare to himself. The wise course of action would be to go back to their rooms, wait for Henry and Dubois. He had accomplished his mission, studied the route they would need to take tonight and ascertained that their disguises would allow them to pass without hindrance at least as far as the prison gate. Once they reached the gate, they had their weapons.

  Alan counseled himself to return. He’d promised Henry nothing rash. Then he decided going as far as the front gate wasn’t rash. He’d just see how many monks were on guard.

  He continued walking down the winding path that led to the prison. He had not gone far when he heard footsteps behind him and heard a voice call, “Brother!”

  Another monk was approaching him, walking swiftly. “Damnation!” Alan swore. He was trapped. The path on which they were both walking was a narrow one, lined with trees and shrubbery. Those offered good cover, except the sight of a monk suddenly bolting into the greenery would alert every monk in the Citadel. He could only stand, grit his teeth, keep his cowl lowered, and keep in mind what Henry often said.

  Alan Northrop has the devil’s own luck.

  This was true. If there was a Travian merchant ship with a hold stuffed with gold sailing anywhere in the Breath, Alan and his pirate crew were certain to stumble across it. Pistols aimed at him point blank invariably misfired. Bullets meant to blow off his head took off his hat. If he was having a romantic encounter, he was out the back door just as the husband was coming in the front.

  The devil did not fail him this time.

  The monk spoke hurriedly. “I am summoned to the hospital. Brother Anselm is on his deathbed. He brought me into the brotherhood and I would like to be with him, to ease his passing. I am supposed to deliver the prisoners’ midday meal. Could you take this for me?”