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  Miri accompanied them into the passageway.

  “Papa, you look ill and tired. Don’t return to the abbey. You must spend the night with us.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Father Jacob. “But I must report back. If not, Sir Ander will be certain to come looking for me.”

  “We will see you tomorrow?” Miri asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Father Jacob replied cheerfully. “You’ll be seeing a good deal of me.”

  Stephano didn’t like the sound of that. Miri went to her sister and Brother Barnaby. Stephano and Dag escorted the priest to the top deck. The sun was sinking into the twisting coils of the Breath. The twilight was murky, unsettled. Wind gusts rose unexpectedly, singing in the rigging with a mournful sound that echoed Gythe.

  The Suspicion was gone. The captain and crew of the sunken vessel were straggling up the hill to the abbey, carrying their wounded with them on litters. Rodrigo leaned on the rail, gazing down into the swirling mists that had swallowed up the ship. He looked up, saw Father Jacob, and looked away.

  “If you please, Monsieur de Villeneuve,” said Father Jacob. “I am going to be returning to my yacht. I would appreciate it if you would walk with me.”

  Rodrigo cast Stephano an alarmed glance.

  “He can’t help you, I’m afraid,” said Father Jacob.

  “I’ll just go… fetch my cloak,” Rodrigo said faintly.

  Stephano, looking out into the inky sky, saw one of the two dragon brothers circling above the cathedral spires. “Do you think the demons will be back tonight, Father?” Stephano asked quietly.

  “At a guess, I would say no,” said Father Jacob. “They found what they came for. Or rather, they didn’t find it, but they no longer believe it is here.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Stephano.

  “You’re not meant to,” said Father Jacob. “Just in case, you should move your boat near the abbey walls, close to Retribution. And your proximity to my yacht will save us time in the morning.”

  “Time for what?” Stephano asked suspiciously. “Time to put us under Seal? I have important work to do in Westfirth. I give you my word of honor, Father, that none of us will say anything-”

  “I accept your word, Captain,” said Father Jacob gravely. “You are Sir Ander’s godson. No more need be said on the subject. And, that reminds me, I have been remiss in offering you my sincere thanks. You saved the day, Captain de Guichen. You and our friends, Hroalfrig and Droalfrig.”

  Stephano brushed aside the praise. “So we can sail to Westfirth?”

  “You can sail, Captain, if you will permit us to accompany you,” said Father Jacob. “The Retribution needs extensive repairs. Master Albert says that the yacht can be taken under tow to the shipyards at Westfirth. I was thinking the Cloud Hopper could handle that job. The journey requires only a few hours, as I understand it.”

  Stephano was not certain he wanted to spend even a few hours with Father Jacob. He needed to reach Westfirth, however, to pursue the hunt for information regarding the kidnapped journeyman, Alcazar-almost forgotten in the dramatic events of the past few days.

  “Brother Barnaby can remain with Mistress Gythe,” Father Jacob continued. “I think that would be wise. The two have been through similar experiences. The demons spoke to him, as well.”

  “You think the demons spoke to Gythe?” Stephano asked, astonished.

  Father Jacob sighed and gave a grave nod. “I believe they did. They spoke to me. I didn’t answer, but I think she did.”

  Stephano was doubtful, incredulous.

  “You said the demon commander came for her, Captain,” Father Jacob explained. “Even though she was down below, locked in her cabin, the demon still found her. He was guided by her voice, as it were.”

  “I will have to speak to Miri about towing the yacht,” said Stephano, troubled. “The Cloud Hopper is her boat. But I am certain she will be more than happy to assist you.”

  “Excellent!” said Father Jacob. “I trust I will have the pleasure of seeing you and your friends later this evening after you’ve moved the boat. And now, Monsieur de Villeneuve, I await your convenience.”

  Rodrigo pressed Stephano’s hand. “You will think of me from time to time, my friend, as I sit chained to the wall in some forgotten oubliette…”

  “By far the best place for you,” Stephano said firmly. “If you say a word to him about Alcazar, I’ll chain you up myself.”

  Rodrigo reached inside his coat. “I almost forgot. I found this. Dag says it’s a demonic grenade.” He held out the brass plate with the diamond to Stephano, who regarded it with disgust and made no move to touch it. “He says this is what the demons used to shoot off their green fire-”

  Father Jacob swooped in with a flurry of black, plucked the brass plate from Rodrigo’s hand, and tucked it into the bosom of his cassock. The priest’s movements were so fast that Rodrigo stood staring blankly at his empty palm.

  “A remarkable find, Monsieur,” said Father Jacob. He slapped Rodrigo on the shoulder. “Perhaps I won’t have you burned at the stake as a heretic after all.”

  “He’s jesting, isn’t he?” Rodrigo asked nervously, looking back at Stephano over his shoulder. Stephano only waved and Rodrigo turned to the priest, “You’re jesting, Father, right?”

  Dag sailed the Cloud Hopper to the abbey, landing the houseboat on the ground close to Retribution. Dinner was a somber affair and didn’t last long. Brother Paul insisted that he was well enough to go minister to the captain and crew of the sunken ship, who had taken refuge in the one stable that had not been burned. Father Jacob warned everyone to keep out of the cathedral, due to the extensive damage.

  Droalfrig had flown off, at Father Jacob’s request, carrying urgent dispatches to the Arcanum. Hroalfrig’s wound was healing well. The dragon had offered to stay at the abbey, assist in its defense and make certain the sailors under Seal did not try to leave.

  “The Arcanum will send a fast ship to pick up the survivors from the Suspicion and Brother Paul and take them to the Citadel for their own protection,” Sir Ander told Stephano. “Don’t worry. They will be treated well. They won’t be thrown into an oubliette.”

  “Rigo has a vivid imagination,” said Stephano.

  He had asked Rodrigo what Father Jacob had spoken to him about.

  “He questioned me about Gythe and her magic and the demonic magic and my thoughts on it,” said Rodrigo. He paused a moment, then said, “He recommended most strongly that I keep such thoughts to myself. Then he asked if I would like to come to the Arcanum.”

  “By God, if he tries to take you-”

  “No, no,” said Rodrigo soothingly. “He wants to know if I’d like to become a priest.”

  Stephano burst out laughing.

  “Yes,” said Rodrigo. “That was my answer.”

  Dag brought over his tools and offered to assist Master Albert with the repair work on the yacht. Stephano went to check on Gythe and found her lying asleep on the floor beside Brother Barnaby, who had also fallen asleep. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hands were twined around his. Doctor Ellington slept with them, his large furry body stretched out across the monk’s ankles. Miri kept watch over them all.

  Stephano and Sir Ander had agreed to take turns on guard. Stephano took first watch. He had never minded guard duty. He liked being alone with his thoughts, and although he was bone-tired, he knew from experience that even if he went to bed, he would not be able to rest. He would relive the battle with the demons over and over, seeing it in his mind in bright flashes like strikes of lightning.

  Hearing footsteps, he turned to find Father Jacob, his black cassock tinged with silver in the moonlight, coming toward him.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said by way of explanation. “I didn’t want to disturb Sir Ander and so I thought I would come disturb you, Captain de Guichen. If you don’t object to some company?”

  “Not at all, Father,” said Stephano politely. “My own thoughts aren’
t very good companions.”

  Father Jacob joined him in his pacing. They walked for a few moments in silence, then Father Jacob said, “I know you have a great many questions, Captain. You and your comrades are risking your life to help me without knowing why. I wish I could explain, but I cannot. It seems unfair.”

  “I do have one question,” said Stephano.

  “I cannot promise to answer it,” said Father Jacob.

  “I know. But I’d feel better asking.”

  Stephano paused, staring out into the Breath, where strands of mists were casting nets around the moon.

  “Did the gates of Hell open this day, Father?”

  The priest regarded Stephano intently for long moments. Then he turned his gaze toward the abbey with its shattered windows and blood-soaked ground and gave a soft sigh.

  “That depends on your definition of Hell, Captain,” replied Father Jacob.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They say fortune favors the bold, the foolish, and the prepared. Here, fortune favors the heavily armed.

  Welcome to Westfirth.

  – Graffiti, Anonymous

  LIFE HAD NOT BEEN EASY FOR SIR HENRY WALLACE these past two weeks. While Stephano and Father Jacob were battling demons, Sir Henry was battling inanity. Given a choice between fighting demons and trying to figure his way out of the present accursed predicament, Sir Henry might well have chosen the demons. At least he could have ended his problem on the blade of a sword. Which is what he was seriously considering at the present moment. As he now stood glaring at Pietro Alcazar, Sir Henry was tempted, sorely tempted, to slice the journeyman’s scrawny throat.

  Alcazar was undoubtedly a genius. He had discovered the greatest invention of the last several centuries: how to combine metal with the magical Breath of God, rendering steel strong enough to withstand bullets, gunpowder, and cannonballs. His invention would revolutionize warfare. Unfortunately, the inventor was not only a genius, he was a whimpering, whining, stubborn, piss-yellow Rosian dog of a coward.

  Sir Henry had known from the start that Pietro Alcazar was not what one might term a shining example of honor and nobility. Alcazar had, after all, offered to sell his invention to Freya, his country’s most implacable foe, dedicated to Rosia’s utter annihilation. Still, Sir Henry had expected the man to have more backbone than your average blancmange.

  Having received the pewter tankard from Alcazar’s brother, Manuel, and having tested the tankard with the help of Mr. Sloan, Sir Henry had left his pregnant young wife to make a dangerous trip to Rosia in order to meet with Pietro Alcazar and personally transport him safely back to Freya.

  The agreed-upon meeting place was the city of Westfirth, that cesspool of corruption, much loved by smugglers, pirates, and spies. Westfirth was an old city, founded by Freyans some seven hundred years ago and had remained loyal to Freya during the Black Fire War, fighting to the end before going down to defeat. The victorious Rosian army had not been kind to Westfirth’s citizens. Whether they were Freyan or Rosian, all were considered traitors. Bitter memories still lingered.

  Upon his arrival in Westfirth, Sir Henry sent a note to Alcazar, who lived in Evreux on Half Moon Street, arranging their meeting. Using one of his many disguises, Sir Henry had secured a suite of rooms in an inn and then waited for Alcazar.

  Alcazar received the letter, but he was having second thoughts and he tossed the letter in the fireplace-which was where Rodrigo would later find it. When Alcazar failed to arrive at the meeting place, Sir Henry, seething, acted promptly. He sent his agents, under the leadership of James Harrington (alias Sir Richard Piefer), to procure Alcazar. Harrington was to handle Alcazar gently but firmly and send him on his way, under escort, to Westfirth. Harrington was then to linger on Half Moon Street to see who took an interest in Alcazar’s disappearance and to deal with them as circumstances warranted.

  Harrington had of late proved to be troublesome. The man had begun to think too highly of himself, leading him to indulge in rash and reckless behavior. Sir Henry had more than once thought of cutting Harrington loose, but the man had two qualities that made him valuable: his ability to masquerade as anything from a chimney sweep to an ambassador and his skill with firearms.

  In this instance, Harrington delivered the goods. He and his associates swept up Alcazar in the middle of the night and carried him off. When Alcazar was escorted into Sir Henry’s presence by his captors, the first thing the journeyman saw was Sir Henry cleaning his pistols. Alcazar collapsed, senseless.

  Sir Henry revived the wretched journeyman and assured him that he was not only safe from the moneylenders, he was about to take a trip to Freya where he would become a very wealthy man. He would have his own armory, his own journeymen, everything he needed to continue his work.

  “But I don’t want to go to Freya, Monsieur Russo,” said Alcazar.

  (Henry had not, of course, given Alcazar his true name. He had told Alcazar that he was Monsieur Russo, a mere agent of the famous spymaster, Sir Henry Wallace.)

  “Of course you want to go to Freya,” Henry snapped.

  “No, I don’t, sir,” Alcazar said, trembling. “I just want my money.”

  It seemed that the genius Pietro Alcazar had spent a lot of time reflecting on what he had done and had-somewhat belatedly-come to the horrifying realization that if he was caught fleeing to Freya, he would be branded a traitor. Alcazar knew what happened to traitors. He had witnessed their cruel deaths and seen their heads mounted on pikes on the palace grounds and watched the crows peck out their eyes. And not only would he be branded a traitor, his brother would be executed as his accomplice, his brother’s young family turned out into the streets.

  “All I want is my money,” Alcazar kept whining, apparently having some idea that if he merely took money for the secret formulae, he was not betraying his country.

  Sir Henry could have locked up Alcazar in a trunk and hauled him to Freya bodily, but his invention of magically infused steel was so vitally important that Sir Henry did not dare upset the genius. A browbeaten, terrified Alcazar might decide to take his revenge on his captor by sabotaging the project. Sir Henry needed Alcazar to come willingly, gladly, enthusiastically.

  Sir Henry endeavored to explain to Alcazar that once he was in Freya, he would be under Freyan protection. The Rosians could not harm him and he at last persuaded Alcazar to agree to go to Freya, if his brother and his family could accompany him.

  Sir Henry spent several days making careful arrangements. He and Pietro Alcazar were to travel to Freya on board the merchant vessel, Silver Raven, on which Pietro’s brother, Manuel, served. Manuel’s wife and children would be smuggled out on a different ship, so as not to arouse suspicion, and transported to the Aligoes Islands. From there, they would be taken to Freya.

  Since Alcazar’s brother, Manuel, was currently on board the Silver Raven and it was somewhere between Bheldem and Westfirth, he could not be reached. Sir Henry discreetly approached his wife. With a passel of small children to feed, she was living on the meager earnings of a sailor and was only too happy to agree to leave Westfirth, especially with wealth in the offing.

  All Henry had to do now was await the return of the Silver Raven. The manifest the captain had filed with the port authorities stated the ship was expected back in port in approximately a week, give or take a few days due to uncertain weather.

  Sadly, the genius, Pietro Alcazar, remained in a state of perturbation. He was certain the Rosian guard was on his trail and feared that any moment they would break down the door and arrest him. He trembled whenever he heard a footstep in the hall and this morning he had nearly fainted when a troop of soldiers came marching down the street on their way to the Old Fort. It was at this juncture Sir Henry seriously considered skewering the journeyman. Instead he had to appease him, keep him happy.

  “You are in no danger whatsoever,” Sir Henry assured the wretched Alcazar. “But it is true that we have stayed in one place too long. We are going to swit
ch to a new location.”

  He and Alcazar had moved from the inn to a seedy boarding house much like the one in which Alcazar had lived in Evreux. Sir Henry had been alarmed that morning when the old biddy down the hall tried to engage him in conversation. Probably quite innocent, but he wasn’t one to take chances.

  Henry often used the city of Westfirth as his base of operations when he made his secret trips to Rosia. He had loyal people in his employ and vast and extensive connections with the Westfirth criminal underworld. Smugglers and assassins and thieves knew him by a different face, a different name (“the Guvnor”). He had money, disguises, documents, and weapons of all kinds stashed in various locations throughout the city. He went out the next day, made the necessary arrangements, and returned that night to collect Alcazar.

  Sir Henry spent long moments observing the dark street from the window of his room, making certain no one was loitering in the shadows. The street was empty. He and Alcazar, both heavily cloaked, left the boarding house in the dead of night and walked to another house with a “For Let” sign in the window. Sir Henry had procured a key and the two entered.

  Drawing the heavy curtains, Sir Henry lighted a lantern and placed it on a dust-covered table.

  “I brought you a change of clothing,” he said, opening a large portmanteau.

  Alcazar stared, astonished, at the contents.

  “You want me to dress as a woman?”

  “An excellent disguise, don’t you think?” Sir Henry said coolly. “I have rooms for us at the Blue Peacock. I went there in the guise of a servant and told the proprietor that my master, a noble gentleman of substantial means, is planning a secret assignation with a married woman whose husband must not know of the affair. I will be the noble gentleman. You will be my mistress.”

  Pietro Alcazar was a slender, lithe man with long, soft brown hair and large brown eyes. His hands were working man’s hands, not the soft hands of a lady, but gloves would hide that defect. His effeminate build and features had given Sir Henry the idea for the disguise.