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  Sir Henry had examined the wall and discovered that she had indeed destroyed the magic. She was not only talking heresy. She was practicing heresy. If he were caught listening to her, nothing could save him-neither wealth, rank, nor power. The queen herself would be forced to disavow him. He would be proclaimed a warlock and burned at the stake.

  Yet, if this contramagic could be transformed into a weapon as she claimed… He could see in his mind’s eye the destruction of the ships of the Rosian Naval Fleet: masts falling, hulls breaking apart, balloons exploding in green fire, men plunging to their deaths in the Breath. Rosia humbled, ground into the dirt.

  After much serious thought, Sir Henry decided that the development of this weapon was worth the risk. He funded the project; within two years, they were ready to test it. Their choice of target was the naval cutter, Defiant. Disguised as pirates, Eiddwen and her “people” attacked the cutter with devastating results. The green beam weapon almost completely disabled the ship. They did not sink the cutter. They deliberately left it afloat in order to later sneak aboard it to study the damage.

  Henry was there with two of his most loyal associates: Admiral Randolph Baker and the famous Freyan privateer, Captain Andrew Northrop, (brother to Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum, a relationship neither cared to acknowledge). Mr. Sloan was there because Mr. Sloan was always there.

  Sir Henry and Admiral Baker and Captain Northrop were all enthusiastic about the contramagic weapon, seeing it as the salvation of their country. The next day, Sir Henry paid Eiddwen an immense sum of money, practically a king’s ransom. Several days after that, Eiddwen vanished.

  Sir Henry went to visit her and found the house vacant. He let himself inside, hoping to find some clue as to her whereabouts, but the rooms were bare. She had left behind nothing but dust. He had been duped by this woman, who had taken his money and then fled. Baffled and furious, Sir Henry spared no expense trying to find Eiddwen. All he could discover was that she had an alias as vague and mysterious as herself. She was called the Sorceress by some of her associates. He could find no trace of her, however.

  The years passed. Sir Henry had not forgotten Eiddwen nor had he forgiven her. He had come to believe the experiment on the Defiant had been some sort of hoax, an event staged to induce him to hand over the money. And then he began to receive reports of watchtowers crumbling for no apparent reason. He visited one of the sites and saw for himself the scorch marks, so similar to those on the Defiant. He knew the cause, but he dared not tell anyone, for he would have been forced to admit his involvement in contramagic.

  And now this murderous attack. Demonic creatures riding giant bats. If any man other than the practical Sloan had written this, Sir Henry would have dismissed him as a lunatic.

  I am a member of a group of people, Eiddwen had told him. Were those people fiends? Was she in league with the forces of Hell? Sir Henry could have believed this if he had believed in Hell. As it was, the prospect was dire enough without involving the Evil One. Yet, if not the Devil, who?

  Eiddwen had lashed out at him, and he had no way to strike back. For the first time in his life, Henry was helpless. He did not like the feeling. It made him angry. Eiddwen had attacked his family. He wondered why. Why come for him after all these years? If she had wanted to kill him because he knew about her and her connection with the contramagic, she could have done so before this. Her timing could not possibly be worse.

  “Not now!” Henry muttered, his hand closing, crushing the letter. “I can’t deal with this woman now!”

  He rose to his feet, picked up the satchel containing the tankard, and limped slowly out of the church. He walked though the graveyard, pausing here and there as though fondly remembering old friends. He stopped at the tomb bearing the Rosian version of his name, “Henri,” and glanced down.

  A bunch of violets lay in the grass.

  Other agents besides Harrington knew to leave messages for him here, yet none of his agents used violets. He picked them up. They were bound with a green ribbon and there was a note tucked beneath the stems.

  By now you have heard about the destruction of your manor house. Are you impressed? Come to Bitter End Lane this evening when the clock chimes six. We need to talk.

  No name, but a knot had been drawn on the bottom of the note. He had seen that knot before-on the pendant that hung from the golden chain around Eiddwen’s neck.

  He sniffed at the violets and carried them back with him into the church. Henry took his seat in the pew and remained there to hear the afternoon service. After the service, he entered the confessional. Once inside, Henry took off his clerical robes. The well-dressed Rosian nobleman who emerged from the church that afternoon bore no resemblance to the elderly cleric who had entered it with one exception-he was still carrying the satchel.

  Returning to the inn, Sir Henry pondered the instructions in the note. The dockyards at that time of evening would be deserted, though there would still be some light for the sun did not set until after seven. Eiddwen would know, of course, that he would have refused to meet her in the dead of night.

  On his arrival at the Blue Parrot, he told the jubilant Alcazar that his brother’s ship was due in tomorrow and that he should start packing.

  Late that afternoon, a tall man dressed as a lawyer, with a white periwig sitting slightly askew atop his head, left the Blue Parrot. The lawyer, like most lawyers, was carrying a leather satchel.

  As a guest of the Archbishop of Westfirth, Father Jacob Northrup had taken up residence in the archbishop’s temporary residence, a stolid and imposing structure known among the city’s residents as the Old Fort.

  Father Jacob disliked staying anywhere as a guest of anyone, but with the Retribution being refitted at the ship yard, he didn’t have much choice. He could have taken lodgings at an inn, but he required a secure room in order to protect the books of Saint Dennis. Much to the amusement of Sir Ander, Father Jacob was forced to swallow his pride and accept the invitation of the archbishop, who was honored and delighted to have such a renowned priest as Father Jacob of the Arcanum stay with him.

  The archbishop was less delighted when Father Jacob arrived. Father Jacob was not a good guest at the best of times. Impatient to return to the Arcanum, where he could study the books on contramagic at his leisure and not worry about their safety, the priest was irritable and demanding. He insisted on changing the location of his rooms three times before he found one that suited him.

  Fortunately, the archbishop was an energetic, enthusiastic, zealous man who was so busy cleaning up the disreputable city of Westfirth and building his new cathedral that he had little time to fret over the peccadilloes of his eccentric guest. The archbishop was away most of the day, supervising the construction or marching into opium dens proclaiming the Word of God, leaving Father Jacob, Sir Ander, and Brother Barnaby to themselves.

  The Old Fort was located at the bottom of a mountain that towered one hundred feet above the north entrance to the bay. At the top of the mountain was the Bastion, where dragons of the defunct Dragon Brigade had once resided. Once home to a local marquis and later to the Admiral of the Western Fleet, the Old Fort consisted of a castlelike structure with a great many drafty rooms that looked imposing, but which were actually cheerless, cold, and uncomfortable. The battlements extended out from the castle, running along the edge of a cliff, broken by watchtowers. Gun emplacements made of concrete had been built into the cliff face beneath the battlements. Ten forty-twopound, long-barreled cannons guarded the entrance to Westfirth Bay, and a full score of sixty-four-pound, short-barreled cannons, known as frogs guarded the long guns.

  At the very hour Stephano and Rodrigo were entering the cafe where they would encounter James Harrington, Father Jacob and his friend, Sir Ander, were strolling the parapets overlooking the Breath. The view was magnificent, as Sir Ander noted.

  Father Jacob paid no attention to Sir Ander or to the view. He walked the length of the parapet-from one guard tower to the ot
her-then turned and walked back. His head was bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression grim, his thoughts grimmer. Sir Ander had tried to keep up with him, but after the third time back and forth, the knight gave up. He leaned against the wall and gazed out at the naval gunboats patrolling the harbor.

  The archbishop had stated gloomily that he’d heard from the grand bishop that war with Freya was imminent. The death of Ambassador de Villeneuve made war a certainty. The arrival of a large squadron of naval vessels two days ago meant that the king was about to declare war and was planning to shut down the port. Four thirty-two gun frigates were anchored near the mouth of the bay, along with one of King Alaric’s new battleships, the Royal Lion, boasting two full gun decks. The lower deck mounted twenty cannons that each fired a twenty-eight-pound iron ball. Twenty cannons on the upper deck fired eighteen-pound balls. Twenty-four twelve-pound cannons were located on the main deck, the quarterdeck and the forecastle.

  It was true King Alaric had sent the Royal Lion to Westfirth, but not because he was about to declare war on Freya. The Countess de Marjolaine had urged the king to send the ships to Westfirth because she believed Sir Henry and the kidnapped journeyman were in that city. She had wanted King Alaric to shut down the port immediately, but the king was reluctant to take such a drastic step. Although the mere mention of the name of Sir Henry Wallace was enough to put him in a dark mood for days, Alaric could not justify shutting down the most lucrative port in the country. Nor was he ready to go to war with Freya.

  The countess discovered a most unexpected ally in her arguments for shutting down the port: the grand bishop. Montagne was fearful that ships sailing the Breath would be attacked by the same demons that had attacked the abbey. The grand bishop had not told the king about the assault on the abbey. The grand bishop was not ready to do so and he could always use as his excuse the fact that the Arcanum had placed the attack under Seal. Hearing that the countess recommended closing the port of Westfirth, the bishop astonished the king by agreeing with her. Beset from both sides, Alaric still could not make up his mind.

  Sir Ander watched the ships sailing through the light morning mists and thought about his godson, Stephano. The knight was curious to know why Stephano and his interesting and diverse collection of friends had come to Westfirth. Sir Ander wondered if Stephano was here on some mission for his mother. That led him to the thoughts of Cecile.

  The musings of both men were interrupted by Brother Barnaby, who came hastening along the parapet, his robes blowing in the light breeze, his tonsured head glistening in the sunshine. Brother Barnaby waited in patient silence until Father Jacob, pacing the parapets, became aware of the monk’s presence, which he did only when he almost stepped on him.

  “What?” Father Jacob demanded, scowling.

  “This came for you, Father,” said Brother Barnaby, holding out a note.

  Father Jacob took the note, unfolded it, scanned it. His brows rose. He read the note again, then handed it to Sir Ander.

  You seek the Warlock. I can tell you where to find him. Meet me at Bitter End Lane this evening when the clock chimes six. Bring the knight if you are distrustful, but no one else.

  The note was not signed.

  Sir Ander grunted and handed it back. “You know what I would say to this.”

  “Yes,” said Father Jacob. “And you know what I would say in return, so let’s move on from there.”

  He examined the note carefully. “This was written by a woman. Note the feminine nature of the curling tails of the ‘g’s’ and the grace of the ‘m’s’ and ‘n’s.’”

  “Another of the Warlock’s conquests,” Sir Ander suggested. “Perhaps a young woman who managed to escape him.”

  “Perhaps,” said Father Jacob, still studying the missive. “But I don’t think it likely. There is evidence of a forceful personality in the firm pressure on the paper. Bold courage flows from the capital letters and self-confidence abounds in her sentence structure.”

  “We both know of one woman who fits that description,” said Sir Ander.

  Brother Barnaby looked from one man to the other and his expression grew grave.

  “You mean the Sorceress, Mistress Eiddwen,” said Father Jacob.

  “But if that is true, Father, you must not go,” Brother Barnaby said anxiously. “It might be a trap.”

  “Bah! Not in broad daylight in a public place,” said Father Jacob. “And she says I may bring Sir Ander with me.”

  “But if it is her, why this meeting? Why betray her young disciple?” Sir Ander asked, frowning.

  “I can think of many reasons,” said Father Jacob. “For one, he may be on the verge of betraying her.”

  “Or perhaps she feels the heat of the Arcanum’s fire and wants to try to make a deal,” said Sir Ander.

  “Or perhaps she wants to kill you, Father,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily.

  “We can stand here and speculate all day,” said Father Jacob. “Or we can go this evening and find out.”

  He rubbed his hands and smiled broadly. “What time is it? Near dinnertime, I hope. I’m starving.”

  He thrust the note into the sleeve of his black cassock and walked rapidly and energetically along the parapet, his black robes whipping in the wind.

  “Don’t worry, Brother,” said Sir Ander, resting a reassuring hand on Brother Barnaby’s arm. “I’ll be with him. Let us count our blessings. This mysterious assignation has cheered him up. He’ll be much easier to live with now that he has something else to think about besides demons and giant bats.”

  “He’ll be easier to live with only if he lives,” said Brother Barnaby. “Can’t you stop him, sir?”

  Sir Ander extended his arm. “See those naval warships out there in the Breath, Brother. You could line them all up, open their gunports, and aim their cannons at him, and you still won’t stop Father Jacob once he’s set his mind on something.”

  Brother Barnaby conceded, with a sigh, that this was true. “At least you’ll be with him, sir. I will pray for you both.”

  “Ah, you know, Brother, I sometimes wonder if God himself doesn’t shake His head in despair over Father Jacob,” said Sir Ander.

  Brother Barnaby was shocked by this statement, but he reflected that Sir Ander was a military man. Allowances must be made.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Love that steals your breath away, leaves you trembling at the lover’s touch, soulgripping passion: I celebrate love. Love is sometimes life-changing, occasionally mind-altering, and very often painful, but let us admit it, the tumble is always so delicious it is worth a broken heart.

  – “Song to Love” by Rodrigo de Villeneuve

  RODRIGO HELPED THE BLOOD-COVERED STEPHANO along the pier that led to the Cloud Hopper, which was docked at the end of a long row of Trundler houseboats. The other Trundlers eyed them curiously as they passed, but no one said a word; Trundlers believing strongly that every person has a right to secrets. If questioned by the constables, the Trundlers would have sworn they had never seen a wounded man walking past their boats, even as they were mopping up the bloody trail he left in his wake. Fortunately, Rodrigo and Stephano had managed to evade the constables and no one thought to come questioning the Trundlers about two men who had, according to witnesses, been of gentle birth.

  Miri, Gythe, and Dag had returned from their own errands and were already on board the houseboat, making repairs. When the ever-watchful mercenary saw his friends come limping toward the boat, Dag threw down his tools and drew his pistol and went to cover them.

  “Anyone chasing you?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Rodrigo said cheerfully. “We seem to run into assassins at every turn. But no one is currently shooting at us, if that’s what you mean.”

  Dag thrust his weapon back into his belt and helped assist Stephano on board.

  “Good God, not again!” Miri exclaimed, glaring at him in exasperation. “What are you this time? Shot or stabbed or both?”

  “Stab
bed,” said Rodrigo. “It is my considered medical opinion that his wounds are not serious. He was attacked with a steak knife.”

  “It was a sharp steak knife,” Stephano said, grimacing as Dag and Rodrigo eased him into the chair.

  “So you got into a fight with a butcher, did you?” Miri said. “Set him down and let me take a look.”

  Doctor Ellington strolled over to sniff at the blood. Dag, looking grim, gathered up the cat and tossed him down into the hold.

  “It was that bastard who shot me and killed Valazquez and damn near sank the Cloud Hopper,” said Stephano.

  He caught his breath as Miri began to peel back his blood-stiffened shirt.

  “I hope that son-of-a-bitch looks worse than you do,” Dag said.

  “Trust me, he does,” Rodrigo assured him.

  Gythe hovered near Stephano. She touched Miri’s arm to draw her attention and began flashing hand signals.

  “No, Gythe, dear,” Miri answered her sister’s silent communication. “I don’t think we need send for Brother Barnaby-”

  “We most certainly do not,” said Stephano. “Oh, for the love of-Dag, stop her!”

  He was too late. Gythe had caught up her skirts, run across the deck, and jumped off the boat onto the pier.

  “She’s gone to fetch the monk,” Miri said. “She’s clean out of her mind over that man! Dag, go with her, will you? There’ll be no reasoning with her, but you can at least see to it that she comes to no harm.”

  Dag thrust his pistol into his belt and ran to catch up with Gythe-not an easy task, for she was swift and light as a sparrow.

  “Rigo, help Stephano down the stairs,” said Miri. “Put him in my bed.”

  “He has all the luck,” said Rodrigo with a sigh and a languishing gaze. “Would that it were I who had been stabbed with a steak knife.”

  “Keep up such nonsense and I’ll accommodate you,” Miri returned.

  Stephano protested that he was feeling fine. Miri was adamant and ordered him into her cabin.

  “You have to save me, Rigo. She’s going to put that stinking goop on me,” Stephano said in a low voice. “I avoided it the last time I was wounded because she didn’t have the ingredients. But she’s been shopping since then.”