Shadow Raiders

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 switch 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.

In an age where marriages were arranged for either monetary or political convenience, men and women of the noble classes often indulged in affairs. All parties knew what was going on; husbands knew about their wives’ lovers; wives knew about their husbands’ mistresses. The only rule was that the affair was to be conducted with secrecy and discretion so as not to compromise the family’s honor. Such an arrangement as Sir Henry had proposed was not at all unusual. The innkeeper of the Blue Peacock was accustomed to entertaining wealthy guests who gave false names and arrived heavily cloaked, veiled, and masked.

Alcazar started to protest, but the expression on Henry’s face, especially the glint in the flat, cold eyes, caused Alcazar to shut his mouth and put on his petticoats.

Sir Henry also changed clothes. He had that morning gone to the Blue Peacock dressed in the somber attire of a gentleman’s gentleman. Henry the Manservant had been soft-spoken, retiring, with lowered eyes, not daring to look upon his betters. Sir Henry the Rosian Nobleman wore a silk waistcoat, embroidered vest, tight trousers banded at the knee with velvet rosettes, silk hose, buckled shoes, and an overlarge, frilly lace collar. He applied a black goatee and mustache with spirit gum, put on a periwig, slid several flashy rings onto his fingers and, smoothing his mustache with the tip of his finger, transformed himself into the flashy and arrogant count.

Henry spent the rest of the night drilling Alcazar how to walk in the voluminous silk skirt and petticoats and dainty shoes without tripping over the hem or turning an ankle. He showed him how to hold his fan in one hand and catch up his skirts in the other, then marched Alcazar ruthlessly up and down the empty room until he was satisfied that onlookers would take Pietro for a lady, albeit a clumsy one.

The “count” and his “lady” arrived at the Blue Parrot at midmorning. They descended from a coach, decorated with a false coat of arms, and driven by one of his agents. The proprietor was on hand to greet them. The two were immediately whisked up to their suite of rooms at the top part of the inn. Alcazar stumbled over his petticoats while ascending the stairs. Sir Henry covered this by laughing boisterously and teasing his lady about imbibing too much champagne.

Sir Henry’s Rosian was flawless, his accent unimpeachable, no matter what accent he chose to use. He could converse as a dockworker with a dockworker or discuss religion as a monk with the Archbishop of Westfirth and no one would guess he wasn’t who he claimed to be.

Confident he had not been followed, Sir Henry did not grow complacent. He was far too skilled for that. But he did allow himself to relax a little, take some champagne with his breakfast, and reflect on the fact that the next few days should pass peacefully enough and then he and Alcazar would be on the way back to Freya.

He lay down for a nap and rose refreshed in the afternoon. He changed his clothes and demeanor to those of Henry the Manservant, left the inn, and went to take his daily stroll through a quiet churchyard. The exercise cleared his mind; he ran over his plans and found no flaws. As he walked through the old, picturesque cemetery, he went to pay his respects to a certain grave.

Sir Henry stopped, stared. The tomb was quite old and weather beaten. The carving was mostly worn off. The fragment of a name, “Henri,” was all that was visible. Lying on the tomb was a bunch of purple clover tied with a bit of black ribbon.

Sir Henry stood gazing down at the clover for long moments, then, frowning, he walked on, his peace of mind shattered.

James Harrington left Evreux heading for Westfirth on the afternoon of the day the Cloud Hopper sailed out into the Breath. Harrington had not been planning a journey to Westfirth. Quite the contrary, his orders from Sir Henry had been quite clear-he was to remain in Evreux. The arrival of a letter, however, caused Harrington to change his plans. A ship would be the fastest way to reach Westfirth, but there was not time to book passage. He acquired a seat on the post chaise-wyvern-drawn carriages that carried the mail to various locations throughout Rosia.

The carriages had room for up to four riders and were the fastest way to travel overland from one point to another. The carriages stopped at posts along the way to change wyverns and deliver the mail. Mindful of the need for speeding the post on its way, the changing of the wyverns was accomplished with such rapidity that passengers were permitted to get out only to stretch their legs before the whip cracked and they were off again. Since the carriages were noted more for speed than for comfort, those passengers who took the post chaise generally did so because they needed to be somewhere in a hurry.

Harrington arrived in Westfirth two days ahead of the Cloud Hopper. He took up residence in an inn and did as Sir Henry had taught him. He enjoyed the pleasures of Westfirth. Harrington frequented taverns and gambling dens, strolled along the docks, walked about the shops. He mingled with the crowds in the park and took a stroll to view the wondrous new cathedral, which was being built on the old church grounds. He bought a bunch of clover from a pretty flower vendor. He walked through an old cemetery and read the names on the tombs. Everywhere he went, Harrington struck up conversations, bought drinks for the patrons, surrounded himself with people.

And everywhere Harrington went, either Dubois or his agents were right behind him, waiting for Harrington to meet with Sir Henry. Dubois knew Sir Henry by sight, of course, but Henry Wallace was a consummate actor who changed identity as often as another man changed his stockings. Wallace would never allow himself to be spotted on the street.

“These places are too public for the two to meet. Harrington is letting Sir Henry know he’s in town,” Dubois told his agents. “He’s setting up the rendezvous.”

Dubois had followed Harrington from Evreux in his own carriage, making certain he kept on the trail of his quarry by asking at every stop if they had seen a man matching Harrington’s description and, if so, what route he had taken. Dubois had arrived in Westfirth the same time as Harrington, tracked him to his inn, and then arranged with his most trusted agents to keep an eye on him around the clock while Dubois made a fast trip up the coast to visit the site of the massacre at the Abbey of Saint Agnes to speak to Father Jacob Northrup. When Dubois returned, he took the day shift himself.

Dubois believed he now knew why Henry Wallace had risked his neck traveling to Rosia. Dubois had received a letter from the grand bishop relating the disappearance of a journeyman armorer named Pietro Alcazar, a journeyman rumored to have been working to develop steel infused with the power of the Breath. The day after the journeyman had not shown up for work, the Master Armorer had paid a hurried visit to the Countess de Marjolaine. She had subsequently summoned her son, Stephano de Guichen, who was known to be involved in many of her intrigues. Stephano had gone to Alcazar’s lodgings and had been seen by James Harrington. Some hours later, Stephano and his friend, Rodrigo de Villeneuve had been lured into a duel by Harrington in the guise of Sir Richard Piefer. Dubois arrived at the same conclusion as had his counterpart in spy craft, the Countess de Marjolaine: Sir Henry Wallace had come to Rosia to abduct Alcazar.

Dubois did find it odd that Sir Henry had not yet left Westfirth with his prize. Why was Wallace still on Rosian soil? He must know that the hounds were on his trail and that every moment he remained brought him closer to the executioner. There were times when Dubois told himself that Sir Henry must have left. But, if that were true, why was James Harrington in Westfirth?

“No, no, never doubt your instincts,” Dubois told himself as he sat reading his mail in a park next door to the inn where Harrington was staying. “The pieces fit. Sir Henry is here in Westfirth. He has Alcazar. And sooner or later James Harrington will lead me to him.”

Unless the Countess’ son finds Wallace first. Stephano de Guichen and his friends were traveling to Westfirth. The murder of the poor pawn, Valazquez, had been hushed up: a tragic accident while loading a pistol… The Countess de Marjolaine had attended the funeral… The family was grateful for her support… Most grateful… No mention of Monsieur de Villeneuve or Captain de Guichen.

Dubois had abducted Benoit, de Guichen’s family retainer, then searched the captain’s house. He had discovered from Rodrigo’s accounts that the countess had paid all of her son’s debts. Clearly, she had hired him to find and recover Alcazar. Benoit had claimed to know nothing about anything. He wouldn’t even admit to the fact that he worked for Captain de Guichen. Dubois had set the old man loose and then had him followed. He had been interested to hear that Benoit had gone immediately to the palace and then disappeared.

Dubois sat in the park, reading a letter he’d received that morning from the grand bishop, all the while keeping a watch out for James Harrington. The letter informed Dubois that he was to listen for any strange rumors in connection with the tragic murder of the nuns of Saint Agnes.

Particularly any rumor of demonic influence, the grand bishop had written in his own hand.

“Well, well, well. Demonic influence!” Dubois shook his head. Having visited the site of the killings, he could well imagine that Hell in some form had taken part.

Father Jacob of the Arcanum is on the scene, the grand bishop wrote in conclusion. Everyone involved will be placed under Seal.

The bishop can rest easy then, Dubois thought to himself. No word will leak out. The Arcanum could be trusted to see to it that all were silenced. Strange, though, that the deaths of these nuns under such mysterious circumstances should happen while Sir Henry Wallace was on Rosian soil. Once again, Dubois tried every way he could to fit that particular piece into his puzzle, but Henry was the wrong shape and size. As much as Dubois wanted to think that Sir Henry was acting under “demonic influence,” he, like Father Jacob, could not see how the Freyan spy master was involved.

Dubois folded the letter and thrust it in his inner pocket. He sat in the park, listening to the twitter of the birds, eavesdropping on conversations, throwing crumbs to the squirrels, and watching and waiting for Harrington to leave his inn.