“Yes, of course. He would never leave him, and the note said Father Jacob could bring a friend.”
“Then there’s probably nothing amiss,” Dag said, though he was still clearly worried. “I’m thinking I should go check on them…”
He looked questioningly at Miri.
“A good idea,” said Miri. “What time was the meeting, Brother?”
“When the clock chimes six.”
Dag squinted at the sun. “We have time, then. Bitter End Lane is not far. I’ll fetch my musket. Gythe, dear, see to the Doctor for me.”
Gythe removed Doctor Ellington from Dag’s shoulder. The cat’s poor stomach was rumbling louder than he could purr, but the Doctor undoubtedly knew he was destined to go back in the storage closet and he dug his claws into the big man’s shoulder. Gythe was finally forced to seize hold of the cat by the scruff of the neck and pry him loose. He squirmed free of her grasp, jumped to the deck, and made a dash for his hiding place beneath the cannon.
“How could your sister know what I was thinking?” Brother Barnaby asked.
In answer, Gythe walked up to him and touched her fingers to his forehead. Taking up his hand, she placed his fingers on her forehead and smiled tremulously. Tears shimmered in her eyes. She made a motion as of leaving, and another as of staying.
“It’s called ‘sympathetic magic,’” said Rodrigo, coming up the stairs in time to overhear the end of the conversation. “A bit out of the ordinary, but not uncommon, particularly when you take into account the fact that Gythe is a savant and you, Brother, are an extremely talented healer. She formed a connection to you. It’s all about electricity, really.”
Gythe blinked her eyes, bemused by this explanation, while Brother Barnaby seemed to find the part about electricity more alarming than helpful. They were interrupted by Dag coming up on deck with his musket, powder horn, bullets, and Stephano.
“I couldn’t stop him,” said Dag, catching Miri’s accusing look.
Stephano walked across the deck. He was favoring his bandaged thigh, but the wound had not been deep and he could walk easily enough. He was wearing only his trousers and more bandages wrapped around his ribs and his shoulder. He reeked of poultice. Rodrigo coughed and moved downwind.
“Dag says the priest could be in some sort of trouble,” said Stephano.
“It’s probably my imagination,” said Brother Barnaby, abashed.
“The brother and I will just go take a look,” said Dag.
“Fine,” said Stephano. “I’m going with you. Give me half a second to fetch my shirt and sword-”
He ran down below. Miri, her expression grim, walked over to the door, shut it, locked it, then planted herself in front of it and leaned against it. They could hear Stephano’s muffled swearing as he began beating on the door with his fists.
“Best hurry,” said Miri coolly, not moving.
Dag grinned and picked up his musket. He was already carrying two loaded pistols in his belt. He and Brother Barnaby left in haste. Miri watched the two depart, whispering a heartfelt prayer for their safety and for Papa Jake.
“And, Daiddo,” she added, referring to God by the Trundler’s affectionate term for “grandfather,” which is how she tended to think of Him, “if you could see to it that Brother Barnaby goes back to his monastery and stays there forever more, I would be eternally grateful.”
She opened the hatch. Stephano glared furiously at her. She herded him down the stairs.
“There, now,” she said, pointing to a splotch of blood spreading on the bandage around his shoulder. “You’ve broken open the wound. Gythe, I need your help.”
“The monk prayed over me,” Stephano said, as she began to strip off the bandages. “I’m fine.”
“Gythe,” Miri called, “I need you.”
No response. No sound of skirts rustling and feet running down. Miri’s heart lurched. She left Stephano and ran back up the stairs, shoving aside Rodrigo, who had been coming down to join them.
“Gythe!”
Her sister was not on deck.
Miri dashed back down the stairs. Stephano was arguing with Rodrigo, who was trying to persuade him to go back to bed.
“Stephano, you have to stop her!” Miri cried. “Gythe’s gone after Brother Barnaby!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
We are all born with a spark of God’s grace within our souls. Those who follow the path of the Fallen have found ways to steal that spark and corrupt it to their dark purposes. Those who practice blood magic use the spark of life to power their evil spells.
– Saint Marie Elizabeth,
First Provost of the Arcanum
THE ARCHBISHOP LOANED SIR ANDER AND Father Jacob his carriage and driver to take them to the mysterious rendezvous. Father Jacob would have told the driver outright to take them to Bitter End Lane. The more prudent Sir Ander insisted that they find some place near the lane so that they could approach with caution, not leap straight into an ambush. The knight made inquiries among the soldiers manning the walls of the Old Fort and came up with a suitable location.
“Take us to the Dirk and Dragon on Silk Street,” Sir Ander said, assisting Father Jacob into the carriage.
The driver looked startled. “But that’s a tavern, sir.”
“A tavern filled with sinners needing to be saved, my son,” said Father Jacob solemnly.
The driver was dubious. The archbishop certainly never went near such places. He had no thought of questioning a priest of the Arcanum, however. He whipped up the horses, and the carriage rattled off.
Inside the carriage, Sir Ander sat bolt upright, perched on the edge of his seat, his back straight. He kept fast hold of the hand strap and stared grimly out the window. He was armed with his dragon pistol and one of his nonmagical pistols and his broadsword.
“You know I don’t like this,” he stated.
Father Jacob was relaxed, leaning back against the comfortable cushions, his legs crossed beneath the long, black cassock, his arms crossed over his chest. He was gazing out the window.
“You think I do?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Sir Ander bluntly. “Anonymous notes. Mysterious assignations. Streets with ominous-sounding names. You damn well know you’re enjoying this!”
Father Jacob gave a smile. “Perhaps I do-a little. And for your information, the term ‘Bitter End’ is not ominous. It is a nautical term referring to the end of a rope.”
Sir Ander snorted, clearly not placated. “And we may have reached the end of our rope. I’ve asked around. Bitter End Lane has an evil reputation. It is only a block long. It runs between an abandoned warehouse on the south side and a balloon maker on the north. This time of night, the neighborhood will be empty. Ideal location for an ambush.”
“Or a meeting with someone who doesn’t want to be seen,” said Father Jacob. He saw Sir Ander’s frown and he added in mollifying tones, “I agree with you about the danger, my friend. But if there is a chance this woman might lead us to the Warlock, we must take the risk.”
Sir Ander sighed, shook his head, and reassuringly slid his hand inside his magically reinforced coat to touch the dragon pistol resting in its holster. Father Jacob was armed, as well. His weapons were his magic.
The carriage rolled up in front of the Dirk and Dragon. Work had ended for the day. The crafters and sail makers, rope makers and balloon makers, stevedores and wood wrights, naval engineers and architects filled the dockyard taverns. The clientele in the Dirk and Dragon actually spilled out into the street, with working men and women lounging in the shadows cast by the westering sun, pledging each other’s health in foaming mugs of ale and discussing the day’s events.
