Henry slammed the pistol into the Warlock’s face. He heard the crunch of bone. The young man fell unconscious. The next problem was what to do with him. It would never do for the constables to discover him.
The sight of a heavily laden barge creeping along in the canal gave Sir Henry an idea. He dragged the unconscious young man over to the side of the canal, waited for the barge to draw near. When the barge was directly underneath him, Henry tipped the Warlock over the side and watched him fall. The young man landed on a tarp-covered pile of whatever goods the barge was hauling. He lay there, unmoving, as the barge drifted slowly on its way. Sir Henry continued down Canal Street.
All this time, through smoke, green fire, and blood, Henry Wallace had kept hold of the pewter tankard, his key to the destruction of Rosia, providing proof that Alcazar had succeeded in producing magic-reinforced steel. Henry had a sudden, terrible thought. The tankard had taken a direct hit from the green fire. The magical sigils that reinforced the steel would have been destroyed, like the sigils in the leather satchel or those in his greatcoat-or those on board the ill-fated cutter, Defiant, when the ship had been attacked by the green-fire weapon. The tankard was now worthless. A prey to gloom, he stopped beneath a gas lamp and drew out a monocle set with magical sigils. He flicked the sigils with a fingernail, and they burst into glowing light. He held the monocle to the tankard.
“I’ll be damned!” Sir Henry breathed, awed.
He did not believe his eyes. He ran his hands over the tankard’s surface, the pewter’s cold, smooth, unblemished surface.
The contramagic that had sunk a naval cutter and toppled a stone watchtower had no effect on this pewter tankard.
The astounding possibilities burst like a skyrocket in Sir Henry’s brain. He did not have time to consider them. His cover was destroyed. Eiddwen knew he was in Westfirth. Father Jacob knew he was in Westfirth. The countess’ bastard son, Stephano de Guichen, undoubtedly by now knew Sir Henry was in Westfirth.
Time to leave Westfirth, whether Pietro Alcazar liked it or not.
Dubois could have also been added to Sir Henry’s list, because he knew Sir Henry was in Westfirth and he was elated. His persistence in following Stephano de Guichen had paid off, though not quite in the way Dubois had expected.
Fearing that time was running out and the chance to nab Sir Henry Wallace on Rosian soil would slip through his fingers, Dubois had made the desperate decision to take Stephano de Guichen into custody. Dubois would use the “murder” of James Harrington as an excuse to arrest Lord Captain de Guichen and interrogate him. Dubois was well aware that arresting the captain would be difficult, if not downright dangerous. He knew the captain’s “Cadre” of comrades and their readiness to defend him. He also knew that the countess would shake Heaven and earth with her rage when she found out that her son had been arrested. Dubois spent the afternoon assembling a group of agents, all the while keeping watch on those who came and went from the Cloud Hopper.
When Gythe and Dag left the boat to go fetch Brother Barnaby, Dubois saw them depart, but paid no heed. He was still waiting for his agents to arrive to launch his assault. He had his men assembled and was just about ready to make the arrest, when Dag and Gythe returned with the monk in tow. Dubois recognized the monk. That morning, Dubois had gone to pay a visit to the archbishop, to deliver the grand bishop’s orders, and he had observed the monk in company with Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum.
Dubois was startled and not pleased. Here was a question he could not answer. How did Father Jacob know Captain de Guichen? Were they friends? Was the captain working for the Arcanum now? If so, what would the Arcanum do if Dubois arrested Captain de Guichen? Dubois was prepared to deal with the fury of the Countess de Marjolaine, but he did not want to offend the Arcanum.
Brother Barnaby was a healer. The captain had probably sent for him to treat his wounds. That much, at least, made sense. Dubois was trying to make up his mind whether or not to proceed when the captain’s mercenary friend and the monk left the boat, going somewhere in haste. The monk looked worried. The mercenary looked very grim and was armed to the teeth.
Dubois’ nerves tingled. Something dire was happening and it might be connected with Sir Henry Wallace and the missing journeyman. Dubois was not quite sure how the monk fit into all this, but he would worry about that later. Leaving a number of his men to keep an eye on the Cloud Hopper, Dubois took with him one of his most trusted agents, a man known as Red Dog. The two followed Dag to Bitter End Street, arriving in the midst of the ambush.
Hearing explosions and the sound of gunfire and smelling smoke, Dubois and Red Dog took cover. Dubois peered out from behind a building and did not believe his eyes. He actually rubbed them to make certain he was not seeing things.
“God save us!” Red Dog gasped, joining him.
Father Jacob Northrop, priest of the Arcanum, his Knight Protector, and Sir Henry Wallace, the man for whom Dubois had been long searching were under attack-by fiends from Hell.
Dubois’ neatly organized mind reeled, incapable of belief. He even wondered for an agonized moment if someone had slipped opium into his mutton stew. The sight of the calm and cool soldier, Dag, lifting his musket to his shoulder and firing at one of the demons, the sound of the shot and the acrid smell of gunpowder was all very real and prosaic and comforted Dubois. One look at his agent, whose eyes were bulging and mouth gaping, and Dubois realized that if this was a drug-induced dream, then they were both dreaming it. Knowing this to be impossible, Dubois felt better. His mind reverted back to its normal logical operation. He ignored everything else and concentrated on Sir Henry Wallace.
“He’s on the move!” Dubois said, indicating Sir Henry. He shook his dazed agent, who was still staring at the demons. “Be quick!”
Sir Henry was at that moment marching the Warlock down the alley. Dubois and Red Dog followed from a safe distance. They watched Henry pistol-whip the young man and dump him onto the passing barge. They kept to the shadows as Sir Henry paused beneath the gas lamp to look at an object he’d been carrying; an object Dubois thought at first was another pistol. The light gleaming on pewter proved Dubois mistaken. Of all the amazing events of the evening, this was the most puzzling. Sir Henry had waded through hellfire and blood, and instead of fleeing for his life, he had stopped to study a pewter tankard. Dubois could make nothing of this, and it bothered him.
Sir Henry appeared extremely pleased with his tankard. He smiled all the way down Canal Street and chuckled to himself as he turned onto the Street of Saints. Every so often, he would glance behind to see if he was being followed. Dubois made certain Henry didn’t see a thing.
Sir Henry came to a halt at the head of the Street of Saints. He removed the coat he’d been wearing, folded it carefully, and placed the coat over his arm, deftly using it to conceal the pewter tankard. Beneath the coat, he was wearing evening clothes, such as a gentleman might wear to pay a visit to one of the gambling houses: black velvet coat discreetly trimmed in dark red, black stockings with dark red aiguillettes at the knees, a white silk cravat. He had lost his hat in the battle. He drew a black silk mask from a pocket and tied it around his face, then walked briskly for about six blocks until he arrived at one of the city’s more exclusive bordellos.
The clock in a nearby church chimed seven times. The hour was early; the house’s clientele would not arrive until much, much later. Henry did not enter the house. He spoke to the doorman, who greeted him familiarly, despite the fact that Henry was wearing a mask. Those visiting such establishments often concealed their true identities.
Dubois moved closer, gliding behind a hedge in order to eavesdrop on the conversation. Sir Henry told a tale of having been waylaid by thieves. The doorman listened in shock and deprecated the lack of police vigilance in the city. Sir Henry wondered if he could be given a ride to his lodgings. The doorman replied that the bordello’s carriage was always at the disposal of their favorite clients. The doorman summoned a page, who was sent round to the stables. Within moments, an enclosed carriage drove up to the front.
“Blue Parrot,” the doorman told the driver, who was assisting Sir Henry to enter.
“He’s getting away! Let’s grab him now,” said Red Dog, spoiling for some action.
“We can’t. He has not broken any law,” said Dubois.
“He’s a goddam spy!” said Red Dog.
Dubois explained. “Henry Wallace is also a diplomat. We are not at war with Freya. Sir Henry would say he was here on business for his government and would claim diplomatic immunity. We need to catch him with the journeyman trying to flee the country. I’ll follow Sir Henry. You go back, assemble the men, and meet me…”
Dubois paused, thinking.
