going to be giving the order to the Royal Navy to blast Wallace’s ship-and Rodrigo-out of the Breath unless Stephano could find a way to stop Wallace before that happened.
“What a rotten day! I wonder what the Hell else can go wrong?” Stephano asked himself morosely.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Our eyes wept for our emerald Isle as Glasearrach sank into the Breath. Our hearts wept as our brethren fell to their deaths. Our people wept as God cast us out.
– Trundler Ballad,
THE MORNING HENRY WALLACE FOUND EIDDWEN’S visiting card, Sir Ander entered the archbishop’s dining room in search of a late breakfast.
Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby had been up much of the previous night, standing on the battlements, observing with interest the naval ships moving swiftly through the Breath to interdict any vessel trying to slip out following the closing of the port. The shore batteries located in the concrete bunkers beneath the battlements were fully manned, though only a few guns had been run out to fire a warning volley of powder and wadding, warning irate ship captains that the port-closing would be enforced. The navy caught several ships trying to escape; mostly small boats loaded with contraband.
Sir Ander had explained the naval strategy to Brother Barnaby, pointing out how the larger naval vessels took key positions around the bay while the city’s gunboats moved inside the bay. The smaller gunboats were twenty- four feet long, each mounting a cannon that fired a twenty-four-pound ball. Six armed marines were aboard every gunboat. If a fleeing vessel failed to stop, the marines would fire their muskets. If that failed to persuade the captain, the gunboat would fire the cannon to disable the ship and force it to land. One such vessel was now perched on the roof of a nearby warehouse. Brother Barnaby had never seen such a spectacle, and he had watched in fascinated awe.
Father Jacob had not been on the battlements with them. He had summoned agents of the Arcanum who were currently in Westfirth to the Old Fort, then sent them out to search for the Sorceress and her young disciple known as the Warlock. Father Jacob was hoping that the embargo would keep the Sorceress trapped in this city. Agents were stopping all wyvern-drawn carriages in and out of the city. All overland routes were under surveillance.
Following his meeting, Father Jacob had been engaged in researching the object he had salvaged from the ambush. He had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. At about midnight, Sir Ander had knocked on Father Jacob’s door to see how he was faring. His knock receiving no response, Sir Ander had opened the door softly and quietly.
He had seen Father Jacob hunched over a table covered with a white sheet, taking measurements of the blackened lump and recording them in a book. Sir Ander had watched a moment, wondering what Father Jacob had discovered, if anything. Sir Ander had known better than to disturb his friend while he was at work. He had closed the door and gone off to his bed.
This morning, Sir Ander was alone in the dining room. A servant informed him that archbishop had dined early and gone to see how the work was coming on the cathedral. Brother Barnaby had also dined and had left word for Father Jacob that he would be in the archbishop’s private chapel, praying. The servant had not seen Father Jacob.
Sir Ander assumed the priest had once again fallen asleep over his work. The servant poured coffee. Sir Ander helped himself from the collation on the sideboard. He was dishing out his favorite: Freyan sausages known as “blood pudding,” when he heard Father Jacob’s voice resounding through the palace, shouting Sir Ander’s name in strident and impatient tones.
Sir Ander sat down at the table and began to eat his sausages. The servant looked at him, startled.
“The priest is calling for you, my lord. Should I tell him you are in here?”
“No,” said Sir Ander calmly. “He’ll find me soon enough. I plan to finish my breakfast.”
Still shouting, Father Jacob burst through the doors with a bang, bounding into the room with such energy that the servant, who was accustomed to the elegant, refined manners of the archbishop, jumped and spilled the coffee.
“Here you are, Ander!” cried Father Jacob in a peevish tone.
“Eating breakfast,” said Sir Ander calmly. He pointed to his plate with his fork. “Blood pudding. Excellent. You should have some.”
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” said Father Jacob.
“And now you’ve found me,” said Sir Ander, savoring his sausage.
“I need you to come with me. Now! Where is Barnaby?”
“In the chapel,” said Sir Ander.
Father Jacob asked the servant to prepare a basket of food and a bottle of wine. When the servant left to carry out the order and they were alone, Father Jacob turned to Sir Ander.
“I know you are always armed, my friend,” he said gravely. “But it might be wise to take extra precautions.”
Troubled by the priest’s grim expression, Sir Ander stood up, gulping his hot coffee and burning his tongue.
Father Jacob went off to fetch Brother Barnaby. Sir Ander returned to his room, put on his light chain mail vest, set with the magical constructs and buckled on his sword belt. He loaded the dragon pistol, placed one of the nonmagical pistols in a concealed pocket and thrust the other in his belt. He grabbed his helm.
He found Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby waiting in the entry hall. Father Jacob was on the move immediately, walking in such haste that his long strides caused his cassock to ride up around his shins. Brother Barnaby, armed with his portable writing desk, had to almost run to keep up. He flashed a look at Sir Ander, asking silently if he knew what was going on. Sir Ander shook his head.
Father Jacob strode rapidly through the halls of the Old Fort and headed out for the battlements. Sir Ander thought this was their destination, and he was startled to see the priest keep going.
The battlements extended from one guard tower to another for a distance spanning many hundred feet. In the guard towers, the bored soldiers were relieved to have some amusement to break up the tedium of their watch, observing with interest the attempts by the navy to enforce the blockade. Although the Old Fort had not been occupied for years, the moment the archbishop expressed his desire to move into it, the lord mayor found that he was suddenly extremely attached to the site and did not want the Church to commandeer it. He had taken his grievances to the king, who had gone to the grand bishop. The result was that the Church paid the city of Westfirth handsomely for use of the Old Fort. The soldiers who guarded the Old Fort were under the command of the lord mayor. The archbishop had his own guards, whose main duty was to protect His Reverence’s person.
The archbishop’s soldiers patrolled the archbishop’s living quarters. The Westfirth guards were responsible for the rest. There being no enemy to guard against, the only excitement for either force these days was the occasional skirmish between the Mayor’s soldiers and those belonging to the archbishop when one or the other crossed the demarcation line.
The soldiers in the guard towers saw Father Jacob in his black cassock and Sir Ander in his chain mail armor, his sword clanking at his hip, and looked at each other with raised eyebrows. All breathed a little easier when the Arcanum priest passed them by.
“Where are we going?” Sir Ander ventured to ask, as they walked by the third guard tower.
In answer, Father Jacob pointed to top of the cliff, to the Bastion, the crumbling remains of the abandoned outpost that had once belonged to the Dragon Brigade. The outpost was situated high on a peak above the Old Fort. Sir Ander gaped in dismay at the series of winding steps cut into the rock that led up the side of the cliff.
“Beautiful day for a climb, isn’t it?” said Father Jacob in hearty tones. “Did you know that the dragon bastions
