“I have contacted the Arcanum to investigate. Father Jacob Northrup is coming to meet with me. He would have been here by now, but he and his team were in Capione, investigating reports of that Warlock and his coven.”
“The Warlock? What has that evil young man done now?” Dubois asked.
“It seems he seduced the daughter of a nobleman. She ran away from home to join him and his followers. Several bodies of his young followers have been found, drained of blood, which the Warlock uses in his heinous rites. He gives the deluded children opium and lures them into orgies, then murders them.”
“I ask myself, ‘Why?’ ” said Dubois, frowning.
“What do you mean ‘why?’ Because he takes pleasure in killing people,” said the bishop. “He’s insane.”
“I doubt that,” said Dubois. “He does this for a reason.”
“Well, whatever that reason is, pray God this time Father Jacob has managed to find him and stop him.”
“If anyone can do so, it is Father Jacob Northrup,” said Dubois.
The grand bishop was silent, frowning. “So what are you doing here, Dubois? Your orders were to remain in Freya until the end of the summer court.”
“Might I have a glass of wine and something to eat, Your Grace?” asked Dubois. “I am famished. I have spent the last two days traveling. I came here immediately on my arrival.”
The bishop indicated the sideboard on which stood a crystal decanter of wine and a collation of cold meats and bread. Dubois forked beef onto a slice of bread, devoured it in a few bites, then poured himself a glass of wine and returned to his chair.
“I fear I have more bad news, Your Grace. Sir Henry Wallace has left Freya.”
Bishop Montagne’s eyes opened wide. His frown deepened, his face grew dark. He said a word suited more to a dockyard worker than a bishop, then added, “Where is the bastard?”
“I have no idea, Your Grace.”
The bishop gave a heavy sigh. “Tell me everything, Dubois.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Ever since his marriage, Sir Henry has been seen at court on an almost daily basis. His movements have been unremarkable.” Dubois shrugged. “People say he dotes upon his young wife, who is in the last few months of her pregnancy. A short time ago, however, there was a break in his routine. I was informed by my spy, a maidservant, in his household, that a wooden box had been delivered to Sir Henry by a man who had the appearance of a sailor.
“The maid got a good look at the box, on the pretext of dusting Sir Henry’s study, and reported that the box was plain, with no writing on it, nothing to indicate its origins or what was inside. She assumed it was some gift for his wife and thought nothing of it. He did not give his wife a gift, however, and yet, oddly, the box vanished. The maid asked some of the other members of the staff, but no one knew what had become of it. Several days after Wallace received this box, he suddenly, without advance notice, moved his wife and household to his estate outside Haever. He stated as his reason his wife’s impending lying-in.”
“What happened to this mysterious box?”
“I do not know, Your Grace, but a most curious incident occurred after Wallace arrived at his estate. The staff was told that Sir Henry was going to be conducting scientific experiments in the kitchen and they were not to be alarmed if they heard any odd sounds. Such experiments are, apparently, not unusual for Sir Henry.
“That night, the maid was awakened by what she swears were gunshots, followed by a loud explosion. The next morning the kitchen smelled strongly of gunpowder and was in such a mess, with pots and pans lying on the floor, that the cook threatened to give notice. The maid found several bullets, flattened, in the fireplace. Wallace left immediately afterward, telling his wife he was bound for Haever. He never arrived there. It took me two days to learn that he was no longer in Freya.”
“You think…”
“I think something important was in that box, Your Grace.”
Montagne grunted in agreement. “Did you find out where the box came from, anything about it? You said the man who delivered it was a sailor.”
Dubois paused for a sip of wine. He drank sparingly, preferring to have all his mental faculties unclouded by the fumes of the grape.
“All I could find out was that two merchant vessels had docked immediately before the box was delivered. One was from Travia and the second a free trader from the Aligoes Islands.”
“Which do you suspect?” the bishop asked.
“Free traders smuggle Estaran wine into Freya, along with other contraband. Given the fact that Estara and Travia are on the brink of war on the eastern frontier over Braffa-”
“But Freya is neutral in this conflict,” the bishop interjected.
“It is well known in Freya that you, Your Grace, support Estara in its claim of Braffa and that His Majesty, King Alaric, supports Travia in its claim-”
“Say, rather, that fiendish woman, the Countess de Marjolaine, supports Travia,” said the bishop.
Dubois nodded. “I noted the last time I was in the Travian court that it is crawling with her operatives. But, as I was going to say, this war between Travia and Estara over Braffa has resulted in a serious rift between Church and Crown here in Rosia. It might be very tempting to Wallace to heat up the fire under this cauldron, see perhaps if he can’t make it boil over.”
“To what purpose?” the bishop asked.
“Ah, who knows with Sir Henry,” said Dubois.
The bishop glowered. “Do I detect a note of admiration in your voice, Dubois?”
“One should never underestimate one’s enemy, Your Grace. I also have the highest regard for the Countess de Marjolaine.”
A rumbling sound came from the region of the bishop’s stomach. He placed his hand on his belly. “Bah! This news has made me bilious. Pour me a glass of wine.”
Dubois did as he was told, returning to set the goblet at the bishop’s hand. As he did so, there was a knock upon the door. The bishop gestured and Dubois crossed over to the door, opened it a crack, and received a book bound in red leather. He closed the door and once more turned the key. The bishop eyed the red leather book in Dubois’ hand.
“Where the devil is Wallace? I don’t like it when that fiend is on the loose.” Montagne gazed moodily into his wine goblet.
“That is what I am endeavoring to ascertain, Your Grace. That is why I asked to see who has been meeting with the countess.”
Dubois opened the red leather book somewhere around the middle and began to read. At the top of each page was a date. Below the date was a list of names. Dubois scanned several pages. The bishop watched hopefully, but his hopes were dashed when Dubois shook his head and closed the book.
“Nothing?”
“The usual: favor-seekers, courtiers. Only three are in any way remarkable. Yesterday, the countess met with the Master of the Royal Armory. This morning, she met with her son, Captain de Guichen-”
“What is so remarkable about that?” asked the bishop. He was in an ill humor and inclined to be petty. “She is his mother.”
“The two are not on speaking terms, Your Grace, though the countess does occasionally employ her son on sensitive business. And he did fight the Estarans prior to the Dragon Brigade being decommissioned. After he left, the countess was closeted for a long time with Lord Hoalfhausen, the Travian ambassador.”
“There, you see!” said the bishop in angry triumph. “That woman is meddling in this war, consorting with my enemies.”
“So it would seem, Your Grace,” replied Dubois. Disappointed, he tossed the book onto the desk. “Unfortunately, this tells us nothing regarding the whereabouts of Sir Henry.”
He rose to his feet and prepared to take his leave.
“Keep me informed, Dubois,” said the bishop. “May God speed your endeavors.”
“May He, indeed, Your Grace. And may He aid the labors of Father Jacob as he confounds the Warlock and discovers who murdered our Sisters in God.”
Dubois bowed, circled around behind the bishop’s chair, parted the curtain, and entered the closet. A glance over his shoulder showed Montagne sitting with his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. He picked up the goblet,
