you remove all these other constructs, the magic will flow strong again.”
Stephano listened and watched and tried to imagine what it must be like to see the glow of sigils and the lines of energy connecting them and to know you had the power to manipulate such a miraculous force. Perhaps the feeling was akin to flying through the air on the back of a dragon, with the wind in your face, knowing the freedom that comes when you leave the world and all its problems far behind.
There were those like Hastind who claimed they felt the same striding the deck of one of the large ships of the air, but Stephano knew better. On board ship, he was one of many junior officers, all vying for the attention of the godlike captain, who rarely, if ever, deigned to listen to a lowly lieutenant. Being a ship’s captain meant you had to deal with the politics of the Royal Navy, suck up to some dunderhead of an admiral who didn’t know his starboard from his port. When you were a Dragon Knight, you only had to talk to your dragon, and Stephano had often found dragons far more sensible and intelligent than people.
The Cloud Hopper was now starting to sink deeper into the Breath. The lift tanks were cold; the magical sparks that energized them were flickering, ready to die. The mists were so thick that now Stephano could barely make out the balloon, which was starting to deflate, as were their spirits. Stephano’s wound had begun to throb painfully, but he kept quiet, not wanting to take Miri away from her work.
Night wrapped around the boat. Dag gave up keeping watch. He apologized to Doctor Ellington, which apology, accompanied by smoked fish, was graciously accepted. Stephano tried to light a lantern, but the wick was too damp to catch. He and Dag and the Doctor sat in the deck chairs and watched Gythe and Rodrigo and Miri work. Stephano felt helpless. All he could do was listen to the dismal flapping of the sails and feel the cold water drip off the ratlines onto his head. Every so often, flashes of magic arcing from one sigil to another flared in the night and gave them hope. But then the light would fail, Rigo would sigh and shake his head. Gythe looked like she was going to cry. Miri drooped from exhaustion.
They had to keep working. The Cloud Hopper was sinking fast.
Chapter Fifteen
Most of us have no true understanding of just how little of Rosia we inhabit. We fly from city to city, over vast stretches of unexplored wilderness and rarely look down to marvel at the deep green forests, jagged shorelines, and tall snow-covered mountains. A few have sought to live in these places, untouched by man, so as to be closer to God.
– Unknown priest in a letter to his family describing his pilgrimage into the wilderness
AS THE DISABLED CLOUD HOPPER SANK SLOWLY into the Breath and her crew struggled desperately to rekindle her magic, the Retribution continued flying through the night, planning to reach the Abbey of Saint Agnes by dawn.
After finally obtaining a good night’s sleep, Sir Ander wakened in a somber state of mind, thinking sorrowfully of the murder of a hundred innocent souls and wondering about the evil that had committed such a heinous crime. He should have been relieved to find Father Jacob in a cheerful mood, for life with the priest when he was in a good humor was far more comfortable than when Father Jacob was on a rampage. But the priest’s good mood clashed with Sir Ander’s, who found himself resenting the Father’s smile and hearty “good morning.”
Ander dipped the shaving razor in the water basin and then held it poised, waiting for the rocking motion of the yacht to steady enough that he didn’t have to worry about cutting his own throat.
“Whose nose did you bloody last night?”
Father Jacob looked up, startled. Then, glancing at his split knuckles, he began to laugh-loud, booming laughter that apparently startled the wyverns, for the yacht took a sudden lurch. Sir Ander braced his leg against his foot locker.
“You will be pleased to know that I did not take out my frustrations on some poor innocent fisherman,” said Father Jacob, slicing cold roast beef and eating it off the edge of the knife. “Quite the contrary, I was almost swept up in a press gang.”
The yacht was relatively steady, and Sir Ander scraped at his jaw quickly.
Father Jacob looked quite pleased with himself. “Some naval vessel must have come up short-handed. A lieutenant was rounding up the local fishermen to ‘offer’ them a life in the navy, which meant that he was sending them back to his ship in legs irons and handcuffs.”
“Didn’t you tell him who you were?”
“And miss out on a grand brawl?” Father Jacob grinned and ate beef with enthusiasm. “Instead of bloodying a fisherman’s nose, I bloodied the lieutenant’s and then took to my heels.”
Sir Ander grunted and, when the swaying eased again, he swiftly completed his shaving. He mopped his face with a towel.
“Well, I’m glad the fight has improved your mood.”
Father Jacob was indignant. “What do you mean, improved my mood? I am always in the best of humors, despite the fact that my patience is constantly tried to the limit by dunderheads like the grand bishop, who insists on trying to keep political plates spinning in the air while his world is literally crashing down around his ears.”
“His Eminence doesn’t have much choice,” said Sir Ander. He put on his dress uniform, consisting of a long coat in the dark red of the Knight Protectors, white trousers, white stockings, and polished black knee-high boots.
Father Jacob only grunted. His gaze grew abstracted. He chewed thoughtfully on a hunk of beef and said suddenly, “Do you know what strikes me as odd about this atrocity we’ve been sent to investigate?”
“I have no idea,” said Sir Ander, finally sitting down to breakfast. “Has Brother Barnaby eaten anything?”
“I offered to drive while he ate, but he said he wasn’t hungry.”
“God forgive the good monk the sin of lying,” Sir Ander said to himself, inwardly smiling. Aloud he remarked, “What do you find odd?”
“Dubois,” said Father Jacob.
“Dubois? Who is Dubois?” Sir Ander asked, startled.
“A remarkable man. One might say, a very remarkable man. He has a mind like a rat terrier. Once he sinks his teeth into the meat of a problem, he never lets go. Dubois is the bishop’s most valued agent. Dubois is to the bishop what the Countess de Marjolaine is to His Majesty.”
Sir Ander felt his face grow warm at the mention of the countess, warmth radiating perhaps from the letters in his breast pocket. He hoped Father Jacob wouldn’t notice. Fortunately, Father Jacob was engaged in holding a loaf of bread on the table in an attempt to slice it without slicing his fingers.
“The bishop mentioned Dubois’ name as Brother Barnaby and I were in his office.”
“He mentioned it to you?”
“Well, no,” said Father Jacob. “He was talking to the monsignor-”
“-and you were eavesdropping.”
Father Jacob smiled slightly and shrugged. “Dubois and I worked together many years ago, before your time. He was low in the ranks then, but he has since advanced to become the bishop’s right hand, his ears and, in some cases, his brain. Dubois sent a note to the bishop wanting to know about something happening in the Royal Armory. And it has something to do with Henry Wallace.”
“Wallace?” Sir Ander was alarmed. “He’s not still after you, is he?”
“I’m sure Sir Henry would be extremely pleased to hear of my demise,” said Father Jacob cheerfully. “But, no, I don’t think the man is pursuing me. Not after all these years. He has moved on to more important matters.”
“Something happening at the Royal Armory?” Sir Ander looked exasperated. “We’re investigating the tragic murder of one hundred nuns. What could the Royal Armory possibly have to do with that?”
“Nothing that I can fathom,” said Father Jacob. “And that’s what I find odd.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Sir Ander.
“The grand bishop calls upon Dubois to deal with matters which are of the utmost importance,” said Father Jacob. “One would think a hundred murdered nuns would fall into that category. And, yet, Dubois is poking about the Royal Armory. Although if Wallace is involved.. .”
