“Rigo has a vivid imagination,” said Stephano.
He had asked Rodrigo what Father Jacob had spoken to him about.
“He questioned me about Gythe and her magic and the demonic magic and my thoughts on it,” said Rodrigo. He paused a moment, then said, “He recommended most strongly that I keep such thoughts to myself. Then he asked if I would like to come to the Arcanum.”
“By God, if he tries to take you-”
“No, no,” said Rodrigo soothingly. “He wants to know if I’d like to become a priest.”
Stephano burst out laughing.
“Yes,” said Rodrigo. “That was my answer.”
Dag brought over his tools and offered to assist Master Albert with the repair work on the yacht. Stephano went to check on Gythe and found her lying asleep on the floor beside Brother Barnaby, who had also fallen asleep. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hands were twined around his. Doctor Ellington slept with them, his large furry body stretched out across the monk’s ankles. Miri kept watch over them all.
Stephano and Sir Ander had agreed to take turns on guard. Stephano took first watch. He had never minded guard duty. He liked being alone with his thoughts, and although he was bone-tired, he knew from experience that even if he went to bed, he would not be able to rest. He would relive the battle with the demons over and over, seeing it in his mind in bright flashes like strikes of lightning.
Hearing footsteps, he turned to find Father Jacob, his black cassock tinged with silver in the moonlight, coming toward him.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said by way of explanation. “I didn’t want to disturb Sir Ander and so I thought I would come disturb you, Captain de Guichen. If you don’t object to some company?”
“Not at all, Father,” said Stephano politely. “My own thoughts aren’t very good companions.”
Father Jacob joined him in his pacing. They walked for a few moments in silence, then Father Jacob said, “I know you have a great many questions, Captain. You and your comrades are risking your life to help me without knowing why. I wish I could explain, but I cannot. It seems unfair.”
“I do have one question,” said Stephano.
“I cannot promise to answer it,” said Father Jacob.
“I know. But I’d feel better asking.”
Stephano paused, staring out into the Breath, where strands of mists were casting nets around the moon.
“Did the gates of Hell open this day, Father?”
The priest regarded Stephano intently for long moments. Then he turned his gaze toward the abbey with its shattered windows and blood-soaked ground and gave a soft sigh.
“That depends on your definition of Hell, Captain,” replied Father Jacob.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They say fortune favors the bold, the foolish, and the prepared. Here, fortune favors the heavily armed.
Welcome to Westfirth.
– Graffiti, Anonymous
LIFE HAD NOT BEEN EASY FOR SIR HENRY WALLACE these past two weeks. While Stephano and Father Jacob were battling demons, Sir Henry was battling inanity. Given a choice between fighting demons and trying to figure his way out of the present accursed predicament, Sir Henry might well have chosen the demons. At least he could have ended his problem on the blade of a sword. Which is what he was seriously considering at the present moment. As he now stood glaring at Pietro Alcazar, Sir Henry was tempted, sorely tempted, to slice the journeyman’s scrawny throat.
Alcazar was undoubtedly a genius. He had discovered the greatest invention of the last several centuries: how to combine metal with the magical Breath of God, rendering steel strong enough to withstand bullets, gunpowder, and cannonballs. His invention would revolutionize warfare. Unfortunately, the inventor was not only a genius, he was a whimpering, whining, stubborn, piss-yellow Rosian dog of a coward.
Sir Henry had known from the start that Pietro Alcazar was not what one might term a shining example of honor and nobility. Alcazar had, after all, offered to sell his invention to Freya, his country’s most implacable foe, dedicated to Rosia’s utter annihilation. Still, Sir Henry had expected the man to have more backbone than your average blancmange.
Having received the pewter tankard from Alcazar’s brother, Manuel, and having tested the tankard with the help of Mr. Sloan, Sir Henry had left his pregnant young wife to make a dangerous trip to Rosia in order to meet with Pietro Alcazar and personally transport him safely back to Freya.
The agreed-upon meeting place was the city of Westfirth, that cesspool of corruption, much loved by smugglers, pirates, and spies. Westfirth was an old city, founded by Freyans some seven hundred years ago and had remained loyal to Freya during the Black Fire War, fighting to the end before going down to defeat. The victorious Rosian army had not been kind to Westfirth’s citizens. Whether they were Freyan or Rosian, all were considered traitors. Bitter memories still lingered.
Upon his arrival in Westfirth, Sir Henry sent a note to Alcazar, who lived in Evreux on Half Moon Street, arranging their meeting. Using one of his many disguises, Sir Henry had secured a suite of rooms in an inn and then waited for Alcazar.
Alcazar received the letter, but he was having second thoughts and he tossed the letter in the fireplace- which was where Rodrigo would later find it. When Alcazar failed to arrive at the meeting place, Sir Henry, seething, acted promptly. He sent his agents, under the leadership of James Harrington (alias Sir Richard Piefer), to procure Alcazar. Harrington was to handle Alcazar gently but firmly and send him on his way, under escort, to Westfirth. Harrington was then to linger on Half Moon Street to see who took an interest in Alcazar’s disappearance and to deal with them as circumstances warranted.
Harrington had of late proved to be troublesome. The man had begun to think too highly of himself, leading him to indulge in rash and reckless behavior. Sir Henry had more than once thought of cutting Harrington loose, but the man had two qualities that made him valuable: his ability to masquerade as anything from a chimney sweep to an ambassador and his skill with firearms.
In this instance, Harrington delivered the goods. He and his associates swept up Alcazar in the middle of the night and carried him off. When Alcazar was escorted into Sir Henry’s presence by his captors, the first thing the journeyman saw was Sir Henry cleaning his pistols. Alcazar collapsed, senseless.
Sir Henry revived the wretched journeyman and assured him that he was not only safe from the moneylenders, he was about to take a trip to Freya where he would become a very wealthy man. He would have his own armory, his own journeymen, everything he needed to continue his work.
“But I don’t want to go to Freya, Monsieur Russo,” said Alcazar.
(Henry had not, of course, given Alcazar his true name. He had told Alcazar that he was Monsieur Russo, a mere agent of the famous spymaster, Sir Henry Wallace.)
“Of course you want to go to Freya,” Henry snapped.
“No, I don’t, sir,” Alcazar said, trembling. “I just want my money.”
It seemed that the genius Pietro Alcazar had spent a lot of time reflecting on what he had done and had- somewhat belatedly-come to the horrifying realization that if he was caught fleeing to Freya, he would be branded a traitor. Alcazar knew what happened to traitors. He had witnessed their cruel deaths and seen their heads mounted on pikes on the palace grounds and watched the crows peck out their eyes. And not only would he be branded a traitor, his brother would be executed as his accomplice, his brother’s young family turned out into the streets.
“All I want is my money,” Alcazar kept whining, apparently having some idea that if he merely took money for the secret formulae, he was not betraying his country.
Sir Henry could have locked up Alcazar in a trunk and hauled him to Freya bodily, but his invention of magically infused steel was so vitally important that Sir Henry did not dare upset the genius. A browbeaten, terrified Alcazar might decide to take his revenge on his captor by sabotaging the project. Sir Henry needed Alcazar to come willingly, gladly, enthusiastically.
