“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.
“At the Blue Parrot?” Red Dog asked.
“No, not there. Wallace might see us and give us the slip. We will meet at the Masons’ Guildhall. It’s a block north of the Parrot.”
“What about Captain de Guichen? Should I leave people to watch his bo at?”
“Forget him. He has served his purpose.”
“What about them demons?” Red Dog asked.
Dubois had actually forgotten the demons in his excitement. He brought to mind the report the grand bishop had sent him. The nun had described the abbey’s attackers as “demons hurling balls of green fire.”
“We will deal with them later,” said Dubois. To his mind, Sir Henry was the primary devil.
“I guess the boss’ll take care of ’em,” said Red Dog, referring to one of the heads of the criminal gangs that ran Westfirth.
Red Dog left to assemble his comrades. Dubois, who was not an exclusive customer of the bordello, had to summon his own cab. As he rolled off toward the Blue Parrot, Dubois reveled in his victory. At long last, he would have enough evidence to send Rosia’s most dangerous foe, Sir Henry Wallace, to the gallows.
What were fiends from Hell compared to that!
Chapter Thirty-Four
In my years serving the Arcanum, I have seen enough evil in this world to know that we do not need the Devil to create Hell. Hell is the destruction of hope and the loss of faith brought on by man’s inhumanity to man.
– Father Jacob Northrop
DAG AND BROTHER BARNABY WERE ON THEIR WAY to Bitter End Lane and were still several blocks away when they heard the first explosion and saw green fire light the sky.
“Demons!” Brother Barnaby gasped.
Dag shook his head and muttered, “Damn!” He had been planning to approach cautiously, holding back, not wanting to make his presence known until he first ascertained that Father Jacob was truly in danger.
No need for caution now. Dag broke into a run.
“Stay put, Brother!” he shouted behind him.
Brother Barnaby had no intention of staying anywhere. He paused only long enough to hike up the skirts of his long robes. Frantic with fear for Father Jacob and Sir Ander, he fumbled at the cloth. Suddenly other hands were helping him, deft fingers tucking folds of the hem securely into his belt.
Brother Barnaby looked into Gythe’s blue eyes. Startled, he seized hold of her.
“Child, you shouldn’t be here!” Brother Barnaby said in dismay.
Gythe’s fingers were cold. She was shivering with fear. She shook her head, however, and gave him a tremulous smile. Wrenching free of his grasp, she ran after Dag.
“Gythe, come back!” Barnaby shouted.
Dag heard the monk’s shout and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Gythe running toward him, he scowled and motioned peremptorily that she was to keep out of the fight. Gythe stopped and stood in the middle of the street, staring in horror at the demons. Brother Barnaby caught up with her. Not knowing what else to do, he shoved her into a recessed doorway.
“You will be safe here,” Barnaby said, praying he was right. “Stay until we come for you.”
Gythe gave a shuddering nod and Barnaby left her to follow Dag into the smoke and fire.
Gythe remained crouched in the doorway where Brother Barnaby had told her to stay. She saw bright flashes of green light, but this time the magic didn’t hurt her, not like when the magic was hitting the protective spells she’d woven around her boat. She had trusted that she and Miri and the others were safe on the boat with the spells wrapped around them, like silkworms in a silken cocoon. But then the cocoon had caught fire.
She ran away from the fire, hoping to find the time she had been happy and unknowing. But the world was dark. She couldn’t find the path. And she could still feel the pain, no matter how far she ran. When the pain finally stopped, Gythe realized she didn’t know how to get back. She huddled in the darkness, alone and terrified, and then she heard a man’s voice, gentle and soothing, calling her name.
She was afraid to answer, but she hoped the man would find her, for he sounded warm and caring. She began to hum a little song to keep up her spirits, and the man heard the song and found her in her hiding place. A monk held out his hands to her, and she took his hands and he led her safely home.
But the monk had not been the only one to hear her song. Far, far, far away was a drumbeat, soft as a heartbeat, but not as steady. The beat was slow and erratic and frightening. And there were the voices far away as the drumbeat. The voices were not gentle. They were terrible voices: hurtful and cruel and filled with hatred.
The voices ebbed and flowed like the currents of the Breath. Here in the street the voices were suddenly strong, voices of fury and rage. Voices of killing. Blood and death and hatred.