“Nonsense,” said the archbishop. “His Holiness can’t be serious!”
The archbishop had heard rumors about Dubois, knew him to be the grand bishop’s trusted and confidential agent, but had never met him. The archbishop was at first unimpressed by the common, shabby little man. Dubois was used to creating such a deplorable first impression. Indeed, he fostered such impressions. He liked being underestimated, forgotten. He found it easier to slip up on his victim unawares.
Having been confident he would capture Sir Henry, Dubois had said nothing more at the time. Now the man had once more escaped him. Dubois found the archbishop hosting a private musical evening for several wealthy gentlemen of the city, hoping to be able to persuade them to donate to the building of the cathedral. The archbishop was not pleased at being summoned away from the concert to meet with Dubois, who was waiting in the shadows of a balcony outside the salon.
“Well, what is it?” the archbishop demanded. He could hear, in the distance, the soprano singing one of his favorite arias.
Dubois explained briefly that Wallace had managed to escape.
“You must act now, Your Reverence,” Dubois concluded. “Close the port before this extremely dangerous man can flee to Freya.”
“Out of the question,” said the archbishop brusquely. “People will view this as a prelude to war with Freya. Does His Majesty know about this?”
“The bishop will handle His Majesty,” said Dubois. “As you are aware, I have here the bishop’s letter giving me full power to make this demand.”
The archbishop was well aware of the letter. He knew it was genuine. He could see and touch the grand bishop’s own personal seal that was affixed to it. But the archbishop was still not convinced. The idea that he was about to unofficially declare war on Freya by closing the port was appalling. He could envision the hordes of angry ship owners descending on him, howling about lost money. And, the truth be told, he was worried about the funding for his magnificent cathedral. In the event of war, that funding might dry up and so would his legacy.
“The Royal Navy would have to be informed-”
“I’ve already done that,” said Dubois coolly.
The archbishop flushed in anger. “You had no right-”
“I have every right,” said Dubois. “I refer you, once again, to the grand bishop’s letter.”
The archbishop thought this over. The grand bishop’s letter gave Dubois power to deal with any crisis in general. The grand bishop did not say anything specific about the closing of the port.
“I would feel more comfortable if I had a letter in the grand bishop’s own hand stating that he was responsible for issuing the decree,” said the archbishop. “As you know, I am but his humble servant. I could send a messenger to Evreux by griffin. He would be back by morning two days hence.”
“By which time, Sir Henry Wallace will be well on his way to Freya bearing Rosia’s doom,” said Dubois.
“Hardly my fault,” said the archbishop with a telling glance at Dubois. “You are the one who lost him.”
Dubois would have liked to wring the neck of the grand bishop’s humble servant. He restrained himself, however. He was thinking he was going to have to get tough with this man, threaten to reveal a certain sordid incident in the archbishop’s past which Dubois had taken care to discover, just in case. He did not want to resort to such a drastic measure. Not yet. Not if there was an easier way.
“If you will excuse me,” said the archbishop, “I am going to return to my guests.”
Dubois gazed, frowning, into the night. Hearing voices drifting up from down below, he glanced down over the edge of the balcony.
Silhouetted against the lambent light of stars and half moon, three men were walking the battlements at a slow pace. He could not see their faces in the darkness, but he knew them by their attire: one man in helm and breastplate, one in flowing monk’s robes, one in a long black cassock. By their low tones, they were deeply engaged in some important and serious conversation. He spoke to the back of the departing archbishop.
“Your Reverence,” said Dubois, “what would you say if I referred this matter of Sir Henry Wallace to the judgment of the Arcanum?”
The archbishop stopped. He turned around. He looked uneasy. “Why would the Arcanum get involved?”
“Because they have sense enough to understand the danger,” said Dubois.
The archbishop followed Dubois’ gaze to the battlements, to the man in the black cassock. The archbishop looked from Father Jacob back to Dubois and back to Father Jacob. The archbishop’s face went stony. He turned and stalked off.
Dubois smiled and out of habit started eavesdropping on the priest, who had paused right beneath the balcony. He heard Father Jacob tell his Knight Protector that he was planning to order the archbishop to send forces to scour the city in search of one he termed “the Sorceress” and her evil followers. Dubois raised an eyebrow. He had heard of this Sorceress. Was she responsible for the ambush? If so, why had she been attempting to kill both Sir Henry and Father Jacob?
“I need to meet this woman,” Dubois said to himself.
The father and his companions moved on and so did Dubois. As he returned to his coach, he saw the harried archbishop trying to explain matters to his guest, the Lord Mayor of the City of Westfirth, who was almost purple with fury. Dubois shook his head and slipped away.
Within the hour, a cannon announcing the closing of the port of Westfirth went off, as constables fanned out across the city, looking for a young man of about seventeen, who might be suffering from a gunshot wound to the foot, and a Freyan woman named Eiddwen, beautiful, with black curling hair. Dubois returned to his room at the Threadneedle Inn to try to get some sleep while he awaited the reports of his agents.
The echoes of the cannon shot were still lingering in the air when Sir Henry Wallace put his new plan into action. He watched out the window and when the coach entered a certain, shadowy street, Henry rose to his feet and rapped on the ceiling of the coach. The coach rolled to a stop. Henry got out and, glancing behind to make certain the street was empty, he spoke to the driver.
“Are we being followed?”
“Yes, Guvnor,” said the driver, who knew Sir Henry by a completely different identity. “Small hansom cab. Keeps a block or two behind.”
“Come down here,” said Henry.
The driver obeyed. The two walked off to an alley, leaving Alcazar, a prey to terror, alone with the woman and the “Duke.” He lost sight of Sir Henry in the darkness and was afraid that Monsieur Russo (Sir Henry’s alias) had abandoned him. Then, thankfully, Sir Henry and the driver returned. Sir Henry entered the coach. Alcazar was about to say something when he saw the man’s face.
“You’re not Monsieur Russo!” Alcazar gasped.
“Shut yer yap,” said the driver, now wearing the count’s cloak.
Sir Henry, wearing the driver’s coat, mounted the box, took the reins, and the journey resumed.
Henry glanced several times over his shoulder and finally caught sight of the small hansom cab. He took care so that the cab did not lose him. The original idea had been to throw Dubois off the trail. Now Henry wanted Dubois on it. Dubois had grown annoying. Henry wanted to be rid of him.
Henry drove the coach to a small boarding house located near the docks. He stopped beneath a streetlamp and, in his guise as coach driver, climbed down from the seat to assist the “count” and his “lady” to leave the coach. Alcazar was also about to leave. Henry strong-armed him, shoved him back inside.
“Not a word,” said Sir Henry. “Keep an eye on him,” he said to the man who had been driving the coach.
The count and his lady swiftly mounted the steps of the house. The count unlocked the outer door, and hurried inside, bringing his lady with him. Sir Henry returned to the driver’s seat. He waited a moment to make certain Dubois’ agent in the hansom cab had taken note of the movements of the “count,” then drove off. Looking back over his shoulder, Henry noted with immense satisfaction that the hansom cab remained parked near the boarding house.