Father Jacob asked the servant to prepare a basket of food and a bottle of wine. When the servant left to carry out the order and they were alone, Father Jacob turned to Sir Ander.
“I know you are always armed, my friend,” he said gravely. “But it might be wise to take extra precautions.”
Troubled by the priest’s grim expression, Sir Ander stood up, gulping his hot coffee and burning his tongue.
Father Jacob went off to fetch Brother Barnaby. Sir Ander returned to his room, put on his light chain mail vest, set with the magical constructs and buckled on his sword belt. He loaded the dragon pistol, placed one of the nonmagical pistols in a concealed pocket and thrust the other in his belt. He grabbed his helm.
He found Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby waiting in the entry hall. Father Jacob was on the move immediately, walking in such haste that his long strides caused his cassock to ride up around his shins. Brother Barnaby, armed with his portable writing desk, had to almost run to keep up. He flashed a look at Sir Ander, asking silently if he knew what was going on. Sir Ander shook his head.
Father Jacob strode rapidly through the halls of the Old Fort and headed out for the battlements. Sir Ander thought this was their destination, and he was startled to see the priest keep going.
The battlements extended from one guard tower to another for a distance spanning many hundred feet. In the guard towers, the bored soldiers were relieved to have some amusement to break up the tedium of their watch, observing with interest the attempts by the navy to enforce the blockade. Although the Old Fort had not been occupied for years, the moment the archbishop expressed his desire to move into it, the lord mayor found that he was suddenly extremely attached to the site and did not want the Church to commandeer it. He had taken his grievances to the king, who had gone to the grand bishop. The result was that the Church paid the city of Westfirth handsomely for use of the Old Fort. The soldiers who guarded the Old Fort were under the command of the lord mayor. The archbishop had his own guards, whose main duty was to protect His Reverence’s person.
The archbishop’s soldiers patrolled the archbishop’s living quarters. The Westfirth guards were responsible for the rest. There being no enemy to guard against, the only excitement for either force these days was the occasional skirmish between the Mayor’s soldiers and those belonging to the archbishop when one or the other crossed the demarcation line.
The soldiers in the guard towers saw Father Jacob in his black cassock and Sir Ander in his chain mail armor, his sword clanking at his hip, and looked at each other with raised eyebrows. All breathed a little easier when the Arcanum priest passed them by.
“Where are we going?” Sir Ander ventured to ask, as they walked by the third guard tower.
In answer, Father Jacob pointed to top of the cliff, to the Bastion, the crumbling remains of the abandoned outpost that had once belonged to the Dragon Brigade. The outpost was situated high on a peak above the Old Fort. Sir Ander gaped in dismay at the series of winding steps cut into the rock that led up the side of the cliff.
“Beautiful day for a climb, isn’t it?” said Father Jacob in hearty tones. “Did you know that the dragon bastions are fairly modern, dating back only about seventy years? The bastions are historically important because they are different from those found in the dragon homeland. I have never had a chance to fully study the Westfirth Bastion. No one ever goes there now,” he added with emphasis. “More’s the pity, eh, Sir Ander? You have long said the Dragon Brigade should have never been disbanded. Let us go take a look.”
Sir Ander understood. Father Jacob needed a place to speak to them in absolute privacy, a place where there was not the slightest chance they could be overheard. He braced himself for the climb and was thankful he had decided to wear chain mail and not his heavy breastplate.
The trek up to the top of the cliff did not prove as difficult as Sir Ander had anticipated. The stairs did not ascend straight up, but were cut into the side in a zigzag manner so that the ascent was not particularly arduous. Sir Ander was rewarded for his efforts by a magnificent view of the city of Westfirth and the mists of the Breath in the harbor.
“Humans were stationed here, as well as dragons,” said Father Jacob when Sir Ander remarked that the climb was not as bad as he had anticipated. “Your godson, Captain de Guichen, must have made this trek often.”
Neither Sir Ander nor Brother Barnaby had been in a dragon bastion before and despite the seriousness of the situation, they both looked about with interest as they walked the empty halls formed of stone laid by dragons. The Bastion was built in a circle with halls and rooms radiating from an enormous courtyard of stone. In the center of the courtyard were traces of a mosaic depicting the emblem of the Dragon Brigade: a blue-green dragon in flight, wings extended, on the background of a red-and-golden sun.
“The dragons and their riders landed and took off here,” said Father Jacob. He indicated the courtyard which was open to the skies.
The wind blew continuously from the Breath, shredding the mists, providing excellent visibility. Above them, the sky was a deep, cobalt blue. The Bastion was named “Bastion of the Wind” for this reason. Sir Ander could picture Stephano and his dragon, facing into the wind; the dragon extending his wings, allowing the breeze to lift them. He could picture his godson and his mount soaring out into the Breath, riding the thermals. Sir Ander had never quite understood Stephano’s passion for climbing onto the backs of dragons and flying into the sky until now, in this place with the wind on his face, wrapped in silence, the blue vault of Heaven above, all cares left on the ground far below.
“The dragons were quartered in these rooms that extend out from the courtyard.” Father Jacob was explaining to Brother Barnaby. “Their riders lived in the barracks over there to the north.”
“The rooms and halls don’t seem big enough for dragons,” Brother Barnaby marveled.
“Dragons are large, but they are extremely flexible,” said Father Jacob. “They curl up tail to nose when they sleep. Like foxes and wolves, they feel safe in cozy cavelike rooms. That is why, in even the grandest and most magnificent dragon palaces, you will find the sleeping chambers are small and snug.”
“I would like to see a dragon palace,” said Brother Barnaby wistfully.
“And so you shall,” said Father Jacob, pleased. “I have been wanting to pay a visit to my friends in the dragon realm again, though I fear that pleasure must wait for a time. For now, we have urgent matters to discuss.”
Someone-dragon or human-had planted a rose garden in an angle between one hall and another. Sheltered from the constant wind, yet open to the sunshine and rain, the rose garden must have once been lovely. The garden was now overrun with weeds, though here and there a few rosebushes clung stubbornly to life. The three settled themselves on a stone bench and opened the basket of food, all of them feeling in need of sustenance after the climb.
Whatever was on Father Jacob’s mind, he refused to discuss it while they were eating. Once they were finished, Brother Barnaby packed away the dishes and scattered the remains of the bread for the birds, then brought out the writing desk and made ready to take notes.
“First, I must relate bad news. The Sorceress has eluded capture,” said Father Jacob. “Arcanum agents found where she had been living, but she was gone. There was evidence that she fled in haste.”
“She was warned,” said Sir Ander grimly. He glanced around. “So that’s why we are up here in the clouds. You think someone in the archbishop’s household alerted her.”
“Someone in the house or one of the guards…” Father Jacob shrugged. “I do not know and thus I could not take a chance on anyone overhearing our conversation.”
He fell silent, his expression dark and somber.