Margaret Weis: Shadow Raiders

Mr. Sloan did not understand, but he was not there to understand. He was there to follow orders, and Sir Henry was now proceeding to issue them.

“We have much to do and very little time to do it. I am going to set in motion Operation ‘Braffa,’ as we discussed. A trifle earlier than I had intended to move, but I need the eyes of Rosia to be looking in a different direction, and destabilizing the government of one of her allies should do that nicely. Meanwhile I need you to ride with all speed to my good friend, Admiral Baker. He will be in bed, but you will wake him and give him a note.”

Mr. Sloan was supplied, as always, with a writing kit, consisting of a pen, a small bottle of ink, sealing wax, and several blank sheets of note paper, all of which he carried in a compact wooden box tucked into the pocket of his long, black coat. He produced these and handed them to Sir Henry, who wrote swiftly, with large, bold strokes.

I require immediately a fast ship with an experienced crew and a captain who knows how to keep his mouth shut.

“Give this into the admiral’s hands.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

Sir Henry gazed long at the tankard, then he frowned at the letter. Taking up the pen, he crossed out the words: a captain who knows how to keep his mouth shut and scribbled something else. Sir Henry folded the letter. Mr. Sloan dripped the sealing wax on the fold. Sir Henry pressed a signet ring he wore in the wax. He did not sign the letter.

“The admiral will know my seal,” said Sir Henry.

“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

“When he has read the letter, you will take the usual precautions.”

“Of course, my lord. The letter will be magically burned to ashes, the ashes stirred, and then mixed with wine and tossed into the slop jar.”

Henry nodded and the two men parted.

As Mr. Sloan left upon his errand, he reflected that he had seen much in his thirty-five years, twenty-two of which had been spent in the service of his country. He was noted for his extraordinary calm. He was never rattled, rarely impressed. Yet now, as he hurried to the stables, he noted that his hand, which was holding the letter, was shaking with excitement.

Sir Henry had written, beneath the slashed-out words, this sentence: I need a captain and crew who are expendable.

THE EVENTS THAT WOULD EVENTUALLY SHAKE the foundations of the Church of the Breath of God, threaten to topple two monarchies, and plunge the world of Aeronne into war began simply enough in a modest house on the Boulevard of Saints, city of Evreux, continent of Rosia, year of Our Lord, 516 DT (abbreviation for Dark Tide) at six of the clock in the evening and began with the words, “We are broke.”

The words were spoken by one Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve to his friend, Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen, formerly of the Dragon Brigade, and they would never be recorded in any history book.

Rodrigo placed an iron-banded heavy wooden box on the table where the members of the Cadre of the Lost were finishing supper. He touched the box and a magical sigil flared into light, warning anyone trying to tamper with the box that he was about to meet a most unpleasant fate. Rodrigo removed the sigil by tracing another sigil over it, then thrust an iron key into the lock, turned it, and opened the lid. He removed three small cloth bags, and placed a bag in front of Dag Thorgrimson, another bag in front of Miri McPike, and a third in front of Miri’s younger sister, Gythe. He then brought out a slim leather-bound ledger and thumped it down on the table.

“That doesn’t bode well,” said Dag, eyeing the ledger gloomily.

“Nor does the heft of this,” said Miri. “So much smaller than the job we did for that bastard, Le Marc.”

She measured the weight of the coins in the cloth bag with her hand, then opened it and poured the contents into her palm. The small pile was comprised mostly of large copper ten-pennies with a few small silver coins thrown in.

Rodrigo opened the ledger. “That’s because we had bills to pay. I paid for the repairs on the Cloud Hopper and for a crafter to fix Dag’s stowaway pistol and I compensated the Han brothers for their services. You know the Han brothers-payment at once for services rendered, or they break your kneecaps.”

He cast a severe glance at Dag. “That gunsmith crafter friend of yours was extremely expensive.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” said Dag imperturbably. “Especially with a weapon that can blow off my hand.”

“I notice you and Stephano didn’t take a share of the money,” said Miri, frowning

“I told you,” said Rodrigo, “we’re broke. For the moment, Stephano and I can survive. I have my allowance. Our esteemed captain has his military pension-such as it is.”

He looked at Stephano and added, with an exasperated sigh, “Would someone wake him up?”

Stephano heard Rodrigo’s voice, but he wasn’t attending to the words. He had taken a sip of the Duke of Bourlet’s favorite red wine and was holding the liquid in his mouth as he had been taught, detecting the various flavors: black fruit, chocolate, leather, and violets. The taste brought back memories: the smell of the herbs and spices used to marinate the roasted beef, the sound of his father’s ringing laughter, the sparkle of the crystal goblets in the candlelight, the sense of warmth and camaraderie, the sense of family.

Stephano swallowed the wine, the last dregs left in the glass. He kept his eyes closed. Beneath his hand was fine linen, silver knives and forks and spoons, porcelain plates painted with dragons. Cut roses in crystal vases added their own scent to the air. He was fifteen and the fifteen-year-old Stephano looked around the table at his family and friends and knew that he was blessed…

“Stephano,” said Miri, giving his arm a shake.

“I’m here,” said Stephano.

He held a cracked crockery mug filled with beer, not wine, and not very good beer at that. Beneath his hand was the wood of the kitchen table, a tin plate, a knife that didn’t match the spoon, and a fork with a bent prong. The smell of a stewed chicken, boiled greens, and warm bread filled the small kitchen. The raspberry jam and butter had ended up, once again, in front of Dag.

Miri had noted its movement and was whispering something, with a giggle, to Gythe. Her sister smiled and caught hold of Doctor Ellington just as he jumped onto the table in the fond but vain hope that no one would notice a twenty-pound, orange-striped tabby cat licking the butter. Gythe bumped heads with the cat, whose rumbling purr resonated around the small kitchen, then handed the bag of coins back to Rodrigo. She made a sign with her hand.

Miri translated, “We will contribute our share to the cause.”

She tossed her bag back to Rodrigo.

“What the Hell,” said Dag. “Who needs to eat?” He handed over his bag.

Thirty-four-year-old Stephano de Guichen looked around the table at this family, at those who had become his family, and knew that he was blessed.

“I heard you,” said Stephano, sighing. He kicked out a chair and propped his booted feet up onto it and leaned back. “You said we were broke.”