Margaret Weis: Shadow Raiders

Dag’s face darkened. His brow came together. His hand, resting on his knee, clenched to a fist.

“Now, now, my friend,” said Rodrigo soothingly, “it’s no use pretending you did not once break legs for a living…”

Dag scowled. Stephano saw Rodrigo’s life flash before his eyes and he was about to intervene when the meeting was interrupted by the sound of wyvern wings and the clatter of a carriage coming to rest on the cobblestones outside the house. The wyverns’ raucous croaks were followed by the voice of the driver shouting at the beasts to settle.

Stephano and his friends all looked at one another. Judging by the sounds of the jingling harness, the scraping of claws on stone, and the wyverns hissing and snorting, the carriage had stopped right outside the front door. Someone arriving in a carriage-a large, airborne carriage-at this hour…

“I smell money,” said Rodrigo, his nose twitching.

There was a clatter and a scraping noise. The driver was lowering a step for the convenience of the carriage’s passenger. Then came the bang of the door knocker.

Stephano turned to Benoit, who was pretending to be asleep in his chair. The knock was repeated with a bit more force. Stephano cleared his throat.

Benoit blinked and opened his eyes, looked about blearily, and said, “Someone at the door, sir.”

“I know,” said Stephano.

He sat stubbornly in his chair.

Benoit sat in his. After a moment, the old man said wonderingly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Would you like me to answer that, sir?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” said Stephano bitingly.

Groaning, Benoit rose to his feet and began to shuffle across the floor. “If I might suggest, sir, you and Master Rodrigo should remove yourselves to the sitting room. Unless you want your visitor to find you sitting in the kitchen. He might mistake you for the cook.”

“By God, he’s right,” said Rodrigo. “Stephano-sitting room! Run for it!”

The kitchen was on the ground floor at the rear of the two-story house. A back door opened out into a small patch of ground that was meant to be used as a kitchen garden, but which had been turned into an exercise yard. Benoit’s rooms were on this level, as well. On the upper floor were a sitting room, two bedrooms, and two dressing rooms for Rodrigo and Stephano, a library, and study.

“We’ll stay here in the kitchen,” said Miri. She and Gythe and Dag remained seated. “I don’t mind being mistaken for the cook.”

Stephano flushed. “You know it’s not that-”

“I know,” said Miri, smiling.

She meant that she and Gythe and Dag weren’t “hiding” in the kitchen because Stephano was ashamed of his “low-born” friends. The three kept out of sight because the Cadre of the Lost often found it advantageous for people to assume there could be no connection between the son of a noble family (albeit a noble family in disgrace), the son of an ambassador, and a mercenary and two Trundlers.

Dag reached into the sleeve of his coat and drew from a hidden pocket a small pistol known as a “stowaway gun.” The cheaper models of these guns relied on a flint to strike a spark to fire the weapon. Dag’s pistol used magical constructs-a fire sigil carved into the metal-to accomplish the same purpose. Such pistols were expensive because they required the regular services of a crafter to maintain the magic, but Stephano saw to it that his people had only the best. Dag inspected the gun, made certain it was loaded. He nodded at Stephano to indicate readiness.

The cat, Doctor Ellington, seeing the pistol, leaped off Dag’s shoulder onto the table and from the table to the floor. Tail bristling with indignation, the Doctor stalked off to the cold room. He disliked loud noises.

“Move! Move!” Rodrigo yelled, grabbing his coat and hustling the reluctant Stephano from behind.

Once in the sitting room, Rodrigo put on his coat and smoothed his brocade vest. Careless of his own appearance, Stephano walked over to the window that looked down into the street. He saw the coat of arms on the door of the carriage and said, “Son of a bitch.”

Crossing the room, he flung open the door, and shouted down, “I’m not at home!”

“Very good, sir,” said Benoit.

Rodrigo looked out the window and quirked an eyebrow. He remained standing by the window, a smile on his lips, humming a dance tune.

Stephano walked over to the fireplace, where a small fire burned in the grate. Though the days were warm in late spring, the evenings were still chill. He listened to the sound of voices and heard the door bang shut. He smiled in relief and was on his way out the door to rejoin his friends when Benoit came in.

“May I present Monsieur Dargent,” Benoit said in a loud voice. “Confidential valet-de-chambre to the Countess de Marjolaine.”

Stephano’s face flushed in anger. “Damn it, Benoit, I told you I wasn’t home-”

Benoit, who had now gone conveniently deaf in addition to his other infirmities, stepped aside to allow the gentleman to enter.

“Thank you, Benoit,” said Dargent, smiling at the elderly retainer. “Good to see you again.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Benoit, bowing. “Always a pleasure.” Stephano caught the flash of silver in the old man’s hand.

“Traitor!” Stephano yelled after him as Benoit descended the stairs.

“Perhaps next time, Master, you will answer the door yourself,” Benoit returned, pocketing the coin.

Stephano, pointedly leaving the sitting room door open, turned back to glare at Dargent, who smiled at him pleasantly.

“Stephano, you are looking well,” said Dargent. “And you, Master Rodrigo. You seem fit. How are your father and mother?”

“In good health, monsieur, thank you,” said Rodrigo.

“Your father is ambassador to Estara now, I believe,” said Dargent.

Rodrigo bowed. “He was so fortunate to be called out of exile and given that assignment.”

“The king’s way of making amends,” said Dargent.

Rodrigo bowed again in acknowledgment. “His Majesty is the soul of generosity.”

Stephano snorted and went to stand by the fireplace. He rested his arm on the mantel and stared moodily into the flames.

“I’d invite you to sit down, Dargent, but you won’t be staying that long. What do you want?”

“I have a letter from the countess, Captain,” said Dargent. “She asked me to deliver it into your hands.”

Though a creature of a court known for its elegant and extravagant dress, Dargent wore tailored clothes in somber colors, as became a man of business. His stockings were snowy white, his buckled shoes polished, and they made no sound as he walked across the carpet. He was even-tempered, quiet of manner, discreet. He handed Stephano a missive that was folded like a cocked hat and sealed with lavender wax bearing the countess’ insignia-a bumblebee.

Stephano took the letter from Dargent’s hand and tossed it into the fire.

Dargent reached into the pocket of his vest and drew out another letter. “Her Excellency said to give you the second after you destroyed the first.”

Stephano’s angry flush deepened. He was about to seize the letter and cast it to the same fate as the other one, when Rodrigo, moving with uncustomary speed, plucked the letter from Dargent’s hand and withdrew to the window to read it in the failing light. He gave a long, low whistle.

“What does she want?” Stephano asked, glowering.

“You are summoned to attend Her Excellency, the Countess de Marjolaine, in her quarters at the royal palace tomorrow morning at the hour of nine of the clock,” said Rodrigo.

Stephano glowered. “I’ll see her in-”

“-in the palace, my friend. There’s more,” said Rodrigo. “It seems the countess has bought up all your debt. Either you favor her with your presence in the morning, or she will demand that the debt be paid in full.”