Stephano, glancing back, saw Benoit standing on the door stoop, a candlestick in his hand, tears running down his dried-up, leathery cheeks. The cab was pulling away when movement on the sidewalk caught his attention.
The sun had not yet risen. The street was dark, except for Benoit’s candle, and that gave only a feeble light. Yet Stephano was convinced he saw a shadow detaching itself from darker shadows. Stephano leaned out of the open-air compartment to try to get a better view. The shadow melded with the darkness. Stephano sat back, frowning.
“What are you doing?” asked Rodrigo listlessly.
“I saw a man in the alley,” said Stephano. “Someone is still watching us.”
“Probably to make certain I don’t run off,” said Rodrigo.
“Possibly,” said Stephano, but he was not convinced.
Rodrigo wrapped his cloak closely about him and sat back against the cushions, staring at the world he might shortly be about to leave. Stephano tried to think of something to say that would bring his friend some comfort, but everything he thought of sounded stupid and maudlin. Rodrigo’s hand, fist clenched, rested on the seat. Stephano placed his hand over his friend’s. Rodrigo responded with a pallid smile. They rode in silence to the church. Once there, Stephano asked the driver of the hansom cab to wait for them until mass was over.
The driver gave a chuckle and another knowing wink. Sitting back in the seat, he tipped his hat over his face and settled himself comfortably. The horse began to graze on the dew-wet grass.
“At least, you’ll save money, my friend,” Rodrigo said, as they were walking toward the site of the duel. “Going back, you’ll only have to pay for one fare.”
Chapter Seven
Magic, according to the church, is the echo of God’s voice. Magic is of God and therefore under the dominion of the church in order to make certain that crafters use their talents for God’s glory. What this means is that the church oversees the use and development of all magical constructs. The church is the final authority on the creation of new constructs.
“Magic is from God and so should glorify God and serve God and his people in their work to do God’s will.”
I say-bullshit.
Magic is of men.
THE CHURCH OF SAINT CHARLES WAS ANCIENT, one of the first churches built in Evreux when the city was established as Rosia’s capital five hundred years ago. The church stood on a low bluff at a bend of the River Counce. According to ancient records, the original structure had been simple in design. The records listed the amount of stone and wood required, the number of crafters and laborers and masons who had worked on the church, careful notations of the money the people were paid, and a faded plan of the structure drawn up by the unknown architect. The records and the plan were all that was left of the first church. It had been burned to the ground by Freyan invaders during the Blackfire War.
The Church of Saint Charles, patron saint of Evreux, had been rebuilt on a grander scale-a defiant gesture on the part of the Rosians after driving out the Freyans. With its delicate spires and stained glass windows, the church was now a beautiful edifice overlooking the meandering river.
A cemetery had been established on the grounds adjacent to the church. A quiet and private place, the cemetery with its ancient mausoleums and marble monuments, sheltering trees, trimmed hedgerows, and long stretches of green grass was a favored place for clandestine meetings, whether for love or for those of a more violent nature.
At this early hour, the pale sun was barely visible through the thick mists rising from the river. The orb looked shrunken and gave no warmth, shining with a gray-tinged light. Rodrigo and Stephano were the first to arrive, which allowed Stephano the chance to view the ground. He had not fought any of his own duels here, but he had acted as second to a fellow officer in the Dragon Brigade who had. That duel had ended as well as these things can. The two men had fought with swords. One had been grazed in the arm, the other in the chest. Since blood had been drawn, both gentlemen had pronounced themselves satisfied and had departed with honor.
Stephano had a grim feeling today’s duel was not going to end as well. He walked the long, broad sward that formed a border between the old, graying tombstones and the low stone wall that stood between the cemetery and the river. A grove of oak, walnut, and maple trees stood outside the cemetery wall at the south end. Willow trees lined the bank of the sleepy river. The church itself was at the north end, some distance from this part of the cemetery. The duelers would face north and south, so that neither one would be blinded by the rising sun which, given the mists, was not likely to be a problem.
The cemetery was very old. Few people were buried here anymore; only those with family vaults, and most of the ancient families had died out. The tombstones were worn and faded; the dead slept quietly. Any restless ghosts had long since let go their tenuous grasp on the world and drifted off to a final rest. An air of peaceful melancholy pervaded the cemetery. A statue of Guardian Saint Simone, Acceptor of the Dead, stood in the center with her arms spread in welcome, her face loving and forgiving.
The mists crept among the tombstones and rolled off the river between the trunks of the trees. Rodrigo stood quietly staring at one of the tombstones as though he could imagine himself lying beneath it. Stephano pulled out his pocket watch. They lacked fifteen minutes until the designated time. Just as he was thinking that Valazquez was going to be late or might not come at all, a black coach arrived. The elegant coach with its team of four horses and two footmen riding behind rolled to a stop next to the hired hansom cab with its driver snoring in his seat.
Sir Richard Piefer descended, followed by two men, and then Valazquez. All of them wore black cloaks and looked rather like ghosts themselves as they walked through the mists. Stephano focused on the two gentlemen who accompanied Piefer and Valazquez. One of them was portly, slightly stoopshouldered, and walked with the aid of a silver-headed cane. He wore a shoulder-length, curled periwig beneath a black, tricornered hat. His black waistcoat barely met across his broad middle. His face was fleshy, his eyes dark and flat.
Formal introductions followed. For the first time, Stephano met the notorious Oudell Chaunquler, unofficial official adjudicator of duels in the capital city of Evreux. Chaunquler was perhaps fifty years of age. His passion was dueling, and he was often invited to officiate. He always brusquely refused payment, though he would accept a gratuity pressed into his palm after the affair was over.
Chaunquler was reputed to know the Codes Duello by heart, upside down and backward, and was here to settle any dispute or question that might arise. Since dueling was illegal and such matters could not be taken to court, Chaunquler’s judgment was considered final. Stephano had been feeling the weight of his responsibilities as second lying heavy on his shoulders, as his fear lay heavy on his heart. He was relieved that he could turn over the procedures of the duel to a man who understood what he was doing and would see that all was handled fairly.
The other man was introduced as Doctor Alabarca. A surgeon was always present at a duel, for obvious reasons. Doctor Alabarca was so bundled up in his cloak that Stephano could not get a look at him. The surgeon had brought a camp stool with him. He set it down, sat on it, rested his bag of instruments on the grass, and did not move. He said nothing to anyone, responded to no greetings, and gave the impression he was annoyed at having to be up this early.