“Take us to the Dirk and Dragon on Silk Street,” Sir Ander said, assisting Father Jacob into the carriage.

The driver looked startled. “But that’s a tavern, sir.”

“A tavern filled with sinners needing to be saved, my son,” said Father Jacob solemnly.

The driver was dubious. The archbishop certainly never went near such places. He had no thought of questioning a priest of the Arcanum, however. He whipped up the horses, and the carriage rattled off.

Inside the carriage, Sir Ander sat bolt upright, perched on the edge of his seat, his back straight. He kept fast hold of the hand strap and stared grimly out the window. He was armed with his dragon pistol and one of his nonmagical pistols and his broadsword.

“You know I don’t like this,” he stated.

Father Jacob was relaxed, leaning back against the comfortable cushions, his legs crossed beneath the long, black cassock, his arms crossed over his chest. He was gazing out the window.

“You think I do?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sir Ander bluntly. “Anonymous notes. Mysterious assignations. Streets with ominous-sounding names. You damn well know you’re enjoying this!”

Father Jacob gave a smile. “Perhaps I do—a little. And for your information, the term ‘Bitter End’ is not ominous. It is a nautical term referring to the end of a rope.”

Sir Ander snorted, clearly not placated. “And we may have reached the end of our rope. I’ve asked around. Bitter End Lane has an evil reputation. It is only a block long. It runs between an abandoned warehouse on the south side and a balloon maker on the north. This time of night, the neighborhood will be empty. Ideal location for an ambush.”

“Or a meeting with someone who doesn’t want to be seen,” said Father Jacob. He saw Sir Ander’s frown and he added in mollifying tones, “I agree with you about the danger, my friend. But if there is a chance this woman might lead us to the Warlock, we must take the risk.”

Sir Ander sighed, shook his head, and reassuringly slid his hand inside his magically reinforced coat to touch the dragon pistol resting in its holster. Father Jacob was armed, as well. His weapons were his magic.

The carriage rolled up in front of the Dirk and Dragon. Work had ended for the day. The crafters and sail makers, rope makers and balloon makers, stevedores and wood wrights, naval engineers and architects filled the dockyard taverns. The clientele in the Dirk and Dragon actually spilled out into the street, with working men and women lounging in the shadows cast by the westering sun, pledging each other’s health in foaming mugs of ale and discussing the day’s events.

The crowd recognized the seal of the archbishop on the side panel of the carriage and met the carriage with wide grins and crude comments. The archbishop’s plan to “clean up” the city was not being well received among the tavern owners and their customers. For the moment the archbishop was more concerned with shutting down the opium dens and houses of prostitution, but the members of the Tavern League were certain they were next.

Sir Ander and Father Jacob told the carriage driver not to wait, for which he was thankful, given that the carriage was now surrounded by what he considered a drunken mob. He was off before the priest and Sir Ander had fairly set their feet to the ground. The remarks from the onlookers ceased at the sight of the priest and the knight. Sir Ander swept aside his coat to reveal the buttend of the dragon pistol. The broadsword clanked against his thigh. But it was Father Jacob in the black cassock of the Arcanum that caused the crowd to bury their noses in their ale mugs and sidle off.

Silk Street ran north and south, parallel to Canal Street, which was a block over. Father Jacob and Sir Ander proceeded down the street, which was named for the warehouses where the silk fabric needed in the construction of balloons was stored. The warehouses were almost identical, about four or five stories tall, built of brick and mortar and magic. The front of the warehouses opened onto the street. The back faced the canal, where the bales of silk—double wrapped in jute—were loaded onto barges.

The warehouses blocked out the sunlight and though night had not yet fallen, Silk Street was dark with shadows. The doors to the warehouses were padlocked. Sir Ander tried peering into several windows, but they were coated with dirt and grime and apparently never opened. Sir Ander could see very little. Whenever there was a gap between warehouses, they could catch a glimpse of the busy canal, crowded with barges, and the mists of the Breath beyond.

Sounds of talk and laughter from the tavern faded away. The street was silent save for their footfalls that echoed in the chasm formed by the buildings. Sir Ander followed their progress by the street names which were located on the corners of the buildings. Bitter End Lane was only a block long and ran east-west to Silk Street that ran north-south. Silk Street continued on, eventually ending at the canal.

Keeping to the shadows, Father Jacob and Sir Ander stared intently down the length of Bitter End Lane. They had deliberately arrived early, before the proposed meeting time. They watched and listened, but saw nothing, heard nothing out of the ordinary.

Clocks throughout the city began to chime six times. Sir Ander drew his dragon pistol and indicated with a nod that Father Jacob was to precede him. Father Jacob walked into Bitter End Lane, moving confidently and slowly, allowing himself to be seen. Sir Ander came behind, his gaze sweeping the street ahead and behind.

A figure, murky in the twilight, entered from the opposite end of the lane. Father Jacob could not make out much in the indistinct light, but he judged by the person’s height and the way he walked this was a man, not a woman. The stranger wore a greatcoat, a tricornered hat, and carried a leather satchel. The man saw Father Jacob at the same time the priest saw him and halted.

Father Jacob cautioned Sir Ander, who had also seen the man, to keep his distance. Sir Ander slowed his pace, but he kept within firing range and made certain the stranger got a good look at his pistol. Father Jacob advanced cautiously to meet the man, who advanced cautiously to meet him. The two came face-to-face in the gathering gloom and stopped.

Each spoke a single word. “You!”

Father Jacob and Sir Henry Wallace stood staring at each other in profound astonishment for a split second, both of them wondering what was going on. The answer was, sadly, simple to figure out.

“This is a trap,” said Father Jacob.

“I believe you are right,” said Sir Henry.

A woman’s voice, frightened, terror-stricken, called out, “Mister, please help me!”

Sir Ander heard the voice and turned to see a young woman running toward him from the direction of Silk Street. Her bodice was ripped, her skirts torn. Her hair was unbound and flew around her pale face. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear. Her hands were outstretched, beseeching his aid. She had blood on her face and her bosom, her hands and her arms.

“Help me!” she cried. “Please help me!”

“Ander, no!” Father Jacob cried, but he was too late.

The wraith, shining with an eerie red incandescence, flung her arms around Sir Ander, sending jolts, like a thousand fire-tipped needles, surging through the knight’s body. He could not scream, for the pain was in his lungs and his throat. He could not move. The wraith held him fast, paralyzing him. The cocked pistol fell from his twitching fingers to the street and fired the bullet, causing it to glance off the paving stones. Sir Ander crashed to the ground, as two orange-eyed demons appeared on the warehouse rooftop where they had been hiding.

Their assailant had taken care to attack the well-armed knight early in the assault. The use of a wraith was suggestive; their foe was a wielder of dark magic. Eiddwen’s underlings sometimes referred to her as the “Sorceress,” but she had told him she did not like to use magic, terming it “messy” and “wayward.”

“I like to be in control of a situation,” Eiddwen had said. “Once you let loose a magic spell, you have no idea what is going to happen. I much prefer shooting people.”

Sir Henry looked up and down the lane to see if he could find the wielder of the dark magic. Was it Eiddwen herself or one of her minions? Undoubtedly a minion. She wouldn’t want to dirty her hands. The dark magic user needed to keep the victim in sight in order to control the wraith. Sir Henry caught a glimpse of movement coming from his left, near where he had entered Bitter End Lane.

A young man, handsome, wearing a long night-blue leather coat, stood with his back against the building. This must be the Warlock of whom Sloan had spoken, terming him “depraved.” Judging by his smile, the Warlock was pleased with himself. He raised his hand, controlling the magic, guiding the wraith. His fingers had been dipped in blood. The conjuration of a wraith required a blood sacrifice. The knight lay where he had fallen, his body twitching.

“Take cover!” Father Jacob shouted.

Henry looked up to see a ball of green fire heading straight for him. He ducked behind his leather satchel, holding it over his head to shield his face from the blast.

The green fireball struck the satchel in a cascade of sparks that rained down around him. The satchel burst into flames, the leather dissolving as though it had been hit by acid. The leather had been covered inside and out with sigils and constructs. The magic would withstand gunfire, white magic, and even blood magic. Every sort of magic except contramagic.

“Shit! Bloody hell!” Sir Henry swore angrily when the flames reached his fingers, burning him. He flung the blazing satchel to the street. It landed with a metallic clatter. The pewter tankard that had been inside the satchel clattered onto the cobblestones. Henry risked burnt fingers to snatch it out of the flames. He was about to hide the tankard beneath his greatcoat, then realized it was on fire.

Tearing off the great coat, Henry looked up at the top of the warehouse and saw what appeared to be two fiends from Hell staring down at him. “Demons with glowing orange eyes shooting balls of green fire.” Sir Henry muttered an apology to Mr. Sloan for not believing him as he searched for cover. Of course, there was none. Not a barrel, not a recessed doorway, nothing. Eiddwen had chosen the site for the ambush well. Henry drew his pistol. Beside him, Father Jacob was waving his hands, surrounding himself with blue light.

“Here! With me!” Father Jacob shouted, motioning to Sir Henry.

If there was one man Sir Henry was glad to have at his back during a fight with the forces of Hell, it would be Jacob Northrup. Henry had gone up against the priest enough times to know his worth. Keeping hold of the pewter tankard, Henry dove behind the protective shield of the blue light as another blast of green fire flew from the rooftop.

The fireball hit the blue glowing shield with a concussive force that left Henry half-blind, dazed, with ears ringing, but otherwise not injured. The same could not be said of Father Jacob. He was doubled over, gasping in pain. Henry noted that the blue light no longer glowed quite as brightly.

“Who are these fiends?” Henry demanded.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Father Jacob gasped.

Henry grunted. “So that is why you saved my life?”

“All life is precious in the eyes of God,” said Father Jacob and he added, with the hint of a smile, “Even that of the snake.”

Sir Henry drew his pistol and searched for a target on the rooftop, but the demons were well out of range. He could see them at work up there, perhaps reloading their infernal weapon.

“I’m going to try to reach Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob, straightening. “I must counteract the wraith’s spell, or she will kill him.”

“I’ll cover you,” Henry offered.

Father Jacob gave a grim chuckle. “How many times have you tried to kill me? I lost count at six.”

“The enemy of my enemy . . . all that rot,” said Sir Henry.

Father Jacob shook his head, still skeptical, but he didn’t have much choice if he wanted to save the knight. As the priest prepared to make a run for the spellbound knight, Henry was at his back.

“Wait!” Henry yelled.

Another fireball sizzled down from the roof and slanted off the blue glowing shield. The blast shook the ground, cracking the paving stones. Father Jacob cried out, staggered and almost fell. Henry steadied the priest with his hand. The blue glow was definitely fading.

“How long can you keep this up?” Henry asked.

“Not long, I’m afraid,” said Father Jacob, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his cassock.

“That last blast took out the wraith, at least,” Sir Henry observed.

“So it did,” said Father Jacob with interest. “Though I don’t think it was meant to.”

The wraith had vanished. Henry glanced at the Warlock. The young man had emerged from the corner of the building and was shouting angrily at those on the roof.

The two demons behind their cannon paid no heed. They were taking aim, and Henry braced himself for the next attack. Green fire burst on the blue shield. The blue light vanished. Father Jacob cried out, fell to the street, and lay there, moaning.

The blast knocked Henry off his feet and left him with an unpleasant buzzing sound in his ears. His knees were bruised and bleeding. He had dropped the tankard, but he was still clutching the pistol. His hand was covered in blood where a sharp edge on the trigger had cut deeply into the fleshy part of his palm. He looked over at the priest. Father Jacob lay unmoving, either unconscious or dead.

“Thank you for saving my life, Jacob,” Henry said, rising to his feet. “Sorry I can’t return the favor.”

He grabbed the pewter tankard, cast a glance at the rooftop, and began running.

The Warlock was still standing at the end of the street, peering out from behind the corner of a building with some intention of attempting to recast his spell. Tendrils of energy curled from his hands, sparking and shining. But the tendrils were going nowhere and he was growing frustrated. Engrossed in his magic, he did not see Sir Henry. The Warlock’s two demon bodyguards saw him, however. They stepped out from behind the building.

Henry swore and skidded to a halt and raised his hands—one holding the tankard, the other the pistol. This was his first close look at the demons. Sir Henry stared entranced at their hideous faces, the orange-glowing eyes, the leather armor that covered them from head to toe. He had to use all his considerable self-control to drag his attention back to the Warlock.

“I need to talk to Eiddwen!” Henry called. “I have vital information! Tell these fiends to let me pass.”

“Eiddwen would like to talk to you,” the Warlock said. He was obviously frustrated, unable to understand why his magic wasn’t working. He glanced at the demons. “Seize him. Take him alive.”

The two demons had other ideas, apparently. They lifted some sort of cannon-type weapons and aimed them at Henry. Henry hurled the tankard at one demon and shot the other. One demon went down. The other demon fired. The green blast hit the tankard and seemed to evaporate. The demon began to reload.

“Duck, sir!” a deep voice shouted from behind.

Henry dropped to the ground and hugged the cobblestones. He heard a boom and the hiss of a bullet whizzing past. The demon toppled over backward, half its head blown off. Henry glanced around to see a big man dressed like a mercenary lowering a smoking musket.

Henry did not stop to thank his benefactor. He was on his feet before the echoes of the blast had faded away, grabbing the tankard that had save his life, and leaving the useless pistol in the street. Drawing the stowaway gun he had stashed in his belt, he aimed it at the young man.

The Warlock smiled, almost laughing. He wiggled his blood-covered fingers. His lips moved. Tendrils of magic snaked out toward Henry. He was going to become the victim of another wraith unless he acted quickly.

The Warlock wore a long blue leather coat that covered him from head to toe and fairly crackled with magical energy. His head was protected by a wide-brimmed leather hat, adorned with intertwining sigils. Bullets fired at him from the small gun did little damage. The Warlock was amused, confident, looking forward to watching his wraith envelop Henry in her lethal grip.

“Balls!” said Henry, and he shot the young man in the foot.

The magical tendrils disappeared. The wraith wavered and dissolved. The young man stared in disbelief at the blood seeping out from his boot onto the pavement.

“Next time, fool, remember to protect your boots,” Henry said.

He drew his last pistol, another stowaway gun, snatched off the Warlock’s protective hat, and placed the barrel on the young man’s temple.

The Warlock’s face flushed an ugly red spotted with white. He was quivering, not with fear, but with constrained fury. On the ground behind the Warlock was a body of a young woman. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear. Her mouth gaped, her eyes stared at nothing. Henry recognized her—the wraith. She had been the blood sacrifice. He was thankful he was carrying the gun.

Henry heard more explosions and saw flashes of green fire. Smoke filled the street and he could not see what had become of his old foe, Jacob Northrop. Henry assumed the priest was dead, but he didn’t count on it. Father Northrop had a most annoying habit of coming back from the grave.

“Start moving!” Henry ordered the Warlock. He tapped him with the gun. “That way, down the alley.”

“You shot me. I can’t walk,” the Warlock whined.

“It’s only a toe. You’ve got nine more. Move,” said Henry, and he cocked the pistol.

The Warlock heard the click near his ear and he began to limp off slowly, dragging his injured foot. Henry followed the Warlock down the alley, the muzzle of the gun pressing against the back of the young man’s skull. Henry watched for glowing orange eyes, but apparently the demons were all engaged in the fight on Bitter End Lane. The alley was empty. When he reached Canal Street, Henry called a halt.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

The young man did not obey. Instead, he turned boldly to face him. The sun had set. A pink afterglow lit the sky. Night had already come to the alley. The Warlock’s white skin glimmered palely in the twilight. His mouth curled in an eerie grin. The lips were black, stained with blood, as were his teeth.

Henry was not a squeamish man, but his stomach clenched in revulsion. The young man had drunk his victim’s blood. Henry placed the pistol on his forehead between his eyes.

“On your knees!”

“Go bugger yourself.”

Henry kicked him, hard, in the kneecap. The Warlock groaned, staggered, and sank to the pavement. Henry pressed the muzzle of the gun against the young man’s forehead.

“If you’re going to kill me, then kill me,” he said, his voice calm, strangely uncaring.

“Believe me, you little prick, I would like nothing better than to kill you. But I need someone to take a message to Eiddwen and you’re all I’ve got,” said Henry. “First, what does she want with me?”

The Warlock’s answer was a sneer.

Henry regarded him grimly. “Very well. Then tell her this. I’m no threat to her. I have no interest in her twisted affairs. And you can also tell her that if she ever tries to harm my family again, I will track her to the farthest ends of the seven continents. I will track her to the very depths of Hell if I must. And when I find her—and I will find her—she will be very, very sorry. You tell her that—when you wake up.”

Henry slammed the pistol into the Warlock’s face. He heard the crunch of bone. The young man fell unconscious. The next problem was what to do with him. It would never do for the constables to discover him.

The sight of a heavily laden barge creeping along in the canal gave Sir Henry an idea. He dragged the unconscious young man over to the side of the canal, waited for the barge to draw near. When the barge was directly underneath him, Henry tipped the Warlock over the side and watched him fall. The young man landed on a tarp-covered pile of whatever goods the barge was hauling. He lay there, unmoving, as the barge drifted slowly on its way. Sir Henry continued down Canal Street.

All this time, through smoke, green fire, and blood, Henry Wallace had kept hold of the pewter tankard, his key to the destruction of Rosia, providing proof that Alcazar had succeeded in producing magic-reinforced steel. Henry had a sudden, terrible thought. The tankard had taken a direct hit from the green fire. The magical sigils that reinforced the steel would have been destroyed, like the sigils in the leather satchel or those in his greatcoat—or those on board the ill-fated cutter, Defiant, when the ship had been attacked by the green-fire weapon. The tankard was now worthless. A prey to gloom, he stopped beneath a gas lamp and drew out a monocle set with magical sigils. He flicked the sigils with a fingernail, and they burst into glowing light. He held the monocle to the tankard.

“I’ll be damned!” Sir Henry breathed, awed.

He did not believe his eyes. He ran his hands over the tankard’s surface, the pewter’s cold, smooth, unblemished surface.

The contramagic that had sunk a naval cutter and toppled a stone watchtower had no effect on this pewter tankard.

The astounding possibilities burst like a skyrocket in Sir Henry’s brain. He did not have time to consider them. His cover was destroyed. Eiddwen knew he was in Westfirth. Father Jacob knew he was in Westfirth. The countess’ bastard son, Stephano de Guichen, undoubtedly by now knew Sir Henry was in Westfirth.

Time to leave Westfirth, whether Pietro Alcazar liked it or not.

Fearing that time was running out and the chance to nab Sir Henry Wallace on Rosian soil would slip through his fingers, Dubois had made the desperate decision to take Stephano de Guichen into custody. Dubois would use the “murder” of James Harrington as an excuse to arrest Lord Captain de Guichen and interrogate him. Dubois was well aware that arresting the captain would be difficult, if not downright dangerous. He knew the captain’s “Cadre” of comrades and their readiness to defend him. He also knew that the countess would shake Heaven and earth with her rage when she found out that her son had been arrested. Dubois spent the afternoon assembling a group of agents, all the while keeping watch on those who came and went from the Cloud Hopper.

When Gythe and Dag left the boat to go fetch Brother Barnaby, Dubois saw them depart, but paid no heed. He was still waiting for his agents to arrive to launch his assault. He had his men assembled and was just about ready to make the arrest, when Dag and Gythe returned with the monk in tow. Dubois recognized the monk. That morning, Dubois had gone to pay a visit to the archbishop, to deliver the grand bishop’s orders, and he had observed the monk in company with Father Jacob Northrop of the Arcanum.

Dubois was startled and not pleased. Here was a question he could not answer. How did Father Jacob know Captain de Guichen? Were they friends? Was the captain working for the Arcanum now? If so, what would the Arcanum do if Dubois arrested Captain de Guichen? Dubois was prepared to deal with the fury of the Countess de Marjolaine, but he did not want to offend the Arcanum.

Brother Barnaby was a healer. The captain had probably sent for him to treat his wounds. That much, at least, made sense. Dubois was trying to make up his mind whether or not to proceed when the captain’s mercenary friend and the monk left the boat, going somewhere in haste. The monk looked worried. The mercenary looked very grim and was armed to the teeth.

Dubois’ nerves tingled. Something dire was happening and it might be connected with Sir Henry Wallace and the missing journeyman. Dubois was not quite sure how the monk fit into all this, but he would worry about that later. Leaving a number of his men to keep an eye on the Cloud Hopper, Dubois took with him one of his most trusted agents, a man known as Red Dog. The two followed Dag to Bitter End Street, arriving in the midst of the ambush.

Hearing explosions and the sound of gunfire and smelling smoke, Dubois and Red Dog took cover. Dubois peered out from behind a building and did not believe his eyes. He actually rubbed them to make certain he was not seeing things.

“God save us!” Red Dog gasped, joining him.

Father Jacob Northrop, priest of the Arcanum, his Knight Protector, and Sir Henry Wallace, the man for whom Dubois had been long searching were under attack—by fiends from Hell.

Dubois’ neatly organized mind reeled, incapable of belief. He even wondered for an agonized moment if someone had slipped opium into his mutton stew. The sight of the calm and cool soldier, Dag, lifting his musket to his shoulder and firing at one of the demons, the sound of the shot and the acrid smell of gunpowder was all very real and prosaic and comforted Dubois. One look at his agent, whose eyes were bulging and mouth gaping, and Dubois realized that if this was a drug-induced dream, then they were both dreaming it. Knowing this to be impossible, Dubois felt better. His mind reverted back to its normal logical operation. He ignored everything else and concentrated on Sir Henry Wallace.

“He’s on the move!” Dubois said, indicating Sir Henry. He shook his dazed agent, who was still staring at the demons. “Be quick!”

Sir Henry was at that moment marching the Warlock down the alley. Dubois and Red Dog followed from a safe distance. They watched Henry pistol-whip the young man and dump him onto the passing barge. They kept to the shadows as Sir Henry paused beneath the gas lamp to look at an object he’d been carrying; an object Dubois thought at first was another pistol. The light gleaming on pewter proved Dubois mistaken. Of all the amazing events of the evening, this was the most puzzling. Sir Henry had waded through hellfire and blood, and instead of fleeing for his life, he had stopped to study a pewter tankard. Dubois could make nothing of this, and it bothered him.

Sir Henry appeared extremely pleased with his tankard. He smiled all the way down Canal Street and chuckled to himself as he turned onto the Street of Saints. Every so often, he would glance behind to see if he was being followed. Dubois made certain Henry didn’t see a thing.

Sir Henry came to a halt at the head of the Street of Saints. He removed the coat he’d been wearing, folded it carefully, and placed the coat over his arm, deftly using it to conceal the pewter tankard. Beneath the coat, he was wearing evening clothes, such as a gentleman might wear to pay a visit to one of the gambling houses: black velvet coat discreetly trimmed in dark red, black stockings with dark red aiguillettes at the knees, a white silk cravat. He had lost his hat in the battle. He drew a black silk mask from a pocket and tied it around his face, then walked briskly for about six blocks until he arrived at one of the city’s more exclusive bordellos.

The clock in a nearby church chimed seven times. The hour was early; the house’s clientele would not arrive until much, much later. Henry did not enter the house. He spoke to the doorman, who greeted him familiarly, despite the fact that Henry was wearing a mask. Those visiting such establishments often concealed their true identities.

Dubois moved closer, gliding behind a hedge in order to eavesdrop on the conversation. Sir Henry told a tale of having been waylaid by thieves. The doorman listened in shock and deprecated the lack of police vigilance in the city. Sir Henry wondered if he could be given a ride to his lodgings. The doorman replied that the bordello’s carriage was always at the disposal of their favorite clients. The doorman summoned a page, who was sent round to the stables. Within moments, an enclosed carriage drove up to the front.

“Blue Parrot,” the doorman told the driver, who was assisting Sir Henry to enter.

“He’s getting away! Let’s grab him now,” said Red Dog, spoiling for some action.

“We can’t. He has not broken any law,” said Dubois.

“He’s a goddam spy!” said Red Dog.

Dubois explained. “Henry Wallace is also a diplomat. We are not at war with Freya. Sir Henry would say he was here on business for his government and would claim diplomatic immunity. We need to catch him with the journeyman trying to flee the country. I’ll follow Sir Henry. You go back, assemble the men, and meet me . . .”

Dubois paused, thinking.

“At the Blue Parrot?” Red Dog asked.

“No, not there. Wallace might see us and give us the slip. We will meet at the Masons’ Guildhall. It’s a block north of the Parrot.”

“What about Captain de Guichen? Should I leave people to watch his bo at?”

“Forget him. He has served his purpose.”

“What about them demons?” Red Dog asked.

Dubois had actually forgotten the demons in his excitement. He brought to mind the report the grand bishop had sent him. The nun had described the abbey’s attackers as “demons hurling balls of green fire.”

“We will deal with them later,” said Dubois. To his mind, Sir Henry was the primary devil.

“I guess the boss’ll take care of ’em,” said Red Dog, referring to one of the heads of the criminal gangs that ran Westfirth.

Red Dog left to assemble his comrades. Dubois, who was not an exclusive customer of the bordello, had to summon his own cab. As he rolled off toward the Blue Parrot, Dubois reveled in his victory. At long last, he would have enough evidence to send Rosia’s most dangerous foe, Sir Henry Wallace, to the gallows.

What were fiends from Hell compared to that!