Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  Simon eyed the distance between Welkinstead and the ship’s boat and estimated they had about thirty minutes to prepare for the visitors. Alan hastily formed a plan of attack.

  “Henry, you are the doddering manservant who greets them at the door. Simon is the helpless cripple. Randolph and I will acquaint ourselves with the rockets.”

  The four friends shook hands, armed themselves with the pistols. Alan and Randolph put on their hats and coats, for they would be exposed to the wind on the roof and it was bitterly cold, then climbed up several flights of steep, narrow stairs to the attic and from there the roof. Henry could hear Randolph puffing and grumbling and swearing every step of the way.

  Henry reloaded his own pistols, having emptied them at the soldiers that had chased him from his house, and thrust them in his belt.

  “Do you want a pistol?” he asked Simon.

  “Thank you, I prefer my ‘crackers,’” Simon replied.

  He opened a cabinet and carefully removed hollow glass tubes about a foot in length. He had named them “crackers” after the party favors that entertained children at Yule. When pulled at each end, they produced a cracking sound.

  Yule crackers were harmless. Simon’s were not. Once he activated a cracker, the magic at one end of the tube collided with the contramagic at the opposite end with explosive force.

  Henry eyed the crackers, alarmed. “Are you certain you want to use those? They do considerable damage, as I recall. Randolph still maintains that you set fire to his ship.”

  “A very small fire that the crew put out with ease,” Simon observed. “And you need not worry. Those first crackers I made were crude. I have lately refined the magic. I will greet our guests at the door. As the helpless cripple, I will require a lap robe. Albright keeps one in my bedroom. And since you are taking the role of Albright, you should change clothes.”

  “Good thought,” said Henry, glancing at his ruined stockings and bloodstained jacket. “Albright’s will not fit me.”

  “Some of my clothes should,” said Simon. “We are a similar size.”

  He studied his friend, then said, “Henry, you have every right to be angry with me. I failed you. I failed our country.”

  “No time for that now,” said Henry brusquely.

  He entered Simon’s bedroom. He did not light the lamp, for fear he would be seen, but relied on light from the office lamp on Simon’s chair shining in the room. He rummaged through his friend’s wardrobe, picking out a somber-colored jacket and trousers and a fresh pair of stockings.

  As he dressed, he thought about what Simon had said. Henry was angry. He was angry at Simon, angry at himself, angry at the whole damn world that had blown up in his face, torn him apart, and left him in fragments. He felt barely able to hold together the tattered pieces of his being.

  He was also suddenly very tired. The adrenaline that had kept him going through this terrible night was starting to ebb. Looking at Simon’s neatly made bed, he wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the blankets and pull the pillow over his head. He had to find the energy to stay strong for his friends, who were in peril and counting on him. He had to stay strong for what remained of his poor country.

  Henry reached into the pocket of his bloodstained jacket and removed the queen’s letter. He had no need to light the lamp to read it. He knew the contents by heart.

  To Be Opened On the Event of My Death.

  I, Queen Mary Elizabeth Ann Chessington, hereby appoint His Royal Highness Crown Prince Thomas James Stanford my heir to the throne in accordance with the Palace Law on Succession.

  The letter was dated, signed, and sealed with the royal signet ring; the same ring Henry had removed from Mary’s cold, still hand.

  Henry was still not convinced that Prince Thomas was the paragon of virtue Simon claimed, but he was now willing to give the young man the benefit of the doubt. He trusted Mary’s judgment, he trusted Simon’s and, oddly enough, he trusted his Rosian counterpart, his avowed foe, the Countess de Marjolaine. He even gave credence to the opinion of his privateer, Captain Kate, although he could plainly see that she was in love with the prince.

  Henry started to put the letter in his pocket, then realized that the soldiers might search him. He grabbed the book from Simon’s nightstand, titled: Fenyman’s Lectures on Theoretical Magic with Emphasis on the Use of Coefficients in Building Constructs.

  “Simon’s bedtime reading. It would certainly put me to sleep,” Henry remarked, grimacing. He glanced out the window. The ship’s boat had drawn alarmingly closer in the past few minutes. Opening the book, he thrust the letter between the pages and carried it and a lap robe to Simon’s office.

  He handed the lap robe to Simon, then went to hide the book in plain sight. Choosing the third bookcase from the bedroom door, he placed the book on the third shelf from the top, sliding it between the third and fourth book from the left.

  “The soldiers are about five minutes away,” he reported.

  Simon did not answer. Henry glanced at his friend. He was seated in his chair, busily arranging the lap robe to conceal the crackers.

  Henry walked over to Simon and rested his hand on his shoulder, silently letting him know their friendship remained intact.

  Simon gave a faint smile. “I was going to warn you about Richard. I sent a message to the house, but Lady Ann told Albright that you had left the city and she did not know where you had gone. I had no way of contacting you.”

  “I was in Herringdon with the queen,” said Henry. “Her Majesty had suffered a bad spell with her heart, and she wanted to keep her illness quiet for fear the news would cause further turmoil in the country.”

  Henry wondered what would have happened if he had received Simon’s warning about Richard. Perhaps he could have prevented this tragedy.

  “Bad luck. Stupid bad luck,” he said, his mouth twisting.

  “How are Lady Ann and the children?” Simon asked, as they continued to prepare for the arrival of their guests. “Did they escape? Have you heard from Mr. Sloan? Is he still spying on Smythe?”

  “No, Richard betrayed him and Smythe shot him. He was badly wounded, but he will recover. He accompanied my wife and children, who are in the care of the Countess de Marjolaine. She is taking them to safety in Rosia,” said Henry.

  He glanced out the window. He could see the running lights of the black ship and the sails glimmering white in the starlight. The ship had reduced its speed to launch the boat and would likely circle the house until it returned with the captive.

  The ship’s boat was rounding the corner of the house. Henry wondered how Randolph and Alan were faring on the roof. Both of them were skilled at combat, cool and competent under fire. He could trust them to wait for the proper moment.

  “Time to move into position,” he told Simon.

  “Light the lamps. Everything should appear perfectly normal. We have no idea anything is amiss.”

  They went down the stairs, Henry walking and Simon floating down in his chair, both moving quietly. Henry doubted if the soldiers would be able to hear his footfalls or the faint whirring sound of the small airscrew that propelled Simon’s chair, but he did not want to take chances.

  They reached the ground floor, or what would have been the ground floor if the house had been on the ground. Simon propelled his chair toward the kitchen in the rear and concealed himself. Henry waited by the front door. He did not light the lamps in the entry hall. The only lights that shone streamed down from the office on the second floor, which left the entry hall in partial shadow.

  The ship’s boat landed with a thud on the concrete platform in front of the house. Henry peeked out the window and saw two soldiers climb out of the boat and approach the house. Four others waited in the boat.

  The soldiers were armed, but they carried their rifles slung over their shoulders. Clearly they did not expect trouble from a man confined to a wheelchair.

  Henry hunched his shoulders and let his hair straggle over his face. He
crept forward with a faltering gait, transforming himself into the aging manservant who has spent his life waiting on a frail, sickly man.

  The soldier gave a thundering knock on the door.

  Henry waited an appropriate amount of time, then timorously opened the door a crack and peered out.

  “How may I assist you, gentlemen?” he asked in a quavering voice.

  “We have a warrant for the arrest of Master Simon Yates,” said one of the soldiers.

  “Warrant?” Henry screeched. He turned around to shout in panicked tones. “Master Yates! Soldiers are here to arrest you! They have a warrant!”

  “Calm down, Albright,” said Simon irritably, emerging from the kitchen in his chair.

  He appeared very frail and fragile. The lap robe covered his legs, and he wore one of the duchess’s silken shawls draped around his shoulders. He had shut off the chair’s airscrews and was propelling it by hand.

  He started to add something, but was seized by a racking cough that sounded as though he was on his deathbed. He barely managed to clear his throat enough to speak.

  “I demand to know who has issued this warrant,” he said weakly.

  “Colonel Smythe of the Army of Royal Retribution,” the soldier replied.

  “I have never heard of this colonel or his army,” said Simon, frowning. “I consider this warrant illegal and I refuse to go anywhere with you. Albright, shut the door.”

  “Oh, Master, please be reasonable,” Henry begged. He turned to the soldier. “There must be some mistake, gentlemen.…”

  “No mistake,” said the soldier.

  He roughly shoved open the door, letting it bang into the wall. His comrade thrust Henry aside and strode past him into the entry hall.

  “I am a private citizen!” Simon screeched indignantly. “I will not be treated like this!”

  Henry remained standing near the door. No one was paying any attention to the doddering old manservant. The two soldiers had their backs to him.

  Simon began berating them. “What do you mean by barging into the home of a private citizen? I know my rights.”

  “We can wheel you out in the chair, Master Yates, or carry you out bodily,” said the soldier coldly. “Either way, you are coming with us. If you come peaceably, sir, you will not be harmed.”

  Simon smiled. “On the contrary, if you gentlemen leave peacefully, you will not be harmed.”

  Henry slid his hand into his pocket.

  “Well? Are you going?” Simon asked.

  He rolled into position in the middle of the hall, about five feet away from the soldiers.

  “Seize him,” said the soldier.

  Simon gave a shrug. “Remember that I warned you.”

  He reached beneath his lap robe, drew out a crystal tube, and hurled it at the two soldiers. The tube struck one of the men in the chest and exploded on contact, bursting into magical blue-green flame that set his clothes ablaze. His partner stared at him in shock until a second tube hit him in the leg, setting his pants on fire.

  Both of them cried out and began to frantically beat at the flames with their hands. Henry grabbed hold of one by the coat collar, yanked him off his feet. Simon propelled his chair forward and rammed the other man in the knees, knocking him to the floor. Henry took hold of both men and dragged them out the door.

  “I’d drop your rifles if I were you!” he advised the men. “If the contramagic touches them, they’ll explode!”

  He slammed shut the door and bolted it, then hurried to look out the window in the entry hall. He smiled to observe the soldiers trying to divest themselves of their weapons as they flailed about on the landing platform, screaming in pain. Their four comrades jumped out of the boat, rifles drawn.

  “Here they come,” Henry reported.

  “Out of my way!” Simon ordered.

  Henry nimbly sidestepped and stumbled back against the tallboy to allow Simon to surge past him. He placed his hand, palm flat, on the door. Henry could not see the magical constructs that covered the door, for he was one of those benighted souls who were not born with the gift of magic. He could see the result, however. The door began to glow with a radiant blue light.

  One of the soldiers struck the door with the butt of his rifle. The gun exploded in his hands and he stood staring in shock at mangled fingers, streaming blood.

  The other soldiers raised their rifles and took aim.

  “Watch out,” Henry warned, crouching. “They’re going to open fire.”

  “Ah, that’s a mistake,” said Simon gravely.

  Gunshots rang out. The bullets struck the door and promptly ricocheted, hitting those who had fired. One of the men fell, clutching a bleeding leg. The other soldier remained stubbornly intent on pursuing the assault, and he started to kick at the door.

  “Now would be a good time, Alan,” said Henry.

  A rocket shell burst above the ship’s boat, showering it with flaming shrapnel. The soldiers stared up into the sky as another rocket soared above them. Realizing they were under attack from the roof, they grabbed their wounded comrades, carried them back into the boat, and set sail.

  The captain of the black ship could now see that he was facing a formidable and well-armed foe and altered course, heading toward the roof and leaving the ship’s boat to catch up as best it could.

  Henry heard the sound of gunfire coming from the roof, and he opened the window and leaned out to see.

  “Alan and Randolph are taking potshots at the black ship,” he reported.

  Simon joined him at the window. “Move over so I can see.”

  They watched two shells fly through the night, leaving a fiery trail behind. Both missed the ship. The first shell flew long and the second fell short.

  “Still finding their aim,” said Henry. “How many rockets do you have?”

  “Albright would know,” said Simon. “Not many. It never occurred to me to replace them.”

  “Ah! There’s a hit! And another!”

  The ship’s brightly colored balloon burst into flame, and the next shell tore through a sail, shredding it, but doing little damage.

  The black ship opened fire with a swivel gun, spraying the roof with bullets.

  “Covering fire,” said Henry.

  “While they ready the green-beam gun,” Simon agreed.

  Green light mingled with blue glowed at the bow of the ship. The light was so bright, they could read the name, the Naofa. Simon drew out a telescope from his chair and looked through it.

  “They are not using blood magic to power the weapon,” he said. “They must have learned how to use the Seventh Sigil to combine the magicks to make the weapon operational. No more human sacrifices.”

  “I suppose that is an improvement,” Henry muttered.

  Alan and Randolph had seen the green-and-blue glow and realized that the green-beam gun was preparing to fire, for they were aiming their rockets at the ship’s bow. Henry watched the fiery sparks of a shell’s trajectory and he thought for a hopeful moment that it was going to make a direct hit on the gun. The shell fell short, however, and exploded on the deck.

  The crew had mounted the green-beam gun on a rotating platform so that the gunner could fire at targets in any direction, and Henry watched the gun swing about to take aim at the house. The crew were still firing the swivel gun, but they had shifted the weapon and were aiming at the lower levels of the house.

  “They are trying to hit the lift tanks and the airscrews,” said Henry.

  Alan and Randolph set off two more rockets. One shell scored a hit on an airscrew of the black ship. Another struck the hull near the bow beneath the gun platform, setting the hull on fire.

  The green-beam gun remained undamaged, and it was aiming at the light in Simon’s office. Henry had to give the gunner operating it grudging credit for remaining at his post as smoke from the flames enveloped him.

  The green beam stabbed through the smoke and the darkness. Green light flared. A tremor shook the house, causing i
t to shudder as though in pain. Simon propelled his chair backward and Henry dove to the floor as the window shattered, showering him with shards of glass. The hydra slid across the floor and smashed into the tallboy, and he could hear thuds and bumps and clatters as bookcases toppled and paintings and books crashed to the floor. The jardinière tumbled down the stairs and smashed.

  Henry picked himself up and glanced worriedly at Simon. He was reassured to see his friend sitting safely in his chair in the center of the room. Hearing a thundering racket on the stairs, Henry looked up to see Randolph running down.

  “Are you both all right?” he asked.

  “We are fine,” said Henry. “Where’s Alan?”

  “We have one more rocket,” said Randolph. “I left it for Alan to fire. He’s the one with the devil’s own luck.”

  “Let’s hope the devil is paying attention,” said Henry.

  He looked out the hole in the wall where the window had been. The green beam fired again, this time aiming for the roof. Alan shot off the last rocket.

  The shell struck the ship’s helm, which was located in a wheelhouse on the upper deck, setting the wheelhouse on fire. The panicked crew of the Naofa scrambled to put out the flames before they destroyed the helm and cut off the flow of magic to the lift tanks and the airscrews.

  The fire spread to one of the masts and flames began to crawl up the shrouds. The crew were now engaged in fighting for their lives. The black ship broke off the attack.

  The Naofa started losing altitude. The black ship retrieved the ship’s boat with her wounded and limped off into the darkness, trailing fire and smoke.

  “Good old Alan,” said Henry. “The black ship is sinking, hopefully in the deepest pit of hell.”

  Randolph gave a bellowing cheer.

  “Be quiet!” Simon snapped. “Don’t make a sound.”

  He cocked his head, listening. Randolph clamped his mouth shut. Henry strained his ears. The night was silent, except for the occasional thud as something else fell off a wall.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Randolph whispered.

  “That’s the problem,” said Simon grimly.

  Henry suddenly realized what he meant. The night was quiet, too quiet. He meant they could no longer hear the whirring of the gigantic airscrews that kept the house afloat.