“That last shot must have hit the helm,” said Henry. “Where was Alan?”
“Near the helm,” said Randolph.
He began to ponderously climb back up the stairs. Henry took pity on his portly friend.
“Simon and I will see to Alan. Randolph, you go to the cellar, check the lift tanks. You need to make sure they weren’t hit.”
Randolph gave a him a grateful look and headed down the stairs. The duchess had installed six lift tanks in the foundation of the house, each of them braced and integrated into the structure. The lift tanks were huge. Only the Sunset Palace that had once floated in the air above Everux had tanks that were larger. The lift tanks were protected by stone walls, but a puncture by a lucky shot would cause the lift gas to leak out.
Henry climbed the stairs to the upper level two at a time. Simon passed him in his chair, heading for the attic and from there the roof.
Two broad staircases led to a narrow staircase that led to a door that opened onto the roof. They could see damage to the magic in the walls, the ceiling. All the building materials from bricks to wooden beams were made using magical constructs. The contramagic in the green beam had disrupted that magic and continued to eat away at it.
Surveying the damage, Simon shook his head. “I used the Seventh Sigil to strengthen the protective magical constructs on the walls. But I never planned on my house taking a direct hit from a green-beam gun.”
Henry helped Simon navigate the narrow staircase in his chair, then opened the door and stepped out onto the roof. When the cold air hit Henry, he shivered, for he had forgotten to put on his coat. He stared around in dismay.
The Elsinors had been fond of experimenting with architecture, embellishing their home with towers and turrets, gable roofs, valley roofs, and mansard roofs. The largest roof was the flat roof that covered the main portion of the house. The duchess had enclosed this roof with a wrought-iron fence, decorated it with potted trees and flowers, and termed it her garden. The rocket launchers stood between the ornamental pine trees and the aloes in tubs.
She had placed the helm that steered the house and provided magic to the lift tanks and airscrews inside a square cupola surrounded by windows in the center.
The cupola was in shambles. The beam had taken out most of the cupola’s north-facing wall, and now its roof sagged. Every window was shattered, as were the lamps. The floor around the cupola was littered with broken glass and cracked and splintered wood.
“Alan!” Henry called urgently.
“In here!” came a muffled voice.
Henry crunched across broken glass to what remained of the cupola and peered inside. He could see Alan crouched on his hands and knees, pawing frantically among the debris. He looked around as he heard Henry.
“The airscrews aren’t working,” Henry reported.
“I bloody well know that!” Alan said. “The helm is under here somewhere. I need light!”
“I have a lantern,” Simon stated.
“Bring it to me, Henry,” said Alan. “Watch your head when you come in and for God’s sake, don’t touch the beam by my right shoulder. I think it’s the only thing holding up the roof.”
Simon opened one of the compartments built into his chair and took out a small bull’s-eye lantern. He activated its magic with a touch and handed it to Henry, who gingerly made his way through the wreckage to Alan.
“Shine the light here!” he instructed.
He had taken off his greatcoat. His shirt was torn and bloodied. He had lost his hand in a fight years ago and wore a mechanical hand fashioned by Simon in its place. His good hand was bleeding from several cuts. He was crouched near the brass helm that had once stood in front of the north-facing window. The helm had been mounted on a solid oak base that was now lying on its side. The helm itself was buried beneath the wreckage.
“Help me lift it,” Alan said to Henry. “Watch out for that beam. And be careful of those cables! We don’t want to sever any of them.”
The brass helm was covered with magical constructs connected to cables that ran from the helm across the roof and down the walls and transmitted magical energy to the four enormous airscrews and the six lift tanks. If the helm had been hit, the contramagic might have erased the magical constructs on the helm, leaving them with no way to activate the lift tanks or the airscrews.
“Was the helm damaged?” Henry asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Alan answered. “I saw the beam strike the cupola, but I couldn’t see if it hit the helm or not.”
Henry hung the lantern from a nail sticking out of the wall near his head, then bent down beside the helm. He thrust his hands beneath the base on one side while Alan took the other. Alan counted to three and between them they slowly and carefully raised the base out of the debris.
The light gleamed off the brass and shone on the braided strands of cables attached to the underside of the brass plate. Henry stared at the cables, startled. “Those are not leather.”
“They’re copper,” said Simon, peering in at them from beneath the sagging roof. “More efficient than leather for transmitting the magic. I had Albright switch to copper two years ago.”
Alan studied the helm and ran his hands over the constructs. “Some of the constructs are broken, but at least the beam didn’t completely erase the magic.”
“I used the Seventh Sigil to protect it,” said Simon. “But no magic is flowing to the airscrews. We need to see if we can get them started.”
“Don’t bother,” said Randolph grimly as he joined them by what remained of the cupola. “Every goddamn lift tank on the port side of the house is riddled with bullet holes. You can hear the goddamn gas hissing as it leaks out.”
“The house is sinking,” said Henry.
“Crashing will be a more apt description unless we can find a way to activate the magic to the lift tanks,” said Randolph.
“If Welkinstead falls on a populated area, the loss of life would be catastrophic,” said Henry. “We need to steer the house as far from the city as possible, even if that means sinking it in the Breath.”
“And we go down with the house,” said Alan with a faint smile. “Not a bad way to die. The brutal cold will kill us long before we hit the bottom of the world.”
He frowned, eyeing the helm. “I have an idea. When I was a midshipman on the King Frederick, I once saw a ship’s crafter use his own magic as a bridge between broken constructs. The constructs were on a cannon, not a helm, but I wonder if Simon could do the same?”
“Is that possible?” Henry asked his friend.
“I believe it could work, but only if the cables are attached to the helm,” said Simon. “You can see where some of them have fallen off.”
“The damn things must be buried beneath the rubble. We need to dig them out,” said Alan.
He and Henry began to search for the cables amid the debris and soon found most of them.
“Now what do we do?” Alan asked.
“Connect the cables to the constructs that operate the airscrews. The foundation of this house is made of stone and concrete that has been reinforced with strengthening magic. If we can slow our rate of descent by reversing the airscrews, we might be able to avoid crashing, and land the house safely.”
“Henry, shine the light on the helm,” Alan instructed. “I need Simon in here with me. Randolph, bring his chair. And watch out for that beam!”
Randolph helped Simon enter the damaged cupola and positioned his chair near the helm. Henry shone the lantern on the constructs while Alan, on his knees, tried to attach the copper cable to the screws. His wooden fingers fumbled at the wires and he began to swear.
“We need two good hands for this job,” he said.
“I’ll do it,” Henry offered. “Just tell me what goes where.”
Alan showed him how to twist the copper cable around the brass screws and then held the light so he could see. Henry got down on his knees and picked up a length of cable. He stopped, staring in d
ismay at the myriad screws that were dotted all over the underside of the helm.
“How do I know which of these cables connect the constructs to the airscrews?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Simon.
“We need to know where we are,” said Henry, trying to untangle the cables. “In case this doesn’t work.”
“The house was traveling in a southerly direction when Randolph and I arrived after dinner,” said Alan. He glanced at the shattered binnacle and shook his head. “I can’t use that to determine our location. Randolph, go look over the edge of the roof and see what lies below us.”
Henry twisted the wire around the screws as fast as he could, given that his fingers were stiff from the cold and the broken wires jabbed into his flesh.
“That’s all of them,” said Simon at last. “The airscrews should now be connected.”
Henry crawled out from under the helm and staggered to his feet.
Randolph came back to report that the house was south of Haever.
“I can’t see any lights below us, though I suppose there might be farm houses or small villages. Most people would be in their beds by now.”
“How fast are we sinking?” Henry asked.
Randolph gave a helpless shrug. “How can I tell? I can’t see the ground.”
“If there are houses, we will have to use the airscrews to push us out into the Breath, not slow our fall,” said Henry.
“Provided we have airscrews,” said Simon.
Alan adjusted the brass helm so that Simon could reach it from his chair, careful not to detach any of the wires.
Henry watched tensely as Simon placed his hand on the brass helm, touching the magical constructs. Alan stood with his hand on Simon’s chair, holding him steady. Randolph leaned over the wrought-iron fence, peering down.
“I think we’re over a forest!” he shouted.
Henry looked out at the horizon and saw the distant lights of the city of Haever suddenly rise into view, as out of a sea of darkness. Now he could judge their rate of descent. They were falling rapidly.
“Did I hear something?” Alan asked suddenly. “Did one of the airscrews come on?”
The airscrews were located at the corners of the house several stories below them, and the men had to strain to listen. Henry thought he could detect a whirring sound, but he wanted to hear it so badly he did not trust his judgment.
“One is working!” Simon exclaimed. “I can feel the magic respond. And there is a second and now a third!”
Henry watched the lights of the city. They continued to rise as the house sank, but the movement seemed to have slowed.
“What about the fourth?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Simon replied. He ran his fingers over the helm, then shook his head. “Still nothing. The fourth airscrew on the port side is not working. It must have been hit by gunfire.”
Randolph waved his arms and pointed to the east.
“The house needs to shift direction or we’ll crash into the trees,” he yelled.
Simon made the adjustment. “Let me know when we’re close. I’ll reverse the airscrews to try to cushion the fall.”
Randolph bent over the iron railings, trying to see.
“I have to remain at the helm to operate the airscrews,” Simon continued. “That beam will give way once we hit. The rest of you should go into the attic—”
“Clear!” Randolph roared. He came lumbering across the roof, waving his arms. “Quick! Reverse the goddamn screws!”
Simon slammed his hand palm down on the helm. Henry could feel the vibration in the floor as the airscrews labored. The lights of the city suddenly vanished behind the treetops.
“We need to get off the roof!” Henry said. “Alan, help me with Simon. Randolph, open the door to the attic.”
“Not yet!” Simon said, his hand on the helm.
“Now!” said Henry firmly.
He and Alan picked up Simon bodily—chair and all—and carried him out of the cupola just as its ceiling collapsed with a splintering of wood and breaking glass.
Randolph had reached the door to the attic and was holding it open. Henry and Alan carried Simon through the door, and Randolph slammed the door shut. They lowered Simon’s chair to the floor and crouched down beside him in the darkness.
Henry could not see his friends, but he could sense them near him. He had no way of knowing how close the house was to crashing and he was glad he could not see it coming.
Alan’s hand clasped his. Randolph put his strong arm around Henry’s shoulder. Henry reached out to Simon, doing what he could to brace his friend.
Henry drew in a breath, closed his eyes.
The house struck the ground.
FOUR
Colonel Jonathan Smythe stood in the middle of a lavishly decorated room in the Freyan royal palace and took a moment to revel in the knowledge that his plot had succeeded. The queen—that spawn of the Evil One—was dead. Once he was coroneted, Prince Thomas Stanford would be king of Freya and Smythe was one step closer to achieving his goal: ruling Freya himself.
For now, he had to make certain Stanford knew who was in charge. Thomas would soon be king, but it was Smythe who held the crown. Thomas should feel gratitude to the man who had put him on the throne.
And if he refused the crown, if he was too squeamish to put it on his head just because it had a little blood on it, Smythe had made contingency plans, and he waited with some curiosity to see what Thomas would do. He did not know, because he did not know the young man well. Most of what he knew about Thomas came from his mother, Constanza, and she was a doting fool.
Smythe was the commander of the prince’s small army, whose mission was to serve as escort, taking the prince to Freya when he succeeded to the throne. He knew Thomas had been an officer in the Estaran army and that, according to his mother, he had served with distinction in the war against the Bottom Dwellers. Thomas himself rarely spoke of the war and evinced no interest in military matters. He left all decisions regarding his army to his colonel.
This arrangement had suited Smythe well. He had taken advantage of the prince’s disinterest to plot the invasion of Freya.
He did have to give Thomas grudging credit for the fact that, while shocked and shaken by the terrible events of this night, Thomas maintained his composure, even though he had just discovered the commander of his army was in truth a violent revolutionary who had murdered the queen, while his best friend, Phillip Masterson, lay bloodied and beaten at his feet.
Yet Thomas had strength enough to rise from the side of his unconscious friend to confront Smythe.
“What do you want from me?”
“Ah, now we get to the nub of the matter, sir,” Smythe replied. “When I undertook this command at the behest of your mother and the members of the Faithful, I believed I was doing God’s work. Together we would remove the last surviving member of a profligate, corrupt family from the throne and restore Freya to her rightful position as a power in the world. I believed in you and in your cause. And then I came to know you.”
Or perhaps Smythe had come to know himself.
He was an ambitious man, hungry for power, and frustrated to know that as the eldest son of a strict, God-fearing and impoverished Fundamentalist minister, he would be forced to live on scraps of power tossed to him by his “betters.” He could not understand how Thomas, given the gift of royal birth by the hand of God, could so lightly toss it aside, as he might toss aside a soiled handkerchief.
God had placed Smythe in the position of being able to pick up that handkerchief and tuck it into his own pocket. God had brought him to the attention of Sir Richard Wallace, a member of the Faithful, a secret organization devoted to restoring the Stanford family to the throne.
Richard had recommended Smythe to Thomas’s parents, who had hired him to raise and train the army that was to support and protect their son. God had seen fit to drop a mast on Queen Mary’s son, the heir to the throne, and inflict diphtheria on h
is little child, thus clearing the way for Thomas. Admittedly, Smythe had helped God along a little by assassinating the queen, but he believed the Scriptures, which said the Lord helps those who help themselves.
“You are a man of honor and strong principle,” Smythe told Thomas. “I have been told these are excellent qualities in a king. Sadly, you are also a fool who doesn’t have the wit to know what to do with the power I was going to give you.”
Smythe’s plan had been for his armies to seize control of Freya with as little disruption as possible. The revolution would happen and few would be aware of it, and those who tried to resist would be silenced. When Freya was under Smythe’s control, he would permit Thomas to enter and hand him the keys to the kingdom.
Unfortunately, Thomas, who had turned out to be more energetic and resourceful than Smythe had expected, had foiled this plan by traveling to Freya in secret to meet with the queen. Queen Mary, acting with confounding good sense, had been going to name him the heir to the throne and make her announcement public. Thomas would have been able to enter the kingdom in peace, without need for Smythe or his revolution.
Smythe had been forced to act swiftly to regain control of the situation.
“I do know what to do with power, Your Highness,” Smythe informed him. “I have plans for Freya and her people. For years, I watched a feeble queen and her lackwit councilors, such as Sir Richard, beggar my country, groveling before godless infidels such as King Renaud. I could no longer stand idly by and watch my country sink into the stew of corruption.
“But then, I thought, who will pay heed to me and my ideas? Who am I? A man of low birth. A common soldier, as your lady mother delights in reminding me. The meanest beggar on the street would pay no heed to me. Your Highness speaks, and kings jump to do your bidding.”
Thomas regarded him with contempt.
“I see what you are planning, Smythe, and I would sooner dance with the devil. You might as well put a bullet in my head now, for I will not be a party to this deranged scheme of yours.”
Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs) Page 4