Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  “Sit down, my lord, before you swoon,” Smythe caustically advised him. “I have sent for my own surgeon to attend to you. We must keep you alive to speak before the House of Nobles.”

  “I look forward to publicly denouncing you,” said Richard.

  “Quite the contrary, my lord, you will endorse me according to the wishes of His Highness,” said Smythe.

  Thomas’s pain was starting to recede and he was at last able to draw a ragged breath. “I will denounce you myself!”

  Smythe poured a glass of water from the pitcher, lifted the glass to his lips, and slowly drank. He set down the glass with deliberation and reached for the pitcher.

  Smythe poured another glass of water and offered it to Thomas. He ignored the offer and Smythe drank the water himself.

  “Suppose you denounce me. Let us look at this through the eyes of the people of Freya, sir. They will soon learn that the Rosians assassinated our queen in order to put you on the throne. I can make a clear case against Rosia. The Countess de Marjolaine, who is an agent for Rosia, was in the palace last night. She knew in advance that the queen was going to die and she conspired with Sir Richard to smuggle you into the palace. You planned to claim the crown before Her Majesty’s body was cool.”

  “I came to meet with the queen!” Thomas said angrily.

  “I will testify to the truth!” Richard stated.

  Smythe cast him a scathing glance. “And who will believe you, my lord, when I have correspondence in my possession between you and members of the Faithful advocating revolution, the violent overthrow of the queen.

  “As for you, Your Highness, your own mother told me that Sir Richard traveled to Bheldem to meet with her to conspire to remove the queen. You yourself were present at the meeting.”

  “I told her I wanted no part of her scheme!” Thomas said.

  Smythe shrugged. “Your mother will testify that you knew about the conspiracy in advance, sir. Everyone will believe you were complicit.”

  “You are a devil, Smythe,” said Richard.

  “I do what I do for God’s glory, my lord,” said Smythe in humble tones. “He wants me to return my nation to the path of righteousness from which it has strayed.

  “I will make you a king, sir,” he continued, turning to Thomas. “You will live a life of luxury. You will dance at royal balls, grace functions with your royal presence. I will relieve you of the onerous task of ruling the kingdom.”

  “I will renounce the throne sooner than let you rule!” said Thomas.

  Smythe shook his head. “In that instance, dark rumors will start to circulate regarding Your Majesty’s sanity.” He drew his pistol and casually toyed with it, all the while looking pointedly at Thomas. “Sadly, you will make an attempt to try to take your own life. You may or may not succeed, depending on my mood. Either way, as Chancellor of War, I will take over governing the country.”

  “You could not seize control!” Thomas said.

  “You are obviously not a student of Freyan history, sir,” said Smythe. “I suggest you study the reign of King Charles and his war with Estara and Travia. He was known as the Mad King. His Chancellor of War took over ruling Freya during His Majesty’s illness. He eventually became Lord Protector of the Realm and ruled until Charles’s death.”

  Thomas sat stupefied, unable to think, and he wondered if he was losing his sanity. He had to find a way to stop Smythe, prevent him from carrying out this heinous plot, but he had no idea how.

  “Give up, sir,” Smythe suggested. “I have walled up every possible escape route. No one is coming to your rescue. Accept your fate. You will find life easier and far more pleasant.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I will never—”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. The guards opened it to admit the surgeon and another officer.

  “How is Corporal Jennings?” Smythe asked the surgeon, switching from Freyan to Guundaran, a language Thomas both spoke and understood. He wondered if Smythe knew he spoke the language and guessed that he didn’t or he would not have been so free with his words.

  Thomas remained seated, his head bowed, seemingly lost in his misery, watching and listening.

  “Lucky, sir,” said the surgeon in the same language. “The bullet struck the fleshy part of the arm. He will make a full recovery.”

  “Tend to that gentleman,” Smythe ordered, indicating Sir Richard. “He stepped in front of a bullet.”

  The surgeon nodded and started unpacking his bag, laying out his instruments on a side table.

  “Did you remove the queen’s body?” Smythe asked the surgeon. “Has she been officially declared dead?”

  “The woman is dead beyond doubt, sir,” the surgeon grunted. “She was buried beneath a half ton of marble, as Captain Reinhart can confirm.”

  “We have completed the task of removing the remains, sir. What are your orders, Colonel?”

  “When the surgeon is finished tending to His Lordship, he will return to take charge of the corpse. Place the remains in a coffin and seal it shut. The official report will state that she died of wounds suffered in a bomb blast. Were you able to clear the area, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reinhart answered. “When my men arrived on the scene, we found some of the servants attempting to dig through the rubble with their bare hands. We ordered them out, saying it was unsafe, warning that there might be more bombs.”

  “Did the servants see anything? Did the green-beam gun leave any traces?”

  “I could see the residual green glow left by the contramagic on some of the debris, sir. But then, I am a crafter and I knew what to look for,” Captain Reinhart replied. “The servants were in a state of shock. When I said the blast looked like a bomb, undoubtedly planted by the Rosians, the servants seemed to latch onto that.”

  Smythe smiled in satisfaction. “Once word spreads that the Rosians were responsible for killing the queen, I would not be a Rosian in this city for a thousand klinkerts. The people will tear them to shreds.”

  Thomas clenched his fists beneath the lace on his sleeve to keep from betraying his outrage. Smythe was going to deliberately start a war with Rosia. The bitter hatred between the two countries dated back centuries and the Freyans would find it easy to believe that Rosians had killed their queen. They would demand revenge, clamor for blood.

  As Chancellor of War, with the country going to war, Smythe would wield immense power. All that made sense. But what didn’t make sense to Thomas was the fact that this was a war Freya would most certainly lose.

  Rosia was powerful, wealthy, whereas Freya teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. Rosia had more troops, more ships. Most important, they had the famed Dragon Brigade.

  And so why, Thomas wondered, is Smythe starting a war he knows he can not win? A Chancellor of War who lost his war would be forced to resign, driven out in disgrace.

  He was trying to puzzle this out when the surgeon looked about and spotted him. Pointing to the bottle containing brandy, the surgeon ordered in crude Freyan, “You there. Bring brandy.”

  Sir Richard was shocked beyond words. Thomas did not want to stop the flow of talk, for Smythe and the captain were now discussing the search for the princess and her companion. He did as he was told. Going to the table, he poured a glass of brandy and brought it to the surgeon, who handed it to Sir Richard.

  “Drink. This is going to hurt.”

  Sir Richard drank the brandy, then stiffened in anticipation and closed his eyes.

  The surgeon was a grim-looking, grizzled veteran, deft and skilled at his work. He first removed the heavy, bloodstained brocade jacket Sir Richard had worn to attend the audience with the queen. He tried to ease it off, but couldn’t avoid causing his patient to cry out. Richard turned quite pale.

  The surgeon exposed the bloody shirt, which had adhered to the wound. He cut through it, then yanked it free. He prodded and probed the wound, muttering to himself in Guundaran.

  Sir Richard shuddered, and beads of
sweat broke out on his forehead. He pressed his lips together to stifle a cry. The surgeon plucked out the bullet, then unwound a bandage roll and began to bind the wound.

  Sir Richard lay back in the chair, breathing heavily.

  The surgeon eyed him, took his pulse, and appeared grave. “This man’s pulse is weak, Colonel. He has lost a quantity of blood. He should be immediately conveyed to his home to rest and recover.”

  “I will take your opinion under advisement, sir,” said Smythe.

  The surgeon shrugged, packed up his bag, and departed. Smythe turned back to the captain to finish their discussion.

  “Gate guards stopped two women dressed as servants trying to flee the palace on horseback,” the captain reported.

  “Are you certain one of them was Her Highness?”

  “Yes, Colonel. The description fits that of Princess Sophia and she was carrying a small dog. I regret to report, sir, that the guards were unable to apprehend them.”

  Smythe went livid. “Are you telling me the princess escaped the palace?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the captain.

  Smythe controlled himself. “What of Henry Wallace and the Countess de Marjolaine? Were they captured?”

  To judge by the captain’s unhappy expression, he had more bad news. “Not yet, sir. Troops went to Wallace’s house to place him and his family under arrest, but they fled before they could be apprehended. They were seen entering the carriage of the Countess de Marjolaine. We located her yacht, but it was gone before we could seize it. They have probably left Freya by now.”

  “Maybe not.” Smythe was grim. “I will close the ports. Have every ship searched! Issue warrants for the arrest of Sir Henry Wallace, the countess, and the princess.”

  He cast a sardonic glance at Thomas. “On the orders of His Highness, of course. You return to the queen’s office, Captain, make certain all is kept secure and no one enters until you have removed all traces left by the green-beam gun.”

  “I suggest you take these guards with you, sir,” said Reinhart. “You might not be safe—”

  “And whose fault is that, Captain?” Smythe said bitingly. “Who permitted these criminals to escape?”

  Captain Reinhart could only salute and leave as quickly as possible. Smythe again departed, taking the guards with him.

  “Do not think of trying to escape,” Smythe warned before he left. “There are two guards on the balcony and two outside the door with orders to detain you by any means necessary.”

  The room was quiet, save for Sir Richard’s ragged breathing. He sprawled in the chair, his eyes closed. The room was hot and stank of blood. Thomas thought of opening the door to the balcony to let in fresh air, but he feared the chill might not be good for the wounded man.

  Richard opened his eyes and glanced about the room, as though to assure himself Smythe had gone. When he saw they were alone, he sat up and gestured to Thomas.

  “Come closer, Your Majesty. I must talk to you.”

  “You should not tax yourself, my lord,” said Thomas.

  “Bah! I am well enough to talk,” said Richard.

  “What is it, my lord?” Thomas asked, rising to move a chair near him.

  Sir Richard kept his voice low. “I have been thinking, sir. You need Henry!”

  Thomas recoiled, repelled by the suggestion.

  “May I remind you, my lord, that your brother has been one of my most implacable foes. You said yourself he refers to me as the ‘Pretender.’”

  “He was your foe, sir, I do not deny it. But for all his faults, Henry is a loyal Freyan. He was devoted to the queen. She would have asked him to serve you as he did her. I am certain of it.”

  Thomas was not so convinced. “You heard Smythe, my lord. Your brother has undoubtedly fled the country.”

  “Henry would not leave Freya in this time of crisis,” said Richard emphatically. “He knows that I am a member of the Faithful, loyal to Your Highness. He will find a way to communicate with me, if for no other reason than to confront me with the fact that I betrayed Mr. Sloan to Smythe. I would like your permission to tell him what has happened and ask for his help. Henry has a vast network of agents he can use to come to your aid.”

  Thomas hesitated. He did not trust Henry Wallace, but he needed help and he had nowhere else to go to find it.

  “Very well,” he said curtly. “And now I need your counsel, my lord.”

  “Do not ask counsel of me, sir,” said Richard bitterly. “I was the one who recommended that devil, Smythe, to your mother and father. He fooled me completely.”

  “If you are a fool, then I am another—or worse. I am now become his puppet,” said Thomas, brooding. “What am I to do?”

  The two sat in silence, then Sir Richard said softly, “I will tell you what my brother, Henry, would say if he sat here in my place.”

  Richard leaned close. His eyes burned, his pale face was fixed, intent.

  “Henry would tell you to dance at the end of the puppet strings until the day comes when you wrap those strings around Smythe’s neck and strangle him.”

  Thomas understood all too well what Richard was asking him to do. He rose to his feet and began to pace restlessly. Richard watched him with sympathy.

  “I understand, sir. Your pride and honor will urge you to defy Smythe. If you do, you sacrifice your people. You made a promise to Her Majesty—a deathbed promise, as it turns out. You promised the queen you would do your duty. Buy time until we find a way to destroy him.”

  Thomas stopped pacing and turned to listen.

  “Freya cannot go to war with Rosia unless you authorize it, Your Highness,” Richard continued. “You hold power Smythe cannot take away. You do not need to openly defy him, but you can dither, prevaricate, tell him you want to study the matter, refer it to the Privy Council or committees in the House.

  “You will be playing a dangerous charade, Thomas. Smythe is cunning and if he suspects for one moment that you are seeking to destroy him, he will destroy you first. You must pretend to be subservient, swallow your pride, choke down your rage, endure the shame and humiliation.”

  “The only way I win is by seeming to lose,” said Thomas, mulling over the idea. “Smythe will believe my act. He already has a low opinion of me. He will be glad to know that I am as weak and pusillanimous as he thinks me.”

  “Know this, sir. You will not fight alone, though it may seem so, for Smythe will make you a prisoner in your own palace. He will intercept your correspondence and surround you with spies. He will insist on being present during all your meetings and prevent you from going anywhere alone. But always remember—you have friends on the outside who are fighting for you. I will see to that and so will Henry. I stake my life on it.”

  They both heard sounds of the guards at the door snapping to attention, which meant that Smythe had returned. Richard closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Thomas walked over to the windows facing the balcony. He was gazing out into the night when Smythe flung open the door.

  “You must come with me, Your Highness,” the colonel said. “A crowd has gathered in the rotunda. You will take the opportunity to speak to them, lay claim to the throne before witnesses.”

  Thomas glanced at Sir Richard, and saw the old man’s eyes flicker as he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “I will do so, Smythe,” said Thomas coolly, “but you must first agree to convey Sir Richard to his home.”

  “Out of the question, sir. He cannot be trusted.”

  “His Lordship has pledged his loyalty to me,” said Thomas. “As you know, he has immense influence with the Faithful and the House of Nobles.”

  Thomas hesitated, swallowed, then said, “We need him.”

  Smythe heard the emphasis on the word “we.” He smiled, pleased, yet disdainful.

  “Very well, sir.”

  Smythe spoke to the guard and ordered him to convey Sir Richard to his house. He then turned back to Thomas.

  “I have taken the liberty of wri
ting down your speech to the people. You must say what I have written. If you think of defying me, speaking for yourself, consider the welfare of your friend in Offdom Tower.”

  Smythe bowed and indicated Thomas was to precede him out the door. Thomas had to clench his fists tight beneath the ornamental lace on his cuffs to keep from giving way to his most heartfelt desire, which was to throttle Smythe, slam him to the floor, and order the guards to arrest him and drag him to Offdom Tower.

  Smythe leaned near to whisper, “The guards would not obey you, sir. You are not their king. In fact, you are not anyone’s king. Keep walking.”

  Thomas felt the sharp edges of the black diamonds and sapphires that adorned the ring of his ancestor, King James, pierce his flesh. He remembered Mary’s words when she gave it to him.

  “This belonged to poor James, your unhappy ancestor,” Mary had told him. “The man made a pig’s breakfast of being king, damn near ruined the country. Still, he was the anointed king, and my own ancestors were wrong to plunge Freya into a bitter and bloody civil war to overthrow him.”

  Mary had placed the ring in his palm and closed Thomas’s hand over it. She had then rested both her hands on his and looked into his eyes.

  “You and I, between us, must do everything within our power to keep Freya strong and united, Thomas Stanford. I do my part by naming you heir to the throne. You do yours by doing your duty.”

  Thomas walked down the stairs that led to the rotunda. He could hear Smythe crowding close behind him, almost tripping on his heels. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

  Thomas clasped his hand over the ring and renewed his vow. “I will do my duty, Your Majesty.”

  EIGHT

  Dalgren was currently residing in a cavern located along the shoreline of Freya’s Great Eastern Bay. The coast of Freya was rocky and remote, with only a single road that led to a mining village about twenty miles north. Winding among rocks, the road was little traveled these days, for the mine owners now shipped the ore by barges that sailed the Breath.