Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  Henry frowned. He was in a floating house and he should not be seeing trees. He should be seeing blue sky and the mists of the Breath. Maybe he wasn’t as fine as he thought he was.

  He groaned and was sick again.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Simon asked.

  Henry frowned, concentrating, grimacing at the pain in his head. “We were on the roof. I remember the black ship, and Randolph and Alan firing rockets at it. And…” Henry started to shake his head, winced, and thought better of it. “Nothing after that, I’m afraid.”

  “The black ship fired a green beam that struck the house, knocked out the airscrews, and punctured the lift tanks,” said Simon. “The house began to sink. We chose a suitable site for a landing and then took refuge in the attic. The house came down in what I term a controlled landing—”

  “More like a bloody awful smash-up,” Randolph stated dourly.

  “You insisted on running downstairs and saving a book: Fenyman’s Lectures on Theoretical Magic,” said Simon. “I think you must have been looking for the note we found inside. You were clutching it in your hand. Don’t worry. I tucked it in your pocket.”

  Henry pressed his hand in silent thanks.

  “We were knocked about a bit when the house hit the ground,” Simon continued. “Randolph sprained his wrist. A beam hit you on the head and rendered you unconscious. When the house finally settled, we carried you downstairs and here you are with a bump on your head the size of a frigate.”

  “I don’t remember any of that,” Henry said.

  He tried sitting up again, taking his time, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to jar his pounding head. Alan assisted him, placing pillows behind his back.

  Henry reached gingerly to touch the back of his skull, and while the bump wasn’t as big as a frigate, it was certainly large, and painful to the touch. He felt something greasy in his hair and wrinkled his nose.

  “What is that smell?”

  “Tea tree oil,” Simon explained. “Prevents infection.”

  “What time is it?” Henry asked. “Where are we? How bad is the damage to the house?”

  “He is definitely back to normal,” Alan stated, grinning.

  “The time is about six of the clock in the morning,” Simon replied. “The house landed in an open field, and just missed crashing into the forest. We have been waiting for first light to assess the damage.”

  “You realize we can’t stay here,” said Henry.

  “Some of us realize that,” said Alan. He cast a grim look at Simon. “Some of us don’t. You must see reason, Simon. Once your enemies look into the sky and notice Welkinstead is gone, they will begin the search for you.”

  “Nonsense. They won’t bother. They will think the house sank into the Breath,” Simon returned.

  Alan tried again. “Anyone flying overhead—”

  “—will look down and see the roof of a house,” Simon said. “Nothing unusual in that.”

  “A house in the middle of a goddamn hay field with no goddamn road for miles,” said Randolph.

  “What will you do for food? Heat?” Henry asked. “The water tank may have been damaged. We should go back to Haever.”

  “I remind you that you and I are both wanted men,” Simon said mildly. “Smythe’s soldiers will be searching for us in Haever, and if we are in Haever, they will be much more likely to find us there than out here in the middle of a hay field.”

  “But in order to stop Smythe we need to be in Haever,” Henry insisted. “I own a house in a secret location in the city that will suit our needs. I have everything we need to survive while we are in hiding: new identities, clothes, documents, money…”

  Henry winced and put his hand to his head as though he would hold the pieces of his skull together. He had to struggle to think clearly.

  “Unfortunately, you cannot hide the fact that I am in a wheelchair and Smythe will be looking for a man in a wheelchair,” Simon stated. “I will put you in danger.”

  “You are not the only man in Haever in a wheeled chair, Simon,” said Alan. “Henry’s plan is a good one.”

  “I am not saying it isn’t. I was merely pointing out possible problems in order that we do not go unprepared.” Simon wheeled his chair around and headed for his office. “Give me some time to gather up the work I am doing on current projects.”

  “Randolph, you stay and help Simon,” said Henry. “Alan and I will go into the city to make arrangements.”

  Alan protested. “You can’t go, Henry! We will have to walk miles and you are in no fit state! You stay with Simon and let Randolph and me go. Just tell us where to find the house.”

  “I have to go,” said Henry. “Mr. Sloan placed warding spells on the storage chests in the attic. He and I are the only ones who can safely release them.”

  “Ha!” Randolph snorted. “The real reason you’re leaving is that you don’t want to stay to help Simon sort through mounds of paperwork.”

  “Damn right,” said Henry.

  * * *

  Welkinstead had landed about fifteen miles from Haever, which meant at least a three-hour walk for men in prime condition. Henry had only walked about three miles through forest and tromped over fields through the stubble left by harvest wheat, when he realized he could go no further. He could scarcely see for the pounding in his head.

  Alan regarded him with concern. “You’re not going to make it all the way to Haever.”

  “I know. I suggest we find the owner of this wheat field and ask to borrow a wagon.”

  The field ended in what passed for a road: two wheel ruts in the ground. The road led them to a prosperous-looking farmhouse with a barn, stable, and outbuildings in back. Chickens and ducks roamed about the yard and several goats came to the front of their pen to stare at the men as they walked past. Alan knocked on the door, which was answered by a brisk, plump older woman.

  She was understandably startled to find two disheveled and battered—albeit well-dressed—gentlemen standing on her stoop.

  Henry had done his best to scrub most of the blood from his face and hair. His greatcoat concealed his bloodstained shirt and he wore one of Simon’s wide-brimmed hats to cover his wound. But neither he nor Alan could hide the bruises and cuts on their faces or hands.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” said Alan. “My friend and I have been involved in an accident. The wyvern pulling our carriage went berserk and dumped us out. We were walking back to Haever when my friend fell ill. We were hoping that we could rest a little, perhaps beg a sip of water.…”

  “Walk to Haever!” The woman was dismayed. “You poor gentlemen will do no such mad thing. My good man and our boy are out with the wagon, but they’ll be back before long and Nate will drive you to the city. Come inside, sit down, and I will put on the tea kettle.”

  She bustled about the neat kitchen, pouring the tea and serving them raisin cake and cheese that had come from the very goats who had taken such an interest in them.

  “Lord, no, we don’t hardly see any visitors out here,” the woman said in answer to Alan’s question. “Our nearest neighbor is eight miles to the north. Weeks go by without me seeing a soul other than my good man and my boy.”

  Alan and Henry exchanged relieved glances. No one was likely to stumble upon Welkinstead and wonder what a house was doing in the middle of a wheat field. And since the wheat was harvested, the farmer wasn’t likely to be going back there for a time. If he did find the house, it would be empty.

  The woman insisted on cleaning Henry’s wound and treating it with a salve of her own making. She mixed a few drops of a potion into his tea.

  “Relieves the pain and that sick feeling in your gut. My mother was a healer and she taught me the art.”

  The woman bound his head with bandages while Henry drank the tea.

  By the time he had finished, the woman’s husband and son had returned.

  The young man was sixteen and more than happy to have a chance to
drive into the city. He ran to wash up after his chores and put on a clean shirt in honor of the occasion.

  The husband was interested in hearing details about the accident. He wanted to know what had happened, where the accident had occurred, was the wyvern injured, should they tend to the beast, and so forth.

  “The wyvern flew off,” said Alan. “The carriage is a total loss. Nothing much left of it, I’m afraid. As to where we came down, I cannot tell you. I am not familiar with this part of the country. That direction, I think.”

  He pointed to a location in the opposite direction of Welkinstead. Henry let Alan do the talking while he concentrated on remaining conscious and he was thankful when he saw the wagon roll down the lane.

  Alan sat up front with the driver. Henry lay down in the wagon bed, which was cushioned with straw. Alan had cautioned him not to fall asleep, for fear he might never wake up. Henry was groggy, the noon sun was warm, the potion made him pleasantly drowsy, and he found it hard to obey that injunction. Alan was continually forced to reach back to seize him by the shoulder and shake him awake.

  As they were nearing the outskirts of the city, they could see people milling about the streets in confusion and turmoil.

  “Henry, wake up,” said Alan. “You need to see this.”

  A man mounted on horseback galloped up to them. He was in a high state of excitement and he waved for them to stop.

  “Have you heard the news, gents? The queen is dead! There’s going to be war!”

  He galloped off down the road to spread the news.

  The young man driving their wagon was aghast.

  “The queen dead!” He turned to look at Alan. “Do you think it’s true, sirs? Are we going to war?”

  “Let us off here, son,” said Alan. “You should go back home. We will find a cab.”

  He took several silver coins and held them out to the young man, who shook his head.

  “Ma wouldn’t like that I took money for helping folks in need. Good luck to you, sirs!”

  He turned the wagon around and drove off before Alan could insist.

  “I’ll hail a cab,” said Henry. “You find a newspaper.”

  The news boy was not difficult to find. People had crowded around him, snatching up copies of the Haever Gazette as fast as he could take their money.

  Some were openly sobbing. Others were angry, shouting, “Death to the Rosians!” Children were playing at war, picking up sticks to use as rifles to shoot the “Rosies.”

  Henry managed to snag a cab. The driver looked askance at their unsavory appearance and demanded his money up front. Alan paid him and Henry gave him an address near the docks, close to the Naval Yard.

  The driver shouted at people to get out of his way and the cab drove off.

  Alan opened the newspaper. The front page was bordered in black and featured an illustration of the queen and another of Thomas Stanford.

  Henry tried to read, but the pain made him see double. “Read it aloud,” he told Alan.

  Alan read the official statement from the palace. That statement did not go into detail, but announced the death of the queen and said that before her death she had named Thomas Stanford her heir.

  “‘The Accession Council will meet as soon as is possible to assemble the members to make it official,’” said Alan. “Listen to this, Henry. The paper is quoting a spokesman, Colonel Jonathan Smythe. He reports hearing a horrific explosion that shook the walls and he notes the excellent work of the palace guards who took control of the terrifying situation.”

  “Palace guards, my ass!” said Henry angrily. “Smythe’s soldiers.”

  “According to Smythe, the heir apparent, Thomas Stanford, took command of the situation. ‘The prince appeared in public, wearing the ring of King James, that had been given to him by the queen only hours before she died.’”

  Alan looked up. “I’m sorry, Henry. Do you want me to go on?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I need to know.”

  “‘Colonel Smythe is quoted as saying that the queen was killed by a bomb placed in her office by a Rosian assassin. “We consider this an act of war,” Smythe stated to journalists.’

  “Well at least something good has come out of tragedy. War with Rosia!” Alan said exultantly, flinging aside the paper. “About damn time!”

  “Are you mad, Alan?” Henry said in scathing tones. “We cannot go to war against Rosia! Our country is bankrupt, the fleet is in wretched shape. I doubt we can afford to buy gunpowder. Rosia will crush us.”

  Alan flushed in anger. “I make allowances for the fact that you are grieving and that your head hurts. But you are not thinking clearly, Henry, or you would have never made such an outrageous claim. The Freyan Royal Navy is the finest in the world. The Rosians are no match for us.”

  “I am sorry, Alan,” said Henry wearily. “I did not mean to disparage you or the navy. But you and I both know the Rosians had nothing to do with the queen’s death. Smythe killed her and now he is stoking the fires of a trumped-up war to rally the Freyan people to the side of their new young king.”

  The carriage wheel struck a rock, causing the pain to seem to shoot from one side of Henry’s head to the other. He groaned and put his head in his hands.

  “How do you feel?” Alan asked.

  “Rotten,” Henry replied.

  They rode in silence, then Henry sighed and raised his head.

  “So what is your plan?” Alan asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Henry. “Did you or Randolph tell anyone at the Naval Club that you were going to Simon’s house last night?”

  Alan thought back. “I don’t think we did. Albright sent Simon’s note in to us by the waiter while we were in the middle of dinner. The note said it was urgent, so we grabbed our coats and hats and left. Albright was waiting for us in the Visitor’s Room.”

  “Good,” said Henry. “Then no one knows you two were in the house when it was attacked.”

  “I don’t see how this helps,” said Alan.

  “Simon and I are both wanted men, but you and Randolph are not. You two can return to your rooms in the Naval Club with some story of being away on a hunting trip. You and Randolph have access to the Naval Yard, your ships, your fellow officers, the Admiralty. You can use your positions to uncover information, discover Smythe’s plans.”

  “People know Randolph and I are your friends,” Alan pointed out.

  “Denounce me as a traitor,” said Henry. “You heard me make disparaging remarks about the Royal Navy going down to defeat.”

  “I know you didn’t mean that,” said Alan.

  Henry sighed. “Unfortunately, I did mean it, Alan. The Terrapin is the finest ship in any navy in the world with the finest captain at her helm. But how will she fare against the Dragon Brigade, my friend? Her steel-plated hulls were designed to withstand magical attacks, not a prolonged assault by dragon fire. As for the rest of the fleet, they will go up like so much kindling.”

  Alan flung himself back in the seat, angrily folded his arms across his chest, and glared in brooding silence out the window.

  “But I could be wrong,” said Henry with a faint smile.

  “You are,” said Alan. “I accept your apology.”

  The two shook hands.

  “Don’t return to the Naval Club until I have time to find out for certain that no warrants have been issued for you and Randolph,” said Henry. “I would not want the two of you to walk into a trap.”

  “We can stay on board our ships,” said Alan.

  Looking out the window, Henry saw the Naval Yard and realized they were nearing his destination. He ordered the driver to stop. Alan gave the man something extra for his trouble and they left the cab. They drew their hats low over their faces and made their way through the crowds of sailors and dockworkers on the street. Anticipating war, many were already drunk. The talk was ugly, as was the mood.

  A man who smelled of rum seized hold of Henry’s arm.

 
“Here, now! You two aren’t bloody Rosians, are you?” he demanded. “If you are, we’re going to make you regret it.”

  Several of his mates gathered around them, fists clenched.

  “Certainly not,” said Henry. “Death to the Rosies.”

  Alan fished several coins out of his pocket. “To prove our loyalty, I give you good Freyan coin and invite you and your friends to drink to the health of our new king. God bless him.”

  Their Freyan accents and the sight of the money satisfied the men, who took the coins, touched their hats, and ran off to stop more people and demand to know if they were Rosians.

  “There will be murder done before this day is out,” Henry predicted.

  He and Alan turned into a deserted street lined with shops and businesses whose windows were shuttered and boarded up. Henry went to a shop located at the end of the block. A shabby gilt sign hanging over the door proclaimed it to be Tom’s Coffee and Tea shop.

  Henry did not enter the shop, but walked down an alley to the back. He came to a small house that butted up against the tea shop. The house was obviously abandoned. The yard had been appropriated by the neighbors as a garbage dump, for it was filled with refuse: broken flower pots, discarded lumber, and a pile of bricks.

  Henry looked over the pile of bricks and selected one that had a chip on the corner. He upended it and touched a hidden spring on the bottom. A small drawer shot out. Henry removed a key from the brick, released the spring, and the drawer slid back inside. Henry carefully placed the brick back onto the scrap heap.

  He did not immediately enter the house, but first knelt down to make certain that the sliver of wood he had stuck beneath the door was still in place. He located it and stood up.

  “No one has been inside,” he reported.

  “The chap, Tom, who owns the coffee shop,” said Alan. “Do you know him? More to the point, does he know you?”

  “Tom is one of my agents,” said Henry. “Extremely trustworthy, especially as I am his landlord and I charge him no rent.”

  Henry put the key to the lock, opened the door, and entered the small house. Alan followed, looking about curiously as Henry shut the door behind them.