Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  “Speaking of Your Majesty, I read in the newspaper that the engagement to Sophia has been broken.”

  “The one good thing Smythe did for all of us,” said Thomas. “He is currently seeking another princess for me to marry.”

  “At least Sophia managed to escape Freya along with the countess—”

  Phillip stopped talking, dismayed by Thomas’s darkening expression. “What is wrong?”

  “Sophia did not escape,” said Thomas. “The countess left Rosia the night the queen was assassinated, but by some mischance, she did not take Sophia with her.”

  “Where is she?” Phillip asked, alarmed.

  “I have no idea. I know she is safe only because Smythe is still hunting for her. I have reason to believe that Kate is with her. The two fled the palace together.”

  “Kate?” Phillip repeated, startled and not entirely pleased. “I am not certain whether that knowledge fills me with confidence or dread. How did Kate come to be in the palace?”

  “You know as much as I do, my friend.”

  A fist hammered on the door.

  Thomas rose to his feet. “That will be Corporal Jennings. I would gladly let him beat on the door until he breaks his hand, but I must leave. Dignitaries are due to arrive to attend Her Majesty’s funeral, King Ullr of Guundar among them. Smythe has insisted I must be on hand to welcome him. The countess once warned me about King Ullr. She believes him to be intent on ruling the world. Do you know of this man?”

  “The countess is right. King Ullr is not to be trusted,” Phillip said promptly. “He is ruthless in his drive to increase Guundar’s influence in the world. He will welcome a war between Freya and Rosia. As our troops march out the front door, Ullr will order his forces to march in through the back. You must be extremely wary of him, Thomas.”

  “I know the Countess de Marjolaine does not trust him either,” said Thomas. “But Smythe seems to admire him. He tells me I should look upon King Ullr as an example of a strong ruler.”

  “Ullr is a clever, devious man, and he has spies in your court,” said Phillip. “Beware especially of Baron Rupert Grimm. He is one of Ullr’s best.”

  Phillip paused, looking thoughtful. “Ullr detested Sir Henry and he undoubtedly knows about his downfall. Note that he has taken the first opportunity to pay a visit just when Henry has disappeared. Which reminds me: Do you know what has become of him?”

  “Smythe is hunting for him, as well. I believe Wallace is alive, simply because Smythe has not gloated over his death.”

  Phillip seemed relieved. “Henry will find a way to help you.”

  Thomas grimaced. “Sir Richard said the same thing. I am not so sure. Wallace has no love for me.”

  “Henry is a loyal Freyan and he loved Queen Mary,” said Phillip. “He will find some way to contact you. When he does, accept his help. Meanwhile, there is one way you can find out what King Ullr is plotting.”

  Phillip detained Thomas, resting his hand on his arm. He said softly, “You speak Guundaran, don’t you?”

  Thomas nodded. “I served with Guundaran mercenaries during the war. I understand the language better than I speak it, but I do well enough.”

  “Invite Ullr to be your guest in the palace. Put him on the third level in the suite of rooms known as the Godfrey Suite for the famous painting of King Godfrey that hangs on the wall of the main chamber.”

  Thomas was puzzled. “Why those rooms in particular?”

  Phillip lowered his voice. “The painting was commissioned by Sir Henry, and is very special. Behind the wall on which the painting hangs is a secret alcove. The painting covers holes concealed by magic in the wall. Anyone standing in that alcove can see and hear everything that is being said in that room.”

  Thomas drew back from him. “You are saying I should spy on King Ullr.”

  “Ullr will have his agents spying on you, Thomas,” said Phillip. “This is war, my friend. The king comes here for one reason. He smells blood and the scent of weakness. You are alone, surrounded by enemies with no one you can trust. I know what it is to be a spy. I spied on you, after all. I know it is sordid and dishonorable—”

  “Which is why you stopped being a spy and confessed to me what you had done,” said Thomas. “Now you are asking me to do the same.”

  Phillip regarded his friend with sympathy. “I am sorry, my friend. But you need to know what is going on between Ullr and Smythe!”

  The fist banged on the door again, this time harder.

  “I will think about it,” said Thomas in a tone which meant he never would even consider it.

  Phillip understood his friend’s disgust. Spying on another was shameful, dishonorable. Yet, as he said, this was war. “If you change your mind, go to the servants’ closet near the Godfrey Suite where the servants store brooms and mops. One wall has three coat hooks on it. This wall is a secret door. The key to opening the door are three words, spoken aloud in this order, ‘Albert, Godfrey, Mary.’ The door leads to the alcove and the painting.”

  Thomas nodded, though he seemed to have been only half listening.

  “I will free you from this prison, Pip. I don’t yet know how, but I will do it. You have my word.”

  “I am not your first concern,” said Phillip. “Concentrate on finding a way to free our people. God go with you, my friend.”

  The two shook hands. Thomas rapped on the door and it swung open. He walked out and the door closed after him. Phillip heard the keys rattle and a voice chanting magic, replacing the warding spells on the door.

  Phillip paced the chamber around and around, worried, helpless, frustrated. He remembered as a little boy capturing a sparrow and putting it into a cage. The bird had repeatedly flung itself against the bars of the cage until his mother had told him it would bash itself to death if he did not set it free.

  He walked until he wore himself out and then he lay down on the bed and stared at the stone walls.

  FIFTEEN

  Henry sat at the table in the small and wretched house behind the coffee shop, gazing out the window and seeing nothing.

  Simon was with him, seated at a desk that he had complained was far too small, almost lost amid his maps and charts, old books that smelled of mold, new books that smelled of leather, and papers that had fallen off the desk and now formed drifts around the wheels of his chair. Absorbed in his work, Simon would not have noticed if a barrel of gunpowder had exploded underneath the window.

  Henry had just completed a letter to the Countess de Marjolaine, the Rosian spymaster who had long plotted Freya’s destruction. The fact that he had written such a letter would forever brand him a traitor in the eyes of his countrymen—and his friends—if they ever found out about it. He enclosed Sophia’s note, sealed it, and thrust it into his pocket.

  “You are in a dark mood,” Simon observed.

  “We are in hiding, both of us wanted men with bounties on our heads. Our country is in dire peril and I have sent my family into exile. I believe I am entitled to my dark mood,” Henry returned.

  “I have something that will cheer you,” said Simon. “Come look at my work.”

  He rolled his chair away from the desk to give his friend room to see. Henry gazed down on a piece of paper covered with numbers in parentheses with other numbers trailing down the margins, as well as wavy lines, squiggles and blobs and, most mysterious, a crude face with puffed-out cheeks and pursed lips in the upper left-hand corner.

  Simon regarded his work with pride. “What do you think?”

  “If you will remember, my mathematics tutor at university gave me up as hopeless,” Henry said dryly. “I recall very little, but I am fairly certain algebraic equations did not involve this chubby chap with the cheeks.”

  “The drawing represents the prevailing wind currents. These lines,” Simon stated, pointing, “indicate the strange behavior of the magical riptides, while these others are the unusual fluctuations in temperature at this particular location. Add other factors such as proximit
y to the mountain and my theory is confirmed!”

  Simon slammed his hand down on the paper in triumph. “What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Henry said, thoroughly confused. “Which theory?”

  Simon gave him an exasperated look. “The theory that I have been talking about for months, Henry! A pool of liquid Breath exists in the Aligoes and I have found the location.”

  He tapped his finger on a map showing the Aligoes and a blob not far from a dot marked “Wellinsport”—Freya’s prosperous port city and stronghold.

  Henry gazed down at the black dot, the lines, squiggles, and the blob, then shifted his gaze to his friend. “You are serious, aren’t you?”

  “God’s balls, Henry, of course, I’m serious!” Simon stated, glaring at him. “What the devil do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Tallying up Randolph’s gambling losses?”

  Henry stood frowning down at the equations.

  “Think of it, Henry. If we could find this pool, we could refine the liquid Breath using my formula to develop it into the crystalline form,” Simon explained. “Other nations, such as Rosia, would be forced to buy the crystals from us to power their ships. Freya could become one of the wealthiest countries in the world. I’ve been telling you that for a month.”

  “Forgive me if I sound skeptical—” Henry began.

  “Since when are you ever anything else?” Simon muttered.

  Henry pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “If this pool is where you say it is, Simon, why hasn’t someone discovered it before now? A vast quantity of liquid Breath would be hard to miss. I’ve seen the pool in Braffa—a dazzling white light shining in the mists of the Breath. Damn hard to miss!”

  “I theorize the pool would be located in the Deep Breath, which is why it hasn’t been discovered,” said Simon. “What people have noticed down through the years are the strange effects produced by the pool. The famous explorer, Robert Trame, wrote about these in his journal in the year three eighty-one. He noted sudden inexplicable fluctuations in temperature and the presence of dangerous magical riptides. He considered these phenomena to be anomalies, nothing more. Others have noted the same through the years, but similarly dismissed them. No one ever asked why such anomalies existed. I asked and I found the answer: a pool of liquid Breath.”

  “You know where it is.”

  “I know within a radius of a few hundred miles or so,” Simon replied. “I would like to be able to sail to the Aligoes to perform tests, narrow the field of search, but Alan says he can’t sail without orders—”

  “He’s right, you know,” said Henry. “Besides, neither you nor I can leave Freya now. The situation is too dire.”

  “I am aware of that and I have an idea. I spoke to Alan and Randolph. They know sailors who hail from the Aligoes and they are going to bring them to the Weigh Anchor tonight so that I may question them.”

  “Good … good,” said Henry.

  He should take the opportunity to tell his friends about the letter to the countess, but he rejected the idea. They would not understand that he was acting in his country’s best interests and he could not think of a way to convince them.

  Simon regarded him with a frown. “Henry, I know you have far more urgent and important matters that demand your attention, but this discovery could save our country.”

  “I appreciate your efforts, my friend, but we may not have a country to save,” said Henry. “And now I must try to decide what disguise to wear to visit the licentious and ever entertaining man-about-town, Rodrigo de Villeneuve.”

  “I doubt Pastor Johnstone would be a welcome visitor,” said Simon, grinning.

  “I believe I will go as Arthur Porter, the aging footman attached to a well-to-do family,” said Henry. “I will hire a suitable carriage so as to allay any suspicions.”

  He put on the powdered wig and the velvet livery, assumed a supercilious and stuffy expression, and ordered the coachman, who was one of his agents, to drive him to Rodrigo’s house, which was located in a fashionable residential neighborhood near Clattermore Street.

  Rodrigo made no secret of the fact that he was a Rosian, and Henry braced himself to face the wrath of an angry mob surrounding the house, hurling brickbats and insults. He was surprised and somewhat alarmed to find the street quiet.

  He wondered uneasily if Rodrigo had been arrested.

  When the coachman stopped in front of the house, Henry saw evidence that the mob had paid Rodrigo a visit: two of the windows were broken and the small yard was littered with garbage and shattered glass.

  As Henry approached the door, he was further disheartened to see what appeared to be blood splashed on the front stoop, along with a large number of smashed slate roofing tiles, their jagged edges stained with blood.

  He was wondering if he should summon the local constabulary, when he noticed a curtain in the front window twitch, as though a hand had slightly pushed it aside. Henry continued up the walk and was about to place his foot on the door stoop when the door opened a crack.

  “I would keep back if I were you, my good man,” warned a sepulchral voice. “Not safe.”

  Henry recalled that Rodrigo was an extremely talented, albeit considerably lazy, crafter, and he immediately surmised that he had placed some sort of magical trap on the door. He came to a dead stop and exhibited the note, saying in a haughty tone that matched his velvet jacket, “I am the bearer of an urgent message for Sir Rodrigo de Villeneuve.”

  “Never heard of him,” Rodrigo said, and started to slam the door.

  “The message is from my mistress, sir,” stated Henry.

  The door remained open a crack.

  “I don’t recognize the coach,” said Rodrigo. “Did Lady Rosalinda send you? No, wait. She was just married. I have it! The Countess of Hereford! Can’t be her, though. She’s gone to her estate in the country. The Baroness of Rathmore?”

  Henry stiffened. “I will not bandy about my lady’s good name in public, sir.”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Rodrigo. He thrust his arm out the door. “Just hand the note to me. Be careful. Don’t put your foot on the stoop. Wouldn’t want something nasty to tumble down on your head.”

  Henry glanced down at the bloodstained slate tiles, looked up at the roof, and understood. Taking care not to touch the stoop, he reached across it as far as he could to hand Rodrigo the letter. Rodrigo took it, shut the door, and almost immediately opened it again.

  He cast Henry a shrewd look. “Do I know you?”

  “We have met at Her Ladyship’s house, sir,” said Henry.

  “I thought so,” said Rodrigo. He shot a wary glance up and down the street. “Any signs of the rabble?”

  “No one is visible at present, sir,” Henry replied.

  “You had better come inside,” said Rodrigo, opening the door. “I don’t want to remove the spell. Beastly hard. Took me an hour to craft it. How are you at jumping?”

  Henry managed to vault over the stoop. Rodrigo caught hold of him by his arm and pulled him inside the house. He promptly shut the door after him and stood regarding him with a smile.

  “Unless I am mistaken, I believe I see Sir Henry Wallace beneath that frightful wig.”

  Henry inclined his head.

  Rodrigo gestured to the note. “I gather this is from the Princess Sophia. What is the meaning of this enigmatic message? Is she safe?”

  “Her Highness is safe and in excellent care,” Henry replied. “Given the unfortunate circumstances surrounding some of our previous meetings, I asked her to write this note to let you know you can trust me.”

  “Considering that the unfortunate circumstance to which you allude involved a pistol to my head, you will forgive me if I am somewhat hesitant to regard you as a boon companion,” said Rodrigo. “Why are you here, my lord?”

  “The princess was supposed to accompany the countess to Rosia the night of the queen’s assassination, but Her Highness became trappe
d in the palace. She escaped and she is safe. She requires a bold and daring friend to convey that message to the Countess de Marjolaine and her brother, the king.”

  “A bold and daring friend,” Rodrigo repeated. “Not finding that sort of person, you had recourse to me.”

  “You underestimate yourself, sir,” said Henry. “The blood on the door stoop attests to the fact. I propose to smuggle you out of the country and put you on a boat bound for Rosia this night.”

  Rodrigo frowned. “If you can help me escape Haever, why can’t you find a way to smuggle the princess out, as well?”

  “Far too dangerous for Her Highness, sir,” said Henry. “All outbound ships are being searched. Princess Sophia is well known and even if I could disguise her, I could not disguise her little dog. She will not leave him behind.”

  Rodrigo nodded in understanding.

  “I am not convinced she would go if I could find a way,” Henry continued. “Her Highness is most reluctant to depart Haever. She is concerned over the welfare of a friend of hers—”

  “His Grace, the Duke, Phillip Masterson,” Rodrigo said, nodding sagely. “Is he in some sort of danger?”

  “I believe he is,” said Henry. “And so is our young king, Thomas Stanford. I would like you to convey this information to the countess.”

  “You may rely upon me, my lord,” said Rodrigo.

  “I was certain I could,” said Henry. “Tell Her Ladyship that Jonathan Smythe was responsible for assassinating the queen. He has made the king a prisoner and is planning to rule Freya in his stead.”

  “You amaze me, my lord!” said Rodrigo, appalled. “Does the countess know this villain, Smythe?”

  “Given that I know him, I would be much surprised if Her Ladyship did not,” said Henry dryly.

  “Yes, of course,” said Rodrigo. “Peas in a pod, you two. Whose watching who’s watching who’s watching whom and all that.”

  “To insure the king’s compliance, Smythe has taken Phillip Masterson hostage, as well as His Majesty’s parents, the Marchioness and the Marquis of Cavanaugh. Assure the countess that friends of the king, including myself, are working to save His Majesty and put an end to Smythe. I suggest her agents make certain the king’s parents are safe.