Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  “The Guundaran fleets are on the move, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, keeping his voice low, despite the fact that they were completely alone in the quiet cemetery. “Her Ladyship’s agent in Braffa reports that the Guundaran ships ‘protecting’ that country have departed. The fleet that was guarding the contested island of Morsteget has also left. The Coastal Fleet that was in Guundar set sail a fortnight ago.”

  “Where are they bound?” Henry asked.

  “The agents do not know, my lord,” Mr. Sloan replied. “But the countess fears it likely that King Ullr will seek to take advantage of a new young king’s inexperience to strike a blow at Freya. Speaking of that, the countess asked me to once again assure you that the Rosians had nothing to do with the queen’s assassination.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “I know who ordered the assassination.”

  Mr. Sloan hesitated. “I trust Sir Richard was not involved—”

  “No, no,” said Henry. “Richard knew nothing about it. The man responsible is now ruling Freya. Your old comrade-in-arms Isaiah Crawford, alias Jonathan Smythe.”

  “God forfend, my lord!” Mr. Sloan exclaimed, horrified. “But what of the king, young Thomas Stanford? I know you never trusted him. Was he involved?”

  “It seems I was wrong about the young man, Mr. Sloan. He, too, was duped by Smythe, who has persuaded the Accession Council to name him Chancellor of War. We both of us recall the last time Freya was under the control of a Chancellor of War.”

  “The time of Mad King Charles,” said Mr. Sloan. “The chancellor named himself Lord Protector and ruled the country.”

  “Our king is sane, thank God, but little better than a prisoner himself.”

  “Terrible news, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “And now, with King Ullr’s arrival, the news can only get worse,” said Henry grimly. “Smythe is a cold-blooded killer who will stop at nothing to obtain his goal, but I will wager he is as naïve as any country bumpkin when it comes to royal intrigue. Whereas King Ullr is a master.”

  “What of His Majesty?”

  “Thomas might be young, but he was raised in the Estaran royal court,” said Henry. “His mother, the Marchioness, was always embroiled in innumberable palace intrigues, and where she left off, the Countess de Marjolaine took over. The countess will have warned Thomas not to trust King Ullr, but we must convey our suspicions to His Majesty and urge him to discover Ullr’s true motives in visiting Freya. We may be certain he does not come to wish our new king well.”

  “That brings me to another piece of information from the countess, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “She has a trusted agent inside the palace, close to Smythe.”

  “Of course, she does,” said Henry bitterly. He himself had once had trusted agents in the palace. He had no idea what had become of them. Some had gone to ground following the queen’s death. Others he dared no longer trust.

  “Her Ladyship provided me with his name—Corporal Ernest Jennings.”

  “Do you know him from your time with Smythe?”

  “No, my lord. The corporal was serving in Freya when I was in Bheldem. We should inform His Majesty of the man’s name, but only if we can find a way to do so without endangering his life. Jennings’ situation—being so close to Smythe—is precarious.”

  “As you have good reason to know, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “Smythe shot you the moment he found you had betrayed him.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “The king should make use of Jennings only as a last resort.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” said Henry. “Still, I am glad to know the young man has at least one friend inside the palace.”

  Henry consulted his pocket watch. “I have to leave. I have been reestablishing the lines of communication with my various agents around the world and I must send a message to my agent in Guundar, see what he can discover.”

  “Do you require my assistance, my lord?”

  “Your help would be invaluable, as always, Mr. Sloan. But the authorities know you work for me and they will be searching for you, as well.”

  “I will take precautions, my lord. I should like to do my part for my country.”

  “I knew I could count upon you, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “We have remained in this cemetery too long. I will hail a cab. I doubt one would stop for such a disreputable-looking fare as you, Mr. Sloan.”

  Henry hailed a cab, supplied the address, and he and Mr. Sloan climbed inside.

  “I need a dozen or so good-sized men to do a job the day of the funeral,” said Henry after the cab had started moving. “They risk being knocked about a bit, but assure them that they will be well compensated for their pains.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Anything else?”

  “I require a fragrant nosegay, such as might be exchanged between lovers.”

  Mr. Sloan made his expression carefully blank. “Very good, my lord.”

  Henry smiled. “The flowers are not for a mistress, Mr. Sloan, although I appreciate how tactfully you managed to conceal your disapproval. The nosegay is to be given to His Majesty by a love-struck young woman.”

  Mr. Sloan considered this idea a moment, then nodded. “I understand, my lord. Violets would be most appropriate.”

  “I leave the choice to you, Mr. Sloan. And now,” said Henry, leaning back in the carriage, “tell me all the news of my family.”

  “Lady Ann conveys her love and I am to remind you to wear your flannel waistcoat now that the weather is turning cool. Master Henry has learned his times tables and can say them up to seven times seven. Mistress Mary spoke her first word, which was ‘da.’ I would not know from personal experience, but according to Lady Ann, ‘da’ means ‘father’ in the language of babies.”

  Henry listened to all these small details, which were unimportant when compared with world-shattering intrigues, but vitally important to him. He thought of his son reciting his times tables without him, of his small daughter saying “Da” perhaps because she missed him.

  He was glad for the shadows in the cab that concealed his emotions.

  SEVENTEEN

  Kate was up and out of bed early the morning of the queen’s funeral. Too nervous to sleep, she told herself she was simply keyed-up about the mission, which would involve considerable risk. The truth was that she was worried about encountering Thomas.

  He had been declared Freya’s king. Perhaps he had grown cold, haughty and aloof. Perhaps he would regard her with disdain or, worse, pretend not to know her.

  Kate knew in her heart she was being ridiculous. Thomas had risked his life to help her escape prison and save her from execution. A small ornament like a jeweled crown would not change him. But her head was ignoring her heart and doing the worrying.

  As she tried to dress for the funeral, she could not make her trembling fingers grasp the small buttons and slide them into the equally small buttonholes.

  “I quit!” Kate flung up her hands in frustration. “I will wear my slops.”

  “You will do no such thing. I will play lady’s maid,” said Sophia, taking over the task. “You have to stand still, Kate. I can’t fasten these buttons while you are fidgeting.”

  Kate forced herself to stand perfectly still while Sophia quickly completed buttoning the blouse. Amelia had found a blouse and skirt for Kate to wear and dyed both of them black. The house still reeked of the fumes. She did not own a black cloak, but she was able to borrow one from a neighbor.

  Sophia tied black crepe around the brim of a “boater” hat Amelia had scrounged up from the back of a closet. Kate tried it on and turned to the mirror.

  The hat, wrapped with crepe, suited Kate’s face and its cluster of short blond curls. A long tail of black crepe extended down her back.

  “You look lovely,” said Sophia, eyeing her with admiration.

  “I look ridiculous,” Kate said, and Bandit apparently agreed, for he did not know her and frantically barked at her from behind the door
.

  The barking was interrupted by the sound of the bell.

  “Let us hope that is the messenger from Sir Henry,” said Kate. “You go to the kitchen. I’ll answer the door.”

  Sophia picked up Bandit, clapped her hand over his muzzle, and carried him downstairs to the kitchen.

  The two young women were alone in the house. Amelia had left before dawn in order to make certain she had a seat in the cathedral to observe the funeral.

  Kate ran down the stairs, looked out a window, then hastened to open the door.

  “Mr. Sloan!” she said, relief evident in her voice. “We had no idea what had become of you! Please come in.”

  “Captain Kate,” said Mr. Sloan, touching his hat. “I trust you are well. Sir Henry asked me to deliver this.”

  He held out a small bouquet of white and blue violets tucked inside a silver cone known as a posy holder.

  “Where is the note?” Kate asked.

  “I secreted the cipher with instructions for its use inside the posy holder,” Mr. Sloan replied. “His Lordship asked me to make certain you know where you’re supposed to go in order to meet His Majesty.”

  “The corner of Harley and Market across the street from the statue of King James in the park,” said Kate glibly. “I will be there at one of the clock this afternoon. I walked the route yesterday. Twice.”

  “Our people will be in place,” said Mr. Sloan. “You will not know them, but they will know you.”

  “I understand,” said Kate. “Thank you, Mr. Sloan.”

  Mr. Sloan touched his hat. “Good luck, Captain.”

  Kate carried the nosegay into the kitchen to show Sophia.

  “Beautiful,” said Sophia. She held it to Bandit’s nose so he could smell it. The dog sniffed and sneezed. “You know what blue and white violets mean in the language of flowers.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a language of flowers,” said Kate.

  “Very popular in the royal court. Men and women who are involved in secret affairs give flowers to say what they dare not speak aloud. If a woman gives a man blue violets, that means she is devoted to him. If a man gives a woman white violets, he extends an invitation to her to gamble on love.”

  Kate looked uneasily at the nosegay. “What does this say?”

  “That you are in love and you ask him to love you,” said Sophia.

  Kate stared at her, appalled. “You are not serious!”

  “I am very serious,” said Sophia, helping Kate on with her black cloak.

  Kate saw her lips twitch. “You are not! You are teasing me!”

  “Maybe just a little,” said Sophia, grinning.

  She adjusted Kate’s hat, which was all askew, and walked with her to the door. “I wish I could go with you. I feel very useless.”

  “Amelia says the risk of someone recognizing you would be too great.”

  “Please be careful,” Sophia said, opening the door. “Smythe knows you by sight.”

  “Not in this hat,” Kate muttered, glancing at herself in the mirror with a shake of her head. “Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck,” said Sophia, embracing her.

  She closed the door behind her and locked it.

  Kate walked down the street, admiring the flowers, inhaling their fragrance, and wondering if Thomas knew the language of flowers.

  She decided that if he did, she didn’t really mind.

  * * *

  Thomas dressed himself with care for the queen’s funeral. He was assisted by his valet de chambre, a man employed by Smythe, who had dismissed most of the queen’s household staff and installed his own.

  Queen Mary had retained a staff of over two hundred, from footmen to maids to the Royal Griffin Handler. Smythe had reduced that number considerably.

  “You may be certain, Your Majesty, that most of them were foreign spies,” Smythe had said.

  Thomas was certain that Smythe had replaced those spies with his own spies. Thomas trusted none of them. He dismissed the valet as soon as possible and studied his reflection in the mirror.

  Tailors had been working for days on Thomas’s mourning clothes. He wore a black velvet single-breasted coat lined with black silk and trimmed with white lace at the cuffs, a black waistcoat embroidered in black, a white shirt with black cravat, black breeches and stockings, and black shoes with black buckles. His hat was black with a white feather. He bound his black curls with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck.

  He could finally approve of the face that looked back at him, for it was no longer drawn and haggard. He had slept well the night after his meeting with Phillip, no longer plagued by the dreadful dreams of pistols and poisons.

  Thomas had taken his friend’s advice and would no longer allow himself to be consumed by rage, self-pity, and despair. He was resolved to fight to regain his crown, make it his own. He did not dare confront Smythe, knowing Phillip would suffer for his defiance. But he could circumvent Smythe, wage a secret war.

  Thomas had not refused to declare war against Rosia. He had vacillated, been unable to commit to a decision, and at last stated the matter required further study and sent it to the House of Nobles.

  Smythe had fumed and sneered at him, but he was working hard to shore up his influence with the members of the House and he could not very well anger them by trying to go around them.

  Thomas’s next opponent was going to be Guundar’s king, Ullr Ragnar Amaranphson.

  King Ullr was in his fifties, tall and imposing. He was in excellent physical condition, for he exercised daily. He kept his gray hair cut short and was clean shaven. He did not dress in satin and silk, but wore the uniform of the Guundaran military, decorated with gold braid and rows of gleaming medals on his chest. He had not earned his medals in battle, for he had never served, but he had participated in any number of duels. Apparently dueling was considered Guundar’s national pastime.

  Thomas had met King Ullr for the first time yesterday, shortly after the king’s arrival. Ullr had expressed a desire to see Thomas’s horses. Thomas had offered to escort the king to the stables and Smythe had invited himself to come along with them.

  Thomas had not needed Phillip’s warning to distrust the man. Thomas had met men and women like Ullr in the Estaran court, those skilled in the art of manipulation.

  He was well aware that Ullr was here to loot his kingdom as his distant ancestors had done when the Guundarans had raided up and down the coastline. He thought again of the painting of King Godfrey and the hidden alcove. He had invited Ullr to stay in the palace and given him rooms in the Godfrey Suite, yet could not bring himself to do something as dishonorable as spy on the man. Still, Thomas found himself thinking of the painting more and more.

  Ullr first tried to intimidate Thomas by clasping his hand in a strong grip that would have choked a bear. Thomas clasped Ullr’s hand in a bone-crushing grip of his own and deliberately retained the king’s hand when he would have released him.

  The two men eyed each other. Ullr raised an eyebrow and a corner of his thin lips twitched, as though amused, yet conceding the contest a draw. Thomas broke off the handshake and Ullr withdrew his hand. Thomas could see the indentations of his fingers white on the man’s skin.

  Thomas next watched Ullr take Smythe’s measure as they walked to the stables. Thomas had hoped Smythe would be proof against Ullr’s attempts to charm him. But while Smythe might be a cold-blooded killer with a professed hatred for those who considered themselves “his betters,” he clearly admired strong and powerful men such as King Ullr.

  Smythe obviously hoped to pattern himself after Ullr, and Thomas noted that he actually walked straighter, keeping his shoulders rigid, in emulation of the king. The two walked together, engaging in companionable conversation, as Thomas followed behind, observing them.

  Ullr was discussing the war with Rosia with Smythe and noted Thomas’s silence on the subject.

  “You oppose this war, Your Majesty?” Ullr asked, pausing to turn around. “How
is that possible? These Rosian fiends slaughtered your queen!”

  “I oppose rushing into war when we do not have all the facts,” said Thomas coolly. “The House of Nobles is looking into the matter.”

  “His Majesty is far too young to understand the devious Rosian mind,” Ullr said to Smythe.

  “As I have tried to make His Majesty understand,” said Smythe, glowering at Thomas.

  King Ullr paused to admire a stallion a groom was riding out to exercise, and turned to Smythe. “You and I, sir. We two military men are old enough to have seen the worst of mankind. We understand these Rosian scum and how to deal with them.”

  “Indeed we do, sir,” Smythe replied, flattered.

  “And yet, His Majesty is engaged to be married to the Princess Sophia of Rosia.”

  Smythe hastened to reassure his new friend. “You have not heard, sir. I terminated the engagement upon hearing that Her Highness is suspected of complicity in the death of the queen. I am searching for someone more suitable.”

  “I am surprised His Majesty approved. I have heard he and the princess are friends,” said Ullr.

  “His Majesty is guided by my decision,” said Smythe, regarding Thomas with pride of ownership.

  Ullr looked to Thomas to angrily refute such a claim, protest, or argue. Thomas remained silent, aloof and detached.

  He stopped to rub the nose of a curious bay that had thrust her head out of the stall to view the visitors. He could see Ullr studying him, as a whist player might study an opponent, trying to guess what cards he was holding.

  Smythe clearly took Thomas’s reticence for a sign that he had been cowed into submission, but Ullr did not appear so certain. Accustomed to deceiving, he was convinced that everyone around him was deceitful. He rubbed his hand, as though he still felt the pressure of Thomas’s handshake.

  Ullr had no trouble understanding Smythe, who gulped down honeyed flattery like bonbons. The Guundaran king must be wondering if Thomas was truly a meek lamb being led to slaughter or a wolf in sheep’s clothing.