He tried to temper his joy by counseling himself that Phillip’s escape had not lessened his danger. Smythe would be furious, and he would know to blame Thomas. But he could not stop smiling. Phillip was safe and Kate loved him.…
The palace clocks chimed six times, jolting Thomas out of sleep.
The guards would be changing shifts, the night guards leaving and the new guards coming on duty now. Thomas pictured them arriving at the guardhouse to discover their comrades lying bound and gagged inside. Someone would run to report to the senior officer, while others dashed to the top of the tower. They would find the wounded guards, the empty cell, the broken window and the charred walls, the burnt furniture. The senior officer would run to the palace.
He would have to awaken Smythe and report that the prisoner had escaped. Smythe would hear the news in astonishment and rage. He would dress, summon the guard, and storm through the halls to the royal chambers.…
Thomas heard the commotion in the corridor outside his chambers roll toward him in a tidal wave of outrage. He burrowed down beneath the covers and pulled the blankets over his head.
Smythe shouted to the servants to open the doors, barged inside, and yanked open the bed curtains without ceremony. Thomas groaned as the sunlight struck him and he swore and flung up his arm to cover his eyes.
“What the hell! You half-blinded me. Shut those curtains and get out!”
The sergeant was Freyan and extremely uncomfortable in the angry king’s presence. He would have left immediately, but Smythe ordered him to stay and search the room.
The sergeant glanced uneasily and apologetically at Thomas. “Begging your pardon, sir, but what are we searching for?”
“Evidence,” said Smythe.
The guard opened his mouth again, but catching Smythe’s baleful eye, he shut it and began to halfheartedly open drawers and look beneath chairs.
Thomas flung off the bedcovers and climbed out of bed. He covered himself with his dressing gown.
“What the devil is going on?”
“You know perfectly well what is going on, sir! Your friend, the duke, has escaped.”
Thomas glanced at the sergeant, who was peering inside a wardrobe. “I doubt you will find him there. Perhaps you should look under the bed.”
“Do not play the fool, sir!” Smythe said angrily. “He could not have escaped without your help!”
“And, yet, I have been in my bed all night,” said Thomas. “As I am certain those you send to spy on me will testify.”
Smythe regarded him with seething fury, and Thomas guessed he had probably asked his spies, only to hear that they had looked in on Thomas at various times during the night and found him asleep.
Smythe vented his ill temper on the officer. “Well, Sergeant? Have you found anything?”
“No, sir,” said the sergeant.
“You are useless! Get out!”
The sergeant was only too happy to depart.
Thomas turned his back on Smythe and went over to his dressing table. He poured water into a bowl and splashed it over his face. He deliberately ignored Smythe, hoping he would leave. Smythe remained, however, glaring about the room. As Thomas dried his face with a towel, he heard a newspaper rustle and was filled with foreboding.
He looked into the mirror to see Smythe holding a copy of the Haever Gazette that Thomas had left lying on his nightstand. Smythe held up the newspaper and smiled, a cold, humorless smile of vindication.
“It took me some time to figure out this cipher, after King Ullr drew my attention to it. I managed to crack the code just last night, following the dinner you so kindly arranged to keep me occupied. I was too late to prevent Masterson’s escape. But I will not be late in arresting the author and co-conspirator, Amelia Nettleship. Once I have her and she implicates you, I will have all the proof I need to denounce you as a traitor.”
Thomas rose to confront him. “You can no longer use Phillip or my parents as hostages to my good behavior, Smythe. I could have you arrested, proclaim you a murderer and a traitor.”
“You won’t,” said Smythe with a disdainful smile. “Try arresting me. My guards are loyal to me and they would merely laugh at you. Face the truth, Your Majesty. I hold the executioner’s axe poised above your neck. I have only to make this information public to see it fall.”
“You are bluffing. The people will never accept you as Lord Protector. You are not strong enough. The late queen’s half brother, Hugh Fitzroy, would oppose you. Sir Richard warned me that Hugh would attempt to challenge my claim and I am the heir of King James. What do you think Hugh would do if you tried to seize the throne? You don’t dare kill him. He has powerful friends among the nobility. He would assert his claim and the Accession Council would choose him long before they would think of choosing you.”
Smythe swallowed; his jaw worked. A vein throbbed in his neck. He regarded Thomas with such enmity that Thomas was glad Smythe wasn’t armed or else he might have shot him dead.
Smythe regained control with a visible effort. “You may have the nobility siding with you, sir, but I have the people, as the reverend gentlemen assured me last night. They are eager for war with the heathen Rosians, and when we achieve our first momentous victory, I will be the one to claim credit. I will be the people’s champion, not their young and feckless king.”
Meaning your black ship attacking the Dragon Brigade, which, God willing, we will thwart, Thomas thought. And what will you do when you find out your friend, King Ullr, has been using you and means to betray you?
Thomas had to clamp shut his lips to keep from speaking the words aloud.
He was afraid to say anything, for fear he would say too much, and he could only regard Smythe in grim silence, which Smythe took as weakness.
“Be warned, sir,” Smythe said, pointing at him. “I will turn the city upside-down and inside out to find Masterson. When I do, he will hang, along with Amelia Nettleship and anyone else involved in this conspiracy. Do not think of leaving the palace again. And there will be no more reading this trash!”
He flung the newspaper on the floor at Thomas’s feet, then opened the door and summoned the guards.
“I have uncovered an assassination plot against His Majesty. Remain with the king wherever he goes. He will not be leaving the palace until we have captured the escaped prisoner and those working with him.”
The guards took up positions by the door. Smythe walked out and slammed the door shut behind him.
Thomas sat down on the bed and tried desperately to think of some way to warn Amelia and Kate and Sophia of their danger. But he could not leave the palace and his only friend here, Jennings, was gone.
Whoever thinks kings are omnipotent should see me now, Thomas reflected bitterly.
He had never felt so helpless in his life.
THIRTY
Smythe was starting to think God had abandoned him.
After leaving the king, he went to his office to prepare orders to dispatch every soldier and every constable in the city of Haever to find the escaped prisoner, His Grace, Phillip Masterson. He provided a description of the man and ordered that it be copied and circulated. No ship would leave until it had been searched. He would close down all hostelries that hired griffins or wyverns and order that all horseback riders and those occupying horse-drawn conveyances leaving Haever were to be stopped and questioned.
This done, he dispatched a troop of soldiers to the offices of the Haever Gazette with instructions to arrest the journalist, Amelia Nettleship.
He next had to write a letter to the queen’s half brother, Hugh Fitzroy. Thomas had brought up a valid point. Hugh had a legitimate claim to the throne, though not as long as Thomas Stanford was alive. Having placed Hugh under house arrest to make certain he did not create mischief and interfere with Smythe’s plans, Smythe had forgotten about him.
But it occurred to Smythe that he might be wasting a valuable asset in Hugh Fitzroy, since Thomas was not proving to be a very satisfactory
puppet. The young king had turned out to be far more courageous and clever than Smythe had anticipated. He was not yet a danger, but Smythe could no longer rest easy, smugly secure in the knowledge that his puppet would dance when he pulled the strings.
He was writing a humbly apologetic letter to Hugh Fitzroy when he felt the flesh on the back of his neck crawl. Smythe gave an involuntary shudder. His old granny would have said a goose had walked across his grave. He lifted his gaze from his work.
Trubgek stood in front of him. Despite the cold, he was wearing only a leather vest over his shirt, breeches, stockings, and boots, and he carried a rucksack.
Smythe had not seen or heard from Trubgek in weeks, ever since he had dispatched him to Freya with the dragon-killing spell and the order to test it on Travian dragons. Smythe had fondly believed Trubgek was hundreds of miles away in northern Freya killing dragons or in Estara or Guundar making deals for black market weapons. What he did not expect was to find the man standing on his carpet.
“What the devil are you doing in my office, Trubgek? I told you never to come to the palace! If you need to report to me, you send word to me and I will come to you.”
Smythe had no idea how Trubgek had managed to enter the palace or walk the halls unchallenged. Smythe had never completely trusted the man and he had regretted the necessity of keeping him alive to deal with Coreg’s contacts in the black market. While he was talking, he stealthily opened a drawer where he kept a loaded pistol and slid his hand inside.
Trubgek made a slight gesture and the desk drawer slammed shut on Smythe’s hand with bruising force.
Smythe withdrew his hand and looked grimly at his bleeding knuckles.
“Don’t worry,” said Trubgek. “No one saw me.”
He sat down, uninvited, and dropped the rucksack on the floor.
“Did you test the spell?” Smythe asked irritably. “I have heard nothing about dead Travian dragons.”
“You won’t,” said Trubgek.
Smythe sucked in an irate breath. “What happened? Why not? What of the dragon-killing spell?”
“Destroyed,” said Trubgek.
“Destroyed!” Smythe repeated, stunned. “That’s impossible!”
“Not for a dragon,” said Trubgek.
“In other words, a dragon caught you in the act,” said Smythe. “You were supposed to go to the Dragon Duchies and start killing dragons there, but you bungled that. Fortunately I made alternative plans to deal with the Dragon Brigade. I don’t need to rely on you. If all you came here to do is tell me you failed, you may go.”
“I did not succeed, but I did not fail. The spell casting took too long,” Trubgek added with a dismissive shrug. “I do not need a human spell to kill dragons. I can kill dragons when and where I choose.”
“Then go to the Dragon Duchies and start killing,” said Smythe.
“I need money,” said Trubgek. “I cannot live on air.”
“I am not going to pay you for a job you did not do,” said Smythe sourly.
“I took care of Gaskell, as you wanted. He will never question your authority, or anyone’s for that matter. I have spoken to my contacts on the black market to inquire about the additional rifles. I have information. Important information.”
“Very well. What is it?” Smythe asked.
“I need money,” Trubgek repeated.
Smythe glanced at the clock. The morning was early yet, only seven of the clock. But his aide would soon be coming to work and he did not want to have to explain Trubgek’s presence.
Smythe walked to his safe, opened it, drew out a sheaf of banknotes, and handed them to Trubgek. He did not bother to count them, but stuffed them into a pocket of his shabby vest.
“King Ullr is making plans to invade Freya,” said Trubgek.
He spoke without emotion, calm and uncaring. Smythe stared, momentarily taken aback. Then he came to his senses.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Get out and take that filthy sack with you. And do not come to the palace again. If I need you, I will send for you.”
Trubgek shrugged and stood up. Picking up the rucksack, he started to leave.
“Wait,” Smythe said. “Tell me what you think you know. After all, I have paid for it.”
Trubgek sat down. “I spoke to Alonzo about acquiring more rifles. He does not have access to those particular rifles, but he can buy others from a different supplier.”
“For the same amount of money,” said Smythe.
Trubgek shrugged. “Alonzo added that he had heard Freya will soon be embroiled in war against Guundar and he offered to sell us powder, shot, ammunition, artillery pieces, cannons, whatever we need. A good price.”
“Your Alonzo has heard wrong. I am preparing for war against Rosia and King Ullr is my ally.”
“Then King Ullr has made a fool of you,” said Trubgek.
He shoved at the rucksack with his boot. “See for yourself. Bills of lading, letters, confirmation of deliveries, secret stockpiles, weapons caches…”
“Hand that to me,” said Smythe.
Trubgek did not move. “I need more money. Somewhere to live, passage to the Dragon Duchies.”
Smythe clamped his jaw tight. He went to the safe and drew out more banknotes. This time he did not hand them over. He held onto them.
“Show me.”
Trubgek opened the rucksack and rummaged about among his clothes. He drew out several documents and gave them to Smythe.
As he reviewed them, his expression grew grimmer and darker. He would have to go over them carefully, but initial examination indicated that Guundar was spending vast sums on weapons and having them shipped to Freya.
“Secret stockpiles,” Trubgek repeated. “Under your very nose.”
Smythe handed over the money. Trubgek stuffed the notes into his pocket and picked up the rucksack.
“Remain in Haever,” said Smythe. “I may have need of you.”
Trubgek nodded and walked out of the office, startling Smythe’s aide, who had just arrived for work. The aide stared at him in astonishment, then hurried into the room.
“I am sorry, Chancellor! I did not see him! I would have never let him pass. I thought we were well rid of that fellow, sir.”
“Close the door,” Smythe said. “I am not to be disturbed.”
He carefully read the papers Trubgek had provided and matched these with recent intelligence reports he had received regarding Guundaran fleet and troop movements, and he swore, viciously and bitterly.
He had succeeded beyond even his ambitious designs in gaining power and he seen God’s hand at work in his success. Now he felt betrayed, as though God had spread a bountiful feast before him, laying the cloth, smoothing out wrinkles. And just as he was sitting down to eat his fill, he saw rats swarm the table and devour the food.
Smythe labored to catch his breath. His heart thudded; red mist covered his eyes. He grew dizzy and there was a foul taste in his mouth.
Smythe recalled how friendly Ullr had been to him and he was nauseated to the point where he feared he might vomit.… The monarch had flattered him, treated him as his equal.
“The royal blood of Guundar runs in your veins.…” Ullr had told him.
Smythe gave a low, inarticulate, feral moan.
He had been born to poverty, shame, and ignominy. People of wealth in positions of power had used him, mocked him, demeaned him. Smythe had suffered every blow with a smile, swallowed every insult with humility. And he had connived, plotted, and schemed to either remove those in his way or to grind them beneath his heel.
And King Ullr was like all the others, laughing at him.
The blood pounded in Smythe’s head; he feared he would burst a blood vessel and collapse in an apoplectic fit. He gripped the desk with both hands and slammed his forehead against it.
He reeled from the pain, but it restored his sanity. Placing his elbows on the desk, he rested his throbbing head in his hands and tried to think what to do.
/> Ullr was plotting to invade Freya!
Smythe believed Trubgek at last. He searched through the documents, trying to find some clue as to when Ullr planned to invade, but he came up with nothing. Not that a date mattered.
Smythe was under no illusions as to the outcome of such a war. He was a military man and he knew his nation could not hope to survive. Freya would go down to defeat and, as Chancellor of War, he would go down with her, for he was the one who had nurtured the viper in his bosom.
People would recall the sight of him riding in Ullr’s carriage during the funeral, their numerous private meetings together, their close friendship. Smythe had privately let it be known that he had been the one to send the Terrapin to the Aligoes. Thomas had signed the orders, but it was Smythe who had persuaded him.
He would be destroyed, his career ended, perhaps even lose his life. Most galling, Thomas Stanford would survive. Ullr would make Thomas his puppet-king, leave him on the throne to placate the Freyan people. Ullr had done the same in Braffa. He had permitted the oligarchs to continue in office, but lacking any real power. Ullr, not Smythe, would be pulling Thomas’s strings.
Smythe pictured the Guundarans dragging him to a field, shooting him in the head, then kicking his body into a hastily dug grave. They would laugh at the thought of how he had trusted them.
He feared he would go mad. And then, he heard a voice. He raised his head.
“If Thomas is dead and you are Lord Protector,” the voice said to him, “King Ullr would have to deal with you. He might not dare proceed with his plans for war, for he knows you are not some weak, sniveling youth.”
God had not abandoned him, after all. Smythe rose to his feet to pace the floor, consider his options. He had planned all along that Thomas should not outlive his usefulness. He would suffer some sort of fatal accident, as had several of Smythe’s former enemies: a tumble over a balcony or a tragic carriage mishap. Such things could be arranged.
Smythe had been going to wait until he had fully established his base of power, extended his influence. It seemed events were going to force his hand.
Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs) Page 29