Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

She looked around, awed.

  “Magic…”

  The jungle seemed real, and in some sense, it was. She stumbled over the uneven ground, rolled her foot stepping on a stick, and felt the stinging slap of leaves hitting her in the face. Nature had no hand in the creation, however. The jungle had been created by magic, although no human, not even the feared priests of the Arcanum, had ever worked magic this powerful.

  A dragon was the only being that could produce such wondrous magic; an immensely powerful dragon. Dalgren might be able to conjure up a few scrubby trees, but conjuring a jungle would be far beyond his skills.

  Trubgek walked behind her, prodding her if she slowed. They must have covered a mile at least, going deeper and deeper into the jungle, following the trail that opened up in front of them. Kate had no idea where they were or how to find the way out. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved to see the trail was still there even after they had passed. She had been fearful it might vanish.

  Kate had time to think, for Trubgek had nothing to say to her. She recalled the conversation between Greenstreet and Trubgek. Trubgek was taking her to speak to someone; he had said as much. She didn’t know who or why or what this was about. At least she was still alive. Anyone who meant to kill her would hardly have gone to so much trouble to conjure up a magical jungle.

  Kate couldn’t make sense of it; after a while she was too exhausted to think or care. The heat was sweltering. The jungle might be magical, but the sun slanting down through the canopy of leaves was real. She was parched; the gag in her mouth made her jaws ache, and the ropes dug painfully into her flesh. Walking was difficult without the use of her arms. She stumbled and sometimes tripped and fell.

  Trubgek didn’t say a word. He simply dragged her to her feet and forced her to keep walking.

  Kate was thankful at least that Olaf couldn’t see her. He would never have stopped reminding her, “I told you so.”

  FOURTEEN

  Amelia Nettleship was constantly on the lookout for the news story that would win her professional accolades and acclaim. She had acquired a devoted following with her fictional accounts of the Dragon Corsairs, but the journalist in her hungered to be taken seriously. Her goal was to write a story that would cause members of the House of Nobles to leap from their chairs, waving newspapers and shouting, “According to the prominent journalist Miss Amelia Nettleship, we face a crisis that will affect the fate of the nation!”

  Despite what she had told Kate about the attempted assassination of Sir Henry Wallace being old news, the likely involvement of the mysterious man Greenstreet could make this just such a story. The problem was that according to Sir Henry, there had been no attempt. Henry had passed off the incident as a fight with the Pride’s crew when they boarded the ship.

  Amelia knew better. She had been locked in her cabin, which was located on the deck above the orlop, and she had heard the gunshots, as well as the sound of an explosion. The moment she was freed from her cabin, she had sneaked down to the hold, taking advantage of the general confusion on the deck above as members of Kate’s crew celebrated their good fortune.

  Amelia had discovered the hatch locked and for a moment she had despaired. A quick examination proved her worries groundless. She had to contend with only a padlock. The magical warding spells that had been placed on the door were no longer working.

  “Never forget, young ladies, that hairpins and hatpins can often be useful in a crisis,” Mrs. Ridgeway had been fond of saying.

  Amelia had drawn one of her long hairpins from her bun and thrust it into the lock. After a moment’s work, the padlock released. She had crept into the hold, regretting that she had not thought to bring a lantern. As it was, she had to leave the hatch open in order to have light.

  She had found the bodies at the bottom of the stair, as well as evidence of a blast that had left one of the men with a chest full of glass shards and bits of twisted brass. She had noted the position of the bodies, the location of pistols, and concluded that these men had come down here for the purpose of killing someone. And that someone had to be Wallace.

  She did have to consider the possibility that they had planned to kill Kate, but Amelia discarded that. The men were members of Kate’s crew; they could have killed her at any time with far less trouble and risk. No, they had been after Wallace. But why? Who was this Greenstreet? Therein lay the story.

  Amelia looked out the window to observe the direction Kate and Greenstreet’s men had taken. She wiped her pen, laid it down, rose, and stretched.

  “Such a fine day,” she said to Olaf. “I believe I will go for a walk.”

  She went back to the small room she was sharing with Kate, closed the door, and changed into a riding skirt, which was split up the middle, and a blouse with long sleeves to ward off insects.

  She pinned on her hat, checked her pistol to make certain it was loaded, and placed it in her reticule along with the leather notebook and pencils. Finally, she picked up the umbrella, which was not at all an ordinary umbrella, but had been specially made for her with a magically reinforced steel shaft and a knife concealed in the handle. Thus armed, Amelia left the tavern and set off down the street.

  Kate had a head start, but Amelia was not worried. She did not think it was likely they would rush in this heat and, besides, she knew where they were going. If she lost them, she could always ask for directions to Greenstreet’s house. Amelia had not gone very far before she caught sight of them, about a quarter of a mile ahead.

  Raising the umbrella to shade her from the sun, Amelia followed them and arrived in the lane that led to Greenstreet’s house. She lowered the umbrella and darted into the shadows of the trees to reconnoiter. Kate had already gone inside, apparently, because she was not in sight.

  Amelia considered sneaking up to the house to peer in the windows. Two men keeping watch on the veranda—the two who had escorted Kate—and thick oleander bushes planted around the house thwarted that idea. Amelia’s next plan was to sneak around to the back. An estate this large must have a servants’ entrance, and she had found that careless servants often left the door unlocked.

  “I will enter through the back door,” Amelia said, in the habit of talking to herself. “If anyone catches me, I can always say I came to apply for the housemaid’s job and got lost.”

  Such a ploy had worked for her in the past and she didn’t see why it wouldn’t work now.

  She studied the terrain. Several large oak trees near the dwelling provided shade. Since the trees were close together, she could move from tree to tree, staying in the shadows, until she reached the back of the house.

  The two guards began playing mumblety-peg, a game that involved hurling knives. Amelia waited until they were engrossed in their sport. Keeping a firm grasp on the umbrella, she darted across the lawn, heading for the nearest oak and praying no one was looking out a window.

  She reached the first tree and hid behind the trunk, pausing to catch her breath. No one had caught sight of her, apparently, for no one was raising the alarm.

  The windows were wide open and she thought she heard voices. She hurried over to the house, planning to hide among the oleanders. The bushes, covered with pink and white flowers, were thick. She crouched down beside them to avoid being seen. The voices must be coming from another room, for while she could hear people talking, she couldn’t understand what they were saying. She tried peeking inside, but the windows were too high. Returning to the original plan, she followed the line of oleander bushes until she reached the back of the house.

  Here were more trees, a couple of outbuildings, and what once had been a kitchen garden, but which was now little more than a fine collection of weeds. The yard ended in thick jungle that looked as though it was biding its time, waiting to seize the land lost to mankind.

  Amelia liked that description and, taking out the notebook, made a note to use it in the story.

  She soon located the back door and found, upon investigation, that it was not o
nly unlocked, it had been propped ajar, undoubtedly to let in air. No one was in sight. She was about to slip inside when a flash of red caught her eye.

  Amelia looked in time to see Kate, wearing her red kerchief around her head, walk out of the shed, accompanied by a man dressed in leather. Kate was gagged and her hands were bound behind her back. She and her captor walked into the jungle and disappeared.

  Amelia was too good a journalist to entirely abandon her plan to obtain a story on Greenstreet, but that plan must of necessity now change. Kate had obviously been taken captive. She was in danger and Amelia had a split second to go through her options and decide what to do.

  “I could run back to the tavern for help, but by the time I explained to Olaf and Akiel what has happened, Kate and her captor would be long gone.” Amelia rejected that idea.

  “I am armed,” she said. “And I have the advantage of surprise.”

  She hurried off in pursuit, searching for a trail and almost immediately finding it. The moment she set foot on the trail, however, a chill sensation came over her—a “frisson,” as the Rosians would term it.

  Some people have a primordial terror of forests and jungles, but Amelia was not one of them. She could not explain the shiver of apprehension and therefore she ignored it and moved deeper into the jungle, following the narrow trail. She kept her eyes on the ground, watching where she was putting her feet, and it was then she suddenly noted the ghostly glow of magic.

  Amelia was not a crafter. She could not work magic. She was, however, a channeler, which meant that although she could not create magical constructs, she could direct the flow of magic into existing constructs and thus was able to see them. Amelia gazed around in awe. She doubted if even the saints who had discovered contramagic could have possessed such incredible power as the person who had created this jungle. She would have liked to stop to investigate, make notes and take samples for later analysis with a view to writing a paper for presentation to the Royal Botanists Association.

  The report would have to wait, however. Her concern now was for Kate. Amelia needed to move quietly, which meant moving slowly and cautiously. She blessed Mrs. Ridgeway for her counsel regarding sensible shoes.

  The trail ran straight, did not branch off, and although she could not see Kate and her captor, Amelia could follow the physical signs of their passing: broken sticks, trampled vegetation, a partial footprint.

  Noting these, she was intrigued. A broken stick meant that the jungle was real, not an illusion.

  “The jungle was not created by magic,” Amelia remarked. “Magic is manipulating the jungle.”

  She also noted the absence of wildlife: no birds or snakes or wild boars, no bloodsucking leeches, flies, or mosquitoes. All the wildlife and even the insects had fled, not liking the magic.

  She had walked about a mile when the trail began to slope, leading down into a valley. Amelia tried to catch some glimpse of the top of the mountain that formed the island, to determine where she was, but the foliage was too thick for her to see it.

  The trail descended at a steep angle, diving into a crevasse, slicing through towering rock walls. Amelia was forced to cling to the walls to avoid losing her footing. The path grew narrower and narrower and then ended with a suddenness that took her by surprise.

  She edged forward between the rock walls, and realized the path didn’t end. It continued through a crevice in the wall. Amelia put her eye to the crack and saw the path extend on through the crevice about twenty feet. She couldn’t see where it led, but she could see, at the end, the back of a leather jerkin.

  Kate’s captor must be standing at the end of the path, blocking the entrance, keeping guard. Amelia could not see Kate, but she could hear her voice and the voice of another. The other voice was big and deep and booming, and Amelia had no trouble at all understanding what was being said.

  Amelia was no coward, but she was blessed with common sense, and even though she was armed, she knew better than to rush in to try to save Kate. If the owner of the big, deep, booming voice was as large as the sound of the voice, she could be facing a formidable foe—possibly the one who had the magical power to manipulate a jungle.

  Amelia regretted that she couldn’t see for herself what was going on, but she did the next best thing. She braced herself against the rock wall and settled down to eavesdrop.

  FIFTEEN

  Kate squeezed through the crevice, scraping the side of her face and ripping her shirtsleeve. The rock walls opened into pitch darkness. She felt smooth stone beneath her feet and had the impression she was in a vast cavern.

  She stood still, concentrating on listening, since she could not see. She could hear movement, a sound as though a large bulky object was being hauled across the floor. Trubgek tore the gag from her mouth.

  “He wants to talk,” said Trubgek.

  “Who?” Kate demanded, wincing at the pain in her jaws.

  Trubgek didn’t answer. He stood near her, close enough to remind her that he had only to lay his hands on her to work his magic. He did not remove the ropes.

  Light flared, illuminating her surroundings, and Kate gasped. She was in a vast underground chamber, but this was no mere cavern. She might have been standing in the ballroom of a royal palace. The walls were adorned with friezes, paintings, tapestries, and marble statues. The light shone from a multitude of lamps.

  Every object in the chamber was beautiful and valuable. Kate had learned something about art from her mother, and she recognized works of the masters. She first was awed by the splendor. Then, looking more closely, she saw that the great artworks were covered with dirt. The paintings were dusty and hung at angles. The marble statues were filthy; they needed scrubbing. The tapestries were shabby and frayed.

  No one cared about them. No one admired them.

  Kate looked up at the high ceiling, then took note of the immense area of empty floor space. She added that to the fact that the chamber was located beneath a mountain and that visitors had to traverse a magical jungle to reach it, and she began to understand.

  “This is a dragon dwelling,” Kate said loudly. “I know, because I have been a guest in a dragon house many times.”

  Actually, she was putting on a bold front to show she wasn’t going to be intimidated. The truth was she had never been inside a dragon house in her life. She knew what their houses were like, however. Dalgren had often described his parents’ fine mansion to her. Dragons were fond of human art and enjoyed collecting paintings and statuary. Most dragons loved and cared for their collections. These pieces reflected nothing except pride of ownership; even that had reached a limit, apparently.

  “I am accustomed to being around dragons,” she added. “I am not afraid of them.”

  “Perhaps you should be, Captain Kate.”

  The dragon emerged from the shadows and walked into the center of the chamber. He was large, although not as large as Dalgren, and he had the thick neck and short stature that denoted a “common dragon”—one of common birth. His scales were a uniform color of green, as was his stubby mane.

  “My name is Coreg,” the dragon continued. “My time is limited and we have business to discuss.”

  Coreg was in his prime, strong and vigorous, probably around four hundred years of age. He was powerful in dragon magic. Kate knew now who had cast the spell over the jungle. The dragon was obviously wealthy and covetous, with no care for the beautiful objects decorating his house, needing to know only that he possessed them.

  A great deal began to make sense to Kate, mainly why Greenstreet always sat at an empty desk, never did any work. He was the mouthpiece. Coreg was the true master of the Aligoes.

  “What do you want, Coreg?” Kate asked, tilting back her head to see. “Why bring me here?”

  Coreg gazed down at her from his great height. He lifted a claw from the floor, twitched his tail. “I could kill you with a swipe of my claw.”

  “Yes, you could,” said Kate. “But I don’t think you will. You wa
nt something from me.”

  Coreg chuckled, a rumbling that shook the floor.

  “You are not easily intimidated. But then, as you say, you are accustomed to being around dragons. I refer to your companion, Lord Dalgren, of the Dragon Duchies.”

  Coreg shook his massive head. His mane brushed a chandelier, causing the crystal bangles to faintly jingle.

  “You ruined my carefully laid plan, Captain. I wanted Sir Henry Wallace dead. And yet he breathes.”

  “I didn’t ruin anything,” said Kate. “I can’t be blamed for the fact that Greenstreet hired fools.”

  “I was angry at first,” Coreg went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “The governor of Wellinsport gave me free rein to run my business operations in that city and Wallace came here to remove him. I planned to remove Wallace, but now I find myself glad you saved the man’s life. I have a new plan. Sir Henry has given you letters of marque, making you and your crew, including your dragon friend, Lord Dalgren, Freyan privateers.”

  “What if he has?” Kate asked, her nonchalant manner hiding her uneasiness. Coreg seemed to know a lot about her and about Dalgren.

  “As it happens, I want you to work for me,” said Coreg.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t work for you,” said Kate. “I am leaving the Aligoes. If I return, I would be glad to reconsider.”

  “You are your father’s daughter, Katherine,” said Coreg, amused. “Pity about his sudden death. Skull crushed, wasn’t it? You always suspected the Hollow Soul gang. I wonder if I should tell her the truth, Trubgek.”

  Kate cast a startled glance over her shoulder at Trubgek. He stood with his arms crossed, his legs planted, his gaze fixed on the dragon, and his eyes empty.

  “What do you mean?” Kate asked, scowling, turning back to Coreg. “What do you know about my father’s death?”

  “Only that he refused a simple request,” said Coreg.

  Kate felt her mouth go dry, her throat close. “You’re lying. You don’t know anything.”