Kate felt better having made a decision. She thought over her plan on the way home and wondered about how to earn her money. Morgan would have fobbed off a fake construct. Difficult to do, given that Trubgek was a crafter. She would have to wait until she saw it. She found the note and the key where she had left them on the table and saw no sign that Trubgek had been in the house.
She read the note, which gave a date and a time and an address: 17 Waltham Lane, Haever. And the instructions: The package will be inside the house. Take it and leave. Wait for further orders.
Kate studied the key, thinking it might tell her something. She saw nothing remarkable about it, however; just a plain ordinary house key.
“Sounds simple enough,” she said.
Morgan would have said, “Too simple.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Kate had no intention of doing this job without first investigating the house. Haever was a sprawling city of one hundred thousand inhabitants and while she was familiar with the major thoroughfares and prominent buildings and landmarks, she was lost when it came to the multitude of highways, byways, streets, lanes, and alleys crisscrossing the city.
One of Miss Amelia’s most prized possessions was a set of maps of the city drawn by a noted surveyor. The project, which took ten years to complete, was published in a large book consisting of twenty-four pages of engravings. Since Miss Amelia visited every conceivable part of Haever in pursuit of her stories, she relied extensively on the maps.
The book was titled A Plan of the City of Haever with the Contiguous Buildings; From an Actual Survey Taken by Alfred Brock Land-Surveyor, and Engraved by George Oakenshield, Bluemantle Pursuivant at Arms and Chief Engraver of Seals, &c. to Her Majesty. An alphabetical index listed the names of the streets and where they could be found on the map.
Kate looked for the address, 17 Waltham Lane.
She strained her eyes poring over the finely detailed engraved maps, trying to find the tiny street, and finally located it on the outskirts of the city. She needed to inspect the house in advance, familiarize herself with it and the surrounding buildings. Dressed as a servant in a plain gown of woven striped cotton, a dark linen petticoat and apron, and a short cloak, she stuffed her curls into a frilly cap and set out to view the house. If anyone asked, she was there to deliver a message.
The street was some distance away, forcing her to take a cab. Noting her clothes, the driver asked to see her money first. She paid him and asked him to drop her off several blocks from the house. She walked the rest of the way.
The neighborhood was old and run-down and appeared to deteriorate with each block. Waltham Lane turned out to be short, narrow, and dirty. Kate found four large houses, two on either side of the street. Some attempt had apparently been made to turn the houses into tenements, but that had ended in failure. One was slowly collapsing into a pile of rat-infested rubble. Another was a burned-out hulk.
The two remaining buildings were uninhabited. A few placards stating “To Let” had been placed in the dingy front windows, seemingly with little hope that anyone would respond, for the signs were faded and brown with age. One of these empty buildings was number 17.
The placards gave Kate an excuse to look inside the house. She walked up to the window to study the placard. If anyone noticed her (which seemed highly unlikely, for the street was deserted), she could say she was making note of the name of the estate agent, Cassingham, Schmidt, and Wallace. She wondered idly if this Wallace had anything to do with Sir Henry. She doubted it; Wallace was a common enough name. Still, one never knew. She tucked away the information to ask Amelia.
Kate looked through various windows into rooms, and saw that the house was empty. The walls were water-stained with peeling plaster. No furniture. No curtains. No evidence that anyone had been inside in years. She would have liked to try the key Trubgek had given her to see if it fit in the lock, but, on the off chance that someone was watching, she dared not take the risk.
Kate walked around to the back of the house. A weed-choked yard led to an alley. Boards had been nailed across the back door, perhaps to keep out vagrants. She walked around to the front and surveyed the lane itself.
Trash and dead leaves blew down the broken pavement. The fire in the burned-out building must have been recent, for she could still smell smoke in the air. The only streetlamp on the block was broken. Waltham Lane would be a dark and desolate place at night.
Kate took a cab back home, spending the time formulating her plans. When she entered the house she was surprised to find that Amelia had returned.
“Miss Amelia! I didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Kate. “Did you talk to the dragon? What did you find out about Coreg?”
“A wasted journey,” said Amelia. “Our paths crossed. Odila, the dragon who has the information I need, left the day I arrived, to travel to Haever in answer to an invitation to meet with the queen. After traveling for days, I just missed her.”
“So you didn’t learn anything,” said Kate.
“‘What can’t be cured must be endured.’ That was Mrs. Ridgeway’s philosophy. One of Odila’s servants was there to meet me with the dragon’s apologies and a note. She has rescheduled our meeting for first thing tomorrow morning.”
Kate thought this over. She remembered Dalgren’s suggestion that she tell Amelia about the magical construct. For a change, Kate decided to act upon it.
“Something happened while you were gone, Miss Amelia. I need your advice.”
Amelia was pleased. “A story in the offing! Wait here, Captain. I will make a pot of tea and then hear what you have to tell.”
She came back with the tea tray, which she placed on the desk, then sat down and prepared to take notes. Kate poured the tea and told her tale. She described her meetings with Trubgek and the dragon-slaying magical construct.
“This is the note telling me where to find the construct. 17 Waltham Lane. I went to investigate. The house is deserted. By the way, while I was there, I noticed something odd. The agency that owns it is Cassingham, Schmidt, and Wallace. Would that be Sir Henry?”
“I sincerely doubt it, Captain,” said Amelia absently. She was perusing the letter. “Sir Henry derives most of his income from his estate in Staffordshire, a gift from Her Majesty.”
Amelia glanced at the note and laid it down with a smile and a slight shake of her head.
Kate wondered why she was smiling. “I know you think that working for Coreg is a mistake. But I need to get hold of this magical construct. Dalgren says it could be dangerous.”
“Hardly, my dear,” said Amelia. “The magic doesn’t work. It never did.”
She took off her glasses and tapped them thoughtfully on the table.
Kate stared at her in blank astonishment. “The magic doesn’t work!”
“It was all a cock-up. A complete waste of time.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kate, dismayed, wondering about her hundred eagles.
“Let me explain. The fiasco began twenty-three years ago when King Godfrey—a devious man if there ever was one—and a few crackpot members of the House of Nobles got this silly notion into their heads that they could use ancient Imhrun magic to assassinate dragons.
“Godfrey hated Rosia, especially the Dragon Brigade. For years he’d been trying to find a way to get rid of them. A museum curator was examining some ancient Imhrun scrolls when he came across something about dragon-killing magic. He was tremendously excited and sent word to the palace. King Godfrey and his cronies hired crafters, the best in Freya, to develop the magic.
“I was just starting my journalistic endeavors in those days, eager to make my name, when I heard rumors about a secret plot to kill dragons. That was exciting, and I decided to investigate. What I discovered was that crafters worked for months and spent inordinate amounts of money, only to determine that the magic would not work. It had not worked for the Imhruns and it would not work today, even with our modern advancements in magical crafting.”
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br /> “But if that’s true, why would Coreg hire me to get hold of this construct?”
“That is what I find intriguing,” said Amelia. “The most obvious answer is that Coreg doesn’t know the construct won’t work. And neither does whoever hired him.”
“Who do you suppose that is?” Kate asked.
“I have no idea. The news about the failure was hushed up, never made public. Godfrey died not long after. I had hoped his loathsome scheme died with him. There were several people who knew about it, however, and given all this rabble-rousing against the Travian dragons, I suppose it was only a matter of time before this ugly idea resurfaced.”
Amelia regarded Kate with thoughtful intensity. “Did Coreg ask you to use the construct to kill a dragon, Captain?”
Kate frowned. “Dalgren asked the same thing. Why does everyone assume I am capable of committing cold-blooded murder?”
“I do not think so, Captain,” said Amelia. “I merely asked.”
“Dalgren does,” Kate said bitterly. She jumped up and began to pace about the room. “And apparently so does Coreg, since he hired me. I made it clear to Trubgek that I wouldn’t kill anyone. Besides, if what you say is true, then it doesn’t matter if I agreed or not, because the magic won’t work.”
“I would still like to know who is behind this,” said Amelia.
“So would I.” Kate sighed. She was going to have to give up her hundred golden eagles. She could not see any way around that. In return, however, she would earn goodwill with Sir Henry. Perhaps he might even give her a reward.
She sat back down at the table. “I have a plan. This is our chance to expose Coreg and his entire operation. You are meeting tomorrow with the dragon who has damaging information against him. I’m picking up this construct tonight. It’s as if Fate is conspiring with us to bring him down!”
“I do not put much trust in that fickle female,” said Amelia. “Still, you do present a cogent argument for acquiring this construct, although I don’t like the idea of you going alone. I would accompany you, but I am supposed to meet with Lady Odila at old Castle Lindameer in Durham, north of Haever. The castle is the only place they could find that is large enough to accommodate the dragon. I had planned on leaving tonight and staying in a nearby inn.”
Kate smiled inwardly to think of Amelia coming with her as a bodyguard. “Here’s my suggestion. Once I have the construct, I will take a wyvern-drawn cab and meet you at this inn. I will have the construct with me. After you’ve met with the dragon, we will both go straight to Sir Henry.”
Amelia was impressed. “An excellent idea, Captain. I will be staying at the Lord Willingham Arms in Durham. I will book you a room and tell them you will be arriving late. And I will send a note to Sir Henry, requesting a meeting.”
Amelia wrote the note and sent it by messenger, asking him to wait for a reply. Kate made certain she had everything she needed for the job tonight. She had hired a horse so that she wouldn’t have to rely on a cab. She loaded her two pistols and accepted the loan of Amelia’s odd-looking pistol, which had two barrels that could each be fired separately.
Hearing the messenger return, Kate hurried downstairs and asked Amelia, “What did Sir Henry say?”
“Sir Henry is planning to accompany Her Majesty on her visit to the dragon tomorrow. He travels to Durham tonight and is staying in the very same inn! He suggests we meet with him there.”
Kate’s thoughts reverted back to her last meeting with Henry.
“I have an odd question, Miss Amelia. What do you know about this so-called Prince Tom?”
“Thomas Stanford?” Amelia looked up from her writing. “Not much, I am afraid. His stories are quite popular—almost as popular as yours.”
Kate smiled. “Does this Prince Tom have a rightful claim to the throne?”
“As I understand it, he has the best claim,” said Amelia.
“So then why is Her Majesty so opposed to him?” Kate asked. “Why is Sir Henry opposed?”
“Two words, Captain: power and influence,” said Amelia. “The queen views Thomas as a threat to her family and the stability of the kingdom. As for Sir Henry, he supported the queen’s interests when King Godfrey was dying, persuaded Godfrey to name her as his heir. The queen rewarded him by giving him her niece in marriage and making him an earl. She protects him from his enemies, of whom he has many. All that could end if Prince Tom were to take the throne. Henry could be stripped of wealth, lands, title—or worse. He might well find himself in prison or facing execution.”
So that explains Henry’s outraged reaction to Phillip’s message, Kate thought.
“Why do you want to know, Captain?” Amelia asked, fixing her with a shrewd look.
“No reason,” Kate said, shrugging. “I was reading the prince’s stories. That’s all.”
“We were speaking of Sir Henry, and you bring up Prince Tom.” Amelia laid down her pen to regard Kate with earnest gravity. “Let me give you some advice. I speak from the heart, for I know something of palace intrigue. That world is a pit of vipers, far more dangerous and deadly than you can imagine. Do not get involved, Kate. Do not let Sir Henry or anyone else drag you down into it.”
“Rest assured, Miss Amelia, I have no intention of getting mixed up in royal politics,” Kate said firmly. “No intention whatsoever.”
THIRTY-NINE
After Amelia had left for Durham and the Lord Willingham Arms, Kate took out the book of maps and pored over it, memorizing the route she would need to take to Waltham Lane.
She dressed in her slops, for she felt most comfortable in those, and the calico shirt, with a belt in which to tuck the pistols. She took the additional precaution of placing her knife into her boot. Amelia had provided lock-picking tools, to be used in the event that the construct was locked inside a chest or the key to the front door wouldn’t work.
Kate tied her curls beneath her kerchief, put on a dark cloak with a hood, mounted the horse she had hired, and rode off. She was now more curious than apprehensive about the job, figuring that since the house was vacant, this was what Morgan would have called a “dead drop,” a time-honored technique long used by spies and smugglers for the secret exchange of goods or information.
The hour was twilight, about seven of the clock. Kate had calculated that she would need at least an hour to ride the twisting and winding streets to her destination, arriving around eight. The meeting was set for nine, but she wanted to be there well ahead of time to keep an eye on the house. She had been a little surprised at the earliness of the hour; such deeds generally occurred around midnight, when no one was about. She had realized, upon seeing Waltham Lane, that she could probably have come at noon.
Her progress was slowed by traffic: horses and carts, carriages and hackney cabs, wagons and pedestrians. It didn’t help that some of the streets were missing signs. The traffic thinned out as she rode north and she went from threading her way among the crowds frequenting the theaters to riding alone through empty streets beneath glowing streetlamps. By the time she reached Waltham Lane, she didn’t even have the company of streetlamps.
She rode slowly, for with the coming of night, the mists of the Breath were rolling in off the coast. Wisps of fog crept along the pavement, flitting around her like wraiths.
Kate tethered the horse about a block from the house and proceeded on foot, using a dark lantern to find the way. She didn’t like showing a light, but there was no help for it.
“Trubgek knows I’m coming anyway,” Kate said to herself. “If he’s out there spying on me, he’s out there. At least he knows I’m on the job.”
She flashed the light around, playing it on the buildings she passed and shining it in doorways, but saw no sign of Trubgek or anyone else. By the time she reached number 17, the clocks in the city were chiming half past the hour of nine. She was late. She hoped that didn’t matter.
She paused on the sidewalk in front of the house, searching the windows for a glimmer of light that might i
ndicate someone was inside. She saw nothing and heard nothing except water dripping from the eaves as the mists thickened and a light rain began to fall.
Still watchful, she mounted the crumbling steps to the front door and shone the light on the door. The key was cold and wet and she fumbled at the keyhole, but finally thrust the key in. The key turned easily, the lock clicked. She shut the cover on the dark lantern, opened the door a crack, and listened.
The house was quiet and smelled of mold and mildew. She thrust open the door and quickly searched behind it.
Finding no one lurking behind the door, Kate took a step inside, shooting the beam of light about the room. She was in an entry hall with a staircase in front of her, a room to her right, and one to her left. She chose the one to her left. There, on the floor, was a leather saddlebag and an old sword.
Kate could have anticipated the saddlebag, but she was astonished to find a sword and she bent down for a closer look. Setting the lantern on the floor, she studied the weapon, being careful not to touch it until she knew more about it.
The sword was definitely antiquated, crudely made, heavy and clumsy to wield. The blade was dull and notched. She looked for magical constructs, but found none. Any magic the sword’s forger might have added would long since have disappeared. The hilt was set with jewels—amethyst and maybe tourmaline, semiprecious and not very valuable.
She turned her attention from the sword to the saddlebag, which, presumably, contained the magical construct. The bag was modern, shabby, plain, and ordinary, with only the usual magical constructs to protect it from the weather.
She checked for warding constructs or magical traps that might have been placed to prevent thieving. Not finding any, she lifted the lantern, opened the bag, and peered inside.
She saw what appeared to be a neatly folded linen dish towel.
“How very strange,” said Kate.
She reached into the saddlebag, took out the dish towel, held it up and shook it out.
The linen began to glow a faint blue. Kate gasped and hurriedly dropped it to the floor, fearing the magic might explode or burn her fingers.
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