Privateer

by Margaret Weis

  Yours always,

  Cecile de Marjolaine

  Her second was to Prince Thomas Stanford.

  Your Royal Highness,

  I hope I find you well and in good spirits. Sophia informs me that you are traveling to Bheldem to visit your dear mother, the marchioness. Please give her my warmest regards.

  I am writing to invite you and your friend His Grace, Phillip Masterson, to attend an informal birthday celebration for Her Royal Highness, Princess Sophia. The party is being hosted by His Grace, the Duke de Bourlet, at Castle Dragonreach.

  Her Highness is so much looking forward to sharing her special day with her affianced. I trust she will not be disappointed.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cecile de Marjolaine

  She named a date and then added a postscript.

  P.S. You may happen to meet a dear friend of mine while you are in Bheldem. He is Lord Ander Martel, Knight Protector. He is a soldier and I believe you two will have much in common.

  Cecile’s final letter was to Constanza, Marchioness of Cavanaugh.

  Your Ladyship,

  I trust this letter finds you well.

  A dear friend of mine, Lord Ander Martel, Knight Protector of the Realm, is interested in visiting your estate. Lord Ander makes a study of architecture and he has heard that an old fort located on your grounds is a fine example of the Twilight period. He is longing to see it.

  You will be doing me a personal favor by extending an invitation to him. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cecile de Marjolaine

  Cecile closed and sealed the three letters, addressed them, then rang for the servant and instructed him to include them in the next day’s post.

  This done, she went to her bed. Before she slept, she made a mental note to send Lord Ander information on Twilight-period architecture and to inform Stephano that he was going to be hosting a birthday party for Sophia.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mr. Sloan arrived at the Old Fort in Bheldem in company with Colonel Smythe and Trubgek. Mr. Sloan had seen almost nothing of Trubgek during the voyage, for the disturbingly strange man was often closeted with Colonel Smythe. Try as he might, Mr. Sloan could never discover what they discussed.

  He found Bheldem to be a land of mountains and cliffs, ravines and crags, with grassy swards along the rivers and barren plateaus farther inland. The early inhabitants had built castles and fortresses along the banks of the rivers, which were the primary means of travel. No dragons resided in Bheldem and the native griffins and wyverns were wild, more likely to attack humans than allow them to ride on their backs.

  The Old Fort, as it was known, had originally been built by some long-forgotten baron on a plateau overlooking the Artroughn River. Constructed of stone and concrete, the fort was so solid that the builders had not seen a need to reinforce the walls with magical constructs.

  The fort consisted of a large square wall with four towers, one at each corner. The commander’s quarters were located inside the wall near the front gate. The housing for officers and staff, horse and griffin stables, kitchens, a smithy and artillery depot were in the rear.

  The Old Fort originally was designed to accommodate a small force of about one hundred and fifty men. The marquis had added additional barracks outside the wall on a strip of level ground between the plateau and the river, as well as a new and extremely modern shipyard.

  The day they arrived, Colonel Smythe took Mr. Sloan on a tour of the fort and the shipyard. Mr. Sloan had been expecting to find an invasion force of ten thousand troops and a naval force. Instead he found about two thousand troops and eight three-masted troop carriers. Not a single frigate or warship. The older-model ships were crawling with carpenters and crafters.

  “They are being refitted to use the crystalline form of the Breath instead of the liquid,” Smythe explained. “A single crystal can provide lift for a ship for months.”

  Mr. Sloan feigned ignorance. “I have heard rumors of these crystals, but I was not aware that they truly existed. The expense must have been great.”

  “As it happened, the Braffans refused to sell them to us. His Highness, Prince Thomas, undertook a daring raid to obtain the crystals,” Smythe said.

  As Mr. Sloan walked the decks, he saw large lamps, similar to street lamps, hanging from the yardarms. When lighted, such lamps would illuminate a wide area, providing light enough to permit work after dark. That night, he heard the sounds of hammering and saw the lights shining in the shipyard.

  The army was known as the Army of Royal Retribution, an appellation Mr. Sloan found deeply disturbing, for it denoted an army intent not only on conquering, but on punishing the sins of a hundred and fifty years ago, when the queen’s ancestor had overthrown King James I.

  “If and when the queen dies, the army will escort His Highness to Freya, where he will present his legitimate claim to the throne,” Smythe told Mr. Sloan, adding with a shake of his head, “But I fear that unless God works in some unforeseen manner, we are a long way from that blessed day.”

  Listening to the workmen toiling day and night to ready the troop transports, Mr. Sloan wondered with a chill if Colonel Smythe intended to give God a nudge.

  Mr. Sloan settled into his duties. His first care was to grow a long mustache. He did not think it likely he would run into anyone in Bheldem who knew him, but he did not take chances. He was fortunate in that the Guundaran officers all sported mustaches, and he fit right in.

  He also had to obtain his uniform. Officers in the army were required to pay for their own uniforms, including the addition of magical constructs designed to protect against bullets, a lifesaving luxury the ordinary soldier generally could not afford. Mr. Sloan knew a great deal about this magic, for he had been responsible for hiring the crafters who worked on Sir Henry’s clothing.

  Mr. Sloan looked with disfavor on the Bheldem crafters Smythe had recommended to him. He considered their magic rudimentary, less than inspired. The constructs were designed to diminish the force of a bullet and deflect the point of a blade. When Mr. Sloan examined them he was not convinced they would do either. He would have liked to have strengthened the magic himself, but he was mindful of the fact that Smythe was a crafter and if he noticed anything out of the ordinary, he might grow suspicious.

  The uniforms of both officers and footmen consisted of a russet-colored jacket that came to just about the knees, russet breeches, a white shirt with a wide collar, tall black boots, and a helm. The officers added braided trim to their jackets to distinguish their rank. The uniforms were comfortable and practical and, except for the mediocre crafting, Mr. Sloan approved.

  He had to purchase another uniform, as well. This uniform filled him with foreboding, for it was an exact copy of the uniforms worn by officers in the Freyan army: blue jacket trimmed in gold, white trousers, tall black boots, white bandolier. The uniform had one small difference: the piping on the collar and jacket on Freyan uniforms was green; the piping on Mr. Sloan’s was red.

  Of course, thought Mr. Sloan. Those of us who serve in this army must be able to recognize each other.

  “Pack that uniform away, Lieutenant,” Smythe told him. “You will not need it until we sail to Freya.”

  The two thousand men—mostly Guundaran mercenaries—were divided into two regiments. Since many of the Guundarans spoke only limited Freyan, they had their own officers, who were fluent in both languages and thus able to translate Smythe’s commands.

  The Marquis of Cavanaugh, father of Prince Thomas Stanford, held the rank of general and was nominally in command, although thus far no one had ever set eyes on him. The true commander was Colonel Smythe. Mr. Sloan held the rank of lieutenant serving directly under Smythe, acting as liaison with the Guundaran officers.

  Mr. Sloan had always prided himself on keeping in good physical condition. He ate only plain, wholesome food and eschewed strong spirits and wine. He drank ale, because it was considered nourishing, bu
t not to excess.

  He had faithfully exercised every morning using clubs weighted with lead, much like those clubs jongleurs are fond of tossing about. He would swing them above his head, cross them back and forth in front of his knees, whip them over his shoulders and perform other gyrations to keep up his strength.

  He soon discovered, on arriving at the Old Fort in Bheldem, that he was not in such good shape as he had imagined. He had never considered his adventurous life with Sir Henry Wallace as “soft,” but Mr. Sloan sadly discovered this was the case.

  Colonel Smythe placed Mr. Sloan—now Lieutenant Sloan—in charge of drilling and instructing the soldiers in the use of new Freyan rifles, which had been obtained by the late Coreg on the black market and only recently had been delivered. Mr. Sloan subscribed to two theories: an officer should never ask his men to do anything he was not willing to do himself, and an officer led by example.

  After the first day spent on the drill field, Mr. Sloan deeply regretted subscribing to both these theories. He went to his bed that night feeling every one of his forty-four years and woke the next morning feeling as if those forty-four years had been multiplied by two. He was scarcely able to move for the soreness and stiffness in his muscles, and he spent the first several days in such agony of mind and body that he had not been able to concentrate on the task at hand, which was to try to discover Smythe’s plans.

  By the end of the week Mr. Sloan had recovered, and he felt able to take stock of his situation and determine how to proceed.

  Smythe maintained his living quarters and office in a building known as the Commander’s House, a two-story blockhouse with two wings, one to be used as offices and living quarters, with the other wing intended for aides and servants. Mr. Sloan discovered, to his surprise, that the other wing was unoccupied.

  “As the Scriptures teach us, Lieutenant, the godly life is the simple life,” Colonel Smythe said.

  He was true to his beliefs. He employed no secretary or servants. His aide-de-camp was little more than an errand boy. He did not keep his own cook, although there was a kitchen in the rear of the Commander’s House. He ate the same food as his men, and, although he sometimes joined his officers for dinner, he generally ate alone in his quarters. He did not bother to post a sentry outside his office door.

  The officers and men respected Smythe. He was a strict disciplinarian, but accounted fair. He drank no strong spirits himself, saying that was against his beliefs, but he saw to it that the soldiers had their daily ration of rum. If it were not for the fact that Mr. Sloan knew that this man had murdered several innocent people, brutally tortured and slain one dragon and killed another in cold blood, he would have esteemed him a good commander and a God-fearing man.

  Mr. Sloan did know about the murders, however. He was here to discover what Smythe and his prince had planned for the future. After a fortnight, though, he was no closer to finding out what he needed to know than when he had arrived. He had been in Smythe’s small office several times to receive orders and became convinced that what he needed to know was in there.

  He knew better than to expect to stumble across detailed plans for the invasion of Freya. Smythe was an innately cautious man, secretive and reserved. He was unlikely to set anything down in writing that might compromise his mission.

  But Smythe was also neat, regular in his habits, and a meticulous record-keeper. He kept account books and ledgers neatly stacked on shelves that had been built for the purpose. Mr. Sloan had learned from experience that seemingly dry columns of numbers had their own tales to tell if one knew how to read them. He hoped to find valuable information in these ledgers if only he could gain access to them.

  Mr. Sloan was housed in the barracks inside the wall, along with other officers and staff. His room was small and sparsely furnished, but he was pleased with it, for the window looked out upon the compound and provided a clear view of the Commander’s House.

  He kept watch and noted that at night the sentries were posted at the gate and atop the walls. The compound was dark and deserted. Mr. Sloan should have no trouble slipping out of his quarters and sneaking into the Commander’s House.

  He chose a night when Smythe had said he was going to retire early and waited until long after midnight before venturing out of his quarters. He stayed close to the wall to avoid being spotted by the sentries, and arrived at the Commander’s House without incident.

  The main door to the colonel’s quarters was unguarded and unlocked in case anyone needed to reach Smythe in an emergency. The absence of a sentry should have been cause for Mr. Sloan to rejoice. Instead, it troubled him. He had the feeling he knew the reason.

  Smythe’s office was located at the end of the hall. His quarters were on the floor above. A stairway at the end of the hall led upstairs.

  The stone building had narrow windows and was pitch-dark inside. Mr. Sloan carried a bull’s-eye lantern that he let shine only briefly in order to find his way. Reaching the door to the office, Mr. Sloan studied it by the light of the lantern and found nothing untoward. He drew a construct on his palm that radiated a small amount of diffused magical energy, allowing him to detect not only the presence of magical constructs, but to see them, as well.

  As he passed his hand over the wooden door, the constructs on the door began to glimmer with a faint blue light. Here was the reason Colonel Smythe did not need to post a sentry.

  Mr. Sloan gazed at the magic and he was both impressed and disheartened. An expert crafter himself, he could dismantle most ordinary wizard locks with relative ease. He might be able to dismantle these locks and warding spells and traps, but not without spending considerable time and effort. Every moment he spent here increased the likelihood of being caught.

  As if to emphasize this point, he was committing the constructs to memory when he heard footfalls on the floor above his head. He recognized Smythe’s heavy tread and beat a swift retreat out the front door. Mr. Sloan waited a few moments, hoping Smythe had just risen to relieve himself and would go back to bed. Seeing light flare in the window above him, Mr. Sloan gave up and returned to his quarters.

  He copied what he remembered of the complex constructs onto paper. Reasoning that Smythe would not go to the trouble to place such complex magical constructs on a door if he had nothing to hide, Mr. Sloan was more determined than ever to break inside. He would need at least thirty minutes to dismantle the complex constructs, and once he had done that, he would require time to go through the books.

  He watched for his opportunity, but, sadly, Smythe was apparently a man who required very little sleep for he was up all hours of the night. Mr. Sloan could never be certain that he would not be interrupted.

  Trubgek was another problem for Mr. Sloan. The strange man was unobtrusive, kept to himself, and never spoke. But wherever Colonel Smythe went, Trubgek was sure to be lurking in the background, silently watching him.

  Mr. Sloan had the impression that Smythe was not pleased to have this constant shadow, but he did nothing to stop him.

  Everyone in the fort was by now familiar with Trubgek. Smythe had introduced him as a member of the marquis’s household, here to go over the accounts.

  “I do not like to lie,” Smythe confided to Mr. Sloan. “But the fewer who know about the marquis’s unfortunate business relationship with the man Greenstreet, the better. His Lordship is lucky that Greenstreet has fled the Aligoes and traveled to parts unknown. Their business dealings will be at an end.”

  Mr. Sloan knew, of course, that Greenstreet was dead, although he supposed that counted as being in “parts unknown.”

  The following morning, Mr. Sloan and Smythe were inspecting a shipment of long-barreled Estaran pistols set with the latest targeting constructs. Smythe had ordered the pistols for the use of the officers and he suggested that they take several of them to a field to test. Mr. Sloan, feeling a prickle on the back of his neck, looked over his shoulder to see Trubgek standing on a hill above the field, gazing down at them.


  “That strange fellow is lurking about again, watching you, sir,” Mr. Sloan said. “You are extremely patient with him. I would have thrown him off a cliff before now.”

  “The man is odd, but I believe him to be harmless,” Smythe said, shrugging.

  Mr. Sloan was intrigued. He would not term a human who knew dragon magic “harmless.” Either Smythe was dissembling or he was ignorant of Trubgek’s power. Mr. Sloan wondered, not for the first time, what Smythe knew about Trubgek.

  “Where does he come from, sir?” Mr. Sloan asked.

  Colonel Smythe loaded a pistol, aimed, and fired.

  “I have no idea. All I know is that Greenstreet kept him around to run errands. I brought him along to assist in untangling Greenstreet’s business dealings in Freya and to prevent him from exposing the marquis.”

  Plausible, since Trubgek was in truth involved in untangling Coreg’s business dealings, and he was the only human who had been completely in the dragon’s confidence. Coreg had lived comfortably in his cave. Trubgek had traveled the world, meeting with buyers, suppliers, removing enemies, rewarding friends. Trubgek knew where the dragon kept his wealth and how to access it. Coreg had not stashed his gold in a hoard in his mountain. He had kept it in banks and sent Trubgek to make the deposits.

  Smythe had good reason to keep Trubgek around. But that did not explain why Trubgek was keeping such a constant and diligent watch on Smythe. And why Smythe appeared so unconcerned.

  That afternoon, Mr. Sloan was on the drill field training the soldiers in the use of the new Freyan rifles. This involved a series of drills designed to walk the soldiers through each individual step of loading, priming, and firing the weapon, repeating this again and again until they could fire them in their sleep or, more important, while cannonballs were exploding around them and their comrades were lying dead at their feet.

  Mr. Sloan allowed the men to rest after their exertions and allowed himself to rest, as well. He drank tepid water from his leather canteen as he casually observed his surroundings and again considered the problem of how to break into Smythe’s office. He was interrupted in his musings by an aide-de-camp.