“Yes, sir. As it happens, I am something of an expert on it,” said Grunnel with pride.
He carried his gear below. Franklin remained on deck. He unsealed the pouch and took out a letter. The orders were brief, apparently, for he read them in the space of a few moments. He went over them again, to make certain he understood, then replaced the letter in the leather pouch.
Kate hoped he would take it to his office, thinking she could find a chance to sneak in and read it. Unfortunately he tossed the pouch into the Breath. The pouch must have been lined with lead, for it dropped into the mists and sank immediately.
He walked over to the wheelhouse to check the logbook and seemed astonished to find Kate. She was down on her hands and knees beneath the helm, checking on the braided leather ropes that transmitted the magic.
“What are you doing here?” Franklin demanded, ill-pleased.
Kate hurriedly scrambled to her feet.
“I was checking on the rudder, sir. The helmsman was complaining about it.”
“Yes, right,” said Franklin. “I had forgotten. We will be setting sail soon. Were you able to do anything about the rudder?”
“Not much, sir,” said Kate. “The problem isn’t the magic. It’s the design of the rudder. The Bottom Dwellers weren’t very capable shipbuilders. Did Corporal Jennings return, sir? I saw a griffin landing and I figured that must be him. I want to show him the work I’ve done on the green beam weapon.”
“Jennings is not coming back,” said Franklin. “You will report to Corporal Grunnel. He is below, stowing his gear. When he is finished, he and I will meet you on the forecastle.”
He walked off, shouting orders for all hands to weigh anchor and hoist the sails. The crew streamed up on deck, as Kate climbed the stairs to the forecastle. Standing in the shadow cast by the green beam weapon, she tried to make sense of what she had heard.
Thomas was in Haever! The news was both astonishing and deeply troubling. For someone who had declared he knew nothing about his army, Thomas certainly seemed to be involved with it up to his neck.
She wanted to trust him, to believe he truly did not know that these men were plotting to overthrow the government and place him on the throne. He was making trust increasingly difficult for her.
Kate began to pace back and forth. She could alter the magic on the lift tanks, prevent the ship from sailing. Unfortunately, Grunnel could fix that, too, and she would put herself in danger.
“Besides, I need to reach Haever myself and this ship is the fastest means of travel,” Kate reasoned. “Once I’m there, I’ll jump ship and find Sir Henry…”
Kate stopped pacing, brought up short by a terrible realization. She couldn’t follow through with her plan to tell Sir Henry. He hated Thomas, calling him the Pretender. If she told Sir Henry that Thomas was in Haever, planning to overthrow the queen, Sir Henry would find him and arrest him. Or perhaps not even go to all the bother. Perhaps he would just kill him.
Kate stood in front of the green beam weapon and regarded it with loathing. The crew had covered the gun with a tarpaulin, on the chance some passing ship might see it. The gun crouched beneath the tarp like a hideous, shapeless monster.
“I can’t tell Sir Henry. I’ve lost the opportunity to disable the magic on the gun. I should have told Dalgren to melt the damn thing!”
Kate heard Franklin and Grunnel talking as they climbed the stairs to the deck, discussing the magic on the green beam weapon. Kate stood by, not wanted. She was disheartened to discover that Grunnel really was something of an expert on the seventh sigil.
“Tomorrow will be a glorious day, sir,” said Grunnel in a tone that was almost reverent.
“Prince Thomas crowned king at last,” Franklin agreed.
FIFTY-FOUR
Thomas was wakened in the middle of the night by a thunderous knocking on his door. He sprang out of bed in alarm, thinking the house was on fire, and hurriedly flung on his dressing gown, then threw open the door.
Sir Richard stood before him in his bedclothes, holding a candle and glaring at him.
“A street urchin has come to the door asking for you, Your Highness. By name!” Richard emphasized, incensed. “He claims to have a message for you and he insists upon giving it to you in person.”
Thomas knew at once the message must be from Phillip and that it must be important or Phillip would not have risked sending it. Thomas lit a candle that was on the nightstand and hurried down the stairs. He expected Richard to return to his bed and was annoyed to find him at his shoulder.
“Thank you, my lord, but I can deal with this matter,” said Thomas. “I am sorry you were disturbed.”
“Imprudent, Your Highness, highly imprudent!” Richard seethed, doggedly pursuing him. “No one is supposed to know you are in Haever and this guttersnipe asks for you by name!”
Thomas knew Phillip better than that. “What were his exact words, my lord?”
“He said he must give the message to Thomas,” Richard returned angrily.
“Please note that was all he said, my lord. There must be a hundred men named Thomas in Haever.”
“An assassin needs to kill only one, Your Highness,” said Richard. “The right one.”
Thomas pressed his lips together to keep from saying something he would undoubtedly regret. He arrived at the first floor to find Henshaw standing in the entry hall in his dressing gown and nightcap, holding a pistol.
“For God’s sake, Henshaw, put that away before you hurt someone!” Thomas exclaimed angrily. He fixed his grim gaze upon Richard. “I said I would deal with this matter, my lord.”
Richard was not pleased, but his prince had spoken. He and Henshaw retreated a few paces, waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase.
Thomas approached the closed door with caution, not quite as unmindful of his own safety as his host made him out to be. He opened the door a crack and looked out into the night.
A boy with a dirty face and shrewd eyes fidgeted on the door stoop, holding his cap in his hand.
Seeing no one about to toss a bomb at him, Thomas opened the door. “You have a message for me?”
“That depends,” said the boy, eyeing him warily. “You Thomas?”
“I am,” Thomas replied with a smile. He indicated Richard and Henshaw. “These gentlemen will attest to that fact.”
The boy sized him up and decided he must be telling the truth, for he took a piece of folded paper from his cap and handed it over.
Thomas opened it, glanced at the four words. He crumpled the note and thrust it into the pocket of his dressing gown.
“Thank you,” he said, then raised his voice. “Henshaw, we must pay this lad for his trouble.”
Henshaw left, heading for the kitchen. He returned with several coins, which he gave to the boy. The lad studied them carefully, then, satisfied they were real, he stuffed the coins into his shoe.
“Thanks, guv,” he said, and started to dash off.
“Do you have some way to get back home?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, guv!” said the boy. “The t’other guv’ner sent me in a cab.”
The boy grinned, tipped his hat, and ran off.
Thomas shut the door and walked back toward the stairs.
“Is everything all right, Your Highness?” Richard asked.
“It is, thank you, my lord,” said Thomas.
“If I might ask Your Highness—”
“You may not, my lord,” said Thomas.
He continued up the stairs. Pausing on the landing, he looked down to see Richard and Henshaw with their heads together, deep in conversation. Thomas went to his bedroom and slammed the door. He drew the note from his pocket, smoothed it, and read it again.
Discovered. Leaving tonight. Godspeed.
Thomas sighed, afraid for his friend. Henry Wallace must have discovered Phillip was in Haever. He was safe enough for the time being, apparently, for he had been at liberty to send Thomas a note. Hopefully by now he was riding a
griffin, winging his way back to Estara.
Thomas envied him. He could not stand to be cooped up in this house another moment. The countess wanted him to remain in Haever to be present when the queen died, but from what Thomas had heard, the queen appeared to be in good health and spirits, for she had gone off to tend to a sick griffin. His meeting was scheduled for tomorrow night.
Tonight, he amended, hearing the clock chime one.
He set fire to the note and dropped it in the grate. He watched it burn to ashes, then stirred the ashes and went to bed.
The next morning as he came down to breakfast, he passed Henshaw on the stairs.
“If you are going to my room to look for the note, you can save yourself the trouble,” said Thomas. “I burned it.”
He did not stay to hear Henshaw’s response.
Sir Richard was not at breakfast, for which Thomas was grateful. He picked up the Haever Gazette and noted the date at the top of the page. The twenty-eighth day of the eleventh month.
The date he could well be named heir to the Freyan throne. The paper shook in his hands and he folded it and laid it down, unread. He went outdoors for a cheerless walk in the walled-in garden. The day was cold and raw. Dead leaves crackled beneath his feet. He walked until he had released some of his pent-up energy, then went back to the house and retired to the library.
He did not see Sir Richard until dinner, which was good, for by that time Thomas’s anger had cooled. The two men could not discuss in front of the servants the only subject that was on both their minds, which was the meeting with the queen in a few hours. Thomas ate little and drank only a single glass of wine. He wanted to make certain he had a clear head.
At the best of times Richard had nothing much of interest to say, and he was extremely solemn and formal tonight. His eyes grew moist with emotion whenever he looked at Thomas, and he spent most of the dinner gruffly clearing his throat.
The clock chimed seven times. They were not due to leave for the palace until nine. The hour was still early, but Thomas went to his room to dress. He had not packed any court clothes, having traveled by griffin and in haste. He had with him only the evening attire he had worn while visiting the Duke de Bourlet.
Henshaw had offered to serve as valet. Thomas had politely refused, saying he would dress himself, and he was not pleased to see Henshaw enter his dressing room carrying a large trunk.
“A gift from your lady mother, Your Highness,” said Henshaw.
Thomas stared at the man. “My mother? She does not know I am here!” He paused, then added grimly, “Or does she?”
“No, no, of course not, Your Highness,” Henshaw said smoothly. “Her Ladyship sent Sir Richard a message over a year ago, requesting that he have this suit of clothes made for you in preparation for the day you entered court. Sir Richard thought you would want to wear it this evening.”
Henshaw unpacked the trunk and laid out the clothes. Thomas had to admit that they were far more elegant than the clothes he had brought with him. His mother had many faults, but she had exemplary taste in fashion.
The jacket was of robin’s-egg-blue silk velvet. The front was trimmed in glistening bands of silver embroidery with double bands of embroidery around the cuffs of the sleeve. The weskit was of matching velvet, also embroidered, though more ornately than the embroidery on the jacket, which was intended to be worn open. The breeches were of blue velvet, embroidered at the knees.
The weskit and the breeches were adorned with silver buttons bearing the Stanford coat of arms. The same buttons trimmed the jacket. A shirt with lace cuffs and a lace-trimmed cravat completed the ensemble.
Henshaw held up a powdered wig, but Thomas refused. Wigs were hot and the powder made him sneeze. He combed his hair, and tied it back with a blue velvet ribbon.
He regarded himself in the mirror. He seemed older, with grave blue eyes, pensive brow, and an unusually serious expression.
He credited Phillip with making him understand that his people needed him. He credited Kate with showing him by example that he had a duty to them. He wished both of his friends could be here with him. He would hold them close within his heart and someday he would tell them all about this.
Henshaw knocked again at the door.
“The hour is nine of the clock, Your Highness. Time to leave for the palace.”
FIFTY-FIVE
The Naofa sailed during daylight hours now, heading south for Haever. They traveled over land, sailing southwest from Illwick, avoiding the coast and navy patrol boats. They had fair weather and made good time, arriving just north of Haever after dark.
As the lights of the city came into view, Franklin ordered the helmsman to slow the ship. He sent the crew to extinguish all lights except for a small lantern hanging above the helm.
“We will maintain strict silence,” he told the crew. “If I hear so much as a cough, I will throw that person overboard.”
Franklin stood outside the wheelhouse, his spyglass to his eye, directing the helmsman. He took out his pocket watch and set it on the brass helm where he could see it, keeping track of the time.
The Naofa crept into Haever, sailing about forty feet above the church steeples.
“Ten of the clock,” Franklin said softly to the helmsman, and he was corroborated by the church bells sounding the hour; the chiming and gonging seemed to stretch on endlessly until the last bell fell silent.
Kate had nothing to do except grow increasingly nervous. Grunnel had taken over her duties as crafter for the green beam weapon. He was on the forecastle, standing by the weapon, prepared to activate the magic when ordered. Kate had offered to help, but Franklin had curtly rebuffed her. He told her to remain near the wheelhouse in case the helmsman encountered problems with the helm’s magic.
The crew had been speculating as to their target, some even placing wagers. The favorite was blowing up the parliament building, although destroying the ships in the Naval Yard had emerged as a strong contender.
The black ship sailed steadily onward. The crew had mounted the two swivel guns on the rail, one on the portside and one starboard, prepared to fight if necessary. Discovery seemed unlikely, however. The black ship was one with the night, silent and nearly invisible. Franklin continued to provide the helmsman with directions. He glanced at his watch again.
“Half past the hour,” Franklin told the helmsman. “Start your descent.”
Kate stood fidgeting by the rail near the wheelhouse. From her vantage point, she could look down on the rooftops and chimney pots as the ship drifted slowly closer. The lamplighters had made their rounds and street lamps shone at regular intervals, forming a sparkling grid.
Kate thought the streets seemed unusually deserted, buildings unusually dark. This time of the night, the streets were generally crowded with cabs taking people home from the theater or to their clubs, gambling houses, restaurants and taverns. Those establishments should be busy now, bright lights shining. They were dark and shuttered.
As in times of plague or war, Kate thought uneasily.
Franklin had been keeping watch ahead of them. He shifted the spyglass to look off to the west. Kate followed his gaze. The only object of interest in that direction was Haever’s famous floating house drifting among the stars.
Kate stared out into the night, searching for other landmarks. She didn’t see anything that looked familiar until she caught sight of the distinctive conical towers of the university. The Naofa sailed over a park, and now Kate had some idea of their location. She still could not guess where they were bound.
The ship flew on, descending lower and lower. The helmsman slowed his speed almost to a crawl, for they were so close to the buildings he had to avoid knocking down chimneys and navigate around steeples.
A broad swath of darkness opened up ahead. Covington Palace came into sight, a radiant star in the night. The glowing palace was easy to see from the sky and from the ground.
Franklin picked up his watch and left the helm, going up to
the forecastle to join Grunnel.
“Prepare the weapon for firing,” Franklin said.
Grunnel loaded the brass disc into the breech and activated a series of constructs that completed the power circuit between the barrel and charging disc. Franklin raised his spyglass, looked to the west, toward the palace’s front gate. He watched intently for several moments, then lowered the spyglass.
“There is the signal. Our troops are in position. We may proceed.” He glanced at his watch. “The time is nearing eleven. We are right on schedule.”
Kate now knew the target. Those who had bet on parliament or the Navy Yard were out their money.
The target was the palace.
She could see again the green beam blow an enormous chunk of stone out of the cliff, see the rock shatter, split apart, and she was overwhelmed with horror. Fear tightened her throat, her mouth went dry, her hands gripped the rail.
The ship crept closer and closer, gliding silently through the night. The magic on the green beam weapon started to come to life, the constructs glowed. Her constructs. Her magic.
“The gun is ready to fire, sir,” Grunnel reported.
“Go take command of the swivel guns,” said Franklin. “Do not fire unless I give the order! Thus far no one has seen us or heard us. I want to keep it that way.”
Grunnel left the forecastle and ran down to the main deck. Franklin took his place behind the green beam weapon, spyglass trained on the palace. The magical constructs on the green beam gun glowed blue and green, connected by the seventh sigil.
The palace grounds were surrounded by a tall stone wall pierced by the main gate. The gate would be well guarded and Kate was not surprised when the helmsman altered course to avoid it, veering off to the west.
The ship was close. The wall was only about a mile away. But the grounds were extensive, and the palace was still far beyond the wall. Kate looked down to see rooftops directly beneath her.
She flashed a glance at the green beam gun. The only way she could disable the magic was to remove the seventh sigils and to do that, she would have to be able to touch them. Franklin was wearing his sidearm. He would kill her before she could come close.
Privateer Page 55