Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  The house consisted of two floors that both smelled strongly of coffee. The first floor was sparsely furnished, containing a metal-framed bed and mattress, a couple of wooden chairs, an empty wardrobe, a nightstand, and an iron stove to provide heat. A single window covered in grime let in dismal light. The house was bitterly cold with the settled chill that comes from years of being uninhabited.

  “What do you think?” asked Henry.

  “I think this is the dirtiest, ugliest, most disreputable excuse for a dwelling that it has ever been my misfortune to visit,” Alan stated.

  Henry chuckled. “The very reasons I bought it.”

  The two climbed the rickety-looking staircase that led to the floor above. The only articles of furniture were another bed, a slop bucket, a lantern, and a ladder lying on the floor. This room had two grimy windows, however, one facing out on the alley and the other overlooking the backyard.

  Henry started to pick up the ladder, then winced in pain. Alan took over. Acting under Henry’s direction, he lifted the ladder, carried it to the back of the room, and stood it against the wall.

  “There’s a trapdoor in the ceiling,” said Henry.

  “You are not climbing ladders,” Alan said sternly.

  “No choice,” said Henry. “Everything we need is in a trunk in the crawl space. I have to remove the magical warding constructs.”

  “At least let me go first, then,” said Alan. “I can give you a hand.”

  Henry allowed his friend to precede him. Reaching the top of the ladder, Alan warily eyed the panel in the ceiling.

  “If I touch this, will one of Mr. Sloan’s spells fry my eyeballs?”

  “No,” said Henry. “The panel itself is quite harmless. Just don’t touch the trunk.”

  Alan shoved the panel aside and thrust his head and shoulders into the crawl space. He promptly sneezed.

  “It’s dark as the bottom of the world,” he reported.

  “Thus the lantern,” said Henry, holding it up to him.

  Alan pulled himself up into the crawl space and then reached down to assist his friend. Henry handed up the lantern. Alan set it on the floor, and then hauled Henry up after him.

  The crawl space was aptly named, for they could not stand upright, but were forced to crawl about on their hands and knees. The trunk was quite ordinary looking, the sort used by seamen during long voyages. It was made of wood with a rounded top, banded with leather and secured by a leather strap with an ornate metal lock. Alan took care to keep as far from it as possible.

  “I hope you remember how to disarm the magic,” he said.

  “Actually quite simple,” said Henry.

  He placed his left palm flat on the left side of the front of the chest, then put his right palm on the right side of the chest. Faint blue light began to glow on both sides. The lock in the middle of the chest remained dark.

  He then drew back his hands and rested his palm flat, with fingers splayed, over the lock. Blue light flared. Fearing an explosion, Alan cringed, squeezed his eyes shut, and averted his face. The lock clicked, the blue light faded away, and Alan relaxed and opened his eyes.

  Henry lifted the lid and Alan helped him unpack the contents, including a leather billfold filled with banknotes and a wide variety of clothing.

  “Disguises,” said Henry. “I put on this shabby coat, vest, shirt, worn trousers, and hat and I am a humble clerk. The black cassock, white dog collar, and broad-brimmed hat transform me into a deacon. The aging footman of an aristocratic household wears this blue velvet coat, matching breeches, and waistcoat. I have documents swearing to all these identities, as well as suitable footwear.”

  “Let me guess,” said Alan. “The deacon goes with this worn copy of the Scriptures, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a cane. The clerk owns this battered pocket watch. The aging footman wears this powdered wig and takes snuff. And they all go armed,” he added, removing several pocket pistols, powder, and ammunition. “Who you will be?”

  “Pastor Tobias Johnstone,” said Henry, shaking out the black cassock. “I must pay a visit to my brother, and his servant, Henshaw, would not admit the down-and-out clerk, Todd Wells, or Arthur Porter, aging footman.”

  “Is meeting with Richard wise?” Alan asked, concerned. “You have informants inside the palace. Contact them.”

  “I do not trust any of them,” said Henry, adding bitterly, “They did not inform me that Prince Thomas was meeting with Her Majesty.”

  “The queen kept her secret well,” Alan suggested.

  Henry made no comment. The queen had kept her secret well. She had not told even him.

  He was bent almost double in the confined space, his knees up around his chin. He sank back against the wall. Alan regarded him with concern.

  “You don’t look well. I’m going to fetch a healer.”

  “My head is actually much better,” said Henry. “Whatever was in that potion appears to have helped.”

  “Then what is wrong?”

  “Can’t you guess?” Henry returned. “I failed her, Alan. Every time the queen tried to talk to me about Stanford, I railed against him. I sent my agents to spy on him. I made it clear to Her Majesty that I despised him. And because of my obdurate stubbornness, Queen Mary did not trust me to meet with him. She met with him in secret and then she died—alone. If I had been with her…”

  Henry clenched his fist in anger at himself. “If I had been there, I might have saved her.…”

  Alan gripped him by the arm. “Henry, stop or you will go mad! You have no idea what would have happened. The most likely outcome is that you would have died with Queen Mary and Smythe would succeed in destroying our country.”

  “Perhaps,” said Henry, not believing him, but too tired to argue.

  “Queen Mary trusted you, Henry. She trusted you to such an extent that she placed the welfare of our new king in your hands. She knew you would not abandon him.”

  Henry sighed deeply. “We have to haul all this stuff downstairs.”

  “I’ll handle that,” said Alan. “You stay here and rest.”

  Henry leaned back against the wall. He needed rest and a stronger potion. He could not meet his brother in this condition. Hidden beneath the mattress of the bed on the second floor, Mr. Sloan kept several healing potions, aware that Henry would make use of this place only if he was in trouble.

  He wondered if there was one labeled: “Cracked Skull.”

  Alan began tossing clothing and shoes and documents out of the crawl space to the floor below.

  “You go on ahead,” said Henry. “I’ll lock up the trunk.”

  Alan descended the ladder.

  When he was alone, Henry took out the letter the queen had given him, naming Thomas Stanford her heir. He placed the letter in the empty trunk and closed the top for safekeeping. The magic flashed blue, indicating that Mr. Sloan’s magical warding constructs were back in place.

  Henry descended the ladder, feeling as though he had locked away a part of his life in that dark and empty crawl space.

  ELEVEN

  Alan found the bottles of potions carefully packed beneath the mattress. He did not find one marked “Cracked Skull,” but he did find a bottle that Mr. Sloan had labeled in his neat, precise handwriting: Concussion, brain fever. Mix with hot tea and sip slowly.

  Alan repaired to the coffee shop to obtain the tea, leaving Henry to change clothes. When Alan returned with a pot of tea, he gave a start on opening the door to find a stooped-shouldered pastor benignly peering at him from behind spectacles, his squinting eyes almost hidden in the shadow cast by a broad-brimmed hat.

  “Good God, Henry, don’t do that to me!” Alan exclaimed irritably. “I almost dropped the teapot.”

  Henry grinned, straightened to his full height, and removed the hat.

  “You must recognize Pastor Johnstone, Alan. The two of you were childhood friends.”

  “We were?” Alan raised an eyebrow.

  “You were. He was a curate at the t
ime. Remember that in case you should ever run into him should he have news for you.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” said Alan, smiling. “Tell me about him.”

  “Tobias Johnstone is a gentle soul,” said Henry, holding the spectacles up to the dim light to see if he needed to clean them. “He is very short-sighted and thus walks happily through this world blind to all its ugliness. For him, daily life passes in a pleasant blur.”

  Alan dumped the potion into the tea. Henry laid aside the spectacles and sat down to drink it, taking care to sip slowly as Mr. Sloan had instructed.

  “I hope it tastes better than it smells,” said Alan, wrinkling his nose.

  “It doesn’t,” said Henry, grimacing.

  Between the farm woman’s potion and Mr. Sloan’s, Henry was feeling much better. The pain was starting to subside and the dizziness and nausea had eased.

  “What do you need me to do?” Alan asked.

  “Hire a wagon and return to pick up our friends,” said Henry. “You will also need to purchase a wheelchair for Simon. Make it a cheap one, very ordinary. The struggling clerk, Todd Wells, cannot afford anything better on his meager salary.”

  “Simon will kick up the devil of a row over having to leave his flying chair behind,” Alan predicted.

  “Let us face it, my friend, Simon will be in a foul mood until Welkinstead is once more ‘drifting with panache’ above our heads. At least you won’t have to live with him,” Henry added.

  “You must focus his energies on something more pleasant than losing his beloved Welkinstead. I have an idea. Encourage his latest theory about freezing pools of liquid Breath in the Aligoes,” said Alan. “Appear interested. Ask questions.”

  “Such as how in God’s name could there possibly be freezing pools of liquid Breath in the Aligoes?”

  “I’m sure he will have a scientific explanation,” said Alan.

  “One which will last hours and require a blackboard.” Henry returned to his instructions. “Once I know about the warrants, you and Randolph repair to your rooms in the Naval Club. Talk to your fellow officers, find out what you can about Smythe. You should also make inquiries about Mr. Albright, who was apparently on his way to my house that was crawling with Smythe’s soldiers. Ask at the prisons, the hospitals and—I hate to say it—the morgue.”

  “Where are we to meet you and when?”

  “The Weigh Anchor. No one there knows Pastor Johnstone. He will be extremely glad to see an old childhood friend.”

  “How do I send a message to you should I have anything to report?” Alan asked.

  “The post office on High Street. Address the letter to ‘Franklin Sloan, to be left until called for.’ I will be checking daily, for that is where Mr. Sloan is sending reports on my family.”

  Henry fell silent, his thoughts on his wife and son and baby daughter who were so very far away. He felt guilty for sending them off without him, even though Lady Ann understood that he had his duty to his country. She had her own duty, as well, for she had calmly accepted the fact that she must care for their family while he cared for their nation.

  “I am certain they are safe and well, Henry,” said Alan, seeing his friend’s shadowed expression.

  “Ann is the queen’s niece,” said Henry. “Smythe will do his best to eliminate all those who might oppose him.”

  “Your wife and children are under the protection of Mr. Sloan and the Countess de Marjolaine,” said Alan. “They could not be in better hands.”

  “I know,” said Henry. He shook off his despondence. He could not worry about situations over which he had no control. He had to deal with those he could. “And now I must leave you. Pastor Tobias Johnstone has to pay a call on Sir Richard Wallace.”

  “What will you say to your brother?” Alan asked, as Henry hooked the wire-rimmed spectacles over his ears.

  Henry picked up one of the pocket pistols and stood regarding it thoughtfully.

  “Despite Simon’s claims that my brother was duped by Smythe, I believe Richard to be complicit in the death of the queen. I know for a fact that he was responsible for exposing Mr. Sloan and nearly getting him killed. My inclination is to put a bullet in his head.”

  “He is your brother, Henry,” said Alan.

  Henry frowned at the weapon, then sighed and slipped the small pistol into a secret pocket sewn into the cassock.

  “I won’t kill Richard, Alan,” said Henry. “He is my brother and, much as he might deserve to die, I require information that only he can provide.”

  “But if you don’t trust him…”

  “The fault is mine. I think back to the conversations I had with him over mutton and cabbage in his club,” said Henry. “I deliberately shared information with him, hoping he would use his influence in the House of Nobles to further my own causes. I never dreamed that Richard would be using me to further his own. I did not know my staid and boring elder brother even had a cause.”

  Henry shook his head. “If I had been paying attention to him instead of thinking only of myself, I might have picked up on clues he let drop, information he inadvertently revealed. Before the queen’s death, Simon suggested that Richard might be involved with the Faithful. I laughed at the notion, as I recall. I smugly thought I knew him. I was blinded by my own cleverness, and my queen and my country have paid the price.”

  Alan rested his hand on Henry’s. “You told me that Queen Mary was very ill. Her Majesty was dying of the same disease that killed her father. His death was dreadful. He was pleading with the healers to end his suffering. I know this is not much comfort, but at least Queen Mary died swiftly, Henry. She did not suffer.”

  Henry adjusted the spectacles, pushed them back on his nose, and said, “Richard will not lie to me again.”

  With that declaration, he put on the broad-brimmed hat, adjusted his dog collar, and picked up the cane and his Scriptures. He was now ready to greet the world as the humble preacher.

  “You know how it is with older brothers, my friend,” Henry said, smiling. “You shot yours.”

  “Thank God, I missed!” said Alan. “Good luck, Henry. Randolph and I will wait to hear from you. Be careful in the streets.”

  “So long as nobody takes me for a Rosian, I will be fine,” said Henry.

  The two shook hands, and Pastor Tobias Johnstone walked out the door, smiling and peering as he made his way out of the house and down the crowded street in search of a cab.

  A driver took pity on the pastor, who appeared quite confused and upset by the tumult in the street, and gave him a ride, guiding the horse down the side streets, which were less clogged than the main thoroughfares.

  Henry saw the mobs at work throughout the city. The cab passed a group of people hurling paving stones through the window of a shop owned by a Rosian as several men dragged the owner from his store and began beating him. A frantic woman pleaded with them to stop.

  His brother, Richard, lived in a staid and boring house located in a well-to-do, staid and boring residential neighborhood on the north side of the city. Henry was glad to note as they drove farther away from the inner city that the mobs were concentrating their wrath there. The unrest and tumult had not yet reached his brother’s neighborhood. But fear had.

  The usually quiet neighborhood was bustling with unusual activity, as those fortunate enough to own homes in the country were hurrying to flee the chaos in the city.

  Richard owned his own country house, but he rarely visited it. His life was in the city, in the royal court, in the House of Nobles. His wife spent much of her time at the country house, for she disliked the city. Richard would have made certain she was there now.

  As Henry’s cab approached the house, he noticed another cab parked a short distance down the block. The cab had no markings and, judging by the horse droppings, it had been there for some time. He could not see who was inside, for the windows were covered.

  Yet Henry knew surveillance when he saw it. Open surveillance. Whoever was watching the
target wanted his target to know he was being watched.

  Henry paid the cab fare, then stood gazing at Richard’s house. The curtains were drawn, the wrought-iron gate shut. The house appeared deserted at first, but then he noted smoke rising from the chimney. Leaning on his cane, he pushed open the gate and hobbled down the path to the front door. He made use of the brass door knocker and then waited.

  No one came to the door.

  Henry tried the door knocker again, louder and more emphatically.

  A voice came from the other side of the door. “Who is there? What do you want?”

  “Pastor Tobias Johnstone,” said Henry in a quavering voice. “The new pastor of Gatestown Parish. I come with an urgent message for Sir Richard Wallace.”

  The door opened a crack. Richard’s valet, secretary, butler, and servant, Henshaw, peered out.

  “What business do you have with Sir Richard?”

  “Most distressing business, I fear, sir,” said Henry, pushing his spectacles up on his nose. He fumbled at his cassock. “I regret I do not have a card. I am Tobias Johnstone, the new pastor of the Gatestown Parish. Sir Richard’s estate is located in my parish—”

  “I am aware of that, Pastor,” said Henshaw, impatiently. “Come to the point.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Henry, fumbling with his cane. “I fear it is my sad duty to inform His Lordship that his lady wife has been taken ill with a fever. The servants did not want to leave her alone in her condition and I offered to bring the message. Is Sir Richard at home?”

  Henshaw listened gravely to this news, and opened the door.

  “Come inside, Pastor. Sir Richard is at home, although he himself is poorly. I will let him know you are here. How is Lady Susan?”

  “The physicians are with her and the servants tell me they are quite hopeful,” said Henry, blinking and bumbling his way into the house. “I keep Her Ladyship in my prayers.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” said Henshaw, as he shut and locked the door. “Allow me to take your hat—”

  “Thank you,” said Henry in his own voice.