Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  Thomas would have liked to refuse, blaming the lateness of the hour, but he knew that nothing would have given Smythe more satisfaction than to be confirmed in his belief that the young king was indolent, lazy, and self-indulgent. Thomas ordered that he be admitted.

  Smythe bowed and advanced to the desk.

  “I have documents that require Your Majesty’s signature.”

  Thomas took up the first of the five documents Smythe laid before him and began to read.

  “Your Majesty needs only to sign them,” said Smythe.

  Thomas did not look up, but gestured to a chair.

  “You have our permission to be seated, sir.”

  Smythe had no choice. He sat rigidly still, too disciplined to fidget. Only the soft tapping of his boot on the carpet betrayed his impatience.

  Thomas was pleased with his small victory, then sneered at himself, realizing how pathetic that made him look.

  He finished the first document and signed it and started on the second. The servant entered again.

  “King Ullr requests an immediate audience on a matter of importance, Your Majesty.”

  Smythe hurriedly rose to his feet and turned to glower at the servant. “His Majesty is not to be disturbed. Advise King Ullr that I will attend him—”

  Thomas coolly interrupted. “Tell His Majesty I am at liberty to receive him.”

  King Ullr entered without ceremony, dressed as though he were an old and valued friend of the family, for he was wearing a velvet lounging jacket with a shawl collar of contrasting silk over his breeches and stockings. Thomas was surprised. He had always rather imagined Ullr slept in his uniform.

  “Forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour, Your Majesty.” Ullr cast a glance at Smythe. “I was seeking you, as well, Chancellor. I am glad to find you with the king. I have just received disturbing news out of the Aligoes.”

  “His Majesty was about to retire—” Smythe began.

  “His Majesty would like to hear the news from the Aligoes,” Thomas said, flashing a look at Smythe.

  “I received a report from my agent in Rosia that King Renaud is planning to take advantage of Your Majesty’s youth and, forgive me, inexperience to order the Rosian Rum Fleet along with the Dragon Brigade to attack and seize Wellinsport.”

  He’s lying, Thomas realized. King Renaud had no reason to attack Wellinsport, a move which would be an act of war. As proof, he could have pointed to the report he had just been reading about the Rosians attempting to limit Estara’s growing influence. With the Estarans threatening Rosian interests in the Aligoes, Renaud would not do anything so mad as try to seize the well-defended port city of Wellinsport.

  Thomas was about to confront Ullr with the truth, only to realize he might be better served to see if he could lure Ullr into inadvertently revealing why he felt the need to fabricate such a tale.

  “This news is indeed shocking, sir,” said Thomas. “As I have no experience in such matters, I would be interested in hearing your advice on how to handle this situation.”

  “All the world acknowledges the supremacy of the Freyan navy, sir,” Ullr said. “In particular, the amazing vessel with the magical steel plates known as the Turtle—”

  “Terrapin,” Thomas corrected.

  “Indeed, yes, thank you, sir. My apologies,” said Ullr. “I would immediately dispatch the Terrapin to Wellinsport. The Rosian fleet has nothing to match it. I have heard that the metal plates can withstand even the destructive magical fire of the dragons of the Dragon Brigade. The Rosians would certainly think twice about attacking if the Turtle—forgive me, Terrapin—was in Wellinsport to guard the harbor.”

  “But, after all, this report might not be accurate,” Thomas suggested.

  “My agent is most reliable, sir,” said Ullr. “If he says this, you may believe it. However, let us suppose he is wrong. By acting boldly, with dispatch, you will be telling the Rosians that they cannot trifle with you.”

  Smythe had been waiting impatiently to speak and he barged into the conversation.

  “As for the Dragon Brigade, I do not believe we need concern ourselves with them. They are not a factor. Their time has come and gone.”

  If Smythe had been hoping to shift Ullr’s attention from Thomas to himself, he had succeeded. Ullr turned to him with keen interest.

  “What do you mean by that, sir?”

  Thomas was wondering, as well.

  “I meant only that the Brigade is a relic of the past,” said Smythe. “God be praised, the Seventh Sigil has given us the means to deal with them. Dragons are no longer a threat.”

  He turned to Thomas. “As your Chancellor of War, sir, I will issue orders at once for the Terrapin to be dispatched to defend Wellinsport.”

  “I appreciate your offer, sir,” said Thomas, “but I would like more time to consider such an important move.”

  Smythe was angry. He opened his mouth to excoriate Thomas, only to recall they were not alone. He clamped his mouth shut, breathing hard through his nose.

  Thomas ignored Smythe. He was more concerned with watching King Ullr, who observed the interaction without seeming to observe, understood without appearing to understand.

  “Your Majesty will want to consult with your chancellor in private. I will withdraw,” the king stated.

  Thomas said what was polite and rang for the servants. Smythe barely waited for the door to close behind the king before he rounded on Thomas.

  “We must act with dispatch, sir. This is not the time for your dithering and dallying. You imagine that the Countess de Marjolaine is your friend, but she is only using you.”

  “What did you mean about the Dragon Brigade and the Seventh Sigil?” Thomas asked. “Why would you say they are not a factor? The dragons of the Brigade are formidable and would appear to me to be a major factor in a war with Rosia.”

  “Your people demand war, sir,” said Smythe, evading the question. “The Rosians assassinated the queen.”

  “You and I both know that they did not,” said Thomas.

  Smythe regarded him with unblinking enmity. “Since you have no stomach to order men into battle, sir, I will do so.”

  He stood up. “I will draw up the orders for the Terrapin myself.”

  “You may do so, but such orders require my signature,” said Thomas.

  Smythe leaned near him to say softly, “Remember that Phillip Masterson is my prisoner. I have only to say a word and he will be tied to a grate and flogged until the flesh is stripped from his bones.”

  He did not wait for Thomas to dismiss him, but turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

  Thomas sat unmoving for long moments after Smythe had gone. He had to think carefully about his next move.

  He remembered the proud dragons of the Brigade. He remembered the time he had flown with Kate on Dalgren and he recalled her telling him stories about the Brigade when the two of them had been together in the Aligoes.

  Those days he had spent with Kate and Phillip had been the happiest of his life. And he owed his life to Dalgren, who had once served in the Brigade.

  Rosia was not Freya’s foe. Thomas was hoping to avert this bitter conflict between the two nations and bring about lasting peace.

  Ullr was plotting something with his lies about Wellinsport, that much was certain. And what had Smythe meant about the Dragon Brigade and the Seventh Sigil?

  Thomas picked up the copy of the Haever Gazette lying on his desk and thrust it in a drawer. He told himself he was keeping the paper in case he needed to refer to it again. But he was also keeping it because, in a way, it was a connection to Kate.

  He thought over the final instruction.

  It is left to me to find out.

  NINETEEN

  Three days following the queen’s funeral, Henry received a message at the post office on High Street, addressed to Franklin Sloan, to be left until called for.

  He knew Alan’s handwriting and he opened it hurriedly. Alan wrote that he
had news and he had also dredged up several sailors from the Aligoes who had agreed to talk with Simon. He asked Henry to meet him and Randolph at the Weigh Anchor the following evening at six of the clock, and to bring Simon.

  “I will be in our usual booth in the back,” Alan concluded.

  Henry was intrigued, and glad he’d be talking with his friends; he had news of his own to share. He had formed a plan that, if it succeeded, would free his country and his king, and he could start to seriously consider his future. After a life of tumult and adventure, he found himself longing for peace. He could bring his family home and know they would be safe. He would no longer have to skulk about in disguises. And he would forever rid the world of Jonathan Smythe.

  The Weigh Anchor was a tavern owned by a retired naval officer, a friend of Alan’s, who had earned enough prize money to purchase it. The tavern was perfect for Henry’s purposes. With a rear exit, wooden booths that were high-backed, and dim lighting, it offered a certain amount of privacy for confidential conversations. The ale was drinkable and the patrons were loud enough to allow Henry and his friends to talk freely.

  When Henry walked in, he was pleased to find the tavern crowded and noisy. Many of those frequenting the Weigh Anchor were naval officers, but the tavern also catered to the local gentry who had business dealings with the navy. Everyone from naval officers to rope manufacturers was talking war with Rosia. For the officers, war meant battles with “a worthy foe” as described by the traditional naval toast, a chance for faster promotion, and prize money.

  Some of these men had been languishing on half pay since peace had left them without a ship or employment. Others were impatiently waiting for their ships to be refitted to use the crystalline form of the Breath. Those lucky enough to have a ship were eagerly awaiting orders to set sail.

  For the businessmen, war meant sales of rope and sailcloth, powder and shot, and salt pork. Henry listened to everyone talk of profits, boast of their future heroics and how they would spend the fortunes they would earn. If his plan succeeded, he would put an end to all talk of war. Alan and Randolph would grouse and mope for weeks.

  Henry came in the guise of Pastor Johnstone, here to reunite with a childhood friend. He pushed Simon in his rickety wheeled chair, acting the part of a retired ship’s crafter who had been wounded in battle and was living off his pension.

  Henry wheeled Simon inside the tavern and headed for their usual booth, located in a shadowy corner near the entrance to the back room, which was occupied mostly by whist players.

  Henry slid into the booth and sat facing the front door. He placed Simon at the end of the table and gestured to Alan, who was seated at a table with friends enjoying a mug of ale. Alan excused himself to his companions and came to join them.

  “Where are the sailors I am supposed to interview?” Simon demanded.

  “They are waiting for you at that table,” Alan said. “I’ll take you to meet them.”

  He assisted Simon to a small table near their booth where three men dressed in slops were seated. The sailors jumped to their feet as Alan came over and knuckled their foreheads.

  Alan introduced Simon, who took out a leather-bound notebook and pencil, as well as a hand-drawn map of the Aligoes, and placed them all on the table. The sailors pulled up chairs and sat down, looking abashed and extremely uncomfortable being around so many officers. Their own tavern was down the street and they were undoubtedly looking forward to returning to their mates and more congenial surroundings.

  Alan left Simon to his liquid pools and went back to Henry. Alan was too restless to sit sedately in a booth. Turning a chair around, he straddled it and rested his arms on the back.

  “I have news,” said Alan.

  “I hope it is good news,” said Henry. “I could use some now.”

  Alan glanced over his shoulder. Simon was busy taking notes and no one else was paying any attention to them. He leaned forward and said quietly, “You always say I have the devil’s own luck. I have received orders. The Terrapin sets sail tomorrow. Fortunately, my ship is ready, since I had been planning to set sail to test the crystals, and I have a crew, otherwise my press gangs would be sweeping the streets this night.”

  “You must let me know the results of the tests,” said Henry.

  Alan shook his head and further lowered his voice. “I will not be testing lift tanks, Henry. My mission is secret. The orders are sealed and I am not to open them until the ship has rounded Upton Point.”

  Henry frowned. “What does Randolph say about this secret mission?”

  “He knows nothing about it. The orders did not come from the Admiralty. They came directly from the palace. They bear the king’s signature.”

  “From the palace…” Henry repeated, startled and displeased. “That means from Smythe.”

  He eyed his friend. He knew what he was about to ask was hopeless, but he had to try.

  “You need to unseal those orders, Alan. I must know what is going on.”

  Alan regarded him gravely. “You know I cannot do that, Henry. I would be breaking my word of honor, not to mention disobeying a direct order.”

  Henry sighed. He recalled a time when he would have known where the Terrapin was bound before her captain knew. Now he was reduced to begging a friend to disobey orders.

  “I am sorry, Alan,” Henry said despondently. “I had no right to ask that of you.”

  “You are fighting for our country, Henry, as am I,” said Alan, sympathizing. “Just in different ways. I am glad you understand.”

  Henry gave a bleak smile. He had ordered food, but when the meat pie arrived he had no appetite. He shoved it to one side.

  “Where is Randolph?” he asked.

  “Playing whist in the private room in the back with some of his junior officers,” Alan replied, adding with grinning commiseration, “I pity his poor partner.”

  Randolph Baker was passionate about the game of whist, despite the lamentable fact that he bore the distinction of being the world’s worst player. He constantly forgot which suit was trumps and if there was a card in his hand that was certain to lose the game for him and his partner, Randolph invariably led with it.

  “How in the name of heaven did he convince anyone to play whist with him?” Henry asked.

  “He ordered them,” said Alan. “If you are a captain and your admiral asks you to be his partner in whist, you jolly well play whist with him. I told him you were coming. Should I go fetch him?”

  “No hurry,” said Henry. “Let him keep losing.”

  Alan ate the pie, since Henry could not. Henry glanced over at the table where Simon was sitting with the sailors, scribbling notes.

  “What did you tell these men about Simon?” Henry asked Alan.

  “I told them to answer any questions he asks, no matter how strange, and I promised to pay them each a half eagle for their trouble. Do you suppose there’s anything to this theory about liquid Breath in the Aligoes?”

  “Whether there is or there isn’t, I thank God for it,” Henry replied. “This theory has kept him occupied and stops him from fretting about Welkinstead.”

  “He seems thinner. Is he well?”

  “He is living in a run-down, land-bound house, bereft of his books and his newspapers, his files, his letters, and Mr. Albright,” said Henry. “No, he is not well. I brought him here hoping to get a good meal inside him; you know he often forgets to eat.”

  “If we put food in front of him, he’ll eat it,” said Alan. He called to the barmaid and instructed her to deliver meat pies to Simon and the sailors.

  “I have news of my own,” said Henry when they were again alone. “I have formed a plan. I am going to kill Smythe.”

  “About damn time,” Alan said coolly. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

  “The fact that my likeness is nailed to the wall in every constabulary considerably hampers my movements,” said Henry dryly. “Nor am I a welcome guest in the palace these days.”
/>   Alan smiled. “That has never stopped you before.”

  “Well, it has stopped me up until now,” said Henry. “Then I learned from our friend, Captain Kate, that her dragon is living near Haever. She and I have formed a plan.”

  “Involving Kate?” Alan asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do not misunderstand me. I admire Kate immensely. But she can be a bit … reckless.”

  “Thus speaketh the pot about the kettle,” Henry remarked with a smile.

  Alan grinned. “I have mellowed in my old age. Caution is now my watchword.”

  Henry snorted. “As it happens, for reasons of her own, Kate is wholeheartedly committed to helping the king. The truth is that I need her dragon more than I do her, and Dalgren would not stir without Kate. My biggest obstacle will be obtaining access to the palace grounds. Smythe has increased the numbers of the palace guard, not merely to keep unwanted visitors out, but to keep His Majesty in. Most of these soldiers are Guundaran mercenaries, loyal to Smythe.

  “I spent a day observing them and their movements. They stop all vehicles entering and leaving the palace and search them. In addition, Smythe has reinstated the air defenses Queen Mary deemed a waste of money. A naval patrol boat now guards the skies above the palace day and night.”

  “I always said grounding the patrol boats was a mistake,” Alan observed. “If the navy had been in the air, they might well have stopped the black ship and saved Queen Mary’s life.”

  “I do not think even the presence of the navy would have helped,” said Henry somberly. “The black ship’s green beam would have knocked a patrol boat out of the sky before they knew what hit them.”

  “We would at least have given them a fight,” said Alan, feeling called upon to defend the honor of the navy. “But I begin to see where you are going with your plan. Kate and Dalgren can evade the patrol boat, carry you safely over the castle walls, and land you on the palace grounds.”

  “That is the idea,” said Henry. “Once I am inside, I will gain access to Smythe’s bedchamber through the secret passages, put a pistol to his head and blow out his brains. I will make it look like suicide, of course. A pity I cannot leave a note from him confessing his crimes, but I have no sample of his handwriting for Mr. Sloan to copy.”