Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  “Did you tell Kate you are involving her in an assassination plot?” Alan asked, frowning.

  “She and Dalgren will not be involved,” said Henry. “They will drop me off and then leave. No one will see the two of them. If my plan goes awry and I am captured or killed, they will not be implicated. Kate assures me that she and Dalgren are experienced in a maneuver called a ‘slam down’ in which Dalgren plummets down from the sky, touches the ground, drops off a rider, then immediately departs.”

  “I have heard of dragons performing such maneuvers,” said Alan. “That’s how the Brigade dropped their riders onto ships during battle. I’ll wager Kate didn’t want to leave you by yourself. She won’t be pleased to be missing out on the action.”

  “She argued to come with me,” Henry admitted. “As I said, she has her own reasons for wanting to help Thomas Stanford. I was adamant, though, and she finally relented and agreed to do what I asked of her.”

  “I still think you should tell Kate the truth, that you are going to kill Smythe.”

  “I prefer not to risk it,” said Henry. “The fewer who know the better. She is staying with Miss Amelia who is, after all, a journalist.”

  “Always the cautious Henry,” said Alan with a smile.

  “I would not be alive today if I were not,” Henry replied. “Here comes Simon, brimming over with good news, by the looks of him.”

  Their friend rolled his chair up to the table. Simon was in an excellent humor.

  “The men told me an old sailor’s tale about the Manuel Gomez,” stated Simon. He cast Alan an accusatory glance. “Why did you never tell me that story? It confirms my theory.”

  “Because not even old sailors believe the tale of the Manuel Gomez,” said Alan, laughing.

  Simon was annoyed. “And no one believed tales of ships being attacked by giant bats until the Bottom Dwellers attacked ships with their giant bats.”

  “Tell Henry your tale then,” said Alan, rising from his chair and going to pay the sailors.

  Simon rolled his chair closer to the table and expanded upon the tale.

  “The Manuel Gomez was an Estaran merchant vessel during the Blackfire War. It crashed on Whitefalls Island.”

  Henry shrugged. “I suppose many ships have crashed on Whitefalls.”

  “Ah, but what makes this unusual is that searchers found the ship well inland, far from the Breath, long after it would have run out of lift gas, which would be tantamount to finding an ocean-going galleon perched on top of a mountain. When the searchers boarded the Gomez, they discovered all the crew members were dead. Henry, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes,” said Henry, who had in truth been watching a stir among the crowd clustered near the entrance. People were turning their heads and curiously looking toward the door. “Everyone was dead.”

  “Henry, the bodies were frozen stiff!” Simon exclaimed exultantly. “The sailors who found them were terrified and attributed their deaths to the freezing touch of some roaming specter, but that’s nonsense. The tale confirms my theory. The Manuel Gomez was able to sail inland due to the fumes of magic being given off by the pool of liquid Breath. The sailors perished of the cold.”

  “Brilliant, Simon,” said Henry absently.

  Alan returned to his seat to find Henry staring fixedly at the door.

  “What is it? What are you looking at?” Alan asked.

  “Three soldiers just entered the tavern,” said Henry.

  Simon glanced at their uniforms. “Two Guundaran mercenaries in service to the Freyan army and a Freyan officer.”

  Alan shook his head. “The army has made a sad mistake to do their drinking in a navy tavern, as they will soon discover.”

  “Those soldiers are not here for pleasure, Alan,” Simon observed. “They are carrying rifles and they appear to be searching the crowd. We should leave, Henry.”

  “Too late,” said Henry. “We would only draw attention to ourselves. We do not know that the soldiers are here for us and they have no way to penetrate our disguises.”

  “Even a man in a wheeled chair?” Simon asked.

  “You are not the only man in this tavern to be missing the use of his limbs,” Henry pointed out, which was quite true.

  By this time, everyone in the tavern had stopped what they were doing to make rude comments regarding the troops, jeering at the “Spuds”—a derogatory name for the foreign mercenaries due to the well-known fondness of Guundarans for a potent liquor made from potatoes.

  “What’s that other chap doing with them, that civilian all bundled up in a scarf?” Alan wondered.

  “An informant,” said Simon.

  A man wearing a greatcoat and tricorn with his face covered by a wool scarf had entered with the soldiers. He was looking about the room, as though searching for someone, but was so bundled up he was having difficulty seeing. He pulled down his scarf to gain a better view.

  Henry sucked in his breath and let it out in a hiss. “Henshaw!”

  “Your brother’s servant?” Alan asked.

  “The same,” said Henry in grim tones. “I told him where he could find me in case something happened to Richard.”

  “Your brother would not betray you, but Henshaw would,” Alan said. “I have never trusted that obsequious bastard.”

  Henshaw raised his hand and pointed straight at Henry.

  The Freyan officer nodded and gave an order in Guundaran. Henshaw ducked out the door.

  Alan shoved back his chair. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Alan! Keep out of it!” Henry told him. “You can’t be seen to be involved with me!”

  “Stay seated and wait for my signal. When I give it, wheel Simon into the whist room. The back door leads into the alley,” said Alan. “Tell Randolph what’s going on and send him to me.”

  Henry did not argue. Alan might be reckless and hotheaded on occasion, but there was no one Henry trusted more in times of crisis. The two Guundarans walked into the crowd, their sights fixed on the booth where Henry and his friends were seated.

  Their commanding officer raised his voice. “Gentlemen, we are here to arrest a traitor to Freya. We ask that you, as loyal Freyans, assist us in our duty!”

  He was greeted with angry jeers and taunts as a group of younger officers began pounding their mugs on the table to a rhythmic chant of “Spuds, spuds, spuds.”

  Alan lurched unsteadily to his feet.

  “A toast!” he shouted, raising his mug. “The king! God bless him!”

  In the time-honored tradition of the navy, every officer in the tavern shoved back his chair, pushed back from a table, and rose to drink to the king. A veritable forest of naval officers now stood between the soldiers and their prey.

  Henry slid out of the booth, grabbed hold of Simon’s chair, and began wheeling him toward the back room. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the soldiers looking at each other in frustration, wondering what to do. They undoubtedly understood that the toast had been a ploy to assist their prisoners to escape, but they had no desire to fight their way through a crowd of intoxicated naval officers thirsting for a brawl.

  Simon shoved open the door to the whist room and Henry propelled him through it and inside the small room. The door shut behind them. After the tumult outside, the room was a haven of peace.

  Whist players studied their hands, quietly bidding and laying down cards, while kibitzers lounged about, observing the play. Hardly anyone looked up as the door opened, despite the commotion taking place in the main room where angry shouts of “Spuds, spuds” had now become general.

  Randolph didn’t even glance at Henry as he pushed Simon past him, heading for the back door. Henry had to bump the wheeled chair into Randolph’s leg in order to draw his attention.

  “Here now! Watch where you’re going!” Randolph stated in ire, rubbing his knee.

  “Sorry, sir,” Henry said.

  “Eh?” Randolph blinked at Pastor Johnstone a moment, then recognized him and Simon. He was insta
ntly on alert. “What the devil is going on in there, my good man?”

  “I am sure I couldn’t say, sir,” said Henry meekly. “You should ask Captain Northrop.”

  Randolph laid down his cards.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen. Sounds like a goddamn fight has broken out.”

  He hurried toward the door to the main room. Many of the other players were now aware of the commotion and were also leaving the games, fearing they were missing out on the action. None of them paid attention to Henry and Simon, seeing only a caring friend helping his wheelchair-bound companion escape injury in a barroom brawl. The card players at one table did not look up at all, but remained intent on their game, oblivious to the tumult.

  Henry reached the exit.

  “I’m going out first. Wait here.”

  He parked Simon by the door and then thrust it open and walked outside, leaving the door slightly ajar. He couldn’t see well, for his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, but he could hear quite clearly the sound of someone cocking a pistol.

  “Stop right there!” a voice ordered.

  Simon yelled his name.

  The soldier fired.

  The bullet slammed into Henry’s chest. He staggered and fell backward through the open door, lost his balance, and fell into Simon’s lap. Henry stared at the ceiling as pain tore through his body. Each breath he drew was agony; he could hear broken bones creaking and feel the warm blood soak his clothing.

  Simon shut the door and swiftly activated the warding constructs placed there to deter thieves, adding a few touches of his own magic. Satisfied that no one would come through the door, he grasped hold of Henry’s shirt with one hand and propelled his chair backward with the other.

  “Sorry, Henry,” Simon said. “I know I’m causing you a great deal of pain, but it’s only going to get worse. The best thing you could do now would be to lose consciousness.”

  Pain seemed to consume him. Henry decided to take his friend’s advice, and passed out.

  TWENTY

  Having set chaos in motion in the main room, Alan was heading for the back when he heard the sound of the gunshot. He broke into a run and almost collided with Randolph, who was coming out of the whist room just as Alan was running in.

  Randolph pulled Alan through the door into the whist room and slammed it shut. “Henry’s been shot!”

  “Who shot him?”

  “Some soldiers. They were in back waiting to ambush him,” said Randolph. “They shot Henry when he went out the door.”

  “What about Simon?”

  “He’s safe. He used his magic to block the door. You can hear the bastards trying to break it down.”

  Alan could hear the blows hitting the door. Simon was shouting for a physician and officers were grabbing weapons, yelling that the tavern was under assault.

  Alan had to shout to be heard. “Take Henry and Simon out the back. I’ll fetch a cab and meet you in the alley.”

  “What about the soldiers?”

  “Leave them to me.”

  As Randolph started to return to his friends, Alan caught hold of his arm. “How is Henry?”

  Randolph gave a grim shake of his head. “Not good.”

  Alan returned to the main room where he was confronted by several officers. “Northrop! What the devil is going on back there?”

  “Some damn drunken Guundaran lout has just shot one of my friends!” Alan roared angrily, making certain as many people as possible heard him.

  He was thinking coolly and swiftly, as he would on the deck of his ship with battle raging around him. The confusion and turmoil worked to his advantage. He fanned the flames and stoked the fire by pointing to the Guundaran soldiers who had entered the front in pursuit of Henry.

  “The cowards shot him in the back!”

  Men began shouting and shaking their fists, hurling mugs and insults. Some drew their swords, and there was a general call to take the soldiers prisoner. The tavern owner was attempting to intervene, fearing a brawl that would wreck his establishment.

  “Please leave, sirs. I have sent a boy to fetch the constable. These gentlemen are extremely angry and I cannot vouch for your safety!”

  “We are here to serve a lawful warrant!” the army officer insisted stubbornly. “Our informant pointed out the guilty man.”

  “Blood money!” Alan shouted.

  The crowd surged toward the soldiers, swords raised, as the barmaids either ducked behind the bar or armed themselves with pewter mugs and plates.

  The Guundaran soldiers were already backing out the door. Their officer remained, scowling. His long mustaches quivered and he had his hand on his sidearm. Alan had been disturbed to hear that the owner had summoned the constable. He needed to find a cab and he couldn’t do that with this stubborn bastard blocking the door. He shoved his way toward the front to speak to the officer.

  “We do not want more bloodshed, sir,” Alan told him. “Please see reason. Your troops shot an innocent man—a pastor, at that. The constable will be here any moment. You could be the one facing arrest.”

  The army officer considered a moment, then slammed out the door. Once outside, he placed a whistle to his lips and blew three times. The soldiers posted around back came running. He swore at them in ire as he led them down the street.

  The patrons gave a cheer of triumph at the sight of their enemy retreating, and rushed out of the tavern onto the pavement to jeer at the soldiers as they were departing. Two constables arrived at about this time. The owner seized hold of them and began to air his grievances. The patrons returned to celebrate their victory.

  Several cab drivers always stationed themselves in front of the Weigh Anchor, knowing that they could generally find well-paying and inebriated customers. Alan took advantage of the confusion to mount the box of one of the cabs.

  “Here now, sir!” The driver glared at him. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

  Alan flourished a banknote in the light of a street lamp. “I am going to borrow your cab. Don’t worry. I will return cab and horse in good condition. Here is money for the inconvenience.”

  The driver glowered until he saw the denomination of the banknote. His eyes widened. He plucked it out of Alan’s fingers, handed over the reins, and swung himself down from the box.

  “Where should I leave the cab so that you will find it?” Alan called.

  “Don’t worry, sir!” the driver returned, heading for the tavern to celebrate his luck. “Miss Mab’ll find her own way home.”

  Alan drove the cab around to the alley, where he found Randolph and Simon placing Henry on a makeshift litter, assisted by a naval officer Alan did not recognize.

  Alan jumped down from the box. They had wrapped Henry in a greatcoat. He was ghastly white. His eyes were closed, his head lolled.

  “Is he…” Alan couldn’t go on.

  “He’s alive, Captain Northrop,” said the strange officer. He touched his hat and introduced himself. “William Perry, ship’s surgeon. Where do you propose taking him?”

  Alan hesitated to tell him, wanting to keep Henry’s whereabouts secret. The surgeon guessed his dilemma.

  “The gentleman requires immediate medical treatment or he will die, sir. My preliminary examination leads me to believe the bullet broke his left clavicle and is still embedded in the shoulder. He faces a high risk of infection and he has lost a great deal of blood. I would like to remain with him. Rest assured, sir, that my first duty is to my patient, not to the authorities.”

  “Very well, thank you, sir,” said Alan, relieved.

  The surgeon issued orders and, acting under his supervision, Alan and Randolph picked up Henry and conveyed him to the cab, handling him as gently as possible. Once he was settled on the seat, the surgeon climbed in with him.

  Alan turned to his friends. Randolph was standing protectively alongside Simon, whose clothes and hands were covered in Henry’s blood. Alan eyed the crimson stains and had to take a moment to compose himself
before he could speak.

  “There are two constables out front,” he said. “I’m taking Henry to the Terrapin. He’ll be safe there. We set sail tomorrow. Simon, you should sail with us. I’ll take you to the ship. Randolph, fetch Mr. Sloan—”

  “Randolph, take me home,” Simon interrupted, countermanding the order. “After that, you can fetch Mr. Sloan and bring him to my house. He’ll need to go through Henry’s papers.”

  “Simon, it’s not safe for you in Haever—” Alan argued.

  “I don’t plan to remain in Haever,” Simon stated. “I am going back to Welkinstead.”

  “Simon, listen to me—”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” Randolph advised. “You know you won’t goddamn budge him.”

  “Indeed, you won’t,” said Simon. “Mr. Sloan can help me gather up Henry’s papers and destroy the rest. When we are finished, I will send him to join you and Henry on board the Terrapin. When do you set sail?”

  “Tomorrow. Do you know this surgeon, Randolph?”

  “Perry? He’s a damn fine sawbones,” Randolph stated. “I hear he’s looking for a posting if you need a surgeon.”

  Alan already had a surgeon, but the man was probably dead drunk by this time of night. The mere fact that Perry was sober at this hour was recommendation enough. Alan went to the door of the cab to check on Henry.

  “The gentleman is holding his own,” Perry reported. “I advise you to drive slowly, Captain. He should not be jostled lest the bullet do more damage.”

  Alan climbed onto the box and gave a reassuring wave to Randolph, who was wheeling Simon down the street. Picking up the reins, Alan looked searchingly up and down the alley, fearing the soldiers might be lying in wait, hoping to still lay hands on their prey. They were apparently not that dedicated to their duty, however, for he saw no sign of them.

  Alan gently slapped the reins on the horse’s back and told Miss Mab to take it easy. The cab rolled off at a pace that would have suited a funeral procession. Alan immediately regretted thinking of funerals and he leaned over the box to spit three times to take away the bad luck.