Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  Nydrian’s Cove had been founded by wealthy plantation owners who grew indigo, logwood, and sugar cane. They had originally transported their cargo south to Wellinsport by ship, but after losing much of their cargo to pirates, the plantation owners had invested their money in building a road that ran from Nydrian’s Cove to Wellinsport and began to send their goods overland.

  The road became known as the Indigo Road, named for one of Whitefalls’ most valuable crops.

  During the Third Travian Trade War, the Indigo Road proved the salvation of Wellinsport when the city came under siege by the Travian cartels. The Indigo Road remained open, despite Travian efforts to cut it, and goods kept flowing, bringing relief to the city.

  Following the war, Wellinsport realized the value of the overland route and built two forts at the northern entrance to the city, both to guard the road and to collect tolls used to maintain the forts.

  Several years later, pirates formed an alliance with one of a long line of corrupt governors of Wellinsport and took over Nydrian’s Cove. The governor agreed to turn a blind eye to their occupation of the town in return for a share of their spoils.

  The good relations between the governor and the pirates ended during the war with the Bottom Dwellers, when the pirates formed an alliance with the Bottom Dwellers, seizing ships, taking slaves and transporting them Below to serve as sacrifices in their heinous blood magic rituals. The Freyan navy attacked the cove, drove out the pirates and the Bottom Dwellers, and in order to prevent their return, reduced the town to cinders.

  Following the war, a few of the surviving rogues hoped to once again establish the cove as a base of operations. They repaired the dock and made a start at rebuilding the town, but that was as far as they got. The Freyan navy did not permit them to remain. Only a few pirates still lurked about the cove these days, hoping to catch a merchant ship unawares, but they rarely stayed long, avoiding naval patrols.

  The plantation owners continued to rely on the overland routes to transport their goods and Nydrian’s Cove remained abandoned. Nature was gradually reclaiming the land on which the town had been built. Vegetation thrust up through the blackened floorboards, and wooden buildings rotted away.

  As Henry gazed down over the rail of the Rose, the thought came to him that if he discovered a pool of liquid Breath, Nydrian’s Cove would be an ideal location for a mining town. He could picture the town prosperous and thriving once more with transport ships coming and going.

  He banished the happy thought from his mind, refused to let himself think about it, figuring this way he would merely be confirmed in his belief that Simon had allowed his scientific theories to run amuck, rather than face bitter disappointment.

  The Rose left the town behind and headed inland, traveling westward into an uninhabited part of the island. Henry worried that once they left the Breath, the ship would lose the benefit of the buoyancy that kept the Rose afloat, for the magic of the Breath did not extend far beyond the coast. Even though she had lift tanks, the Rose would eventually sink to the ground without the magic to keep her flying.

  Akiel had assured him that the Wall of Frozen Fog was not far from the cove. Henry hoped he was right. He did not want to have to walk to find it, although he would if he must.

  The air grew distinctly colder as the ship sailed farther west. Olaf’s crew put on their pea coats and knit caps. Mr. Sloan brought Henry his greatcoat and assisted him in draping it over his shoulders.

  “Not far now,” Akiel stated.

  Henry permitted himself a modicum of hope.

  He was so interested in the search for Simon’s well that he did not dwell on his injury, with the result that his shoulder did not pain him as much as when it was constantly on his mind. He disliked the sling, which discommoded him and hampered his movements. Since the pain had receded, he was strongly tempted to take it off, but he knew Mr. Sloan would look disapproving, quote Mr. Perry and his injunctions to wear it, and remind him that if anything happened, he could lose his arm. Henry deemed it easier to leave the sling in place.

  As the Rose continued her journey westward, the air grew colder and wisps of chill fog materialized, trailing about the boat and wreathing the sails. Olaf’s “lads” had all heard the story of the Manuel Gomez: Henry, remembering that her crew had frozen to death, asked Olaf if the “lads” were growing nervous and might be inclined to turn back.

  Olaf reassured him. “I’ve known these men for years. Each put his mark to the contract they signed to work for me and they are true to their word. I did take the liberty of telling them you would give them a reward if we found Akiel’s Wall of Frozen Fog. Fifty eagles per man. I asked Mr. Sloan and he did not think you would mind.”

  “If we find this well, I will give every man on this boat one hundred eagles,” said Henry.

  “Very generous, Sir Henry,” said Olaf, nodding. “To be honest, the lads are more worried about the ghosts than the cold. Akiel promised them he would use his spirit magic to persuade them to leave us alone.”

  He cast a glance at the big man who was standing by the rail, gazing into the mists, his head cocked as though listening.

  “Let us hope there are no spirits and we won’t have to resort to any sort of magic,” said Henry, hiding his smile.

  “I agree with you there, my lord. Spirits are a cantankerous lot,” said Olaf. “A damned nuisance. I remember that time Kate salvaged a helm when she was out wrecking. The ship’s captain had died at the helm and his spirit wouldn’t let her take it. He kept knocking her hand away. Akiel claimed he talked to the dead and the spirit relented and gave Kate the helm. But I had my doubts.”

  “Any sane person would,” Henry remarked.

  “I don’t think that damn spirit left,” said Olaf grumpily. “Blasted helm never did work properly.”

  The Rose sailed on, the air grew colder, and the fog grew thicker. They were far inland, traveling away from the Breath, and the ship should be starting to lose altitude. Henry was surprised that it wasn’t.

  “Perhaps you should not be surprised, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “The fact that we are not sinking could prove that Master Yates is right. We are near a pool of liquid Breath.”

  Henry considered this possibility with mounting excitement. “Simon theorized that such a pool would emit ‘fumes’ of magic. Perhaps those could be keeping the Rose afloat.”

  “We are close, very close, my lord,” said Akiel. “I can hear voices.”

  “Voices?” Henry repeated, alarmed. “Are they speaking Guundaran? Rosian?”

  “The voices belong to the dead, my lord, and they warn us to keep our distance,” Akiel replied. “The dead have no allegiance to any nation.”

  Olaf looked at Henry. “Do we sail on, my lord?”

  “Of course, we sail on!” said Henry, exasperated. “Did you ever hear such foolishness?” he added in an undertone to Mr. Sloan.

  “Indeed not, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Dead or not, I will still be a Freyan.”

  Olaf spoke to the helmsman and the Rose sailed ahead, though he did slow her speed. The fog grew thicker. Henry could feel the moisture on his skin. Frost formed on the deck and coated the rigging. Those on board stamped their feet and blew on their fingers to try to keep warm.

  “I do hear something, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, cocking his head. “A wailing moan. It has a very human-like quality.”

  “Nonsense,” Henry said, trying to ignore the fact that he could hear the eerie sound, as well.

  The members of the crew began casting glances at each other and muttering among themselves.

  “My lord! Look at that!” Mr. Sloan exclaimed.

  “The Wall of Frozen Fog,” said Akiel solemnly. “Thus do I remember it.”

  A barrier of white, radiating cold, materialized in front of the Rose. At that moment, Henry became aware of a sudden, ominous silence.

  “The airscrews have stopped working,” he said grimly.

  Olaf started swearing and hobbled over to
the helm. Shoving the helmsman aside, Olaf ran his hand over the brass helm. He waited a moment; nothing happened. Muttering something, he tried again. No comforting whirring sound came from the airscrews. He sent the crew to check to make certain the leather braids connecting the helm to the airscrews were still attached, nothing frayed or broken. They reported that all was well.

  “What is wrong?” Henry asked.

  “Magic is no longer flowing from the helm, my lord. The airscrews have stopped working and so have the lift tanks. I have no idea why.”

  “The spirits are in control,” Akiel stated. “We are not wanted.”

  Henry was shivering uncontrollably. “Spirits in control! Utter nonsense! There must be a logical explanation!”

  “The loss of power would solve the mystery of the Manuel Gomez, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “The crew was not able to escape and thus froze to death.”

  “Small comfort if we solve the mystery by dying the same way,” Henry retorted. “I refuse to accept the idea of ghosts taking over a ship!”

  Mr. Sloan looked down over the rail. “The ship is starting to sink, my lord.”

  “Damnation!” Henry swore. Although he was not a sailor, knew nothing about seafaring magic, and had no idea what he was looking at, he stomped over to the helm to see for himself. “There must be something you can do,” he said to Olaf.

  “There is,” said Olaf grimly. “Akiel, tell those dratted spirits of yours to stop mucking about with my ship!”

  “I will confer with them,” said Akiel.

  Mr. Sloan raised an eyebrow and cast a glance at Henry.

  “I’ll try anything,” he muttered.

  Akiel descended belowdecks and returned carrying a candle. Standing at the ship’s prow, he faced the wall of white, and raised the candle, but did not light it. Placing his thumb and forefinger on the candle’s wick, he began whispering. He removed his finger and thumb and the wick burst into flame. The wailing moan increased in intensity.

  “I can hear them clearly. The spirits are the crew of the Manuel Gomez,” Akiel stated. “They warn us to turn back. They do not want to harm us. They are trying to save us.”

  “Then they have a funny way of going about it,” Olaf stated angrily. “The Rose is sinking! Tell them to take their dead hands off my helm!”

  “They say we have been warned,” said Akiel, shrugging. “If we continue on, we will share their sad fate.”

  “Without a helm, how are we supposed to do anything else!” Olaf demanded.

  The Rose, carried forward by momentum, drifted closer to the wall of fog. Henry peered over the rail. The mists flowing from the white wall writhed beneath the keel, which was about thirty feet above the ground and sinking fast.

  He watched the mists in a kind of strange fascination, as the ship floated through the fog, and saw an enormous fissure in the ground filled with gray, undulating liquid like thick gravy that had grown cold and congealed. He remembered thinking the same when he had been in the refinery at Braffa, observing the pools of liquid Breath. Simon was right.

  They say that when facing death, atheists become believers. In that moment, acting out of desperation and having found what he sought, Henry became a believer.

  “Akiel, tell the spirits that we will honor their sacrifice. We will name the well the Manuel Gomez.”

  He turned around, only to find that Akiel had disappeared. “Where is Akiel?”

  “Down here, my lord,” said Olaf, pointing underneath the helm.

  Henry saw Akiel lying flat on the deck, his head and shoulders underneath the helm, holding the candle to the underside. Within a few moments, Henry heard the welcome sound of airscrews whirring to life. The lift tanks began to glow blue as the magic flowed into them.

  Akiel emerged from beneath the helm.

  “No one checked the lines attached to the brass. Turns out they were coated with ice. I thawed them out.”

  He winked at Henry. “And by the way, my lord, the spirits say to thank you. They will let us depart now.”

  The Rose anchored near the pool long enough for Mr. Sloan to take readings and do what he could to determine their location. While he worked, Henry went belowdecks to the captain’s cabin to attempt to try to warm up. Mr. Sloan joined him to note the longitude and latitude on a chart and the Rose set sail.

  Henry gazed at the map. “Simon will revel in his triumph over us, Mr. Sloan. If we ever again dare to doubt him, he will answer with only two words: ‘White Well.’”

  “An acceptable price to pay for the sake of our country, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “It will be, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. He thought of the Guundaran ships in the harbor. “Providing we still have a country.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Alan Northrop had been spending his time in Wellinsport supervising the repairs to the Terrapin, keeping watch on ship movements in the Trame Channel, and struggling to write a report to the Admiralty. He had to find a way to inform Their Lordships that thus far Wellinsport was not under attack and despite what he had told Henry about the Rosian navy hiding among the islands, he did not truly believe the Rosians had ever harbored any notion of attacking Wellinsport.

  Alan was angry at being sent on this fool’s errand and he was forced to tear up two brutally honest versions of his report that would have probably ended his career in the navy. He was laboring over a third when a midshipman came to tell him that a passenger on board a shore boat was hailing the Terrapin, requesting permission to come aboard.

  “Henry is here to apologize,” Alan said to himself as he went up on deck. “Though I admit he was right about the Rosians, he was wrong in demanding that I disobey orders. He must see that by now.”

  He was prepared to welcome him aboard, but the passenger seated in the bow of the shore boat was not Henry. He was a griffin-messenger by the looks of it, for he was wearing a helm and a long leather coat such as those worn by griffin riders.

  Alan guessed the messenger was from the Admiralty, bringing new orders. Fortunately, the repairs to the Terrapin were nearly completed. The ship could be ready to set sail within the hour. He would be glad to leave. He didn’t care where.

  The shore boat did not bother to tie up alongside the Terrapin, but landed directly on the aft part of the deck.

  “I need to speak to Captain Northrop!” the messenger stated. “The matter is urgent.”

  A crew member directed the messenger to the quarterdeck and he came on the run. Alan advanced to meet him. He was about to introduce himself when the messenger took off his helm.

  “Alan! It’s me. Pip!”

  Alan stared, amazed. Phillip Masterson, Duke of Upper and Lower Milton, had been a member of Alan’s infamous crew of privateers known as the Rose Hawks, and had gone on to become one of Henry’s most trusted agents. He had sent Phillip to spy on Thomas Stanford when Henry had been convinced Thomas was attempting to usurp the Freyan throne. Phillip had shifted his allegiance to Thomas, with the result that a furious Henry had declared him a traitor.

  Alan didn’t know whose side Phillip was on now, but he wasn’t taking chances.

  He turned to the captain of the marines. “Take this man into custody. Search him for weapons.”

  Phillip raised his hands in the air.

  “I’m not armed, Alan. I have an urgent message for Sir Henry.”

  He kept his hands raised as two marines roughly took hold of him and did a thorough search, turning out his pockets and patting him down, even to his boots.

  “His Majesty, King Thomas, sent me. Alan,” Phillip persisted, “I need to speak to Henry! Where is he? I have to warn him about the Guundarans!”

  Alan looked at the third Guundaran ship that was just now starting to enter the harbor.

  “Damn it all to hell!” Alan muttered.

  “His Majesty’s letter is inside my coat, Alan,” Phillip said. “Let me show it to you.”

  “Move slowly,” said Alan.

  Phillip opened his coat and gingerl
y reached into a hidden pocket sewn inside the lining. He drew out Thomas’s letter and handed it to one of the marines, who took it and gave it to Alan. The letter was sealed with the royal seal of His Majesty, the King of Freya.

  Alan recognized the seal, but he did not immediately open the letter.

  “Release him,” he ordered. “I will speak to you in my cabin, Your Grace.”

  “I must talk to Sir Henry,” Phillip insisted.

  “He is not on board,” said Alan. “He is staying at that disreputable boarding house where he always lodges when he’s in Wellinsport.”

  “No, he isn’t,” said Phillip, as he accompanied Alan down the stairs. “I tried that place first. I arrived last night and went to see him. His landlady said he had packed his things and left. I assumed he had returned to the ship. I was going to come immediately, but the shore boats do not run after dark and I was dead tired. I had a chance to eat and snatch a few hours of sleep and came as soon as the boats were running this morning. Where has Henry gone?”

  “Out of his mind,” said Alan.

  Phillip blinked, startled. Alan closed the door and gestured to him to take a seat.

  “You mentioned the Guundarans. Tell me what is going on.”

  Phillip wearily dropped into a chair. “Read the letter. It is meant for Sir Henry, but Thomas would want you to know, especially as he sent me with a message to you. King Ullr has sent the Terrapin into an ambush. Those three Guundaran warships are here to attack Wellinsport. I saw two more in the Trame Channel, heading this way. Ullr has sent this fleet to make a surprise attack on the city and to either capture or sink the Terrapin.”

  Alan broke the seal and read the letter. He then folded it up and sat with it in his hand, tapping it on the desk. “Henry suspected King Ullr was up to no good. He warned the governor not to allow the Guundaran ships to enter the harbor.”

  “I take it the governor refused to listen, since I saw the Guundaran ships tied up at the dock,” said Phillip.