Kingmaker (The Dragon Corsairs)

by Margaret Weis

  “An excellent choice, my lord,” said Amelia with a tremor in her voice. “We must pray it does not come to pass.”

  She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief from the reticule and loudly blew her nose. She then tucked the king’s message into her reticule, collected her coat and hat, and shouldered her umbrella.

  “In case I meet that steward,” she said darkly. “Females not allowed!”

  She held out her hand. “God save you, sir.”

  “God save us all,” said Thomas gravely, shaking hands.

  Randolph accompanied her to the door and closed it behind her.

  “How many ships can the navy provide at such short notice for the city’s defense?” Thomas asked.

  Randolph did some calculating. “Eight seventy-four-gun ships of the line, four sixty-four gun, and a single one-hundred-gun warship. Add to that a dozen gunboats and another dozen frigates. And the Terrapin.”

  “The Terrapin?” Thomas repeated. “She must have sustained extensive damage in the battle, sir, and she is in the Aligoes. We cannot count upon her, more’s the pity.”

  “Alan would not miss this fight if his goddamn ship was sinking underneath him,” Randolph predicted. “And even if it was at the bottom of the world, he’d still find a way.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I readily admit, I don’t like our odds, sir.”

  Thomas rested his hand on Randolph’s shoulder. “Do not look so glum, Admiral. As Captain Northrop has proven, one Freyan ship is equal to five Guundarans.”

  Randolph grunted, but he did smile.

  “I have one more request, Admiral,” said Thomas before he departed. “I would like you to arrange for marines to replace the palace guard. I assume that King Ullr and his mercenaries will have packed their bags and departed, but we must not take chances.”

  “If he hasn’t, we will pack their goddamn bags for them,” Randolph stated. “I’ll dispatch a force right away, sir.”

  “Have the officer report directly to me,” said Thomas. “I will have additional orders for them.”

  Randolph said nothing, though he thought he could guess as to the nature of those orders. He and Thomas shook hands. Thomas put on his hat, wound his scarf about his face, and left the Naval Club. The celebration had died down somewhat, as most of the officers had gone to their ships in anticipation that they would soon be called to action.

  Randolph stood at the window to watch the young man make his solitary way down the street.

  “I wish you were here to see our king, Henry,” Randolph said. “You would be proud of him.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and added with a gloomy shake of his head, “I applaud His Majesty’s courage, but, goddamn it, I wish he would hide himself in the palace. Cannonballs have no respect for crowned heads.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Jonathan Smythe was dining with Hugh Fitzroy, the Earl of Montford, at his country estate in Chadwick. Hugh had invited Smythe to dine because he was still angling to become the ruler of Freya. Smythe had accepted for the same reason—he wanted to be ruler of Freya. Hugh was merely a means to that end.

  Smythe enjoyed the fine meal, although he knew he was going to be expected to pay for it. The reckoning came when Hugh’s wife rose from the table to leave the gentlemen to their port. Hugh sent the servants away and immediately poured two full glasses.

  Smythe declined the port with some asperity. Hugh was well aware that as a strict Fundamentalist, Smythe did not imbibe strong liquor. Smythe knew that Hugh sought to embarrass him.

  Hugh grinned and drank both glasses, then advanced his latest idea on how to claim the throne.

  “Thomas Stanford is not a descendant of King Frederick, as he claims,” said Hugh. “He is the son of a scullery maid.”

  This theory was so bizarre that even Smythe was caught by surprise. He floundered a moment, not knowing what to say. Fortunately Hugh was so eager to explain he didn’t notice.

  “I have it on good authority that the maid and Thomas’s mother gave birth at the same time. The maid bore a son and Constanza bore a daughter. Constanza switched the babies. The Marquis paid the maid to disappear, and he and Constanza passed off the boy as their own.

  “Eh? What do you think of that, Smithee?” Hugh asked, his face flushed both from the port and pride in his theory. “I have a midwife who will swear to it.”

  Smythe had no doubt that this midwife would swear the moon was made of plum pudding if Hugh paid her enough. But Hugh had given him time to think and he saw how this crackpot scheme might work to his advantage. Smythe appeared to give the matter serious consideration.

  “Your claim would take some time to prove to the Accession Council and the House of Nobles, sir,” said Smythe. “That said, if I were to become Lord Protector of the Realm, I could advance your cause.”

  “Eh? What? Lord Protector?” Hugh regarded Smythe with sudden suspicion. “That means you would be some sort of king, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not at all, sir,” said Smythe, soothingly. “The title of Lord Protector is held by a person tasked by the House of Nobles to safeguard the realm in the unhappy event that the throne should fall vacant and there is no heir apparent. The position is not permanent.”

  Hugh drank another glass of port and thought this over. “You’re saying that once I proved my claim before the House, you would step down and I would take the throne.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Smythe. “Gladly.”

  Hugh eyed him. “Do you think some unhappy event is likely to occur that will leave the throne vacant, Smithee?”

  Smythe was suddenly wary. Hugh might be a boor, but he was a shrewd businessman who had used a number of unscrupulous means to crush his competition. He had also cultivated powerful adherents who would be glad to put him on the throne in order to promote their own causes and he was not above blackmail. But if he was hoping to hear Smythe implicate himself in removing the king, he was going to be disappointed.

  “God forbid anything should happen to His Majesty, sir,” said Smythe earnestly.

  Hugh grunted and poured another glass of port. He was about to expand on the scullery maid notion, but at that moment the clock chimed ten. Smythe noted the lateness of the hour, recalled that he had pressing business in the palace, and rose to take his leave.

  He had traveled to the estate in his own wyvern-drawn carriage. He reveled in the luxury of cushioned leather and settled himself comfortably to finalize his plans. The journey back to the palace should take about an hour, but they had only been traveling about half that time when Smythe felt the carriage start to make a rapid descent.

  Smythe lowered the curtain and looked out the window. The moon was full, shining brightly. By its light, he could see an empty highway surrounded by farm fields.

  “What is the matter, Bennings?” he shouted to his driver in irritation. “Why are we landing?”

  “Trouble with either the helm or the lines to the lift tank, sir,” the driver shouted back. “We can’t keep afloat.”

  Smythe fumed, but there was not much he could do. The carriage made a rough landing, coming down in a field near the highway.

  Bennings inspected and came to report. “One of the braided leather lines that carries the magic from the helm to the small lift tank on the back is broken, sir.”

  “What caused it to break?” Smythe demanded.

  “Hard to say, sir,” said Bennings. “The wyverns got into a rip-snorting fight while I was hitching them up. I suspect one of them bit through it.”

  “Can’t you just patch it?”

  The driver shook his head. “Won’t work, sir. I have to replace the line. I have another, but it will take me some time to remove the old one and replace it with the new. There’s an inn not far from here, sir. You should be able to get a room for the night.”

  Smythe went to see the line for himself. He could tell at a glance that it was broken past repair. He considered this accident a punishment for the sin of pride. He had origi
nally planned to travel by griffin, but had decided at the last moment that arriving in his own wyvern-drawn carriage would look more impressive.

  He could see the lights of the inn from where he stood, and it occurred to him that instead of asking for a room, he could hire a horse and continue his journey.

  He left Bennings with the carriage and the wyverns and walked to the inn. The innkeeper was able to supply him with a horse, although he said it would take some time to wake the grooms and get them moving.

  After about an hour’s wait, Smythe finally mounted the horse and took the road to Haever. The night was cold, but he did not feel it. He was in a good mood, despite having to wait. He was now a wealthy man with money to spend on wyvern-drawn carriages and greatcoats protected by magical constructs. The magic on his new coat not only guarded him from knife attack and bullets, but kept him warm, as well. He was pleased with his meeting with Hugh and looked forward to Hallen Day, which would bring an end to Thomas Stanford and make Smythe Lord Protector of the Realm.

  Smythe considered himself strong-minded, disciplined, above the weaknesses of the flesh. He considered strong emotion of any kind a weakness. Yet while he considered hatred a weakness, he could not help himself. He hated the pup, King Thomas, with a passion that consumed his soul.

  He rejoiced to think of the upstart’s destruction, and was particularly pleased with the idea that Thomas would be struck down by the hand of a wrathful God. Or at least, that’s how his death would appear.

  Smythe had already written and practiced giving his speech at Thomas’s funeral. He recited some of it now, relishing how his words sounded in the frosty air.

  “As Lord Protector, I exhort the people of Freya to change your hedonistic ways!” he thundered, startling the horse. “To that end, I will close down the theaters and shutter the ale houses and taverns. Henceforth, we must devote ourselves to pious living, or God will not spare His wrath! We will meet the same dread fate as our profligate king!”

  He topped a hill, and the lights of the city came into view. Smythe slowed the horse. Was it his imagination or were there more lights than usual for this time of night? Now that he was paying attention, he could hear church bells ringing; wildly clamoring—another oddity. Smythe checked his watch by the moonlight and saw the time was some minutes past three of the clock in the morning. Church bells rang only if there was some sort of emergency, such as fire or flood. He urged his horse to a gallop.

  Arriving on the outskirts of Haever, he saw that he had been right, something had happened, though it did not appear to be a disaster. Lights shone in the windows of every house. The occupants were not huddled inside in terror, but were milling about the streets, lighting celebratory bonfires, laughing and singing.

  Smythe stopped his horse and leaned down from the saddle to ask what was going on.

  “You must be the only person in Freya who hasn’t heard the news, sir!” the man replied with a laugh. “There’s been a great battle. The Guundarans attacked Wellinsport. Our Captain Northrop in the Terrapin sank ’em, every one. Five Spud ships gone to hell.”

  “Are you certain this news is true?” Smythe demanded.

  “It’s in the Gazette, sir. His Majesty—God love him—knew the Spuds were going to attack Wellinsport and sent Captain Northrop to stop them.”

  He was about to add more, but Smythe kicked his horse and the beast surged forward, forcing the man to jump out of the way. He had to reach the palace. Already, it seemed, Thomas was taking credit for sending the Terrapin to the Aligoes, when that had been Smythe’s idea.

  But he had not gone far when he realized reaching the palace was not going to be easy. The streets were choked with revelers, and more people were joining the party all the time.

  The side streets were less congested, but the going was still slow, for they were a tangled maze of streets and alleys. Smythe had not lived in Haever long, and he was soon lost. He continued riding in the general direction of the palace and at last its towers came into view.

  Smythe impatiently pushed his way through the crowds who had gathered in front of the palace gates, singing the Freyan national anthem and joyfully shouting, “God save the King!”

  He avoided the main gate and rode around to enter a side gate. He jumped down from the horse and was about to order one of his Guundaran guards to take the beast to the stable, only to discover that the Guundarans had been replaced by Royal Navy marines.

  Thomas had acted swiftly to see to it that the palace was guarded, which Smythe had to concede had been necessary, although he would have preferred it if Thomas had waited to consult him. But he wondered, why had Thomas replaced the entire palace guard with marines—even the Freyan guards? Of course, Thomas could feel that he could no longer trust anyone who had served with the Guundarans. But Smythe didn’t like it. He had always mistrusted the Lords of the Admiralty, starting with Admiral Baker. They did not show him the proper amount of respect.

  Smythe approached the marines with some trepidation, but they saluted him and readily admitted him. He had expected the palace to be crawling with ministers, courtiers, members of the House, all clamoring to see the king. He found instead a haven of peace.

  The halls were quiet and deserted, save for the servants, and Smythe paid little heed to them. He was not well liked among the staff. They considered him cold and brusque, and spoke disparagingly of him as a person of low birth who “gave himself airs.” He considered the servants idle laze-abouts and looked forward to the day he could sack the lot of them.

  Smythe went first to his office, hoping to find his aide. The clocks were chiming the hour of six. Early yet, but in view of the news, he could reasonably expect Corporal Plackton to be at his post. Smythe planned to question him, find out if he knew the truth of what had happened in Wellinsport before he saw the king.

  Plackton was not there, however, and none of the servants had seen him.

  Smythe next went to the royal chambers, the part of the palace reserved for the king and his family. Here, too, the palace guards had been replaced by marines, who saluted him and admitted him into the royal chambers without question.

  As they closed the doors after him, he was enveloped in quiet, although the corridors were brightly lighted. He paused to consider where he might find the king and determined he would be in his office, writing the speech he would deliver to the mob.

  Thomas would undoubtedly take credit for the victory himself. Smythe would soon put an end to that. He would make it clear that he had been the one to uncover Ullr’s plot. He would remind Thomas that he had insisted on sending the Terrapin to Wellinsport, never mind that he had done so at King Ullr’s suggestion.

  Smythe proceeded down a hall, rounded a corner, and came to a halt. The corridor in front of the king’s office was lined with soldiers wearing the distinctive scarlet coats of the Royal Marines.

  Smythe felt a twinge of unease, but he ignored it. Admiral Baker was certainly working hard to curry royal favor. Smythe would deal with him later.

  He reached the king’s office to find the secretary hurriedly shoving papers into a satchel.

  “I heard the news about Guundar. Is His Majesty safe, Braxton?” Smythe demanded.

  The secretary lifted his head. His face was ghastly white, his hair unkempt. He cast Smythe a harried look and kept grabbing papers.

  “I have no idea, sir. The king is not in his office. His Majesty is in the new Queen Mary Room,” said the secretary. He added in grim tones, “Your aide, Corporal Plackton, is with him.”

  “My aide?” Smythe felt the unease change to a chill of apprehension. “What is Plackton doing with the king?”

  “What do you think he’s doing, sir?” the secretary asked bitterly. “He’s spilling his guts!”

  He snatched up the bulging satchel and was about to leave when the door to the king’s office opened. Sir Richard Wallace walked out, accompanied by several marines.

  The secretary saw him and blanched.

  �
��I will relieve you of the satchel, sir,” said Sir Richard. “Arrest him.”

  He took the satchel from the secretary and handed it to an officer. Two marines took Braxton into custody, clamping manacles on his wrists.

  The secretary cast a beseeching look at Smythe as the marines marched him away.

  “You know I am innocent, Chancellor!” he cried over his shoulder. “Tell them the truth! I was working for you, Chancellor!”

  Smythe pointedly ignored the man’s pleas.

  “I have no idea what that fool is talking about. I am glad you are here, Sir Richard. I have important business with His Majesty. Where is the king?”

  “King Thomas is in the Queen Mary Room, sir,” said Sir Richard.

  “What do you mean, the Queen Mary Room, my lord?” Smythe demanded, annoyed. “I have never heard of it.”

  “I believe you knew it by another name, sir,” said Sir Richard. “You knew it as the Rose Room. His Majesty ordered the room renovated to honor the late queen, for that is where she met him and bestowed on him the ring of King James. He thought meeting with you in the that room instead of his office would be particularly fitting given the circumstances.”

  Smythe remained outwardly cool and impassive. Inwardly, his apprehension deepened. He lowered his voice and drew near.

  “Don’t forget that you were a member of the Faithful who plotted to assassinate the queen, Sir Richard,” Smythe said, softly lethal. “I certainly haven’t forgotten, and others might be interested to know about your role.”

  “You know we never had any intent of assassinating our queen,” said Sir Richard. “I have readily admitted I was a part of your foul scheme. I trust God will forgive me, for I can never forgive myself.”

  Smythe was sorry he had not killed this old fool when he’d had the chance. He saw the marines standing at attention, waiting, and decided it was time to make a strategic retreat.