“At an exorbitant price, no doubt,” said Henry, his lip curling.
“If you find the liquid too expensive, perhaps your navy could go back to sailing using the old-fashioned means,” said King Ullr. “Although I doubt even God’s Breath could float that monstrosity.”
He cast a glance at HMS Terrapin, sailing in the Breath alongside the Valor. The hull of the Terrapin was covered with specially designed magical metal plates that gave the ship her name. Their magic made the ship practically impervious to gunfire, but the sheets of metal were extremely heavy. The “old-fashioned means” to which the king referred were tanks filled with the Breath of God. The magically enhanced gas could not provide the lift needed to keep the Terrapin afloat.
Henry was aware he had lost the battle and he could do nothing now except claim his wounded and retire from the field. He could at least fire a final parting shot.
“I will take this news back to Her Majesty,” he said. “In the interim, I urge you, Frau Aalder, and the other members of the Braffan council to recall what happened when King Ullr’s forebearers took their neighbors ‘under protection.’”
King Ullr stiffened, his face flushed an angry red. The ancient Guundarans were reputed to have been barbarians who preyed upon their neighbors, looting, burning, and plundering. The Guundarans had long sought to live down this reputation; King Ullr was so outraged Henry thought the king might actually challenge him to a duel on the spot.
As the king advanced, his hand on the hilt of his sword, a gust of wind left over from the storm chose that moment to carry off the king’s tall, plumed bicorn and send it bounding along the pier.
Henry kept a straight face as one of the king’s aides ran to fetch the wayward hat, though he did allow his lips to twitch. Frau Aalder was not so kind. She laughed out loud. King Ullr cast Henry a furious glance, turned on his heel with military precision, and, retrieving his hat, thrust it under his arm and angrily stalked off.
Henry removed his own hat for dignity’s sake, lest the wind blow it off, too. He joined Mr. Sloan, and the two slowly walked back to the pinnace.
“What did you think, Mr. Sloan?”
“Frau Aalder is an extremely unpleasant woman, my lord,” Mr. Sloan replied.
“I wish I’d let the Bottom Dwellers shoot her,” Henry muttered. “At least the meeting ended on an amusing note.”
“If you are referring to the wind gust carrying off the king’s hat, I have always said God is a Freyan, my lord,” Mr. Sloan observed.
Henry smiled. “So you have, Mr. Sloan, but that wasn’t what I meant.”
He paused a short distance from the pinnace and lowered his voice. “The matter of the crystals. Frau Aalder and the council are lying to their new ‘protector.’ She was there when Captain de Guichen and I seized the crystals. And I am certain Ullr knows she’s lying, though he can’t prove it.”
“Why would the Braffans lie about the crystals, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked.
“I am wondering that myself,” said Henry. “At a guess, I would say they don’t want King Ullr to know that the crystals exist. She must know that both we and the Rosians are studying the crystals in our possession, trying to learn how to manufacture them. The Rosians have failed thus far and, from what my agents tell me, they are going to cease working on it in order not to waste any more of the crystals.”
“It would seem King Ullr has bought a pig in a poke, my lord.”
“I believe you are right, Mr. Sloan. Let us say that we start manufacturing the crystals in Freya. Three crystals can lift a frigate off the ground, replacing several barrels of the liquid form of the Breath. All the navies of the world would flock to purchase crystals from us. The price of the liquid would plummet and Ullr would realize he had made a bad bargain.”
Henry was grim. “Unfortunately, to make the crystals, we need the liquid form of the Breath. King Ullr will see to it that we pay through the nose, such that we will not be able to afford to manufacture the crystals. This is a disaster, Mr. Sloan. An unmitigated disaster.”
“I am certain you will find a way to remedy the situation, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.
Henry only shook his head and boarded the pinnace.
The journey back to the Valor was rough. The gusty winds that had carried off the king’s hat blew the pinnace all over the sky and made landing treacherous. The coxswain in charge knew his business, however, and safely brought the boat down onto the deck. Sailors rushed to secure it.
Randolph was on hand to meet them. When he saw Henry, he raised an eyebrow. Henry shook his head, letting him know he had failed. Randolph shrugged. With his customary pessimism, he had been expecting nothing else. The flag captain of the Valor ordered the crew to weigh anchor and prepare for return to Freya.
That evening, Captain Alan Northrop of the Terrapin sailed to the Valor to join his friends for dinner.
Alan, Henry, Randolph, and Simon Yates had been friends for over twenty years, since their days at university. They had called themselves “the Seconds,” for they had discovered that each was a second son, meaning their older brothers would inherit the family fortunes, leaving each of the younger brothers to fend for himself.
In their numerous adventures during their university days, Henry had been the cunning schemer, Randolph the dour pragmatist, Simon the swift thinker, Alan the bold, daring rogue. Their friendship had remained strong through the years. Although Simon was not present, being confined to a wheelchair in his eccentric house in Haever, his friends always kept a place for him at the table and drank a toast in his honor.
The three dined in the admiral’s spacious cabin in the ship’s stern. Conversation was desultory, none of them able to discuss international intrigue in the presence of the servants. Henry had finally found time to read his wife’s letters; he recounted a few of young Henry’s three-year-old exploits to proud smiles from the “uncles,” as his friends considered themselves. After dinner, Randolph dismissed the servants. Mr. Sloan served brandy, cheese, and walnuts, and at last they were able to discuss the day’s events.
“How is His Highness?” Alan asked.
“The prince is resting comfortably,” Henry reported. Not wanting to risk dropping one of Randolph’s fragile crystal snifters with his bandaged hands, he was drinking the brandy from a tin cup.
“Thank God for that,” said Alan.
They had drunk the traditional toast to the queen, but now Randolph raised his glass to the prince. “To His Highness. Long may he reign.”
“I fear the news isn’t all good,” Henry said, holding out his mug for a refill. “The surgeon told me privately that he is worried about the ugly bruise on the prince’s chest. He fears his heart may be damaged. He detects a slight irregularity in the prince’s heartbeat.”
“Damn sawbones! Always making a fuss,” Randolph said in disgust. “Of course the prince’s heartbeat is irregular. Goddamn boom fell on him! Good stiff drink, that’s what he needs. I shall send him a bottle of the ’88 port.”
“How did the meeting go with the Braffans?” Alan asked, finally asking the question that had been on everyone’s mind. “What is Guundar up to?”
Henry gave a morose shake of his head.
“As bad as that,” said Alan.
“Worse,” said Henry.
He described his meeting with Frau Aalder and King Ullr. “Braffa is now a protectorate of Guundar.”
“Protectorate!” Randolph repeated with a bellowing laugh. “Might as well ask the goddamn wolf to protect the goddamn sheep!”
“By God, Henry, Guundar broke the neutrality pact!” Alan exclaimed, flushed with excitement and brandy. “This means war!”
Alan had lost his right hand during a fight with the Bottom Dwellers, when his rifle had exploded after being hit by a blast of contramagic. The loss had not slowed him down, nor did it seem to overly concern him. He had practiced until he could wield a sword and shoot with his left hand almost as well as he had with his right.
Three years since the war ended, Alan was growing bored with peace. Henry suspected his friend missed his days roaming the Breath as a privateer, hoping to snap up an Estaran treasure ship or capture a rich Rosian merchantman.
“Keep your voice down, Alan, for God’s sake!” Henry said, annoyed. “Rumors spread like the yellow jack aboard ship! I don’t want half the fleet thinking we’re going to war.”
He tried to set the mug down on the table, but dropped it, spilling brandy. Henry swore, kicked the mug, sending it flying. Mr. Sloan silently retrieved the mug and mopped up the brandy.
Henry muttered an apology, then rose to his feet. “We will talk in the morning.”
“Henry, this is us,” said Alan earnestly. “You can tell us anything.”
“Bloody damn right,” said Randolph.
Henry knew he could. He knew he must tell them someday that Freya was teetering on the edge of a financial precipice. But not tonight. His bandages were stiff and uncomfortable, and his hands burned.
“Good night,” said Henry.
As he left, he heard Randolph remark, “Poor old Henry. He looks like the goddamn boom fell on him.”
Henry gave a bitter smile. In a way, he felt as though it had. A boom by the name of King Ullr.
THREE
Six months after the accident on board the Valor, Crown Prince Jonathan was dead.
The royal physician said he died of a bruised heart muscle suffered when the boom struck his chest. To compound the tragedy, the prince’s little son and heir died a fortnight later, a victim of the diphtheria epidemic currently sweeping through Haever. The two were buried side by side in a vault in the great cathedral.
The nation of Freya, having lost both heirs to the throne in a span of weeks, was in shock and mourning. Queen Mary was a widow, past the age of childbearing. The tragic double loss meant that suddenly, the line of succession was in serious jeopardy.
Henry recalled terming the Braffan takeover by Guundar a “disaster.” He reflected grimly that he had not then known the meaning of that word.
He and his wife, Lady Ann, attended the lavish funeral. Heads of state the world over had come to pay their respects. Among them were King Renaud of Rosia and his sister, the Princess Sophia, who had spent time in Freya following the war as a gesture of friendship between the two nations. King Ullr had come, as had a representative of the Braffan council (though not Frau Aalder, for which Henry was grateful!), as well as the monarchs of both Travia and Estara and a host of princes, nobles, bishops, and foreign dignitaries.
Surrounded by a suffocating mass of humanity, Henry was conscious only of a small white casket and the body of the little prince, looking like a waxen doll. The sight of the dead child, who had been the same age as his own son, badly unnerved Henry. During the service, he went down on his knees to pray to a God in whom he didn’t believe to bless and keep his dear boy.
The service was beautiful, sad, and solemn. Henry and his wife escaped as soon as decently possible. They were well aware that with all the dignitaries crowding around her, offering their condolences, Her Majesty would never miss them.
Arriving back home, Henry handed his black top hat and cloak to the footman. His wife removed her black veiled bonnet and her cloak, then rested her black-gloved hand on his arm.
“What a dreadful time this has been,” she said. “You look exhausted, my dear. You haven’t slept in a week. Shall I have tea served in the drawing room?”
“Always thinking of me, little Mouse,” said Henry. “I should be the one worried about you, especially in your condition.”
Lady Ann smiled and placed her hand on her swollen belly. She was six months pregnant with their second child.
“You must be upset,” Henry continued, taking her hand. “You and the prince were cousins. Her Majesty told me you two played together as children.”
His wife was close to the same age as the dead prince; she had only just turned twenty. He was in his forties and he could still not believe his good fortune in obtaining such a woman as his wife. The queen had given Lady Ann to Henry in marriage as a reward for his loyal service, making him Earl of Staffordshire. He had been astonished beyond belief to learn that in addition to the money and the title and the manor house, she brought him love.
Ann was pale and slender, with large eyes and brown hair. The queen had deemed her niece “a sweet child, but mousy,” and “Mouse” had become Henry’s pet name for her. Twenty-five years older than his wife, he marveled every day that she should have fallen in love with him and, more astonishing, that he—hard-bitten and cynical—had fallen in love with her.
“Jonathan was never one for childish games,” said Ann, making a face. “All we ever did together was play checkers. He would very politely beat me and then leave to go read a book. I never really minded, though. He had the most wonderful rocking horse. I loved riding it. He kept it for little Charlie. I suppose it had to be burned with all the rest of his toys, poor lamb.”
Ann wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Henry gripped her hand.
“Our son is well, isn’t he?” he said with a catch in his voice. “No sign of contagion.”
“He is fine,” Ann replied with a reassuring smile. “We are taking every precaution. Nurse keeps him indoors, away from other children. He doesn’t like being cooped up, though, and I’m afraid he’s been very naughty. He jabbed one of the maids in the leg with that wooden sword Captain Northrop gave him. Hal told her he was a pirate and he was going to make her eat macaroons.”
“Eat macaroons?” Henry repeated, mystified.
“Nurse and I believe he meant ‘marooned,’” said Ann. “Now don’t you laugh, Henry! You and Captain Northrop encourage him to play pirates, but he cannot be allowed to stab the servants.”
“No, no, of course not,” said Henry hurriedly. “I will speak to him. And now I’m going to change my clothes. You should rest and put your feet up.”
He kissed her and hastened upstairs to his dressing room. He did not employ a valet, knowing better than most that servants make excellent spies. Shutting the door, Henry sank down in the chair and let his head fall into his hands. His laughter at his son’s exploits had brought him near to tears.
Henry was, as Ann had said, exhausted. During the last month of the prince’s illness, Henry had spent much of the time at the palace, dealing with physicians and the Privy Council and attempting to calm the fears of the House of Nobles. After Prince Jonathan’s death, Henry had been obliged to assist in planning the elaborate funeral and to urge the grief-stricken queen to make a decision about the heir to the throne. Queen Mary refused to even discuss the matter.
Henry rose, splashed cold water on his face, changed his clothes, and joined his wife in the drawing room. Ann poured tea and, at Henry’s request, told Nurse to bring young master Hal to visit his parents. Remembering the small white casket, Henry clasped his son in his arms so tightly that Hal protested.
“Papa, stop! You’re squishing me!”
Henry released the child and studied him anxiously. Hal did look healthy. No sign of a runny nose or fever, the early symptoms of the disease known as the “Child’s Strangler,” so named for the membrane that grew in the throat, causing children to suffocate.
“Henry, you promised you would speak to him,” said Ann with a reproving look.
“I did, indeed.” Henry sat down in a chair, placed his son on his knee, and undertook to lecture him. “Now, young man, I have received a report that you stabbed one of the maids—”
“Polly,” said his wife.
“You stabbed Polly with your toy sword,” Henry continued, trying to sound and look stern. “That was very wrong of you, Hal. A gentleman respects his servants. He does not mistreat them.”
“But Polly wasn’t a servant, Papa,” Hal argued. “We were playing pirate. I was Captain Alan and Polly was a dirty Rosian dog.”
Henry dared not look at his wife or he would have disgraced himself by bursting into laughter. Nurse w
as standing by, looking grim, and he recalled a rainy afternoon when she had caught him and Alan and young Master Hal playing “pirate” in the nursery.
He explained to his son that the Rosians were now their friends and that it was not polite to refer to anyone by such a derogatory appellation as “dirty Rosian dog.”
Hal listened to the lecture with wide, solemn eyes and then said, “Can I have my sword back, Papa? Nurse took it away from me.”
“I think the sword should remain with Nurse for a time,” Henry said, trying to sound severe and probably failing, for his wife’s lips were twitching.
Young Master Hal gave a philosophical shrug. “That’s all right, Papa. Captain Alan promised next time he’d bring me a pistol.”
“My dear!” exclaimed his wife, casting Henry a look of alarm, while Nurse’s eyebrows shot up to the edge of her white cap. Henry would have to speak to Alan. Meanwhile, he decided it was time for diversionary tactics.
“Would you like one of these little tea cakes, son,” said Henry, presenting Hal with a treat from the tea cart.
This indulgence proved too much for Nurse, who advanced to rescue her charge. Seeing her coming, Hal crammed the small cake into his mouth before she could snatch it away.
“Such rich food before bed will give him nightmares, Your Lordship. Now, Master Henry, tell your mama and papa good night.”
Hal presented his mother with a sugary kiss, and Nurse carried him off, scattering crumbs and waving to his father over her shoulder.
Once Henry was certain his son could not hear, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Dirty Rosian dog! Ha-ha! Wait until I tell Alan!”
“I am glad to see you more cheerful, my love,” said Ann.
“I must either laugh or break down and cry,” Henry replied, chuckling and wiping his eyes.
He picked up the newspaper, took one look at the hysterical headline ranting over the succession, and threw the paper to the floor. Flinging himself into his chair, he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Ann laid down her embroidery and came over to sit in his lap, resting her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her and drew her close.
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