Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  Marco was right. The head of the cartel was so angry he was stamping his feet on the deck. Seeing her look at him, he began yelling and waving his arms.

  Kate ignored him and addressed the captain.

  “There appears to be a misunderstanding, sir,” she said, speaking in Freyan, her voice ringing across the misty gap between the two ships. “As my lieutenant has explained, we are wreckers and we have every right to claim this wreck.”

  The captain blinked at the sound of her voice. He had apparently mistaken her for a man; a forgivable error, seeing as she was wearing men’s clothes.

  “I asked to speak to the captain of this wrecker,” he said, his lip curling. “Not his trollop.”

  “And I want to speak to a gentleman,” Kate shouted back. “Not a son of a bitch!”

  Her crew roared with laughter. The captain was now livid.

  “Come now, Captain,” said Kate, in mollifying tones. “We don’t want trouble. I am Katherine Gascoyne-Fitzmaurice, captain of the wrecker, Barwich Rose. And I repeat, sir. I have done nothing illegal, I assure you.”

  The captain managed to master his anger. “I am Captain Schmidt and I am here to recover the cargo and whatever is salvageable from the merchant vessel the Marie Elaine. We know she sank in this vicinity.”

  The head of the cartel barged in, furiously jabbing his finger at Kate. “Don’t deny it! I see some of our cargo and that … that’s the ship’s helm! I demand that you hand over everything!”

  “The crew abandoned ship, Captain Schmidt,” Kate said, still ignoring the head of the cartel. “They sailed off, leaving her, and thus, by the international Law of Finds, I have the right to the wreck’s cargo and anything else I manage to recover.”

  Captain Schmidt pointed at his guns.

  “And by the law of my twelve nine-pound guns, I say you hand over the cargo.”

  Some of the sailors on board the Hortsmann began to pick up grappling hooks. Others were arming themselves with cutlasses and pistols. Kate understood the captain’s plan. He wasn’t going to sink the Rose. He didn’t need to. He had only to fire a few shots to cripple her, then he and his crew would board her.

  The sun was starting to set, looking like a ball of glowing red flame through the thickening mists. Kate drew the bosun’s whistle from beneath her calico shirt and held it to her lips.

  “Is Akiel on board?” she asked Marco.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the men hauling in the bosun’s chair. “He’s just setting foot on the deck now, Captain.”

  “Good,” said Kate. She yelled across the gathering gloom. “I think you should reconsider, Captain! The law is on my side. I could bring you up before the maritime court!”

  “Stop wasting time listening to that female vulture and sink her, for God’s sake!” roared the head of the cartel.

  “I give you one more chance, Madame Wrecker,” said the captain. “Tell your crew to stand down and prepare to be boarded and all this will end peacefully, without bloodshed.”

  “Damn right, it will!” Kate muttered and blew the whistle.

  Dalgren materialized out of the mists, only a few yards from the Hortsmann, his snout level with the open gunports. His lips curled back, revealing his fangs. Flames flickered from his jaws. His claws flexed as though he could hardly wait to snatch up a few humans and hurl them into the Breath.

  Sailors aboard the Hortsmann cried out in alarm and pointed. Captain Schmidt had been concentrating on Kate and missed seeing Dalgren until the terrified crew brought his attention to the fact that a dragon was within spitting distance of their ship. Hearing the shouts, the captain turned in time to see the outraged cartel head draw his pistol and aim it at Dalgren.

  “Are you mad, sir?” Captain Schmidt knocked the pistol from the man’s hand. “If that beast breathes fire on us, he could hit the powder magazine and blow us into eternity!”

  “You can’t let her get away with this!” the head of the cartel howled, gesturing at Kate. “Think of the money we’ll lose!”

  “Your crew should have thought of that before they abandoned ship,” Captain Schmidt said coldly.

  He spoke that last in Travian, probably thinking Kate could not understand. Her father had been an educated man, however, and he had seen to it that his daughter learned to speak what he termed the languages of commerce: Travian, Estaran, Freyan, and Rosian.

  “So you admit, Captain, that we have a right to the salvage,” Kate called out in Travian.

  Captain Schmidt fixed her with a baleful glare and made a stiff bow. “I wish you joy of your spoils, Captain.”

  He gave the orders to return to Sornhagen. The Hortsmann started to rise out of the thick mists, sailing into the clearer air of the ship channel above. Before the ship could depart, Dalgren spit a gout of molten fire onto the deck.

  “That’s for the trollop insult,” the dragon boomed.

  The crew of the Barwich Rose cheered and hooted in derision. The last they saw of the Hortsmann, the sailors were dashing about with buckets, trying to put out the blaze.

  “Well done, Dalgren!” Kate shouted to the dragon.

  “I have to admit I enjoyed that,” Dalgren said, flames flickering from between his teeth. “But all this work has made me exceedingly hungry. If you don’t need me, I’ll go find dinner.”

  “Good hunting!” Kate called.

  Dalgren dipped his wings in salute and flew off.

  Kate gave Marco orders to sail to Freeport, then headed below to warm up. Akiel trailed after her, shaking his head.

  “Did you see that, my friend? I won!” she told him.

  “By making an enemy of the Travian cartels,” said Akiel. “Trouble will come of this, mum, mark my words.”

  “Don’t be so gloomy!” Kate said, laughing. “Wrap my new helm in sailcloth. I want that ghost captain to see I’m taking care of it.”

  Kate retired to her cabin, planning to celebrate as her father had always celebrated a victory—with a bottle of Calvados.

  Pouring the liquor, she thought about what Akiel had predicted.

  “‘Trouble will come of this,’” Kate repeated.

  She remembered an old mariner’s lay her father used to sing. “There’s no luck about the house. There’s no luck at all.” Morgan had always sung it with a laugh, as though by daring Fate, he could force her to smile on him. Kate raised her glass in a mocking salute. “‘No luck at all.’ The family motto.”

  FIVE

  The Foreign Office, located in Haever, the capital of Freya, was located about three blocks from the palace. The massive, stolid building with its squat fluted columns flanked by rows of long, narrow windows was completely devoid of charm. The dignified façade was intended to symbolize Freyan stability and security, symbolism that was somewhat lacking at the moment, for the façade was covered by scaffolding. Stonemason crafters had recently discovered that the magic which kept the building standing had been weakened by the Bottom Dwellers’ contramagic bombardment. The crafters were currently working to repair the magic before the building collapsed.

  Entering through the bronze double doors, ducking beneath the scaffolding, a visitor found himself in the grand hall. By craning his neck, he could see the ceiling, seven stories above him. With its balconies and murals, a painting meant to depict God, and an enormous sun made of shining gold mosaic tile, the hall was meant to inspire awe and a feeling of pride. As with the exterior, however, repair work marred the effect. God was forced to peer through the scaffolding while bits of the sun dropped onto the heads of the unsuspecting.

  The irony was not lost upon Henry.

  The fate of the nation rested on the shoulders of those who worked here. Even the lowliest clerks went about their business with an air of importance, talking together in hushed tones, giving the impression that they were engaged in the most urgent business that could not be interrupted, or the nation would fall.

  The great men who ran the Foreign Office from their offices on the seventh f
loor—directly beneath God and the sun—were rarely visible. If anyone asked to see them, they were far too busy with matters of state. Two people were the exception to this: Her Majesty the queen and Sir Henry Wallace. If Her Majesty sent for the great men, they would attend her. If Henry sent for them, they came on the run.

  Henry’s office was not close to God or the sun. It was off by itself in a corner on one of the lower levels. No one was ever certain precisely which level, for visitors had to go up three stairs and then down six, traverse a hall, and round a corner to reach it. The office had a front door and a back door, though few people knew about the back door, which led down a flight of stairs to a dark and dismal alley.

  The casual observer could have mistaken the office for that of the clerk to some very minor functionary, for it was small and nondescript, with but a single window that looked down into the alley. What the casual observer did not see was that both the front door and the back were guarded by an elaborate system of magical warding constructs designed by Simon Yates. He had also created the illusion that made the back door appear to be a wall, so that Henry’s visitors—and Henry himself—could come and go without attracting notice.

  The office furniture consisted of a single desk and three chairs, one for Henry and two for visitors, although the visitors’ chairs were currently the repository for documents, folders containing documents, newspapers, reports, letters, books, and missives, all stacked on the chairs because there was no room on the desk, the shelves, or the floor.

  The clutter pained Mr. Sloan, even though he knew Henry left his office this way on purpose. If he wanted a visitor to stay, Henry would clear a chair. If he did not, he kept them standing.

  The morning after the funeral, Henry was seated at his desk, contemplating how to help his beloved country. He would develop ideas, examine them, think them over, then discard them. The death of the prince was just the latest in a series of blows. If Freya had been in a pugilistic contest, his country would be lying bleeding in the dirt with the referee standing over her, giving the final count.

  He heard someone removing the magical locks, and looked up to see Mr. Sloan enter the office, carrying an envelope.

  “This was delivered to your club, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  He made his way through the piles to hand the letter to Henry.

  “It’s from Simon,” said Henry. Opening the envelope, he drew out a small sheet of paper that had been torn from a ledger.

  Henry glanced over the letter, crumpled the paper, swore, and threw it on the desk. “Look at that, Mr. Sloan.”

  Mr. Sloan was forced to smooth the paper. He read aloud, “‘Prince Tom, confirmed. Dragons, solution. Lunch.’ Typical of Mr. Yates’s style. I must confess I am at a loss, my lord.”

  “Simon has been studying the late Prince Jonathan’s research into King Oswald. We all fondly believed that Oswald’s line died out following the death of King James. Sadly, it seems it did not. This Prince Tom’s claim that he is a direct descendant and therefore the rightful king of Freya is true. Jonathan even drew up a family tree! I take Simon’s use of the word ‘confirmed’ to mean that Simon has confirmed Prince Jonathan’s findings. Prince Tom has a legitimate claim.”

  “That is most unfortunate, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “If the newspapers were to discover this—”

  “They won’t,” said Henry with a grim smile. “The question is, what to do about this young man.”

  “He could meet with an accident, my lord…” Mr. Sloan suggested.

  Henry shook his head. “His mother is an Estaran princess married to a Bheldem marquis. In addition, they both have close ties to Rosia, personal and financial. This young man’s death under suspicious circumstances would cause an international incident.”

  Henry paused, then said, “To tell the truth, Mr. Sloan, I find that I no longer have the stomach for such wretched deeds. I look back on some of what I have done in my career with deep regret. I think to myself, ‘What if Hal finds out I sent innocent men to their deaths?’ I fear my own son will learn to despise me…”

  “You did what you had to do for our country, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan firmly. “You have risked your own life on more than one occasion for the sake of Freya. Your son has every reason to be proud of his father.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “And forgive me for my piteous ramblings. I have been feeling a trifle despondent lately, that is all.”

  “Perfectly understandable, my lord. You have been beset by many problems. What will you do about Prince Tom?”

  “I have an idea,” said Henry. “I need to think on it. As to the dragons, I have no notion what Simon is talking about. I hope he does not mean that we are having dragon chops for lunch.”

  Henry drew out his pocket watch to check the time. “Do you happen to know the location of Simon’s house today?”

  “Yes, my lord. I saw it this morning floating above the Cooper’s Square market, traveling in a northeasterly direction. I will arrange for a carriage.”

  * * *

  Henry and Mr. Sloan located the famous flying house, known as Welkinstead, punctually at noon. They had no sooner descended from their wyvern-drawn carriage than they were joined by Randolph and Alan, arriving in their own carriage. Simon’s manservant, Mr. Albright, appeared at the entrance and silently ushered them inside.

  Welkinstead did not actually fly. According to its late owner, the Duchess of Elsinore, the house “drifted with panache.” The late duchess had been a gifted crafter, a renowned scientist, and an artist. Her friends deemed her eccentric. Everyone else termed her a crackpot.

  The original house had started out as a marble villa. The duchess, who had more money than sense as the saying went, had added on wings, domes, flying buttresses, steeples—whatever took her fancy. Not content with having turned her house into an architectural monstrosity, she had decided she was bored with the view and wanted a change of scenery, though without leaving her house.

  To achieve this goal, she designed powerful magical constructs to fortify the villa’s structure and hired hundreds of workmen and crafters to jack up the house and remove it from its foundation. The duchess had stood on her porch, waving to the crowd as lift tanks filled with the Breath of God and several enormous balloons carried Welkinstead into the air.

  The duchess and the Seconds had become friends when she aided them in their investigation into the assassination plot against the late king Godfrey. When Simon was felled by a bullet that severed his spinal cord, the duchess designed a special magical chair for his use and brought him to live with her in her wondrous house. She had bequeathed both the house and her immense wealth to him.

  The duchess had been content to let the house drift about Haever, hiring tugboats to assist her if the house ventured too far out into the Breath. Simon had deemed such aimless travel annoying. Much to the ire of the tugboat captains, who had made an excellent living off the duchess, he had added sails and airscrews to the house. Now either he or Mr. Albright could steer it.

  Alan had once described Simon as “preeminent scientist, genius crafter, renowned detective, and the world’s most inveterate busybody.”

  Henry termed Simon “Freya’s secret weapon.”

  Mr. Albright silently took their hats and indicated with a gesture that Simon could be found upstairs in his office. They made their way through the first level of the house, which was an homage to the duchess’s penchant for collecting. Her taste was eclectic; the collection included stuffed tigers, birds’ eggs, more than a hundred crystal chandeliers that swayed perilously with the movement of the house, and works of art of varying quality all hanging at tilted angles on the walls.

  Simon’s office took up the entire second floor, with the exception of a small bedroom and a water closet. He had placed his desk in a turret surrounded by windows that provided a magnificent view of Haever and the orange mists of the Breath beyond.

  His enormous desk was the repository for newspapers, pam
phlets, and gazettes from across the world, as well as correspondence from his many informants. He read everything from major news stories to the agony columns and obituaries. He absorbed information, sorted and compiled and considered, then used the results to thwart the plots of their foes, solve crimes, catch criminals, and gather intelligence on friends and enemies without ever leaving his house.

  Seeing that the chairs apparently had migrated to various parts of the room due to the listing of the floor, Mr. Sloan and Mr. Albright went to fetch them, while Henry, Alan, and Randolph visited. They had not seen one another since the funeral.

  Simon was examining a small painting in an ornate frame, peering at it through a magnifying glass. He did not look up, but waved to his friends, motioned to them to be seated, and kept studying the painting. At last, he raised his head and set his glass aside.

  Henry walked over to look at it. “A Brandess?”

  “A forged Brandess,” Simon declared. “The forger used magic to obtain the delicate shade of blue for which Brandess was renowned. He would have succeeded, but he then attempted to erase the magic using contramagic, only he didn’t know what he was doing. I can still detect faint traces of the sigils. I will send a note to the museum curator. She was right to be suspicious.”

  He jotted down a few words on the back of the curator’s letter, then handed the letter and the painting to Mr. Albright, along with instructions to wrap them up and deliver them by messenger.

  This done, Simon leaned back in his chair and smiled at his friends.

  “You’ve come about the dragons.”

  “And lunch,” Alan added.

  “Never mind lunch or the goddamn dragons,” said Randolph. “We’ve come to make plans to go to war against Guundar.”

  “We can discuss that over lunch,” Alan said.

  “Ah, yes. Regarding lunch, I’m afraid there’s nothing in the house to eat,” said Simon.

  “You never have anything in the house to eat,” said Henry. “Mr. Sloan has brought sandwiches.”

  “Now, about that war…” said Randolph, rubbing his hands.