Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  Henry stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window at the city drifting by.

  “You haven’t told them,” said Simon, looking at Henry.

  “Told us what?” Alan asked warily.

  “That we can’t afford another war,” said Henry, turning around. “Freya is on the verge of bankruptcy.”

  “I know things are bad,” Alan said. “But are they really as bad as that?”

  “Worse,” Henry said. “I could go into the reasons behind the financial collapse: the cost of the last war, the disruption in trade worldwide, inflation—”

  “I believe you!” Alan said, raising his hands in defeat.

  “Suffice it to say,” Henry continued, “we have been spending money we don’t have. Our creditors—among them the Travian cartels—are growing nervous and starting to demand that we pay them back. We can’t. We have almost no revenue flowing into our coffers.”

  “Raise taxes,” Randolph suggested.

  “We can’t keep raising taxes,” said Henry impatiently. “The wealthy won’t stand for it—the House of Nobles is already in open revolt. The middle class is being squeezed as it is and the poor can’t pay what they don’t have.”

  “There’s been nothing in the newspapers,” Alan said.

  “Of course not,” said Henry. “You don’t think I want to publicize this, do you? I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate that speculation about an heir has kept the newspapers from raising hell about the sad state of our economy.”

  “We don’t need to fret over a goddamn heir. Her Majesty is in good health, God bless her,” said Randolph gruffly. “What are you going to do about this economic mess, Henry?”

  “I was counting on the manufacture and sale of the crystals to pull us out of the hole, but King Ullr put an end to that.”

  “Just tell our creditors we’re good for it,” said Alan, shrugging. Being fond of baccarat, he knew something about debts and moneylenders.

  Henry gave a faint smile. “The problem is we’re not ‘good for it’ and they know it.”

  “And this is why I asked you to lunch,” Simon said. “I have the solution. Dragons. Specifically, Travian dragons.”

  “Good God! Simon, you’ve finally gone crackers,” said Alan.

  “I didn’t know there were such things as Travian dragons,” said Randolph.

  “Be quiet, you two,” said Henry. “Simon, speak.”

  “The Travian economy is in worse shape than ours, which is why the cartels are insisting we pay them back. King Henrick of Travia did what Randolph suggested. He imposed a hefty tax on wealthy Travian landowners. This tax was aimed specifically at the dragons, who own vast amounts of land rich in gold and timber.”

  Alan interrupted. “I cannot follow this on an empty stomach. Mr. Sloan, I believe some mention was made of sandwiches?”

  Mr. Sloan distributed the sandwiches. Simon took his, set it down, and promptly forgot about it.

  “Now, you must understand that dragons living in Travia are not like dragons living in Rosia,” he explained. “The Rosian dragons have been an integral part of Rosian society for centuries. They attend court. Humans have established cities in the Dragon Duchies and live and work among them.

  “The dragons of Travia, on the other hand, have never been considered a part of Travian society. The dragons live in mountainous regions and keep themselves apart from humans. Thus the Travian dragons do not believe they should have to pay this tax—”

  Alan again interrupted. “Mr. Sloan, do you know where to find the aqua vitae? I believe it is in one of the filing cabinets. Try searching under ‘V’ for ‘vitae.’”

  Mr. Sloan ferreted out the bottle and poured the liquor. Henry refused. He had an idea where Simon was going with this and he needed a clear head.

  “The Travian dragons are extremely wealthy. They could easily afford to pay the tax. They do not like being told to hand over the money and then have no say in how their money is spent. The king has decreed that they must pay or he will seize their lands.”

  Alan laughed. “What passes for an army in Travia couldn’t take a toy from a child, much less threaten dragons.”

  “Still, the dragons are unhappy and I was thinking that if Her Majesty were to send an envoy to the dragons, offering them land in Freya and titles and a seat in the House of Nobles, she could prevail upon the Travian dragons to move themselves and their gold to Freya.”

  At this, Randolph flushed purple and snorted. “Dragons living in Freya! Not bloody likely! Remember the Battle of Daenar? Thousands of Freyans died in that battle, killed by dragons! My own uncle was one of them, God rest him!”

  “Randolph is right, Henry, there would be trouble,” Alan warned. “The hatred for dragons in this country dates back farther than Randolph’s uncle. It goes clear back to the Sunlit Empire and the ancient Imhruns.”

  “Mr. Sloan, I see you looking somber and shaking your head,” said Henry. “What are your reservations?”

  “According to Scripture, my lord, dragons are the minions of the Evil One. I am not saying I believe that. We have dragons to credit for our defeat of the Bottom Dwellers. Unfortunately, many members of the Fundamentalist religion, as well as conservative members of the Reformed Church of the Breath, consider dragons evil. I agree with Captain Northrop and Admiral Baker. There would be trouble.”

  Henry had run out of patience. “There will be a damn sight more trouble if Freya goes bankrupt and we have to ground the fleet, lay off thousands of sailors, and put captains and admirals on half pay!”

  Randolph sputtered. “Goddamn it, you don’t mean that, Henry! You’re not serious!”

  “I have never been more serious in my life,” said Henry.

  “I can’t live on half pay,” said Randolph.

  “Neither can I,” said Alan, sounding troubled.

  “Bosh!” Randolph snorted. “You could always go back to being a glorified pirate.”

  “No,” Alan said quietly. “I can’t.”

  Henry understood what Alan meant. The commission in the Royal Navy had made Alan respectable. Freyan lords and ladies gushed over the daring exploits of the romantic privateer, but they had never invited the “glorified pirate” into their homes. The handsome Captain Northrop of the Royal Navy, however, was a welcome addition to balls and dinner parties. After years of scandal and living as an outcast, Alan had finally restored his family’s honor.

  “I think Simon’s idea is a good one,” said Henry. “I will make the recommendation to Her Majesty. Do I hear objections?”

  Alan turned away to pour himself another glass of aqua vitae. Randolph muttered something, but said nothing out loud. Simon gave Henry a sympathetic smile and handed over his report. Mr. Sloan brought Henry’s hat.

  Climbing into the carriage, Henry realized he had forgotten to talk to Alan about his idea for a privateer.

  “Send an invitation to Alan to dine at my club tomorrow night,” said Henry.

  “Your Lordship is scheduled to sail for Wellinsport tomorrow afternoon,” Mr. Sloan said.

  “Damn and blast it!” Henry swore. “I forgot the voyage was scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “I could cancel the booking,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Henry was tempted. After a moment’s consideration, he sighed and shook his head. “I must go, Mr. Sloan.”

  The Rosians were sending ships to the Aligoes, and while they claimed to be interested only in driving out the pirates, the Rosians had long coveted Wellinsport and its Deep Breath harbor and might decide to try to take it. The city was in desperate need of a vast sum of money to reinforce the batteries that protected it.

  “Although where we’re going to find the money for Wellinsport is another problem altogether.” Henry spoke his thoughts aloud. “Still, we must come up with it. Wellinsport is too valuable to lose.”

  “Indeed, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Henry sank back into the leather cushions. “In addition, I promised Her Ma
jesty that I would rein in the excesses of the governor, the Right Honorable Aldous Finchley. I have tried to convince Her Majesty to remove the viscount from office, but he’s a great favorite and she won’t hear of it.”

  Henry sighed and rubbed his forehead. “He sent her a monkey.”

  Mr. Sloan expressed his sympathy with a cough, then added, “Perhaps a restful voyage will do you good, my lord.”

  Henry fixed his secretary with a grim look. “I know you are trying to lift my spirits, Mr. Sloan, but stop it. I prefer to be miserable.”

  “Very good, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Speaking of being miserable,” said Henry. “I want you to book a passage for Miss Amelia Nettleship, the journalist and author of ‘The Adventures of Captain Kate.’ Then extend my invitation to Miss Nettleship to be my guest on this voyage. She will want to know why, of course. Tell her I would like her to write about the Right Honorable Aldous Finchley. Not the true reason, of course. If I have my way, Finchley will not be the Right Honorable for much longer. But that should do for the moment.”

  Mr. Sloan was so amazed he was momentarily struck speechless. At length he ventured a feeble protest: “A journalist, my lord? Captain Kate?”

  “For the sake of queen and country, Mr. Sloan,” Henry said. “Queen and country.”

  SIX

  On board the Victorie a week later, Kate polished the newly installed brass helm. She was looking forward to tomorrow, which was when she would finally take her newly restored old brig into the Breath to see how she handled.

  Dalgren had found the wrecked Rosian brig on one of his hunting trips among the small islands. The Victorie was an older model that had been brought out of retirement to join the fight against the Bottom Dwellers. The ship was small, only about one hundred ten feet long, with a thirty-foot beam, two masts, a single gun deck, two airscrews, and two balloons.

  Kate recalled hearing about the sinking of the Victorie. The brig had come under attack by one of the Bottom Dwellers’ infamous black ships and, according to reports, was severely damaged. Captain and crew had been forced to abandon ship. She and other wreckers had searched for the ship for years. The other wreckers didn’t have a dragon working for them, however; a dragon who could inspect hundreds of islands from the air.

  Kate and her crew had arrived at the site to find that most of the damage done to the brig had occurred when it had crashed into the jungle: broken masts, punctured balloons, a gaping hole in the hull. She saw no signs of explosions or fires; the powder magazine had not been breached. Kate had been puzzled as to why the ship had gone down until she saw the helm.

  The brass was blank, as though wiped clean with a towel. The magical constructs used to control the ship’s lift tanks, balloons, and airscrews had been obliterated by contramagic, probably a direct hit from one of the Bottom Dwellers’ green-beam weapons. The helmsman would have immediately lost control, leaving the ship to the mercy of the wind and the Breath until it fell out of the sky.

  The way Olaf explained it, contramagic acted like acid on the magical constructs, destroying them without a trace. When Kate had tried to replace the constructs on the helm, the lingering effects of contramagic had eaten away at her magic.

  “Most of the damage can be repaired, except for the helm,” Kate had told Marco as they were inspecting the vessel. “Seems a shame to scrap the Victorie. In fact, I won’t,” she had added on impulse. “I’m going to claim her myself. All I need is a new helm.”

  Because they had no way to control the magic, Kate and Olaf had been forced to rely on their own crafting skills to keep the ship afloat. Victorie was so old that it used the Breath of God, not the liquid, to lift her off the ground. Olaf and Kate had crouched beside one of the two large lift tanks and placed their hands directly on the constructs, using their own magical energy to spark the Breath in the tank. They were exhausted by the end, but they managed to keep the ship afloat long enough for the crew to tow it to Kate’s Cove, a secluded bay she had found not far from Freeport, on one of the innumerable islands floating in the Breath.

  Kate had chosen it because it was close to Freeport, yet not close enough that anyone was likely to stumble across it. The island was home to tall cedar trees, which could be used to tie off the ship, and a stretch of cleared beach where they could sink the bollards on which to secure the anchor.

  The iron bollards had cost Kate dear. The Aligoes Islands produced almost no iron ore, and thus nearly every object made of metal had to be imported. In addition, each bollard had to be specially made with a clamp on top to hold the anchor in place. She had searched for anchoring bollards at auction, but had not found any. She had purchased the bollards from an ironworks in Freya, borrowing money to cover the expense. Olaf had grumbled that she could have built Victorie for what the bollards cost.

  Once they had the bollards, Olaf had blasted holes in the rocks with gunpowder. The crew sank the bollards into the holes, packed them with dirt and large chunks of stone on which Olaf had placed magical constructs, the same type used by stonemason crafters. The crew filled the holes with mortar and Olaf used the magic to fuse the stones together.

  “Those bollards won’t shift for centuries,” he had proudly told Kate.

  The two arms of the anchor fit over the bollards, held in place by the clamps so that the anchor could not accidentally break free.

  Since the anchor was far too heavy to lift off the bollards, Olaf had rigged a metal bar operated by a modified well pump that sprang up out of the ground and knocked the anchor off the bollards. The crew could then haul in the anchor and the ship would float free. Kate held her breath the first time they lowered the anchor and attached it to the bollards and again when they raised the anchor. Everything worked as planned. Olaf was so pleased and proud he quit grumbling about the money it cost.

  Kate and her crew had spent every free moment for the past six months refitting the Victorie and repairing the magical constructs that were essential to the operation of the vessel. Kate had done most of the repairs to the magic herself. Olaf, her instructor, had always insisted she was a talented crafter.

  Kate knew better, rating her skill at fair to middling. She knew the workings of the constructs on the helm, how to repair the magical constructs on the lift tanks and inscribe protective constructs on the hull. Her true talent lay in being able to cast a magical spell “on the fly.” She was quick-witted, quick to react. Magic seemed to sparkle at her fingertips.

  She took pride in her ability, smiling when Olaf grumbled that she should think first and react second.

  With the new helm in place, Victorie was ready to sail. Kate was eager and at the same time afraid to cut the cables that tethered the ship to the shore. If the Victorie sank, her dreams sank with it.

  Kate ran her fingers over the constructs on the helm and imagined them glowing with faint blue light at her touch. She could hear the whirring of the airscrews, the whoosh of the balloons inflating; feel the thrill of the ship coming to life beneath her fingertips.

  “We can do it, old girl,” said Kate, giving the helm a pat. “We’ll set sail first thing in the morning.”

  “Hail the Victorie!” someone called.

  She heard the creaking of a rusty airscrew and turned to see a single red silk balloon bobbing along the narrow channel that led to her cove.

  Kate was not expecting company. She picked up her pistol, which she kept beneath the helm, and aimed it at the wherry.

  “Stand off!” she shouted. “I’m armed!”

  “Mum! Don’t shoot! It’s me, Akiel! Olaf sent me to find you!”

  The wherry emerged from the trees and she could see Akiel alone in the small craft.

  Kate shoved the pistol back under the helm.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as the wherry came up alongside. “Other than the fact that Olaf needs to oil that airscrew.”

  “Two of Greenstreet’s men came to the tavern asking for you, mum. They said—”

  Kate imp
atiently interrupted. “I know what they said, Akiel, and you can go back and tell them I haven’t got the money now, but I will have it. Greenstreet needs to give me more time.”

  “The men did not say anything about money, mum,” Akiel replied. “They said that Greenstreet says you are to come to his office. This evening at sunset.”

  “What’s this about?” Kate asked, startled and uneasy. “What does Greenstreet want with me?”

  “The men would not tell Olaf. Greenstreet is a bad man, mum,” Akiel added. “A very bad man. You should not have borrowed money from him.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Kate snapped. “You like being paid, don’t you?”

  Akiel smiled. “You have yet to pay me, mum.”

  “Well, I will,” said Kate.

  “I am not complaining,” Akiel assured her.

  “I know.” Kate sighed.

  * * *

  Entering the Perky Parrot tavern, Kate was relieved to see that Olaf was too busy washing the pewter mugs and getting ready for the supper crowd to scold her.

  “You know I don’t approve!” he called from the kitchen.

  “Duly noted,” Kate called back.

  She went out back to a screened-off area she had rigged for bathing. She hauled water from the well and dumped it into a metal tub made from a cut-away lift tank. The water was cold and she didn’t have time to warm it. She lowered herself into the water, gasping at the cold, and scrubbed vigorously to keep warm.

  Kate was uneasy about this meeting. Greenstreet was the most powerful man in the Aligoes. Not only the most powerful; also the most feared. No one knew much about him. He had arrived in Freeport ten years ago, moved into the biggest house on the island, and set up shop. Within a year, he was financing nearly every illegal enterprise in the Aligoes. He was heavily involved in the black-market arms trade; he ran whorehouses, opium dens, and gambling casinos; he was also a moneylender, and Kate, needing materials to refit the Victorie, had availed herself of this service.

  She had missed a few payments on her loan.