Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  Henry smiled. “We are going to shoot you, Your Grace.”

  THIRTEEN

  The night of her father’s death, Olaf had been forced to lock Kate in her cabin to prevent her from roaming the streets of Westfirth in search of those who had murdered her father. Olaf threatened the same this early morning.

  “Greenstreet tricked you. What did you expect? That you were dealing with an honest businessman? You knew better than that when you agreed to do his dirty work, Kate,” he told her. “The truth is, Katydid, you planned to hoodwink Greenstreet and you failed. You thought you were clever, going after the gold like that, figuring you’d help yourself and Greenstreet none the wiser. You are damn lucky you’re not dead!”

  Kate held her tongue. She could understand why Olaf was upset. He loved her like his own child, which in a way she was, for Olaf had been more a father to her than Morgan.

  Olaf had been horrified to hear that she had nearly been killed, and he had raved about that all day yesterday, and most of last night, and was starting in again this morning.

  “You have your heart’s desire, Kate: letters of marque and reprisal from Sir Henry Wallace himself and money enough to complete refitting Victorie and hire a crew!” Olaf continued, his face flushed. “We can sail away from Freeport and never look back.”

  Kate was sweeping the floor, wielding the broom with more energy than skill. She didn’t like being scolded, especially when she knew Olaf was right. Turning her back on him, she surreptitiously whisked dried mud into a dark corner, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  The tavern was closed and would not open until noon. Olaf sat at a table, hunched over his ledger, supposedly recording yesterday’s sales. He had spent most of the morning yelling at her.

  Akiel had ducked behind the bar and was making a racket rattling pots and pans. He never liked to hear people arguing.

  The sun had only just risen and already the day was oppressive. The tavern was relatively cool, for Olaf had not yet opened the shutters, keeping the interior dark. The only sun allowed to enter came through slats in the shutters in the back, shining down on a table where Amelia was working.

  The table was covered with sheets of her manuscript. Absorbed in her work, Amelia wrote at an extraordinary rate. Her pen made a scratching sound as it dashed across the paper.

  Olaf had paused to draw breath, and now he added with a scowl, “And I see you sweeping dirt into the corner, Katherine Gascoyne-Fitzmaurice! Give Akiel the broom!”

  Kate handed over the broom to Akiel, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Olaf is right, mum.”

  “Of course he’s right,” Kate said impatiently, flinging herself into a chair opposite him. “But I made a promise to Sir Henry Wallace.”

  “Promised His Lordship what?” Olaf asked.

  “He asked me to talk to Greenstreet,” said Kate.

  “What about?” Olaf demanded. “Killing three of his men?”

  “They died in a fight below deck when we boarded the Pride,” said Kate. “Killed by the ship’s crew. Who’s to say differently? There weren’t any witnesses.”

  She glared at him, wishing he’d take the hint and keep quiet.

  Amelia looked up from her work. “I should say, at a guess, that Sir Henry thinks Greenstreet sent those men to kill him. I know of a great many people who would sleep far more soundly at night if they knew Sir Henry Wallace had departed this life.”

  “You cannot write that in a story, Miss Amelia,” Kate said, alarmed. “I promised Sir Henry I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “It’s old news anyway,” said Amelia. “Someone is always trying to kill him.”

  “But why?” Kate wondered. “Sir Henry told me he works at the Foreign Office. He is some sort of low-level diplomat.”

  Amelia chuckled. “You are most refreshingly naive, Captain. Did you never stop to consider that a low-level diplomat would not be entrusted with granting letters of marque to privateers? Sir Henry Wallace may say he is a low-level diplomat. In truth, he holds the unofficial title of Her Majesty’s Spymaster. He is thought by many to be the most dangerous man in the world.”

  Kate remembered watching Henry put a pistol to Jacob’s head and then, with cool aplomb, blow out his brains. Admittedly Jacob had been prepared to shoot Henry in the back, but the poor bastard had been on his knees, no threat to Henry. She still felt sick to her stomach thinking about it.

  At least Amelia’s explanation effectively silenced Olaf’s objection. He did not want anything to go wrong with this deal.

  “I suppose if you promised His Lordship, you better see it through,” Olaf said, subdued. “But use some diplomacy yourself, Katydid. Don’t antagonize Greenstreet. He did give you money to make repairs to Victorie.”

  “Never mind that his assassins would have killed me along with Sir Henry,” Kate muttered, but she kept her voice low, not wanting to start another argument.

  Akiel heard her, however, and shook his head. Olaf didn’t. He was a little hard of hearing anyway and had gone back to working on his figures. Kate sat back in the chair and mopped her neck with a handkerchief.

  “Speaking of the Victorie, Olaf,” she said. “I need you to check the magical constructs on the lift tanks. They’re starting to break down again and I can’t fix them. They need your special touch.”

  “Contramagic destroying them!” Olaf snorted. “I can mend the constructs, but they’ll only break down again. I was talking to a ship’s crafter the other day and he claimed some chap in Rosia had found a way to stop the contramagic from eating away at the sigils. He couldn’t remember his name—”

  “Rodrigo de Villeneuve,” said Amelia.

  “There you go, Olaf,” said Kate. “Ask Miss Amelia.”

  The writer wiped her metal pen and carefully set it in the holder of her inkwell before continuing.

  “Rodrigo de Villeneuve discovered how to use what is termed ‘the seventh sigil’ to repair damage done by contramagic. He published a treatise on the subject, which later was made available to the public in pamphlet form. One of the bookstores in Sornhagen would likely carry it. I could purchase a copy for you the next time I am there.”

  “I would appreciate that, ma’am,” said Olaf.

  Miss Amelia picked up her beaded reticule, opened the clasp, drew out a small leather book, and made a note to herself. This done, she returned the book to the reticule and shut the clasp.

  Olaf winked at Kate, then added politely, “The morning is a hot one. Could I bring you a mug of ale, Miss Amelia?”

  “Water, if you please, Master Olaf,” said Amelia, picking up her pen and dipping it in the inkwell to continue her work. “While some health benefit may be derived from the grains in the ale, I believe that to be negligible when compared to the ruinous effects of alcohol on the brain and liver.”

  “Stop teasing her, Olaf,” Kate whispered, grinning.

  “And miss hearing her talk? Don’t take away one of the new joys of my life,” Olaf whispered.

  He picked up his crutch and propelled himself over to the bar, where he now kept a pitcher filled with well water for the express use of Amelia. Filling a glass, he carried it to her and received her thanks.

  Kate felt hot just looking at Amelia, who was dressed in a stiff-collared white linen blouse with long cuffed sleeves, a long skirt, and a petticoat. By contrast, Kate was wearing a man’s shirt, open at the neck, and slops, and was bathed in sweat.

  “You should dress for the heat, ma’am,” Kate advised. “Like I do.”

  “If I were twenty-four years old as are you, Captain, I would adopt your unorthodox attire,” Amelia replied. “As it is, I prefer to dress as I have always dressed. With regard to the heat, I believe that one’s comfort is the result of mind over matter. As you see, I am quite cool and comfortable.”

  Kate had to admit that while she saw Miss Amelia occasionally dab a few drops of what the woman called “perspiration” from her upper lip, she did not appear to suffer from the heat.

/>   “You could at least shed the petticoat,” Kate said.

  Miss Amelia regarded Kate over the top of her pince-nez. “Mrs. Ridgeway of Mrs. Ridgeway’s Academy for Young Ladies taught us that one can always tell a lady by her petticoats.”

  Olaf’s face flushed red, this time from embarrassment, not anger. He was spared any more discussion of ladies’ undergarments by loud knocking on the front door.

  “We’re closed!” Olaf shouted.

  The knocking persisted.

  “I’ll tell them to come back later,” Kate offered.

  She went to the door, removed the bar, and opened it, letting in a flood of bright sunlight. Kate blinked at the two men standing in the doorway.

  “We open at noon,” she said and started to shut the door.

  One of the men blocked it with his foot. “Greenstreet wants to speak to you. Now.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was just coming to talk to him,” said Kate. She tied her kerchief around her head, tucked in her curls, and left the tavern in company with the two men.

  The air was humid; water dripped off the leaves. The misty layers of the Breath lay motionless. Everything seemed to wilt in the heat, including the people.

  Greenstreet’s house was quiet, as always. Bright colored birds flashed among the leaves. The veranda was cool, shaded by the trees. Another man had replaced Jacob on porch duty. No one appeared to mourn Jacob’s loss. Bullyboys were plentiful in the Aligoes. His replacement told her to wait, but Greenstreet must have been impatient to see her. He shouted that she was to come in.

  He was in his chair behind his empty desk, his fingers laced over his broad middle. The room was cool and shadowy.

  “Sit down, Captain,” said Greenstreet, glowering at her. “And no more lies. I am not a fool. I know that my men did not die in a fight to take the ship.”

  Kate remained standing, arms folded.

  “You were the one who lied to me, Greenstreet. There was no gold. The only reason you hired me to attack that ship was so that your men could kill Wallace—a job they bungled, I might add.”

  Kate slammed her hands on the desk.

  “Why didn’t you hire me to kill him? I could have done that job for you and succeeded!” she said, irate. “Not manage to get myself killed like the numbskulls on your payroll.”

  Greenstreet observed her through hooded lids.

  “Are you quite finished, Captain?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Kate said.

  “Then please be seated.”

  Kate sat down in the chair. Removing her kerchief, she shook out her curls and used the kerchief to mop her face. Then she retied it around her head. “Why do you want Wallace dead anyway? He claims he doesn’t know you.”

  “He doesn’t,” Greenstreet said imperturbably. “I understand that he has given you letters of marque.”

  Kate was startled. She hadn’t expected Greenstreet to hear about the news this fast, and she certainly hadn’t expected him to mention it.

  “What if he has?” Kate asked. “I can pay you what I owe you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  A sudden thought struck her. “And if you’re thinking about asking me to kill Wallace now, Greenstreet, I won’t do it. He is my future. When I set sail, you and the Aligoes will be my past.”

  Her voice trembled. Up to now, she had been acting a part, carrying out the plan she and Sir Henry had concocted. But when Kate spoke about Sir Henry being her future and the Aligoes her past, she was in earnest. She never wanted to see this place again.

  “I am not satisfied—” Greenstreet began.

  He abruptly stopped talking. His gaze shifted to a point past her shoulder and he barked out, “Trubgek! Damn it, don’t sneak up on me like that! What the devil do you want?”

  “Plans have changed,” said a voice.

  Startled, Kate turned to see a man entering through a secret panel in the wall. The man was about her height, of medium build, and wore an old leather jerkin over a worn shirt, leather trousers, and boots. Iron-gray hair fell to his shoulders, yet he did not seem old. Nor did he seem young either. His face was ageless, gaunt and smooth and empty. No emotion had left its mark, no laughter, no sorrow, no anger or tears. His dark eyes too were empty, devoid of life. When he looked at her, she might just as well have been the chair or the wall or the desk.

  Kate started to jump to her feet, every instinct warning her to flee. Trubgek raised his hand and spoke a word, and Kate could not move. He walked over to her, slowly, without haste, and grasped her, unresisting, by the shoulders.

  His two strong hands pressed into her flesh and he spoke again, garbled words, meaningless, but with a familiar sound.

  A dreadful chill spread through Kate’s body, as though her blood had congealed into icy sludge and then slowly frozen solid. She lost feeling in her hands and arms and legs. The paralysis spread to her chest and she had no thought of flight now. She had to struggle to simply draw a breath.

  Trubgek seized her by the hair and yanked her head back. He prized open her jaws to tie a strip of cloth over her mouth, then dragged her limp arms behind her to bind her wrists. Kate was slowly suffocating, and she began to think this man was going to a lot of trouble for nothing, because she would soon be dead.

  “Why did you interrupt me?” Greenstreet asked.

  “He wants to speak to her in person,” said Trubgek.

  He pressed his hands on Kate’s shoulders again, and spoke once more, and the debilitating chill started to seep away. Dizzy from lack of air, Kate could do nothing except sag in the chair, gasping, her heart thudding.

  “Fine,” Greenstreet said. “Saves me the trouble.”

  He sat back, again laced his fingers across his belly, and closed his eyes.

  Trubgek jerked Kate to her feet and dragged her toward the secret panel.

  “Close the door when you leave, Trubgek,” Greenstreet added, without opening his eyes.

  Trubgek: a strange and forbidding name. Few people would know what the word meant; only someone like Kate, who was familiar with the dragon language. The word was one of many dragons used for “human.” But “trubgek” was different from most. The word was disparaging, a vile insult. Kate had heard Dalgren use the word only once and that was in reference to the Rosian naval officer who had ordered his men to fire on their own forces at the Battle of the Royal Sail, killing Dalgren’s friend, Lady Cam.

  She wondered how this man had come by such a name, and if he knew what it meant.

  He thrust Kate toward the secret door. Her arms were bound behind her back, but she had the use of her legs. She could make a run for it …

  “I know another spell,” Trubgek remarked, as though he had read her thoughts. “One not so pleasant as the last. You will still be able to walk, because I don’t intend to carry you, but you won’t like it.”

  Greenstreet stirred and murmured, “If I were you, Captain, I would do as he says.”

  Kate kept walking. A series of stone steps led down below ground level.

  Trubgek paused in the doorway to glance back at Greenstreet. “Any message for him?”

  “No, none,” said Greenstreet.

  Trubgek nodded and walked through the doorway. He touched a magical construct on the wall, and the panel slid shut.

  Kate descended the stairs first, with Trubgek following, his hand on her elbow. The stairs led to an underground passage with smooth-planed walls and a smooth floor. Magical constructs engraved on the walls glowed, lighting the way. They had walked about twenty paces when the passage split into two, one leading off to the right and another straight ahead. The passage to the right was dark. Trubgek ignored it and kept going straight. They followed the tunnel for about another hundred paces, then climbed more stairs, leading to another secret panel at the top.

  Trubgek touched a construct on the wall. The panel opened into a shed filled with gardening tools: rakes, hoes, and shovels. Trubgek steered her toward the door to the shed, pushed it open, and walked
outside.

  Kate looked around, blinking in the bright sunshine. She was behind Greenstreet’s house, facing the kitchen and the servants’ entrance. There were several outbuildings, including the shed. A broad expanse of lawn ended at the edge of the jungle.

  Trubgek escorted her in the direction of the jungle, a solid mass of trees, tangled underbrush, and other thick vegetation. Kate wondered where they were going. The jungle was impenetrable; she could see no trail.

  Yet Trubgek kept walking. Reaching the tree line, he gave Kate a shove that sent her staggering off balance. With her arms tied behind her back, she couldn’t catch herself, and she fell flat onto her belly.

  Trubgek let her lie on the grass. He spoke a few words and this time Kate recognized the language, knew why it had sounded familiar. She stared at him in astonishment. She didn’t know what the words meant, but she knew by the intonation, the way the words were pronounced, that Trubgek had spoken in the language of dragons.

  Many humans could understand dragon speech, but Kate had never known a human who could speak draconic, not even the members of the Dragon Brigade, who had worked alongside dragons for much of their lives. The language of the dragons was rich and colorful and impossible for the human voice to re-create—or so Kate had always believed.

  Trubgek had spoken the language crudely, like someone mangling a foreign tongue. The fact that he had spoken those words at all was astounding.

  He reached down, grabbed hold of Kate, and dragged her to her feet. With the gag in her mouth, she couldn’t talk, so she tried grunting her question, “How did you learn to speak draconic?”

  “Talking annoys me,” Trubgek replied. “That’s why you are gagged. Keep walking.”

  He pushed her toward the tree line. Kate grunted again. “I can’t! There’s no trail…”

  The trees shimmered in her vision and then seemed to shift and move, gliding to one side or the other, opening up a trail to let them pass. As she walked, she closely examined the trees, the dirt beneath her feet, the vegetation. After a moment’s concentration, she could see the faint glow of eerie blue-green light.