Coreg made a sudden dart with his head, so that his snout was only a few feet from her. Startled, Kate took an involuntary step backward and bumped into Trubgek. He put his hands on her shoulders and she froze, nerving herself to meet the dragon’s slit eyes.
“You won’t refuse a simple request, will you, ‘Katydid’?” Coreg murmured.
Kate set her jaw. “You can threaten me all you like, Coreg. I’m working for Sir Henry.”
“You must allow Wallace to think so, of course,” Coreg agreed. “He must never know the truth. Don’t worry. You will not find the tasks I assign onerous. You may capture all the Rosian treasure ships you want, keep Sir Henry happy. A year or more could pass and you might never hear from me.”
Coreg thrust his head even closer. His fetid breath, stinking of blood, washed over her. Kate choked, struggled to keep from gagging.
“When you do hear from me, I expect you to do what I ask,” said Coreg. “My reach is long—it can crush a man’s skull in an alley in Westfirth.”
The dragon drew back his head. Raising himself to his full height, he gazed down on her. “Have a safe and pleasant journey to Freya, Captain. I would warn you to say nothing of our conversation, but I won’t bother. If you did, no one would believe you. I will be in touch. Trubgek, I need a word with you.”
The lamps went dark; the only light now was sunlight filtering through the crack in the stone. Kate lost sight of both Trubgek and the dragon. She could hear them talking, but they were speaking draconic. Kate tried to figure out what they were saying. She knew a smattering of the language, but could understand it only if it was spoken slowly. Coreg spoke rapidly, though, and Kate gave up.
No one was guarding her. She could have escaped, but there was a reason no one was guarding her. She didn’t have anywhere to go. Coreg had only to withdraw the magic to leave her stranded, lost, in the midst of the jungle. She did edge nearer the crack in the wall to get some fresh air, rid her nostrils of the nauseating odor of Coreg’s breath, and was surprised to hear a scrabbling noise from outside, as if someone was beating a hasty retreat.
Kate concluded that the noise was probably made by an animal and thought nothing more about it. She went over everything the dragon had said, especially the threats. He knew a lot about her father’s death, more than she had ever told anyone. She and Olaf were the only two who knew about the Hollow Soul gang. And she wasn’t the only one he had threatened. He had let her know he was familiar with Dalgren’s noble family and that he knew Olaf’s pet name for her.
Kate leaned back against the wall. She was desperately thirsty. Her arms hurt, her shoulders ached, her spirits flagged. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Or rather, she could. The family motto.
“I’ll fix this,” Kate vowed. “I will. I always do.”
Hearing footsteps, she hurriedly straightened. Trubgek was walking toward her, holding the gag in one hand and a waterskin in the other. Silently he held out the water. Kate was thirsty, but she hesitated, thinking it might be drugged. Trubgek shrugged and started to toss the waterskin on the floor.
“No!” Kate said. “Please.”
He removed the stopper and held the waterskin to her mouth. She drank some; then he took it away and started to gag her.
“You won’t need that. I won’t talk,” Kate said. “I promise.”
Trubgek paused and seemed to consider, then stuffed the strip of cloth into a pocket in his jerkin.
He pointed at the crevice in the wall. “That way.”
“It would be easier for me to walk if you could free my wrists—” Kate began.
Trubgek reached for the gag. Kate pressed her lips together and squeezed through the crack in the stone. The walking was arduous; she was already tired and felt drained after the tense interview with the dragon. The water revived her, however. She had a lot to think about, decisions to make, and as she put distance between herself Coreg, her spirits rose.
I’m leaving the Aligoes, Kate said to herself. I’ll be sailing the Breath, the world over. I’ll be under the protection of the Freyan government. He can’t touch me.
Nonetheless, she was uneasy. She had never before heard of a dragon engaged in villainous enterprises, criminal activity, sinking as low as humans. Dragons were intelligent, noble creatures with high standards and ideals. True, Dalgren had sunk beneath those standards by deserting the Dragon Brigade, but Kate knew that he was tormented every day by his actions. He never said as much, but that was the reason he refused to fight humans or dragons. Coreg would make a powerful foe. All very well to tell herself she would keep out of his reach, but that might prove difficult. And, as he said, if she told someone, no one would believe her.
Her worries carried her through the magical jungle, and for all her defiant determination, she was extremely glad to step onto the smooth, green, nonmagical lawn of Greenstreet’s estate.
Kate wondered if Trubgek would take her back to Greenstreet. She looked back at Trubgek for instruction, only to see that he had stopped at the edge of the jungle. Startled, Kate turned to face him.
“Aren’t you coming?”
Trubgek fixed his dark, empty eyes on her and she had the strangest impression he was studying her, engraving her image on his mind, never to be forgotten. Kate met his gaze. She’d never forget him either. She indicated the ropes.
“You need to untie me,” she told him.
Trubgek stared in silence and then started to turn away.
“No! Wait! Where are you going?” Kate called, alarmed. “You can’t leave me tied up like this!”
Trubgek said nothing. He walked back into the jungle, leaving Kate standing on the lawn, her hands locked behind her back.
“Why do you let Coreg call you by that horrible name?” Kate yelled after him. “You know it’s an insult. You know that every time he says ‘Trubgek,’ he’s sneering at you. Why do you put up with it?”
Trubgek stopped. He turned to face her, and Kate saw a flicker of life in the man’s eyes, a feeling long suppressed. His expression did not change and Kate couldn’t tell whether the emotion was anger or disdain or maybe even laughter. He turned away again. The glow of the magic started to fade. The trees closed ranks and the trail through the jungle vanished. Trubgek vanished.
Kate shivered. She was glad he was gone, although he had left her in a sorry predicament. She wondered what to do. She didn’t want to have to grovel in front of Greenstreet, beg him to remove the ropes, but she couldn’t very well walk through the town trussed up like a chicken.
And then she would have to face Olaf.…
Sighing, Kate started toward the house, thinking she would enter through the back door. A voice startled her.
“Hst! Captain! Over here!”
Kate raised her head to see Amelia standing in the door of the shed, waving to her.
“Miss Amelia!” Kate gasped. “What are you doing here?”
Amelia was red in the face and breathing fast. Her clothes were disheveled, and her hat was askew, her neat hair straggling around her face. She darted out, caught hold of Kate by the arm, and dragged her back inside the shed, then shut the door.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Amelia asked, concerned.
“I’m fine, except for these damn ropes,” Kate replied.
Amelia swiftly set about removing the ropes.
Kate grimaced as she flexed her arms and rubbed her scraped and bruised wrists.
“How did you come to be here, Miss Amelia?” Kate asked, wondering uneasily how much she knew.
“I followed you, Captain, in pursuit of the story,” Amelia replied, and added exultantly, “And what a story! A dragon criminal mastermind in the Aligoes!”
“Did you follow me … all the way?” Kate asked.
“To the dragon’s lair? I did,” said Miss Amelia. “I was unable to see inside. That man with the odd name had his back against the crevice, blocking my view. But you can describe it to me.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Everything,” said Amelia, sounding rather satisfied with herself. “That is, right until the dragon told Trubgek to take you away. It occurred to me that the dragon might remove the magic on the jungle once it was no longer necessary and that I needed to leave posthaste. I had to run most of the way to keep ahead of you and the Trubgek fellow. Thank goodness I keep myself fit. A brisk five-mile walk daily. The secret is to swing the arms vigorously, like this. Expands the chest.”
“You can’t write about this, Miss Amelia,” said Kate. “You can’t tell anyone. Please!”
“You are correct, Captain. I cannot write about Coreg,” said Amelia, looking downcast. “At least, not yet. I don’t have enough information. Editors would read the first paragraph of such an outlandish tale and eject me from their offices. I need proof. I did consider telling Sir Henry—”
“He’d think we were insane,” said Kate, remembering Coreg’s words.
“You do Sir Henry a disservice, Captain,” said Miss Amelia. “He might believe us. The man has not lived as long as he has by rejecting even the most outré notions willy-nilly. But what would we gain if we did? We have no proof. Greenstreet will never talk, and we don’t dare take a chance questioning him. I don’t want to alert Coreg to the fact that I am planning to investigate him.”
“Are you?” Kate asked. “Planning to investigate?”
“Of course. I must do thorough and exhaustive research into this dragon. By the way, I assume it was Coreg who cast that wondrous magic spell on the jungle?”
“Yes,” said Kate, feeling dazed. “Dragons have the innate ability to magically alter their surroundings. Dates back to ancient times when humans hunted them and they had to hide their lairs.”
“You must explain dragon magic to me, Captain. Most remarkable thing I ever saw.”
“I’d love to talk about dragon magic, Miss Amelia,” said Kate. “But right now we need to get out of Greenstreet’s shed before someone finds us.”
“Quite correct,” said Amelia. After picking up the umbrella and the reticule, she opened the door to the shed and peered out. “I believe the coast is clear, Captain, as you sailors would say.”
The sun was high overhead. Kate was surprised that it was only midday. She felt as though she had been gone a year. She and Amelia kept to the shadows of the trees, but they saw no one, not even men guarding the veranda.
Once they were safely away from Greenstreet’s, Amelia wanted to talk about everything from the interior of the dragon’s dwelling to what Coreg looked like and any other details Kate could remember. Kate was in no mood to answer questions. Pleading that her throat hurt from the gag, she said she would discuss things with Amelia on the voyage home.
Amelia cast her a sharp glance and said she understood. Taking out her notebook and a pencil, she began to jot down notes, occasionally glancing up to see where she was going.
Kate wanted only to put the dragon out of her mind. The less she thought about Coreg, the better. Her more immediate concern now was finding words to explain to Olaf how she had come by the bruises on her wrists.
Book 2
SIXTEEN
The tavern El Chancho Feliz, translated as the Happy Pork, was the favorite gathering place of the young officers of the Estaran Royal Military Academy. The officers would arrive in the late afternoon to drink sherry—the mother’s milk of Estara—and discuss their classes, mock their professors, and flirt with the serving maids.
After a good deal of sherry, the young men would shove aside tables and chairs—and other customers—to practice their fencing skills. At these times, the tavern’s owner would retire to his office in the rear and pretend not to notice the ensuing havoc.
When evening fell, the young gentlemen would leave to seek other entertainment, or to study … if they had nothing better to do. The owner would emerge from his office, sweep up the mess, and happily total the day’s earnings. A wise man, he knew where his interests lay. The young men of the Royal Military Academy came from wealthy families. He had only to send bills to their parents to be reimbursed for the broken chairs and shattered glass.
Thomas James Stanford Oberlein was on his way to the tavern. Still a block from his destination, he could already hear bursts of uproarious laughter. He grinned and quickened his pace, placing his hand on the basket-hilted sword known as a schiavone to keep it from clanking against his leg. He wore the uniform of an officer-student with the rank of lieutenant in the Estaran army. The uniform consisted of tricorn hat, long-skirted coat in blue with gold braid trim, waistcoat, shirt and breeches in white, and white stockings.
The blue became Thomas, whose eyes were an unusually crystalline and intense shade of blue. Framed by black eyebrows and black eyelashes and contrasting with his black wavy hair, his eyes were truly striking and caught the attention of all he encountered, especially the women, while his wide and infectious smile charmed the women into smiling back at him.
Thomas’s looks were enhanced, not marred, by the battle scar that slashed across his left cheekbone. He had received the scar and a medal of valor to go along with it fighting the Bottom Dwellers at the Battle of San Estevan. The single daughters of Estaran noblemen of marrigeable age were united in their belief that the scar gave him a romantic, heroic air.
Thomas doffed his hat to several of these young women, walking with their duennas, as he hurried down the streets of the Estaran city of Arcos, which were unusually crowded today. People had come from all over Estara to celebrate the reopening of the famous arched crystal bridge for which the city was named. The bridge spanned the river Artegar, but had been closed to traffic about five years ago, when it was discovered that the magical contructs that strengthened the bridge’s crystal structure had been heavily damaged by contramagic during the war with the Bottom Dwellers. The crystal had begun to crack and the bridge had been declared no longer safe.
The beautiful bridge was famous the world over, for it shone like flame in the sunlight and disappeared completely on gray and cloudy days. In the early days of the war, no one knew how to repair the damage from contramagic. The people had feared it was irreparable.
The discovery of the seventh sigil by the priest of the Arcanum, Father Jacob Northrop, had saved the bridge. For the past two years, crews of crafter masons had been hard at work repairing and restoring the magic, and now the work had finally been completed.
The bridge had been reopened and the city fathers were planning a weeklong celebration. The King of Estara was attending, as were members of his royal court, including Thomas’s mother, Constanza, Marchioness of Cavanaugh in the country of Bheldem and a cousin to the king.
Constanza was also Queen Mother of Freya, or so she had recently begun to style herself, firmly believing as she did that her son, Thomas James Stanford (he went by her family name, at her insistence)—more popularly known in Freyan newspapers as Prince Tom—was Freya’s true and rightful heir to the throne.
Thomas was fond of his mother, but he did not take her obsession seriously. She lived for intrigue and was never happier than when forming schemes and plots involving her son.
He entered the tavern to cheers and invitations to come join in the swordplay. He was immensely popular among the young officers. Even those who longed to hate him because he was handsome and wealthy and famous were soon conquered by his warmth and self-deprecating good humor.
Thomas declined the swordfighting, instead joining a group sitting on stools at the bar, drinking sherry and eating walnuts, cheese, and olives.
“Thomas, I was just talking of you,” said Hugo, motioning him near. They had to shout to be heard above the noise of clashing steel and smashing chairs. “We are getting up a group to go trout fishing this weekend on the Artegar River. We will be staying at Henri’s father’s country estate. You must join us.”
Thomas longed to join them. He was fond of trout fishing and the rest of the day’s activities that usually followed. After catching the fish, the young men would go back to
Henri’s beautiful mansion, play lawn tennis with his pretty sisters and their equally pretty friends. Nighttime would bring dancing with these same sisters and playing at cards with his friends. He was forced to shake his head in refusal.
“I would love to come, but I have been invited to the royal ball and I have orders to attend,” Thomas replied.
“Whose orders?” asked one of the officers, who had not known Thomas long.
“My mother’s,” said Thomas, grimacing. “She has been invited to the ball as a guest of His Majesty and I must attend her.”
His statement was received with mockery and good-natured jeers. Thomas only laughed.
“Trust me, my friends, I have been praying for another war to break out, so that I might escape atttending this ball. Sadly it seems all the nations in Aeronne appear to be firmly committed to peace.”
“Is your mother so formidable?” Hugo asked.
“Let me put it this way,” said Thomas. “Do you remember that night we were pinned down at the fort with hot lead zinging around our ears? I think of that fondly in comparison to attending a ball in the company of my mother.
“That is not to say I do not love her,” he added, becoming more serious. “For I do love her with all my heart. But lately she insists upon introducing me as His Highness, the Crown Prince of Freya. Then people stare and no one will dance with me.”
“I doubt that,” said Hugo, grinning. “I have seen women stand in line to dance with the handsome prince.” He raised his glass. “A toast to His Majesty, Thomas Stanford, King of Freya.”
As the young men raised their glasses, Thomas playfully kicked Hugo’s stool out from under him. Hugo retaliated by throwing olives at Thomas, who grabbed a trencher to use as a bat and struck the olives with skill, launching them into the swordsmen. The swordsmen turned their attacks upon the olive throwers and the fun became general.
Thomas ran out of ammunition and was forced to retreat behind the bar. He and his forces had begun tearing off hunks of bread with which to pelt the enemy when silence enveloped the room. The silence started at the entrance and rolled like a wave over the crowd.
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