Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  Thomas peered over the bar. His first thought was that either an uncommonly beautiful woman had entered or perhaps—frightful thought—the regimental commander. Wondering if he should sneak out the back, he cautiously joined Hugo and the others as they crouched behind the bar, trying to see without being seen.

  “It’s a preacher,” Hugo said in whisper. “What’s he doing here?”

  Thomas got a good look and sighed.

  “He’s not a preacher,” he said, although the older man with the somber expression and close-cropped hair could have been mistaken for one. He wore a uniform that was as somber as his expression, consisting of a beige leather coat, gray breeches, a long-sleeved brown shirt with a wide white collar, and a broad-brimmed black hat.

  “That, my friends, is Captain Jonathan Smythe,” said Thomas. “The ‘y’ in his name is properly pronounced as in the word ‘smite.’ Do not call the good captain ‘Smith’ or, God forbid, ‘Smithee.’ You will never hear the end of it.”

  “Devil take me if I call him anything,” Hugo said, laughing. “Is he one of those religious fellows who believes we’re all going to hell for laughing and wearing the color red?”

  “And for singing and dancing and indulging in any other pleasure you care to name.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He works for my father,” Thomas replied. “He is head of the household guard.”

  An evasion, if not a lie. His mother would never forgive him if he told the truth. Thomas realized he probably shouldn’t have said that much, but he was angry. Captain Smythe had no business turning up here among his friends. Hugo clearly had more questions, but Thomas wasn’t inclined to answer them.

  Leaving his friends to speculate, he made his way through the crowd. Smythe must have been asking about him, for various people were pointing him out. As Thomas approached, Smythe bowed.

  “I hope I find you well, Your Highness.”

  “I am fine,” Thomas said. “And I have asked you not to—”

  “God be praised for your good health, Your Highness,” Smythe said gravely.

  “I have asked you not to call me ‘Your Highness’ in public, Captain,” said Thomas in a low voice.

  “Your lady mother has commanded I do so, Your Highness,” Smythe said. “She sent me to find you. May we speak in private?”

  Thomas sighed. “If we must.”

  When he went back to retrieve his sword and make a brief and unproductive search for his hat, his friends bombarded him with questions. Thomas answered with a shake of his head and left.

  Smythe waited for him near the door, looking about the tavern. Thomas noted as he returned that the captain’s eyes flicked from person to person, intently scrutinizing each one, undoubtedly hoping to ferret out some dastardly plot or foil an attempted assassination against the heir to the Freyan throne.

  “Let us step outside, Captain,” Thomas said, eager to be rid of the man.

  Smythe inclined his head and the two walked out. By unspoken agreement, Thomas and the captain turned their steps toward a cemetery behind a church that was generally deserted at this time of day.

  “Why did my mother send you, Captain?” Thomas asked when they were alone. He switched to the Freyan language, which he spoke as fluently as Estaran, his mother having hired the best tutors to teach the “future king” his “native” tongue. “And what are you doing here in Arcos? The last I heard, you were in Bheldem, training and equipping my mother’s army, which I thought, by the way, was supposed to be a closely held secret. I had to tell my friends you were head of my father’s household guard.”

  Captain Smythe stood ramrod-straight, as though on parade. His grizzled hair and weathered complexion made him appear older than his forty years. He had been a marine in the Freyan army, honorably retired, before coming to Bheldem to work for the marquis and the marchioness.

  “I wish you would think of the army as your army, Your Highness. The army that will restore you to your rightful place upon the Freyan throne.”

  Thomas checked an impatient retort, not wanting to get into an argument.

  “Well, Captain?” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “I received a message from Her Ladyship summoning me to Arcos, Your Highness. Once I arrived, she ordered me to find you and escort you to her lodgings. Her Ladyship did not tell me why, only that the matter is one of the utmost urgency. She sent her carriage.”

  Smythe indicated the elegant horse-drawn coach adorned with the Oberlein family coat of arms that was waiting for them around the corner.

  “Why did my mother send you?” Thomas asked. “She could have sent a servant.”

  Smythe gave a faint smile. “You are, of course, aware of Her Ladyship’s feelings regarding the trustworthiness of servants, Your Highness.”

  Thomas was aware. He sighed, resigned, and turned his steps back toward the coach. “I suppose we should not keep my mother waiting. Do you know anything about this serious and urgent matter, Captain?”

  “I do not, Your Highness,” Smythe replied. “I confess I was myself surprised to receive Her Ladyship’s abrupt summons. I was told to drop everything and travel posthaste to Arcos. I flew here by griffin, arriving only last night.”

  Thomas and Smythe entered the coach. The coachman closed the door, and the carriage rolled off down the street and across the newly reopened crystal bridge. The scaffolding was being dismantled and people were decorating the bridge with garlands, bunting, and Estaran flags. Captain Smythe sat gazing out the window at the bridge. Thomas had the impression the soldier was not enjoying the beauty of the crystal shining in the sun, but rather thinking how he would deploy his troops if told to seize and hold it against some foe.

  “How goes the training of the army, Captain?” Thomas asked in order to be polite.

  “The men are shaping up well, Your Highness,” Smythe replied.

  “What are their numbers?”

  “The army consists at present of five hundred crack troops—trained mercenaries, the majority of which are Guundaran—and one thousand regular infantry. I plan to increase that number to fifteen hundred.”

  “Two thousand troops. Seems a rather small force to lay claim to a kingdom,” Thomas said with a smile.

  “I am a soldier, Your Highness,” Captain Smythe said. “I obey orders and right now my orders are to raise and train an army. I know nothing of any plans for that army.”

  Thomas didn’t believe him. Captain Smythe had been born planning incursions. He had probably ordered his toy soldiers to attack his sister’s rag dolls. Still, Thomas reflected, Smythe couldn’t be blamed for keeping his mouth shut. Constanza trusted no one, not even her own son, apparently.

  Thomas considered it all nonsense, just like the stories about his supposed heroic exploits she fed to the Freyan press. She kept mailing him copies of the “Prince Tom” stories, which he promptly fed to the fire.

  “What about weapons, then?” Thomas persisted, determined to make the captain tell him something more. “Rifles and ammunition and suchlike. Do you have enough to outfit two thousand soldiers?”

  “One can never have enough, Your Highness,” Smythe said.

  Thomas gave up. Flinging himself back in the seat, he closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

  SEVENTEEN

  Constanza owned a house in Verisol, the capital of Estara. She divided her time between Verisol and with her husband on their hereditary estate in Bheldem.

  When Constanza visited her son in Arcos, she stayed at the home of a cousin, who rarely used his country house and was happy to open it to her. The manor house belonged to a Count Alfonse, who visited it only during shooting season.

  He would have put his servants at her disposal, but she refused to rely on strangers. She brought her own servants. Thomas always wondered why, for she didn’t trust them either, although most had been in her employ for years.

  The chief steward answered the door and directed Thomas and Captain Smythe to the m
usic room. Thomas was somewhat surprised, for his mother did not care for music.

  “I didn’t even know there was a music room,” Thomas confided to Captain Smythe, who, of course, had no comment.

  Uncertain where to find the music room, Thomas followed the tinkling sound of a pianoforte. The door was closed and he and the captain entered unannounced, for his mother had ordered the servants belowstairs.

  Thomas walked in, followed by Smythe, to find his mother in company with an unknown gentleman. The two were seated on a couch, deep in conversation. The sound of the pianoforte, being played by a young woman in a far corner, drowned out what they were saying.

  Constanza Celeste Stanford Oberlein, the Marchioness of Cavanaugh, was fifty-four years old, though she always claimed to be younger. She had married the marquis at the age of eighteen. After several miscarriages, she had given birth to her precious son, the first male child born to the Stanford line in over a hundred years.

  A beautiful woman, with royal blood in her veins from both the Estaran and the Freyan sides, Constanza had been besieged by suitors. She had chosen an extremely wealthy nobleman from the small country of Bheldem. Many had wondered at her choice, for Bheldem was generally considered to be a country in chaos, more or less run by a confederation of nobles, some of whom were corrupt and at least one of whom was insane.

  Thomas’s father, Alastair Oberlein, the Marquis of Cavanaugh, was a man of power and influence with vast land holdings in Bheldem and in the Aligoes Islands. He was coolheaded and practical, the opposite of his fiery, emotional wife. Thomas had seen little of his father growing up. Alastair was deeply involved in Bheldem politics and spent most of his time traveling the countryside, bolstering allies and crushing rivals.

  Alastair was well aware that Constanza married him for his money. He had told Thomas he believed he had done well out of the deal and he would do still better when his son became king of Freya. Alastair’s goal was to unite Bheldem under a strong central leader, preferably himself. A son who was king would help further that goal. Thomas liked and respected his father, if he could not love him.

  Embroiled in her own intrigues to make her son king of Freya, Constanza divided her time between Estara and Bheldem. Despite the fact that they lived separate lives—or perhaps because of it—Alastair and Constanza were a happy couple, united in ambitious goals for their son.

  Constanza was so absorbed in her conversation with her guest, and the pianoforte music was so loud, that she did not hear her son enter. Thomas walked over to the couch, hoping to catch his mother’s eye. As he did so, he caught a few words of her conversation and he groaned inwardly. Constanza was telling this man, a perfect stranger, the story of her son’s miraculous birth.

  “I was twenty-nine, my lord, and I had yet to produce a male heir,” Constanza was saying. “I prayed to God and was told to make a pilgrimage to a long-forgotten shrine of Saint Celeste, my patron saint.”

  Thomas knew there would be no stopping her now and he resigned himself to wait in patience, even as he felt his face growing uncomfortably warm. Captain Smythe had the grace to retreat to a distant corner.

  “To prove my dedication, my lord, I crawled on my hands and knees for miles up a rocky path,” Constanza continued. “When I reached the top, I was exhausted. My dress was in rags, my hands and my knees were bloody. I touched the altar and I begged the saint to lift the family curse and send me a son. Then I fell into a swoon at the foot of the statue of the saint and lay there, half dead.”

  Constanza paused dramatically, putting her hand to her bosom and lowering her head as though in prayer. The unknown gentleman said something Thomas could not hear. To give the man credit, he was listening to her with grave attention.

  “A woman came to me, my lord,” said Constanza, her voice hushed in reverence. “She held me in her arms, tended my wounds and gave me water. When I came to myself, I looked for the woman to thank her, but she was gone. An old shepherd happening by with his flock told me that the shrine had been long deserted. No one ever came there. I was lucky to be alive. I knew then that the woman had been Saint Celeste and that the curse was ended. I found myself pregnant and my child was a strong and healthy boy.”

  “A remarkable story, my lady,” said the gentleman, appearing to be deeply moved.

  Thomas took this opportunity to make himself known by loudly clearing his throat. His mother caught sight of him, and her eyes shone. She smiled and rose to greet him.

  Constanza had jet-black hair that she pretended she did not dye, and the blue eyes and fair skin that she proclaimed to be family traits of the Stanfords. She dressed in the latest Rosian fashion, wearing a gown of purple silk decorated with lace and a great many flounces. She was also wearing the Stanford family diamonds and by this Thomas knew she wanted to make a favorable impression on the unknown visitor.

  Thomas returned his mother’s kiss, smelling her powder and perfume. No matter where he was, the scent of gardenias would always remind him of her.

  “My son, I am so happy to see you,” Constanza said. “Are you well? You look pale.”

  She asked after his health every time they met, always with an anxious air, always fearful he was going to be felled by some dread illness. Thomas found her anxiety amusing, for she had been the one to urge him to enter the military, saying kings needed to be seen as strong leaders. She was deathly afraid he would succumb to measles, but not the least worried that a cannonball would take off his head.

  “I am well, Mother,” Thomas assured her. He cast a questioning glance at the pianoforte player, who was pounding the keys with extreme vigor, and raised his voice. “Could we talk somewhere quiet?”

  “The music is necessary, my dear. I do not want our conversation to be overheard,” Constanza replied, drawing him over to the couch. “I want you to meet someone.”

  The unknown man rose to his feet. He was tall, above average height. He had a thin aquiline nose, a thin, intelligent face, thinning gray hair, and a slight paunch. He was in his middle years, perhaps early fifties. He was dressed well, but without ostentation, in a rust-colored long coat, a russet waistcoat, and breeches. He had keen eyes and an earnest, serious air.

  “Sir Richard, this is my son, His Royal Highness, Thomas James Stanford,” said Constanza. “Thomas, this is Sir Richard. He has traveled here from Freya.”

  Thomas extended his hand.

  Sir Richard did not shake hands. Instead, he made a deep bow, as to his sovereign.

  “Your Highness, I am deeply honored to meet you at last.”

  Thomas flushed, embarrassed, not knowing what to do with his hand. Constanza saved him by clasping his hand and giving it a pat.

  “I always think Thomas should be addressed as His Majesty, my lord, but I am told that is not proper.”

  “Indeed it is not, my lady,” said Sir Richard earnestly. “Although there is no doubt His Highness is the true and rightful king of Freya, he must first be anointed king before he can claim the throne and the title.”

  “A pity,” said Constanza coolly, obviously considering this to be errant nonsense. “As for Sir Richard’s background, you need not concern yourself, Thomas. All you need to know is that His Lordship comes from a very old Freyan family which has been loyal to our cause through the years, never wavering in their support.”

  “That is true, Your Highness,” said Sir Richard. “My great-great-great-grandfather was one of a group of loyal supporters of King James who called themselves the Faithful. They fought at his side and when he fell—savagely murdered—they rescued Queen Lucia and her children from the hands of the Usurper, who would most certainly have executed them.”

  “Sir Richard’s ancestor smuggled James’s widow, Queen Lucia, and her children safely to Estara,” Constanza said, giving Sir Richard a grateful smile. “The Faithful hoped to be able to see James’s son, Thomas—for whom you were named, my son—crowned king, but, alas, the crown prince died on the voyage to Estara.”

  “Only a b
aby, poor thing,” said Sir Richard, his expression darkening. “The child could not stand the rigors of the journey.”

  “The Usurper killed him just as surely as if he had cut off his head!” Constanza exclaimed, quivering with indignation.

  They both looked at Thomas, who had heard the story many times before, and found it difficult to become incensed over an incident that had happened one hundred fifty years ago.

  “Sir Richard’s family was made to suffer for their loyalty,” Constanza went on. “The usurper stripped them of their lands and title. The count was arrested and held for years, barely escaping the block. The family was left impoverished.”

  “I am sorry to hear this, my lord,” said Thomas, since it was clear he was expected to say something. “I trust you find yourself in more favorable circumstances.”

  Sir Richard bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness. My family has since managed to recover.”

  “God be praised, Sir Richard,” said Smythe, who now advanced.

  Sir Richard turned to him. “Rest assured I do, Captain Smythe. It is good to see you again, sir.”

  “And you, my lord,” said Smythe, bowing.

  “You two know each other,” said Thomas.

  “I had the honor of recommending the captain to your mother, Your Highness,” said Sir Richard. “She was kind enough to seek my advice in the matter of a commander for your army.”

  “Ah, well, then,” Thomas muttered. The reference to an army he had never seen, and about which he knew next to nothing, made him uncomfortable.

  At that moment, the pianoforte player hit a wrong note. The sun was setting, the room growing dark; she must be finding it difficult to see the keys, and of course his mother would not allow the servants to come in to light the lamps. The musician paused, trying to find her place in the music. Grateful for the respite, Thomas started to speak, only to be silenced by a warning look from his mother. The music began again and Thomas was able to talk.

  “I regret I did not bring a change of clothes for dinner, Mother, but I left Arcos in such haste—”