Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  “We are early, Your Highness,” he said to Thomas. “The rendezvous is slated for two of the clock and the time is now just a quarter past one.”

  The griffins landed on the shore, which was made of stone worn smooth by the incessant wind. Thomas dismounted and thanked the beast for its service. Smythe removed the gear he had brought from his saddle, including a dark lantern, and two pistols for himself.

  Thomas took the Freyan pistols from the saddlebags, loaded them, and thrust them into his belt. He then strolled up and down the shore, looking things over. By now quite accustomed to the darkness, he could see where people regularly built bonfires. The place was littered with trash and empty bottles.

  “Popular,” he muttered, hoping they weren’t interrupted.

  Smythe was telling the griffins they were free to either rest or hunt, asking only that they remain within call. The griffins nodded their assent and departed.

  “What is the plan, Captain?” Thomas asked upon his return. “I could point out that we have three people and only two griffins, but I assume you prepared for such an eventuality.”

  “We are to show a light at the proposed time to let His Grace know we are in position, Your Highness,” Smythe answered. “When his boat lands, he will disembark. I will board the boat and sail to Bheldem with the rifles, leaving the griffins, which will carry you and His Grace to your mother’s home in Verisol. Her staff has been told to expect you.”

  “Which gives the servants time to rush to their hiding places,” said Thomas with a grin. “Speaking of hiding, it occurs to me we are highly visible on this white stone. We could conceal ourselves in those bushes over there.”

  Upon reaching the bushes, however, Thomas discovered a flaw in his plan.

  “Brambles! Wouldn’t you know? Ouch! Damn it!” Thomas dug a thorn from his hand. “Hiding in a bramble bush. Just how I wanted to spend my evening. Open that dark lantern a crack, will you, Captain? Let’s have some light. I brought along a deck of cards to pass the time. We could play beggar-my-neighbor.”

  “Cards are the devil’s picture books, Your Highness,” said Captain Smythe. “Might I suggest that your time would be better employed in giving your thanks to God?”

  Thomas was glad the darkness hid his smile. He returned the offending cards to his pocket and found a seat on a boulder. He could only hope this “impetuous” duke was different from most Freyans he had met. His mother had once described Freyans as being like their weather: chill and gray. In this, Thomas agreed with her.

  Considering that his mother disliked Freya and Freyans so much, Thomas had once made the mistake of teasingly asking her why she was so determined to make him their ruler. His mother had not considered his question funny. She had responded by denouncing him as an ungrateful child and had refused to speak to him for days. She had not, however, answered his question.

  Smythe remained alert, pacing back and forth, keeping watch. Thomas shifted restlessly, slapped at the mosquitoes, and began to regret not attending the ball. He hoped this blasted duke was worth the trouble.

  The time seemed to drag. Thomas hummed a dance tune, thinking that even the ball would be better than this. The Lady Castila was going to be in attendance and he had promised to dance with her. She was married, but her husband, Count Castila, was proud of his beautiful wife and thought that when other men admired her it reflected well upon him. Being rather obtuse, the count didn’t know that their admiration often extended into the lady’s bedchamber.

  Thomas had enjoyed her favors, and he just was thinking that he would like to deliver his apology for missing the ball in person when he saw Smythe pick up the dark lantern.

  Thomas consulted his watch. The hour of two of the clock was approaching.

  His pulse quickened and he eagerly rose to his feet.

  “Please remain under cover, Your Highness,” Smythe said. “I will signal you when it is safe for you to come out.”

  “And you can go to hell, Captain,” Thomas returned good-naturedly, walking over to stand beside him.

  Smythe opened the panel of the dark lantern. Magical constructs placed on an angled piece of glass, aimed at a small highly polished mirror, shone forth a bright beam of concentrated light. He left the panel open for a count of ten, then shuttered it. Another count of ten and he again opened the panel. He did this one more time and then shut the panel. They waited.

  Thomas heard the boat before he saw it: the whirring of airscrews. Emerging from the mists, the boat came into view, and Thomas was startled to see the colorful striped balloon and gaily painted hull of a Trundler houseboat.

  Upon reflection, he realized he shouldn’t have been surprised. Trundlers were people who roamed the Breath, “trundling” along the coastlines of islands and continents, and tended not to attract attention. Because of this, smugglers sometimes used Trundler boats to haul their contraband, though in doing so they risked the ire of the Trundlers, who took a dim view of outsiders masquerading as their kind in order to perpetrate crimes. Those who did so might receive a visit from the “boys”—the Trundler version of law enforcement.

  The Trundler boat chugged toward the beach. A man Thomas assumed was His Grace Phillip Masterson stood at the prow, holding a mooring cable, intending to throw it. He waved at Thomas, who started to walk over to grab the rope.

  Orange flame shot out of the darkness, accompanied by the shattering boom of cannon fire. The Trundler boat seemed to disintegrate as cannonballs ripped through the balloon, sliced the rigging, and took down the mast. How Phillip escaped unharmed was a mystery to Thomas. The duke had been completely taken by surprise, apparently unaware that an enemy was creeping up on him. Standing amid the destruction of his boat, he half turned, instinctively raising his arm as though that would protect him from the next blast of cannon fire, which would tear him and his boat apart.

  Thomas dove for the ground, along with Captain Smythe. Lying flat on their bellies, they could see what appeared to be another ship sailing through the mists.

  “Of all the confounded luck!” Thomas said grimly. “An Estaran patrol boat looking for smugglers!” He half rose, intending to call them off.

  Smythe grabbed him and pulled him down. “That is not a patrol boat, Your Highness. That is a naval frigate and by the looks of her, she is Freyan. They are in pursuit of the duke.”

  The duke was still at the helm, desperately trying to keep his damaged boat from sinking into the Breath before it reached the shore. Thomas wondered why the frigate didn’t open fire again; then he heard the sound of a gunshot. The duke gave a cry and clapped his hand to his left shoulder. Thomas could hear a cool voice in Freyan giving the order to cease firing. “No need to waste gunpowder,” said the voice.

  That was true enough. The Trundler boat was not going to reach the shoreline.

  Thomas leaped to his feet and ran toward the boat, ignoring Captain Smythe, who was shouting for him to keep down.

  “Jump, Your Grace!” Thomas yelled to the duke. “Jump!”

  The duke saw that he had only seconds to live. He managed to climb over the rail and then flung himself toward the shore. He landed on the edge, his legs dangling. Thomas grabbed hold of his hands and dragged him to safety. The Trundler houseboat disappeared from view. Long moments later, he heard it smash onto the rocks below.

  Kneeling protectively over the injured duke, Thomas drew his pistol, waiting for bullets to splatter the rocks around him. Captain Smythe crouched beside him, a rifle in his hand. Those on board the frigate would find it difficult to see in the darkness. He had no idea if they had seen him rescue the duke, and he tensed. He was relieved to hear the same cool voice on board the frigate give the order for the helmsman to reverse airscrews.

  “Take us out of here, Lieutenant, before that Estaran patrol boat finds us.”

  Airscrews whirred and the Freyan ship changed course and disappeared into the mists.

  “They must think His Grace went down with his boat,” Smythe remarked. He lai
d down his rifle and turned to examine the duke, who lay very still.

  “He is unconscious. If you could assist me, Your Highness,” said Smythe, sliding his arm around the wounded man’s waist. “We should move him under cover of the bushes. We do not want to have to answer questions from an Estaran shore patrol.”

  Thomas and the captain placed their arms around the duke and managed to half drag, half carry him into the brush. Thomas laid him on the ground and eased off his blood-soaked peacoat. Smythe lifted the panel on the dark lantern and shone the light on the site of the wound.

  The duke’s shirt was soaked in blood above the left shoulder. He opened his eyes, winced, and started to reach for his wounded shoulder.

  “You are safe now, Your Grace,” said Thomas. “But you have been shot. Please lie still until the captain can determine the extent of your injuries.”

  The duke looked up at Thomas, and his eyes widened.

  “Good God!” he gasped. “You are … the prince. Your Highness, forgive me…”

  He struggled to sit up. Thomas smiled and placed a restraining hand on his chest.

  “And you must be His Grace Phillip, Duke of Upper and Lower Somewhere.”

  Captain Smythe was probing the bullet wound, peering at it in the light of the lantern. Phillip gasped with pain.

  “Not how I pictured our first meeting, Your Highness,” said Phillip, managing something between a grimace and a grin.

  “Your Highness, Your Grace,” said Thomas, keeping his tone light. He didn’t like the look of the wound, which was perilously near the heart. “We sound as if we have stepped out of the pages of The Gentleman’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness.”

  Phillip laughed a bit shakily. “From the chapter ‘How the Well-Bred Gentleman Behaves Upon Being Shot.’”

  Smythe peeled away the blood-soaked shirt from the wound and probed the wound more deeply, with his fingers. Phillip shuddered, and gasped. Thomas clasped his hand and Phillip grasped hold of it tightly.

  “I am honored to meet you, Your Highness,” Phillip said in a whisper. He was extremely pale. Sweat covered his face.

  “The honor is mine, Your Grace,” Thomas said. He asked Smythe in a low voice, “How badly is he hurt, Captain?”

  “The bullet missed hitting anything vital,” Smythe replied. “You are extremely lucky, Your Grace.”

  “The devil’s own luck, you might say,” Phillip remarked with a faint smile. “Though I am sorry to have lost the rifles,” he added, just before his eyes closed and his head lolled.

  Captain Smythe stood up and motioned Thomas to walk with him. “His Grace has lost a quantity of blood and is in shock. If you will stay with him, Your Highness, I will summon the griffins.”

  Thomas agreed and went back to the patient. Smythe began blowing on a silver whistle, to summon the griffins. Within moments, Thomas heard the flapping of wings, and he watched the griffins land on the shore with feline grace.

  Smythe rummaged through one of his saddle pouches and returned with a roll of bandages. Using his handkerchief to pack the wound, he began to bandage Phillip’s shoulder.

  “I will do what I can to stanch the bleeding, Your Highness, but His Grace needs a surgeon. The bullet is still lodged in the wound and may have chipped a bone.”

  “He will have the best surgeon in Verisol,” said Thomas.

  Smythe nodded, and glanced at the griffins, his brows lowering. Thomas guessed what he was thinking.

  “You should return to your command in Bheldem, Captain. I will take care of His Grace.”

  “I do not like leaving you under such circumstances, Your Highness,” Smythe said.

  “Nonsense, Captain,” said Thomas briskly. “I am perfectly capable of treating a bullet wound. I am a soldier, too, remember?”

  “You are, indeed, Your Highness,” said Smythe. “I was impressed with your coolness and courage. You acquitted yourself well under fire.”

  “Perhaps because they weren’t shooting at me, Captain,” said Thomas, grinning.

  Smythe apparently did not find that funny, for he did not smile. He continued with the bandaging and helped Thomas drape Phillip’s coat around his shoulders.

  “I seem to have passed out,” Phillip murmured, rousing. “Unforgivable lapse of manners. I do beg your pardon, Your Highness.”

  “I will demand satisfaction another time, Your Grace,” said Thomas. “Now we must convey you to the griffin.”

  “I believe I could walk, if the stern-faced gentleman would lend me his assistance,” said Phillip.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace, I should have introduced you. He is Captain Jonathan Smythe.” Thomas hesitated, then added with some embarrassment, “The captain is commander of my army.”

  Captain Smythe expressed his pleasure in meeting the duke; then he and Thomas helped Phillip stand. Putting weight on his foot, he bit his lip to stifle a groan.

  “Are we causing you pain, Your Grace?” Thomas asked.

  “Not my shoulder. I believe I have twisted my bloody ankle,” Phillip replied. He added with a plaintive sigh, “Here I came intending to lend you my support, Your Highness, and thus far I’ve put you in danger of being blown up, shot, and God knows what else. I fear I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

  “I will be the judge of that, Your Grace,” said Thomas.

  Thomas seated himself on the griffin’s back and he and Smythe helped lift Phillip into the saddle. He sat in front of Thomas, who braced the nobleman with his arm. Smythe strapped Phillip securely and even provided him with an extra helm, which he said he carried in case of emergency.

  Thomas and Phillip were a tight fit on the saddle, but fortunately the journey to Verisol was short. Captain Smythe saw them settled, then bid them farewell and went to mount his own griffin. He looked back at them, obviously intending to wait until they were safely in the air. Thomas was ready to depart, when his griffin, perhaps unhappy about having to carry two riders, stated irritably that one of the straps was too tight across its chest. Thomas had to unstrap himself, dismount, and work to loosen it.

  “No need to wait for us, Captain,” Thomas yelled.

  Captain Smythe remained where he was. Thomas shook his head.

  “Captain Smythe is presumably an excellent commander, or so I am told, but he is dull company,” Thomas remarked, working the leather strap through the buckle. “He rarely smiles and never laughs. He belongs to some strict religious sect … I can’t think of the name…”

  “Fundamentalists, Your Highness,” said Phillip. “They do not hold with laughing. To them, life is meant to be taken seriously. Does the good captain support your cause?”

  “I suppose so. He is willing to fight and die for it, seemingly. Why do you ask, Your Grace?”

  “He does appear devoted to you, Your Highness,” said Phillip. “I find it odd. Most Fundamentalists do not believe in the divine right of kings. According to them a king is a mere mortal and should not hold God-given authority over his fellows. Men should answer only to God.”

  “In the case of Captain Smythe, he answers to my mother,” said Thomas drily. “I am certain she is paying him enough to be devoted.”

  Having adjusted the strap to the griffin’s satisfaction, Thomas again took his seat in the saddle behind Phillip. “Are you secure, Your Grace?”

  The griffin began rustling its wings and stamping its feet, indicating it was ready to leave. Phillip managed with some difficulty to put on his helm. Thomas had just lowered his visor when the griffin began galloping over the ground, straight toward the edge of the cliff. The griffin spread its wings to catch the updraft and soared into the Breath.

  The griffin’s run was jarring and took its toll on Phillip. Thomas felt him sag back against him. The young nobleman had apparently lost consciousness again.

  Thomas tightened his grip. He found himself liking this brave young nobleman with the ready quip and the frank, disarming smile.

  “Not at all barmy,” Thomas remarked.

&nb
sp; Then he grew serious. Thinking of the risks Phillip had run on his account, Thomas was humbled and dismayed. Phillip had been ready to give up his life for the sake of Thomas’s cause: his claim to the throne.

  “A throne I don’t want,” Thomas reflected somberly. “A cause in which I don’t believe.”

  He sighed and spent the remainder of the journey deep in thought.

  NINETEEN

  For the first time in his life, Thomas blessed his mother’s penchant for intrigue. She had selected her house in the city of Verisol for the specific reason that the stables were located in the back and were concealed by a high wall that separated them from their neighbors. Clandestine visitors were thus able to come and go without being seen.

  The stable yard was bounded by the stables on two sides, the carriage house on the third, and a wrought-iron fence on the fourth. His mother had always claimed the yard was large enough to accommodate griffins, though Thomas had the feeling his griffin didn’t agree. The beast was forced to glide until it came level with the treetops, then snap its wings close to its body so that it didn’t clip them on the roof or the spiked fence.

  The griffin plummeted like a stooping hawk, landed with a thud, and pitched forward, throwing its passengers against its neck. Once he had recovered from the harrowing dive, Thomas set about extricating himself from the straps and assisting Phillip, who remained unconscious.

  The servants must have been wakened by the commotion of the griffin landing in the yard, for they came running. The first to reach him was the coachman, who had rooms over the stables. Armed with an old blunderbuss, he stood pointing it in a threatening manner at Thomas.

  “Don’t shoot, Falto!” said Thomas, hurriedly raising his visor. “It’s me, Thomas. We need to get this man into the house. He’s been shot.”

  The coachman stood the blunderbuss against a wall and assisted Thomas in lifting Phillip out of the saddle. Falto and two stable hands carried the wounded man into the house.

  Thomas remembered to politely thank the griffin, and offered to accommodate it for the night. The griffin regarded him with a cold stare, declined the offer with a snap of its beak, and departed.