Constanza glared at him. She often regretted having taken Sir Richard’s advice to hire him. She was the daughter of kings and Smythe was a nobody, yet he continually gave her the impression that he was judging her and, worse, that he found her lacking.
“I am not asking you to condone it, Captain,” Constanza said tersely. “I am asking you to suggest someone who could be hired to carry it out.”
Instead of meekly responding that he would obey, Captain Smythe had the temerity to ask a question of his own.
“Have you discussed this matter with His Highness, my lady?”
Constanza bit her lip. She had no intention of discussing this with Thomas, as Captain Smythe knew. Her son would find appalling the very thought of murdering anyone—including a dragon—and he would absolutely forbid her to proceed, just as he had forbidden her to carry on with plans for an armed insurrection, something else she had not told Captain Smythe. Constanza was extremely thankful Thomas was far away.
“As you know perfectly well, Captain, since you urged me to send him, my son is visiting the royal court in Rosia,” said Constanza. “I would have to write to him and I dare not risk the possibility that the letter could fall into the wrong hands. Everyone knows that the spies in the Rosian royal court outnumber the vermin.”
Captain Smythe could not very well argue this point. He shifted to another. “Have you considered that His Highness could be implicated in the plot?”
“Not if we take precautions,” said Constanza. “Freya is rife with people who are opposed to the dragons. They have formed anti-dragon leagues, and write letters to the newspapers. The assassin can cast the blame on them.”
She was growing impatient with the captain. “I do not know why you are so opposed to this course of action. I have heard you say that dragons are minions of Aertheum. Think of this as a battle against the Evil One! Think of the lives of innocents you could be saving! As God’s Soldier, are you not required to fight in His holy war against these fiends?”
Constanza was an avid reader of the Haever Gazette. She read everything that could have anything to do with her son’s cause, and that included the published speeches of Fundamentalist preachers, well known for their hate-filled denunciations of the Travian dragons.
She had the satisfaction of seeing that her words had an effect on Captain Smythe. His frown was no longer disapproving; he looked thoughtful.
“You quote the words of the Reverend Elijah Byrd, my lady,” he said.
“I was profoundly moved by those words, Captain,” said Constanza. “Your religion and mine differ on many issues, but on this subject we think alike. The dragons are a danger to our people. They are the ancient evil named in the prophecy. This is war!”
Constanza clenched her fist. Captain Smythe was silent and seemed to be deep in thought. She knew when to hold her tongue. She pretended to read a letter, all the while watching Smythe from beneath her lashes.
“I believe I know someone who could be approached regarding this matter, my lady,” he said at last.
Constanza was careful to hide her triumphant smile.
“I am pleased you have reconsidered, Captain,” she said gravely.
“The man’s name is Greenstreet, my lady. He is a black-market arms dealer in the Aligoes. He is reputed to have extensive connections among the criminal classes.”
“Can this Greenstreet be trusted?” Constanza asked sharply.
“Insofar as any criminal may be trusted, my lady,” said Captain Smythe dourly. “Saying that, I have purchased weapons from him in the past. We are good customers and he would be foolish to betray us.”
The captain rose to his feet and stood holding his hat in his hand. “If you like, I can tell you how and where to contact him.”
Constanza could not believe she had heard correctly. Rising to her feet in a majestic rustle of silk, she fixed him with an imperious stare. “I hope you are not suggesting, Captain, that I should be the one to contact this … this criminal?”
“I have already gone against my better judgment by giving you the man’s name, my lady,” Captain Smythe replied. “I have provided you with the information. You may do with it what you will.”
He bowed, hat still in hand. “Your servant, madame.”
Before she could say a word, he had walked out.
Constanza glared after him, sputtering in incoherent rage, so shocked and angry that she was momentarily paralyzed. Coming to herself, she decided that she had endured enough of his abuse, his shocking lack of respect. He would not remain in her employ another moment unless he obeyed her command to talk to this Greenstreet.
Halfway to the door, she paused to consider.
After all, do I want such a straitlaced, plebeian fellow handling such a delicate negotiation? she asked herself. Would it not be better if I went myself?
Constanza liked to be in control. Smythe was a soldier and she trusted him to do what soldiers did, which was march about and shoot people. She could trust him to barter for shot and powder with this criminal, but could she trust him with something this important? Thomas’s life was at stake. If these dragons attacked, her son could be killed.
Her eyes filled with tears. Her lofty ambitions for her son reached to Heaven, but her love for Thomas did not know even those bounds. He was everything to her. His name was the first word on her lips in the morning, the last word she spoke in her prayers at night.
The journey to the Aligoes would be uncomfortable, the meeting with this Greenstreet unpleasant and perhaps even perilous. Constanza shrugged away the discomfort, the danger. She had worked and sacrificed all her life for her son and she would not shirk her duty now. She could trust no one but herself to handle this important mission.
Constanza sent a note to Captain Smythe, requesting information on this Greenstreet, and then ordered her maid to start packing.
THIRTY-THREE
“Trubgek!” Coreg angrily bellowed the name, causing it to rumble through his dwelling. “I heard voices. I didn’t summon anyone. Who is here? What is going on?”
The dragon sprawled on the floor in the enormous mansion he had built on the island of Freeport. Although it was huge, Coreg’s mansion consisted of only three rooms: the vast, cavernous hall where he lived; the small chamber where he slept; and a single room for his human, Trubgek.
Coreg loathed humans. The only reason he kept even one near him was because he had to rely on a human if he wanted to interact with other humans. He found the need galling. He could manipulate humans, intimidate them, terrorize and control them, yet just because he needed a human to wield a pen for him, he knew deep in his soul that the humans who groveled before him secretly sneered at him.
He would have done without humans if he could, but he couldn’t and so he had found the best way to manage the deplorable situation: acquire a human male child, train it to serve him, and keep it around until it grew too old to be of use, then use that one to train a new one. He always named his humans Trubgek—one of the most insulting terms a dragon can use for a human. Coreg had gone through several Trubgeks during his lifetime. He chose boys that were around the age of nine or ten, considering them old enough to be useful yet still sufficiently malleable, and got rid of them when they were old and worthless.
Coreg had exacting criteria. He required all Trubgeks to be crafters, and since crafting was taught by the Church, he would search until he found an unscrupulous monk who would, for a price, let the dragon know when such a boy became available. Coreg would then have the boy abducted and brought to live with him.
The current Trubgek was the best of the lot, being the first to excel in dragon magic. Coreg had long believed that humans had magic “in their blood,” as did dragons. If humans were properly taught—and survived the process—they could learn to cast spells that were far beyond the ability of most human crafters, including savants.
The previous Trubgeks had been disappointing in this regard, either dropping dead during the training or proving s
uch dismal failures that the dragon had eventually given up on them. This particular Trubgek had been extremely responsive. He appeared to relish the work, no matter how difficult or painful, and subsequently had developed into the best crafter Coreg had ever produced.
Trubgek had also proven adept at dealing with his fellow humans. He did not appear to be afflicted with a conscience. He obeyed orders without qualm or question. In Coreg’s eyes his best quality was that he spoke only when necessary and kept what he had to say short and to the point.
“Trubgek!” Coreg shouted again.
A magical portal opened in the wall at the far end of the room, disgorging Trubgek, who came to stand before the dragon.
“I heard voices,” Coreg demanded. “Who is out there?”
“Greenstreet,” said Trubgek.
Coreg gave a disgruntled snort. “I grow weary of Greenstreet. He runs to me with every little problem. Is this going to be another waste of my time?”
Trubgek undoubtedly knew what Greenstreet wanted, since part of his job was to keep an eye on him. Trubgek appeared disinclined to answer the dragon’s question, however, perhaps because he knew that if Coreg wanted to know, he had only to ask Greenstreet.
“I suppose I have no choice. Send him in,” Coreg grumbled.
Trubgek silently departed, then silently returned with Greenstreet, who was puffing from the exertion and leaning heavily upon his walking cane. He did not have to walk through the magical forest, as did other visitors. Greenstreet had only to open the hidden panel in the wall, walk down the stairs and through a tunnel, then enter the portal. With his great bulk, Greenstreet found even walking that short distance tiring.
“Well, what is the matter now?” Coreg demanded.
“Nothing is the matter, sir,” said Greenstreet, fanning himself with his hat. “Opportunity.”
“Indeed.” Coreg was interested. “Report.”
Greenstreet glanced around. “Do you mind if I sit down? I have been on my feet…”
“Trubgek, a chair,” Coreg ordered.
Trubgek walked over to a dark corner where the dragon stored the chairs he kept for human visitors and returned with a chair, which he placed on the floor in front of the dragon. Greenstreet lowered his bulk into the chair and Coreg lowered his snout to the ground. Trubgek faded into the shadows.
“I had a meeting with a marchioness this morning,” said Greenstreet, resting his hands upon the cane in front of him.
“A real one?” Coreg was skeptical. Greenstreet had once been enamored of a whore who called herself “Duchess.”
Greenstreet chuckled. “This marchioness is very real. She is married to the Marquis of Cavanaugh in Bheldem, extremely wealthy, cousin to the King of Estara. Her son is Thomas Stanford, heir to the Freyan throne.”
Coreg was surprised and impressed. He had not thought that, after three hundred years, anything could surprise or impress him. He raised his head.
“A woman of means and noble birth. Why would such a person come to you, Greenstreet?”
“I was recommended to her by Captain Smythe.”
“The name sounds familiar,” said Coreg.
“The captain has purchased weapons from us in the past,” Greenstreet replied.
“Ah, I remember,” said Coreg. “The captain is a good customer, as I recall.”
“The captain is practically our only customer these days,” Greenstreet said, grunting.
Coreg knew this to be sadly true. Following the conflict with the Bottom Dwellers, humans were sick of war. Captain Smythe, King Ullr, and a few of the Westfirth gangs were practically the only people interested in buying arms these days. And of these, Smythe was the only one who paid for the goods on delivery.
“Did the marchioness come to buy more weapons?” the dragon asked. “I have several crates of Freyan-made rifles. I can make her an exceptionally fine offer.”
Greenstreet shook his head. “The marchioness came to us because she is in need of an assassin.”
Coreg emitted satisfied puffs of smoke from his nostrils and scraped his claws across the floor. “Greenstreet, you have outdone yourself.”
“I thought you would be pleased,” Greenstreet said, fanning himself with his hat.
Coreg ruled the human underworld, not only in the Aligoes; he had his claws into crime in most other markets as well. He financed smugglers and pirates, bought and sold weapons on the black market, traded in stolen goods of all sorts, from diamonds to coal; and he made money from every human vice imaginable, operating opium dens, gambling clubs, whorehouses. Extremely wealthy, he could buy anything in the world he wanted except the only thing he truly desired: power.
Coreg had long planned to establish a base of operations on one of the major continents, someplace where he could bribe governments to turn a blind eye. He had first attempted to establish himself in Travia, but a dragon named Odila had discovered his nefarious operations and reported him to the Arcanum, an arm of the Church devoted to seeking out wrongdoers. The Arcanum was a powerful force in the world, and Coreg had been forced to flee to the Aligoes.
He wasn’t happy here, however, feeling that he was too far from the heart of human wealth and power. Now he had the possibility of sinking his claws into a real live prince.
“How can I be of service to the marchioness?” Coreg asked, almost purring. “Who is the intended target?”
“A dragon,” said Greenstreet.
Coreg stared at him, then began to laugh; booming laughter that shook the walls.
“You are a great fool, Greenstreet! Assassinate a dragon! I never heard anything so ridiculous.”
Coreg let his laughter bubble into a snarl and thrust his snout into Greenstreet’s face. “I told Trubgek you would be a waste of my time. Get out!”
“You should listen,” said Trubgek.
Coreg raised his head, startled. He had forgotten Trubgek was in the room. Trubgek never spoke, never interrupted. The fact that he did so now was telling, and caused Coreg to reconsider. He looked back at Greenstreet and said with a curl of his lip, “Very well, then. Go on.”
Greenstreet moistened his lips and gave Trubgek a grateful look.
“I said the same thing. I told the marchioness that assassinating a dragon was impossible. She said that it wasn’t, and that she had the means to do so. I told her I needed to know more about what she required. She was reluctant to divulge details, but she had little choice. It seems that years ago, the Freyans developed a magical construct that could kill dragons…”
Coreg would have laughed again, but a long-forgotten memory stirred in his mind. He had been living in Travia when he had heard a rumor that the Freyans were attempting to develop a secret weapon to kill dragons during some war or other.
He had not believed it. No dragon had believed it. A single dragon could destroy an army of humans. The idea of a lone human assassin attacking a dragon was ludicrous. The human would have to first dismantle magical wards and traps to even enter a dragon’s lair. If he made it that far, he would next have to catch the dragon napping, an impossibility, since even slumbering dragons are sensitive to the sound of a mouse creeping across the floor.
Finally if he managed that, he would have to be armed with some sort of weapon that could kill a dragon, another impossible task. Bullets bounced off a dragon’s scales, poisons had no effect, swords and spears were practically useless.
But magic … now, that could be different.
Coreg shifted his attention back to Greenstreet.
“What was your answer? Did you tell the marchioness I would take the job?”
“I did not,” said Greenstreet. “I had to talk to you first. I told her I would give her my answer this evening.”
Coreg nodded. “Why does she want to kill a dragon? Did she say? Did you ask?”
“I did,” said Greenstreet. “As I told you, she believers her son to be the true and rightful king of Freya. According to her, there are plans in the works to invade, remove the curr
ent ruler, and take over. The marchioness fears that the Travian dragons will try to stop her son. If one of these Travian dragons is assassinated, she thinks the others will be frightened and go back to Travia.”
Coreg mulled this over. “I suppose there is some merit to this idea. What did you think of this human female? Do you believe her?”
“She tried lying. Captain Smythe had written to me in advance, to apprise me of her coming. I was able to do some checking on her. When confronted, she admitted the truth. She is ambitious, clever, and cunning. She will do anything to attain her goal and that includes murder. She is the type to act first and consider the consequences later.”
“Excellent,” Coreg said. “Tell her I will undertake to do this job for her. Does she have a victim in mind?”
“She knows nothing about these dragons and could not care less,” said Greenstreet. “When I asked, her response was: ‘One dead dragon will do as well as another.’ Who do you have in mind for the job, sir? The person must be a crafter.”
“Trubgek will make the arrangements,” said Coreg.
Greenstreet shrugged, happy to let someone else do the work. “What do I charge her?”
“The going rate for assassins these days, whatever that is,” said Coreg. “The true charge for my services will come later when her son attains the throne.”
“The marchioness appeared particularly anxious that her son has no knowledge of the crime about to be committed in his name,” said Greenstreet.
“All the better,” said Coreg. “Once I tell him, he will be shocked and horrified and eager to pay to keep the matter quiet.”
The dragon paused a moment, then added grudgingly, “You have done well for a change, Greenstreet. I am pleased, though amazed.”
Trubgek escorted Greenstreet to the exit, then returned. “Orders?”
“I need to see this construct for myself. After I determine how it works—if it works—I will be the one to decide what to do with it.”
Trubgek nodded and stood in silence, waiting.
Coreg eyed him thoughtfully, then said, “I was considering having you pick up the construct, but I have changed my mind. I said nothing to that great fool, Greenstreet, but I detect of whiff of something rotten about this job. I suspect this is a trap and you are far too valuable to me to get caught in it. Hire some dog to send down the rat hole and we will see what happens.”
Spymaster Page 38
