Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

Judging by the smell and the dark red color, the liquid was blood.

  Amelia thrust her handkerchief into her sleeve, stood her umbrella against the wall, and opened the reticule. She had given Kate her double-barreled pistol, but she carried with her a corset-gun. Drawing it, she cocked the hammer and began to walk slowly and quietly down the hall toward the doors. She tried to avoid treading in the blood, but that proved impossible. The blood had formed a gruesome pond that washed up over the toes of her boots and splattered the hem of her skirt.

  Looking again at the massive double doors, she could now see that one stood slightly ajar. Amelia drew in a breath. Holding the pistol in her right hand, she gave the door a shove with her left. The door was heavy and moved only a little, opening enough to allow her to see into the room beyond.

  The sight was gruesome, horrible beyond belief. As a reporter Amelia had covered murders, fires, carriage disasters, and dead bodies being hauled out of rivers. She had never flinched.

  At this, a wave of dizziness assailed her and she was forced to support herself by leaning against the door. She gagged, swallowed, breathed deeply, gripped the pistol tightly, and stood firm until the giddiness passed. She forced herself to continue to look, dispassionately observing details, before turning away.

  She replaced the pistol in the reticule, snapped it shut, then took a moment to decide what to do and to make herself stop trembling. Once she was composed, she walked back down the hall, leaving a trail of bloody footprints.

  She was sorry for that, for it might impede the investigation, but it couldn’t be helped. She retrieved the lantern and lit her way up the stairs and along the passage. Entering the great hall, she found the steward manhandling a heavy chair, shoving it across the floor. The maids were sweeping and dusting.

  “Gunthar,” said Amelia. “Stop what you are doing. I need to talk to you.”

  Alarmed by her tone, Gunthar straightened from his task. The maids turned to stare.

  “A tragedy has occurred—” Amelia began.

  She was interrupted by one of the maids pointing to Amelia’s blood-spattered skirt and giving a loud shriek.

  “Stop that caterwauling this instant, girl!” Amelia said. “I don’t have time for hysterics.”

  The maid gulped and stuffed her hand into her mouth. Her shriek subsided to a whimper.

  Gunthar had gone rigid. “What has happened, madame?”

  “I have some bad news. Your mistress is dead,” Amelia said.

  “Dead!” Gunthar repeated. His gaze went to the blood on Amelia’s skirt and he went white to the lips.

  “Listen to me, Gunthar. You must run as fast as you can to the Lord Willingham Arms,” Amelia continued. “Ask for Sir Henry Wallace. He is a guest there. Get him alone and tell him what has happened. Do not breathe a word to anyone else. We must keep this quiet for as long as we can.”

  Gunthar shook his head. “I have to go to my mistress!”

  Amelia closely observed him. He had teared up. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was shaking. He appeared to be genuinely grief-stricken.

  “You can do nothing to help your mistress now, Gunthar, except to keep this quiet. Think, sir! Queen Mary is due to arrive in a few hours!” Amelia added.

  Gunthar blinked at her, dazed, in shock. “We will be ready…” He suddenly understood what Amelia was saying. “Oh, God! What do we do?”

  “Go fetch Sir Henry. Now! He will know what to do. And, Gunthar, not a word to anyone!”

  The steward gave a shaky nod and ran out the door. The maids were weeping. Amelia dared not leave them alone for fear they might flee in panic. She escorted them to the kitchen and made them sit down while she brewed a strong pot of tea. She kept them talking, asking where they slept and if they had heard anything in the night.

  “You mean like her screaming, madame?” said one of the servants.

  She broke into wails and so did her companion. Amelia could get nothing more out of them for some time.

  When they calmed down, they told her that they hadn’t heard anything. Not surprising, since the servants’ quarters were on the top level, about as far removed from the dragon’s chamber as was possible.

  “She was a good mistress, madame,” one said, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Never a cross word!”

  “We’ve read some of the terrible things you people have been saying about dragons,” the other added indignantly. “It’s not true! Any of it.”

  “I know it isn’t,” said Amelia. “And you mustn’t say anything to anyone. I’m asking you to stay here, at least for the time being. I have to go upstairs to wait for Sir Henry.”

  “You can rely on us, madame,” said one. “We won’t talk to a soul.”

  “How … how did she die?” asked the other.

  Amelia pretended she hadn’t heard and hurried back to the entry hall. Henry arrived not long after, clad only in shirt, breeches, and his waistcoat. He had rushed off without putting on his coat or hat.

  “Miss Amelia, I received your message,” Henry said, advancing into the hall. “I came as soon as I could and I have brought Mr. Sloan with me. That fellow, Gunthar, is barely coherent. He kept talking about Lady Odila and blood. What has occurred?”

  “Where is Gunthar?” Amelia asked.

  “He is tending to the horses,” said Henry. “What has—?”

  He caught sight of the blood that had soaked the hem of her dress and splattered on her skirt. He sucked in his breath.

  “Lady Odila is dead,” Amelia said. “She has been murdered.”

  Henry gazed at her from beneath lowered brows. “I know how you journalists love a sensational story, Miss Amelia, but I would be careful if I were you.”

  In answer, Amelia looked down at the blood that covered her clothes and made a slight gesture with her hands. “There is a vast quantity…” She could go no further.

  “I see.” Henry regarded her intently. He obviously had more questions, but at the moment he had more pressing matters. He turned away from her and began to issue orders.

  “Mr. Sloan, ride to the palace. We must stop Her Majesty. Tell her that the Lady Odila is unwell and that the meeting will have to be postponed.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Send a message to Colonel Dalton. Tell him I need a company of marines here as soon as possible. I want this castle sealed, cordoned off.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And bring Simon. If murder has been done, I will need him to determine who committed such a terrible crime and, more important, how.”

  “I know how,” said Amelia. “You were wrong, my lord. All of us were wrong. The magic worked.”

  She had spoken without thinking, which was highly uncharacteristic and only went to prove that she was badly shaken. When she saw Henry’s eyes she instantly realized she had made a mistake. He regarded her intently, his lips compressed, his jaw tight.

  And it was in that unfortunate moment that Amelia thought of Kate, who had been sent to fetch the magical construct designed to kill dragons and who hadn’t come to the inn last night as they had planned. Did Kate do this terrible deed?

  The blow was staggering, and Amelia almost gave way beneath it, but managed to keep a grip on herself. She looked at Henry to see if he had noticed her momentary lapse, but he was grappling with his own problems.

  “Where are the servants?” he asked.

  “I sent the maids to the kitchen,” said Amelia.

  “I will want to question them, as well as Gunthar. Mr. Sloan, on your way out, tell Gunthar to take my horse to the stable and then go to the kitchen.”

  “Very good, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “I observed Gunthar as I broke the news to him that his mistress was dead,” said Amelia. “He appeared to be genuinely affected.”

  “Appearances don’t mean much,” said Henry in grim tones. “Godspeed, Mr. Sloan. Return as fast as you can.”

  “I will do so, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. He lef
t the room with alacrity; shortly, they could hear him outside, talking to Gunthar.

  Now that Amelia and Henry were alone, she braced herself for the question she knew was coming and which she had no idea how she was going to answer. She found it hard to meet his cold, piercing gaze, but she stood her ground.

  He did not ask the question she feared. Instead, he asked another. “Who found Lady Odila?”

  “I did, my lord,” said Amelia.

  “When you kept the appointment you had with her.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Amelia.

  Henry regarded her another moment, then said abruptly, “I want to see for myself. Tell me where to find … Lady Odila.”

  “I can take you, my lord,” said Amelia. She saw he was going to refuse and added hurriedly, “You might have more questions for me.”

  “Oh, I have questions for you, Miss Amelia,” said Henry, glowering. “Very well. Lead the way.”

  He accompanied her down the hall to the stairs that led to the dragon’s chamber. Henry picked up the lantern and they descended the stairs, moving slowly as he flashed the light about.

  “Did you see or hear anything upon your arrival, Miss Amelia?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, my lord,” Amelia replied. “And neither did the servants, but then they sleep in a different part of the castle.”

  “Those footprints?” Henry stopped, shining the light on the floor.

  “They are mine, my lord. The blood is … everywhere.”

  Henry said nothing. He hung the lantern on the hook and proceeded down the hall that was still lit with the magical glow. Odila must have lighted the hall for the convenience of the servants and, unknowingly, her killer. Amelia wondered how long the light would last now that the dragon was dead.

  Henry said nothing as they proceeded down the hall. They rounded the curve and he saw the blood. “Good God!” he exclaimed, shaken.

  The rivulets had combined to form a stream that was slowly spreading. The bloody pool had expanded into a lake.

  “The body is through there,” said Amelia, indicating the iron-banded doors.

  Henry studied the doors for a moment without touching them, then looked into the chamber. Amelia came to stand by his side.

  Magical lamps burned, casting a bright light on the ghastly scene. The corpse of the dragon was sprawled on the floor. Lady Odila was a large dragon, about seventy feet in length, and the corpse took up much of the vast chamber. The blood flowed from several huge gashes in the dragon’s neck and chest. She had been stabbed repeatedly, and there was no need to search for the weapon.

  A bronze sword, protruding from the dragon’s skull, had delivered the death blow. The killer had scrawled words on the wall in the dragon’s blood.

  Death to the Wyrms.

  Henry began to softly swear, filthy, ugly words, difficult to hear. He fell silent. Then he said, “I am sorry, Miss Amelia. I did not mean to use such offensive language.”

  “No need to apologize, my lord,” said Amelia. “Lady Odila was tortured. Her death was long and agonizing. You speak what I feel.”

  “We can do nothing more here,” said Henry. “I do not want to disturb anything until Simon has investigated. We might as well question the steward and the maids.”

  Amelia agreed and they left the grisly scene and walked back up the hall. Henry walked in silence, his head lowered, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “You said the magic worked, Miss Amelia. I find it a remarkable coincidence that you should ask me about the magical construct to assassinate dragons last night and stumble across a murdered dragon in the morning.”

  Amelia made up her mind to tell the truth, or at least enough of the truth to sound truthful. She was not going to implicate Kate in this murder. Not yet. Not until she talked to Kate.

  “As you have surmised, my lord, my asking was no coincidence,” said Amelia. “I heard that someone was actively searching for King Godfrey’s magical construct. I knew from my earlier investigations that the magic didn’t work—or at least that is what I was told. I required confirmation. You had done work for His Majesty during that time period and thus I asked you.”

  Amelia sighed and shook her head. “If you had told me the truth, my lord, we might have prevented this tragedy.”

  “You think I lied to you,” said Henry, frowning. “On the contrary, Miss Amelia, I was assured by someone who had reason to know that the attempts to create such a construct had failed. And I am not yet convinced otherwise. What makes you think an assassin used this magic to kill Lady Odila?”

  Amelia stopped walking and turned to face him. “My lord, the answer is obvious. The dragon did nothing to defend herself! The killer tortured her! Stabbed her again and again and she did not roar in pain or anger. She did not burn him to a crisp! She did nothing!”

  “Can you name this killer, Miss Amelia?” Henry asked.

  Amelia met his gaze. “No, my lord.”

  Henry regarded her in chill silence, then resumed walking.

  “You know a great deal more than you are telling me, Miss Amelia,” he said. “What was your true reason for meeting with Lady Odila?”

  “I was going to bring this information to you after I had talked to her, my lord,” said Amelia. “The truth is, I consider my story to be so fantastic I feared you would not believe it. I needed proof.”

  Amelia told him briefly what she knew about Coreg, leaving out any references to Kate, saying she had heard rumors about the dragon and his vast criminal empire when she was in the Aligoes.

  “When I learned Coreg came from Travia, I asked a friend of mine to do some checking among the Travian dragons, to see if any of them knew him. I received a letter from Lady Odila, telling me that she could provide information. She told me in the letter that Coreg was having her watched.”

  They arrived at the stairs. Henry took down the lantern from the wall and they began to slowly ascend.

  “You are right, Miss Amelia, this tale about a dragon criminal overlord does verge on the fantastic,” said Henry. “But, as you say, this Coreg is far away in the Aligoes. Why do you think he has any connection to this murder?”

  “Because, my lord, I found out it was Coreg who was seeking information about the magical construct,” said Amelia.

  “And you said nothing!”

  Amelia sighed. “My lord, you told me yourself. The magic did not work. I had no idea Lady Odila would be in danger.”

  “How did you know this Coreg was looking for it, Miss Amelia? Who told you?”

  Amelia had known that question was coming. “I would prefer not to say at the moment, my lord.”

  “By God, Miss Amelia! You either tell me or I will have you arrested!” Henry said, livid with anger.

  Amelia nodded. “I understand, my lord. But is that the question you should be asking?”

  Henry glared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “You were told the magic did not work. My investigations revealed that the magic did not work.” Amelia gave him a troubled look. “The question is, Sir Henry—who knew that it did?”

  FORTY-ONE

  The murder of Lady Odila had placed Sir Henry Wallace in an untenable position. He was the one who had proposed bringing the dragons to Freya, and he would be blamed for the terrible outcome. News of this murder would outrage the Travian dragons and infuriate dragons throughout the world. The scandal would shake a monarchy already on unstable ground. The murder would give credence to the human anti-dragon leagues, those proclaiming that dragons were savage, bloodthirsty creatures who had now killed one of their own and would soon turn on humans.

  Sir Henry Wallace listened to Amelia’s account of this dragon, Coreg, and was forced to admit that if she had come to him with her tale of a dragon criminal mastermind, he would have found it difficult to keep from laughing. The death of Lady Odila, the fact that she had known this Coreg back in Travia, and that she suspected he was having her watched forced Henry to take a serious view of the
matter, although he still found it hard to credit.

  As for Amelia, she was shielding someone; that much was obvious. He could not quite believe she was shielding the murderer. She was obviously horrified by the crime. But she knew more than she was telling. A night in prison would loosen her tongue. As for her notion that King Godfrey’s magical construct had been instrumental in the dragon’s death, Henry didn’t believe it. He had good reason to know the magic did not work.

  He took Amelia with him, determined not to let her out of his sight, and went down to the kitchen to question the servants.

  The maids confirmed that neither of them had heard anything, but that proved nothing. Their sleeping quarters were some distance away. Gunthar slept in a different part of the castle, on the floor directly above the dragon’s chamber. He had not heard anything, but he admitted to being a heavy sleeper.

  “Did Lady Odila ever mention a dragon by the name of Coreg? Either here or back in Travia?” Henry asked with a sharp glance at Amelia. “A dragon she might have known ten years ago.”

  “No, my lord,” said Gunthar. “But I have been with the mistress only about five years.”

  The maids shook their heads. They had never heard of Coreg.

  “Was Lady Odila concerned that she was being watched?” Henry asked.

  “Yes, my lord, she was,” said Gunthar. “When we lived in Travia, she gave strict orders that no one was to set foot on the property. If I found someone, I was to set the dogs on them. One reason she moved to Freya was to find some peace. God forgive me, I used to laugh at such fancies—”

  His voice broke and he lowered his head. The maids began to sob again.

  “We could all do with some tea,” said Amelia and she went to fix it.

  Henry asked a few more questions, more to be doing something than because he believed the servants were involved. He would send someone to check their rooms, of course, but he doubted he would find anything to implicate them. Whoever had done this murder would have been covered in blood. The grisly evidence would have been on the murderer’s face, hair, and clothes. Blood was not easy to remove and he could see no trace of it on any of these three. Nor did he see any signs that they had recently bathed.