He decided the best thing to do with them was send them back home to Travia as soon as possible. They would talk, of course, but they could do their talking in Travia, not here. The servants were happy to accept his offer of passage home.
“We didn’t want to come to Freya,” said Gunthar. “But we didn’t want to leave the mistress to the mercy of foreigners.”
He gave Henry a baleful look, then took his tea and moved to the far end of the table.
Henry warned them again not to talk to anyone, out of respect for Lady Odila. He refused the cup of tea Amelia offered him, saying he would go upstairs to wait for Simon.
“You will not be able to keep this terrible tragedy quiet for long, my lord,” said Amelia.
That is true, Henry reflected bitterly. I cannot keep this quiet. I will have to inform Her Majesty, the other members of the Privy Council, the Lord Speaker of the House of Nobles and key members, some of whom will gloat and immediately plot to use this against me.
“I cannot permit you to write about this, Miss Amelia,” he said.
“I have no intention of doing so, my lord,” said Amelia.
Henry wondered at this. Here was a journalist with the story of a lifetime and she was not planning to tell it. She stirred beneath his scrutiny, and appeared uneasy.
“You still refuse to tell me what you know,” said Henry.
“I will, my lord. I promise. I just need some time to collect my thoughts. This has come as a great shock. I find I think better when I exercise. With your permission, I will take a turn up and down the long gallery.” Amelia gave a faint smile. “I promise I will not run away.”
Henry trusted she would not leave, not without her story, whether she planned to write about it or not.
“Simon will have questions for you,” Henry warned.
“Of course, my lord,” said Amelia. “I have long admired Mr. Yates. I look forward to meeting him. I wish it were under different circumstances.”
She climbed the grand staircase leading to the upper level. Henry noted that the blood on her clothes was starting to stiffen and harden, as it was on his. He walked over to one of the windows facing into the lane and stood looking out. He had a lot on his mind and all of it extremely unpleasant.
* * *
Amelia returned after an absence of an hour to find Henry still at the window.
“When do you expect Mr. Yates, my lord?”
“Not for some time, at least,” Henry replied. “He has some difficulty traveling.”
“He is without the use of his lower limbs,” Amelia said, nodding. “Gunshot wound, as I recall.”
“Perhaps you could have the servants make some sandwiches, Miss Amelia,” said Henry.
He wasn’t hungry, but it would keep her occupied and leave him in solitude.
Simon arrived sooner than expected, accompanied by his servant, Mr. Albright, and Mr. Sloan. The three had traveled by carriage and they had brought with them Simon’s floating chair. Mr. Sloan removed the chair from the carriage. Mr. Albright lifted Simon from the carriage and placed him in the chair.
“Don’t fuss, Albright,” said Simon, when Mr. Albright wanted to drape a blanket over his legs.
Simon propelled himself into the house. He and the duchess had started designing Simon’s chair while he was in bed, recovering from his wound. The chair had been redesigned several times since. Constructed of wood, with a cushioned back and seat, the chair floated over the ground by means of two small lift tanks containing the liquid form of the Breath, one on either side, with a ballast tank on the back. Two small airscrews underneath each armrest propelled the chair.
Simon controlled the chair by means of a brass panel that resembled a ship’s helm, which sent the magic to the lift tanks and operated the airscrews. At Simon’s instruction, Mr. Albright had built an assortment of wooden cases into the arms. Simon stored various objects, from scientific instruments to a traveling writing desk, in these cases.
“I am glad you could come so quickly, Simon,” said Henry, shaking hands with his friend. “I am out of my depth.”
“A bad business, Henry,” said Simon in a low voice. “A bad business.”
Henry introduced Amelia, who had come from the kitchen immediately on hearing Simon’s arrival.
“Miss Nettleship, Simon Yates.”
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Yates,” Amelia said. “I am an admirer of your work.”
Simon shrugged her compliment away. “I would like to proceed to the scene of the murder.”
“I doubt Simon’s chair will fit in the stairwell. Miss Amelia, would you please take Mr. Sloan and Mr. Albright to see what can be done about transporting the chair down the stairs? Simon and I will follow.”
Henry cast a glance at Mr. Sloan, who understood that Henry wanted to speak to Simon alone. Mr. Sloan latched on to Amelia.
“I enjoyed reading your articles regarding those unscrupulous crafters who were using their talents to communicate with the dead, Miss Amelia,” said Mr. Sloan.
“They bilked poor widows out of their meager inheritance, Mr. Sloan,” said Amelia. “I was glad to bring them to justice. There was one woman, Mrs. A. J. Copley, who was remarkably skilled in creating phantasms…”
The three proceeded down the passage. Henry and Simon followed more slowly behind.
“Are you allowing her to accompany us to the murder room?” Simon asked Henry.
“I deem it advisable,” Henry said. “As I am certain Mr. Sloan informed you, Miss Amelia came here to meet with the dragon early this morning. It was she who discovered the body. And she has admited to withholding information.”
Simon nodded. “Mr. Sloan also said she met with you last night to ask you about Godfrey’s magical dragon-killing construct.”
“She is convinced the killer used the magic to incapacitate and then torture and kill the dragon,” said Henry. “Frankly I think that’s nonsense. You and I both know the magic did not work. Are you feeling quite well, Simon? You look a bit peaked.”
Henry had been closely observing his friend, noting that he seemed troubled, preoccupied; this was quite unusual for Simon, who generally approached murder investigations with scientific interest and oftentimes disquieting enthusiasm.
“I found the journey fatiguing,” said Simon. “Tell me what you have learned.”
Henry related the conversation about Coreg. Simon listened without comment as he propelled his chair down the hall.
“The more I think about it, the more I tend to doubt this idea of a dragon criminal overlord.”
Simon brought his chair to a halt and sat motionless, frowning down at the blue-glowing constructs on the small brass control panel beneath his right hand.
“Are you listening to me?” Henry asked.
“Yes, of course,” Simon said and wheeled his chair forward. “Do not be so quick to dismiss Miss Nettleship’s information. Dragons, like humans, are complex creatures, afflicted by similar weaknesses. There is no reason why a dragon should not turn his considerable intelligence to crime. I am certain this Coreg is not the first and might not be the only one to do so. Dragons administer their own justice and thus we humans do not hear about the bad apples.”
“I suppose,” said Henry, unconvinced.
“That said, I have long been aware of a powerful presence at the center of a vast criminal empire engaged in piracy, smuggling, illicit arms sales, the opium trade, and a host of other evils. The idea that it could be a dragon is intriguing and worthy of serious consideration.”
“And what do you make of Miss Amelia’s assertion that this Coreg is mixed up with this murder?” Henry asked.
Simon stirred restlessly in his chair.
“A bad business, Henry,” he said again. “A bad business. And we are wasting time.”
He increased his speed, and began propelling his chair down the hall at such a rapid pace that Henry was forced to practically run to keep up.
Simon managed to maneuver his chair down
the spiral staircase, although it proved a tight fit and at one particularly narrow point he became wedged between the walls. After some pushing and pulling, assisted by Mr. Albright, Simon was able to proceed. He slowed his speed as he traveled down the hallway, gazing intently at the floor, the walls and even the ceiling.
“I see your footprints, Henry, and Miss Nettleship’s,” said Simon. “No others. Is there another way out? I did not have time to study the layout before I came.”
“I did, Mr. Yates,” Amelia replied. “Lady Odila entered the chamber by means of the trade entrance through which they used to bring wagons filled with supplies. According to Gunthar, once she was inside the castle, she closed the entrance and magically sealed it. There is also a narrow tunnel that leads from the west side of the chamber underneath the walls. The tunnel was built in the event the castle came under siege and the residents needed a way to escape. A rockslide rendered the tunnel impassable about fifty years ago.”
“Then the killer came and left by the front entrance,” said Simon. “He would have made certain to find out where the servants slept. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. He must have walked down this very hall.”
“But he left no tracks,” Henry pointed out. “He could not have avoided stepping in the blood, given the vast quantity.”
“He had the foresight to either cover his shoes or he brought another pair with him.”
“A professional assassin,” Henry observed.
“At least someone who knew what he was doing,” Simon said in thoughtful tones.
The blood had cooled and was starting to congeal on the floor. They had no choice but to step in it, with the exception of Simon, who floated above it. Arriving at the banded wooden doors, he called a halt. Ordering them to keep out of his way, he inspected the doors and the surroundings.
“Someone has placed a magical construct on the floor,” said Simon. “I can see faint traces of the sigils over there, near the wall. The crafter has attempted to expunge it. Open the doors, Albright. I am going inside. The rest of you stay back.”
Mr. Albright pushed open the doors. They gazed inside, silent, overwhelmed by the ghastly sight of the dragon’s body lying in a vast pool of blood, slashed, stabbed, and hacked like a side of meat hanging in a butcher shop.
Henry had seen it once and that was enough. He averted his gaze. Mr. Sloan murmured a prayer. Mr. Albright drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his nose. Amelia stood in pitying silence. Simon was grim-faced and so pale that Henry was worried about him. His hand on the controls of his chair trembled.
“Simon, you are not well—”
“I am fine, Henry!” Simon snapped. “Don’t come any closer. I can’t have you tromping about, disturbing the evidence.”
He entered the chamber. Pausing just inside, he said, “Are you a crafter, Miss Nettleship?”
“To my deep regret, I am not, Mr. Yates,” she replied.
“Mr. Sloan, you are a crafter. You feel the sensation, I am certain,” said Simon.
“I do, indeed, Mr. Yates,” Mr. Sloan replied. “I felt it outside the door, but far more strongly in this room.”
“What sensation?” Henry demanded. He was not a crafter and he was sometimes annoyed by Simon’s patronizing attitude toward those poor benighted souls like himself who could not see or feel magic.
“The latent effects of residual magic,” Simon explained. “A rather unpleasant tingling sensation that can occasionally be felt in the presence of an extremely powerful magical spell.”
Mr. Sloan had been looking around the room and now he pointed. “Mr. Yates! I can see traces of the construct!”
“Where, Mr. Sloan?” Simon asked with a flash of his usual energy.
“There, sir, near the wall.” Mr. Sloan indicated the direction. “And again on the floor, about a foot from the wall. You will note the faint blue glow.”
Simon propelled his chair over to the wall to investigate, while Henry once more cursed the fact that he had been born without a magic bone in his body. He could see, however, that this section of the flagstone floor was one of the few places not covered with blood, owing to the fact that the flagstones had settled over time. Some of the stones had sunk, forming low spots in the floor that were ankle-deep with blood. At this location, the stones stood higher, and either they had escaped the flood or the gruesome pool had receded.
Simon hovered over the faintly shining construct for a considerable length of time, his expression growing increasingly grave. He reached into a compartment on his chair, removed his traveling desk, took out paper, pen, and ink, and began to carefully copy what remained of the construct.
“I will be here for some time and I am afraid you will find this wearying,” he said. “I suggest you go back upstairs.”
“I’m staying,” said Henry.
“So am I,” said Amelia.
“Suit yourselves,” said Simon.
When he was finished with his drawing, he maneuvered the chair over to the corpse. He studied the sword and drew an illustration of it. Once this was done, he tried to remove the sword, but that proved extremely difficult and eventually he gave up. He placed his hand on the dragon’s foreleg, observed the rigidity and the attitude of the body, closely studied the hideous wounds, and made diagrams.
He next floated over to study the letters on the wall, “Death to the Wyrms.” He examined each word one by one and made another drawing. When he had completed his work, Simon turned to face them.
“I am finished with the investigation,” he said. “We can leave now. Albright, I would be obliged if you would pull out the sword. I should like to take it with me.”
“What did you discover, Mr. Yates?” Amelia asked. “Do you know who committed this heinous act?”
“I must go over my notes, Miss Amelia,” said Simon. “I will tell you this much, however. Henry informed me that you very astutely noted the extraordinary fact that the dragon did nothing to defend herself. Lady Odila was alive when she was attacked. She saw her death coming. She felt each blow as he struck her, felt the sword pierce her flesh, watched her lifeblood drain away. And she was utterly helpless to stop her murderer.”
Mr. Albright blew his nose, then waded through the blood to remove the sword. Mr. Albright was a big man, strong enough to lift and carry Simon. Henry observed that it took considerable effort for Mr. Albright to yank the sword from the body.
Henry shook his head in disbelief. “What you said makes no sense, Simon. Why the devil would the dragon allow herself to be tortured and killed?”
Simon gave Henry a narrow look and flashed a glance at Amelia. Henry understood.
“Mr. Sloan, if you would escort Miss Amelia—”
“Please, my lord, I have one question for Mr. Yates,” Amelia said. “I do not ask this idly. The question is of the utmost importance. The answer could assist you in the investigation.”
“Ask your question, Miss Nettleship,” said Simon. “Although I must warn you that since this involves state secrets I may not be able to respond.”
“I understand, Mr. Yates. You said the magical construct cast in this chamber was extremely complex.”
“It was, yes,” Simon conceded.
“Could an ordinary, everyday crafter cast this spell? Could Mr. Sloan, for example?” Amelia asked.
“No, ma’am,” Simon replied. “No disparagement on Mr. Sloan, who is very talented, but the crafter who cast this spell was highly skilled in magic. Not only that, he would have had to be trained to cast this particular spell. I know of very few who—”
Simon stopped, his brow furrowed.
Amelia sighed in relief. “Then it was not Kate!”
“Kate?” Henry stared at her. “You mean Captain Kate? I guessed as much! You have been shielding her!”
“Since Kate is not implicated, I can now tell you everything I know, my lord,” said Amelia. “Coreg hired her to obtain the construct and spoke to her about killing a dragon.”
“You should
have told me!” Henry stated, glowering. “By God, woman, I’ll have you up on charges—”
“Calm down, Henry,” said Simon.
“I will not calm down,” Henry returned. “I’m ankle-deep in blood. I brought this dragon here to be murdered! Mr. Sloan, put out an arrest warrant for Katherine Gascoyne—”
Simon slammed his hand on the arm of his chair and shouted at him, “Henry, be silent!”
Henry had never heard his friend raise his voice, and he stared at him in astonishment. Simon was rarely touched by strong emotion. No matter what the emergency, his placid calm remained undisturbed.
He was clearly disturbed now. He was pale, his eyes feverish in their luster.
“Arresting Kate will do no good, although you should find her, for I believe she is in peril,” said Simon. “Both Kate and Coreg are innocent of this crime. The murderer used them to misdirect us. These two are cat’s-paws.”
Henry found this hard to believe, but he trusted Simon.
“Then who is the cat?” he demanded.
Simon sighed. “You must give me time, Henry. You must give me time.”
He slowly propelled his chair down the hall, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. Mr. Albright followed, carrying the bloody sword.
FORTY-TWO
Kate climbed over the wreckage, trying to reach Olaf and Akiel and the others who were calling to her for help. They were near, but she couldn’t find them in the darkness below the Breath. Chill mists clung to her like jungle vines, wrapping around her legs and arms, binding her to the helm. And then the helm changed to Dalgren, bleeding, dying, thrashing about in his death throes. Kate had some vague knowledge that this was all a terrible dream and she tried try to wake up, only to sink beneath the darkness again.
She had the impression of time passing, of daylight and darkness. Each time she woke she struggled to hold on to consciousness and, at last, she managed to seize it.
She woke to find herself lying on a cold stone floor. Her head ached, her right hand throbbed, her throat burned. Bright sunlight stabbed her in the eyes and she turned her head to try to block it. The movement sent a wave of nausea rolling over her. She heaved and then lay still and tried to remember.
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