Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  Dalgren was dying. Fear jolted through her and she sat bolt upright, only to nearly pass out again. She groaned and clutched her stomach. After another bout of vomiting, she felt a little better. She managed to crawl across the floor, wincing at the pain in her hand, and propped herself up against the wall. She realized with relief that she had been dreaming.

  “This is my kitchen in Barwich Manor,” Kate murmured, looking around in bewilderment. “But that’s not right. I’m not here. I’m in Haever…”

  Memory began to return, but only in confused flashes: a house, a sword … a man, a scarf … a handkerchief … a linen scroll …

  The pain in her hand was becoming intolerable. Kate couldn’t remember how she had hurt it. She lifted her hand to examine it and stared in shock.

  Her hand and arm were smeared in blood from the fingers to the elbow. Horrified, she looked at her other hand. It was covered in blood, as were her clothes.

  Kate gagged and she was sick again, although there was nothing left in her stomach to purge. She rested her aching head on her bent knees and tried to fully remember what had happened last night. At least, she supposed it was last night. She couldn’t think.

  Events were vague and distorted and fraught with terror. She remembered going to a house, finding the construct on the linen scroll, a man rushing at her out of the darkness and after that, nothing.

  The blood on her hands was sticky, gumming her fingers. She could smell the iron-tinged stench, and she felt an overwhelming need to be rid of it. She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, using the wall for support, and staggered out the kitchen door.

  She breathed in the fresh air and her head began to clear.

  The sun was past its zenith. She had no idea what day it was. She might have been unconscious for a week, as far as she knew. She was desperately thirsty and there was a horrid taste in her mouth. She pumped water from the well and drank from the spout. Then she pumped water into the horse trough, using her left hand to work the pump; her right hand was swollen and bruised. She remembered the man stepping on it.

  When the tub was filled, Kate crouched down at the trough and plunged her face into the cold water. Gasping and sputtering, she raised her head again, blinked the water from her eyes, and began to wash her hands and arms. The water took on a reddish tint. Kate shivered and scrubbed harder.

  She heard a noise, coming from behind. Terrified, Kate picked up a rock and whipped around, dripping pinkish water.

  A squirrel darted out of the brush and bounded away.

  Kate dropped the rock and sagged back down to the ground.

  Nothing made sense. How did she come to be here … covered in blood …

  She went back to washing her hands and watched the blood swirl in the water.…

  The magical construct … killing dragons …

  Kate stared at her hands. All this blood. So much blood.

  “No! I didn’t! I couldn’t!”

  “Kate!” a voice called. “Oh, my dear! I have been so worried!”

  Kate turned to see Amelia running across the yard toward her.

  “You’re hurt!” Amelia gasped.

  “Hurt?” Kate couldn’t understand what she meant, and she saw Amelia staring at the blood on her clothes. “This isn’t mine. I don’t know whose blood it is. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know anything!”

  Amelia put her arm around her. “Come into the house. The air is chill and you will catch your death.”

  Kate was shivering and still felt weak and disoriented. She allowed Amelia to help her into the house.

  “Do you have any clothes here?”

  Kate shook her head.

  “I have some with me,” said Amelia. “Wait here and I will go fetch them.”

  She disappeared. When she returned, she was carrying her valise. “You will find a clean shift, skirt, and jacket in here. You are taller than I am, but we are close to the same build, so they should fit. Change out of those wet clothes and I will brew you some tea and fix you something to eat.”

  The thought of food made Kate nauseous, but the tea sounded wonderful. She went to her room, stripped off the wet, bloodstained slops, her blood-soaked stockings and the bloody shoes. Sickened, she threw them into a corner.

  She put on the linen shift. Eyeing the jacket with its myriad buttons, she looked down at her bruised hand and knew she couldn’t manage. She towel-dried her wet hair and tied it back, wondering if she looked as bad as she felt. She returned to the kitchen, and wrapped herself in an old shawl for warmth.

  Amelia had lit a fire in the big fireplace and was hanging the kettle over the blaze.

  “This will warm you,” said Amelia and she splashed a generous portion of some liquor from an old jug into a cup. “Apple brandy, or so I should judge by the smell. I found it in the pantry.”

  “We had a cook who drank,” said Kate.

  She swallowed the biting liquid and felt warmth spread through her body.

  “How did you know where to find me?” she asked.

  “I looked for you at the house in Haever. When I couldn’t find you there, I realized you might come here. Especially if you needed to escape…”

  “Escape?” Kate repeated. “What do mean? Escape what?”

  Amelia didn’t elaborate. She bustled about the kitchen. She cleaned up where Kate had been sick, brewed a pot of strong black tea, and prepared a bowl of gruel. Kate was grateful for the tea, but she couldn’t even look at the gruel.

  “You need to eat something,” said Amelia. “Gruel is plain, wholesome food and will settle your stomach. While you eat, I will bind up your hand.”

  Kate ate as much as she could and then shoved the bowl away. She poured more brandy into her tea and slowly sipped it.

  “What time is it?” Kate asked. “What day?”

  “Late afternoon,” said Amelia. “Two full days and nights have passed since the night you left to go that house on Waltham Lane.”

  “I kept trying to wake up…” Kate groaned and rested her head in her hands. “How did I get here? And where did all that blood come from?”

  Amelia poured herself some tea. “You are in trouble, Captain. Not as much as you might have been, but trouble nonetheless. You must tell me what happened. The truth. Every detail.”

  “I went to that house. I found a linen scroll with the magical construct.” Kate shivered and looked Amelia. “You were wrong about that, Miss Amelia. The magic will work.”

  “Yes, Captain, I know. And then what happened?”

  Kate frowned, thinking back. “A man was inside the house. He must have been there, waiting for me. He rushed at me. I drew my pistol, but he kicked it out of my hand. I thought it was Trubgek, but it wasn’t.”

  “Who was it? Do you know?”

  “He was wearing a scarf. It slipped when we struggled and I saw part of his face. I didn’t know him.” Kate turned her gaze on Amelia. “What do you mean I’m in trouble? What has happened?”

  “A dragon was murdered, Kate,” Amelia said. “Lady Odila. The magical construct was used to incapacitate her. She was viciously attacked and died a cruel death—”

  Kate sprang to her feet, upsetting the tea. “I didn’t kill her! I didn’t!”

  “I know, you didn’t, Captain,” said Amelia in soothing tones. “But whoever committed the murder wants people to think you did. My guess would be that the murderer drugged you. He had an accomplice who transported you here by griffin. I saw tracks outside. He smeared you with blood which, by the way, is probably cow’s blood. Then he left you to be discovered.”

  “Oh, God!” Kate murmured.

  She slowly sat back down.

  “Tell me about the construct,” said Amelia.

  “I knew the moment I saw it that the magic would work,” Kate said, adding defensively, “That spell was powerful, complex. I couldn’t even understand it, much less cast it! You have to believe me!”

  “I do,” said Amelia. “I have reason to know what you ar
e saying is true. Please go on.”

  “There was a sword,” said Kate. “A very old sword made of bronze with jewels set in the handle. The jewels weren’t very valuable. Semiprecious.”

  She saw Amelia faintly smile at this.

  “What happened next?”

  “I woke up here,” said Kate. “My hands and arms were drenched in blood and so were my clothes.”

  Amelia sat for long moments in thought, drinking her tea.

  “What about your shoes?” she asked suddenly.

  “What about them?”

  “Did they have blood on them?”

  “Yes. I left them in my room.”

  Amelia smiled, triumphant. “He made a mistake! This proves beyond doubt you are innocent! But now, if you are feeling stronger, we must leave. I have a carriage waiting. My guess is that someone will send an anonymous tip to the constables that they can find the killer here in Barwich Manor. They may already be on their way to arrest you.”

  “Constables! Arrest?” Kate stared at her in alarm. “What do I do?”

  “We must go straight to Sir Henry. Tell him exactly what you told me—”

  Kate jumped to her feet. “Sir Henry won’t believe me! He will think I did this!”

  “No, Captain, he will not,” said Amelia. “Sir Henry knows you couldn’t because— Kate! What are you doing?”

  “You are right. I have to get out of here,” said Kate. “Only I’m not going to see Sir Henry.”

  She hurried to her room, fumbled at the skirt and managed to struggle into the blouse and the jacket.

  “Can you help me button this?” Kate asked Amelia, who had followed her into her room. “You said you had a carriage.”

  “A wyvern-drawn carriage I hired at the inn,” said Amelia, deftly buttoning the jacket. “The driver is waiting to take us to Haever.”

  “Tell him there has been a change of plans,” said Kate. “Please don’t try to stop me, Miss Amelia!”

  “You are making a mistake, Captain. Sir Henry knows you could not possibly have killed Lady Odila.”

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t even know I didn’t kill her! And it might not matter if Sir Henry believes me. He will be under pressure to solve this murder and bring the murderer to justice. He needs to convict someone and he may not be overly concerned about who that someone is.”

  Amelia considered her argument.

  “You may be right,” she admitted after a moment’s serious thought. “If Sir Henry thinks his country is at risk, he would stop at nothing to save her. Where will you go?”

  Kate hesitated. “To the Victorie. After that, no offense, Miss Amelia, but the less you know the better. I don’t want you to have to lie for me.”

  “What about Dalgren?” Amelia asked. “Should I go fetch him?”

  “He isn’t here,” said Kate. “When Trubgek made threats against Victorie, I sent Dalgren to keep an eye on the ship and my friends.”

  Amelia reached into her valise, took out a billfold, and handed it to Kate. “You will require funds.”

  “I couldn’t—” Kate began.

  Amelia forced the billfold into her hand. “Consider it payment for the wonderful stories you will bring back to me. I will endeavor to placate Sir Henry.”

  “I want you and Sir Henry both to know I am not running away because I am guilty, Miss Amelia,” Kate said. “I need time to sort things out. Tell him I will come back. I promise.”

  She walked out to the waiting carriage. The evening was cloudy and oppressive. Kate kept expecting every moment to hear the drumming of hooves, the shrill whistles of constables.

  She gave the driver directions; then a sudden thought occurred to her.

  “How will you travel back to Haever, Miss Amelia?”

  “I will take the mail coach,” said Amelia. “You are not to worry about me.”

  Kate climbed into the carriage, then leaned out the window.

  “I hope you won’t find yourself in trouble with Sir Henry.”

  Amelia smiled. “He expects nothing less from me, my dear.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Amelia. And thank you.”

  Amelia regarded her with earnest concern.

  “I beg you to be careful, Captain. I have an idea I know where you are going. You are dealing with dangerous people who will stop at nothing to achieve their goal—whatever that terrible goal might be. I saw what they did to Lady Odila.”

  Amelia stepped back and told the driver he could proceed. The wyverns had been fed and were sleepy and therefore unusually well behaved. He cracked his whip over their heads, waking them. They snarled and snapped, but he cracked the whip again and finally they took to the air.

  Kate looked down to see Amelia waving to her. She closed the window and sat back with a sigh. She had to think up something to tell Olaf and Dalgren. She obviously couldn’t tell them the truth.

  * * *

  The journey to Blacktooth Point, located at the southern tip of Freya, took two days. Kate found the trip long and tedious. She worried about what Trubgek would do when he came to Barwich Manor for the construct, only to find that she wasn’t there. He had threatened her ship and he might carry out that threat. She tried to reassure herself. Victorie was safely concealed in one of Morgan’s hideouts. But that was no comfort. Trubgek haunted her like some monstrous creature out of a fairy tale.

  When the driver stopped at an inn to rest the wyverns, Kate read the newspapers relating the news of Lady Odila’s sudden death, half expecting to see herself named as a suspect.

  The official announcement from the palace said nothing beyond the fact that the dragon was dead and the queen expressed her sorrow and deep regret. Other articles termed the death “suspicious” and reported that the Travian dragons in Freya were in an uproar.

  Members of the Anti-Dragon League reminded the populace that they had warned that no good could come of bringing such savage beasts to Freya. The dragons had killed one of their own and would undoubtedly turn on humans next and should be driven out of Freya. If the queen didn’t order them to leave, the people would take matters into their own hands.

  Kate burned the paper, fearful that someone might connect her.

  The carriage took her to Alton, a town not far from Blacktooth Point. She paid the driver and dismissed him, intending to walk the rest of the way. A dirt trail led to the secluded location. She knew the route. She had walked this trail with Morgan often enough.

  The day was fair, the sun hot. The trail ran along the coastline, about a mile from the Breath. She could see the orange mists in the distance. The land was rugged, rockbound, and barren. No one came here except those who made use of the inlet, and they tended to conduct their business at night.

  Kate trudged along the dusty, rutted trail and thought how strange it was that here she was again, walking these same paths she had walked with her father. Was she doomed to always walk the same path? Could she never escape?

  She had paid a healer to treat her hand, but she had not yet completely recovered from the effects of the drug, and she had to sit down on a boulder to rest. She gazed out into the blue sky and her spirits rose. She would soon be back with her friends, with her ship, sailing the Breath. Out there in the mists, she was free.

  A shadow flowed over her, blocking out the sun. Kate shaded her eyes and looked up to see Dalgren. She waved at him, overjoyed to see him. She waited to greet him when he landed.

  Dalgren did not land, however. He hovered in the air above her, gazing down at her. Kate didn’t think much about it. Perhaps the wind currents were adverse, make landing difficult.

  “I am glad to see you!” she shouted. “Though how did you know I was coming?”

  “I figured you would show up about now,” said Dalgren.

  He sounded odd, not like himself.

  “How is the Victorie? Is everything all right”

  Dalgren didn’t answer and Kate was suddenly afraid. “Is something wrong? Has something happened—”

  “V
ictorie is fine,” Dalgren replied.

  “Good,” said Kate, relieved. “We need to make ready to sail—”

  “Why?” Dalgren asked.

  “We have our orders from Sir Henry—” Kate began.

  “Liar!” Dalgren snarled.

  Kate stared at him, taken aback. “I don’t…” She faltered and fell silent.

  Dalgren hung in the air, his wings barely moving.

  “I heard about Lady Odila,” he said. “I know you were involved.”

  Kate felt the blood drain from her face. She gazed at him, stricken. She tried to speak, to explain, but all she could do was say, “No…”

  Dalgren snorted. “You were hired to find a magical dragon-slaying construct and the very next day, a dragon died, found murdered.”

  “How did you—” Kate began, but her voice faded away.

  Dalgren finished her sentence. “How did I find out? Olaf went into town for supplies. He heard.”

  “Does Olaf know about Coreg?” Kate asked.

  “You mean, did I tell him you were working for that fiend?” Dalgren said, looking grim. “No, I did not. You can do that yourself.”

  “I didn’t want to worry him,” Kate explained. “And I wasn’t working for Coreg. Not really. I talked to Miss Amelia, as you suggested, and we decided to tell Sir Henry, but we needed the contruct as proof. I went to get it, but I was attacked and drugged—”

  “So you admit that you did the job for Coreg. You got the construct,” said Dalgren.

  Kate sighed. “I did not kill Odila, Dalgren. I swear to you!”

  Dalgren grunted. “Swear on what, Kate? The memory of your father?”

  “On our friendship!” Kate pleaded. “You have to believe me.”

  “Why?” Dalgren flared. “When have you ever told the truth to me or anyone else? All that rigamarole about proof and Sir Henry. You lied to me just now, in fact. You don’t have orders from Sir Henry, do you?”

  “No,” Kate admitted. All she could do was repeat, “I am not a murderer, Dalgren! What can I say to convince you?”

  “Nothing,” said Dalgren. “As Olaf is always saying, you are your father’s daughter.”