Apparently the Rosians were serious about their efforts to clean up the Aligoes. Mr. Sloan wondered if their ambitions would stop there.
Mr. Sloan secured accommodations for the night in Wellinsport, then walked to Fort Chessington to pay Sir Henry’s respects to General Winstead and find out what was going on.
The general was pleased to see Mr. Sloan. He invited him to have some rum—the local drink—which Mr. Sloan politely declined. They then discussed the political situation.
“The Rosian Southern Fleet, known jokingly as the ‘Rum’ Fleet, is here in the north, while the Estarans sent their fleet to the Imperial Channel to secure the eastern islands,” General Winstead explained, indicating the positions on the map.
“King Renaud invited the Freyan navy to join the Estarans in the south. Admiral Miller and I agreed it would be wiser to keep our ships here. One never knows,” the general added drily. “A defenseless Wellinsport might prove too great a temptation for Renaud to resist. I should not want him to commit some rash act.”
“I see the Dragon Brigade is also in the Aligoes,” said Mr. Sloan.
“Yes, confound them,” said General Winstead. “I have to give the Rosies credit, though. The bloody pirates can’t hide from dragons. The Brigade has been spotting their hideouts from the air, then literally smoking them out.”
Trusting God would forgive him a small fib, Mr. Sloan lowered his voice as he leaned forward. “You will have read in the newspapers of the tragic death of one of the Travian dragons. The other dragons are extremely upset, as one can imagine. Sir Henry was thinking that he might suggest relocating them to the Aligoes.”
“Out of the question,” said General Winstead. “Dragons wouldn’t like the climate. I hear the Rosian dragons are already complaining about the heat.”
Mr. Sloan was confused. “But it was Sir Henry’s understanding that dragons are currently living in the Aligoes, sir.”
“Can’t think where he would have heard that!” said General Winstead. “Is he referring to that complaint from the Travian merchant that a dragon attacked his ship? Bah! You know Travians. He and his crew were likely drunk as skunks, wouldn’t know a dragon from a cockatoo!”
“I believe Sir Henry was referring to something the former governor told him regarding his belief that there was a dragon in the Aligoes who was involved with the pirates, as well as smuggling and other illicit activities.”
General Winstead laughed heartily at the idea. “I am surprised His Lordship would believe anything the Right Honorable told him. Tell Sir Henry to keep his Travian dragons, Mr. Sloan. We don’t want them.”
That night, Mr. Sloan sought out several of Henry’s agents in Wellinsport, asked them similar questions, received the same answers, and heard the same laughter. The only crime boss in the Aligoes that anyone appeared to know about was Greenstreet. Mr. Sloan’s estimation of Coreg went up a notch.
Early the next morning, Mr. Sloan procured an island jumper ferry, known as an island hopper, to transport him to Freeport. The general had informed him that the Rosians had no intention of shutting down trade, and that merchant ships, wreckers, barges, island hoppers, and yachts continued to sail. They had to submit to the occasional search by the Rosian navy, but they were willing to put up with the inconvenience, which was far better than being attacked by pirates.
Mr. Sloan was not concerned about being questioned by the Rosians. He had papers to attest to the fact that he was employed by a merchant who had sent him to investigate the loss of several shipments of indigo.
He spent his time observing the dragons of the Dragon Brigade fly overhead, searching out pirates. He could not help but admire the grace, beauty, and power of the massive creatures, as well as the courage and skill of their riders. He remembered the ravaged corpse of Lady Odila. The thought that some human could so brutally destroy a beast of such magnificence was appalling.
Mr. Sloan’s Fundamentalist faith declared dragons to be the minions of the Evil One. He himself, though, did not entertain the same belief, for which he could find no validation in the Scriptures. The notion had apparently started with one of the founders of the faith, Reverend Elijah Byrd. Although Mr. Sloan agreed with Reverend Byrd on many subjects, the idea of dragons being inherently evil was not one.
The island hopper sailed past several Rosian frigates, which observed them and let them pass. Upon the boat’s arrival at the entrance to Freeport Bay, a Rosian naval patrol boat sailed over to investigate them and signaled them to prepare to be boarded.
The boat’s owner appeared startled to see the patrol boat, but he complied, throwing lines to the sailors on the patrol boat, who hauled the island hopper close enough that an officer could go on board.
The polite officer apologized for the inconvenience and asked to see their papers and inspect the cargo. He found everything in order, wished Mr. Sloan and the other passengers a safe journey, and departed.
“Well, now that was strange and no mistake,” remarked the boat’s owner, hauling in his lines. “First time I’ve ever seen the Rosians patrolling Freeport Bay.”
Arriving in the town of Freeport, Mr. Sloan paid the owner of the ferry and arranged to be picked up in two days’ time. The owner told him there were no inns in Freeport, but he could recommend a widow who took in lodgers, unless Mr. Sloan preferred the local brothel.
Mr. Sloan thanked him and took down the name and address of the widow. He had no trouble finding the widow’s house, for it was located on the only street in town. He made arrangements for his room, then hired a young boy to guide him to Greenstreet’s house. Mr. Sloan had considered sending a note and a card, asking for permission to call, then decided that the element of surprise might work in his favor.
The harbor was deserted. The town appeared empty, but it was early afternoon, the time when most people were either at work or staying indoors, out of the heat. The boy led Mr. Sloan to the largest house in the town, appearing very stately and elegant amid a profusion of flowering bushes and large shade trees.
The picture of elegance was spoiled by a big man dressed in slops lounging on the veranda. Sighting Mr. Sloan, the man gave a shout, presumably reporting the arrival of a visitor.
Mr. Sloan was dressed in a well-made, though not ostentatious, frock coat, breeches, stockings, and shirt and tricorn. Assuming he would be searched, he had left his weapons in his room, safely concealed in his valise. He did not go unarmed, however. He carried with him several weapons of a magical nature, among them a calling card whose magic would render a victim unconscious and a watch that could be set to explode by winding the stem and activating the magic.
Mr. Sloan mounted the porch and handed over his card—a real card, not the magic one. Dropping the guise of merchant, he introduced himself as private secretary to Sir Henry Wallace.
“His Lordship has sent me to speak to Mr. Greenstreet on a matter of business.”
The big man went inside, leaving Mr. Sloan standing on the veranda. The guard reappeared in a few moments with the news that Mr. Greenstreet would see Mr. Sloan, and ushered him inside.
Greenstreet, in his white coat and white waistcoat, rose from behind his bare desk and made a slight bobbing bow.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Sloan. Be seated.” Greenstreet sat down in his chair, leaned back, and laced his fingers over his belly. “How can I be of service to so great a man as Sir Henry Wallace?”
Mr. Sloan took a seat. “Perhaps you could first explain why you hired men to kill him.”
Greenstreet looked startled, then chuckled.
“I like a man who is direct, Mr. Sloan. I will be direct myself in turn. That was a misunderstanding; one that, happily, has since been resolved. Please assure His Lordship I bear no malice toward him for killing three of my best men. In turn, I trust he bears no malice toward me. We are men of the world, after all, aren’t we, Mr. Sloan? Such things happen.”
“Indeed they do, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.
He fingered his
watch, then reluctantly released it and explained the reason he had come.
“I would like for you to arrange for me to speak to the dragon known as Coreg,” said Mr. Sloan.
“A dragon, sir?” Greenstreet repeated, smiling. “I know no dragons named Coreg or otherwise.”
His bewilderment might have been convincing, but for the slight start he had given on hearing the name and the sudden glitter of the hooded eyes.
Taking note of both, Mr. Sloan continued as though Greenstreet had not spoken.
“Sir Henry is aware that Coreg has found the presence of the Rosian navy has had a chilling effect on business and he was wondering if the dragon would be interested in relocating to Freya. Sir Henry could guarantee that Coreg would be free to conduct and even expand his various business enterprises without fear of reprisal.”
“Let us say for the sake of argument I know someone who might be interested in this offer. What would Sir Henry expect in return?” Greenstreet asked.
“Being a man of the world, Sir Henry would think it only right to reward a person such as yourself, sir, who would be instrumental in arranging this deal with the dragon,” said Mr. Sloan.
“A share of the profits,” Greenstreet hinted.
“I am not at liberty to say more until I speak directly to Coreg.”
Greenstreet shrugged. “That could be difficult.”
Mr. Sloan reached into an inner pocket of his coat, drew out several sheets of paper, and, half rising, placed them on the desk.
“I have the details of His Lordship’s offer in writing,” said Mr. Sloan.
He sat back in his chair, apparently unaware that he had carelessly left several bank notes, each for a hundred eagles, wedged between the sheets of paper.
Greenstreet frowned at the papers and grunted.
“Please take a seat in the hall, Mr. Sloan.” Greenstreet raised his voice to a bellow. “Jules!”
Mr. Sloan retired to the hall as the big man entered the house. Jules remained in the hall until Mr. Sloan had settled himself in a chair, then walked into the office, shutting the door behind him.
Mr. Sloan had brought with him his worn copy of the writings of the saints to while away the time. He did not immediately begin to read the familiar verses, however. Mr. Sloan listened, but he could not hear the conversation being carried on inside. Undeterred, he crept over to the door and put his ear to the keyhole.
“Have you seen Trubgek?” Greenstreet was asking. “I need him to take this fellow to talk to Coreg.”
“Trubgek hasn’t been seen in weeks,” Jules replied. “Last I heard he was in Freya.”
“The job there ended. He must be back by now!” Greenstreet stated, annoyed.
“I can go look for him,” Jules offered, but he didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“Never mind. I will take the man to Coreg myself. Why is that sneaky bastard always skulking about when no one wants him, and never here when someone does,” Greenstreet grumbled.
Mr. Sloan returned to the chair and was quietly perusing his book when Jules opened the door.
“You’re to go in,” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of Greensteeet’s office.
Mr. Sloan closed the book and slipped it back into his pocket. He returned to the room to find Greenstreet levering himself out of his chair. The papers had disappeared, as had the hundred-eagle notes.
“You can discuss the matter with Coreg yourself, sir,” he said. “I will take you to him. I would summon his servant, but the rascal has gone missing.”
Greenstreet picked up a cane to assist him and walked toward what appeared to be a blank wall. Placing the palm of his hand against the wall, he activated what Mr. Sloan observed to be a mundane and unimaginative locking spell. A hidden door slid open in response, revealing stairs that led underground. Greenstreet descended the stairs with much grunting, and Mr. Sloan followed.
The stairs led to a tunnel, which in turn led to another staircase. Mr. Sloan assumed they were going to ascend these stairs, but Greenstreet paid no attention to them. Raising his cane, he rapped several times on a wall, waited, and struck the wall again.
The wall disappeared.
Mr. Sloan raised an eyebrow. Someone had cast a quite good illusion spell. He had been fooled, and that wasn’t easy. Mr. Sloan was impressed.
Greenstreet lumbered through the illusory wall and continued down another tunnel for about a quarter mile, by Mr. Sloan’s estimation. At the end was another wall. Mr. Sloan eyed it carefully and saw that this wall was real, not an illusion. The only magicks on it were the simple constructs used to light the way.
Greenstreet touched the wall with the tips of the fingers of his left hand. The magical glowing lights went out, leaving them in darkness. Mr. Sloan listened, but all he could hear in the silence was Greenstreet’s raspy breathing.
A moment later a dark sphere pulsating with darkness appeared on the wall. That phrase sounded strange even as he thought it, but Mr. Sloan could think of no other way to describe it. Purple flames blazed on the outer rim of the sphere, surrounding a globe so wholly devoid of light that Mr. Sloan imagined it was deeper than the darkness at the bottom of the world.
“Ever see dragon magic before, Mr. Sloan?” Greenstreet asked.
“No, sir, I have not,” said Mr. Sloan. “Remarkable.”
“I will wager you have never seen one of these either,” said Greenstreet.
He fished a small box made of ebony out of a capacious pocket, opened it, and held it to the faint light, revealing a square-cut jewel as large as an egg resting on purple velvet.
“A black diamond,” Greenstreet said with a relish.
He removed the diamond from the box and carefully placed it in the center of the pulsing blackness. Mr. Sloan, heard a faint clicking sound and deduced that the diamond was a key to some type of lock. The diamond began to glow with a faint purplish radiance. Greenstreet rotated the jewel a quarter turn to the right, paused for a count of perhaps three, then turned the jewel a half turn back to the left.
“You should take a step or two back, Mr. Sloan,” Greenstreet warned.
Mr. Sloan did as he suggested and was glad he had done so, for at that moment the stone wall split down the center, forming enormous double doors. The massive doors silently swung open on well-oiled hinges, narrowly missing Mr. Sloan, who was forced to retreat again to avoid being crushed.
Greenstreet chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.
“Please wait here while I speak to Coreg. Do not enter until the dragon gives you permission,” Greenstreet cautioned. “Coreg does not like surprises, and things will go badly for you should he catch you roaming about uninvited.”
Mr. Sloan prudently waited in the tunnel. He had no intention of surprising such a host.
Greenstreet walked through the stone doors into a cavernous chamber, bellowing as he did so, “Coreg, it is Greenstreet. I have brought you a visitor! And where the devil is Trubgek?”
Light flared, shining from some unseen source above, illuminating a room that was so vast, Mr. Sloan almost lost sight of Greenstreet. No small feat, considering the man’s size. An enormous shadowy figure at the very back of the chamber stirred and reared up. Mr. Sloan assumed this must be Coreg.
Greenstreet and the dragon spoke in low tones; then Greenstreet turned to shout, “Mr. Sloan! You may enter!”
As Mr. Sloan crossed the floor, he cast an appraising eye over statuary, fine paintings, and other signs of wealth. He was interested to observe that while Coreg owned many extremely rare and valuable pieces, he was careless in his treatment of them. The marble statues were dust-covered and dirty. Some of the paintings had been hung upside down and all of them titled at crazy angles.
The dragon does not care about what he owns except as an ostentatious display of wealth, and he has grown bored with even that, Mr. Sloan noted, mentally composing his letter to Sir Henry. He has everything money can buy, so what does he want now?
The answer was disconcertin
g: Power.
As he neared the monstrous creature, Mr. Sloan was beginning to have second thoughts about inviting this dragon to reside in Freya. Mr. Sloan had his orders, however, and he was bound to carry them out.
Coreg rose to a crouching position. His wings were folded at his sides, and his front claws rasped on the stone floor. His lips parted, his teeth gleamed, his eyes glinted. His clear intent was to impress upon his visitor that he was viewed as nothing more than a toothsome morsel.
Mr. Sloan had been in the presence of dragons before, most notably the majestic noble dragons of the Rosian court. By contrast to them, Coreg with his thick neck and overlarge head looked very common and crude. Mr. Sloan did not consider himself intimidated.
He advanced to stand in front of Coreg and waited for the dragon to speak.
Coreg came straight to the point. “I understand Sir Henry has an offer for me. What is it?”
Mr. Sloan spoke of the Rosian navy, saying that it was Sir Henry’s considered opinion that the Rosians planned to be here for some time. He mentioned the disruption to what he referred to as the dragon’s “numerous enterprises.”
Mr. Sloan then made Sir Henry’s proposal: safe passage to Freya, comfortable accommodations, free rein to conduct business.
“Most generous of Sir Henry,” said Coreg when Mr. Sloan had finished. “And what does he want in return? Come, Mr. Slope, I know there must be something.”
Greenstreet coughed. “Sloan. His name is Sloan.”
“Sloan, then,” Coreg said with a negligent flip of his tail. “What does Sir Henry want from me?”
“Sir Henry makes no conditions for his offer, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, proceeding cautiously. “But he would deem it a favor between friends and compatriots if you were to answer a simple question.”
Coreg gazed down at him, eyes flickering. “You have piqued my curiosity. And what is this ‘simple’ question?”
“Sir Henry has it on excellent authority that you were hired to provide an assassin to murder a Travian dragon named Odila. Sir Henry would like to know the identity of the person or persons who hired you.”
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