Victorie floated free and although Marco had stopped the flow of magic to the lift tanks, the ship bobbed up into the air, leaving Kate stranded on the ground, her head about level with the keel. She ran to the end of the dock, planning to jump on board once the Victorie had dropped down to her level.
She eyed the ship and saw that it was again starting to dive, but far too slowly.
“I can throw you a rope!” Akiel called, leaning over the rail at a perilous angle.
Kate shook her head. “I’ll board on the gun deck!”
She waited tensely for the Rosians to fire again, but nothing happened. Kate uneasily wondered why, what was going on. She could no longer see the Rosian ship. Victorie was blocking her view. She did not think the captain was holding his fire out of the goodness of his heart.
Victorie sank lower and lower. The gun crew opened the entryway to the gun deck. Two men leaned out, waiting to grab her and haul her on board. Kate just needed a few more moments. Once she was on board, Marco would stop the flow of magic to the lift tanks and the remaining balloon. The Rosians had actually helped by puncturing the other one.
Kate was almost ready to jump. The shattering broadside took her completely by surprise. Now she understood why the Rosian captain had waited. He had been maneuvering his ship into position. The frigate had fired all twenty-one guns on the port side simultaneously.
The Victorie shuddered like a living thing as the cannonballs smashed into her. Smoke from the guns filled the air. Masts toppled, spars fell, rigging and sails cascaded down onto the upper deck.
She could hear shrieks and cries. The Rosians fired again as the cannons came to bear, raking Victorie. The firing continued, relentless. The carnage on deck must be horrible.
Marco had lost control of the helm, for the Victorie listed to starboard and started to drift away from Kate. Either that or Marco was dead. Maybe Olaf was dead.
The gun crew was shouting at her to jump. The gap between the ship and the dock was widening. She crouched to make the leap, hands outstretched.
An explosion tore through the gun deck.
Fire belched from the entryway. The sailors waiting for her were engulfed in flame. Kate staggered back, flinging her arm over her face as terrible heat swept over her. Three sailors, their clothes on fire, endeavored to escape by making the desperate leap across the widening chasm. Two missed and fell, screaming, into the Breath. One managed to land, tumbling and rolling on the dock.
He came to rest on his belly, shrieking and flailing about in agony. His clothes and hair were ablaze. Dropping to her knees beside him, Kate was going to beat out the flames with her hands, only to see that his torso was a bloody mass of mangled bone and blackened flesh, pierced by jagged splinters of metal. He looked at her. Blood gushed from his mouth, and his screams stopped.
Kate staggered to her feet. She had to reach Victorie, be with her friends. She looked around.
Victorie was gone.
In its place was a ship’s boat filled with blue-coated marines. The marines were aiming their rifles at her and one of them was yelling something. Kate paid no heed. She ran to the edge of the dock and gazed down into the Breath.
“Olaf!” she screamed. “Akiel!”
Mists and smoke obscured her view. No answering cries came back to her. She was dimly aware of the ship’s boat landing and marines running toward her.
Kate didn’t move. She continued to stare into the mists. Then came a splintering crash and her heart lurched.
“Olaf!” she cried desperately.
“Seize her!” someone shouted.
Kate turned to see a lieutenant holding a pistol aimed at her head.
Kate raised her hands. “I give up! All I ask is that you send a boat down there!” she begged, speaking Rosian. “You heard that sound! The ship crashed onto an island. There may be survivors!”
The lieutenant gestured with his pistol. “On your knees!”
“You don’t understand!” Kate pleaded with him. “We’re not pirates! We’re privateers. You can save them!”
The lieutenant gave a grim smile. “Save them for what? The noose? On your knees!”
His marines were lined up behind him. The pinnace that had brought them was empty except for the sailor at the helm. Kate lunged at the lieutenant, struck him full force in the chest, and ran for the boat.
She made it only a few steps. One of the marines clouted her on the side of the head with the butt of his rifle.
She fell to the ground. Pain split her skull. She tasted blood.
“You need to save them,” she mumbled and she tried to push herself up. The marine raised his rifle.
“Belay that! We have orders to take her alive,” the lieutenant said. “The admiral wants to witness the final chapter in her story. We can call it ‘Captain Kate at the End of Her Rope.’”
The marines laughed at the officer’s humor and dragged Kate to her feet. They hauled her to the boat, picked her up, and threw her onto the deck. As the marines bound her wrists and ankles, Kate stirred.
“Please, save them…”
“Shut her up,” said the lieutenant.
The marine struck her in the face; she sank to the deck and was still.
FORTY-EIGHT
Captain Smythe stood on the veranda of Greenstreet’s house waiting to be announced. The captain did not pace; he was far too well disciplined. Detached and aloof, he stood gazing into the night sky, hands at his side. The hour was late. He did not know precisely what it was, for no church chimes marked the hour in Freeport. When he had last looked at his watch, the time had been past midnight.
He was wearing a brown coat of military cut, gray breeches, a long-sleeved brown shirt with a wide white collar, black boots, and a broad-brimmed black hat. The army of Prince Tom was not decked out in royal blue or scarlet red. They did not sport brass buttons, frogs or epaulettes. Their uniforms were plain, serviceable, and unremarkable. So far as anyone knew by looking at him, Captain Smythe was a mercenary; perhaps an out-of-work mercenary.
The Rosians were allies of the Estarans and favored the prince’s claim to the throne of Freya, but Captain Smythe was not a man to take chances. Thus far, very few people in the world knew about the army in Bheldem. The captain preferred to keep his secret as long as possible.
Greenstreet was one of those few. Captain Smythe had been an excellent customer for almost four years, ever since Sir Richard Wallace had sent him, accompanied by a glowing reference, to Constanza. Since an army marches on its belly, as the saying goes, Smythe had started forming his army by acquiring the supplies his soldiers would need to function—everything from pigs and bullocks and flour, rifles and cots, blankets and bullets.
He could not obtain such things on the open market without causing comment and perhaps starting a war, particularly in Bheldem, where every baron, duke, and earl was convinced his neighbors were plotting against him. Smythe had begun by making small purchases from a weapons smuggler in Freya, all the while letting it be known he was interested in buying in bulk.
Greenstreet had come to hear about Smythe and he had been an excellent customer ever since. Therefore Greenstreet did not keep Captain Smythe waiting, despite the fact that he had called late at night.
When the door opened, the captain walked into the office and took off his hat.
“I apologize for the lateness of the hour, sir,” he said.
“Not in the least, Captain,” said Greenstreet, shaking hands. “I was up late, going over some of the accounts. But I must say I am surprised to see you. I only sent for you a day ago. I wasn’t expecting you this soon.”
“His Highness is currently serving with the Rosian Royal Navy. He had some pressing matters he needed to discuss with me and summoned me to attend him. I have been in the Aligoes for several days and I thought, as long as I was in the vicinity, I would stop by. I am sorry to call so late, but I must leave in the morning.”
“We do not stand upon ceremony, Captain. Whatever ti
me suits our customers suits us. Please, be seated, sir,” said Greenstreet.
Captain Smythe took a seat, sitting with his back straight and stiff, his hat on his knee. He frowned slightly. “Am I to understand that you sent for me, sir? If so, I did not receive the message.”
“I did, Captain,” said Greenstreet, settling back into his chair. “Well, rather, Coreg asked me to send for you. Not knowing you were in the vicinity, I wrote to you in Bheldem.”
“Ah, that explains it,” said Captain Smythe.
“Your arrival is therefore most fortuitous,” said Greenstreet. “Coreg will be pleased.”
“In point of fact, I came to speak to Coreg on behalf of the marchioness,” said Smythe.
“Charming woman, the marchioness,” Greenstreet said. “She has a man’s head for business. No silly feminine sentimentality. Coreg was highly pleased that you recommended him to her. So you came to see Coreg at the very time Coreg wants to see you. It would seem this meeting was fated.”
“God be praised,” said Captain Smythe in grave tones.
“Yes, well, um, of course,” Greenstreet said. He raised his voice. “Trubgek!”
There was no answer. He called again and then shook his head.
“Drat the man!” Greenstreet muttered, forced to again struggle out of his chair. “He was here only a short time ago. Turned up out of nowhere and now he has gone again. I will take you myself. Come with me.”
Captain Smythe readily complied. Greenstreet opened the false door and they proceeded down the stairs and through the underground passage.
“While I am here, I am interested in purchasing several more cases of those excellent Freyan rifles you sold me,” Captain Smythe stated. “What does the dragon want with me, if you are at liberty to tell me?”
“Coreg has received an invitation from Sir Henry Wallace of the Freyan Foreign Office to take up residence in that country,” Greenstreet replied. “Sir Henry has made him a most generous offer. Coreg feels certain his offer would be even more generous if he received information that Prince Tom was responsible for the death of the dragon, Odila.”
“Are you suggesting blackmail, sir?” Captain Smythe inquired. He did not ask in a threatening manner, but spoke in a mild tone, merely seeking verification.
“Good heavens! No, Captain,” Greenstreet protested. “As an honest business partner, Coreg is simply informing you that another offer is on the table. He is giving you, as an old and valued customer, a chance to make a counteroffer.”
“Most commendable,” said Captain Smythe.
Greenstreet chuckled and they proceeded down the hall, discussing the Freyan rifles. Arriving at the entrance to Coreg’s lair, Greenstreet took out the black diamond.
“If Trubgek were here, you could be admitted at once and we would not have to undergo this tedious process,” Greenstreet grumbled. “As it is, I must ask you to be patient, Captain, while I remove the warding spell that guards the entrance.”
“I am in no hurry, sir,” said Captain Smythe. “I will wait back here, out of your way.”
Greenstreet walked toward the door. Captain Smythe moved to stand some distance behind him. Greenstreet placed the jewel in the center of the secret door. The purple flames flickered, the darkness pulsed, and the wall began to creak open.
“Is that you, Trubgek?” Coreg shouted from inside the dwelling. “I sent for you ages ago. Where have you been?”
Under the cover of the noise of the dragon’s bellowing, Captain Smythe drew a pistol from his inner coat pocket. Slowly and quietly, he pulled back the hammer, pressed the muzzle against the back of Greenstreet’s neck, and fired. The bullet shattered the skull and sprayed the door with blood, brains, and bone.
The sound of the shot had been muffled. The dragon must have heard something, however, for he shouted again.
“Trubgek!” Coreg rumbled. “What was that noise? Did you bring those plans?”
Captain Smythe stepped over the corpse, careful to keep his boots out of the blood, and crept soft-footed a short distance inside the main chamber.
The only light came from a source near the dragon and was blocked by his great body, leaving this part of the chamber in deep shadow. Smythe drew out a dark lantern he had concealed beneath his coat. Taking a linen scroll from his pocket, he placed the scroll on the floor, then opened the lantern and aimed a narrow beam of light on the scroll.
“Greenstreet, is that you?” Coreg rumbled.
Smythe had to concentrate all his thoughts on the intricate and complex magical construct that covered the linen from top to bottom, corner to corner. He touched his index finger to the beginning of the construct in the bottom right corner; then, whispering the words, he traced the complicated construct through the zigzagging pathways of magic as one would negotiate a maze. If he made a mistake, took a wrong turn or had to backtrack, the magic would fail, and that would be fatal.
“Trubgek!” Coreg bellowed irately. “I know someone is here. Find out who it is!”
Smythe felt the floor shake beneath his feet. Briefly glancing up, he saw the enormous body stirring. Coreg had raised his head, was trying to see. The dragon was annoyed at being disturbed and frustrated that no one answered him. Coreg was not afraid. What dragon would be fearful in his own lair?
Smythe smiled and continued working the magic, running his finger over the linen. Wherever he touched, the construct began to shine with a faint blue light. Reaching the end, he intoned the final words and rose to his feet. He would have to wait a few moments to find out if he had succeeded. He needed time. Raising his voice, he answered the dragon.
“It is Captain Smythe, Coreg,” he called, placing his body so that it would block the faint glow of light. “Forgive me for calling so late. Greenstreet said you wanted to see me on a matter of some urgency.”
“Captain Smythe,” Coreg said, sounding surprised. “You are very prompt. Where is Greenstreet?”
“He let me into your chamber, then excused himself, saying he had urgent business,” Smythe replied.
Coreg snorted. “He must be off conspiring with the Rosians. Collecting bounties on the sly. The fool imagines that I do not know what he is doing.”
“He did not tell me, Coreg,” said Smythe.
He glanced back at the linen scroll on the floor behind him. The blue glow was growing brighter, stronger. The magic was working.
“Blasted Rosians!” Coreg continued, grumbling. “I flew to my favorite hunting ground tonight, only to find it crawling with Brigade dragons, gloating over some pirate they had captured. I had to leave before they saw me and now I have had nothing to eat. Life in the Aligoes is becoming intolerable. Which brings me to why I wanted to speak to you, Captain. Come closer! I do not like having to shout.”
The magic had seeped through the linen onto the stone floor beneath, and now the stone was beginning to glow. The intricate lines of the construct gleamed. Smythe was reluctant to move, for fear Coreg would see the blue glow and know that he was spellcasting.
“Captain Smythe, I said come closer. Why do you persist in lurking in the shadows?” Coreg roared, snapping his jaws in irritation. “I warn you. I am hungry and thus not in a good mood.”
A vaporous cloud began to steal across the floor toward the dragon. The cloud was nearly invisible. Captain Smythe could see it only because he had been watching for it. The spell was complete.
“Forgive me,” he called. “I was looking over the order I plan to place, checking my numbers.”
“I am no clerk, Captain! Talk to Greenstreet about numbers and orders,” said Coreg. “You and I have more important business regarding your princeling.”
Smythe walked into the room, taking his time so that he could observe the progress of the vapor as it seeped across the stones, flowing behind him like his shadow.
Coreg had settled back down, crouching at his ease, sprawled on the floor. The vapor crept past Smythe, drawn to the dragon as an iron needle is drawn to the lodestone.
&
nbsp; Smythe was not concerned that the dragon would notice the vapor. The last dragon had not noticed it, not until it was too late. Still, as stated before, he was not one to take chances. He walked up to Coreg and stood before him, keeping the dragon’s attention focused on him.
“I am all attention, Coreg,” said Smythe. “What do you have to say in regard to His Highness?”
The vapor flowed around the dragon and began drifting upward.
“I understand Prince Tom is visiting the Aligoes,” said Coreg. “I want to speak to him. You will arrange an audience.”
Smythe frowned. “You know that such a meeting is impossible.”
“Maybe not quite so impossible, Captain,” said Coreg, rumbling deep in his chest. He enjoyed playing with his prey. “I have been picturing the dismay of the people of Freya if they were to discover their future king is a cold-blooded killer.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said Smythe.
“His mother asked me to hire someone to kill a dragon and the dragon is dead,” said Coreg.
The vapor spiraled upward into the dragon’s nostrils. Whenever Coreg inhaled, he sucked in the vapor. The magical gas was odorless and tasteless. He would not suspect anything was amiss until he began to feel the first debilitating effects.
“His Highness knew nothing about that plot,” said Captain Smythe, drawing nearer.
Coreg chuckled. “And who will believe him?”
The dragon stopped talking. He coughed and grimaced and coughed again. A shudder ran through his body. Muscles twitched, his scales crawled. He coughed yet again and tried to stand. His front claws scrabbled feebly on the floor. His tail twitched. He fell back down with a thud that shook the ground.
Smythe recognized the symptoms of the creeping paralysis, for he had watched the other dragon succumb to the magic. She too had tried to stand up, to come after him. She had managed to make it a short distance before she collapsed, helpless, her feet and tail twitching.
Coreg coughed and cleared his throat.
“As I was saying. Who will believe him?” he said, his voice raspy. “I could be of use to your prince and he, in return, could be of use to me—”
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