Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  Coreg gave a strangled gasp. His eyes widened in horror. He was beginning to realize, perhaps, what was happening to him. He glared at Smythe and managed to blurt out a single word, investing the word with fury.

  “You!” He opened his jaws, tried to breathe fire. His breath wheezed. His head feebly sank to the floor.

  Captain Smythe reached inside his coat to a leather baldric he wore slung over his shoulder. He removed the pistol he kept there and advanced on the paralyzed dragon.

  “I feared you would try to blackmail my prince.”

  Coreg could do nothing except draw wheezing, gasping breaths. Drool trickled from beneath his clenched teeth. His body spasmed, shaking the floor.

  Smythe walked up to stand directly in front of Coreg. The pistol had been specially designed, magically enhanced to be able to withstand an extremely high-powder charge without blowing off his hand. The pistol had two elongated barrels that could each fire an extremely large-caliber ball.

  Smythe climbed onto the dragon’s snout.

  Coreg struggled and tried to roar, to summon help. The only sound was a muffled whimper. Smythe placed the two muzzles of the pistol between the dragon’s hate-filled eyes. The pistol was heavy. Smythe had to use both hands to fire it. He cocked the weapon, held it poised.

  “My prince has nothing to say to you.”

  Smythe fired.

  * * *

  Trubgek heard Coreg call his name.

  Standing in the magical forest at the entrance to the dragon’s lair, Trubgek watched from the darkness. He had observed Smythe’s arrival. He knew why he was here.

  Trubgek watched Smythe place the linen scroll on the floor, watched the vapor twist and writhe across the floor toward the dragon. He saw Coreg fall, paralyzed, helpless, and he heard as well as witnessed the shot, for the echoes bounced off the walls. He heard the dragon’s feeble, terrified howl.

  He watched Smythe drop the pistol into the blood, then walk back to where he had left the scroll. Smythe carefully picked up the scroll and, taking his time, rolled it up, neatly and precisely. This done, Smythe cast a glance in Trubgek’s direction. He could not see him, but he would know he was there. Smythe gave a nod, then thrust the scroll into an inner pocket of his coat and left the dwelling by the way he had come.

  Trubgek slowly entered the dragon’s lair.

  The hole in the dragon’s skull was massive. Blood ran down the dragon’s snout and was forming a pool on the floor. Yet there was still light in the dragon’s eyes. Coreg was a fighter and he was fighting for his life. The dragon saw Trubgek and the light in his eyes flickered. He gazed at him with pathetic eagerness.

  Trubgek understood. Coreg hoped he was here to save him. The hope was foolish. Coreg must be in horrible pain, desperate, frightened.

  Trubgek walked up to the dying dragon.

  “What is my name?” he asked.

  Coreg could only stare in confusion. He had no idea what he meant.

  Trubgek walked closer, treading in the blood.

  “The name of the boy you stole from his family. The boy you tortured. The boy who was so frightened and miserable he tried to kill himself. That boy. What is his name?”

  The light in the dragon’s eye was starting to dim.

  “You don’t remember,” said Trubgek. He shrugged. “Perhaps you never even knew. Petar. My name is Petar.”

  A shudder shook Coreg, shook the floor, and the dragon died. Empty eyes stared fixedly at Trubgek.

  “Petar,” he said again.

  He bent down, picked up the pistol, and walked away, going back into the jungle whose magic had died with the dragon.

  FORTY-NINE

  Mr. Sloan had been amazed and confounded by the astonishing sight of Captain Kate rushing headlong into the Perky Parrot, calling for Akiel, and just as fast, rushing back out again.

  Mr. Sloan had been so amazed that he had done nothing except sit there and stare. He had eventually come to his senses and hurried out the door, along with several other patrons, to try to see what was going on. By then Kate and Akiel were nowhere to be found.

  Mr. Sloan berated himself. He should have done something, said something. He went back to his table, reflecting that, after all, he should not have been surprised to see Kate. Amelia had told Sir Henry that she believed Kate was headed for the Aligoes to try to find out from Coreg who had framed her. Amid his other concerns, Mr. Sloan had forgotten all about Kate. He considered this a serious mental lapse on his part, and sternly took himself to task.

  At least, he could ask around and see what he could find out. The other patrons were freely discussing Kate, speculating on what might have occurred. Mr. Sloan was a stranger in Freeport and, as such, did not want to arouse suspicion by appearing too interested. He decided, upon consideration, that the event had been shocking enough to warrant a stranger making inquiries, especially as the cook had fled with Kate, and Mr. Sloan was now one of a number of people who apparently were going to have go without their dinners.

  Venturing over to a group of dockworkers, he introduced himself and asked if they thought Akiel would return. The dockworkers considered it doubtful, commiserated with him over the loss of a meal, and invited him to join them. He bought a round of Calvados and soon had his information.

  “Likely Greenstreet sold Kate out to the Rosians in hopes of collecting the bounty on her,” said one. “He’s the one who told the Rosians where to find No-Nose Blake and his crew.”

  “He’s gone too far this time,” said another. “Business is business, but friends don’t turn on friends.”

  “Greenstreet better find somewhere else to live,” added a third. “Somewhere with a cooler climate. He’s going to find this one too hot.”

  Mr. Sloan returned to his lodging, hoping a summons from Coreg had arrived, only to be disappointed. He wrote another coded letter to Sir Henry, warning him that Kate could be in serious trouble and might have fallen into the hands of the Rosians.

  The weather turned foul overnight and the storm continued unabated the next morning. Dark, heavy clouds settled over Freeport, rain came down in torrents, the wind whipped the trees, and thunder rattled the ill-fitting windows.

  Mr. Sloan stood at the window in his lodging, watching the dirt street turn into a river. He spent the morning in his room, still waiting to hear from Coreg. The morning passed without word.

  Mr. Sloan decided to venture out into the storm. He had another concern, and that was Kate. Telling the widow he could be found at the Parrot, he left around noon.

  He had never witnessed a storm so severe. As a marine, he had served in all manner of inclement weather, but he had never seen rain fall sideways. He was forced to hold on to his tricorn, for the wind threatened to rip if off his head. Water ran from his hat in rivulets, soaking through his cloak. He waded in mud and water up to his ankles.

  He was drenched by the time he arrived at the Parrot. Some of Olaf’s neighbors were now running the tavern in Akiel’s absence, and most of the population of Freeport appeared to be here. Everyone was talking about Kate and Olaf and Akiel. Mr. Sloan gathered from their grim looks and lowered voices that the news was not good. A weeping woman in a corner was being comforted by her neighbors.

  Mr. Sloan recognized his companions from the previous day, and once he had shed his sopping-wet cloak and hat and found a seat, they told him the news.

  “The Rosians captured Kate and sank her ship,” one reported.

  “Bloody Rosians,” several muttered angrily.

  “What right do they have to come in here and stick their noses in our business?” one demanded

  “Kate is a good soul,” said another. “She took care of Olaf and her crew after her pa was murdered. So she helped herself to some plunder now and again? She’s a right to earn her bread, same as the rest of us.”

  “She was a good soul,” affirmed the woman who had been sobbing. “My boy worked for her. Kate may not have paid him on a regular basis, but if she had money, she saw to i
t that my lad had money and there was always a hot meal for us here.”

  People in the tavern nodded and rapped their mugs on the table in a show of agreement.

  Mr. Sloan expressed his sympathy and bought a round of ale for the house.

  “Are you certain Captain Kate was captured?” he asked, sitting down with the dockworkers.

  “The Rosians have been bragging about taking her alive,” said one. “That patrol boat that’s been snooping around the harbor came in this morning to take on water. The crew was saying as how they had arrested Kate and taken her to their headquarters in Maribeau. Plannin’ to hang her.”

  “Hang her?” Mr. Sloan repeated, shocked. “But the captain is a privateer. At least, so I have read in the newspapers. Her stories are extremely popular in Freya. She holds letters of marque from the queen. Captain Kate has many friends who would be glad to pay her ransom.”

  “There won’t be no ransom, sir. Far as the Rosians are concerned, she’s just another bloody pirate.”

  “The Rosian captain even said as much. According to what we heard, Kate surrendered. She struck her colors, but the captain paid no heed. He shouted for all to hear, ‘She’s naught but a pirate, lads! Sink her!’”

  “Mark my words, sir,” said an old man, chiming in from another table. “They’re already building the gallows.”

  “This is Greenstreet’s fault,” said another. “Everyone knows he’s been collecting bounties on his friends. Someone should make him pay.”

  “Maybe someone did,” said another man.

  He had entered on the heels of the conversation, bringing a gust of wind and rain with him. He paid for his ale and then joined them.

  “Greenstreet’s bullyboy, Jules, is dead and Greenstreet is missing.”

  “Dead? Jules? What happened?”

  People crowded around him. The man paused to take a swig of ale and enjoy the sensation he had caused.

  “Seems his woman missed him when he didn’t come home last night. She went lookin’ for him and found him cold and stiff this morning outside Greenstreet’s house. Shot through the heart. No sign of Greenstreet.”

  “Likely he shot him,” said one.

  “That fat, lazy bastard? More likely he figured he was next and skedaddled,” said another.

  “He’ll keep away if he knows what’s good for him,” said another. “Folks hereabouts were fond of poor Kate.”

  Everyone agreed and someone raised his mug to propose a toast. “To Kate!”

  “To Kate,” said the others.

  The old man added, “Her father’s daughter, she was. No luck. No luck at all.”

  The dockworkers departed, going back to work. Mr. Sloan ordered dinner. The food was not up to Akiel’s standards, but the navy beans and salt pork was edible, which was more than could be said for the widow’s mutton. Mr. Sloan ate his meal and considered what to do.

  He was deeply troubled by this news, both about Kate and about the murder of the henchman and Greenstreet’s sudden disappearance. Mr. Sloan decided he would go to Greenstreet’s house, see for himself what was going on. He was not hopeful, considering it highly likely that both Greenstreet and Coreg had departed. Once he had determined that there was no further need to remain in Freeport, he would travel to Maribeau, find out if the Rosians were actually planning to hang Kate, and do what he could to try to save her.

  He considered what he knew of Admiral Alessandro, commander of the Rosian fleet. According to Sir Henry, the younger brother of King Renaud had inherited the worst traits of his father. Not being overly gifted with intelligence, Alessandro attempted to compensate for his stupidity by being stubborn, obtuse, and reckless. Renaud had tried to persuade his brother to resign, but Alessandro refused. To avoid a scandal, the king had surrounded his brother with officers who did what they could to limit the damage the admiral caused.

  Mr. Sloan considered it likely that hanging Kate was Admiral Alessandro’s idea and that, unfortunately, he might well have the king’s support—due entirely to the fiction of Miss Amelia.

  Freyans had no love for the Rosians. Bitter over their numerous humiliating defeats at the hands of the Rosians, the Freyan people reveled in Captain Kate’s victories over their longtime foes. Miss Amelia knew her readership well, and in each weekly installment, the courageous Captain Kate engaged in battle with the hapless Rosians, whom she gleefully portrayed as bumpkins and poltroons.

  Unfortunately, the stories that delighted the Freyans were wormwood and gall to the Rosians. Their ambassador to Freya had even made a formal complaint to Her Majesty regarding the Captain Kate stories. Sir Henry had found this highly amusing at the time. He wouldn’t find it amusing when, among all his other trouble, he would have to deal with the uproar when the final chapter about their romantic heroine ended with her “dancing the hempen jig,” as death by hanging was known among sailors.

  Mr. Sloan considered traveling to Haever to inform Sir Henry, but dismissed the idea. The Rosians hated Sir Henry perhaps more than they hated Kate, if that was possible.

  Mr. Sloan would do more good working to save Kate himself. He wondered if there was some other officer in Maribeau who could be persuaded to see reason. He remembered that the Dragon Brigade was in the Aligoes.

  “Captain Thorgrimson!” Mr. Sloan said aloud.

  He had met Dag Thorgrimson during the Bottom Dweller War, when Stephano de Guichen, then commander of the Dragon Brigade, was preparing to travel to the bottom of the world to take on the foe.

  Dag Thorgrimson had been second-in-command. Sir Henry had been impressed by Thorgrimson’s diligence, his sense of honor and common sense. When Stephano was made Duke de Bourlet and resigned his command of the Brigade, he recommended that the king give it to Dag.

  Mr. Sloan paid his bill and prepared to leave. The rain continued to fall, though not nearly as heavily as before. Mr. Sloan put on his hat and his wet cloak, turned up his collar, and prepared to venture into the storm. Opening the door, he started to walk out just as another man was walking in. Mr. Sloan politely stepped back to allow the man room to enter.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the man, removing his hat.

  As he walked past him, Mr. Sloan had a good view of his face.

  “Good God!” Mr. Sloan murmured. The fact that he uttered blasphemy indicated that he was profoundly shaken.

  Mr. Sloan glanced back over his shoulder to make certain he was not jumping at shadows. He was not. The man was older, of course, but there was no doubt as to his identity.

  “Isaiah Crawford,” Mr. Sloan muttered in disbelief. “That man was Isaiah Crawford!”

  Mr. Sloan needed time for calm reflection and he proceeded on his way. Once outside, with the rain drumming on his hat and running down his neck, he kept watch at the window, observing Crawford. Mr. Sloan had not seen or heard of this man in years and now, only a few days after Simon had named him, here he was. Mr. Sloan was not given to given to flights of fancy, but he had the unsettling feeling that, like a conjurer, his thoughts had caused Crawford to materialize.

  Upon reflection, Mr. Sloan realized there was undoubtedly a simpler, though more sinister, explanation. Simon had named Crawford the murderer of Lady Odila. Crawford was here in Freeport. And there was another dragon, Coreg—the only one who knew the identity of the person who wanted Odila dead. Crawford was not one to let such a gigantic loose thread dangle.

  Mr. Sloan could make a very good guess as to the killer of Jules. Likely Crawford had killed Greenstreet and Coreg, as well.

  “I should go to Greenstreet’s, verify my suspicions,” Mr. Sloan said, thinking aloud.

  He watched through the rain-spattered window. Crawford had taken a seat at a table by himself near the fire.

  “But if I leave,” Mr. Sloan argued, “I might well lose track of him and never find him again.”

  A plan formed in Mr. Sloan’s mind. The plan was dangerous, could even be termed foolhardy. Sir Henry would oppose it. More than that, he would undoubtedly be
furious when he found out the terrible risk Mr. Sloan was proposing to undertake.

  “I trust you will forgive me, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, apologizing to the absent Sir Henry. “The saints teach us that God works wonders. I believe He has set me in this man’s path for a reason.”

  Mr. Sloan understood that this meant leaving Kate to her fate, and he gave her into God’s care, though not without some reservations. With Kate, much as with Captain Northrop, God had His work cut out for Him.

  The clouds were clearing and the sun was coming out. Mr. Sloan took that for a good omen. He went back inside and walked up to Crawford.

  Removing his hat, Mr. Sloan said, “Pardon me, sir. I cannot help but feel that we are acquainted. Are you not Isaiah Crawford? We served together many years ago in the marines.”

  The man stared at him; then his stern face broke into a faint smile.

  “Sergeant Franklin Sloan. Though I dare say you are no longer a sergeant. Please, join me.” Crawford gestured to an empty seat.

  Mr. Sloan took off his wet cloak and sat down.

  “It is good to see you again, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Good to see you, as well, Mr. Sloan. Though I should tell you that my name is no longer Crawford. It is Smythe. Captain Jonathan Smythe.”

  That name, too, sounded familiar.

  Crawford was saying something about having to leave Freya and change his name owing to religious persecution.

  All the while Mr. Sloan was mentally scrambling to try to remember where he had heard the name Jonathan Smythe. He recalled a letter … A letter to Henry from one of his agents … Phillip! Yes, he had sent a letter shortly after he had traveled to Estara to spy on …

  And then Mr. Sloan knew.

  Good God, Mr. Sloan said inwardly, and this time he spoke with reverence. God did truly work wonders.

  Isaiah Crawford was Captain Jonathan Smythe. The commander of the armies of Prince Tom.

  “And so, Mr Sloan, what are you doing in this part of the Aligoes?” Captain Smythe was asking.