by White, Gwynn
“I know your sister’s told you that Her Royal Highness offered her a job,” Pod said, and Leonie immediately decided that she hated him, after all.
“Dave died because of House Wessex,” she said. “I’m not working for them any more.”
“She wanted you to work for her at Court?” Una cried. “Her that’s going to be Queen? And you turned her down? Oh, Lee-Lee!”
“She won’t be Queen if they don’t acclaim her. And if they’ve any sense they won’t.”
“No, they will,” little Toll said. “Just because she’s a Wessex.”
“Ooh-oh! Are you going to be a lady, our Lee-Lee?” Cyra dropped a curtsey, sweeping out imaginary skirts, and knocked over the teapot. Maddy leapt for a dishcloth.
“No,” Leonie snarled. “She only wanted me to be her bodyguard.”
“Chief of royal security,” Pod corrected. “And who knows what that might turn out to mean, now the security forces are being reorganized?”
His bright brown gaze rested on her, teasing yet serious. She understood the desire in his eyes. He was thinking of what might be in it for him, as a friend of hers.
“I told her to get stuffed,” she said. “All right, all right, I didn’t say it like that, Mum! I was very polite but I said no, and that’s—”
“How could you? Oh, Leonie! Don’t you ever think of us? It wasn’t a month ago you were telling us we were in danger and to go and stop with Auntie Violet, and Mrs Lyle and Mrs Daggort can tell you what I had to go through, pulling the little ones out of school, stopping the milk and the paper. There was Tollan telling fibs to his boss, and it’s not as if we can afford for him to take time off. And don’t get me started about taking the train to Chichester with three little ones, and poor Sam coughing her lungs out—”
“Mum, I’m sorry, but—”
“If you were in the Queen’s household, there’d be no more of that sort of excitement, would there? We’d be protected!”
Leonie bit her lip. She saw Una’s point. And after everything she’d brought on the family, maybe she did owe it to them. But she said: “No. You don’t understand, Mum. She’s a piece of work, that one. Treated me like her personal varlet for weeks, and then she took all the flaming credit. Never told them it was me who kept her and her baby alive, me who’s got blood on my hands, my own brother’s blood! All through serving her! I should have a knighthood for that, and she—she never even admitted I was there!”
“But there’ll be perks to go with that security job,” Pod said. “Of course there will be!”
“No, thank you. I won’t have it from her!” Leonie stared at them all fiercely, daring them to gainsay her. “Oh, I reckon she feels obliged to me,” she said, suddenly weary. “But that’s why I need to keep my distance now, see.”
She stroked Sam’s hair. Sam was curled up on the sofa with her head in Leonie’s lap. She was sleeping soundly despite the noise of family and telly. For the first time in years, she was breathing easily, no rattle in her lungs, no restless coughing. She was sleeping the healing sleep, hugging the plastinated head of Queen Adolfina Bismarck-Wessex. Madelaine had given it to Leonie.
“This is all the payment I need from her. I don’t want anything more, ever.”
66
Ran
At The Same Time
Ran hid in the mews until he was sure Guy had left. He threw Maester Beatty and the mewshands out, and saddled Honor himself. His hands shook. He wasn’t wearing a flying suit. He didn’t even have a coat, or goggles. It didn’t matter.
“You’re not to go out in this weather!” his nurse bellowed, rushing out of the house as he led Honor into the yard.
“I shall go where I like,” Ran said.
“I’ll call your mother!”
“As you please,” Ran said. He knew that his mother was at Parliament, coaching Madelaine through her answers, the way she used to coach him at public events. She wouldn’t have time to come to the telephone.
He hopped into the saddle. Fly, my straker, fly!
The River of Sticks had cured him of his incurability, but it had not stolen his fancying knack. He still had the touch and the whisper. That made sense, because it wasn’t magic. It was just the deep bond he shared with his dragon.
Honor leapt into the rain, and the manor house dwindled below him, the faces of servants white dots in the yard.
He guided her with his knees over the forest of the Isle of Dogs, to the river.
Guy had taken the St. Patrick, their motor yacht. Ran knew because he had heard the servants talking about fueling and equipping it for a long journey.
The Thames was full of boats, as usual. Water taxis, barges, waterbuses, fishing smacks. He could not see the St. Patrick. Fear clutched him. Had he waited too long?
Below the Isle of Dogs, the Thames was deeper. On the other side of the river, cargo ships and ocean liners crowded the Woolwich docks. A ferry bound for the Continent wallowed out into midstream.
And there, there, just beyond the ferry, was the St. Patrick!
Ran grinned. Easy, my straker. He and Honor would shadow the yacht until it got far enough from shore that Guy could not turn back without breaking the terms of his exile.
Then, they would land on the deck.
I’m coming with you after all!
The yacht had a large cargo hold that could as easily become a mews for Honor, and Guy was sure to have brought plenty of provisions.
With a thought, he urged Honor to circle, so as not to catch up with the yacht too soon. A dragon was always obvious, if you happened to look up. But there was no one out on the St. Patrick’s deck. And it was raining.
67
Mihal
Half An Hour Earlier
Yet how dare I claim my father’s crown when I am a woman?”
“Good point,” said a sailor, leaning on his mop to watch the television in the cafeteria of the Hamburg ferry.
“My lords, Britain has not had a queen in five hundred and thirty-six years. But before that we accepted female succession, just as House Sauvage and others still do today. Therefore I say to you: let us not fear our own history! The world has changed. Across Europe, women wield authority in increasing numbers. In many ways, we have come full circle. Do not be afraid to acclaim me as your queen!”
Blah blah blah, thought Mihal, moving past the television. He had come to grab a coffee, but the ferry cafeteria wasn’t serving yet. The clerk reading a magazine behind the register said, “Wait until we get under way, ducks. Or there’s vending machines over there.”
Mihal edged back through the crowd of English passengers surrounding the television, glued to the controversial sight of a woman proposing herself as their sovereign.
Controversial, sure. Historical, even. A sensation perfectly calculated to take the national mind off what had just happened.
The Worldcracker found and then lost again.
Stephane Flambeault dead in a Belfast marsh, after trying to interfere with the British succession. Flambeault had been attempting to exfiltrate the Irish pretender, Alyx MacConn, and take her to Germany. How could that have been anything but a bid to throw Britain into chaos? Mihal was disgusted that Haus Bismarck had sponsored the scheme, and glad that Flambeault had finished the night with a bullet in his head.
That bullet had been fired—Mihal suspected, though he hadn’t seen it happen amidst the confusion—by Val.
He’d never have thought Val had it in him.
But Val had been acting very strangely that night.
Now he was back to normal; which was to say, drunk.
He drifted up to Mihal’s side, smelling of booze. Mihal controlled his flinch, but took a step away.
“Ah, the game of thrones is for mugs,” Val said loudly, glancing at the television. Other passengers frowned.
“Come up on deck,” Mihal said.
“It’s raining.”
Mihal bought a paper cup of vending-machine coffee. They walked over to the windows t
hat wrapped three sides of the cafeteria. Rain beat on the glass. Cars and trucks filed along the quay and rolled up the loading ramp. Clanks vibrated through the hull.
“Are they not done boarding yet?” Val said. “It takes forever to get anything done in this country. I tell you, Mihal, I’m never coming back here again. I’ll quit the IMF first.”
Mihal did not point out that he was lucky to still have a job at all. “Maybe they’ll find you a post in Africa,” he said idly. “Somewhere with a beach.”
Val did not smile. “Is that what you’d like?”
Mihal’s face flamed. The feeling of being wronged was queerly similar to the sensation of guilt. “No. Why should I wish you away? It’s over. Isn’t it?” With her. He could not say the words. With my wife.
“It is. I swear it. It’s over. It is fucking over. But I … I …” Val trailed off with a hiccup. Mihal caught a strong whiff of alcohol. Val had cleaned out the duty-free booze at the ferry terminal.
“You’re weak,” Mihal said, disgust and anger overcome his usual reticence. “Is that what you want to say? You’re weak, so your promises aren’t worth crap.”
“Ah, Mihal, don’t … it’s just that I … I … I’m dealing with some shite …”
“I understand,” Mihal gritted out. He turned away, folding his arms across his chest.
I can’t fight with him. Mustn’t. We’re on the same side. We’re both trying to save the world from war.
The note of the ferry’s engines deepened. The cafeteria floor juddered. Val started to say something. More excuses, probably. Mihal cut him off. “I’m going up on deck.”
* * *
The ferry steamed out into the Thames, moving so slowly that it hardly left a wake. Mihal stood at the stern, his hood pulled forward against the rain. He was the only person out on deck.
Waterbuses and private craft crowded the river. The ferry crawled past the Woolwich docks they had just left. Miles of wharves, cranes, warehouses, and stacks of cargo containers. The north bank was undeveloped, bleak and brown in the rain.
A dragon mounted into the air from somewhere on the north bank. Mihal watched it with mild curiosity. Nobles often travelled by dragon to beat the traffic, as well as to show off. But it was unusual for anyone to fly in this weather.
It was a very small dragon.
It seemed to be shadowing the ferry.
As the ferry progressed down the twisting and turning river, Mihal grew cold, but didn’t go in. Equally curious and alarmed, he watched the dragon circle behind them. Dawdling, so as not to overtake.
At last, the Thames widened dramatically. The shore on either side shrank away into the mist. The river traffic spread out, some craft going to Southend-on-Sea, some bound across the Channel, others—like their ferry—headed for the northern ports of Amsterdam and Hamburg, A large white yacht, which Mihal had noticed and admired, raised its sails. Only two men were on deck, scrambling to do the job of ten.
The dragon stooped, skimming lower.
It seemed to be making for the yacht.
A shot rang out, and then another, the reports muffled by the open sea, but unmistakable.
Mihal froze in a half-crouch.
The dragon wallowed in the sky above the ferry. It descended in a barely-controlled swoop, tumbled over the rail, and collapsed on the deck.
Mihal ran to the fallen beast, as its rider unbuckled his harness and toppled off. He knelt by the dragon’s head, sobbing wordlessly.
The dragon wore a green insulation garment. On the breast of the garment was a white swan. And over the swan spread a red stain.
“She’s dying!” the rider screamed in a child’s high voice, seeing Mihal. “Help her! Get someone to help her!”
The beast’s elegant head sagged to the deck. Pink foam bubbled from her muzzle.
“My dragon! She’s dying! Haven’t you got any relics?”
“God, kid.” Mihal felt awful. “Not on me. Someone on board might have some.”
But even if a miraculous relic could be found, and its owner consented to its use on an animal, it would be too late. That was plain to see. The dragon’s sides heaved. The boy hugged her, sobbing. The patch of blood on her insulation garment spread. Her molten yellow eyes glazed over and she died.
Mihal darted to the rail. The yacht, where the bullets that killed this lovely dragon must have come from, was a white dot in the mist.
The boy knelt on the deck, hugging his beast’s neck, sobbing. For the first time Mihal saw his face properly.
“Blood of the saints! Randolph Sauvage?”
“He shot her. I can’t believe he shot her!” Rain and tears mingled on Randolph Sauvage’s pink cheeks. “He probably meant to shoot me.”
“Who?” Mihal demanded.
“My brother. I didn’t see his face, but it must have been him.”
“Your brother? Why?”
“Because he didn’t want me to come.”
Mihal eased the boy away from the dead dragon and held him while he cried. Poor kid. He was the same age as Mihal’s own daughter, Sonya. He’d been through a lot. And now his own brother had tried to kill him. Mihal was disgusted, but not surprised. His brother had tried to kill him once, too. It was the kind of thing noble families did. That didn’t make it all right.
Rain hid the shore; they were well out to sea.
“Shit, kid. We’ve got to get you home. I guess someone’ll send a boat …”
“Please don’t send me home! I want to come with you!”
“You what?”
“My mother doesn’t want me around. I’m in the way. I’m a threat to Cousin Madelaine’s throne. And Guy tried to shoot me. Take me with you, please!”
“Kid, you’re the heir to an earldom.”
“I don’t want to be an earl! I want to be a knight! I want to do good deeds. To make up for everything.”
The plea twisted Mihal’s heartstrings. He was on the verge of saying yes, and to hell with House Sauvage, to hell with all the crazy British. He hesitated, and just then Val came out on deck. He was too drunk to be astonished by the sight of a dead dragon and a living lordling. He just laughed boozily. “If it isn’t the little lord himself!”
“Please, please, Val! Take me with you!”
“And is the IMF not dedicated to keeping the peace among nations?” Val winked broadly at Mihal. “Of course you can come!”
THE END
* * *
The Chronicles of the Worldcracker continues in The Disenthroned. Download a FREE preview here:
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/45w1recoqr
Or sign up for Felix R. Savage’s newsletter to receive MORE free stories!
http://felixrsavage.com/free-books/
About the Author
Felix R. Savage writes hard science fiction, space opera, and comedic science fiction. He has also occasionally been known to commit fantasy.
Felix has a long history associated with rebellion. He was born in the 1970s, a decade of American youth rebelling against the safe culture of their parents. He is married to a wonderful woman and they have a beautiful daughter. Together the three of them live in Tokyo serving their cat overlord and benevolent protector. Felix pounds the keyboard while not translating, delighting in his family, or catering to the whims of the family’s cat. He woke up one day to learn that he was a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, but he continues to keep a low profile, and never stops watching out for any sign the lizard people have found him.
http://felixrsavage.com
Ferromancer
Iron Souls, Book One
Becca Andre
Solutions aren’t always black and white—sometimes they come in shades of iron gray.
Captain Bridget “Briar” Rose wants for nothing. Each day is a new adventure, living the life she loves, running cargo on the Ohio & Erie Canal. That is, until her cousin decides to sell the family boat to finance a new business venture. He wants to build locomotives for the railroad—t
he very industry that could put the entire canal system out of business.
Not one to give up without a fight, Briar does a little snooping into her cousin’s new business partner. When she gets a sneak peek at the locomotive plans, she suspects that the man is either a genius, or a ferromancer—one of the dreaded metal mages of Europe’s industrial revolution.
Determined to reveal her suspicions, Briar takes the plans and heads for the newspaper office in Columbus, stealing the family boat in the process. Kidnapping her cousin’s handsome business partner wasn’t part of the plan, but when he shows up, demanding the return of his property, she can’t let him go. After all, if Briar can prove that the railroad is using ferromancy, she could save more than her boat. She could save her way of life.
1
Briar stood on the tiller deck of her boat, watching the banks of the canal slip past. They were making good time, even with a fully loaded boat, and barring any trouble getting through the last of the locks, they should be home in a few hours.
Lifting a hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the August sun, she squinted at the canal lock in the distance. Lock fifty was the first of the triple locks at Union Mills. The three closely spaced locks would lower them to the level of the Scioto River bottomland for the easy haul to Portsmouth, the southern terminus of the Ohio & Erie Canal.
Unlike the rest of her crew, Briar wasn’t all that thrilled about the homecoming. Normally, she could expect a few quiet days relaxing on her docked boat, but that wouldn’t be the case this time.
