“Damn right!” Kate muttered.
But I hope you will reconsider. The journey will be costly. The griffin will need to rest at night and inns that provide accommodations for griffins are expensive. Dalgren saved my life in Braffa and I would like very much to contribute to his defense. Phillip says to tell you that you will need proper attire, for you cannot very well travel through Rosia or appear at a trial in a calico shirt and slops—no matter how much such clothes become you.
“Impertinence!” said Kate, yet she couldn’t help but smile. Still, what he said was true. She was doing this for Dalgren. She must think of him first.
Phillip has enclosed the name of a lady friend in Wellinsport who will provide you with suitable clothes.
In closing, I know you will think it inappropriate to write to me to let me know how you are faring. Pip says you may write to him, for he is as good as a brother. I have included his address in Estara. I hope you will keep me informed through Pip about what you do and where you go. You are always in my thoughts, Kate. I hope that fond thoughts of me sometimes flit across your mind.
Your obedient servant,
Tom
Kate smiled. And then she sighed.
She folded his letter carefully, smoothed it with her hand, then tucked it into her belt. Examining the griffin’s saddle, she found a purse containing a hundred silver rosuns.
She told the griffin to wait for her and sailed back to the cove to tell Olaf and Akiel and the others the good news. They were free men. They cheered her so loudly that she feared the Rosians might hear them all the way in Maribeau.
Now came the hard part: leaving Olaf and Akiel and her friends.
Kate kept the good-byes short, fearing she would break down if she did not. She shook hands with every member of the crew, hugged Akiel and told him in a whisper to look after Olaf. Akiel promised he would.
Kate clung to Olaf as to a father.
“Good-bye, dear friend,” she said. “Dalgren and I will come to visit. So don’t rent out my room.”
“Take care of yourself, Katydid,” said Olaf, embracing her. “That’s all I ask.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead that was like a father’s blessing. The last thing he said to her was “I knew you would come for us, Kate! I knew you would come.”
THIRTEEN
Franklin Sloan, formerly of the Royal Freyan Marines, now retired, served as the private secretary to Sir Henry Wallace, known formally as the Earl of Staffordshire, known to the cognoscenti as Her Majesty’s Spymaster and the most dangerous man in the world.
Sir Henry had dispatched Mr. Sloan to the Aligoes to question the dragon Coreg regarding the whereabouts of the murderer of another dragon, Lady Odila. The dragon’s death had caused an uproar in Freya, shaking the stability of the country and creating an international incident. Henry’s friend Simon Yates had provided a suspect: another former marine, who had served with Mr. Sloan. The man’s name was Isaiah Crawford.
Sir Henry needed to know why Crawford had killed Lady Odila and what her death had to do with the Faithful, a secret cabal dedicated to advancing the claim of the Pretender, Prince Thomas Stanford, to the Freyan throne.
Mr. Sloan had sailed to the Aligoes and made his way to Freeport to find the dragon Coreg, only to run into the very man, Isaiah Crawford. The moment Mr. Sloan had set eyes on Crawford, he realized that he was too late. The dragon was the one being who could tie Crawford to the crime. He was not the type of man to leave this thread dangling.
Mr. Sloan had arrived at a fateful decision. He had attached himself to Crawford, making use of their service together. He needed to communicate this decision, as well as the important information he had gathered, to Henry.
Mr. Sloan had considered writing a letter in code. But the mail in the Aligoes was untrustworthy, and codes can be broken. His mission was so extremely dangerous and so vital to the security of his nation that he did not want to put down anything in a letter that might imperil it.
He had hoped to send it by way of Captain Kate, but that had not worked out. The only other people he knew in Freeport were fellow customers he had met in the Perky Parrot. They were fine fellows in their way, but he did not consider any of them suitable for such a delicate mission.
Mr. Sloan woke early on the morning of the day he and Captain Smythe, as Crawford now called himself, were to leave for Bheldem. As Mr. Sloan packed his valise, he once more considered the problem. He had written a letter the night before, addressed to Simon Yates.
The letter was innocuous, letting Sir Henry know that he—Mr. Sloan—was going to be absent longer than he had anticipated, and apologizing for the inconvenience.
Sir Henry would realize that something untoward had occurred. He would connect Mr. Sloan’s mission with the death of the dragon and perhaps even with Crawford/Smythe. Mr. Sloan was reluctant to send even this letter, however.
Mr. Sloan was a devout man, a member of the strict Fundamentalist sect, and as he closed and locked his valise, he decided he would place the matter in God’s hands.
The ship sailing to Bheldem was due to arrive mid-afternoon. Captain Smythe had offered Mr. Sloan a job, and Mr. Sloan had arranged to meet Smythe at the Perky Parrot prior to their departure to go over the terms of the offer.
“Mr. Sloan, I know you are not happy in your current employment,” Smythe had told him. “You have been of immense help to me in the business upon which I have been engaged this past fortnight. You are aware of the divine cause I serve and how important that cause is to bringing the word of God to the benighted. The marquis has recently promoted me to the rank of colonel—”
“Congratulations, sir,” Mr. Sloan had said.
Smythe had modestly inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I need a new second-in-command. My former lieutenant turned out to be a drunkard. I need someone I can trust. I will soon set sail for Bheldem and I would like you to accompany me, Mr. Sloan—or should I say, Lieutenant Sloan.”
Mr. Sloan had been expecting the offer. Indeed, he had been doing everything possible to ingratiate himself to Smythe for this express purpose. Mr. Sloan had promised to give the matter prayerful thought and consideration. Smythe, also a Fundamentalist, had approved, saying he felt certain God would lead Mr. Sloan down the path of righteousness.
When Mr. Sloan entered the Parrot carrying his valise, Colonel Smythe rose to his feet to greet him.
“Have you made your decision, Mr. Sloan?” Smythe asked.
“I have, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “I accept your offer. I will be proud to serve with you.”
The two men shook hands and then sat down to boiled ham and beans, which was seemingly the only meal Gert knew how to cook. Given her dexterity with the wooden spoon, none of her customers were inclined to complain.
Smythe was not one for idle chitchat. He ate rapidly and in silence, leaving Mr. Sloan to his own thoughts, which underwent a startling turn when the answer to his prayers walked in the front door of the Perky Parrot.
Mr. Sloan had never doubted for a moment that God would respond to his plea for help. Mr. Sloan was, however, considerably startled by God’s choice of messenger, who turned out to be the outspoken and energetic journalist Amelia Nettleship.
Mr. Sloan knew Amelia and, unfortunately, Amelia knew him. She did not see him at once. The sun was bright and she had to pause in the doorway to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the Parrot. Mr. Sloan was in her direct line of sight.
He could envision the encounter. Miss Amelia would greet him joyfully, claim him as a friend, and ask about Sir Henry. All Mr. Sloan’s careful work to gain the confidence of Smythe would be for nothing. Given the captain’s bloodthirsty history, Mr. Sloan guessed his life would be worth less than nothing.
“Please excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, hurriedly rising. “I find myself in some distress.”
Gert’s beans were known to have this effect upon people and Smythe merely nodded. The privies were located in the back of the taver
n. Mr. Sloan bolted for the entrance.
His mind was apparently concentrating on his internal problems and he was not watching where he was going. He came level with Amelia just as she recognized him. When her eyes lit up and she opened her mouth, he barged into her, knocking the umbrella she always carried out of her hand and nearly bowling her over.
“I beg your pardon, Madame,” Mr. Sloan said. Bending down, he recovered the umbrella and handed it to her. “Office. My signal,” he said softly.
He then bowed and departed, hurrying out the door.
Amelia was a confirmed spinster in her forties, a journalist by trade. She was close friends with Kate and wrote the popular “Captain Kate” stories that had been running in serial form in the Haever Gazette during the past few months. Mr. Sloan guessed that Amelia had heard through her numerous sources her friend was in peril and had traveled to the Aligoes posthaste to try to save her.
Mr. Sloan respected Amelia, deeming her astute and intelligent, if a bit eccentric. He was confident that he would be able to rely upon her discretion, all the more so because she would be avid to know what was going on.
When he returned to the Parrot, he found Amelia in animated conversation with Gert, who was telling her about Kate’s escape from prison. Amelia glanced at Mr. Sloan, dabbed her nose with a handkerchief, and looked away. Mr. Sloan resumed his seat at the table with Smythe.
“Forgive my absence, sir. I never thought I would say this, but I am actually looking forward to army rations,” said Mr. Sloan, regarding his plate with disfavor. He shoved it away.
Smythe had finished his meal. “Food is merely nourishment for the body, Lieutenant. Nothing more.” He drew out a pocket watch, checked the time, and rose to his feet. “I have some business to conclude with our friend before we depart.”
Mr. Sloan remained in the Parrot, drinking ale. Smythe had been spending a great deal of time with “our friend,” by which he meant Trubgek, the man Kate had claimed knew dragon magic. Smythe and Trubgek had been holed up in the lair of the dead dragon Coreg for days on end. Mr. Sloan had no idea what they were doing, for he was not in their confidence, but he guessed that the two were attempting to sort through the dragon’s numerous nefarious business arrangements.
Once he was certain Smythe would not be likely to return to the tavern, Mr. Sloan rose to his feet, paid his bill, and took his leave. He saw Amelia rise and say something to Gert. The two of them departed, walking toward the back of the tavern.
Mr. Sloan took another trip to the privies, then entered the tavern through the back door. He passed Gert’s son, who nodded in the direction of the office. Mr. Sloan opened the door to find Amelia pacing the floor, eagerly awaiting him.
Mr. Sloan shut the door. Amelia advanced to shake hands, then the two sat down at the desk.
“You know, first, that Captain Kate is safe,” Mr. Sloan said.
“I just found out, Mr. Sloan,” said Amelia. “When I read the news of her capture in a Rosian newspaper, I dropped everything and traveled to Maribeau. I have been living in fear the entire trip that I would be too late to prevent her from being hanged. I was overjoyed to know that she has escaped.”
Amelia took out her brown notebook and a pencil from her reticule and prepared to write. “Give me the details.”
“I am sorry, I do not know them, Miss Amelia,” said Mr. Sloan. “I spoke to Kate only briefly and we did not discuss that.”
“Ah, well, I suppose I will just have to make them up,” said Amelia. “I understand she is laying low due to the presence of bounty hunters. Do you know where she is?”
“She did not inform me of her plans, other than to say that her friend Dalgren was in trouble and that he required her help.”
“Poor fellow,” said Amelia. “I hope all goes well for him. You obviously did not summon me to talk about Kate. So what can I do for you, Mr. Sloan, other than pretend not to know you?”
“I am here to ask you an immense favor, Miss Amelia. When do you plan on returning to Freya?”
“My time is my own,” said Amelia giving him a sharp glance. “I flew here by griffin. I can leave for Freya upon the hour.”
Even in his urgent need, Mr. Sloan had to pause to regard Amelia in shock. He knew she was eccentric, but he had never imagined she would carry her eccentricity to such extremes. Traveling by griffin might be fast, but it was risky and uncomfortable and definitely not suitable for ladies.
Amelia guessed what he was thinking. “You are an old fuddy-duddy, Mr. Sloan. I learned to ride griffins when I attended Mrs. Ridgeway’s Academy for Young Ladies. I can also drive a coach-and-pair. Mrs. Ridgeway believed we should be prepared for any contingency. What is it you need me to do, sir?”
Mr. Sloan ignored the use of the term “fuddy-duddy” in regard to himself and replied. “I need you to carry a message to Sir Henry, one that I dare not set down in writing.”
Mr. Sloan cast a significant glance at the brown notebook. Amelia immediately packed it away, back into the reticule, folded her hands, and prepared to listen.
“I am all attention, Mr. Sloan.”
Mr. Sloan lowered his voice so that he spoke hardly above a whisper. “Tell His Lordship that I have located Isaiah Crawford.”
Amelia had to lean close to hear him. At the mention of the name, her eyes widened.
“The murderer!” she stated.
“How do you know that, Miss Amelia?” Mr. Sloan asked, astonished.
“Sir Henry told me,” said Amelia. “He clearly did not want to, but he said he was afraid I would discover the name on my own and make my knowledge public, which would, of course, alert Mr. Crawford to the fact that we are ‘on to him’ as the police put it. I assume Sir Henry sent you here to find out what the dragon Coreg knew. Kate came here for the same purpose. I am sworn to secrecy, on condition that I will be able to tell the story when this is all finished.”
“The story is a complex one,” said Mr. Sloan. “Far more complex than we realized. Isaiah Crawford now goes by the name Jonathan Smythe, and he is the commander of the armies of His Highness, Prince Thomas Stanford.”
“Merciful heavens!” Amelia exclaimed, startled. “How very extraordinary.”
“I believe this has something to do with the Faithful. Do you know about them?” Mr. Sloan asked.
“Indeed I do, sir. To quote The History of Freyan Monarchs in regard to the Faithful. ‘The Faithful began as a group of nobles loyal to the memory of King James I and are now alleged to be a secret society of noblemen devoted to restoring the male heir of the Stanford family to the throne,’” said Amelia. “Reads like the plot of a yellow-back novel.”
“Sadly, this is not fiction, Miss Amelia,” said Mr. Sloan gravely. “Mr. Yates has evidence that the Faithful are very much alive and are actively working to overthrow the monarchy. From certain things Colonel Smythe has said, I believe that he is in direct contact with these people. I further believe that some of them are highly placed in the government and may have managed to gain Her Majesty’s trust.”
“You fear Her Majesty is in danger, Mr. Sloan! These Faithful must be found and exposed.” Amelia regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I believe such is your plan, isn’t it, sir?”
Mr. Sloan hesitated. A cautious and reticent man by nature, he was averse to revealing his plan even to someone he trusted. He reflected that he had gone too far to stop now and that Henry would want to know.
“I have agreed to join Colonel Smythe’s army in the capacity of lieutenant,” said Mr. Sloan.
“I thought that might be the case,” Amelia said, nodding. “Have you given careful consideration to this idea, Mr. Sloan? This Crawford or Smythe or whatever he calls himself is a trained assassin. He has killed six humans, as well as Lady Odila. And those are just the murders we know about.”
“You may add to that list the dragon Coreg, the human Greenstreet, and several men in his employ,” said Mr. Sloan.
Amelia sighed. “So he killed them before they could t
alk.”
“Indeed, ma’am. They could have identified him as the murderer. Not only that, but I surmise the dragon was threatening to blackmail either Smythe or the prince.”
“By all accounts, Prince Thomas Stanford is an estimable young man,” said Amelia, troubled. “Do you believe he is involved in these murders?”
“His Lordship will want to believe it,” said Mr. Sloan with a faint smile. “I must endeavor to find out the truth and this is a God-given opportunity to discover the inner workings of the Faithful. You understand why it is of vital necessity that I undertake this mission.”
“I suppose I do,” said Amelia grudgingly. “What is your plan?”
“Colonel Smythe and I are both devout Fundamentalists—”
“You are devout, Mr. Sloan!” Amelia interrupted indignantly. “I would not compare yourself to that loathsome creature, Smythe.”
Mr. Sloan couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t closer to Smythe than he cared to admit. He had been giving the matter a great deal of thought lately. He couldn’t take time to discuss that now.
“Colonel Smythe has been in need of a second-in-command for some time and he has found no one he trusts. We served together in the marines and he takes it as a sign from God that he and I happened to meet in this place at this moment in time.”
“And I suppose you believe that God has brought you here to spy on Smythe and so you are putting yourself in danger.” Amelia shook her head and added with a sniff, “Sometimes I think God would do well to mind His own business.”
Mr. Sloan raised a shocked eyebrow, but refrained from comment. “Inform His Lordship that I am traveling to Bheldem with Colonel Smythe, ma’am, to take up my command. Once I am there, I will endeavor to find some way to communicate my discoveries.”
“Put your mind at rest, Mr. Sloan,” Amelia stated. “You may communicate through me.”
“Ma’am?” Mr. Sloan raised both his eyebrows.
“As a journalist, I can go anywhere, even to Bheldem, without the least danger of arousing suspicion. I will discuss the matter with Sir Henry, of course, but I already have the inklings of an idea.”
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