Mr. Sloan hastened down the hall to the office. He removed the magical constructs and entered, closing the door behind him. He had brought with him a bull’s-eye lantern and, by its light, he started to search the bookshelves. He had given the titles only a cursory glance and had taken them all to be military in nature. The title of one book seemed to suddenly leap into prominence.
Lex Talionis.
The volume was slender and easily missed for it had been tucked in between the Handbook of the Freyan Army and the Official History of the Blackfire War.
Mr. Sloan reached for the book and suddenly froze in place, his motion arrested by the sound of muffled footfalls and the creaking of the door on its hinges.
Mr. Sloan was caught. He could not retreat and he had nowhere to hide. He could only assume that Smythe had returned and, finding the warding constructs missing, had realized an intruder was inside his office.
Mr. Sloan was left with one recourse. He would shine the lantern’s light full in Smythe’s eyes, blinding him, then bowl him over and rush out into the night.
Mr. Sloan whipped about, aiming the beam of the lantern at the face that loomed out of the darkness. At that instant, the light from another lantern flashed on Mr. Sloan’s face. Each man halted, staring, each extremely startled to recognize the other.
“Sir Ander!” exclaimed Mr. Sloan.
“God bless my soul! It’s Mr. Sloan!” gasped Sir Ander.
Before they could recover from the shock, both men heard the door to the north wing open and the measured tread of heavy footfalls.
“That is Colonel Smythe!” Mr. Sloan whispered.
“I take it you’re not supposed to be in here,” said Sir Ander.
“No, my lord,” Mr. Sloan returned.
“Then our only way out is each other,” Sir Ander whispered. “I brought my own defense. You can play along.”
He held up an egg-shaped silver container known as a spirit flask, commonly carried by Rosian soldiers as part of their gear.
Mr. Sloan nodded in understanding.
Sir Ander removed the stopper, took a healthy pull from the flask, splashed the rum down his shirtfront, and reeled backward. He fell against the door and caused it to shut with a bang.
The footfalls came to a sudden halt.
“Who is there?” Smythe called. “You should know I am armed!”
Sir Ander tumbled to the floor with a curse. Mr. Sloan hurriedly raised the lid to the strongbox, then bent over Sir Ander, who was loudly swearing at him.
“Devil take you, sir! What have you done with my bed?”
Colonel Smythe flung open the door and barged inside, pistol in hand. He stopped to stare in amazement. “Sir Ander! Lieutenant Sloan! What is going on?”
Smythe looked from Sir Ander floundering on the floor to Mr. Sloan bending over him, endeavoring to placate him, and lowered the pistol.
“Colonel Smithee!” Sir Ander bawled, catching sight of him. “To your very good health, sir!”
He raised the flask, took a drink, and belched.
Smythe grimaced in disgust. The room reeked of rum.
“I think you had better explain, Lieutenant,” he said.
“I was on my way to report to you, sir, when I found this gentlemen in your office,” Mr. Sloan explained. “Sir Ander appears to have imbibed more rum than is good for him. He is under the impression he is in his own quarters and that I have absconded with his bed.”
“The door was wizard-locked, Lieutenant,” said Smythe grimly. “How could he have managed to break inside?”
“Damn door wasn’t locked,” Sir Ander protested indignantly. “Wide open! You accusing me of being a thief?”
“No, Sir Ander, of course not,” said Smythe hurriedly.
Mr. Sloan regarded the colonel with concern.
“His Lordship does have a point, sir,” he said. “If he found the door ajar … Is anything missing?”
Colonel Smythe glanced around the room and immediately saw the open strongbox.
“Look to see if we were robbed, Lieutenant.”
Mr. Sloan dutifully checked the strongbox and reported that the money was inside. “Of course, sir, we should count it—”
“I will attend to that,” said Smythe. “Escort His Lordship to his proper quarters, then report back.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.
He and Smythe between them managed to haul the drunken knight to his feet. Mr. Sloan put his arm around Sir Ander and steered him down the corridor that led to the south wing. Glancing back over his shoulder, Mr. Sloan saw Smythe investigating the door to his office.
Mr. Sloan opened the connecting door, and the two men stumbled through it into the south wing. Mr. Sloan closed the door behind them and they stopped to draw breath.
“I would ask you why are you here, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Ander, “but then you would ask me why I am here and our conversation would grind to a halt.”
“Where are the prince and his friend, my lord?” Mr. Sloan asked, as they continued down the corridor.
“In the mess hall, undoubtedly shaking their heads over me,” said Sir Ander. “Unless I am much mistaken, they take me for a drunken old sod.”
He walked on, his head bowed, his brow creased. He suddenly stopped in the corridor and turned to face Mr. Sloan.
“Tell me one thing, Mr. Sloan. Did Wallace send you here to harm Prince Thomas?”
Mr. Sloan considered and decided he could answer the question truthfully. “No, my lord. I can assure you I had no idea the prince was planning to visit the Old Fort.”
Sir Ander nodded, as though that accorded with his thinking. “I’m going to be honest, Mr. Sloan. I need your help.”
Mr. Sloan was concerned. “You are a friend of the Countess de Marjolaine, my lord. Her Ladyship is an enemy of my country.”
“This has nothing to do with politics. The countess sent me here to investigate a man with the ungodly name of Trubgek. She heard he was here in Bheldem, but he doesn’t appear to be around and no one seems to know where he went.”
“Trubgek,” Mr. Sloan repeated, troubled. “What interest does the countess have in him?”
“So you know him?”
“Yes, my lord. He was here, but he has gone.”
“Damn! The countess heard a rumor that this Trubgek knows dragon magic and she thought perhaps I would be able to discover the truth. I hoped I might find some reference to him among Smythe’s papers, but you saw how that ended.” Sir Ander grimaced. “Tell me one thing. Is this rumor true? Does this man know dragon magic?”
Mr. Sloan knew how the game was played. He was trying to make up his mind to a desperate course of action, and to receive, one first had to give.
“I do not have firsthand knowledge of that myself, my lord, for I have never seen Trubgek use magic of any sort,” said Mr. Sloan. “A crafter who has seen him work magic warned me that he knew dragon magic. This crafter was astonished by his skill and power. Trubgek appeared to confirm it when questioned.”
Sir Ander looked dubious. “How is such a feat possible?”
Mr. Sloan shook his head. “I have told you all I know about the matter, my lord.”
“Did you believe this crafter?”
“I do, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Trubgek was in the employ of a dragon named Coreg, who was evil to the core of his foul being. If anyone could have conducted such a heinous experiment, it would have been Coreg.”
They had arrived at Sir Ander’s room. The hallway was quiet. The prince and his friend had not returned. Mr. Sloan switched off the bull’s-eye lantern. Windows in the hall let in light enough to see, once their eyes adjusted, and Mr. Sloan did not want to call attention to themselves. Sir Ander drew out the key.
“If you would wait a moment, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “I did you a favor. I have one to ask in return.”
Sir Ander frowned. “What is that, Mr. Sloan?”
“Are you returning tomorrow to the marquis’s estate?”
/> “Yes, sir,” Sir Ander replied.
“I believe that a woman named Miss Amelia Nettleship is currently a guest of the marchioness.”
“I have met Miss Nettleship,” said Sir Ander, growing more and more puzzled. “She is a journalist who writes outlandish tales about some female pirate. What do you want with her?”
“I have important information to convey to her. I would be deeply obliged, Sir Ander, if you would deliver it for me.”
Sir Ander glowered at him. “We fought together to defeat the Bottom Dwellers, but I am loyal to my country and would not put Rosia in peril for any consideration. I cannot oblige you, Mr. Sloan. I bid you good night.”
He turned the key in the lock.
“You may first read the information and then decide, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “I also give you leave to show it to the countess.”
“I cannot think the countess would be interested in anything you have to say, Mr. Sloan!” Sir Ander said heatedly. “Good night.”
“To the contrary, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “The countess wants Prince Thomas to become king of Freya. Yet I cannot believe she would sanction the violent overthrow of a monarchy.”
Sir Ander rounded on him angrily. “I can tell you for a fact, Mr. Sloan, that the countess would never sanction seizing the throne by violence, nor would Prince Thomas, for that matter!”
“If that is true, my lord, then he needs to know that the colonel of his army is making those plans for him.”
Mr. Sloan’s words fell into the silence of the dark, empty hall. Sir Ander was wary, eyeing Mr. Sloan, perhaps seeking some ulterior motive.
“Why don’t you take this information to Miss Nettleship yourself, sir?” he asked, uncomfortable. “I assume you could make up some excuse.”
“My lord, it is very possible that I could report back to Colonel Smythe tonight and find his guards waiting to arrest me,” said Mr. Sloan.
“Damn it, you could escape now, Mr. Sloan,” said Sir Ander. “Steal one of the griffins and fly back to that perfidious master of yours and leave me out of this!”
Mr. Sloan gave a faint smile. “Impossible, my lord. Colonel Smythe would immediately deduce that I had been spying on him. He would change his plans and my work would have been for naught.”
Sir Ander still hesitated. He obviously suspected Mr. Sloan of trying to involve him in some sinister plot, yet he knew this information could be of immense value and he was loath to turn it down.
“Oh, very well, damn it,” said Sir Ander. “I will relay this to Miss Nettleship.”
Mr. Sloan reached into a secret pocket he had sewn into the jacket of his uniform, drew out the thick letter and handed it to Sir Ander.
Mr. Sloan did not like having to share his intelligence with the countess. Sir Henry would probably never forgive him for what he would consider an unforgiveable betrayal, but Mr. Sloan did not see that he had a choice.
“I must return to the colonel,” said Mr. Sloan. “Thank you, my lord.”
He left Sir Ander gazing after him in thoughtful perplexity.
He returned to Smythe’s office in some trepidation, more than half expecting to find guards waiting for him. Instead he found Smythe alone.
“Come in, Lieutenant. Did you convey Sir Ander safely to his quarters?”
“I did, sir.”
“Good. I have searched the office. Nothing was taken,” he said. “Did you search Masterson’s belongings?”
“Yes, Colonel,” said Mr. Sloan. “As we surmised, I found nothing incriminating.”
“A pity. I think it was Masterson who broke into my office.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.
“He left us during dinner, said he needed to use the latrine. He was gone quite some time.”
“Do you think he found anything?”
“I have discovered no evidence of it. I blame myself. I should have posted a sentry outside my door. See to that before you retire, Lieutenant.”
“And the wizard locks, sir?”
“I will restore those myself,” said Smythe.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.
He took his leave. Crossing the compound, he saw Prince Thomas and his friend leaving the mess hall. He kept to the shadows and they did not notice him in the darkness. The two were walking slowly, conferring in low voices. He could not understand what they were saying and, frankly, he was too weary to care.
He returned to his room, lay down on his bed, and gazed into the darkness. By passing on this information to the countess, he was setting the cat among the pigeons. He had no idea what would come of it.
Perhaps something good.
Perhaps a flurry of blood and feathers.
TWENTY-NINE
Thomas returned to his parents’ home following his visit to the Old Fort to find the invitation to Sophia’s birthday party waiting for him. His mother had opened it, of course, and she was thrilled. She could talk of little else.
Constanza even carried the elegant invitation about with her and showed it to their houseguests, Phillip, Lord Ander Martel, and the Freyan journalist, Miss Amelia Nettleship, an average of three times a day.
“The party will be splendid,” she told her guests. “The Duke de Bourlet is hosting. It is to be held in Castle Dragonreach, which is in Argonne in the southern part of Rosia. The duke is fabulously wealthy, you know, Miss Nettleship. He owns a great many castles, but this is said to be his favorite. Did I mention, Sir Ander, that my son is engaged to marry the Princess Sophia of Rosia?”
“Only four times this morning, Mother,” said Thomas with an apologetic glance for Sir Ander and Amelia.
“I am certain I have a right to be proud of my son,” said Constanza, annoyed.
“Your Ladyship has every right in the world,” Sir Ander stated gallantly.
“Indeed, my lady,” added Amelia. “The newspapers in Freya speak of very little else.”
“Little else except rioting in the streets, the dire financial crisis, and the turmoil over the succession,” Thomas said to Phillip the moment they were able to escape his mother.
“You sound as though you do not want to go to the party,” Phillip said. “There will be lawn tennis and pall-mall, flirting and dancing.”
“I am depressed at the very thought,” said Thomas.
He had traveled to Bheldem because of Kate. She had shamed him. Over and over he heard her words as she had prepared to descend into the Deep Breath in that flimsy excuse for a bosun’s chair, risking her life to save her crew.
“These are my people,” Kate had told him. “I am their captain and that makes me responsible for their welfare.”
Thomas held the best claim to be heir to the throne of Freya and he had never given the Freyan people a thought. He had been selfishly thinking only of himself, lamenting the fact that he had been born to bear this burden. Phillip had made him realize that instead of railing against his fate, he could embrace it. Kate had made him see that he had a responsibility to his people.
He still found the thought unnerving. He hoped Queen Mary lived a long and happy life and that many years would pass before he was called upon to advance his claim. In the interim, however, he planned to take his duties more seriously. Thus he had visited his parents in order to visit his army—which he had never set eyes upon—and talk to his commander, Colonel Smythe. Thomas was embarrassed to discover that he knew so little. He was determined to rectify that.
The visit had proven unsatisfactory. Thomas had discovered on their arrival that the troops were out on maneuvers. Colonel Smythe had been extremely apologetic, offering Thomas’s short notice as an excuse, saying he had planned the maneuvers for a long time.
“The colonel was lying,” Phillip told Thomas over a game of billiards. “One of the stable boys told me that no one had breathed a word about field maneuvers until right before our arrival. He said the order came down suddenly and they marched out with little preparation.”
“But why would the c
olonel not want me to see my own troops?” Thomas asked.
“I have no idea. I also wonder why he is working on those troop carriers day and night, when in all likelihood you will not need an escort to Freya for a good many years.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Thomas asked, watching his ball go everywhere on the billiard table except where he had aimed it.
“Because Lord Ander was always about,” said Phillip.
Thomas snorted. “The knight was far more interested in studying that flask of his than he was in us.”
“He was no more drunk than those sentries on guard duty,” Phillip said. “Probably less so. Lord Ander is a close friend of the Countess de Marjolaine. She is the one who wrote to your mother to invite him to visit.”
Thomas stared at his friend. “Are you saying Lord Ander is a spy? But why would the countess send him to spy on me? She claims to support my cause. Next you will be telling me that Miss Nettleship is a spy!”
“She could be,” Phillip said. “She is a friend of Sir Henry’s. And say nothing to her about Kate. Miss Nettleship will land on you like a swooping hawk on a rabbit. She will guess your secret in a second.”
“Good God!” Thomas exclaimed, shaken. “Why didn’t you warn me before now?”
“Because I am not convinced either of them are here to spy upon you,” Phillip replied. “Miss Nettleship made arrangements to visit before she knew you were coming. As you say, the countess is on your side. Be that as it may, Lord Ander is here to spy on someone. He could be here to spy on me. The countess still does not trust me.”
At least while Lord Ander and Miss Nettleship were here his mother was forced to occasionally talk about something else besides the party. But the next day Sir Ander unexpectedly departed, saying that he felt unwell and feared he was suffering a recurrence of the fever he had contracted Below. The journalist, Miss Nettleship, also left, saying that Sir Ander had offered to escort her to Everux, where she had business.
Phillip gave his friend a significant glance. “Whatever they came for, they have found it,” he whispered.
Now that Sir Ander and Miss Nettleship were both gone, Constanza spent all her time talking about the royal birthday party, advising Thomas on what to wear, what to say, how to dance, and urging him to set a date for the wedding. Thomas listened to her with a patient smile, nodded, and said only what was necessary to placate her.
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