Mr. Sloan kept hoping for an opportunity to once again slip into Smythe’s office, search through his dispatches and letters, and read the account books. He did not find a chance. Mr. Sloan had his own duties, which kept him busy during the day. He tried his luck a couple of times at odd hours of the night, only to find Smythe awake and at work.
A week passed without hearing any word from Prince Thomas. He still had not arrived in camp, nor was anything known of him. Smythe was growing increasingly restless and he sent yet another urgent message to the marchioness.
Mr. Sloan was in the colonel’s office, delivering his daily progress report, when Smythe’s aide entered with word that a messenger had arrived by griffin.
“Corporal Jennings has returned, sir,” said the aide. “He says he is carrying an urgent letter.”
“Send him in at once,” said Smythe.
Mr. Sloan recalled that Jennings was the corporal who had escorted Trubgek to Freya, thus relieving the camp of his odious presence. Smythe must have been thinking the same, for he asked, as the aide was about to depart, “Is Corporal Jennings alone?”
The aide replied that as far as he knew, he was. Jennings entered the office, saluted, and handed the colonel a leather dispatch pouch. Smythe removed a letter from the pouch, broke the seal, and swiftly scanned it. He actually smiled.
“Good news, I hope, Colonel,” Mr. Sloan said.
“The best,” said Smythe. “Very good, Corporal. Go get some food and rest. I will have dispatches for you to take back.”
The corporal departed. Smythe glanced through the letter again, then laid it to one side. Mr. Sloan continued with his report until they were once more interrupted.
“A wyvern-drawn carriage seeking permission to land, sir,” said the aide. “It bears the Stanford family coat of arms.”
“That will be His Highness!” said Smythe, his smile expanding. “We must go welcome him. You will accompany me, Lieutenant.”
He rose to his feet and put on his uniform coat. Mr. Sloan rose as well, his eyes on the letter. He lingered a moment after the colonel had left, pretending to be engaged in buttoning his jacket. When the colonel was out of sight, Mr. Sloan snatched up the letter, read the few words that were written on the paper, frowned in perplexity, then returned it to its place on the desk.
The carriage descended rapidly and landed in the courtyard with a jolt that must have been very uncomfortable for the passengers. The coachman had obviously plied the whip on the way, driving the wyverns to their limits, for the beasts stood panting in their traces, too exhausted to misbehave.
The coachman hurriedly descended and opened the door. The marchioness burst out of the carriage in a torrent of silk, her hat askew, her clothes in disarray. Her dark eyes flashed. She refused the coachman’s assistance and stormed over to confront Smythe.
“Marchioness, where is His Highness?” the colonel demanded.
“Thomas is in Freya!” Constanza hissed. “He is meeting with the queen!”
Smythe went livid, his eyes widened, and his face contorted. He could only stare at her, unable to speak.
Constanza waited for him to say something, and when he did not, she exclaimed angrily, “Pah! Idiot! Have you gone deaf? Did you hear what I said?”
Smythe recovered himself. Constanza’s shrill voice had attracted attention. Soldiers had stopped to stare.
“Lieutenant Sloan, send these men about their duties, then join me in my office,” Smythe ordered.
Looking grim, he took hold of Constanza’s arm and forcibly escorted her into the headquarters building. Her shrill recriminations were cut off by the slam of his office door.
Mr. Sloan obeyed orders, bellowing that he would take the name of any man who was still in his sight after two seconds. Then he hastened to the office. He could hear the marchioness raging behind the closed door, and he could not help but hesitate before opening the door and slipping inside. Constanza was on her feet, pacing back and forth, the tapping of her heels emphasizing her words. Smythe cast Mr. Sloan a grim look. Mr. Sloan shut the door and then took his place in a corner of the room.
The marchioness vented her fury at her son, saying he did not appreciate her years of sacrifice and accusing him of betraying a mother’s love, all in a torrent of mostly incoherent rantings, switching from Estaran to Freyan and back again so rapidly that Mr. Sloan had difficulty understanding much of what she was saying.
As near as he could gather, the marchioness had received a letter from the servant of a man she referred to as “Sir Richard” telling her that Prince Thomas had traveled in secret to Freya for a clandestine meeting with the queen. Sir Richard was deeply concerned about the prince’s safety while he was in Freya.
When Constanza had to pause for breath, Smythe was able to ask a question. “Has His Highness met with the queen?”
“I do not know! What difference does it make?” Constanza demanded.
“It makes a great deal of difference, my lady,” said Smythe. He was rigid, grim. “What did Sir Richard tell you?”
“He said something about that stupid woman leaving the palace to tend to a sick griffin…”
Smythe rose to his feet. His lips were pressed tight, his jaw clenched. He flung open the door and walked out, calling for his aide.
Constanza glared at his retreating figure, then stormed after him, knocking over a chair and gesturing wildly with her fan.
“What do you think you are doing, Colonel?” she cried. “Where are you going? I have not finished speaking to you! How dare you turn your back on me!”
Smythe paid no attention to her, but continued to shout for his aide. He met him at the entrance and the two walked outside together.
“Peasant! Poltroon!” Constanza shook her fan at him, but he kept walking.
Constanza found herself alone with no one paying any attention to her. She decided to remedy that, apparently, for she sank to the floor in a swoon.
Mr. Sloan was not one to leave a lady in distress, despite being fairly certain her distress was self-inflicted. He hurried to her aid and reached the fainting woman about the same time Smythe returned. He stood gazing down at her with dispassion.
Mr. Sloan chafed her hand and fanned her face. “Perhaps we should send for her maid, sir—”
“I doubt she brought one,” said Smythe. “She distrusts servants. Take her to the infirmary. Have the sawbones tend to her.”
Upon the utterance of this dire threat, Constanza gave signs of life. She moaned. Her eyelids fluttered. Mr. Sloan raised her to a sitting position and she reached out her hand to Smythe.
“You must not worry about me, Colonel. You must go to my son. Foolish boy! He has ruined everything. He will get himself killed! After all that I have done for him!”
She burst into hysterical sobs.
“Take her to my office,” said Smythe.
Mr. Sloan carried Constanza to the office. Smythe righted the overturned chair and they settled her in it.
“I will fetch some brandy, sir,” Mr. Sloan offered.
“First, I need a word with you, Lieutenant,” said Smythe. He drew Mr. Sloan back into the hall. “I am traveling to Haever, Lieutenant.”
“You believe her story about His Highness, then, sir?” said Mr. Sloan, sounding dubious. “That the prince is in Freya?”
Smythe nodded. “I know Sir Richard. He is a man of solid sensibilities. He would not have raised the alarm if he did not truly fear for the prince’s safety.”
“I understand, sir,” said Mr. Sloan.
He was thinking that once Smythe was gone, he would have the chance to go through his papers, discover all the information he could, then travel to Haever himself, report to Sir Henry. He could always make up some excuse to give the Guundarans.
Smythe’s next words took Mr. Sloan completely by surprise and unraveled his plans.
“I have given orders to have two griffins saddled. Be packed and ready to leave within the hour.”
Mr. Sloan w
as dismayed. He wondered uneasily if Smythe distrusted him and did not want to leave him on his own.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but what about my duties here?”
“You will soon have no duties here, Lieutenant,” said Smythe. “I have given orders to complete the supplying of the troop ships. The troops are to set sail as soon as possible. We must ensure the prince’s safety. In two days’ time the fortress will be empty.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, relieved and grateful.
The troop ships would take a week to reach Haever, assuming they did not run into bad weather. Traveling by griffin, Mr. Sloan could be in Haever, warning Sir Henry that the queen was in peril, in two days.
“I will be ready to leave within the hour, sir.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” said Smythe. “I am putting the Guundaran officers in charge. Give them their orders. Oh, and be certain to change into your Freyan army uniform.”
He returned to his office and shut the door. Constanza had calmed down, and Mr. Sloan could hear the two speaking in lowered voices. Mr. Sloan would have given a great deal to eavesdrop, but he needed to speak to the Guundaran officers, then pack his few belongings.
In addition, he had to change into the uniform worn so honorably by so many brave soldiers. He had to admit the idea was genius, even as he regarded the uniform with revulsion. Freyan soldiers would be tricked into thinking they were seeing friendly forces advancing on them and not bother to defend themselves. They would not realize they had been duped until the bullets smashed into their bodies.
As he sought out the Guundarans, Mr. Sloan reflected on everything that had happened, and especially on the words he had read in the letter.
God’s Glory awaits. Lex Talionis. Franklin.
FORTY-NINE
The coachman of the horse-drawn carriage of the Countess de Marjolaine brought the elegantly appointed vehicle to a stop in front of a modest house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Everux. He wondered uneasily if he had misunderstood the address.
The three-story house looked pleasant enough as houses go, but was not, in the coachman’s mind, a suitable residence for His Grace, the Duke de Bourlet. Fearing that he had made a mistake, the coachman descended from the box and opened the door in some trepidation, expecting a reprimand.
“I am afraid I misunderstood the address you gave me, my lady,” he said. “I will endeavor to correct my error—”
“No, no, Jarvis,” said Cecile, smiling. “The address is correct.”
“If you are certain, my lady,” said Jarvis, eyeing askance the neighborhood children who had clustered around the coach.
He lowered the step and gave Cecile his hand to assist her to descend.
“Do you require me to wait?” he asked, valiantly attempting to ignore one young lad of about six who was tugging on his coat and loudly demanding to know the names of the horses.
“You may leave. I am to stay to dinner,” said Cecile. “My son will escort me back to the palace.”
“Very good, my lady,” said the coachman.
He cast a baleful glance at the six-year-old, removed the child’s grubby hand from his coattail, climbed back onto his box, and drove off down the street. The children ran after him, hooting and shouting.
Benoit, the aged steward, was waiting for her at the front door. Cecile paused to look at the house before entering. Stephano and Rodrigo had lived here many years ago, after King Alaric had disbanded the Dragon Brigade and Stephano had resigned his commission in anger.
Joining forces with their friends Miri and Gythe McPike and Dag Thorgrimson, they had formed the Cadre of the Lost, earning a living by undertaking various jobs for people, some less respectable than others.
Cecile had never been to this house before. She and her son had not been on speaking terms. They had reconciled in the days after the war, although their relationship was still tenuous. He could not understand her and she understood him far too well.
Benoit made a stiff and rickety bow as she entered. He took her cloak, then said in doleful tones, “I am sorry you find us living in such reduced circumstances, my lady.”
“On the contrary, Benoit, I approve of this house,” said Cecile. “My son knew love and friendship and laughter here. I can think of no better place for his child to be born.”
“Far be it from me to disagree with Your Ladyship,” said Benoit, and then proceeded to disagree with her. “I might point out that Your Ladyship doesn’t have to climb those stairs a hundred times a day.”
Cecile knew for a fact that Benoit had likely never set foot on those stairs. He spent all his time comfortably seated in front of the fire ordering the maid up and down the stairs.
“How is Lady Juliette?” Cecile asked.
“Extremely well, my lady,” Benoit said. “Far too well, if you ask me. ’Tisn’t right. A proper lady should not leave her bed for a week and Her Ladyship actually came down to tea last night.”
He lowered his voice to a ghastly whisper. “She is nursing her baby herself!” Benoit sniffed. “Respectable women hire wet nurses. So I told Her Ladyship, but she only laughed and said she never had any pretense of being respectable. Perhaps you could speak to her, my lady. Her Ladyship is currently napping. The young master had a fractious night. But I could wake her—”
“Please let her sleep,” said Cecile. “Where is my son?”
Benoit was pained. “If Your Ladyship will wait in the drawing room, I will send him to you.”
“Nonsense, Benoit,” Cecile said crisply. “I want to see my grandchild.”
“He is with the young master in the kitchen, my lady!” said Benoit, aggrieved. “It’s not right! The son of the Duke de Bourlet should not even know where to find a kitchen, much less be cavorting with the scullery maids.”
“The baby is a week old, Benoit,” said Cecile soothingly. “I am certain he will not be cavorting with anyone.”
“I hope you are right, Your Ladyship,” said Benoit, but he sighed heavily, fearing the worst, and with tottering steps led the way to the kitchen.
He was going to announce her, but Cecile stopped him. She wanted to watch the scene in front of her.
Stephano was walking up and down before the fireplace, holding his son in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth and talking to him.
“And so you see, my son, in order to mount a dragon, you step on the foreleg and then hoist yourself up into the saddle. This requires some practice, but you will soon become accustomed to it. I remember the first time my father put me on a dragon—”
Stephano paused and looked up. “Mother! I thought I smelled perfume.” He added, teasing, “I assumed it was Benoit.”
The old man snorted and tottered over to the most comfortable chair in the room, located in the warmest corner. He settled himself with a contented sigh and closed his eyes.
Cecile held out her hands. “Let me hold my grandson.”
Stephano carefully laid the baby in her arms. “Mother, meet Julian Rodrigo Dag de Guichen.”
“You named him after your father,” said Cecile softly, tears coming to her eyes.
She gazed down at the baby, searching for some resemblance to the face she had loved and still held in her heart. The baby regarded her with intense, grave eyes, as if he knew the secrets of the universe, but chose not to reveal them.
“The child is well?” she asked.
“Thriving,” said Stephano proudly.
Cecile touched his hand with her finger and, as if in answer, the baby curled his tiny fingers around hers.
“And Juliette?” Cecile asked.
“She is radiant,” said Stephano. “I know she will want to see you.”
“Benoit said she was sleeping.”
“We have hired a nursemaid, but she insists on taking care of the baby herself. I will go wake her.”
“Please don’t,” said Cecile. “Let her sleep. She must be exhausted.”
Cecile marveled at the small human in her arms.
She had not been allowed to hold her own baby. She had been sixteen, and unwed, at Stephano’s birth. When her father discovered her pregnancy, he had banished her to a convent and threatened to kill her lover. She had deemed it best for the sake of her son and for the sake of the man she loved to give up both of them. The sisters had taken the baby away from her after his birth. Julian had raised Stephano, who was taught to believe his mother had abandoned him for the sake of her ambition.
“I will be in your life, little Julian,” Cecile promised the baby. “I will be there to see you take your first steps and hear your first words. I will teach you to dance, and proper court etiquette, for God knows your father will not.”
The baby fell asleep in Cecile’s arms. She rocked him gently back and forth.
“Let me put him in his cradle, Mother,” Stephano offered.
“You will do no such thing,” Cecile said softly.
She walked before the fire, holding the baby in her arms. The house was quiet save for the ticking of a clock, and Cecile wished she could silence that. She wanted time to stand still and leave her suspended forever in this moment of simple, sublime happiness; she had almost forgotten what such a feeling was like. She wanted to hold the moment close, revel in it, not let it go.
The moment was just that: a moment. The ticking of the clock was drowned out by the cawing of wyverns, the shouts of the driver, the jingling of harness, and the clatter of wheels landing on the pavement.
The baby woke and began to whimper.
“That’s a carriage,” said Stephano. He cast her an accusing glance. “You told D’argent where to find you.”
“The carriage could be someone visiting a neighbor, Stephano,” said Cecile.
“Not likely,” Stephano muttered.
Cecile ignored him and began singing to the baby. The song was an old one; she dimly remembered her own mother singing it.
“‘Lullaby, child, lullaby. Sleepy time, the young one sleeps. The child will sleep, oh so soon.’”
The coachman was swearing at the wyverns. Someone knocked loudly at the door. Stephano glared at his mother, then went to shake Benoit by the shoulder.
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