Privateer

by Margaret Weis

  “Benoit! Someone at the door.”

  The old man hunched down in the chair, tightly closed his eyes, and began to snore.

  Stephano shook him harder. “Benoit! The door!”

  Benoit blinked, opened his eyes, groaned, and cupped his hand to ear.

  “Eh?” he said.

  Stephano gave him a grim look. “You can hear a whisper of gossip three blocks away and you can’t hear someone banging on the door?”

  “The floor, did you say, Master?” Benoit asked.

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake!” Stephano exclaimed, and he stalked off, running up the stairs to the entry hall.

  Benoit winked at Cecile, closed his eyes, and resettled himself comfortably.

  Cecile kept singing, “‘A white hen is there in the barn. It will lay an egg for the child who is sleeping. Lullaby, child, lullaby.’”

  Stephano came down the stairs. “D’argent is here, Mother,” he said dourly. “He begs pardon for the intrusion, but says the matter is urgent. I put him in the drawing room.”

  “Little Julian is very beautiful, my son,” Cecile said. She kissed the baby on his forehead, then carefully transferred the slumbering child to Stephano’s arms. “Your father would be so proud.”

  Stephano smiled, his grim expression softened. “I wish he could be here to see his grandson.”

  “He is watching,” Cecile said. “Be certain of that.”

  She smoothed her skirt and said briskly, “Where do I find the drawing room?”

  “Benoit, show my mother to the drawing room,” Stephano ordered.

  “Yes, Master,” said Benoit. He tried to stand up, groaned, and fell back into the chair. “My poor joints…”

  “The drawing room is up the stairs, Mother,” said Stephano. “First door to your left.”

  Cecile gave her grandson a long, last, lingering look, then turned away, the moment gone.

  She entered the drawing room to find D’argent waiting for her. He handed her a letter. “I am sorry to intrude on this joyful occasion, my lady, but I thought you would want to see this at once. The letter is from Lady Rosalinda.”

  A Rosian noblewoman, Rosalinda had married a Freyan earl and was now living in Haever. She was well liked in the Freyan court and was a confidential friend of the queen’s. She was also one of Cecile’s most trusted agents.

  Cecile broke the seal and opened the letter. As usual, it was filled with the latest court gossip.

  An old friend is in town, Lord Phillip, someone I have not seen in Haever in quite some time. He travels incognito to avoid his creditors, and it cost me considerable effort but I managed to locate him. You say he claims to have spurned the advances of our dear Henrietta. Since few can resist that lady’s fatal charms, I find that hard to believe. Thus far, however, all seems well. Henrietta is away from home and I am certain she would rush back to the city if she knew Lord PM was here.

  You will be interested to hear that Lord Phillip has talked with another lady, our beloved Mademoiselle S! The two met in the park quite by accident. Not a happy accident, you will say. He has also met with Count T. That was some days ago, but he and the count have not met since. I trust nothing has gone amiss.

  Cecile read the letter again to make certain she understood, then handed it back to D’argent. He thrust it into an inner pocket of his coat.

  “Phillip Masterson accompanied Thomas to Haever and has met with him there,” Cecile told D’argent. “The young fools! I warned Thomas the duke was dangerous, but he would not listen.”

  “Has His Grace informed Sir Henry the prince is in Haever, my lady?” D’argent asked in concern.

  “Sir Henry has left Haever, which is a good sign. Lady Rosalinda believes he would return if he knew the duke was in the city.”

  “We have no evidence that His Grace is still working for Sir Henry,” D’argent said.

  “I am inclined to believe he is sincere in his high regard for the prince,” said Cecile. “But even if Phillip is not working for Wallace, he might inadvertently lead Wallace to Thomas. There is another matter that concerns me. Phillip and Sophia have met.”

  “That is indeed troubling news, my lady,” said D’argent.

  “If Phillip has not told her Thomas is in Haever, she may have guessed. Or if she has not, then Rodrigo will most certainly figure it out. I should have gone with them.”

  Cecile stood in silence, twisting the ring on her left hand. She knew what she had to do. D’argent knew, as well, for he was regarding her with sympathy. The baby’s christening was in a week. His Majesty the king was hosting a celebration at the palace. This would be a proud moment in Stephano’s life and, once again, she would not be there.

  “I will leave for Haever this afternoon, D’argent. Have the yacht ready. My maid will know what to pack.”

  “Very good, my lady,” said D’argent. “Will you share my carriage or should I summon another?”

  “I will go with you,” Cecile continued. “I must inform His Majesty and cancel my meeting with the envoy from Travia. I have to first tell my son.”

  “I will wait for you in the carriage,” said D’argent. He paused, then said, “I am sorry, my lady. His Grace will be disappointed.”

  Cecile gave a faint smile. “His Grace will be furious. But there is nothing new in that.”

  D’argent left the house and she returned to the kitchen. Stephano had placed the baby in his cradle and was making tea, while Benoit watched him from his chair.

  “I heard D’argent leave,” said Stephano. “Sit down, Mother. The tea will be ready in a moment.”

  “Thank you, my son, but I have only come to tell you that I must leave as well,” said Cecile. “I travel to Haever this afternoon.”

  Stephano regarded her, frowning. “The christening is in a week, Mother.”

  “I know, my son. I am afraid I must miss it.”

  Stephano flushed and drew in an angry breath.

  “Don’t shout, Stephano,” Cecile added. “You will wake the baby.”

  Stephano glanced at his sleeping child. His lips compressed. He stood glowering at her. The rift between them was wide, had existed since his childhood. They had built a bridge across it in these last few years, but it was shaky, at best.

  “Give Juliette my love,” said Cecile and started to walk away.

  The teakettle began to whistle. Benoit nimbly leaped out of his chair and hurried to snatch it from the flame.

  “You could refuse to go, Mother!” Stephano said, coming up behind her. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “You could tell the king you quit. Tell him to find someone else to steam open letters and hide in closets!”

  Cecile regarded him with dignity.

  “Guard your child, Stephano,” she said. “Keep him safe. And know that somewhere I will be doing the same.”

  She retrieved her cloak, left the house, and climbed into the carriage.

  She had plans to make. The journey would take her five days with good weather. She would send D’argent ahead by griffin to make arrangements.

  The driver brought the wyverns under control. The carriage took to the air.

  She could still feel the baby’s warmth in her arms and she closed her eyes and murmured the words to the last verse of the lullaby.

  Everyone is calm. All around, it is the time for all to sleep. Sleep will come soon.

  For some, perhaps. But not for her.

  FIFTY

  Mr. Sloan arrived in Haever two days after leaving Bheldem. He and Captain Smythe, along with two Guundaran mercenaries as escorts, traveled day and night, with only brief stops in Wellinsport and Dunham to change griffins and grab a bite to eat.

  The flight was brutally cold. Mr. Sloan was muffled to the eyebrows in his uniform jacket, two shirts, a thick coat, two pairs of stockings, leather gloves, greatcoat, and a knit hat beneath his helmet. Icy wind and sleet clawed its way through his clothes to gnaw at his very bones.

  They flew into Haever at night. Mr. Sloan had seen t
he lights of the city from far off. As they drew nearer, he could see the glowing walls of the palace. The walls were constructed of a colorful mixture of blocks of yellow limestone, red granite, and orange sandstone infused with magical constructs that glowed softly at night. Thus, it was said, the light of Freya’s monarchy shone as a beacon in the bleakest night.

  Mr. Sloan was overcome with pride and love for his country and he grieved to think this light could be extinguished. When the griffin landed and he was once more able to set foot upon his native soil, he was glad for the helmet that concealed his emotions.

  Mr. Sloan was stiff from the cold and from being in the saddle and he stifled a groan as he climbed down from the griffin’s back. The journey had been wearing on all of them; even the tough Guundaran mercenaries staggered as they dismounted. Colonel Smythe grimaced in pain and was forced to hobble around the stable yard in an attempt to ease a cramp in his leg.

  Mr. Sloan told the mercenaries to unpack the saddlebags and help the stable hands to unharness the griffins, then went to see if he could assist his colonel.

  “I have done business with this stable before,” said Smythe. “The owner is sympathetic to our cause. Tell him we require a carriage and we need housing for the griffins for several nights. I also need someone to carry an urgent message.”

  Mr. Sloan went to talk to the owner, who was pleased to accommodate them. He sent stable hands running to harness horses to a carriage, and offered his son to serve as messenger.

  Smythe removed a letter from an inside pocket and handed it to the boy. “The address is on the front. You will deliver the letter and say, ‘Ten of the clock tomorrow morning.’ The person who receives the letter will understand. Do you have that?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy. “Deliver the letter and say, ‘Tomorrow, ten of the clock.’”

  “Good lad,” said Smythe.

  The boy took the letter, climbed on a horse, and rode off. The stable hands rolled out a closed carriage drawn by two horses. The Guundarans stowed the saddlebags in the carriage, along with weapons, including rifles, powder, and ammunition, their bedrolls and other gear.

  “Do you require a driver, Colonel?” the owner asked.

  “My lieutenant will drive,” said Smythe, indicating Mr. Sloan.

  “Very good, sir,” said the owner.

  “The owner is a good man, but the fewer who know our plans the better,” Smythe remarked to Mr. Sloan as they waited for the Guundarans to finish loading.

  “Where are we going, sir?” Mr. Sloan asked.

  “A member of the Faithful who owns a real estate agency purchased and renovated several abandoned warehouses and office buildings for our use as headquarters when the troops arrive,” Smythe replied. “We will spend the night there. I am meeting with him tomorrow. The address is Meek Street. I have not been to Haever in many years and I confess I am unfamiliar with it. Do you know it, Lieutenant?”

  “I do, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, shaken.

  Meek Street was named for Augustus Meek, the owner of an import-export business which was, prior to the war, the largest in the world. He had built warehouses and offices and even his own private dockyard to accommodate a fleet of ships. The end had come when the Bottom Dwellers began to attack and seize merchant vessels. Trade throughout the world dwindled to a trickle during the war. Meek had been forced to declare bankruptcy.

  With its warehouses and office buildings empty, Meek Street fell into squalor. Vagrants moved into the abandoned buildings, living in filth and dying of cold and starvation. The area became a blight on the city.

  Eventually a real estate agency purchased the buildings and began renovations. No one paid much attention except the vagrants, who were forced to find other accommodations. According to Smythe, the agency had transformed office buildings into military headquarters, converted abandoned warehouses into barracks, and repaired the dockyards.

  Mr. Sloan tried to recall the name of the real estate agency that had purchased Meek’s property, but he had paid scant attention at the time, and if he ever knew, he had forgotten it.

  The Faithful have been laying the foundation for our destruction for years and we were none the wiser, Mr. Sloan reflected in despair. Indeed, Her Majesty had applauded their community spirit! We have been blind. Blind as dormice!

  Mr. Sloan did not like to have to include Sir Henry among the dormice. He found it almost impossible to believe his employer could have made such a blunder.

  Still, Mr. Sloan reflected sadly, we are all human—even Sir Henry.

  He mounted the box and took the reins. Colonel Smythe and the Guundarans entered the carriage and Mr. Sloan drove off.

  The church clocks struck midnight. Windows were dark and shuttered. Behind some of those windows, people slept. Behind others, people were awake, plotting the downfall of the country. Mr. Sloan had not slept much in the last two nights. Looking at the dark windows, he felt a kind of horror creeping over him. He had to force his weary brain to concentrate, determine his next move.

  He had at least a week before the troop carriers arrived and that was with good weather, which was unlikely this time of year. That gave him time to warn Sir Henry and gave him time to warn the queen, alert the military, and end this rebellion in its infancy.

  Mr. Sloan could go to Sir Henry tonight. He still lacked information, however. He knew the first question His Lordship would ask him. “Who are the members of the Faithful involved in the rebellion?”

  Mr. Sloan would have to confess he did not know, and that could prove disastrous. Even if Smythe was in prison, the Faithful would merely find another commander for their armies. They would still be able to use their money and influence to carry on with their attempt to put Prince Tom on the throne.

  Tomorrow Smythe was meeting with a member of the Faithful.

  I will remain one more day to discover this man’s identity, Mr. Sloan decided. Once that is known, Sir Henry can denounce him to the queen and we can start to dismantle this treacherous fellowship.

  When Mr. Sloan turned the carriage onto Meek Street, it was deserted. The workmen had long since gone home for the day, and the buildings were dark, unoccupied. Mr. Sloan could see signs of extensive renovation, however, the most notable being that the street lamps were lighted. Glaziers had been at work replacing broken windows, and crafters had erected scaffolding and would be working to strengthen the magic on the walls. They had cleared the streets of garbage and piles of refuse.

  Mr. Sloan brought the carriage to a halt in front of a three-story brick building.

  “This is the address, sir,” Mr. Sloan reported.

  Smythe climbed out and stood looking at the building. He gave a nod of satisfaction. He ordered the Guundarans to unpack the gear, then drive the carriage around to the stables in the rear.

  “When you return, carry in the bedrolls and the rest of the equipment,” Smythe concluded. “We will spend the night in this building.”

  The Guundarans obeyed orders. Once they had unpacked the gear and piled it on the sidewalk, they drove the carriage down a side street to the rear of the building. Smythe and Mr. Sloan mounted the two steps to the front door, which was padlocked. Smythe opened a leather pocketbook and took out a large brass key. He paused a moment to gaze at it.

  “I have been in possession of this key for a year,” he said. “God gave me to know then that the Day of Retribution would come, and now it is almost at hand. We will save Freya from her foes, and restore her to her days of glory.”

  “Great are God’s miracles, sir,” said Mr. Sloan, saying what was expected of him.

  He wondered—not for the first time—how Smythe reconciled his vile crimes with his faith. Mr. Sloan had thought at first that perhaps Smythe was shamming, pretending to be a religious man, although Mr. Sloan could not conceive of a motive. He eventually decided that Smythe was a devout man, sincere in his belief in a God, although his God was not Mr. Sloan’s God. Smythe’s God was one who could apparently overlook the m
urders of innocent crafters and the brutal killings of Lady Odila and Coreg; pass them off as the means to a desired end.

  Smythe unlocked the padlock and opened the door. He entered the building and Mr. Sloan followed.

  The street lamp outside shone through the windows, providing some light. Smythe had brought a dark lantern with him and he and Mr. Sloan inspected the premises. They came first to a large reception room where Meek’s secretary would have greeted visitors and invited them to wait.

  A door to their left still bore the name MEEK stenciled in black letters on frosted glass.

  Other offices ranged along a hallway off the reception room. A staircase at the rear of the reception area led to the upper stories. The building smelled strongly of fresh paint and wet plaster.

  Mr. Sloan opened the door marked MEEK and looked inside.

  The office was spacious, occupying an entire corner of the building, and was lined with windows. Mr. Meek had been able to look out his front window to see the street that bore his name, and from the side windows observe the warehouses and other buildings that all bore his name.

  Mr. Sloan wondered what had become of Meek. He seemed to dimly remember he had gone mad and been confined to a lunatic asylum. A large desk covered in ink blots and a single chair were all that remained of the once great man.

  “Bring the bedrolls, Lieutenant,” said Smythe. “We will make arrangements for more comfortable accommodations tomorrow, but tonight we will sleep on the floor.”

  Mr. Sloan and the Guundarans hauled in the bedrolls and other equipment. Smythe spread out his bedroll into Meek’s office. The Guundarans made camp in the reception area. Mr. Sloan chose an office down the hall, close to the rear entrance.

  The room was cold. It was furnished with a small stove, but he was too exhausted to search for wood. He unrolled the blanket, took off his coat and his boots and lay down on the floor. He fell almost immediately into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Mr. Sloan had trained himself to wake at five of the clock every morning and this day was no exception. He woke to the faint light of dawn in the window and pain in every bone and muscle.