Captain Alan Northrop and Admiral Randolph Baker of the Freyan Royal Navy were sitting down to a late supper in the dining room of the Naval Club when the club steward came to inform them they were both wanted in the Visitor’s Room.
“Now?” Randolph demanded, shocked. “I’m to be interrupted in the middle of my goddamn dinner?”
“I am afraid so, Admiral,” said the steward apologetically. “The gentleman said the matter was one of urgency.”
“Who the devil is it?” Randolph asked, scowling.
“The gentleman did not provide his name, sir. He handed me this.”
The steward gave Randolph a note. Randolph read it, frowned, and tossed it to Alan.
Alan glanced at it. The note contained a single word, scrawled in all capital letters, EMERGENCY. The note was not signed, but Alan knew immediately who had sent it.
“Simon.” Alan glanced up at the steward. “Is the gentleman who delivered this note extremely tall and built like a bear?”
“I have never seen a bear, sir,” said the steward. “But I would say that is an apt description.”
“That would be Mr. Albright,” said Alan. He looked troubled. “This summons is not like Simon. He never wants to be disturbed in his studies. What is the time?”
“Just coming up on nine of the clock, sir,” said the steward.
Alan rose to his feet. “We better go see what is so urgent, Randolph. Perhaps we’re going to war with Rosia.”
Randolph irritably yanked his napkin off from where he had tucked it beneath his chin and threw it on the table. “We bloody well better be!”
The two men had returned to their rooms in the Naval Club after spending the past fortnight as guests of Lord Alfred Winterhaven, who owned an estate in southern Freya. The party had also included Lord Alfred’s charming niece, Annabelle.
The Winterhavens were attempting to promote a match between their niece and Alan. The handsome, dashing Captain Northrop, in his mid-forties, had thus far avoided matrimony, but he had found himself spending most of their time during dinner talking to Randolph about the lovely and spirited Annabelle Winterhaven.
“I find her completely captivating,” Alan had said.
“‘Captive’ being the appropriate word,” Randolph had said with a chortle. “She’s out to hook you like a trout.”
“I really don’t think I should mind,” Alan had said with a smile.
The Naval Club was a private club for officers in the Freyan Royal Navy and for highly placed government officials, such as Sir Henry Wallace, who was in the foreign office and dealt in matters related to the Royal Navy, as well as the defense of the nation. Club rules stipulated that only members of the club or invited guests were permitted beyond the Visitor’s Room.
Alan and Randolph found Mr. Albright holding his hat in his hand, gazing out the window. He turned when he heard them enter.
“What is the matter, Albright?” Alan asked. “Is Simon all right?”
Simon Yates had what Henry Wallace termed a “giant brain.” He also called him “Freya’s secret weapon.” Simon had been felled by a bullet more than twenty years earlier and now spent his days in his wondrous floating house, seated in his specially designed floating chair, using his giant brain to gather information, ferret out criminals, and foil plots against his country.
Mr. Albright appeared to be of two minds regarding whether or not to answer the question regarding his master. He was a taciturn man by nature, which suited Simon perfectly. One of the terms of Albright’s employment was that he should go about his duties with as little speech as possible. In this instance, he decided the matter was important enough to respond, for he spoke.
“The master is agitated,” said Mr. Albright.
Alan and Randolph exchanged alarmed glances. In more than twenty years of friendship, they had rarely known Simon to be “agitated.”
“We will come at once,” said Alan.
Since the late autumn night was chilly, the two navy men both wore their boat cloaks. Albright had traveled in Simon’s magic-powered carriage, which he had designed himself. Mr. Albright opened the door, and Alan started to climb inside, but paused.
“Are we to meet Henry there?” he asked.
Albright simply shook his head. He ushered Randolph and Alan inside, then mounted the box. Placing his hand upon the helm, he sent the magic flowing to the lift tanks and the airscrews. The carriage left the ground and sped through the darkness, bound for the famous floating house known as Welkinstead.
“What the devil do you suppose is going on with Simon?” Randolph wondered aloud. “Agitated, my ass. This had better not be more goddamned theorizing on the possibility of anomalous liquid Breath pools in the Aligoes.”
“I just hope it doesn’t have to do with the discovery of some new type of bug,” said Alan.
Randolph laughed. “Like that bug he named after you! What did he call it? Northrop’s Weevil?”
“I have no idea,” said Alan. “I took care to forget it as soon as possible. You cannot imagine the humiliation I endured. I was attending a party and having a confidential chat with a lady when we were quite rudely interrupted by some blighted bug enthusiast asking me questions about weevils!”
Randolph’s laughter soon died and the men rode in silence, both of them pondering Simon’s unusual summons.
“Can you see the house?” Randolph asked Alan after some time had passed.
“Just coming into view on the port side,” he reported, indicating the chimneys and turrets and towers of Welkinstead silhouetted against the stars. “Wind from the north. The house will be drifting in a southerly direction tonight.”
Simon’s home, Welkinstead, was considered one of the wonders of the world. Built by the wealthy Elsinor family, the house had started life as a villa located on the outskirts of the Freyan capital, Haever. Down through the years, the rich, eccentric Elsinors had done renovations to the house, adding on or tearing down as the mood seized them.
One day, so the story goes, the last and most eccentric living member of that family, the Duchess of Elsinor, had looked out her window and decided she was bored with the view. A noted scientist, globe trotter, inventor, and collector, the duchess had outfitted her house with lift tanks, imbued it with magical constructs, and hired engineers to dig it up out of the ground. Welkinstead rose gracefully into the sky.
The house did not really fly. The duchess had liked to say, “Welkinstead drifted with panache.” The house now drifted above Haever, the wonder and admiration of all who observed it.
When Simon was shot during an attempt to save Godfrey, then Crown Prince of Freya, from assassination, he was left paralyzed from the waist down, and the duchess invited him to come live with her. The duchess felt a good deal of affection for the young man, who shared her interests in science and inventing. When she died, she bequeathed the house and her considerable wealth to him.
Arriving at the house, Albright reversed the airscrews and brought the carriage to a smooth landing on a platform at the front entrance. They were climbing out of the carriage when the front door flew open and Simon floated out in his chair to meet them.
“What kept you?” he demanded irritably.
Alan and Randolph stared at him in astonishment.
Simon had never before greeted them at the door. He was generally to be found in his office on the second floor, so absorbed in his work that he wouldn’t hear them if they fired off pistols.
“Nothing kept us!” Randolph said, annoyed. “I didn’t even get to finish my dinner!”
“We came as soon as we got your message,” Alan added. “What is this emergency?”
“Come to my office,” said Simon. “Albright, fetch Henry, but not now. Wait an hour. You should find him at home. I know that Lady Ann was planning to dine with friends, but Henry said he had work to do and he wasn’t going with her.”
Albright silently nodded. He placed his hand on the helm, and the carriage sailed into the night. Simon whipped his chair around and floated back into the house.
“Why are we meeting without Henry?” Alan asked as they followed Simon inside.
“Because what I am about to tell you involves him,” Simon replied. He paused, turned his chair around to face them again. “I have never before been in the situation where my ability to think logically is compromised by my friendship, and I require your advice. Hang your coats and hats on the hydra. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Simon swiftly steered his chair up the stairs.
“I’ll be goddamned!” Randolph exclaimed, staring after him.
“Something is most definitely wrong,” said Alan, as they divested themselves of their coats and hats.
Welkinstead was as much a museum as it was a house. The duchess had traveled the world in search of the grotesque and the beautiful, the outré and the absurd, and anything else that happened to catch her fancy, and brought them back to adorn her house. Alan and Randolph draped their greatcoats over a tallboy that stood in the entryway and contained a fine collection of glass eyeballs and hung their hats on the heads of a stuffed, imitation hydra acquired from a carnival.
Due to the fact that the floating house was constantly on the move, the items of the collection tended to move, as well, occasionally falling off the walls or surging out from dark corners to accost unsuspecting visitors.
The stairs to the second floor were a hazard, for they contained various objects that had either been placed on the steps or found their way there. Alan had to circle around an enormous jardinière on his way up. Randolph tumbled over a concrete frog meant to be used as a doorstop and swore loudly.
Simon’s office occupied most of the second floor. The only other rooms were his bedchamber and a water closet. The office resembled a library. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves containing books on every conceivable subject. Wooden filing cabinets stood in orderly rows on the floor with aisles in between wide enough to accommodate Simon’s chair. The file cabinets had been bolted to the floor and did not move. Simon had the files organized by a system of numbers and letters that allowed him to lay his hands on any document, paper, letter, or journal in minutes.
His desk was six times the size of a normal desk. The room had windows that provided a stunning and ever-changing view of the city of Haever some five hundred feet below, or the countryside around Haever, depending on the wind.
Simon could be found at his desk most hours of the day and night. No one had ever seen the surface of the desk, for it was covered with stacks of documents, newspapers, letters, journals, books, and pamphlets, many of them tied up with ribbons of various colors that meant something to Simon, if no one else.
A large telescope stood at one of the windows, and a blackboard lurked off to one side. Alan glanced at the board with some trepidation. The last time they had visited their friend, Simon had spent an hour drawing diagrams of islands in the Aligoes, with arrows denoting wind speeds, direction, fluctuations in barometric pressure, temperatures, and so forth, all of which he used to advance his latest theory: that pools of liquid Breath could be found in the Aligoes.
He had, in fact, been badgering Alan to take his ship, the Terrapin, on an expedition to the Aligoes to find these pools. Alan had tried to explain to Simon that he was now a captain in the Royal Navy, no longer a privateer, and he could not simply sail off without orders. Since receiving his commission, Alan had not yet been given orders to sail to the Aligoes or anywhere else, and he was growing restless. He had been ashore long enough.
The Terrapin had recently been refitted to use the more powerful and efficient crystals of the Breath to achieve lift, instead of relying on the liquid form of the Breath. Alan was eager to test the crystals; his crew needed to be trained in their use. All the ships of the Expeditionary Fleet were currently undergoing refitting to use the crystals.
He had been looking forward to the test sail, and had tried to persuade Henry to travel with him, but Henry had refused. He had been in a dark mood for weeks and had brusquely told Alan that he could not under any circumstance leave the country at this time. Alan did not understand why, but apparently Simon did, for he had dropped the idea of Alan sailing to the Aligoes and ordered Albright to move the blackboard with the drawings to the back of the room.
Simon was generally so deeply engrossed in his reading that he would motion to them to sit down and make them wait quietly until he came to a stopping place.
This night, he did not read. He sat in his chair, doing nothing. He stared at nothing, his hands idle in his lap. His thin face, usually alight with enthusiasm over his current project, was drawn and haggard. He was forty-six, but his eager, boyish face tended to make him look twenty. Tonight, though, he looked older than his years.
Alan and Randolph exchanged uneasy glances, not certain what to do.
“We need to talk,” Simon said at last. “Bring those chairs close to the desk.”
Since the chairs tended to wander about the room, Alan and Randolph each grabbed one and carried them over to sit near their friend.
“Simon, you are scaring the hell out of us,” said Alan.
“Good,” said Simon grimly. He drew in a breath, then fired a volley of words at them. “I have uncovered a plot by members of the Faithful, that secret organization I told you about, to overthrow Queen Mary and proclaim Prince Thomas Stanford to be the true and rightful king of Freya. The instigator and leader of this conspiracy is a murderer by the name of Isaiah Crawford, who now calls himself Jonathan Smythe. If you will remember, I suspected him in the gruesome death of the dragon, Lady Odila.”
Simon spoke rapidly, as he always did. His words went off like gunshots, stunning his friends.
“Eh?” said Randolph, blinking.
“Say that again, Simon,” said Alan. “More slowly this time.”
Simon repeated himself, adding, “The devil of it is that I do not know when Smythe is going to make his move. I put together the final pieces of his plot only a short time ago. He could strike tonight, or a week from tonight. I simply do not know.”
“Wait a moment,” said Alan, trying to catch up. “You talk as if Smythe or Crawford or whoever he claims to be is the one who is behind this plot. Don’t you mean Prince Thomas and the Faithful? Smythe works for them.”
Simon shook his head. “Smythe is clever. He managed to worm his way into the confidence of the Faithful by presenting himself as a loyal soldier dedicated to their cause. I am convinced that neither the members of the Faithful nor Prince Thomas know the truth about Smythe—that he is a cold-blooded killer. I have proof that he murdered three humans, as well as the dragon, Lady Odila. I suspect there are more victims. He will stop at nothing to achieve his goal.”
“What is his goal?” Alan asked.
“I have my suspicions, but I do not know for certain. Suffice it to say, for now his goal is to overthrow our queen.”
“Then what the devil are we doing sitting here?” Randolph demanded, jumping to his feet and knocking over his chair. “We have to stop him!”
“We can’t, Randolph,” said Simon. “Pick up the chair and sit back down.”
“What do you mean ‘we can’t’?” Randolph grumbled, righting his chair.
“No one would believe me. I have no evidence,” said Simon. “Smythe is devilishly clever. He has kept his secret well. What little we do know about his plans came from Mr. Sloan, who is now risking his life masquerading as one of Smythe’s lieutenants. Think back to what Mr. Sloan told us: Smythe’s soldiers wear Freyan uniforms, his ships fly Freyan flags. And why not? Prince Thomas is Freyan. He has a legitimate claim to the throne.”
“Not if he takes it by force, by God!” Randolph growled.
Simon only shook his head.
Randolph flushed an angry red. “Then what the devil—”
Alan rested his hand on Randolph’s arm. “Let Simon finish. There’s more, isn’t there? This has something to do with Henry.”
Simon nodded. “One of the leaders of the Faithful is Sir Richard Wallace, Henry’s brother.”
“Balderdash!” Randolph roared. “I don’t believe it.”
“I didn’t want to believe it myself,” said Simon. “But it’s true.”
He picked up a folder and tossed the file in Randolph’s lap. “I will not take the time to describe the tortuous and twisted trail of my investigations, but I now know for a fact that the ‘Old Chap,’ as Henry calls his brother, has been leading a double life. For forty years, he has been plotting with this group to restore an heir of James the First to the throne.”
“Henry’s own brother?” Randolph gaped. “A traitor?”
“In Sir Richard’s defense, he and the Faithful have always maintained that Queen Mary’s forebears were the ones who usurped the throne and that she has no right to it. The Faithful have a cogent argument. According to history—”
“Spare me!” said Alan hastily.
Simon smiled. “Suffice it to say, Smythe is using their sincere and earnest beliefs to manipulate them into doing his dirty work.
“Even now, as we speak, Prince Thomas is a secret guest in Richard’s house. The prince traveled to Freya to meet with Queen Mary, at her behest. Her Majesty plans to name him her heir. The moment she does that, she is doomed. Smythe will not wait. He and the Faithful—including Henry’s unwitting brother—will have the queen arrested and locked up in Offdom Tower. I suspect Smythe means to do worse. They will plunge the country into chaos, perhaps even civil war.”
“Good God!” Alan murmured.
“We have to stop them!” Randolph stated. “Not just goddamn sit here!”
“And what would you do to stop them, Randolph?” Simon asked impatiently. “Smythe’s army numbers in the thousands. His soldiers have infiltrated every army post in Freya and more troops are en route to Haever from Bheldem. He has armed his soldiers with the latest in weaponry, as I have good reason to know, for it was a stolen shipment of pistols with those new rotating barrels that led me to Richard.”
“We have to do something!” Randolph insisted.
“We might be able to stop Smythe and the Faithful by exposing the plot,” Simon said, as he regarded them both steadily. “But you know what that means.”
“We would have to expose Henry’s brother as a traitor,” said Alan.
“Expose him, then!” Randolph said, glaring at both of them. “Arrest the bastard! Hang him!”
“Think what you are saying, Randolph,” said Simon grimly. “Hang Richard and you hang Henry. Our friend has enemies in court who would be glad to see him brought low. They will claim he is involved in the plot.”
“But Henry detests Prince Thomas!” Randolph argued. “He calls him the Pretender!”
Simon waved his hand. “Forget Prince Thomas. People will say Henry intended to seize the throne for his son. His wife is in the line of succession, after all. Even if Henry escaped the noose, he would still be ruined. He would have to endure the public humiliation of his brother’s trial, see him go to prison, perhaps to the gallows.…”
“All right, all right. I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.”
Randolph rose to his feet and marched up and down a few times, as though he was back on the quarterdeck. “You both realize that a bullet in Smythe’s goddamn skull would bloody well stop all this.”
“Randolph has a point,” said Alan.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Murder him?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Alan said. “But we could at least apprehend him. I could lock him up in the brig on board the Terrapin. Then we confront Richard with the truth about Smythe. He would realize he’s been duped. That would put an end to the conspiracy.”
Simon considered. “Much would depend on Prince Thomas. If he is, as I believe, innocent of all knowledge of what Smythe intends to do, His Highness could put a stop to it. The Faithful would listen to him.”
“How do you know His Highness is so bloody innocent?” Randolph asked.
“I have made inquiries, and from the reports I have received, Thomas Stanford is an estimable young man who would never willingly participate in such a plot. His adviser is the Countess de Marjolaine.”
“Rosian spymaster and our longtime enemy,” Alan pointed out.
“True, but she serves a king and would never consent to the violent overthrow of a monarch. She read Mr. Sloan’s report on Smythe and was so concerned, she has reportedly left Rosia and is on her way to Haever.”
Simon drew out his pocket watch. “Albright is supposed to pick Henry up at eleven of the clock. What do we tell him? We need a plan.”
Alan marshaled his thoughts. “What is the date?”
“The twenty-eighth,” said Randolph.
“Richard is a member of the House of Nobles. They are not in session and so he will be at home, for he never goes anywhere except Parliament and the palace. Once we have informed Henry, we will travel to Richard’s home. Henry will talk to Richard, tell him the truth about Smythe, and urge him to help. He will tell us where to find him and we will take him prisoner.”
“What if Richard doesn’t believe us?” asked Simon.
“The man has a wife, grown children and grandchildren,” Alan said. “We will tell him to think of his family.”
Simon was dubious. “Richard has had years to think about his wife and family and thus far such considerations have not deterred him from this dangerous course of action. Still, I believe that plan is as good as any. We should proceed with it.”
“Now all we need to do is convince Henry that Richard is involved with the Faithful,” said Alan, shaking his head. “He won’t want to believe you.”
“Thus, the file,” said Simon. “The evidence I have amassed against his brother is damning. Richard foolishly put his signature to a great many compromising documents. I fear the Old Chap is not very adept at treason.”
A clock on the lower level began to chime the hour, ringing eleven times. The friends looked at each other, all thinking the same thing.
“Albright will be arriving at Henry’s house now,” Simon observed. “Our friend should be here within the half hour.”
“We might as well be prepared to deal with Smythe once we find him,” said Alan, rising to his feet. He needed something to do, something to keep him occupied. “Where are those pistols Albright keeps for emergencies, Simon?”
“Bottom drawer of that file cabinet behind Randolph,” Simon replied.
Alan located the pistols, powder, and shot and started to clean and load the weapons.
“I cannot bear the thought of facing Henry,” he said as he worked. “Even if we manage to stop this terrible plot and hush up Richard’s involvement, Henry will have to live with the knowledge that his brother is a traitor.”
“I fear you are right,” said Simon. “Henry has dedicated his life to the service of his queen and country. Richard’s betrayal will cut deep, inflict wounds that can never heal. Every time he looks at us, he’ll think ‘My friends know my shame.’ He will wonder if we secretly despise him.”
“I wish to God we didn’t have to be the ones to tell him!” said Randolph.
“Henry knows us,” said Simon. “He knows we will stand by him. We’ve been through a lot together. I nearly died. Alan lost his hand.”
“I lost my hair,” said Randolph, running his hand over his balding head.
They laughed and felt better. Their friendship was strong. The bonds would survive.
“See if you can find that bottle of Aqua Vitae,” said Simon. “Filed under ‘V.’”
A clock in the entry hall rang the quarter hour. Alan finished loading the pistols and placed them on top of a file cabinet. He hunted down the bottle of Aqua Vitae and poured each of them a drink.
Simon shook his head. “None for me, thanks.”
Alan drank his swiftly; the fiery, caraway-flavored liquid burned in his throat. He began reading through the contents of the file Simon had compiled and poured himself another drink.
Randolph joined him, standing behind him, reading over his shoulder.
The clock chimed the half hour.
“Henry and Albright should be here any moment,” said Simon.
Alan gathered up the various papers and documents and placed them back in the file, then laid it on the desk.
“I’ll go downstairs, to wait for him,” said Randolph.
He clumped ponderously down the stairs. Alan walked over to the window to watch for the carriage. Welkinstead had drifted south of Haever, past the suburbs, into the open country. The lights of the city were visible to the north. Five hundred feet below the house, the land was dark, for they were gliding over forests and fields.
Alan and Simon were silent, waiting tensely. Neither felt like talking.
The clock chimed three quarters of the hour. They looked at each other worriedly.
“Albright should have been back by now,” said Simon.
“Maybe Henry wasn’t home,” said Alan.
“Maybe,” said Simon, but he didn’t sound convinced.
The clock chimed midnight and still Albright had not returned, nor had Henry come.
Simon sighed and turned away from the window.
“This is bad. Very bad,” he said. “I was too late.”