Three days following the queen’s funeral, Henry received a message at the post office on High Street, addressed to Franklin Sloan, to be left until called for.
He knew Alan’s handwriting and he opened it hurriedly. Alan wrote that he had news and he had also dredged up several sailors from the Aligoes who had agreed to talk with Simon. He asked Henry to meet him and Randolph at the Weigh Anchor the following evening at six of the clock, and to bring Simon.
“I will be in our usual booth in the back,” Alan concluded.
Henry was intrigued, and glad he’d be talking with his friends; he had news of his own to share. He had formed a plan that, if it succeeded, would free his country and his king, and he could start to seriously consider his future. After a life of tumult and adventure, he found himself longing for peace. He could bring his family home and know they would be safe. He would no longer have to skulk about in disguises. And he would forever rid the world of Jonathan Smythe.
The Weigh Anchor was a tavern owned by a retired naval officer, a friend of Alan’s, who had earned enough prize money to purchase it. The tavern was perfect for Henry’s purposes. With a rear exit, wooden booths that were high-backed, and dim lighting, it offered a certain amount of privacy for confidential conversations. The ale was drinkable and the patrons were loud enough to allow Henry and his friends to talk freely.
When Henry walked in, he was pleased to find the tavern crowded and noisy. Many of those frequenting the Weigh Anchor were naval officers, but the tavern also catered to the local gentry who had business dealings with the navy. Everyone from naval officers to rope manufacturers was talking war with Rosia. For the officers, war meant battles with “a worthy foe” as described by the traditional naval toast, a chance for faster promotion, and prize money.
Some of these men had been languishing on half pay since peace had left them without a ship or employment. Others were impatiently waiting for their ships to be refitted to use the crystalline form of the Breath. Those lucky enough to have a ship were eagerly awaiting orders to set sail.
For the businessmen, war meant sales of rope and sailcloth, powder and shot, and salt pork. Henry listened to everyone talk of profits, boast of their future heroics and how they would spend the fortunes they would earn. If his plan succeeded, he would put an end to all talk of war. Alan and Randolph would grouse and mope for weeks.
Henry came in the guise of Pastor Johnstone, here to reunite with a childhood friend. He pushed Simon in his rickety wheeled chair, acting the part of a retired ship’s crafter who had been wounded in battle and was living off his pension.
Henry wheeled Simon inside the tavern and headed for their usual booth, located in a shadowy corner near the entrance to the back room, which was occupied mostly by whist players.
Henry slid into the booth and sat facing the front door. He placed Simon at the end of the table and gestured to Alan, who was seated at a table with friends enjoying a mug of ale. Alan excused himself to his companions and came to join them.
“Where are the sailors I am supposed to interview?” Simon demanded.
“They are waiting for you at that table,” Alan said. “I’ll take you to meet them.”
He assisted Simon to a small table near their booth where three men dressed in slops were seated. The sailors jumped to their feet as Alan came over and knuckled their foreheads.
Alan introduced Simon, who took out a leather-bound notebook and pencil, as well as a hand-drawn map of the Aligoes, and placed them all on the table. The sailors pulled up chairs and sat down, looking abashed and extremely uncomfortable being around so many officers. Their own tavern was down the street and they were undoubtedly looking forward to returning to their mates and more congenial surroundings.
Alan left Simon to his liquid pools and went back to Henry. Alan was too restless to sit sedately in a booth. Turning a chair around, he straddled it and rested his arms on the back.
“I have news,” said Alan.
“I hope it is good news,” said Henry. “I could use some now.”
Alan glanced over his shoulder. Simon was busy taking notes and no one else was paying any attention to them. He leaned forward and said quietly, “You always say I have the devil’s own luck. I have received orders. The Terrapin sets sail tomorrow. Fortunately, my ship is ready, since I had been planning to set sail to test the crystals, and I have a crew, otherwise my press gangs would be sweeping the streets this night.”
“You must let me know the results of the tests,” said Henry.
Alan shook his head and further lowered his voice. “I will not be testing lift tanks, Henry. My mission is secret. The orders are sealed and I am not to open them until the ship has rounded Upton Point.”
Henry frowned. “What does Randolph say about this secret mission?”
“He knows nothing about it. The orders did not come from the Admiralty. They came directly from the palace. They bear the king’s signature.”
“From the palace…” Henry repeated, startled and displeased. “That means from Smythe.”
He eyed his friend. He knew what he was about to ask was hopeless, but he had to try.
“You need to unseal those orders, Alan. I must know what is going on.”
Alan regarded him gravely. “You know I cannot do that, Henry. I would be breaking my word of honor, not to mention disobeying a direct order.”
Henry sighed. He recalled a time when he would have known where the Terrapin was bound before her captain knew. Now he was reduced to begging a friend to disobey orders.
“I am sorry, Alan,” Henry said despondently. “I had no right to ask that of you.”
“You are fighting for our country, Henry, as am I,” said Alan, sympathizing. “Just in different ways. I am glad you understand.”
Henry gave a bleak smile. He had ordered food, but when the meat pie arrived he had no appetite. He shoved it to one side.
“Where is Randolph?” he asked.
“Playing whist in the private room in the back with some of his junior officers,” Alan replied, adding with grinning commiseration, “I pity his poor partner.”
Randolph Baker was passionate about the game of whist, despite the lamentable fact that he bore the distinction of being the world’s worst player. He constantly forgot which suit was trumps and if there was a card in his hand that was certain to lose the game for him and his partner, Randolph invariably led with it.
“How in the name of heaven did he convince anyone to play whist with him?” Henry asked.
“He ordered them,” said Alan. “If you are a captain and your admiral asks you to be his partner in whist, you jolly well play whist with him. I told him you were coming. Should I go fetch him?”
“No hurry,” said Henry. “Let him keep losing.”
Alan ate the pie, since Henry could not. Henry glanced over at the table where Simon was sitting with the sailors, scribbling notes.
“What did you tell these men about Simon?” Henry asked Alan.
“I told them to answer any questions he asks, no matter how strange, and I promised to pay them each a half eagle for their trouble. Do you suppose there’s anything to this theory about liquid Breath in the Aligoes?”
“Whether there is or there isn’t, I thank God for it,” Henry replied. “This theory has kept him occupied and stops him from fretting about Welkinstead.”
“He seems thinner. Is he well?”
“He is living in a run-down, land-bound house, bereft of his books and his newspapers, his files, his letters, and Mr. Albright,” said Henry. “No, he is not well. I brought him here hoping to get a good meal inside him; you know he often forgets to eat.”
“If we put food in front of him, he’ll eat it,” said Alan. He called to the barmaid and instructed her to deliver meat pies to Simon and the sailors.
“I have news of my own,” said Henry when they were again alone. “I have formed a plan. I am going to kill Smythe.”
“About damn time,” Alan said coolly. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”
“The fact that my likeness is nailed to the wall in every constabulary considerably hampers my movements,” said Henry dryly. “Nor am I a welcome guest in the palace these days.”
Alan smiled. “That has never stopped you before.”
“Well, it has stopped me up until now,” said Henry. “Then I learned from our friend, Captain Kate, that her dragon is living near Haever. She and I have formed a plan.”
“Involving Kate?” Alan asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do not misunderstand me. I admire Kate immensely. But she can be a bit … reckless.”
“Thus speaketh the pot about the kettle,” Henry remarked with a smile.
Alan grinned. “I have mellowed in my old age. Caution is now my watchword.”
Henry snorted. “As it happens, for reasons of her own, Kate is wholeheartedly committed to helping the king. The truth is that I need her dragon more than I do her, and Dalgren would not stir without Kate. My biggest obstacle will be obtaining access to the palace grounds. Smythe has increased the numbers of the palace guard, not merely to keep unwanted visitors out, but to keep His Majesty in. Most of these soldiers are Guundaran mercenaries, loyal to Smythe.
“I spent a day observing them and their movements. They stop all vehicles entering and leaving the palace and search them. In addition, Smythe has reinstated the air defenses Queen Mary deemed a waste of money. A naval patrol boat now guards the skies above the palace day and night.”
“I always said grounding the patrol boats was a mistake,” Alan observed. “If the navy had been in the air, they might well have stopped the black ship and saved Queen Mary’s life.”
“I do not think even the presence of the navy would have helped,” said Henry somberly. “The black ship’s green beam would have knocked a patrol boat out of the sky before they knew what hit them.”
“We would at least have given them a fight,” said Alan, feeling called upon to defend the honor of the navy. “But I begin to see where you are going with your plan. Kate and Dalgren can evade the patrol boat, carry you safely over the castle walls, and land you on the palace grounds.”
“That is the idea,” said Henry. “Once I am inside, I will gain access to Smythe’s bedchamber through the secret passages, put a pistol to his head and blow out his brains. I will make it look like suicide, of course. A pity I cannot leave a note from him confessing his crimes, but I have no sample of his handwriting for Mr. Sloan to copy.”
“Did you tell Kate you are involving her in an assassination plot?” Alan asked, frowning.
“She and Dalgren will not be involved,” said Henry. “They will drop me off and then leave. No one will see the two of them. If my plan goes awry and I am captured or killed, they will not be implicated. Kate assures me that she and Dalgren are experienced in a maneuver called a ‘slam down’ in which Dalgren plummets down from the sky, touches the ground, drops off a rider, then immediately departs.”
“I have heard of dragons performing such maneuvers,” said Alan. “That’s how the Brigade dropped their riders onto ships during battle. I’ll wager Kate didn’t want to leave you by yourself. She won’t be pleased to be missing out on the action.”
“She argued to come with me,” Henry admitted. “As I said, she has her own reasons for wanting to help Thomas Stanford. I was adamant, though, and she finally relented and agreed to do what I asked of her.”
“I still think you should tell Kate the truth, that you are going to kill Smythe.”
“I prefer not to risk it,” said Henry. “The fewer who know the better. She is staying with Miss Amelia who is, after all, a journalist.”
“Always the cautious Henry,” said Alan with a smile.
“I would not be alive today if I were not,” Henry replied. “Here comes Simon, brimming over with good news, by the looks of him.”
Their friend rolled his chair up to the table. Simon was in an excellent humor.
“The men told me an old sailor’s tale about the Manuel Gomez,” stated Simon. He cast Alan an accusatory glance. “Why did you never tell me that story? It confirms my theory.”
“Because not even old sailors believe the tale of the Manuel Gomez,” said Alan, laughing.
Simon was annoyed. “And no one believed tales of ships being attacked by giant bats until the Bottom Dwellers attacked ships with their giant bats.”
“Tell Henry your tale then,” said Alan, rising from his chair and going to pay the sailors.
Simon rolled his chair closer to the table and expanded upon the tale.
“The Manuel Gomez was an Estaran merchant vessel during the Blackfire War. It crashed on Whitefalls Island.”
Henry shrugged. “I suppose many ships have crashed on Whitefalls.”
“Ah, but what makes this unusual is that searchers found the ship well inland, far from the Breath, long after it would have run out of lift gas, which would be tantamount to finding an ocean-going galleon perched on top of a mountain. When the searchers boarded the Gomez, they discovered all the crew members were dead. Henry, are you listening to me?”
“Yes,” said Henry, who had in truth been watching a stir among the crowd clustered near the entrance. People were turning their heads and curiously looking toward the door. “Everyone was dead.”
“Henry, the bodies were frozen stiff!” Simon exclaimed exultantly. “The sailors who found them were terrified and attributed their deaths to the freezing touch of some roaming specter, but that’s nonsense. The tale confirms my theory. The Manuel Gomez was able to sail inland due to the fumes of magic being given off by the pool of liquid Breath. The sailors perished of the cold.”
“Brilliant, Simon,” said Henry absently.
Alan returned to his seat to find Henry staring fixedly at the door.
“What is it? What are you looking at?” Alan asked.
“Three soldiers just entered the tavern,” said Henry.
Simon glanced at their uniforms. “Two Guundaran mercenaries in service to the Freyan army and a Freyan officer.”
Alan shook his head. “The army has made a sad mistake to do their drinking in a navy tavern, as they will soon discover.”
“Those soldiers are not here for pleasure, Alan,” Simon observed. “They are carrying rifles and they appear to be searching the crowd. We should leave, Henry.”
“Too late,” said Henry. “We would only draw attention to ourselves. We do not know that the soldiers are here for us and they have no way to penetrate our disguises.”
“Even a man in a wheeled chair?” Simon asked.
“You are not the only man in this tavern to be missing the use of his limbs,” Henry pointed out, which was quite true.
By this time, everyone in the tavern had stopped what they were doing to make rude comments regarding the troops, jeering at the “Spuds”—a derogatory name for the foreign mercenaries due to the well-known fondness of Guundarans for a potent liquor made from potatoes.
“What’s that other chap doing with them, that civilian all bundled up in a scarf?” Alan wondered.
“An informant,” said Simon.
A man wearing a greatcoat and tricorn with his face covered by a wool scarf had entered with the soldiers. He was looking about the room, as though searching for someone, but was so bundled up he was having difficulty seeing. He pulled down his scarf to gain a better view.
Henry sucked in his breath and let it out in a hiss. “Henshaw!”
“Your brother’s servant?” Alan asked.
“The same,” said Henry in grim tones. “I told him where he could find me in case something happened to Richard.”
“Your brother would not betray you, but Henshaw would,” Alan said. “I have never trusted that obsequious bastard.”
Henshaw raised his hand and pointed straight at Henry.
The Freyan officer nodded and gave an order in Guundaran. Henshaw ducked out the door.
Alan shoved back his chair. “I’ll handle this.”
“Alan! Keep out of it!” Henry told him. “You can’t be seen to be involved with me!”
“Stay seated and wait for my signal. When I give it, wheel Simon into the whist room. The back door leads into the alley,” said Alan. “Tell Randolph what’s going on and send him to me.”
Henry did not argue. Alan might be reckless and hotheaded on occasion, but there was no one Henry trusted more in times of crisis. The two Guundarans walked into the crowd, their sights fixed on the booth where Henry and his friends were seated.
Their commanding officer raised his voice. “Gentlemen, we are here to arrest a traitor to Freya. We ask that you, as loyal Freyans, assist us in our duty!”
He was greeted with angry jeers and taunts as a group of younger officers began pounding their mugs on the table to a rhythmic chant of “Spuds, spuds, spuds.”
Alan lurched unsteadily to his feet.
“A toast!” he shouted, raising his mug. “The king! God bless him!”
In the time-honored tradition of the navy, every officer in the tavern shoved back his chair, pushed back from a table, and rose to drink to the king. A veritable forest of naval officers now stood between the soldiers and their prey.
Henry slid out of the booth, grabbed hold of Simon’s chair, and began wheeling him toward the back room. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the soldiers looking at each other in frustration, wondering what to do. They undoubtedly understood that the toast had been a ploy to assist their prisoners to escape, but they had no desire to fight their way through a crowd of intoxicated naval officers thirsting for a brawl.
Simon shoved open the door to the whist room and Henry propelled him through it and inside the small room. The door shut behind them. After the tumult outside, the room was a haven of peace.
Whist players studied their hands, quietly bidding and laying down cards, while kibitzers lounged about, observing the play. Hardly anyone looked up as the door opened, despite the commotion taking place in the main room where angry shouts of “Spuds, spuds” had now become general.
Randolph didn’t even glance at Henry as he pushed Simon past him, heading for the back door. Henry had to bump the wheeled chair into Randolph’s leg in order to draw his attention.
“Here now! Watch where you’re going!” Randolph stated in ire, rubbing his knee.
“Sorry, sir,” Henry said.
“Eh?” Randolph blinked at Pastor Johnstone a moment, then recognized him and Simon. He was instantly on alert. “What the devil is going on in there, my good man?”
“I am sure I couldn’t say, sir,” said Henry meekly. “You should ask Captain Northrop.”
Randolph laid down his cards.
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen. Sounds like a goddamn fight has broken out.”
He hurried toward the door to the main room. Many of the other players were now aware of the commotion and were also leaving the games, fearing they were missing out on the action. None of them paid attention to Henry and Simon, seeing only a caring friend helping his wheelchair-bound companion escape injury in a barroom brawl. The card players at one table did not look up at all, but remained intent on their game, oblivious to the tumult.
Henry reached the exit.
“I’m going out first. Wait here.”
He parked Simon by the door and then thrust it open and walked outside, leaving the door slightly ajar. He couldn’t see well, for his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, but he could hear quite clearly the sound of someone cocking a pistol.
“Stop right there!” a voice ordered.
Simon yelled his name.
The soldier fired.
The bullet slammed into Henry’s chest. He staggered and fell backward through the open door, lost his balance, and fell into Simon’s lap. Henry stared at the ceiling as pain tore through his body. Each breath he drew was agony; he could hear broken bones creaking and feel the warm blood soak his clothing.
Simon shut the door and swiftly activated the warding constructs placed there to deter thieves, adding a few touches of his own magic. Satisfied that no one would come through the door, he grasped hold of Henry’s shirt with one hand and propelled his chair backward with the other.
“Sorry, Henry,” Simon said. “I know I’m causing you a great deal of pain, but it’s only going to get worse. The best thing you could do now would be to lose consciousness.”
Pain seemed to consume him. Henry decided to take his friend’s advice, and passed out.