Smythe was starting to think God had abandoned him.
After leaving the king, he went to his office to prepare orders to dispatch every soldier and every constable in the city of Haever to find the escaped prisoner, His Grace, Phillip Masterson. He provided a description of the man and ordered that it be copied and circulated. No ship would leave until it had been searched. He would close down all hostelries that hired griffins or wyverns and order that all horseback riders and those occupying horse-drawn conveyances leaving Haever were to be stopped and questioned.
This done, he dispatched a troop of soldiers to the offices of the Haever Gazette with instructions to arrest the journalist, Amelia Nettleship.
He next had to write a letter to the queen’s half brother, Hugh Fitzroy. Thomas had brought up a valid point. Hugh had a legitimate claim to the throne, though not as long as Thomas Stanford was alive. Having placed Hugh under house arrest to make certain he did not create mischief and interfere with Smythe’s plans, Smythe had forgotten about him.
But it occurred to Smythe that he might be wasting a valuable asset in Hugh Fitzroy, since Thomas was not proving to be a very satisfactory puppet. The young king had turned out to be far more courageous and clever than Smythe had anticipated. He was not yet a danger, but Smythe could no longer rest easy, smugly secure in the knowledge that his puppet would dance when he pulled the strings.
He was writing a humbly apologetic letter to Hugh Fitzroy when he felt the flesh on the back of his neck crawl. Smythe gave an involuntary shudder. His old granny would have said a goose had walked across his grave. He lifted his gaze from his work.
Trubgek stood in front of him. Despite the cold, he was wearing only a leather vest over his shirt, breeches, stockings, and boots, and he carried a rucksack.
Smythe had not seen or heard from Trubgek in weeks, ever since he had dispatched him to Freya with the dragon-killing spell and the order to test it on Travian dragons. Smythe had fondly believed Trubgek was hundreds of miles away in northern Freya killing dragons or in Estara or Guundar making deals for black market weapons. What he did not expect was to find the man standing on his carpet.
“What the devil are you doing in my office, Trubgek? I told you never to come to the palace! If you need to report to me, you send word to me and I will come to you.”
Smythe had no idea how Trubgek had managed to enter the palace or walk the halls unchallenged. Smythe had never completely trusted the man and he had regretted the necessity of keeping him alive to deal with Coreg’s contacts in the black market. While he was talking, he stealthily opened a drawer where he kept a loaded pistol and slid his hand inside.
Trubgek made a slight gesture and the desk drawer slammed shut on Smythe’s hand with bruising force.
Smythe withdrew his hand and looked grimly at his bleeding knuckles.
“Don’t worry,” said Trubgek. “No one saw me.”
He sat down, uninvited, and dropped the rucksack on the floor.
“Did you test the spell?” Smythe asked irritably. “I have heard nothing about dead Travian dragons.”
“You won’t,” said Trubgek.
Smythe sucked in an irate breath. “What happened? Why not? What of the dragon-killing spell?”
“Destroyed,” said Trubgek.
“Destroyed!” Smythe repeated, stunned. “That’s impossible!”
“Not for a dragon,” said Trubgek.
“In other words, a dragon caught you in the act,” said Smythe. “You were supposed to go to the Dragon Duchies and start killing dragons there, but you bungled that. Fortunately I made alternative plans to deal with the Dragon Brigade. I don’t need to rely on you. If all you came here to do is tell me you failed, you may go.”
“I did not succeed, but I did not fail. The spell casting took too long,” Trubgek added with a dismissive shrug. “I do not need a human spell to kill dragons. I can kill dragons when and where I choose.”
“Then go to the Dragon Duchies and start killing,” said Smythe.
“I need money,” said Trubgek. “I cannot live on air.”
“I am not going to pay you for a job you did not do,” said Smythe sourly.
“I took care of Gaskell, as you wanted. He will never question your authority, or anyone’s for that matter. I have spoken to my contacts on the black market to inquire about the additional rifles. I have information. Important information.”
“Very well. What is it?” Smythe asked.
“I need money,” Trubgek repeated.
Smythe glanced at the clock. The morning was early yet, only seven of the clock. But his aide would soon be coming to work and he did not want to have to explain Trubgek’s presence.
Smythe walked to his safe, opened it, drew out a sheaf of banknotes, and handed them to Trubgek. He did not bother to count them, but stuffed them into a pocket of his shabby vest.
“King Ullr is making plans to invade Freya,” said Trubgek.
He spoke without emotion, calm and uncaring. Smythe stared, momentarily taken aback. Then he came to his senses.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Get out and take that filthy sack with you. And do not come to the palace again. If I need you, I will send for you.”
Trubgek shrugged and stood up. Picking up the rucksack, he started to leave.
“Wait,” Smythe said. “Tell me what you think you know. After all, I have paid for it.”
Trubgek sat down. “I spoke to Alonzo about acquiring more rifles. He does not have access to those particular rifles, but he can buy others from a different supplier.”
“For the same amount of money,” said Smythe.
Trubgek shrugged. “Alonzo added that he had heard Freya will soon be embroiled in war against Guundar and he offered to sell us powder, shot, ammunition, artillery pieces, cannons, whatever we need. A good price.”
“Your Alonzo has heard wrong. I am preparing for war against Rosia and King Ullr is my ally.”
“Then King Ullr has made a fool of you,” said Trubgek.
He shoved at the rucksack with his boot. “See for yourself. Bills of lading, letters, confirmation of deliveries, secret stockpiles, weapons caches…”
“Hand that to me,” said Smythe.
Trubgek did not move. “I need more money. Somewhere to live, passage to the Dragon Duchies.”
Smythe clamped his jaw tight. He went to the safe and drew out more banknotes. This time he did not hand them over. He held onto them.
“Show me.”
Trubgek opened the rucksack and rummaged about among his clothes. He drew out several documents and gave them to Smythe.
As he reviewed them, his expression grew grimmer and darker. He would have to go over them carefully, but initial examination indicated that Guundar was spending vast sums on weapons and having them shipped to Freya.
“Secret stockpiles,” Trubgek repeated. “Under your very nose.”
Smythe handed over the money. Trubgek stuffed the notes into his pocket and picked up the rucksack.
“Remain in Haever,” said Smythe. “I may have need of you.”
Trubgek nodded and walked out of the office, startling Smythe’s aide, who had just arrived for work. The aide stared at him in astonishment, then hurried into the room.
“I am sorry, Chancellor! I did not see him! I would have never let him pass. I thought we were well rid of that fellow, sir.”
“Close the door,” Smythe said. “I am not to be disturbed.”
He carefully read the papers Trubgek had provided and matched these with recent intelligence reports he had received regarding Guundaran fleet and troop movements, and he swore, viciously and bitterly.
He had succeeded beyond even his ambitious designs in gaining power and he seen God’s hand at work in his success. Now he felt betrayed, as though God had spread a bountiful feast before him, laying the cloth, smoothing out wrinkles. And just as he was sitting down to eat his fill, he saw rats swarm the table and devour the food.
Smythe labored to catch his breath. His heart thudded; red mist covered his eyes. He grew dizzy and there was a foul taste in his mouth.
Smythe recalled how friendly Ullr had been to him and he was nauseated to the point where he feared he might vomit.… The monarch had flattered him, treated him as his equal.
“The royal blood of Guundar runs in your veins.…” Ullr had told him.
Smythe gave a low, inarticulate, feral moan.
He had been born to poverty, shame, and ignominy. People of wealth in positions of power had used him, mocked him, demeaned him. Smythe had suffered every blow with a smile, swallowed every insult with humility. And he had connived, plotted, and schemed to either remove those in his way or to grind them beneath his heel.
And King Ullr was like all the others, laughing at him.
The blood pounded in Smythe’s head; he feared he would burst a blood vessel and collapse in an apoplectic fit. He gripped the desk with both hands and slammed his forehead against it.
He reeled from the pain, but it restored his sanity. Placing his elbows on the desk, he rested his throbbing head in his hands and tried to think what to do.
Ullr was plotting to invade Freya!
Smythe believed Trubgek at last. He searched through the documents, trying to find some clue as to when Ullr planned to invade, but he came up with nothing. Not that a date mattered.
Smythe was under no illusions as to the outcome of such a war. He was a military man and he knew his nation could not hope to survive. Freya would go down to defeat and, as Chancellor of War, he would go down with her, for he was the one who had nurtured the viper in his bosom.
People would recall the sight of him riding in Ullr’s carriage during the funeral, their numerous private meetings together, their close friendship. Smythe had privately let it be known that he had been the one to send the Terrapin to the Aligoes. Thomas had signed the orders, but it was Smythe who had persuaded him.
He would be destroyed, his career ended, perhaps even lose his life. Most galling, Thomas Stanford would survive. Ullr would make Thomas his puppet-king, leave him on the throne to placate the Freyan people. Ullr had done the same in Braffa. He had permitted the oligarchs to continue in office, but lacking any real power. Ullr, not Smythe, would be pulling Thomas’s strings.
Smythe pictured the Guundarans dragging him to a field, shooting him in the head, then kicking his body into a hastily dug grave. They would laugh at the thought of how he had trusted them.
He feared he would go mad. And then, he heard a voice. He raised his head.
“If Thomas is dead and you are Lord Protector,” the voice said to him, “King Ullr would have to deal with you. He might not dare proceed with his plans for war, for he knows you are not some weak, sniveling youth.”
God had not abandoned him, after all. Smythe rose to his feet to pace the floor, consider his options. He had planned all along that Thomas should not outlive his usefulness. He would suffer some sort of fatal accident, as had several of Smythe’s former enemies: a tumble over a balcony or a tragic carriage mishap. Such things could be arranged.
Smythe had been going to wait until he had fully established his base of power, extended his influence. It seemed events were going to force his hand.
An idea had been in the back of his mind for some time. He had liked it, but he could not figure out how it would all come together. At last, he knew the answer.
He consulted his calendar and noted that Hallen Day was fast approaching. On that holiday, Thomas and his retinue would board his royal yacht in order to perform the annual tradition of His Majesty reviewing the fleet. Thousands of people attended every year to view the magnificent spectacle of the ships of the Royal Navy lined up in the Breath.
Smythe went over his idea in his mind, searching for flaws, and could not find one. Arriving at a decision, he summoned his aide.
The man entered and came to a dead stop, staring at Smythe’s forehead in shock.
Wondering what was wrong, Smythe put his hand to his head and felt blood. He had completely forgotten.
“Sir, you’re hurt!” his aide gasped.
“I tripped on that loose rug,” Smythe replied.
“I will fetch a healer—”
“Never mind that now,” said Smythe irritably. “That man, Trubgek, who just left. Send someone to fetch him and bring him back. Then arrange a meeting for me with King Ullr. Inform His Majesty that the matter is urgent and I prefer that we meet in private.”
King Ullr received Smythe’s message and sent word that he was at liberty to meet with him at noon in his guest rooms.
“Do you have any idea what he wants?” Ullr asked his agent, Baron Grimm.
The baron shook his head. “I have been gone for a week on that other matter and have only just arrived in the palace. I have no idea.”
“Smythe wants to meet in private,” said Ullr. “You know what to do.”
Grimm left to conceal himself behind the door to the sitting room. Once Ullr was certain his agent was in place, he told his secretary he was at liberty. Smythe entered the room and Ullr rose to his feet to greet him, noting that he was flushed and he had suffered an ugly gash on his forehead. Ullr wondered idly what had happened, but was not interested enough to ask.
“Forgive me for making you wait, Chancellor,” Ullr said. “Affairs of state. You of all people will understand.”
“Spare me the flattery, sir,” said Smythe. “I know the truth. I have been made aware of your plans.”
“You must tell me to what plans you refer, sir,” Ullr said affably. “Will you be seated?”
“I prefer to stand, sir,” said Smythe, stiff and rigid as though on parade.
“As you will, Chancellor.”
Ullr remained standing. He cast a swift glance toward the sitting room. The door was closed, but the baron would have his ear pressed to it.
“I trust you will explain yourself.”
“I know Your Majesty has secret plans to invade Freya. Do not waste my time with denials. I have proof.”
Ullr regarded him with a faintly derisive smile. “That blow to your head has addled your brains, sir.”
Smythe flushed. He had to stop to swallow his outrage. A muscle in his jaw twitched. A vein in his neck throbbed.
“I am a military man, Your Majesty. A pragmatist. I know the strength of your forces. I know Freya must go down to defeat. We cannot withstand Guundar’s might.” Smythe drew himself up. “But we Freyans are not afraid of war. We will fight. You will win, but your victory will cost Guundar dearly.”
“You have an active imagination, sir. Have you spoken of these wild notions to anyone else? His Majesty, perhaps?”
“I have not and I will not,” said Smythe. “This concerns the two of us. We understand each other, as you are fond of telling me.”
Ullr made a deprecating gesture. “I fear you do not understand me, sir. I am a man of peace.”
“I came to talk peace, sir,” said Smythe, advancing a step. “I am now Chancellor of War. But if I ruled Freya, if I were Lord Protector, I could negotiate a peace treaty between our two great nations. Naturally, I would be willing to provide certain concessions, such as allowing Guundar to establish a base in the Aligoes near Wellinsport. Guundar would at last be able to share in the riches of the Aligoes.”
“Magnanimous terms, Chancellor,” said Ullr. “Unfortunately, you have a problem. You are not Lord Protector and so long as King Thomas lives you never will be. Your king being a young and healthy man, I find this discussion entertaining, but pointless. I am quite busy. If there is nothing more—”
“Hallen Day is approaching, sir,” said Smythe abruptly.
King Ullr had found Smythe amusing up to this point. His amusement died with this mention of Hallen Day. Ullr was suddenly wary. He planned to launch his assault on Haever on Hallen Day and he wondered if Smythe knew something, after all.
“Hallen Day. I believe I have heard something of this date,” said Ullr, treading carefully. “A national holiday celebrating a great Freyan naval victory. Although, as I recall, Freya won the battle, but she ended up losing the war.”
Smythe scarcely seemed to hear him. He was intent on his speech, as though he had memorized and practiced it before delivery.
“On Hallen Day, tradition holds that the king reviews the fleet. His Majesty boards the royal yacht. The ships are decorated, sailors line the yardarms, cannons fire salutes as the king sails past. The event draws large numbers of spectators.”
King Ullr was aware of this. He had chosen Hallen Day for precisely this reason. While the Freyan navy was celebrating, his ships would be preparing to bring the Hallen Day party to a swift and bloody conclusion.
“The Crown Prince Jonathan died of injuries he suffered during an accident on board a naval warship,” Smythe continued. “As a man of faith, I should not be superstitious, but I have a premonition King Thomas might suffer the same fate. If a tragic accident were to occur to His Majesty on Hallen Day, for example, I would be in a position to swiftly declare myself Lord Protector and take over control of the government so that Freya would avoid the civil unrest and chaos that followed the untimely death of Queen Mary.”
“You act with considerable foresight, sir,” said Ullr. “I am certain we all pray to God that His Majesty, King Thomas, remains in good health on Hallen Day and every day.”
“God be praised for His mercies great and small,” said Smythe unctuously. “As the Scriptures remind us, ‘Watch, for ye know neither the day nor the hour.’”
With that enigmatic phrase, he appeared to come to the end of his speech, for he bowed his way out of the room. The door had barely closed behind him when Baron Grimm left his hiding place and returned to speak to the king.
“You heard?” Ullr asked grimly.
“Everything,” said the baron. “I could scarcely contain my laughter when he mentioned a peace treaty. As if we would negotiate peace with Freya when we can demand her unconditional surrender! But then he spoke of Hallen Day and I found that less funny. Perhaps he has in truth discovered our plans.”
“The fool knows nothing,” said Ullr dismissively. “He made his lack of knowledge abundantly apparent when he brought up Hallen Day and then went blathering on about the king suffering an ‘accident.’”
“What will you do, sir? The chancellor obviously plots to kill the king. He as much as admitted it. Should we warn His Majesty?”
“We will proceed with our plans for the invasion,” Ullr said. “The sudden and tragic death of the young king would throw Freya into chaos and that would suit me well.”
“It was kind of Smythe to offer us Wellinsport,” said Grimm, smiling hugely.
“Kind but unnecessary,” said King Ullr.
He began to laugh. Since he rarely smiled, much less indulged in laughter, his astonished secretary opened the door a crack to see what was amiss.