Jonathan Smythe was dining with Hugh Fitzroy, the Earl of Montford, at his country estate in Chadwick. Hugh had invited Smythe to dine because he was still angling to become the ruler of Freya. Smythe had accepted for the same reason—he wanted to be ruler of Freya. Hugh was merely a means to that end.
Smythe enjoyed the fine meal, although he knew he was going to be expected to pay for it. The reckoning came when Hugh’s wife rose from the table to leave the gentlemen to their port. Hugh sent the servants away and immediately poured two full glasses.
Smythe declined the port with some asperity. Hugh was well aware that as a strict Fundamentalist, Smythe did not imbibe strong liquor. Smythe knew that Hugh sought to embarrass him.
Hugh grinned and drank both glasses, then advanced his latest idea on how to claim the throne.
“Thomas Stanford is not a descendant of King Frederick, as he claims,” said Hugh. “He is the son of a scullery maid.”
This theory was so bizarre that even Smythe was caught by surprise. He floundered a moment, not knowing what to say. Fortunately Hugh was so eager to explain he didn’t notice.
“I have it on good authority that the maid and Thomas’s mother gave birth at the same time. The maid bore a son and Constanza bore a daughter. Constanza switched the babies. The Marquis paid the maid to disappear, and he and Constanza passed off the boy as their own.
“Eh? What do you think of that, Smithee?” Hugh asked, his face flushed both from the port and pride in his theory. “I have a midwife who will swear to it.”
Smythe had no doubt that this midwife would swear the moon was made of plum pudding if Hugh paid her enough. But Hugh had given him time to think and he saw how this crackpot scheme might work to his advantage. Smythe appeared to give the matter serious consideration.
“Your claim would take some time to prove to the Accession Council and the House of Nobles, sir,” said Smythe. “That said, if I were to become Lord Protector of the Realm, I could advance your cause.”
“Eh? What? Lord Protector?” Hugh regarded Smythe with sudden suspicion. “That means you would be some sort of king, wouldn’t it?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Smythe, soothingly. “The title of Lord Protector is held by a person tasked by the House of Nobles to safeguard the realm in the unhappy event that the throne should fall vacant and there is no heir apparent. The position is not permanent.”
Hugh drank another glass of port and thought this over. “You’re saying that once I proved my claim before the House, you would step down and I would take the throne.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Smythe. “Gladly.”
Hugh eyed him. “Do you think some unhappy event is likely to occur that will leave the throne vacant, Smithee?”
Smythe was suddenly wary. Hugh might be a boor, but he was a shrewd businessman who had used a number of unscrupulous means to crush his competition. He had also cultivated powerful adherents who would be glad to put him on the throne in order to promote their own causes and he was not above blackmail. But if he was hoping to hear Smythe implicate himself in removing the king, he was going to be disappointed.
“God forbid anything should happen to His Majesty, sir,” said Smythe earnestly.
Hugh grunted and poured another glass of port. He was about to expand on the scullery maid notion, but at that moment the clock chimed ten. Smythe noted the lateness of the hour, recalled that he had pressing business in the palace, and rose to take his leave.
He had traveled to the estate in his own wyvern-drawn carriage. He reveled in the luxury of cushioned leather and settled himself comfortably to finalize his plans. The journey back to the palace should take about an hour, but they had only been traveling about half that time when Smythe felt the carriage start to make a rapid descent.
Smythe lowered the curtain and looked out the window. The moon was full, shining brightly. By its light, he could see an empty highway surrounded by farm fields.
“What is the matter, Bennings?” he shouted to his driver in irritation. “Why are we landing?”
“Trouble with either the helm or the lines to the lift tank, sir,” the driver shouted back. “We can’t keep afloat.”
Smythe fumed, but there was not much he could do. The carriage made a rough landing, coming down in a field near the highway.
Bennings inspected and came to report. “One of the braided leather lines that carries the magic from the helm to the small lift tank on the back is broken, sir.”
“What caused it to break?” Smythe demanded.
“Hard to say, sir,” said Bennings. “The wyverns got into a rip-snorting fight while I was hitching them up. I suspect one of them bit through it.”
“Can’t you just patch it?”
The driver shook his head. “Won’t work, sir. I have to replace the line. I have another, but it will take me some time to remove the old one and replace it with the new. There’s an inn not far from here, sir. You should be able to get a room for the night.”
Smythe went to see the line for himself. He could tell at a glance that it was broken past repair. He considered this accident a punishment for the sin of pride. He had originally planned to travel by griffin, but had decided at the last moment that arriving in his own wyvern-drawn carriage would look more impressive.
He could see the lights of the inn from where he stood, and it occurred to him that instead of asking for a room, he could hire a horse and continue his journey.
He left Bennings with the carriage and the wyverns and walked to the inn. The innkeeper was able to supply him with a horse, although he said it would take some time to wake the grooms and get them moving.
After about an hour’s wait, Smythe finally mounted the horse and took the road to Haever. The night was cold, but he did not feel it. He was in a good mood, despite having to wait. He was now a wealthy man with money to spend on wyvern-drawn carriages and greatcoats protected by magical constructs. The magic on his new coat not only guarded him from knife attack and bullets, but kept him warm, as well. He was pleased with his meeting with Hugh and looked forward to Hallen Day, which would bring an end to Thomas Stanford and make Smythe Lord Protector of the Realm.
Smythe considered himself strong-minded, disciplined, above the weaknesses of the flesh. He considered strong emotion of any kind a weakness. Yet while he considered hatred a weakness, he could not help himself. He hated the pup, King Thomas, with a passion that consumed his soul.
He rejoiced to think of the upstart’s destruction, and was particularly pleased with the idea that Thomas would be struck down by the hand of a wrathful God. Or at least, that’s how his death would appear.
Smythe had already written and practiced giving his speech at Thomas’s funeral. He recited some of it now, relishing how his words sounded in the frosty air.
“As Lord Protector, I exhort the people of Freya to change your hedonistic ways!” he thundered, startling the horse. “To that end, I will close down the theaters and shutter the ale houses and taverns. Henceforth, we must devote ourselves to pious living, or God will not spare His wrath! We will meet the same dread fate as our profligate king!”
He topped a hill, and the lights of the city came into view. Smythe slowed the horse. Was it his imagination or were there more lights than usual for this time of night? Now that he was paying attention, he could hear church bells ringing; wildly clamoring—another oddity. Smythe checked his watch by the moonlight and saw the time was some minutes past three of the clock in the morning. Church bells rang only if there was some sort of emergency, such as fire or flood. He urged his horse to a gallop.
Arriving on the outskirts of Haever, he saw that he had been right, something had happened, though it did not appear to be a disaster. Lights shone in the windows of every house. The occupants were not huddled inside in terror, but were milling about the streets, lighting celebratory bonfires, laughing and singing.
Smythe stopped his horse and leaned down from the saddle to ask what was going on.
“You must be the only person in Freya who hasn’t heard the news, sir!” the man replied with a laugh. “There’s been a great battle. The Guundarans attacked Wellinsport. Our Captain Northrop in the Terrapin sank ’em, every one. Five Spud ships gone to hell.”
“Are you certain this news is true?” Smythe demanded.
“It’s in the Gazette, sir. His Majesty—God love him—knew the Spuds were going to attack Wellinsport and sent Captain Northrop to stop them.”
He was about to add more, but Smythe kicked his horse and the beast surged forward, forcing the man to jump out of the way. He had to reach the palace. Already, it seemed, Thomas was taking credit for sending the Terrapin to the Aligoes, when that had been Smythe’s idea.
But he had not gone far when he realized reaching the palace was not going to be easy. The streets were choked with revelers, and more people were joining the party all the time.
The side streets were less congested, but the going was still slow, for they were a tangled maze of streets and alleys. Smythe had not lived in Haever long, and he was soon lost. He continued riding in the general direction of the palace and at last its towers came into view.
Smythe impatiently pushed his way through the crowds who had gathered in front of the palace gates, singing the Freyan national anthem and joyfully shouting, “God save the King!”
He avoided the main gate and rode around to enter a side gate. He jumped down from the horse and was about to order one of his Guundaran guards to take the beast to the stable, only to discover that the Guundarans had been replaced by Royal Navy marines.
Thomas had acted swiftly to see to it that the palace was guarded, which Smythe had to concede had been necessary, although he would have preferred it if Thomas had waited to consult him. But he wondered, why had Thomas replaced the entire palace guard with marines—even the Freyan guards? Of course, Thomas could feel that he could no longer trust anyone who had served with the Guundarans. But Smythe didn’t like it. He had always mistrusted the Lords of the Admiralty, starting with Admiral Baker. They did not show him the proper amount of respect.
Smythe approached the marines with some trepidation, but they saluted him and readily admitted him. He had expected the palace to be crawling with ministers, courtiers, members of the House, all clamoring to see the king. He found instead a haven of peace.
The halls were quiet and deserted, save for the servants, and Smythe paid little heed to them. He was not well liked among the staff. They considered him cold and brusque, and spoke disparagingly of him as a person of low birth who “gave himself airs.” He considered the servants idle laze-abouts and looked forward to the day he could sack the lot of them.
Smythe went first to his office, hoping to find his aide. The clocks were chiming the hour of six. Early yet, but in view of the news, he could reasonably expect Corporal Plackton to be at his post. Smythe planned to question him, find out if he knew the truth of what had happened in Wellinsport before he saw the king.
Plackton was not there, however, and none of the servants had seen him.
Smythe next went to the royal chambers, the part of the palace reserved for the king and his family. Here, too, the palace guards had been replaced by marines, who saluted him and admitted him into the royal chambers without question.
As they closed the doors after him, he was enveloped in quiet, although the corridors were brightly lighted. He paused to consider where he might find the king and determined he would be in his office, writing the speech he would deliver to the mob.
Thomas would undoubtedly take credit for the victory himself. Smythe would soon put an end to that. He would make it clear that he had been the one to uncover Ullr’s plot. He would remind Thomas that he had insisted on sending the Terrapin to Wellinsport, never mind that he had done so at King Ullr’s suggestion.
Smythe proceeded down a hall, rounded a corner, and came to a halt. The corridor in front of the king’s office was lined with soldiers wearing the distinctive scarlet coats of the Royal Marines.
Smythe felt a twinge of unease, but he ignored it. Admiral Baker was certainly working hard to curry royal favor. Smythe would deal with him later.
He reached the king’s office to find the secretary hurriedly shoving papers into a satchel.
“I heard the news about Guundar. Is His Majesty safe, Braxton?” Smythe demanded.
The secretary lifted his head. His face was ghastly white, his hair unkempt. He cast Smythe a harried look and kept grabbing papers.
“I have no idea, sir. The king is not in his office. His Majesty is in the new Queen Mary Room,” said the secretary. He added in grim tones, “Your aide, Corporal Plackton, is with him.”
“My aide?” Smythe felt the unease change to a chill of apprehension. “What is Plackton doing with the king?”
“What do you think he’s doing, sir?” the secretary asked bitterly. “He’s spilling his guts!”
He snatched up the bulging satchel and was about to leave when the door to the king’s office opened. Sir Richard Wallace walked out, accompanied by several marines.
The secretary saw him and blanched.
“I will relieve you of the satchel, sir,” said Sir Richard. “Arrest him.”
He took the satchel from the secretary and handed it to an officer. Two marines took Braxton into custody, clamping manacles on his wrists.
The secretary cast a beseeching look at Smythe as the marines marched him away.
“You know I am innocent, Chancellor!” he cried over his shoulder. “Tell them the truth! I was working for you, Chancellor!”
Smythe pointedly ignored the man’s pleas.
“I have no idea what that fool is talking about. I am glad you are here, Sir Richard. I have important business with His Majesty. Where is the king?”
“King Thomas is in the Queen Mary Room, sir,” said Sir Richard.
“What do you mean, the Queen Mary Room, my lord?” Smythe demanded, annoyed. “I have never heard of it.”
“I believe you knew it by another name, sir,” said Sir Richard. “You knew it as the Rose Room. His Majesty ordered the room renovated to honor the late queen, for that is where she met him and bestowed on him the ring of King James. He thought meeting with you in the that room instead of his office would be particularly fitting given the circumstances.”
Smythe remained outwardly cool and impassive. Inwardly, his apprehension deepened. He lowered his voice and drew near.
“Don’t forget that you were a member of the Faithful who plotted to assassinate the queen, Sir Richard,” Smythe said, softly lethal. “I certainly haven’t forgotten, and others might be interested to know about your role.”
“You know we never had any intent of assassinating our queen,” said Sir Richard. “I have readily admitted I was a part of your foul scheme. I trust God will forgive me, for I can never forgive myself.”
Smythe was sorry he had not killed this old fool when he’d had the chance. He saw the marines standing at attention, waiting, and decided it was time to make a strategic retreat.
“Our nation is at war and I cannot wait upon the king’s pleasure. Inform His Majesty I will be in my office.”
Smythe turned on his heel to find his nose planted against the brass buttons of a scarlet coat worn by an extremely tall marine.
“His Majesty will see you now, sir,” said Sir Richard.
“I am far too busy—” Smythe began.
The marine clamped his hand on his shoulder.
Smythe was now truly afraid. He dropped all pretense. “Tell that sniveling puppy that he should think twice before he tangles with me! I will ruin him!”
“Search him for weapons,” said Sir Richard.
Smythe stood rigid as the marines made a thorough search of his person. They removed a pocket pistol from the inside of his jacket and a knife from his boot.
Sir Richard led the way to the Queen Mary Room, formerly the Rose Room. Marines guarded the door. This time they did not salute Smythe, and he realized the other marines he had encountered had gulled him, lured him into this trap. He entered to see his aide, Plackton, slumped in a chair, his head in his hands.
Thomas was standing in front of the fire, gazing up at a portrait of Queen Mary.
Smythe knew that a bold front could sometimes take the enemy by surprise, disarm them. He stalked into the room as though he owned it, which in his mind he still did. Thomas Stanford would rue the day he crossed him.
“Why is my aide, Corporal Plackton, with you, Your Majesty?” Smythe demanded. “Is he being accused of some crime? If so, he is my officer, under my command. I should have been informed.”
Thomas turned his head. His blue eyes were incandescent, like the blue at the heart of the hottest flame.
“Corporal Plackton came to me of his own accord, Chancellor, when he received word of the Guundaran defeat at Wellinsport. He came to plead for mercy. It seems he was the one who told King Ullr where to find your secret stockpile of green-beam guns, such as the one you sent to Maribeau on board a black ship to attack the Dragon Brigade and start a war with Rosia. The corporal has provided me with additional evidence which proves you are a traitor to your country.”
Smythe gave a derisive smile.
“I remind Your Majesty that I was the one who sent the Terrapin to the Aligoes. If I had listened to you, Wellinsport would now be in Guundaran hands.”
“The fact that Wellinsport is not in Guundaran hands is due entirely to the bravery of Captain Northrop and his crew, Smythe. You acted to send away the Terrapin at the behest of King Ullr.”
“I have no idea what Your Majesty means,” said Smythe stiffly. “Whatever Corporal Plackton has said is a lie.”
“He said nothing about the Terrapin,” said Thomas. “He didn’t have to. I have been aware of King Ullr’s plot to invade Freya for some time. Plackton did tell me that you also knew of King Ullr’s plans, yet instead of coming to tell me in order to save your country, you went to King Ullr to save your own skin.”
Smythe saw the enemy closing in, about to overrun his position. But he did not fall back. His nerve still held. He carried the fight into the enemy’s camp.
“Very well, sir. I did meet with King Ullr,” said Smythe, regarding Thomas with hatred. “I met with the king of Guundar in order to prevent you from plunging us into a ruinous war!”
Smythe pointed an accusing finger at Thomas. “I was doing you a favor, sir! Endeavoring to save you from your own folly, as I have so often done. I warn you, sir. If you dare bring charges against me, I will make public the truth about you. I will tell the Freyan people that you conspired with the Rosians and the traitor Henry Wallace to kill the queen and seize the throne. They will believe me. I have supporters in positions of power, members of the nobility who will back me.”
Thomas gave a grave smile. “You may do your damnedest, Isaiah Crawford. For that, I believe, is your real name.”
Smythe could not speak. He could not breathe. His true name had landed at his feet like a bomb with a lighted fuse. He was dimly aware that Sir Richard was droning on in sonorous tones like a judge, charging him with multiple counts of murder. Smythe could hear only the hissing of the fuse, see only the sputtering sparks as the flame crawled closer and closer to the gunpowder.
He had lost this battle, but he was not about to lose the war. He still had his ambition. He still had his plans.
He still had his hatred.
He saw without seeming to see that no one was guarding the double glass-paned doors which led to the balcony overlooking the palace grounds.
Smythe opened his mouth, as though to say something, then lunged for the doors. Flinging them open, he ran out onto the balcony before anyone could stop him. He slammed shut the doors and shoved the marble bench against them, effectively blocking them.
From inside the room, he could hear Sir Richard shouting and men beating on the doors, trying to force them open.
Smythe walked to the balustrade and coolly looked down to see the ground several stories below. Behind him, the marines were smashing the glass with the butts of their rifles.
Smythe placed his hand on the balustrade and vaulted over it.
Thomas had watched in shock as Smythe apparently ended his life in a fatal plunge off the balcony. When the marines were at last able to break down the double doors and shove the bench aside, Thomas ran out onto the balcony and looked over the edge, expecting to see a crumpled body on the ground below.
Smythe lay on the ground at first unmoving, and then he groaned and slowly leveraged himself to his feet and started to try to run off. He did not get far before his left leg crumpled and he fell to the ground. Aware that the marines were coming after him, he struggled to rise again.
“Surrender, Smythe!” Sir Richard called. “You cannot escape!”
Smythe cast a grim look of defiance at those gathered on the balcony and picked himself up, only to fall again. He picked himself up again and this time he managed to keep going, limping on his injured leg. He reached the shadows of the trees and they lost sight of him.
“He won’t get far, Your Majesty,” said Sir Richard. “The marines will search every speck of ground.”
“They won’t find him,” Thomas predicted. “The Evil One takes care of his own.”
The Evil One did indeed take care of his own.
The marines spent all that day and far into the night searching. They found no trace of Jonathan Smythe.
Or Isaiah Crawford.