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  For Mary, with love

  —Bob

  To Christi Cardenas, literary agent and friend.

  We have been through a lot together! Thank you!

  —Margaret

  PROLOGUE

  Kate sat on the deck, her back against the lift tank, playing at a game of knucklebones and watching her father meet with the revenue agent, who had come aboard to inspect the ship for contraband. The ship’s crew, old hands at their business, went about their duties as normal—lowering the sails, deflating the balloons, making ready to dock the ship—while those who had no work leaned over the railing to barter with Trundlers offering to sell their potent liquor, Calvados.

  “Hey, little boy, want to be a man tonight?” a shrill voice called out.

  “You talking to me?” Kate demanded, turning to see a gaily colored barge filled with enterprising whores nudge alongside the ship. The woman stood up in the barge and lifted her skirt to display her wares.

  “Come to the Perky Parrot, little boy,” she said. “I’ll give you a closer look.”

  “Did you say the Poxy Parrot?” Kate shouted back.

  The crew roared and even the revenue agent laughed, as the offended whores sailed off.

  “You tell ’em, Li’l Captain,” added one of the sailors, who were regarding her with the fond pride of parents whose child has done something clever.

  Kate grinned and went back to her game, surreptitiously watching her father and the revenue agent. She didn’t have to concentrate on the game; she was an expert at knucklebones, having quick reflexes and deft hands. The crew had stopped playing with her for money when she was ten. This meant she could keep an eye on her father, ready to spring into action if something should go wrong.

  Her father and the agent shook hands and then exchanged pleasantries. Watching closely, Kate saw that after the handshake, the agent slid his hand into his pocket, no doubt depositing the five silver rosun coins given to him to keep his inspection brief.

  The ship, an older design, had two masts and a wide beam made for sailing the open Breath. The short wings, swept back along the length of the hull, ended with a large airscrew on either side. A cargo hold ran the full length of the ship, with a smaller hold under an old-style sterncastle.

  The revenue agent was sweating in his blue uniform beneath the midday sun and seemed glad to make quick work of the inspection so that he could retire to his cool office on shore. He smiled at Kate, who jumped to her feet and knuckled her forehead. Dressed in loose-fitting trousers and shirt, her curly sun-bleached blond hair cut short and her skin burned brown, Kate was just another ship’s boy, and she knew how to act the part.

  “Clever lad,” said the agent.

  “Thankee, sir,” said Kate.

  The agent walked on and Kate cast a sly glance at Olaf, ship’s crafter and mechanic, who had been loitering nearby, ready with his magic in case the revenue agent had taken it into his head to ignore the bribe and inspect the lift tank. Olaf winked at her and nodded. All was well.

  The revenue agent glanced down into the hold, saw a great many barrels marked “tar,” noted that they were on the manifest, and gave Captain Fitzmaurice permission to enter the harbor. The agent departed, jingling coins in his pocket.

  The Barwich Rose, named for Kate’s late mother, sailed into the Rosian harbor city of Westfirth, joining the traffic in the busy harbor. Kate’s father celebrated by buying a bottle of Calvados from one of the Trundlers. Walking over to Kate, he clapped her on the shoulder.

  “I heard you give the Perky Parrot a new name,” he said, grinning. “The Poxy Parrot! Agent Rouchard was most amused.”

  Morgan reached out to cup her face with his hand, turning it to the sun slanting through the mists of the Breath.

  “Damn, but you are like your mother, Kate. Poxy Parrot!” Morgan gave a rueful grin. “A girl your age shouldn’t talk of such things or even know about them. Your mother would skin us both if she were alive. Damn if I know what to do about you, though.”

  He took off his hat and ran his sleeve across his forehead while he regarded Kate with a look of mingled regret, fondness, and perplexity.

  “I suppose you could go to school back in Freya,” he said vaguely. “You’re a fair crafter. The Crown would pay for your schooling…”

  Kate felt a chill. Her father had talked of sending her off to school ever since her mother died. So far, he hadn’t carried through on his threat, but she noticed he was starting to bring it up more often now that she was growing older. He had not known what to do with his daughter when she was six; he was completely flummoxed over what to do with her now that she was developing into a young woman.

  Born to a family of merchant seamen who had used their influence to gain him an officer’s commission in the Royal Navy, Captain Morgan Fitzmaurice had lost his commission and barely escaped court-martial when it was suspected, though never proved, that he was using naval ships to transport contraband.

  A handsome man with a ready smile and glib tongue, Morgan had one goal in life, and that was to make as much money as he could, with as little effort as possible. A fondness for baccarat always seemed to prevent him from achieving that goal, but he was optimistic and never failed to believe that the next voyage would make his fortune. Kate had adored her father when she was little, and she had tried hard to keep on adoring him even after she was old enough to know better.

  She knew how to disarm him, however. She grabbed a section of silk from a balloon that was being mended, wrapped it around her slim body, and then went mincing about the deck.

  “My dear sweet papa wants to send me to school to learn to be a fine lady,” Kate shrilled, talking through her nose. “I’m to be presented to the queen.”

  Her clumsy curtsy drew hoots of laughter from the crew. Morgan joined in, and Kate dropped the balloon to run to him and throw her arms around him.

  “I don’t need school,” she said persuasively. “Mama taught me to read and write and cipher. I’m better at keeping the account books than you are. I can do everything there is to be done around the ship, including taking the helm. I’m as good a crafter as Olaf—”

  “You are not!” Olaf roared, grinning.

  “Well, almost,” Kate amended. “I know how to use a sextant, I can read navigation charts. I know the weather signs, when there’s going to be a storm and when it’s going to be fine for sailing. And, most important, I’m your luck, Father.”

  “She is that, Cap’n!” called a member of the crew. Others said “Aye” to that.

  “She brings us fair winds and a prosperous voyage,” said another.

  “A
nd revenue agents who take bribes!” said a third.

  “Remember when I was sick with the measles and you had to leave me with the nuns at Saint Agnes and sail on without me. You remember what happened?”

  Many in the crew dourly shook their heads.

  “Only time we was ever boarded,” said one.

  “Had to dump the cargo,” said another.

  Kate gave her father a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best father a girl could have and you know you can’t get on without me, so don’t talk nonsense.”

  Morgan allowed himself to be persuaded, particularly in the matter of luck. No one is more superstitious than a sailor, and the crew firmly believed that Kate was their lucky charm. The one voyage she had missed had ended in disaster.

  “You’re a good daughter to me, Kate,” said Morgan, adding with a shrug and a grin, “You’re growing up wild as a catamount and God knows what will become of you, but you are a good daughter.”

  He clapped her on the shoulder again and went off to take over the helm to steer the ship into port. Kate gave a sigh of relief as she neatly folded up the silk and stowed it.

  “Come here, Katydid,” Olaf called, using his pet name for her. “Come look at this.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Kate joined her friend at the rail. The sights of Westfirth were new to her.

  Morgan’s usual smuggling runs took him to remote and isolated coves along the coastlines of Rosia and Freya. He had recently been in contact with a notorious Westfirth gang who didn’t like the bother of having to travel long distances to obtain their contraband. They had made all the arrangements for delivery of their cargo, including making certain the right revenue agent was on hand to clear them and telling them which dockyards the police didn’t bother to patrol.

  Kate was enthralled by the huge gun emplacement guarding the harbor. She had not imagined there could be that many cannons in the world, and she kept staring at them until Olaf nudged her elbow and pointed to the top of the enormous cliff that towered high above the coastal city of Westfirth. Kate craned her neck to see.

  “Oh, Olaf, those are dragons!” she said breathlessly, awed.

  All her life she had heard of dragons, but she never had seen any before now, for there were no dragons in her native Freya. And here were three of the magnificent creatures, flying in wide circles above the cliff.

  “Those aren’t just any dragons,” said Olaf. “Those are members of the famed Dragon Brigade. The Brigade has its headquarters atop that cliff, known as the Bastion. Those would be young recruits, I’m guessing. Probably in training.”

  “You’re talkin’ heresy, Olaf!” said one of the sailors, scowling. “Don’t pay heed to him, Kate. Dragons are evil creatures. Foul serpents. Minions of the devil. That’s why they do the bidding of the damn Rosians.”

  Kate looked questioningly at Olaf and saw him roll his eyes. She turned her gaze back to the dragons—huge, monstrous beasts—yet so graceful in flight. The sunlight glittered on their scales and shimmered through the membrane of their wings.

  “No creature that beautiful could be evil,” Kate said softly. “Look, Olaf! There’s a man riding on the back of a dragon!”

  “He’ll be one of the officers,” said Olaf.

  They watched as a fourth dragon flew into the air with the officer riding on the back, seated just below the neck, atop the massive shoulders and ahead of the flashing wings.

  “The riders sit in specially designed saddles that keep them strapped in, even when the dragon flips over in midair,” said Olaf. “Saw it myself at the Battle of Daenar when I was a gunnery crafter. Let me see, that must have been nigh on forty years ago.

  “We were holed up in this fortress when the Dragon Brigade attacked us. It was a terrible sight, Katydid, to see the beasts fly so close their wings sliced through the clouds and you felt the heat of their fiery breath. Worse yet to watch their magical fire burn clean through all our magic constructs, see walls start to crumble. Terrible, but, as you say, beautiful.”

  Olaf fell silent, watching the dragons, leaning on the rail, his chin resting on his hand. He was a small man, about five foot, with large shoulders and arms and undersized legs. He had worked for a blacksmith when he was a boy, and his face and hands were black from the soot that was ingrained in his skin. He had grizzled hair and a gap-toothed smile. He didn’t know his age, but had a vague idea that he was somewhere above sixty.

  He had been a ship’s crafter employed by the Fitzmaurice Shipping Company until it had gone down in financial ruin. Then he’d joined Morgan’s crew, and he’d known Kate since she was born. Most of what Kate knew about her family—or at least the truth of what she knew—came from Olaf. He was fond of her father, but free to admit that Morgan “tended to shave the truth” a bit on occasion.

  “How do you suppose people climb to the top of the cliff?” Kate asked.

  Olaf gave her a sharp glance, which she met with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

  “Those who have permission to be in the Bastion fly on the backs of their dragons,” said Olaf. “The area is restricted. They don’t encourage visitors.”

  “Pooh, there must be another way to reach it besides dragons,” said Kate, taking a practical view of the matter. “What if someone was hurt or they needed to send an urgent message to the dragons? I know you know, Olaf,” she added in wheedling tones. “You know everything.”

  “I know you could charm a wyvern with those brown eyes,” Olaf said, pretending to grumble. “That big building is the Old Fort. The building surrounded by the wall with the guard towers near the gun emplacements. The admiral of the Western Fleet lives there now and I’ve heard tell that there’s a walking path that leads from his garden to the Bastion.”

  Kate heard him lay emphasis on the words “wall” and “guard towers,” but dismissed that as unimportant. She differed from her father, who tended to be easygoing and take life as it came. Kate was stubborn, like her mother. When Rose Gascoyne had decided to do something, she had let nothing stand in her way.

  The buyers for the contraband would arrive at midnight. Kate had to be back on board ship then, to ensure her father kept money enough to pay the crew and make the repairs the ship needed for the voyage home. Otherwise the profits would end up on the baccarat table. But for now, she had the afternoon and evening free.

  The Barwich Rose slowed as a harbor tug took over the final maneuvering. The tug pushed the merchant ship into a berth barely larger than the ship itself. As soon as it was secured to the dock, the harbor tug sailed off to the next ship, and Kate was down the gangplank before it touched the dock, making the leap from the plank to the shore with ease.

  She heard her father calling and Olaf yelling that Westfirth was a wicked place and she should stay on board ship. Ignoring both of them, she made her way among the barrels and crates and boxes stacked on the wharf, and ran into a street lined with warehouses, markets, and taverns.

  The street was named Canal Street, and although Kate had never been to Westfirth, she knew that almost every city had a Canal Street that ran along the ship channel. Since they had seen the Bastion while sailing down the canal, she figured she had only to follow Canal Street and it would lead her to back to the Bastion. She didn’t want to waste time getting lost, however, and so she stopped to ask for directions.

  She spoke fluent Rosian, and although the fishmonger appeared to wonder why a ship’s boy needed to know how to get to the Old Fort, he told her to just keep following Canal. When it ended, she would be there.

  She was so eager to reach her destination that she ran past the shops and market stalls and street vendors that would have otherwise drawn her interest. Canal Street ended at the Old Fort, and Kate stood on the sidewalk, gaping.

  As Olaf had pointed out to her, the Old Fort was surrounded by a wall with guard towers. Although known as the Old Fort, the beautiful building resembled a palace more than a fortress, and was now, as Olaf had told her, the living quarters and offices of the
admiral of the Western Fleet.

  Kate was impressed. She considered the manor house on her family’s estate—Barwich Manor, where she had lived when she was little, until the bank took it—to be more beautiful, but she allowed that this building would come in second. Looking at it now, she was somewhat daunted by the prospect of trying to sneak inside. The women emerging from the carriages or walking about the streets outside the front gate were elegantly dressed, wearing elaborate hats. The men were, for the most part, officers in the Rosian navy, splendid in their uniforms. Kate wasn’t even wearing shoes.

  She pilfered an apple from a vendor, and ate it while she walked around the wall, searching for a solution to her problem. She found it in the form of a large oak tree growing near the wall. The lowest branches were far above her head, but she had been climbing the ship’s rigging since she was little, and she dug her bare feet into the bark and shinnied up the trunk with ease. After crawling along a large branch that extended over the wall, she dropped down into the garden.

  She was annoyed to find that the garden was occupied; a great many rich people were promenading up and down the paths. Kate was forced to hide in the shadows of trees and hedges as she circled about the ornamental fish ponds, always keeping her goal—the Bastion at the top of the cliff—in sight.

  She had no trouble locating the stairs that led up the side of the cliff. The steps had been cut into the stone in a zigzag pattern and were both decorative and functional. Climbing stairs that went back and forth, ascending gradually, would be far easier than climbing straight up.

  Kate ran up the hundreds of flagstones with the strength and energy of her twelve years, fueled by her eagerness to obtain a close-up view of the dragons. Arriving at the top, she stopped to catch her breath, gaze, and marvel.

  The Bastion was built in a circle; halls and rooms radiated from an enormous courtyard made of stone. A mosaic of glittering tile in the center of the courtyard portrayed a blue-green dragon in flight, wings extended, against the background of a red and golden sun.