FOR THOSE WHO CAN AFFORD IT, the preferred means of travel between cities is the stagecoach. From the outside one can see the brightly lacquered woodwork, the high, spinning wheels, the fine teams of horses, and the liveried drivers. On the inside the traveler enjoys velvet upholstery, leather-curtained windows, and a modern suspension system that delivers a ride as smooth and comfortable as swinging in a hammock.
The drivers—former gentlemen all—are the heroes of the day, admired and emulated by men and boys alike for their style, dash, and ability to control a six-horse hitch. Their backgrounds are a mystery, their reputations much discussed. There is the dandy “Baronet” Blanco of the Bismuth line, never seen without some bit of gold on him, who supposedly took to driving after he squandered his family fortune. There is the one-eyed man known only as “The Navigator,” silent and grim-faced, reputed to be a former pirate, now the champion of the Seltown-Vertebruck route. And there is the darkly handsome “Daddy” Jack Deacon, who some claim is in hiding from a string of paternity lawsuits in Alacia. Fast, skilled, and daring, they race their teams through the countryside at speeds approaching fourteen miles per hour. When the horns blow, and the gates open, and the coaches come to their stops, great joints of roasted meat, racks of savory pies, and bowls of hot spiced wine greet the hungry travelers. The inns are luxurious, the beds are soft, the food is gourmet, the company is the finest. Truly there is no more splendid way to travel the Twenty Kingdoms than by luxury stagecoach.
Gloria, however, took the mail coach.
Really, it was a good choice for the plan she had developed. Although it was slower, the mail coach actually got you where you wanted to go sooner than the fast stagecoach, because the mail coach did not stop at night. There were no meal breaks either, only a chance to grab a hot potato when the driver stopped to change horses, or throw down mail sacks. That was an advantage, too. It meant there was no demand for Gloria to answer questions about herself around a dining table. Sure, the ride was cold, rough, and uncomfortable. The coachmen wore plain postal uniforms and muddy overcoats. The windows were open, and the seats covered only with coarse wool horse blankets. But the mail coach went to places that the stagecoach did not, out-of-the-way places where the only outside news came from—well—the mail coach. By leaving Sulcus immediately, Gloria would arrive ahead of the news. By the time anyone started looking around for a missing princess, she would already be concealed on the Wayless estate.
The rough, jolting ride bounced her around, but even when the road was smooth she couldn’t help bouncing a little herself, just from excitement. She was off, she was on her own, she was having an adventure! No parents, no guards, no guardians, no chaperones. Just herself and the excitement of making her own way. So what if she was cold? So what if she was hungry? She had heavy clothing, and she would reach Bornewald in a matter of days. At the end of her travails there would be love, and marriage, and—oooh!—hot, hot nights with Terry. Just thinking about it made her feel warmer. True love and high adventure, she reflected. It was amazing the way the two concepts fit so well together.
She was doubly fortunate in that there were no other passengers on the coach to Bornewald, for she didn’t want conversation, or to attract attention. Only the coachman spoke to her, and that was but once, during a stop to water the horses. They were on a chilly mountain pass, just a few hundred feet below the snow line. Gloria wore a stylish coat of sheared beaver that she belted tightly around her slim waist, and she pulled her fur-lined hood low over her head as she hurried into the well house, knowing that the cold wind would make this attempt at concealment seem like normal behavior. Inside the well house, out of the wind, she searched for the metal dipper that usually hung on a hook inside the door. The coachman saw her and shook his head.
“There’s no drinking this water, Miss. It’s all right for the horses, but it’s not fit for people. It must be boiled first, to take off the curse.”
Gloria looked at the well stones, then at the inside of the well house door, and then stepped outside and briefly examined the outside of the door and the lintel, searching for the spot where a wizard had made his mark. She didn’t find one. She slipped back inside and pulled the door shut. “How odd,” she said. “Surely the locals would hire a wizard to certify their well.”
“No wizards here, Miss, nor from here on. We’re in the realm of the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. He controls the valley, and he doesn’t like competition from other wizards.” The coachman made an upward gesture, which simply indicated the well house roof, although when Gloria stepped outside she looked up again. The sky was dark and low and held threats of snow, but among the swirling clouds she thought she saw a castle, perched on a distant crag.
“I’ll bet he gets a great view on clear days.”
“They say he sees everything, clear day or no,” said the coachman. “There’s a cask of cider up top, Miss, if you’re thirsty.”
“Thank you.” Gloria dismissed the castle from her mind and drank a cup of cider. A few hours later they began the descent into the valley. It was early evening, and already dark when her trunks were unloaded at the coach station. A cold wind kept people off the streets. Gloria congratulated herself on her timing. No one was around to watch when a cart arrived to take her to the estate of Baron Wayless.
An hour later the cart turned into the drive to the Wayless estate. It traveled in the shadows of waving pine trees and emerged onto a lawn of short brown grass. In front of her was a large, country-style house, with a gray slate roof, wide chimneys, and shuttered windows, almost all of which were dark. The Baron himself, wrapped in an old bearskin coat, came out to greet her. He watched with a good deal of amusement, and a little discomfiture, as trunk after trunk was handed down. “Are you planning to throw a dinner party, my dear? How much clothing did you bring?”
“You can’t wear them if you don’t bring them,” Gloria said cheerfully. “It may be a week before I’m rescued. I have to have something to occupy my time.”
“I should have suggested bringing a book.” The Baron looked sadly at the windows to his library. “I had to sell all mine, I’m afraid.”
“I brought one of those, too.” She remained until the last trunk was thrown down, and the cart rattled away, making sure it was out of sight before she threw back her hood. Several footmen carried away her luggage. The Baron was coughing into a handkerchief. She pretended not to notice this, waited until he had recovered, and said, “You’ve managed to hold on to the staff, I see. They must have faith in you.”
Baron Wayless shook his head. “I haven’t paid them all year. They’ve mostly taken jobs in the village. They help me out part-time, and in exchange they’re allowed to live in their old quarters.” Gloria followed him into the manor house. She could understand the seriousness of his position. Most of the rooms were closed off. Their fireplaces were cold. The walls were bare of pictures, and almost all of the furniture was gone. Everything was swept and dusted, and anything that could be polished was gleaming, but the sills needed paint, and the flower gardens had not been replanted. The Baron’s coat had been carefully mended, but was still worn at the elbows. And the cuffs. And the collar. Without money, hard work can only take you so far.
Wayless led her to the dining room, where her correspondence was spread across the walnut table. “We’ll destroy your own letters tonight.” He lit a candle and directed its light to a neatly written confession and a handful of incriminating letters, carefully composed in his own hand. “Are you hungry, Princess? Would you care to dine before we review these?” He hardly got the words out before he doubled over in another fit of consumptive coughing. He straightened up and waved away her concern. “I’m fine, my dear. The knowledge that I will be giving Count Bussard a final shot in the eye has been like a tonic to me. And trust me, I would rather die on my feet, with a noose around my neck, than wither away in bed.”
“It will be quick,” Gloria admitted. This was the part of the deal that made her the most uncomfortable.
“I will wear full evening dress to my hanging,” said the Baron. “I will make a speech. I will admit to the kidnapping, of course, but then I will make cryptic allusions that will have the entire country trying to find out my true motives. There will be conspiracy theories floating around for the next decade. Oh, and this is the really good part. I’ll drop hints that I buried valuable family heirlooms on the estate. Even if Bussard gets control of this property again, he’ll forever have to contend with fortune hunters sneaking in and digging up his gardens.”
“You are a vengeful man, Baron Wayless.”
“I am pleased to hear you say that, my dear.” Wayless sank into a chair. “If you only knew the misery that he has caused us. And for what? He already owns most of this valley. The richest land, the clearest streams, the most valuable timber are his. But no, he has to have it all, and he uses any means, fair or foul, to get it.”
Gloria was relieved. Her biggest fear during the trip to Bornewald was that the Baron would get cold feet and renege on his agreement. Instead, he was downright cheerful as he showed her the evidence against himself, then folded the letters neatly into a file folder and left it in plain sight on the sideboard. “You can direct their attention to it if they fail to look at it, my dear. You would be surprised how many investigators will tell you that it is ungentlemanly to read another man’s mail, even in the line of duty.”
The Princess nodded. Fortunately, women were not subject to this compunction. “I don’t want to dissuade you, Baron Wayless, but I must be perfectly honest. When you are arrested for the kidnapping, of course your property will be forfeit to the king.”
“Of course.”
“You realize that if other people hold liens on your land, and my father seizes it, they may go to court and demand compensation. Depending on how influential they are, and what sort of mood my father is in, he may grant it.”
“Ha!” The Baron was gleeful. “Yes! The King might pay compensation, but it will be on the taxable value. And Bussard has the tax office under his thumb. He’s made sure that the assessed value is a fraction of what it is really worth. He won’t get spit in compensation. Hoist by his own petard. Oh, the poetic justice of it all. Too bad I won’t be around to see it.” He darted away into the next room. Gloria heard an extended fit of coughing, but when he came back the Baron was smiling. He had a fresh handkerchief in one hand and a dusty bottle in the other. “Port wine,” he said. “The last bottle in the cellar. My wife and I got a case of it as a gift when I inherited this estate. Now we will bring it all to a finish. Will you do me the honor of having a glass with me, Princess Gloria?”
“Thank you, Baron Wayless. I’d love a glass.”