Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  A twisted king would draw forth terrible magic. Maybe even more so if already dead, for once the idea slipped into the world, a thousand pretenders would appear overnight.

  Behind her, the bodyguard had yet to move, though his daughter whined into the leg of his trousers. No need to follow him any more for now. She sent the crow into the air soaring over the city in search of blood.

  Noel awoke the next morning with a stuffy head, and his phone blowing up with texts from Henry’s equerry. As he climbed out of bed he cursed the weather and the incipient cold that was threatening after his night spent walking through sleet. King Henry and his bullshit. Noel hoped a hot shower would stave off the cold.

  He had breakfast waiting when Jasper came into the kitchen dressed in his school uniform, book bag over his shoulder. His son bestowed a truculent look on Noel.

  ‘Okay, what have I done?’ Noel asked.

  ‘You were gone last night,’ Jasper accused. ‘I got scared and I came to your room, but you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere.’

  ‘I had to go out.’

  ‘Mom would never have left like that.’

  It stung and Noel snapped, ‘Unlike your mother, I have responsibilities.’

  Yes, to your son. To your family! He could almost hear Niobe’s voice. Fortunately his child wasn’t old enough to have that sort of sophisticated response.

  He reined in his annoyance and modulated his tone. ‘I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Or if I have to be away I’ll make sure Mrs Donnelly comes over. Now eat so I can get you to school.’

  Turing found himself walking into Silver Helix headquarters with a young joker woman with multiple eyes all around her head. The fact that she was in the company of Jiniri provided her identity. And indeed as they waited for the creaky old elevator to arrive the illusion melted away to reveal Primrose, who had shaved some thirty years off her actual age even while sporting joker attributes.

  ‘I gather you’ve been doing a bit of recon. What word from the street?’ Alan asked.

  ‘It’s much as you’d expect,’ Primrose said. ‘The people are grieving the loss of their queen. Lots of black in the streets, reddened eyes.’

  Alan nodded. ‘Margaret was loved. And Henry?’ They stepped into the lift.

  Jiniri responded, ‘Less so. But it’s to be expected. They’ll come around when they’ve had some time. That’s always how it is.’

  Less so. That boded well for Richard’s hopes, and Alan wanted to ask more, wanted to ask what the people thought of Richard, but that might give the game away. These agents were sharp as tacks – he’d trained them to be, after all. He’d found the best that England had to offer, had brought them here to serve king and country. Which king, though? That was the question.

  ‘Lot of anti-joker and anti-immigrant sentiment out there. Felt a bit nervous,’ Primrose added. Jiniri nodded in agreement.

  ‘I doubt Henry will be making any more extemporaneous statements, so things should quieten down,’ Alan said.

  ‘Hope you’re right, but I’d be very sure your make-up is in place, Enigma,’ Jiniri concluded as the two women stepped off on the first floor leaving Turing to ponder that ominous statement on his way to his fifth-floor office.

  Because he was feeling perverse Noel stopped for a coffee, then called into Hatchard’s to pick up a book he had ordered before finally calling Zachary Pike back.

  ‘Where the Devil have you been? Our mutual friend wants an update so—’

  ‘You’re really terrible at this. Never emphasize a particular word. It always arouses interest. Usual place?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pike snapped and hung up.

  There was a crowd of protesters at the front of Buckingham Palace. The Queen’s Guard held their rigid positions, not reacting to the chants and catcalls from the mixed crowd of students, immigrants and entitled white people, but Noel spotted only one joker in the mix. Unlike the others the wild cards knew that if heads were going to be cracked theirs would be the first to feel the blow.

  He turned down a side street to the entrance for official visitors. His ID was checked, the car examined for bombs, and he was waved through. Once again Pike was waiting, and hurried him up the back stairs and into a large office. King Henry was signing papers. He handed them to a young aide and waved the man out of the office. Pike also withdrew and the doors were closed. Noel inclined his head.

  ‘Well? What have you got for me?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘The child was alive at birth—’

  ‘I fucking know that!’

  Noel drew in a deep breath. He was used to people yelling at him. Didn’t mean he liked it. Especially when it came from a place of petulant entitlement. ‘If I may continue, sir?’ Henry gave a grudging nod. ‘After the birth the infant was given into the care of an MI5 agent with instructions to handle it.’

  Henry looked eager at that. ‘Excellent.’ He stood, clasped his hands behind his back and swaggered away. ‘So, this nightmare is over.’

  ‘In these types of situations it’s probably best to assume nothing, sir,’ Noel said. ‘We don’t know how the agent interpreted that order.’

  Henry whirled. ‘You didn’t talk to him? Dear God, it seems your reputation was exaggerated.’

  ‘With respect, sir, it has been seventy-two years. The agent in question is probably long dead, and I rather doubt your grandfather made a note in his day planner gave hideous joker baby into care of Agent So-and-So for disposal. Frankly, it was damned bad planning on the Palace’s part not to keep track of the child. But I expect Prince Philip preferred not to know if the solution selected had been a lethal one.’

  The silence in the room felt fraught. ‘You come here with nothing concrete—’

  Noel was beginning to think the knock of the Windsors by the republicans was extremely accurate. ‘You sent for me, sir,’ he reminded the King in a purr.

  Something in Noel’s tone and manner made Henry shift uncomfortably. ‘Well … yes … quite. So what do you intend to do now?’ The bluster had returned to his voice.

  ‘Find some old jokers or old agents.’

  Badb crouched in the corner of the room the Green Man had lent her. Her every breath bubbled as blood pooled in her lungs, and a constant trickle of it stained the bare floorboards. Rarely had she allowed herself to grow so old without regeneration. Her arms were leaden sticks. Her skin, like cooling lava, was a plane of red cracks and oozing crevices.

  She would not be young again until a hero died within a stone’s throw of her. But it wouldn’t be long now. Badb could feel it. Like that time in ’68 when she had urged the B-Specials to attack civil rights marchers and the whole of Northern Ireland had burned for days. How many young men had given their lives then? Oh, a host of them and so sincere! The land drank its fill and the goddess became beautiful and high on emotion for weeks afterwards.

  Now, Britain was fattening nicely under her care. She could see it from one crow or another. She watched as the representatives of a moderate Muslim community read out a document sent to them anonymously:

  ‘Henry …’ said an old man, his beard huge and white as snow, his eyes squinting at the paper. ‘King Henry IX. He wants us out of Britain.’

  ‘We were all born here. Except Imran.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He wants us gone. If the young men hear about this …’

  Oh, but they had heard about it. The goddess had made sure of that. A few from this very mosque were already getting free lessons in the manufacture of Molotov cocktails from her contacts in the IRA. At least one was a hero in the making.

  All over the city, from Romford to Slough; from Walthamstow to Croydon and along both banks of the river: every minority community was learning exactly what the new king thought of them.

  And all the while, crows kept dropping pieces of paper outside people’s doors: ‘The King has allied with Britain First!’ ‘Right-wing Murder Squads!’ He was going to take over the government and purge the island of jokers and anybody
who hadn’t been in Britain since William the Conqueror made it his own.

  And the goddess, watching the rumours spread, lying in a pool of her own blood, found it all most satisfactory.

  Noel’s footfalls rapped on the hardwood floor. It was a measure of his irritation and probably worry that Henry had failed to send for Pike to escort him. Still Noel had always had a good sense of direction, and he saw no harm in committing these private parts of Buckingham Palace to memory. One never knew when something might come in handy.

  He heard footsteps approaching from an adjacent hall. Judging by the staccato of the heels it was a woman. Worried that there might be a fuss at finding him unaccompanied, Noel stepped through a convenient doorway. Fortunately it proved to be an overly decorated but otherwise nondescript room without a hint of human habitation. He couldn’t resist so he left the door ajar just enough to see.

  It was a plump woman in her early forties with soft brown hair, rather protuberant blue eyes, and the Windsor chin. She was dressed elegantly but conservatively. Noel smiled and allowed his body to shift. Once finished his trousers were uncomfortably tight and the buttons on his shirt strained, but Noel didn’t think that Her Royal Highness Gloriana would notice when faced with the magnificence that was his male avatar.

  Now if only he could remember the name he’d used when he’d introduced himself all those long years ago in the library at Cambridge. It was no use. Too many years had elapsed since that first attempt at seduction, and now the number of bodies he’d fucked in all of his myriad forms was beyond counting.

  He stepped out into the hall and checked as if startled. ‘Ma’am, my apologies.’

  She gave a little gasp and her eyes widened. He had seen it in countless other women’s faces and even a few men’s when confronted with this Ur of maleness. In this form his hair was a gleaming red-gold, his eyes were golden and he had the physique of a god. Sexuality rolled off him in waves.

  ‘My God, it’s you. Simon.’ So that had been the name. ‘You look … you look … You’ve barely changed.’

  He gave an embarrassed gesture towards his face. ‘The damned virus, you know.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, if it could keep me looking twenty I’d risk it. What are you doing here?’

  ‘A little bit of IT work. Allow me to offer my condolences …’

  ‘Thank you. Grandmama … the Queen was always very kind to me so Haakon didn’t mind when I wanted to come for the funeral. I brought our daughter as well. Sissel adored the Queen.’

  ‘Well, it was lovely seeing you again, ma’am. Please don’t let me detain you. I’m sure you have a number of demands on your time.’

  ‘Well, yes … I should be going.’ But she didn’t; instead she smiled and held out her hand. Noel took it, and felt her hold it for longer than necessary. ‘Perhaps I could have your card? I’d love to chat again, reminisce about Cambridge.’

  He held back a chuckle. ‘I don’t actually have a card. I could give you my mobile number?’ He pulled out one of his phones. She took her phone out of her purse and he sent over the number. He also paired his phone to hers.

  He waited until she had turned a corner and was out of sight. Only then did he allow himself the chuckle that had been threatening. Why had he paired their phones? Force of habit? He wasn’t sure. Noel then realized that to linger longer would risk discovery. He teleported back to his car and sat contemplating his next move.

  The dilemma was that he no longer had an official position in Britain’s intelligence operations, and in fact was pretty much a pariah. The rivalry between MI5 and the Helix continued so the bright boys over at Box weren’t likely to help him. It was possible that his former colleagues at the Silver Helix might be willing to help though again he faced the problem that his investigation was so off the books as to be written on water. And he had no doubt that Henry would disavow him in a second if Noel should come to grief.

  Noel knew he couldn’t wander around London asking after old jokers. Even if no one knew he was an ace he was still an outsider, lucky to be normal and distrusted for that normality No one was going to tell him anything. However much he dreaded the encounter, he was going to have to go to the Helix.

  ‘This way,’ said Finder, her voice a strained whisper against the background noise of the city.

  They’d not been travelling long, and London had already worked its strange magic, transforming from rundown to upmarket, to rundown again in as many streets. It sometimes felt to Green Man as if he lived in a combination of several cities that had been sliced, mixed up and spliced back together.

  They were only slightly south of the river, but the streets were much quieter here, with rubbish collecting in little drifts in the corners of alleyways. A few people took shelter in those same alleys but, for the most part, there was no one to witness their progress. In fact the whole journey had been remarkably peaceful after the trauma of the raid. The lost tailor seemed like the least of Green Man’s worries, but he had given his word.

  The old Irish woman had led him via back alleys and little known paths that often brushed against civilization but always managed to skirt it. He considered himself experienced in discreet travel, but clearly she was a master at it, seeming to have some uncanny instinct of when it was safe to move or best to wait.

  Green Man watched his companion as she made her determined way forward. Blood blossomed at the bandages around her joints, and there was something about the way she moved that hinted at an incredible amount of effort going into each step. And pain. He was sure it must hurt her to walk. Yet she gave no sign of it in her face. He respected that.

  ‘Not far now,’ she added, though he wasn’t sure if that was for his benefit or hers.

  More than once, they passed marks sprayed over posters or on walls. Predictable, apish sentiments, like:

  JOKERS GO HOME!

  Or:

  FREEKS FUCK OF!

  And:

  FIRE THEM TO THE MOON!

  Green Man wouldn’t have minded as much if the perpetrators could spell, or if they weren’t so woefully uneducated about jokers. We are home. Our lives and families are here. He sighed. Underneath the ranting, the ugly truth was obvious: jokers were a target not because they were different but because they looked different, and despite years of evolution and civilization, human beings still held dear to their old prejudices. Britain First hated jokers with the same passion they hated anyone unlike them. In other words, anyone without white skin.

  Over the past few days, graffiti and verbal abuse had become more common, and it was only a matter of time before violence followed. Henry IX had legitimized the slurry of hatred that had been fed to the public for years by the right-wing media. The city felt like an oil-soaked rag waiting for a spark.

  ‘There,’ Finder rasped, rousing Green Man from his thoughts. ‘Your mark is just round the corner.’

  ‘Excellent work.’ He paused when he realized Finder had stopped. ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘No. I don’t listen in to the conversations of my betters.’ She gestured to herself. ‘Besides, I must change my dressings again.’

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped, then again, softer, ‘No, thank you. I like my independence.’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled at her. ‘This is the second time you’ve helped me. I won’t forget.’

  ‘I would do anything for the cause,’ she replied. ‘Just don’t ask me to kill. I am used to my own blood, but I can’t bear … I …’

  ‘I will never ask that of you. I promise.’

  She was already shuffling away and didn’t reply.

  Given the circumstances, it seemed prudent to knock. The building was Victorian, five storeys and unremarkable, appropriate for a spy agency. The door was opened by a young man with a ruddy complexion and wide blue eyes. That grew even wider when he took in Noel.

  ‘Ah, I see my reputation has preceded me. Do pop upstairs, and tell Mr Turing that Mr Matthews would like
a few minutes of his time.’

  The flooring underfoot had been replaced, but still managed to look as dingy as the old tiles. He smelled stale coffee and someone had clearly been heating Indian food in one of the rickety old microwaves. As he loitered in the lobby, Noel reflected on his history with this place. He had entered at sixteen, and had spent the next decade and a half in service to the organization. Everything he knew and everything he was could be traced to this space and the people who inhabited it.

  It seemed to be taking an inordinately long time and his thread of patience was wearing thin when the old lift rattled to a stop and the doors opened. Instead of the slender form of Alan Turing, it was the Lion. ‘Really, Noel? You dare to come here after what you did?’

  ‘Good to see you too, Ranjit. I just want a word with Alan.’

  ‘No. Now get out.’

  ‘Get a man a promotion and this is all the thanks I get? You’re a bloody ingrate!’

  Blood suffused Singh’s face and the massive fists closed. ‘You’d best go before—’

  ‘Before you hurt me? Have me arrested? You know what happens then. The files get released and all the dirty laundry gets washed in public,’ Noel warned sweetly.

  ‘You’re a viper,’ the Sikh said wearily.

  ‘Yes. You made me one.’

  The flicker of guilt in Singh’s eyes told him that for an instant the man was seeing the boy he had trained. It was quickly banished and the ace’s expression hardened. ‘Get out, Noel. You betrayed us. There is no coming back from that.’

  Finder had been true to her word. Just around the corner was a row of skips, all overflowing with rubbish. In one of them was the hunched form of Bobbin. The piebald markings on his face were smeared with dirt, and even the gold around his eyes appeared tarnished. Green Man could see bruises too, and scabs forming on some fresh cuts. Somebody had clearly played rough with the old joker. Misery and fatigue made Bobbin seem ancient rather than old, a shrivelled version of the man he usually was.