Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  Noel closed his left hand around the hilt of the slender blade that he carried in his pocket. He hadn’t used this particular knife since he’d slit the throat of the Caliph on the long-ago night in Baghdad. He much preferred the gun, but in a crowd this large the chance of a stray bullet and ensuing panic was too much of a risk. This had to be fast and silent.

  He had considered transforming, but the pain of the shifting bones with his broken arm and ribs made him decide against it. In a crowd this large he could vanish as effectively as if he’d teleported.

  It was an appropriately subdued group as well as a segregated one. The nats were closer to the church, and security kept even them back from where the cars would arrive and the family and friends and sundries (ambassadors and such) would be escorted into the cathedral.

  Jokers lined the street, silent sentinels to honour a dead queen. There was a smattering of nats among them, mainly immigrants and minorities showing solidarity with an even more despised group.

  Noel waited until the crowd started to break up, then began sliding through the people drawing closer to his target. The cast and ribs were going to throw off his balance. He analysed how to compensate for that while he mentally chanted the mantra – Thrust between the third and fourth ribs, with an upward direction, add a twist.

  To avoid the chance of a slip or a jostle he kept his feet pressed firmly to the pavement. The knife he held softly, ready to flip it if necessary. His grip would tighten only at the moment of the thrust.

  Perhaps half a yard separated them when Maven’s stare rolled across him. Gone was the pleasantly smiling daughter. They were two predators locking eyes over the body of a quarry. Noel moved fast. She was faster. Grabbing her father’s arm, she spun him out of the way. What should have been a killing blow left the blade sliding across Boyd-Brackenbury’s palm and up the arm to his elbow. Material and skin parted at the knife’s honed edge.

  The joker screamed. Maven remained silent, a deadly silence that Noel knew well. Just as he knew the shape of the object in her pocket. A pistol no doubt as illegal as his own. He knew the coat would suck the round unless she was an accomplished shot and aimed for the head, and at this point he had to believe she was.

  He shouted, ‘Hoy, a man’s been hurt here!’ as he slipped the knife up his sleeve.

  People rushed forward and he allowed them to shoulder past him, catching whiffs of body odour, perfume and aftershave, the scents of exotic lands, and the strange smells that sometimes were part of a joker’s affliction. He faded back into the crowd, and had a final vision of Maven’s cold-eyed stare. It promised retribution.

  They’d all gathered in the King’s Library at Buckingham Palace; Margaret had spent much of her free time in that room, and the royal family was used to coming there to find her. Maybe they were looking for that sense of comfort now. The table was piled high with trays of foods that no one was eating, and cups of tea and coffee sat on every available surface, at some risk to the books. Not that anyone cared about that right now.

  Gloriana sat erect at the table, but her fisted hands would have been enough to betray her agitation, if the tremble in her voice hadn’t given her away. ‘Daddy, please!’

  Alan hadn’t heard Gloriana call her father that since she was a small child, not since she’d grown into an elegant young woman, married, and moved away. But she had clearly given up on any pretence of sober adulthood now.

  Henry frowned from his own seat across the table, flanked by Emily. ‘Gloriana, what would you have me do? I can’t let this family, this country, be held hostage to some thugs—’

  ‘Hostage! Sissel is the hostage here, not you or us or England. She’s just a little girl, and she’s frightened, maybe hurt, missing her mother—’ Gloriana broke down in tears again then. Her own mother walked across the room and sat down beside her, one hand reaching out to stroke her hair. As if that would help.

  Alan’s heart ached for Gloriana, and he wished he could reassure her that Sissel wasn’t hurt or frightened at all. Only sleeping, and kept perfectly safe. But even raising his head a little brought Richard’s eyes snapping to him, a frown on that broad forehead that said, louder than words, shut up, Alan! Alan bent his head again in silent obedience.

  The phone rang, and one of the MI7 people snatched it up, hit speakerphone.

  ‘Give me Henry.’

  ‘I’m empowered to negotiate …’

  ‘Henry, now, or I’m hanging up.’

  The agent mutely offered the phone to Henry, who took it, frowning. Alan was counting seconds in his head, and he knew Davies would be doing the same. They had very little time before the call was traced, despite all the extra servers Alan had routed it through.

  ‘Have you made your decision, Your Highness? The little girl is looking a bit peaky.’

  ‘Bring Sissel back, you bastards!’

  ‘You know our terms. What’s it to be? Is a kingdom worth your granddaughter’s life? She has such pretty little fingers – it’d be a shame if she were to lose a few.’

  Alan closed his eyes as the room erupted in noise and chaos, with Henry raging into the phone. Davies had been told not to lay a finger on the girl. But even the words were enough to make Alan’s throat constrict. He’d been through too many operations not to know that sometimes things spun out of control; even the best plans could go terribly wrong.

  Alan Turing was far from certain that this was the best plan.

  Embarrassment was not an emotion with which Noel was much acquainted. He viewed much of the world with cynical detachment, but seeing Gloriana’s face swollen and red from the tears that still rolled down her face and hearing the chest-wracking sobs made him feel like a voyeur. Gloriana’s mother – the rejected wife – sat next to her on the sofa, an arm around her shoulders trying to comfort her daughter, while the young brood mare-in-waiting hovered nearby.

  The real action however was happening on the other side of this room in the family quarters. Ranjit Singh stood stiff and expressionless as Henry berated him.

  ‘You bloody fucking useless raghead. My mother’s funeral disrupted and my granddaughter kidnapped. What the Devil good are all you aces if you can’t protect my family?’

  Noel could see that the Sikh was attempting to gather back the tatters of his patience and courtesy. ‘With respect, sir, it appears that the kidnappers had detailed intelligence regarding our security measures. I have ordered a full review and investigation. We will get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘To hell with your damned navel-gazing! What are you doing to find my granddaughter?’

  ‘Every intelligence and law enforcement agency is working diligently to locate the Princess, sir,’ the Lion said stiffly.

  ‘You lot haven’t been able to do bugger all since you lost Flint. Collection of useless freaks. I need someone tough enough to do what’s necessary.’

  ‘And would that include the same sort of grotesque illegalities committed by Brigadier Foxworthy … sir?’ Singh added the honorific belatedly.

  Henry glared up at the big ace. He gestured sharply, ordering Noel to his side. Apparently Noel’s entrance had not gone unnoticed.

  Noel joined the pair and nodded respectfully to Henry. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m putting you in charge of the Silver Helix,’ the King said.

  Emotions raced across the Lion’s face: fury, humiliation, dread. ‘Sir, I must protest. Such a decision cannot be yours alone to make—’

  Henry cut him off. ‘My mother created the Helix, selected its first director. Protest if you wish, but by the time all the barristers and politicos have finished arguing Matthews will have got the job done.’

  ‘I will make every effort to do so, sir,’ Noel said.

  ‘Well then, get to it!’

  It was clear they were dismissed. Noel headed for the door trailed by the Lion. Before he reached it Gloriana came to her feet, and blocked their exit. The tears had ended, leaving only her face and make-up in ruins as testament to their passin
g.

  She was once again a Windsor in full control. ‘Please, gentlemen. Find my daughter.’

  They both bowed their heads, but the Lion didn’t answer. This was now all on Noel. ‘Madam, I will.’

  Now I just have to work out how the fuck to do that.

  Alan had driven the two hours out from London, but parked a distance from the estate. He could have driven all the way there, but he’d needed to clear his head. The last three miles he’d run through the gathering dusk, crossing neglected woodlands, his memory flashing back eight decades, to the war. There had been other wars, and some he’d even fought in, risking life and limb in service – but there would always be one war that ranked above them all. Alan Turing had built the Engima machine and led the team that cracked the German codes. He’d gone to America in ’42, taught the Americans everything he knew. Was it hubris to think he’d had a significant hand in winning the war, in saving England? All of his compatriots from that time were dead; there was none left to challenge his memory of events.

  It was getting harder to run these days; maybe Alan was finally ageing. His breath came harder. Sweat dripped down his neck, undoubtedly smearing his make-up, but Davies wouldn’t care and Sissel wouldn’t be awake enough to notice. She wouldn’t know he’d been there at all. The late-winter woodland was mucky; Alan’s shoes squished in the mud with every step. But still he ran, and it felt good, clearing the cobwebs away. If he could, he’d run forever.

  Alan slowed down for the approach, paused in the shadow of a great old tree and texted Davies. Wouldn’t do to get his head blown off by one of the guards, or even to have them see his face.

  Davies texted back: It’ll be clear in 10 – I’m sending them to the pub for a bite. You’ll have at least 30 minutes.

  Thirty minutes would be more than enough. Soon the van rattled past, one of the guards dimly visible through the window. Once it was well down the road, Alan headed to the low white building that sat at the edge of the lake – a Grecian folly, built by a long-dead lord to adorn his lands. Most of the estate had been broken up by now, the mansion separated into flats. But eighty years ago, this folly had concealed one of England’s code-breaking sites, and Alan Turing had long ago arranged to have a shell corporation purchase this little parcel of land. You never knew when something like this might come in handy.

  He passed through the pillars that would shortly be guarded again by two men Davies had hired. Another would be inside, at the base of the stairs, and another patrolling the bunker. Four in total, along with Davies – it was overkill for one helpless little girl, but better safe. Alan descended into the darkness, and fished a key out of his pocket. He opened the door, to a room filled with a maze of massive computers, furniture, and filing cabinets, lit only by dozens of tiny blinking lights.

  ‘You can turn the lights on, you know,’ he said mildly.

  ‘I prefer it like this,’ Davies said quietly. ‘Peaceful-like.’

  Alan almost hadn’t seen the man, who sat hunched over in a dark corner of the room. Had Davies always been the sort of person who hid, or had his card turning changed his fundamental character? Philosophical questions that no one had the answer to, and Alan was losing his faith that he could sort out even mundane puzzles, much less metaphysical ones.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ Alan asked. There was no obvious sign of Sissel. Davies jerked his head towards the back, and Alan walked to the far end, past banks of out-of-date computers. Oh, they still worked, but there was more computing power on the phone in his pocket than on all of these machines put together. His brain still worked faster than the phone could – but for how much longer? And of course, his brain couldn’t make actual phone calls. Inadequate in so many ways.

  The girl was tucked into a far corner, lying on the floor, on a bed of palace blankets, with her hands loosely bound in front of her, and a blindfold across her eyes. Alan’s throat tightened. There’d been no need to gag Sissel, at least – even if she woke, this place was remote enough that no one would hear her screams. But Alan didn’t plan to let her wake. She was still fast asleep, but the meds would be wearing off soon. Alan sighed, and pulled a hypodermic out of his pocket. He bit his lip as he bent down to inject her. Sissel twitched away at the tiny pain; her body responding, though her mind was absent. Sorry, sorry, child.

  It was better this way – let Sissel sleep through it all, that would surely be less traumatizing. Fall asleep in her bed, and hopefully wake there again, surrounded by her loved ones. If Henry would just abdicate and be done with it.

  Richard had been convinced that this would work, but so far, there had been a lot of sound and fury, yet nothing significant had changed. Davies had made the first call with a voice modulator as disguise, demanding Henry’s abdication in exchange for Sissel’s return. Henry had only threatened dire consequences in response, and Davies had hung up before any of the intelligence and law enforcement agencies could trace the call.

  Richard had said to let them sleep on it, or not sleep, as the case might be, and call again in the morning. Maybe it was time to stand up to him, to just bring Sissel back and end all this nonsense. Henry was a nightmare of a king, but would Richard truly be any better? If he were willing to stoop to this?

  Yet if Alan brought Sissel back now, he’d have to explain everything. Once Henry knew Richard was behind the kidnapping – there would be blood and fury. Alan’s mind raced in circles; the best path he could see out of this trap was for Henry to renounce the throne. That would solve everything.

  Davies came up to join him, speaking softly. ‘I’ll keep her safe, sir.’

  Alan sighed. ‘I know you will, Davies. Good man.’

  The pawns were moving on the board. Nothing to do but wait, and see which way the King would go.

  Badb found herself back in her own body, on the floor of the safe house. Sticky and weak. She was not alone.

  ‘Oh God, Beth, the smell! Worse than Seizer’s scabs.’

  ‘Watch it, Jamila! Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll put his fingers right through your neck.’

  Badb kept her eyes shut, watching the two women through a crow at the window instead. The first one, Jamila, had ears in the shape of human hands that telegraphed her moods by making rude gestures or giving a thumbs-up. Right now, they were clenched in horror, while one of her real hands was clamped hard over her mouth.

  The younger one, Beth, encumbered as she was with a mop and a bucket, could only screw up her face against the stench of the goddess’s rotting bandages.

  ‘Let’s just get it cleaned up quickly, can we, Jamila?’ She didn’t look much like a joker, but slim rods of metal and plastic rested against her limbs. ‘We can be back downstairs with a cup of tea in five minutes.’

  Jamila’s ‘ears’ crossed their fingers. She nodded, replacing Badb’s water jug, while Beth began mopping up the blood.

  ‘She looks dead,’ said Jamila.

  ‘She’s breathin’, though.’

  ‘Should we get help?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Beth. ‘Just do what the Green Man says, innit? Like he never heard of women’s lib. Got boobs? Great! Mop the floors, love.’

  ‘You think Seizer will be any better?’

  The mop paused. Beth’s elegant head swung one way and then another, before she lowered her voice. ‘What you mean, “will be”? You stagin’ a coup, missus? Because, I enjoy a bit of a laugh, but I’m loyal, ye hear me?’

  ‘Nah, nah, this ain’t about the Green Man. It’s Seizer. Ain’t you heard? Seriously? He’s the Prince.’ The hands were suddenly very animated. Like Beth, Jamila kept her voice to a whisper, but it kept cracking as she spoke. ‘A joker prince and the rightful king. I found it written on a piece of paper outside my window this mornin’. There was a whole story. Spirited away as a baby, innit? ’Cos they couldn’t stand for one of us to get his due. They think we’ll just lie down and take it. But what use is us bein’ Fists if we do that, eh? I’ve never shot no one myself yet, but I’d pop me
own mum if she tried to stop us gettin’ the little that’s rightfully ours! I’d pop every fuckin’ puppy in London, so I would!’

  Beth grinned, ‘What, even the fluffy ones?’

  ‘None of your jokes, now. I mean it.’

  ‘And you really think … you think it’s Seizer?’

  ‘Well, he’s got the voice, hasn’t he? And he could be the right age.’

  ‘But if it’s not him?’

  Jamila’s ears turned to fists, clenching so hard their knuckles were white. ‘Real or not. I’d take him over any nat. They just want us gone. Well, fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all. I’d die for that, Beth, and I’m not the only one.’

  A knock on the door made both of them jump. The Green Man, always courteous, called, ‘Can I come in now? Is she decent?’

  ‘Decent?’ said Beth, staring at Badb on the floor.

  The goddess needed every bit of her strength to lift herself up against the adhesive power of a thousand dried scabs that ripped all at once. The crunching, tearing sound of it made the other women flinch.

  Badb didn’t care. She knew why the Green Man had come. She watched him more than anyone, after all.

  She stood, hunched over, a horror of torn dressings and fresh wounds.

  ‘Allow me a few minutes to change,’ she said.

  Noel paused in the doorway and studied the office. The massive desk and chair that had been able to withstand Flint’s stone form had been replaced by a plain executive desk and swivel chair. The Lion was not a flamboyant man.

  All that remained of Flint was a single framed photograph of him alongside the other two men who had led MI7 since its founding: Lord Dalton Carruthers who had replaced Flint after the Churchill assassination, and of course Singh. Noel wondered if his picture would join them.

  I may not be here long enough to have a snap taken, he thought. A crow perched on the window sill gave a raucous cry pulling him back to the moment.