Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  Over the years he had been sent to Northern Ireland more than a few times to assist with the Troubles so he knew the barracks well. In fact he had made his first kill at a pub in Belfast all those many long years ago.

  ‘Hoy!’ came a basso shout.

  Noel turned, hand raised, ID easily visible. Turing had provided him with the name of the current commander of the unit. ‘Noel Matthews of the Helix. Here to see Captain Talbot.’

  ‘Bloody aces,’ the soldier muttered as he lowered his rifle.

  Noel was listening with only half an ear while the commander of the Royal Ulster Constabulary banged on about those bastards at the FRU. Noel had endured more than a few minutes of similar grousing from Talbot at the FRU. The accents had changed, the song remained the same.

  The rain had let up, allowing Noel to gaze at the street outside. The dingy brick walls were covered with political (and if one was generous) artistic murals – masked men holding guns, symbols of red hands, and hunger strikes. There was a clot of black feathers in the gutter formed by a number of dead crows. In the distance the two massive yellow cranes at the Belfast shipyard dominated the horizon.

  ‘Strange thing is the city’s been scary quiet since the end of February. Hardly a single crime let alone any terrorism. It’s like the whole lot of them just got tired of it all.’

  That jerked Noel’s attention back to the speaker. ‘End of February, you say?’

  ‘Yeah, looks like all the troubles went your way.’ The added word English was implied if not spoken.

  ‘Indeed they have. Talbot over at Thiepval says you lot are leaky as a sieve,’ Noel said.

  ‘He’s a fine one to talk. They compromised more operations than I can list on two hands. Things have been better since that ancient bitch McNulty finally shuffled off this mortal coil. Or at least I hope she has. Always acting like we were toddlers as compared to Army Intelligence …’ The man’s voice was becoming a dull buzz as exhaustion dragged at Noel’s limbs and slowed his thoughts. Damn Turing for sending him on this fool’s errand. Soon he would have to transform, but suddenly the man’s words penetrated again.

  ‘… like skin stretched over a bag of bones. Once found some blood on a chair where she’d been sitting. Damn disgusting. Don’t know how she—’

  Noel surged to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Here, I thought you wanted—’

  ‘I really must go.’

  Alan Turing was in disgrace, of course, after his husband’s murderous action. But he’d served England for long decades, and perhaps more to the point, the government was still afraid of what Enigma’s brain might do if used against them. So when Alan asked for a meeting with Henry, the Prime Minister and his Cabinet – it concerns the fate of the monarchy – they agreed to it. Within hours, more than a dozen serious-faced men and women were gathered around a long mahogany table in the palace, waiting for Alan Turing to speak. It was oddly comforting that Noel was with him, ready to whisk them away should things not go well.

  It wasn’t easy, looking at Henry and seeing the echoes of Richard in his face. Never to trace a finger along those bones again … Alan’s hands were shaking, and their make-up had smeared badly at some point in the last tumultuous day, glints of silver shining through. Alan folded his hands carefully in front of him, lacing the fingers tight. Hold fast, for England’s sake.

  Then, speaking softly, he laid it out for them: Elizabeth, bearing a child with needle fingers. How badly had he cut her up during the birth? No wonder they’d thrust the baby away in horror, a nightmare vision of what such a child would mean for England, and why another child had never been conceived. Then Alan spoke of Handsome Harry, Arthur Hugesson, and finally Bobbin.

  ‘This is absurd,’ Henry said, half-rising from his chair. At a glance from the Prime Minister he subsided.

  ‘We’ll hear him out,’ Patel said, frowning. ‘You’ll get your chance to respond, Henry.’

  Alan nodded in acknowledgement, then gave them the rest as well, every piece on the chessboard, the almost inevitable maze of paths he foresaw, all leading to a new age of darkness and horror. Was this how Edmund Burke had felt, reflecting on the revolution in France, contemplating the destruction of Marie Antoinette? It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles, and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in – glittering like the morning star, full of life and splendour and joy. Margaret had offered England a similar vision. Henry, by contrast, offered only division and anguish.

  Alan finished, speaking from his heart. ‘Arthur offers us the hope of a united, peaceful future. I can foresee no such future under King Henry’s rule, with the jokers rising in anger, neighbour turning against neighbour. Trust me, sirs, that I know what a divided home will bring us: only chaos, civil unrest, revolution, and death.’ Burke had seen disaster come to life: Little did I dream that I should live to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers.

  Alan owed it to Margaret to defend her dying wish; he had failed her son completely. But Henry’s face was cold and rigid. ‘No, never. This is absurd. You cannot expect me to simply step down from the throne, in favour of this fairy tale you’ve concocted.’

  Alan stiffened. ‘Sir, the data is conclusive.’ If there was one thing he could take comfort in, it was the data that supported his words, his actions. Data was entirely reliable, when no human ever was. ‘Arthur is the legitimate heir, and you, sir, are not.’

  And now the room was erupting into noise and argument. The Foreign Secretary was banging a fist upon the table, and the Home Secretary looked as if she were about to faint. Henry stood up, shouted across the table. ‘I will have your HEAD for this, Turing!’ All that careful formality gone, spittle flew through the air, flecked onto the table.

  Alan bent his head: it wasn’t up to him now. He was England’s loyal servant, and had finally finished the task his queen had assigned to him.

  Now to see if these great men and women did their duty as well, as Noel grabbed him and teleported them away. His final thought was that it didn’t seem likely.

  ‘It was always unlikely that we would be believed or that Henry would gracefully acquiesce and abdicate.’ The Green Man was pacing, the knave’s long legs taking him back and forth across the upstairs workroom in three strides.

  Noel, sprawled in a chair in the room at Constance’s wrecked atelier, looked from face to face. Arthur’s expression was cautiously hopeful, as if he had been spared from a horrid fate. The expression was at odds with the angry red of his torn cheek. Constance looked fierce. Turing seemed dejected but also at peace. Noel wasn’t certain how he felt. Bad, he concluded as his ribs and arm ached, and the effort of teleporting them one by one had broken open the cut on his side. They had drawn all the curtains, turned on the radio and spoke in soft whispers in an effort to counter what they believed to be Finder’s power.

  Roger spoke again. ‘We have to use direct action.’

  Turing looked up alarmed at that. ‘Not violence.’

  ‘No. A march. On Windsor Castle. Pulling together everyone who has been marginalized, demonized, and discriminated against. Not just the jokers but the immigrants, the poor, the young, those who love differently or worship different gods. All of us united in hope for a better Britain.’

  Well, damn, he is good with words. And in that moment Noel felt a twinge of regret for what this man might have accomplished had his life not been destroyed by this hell-born virus. ‘So, how do we accomplish that?’ Noel asked.

  ‘I’ll put out the word to the joker community.’ The big knave turned to Constance. ‘You have a formidable online presence. Use that. Reach out to your followers.’

  ‘I’ll call the press,’ Turing said. ‘I’
m enough of a curiosity, especially now …’ he cast his eyes down and Noel knew he was thinking of his husband, ‘that they’ll take the call. Make sure they are there to cover the march. Make sure they report.’

  ‘And what do we tell these marchers that we hope turn up?’ Constance asked.

  ‘That we gather at noon and march on the castle. Demand that Henry abdicate.’ Roger turned to Arthur. ‘Sir, I know it’s dangerous, but I think you have to be there.’

  ‘I would never let any of you go alone,’ the King said quietly.

  Noel sighed and pushed out of the chair. ‘I need to pick up a few things if I’m going to keep you mad people safe.’

  Roger turned on him. ‘You disapprove?’

  ‘Oh no, I think it’s our only play. One last throw of the dice.’ Noel steeled himself to begin the transformation, already thinking about which weapons to recover from his bolt-hole in Austria, when Turing said, ‘Green Man, you can’t be there. There’s a warrant out for your arrest. Your presence will just bring the police down on all of us.’

  ‘I have to be,’ Roger said. ‘You need me there to keep our people calm.’ Green Man’s tone took on a pleading note. ‘And let me have this one chance to make things right. That it wasn’t all for nothing.’ Turing shook his head. Green Man pressed again. ‘Please, go to the authorities … to the Lion. Tell him I’ll surrender at the end of the march. Just allow me to walk free this one last time.’

  Noel waited to hear Turing agree then teleported away.

  They knew who she was, what she was. That much was clear. Turing had worked it out when the one called Noel, who seemed to be both a teleporter and a shapeshifter of some kind, had investigated her in Belfast. This was why they now plotted against her in secret with curtains pulled, never realizing that if a crow cared little for its own survival, it would squeeze itself even down a chimney.

  The voices of the peace conspiracy were muffled, but she learned … much of interest.

  They, on the other hand, knew nothing of all the pieces she had left on the board, nor how she would deploy them for the endgame.

  She opened her eyes to a burned-out squat, where Seizer, would-be King of the Britons, paced and raged and yes, wept too.

  He turned to see her watching him.

  ‘Is that it?’ he cried. ‘The last of my followers a dying old woman?’ In the distance were sirens and he flinched. ‘They’re coming for me. I’ve been betrayed.’

  ‘Those …’ Her voice was so weak, even the goddess could barely hear herself. She was ageing faster than any mere mortal. Years for every day. She breathed deep and got the words out. ‘They search for you, my liege, but they are not coming here. Not yet.’

  ‘Then, I should turn myself in!’ he cried. ‘Make them take me to trial and with every camera on me, the truth, yes! The truth will come out and—’

  She was shaking her head and so powerful were his fears that even Seizer’s arrogance wasn’t strong enough to carry him through the full sentence.

  ‘They have decided to put a joker on the throne after all, my lord. But one they can control.’ She added the tone known as ‘contempt’ to her voice. ‘One who will soothe the likes of us so the nats can live on in comfort.’

  In the time it took her to take a breath, his face went from shock to outrage. ‘That damn tailor. He’s still alive?’ She nodded. ‘I will kill him!’ he shouted. He smashed his fist against the crumbling wall. ‘I … will … kill … him!’

  He grabbed her by her bloody old coat, pulling her level with his face. ‘And I’ll kill you too, you worthless bag of bones, if you don’t live up to your name and find him for me.’

  Still, he had no idea that his escape from Windsor had only succeeded because of her.

  Badb pretended a moment of fear. ‘Please don’t hurt me! I know … I know where the pretender will be. Tomorrow. We … we must return to the castle.’

  She closed her eyes again. He thought her asleep, no doubt, and in truth, she had to fight with every iota of her strength to stay awake. She needed her concentration for the birds. They flew to every bolt-hole in London with orders for men and women who knew the power of terror, and how to keep it fed.

  Green Man wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as the van pulled into the secluded driveway. ‘This is where I’m to meet the Lion?’

  Turing nodded. ‘Yes. Is that going to be a problem?’

  He pulled open the sliding door and looked around. The lawn was still trim but the flower beds were empty, while the garden was bare and oddly sterile. Though the kennel remained, the dog that had lived there was long gone and had never been replaced. The house, his house, hadn’t changed at all, just faded a little over time. What struck him hardest was how empty it looked. As if someone had sucked the warmth and life from the bricks and mortar.

  He got out of the van and Turing hurried after him. ‘Is the location going to be a problem?’

  ‘No,’ Green Man replied, though in truth he wasn’t sure. He’d be hard pressed to describe how he felt but he was definitely feeling something. Something strong.

  ‘I hope that’s true,’ continued Turing, ‘as we need this to go well. The Lion took a great deal of persuading to meet you and it will be bad for all of us if you do anything other than reach an accord.’

  Green Man stopped at the front door. ‘If there are any problems, they won’t come from my end. Are you sure the Lion can be trusted?’

  ‘Do you want the full answer or the summary?’

  ‘The summary.’

  ‘Based on my long association with him and my understanding of the variables, he is eighty-eight per cent likely to be true to his word, plus or minus five. Though this goes down to fifty-eight per cent if he is given orders to the contrary, and virtually zero if he perceives you to be a threat.’

  Not feeling at all reassured, Green Man pushed the door. It swung open easily at his touch.

  Rectangles of mismatched colours marked where the pictures had hung on the walls long ago. The hole in the wall – the one he’d made – had been repaired. Apart from a little dust, the place looked clean. But it didn’t feel like a home any more. All of the ornaments and decorations had gone. The air was musty and cold, creating an atmosphere too sterile to generate nostalgia.

  He made his way deeper into the house.

  The front room seemed too large without furniture; however, the Lion still managed to fill it with his presence. Age had done nothing to shrink the man. If anything, it had given him a greater solidity. There was a calmness there, a strength that seemed to exude from every pore. Though the Lion’s dark beard had whitened with the passing of time, the man had aged disgustingly well. Green Man found this profoundly unfair.

  However, he was now taller than the Lion by some margin, and he took a petty kind of pleasure in being able to look down his nose at his adversary. The Lion was armed only with his kirpan, but the blade was sheathed and his hands far from the hilt.

  Green Man looked at the Lion.

  The Lion looked at Green Man.

  The first time they’d met had been when the Lion delivered him to Churchill and the last had been in this house. It had ended in violence. While he’d been exiled with the Twisted Fists, the Lion had taken his place, protecting his family and, if the photographs were to be believed, befriending his wife and filling in as the father figure.

  In some ways, the Lion had taken everything from him. In others, the Lion had cared for those he loved most. Was he indebted to this man? Was he owed revenge? Did any of that even matter now?

  Again, Green Man experienced a heady mixture of emotion, too tangled to identify.

  Turing glanced between the two men. He opened his mouth several times, his lips mouthing the starts of sentences that were rapidly discarded before settling on: ‘Time is against us and, as far as I’m concerned, the terms of the deal have already been detailed. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Green Man.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Lion.
r />   ‘Then I would ask why any of this is necessary?’

  ‘Because,’ the Lion replied, still meeting Green Man’s gaze, ‘I wanted to know if it was true. I wanted to look him in the eyes and hear him say it.’

  Green Man sighed. ‘Allow me to go on the march and I give my word that when it’s over I’ll turn myself in.’

  ‘Without trouble?’

  ‘I’ll make it clear to my people that this is my choice and that they’re not to interfere. My presence at the march will help keep it peaceful, and my public surrender will send a clear signal to all parties.’

  The Lion looked into his eyes for a long moment, then nodded. ‘I believe you.’ He held out a hand and the Green Man shook it. ‘And for my part, I will make sure neither the Helix nor the police act against you, so long as you remain a peaceful participant.’

  Turing looked relieved. ‘I believe that concludes our business.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Green Man, ‘but there’s something more I wish to discuss with the Lion. In private.’

  Metal eyebrows were raised but Turing didn’t seem surprised. He looked to the Lion, and when he got a nod in the affirmative, he excused himself.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about my family.’ He saw the Lion’s expression and hastily added, ‘Not details. I know you can’t provide me with those.’

  The Lion folded his arms. ‘It isn’t my place to speak of them.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Perhaps, when you’ve done the right thing, they’ll make contact. But it will be their choice.’

  ‘Again, I know that,’ replied Green Man, suppressing a flash of irritation. ‘I just want to know if they’re well. Can you tell me that at least?’

  ‘They …’ began the Lion, weighing up what he was prepared to divulge, ‘… are alive, and in good health.’ He paused, then added, ‘You don’t need to worry about them. I give you my word on that.’