The Percheron was a durable, compact ship rescued from the breaker’s yard by a shipping agent in the hire of Lord Burleigh. The double-masted, square-rigged vessel had started out life as a twenty-four-gun French brigantine, which had been captured during a brief skirmish in the Bay of Biscay. Because of its wide hull and generous hold, the craft was converted to a storeship and spent the next few years hauling supplies around to its larger sisters of the British fleet, the mighty ships-of-the-line. Badly damaged in an early autumn storm off Land’s End, the vessel was judged by the admiralty as not worth the cost of repair and was condemned to be sold for scrap and fittings. Upon being alerted by the agent, Burleigh stepped in, purchased the wounded ship, and had it towed to a private shipyard in Southampton.
The reconstruction had cost a princely sum, but far less than a new ship that, for the price, would have been a smaller, lighter craft; and inasmuch as his lordship planned to take up lengthy residence aboard ship, comfort, safety, and overall seaworthiness were of primary consideration. And in Burleigh’s thinking, the value of a sturdy seagoing fighter was not to be disparaged. Against that, money did not enter the list. Thus no expense was too great, and none was spared. The result was a ship that was both highly manoeuvrable and tight as a drumhead. What she may have lacked in speed was more than made up for in comfort, not to mention the cavernous cargo capacity. Fully laden—as it was just now—the Percheron would be able to spend up to thirty-six months at sea, which suited Burleigh’s designs.
Now, as his lordship strode the deck, feeling the damp night air on his face and neck, with the faintly foul river scent in his nostrils, he could not wait to weigh anchor. He ran his hand along the newly polished rail, turned, and walked back to the wheelhouse, which he had enclosed and covered to provide shelter for the helmsman.
“Where are they, Mr. Farrell? Any sign?” It was a needless question, but Burleigh could not help asking.
“Just gone nine by t’ bell in yonder church tower,” replied the captain around the long-stemmed pipe in his mouth. “River’s running high t’night. Reckon they’ll be along smart enough. We shall make tide, sir.” He gave a sharp nod of assurance. “Never fear.”
“And the crew?”
“Below in quarters—but ready to haul away as soon as I ring stations.” He paused, still trying to gauge the measure of his new employer. “They are chosen men, my lord. Twelve o’ the best—as requested. And you’ve a jemmy ship—bright as I’ve ever had t’ pleasure to helm. We’ll get on right enough.”
“The men I’m taking on tonight, Captain,” offered Burleigh. “They’re not trained to the sea as such. To be blunt, they have no training whatsoever.”
“So you’ve said, sir. So you’ve said.” Mr. Farrell removed the pipe and gave the bowl a tap against the ship’s wheel. “Not to worry. I’ve weaned pups before. Three months with me and my crew and they’ll be salt-licking seadogs right enough.”
“I am counting on it, Captain.”
“And so you may,” affirmed Farrell. “Though they be t’ sorriest landlubbers that ever staggered a deck, they’ll be fit for His Majesty’s Navy as of this time next year.” He gave the pipe another tap and stuck it in his mouth. “You can lay odds on that.”
“I will leave you to it, Captain.” Burleigh moved off towards the stern to wait.
“One small matter arising, your lordship,” Farrell called after him. “Would you mind telling me where we’re headed?”
“Once everyone is on board and we’re under weigh—then I’ll tell you.”
“I only mention it because it might help to have a course in mind before we make Greenwich.”
“Before Greenwich it is,” agreed Burleigh as he continued on his way.
The raised quarterdeck of the stern had been re-planked and still smelled of wood shavings and oakum. Burleigh settled on one of the balustrade benches he had installed—another of his own designs—pulled his coat around him, and, stretching his long legs before him, leaned back to wait. He was soon reflecting on how well sound carried over water—especially at night, it seemed. He could hear conversations among crewmen of other boats as they passed, the dip and slosh of oars, and the odd sound from the shore—a shout, the slam of a door, the barking of dogs, raucous singing from a wharfside pub, a catfight, a breaking bottle, a baby’s cry, a sudden eruption of laughter, the endless wash and ripple of the river waves against the mud-slick shore: a varied tableau of sound, an aural reminder of all that made life in the docklands so various.
Presently a church bell marked the hour and Burleigh counted ten tolls; the clear, melodic tone was still echoing across the water when he heard another bell—four quick chimes coming from the wheelhouse—followed by a hailing shout. Rising, the earl quickly made his way to the bow, where three crewmen were already lowering a rope ladder to a boat that had come up alongside. Looking over the rail, he saw a tender with a knot of men huddled on the centre benches.
At Burleigh’s appearance, the crewmen ceased what they were doing and snapped to attention. “Carry on,” he commanded.
“Permission to come aboard,” called a man standing in the stern.
Burleigh recognised his man Suggs and waved him in. “Here we are, all correct and proper,” announced the pilot, swinging his leg over the rail.
“Any trouble?” asked Burleigh.
“Narry a feather out of place,” replied the riverman, coming to stand before Burleigh. “I flapped your bit o’ paper in their fat faces, and the rozzers never raised a peep. Then I sprinkled a little silver on ’em—as specified in your particulars—and they went away cheerful, happy fellas.”
“Any of them twig to our ruse?”
“No, sir.” The pilot gave his shaggy head a shake. “All they know is I saved ’em a tiresome trip to Deptford in the middle of the night.”
“Well done, Suggs. You have earned yourself that bonus.” Turning to the crewmen standing by, he said, “Bring up the prisoners.”
Pilot Suggs leaned over the rail and called down to his men. “Unchain ’em and let ’em up—one at a time, mind. We don’t want anyone falling in the drink.”
Burleigh watched as the first prisoner was unshackled and allowed up the ladder. “When all are assembled, bring them aft. I will address them there.” Turning back to Suggs, he passed a bag of coins to him, saying, “I may have need of you in days to come.”
“Always at your service, sir,” replied the pilot, touching his hat in salute. “My distinct pleasure.”
Burleigh dismissed the riverman and returned to his place at the stern rail to wait. A short while later there came the thump of heavy street shoes on the planks and he rose, folding his arms across his chest. The four newcomers, uncertain what to make of this turn in their fortunes, stood tentatively before his lordship’s calculating gaze—a general inspecting green recruits.
“My name is Archelaeus Burleigh,” he said abruptly. “I am the Earl of Sutherland, and this is my ship. You are here tonight because I have saved you. Each one of you has been rescued from imprisonment or exile because you are chosen men—chosen by me for a particular enterprise that has been long in the planning.” He levelled his gaze at each one in turn, then declared, “Now the time has come for you to choose. Swear loyalty to me and I will, in due course, grant you all your freedom. Serve me well and I will enrich you beyond your most fevered dreams of avarice—”
“What if we choose not to swear loyalty?” asked the man called Taverner.
“If that is your choice, I respect it. You will be taken back to Justice House, where I have no doubt you will serve out your sentence—possibly with twenty years added for attempting to escape.”
“Not much of a choice, is it?” grumbled another of the men.
“Perhaps not—I grant you that,” replied Burleigh in a reasonable tone. “But, as you are men of limited prospects, I think you must all ask yourselves if you are likely to receive a better offer in the next few minutes. Because, you see, the tide is
beginning to run, and this ship sets sail on the tide. Have I made the alternatives clear enough?”
The prisoners glanced at one another, and the one who had raised the question received an elbow in the ribs from the one closest to him. “Clear as bells, m’lud.”
“Well then,” continued Burleigh, “I urge you all to choose the path to wealth and eventual freedom in my service.” He moved to stand before the first man. “What do you say, Taverner?”
“I’d sign on with the devil himself if he got me out of that plague hole.”
“Welcome aboard,” replied Burleigh. He moved on to the next man. “How about you—Dexter, is it? What do you say?”
“Yes, sir. You can count me in.”
Burleigh welcomed him and moved on to the next man. “It is your turn, Connie Wilkes. Are you with me?”
“Aye, sir,” replied the man. “One good turn deserves another—as me old mam’d say.”
Burleigh likewise welcomed him and then turned to the last man. “That leaves you, Malcolm Dawes. Time to make up your mind.”
Glancing at his fellows, Malcolm shrugged and said, “If they’re in, I’m in.”
“Good,” said Burleigh after welcoming the last of his new gang. “We are putting to sea at once. Your first chore will be to aid Captain Farrell’s crew. Tomorrow we will begin your education.”
“What education is that?” asked Taverner. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
“An education in what I expect from those in my service,” replied the earl. “An education in the way the world really works.” He paused, then added, “An education in how and where to find the riches I have promised you.”
The ship’s bell rang again and a voice called from the foredeck.
“They are ready to weigh anchor. You are dismissed to help them. Mr. Farrell is captain of this ship, and you will obey his every command—without question. In the days to come, he will teach you to sail. When you have completed your chores tonight, you will be shown to your quarters. We will speak again tomorrow.”
The convicts looked at one another uncertainly, then Taverner said, “You heard the boss. Let’s get cracking. The sooner that anchor is up, the sooner we leave Ole Blighty behind. I don’t know about the rest o’ you, but that can’t be soon enough for me.”
Malcolm turned on him. “Listen, sunshine, you ent top dog here. I don’t take no orders from the likes o’ you.”
“What was that?” sneered Taverner. “Did I hear a rat squeak?”
Burleigh watched but made no move to intervene in the power struggle between them.
“Leave it out, you two,” snarled Dexter, stepping between them. “He’s right, Mal. The sooner we get under sail, the better it is for all of us. Last thing we want is bluebottles buzzing ’round, right?”
“’Course I’m right,” Taverner gloated. “Come on, lads.” He hurried away and the others fell into line behind him.
Burleigh smiled as the gang tramped off. They were raw, oh yes—very raw. He did not allow himself to imagine for a moment that it would be an easy task to forge them into serviceable shape, but at least the first challenge had been made and met, the first crisis of leadership peacefully resolved.
He moved to the aft companionway and went below to his quarters—a suite of panelled rooms of extreme opulence. The cabin boy had lit the candles for him and turned down his bed. From a decanter on his sideboard, Burleigh filled a cut-glass beaker with fine port and sat down to toast the day’s success. As he sipped the sweet liquor, there came a knock on his cabin door and, upon invitation, a crewman put his head in. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” said the sailor, “Captain desires the satisfaction of knowing where the earl would like his ship to go.”
“Ah.” Burleigh swirled the drink in his cup and held it to the candlelight, studying the deep velvety colour. “Tell Mr. Farrell to set course for Gibraltar and the Tyrrhenian Sea.”
CHAPTER 14
In Which an Alchemical Difficulty Is Compounded
Never heard of the Magick Court?” asked Kit. “Really?”
“I’m not much into tennis. Or basketball,” replied Cassandra. “Professional sports leave me cold.”
“Fair enough,” allowed Kit, grinning. “Actually, it’s nothing to do with tennis.”
“I’m really not all that much into magic either.”
Wilhelmina and Gianni, sitting opposite them in the carriage, were deep in a conversation of their own. Kit was happy to play tour guide. “How about Mad Rudolf—ever heard of him?”
Cass shook her head.
“We need to improve your education, American girl.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “So what’s so important about this magic court, Professor Livingstone?”
“For starters,” replied Kit, adopting the smug manner of a junior lecturer, “the Magick Court is not really about magic at all. It’s all to do with Emperor Rudolf ’s search for the Philosopher’s Stone—”
“Got this one,” said Cass. “Alchemy, right? Changing lead into gold.”
“Partly,” allowed Kit. “It is alchemy, but they’re not trying to change lead into gold, they’re searching for the formula for immortality. Emperor Rudolf has brought the best and brightest scientific minds of the age here to help crack it.” At Cass’ expression he laughed, enjoying the all-too-rare occasion when he actually knew something useful. “I’m serious. They’re all up here beavering away like mad things, and Emperor Rudolf pays the bills.”
“Real, live alchemists,” Cass mused, shaking her head lightly. “I am living a fairy tale.”
“No kidding,” agreed Kit. “But then, this is the age of fairy tales, remember. The Brothers Grimm live just around the corner.”
“Really?” Cass said—before catching herself. Kit nodded in mock sincerity and she gave him a gentle push. “Liar.”
The red carriage jounced over the bridge separating the imperial precinct from the lower town, and Cass caught a glimpse of a structure that appeared, in her view, almost defiantly dull. Where she might have anticipated a grand, castellated edifice with towers and parapets and arches, what she saw was a blockish bulwark that prefigured post-war brutalist architecture by a good three hundred years. Emperor Rudolf ’s palace was, it had to be said, an extremely depressing barn of a building, devoid even of a barn’s prosaic appeal.
Sharing the plaza-sized courtyard was a cathedral of such inspired grandeur of vision that it seemed to have been dropped onto the square from another, altogether more refined planet for the sole purpose of showing up the deficiencies of its ugly sister opposite. Where the palace hulked and brooded, breathing an air of drear despond, the cathedral soared and scintillated, its delicate, graceful spires and the swelling copper dome catching light from every available angle and giving it back as golden fire—transmuting earthly matter into substance fitted for heaven.
Before Cass had time to dwell on the meaning of this visual parable, the carriage jounced through the gates and swayed to a halt; the door was opened by a servant in royal red livery. She followed Mina and Gianni as they disembarked and found herself standing before an entrance dominated by a great pediment featuring what could only be the most realistic statue of Saint George and his dragon that she had ever seen. The heroic knight stood with one foot firmly planted on the thrashing creature’s sinuous neck, his broadsword sweeping down for the coup de grâce as the odious thing raked the air with its scimitar claws and gnashed its rapier teeth before Saint George’s resolute righteousness.
“Gosh,” she murmured.
“I know,” said Mina. “I felt the same way first time I saw it.”
“Will we meet the emperor?” wondered Cass. “Or any of the royal family?”
“I don’t think so,” Mina told her. “But you never know. Rudolf is always around—kind of like a ghost drifting through the corridors. But he doesn’t mingle much.”
“Have you met him?”
“Once. He seems a nice chap—a bit eccentric, but not
half as mad as people make out. It’s possible we might meet Docktor Bazalgette, though. He’s the Lord High Alchemist and, just so you know, he takes his position very seriously. If we see him, a bow and curtsey are in order. And whatever you do, do not mention the Turks. Oh, and be sure to call him Herr Docktor. He insists.”
Cass gave Kit a look that said, Pinch me, I’m in a dream, and Kit returned it with a glance that said, You cannot make this stuff up.
From the palace emerged a man in a coat and knee breeches of green satin, white stockings, and shiny black shoes. “Ich heisse Sie alle willkommen zu Ihnen alle,” he said with a perfunctory bow. “Kann ich Ihre Vorladung sehen?”
Wilhelmina produced the summons she had received, and they were conducted straightaway through the enormous vestibule and into Grand Ludovic Hall. They crossed a space that could have served as a municipal skating rink and were met at the far end by another servant. At a word from his superior, the footman led them up a wide staircase and then another, down a succession of corridors and long connecting hallways to a dusty back wing of the palace.
“Here is where the alchemists hang out,” Mina told the others.
They stopped at a brass-studded, leather-bound door. The footman gave a quick, officious rap on the doorframe, and there issued a muffled voice from within. “Einen Moment, bitte!”
As the footman disappeared back down the corridor, the leather-lined door opened to reveal a slender young fellow dressed as if he were attending a costume party as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice—complete with a fur-trimmed cloak of dark purple and a pancake-shaped velvet hat that lopped over his ears. “Och! Here you are.” He opened the door wide. “Kommen Sie herein.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Mina in English. “I brought some people along.” She made short work of introducing the others.
“Willkommen to my laboratory, meine Freunde,” he said. “Forgive my poor English, I am begging you. Gustavus Rosenkreuz is at your service.”
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