The Jade Queen

by Jack Conner

  ***

  Lynch swore inwardly. Soldiers stood to either side of him -- only two, but surely the elite of the elite. It would not do to resist. That would only draw more soldiers and further alienate him from the Queen.

  “After you, of course,” Lynch said.

  The Prince’s lips twitched. “Follow me.”

  He set off, and Lynch followed. The two soldiers took up the rear, alert and grim-faced. What had Michael told them -- that Lynch had come here to assassinate the Queen? Or perhaps they were members of the Society and had partaken of the serum which made them supermen but which required them to kill fellow humans -- or as they would have it, lesser humans -- to live, as if they were some sort of modern-age vampire. Lynch hoped for the latter because he might well have to kill them, and he wanted to feel good about it.

  He turned his head to give Queen Fontaine a last look. To his surprise, she had not moved on, but continued to stare at him, and Michael, an unreadable expression on her face. An admirer bowed to her and gestured toward the dance floor, and her attention was distracted.

  Prince Michael led Lynch out of the ballroom and down a side hall, its ceilings high, its walls lined with silver-framed mirrors and priceless oils. Exquisite scrollwork shone along the walls and door frames. The soldiers’ boots rang heavily on the beautiful burgundy carpet, sounding like an axe slicing into flesh with each step.

  Lynch eyed Prince Michael’s back. His neck. It was long but muscular, a good neck. Lynch could impale it with his hook, rip out the jugular. Of course, that would require him to draw back his arm and coil it, an action that would be sure to have the soldiers on him instantly.

  Michael reached a connecting hall, led down this to a somewhat smaller hall and, pausing before a certain door, knocked three times. Someone within opened it and Michael swept inside. The soldiers behind Lynch prodded him forward, and after they entered the door slammed shut, and Lynch found himself in a medium-sized room, a large antique table in the center and paintings of somewhat lesser quality on the walls. A little-used meeting room, then.

  Before the table stood a grossly fat man with a thick black beard and hooded eyes. When his eyes shone from beneath the shaggy brows, they glimmered like those of a snake’s. He wore an elaborate robe (his belly straining against it) of reds and golds, a tall conical hat of the same hues, and carried a bejeweled staff. Lynch recognized him as the Grand Vizier, a vaguely sinister figure in court politics. Lynch had always likened him to Rasputin in his own mind, and the dark, hooded eyes only added to the impression, if not his extreme obesity. As far as Lynch knew, however, it was not the occult that drove the man, but more earthly human vices: greed and the lust for power being uppermost. He and the Prince made excellent bedfellows.

  The Grand Vizier wasted no time on greetings. “You brought him, then. Good.”

  “Restrain him,” Prince Michael told the troopers.

  One of the guards slapped a cuff on Lynch’s left wrist, but the cuff merely slid off the hook. Prince Michael growled in irritation and waved the matter away.

  “Sit him down,” the Prince said.

  A chair was shoved into the back of Lynch’s knees, and he sat. “Would it be too much trouble to fetch a glass of port?” Lynch asked. “I’m parched. Brandy would suffice. Is that a Renoir?”

  Prince Michael glared at him. “You have really complicated things, Mr. James.”

  “Is the ‘mister’ supposed to be a slight? Because I am no longer a lord of anything in particular? But you’re not, either. Oh, until tonight, that is -- when you murder your mother.”

  He was gratified to hear the rustle of cloth as the soldiers stiffened behind him. But did they stiffen from surprised alarm or in preparation to dispatch someone who had stumbled onto their plans?

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Who else is with you?”

  “I came unescorted to the party, I’m afraid. I know it looks bad, but odd as it sounds I could not scrape up a date for the evening. Perhaps it’s the hook. It puts people off. Perhaps if I’d told them I planned to kill my mother they would have come. Quite the social event, isn’t it? You have, what, three soldiers here? Are there more?” He craned his head to eye the soldiers behind him, but one slapped him on the head and he flinched. “Boys, do you really want to be part of this? It’s not too late, you know. You haven’t actually murdered the Queen yet. Foil these fools’ plans and -- ”

  Someone struck him from the front. Lynch glared up at Michael, whose chest heaved.

  “I will rip out your tongue!” said the Prince.

  “I keep losing body parts. But the ladies would not like you if you cut that out.”

  “Insolent cur!” Michael drew back his arm to strike again.

  The Grand Vizier coughed. “Why don’t we save our energies -- and our seams; exertion will rip them -- and ask our questions? Let our men exert themselves in our stead. Do you really want to return sweaty and with ripped jacket to the ball?”

  Michael jerked his head to one of his men, a hulking fellow who stepped forward and loomed over Lynch, cracked his knuckles. He was the fellow who had opened the door, and he had such thick bones and heavy skull that at first Lynch suspected he was one of the Bone Men. But he still had all his skin and did not seem to want to eat Lynch’s brains -- only bounce it around a little.

  “Talk,” the Grand Vizier said. “Who are you with? Who told you of our plans?”

  “Ah. That.”

  “We have a traitor in our midst. Tell us who and we will let you live.”

  “Liar, liar.”

  “Very well. Tell us who and we will not torture you too severely, once we verify your information.”

  “Well, you see, that’s a problem. I deduced your plans on my own. Rather, I heard some of your men talking -- down in the mines, this was, I think, or aboard the zeppelin. Quite a nice little vessel, if I may say so, until I blew it up. Yes, they were chattering on about killing the Queen and how much fun it would be to murder the Queen and boy, they wished they could help commit regicide, but they really had to stay home and wash their hair. They had lovely hair.”

  The Grand Vizier almost smiled. “This will go harder on you if you resist.” He nodded to the giant soldier with the thick bones.

  The soldier’s fist crashed across Lynch’s jaw, and for a moment Lynch danced through the night with stars fluttering about him. Then he was back in the chair in the backroom of the Palace. He liked the stars better.

  He spat a gob of blood onto the fancy carpet.

  “Don’t do that,” Michael said.

  The giant raised his fist again.

  “Wait,” Lynch said. “I remember now.”

  The giant lowered his arm, slightly.

  “It wasn’t their hair they were going to wash. My mistake. They had some nasty fungal growth between their toes. I believe they planned on scraping them -- ”

  The giant raised his fist.

  Lynch moved. The soldiers behind him must have expected him to rocket out of his chair and tackle the giant -- it was the natural thing to do -- and their hands slammed down toward his shoulders to pin him down. Instead, he toppled the chair sideways, and their hands met empty air. The giant gave a whoof of breath as his fist flew, and one of the soldiers cursed -- perhaps he’d been hit.

  Lynch struck the floor and rolled. He lashed his legs out at the Prince, but Michael jumped aside. Lynch aimed his rolling momentum at the Grand Vizier. Huge and corpulent, the Vizier could not scramble out of the way in time, and his efforts only put him off-balance when Lynch slammed into his legs. The Grand Vizier roared and fell, robes flapping. Lynch ended up beneath the Vizier’s feet. Soldiers rushed at him. Michael pulled his ceremonial sword. Lynch threw off the Vizier’s entangling legs and instead of climbing to his feet, as the soldiers clearly expected him to do -- their arms already coiled to grab him when he rose -- he scrambled on hand and knees, then hurled himself lengthwise along the Vizier.

  The fat man rocked back and forth,
trying to right himself like a turtle. Lynch coiled one leg around his middle, stilling him, pressed his front up against the Vizier’s back, grabbed the Vizier about the face with his right hand, yanked the head back, exposing the neck, and pressed the point of the hook against the Vizier’s fleshy neck. He jerked his hook, just a millimeter, and a drop of blood wept out; the steel point was now embedded in the flesh.

  The Grand Vizier screamed and raised bejeweled hands to the soldiers. “Don’t! He’ll kill me!”

  Michael stalked back and forth, sword naked and gleaming. “You idiot! How could you let him get you?”

  “You said you would take care of him,” the fat man said. “You didn’t even restrain his hands -- ”

  “A shame,” Lynch agreed, digging his hook in a little deeper. The Grand Vizier yelped. The soldiers, all of whom carried side arms, now had their pistols trained on Lynch. “Put those down.”

  “Do it!” squealed the Grand Vizier.

  “Don’t,” said Prince Michael.

  The soldiers, flummoxed, compromised by lowering their weapons but not dropping them.

  “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” said Lynch to the Vizier. “We’re going to stand up, very slowly, and you lot are going to back off.” He directed this at Michael and the soldiers.

  Very gingerly, Lynch and the Grand Vizier climbed to their feet. As they did, Lynch heard Prince Michael slice his sword through the air in frustration. It sounded like silk parting. The Grand Vizier panted by the time they were on their feet, and sweat beaded Lynch’s own forehead. This wasn’t how he’d planned the evening.

  “Alright,” he said to the Vizier, “this way.” Gently but forcefully, he guided the Vizier toward the door.

  Michael and the soldiers closed in but did not rush him. Michael looked murderous.

  “Don’t do anything,” Lynch advised him. “You wouldn’t want to have to get the Vizier’s blood off this nice carpet. You might even get some on yourself.”

  His back bumped up against the door. Here he realized a problem. The door opened inward. He could not reach back to open it without removing his grip on the Vizier. He would have to hope that his hook digging firmly into the man’s flesh would be enough to hold him. He took a deep breath, quickly removed the hand, reached back, fumbled with the door, yanked it open, shoving the Vizier forward to give the door clearance room --

  The Vizier, deceptively agile for one so large, spun, corkscrewing so that Lynch’s hook pulled out of his flesh. A drop of blood flew out. He continued the spin even as one of his massive, jewel-encrusted fists came round at Lynch’s jaw.

  Lynch flew backwards, hit the carpet of the hallway and skidded. His head rang. Over the ringing, he heard the Grand Vizier thunder, “Kill him!”

  Chapter 16

  “Leave me,” Lord Wilhelm said. He was still studying the Queen’s mausoleum. He held a notebook and from time to time glanced at it, referring to something he’d written, or else writing something down. As often as not, he’d strike through it and begin again. He wore a look of intense concentration. “I need more time to decipher the sequence. When I am ready, I will collect you, and we shall depart. Higgins -- ready the dirigible. I trust it is not damaged.”

  Commander Higgins shot a dark look at Eliza, then bowed obsequiously to Lord Wilhelm. “I shall ready it at once, my lord.”

  Wilhelm wasted no more time on them but returned to his deciphering. As they began to leave, he said, without averting his gaze, “Herr Gunnerson, if you would stay. I will need your help translating.”

  Lars looked both pleased and frustrated. “Of course, my lord.”

  Higgins frowned and led the way out. Eliza once more admired the splendors, however faded, of the jade city, and then her party crossed through dark tunnels once more. She tried not to think of the horrors around her as she passed through the dreaded Black Sector, finally emerging into bright, busy Sector One. As the party broke up, she took Dr. Jung aside. He looked shaky and nauseous, and his breath stank of alcohol. He must have secreted a flask on his person.

  “Now is not the time to break up,” she hissed. They were in his tent, and he had dismissed his servants. She did not fear being overheard.

  He smiled -- a twitchy, unpleasant smile -- and she did not like the light in his eyes; it smacked of madness. “Now is precisely the time to break up, my dear Eliza. All hope has faded. Your man is caught. Queen Fontaine is all but dead. Lord Wilhelm is here, and when he has deciphered the hieroglyphs, our world will end.”

  She stabbed a finger at him. “This is our critical hour, Jacob. Please do not disappoint me.”

  He snorted. “And what would you have me do?”

  “Keep a stiff upper lip. Look for an opportunity to send word to Queen Fontaine. And for God’s sakes, keep it together.”

  He collapsed into a chair. She could see him itching to reach for his hidden flask. “I will do what I can, sweet Eliza. However, please don’t treat me like a child. I was dissecting corpses while you were in swaddling clothes.”

  “All the more reason why you should be strong now.” She sighed. Pushing him would get her nowhere. She put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. “I’m exhausted.”

  “You’ve had virtually no rest for a day or more. Take a nap.” He indicated one of the cots. “I will watch out for you.”

  “I really shouldn’t. They might ask me to prepare the dirigible.”

  He smiled patiently. “Do you really think they will? After the Eva Braun?”

  She sagged. “I suppose you’re right. I can feel their eyes on me. If I were not under such scrutiny I would attempt to send off a message.”

  “Security is too tight, my dear, for all of us. Sleep. Sleep, and I will keep my eyes open.”

  She allowed him to lead her over to the cot and lay down. The cot felt so good beneath her. As her head touched the pillow, the world began to recede. She really was quite bushed. Sudden concern made her sit up, but it was only latent nerves, and she settled herself down again and closed her eyes.

  “That’s a girl,” Dr. Jung said. “Sleep. Sleep now.”

  She heard him moving off, likely to find his damned flask. She took a deep breath, then another. Thoughts of Lynch flashed through her head, and an ache throbbed in her chest. She hoped he was all right. If anyone could find a way out of his predicament, it was he. She pictured him as he had once been, so handsome in his uniform, all wavy black hair and dancing dark eyes, broad shoulders and trim body, long legs meant for riding horses. Then she pictured him as he was, still handsome, but maimed, scars like a star radiating from his eye patch, a hook gleaming where his left hand should be, a sadness in his remaining eye, his full lips twisted wryly, bitterly. Slightly moist . . .

  Her last conscious thoughts were of him, and then sleep overtook her.

  When she woke, someone was shaking her shoulder. Blearily, she sat up and waved him away. It was one of the troopers, bearing on his chest the fist-and-sun crest, the Promethiac stealing of fire from the gods -- the coat of arms of the royal house of Atlantis. All of Lord Wilhelm’s special detachment of SS troops bore that crest and all had pledged their loyalty to the cause of the Ascendance. Eliza knew the oaths had been sworn in some secret ceremony she and the other civilians were not privy to.

  “Yes?” she said, yawning. How long had she been asleep? She felt rather better.

  “Commander Higgins,” the trooper said. “He wishes to see you.”

  She stood, somewhat shakily. “Very well. Where is he?”

  “His tent.”

  “I’m on my way.” She expected the trooper to leave then, but he didn’t.

  In response to her questioning look, he said, “I’m to escort you to him.”

  A sudden chill came over her. This is bad.

  “I will be just a minute,” she said.

  She had slept on one of the cots in Dr. Jung’s tent several times before, when she had been too tired to ascend to her penthouse suite, and so
kept a toothbrush and some necessities here. Taking her time, she brushed her teeth and washed her face, aware of the trooper’s mounting irritation. She dried her face leisurely, applied a touch of make-up, even a hint of perfume.

  “Shall we?” the trooper said.

  There was nothing for it. “We shall.”

  The trooper stayed at her side as she navigated the Encampment. Tents peaked all around her. Commander Higgins occupied the largest one, but the trooper did not take her there. “Lord Wilhelm is to be given the Commander’s quarters,” he explained. “Should he stay so long.”

  He ushered her to a smaller but still quite tall tent with two guards outside. The soldier held the flap for Eliza, and she ducked inside to find a multi-roomed tent held up by strong poles. Commander Higgins hunched at his desk in the main room, going over papers as he smoked a pipe. Smoke curled up around his sweaty head, and his piggish eyes did not look up immediately. Eliza waited, growing more nervous with every moment -- as, she was painfully sure, he intended. She glanced around the room, seeing old maps, the tusk of an elephant, and an ancient bronze spyglass on display. All very English, she thought. The only concession to Nazism she could see was a picture of some officers standing before an Iron Eagle.

  At last Higgins looked up. “You may go,” he told the soldier.

  The trooper bowed, turned, withdrew.

  “What is this about?” Eliza demanded. Better to go on the offensive, she thought.

  He smiled. “Ever to the point. Good!” His bulging eyes ran up and down her body, unabashedly ogling her. “Some wine?” He clapped his hands and a servant entered from around a partition and approached her with two glasses on a silver platter. Red fluid filled each one. “Go on, go on,” Higgins said.

  She took a glass, sniffed it. “Pleasant.” No detectable poison.

  The servant brought the platter to Higgins, and he scooped up the remaining glass, knocked back a gulp, sighed, and waved the servant away. Alone with Eliza again, Higgins gestured expansively to a chair that had been drawn close to him, on his side of the desk. Eliza became aware that this whole thing had been well staged. Hesitantly, she circled round the desk and lowered herself into the seat. Only a foot or so separated her from Higgins. She could smell the burning tobacco leaves in their bowl, and the leather-and-wood scent of the Commander himself. He stank faintly of the chemicals he used in the serum, and of the rot of decaying bodies.