The God's Eye (Lancaster's Luck Book 3)

by Anna Butler

  He nodded. “Papa will tell you.” He pushed at a door in the hallway. “In here.”

  The huge Marconi apparatus dominated the room. Madame Gallowglass sat in an armchair to one side, one hand over her face, the other clutched by her daughter, Sofia, who sat beside her. Joe Brennan had looked up sharply when Theo and I came in, then returned his attention to the Gallowglass, who, his face drawn, huddled over the speaking tube. The Gallowglass gestured at an empty chair beside him. I fell into it.

  “I know Ned expected he’d be out of reach of a commercial Marconi setup.” The Gallowglass’s tone expressed a thinning patience.

  “Yes. I wasn’t expecting him to be in contact.”

  I knew that voice. Tom Causton, the American member of Ned’s archaeological team.

  “Very well. Stand by.” The Gallowglass pushed the tube to one side and, just for a moment, rested his head in his hands. He rubbed at his scalp, thick strands of hair spilling through his fingers, and blew out a sharp, hard sigh before letting his hands drop into his lap. Then he turned to me.

  “Ned hasn’t returned. No one’s heard from him in the entire three weeks he’s been gone. At this point, all we know is he is missing and we can’t contact him. We have to assume he’s in trouble, and we need to send help.” He lifted his gaze to stare into my eyes. “When can you leave, Rafe?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Will you go?” Harry asked.

  He looked very small and helpless, leaning up against his grandmother, but he was looking to me, not to his grandfather. His chin wobbled, and his face contorted for a moment while he tried to control it. We were in one of the smaller sitting rooms, in private. The Gallowglass had just broken the news to him, as gently as any man could. Harry hadn’t cried, but for a moment he’d bent over double and hidden his face in Madame Gallowglass’s skirts.

  “Jack’s too little. He won’t realise…” Harry’s voice wavered, damn it, tearing at my ability to play a good game in front of the children. He pushed away from Madame Gallowglass and came to me where I sat on the sofa opposite, resting his hands on my knees and bracing himself. “Will you go and find Papa for us, Uncle Rafe?”

  I didn’t want my voice to waver too, so I just nodded, perhaps a little abruptly. For a moment or two Harry and I traded looks, and I would have given the entire world to be the recipient of one of his old hard, inimical stares in place of the haunted terror distorting his face into the same sort of despair his grandparents showed. The same despair that, God knows, was churning my stomach and curling my hands into fists at my side. The little pain from digging the nails into my palms anchored me.

  Harry drew a deep breath, as uncertain as his voice had been. “You’ll find him.” His voice was stronger and a little spark came back. “You’ll find him.”

  He looked up at me. His eyes were brown not hazel, but he had such a look of Ned in the shape of his face, in the shape of eyes, nose, and mouth. So like Ned, my own eyes burned. I put my arms around him. His shoulders were thin and slight, a child’s shoulders, too unformed for such a burden, and he didn’t have the strength to resist when I pulled him in close. He squirmed in tight, and I looked over his head where it was tucked under my chin and met his grandfather’s steady gaze.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. I will.”

  “Will you go?”

  At my father’s unwitting echo of Harry, I turned from the window where I’d addressed the dark night throughout my explanation of our disquiet over Ned. He had been sleeping when I returned in the early evening—he slept and woke at odd times now, even without the Chinese soporific herbs, and we’d abandoned anything like a routine except for those times he was awakened to take one of the tinctures and tisanes left by the apothecary. I’d left word with Harper that I was to be sent for the moment he woke, and had taken myself off to my own suite of rooms on the floor above my father’s to make what preparations I could while I waited. I’d had plenty of time to find my worry about Ned overwhelming, and to remember Hugh, my own dear Hugh, was with him. I’d relieved my feelings in walking up and down my sitting room, swearing like a fishwife. I told myself it helped.

  I lied.

  I had called in the finance officer when I returned, at about six. If he’d thought I’d been unreasonable about Nell’s ticket to Paris, my demands at that time on Christmas Eve left him reeling. I tossed some essentials into a carpetbag—the cotton and linen clothes so necessary for hot climates, two fully charged aether pistols, and my current bedtime reading, Herodotus’s Histories in its tooled leather slipcover—and changed out of House dress into riding breeches and boots while he remonstrated with me. I did, of course, prevail, and sent him scurrying to put together as much cash as he could lay hands on. If he cursed me the entire time, he was careful to keep it to himself. I had closed the door on him and was penning a letter of instruction to Alan Jenkins, my manager at the coffeehouse, when Harper appeared to tell me my father was asking for me. I went to break the news.

  The old man’s question didn’t take me by surprise. His tone did. Sad and wistful, melancholic: not the sort of emotions usual to him. The jackal, I used to think him, snapping at the heels of the Convocation House lions. Well, he’d snap no longer. A broken old steam generator with leaky valves and fractured pistons, the glow gone and the light fading, he didn’t have enough power left in him to bare his teeth, much less harry the great. He lay back on his pillows, his face slack with weariness and sheer physical weakness, rubbing his right hand on his chest over his defective heart.

  It wouldn’t be long now. He was weaker every day. Failing. Would he still be there when I returned?

  It didn’t hold me back. Couldn’t.

  “Will you go?” he repeated.

  “Yes, I will.” I returned to my usual chair, set beside the bed. It wasn’t worth prevarication. Honesty wasn’t a strong Stravaigor characteristic, but nothing else would do. “Hugh is with him, and Hugh is a brother far dearer than Peter ever was. I’d go for him alone, in a heartbeat. But Ned Winter is the most important person in my life.”

  “I see.” He pursed his lips into a meagre smile. “I am aware of your friendship with Winter. I always have been.”

  “I am what I am.”

  He nodded again, and his frail, thin hand closed over my forearm, bony fingers as fragile as dried twigs. “You are Elizabeth’s boy.” He released his grip and patted my arm. “When will you leave?”

  Far too many emotional tsunamis that day helped me ride out this one without blinking. “I’m waiting on House Gallowglass. They’re arranging transport. I expect tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Well.” He lay back. “I shall endeavour to eat the festive chicken on my own.”

  Harper appeared, in time to stanch the sudden rush of guilt with the announcement that the Gallowglass himself had arrived, asking for me.

  “Has he now?” My father gave me a sidelong look. “Were you expecting him, Rafe?”

  “Not in person, sir. No.”

  “Ah well. He seems to hold you in some esteem. It doesn’t surprise me. Bring him up here, Harper. And bring some port. The 1890 Burmester.” His smile was wry. “It is the Gallowglass, after all. He has a better palate than the Cartomancer.”

  “Here?” Harper blenched—to receive another House Princeps in one’s bedchamber was unprecedented, and a Convocation House Princeps to boot—but at my father’s pointed glower, he bowed his head. “Of course, sir.”

  His route to the door was both circular and speedy. He caught up papers, straightened cushions, blew specks of dust off the mantelpiece, and snatched an errant and undefinable garment from the back of a chair, folding it as he went. In a trice, the old man’s room was deemed pristine enough for important visitors, and Harper hurried out.

  “Help me sit!” My father’s tone was urgent. “Hurry.”

  He weighed little, all skin and bird-thin bones. I hoisted him up until he sat straight-backed against the headboard, propped up by his pillows and resting his f
olded hands on the white counterpane to hide their trembling. His expression smoothed out into a calm I could only envy, denying pain, weakness, and impending mortality. He became the Stravaigor before my eyes. Ailing and weakened he might be, but he’d put on the best show he could.

  The Gallowglass had Theo Winter with him. A considerate man, he left Joe Brennan at the door, invading my father’s private sanctuary with as little fuss as possible. He greeted us with a nod. “Stravaigor. Rafe.”

  “Gallowglass.” The Stravaigor’s voice was mellow-toned and strong. Lord, but the man should have been an actor. He held out his hand and not even I could see the tremors he controlled with such ruthlessness. “Welcome. I apologise for this informal greeting—”

  “Don’t, I beg you.” The Gallowglass took my father’s hand in his and held it as he sat in a chair beside mine, Theo taking up station behind us. “It’s very good of you to see us at all. The more so because I am robbing you of your son to rescue mine.” He brought his other hand, strong and brown against the pallor of my father’s, to cover both their hands. A gesture of understanding, conveying an unexpected respect.

  The old man’s smile was less pained and narrow than it had been for some weeks. “They are the link binding my House to yours. Little though you might welcome it.”

  The Gallowglass smiled back, but his eyes were bleak. “I am glad of it. I am more than glad I can trust Rafe to care for Ned.” He released my father’s hand and sat back. “I came to discuss the arrangements with Rafe, and with you, of course, Stravaigor. I know the timing of this is difficult—”

  “I am dying,” my father said, without even a hint of sugar-coating.

  The Gallowglass nodded. “Yes.”

  There must have been something in the air that night stripping us all of our armour, of the polite barriers behind which men lived and mouthed civil nothings at society and the world, leaving us straightforward and candid, unafraid of our own honesty. No prevarication here. Perhaps it couldn’t stand in the face of quiet desperation.

  The Stravaigor’s mouth tilted up into a smile of genuine amusement. “As long as you realise the magnitude of what you ask of me, I am content. Rafe has already told me he intends to go to Aegypt to find your First Heir. You have arranged transport?”

  “Yes. Prince Adolphus of Teck flies to Cairo at eleven tonight with his family on the royal aeroyacht. I’ve prevailed upon him to give Rafe and Theo passage.” He turned to me. “We’ll need to reach Friary Park aerodrome by ten—” He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “We’ll leave in an hour. The Brunel Sky King is in the hangar at Cairo, along with half a dozen of my House guards. Take them all with you, please, when you fly on to Hermopolis.”

  “I will. Theo’s going with me?” I glanced at Theo as I spoke and received a tight nod in return. “Good.”

  “And Tatlock.” My father stopped my burgeoning protest with a glare that would freeze Hell. “Without argument, Rafe. I will not countenance your going without him. It’s his job to protect you.”

  Tatlock wasn’t worth arguing about. If the price of an uncontested departure was to take him with me, then I’d pay it and go. I smothered my protest, nodded, and put it aside.

  “My concern, Stravaigor, is you.” The Gallowglass raised his hands and steepled his fingers, allowing the tips to touch lightly. “I don’t wish to leave you alone over the festive season, and we must consider your health. Do you think you could endure a move to Gallowglass House? I can ensure your comfort and care while Rafe is away.”

  Great Caesar’s Ghost! That, more than anything, betrayed how false was the air of supreme confidence! My father and the Gallowglass had never been allies. This offer was beyond anything anyone could have expected, a mark of what the Gallowglass would do to ensure I could leave to search for Ned, unencumbered by anxieties and responsibilities.

  Even my father looked astonished, before covering it up by inclining his head and hiding his face for the mere second it took for him to smooth his expression into blandness. “Very kind of you, Gallowglass, but to be honest, I doubt I’d survive the move. I will be more comfortable in my own bed.”

  “But all alone! Theo tells me your younger daughter is in Paris. It may take me a day or two to bring her back.” The Gallowglass frowned. Sighed. “I’ll speak to the Plumassier. Your elder daughter and her husband should come to ensure you aren’t alone. I’ll arrange it. They’ll be here within the hour.”

  My father and I exchanged glances. In other circumstances, I’d be amused to see the Gallowglass’s benevolent, inexorable efficiency in action, his utter confidence that things would fall out as he determined them and people fall in line with his demands. Of course, they would. Emily would kick, but sotto voce, and then she’d obey.

  My father didn’t hide his amusement. “I will be pleased to see Emily, of course.”

  She’d be someone to share the festive bird with, at all events.

  “I will visit daily if you will permit it, Stravaigor.” The Gallowglass looked at me, and I could have sworn to the glint of amusement in his eyes, too. “Another favour has gained me the loan of the latest in military long-distance communication devices. It is some sort of augmentation and intensifying device which plugs into an ordinary Marconi and boosts the range. You’ll take it with you, Rafe. The Huissher has assured me that although it is still experimental, its range is far beyond anything we mere civilians have. I’m hopeful it will allow you to keep in touch with us, and I’ll be able to report on your father’s health.”

  Laeticia Winter had been the Huissher’s youngest daughter, and Ned’s marriage to her had cemented strong links between two great departments of state: Gallowglass with all the Imperium’s money, and Huissher with its Army, Navy, and Aero Corps. A strategic alliance indeed, and one that kept the other Convocation Houses more or less in line.

  “I’ve spoken to the Jongleur, Rafe. He will stay with me at Gallowglass House and be available to support your people at the coffeehouse if you wish it.”

  That was kind. Alan Jenkins and Mr Pearse got on well. Alan was an excellent manager, but this was Mr Pearse’s way of offering his support to the Gallowglass and to me. I’d add a quick postscript to my letter to Alan and ask him to indulge Mr Pearse. It would be good for the old man to feel needed and wanted.

  “Theo has funds enough to cover most eventualities—”

  “As does Rafe.” Although my father didn’t yet know of my orders to the finance officer, he’d have the man’s head on a platter if I were a penny short, and the finance officer knew it.

  “Of course. Papers?” The Gallowglass glanced at me.

  “All in order, and packed with my pistol and my clothes. I’m ready to go as soon as you like.”

  “Excellent. Then perhaps—” The Gallowglass broke off when Harper appeared bearing the 1890 Burmester in its crystal decanter. “If you’ll excuse us, Stravaigor, Theo and I will wait for Rafe in your sitting room to allow you some privacy for your farewells. I’ll use your House Marconi while we wait, if I may, to call the Plumassier about your daughter.”

  My father nodded. He was tiring. “Thank you. Harper will bring you the port and show you to the Marconi room.”

  They shook hands with more cordiality than I’d seen them show before, and the Gallowglass and Theo ghosted out.

  My father gave me a wry look after the door closed. “I’d hoped Harper would at least leave me a glass. I’ll need it to face up to Emily’s fussing.”

  “I gave orders you weren’t to have anything exciting until tomorrow, with your Christmas dinner as a treat. Now you’ll need to negotiate with Emily about it.” As sentimental farewells went, it fell rather short. “I’m sorry I have to go.”

  He smiled. “No, you aren’t. You were sorry to let Ned Winter go without you in the first place, and you’re damnably sorry about the reason for going now, but you can’t wait to get out there.”

  I lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug of acknowledgem
ent. He was right.

  My father chuffed out a short, breathy laugh. “Oh, but you are your mother’s son.” He held out his hand and, when I took it, tightened his grip as much as he could, fingers clinging as they curved over mine. “Stay safe. I will endeavour to be here when you return and you can tell me all about your adventures.”

  I swallowed against whatever had lodged in my throat. “Make sure that you are. I’m not ready to step into your shoes just yet.”

  He squeezed my hand, then let it go, his own drifting down like a bleached leaf to lie withered on the counterpane. “Oh, you’ll manage.”

  Which was not the sort of sentiment I’d been looking for, I can tell you.

  “The only shoes that truly fit a man, are his own.”

  He lay back, tired and grey. But smiling. “But they are your shoes, Rafe. They’ve been yours since birth, but neither you nor your cordwainer knew it. Be off with you, now. Find Ned Winter and be happy.”

  At last, a sentiment I could get behind.

  We reached the aerodrome long before our host. Prince Adolphus, younger brother of the Princess of Wales and better known to all and sundry by the undignified sobriquet of Dolly, was supposed to be in a hurry to reach Cairo—the plan was to take off at eleven, with his pilots flying nonstop to reach Cairo the next afternoon, in time for the Teck children to celebrate Christmas Day. But the Tecks were late. Caught up at a reception at Buckingham Palace, the Gallowglass said. He added that he was supposed to be there himself. He didn’t sound as if he regretted his absence, but it would have been brighter and warmer than a cold Christmas at a windswept aerodrome.

  Prince Dolly and family rolled up at 1:00 a.m., still in evening dress, and it was another half hour before the royal aeroyacht, Britannia, launched. The prince greeted us with polite disinterest—the Gallowglass rating more geniality—before retiring to the night cabin with his family and leaving us in the lounge. Good. I was aching to start, and his tardiness had my teeth on edge. I’m a lukewarm royalist at best. By the time we’d taken off, the temperature of my loyalist affection had cooled towards revolutionary anarchism.