by Rich Horton
“A thousand guineas.” The boy had been roused by that. Of course he had. Hamilton had baited him in front of his girl.
He’d have done the same at that age if Annie were here, might have done the same now. He wouldn’t humiliate his younger self by backtracking now. “All right, then.”
The next three rounds seemed to go by in a flash. Hamilton and the boy had barely looked up as they drew, considered, threw in, the Warden calling the scores as they did so. Aces were high or low. The order of the court cards, to gasps from a few of those assembled who under pressure revealed a more traditional turn of mind, changed too. And the Ambassador, the Horse and the Devil could sometimes raise or lower the values of the numerals in Cups, Swords, Staves and Coins.
With eleven minutes to go, everyone had surrounded the table where Hamilton and the boy were sweating, looking to their hands and then to each other, grabbing and throwing down, faster and faster. Hamilton was considering how hard it would be for him to take a loss of a thousand. It would mean selling something, perhaps the Morgan. He could deal with that pressure because of his experience, his training. The boy would have the surety and indestructibility of youth, but he had more to lose. His life, even, if he couldn’t pay, or if whatever he had here instead of a family or a regiment decided his existence wasn’t worth the expenditure. Perhaps his life, at least as a mind in his own body, was dependent, even, on the larger game they were playing tonight, whatever it might be. Hamilton had put aside a twinge of conscience. That was why he’d done this, wasn’t it? Not to harm the boy, but to put him off his game. Or was that the whole of it? Then he cursed himself for losing his concentration in that second, as he saw, as he threw his hand down, that he could have kept some of those cards a moment more for much greater reward. The crowd cheered at the arrival of the last round and the last rule change. The boy was ahead, marginally. He was barely considering each hand before he threw it in, and now he didn’t have to think about what might be round the corner. They had turned the last bend and were sprinting for the finishing line. Hamilton decided that the only way to go was to match him for speed, glimpsing the best hand, throwing in, hoping for better, hoping to push the boy that way too. The Warden shouted the score more and more swiftly. Fumbling fingers on cards became an issue. Hamilton drew level, and had found that all he had in the final seconds was luck. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thrown himself on her mercy. He saw that he had tens of each suit, not the best hand and not the worst, and threw it down with just a moment left to play. The boy had looked at his own hand . . . and seemed to freeze. Hamilton could see his fingers trembling. Was he waiting, deliberately prolonging the misery? He himself had often been cruel, when a job had given him licence to. The clock hand had thumped round the final three seconds . . . two . . . Hamilton was just a point ahead, surely the boy must have something—? The boy fumbled with the cards and threw down his whole hand with a shout and the chimes of the chapel bell rang out across the room and the Warden rang his glass in unison and everyone had immediately leaned forward to see—
The boy had had nothing. He could have made nothing. And now he was staring at Hamilton, and Precious had stepped forward to defend him, her face furious, never mind that all tradition called for her to move in the opposite direction. And now, like a father, Hamilton had suddenly found he agreed.
“I’m satisfied,” Hamilton had begun, “I’ll just take one good bottle of—”
“Don’t you dare!” bellowed the boy. “Don’t you dare! I will pay what I owe!” And his voice had been fully Irish now, the sound which Hamilton heard often in his own thoughts and rarely in his speech. And with that the lad had leapt to his feet and had marched out, without properly taking his leave or thanking his host. Precious had stared after him, outraged with the world. But she had not had the indecency in her to follow.
There had been only a brief silence before chatter had filled it.
Hamilton had looked over to the Warden, who was awkwardly closing the plate he’d used to keep the score. He didn’t meet Hamilton’s glance. There didn’t seem to be much joy in the room at what had happened. It wasn’t that this crowd had been on the younger man’s side, as such. But there was a sense of something broken. It was as if these people had suddenly discovered, upon being shaken, that a lot had changed, within them and without, and they didn’t know what to cheer for any more.
Hamilton had got to his feet and taken a last sip from his glass. He had been pleased, despite everything, to find, a moment later, that Precious had joined him.
“He didn’t deserve it,” she said.
“No, he didn’t. But deserve is very rarely in it.”
Around them, the party had been breaking up. Farewells were being said. And now Turpin had chosen his moment to wander over. He had placed his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton wasn’t sure if he remembered his superior officer ever touching him before. Precious had stepped quickly away.
“Bad show,” Turpin had said, very quietly.
“I’m sorry, sir. I assumed this was a contest.”
“You didn’t have to force him into a choice between bankruptcy and disgrace. I was hoping our young Herald here might be led, through her closeness to the lad, to begin a new trend in her College, to bring more of them towards His Majesty’s point of view. Win or lose, she’d have felt more taken with him, having seen him prove his mettle. But now she’ll be unable to see him and retain her position.” Turpin had looked over to where Precious stood, her face, now she thought she was unobserved, betraying a sort of calculation, as if she was working out propriety against length of time waited before she made after the boy. Then he had looked again to Hamilton, shook his head, and gone to take leave of his host.
And, until that card on his breakfast table, that was the last Hamilton had heard from him. Hamilton had said goodnight to his host, had left the Warden’s rooms and had gone to the door of the Chapel. And he had found, in the despair that was already sinking into his stomach, that that building was now a horror to him after all.
And now he was here at Cliveden, addressing what he only knew were his superior officer, and an Equerry of the Court of Saint James’, and the Crown Secretary of Powers, because the orders in his eyes told him so. They were presumably still back in London, in Turpin’s office off Horseguards Parade, or at least part of them was. They were wearing the trees, far across their nation, with no more thought than one might wear a coat.
“Good afternoon, Major.” Turpin’s voice came from the air around him. “I’m sorry to say . . . we have a job for you.”
The sheer relief made Hamilton unable to speak for a moment. “A . . . job, sir?”
“You seem, during your encounter with him, to have fathomed the character of your younger self. Just as His Majesty wished you to.” That was the Equerry. There would have been a time when the former Queen Mother would have seen to such matters herself, but now she never left her wing of the Palace, and was rumoured to be . . . Hamilton found himself letting the thought breathe in his mind, his relief giving him licence . . . people said she was mad now.
“I didn’t realise I was acting on His Majesty’s service, sir.” He hoped his tone didn’t convey the knowledge he was sure they both shared, that His Majesty had known as much about it as he had.
“That was of course as he wished. And he wishes to convey that you did well.”
“The younger man,” Turpin added, “should have dealt better with the pressure you put him under. It was the first sign of what was later revealed.” He had a sound in his voice that Hamilton hadn’t heard before. He was cornered, apologetic.
‘The Palace offered to cover his debt to you,” said the tree that was the Crown Secretary, “but, in his pride, the boy refused. We took this as a noble gesture and tried again, made it clear the offer was serious.” Hamilton could imagine that whatever pressure he himself had subjected the youth to would be as nothing compared to the Palace “making something clear.”
&nbs
p; “Then,” continued Turpin, “he suddenly declared he had the funds. I asked him where he had got them. He told me he’d won at cards. But he was clearly lying. Shortly afterwards I had the pleasure of receiving a surprise visit at my office from His Grace the Earl Marischal, the Duke of Norfolk, on official business as officer of arms at the College of Heralds. He told me that a thousand guineas had gone missing from the College’s account at Cuits.”
He had taken exactly the right amount of money. Hamilton felt perversely annoyed at the association between the boy’s amateurishness and himself. “Did Precious do that for him?” The Herald hadn’t seemed capable of such foolishness. Was his younger self really that alluring? It was too tempting a thought to be true.
“Perhaps it was done with information from her, but without her knowledge,” said Turpin. “His grace also informed me that the Herald herself had gone missing. Our people inspected her rooms and found signs of a struggle, and a rather shoddy attempt to conceal those signs. The boy himself did not report when instructed.”
By now Hamilton had gone beyond feeling impugned by association, and was finding it difficult to conceal his satisfaction. So their golden boy had gone rogue. “Needless to say,” he said, “he hasn’t paid me.”
“I daresay Precious caught him with his hand in the till. An infinite fold had been opened up in her rooms some hours before our people arrived. We found traces of it. We’re able to some degree to keep track of where such tunnels end up. Our quarry has fled here, to Cliveden.”
“Why?”
“There is . . . a newly-laid complex of fold tunnels on this estate,” said the Equerry, sounding almost apologetic about his Court’s fashions. “His Majesty was . . . is still . . . planning to summer here, among the optional worlds of his choosing. The College is . . . still . . . privy to such sensitive information. Your younger self, Major, is hiding in some optional version of these woods.”
The Crown Secretary cleared his throat and there was silence. “His Majesty,” he said, “remains intrigued by the concept of bringing optionals into our service. He is minded to wonder if their numbers might serve against the blockade. He would need good reasons to turn aside from this policy. But he is alive to the possibility that such good reasons might be provided.”
Hamilton inclined his head. He had been told all outcomes were still allowed. That if he was to bring an astonished youth out of the bushes, protesting a misunderstanding, the boy would be listened to, though possibly that conversation would take place in Cliveden’s cellars. Well, then. He had a job to do. He put down his valise and opened it, then wormed his hand quickly through the multiple folds to find his Webley Collapsar and shoulder holster.
“We’re keeping a watch on the boundaries,” said Turpin. “We’ve narrowed the realities around him so he can’t get out.” The quality of light in the clearing changed, and Hamilton was aware that something had been done to the covers in his eyes. “We were trying these out on the boy, soon to be standard issue. It’ll enable you to see all the optional worlds around you and move between them, just as he can.”
Hamilton finished strapping on his holster, slipped the gun into it, and replaced his jacket. He felt what he had to do to use the new covers and did so. Suddenly, there were people in the clearing, right beside him. He went back to the previous setting, and they vanished again. He’d seen some of the labourers and farm hands, those who kept the estate going. They were, presumably, the least entertaining option for His Majesty and his friends to explore.
“Enter the folds here,” said Turpin, “bring back the boy and the Herald, alive if you can.” And those last three words had been delivered in a tone that privately suggested to his covers that, as far as Turpin was concerned, all Hamilton’s options did indeed remain open. He hadn’t seen fit to replace Hamilton’s sidearm with any less deadly weapon, after all. These courtiers might not have the military knowledge to be aware of such a decision made through omission. Hamilton looked at the trees giving him orders. The question of what was owed to him because of his service had collapsed into the simplicity of that service continuing. They had all assumed, after all, that he would do his duty. His thoughts of death at their hands had become something from an optional world. He turned and headed into the forest.
“Godspeed, Major,” said the Equerry.
Hamilton didn’t look back. After a moment, he began to run.
He looked at the map of the estate in his head. He jogged from tree to tree, changed his eyes for a moment, was suddenly lost again. He made himself keep checking the options. He couldn’t afford to let the boy take him by surprise.
Had his younger self done this dishonourable thing because the balance wasn’t an idea that had been discovered in the optional worlds? That must be what His Majesty was considering, the idea that there was no army to be raised there because his putative subjects from those worlds wouldn’t have the required ethical fibre. Perhaps in those worlds the balance simply didn’t exist, an indication that those places were less real than this world. Or perhaps the balance spread out somehow across all the worlds, perhaps that was how it endured so many shocks. Perhaps it was simply ambient and hard to fathom in his younger self’s existence. He wondered what the boy, therefore, had judged himself against, in his formative years. Did this lack excuse him? It was hard to say whether or not the same rules should apply. If everything was real, if value itself was relative, what did it mean here and now to be an arms dealer, to wear a tartan, to abuse the flag, if those doing so could easily go somewhere else, where different rules applied? That might have been the boy’s feeling on being made that miraculous offer of advancement, honour, the interest of a pretty woman, from somewhere aside from his own world. He had, presumably, been dragged from it in the night and had his new horizons made clear to him, over weeks, perhaps months. And if this new world included this strange custom, this desperate ideal about the preservation of order in the face of collapse, well, when in Rome . . .
But Turpin had said the boy’s world was alike to ours in almost every detail, if set a few years back along the wave. And yet they didn’t have the balance. The idea that they could get along without it, that their great powers had, presumably through mere accident, in his world still preserved the status quo enough for consciousness and society . . . well, there was a subversive tidbit. No wonder Turpin felt a little vulnerable at having opened that door. No wonder he himself seemed to be leaning less and less on the balance.
Hamilton chided himself. These musings were not appropriate when in the field. He found his bearings in the forest as it stood, if anything could be said to stand on its own now. He quartered it, and moving as silently as he could, explored the territory down to the river, all the angles of the estate. He found nobody.
He used the covers in his eyes to move to the next nearest option after the servants’ world. This would be one of those chosen for His Majesty’s sport.
The house was much the same, with a few minor architectural differences. A flag with some sort of meaningless symbol flew over it. Hamilton didn’t want to know what it meant. He quartered the ground again, and found only some old men in a uniform he didn’t recognise and some young women in entertainingly little. Presumably that situation would get more extraordinary as the season arrived. He wondered if ladies would be brought here, or if they would be offered their own options of tea and mazes.
He changed his eyes again, and this time when he searched he found Columbians walking the paths, that quaint accent that reminded him of watching Shakespeare. These people, as he crouched nearby and listened to them pass, spoke with a horrid lack of care, as if there was nobody to judge them, no enemy opposing them. Some of them would know of the interest of a King in their world, some would surely not. For His Majesty to venture into any of even these carefully chosen worlds should be for him to go on safari, into territory that was not his own. And yet the choice was everything, wasn’t it? These worlds must be utterly safe. Unless one of them had the bo
y in it.
He searched through several worlds. He kept all their meanings at bay. He considered where he would go if he was in the boy’s shoes, and in so considering realised there must be something he was missing . . . because he couldn’t imagine coming here at all. He finally found, among the dozen or so options, somewhere empty. There was no house visible through the trees, the river was in a different place, the height of where he stood above sea level was different, and yet, according to the bare information about where he was on the globe that his covers insisted upon, he was in the same place. He looked slowly around, made sure he was hidden from all angles. Not only was the house gone, there were no houses on the plain, as far as he could see. And there was something . . . something extraordinary about—
“So they did send you.” The voice was his own. It came from up the hillside.
Hamilton couldn’t see its source. He stepped to put the trunk of a tree between it and himself. He took the Webley Collapsar from its holster.
“Where’s the Herald?” he called.
“You won’t find her—”
That told Hamilton she wasn’t right there beside him. He dropped to his knee as he swung out from the tree, his left hand on his pistol wrist, and fired at the voice. The report and the whump of the round going off made one sound. And then there was another, a crash of branches as the boy broke cover. Hamilton leapt out and fired twice more at the sound, foliage and undergrowth compacting in instants, momentary pulses of gravity sucking at his clothes, newly focussed light dazzling him like a line of new stars blossoming and then gone in a moment.
Without looking for a result, he swung back behind the tree. Then he listened.
The movement had stopped. Of course it had. He wouldn’t have kept moving. He’d have laid there for a few moments, then laid there a bit longer.
