Black Iron

by Franklin Veaux

  A vigorous knocking came at the door. A moment later, it was flung open. A young boy dressed all in blue and green darted into the room, followed closely by a short, portly man with a round face and a frizz of white hair surrounding an entirely bald dome of head like a bristly halo.

  The boy flung his arms around Margaret. “Maggie!” he exclaimed. “My uncle says these men have to follow you around everywhere.”

  Margaret smiled warmly at the boy. “What do we say around other people?” she asked.

  He looked down, chastened. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said.

  “Your Grace,” the man said. “You look well. The Duke here has been inconsolable over this deplorable situation.”

  “Lord Rathman! We are as well as one might expect. We are pleased you were able to join us for breakfast, despite these unfortunate conditions,” Margaret said. She put her arm around the boy.

  “I am surprised the Cardinal isn’t here,” Rathman said. “It seems out of character for him to miss an opportunity to gloat.”

  “Oh, he’s been doing plenty of that,” Margaret said. “He has managed to extract his pound of flesh from us in exchange for expediting the tribunal.”

  The little man pulled up a chair across the dining table from Margaret. Servants appeared silently, bearing platters of roast duck and small gold trays of grapes. A woman appeared next to Rathman’s elbow with a gold-rimmed china cup of hot brown liquid. He sniffed it and smiled.

  “Expediting it, eh? What does expediting mean, exactly? Bringing back old traditions, perhaps? Trial by combat? Ducking stools? I hear the old techniques for resolving matters of heresy guaranteed quick results.”

  Margaret smiled grimly. “Nothing so dramatic. He intends to convene the tribunal in two days’ time. He seems quite confident they will find that we are not working in collusion with the false Pope. It appears our upcoming repudiation of the heretic Pope’s policies will be quite persuasive.”

  “Repudiation of what?” Rathman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Margaret said, “he thinks it will play well with the tribunal if we demonstrate our independence from Rome by supporting the petition to allow the use of animates by the military.”

  “Oh. I see.” For just a second, his face betrayed genuine surprise. “We have had our differences on this matter in the past, Your Grace. I would be lying if I said I’m not pleased that you have found your way to my side. This new technology has great promise. Great promise. Still, I am distressed by the circumstances. I had hoped that reasoned argument alone would prevail. That explains, then, why the Council is meeting today after all. There was talk of postponement.”

  “Apparently we will be meeting,” Margaret said. “In the interests of expediency. Though it is not without protest. It is the opinion of the Crown that this course of action is harmful to the future of the Realm.”

  “Your Grace, I fail to see why. History shows that those who are quick to adopt new technologies of war benefit greatly.”

  “This is more than just a new weapon. What about our new citizens, driven to our shores by the Spanish and Italians?” she asked. “They will not take well to these…monstrosities.”

  Rathman shook his head. “Your open-door policy toward the Israelites and the Mohammedans has earned you some enemies, Your Grace. Not everyone believes in such generosity toward those fleeing the Inquisition.”

  “And some friends, as well,” Margaret said. “Not everyone is frightened of strangers. The traditions of the refugees from the Inquisition have enriched us greatly. The followers of Mohammed have taught us much about medicine and mathematics. Trade with them has increased our wealth. The Israelites have among their number many gifted scholars who have advanced us in the arts and sciences. What would they think of such a thing?”

  “Does it matter?” Rathman said. Seeing her expression, he steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “This is still our nation, not theirs. They are here as our guests. Besides, I don’t think the Israelites will object. Their traditions are complex, and include tales of rabbis creating living things from clay. Their scholars teach that man may make living things, but only God may give them souls. I think we and they will agree that animates are not in possession of souls. They are mindless things, only alive after a fashion.” He leaned forward. “The Mohammedans are less…complex in their views. They oppose all animate creation for all purposes. But no matter. They also understand their position here depends on our good graces. We need only remind them of that and they will soon fall in line.”

  “So you think we should pay them no mind at all.”

  “Many people, including some on the Council of Lords, fear strangers in our midst. Resentment for those who live in Highpole in particular runs deep. Poor foreigners are bad enough, but wealthy, influential foreigners…” He shook his head. “It might not be wise to be seen allowing these guests of the Crown to determine national policy.”

  “We are not of the same opinion,” Margaret said. She raised her hand. “But that is not what we should like to discuss this morning. This debate is finished. We are voting in your favor. We would seek your counsel on a more personal matter.”

  Curiosity made itself known on Rathman’s face. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “The Cardinal raised the issue of finding a husband.”

  “Did he?” Rathman sighed. “Let me guess. He already has someone in mind.”

  Margaret permitted herself a chuckle. “He is predictable, in his dreary way. Still, he does have a point. It is time we are married.”

  “I agree, Your Grace,” Rathman said. “If I may speak boldly, I wouldn’t recommend you follow his advice, but what you’re planning…well, some would call it madness. Uniting in marriage with a Mohammedan? Mark my words, that will cause an uproar. Please, for your own sake, Your Grace, I would beg you off this course of action.”

  “Madness? Only if a fox is mad. The Ottomans have much to offer us. Culturally, economically…”

  “And their rather formidable navy?”

  “Yes, that too,” Margaret said. “There is much to be gained from a union between the Crown and the Ottoman Caliphate. Think of it, Lord Rathman!” Her eyes glowed. “We would become a force to be reckoned with. An alliance with the strongest force in the East! Control of the trade routes! Maybe even a path toward ending the war in Afghanistan! Can you picture it?”

  “I knew your father well, Your Grace,” Rathman said. “He was the most ambitious person I had ever known. I feel that your ambition might surpass even his.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am not sure that’s a compliment, Your Grace,” Rathman said. “This thing you propose is…well, it will not be well received at home or abroad. I am sure the Ottomans will be no more enthusiastic about it than your own subjects. I will support you as I always have, but if I may speak in confidence, I think you are treading a dangerous path.”

  “It is already done. The Caliph’s son and I will be wed before the end of the year.”

  “I see.” Rathman stroked his chin. “Does the Cardinal know?”

  “No.”

  Rathman nodded. “That is probably for the best. This should be handled gently. The echoes will be felt throughout England.”

  “If we succeed, they will be felt a lot further than that,” Margaret said. “It is trade, not war, that will define the most powerful nations in the future. For too long, we have played second fiddle to the imperial ambitions of the Spanish and the French, taking only such power as they leave to us! What has it given us? Constant war in the New World. Near-constant war at home. No more! We will build a commercial empire, one unlike anything that the world has seen before. There will be those who do not like it. Let them fall in the ash heap of history.”

  “As you say, Your Grace,” Rathman said. He inclined his head. “I know y
ou well enough to know your mind when it’s made up. It seems to me you take only your own counsel. You’re a lot like your father that way too.” He studied his teacup thoughtfully. “I will admit there are some advantages to trade with the Ottomans.”

  “Indeed,” Margaret said. “Trade in tea alone could become very lucrative, we feel.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “There is no need to hope.” Margaret ruffled the hair of the boy, who was sitting at her feet. He gazed up adoringly at her. “Your unwavering support has been invaluable to us.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” He looked at the boy. “Your half brother is my last living relative. I would do anything for him, and for you. What kind of world would this be if we could not count on our own? If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I must prepare for the Council.”

  “Of course,” Margaret said. “As must we. Please send the Lady Eleanor in.”

  “As you wish.” Count Rathman nodded to the boy. “If you please, my lord.”

  The boy looked up at Margaret. “But I want to go to the Council with you!”

  She looked down at him, her expression softening. “I know,” she said, squeezing his hands, “but that would not be considered proper. You are a lord with standing in your own right. I will see you there.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Okay.” He gave her a quick hug, then followed Rathman out the door.

  16

  The Council of Lords gathered at regular intervals in the great Hall of Assembly in New Old London, erected on the spot where the Palace of Westminster had once stood. King John the Proud had thought the old Palace far too fusty and, well, Medieval for a modern, cosmopolitan city like London, and had ordered it razed to make way for a grand new Hall that would usher in a new, forward-looking era to shine as a beacon of good governance for all the world to admire. This had, apparently, meant “Do it like the ancient Greeks did, with lots of columns and white marble and stuff, but modern, too, right?”

  The royal architects had done their best. The result was grand, no doubt about that. None who saw it could honestly dispute that point.

  It had columns, many of them. And marble? Acres of the finest, snowy white marble. It had doorways so grand they could scarcely be opened even with the cleverest of pulleys and counterweights. The architects had debated making them steam-powered, then ultimately decided simply to cut smaller doors, still quite grand in their own right, right through the larger doors. It had balconies from which stirring speeches could be made, though they were seldom used save by pigeons, who rarely had anything interesting to say.

  Upon seeing it, the monarch had proclaimed himself quite pleased.

  The front of the Hall of Assembly was lined with fountains, because someone had once told King John that fountains gave a building a certain gravitas. The courtyard was paved with marble, because nobody had ever told the King that marble is slippery when it gets wet. In winter, the mist from the fountains, which had to be kept running to prevent the plumbing from bursting, froze on the marble, creating a glaze of ice that sent many an unwary pedestrian tumbling. For that reason, locals referred to the street in front of the Hall of Assembly as “Teakettle Road,” for the frequency with which those who walked down it ended up ass over teakettle.

  As morning broke, the aristocrats who made up the Council of Lords started arriving at the Hall of Assembly. Sessions of the Council were scheduled to begin at nine in the morning, but this rarely happened. It is a common trait of those who imagine themselves to be irreplaceable that they love making dramatic entrances, and it’s hard to make a dramatic entrance if you arrive before everyone else. Over time, the lords acquired the habit of arriving later and later, until it was rare to see a quorum before half past nine.

  Lord Wombly was the first to show up. He often was, by virtue of the fact that having reached eighty-four years of age, he no longer felt the need to try to impress anyone. He had a face vaguely reminiscent of a weasel, under an astonishing mass of white hair that spread about his head in a chaotic cloud so large it occasionally wandered into neighboring postal codes.

  Wombly’s footsteps echoed in the vast Grand Hallway. The walls and floor were covered in dark-colored wood, and the ceiling was all but lost overhead. Rows of statues watched in silence as Wombly walked by. They were all long-dead lords or members of the royal family or something, he was sure; in all the years he’d been on the Council, he had never bothered to look at any of the name plates. One departed politician was pretty much like another, seemed to him.

  The guard posted before the entrance to the Great Chamber stood to attention, resplendent in his uniform. It had all the unnecessary ornamentation and ostentatious over-engineering that marked him as a ceremonial guard, rather than the other, more deadly type. “Good morning, my lord,” he said. Wombly nodded agreeably and passed through the great mahogany doors, each more than twenty feet tall, cunningly designed to make everyone traveling through them feel small and insignificant. King John the Proud had his own ideas about the proper place of the lords on the Council, and rarely missed an opportunity to inform them of it.

  Viewed from above, the building was shaped like the letter T. The vast, fountain-bedecked facade was the top of the T, extending in grand fashion along Teakettle Road. The stem of the T, crowned by a vast marble dome all gilt with hammered gold, was the Great Chamber itself, the enormous space where the Council of Lords took place.

  Beneath the colossal dome, which was ringed on its upper floor by curved balconies, the seventy-two seats for the Council of Lords spread out in concentric semicircles, facing toward the throne, where the reigning monarch presided over the gathering. To one side, three tall wooden chairs allowed the representatives of the Church, whose presence was at least nominally more symbolic than legislative, to witness the proceedings. Often they were empty, or occupied by minor ecclesiastical types.

  Lord Wombly sat in his assigned seat and put the powdered wig on his head. He fussed with it for a bit. He harbored a deep suspicion that the wigs were some sort of practical joke whose origin and humor had been lost to time. Tradition has a way of making absurdity seem ordinary.

  The Great Chamber was huge, in part because regulations required the seats for the lords to be placed apart from one another by the distance of a short sword plus three inches. More than one past experience had proven the utility of these sorts of architectural features.

  More aristocrats began streaming in, singly and in groups, all wearing the impractical robes that nobles affected to convince themselves they were more dignified than the common rabble.

  The common rabble was already assembling, in its raucous way, in the curved balconies overlooking the Great Chamber. King John the Proud had been a strong believer that all meetings of the Council be open to the public—not because he thought transparency made for good governance, but because it was easier for him to keep an eye on what the public, and the lords, were up to. The commoners had their own doors that led directly into the balconies—normal-sized, because commoners as a general rule need no architectural cues to remind them they are small and unimportant.

  Meetings of the Council were, as a general rule, about as exciting as porridge. On most meeting days, the balconies were abandoned save for a handful of people who talked to one another in hushed tones about the importance of civic participation and other things that really only mattered to people who had lots of free time on their hands. There was only so much excitement the working class could muster for committee meetings about the allocation of funds for the Commission on Gardens and Landscaping, given that most of them were far more concerned with allocation of funds for their own dinner tables.

  Today was different. Today, those balconies were packed with the city’s thronging masses—or such of the masses as would fit, anyway. An air of festivity filled the chamber. News that the Queen would be in attendance had traveled fast, and all of London was ho
ping to catch a glimpse of her. Laborers, tradesmen, artisans, fishmongers, and deliverymen stood shoulder to shoulder, chattering and back-slapping one another, united by a shared opportunity to witness somebody else’s misfortune.

  Among those people crowded onto the balcony was Thaddeus, trying—and failing—to look inconspicuous. He was wearing a grubby, dirt-stained shirt and striped overalls that belonged to one of the Bodgers’ apprentices. Unfortunately, the apprentice owned only one pair of shoes, and Thaddeus had not thought to ask the new number two apprentice to fetch his own shoes from his flat, so he was forced to wear the unfortunately fashionable shoes he’d been cursed with since the party on the airship. The combination of workman’s overalls and aristocrat’s shoes was unlikely, he suspected, to set the world of fashion on fire.

  Though you never could be sure, when it came to matters of fashion.

  The jabber picked up when the Cardinal came in, flanked by two red-robed priests, hands folded in front of them. He moved to the tight group of three plain wooden chairs, frumpy compared with the gold-plated exuberance of the throne next to them, and sat in the tallest. The priests accompanying him sat to either side. Whispers swirled through the assembled spectators. “There he is! Old Sourpuss himself!” “I hear he wants to push the Queen aside!” “Do you think he’ll have her hanged?” “I bet he’s behind all this.”

  The Cardinal settled into his seat, paying no attention to the currents of whispers running through the balconies. The younger of the two priests sat behind him: a lad barely old enough to be out of seminarium, looking as out of place as a mouse in a cage of wolves. He leaned over to whisper to the Cardinal, who waved him away.