by Mick Farren
Jesamine shook her head. “You live here? It’s like a palace.”
“It belonged to my late first husband, the Archduke-in-Exile. It was really too bad about Rudolph.”
Before Madame de Wynter could explain what had happened to the Archduke-in-Exile Rudolph, Garth brought the car to a halt in front of the portico. He pulled on the handbrake and climbed down to open the door for his mistress. Madame de Wynter exited the car, looking around, noting that a number of other cars were parked where the driveway widened beside the house.
“I see my guests have already started to arrive.”
If Madame de Wynter hadn’t gestured in the direction of the parked cars, Jesamine might never have looked, but, when she did look, what she saw stopped her dead in her tracks and filled her with a horrible chill. As she pointed in alarm, her voice was little more than a choked gasp. “Zhaithan! There, by that car! Zhaithan in full uniform!” She swung round to face de Wynter. “What are the Zhaithan doing here? What are you doing to me?”
ARGO
“What the fuck?”
“What?”
“Zhaithan. Fucking Zhaithan, in full uniform, standing around bold as brass. One of them is even smoking a fucking cigarette.”
Argo leaned forward and rapped on the partition in the official car that separated the passengers from the driver. “Go. Quickly. Get us out of here!”
Raphael, meanwhile, looked at Bowden Spinrad, their ES escort, in alarm. “What the fuck is this?”
Spinrad attempted to calm the two of them. “It’s nothing to be alarmed about.”
Argo looked back at him in total disbelief. “What do you mean it’s nothing to be alarmed about.”
“They’re just a chauffeur and bodyguard.”
“What are a Zhaithan chauffeur and a Zhaithan fucking bodyguard doing in the middle of London?”
“They belong to the Mosul chargé d’affaires.”
“The Norse and the Mosul have diplomatic relations?”
“We’re not officially at war.”
“And they come to de Wynter’s parties?”
“Khurshid Nawaz, the chargé d’affaires of the Mosul Empire, is quite the party boy. He’s a royal cousin; they had to send him someplace he couldn’t do too much harm. I mean, the relationship between the NU and the Empire is so bad, there’s nothing he could do to damage it.”
Argo and Raphael stared at Spinrad, not wholly believing him. “Are you sure about this? We’ve been targets of the Zhaithan for too long to screw around with this.”
Spinrad again did his best to allay their fears. “You really have no need to worry. Khurshid Nawaz isn’t the kind to try anything.”
Raphael glanced at Argo. “What do you think?”
Argo shrugged. “If Spinrad here says it’s okay, I guess we can take him at his word.”
Bowden Spinrad was young, not much older than Argo and Raphael, and a junior operative in Windermere’s ES Section, although, as far as Argo could see, something of a party boy himself, unless the long lank hair, the long leather evening coat, and the androgynous eyeliner were just some kind of cover to enable him to move through London’s high society without anyone taking him very seriously. He had arranged for a government car to take Argo and Raphael from the Palace of Westminster to Deerpark, the residence of Madame Anastasia de Wynter, and then come along with them for the ride. Since he seemed to know everyone, and also kept up a stream of genuinely funny banter, Argo and Raphael were pleased to have him along until the two Zhaithan appeared in the darkness beside the parked cars in front of Deerpark.
The driver was now forcing the issue by climbing down from the car to open the passenger door. Raphael treated Spinrad to a hard stare. “You’re sure about this?”
“Certain.”
As they cautiously exited the car, Spinrad turned to the driver. “Do you have a sidearm, Wilson?”
The driver nodded. “Of course, sir.”
Spinrad gestured to the two Zhaithan, who were maybe twenty yards away, in their black cloaks, red and black tunics, spiked and turban-swathed helmets. “You see those two?”
“Indeed I do, sir.”
As Argo had observed, one of them was smoking a cigarette cupped in the palm of his hand. “If either one of them makes a hostile or threatening move, shoot them.”
Again Wilson nodded. “Whatever you say, sir.”
Spinrad turned back to Argo and Raphael. “Shall we go inside?”
RAPHAEL
“Cold cruel, cold cruel, cold cruel,
You’re a cold cruel bitch!
Cold cruel, cold cruel, cold cruel,
You’re a cold cruel bitch!”
Raphael could not believe the volume of what was only a five-piece combo. The small stage was flanked by a pair of huge conical steel horns, maybe five feet across at the open end, that came close to dwarfing the musicians with their stringed instruments—the string bass, the guitar, the hipzither. Raphael had never seen anything like the objects they were playing. Even the Mosul occupation had not been able to eradicate the guitar from Hispania, and he was familiar with the common, six-string model with the hollow wooden sound box, but these devices were a whole new development. They were carved from solid wood and came with odd electrical contacts and wires that ran back to boxes with glowing radio valves that, in turn, altered and amplified the sound and then hurled it out at the enthusiastic, dancing crowd like waves of physical force. The noise the young men created was harsh, angry, and metallic. At one and the same time, it was aggressive and all pervasive, dense with an excitement that was close to sexual. Raphael not only heard it, but was able to feel it in his skull, bones, and chest cavity. In addition to the three string players, two oriental boys hammered with mallets on huge wooden drums. Overhead, multiple beams from electric spotlights were directed at an imposing pedant chandelier, creating refracted rainbows that rotated like radiant hallucinations over the people below. At the Palace of Westminster the dancing had been formal and sedate, but at Madame de Wynter’s party, the total reverse was true. The crowd in front of the stage and under the lights was wild, sensually unfettered, and wholly improvisational. Some were even flailing and violent. A number of young men and also some of the young women had stripped to the waist, sweating and shaking, in contortionist abandon. One pair of youths was costumed in formfitting bandages, with medical prostheses attached to perfectly healthy limbs. A gilded boy in shorts was being passed hand to hand. A woman in hellfire scarlet flicked her partner with a knout as they quivered together, while someone of indeterminate gender, wearing an elaborate gold mask, was prancing all on his/her own, a palsied leaping and twitching that was more akin to an affliction of the nervous system than a dance. Dancers around him/her had cleared a space, wary of the unpredictable arms and legs. Raphael pointed him out to Spinrad.
“Is this how London gained its reputation for decadence?”
Spinrad looked down and laughed. “As a matter of fact, that is none other than Khurshid Nawaz, the chargé d’affaires of the Mosul Empire. You see now why I said he was no cause for concern?”
Deerpark was large enough to have its own high-ceilinged ballroom. The place was also incredibly soundproof. He, Argo, and Spinrad had hardly heard the noise until they were actually entering. It was not until much later that he learned Madame de Wynter needed soundproofing for some of her rituals, and that Deerpark had been built with walls that, at some points, were more than three feet thick. The Archduke Rudolph, in addition to being obscenely rich, even for an exile, also had a morbid fear of being blown up by his supposed enemies, and had, before his untimely end, that ironically had nothing to do with explosive or infernal devices of any kind, endeavored to make his London home as bombproof as was scientifically possible. They had entered the ballroom by way of a mezzanine or minstrel’s gallery at the opposite end from the musicians, from which they were able to look down on the squirming mass of eerily lit dancers. From there, they could descend to the main floor down a t
heatrically curving flight of stairs. The whole interior design of this house, that all but qualified as a palace, seemed to be designed for dramatic effect, and the fact was certainly not lost on the tall and skinny woman, in the short white dress, white lipstick, with dead straight platinum hair, who had a daisy painted in pink and magenta on her left cheek, and was climbing the stairs toward them. Raphael stood with Argo and Spinrad at the top of the stairs. The woman in white seemed in control, but nevertheless intoxicated to the point where she had to stop and focus on the three men. Assuming that they were about to descend to join the dance, she said, “You don’t want to go down there, unless you really get off on your arse being groped at random by total strangers.”
A new song started, slower than the previous thrash, and, instead of bellowing in English, the guitarist began to sing in a language that Raphael was at a loss to explain, but would subsequently be informed was a mixture of Carib, Zulu, and Icelandic. The seafaring ways of the Norse, and especially the English, had created some exotic cultural mixes in their cities. The woman in white with the daisy on her cheek continued to peer drunkenly at the three of them, especially Raphael and Argo. She advanced up three more steps and then stared at them as though inspecting specimens. A knowing smile spread across her face. “You’re them, aren’t you?”
Spinrad, talking it upon himself to act as some kind of proxy host, attempted to handle the situation. “Aren’t we what?”
The girl looked at Spinrad and shook her head. “No, not you, those two.” She indicated Raphael to Argo. “You’re them, aren’t you?”
Argo grinned. “Are we?”
“Sure you are. I saw your picture in the evening edition, getting off that battleship.”
Raphael nodded and fell into the torturous sentence construction. “Then them we must be, mustn’t we?”
The daisy-painted girl seemed quite excited. She inarticulately waved in the direction of the dancers below. “I have to…”
“I thought you didn’t like it down there.”
“I have to tell my friends you’re here.”
As the girl descended, familiar hair was coming up the staircase. Country Man’s tuxedo was gone, and he was now in a flowing dashiki. He exchanged greetings with Raphael but made as if to walk on past. Raphael shouted above the band. “We must talk some more.”
Country Man looked uncomfortable. “I dunno, Major Ranger. I maybe talked too much, know what I mean?”
JESAMINE
Jesamine and Madame de Wynter, followed by Garth, emerged onto a broad terrace of white flagstones that ran the entire length of the rear of the house, and was partially illuminated by flames from the stone braziers that stood at regular intervals along the balustrade. “This is where Rudolph shot the dreadful Ciccone woman and then himself.”
“That must have been a terrible shock.”
De Wynter dismissed the incident with a wave of her cane. “I suppose it was at the time, but it was almost certainly the best thing that could have happened to all concerned. Rudolph was not what you would call a nice man.”
Beyond the terrace, an expanse of immaculate lawn stretched back to the dark trees in which colored lanterns had been hung. Jesamine could see dark figures moving on the lawn and in among the trees, mostly in couples or in threes. The band playing in the ballroom was audible, but not intrusive. She caught a snatch of the lyrics. As a musician herself, she had yet to make up her mind about this loud and desperate Norse music.
“They will know her by the wreckage that she leaves
Know her name when they feel the need to grieve.”
When they had first entered Deerpark, Jesamine had assumed the music and dancing was the full extent of the party, but de Wynter had walked determinedly on. “Let the young people go crazy in the ballroom. There are some people I’d like you to meet before Jack Kennedy sends his summons and you go flying off as fast as you can.”
White wrought-iron tables and chairs were set on the terrace, tended by waiters working from a bar and buffet at the opposite end. One of the first tables they approached was occupied by burly men in wide-brimmed hats, long dark overcoats, extravagantly padded shoulders, and a conversational style that was one moment conspiratorial and the next boisterously loud. One individual had leaned back, pointing in guffawing triumph to a companion. “Almost fucking had you there, didn’t I, Cyril?” The move caused his pinstriped coat to fall open, and reveal that he carried an ultra-modern, nickel-plated revolver in an underarm shoulder holster. De Wynter saw that Jesamine had noticed and laughed. “Just local wide boys.”
“Wide boys.”
“I maintain my ties with underworld, my dear. It’s enhances my credibility as a Woman of the People. They can also be incredibly useful whenever the system fails, or is too limiting.”
The wide boys half rose and raised their hats to Madame de Wynter. For a moment Jesamine had thought that these were the people that de Wynter wanted her to meet, but mercifully these criminal gangsters were not. Instead, the two of them continued towards a table that seemed to be filled with other refugees from the reception at the Palace of Westminster, including the same blonde women in the black chiffon and yellow high heels she had seen talking to Argo. Madame de Wynter nodded in her direction. “That’s Harriet Lime. I’m going to park you with her for a little while, while I do some obligatory circulating.”
“What if Jack sends a car for me?”
“Don’t worry so much, my dear. If he does, you will be told immediately. Everything is arranged. In the meantime, I want to you to get acquainted with Harriet. She is not the vacuous beauty she pretends to be in public.”
They reached the table and introduced Jesamine to those seated there. Harriet Lime inclined her head. Gold ringlets dropped, partially concealing her face. “You’ll have to excuse me not shaking hands, the absinthe ceremony has to be done just so.”
Harriet Lime had a small stemmed glass in front of her, over which was suspended a cube of white refined sugar supported in what looked to Jesamine like a tiny silver cage with a spoon-like handle. Taking the most exquisite care, Harriet Lime was pouring a clear green liquid from a chilled flask over the sugar cube and into the glass. When the glass was about half full she removed the sugar, put down the flask and picked up a jug of water. The small splash immediately turned the green liquid cloudy, which was the signal for those around the table to break into quiet applause. Harriet Lime beamed at Madame de Wynter. “Did I make this one for you, Anastasia?”
De Wynter shook her head. “Not now, my dear. I have to shake the obligatory hands and watch out for the less than obligatory knives in the back. Give that one to Jesamine. She is worrying too much and needs to relax.”
Jesamine seated herself, and Harriet Lime pushed the glass of what now looked like green milk towards her. As she extended her hand, Jesamine noticed that the woman’s long fingernails were lacquered in the exact same yellow as her shoes, and that she wore an ornately gothic ring, a polished yellow stone, that also matched the shoes, gripped in the eight legs of a silver-crafted spider. “Here, Major. Try this.”
“I don’t wish to appear rude, but what is it?”
“It is absinthe, Major. The emerald goddess.”
CORDELIA
Windermere had not been particularly taken with the band in the ballroom, and, although Cordelia had wanted to linger, he had taken her hand and led her straight on through a number of rooms in the seemingly endless house, until the two of them emerged onto a broad terrace under the night sky. Flames leapt from braziers and groups of people sat on white chairs at white tables. One entire table was filled with men who could only be part of the local criminal fraternity, but Windermere ignored them, heading instead for a table where Jesamine was sitting, looking decided bored and a little anxious, while the same blonde in the near-sheer black dress who had previously been impressing Argo appeared to be holding court. “Is that Harriet Lime?”
Windermere nodded. “That’s her. Just remember wh
at I told you.”
Cordelia and Windermere had driven to the party in Windermere’s dark green, two-seat Armstrong roadster. The spring night was perhaps a little chilly to have the top down, but she was delighted with the sensation of being in a foreign city with the wind making her red hair stream behind her. While halted at an intersection by a mechanical stop sign, Windermere had placed a hand on her thigh. Everything seemed to be going according to her plan and more. The smallness of the car encouraged such intimacies. Cordelia had quivered and put her own hand over his in happy validation of the unstated-but-promised objective of having him fuck her before the dawn. Gideon Windermere was going to make her night. That had been gloriously and victoriously agreed, even if the agreement was unspoken. She was also elated that the people on the crowded pavements turned and looked as though they were something special, smiling and exchanging unheard remarks as Windermere deftly threaded the car in and out of the nighttime traffic, steering his way around the slow-moving horse-drawn cabs and broughams, the trams that drew their electricity from a network of overhead cables, and the diesel-driven, open-topped, double-decker buses. She was tempted to try one more time to persuade him to forget the party and come straight back to her hotel, or else take her to whatever lair he inhabited and called home, but she knew it was a waste of time. No matter how alluring Cordelia might make herself, attendance at Anastasia de Wynter’s party was nonnegotiable, and she suspected it was the kind of gathering where plots were hatched and devious deals done in dark corners. Windermere as good as confirmed this for her when, as they drove along a broad boulevard that bordered a park on one side, he spoke to her in a tone that was suddenly professional and authoritative.
