by Mick Farren
CORDELIA
The smell was the first sensation to filter through the pain; brine, with a hint of fish and wet wood that made no sense at all. Next came sounds that were other than in her head: footsteps overhead, the lapping of water, an occasional loud flapping, and a continuously repeated creaking. Cordelia did not want to open her eyes quite yet, fearing she might learn more than she needed to know, and yet crucial curiosity about where she was, and what had happened to her, could not be held at bay forever. She would have preferred to lapse back into her previous unconsciousness, but that did not seem to be possible. She was also becoming aware that, beyond the throbbing in her head, and the lurch of nausea in her stomach, something hard and cold across her ankles was making it impossible for her to move her legs. She also could feel a regular, side-to-side, rolling motion that she decided was external and not a part of her general malaise. She finally looked, very quickly and tentatively, and found to her surprise that she was in a close semidarkness. A little light leaked through what she could only identify as some kind of overhead hatch, but it was enough to show her that she was lying on a narrow bunk in an oddly shaped, asymmetrical room. She was in her underwear, and a dirty, coarse-woven blanket had been thrown over her. This first inventory of her situation was enough to convince her that she was in trouble. Just how much trouble would require further exploration.
She found that she could move her arms, and, after this discovery, Cordelia decided that she needed to sit up. The move would require effort, and she was going to make it slowly and with a great deal of care. Before attempting to rise, she reached up and felt how much headroom she had. Even at full stretch from a prone position, her extended fingers encountered nothing solid, so she eased her upper body forward. Sitting up, the rolling motion was much more noticeable, and Cordelia’s subconscious must have been processing the painfully gleaned information much faster and more efficiently than her thinking mind. Realization came to her fully formed and on the half-shell. She was at sea. She was on a boat at sea. Her voice became small with the forming horror that was driving out the pain in her head.
“I’ve been fucking press-ganged.”
The boat was not a large warship like the Ragnar. The roll was too pronounced and there was no all-pervading throb of engines. From the smell and the general accouterments, it also wasn’t any kind of pleasure craft. Cordelia was becoming increasingly frightened. She threw the blanket to one side and moved her hands down her bare legs and found that heavy shackles had been locked around her ankles and secured to a metal ring at the foot of the bunk. Her heart sank, and she felt even more unwell than she had previously.
“I’m on a boat and I’m in irons.”
Fighting down panic, she very slowly lay back down and turned on her side to think about what to do next. As things stood, her options were exceedingly limited.
RAPHAEL
The banner on the scaffolding tower read Biograph News, and two men on the platform were operating a large camera of wood and brass, mounted on a sturdy tripod. One man peered through an eyepiece and adjusted the lens while the other cranked the handle that wound the celluloid film through the shutter. By the following day, flickering images would be projected on screens in moving picture theaters across the entire Norse Union. This parade was a very bold piece of diplomacy, and receiving saturation news coverage, even though it was really only the prologue. The full pomp and circumstance would be wheeled out when the King himself followed Jack Kennedy in a few days, and the two of them met with President Inga Sundquist in Stockholm to map out the final phase of the war against Hassan IX in the Americas, which they hoped would have the full popular support of the Norse people. Raphael sat stiffly in the open horse-drawn carriage as they passed the camera. The carriage in which they were traveling was either seventh or eighth in the parade. It was designed to hold six, but, in fact, it was currently only carrying five. Argo, Jesamine, and Jane Tennyson faced forward, while Raphael and a plainclothes policeman looked back in the direction from which they had come. The empty seat was intended for Cordelia, but Cordelia had not arrived at the Asquith in time to join the parade at its start, and now appeared to be missing it altogether. Cordelia’s failure to show had prompted both concern and tightlipped anger on the part of Commander Tennyson, and although the remaining three had attempted to cover for her by making light of it, they too had started to worry. Cordelia might be headstrong, thoughtless, and have her little ways, but she had also been trained from birth to turn up for official functions, and her nature was such that she would never miss a moment in the spotlight. Once there, she might behave outrageously, and say what was inappropriate, but she would never absent herself from the focus of attention.
Biograph News had set up their camera at the approximate halfway point on the procession route. The parade had started in Jutland Square, with its huge statue of Horatio Hamilton, the legendary poet and Sea Lord, on its tall pedestal, the famous lion fountains, and, on the East side, the Temple of the Goddess-in-the-Fields. They had proceeded into the wide street called Whitehall that ran south between imposing government buildings, as though they were passing through a manmade canyon of gray Portland stone. The procession was led by a formation of Metropolitan police motorcyclists, and then the pipes and drums of the Black Watch. The pipers and drummers were in turn followed by a detachment of Lifeguards, mounted on their large black chargers, and arrayed in plumed helmets, gleaming steel breastplates, and scarlet coats. Behind them marched a company of the Asgard Division of Viking infantry, and only then came the leading and most ornate carriage, which carried Kennedy and Governor Branson, along with their personal bodyguards. Next was a formation of Roper’s Light Horse, in their khaki uniforms and wide-brimmed hats, with carbines at the ready, and horses on a tight rein. At that point the rest of the carriages followed, open landaus, one after the other, in order of their occupants’ diminishing importance, with twin protective files of the Scotts Grays and 17th Lancers riding on either side of them. As everyone in the Kennedy party had hoped, Whitehall was lined with cheering crowds, with flags of the NU and Albany being waved and flourished, although lines of uniformed policemen and foot soldiers kept the public enthusiasm safely confined to the sidewalks. Those in the carriages had, however, been warned they would encounter a knot of protesters just before they reached the Palace of Westminster, but they should pay them no mind since the police had them effectively contained.
The Four’s carriage was so far behind Kennedy and Branson that even those looking forward were unable to see them, and the sound of the Black Watch pipers was faint and distant, and sometimes even snatched away by the brisk spring breeze. If those who opposed the Norse/Albany alliance wanted to kick up a commotion, they would do it as the Prime Minister and the Governor passed them, and it would most likely be all over once The Four reached that spot. As far as Raphael was concerned, they were scarcely in the parade at all, except, when the first shots rang out, the sounds were wholly unmistakable as anything other than gunfire, and The Four certainly shared with the rest the sense of shock and alarm.
CORDELIA
Footsteps thudded across what was, to Cordelia, the ceiling of her prison, but could only be the deck of what she had now firmly decided was a boat at sea. Applying a worst-case scenario, she had to assume that she had been kidnapped from the party at Deerpark, either by Zhaithan or some other Mosul operatives. It was not a happy assumption, but Cordelia was hard-pressed to think of any other reason why she should be making an ocean voyage chained to a bunk in her underwear. She might, of course, have somehow fallen victim to random white slavery, but it seemed highly unlikely, and all that remained to be seen was whether the others had also been abducted, but were being kept in isolation, or whether she alone had been singled out for kidnapping. She knew that, in due course, the details of who exactly had lifted her would probably be revealed, but she had already decided that, ultimately, only Jeakqual-Ahrach could be behind the outrage. The illogical part was t
he style of her capture. It seemed unlike their foremost adversary to resort to methods that were so crude and physical, and this discrepancy made Cordelia furious, and prompted her to issue an angry if maybe rash mental challenge. “What’s the matter, you withered bitch? You couldn’t find a way into my mind? You had to use drugs and strong-arm tactics?”
Cordelia was quite disappointed that this achieved absolutely no result. Had Jeakqual-Ahrach appeared to her in an occult vision as she had on the Ragnar, it would at least have forced the issue and she wouldn’t have been lying in the dark, waiting to find out her fate. She tried again. “Losing your touch, bitch? You were able to find me on the Ragnar in the middle of the Northern Ocean, but you can’t find me when I’m your prisoner? Or are you scared to face me, even when I’m helpless?”
This second outburst yielded a result, but hardly the one that Cordelia had wanted. No apparition of Jeakqual-Ahrach manifested itself, with or without the White Twins, but the footsteps above her halted, and male voices exchanged words, although Cordelia could not make out what was being said. She realized that the challenge to Jeakqual-Ahrach had not been exclusively mental. She had spoken out loud, and warned whoever was up there that their prisoner had woken from her chloroform stupor. She’d wanted to force the issue, but maybe not in the way that it was now going. The footsteps turned and moved toward what she had already concluded was a hatch in her “ceiling.” Bolts squeaked as they were pulled back, and then the cover was lifted, flooding Cordelia’s confinement with more light than she could, at first, handle. It took her a few seconds for her to see that the figure who crouched looking in was a skinny, barefoot, tow-haired teenager in ragged canvas trousers and a striped seaman’s shirt; hardly what a Zhaithan agent was supposed to look like. She knew her only course was to play the indignant aristocrat to the hilt. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
The boy’s eyes widened, but, instead of answering her, he turned and shouted. “Hey, Skipper, she seems to have come round.”
An older man’s voice gruffly responded but, again, Cordelia couldn’t make out the words. She decided to go on pressing the boy and see what happened. “You know you’re going to pay dearly for this, don’t you?”
The boy looked nervous. “I’d put a lid on that, girlie. You don’t want to piss off the skipper.”
“And you, lad, don’t want to piss off Lady Cordelia Blakeney.” Cordelia wished that she could stand, but the leg irons prevented her.
The boy shook his head. “You’re cargo. I shouldn’t be so much as talking with you.”
“You, my boy, should be down on your scrawny knees begging my forgiveness.”
The sound of heavy boots stamped across the deck, and Cordelia figured it had to be the skipper. Matters were proceeding a little swiftly, but she supposed it was better than waiting. Now a weatherbeaten, bearded face, topped off by a peaked naval officer’s cap; white but filthy and battered, with the insignia stripped off. “So you’re awake, are you?
Cordelia now doubly wished she was standing. “That’s right, I’m awake. And you may well be looking at a hanging party when all this comes out.” The slightest flicker of doubt crossed the captain’s face, and Cordelia knew she had him. “Would you care to explain what exactly has been happening here? Maybe starting with what happened to my clothes?”
The captain did his best to bluster. “Lady whatever you are, I have a boat to sail. I don’t have the time for explaining and, moreover, I’m not paid for explaining.”
Cordelia snapped back. “And I’m not accustomed to being chained nearly naked and against my will.” That the man seemed to be English also made her revise some of her original conjecture. Neither the boy nor the skipper was anything like conventional Zhaithan, or even Zhaithan operatives. If they were working for Jeakqual-Ahrach, the degrees of separation had to be numerous and very much removed. The situation appeared more complicated than she had imagined. “Do you know what kind of manhunt is being mounted for me right now?”
A third figure now joined the skipper and the boy. This one was a muscular Caribbean with wild braided hair, an eyepatch, and gold earrings. “Man, I knew the bitch wasn’t no Limehouse doxie.”
“So what is she?”
The boy volunteered the information. “She says she’s Lady Cordelia something.”
Cordelia pulled out all the stops. If her top drawer voice of authority did not do it, nothing would. “I’m Lady Cordelia Blakeney. I’m a major in the Albany Rangers on the staff of Prime Minister Kennedy of the Kingdom of Albany on a state visit to the Norse Union. The fact that I find myself in leg irons and my skivvies may well constitute, at the very least, a diplomatic incident.”
The Captain jumped down into the space in which Cordelia was confined. “You’d better not be shitting me.”
“I’ve told you my name, Captain. What’s yours?”
“I’m Joe Conrad, lady. Master of the Nancy Belle.”
Cordelia went for a logical guess. “A smuggler perhaps?
“I prefer the term ‘free trader,’ ma’am. Or ‘embargo runner.’ Not a wholly dishonorable trade in this day and age.”
“So, Captain Conrad, why don’t you do the honorable thing and take these irons off me?”
JESAMINE
Jesamine could not remember any time when she had been so happy. She had spent a thrilling and blissful night in the arms of Jack Kennedy, and now she was riding as part of his parade through the streets of London, in an open carriage with a ceremonial guard, acknowledging the cheers of the crowds packed on the pavements. Her only regret was that she was not riding beside him in the lead carriage, openly recognized as his woman. Then the shots had rung out and absolutely everything changed. In an instant she knew in her heart, beyond any doubt. “Jack! They’re shooting Jack!”
Argo was the first out of his seat in the carriage, rounding angrily on Jane Tennyson. “Give me your damned sidearm, Commander.”
Jane Tennyson shrunk in her seat. “I can’t do that.”
“You took our fucking weapons away from us, and now an attempt is being made on the life of our Prime Minister. And we’re unarmed.”
The plainclothes police officer raised a warning hand. “Easy, lad, we don’t know…”
Raphael had a revolver in his hand and a grimly merciless expression. He had clearly disobeyed the order that had disarmed them. “Give him the gun.”
For a moment it seemed as though the policeman was going to do something brave but stupid. Tennyson clearly decided to prevent that by giving in. She held out her gun to Argo. “Here, take it.”
Raphael was already springing from the carriage. “Let’s go, damn it.”
Argo was a pace behind him, and Jesamine, freed from the momentarily paralysis of shock, was also galvanized into action, and jumped down with the men. Her honey skin had turned pale but her face was set. They ran forward down the length of the procession. Up ahead the ranked and orderly parade had turned into a milling chaos. Jesamine was doing her best not to come apart. “If they’ve hurt Jack…”
Argo looked quickly back at her. “We don’t know anything yet.”
The noise alone was a storm of deafening madness. The clatter of hooves on cobbles, the roaring of the crowd, screams and shouts, sirens somewhere in the distance; orders were being yelled by authoritative voices, but they constantly countermanded each other. The crowds on the sidewalk pushed forward, and police and soldiers struggled to hold them back. A lancer galloped past, also making for the melee at the head of the parade. Discipline had broken down as everyone followed their own idea of what to do. A man with blood on his long civilian overcoat, and cradling a light Bergman gun, was coming toward them, running with desperate speed as two of Roper’s Light Horse galloped after him. Jesamine knew it had to be an attacker. The man realized he couldn’t outrun the cavalry horses, and turned to fire a wild burst. A horse and rider went down, in a confusion of thrashing limbs, but then the other horseman cut the man down with a saber. Th
e assassin fell with blood arcing from a gaping wound between his neck and shoulder. He half rose, but was kicked by the horse as it turned. He rolled and lay still. Jesamine attempted to blot out the gore that made the road surface slick underfoot. She was maintaining her sanity by holding on to a single lifeline of hope. Maybe the attack, or whatever it was, had been beaten off, and Jack was safe. But then she reached the milling crowd and could no longer run. They had to push, duck, and weave, negotiating the confusion, although their uniforms, and Raphael’s and Argo’s drawn pistols, did compel people to let them through.
All hope drained from Jesamine as they reached what, moments earlier, had been the head of the procession. She pushed past Black Watch pipers who milled, dazed and without orders, among the rearing, wild-eyed mounts of the Lifeguards. All around the carriage in which Jack and the Governor had been riding was a scene of carnage, bloody as an abattoir, the clear aftermath of murder.
“Jack!”
One wheel had come off the ornate landau, and it lay like a tilted ruin, bullet-ridden and surrounded by the bodies of men and horses. Governor Branson sat in the street, a few yards from it, head in his hands, and with a crude, bloodstained bandage wrapped around his left arm. Two soldiers knelt beside him, talking quietly to ease his shock. One of the police motorcycles lay on its side, in a pool of burning petroleum from its fuel tank that had mercifully not exploded, adding grim red flames and an evil pall of black smoke to the hideous tableau.
“No!”
The body of Jack Kennedy was surrounded by more soldiers and police, as it lay on its back where it had obviously fallen, sprawled half out of the wrecked carriage, legs twisted, arms out-flung, eyes staring, and with the top of the skull blown away on the left side. The Norsemen remained at a distance, unsure of what they should do, and maybe shamed by their inability to protect their distinguished guest. Dawson’s bullet-riddled body lay a few feet in front of Kennedy, as though he had been vainly attempting to take the bullets. Jesamine, suddenly detached, could hear someone screaming an insane mantra.
