by Mick Farren
Everyone pulled coats, capes, and tunics over their mouths and noses, but while they were protecting themselves, the two canoes were dead in the water. Slide yelled again. “Paddle, you idiots. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Cordelia caught a whiff of the gas. She began coughing helplessly, and black specters invaded her mind. For a moment she thought she was going to lose her reason, but the Rangers, along with Argo and Raphael, had dug in with a vengeance, and suddenly the menace of the black gas was behind them and they were again breathing relatively clear air. The specters in Cordelia’s head lost their footing and fell away. At the same time, a signal lamp flashed a repeating pattern from the Albany bank. One-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, one-two.
“Is that for us?” Steuben snorted.
“You see any other dumb bastards floating about on the river in the middle of the night?”
One-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, one-two. The canoes turned hard toward the signal, and as they followed the bank, it was soon possible to see a small jetty where uniformed figures stood and waited for them. Cordelia permitted herself a long and heartfelt sigh. Her strange circular voyage of discovery and loss, that had begun as an excitingly romantic day trip to Manhattan, was over. Other even more bizarre excursions might be ahead of her, but, for the moment, she had come home, and, blasé as Lady Cordelia Blakeney might endeavor to appear, the thought of home had a profound effect on her, and she had to get a firm grip on herself to avoid bursting into tears.
SEVEN
RAPHAEL
Vast and elongated drab green rectangles of close-pressed and ordered men, reduced to single cells in a geometric beast, and whose will had been replaced by a single destructive purpose, extended back to some infinity of the morning mist on the other side of the river. The air seemed dead, and Raphael could feel sweat form under the arms of his Albany Ranger’s tunic. He could so easily have been one of them, and even though he had now changed sides, no guarantees were being given that any of those present would survive the coming days. After two long years of recuperation, the army of Hassan IX was on the move. Through the night and through all of the previous day, the battle lines had been laboriously formed. Now, as the sun slowly rose in a damp and damned autumn dawn, both sides paused, poised and ready, with the river between them. The Mosul and the defenders on the Albany bank took a long breath before the trumpets brayed, the orders were screamed, and the inevitable artillery opened fire. The Four, now united and recognized as such, stood together, looking out from the crenelated parapet of one of the high stone walls that had been raised along the Potomac to meet the long-awaited enemy assault. Politicians and some of the Albany high command, complete with aides and entourage, stared over the same parapet but discreetly kept their distance from Raphael, Jesamine, Argo, and Cordelia. The more the Four came together, the more Raphael noticed that others tried to keep away from them, or, at least, invent reasons not to come too close. Nowhere in Albany had it so far been doubted that the Four were an asset, a new weapon in the arsenal of abnormal warfare, but even those who sought to use them seemed to look on them as an unholy acquisition, the product of a deal with a demon.
Aside from Cordelia, who was now smartly arrayed in her RWA lieutenant’s uniform, the Four were dressed in the forest green tunics of the Albany Rangers. Raphael supposed that the outfits, although they came without insignia, badges of rank, or the famous “We Own The Night” shoulder patches, conferred an honorary status on them as a part of the Albany war effort, although in his case, he was not sure exactly how honorary that status was. To many who were not in the paranormal and mystic loop, Raphael was seen as nothing more than a miserable deserter from the lowest ranks of the Mosul, and, behind his back, he was certain that questions were whispered as to why he was being accorded special treatment instead of being speedily dispatched to an internment camp just like any other unwashed turncoat. Dearly as he would have loved to do such a thing, he even hesitated to sketch the dramatic and mundane vignettes of war lest he be arrested as a spy. The others were hardly treated any better. To the uninformed, Jesamine was a runaway Mosul slave-harlot who appeared to be receiving levels of favor far above her station. Argo was also being viewed as a refugee from occupied Virginia who, despite his youth, had waited far too long before making his escape. Maybe the greatest irony was that Cordelia, who should have been welcomed in Albany with open arms as one of its own, came close to faring the worst of all, and only the intervention of no less than Prime Minister John Kennedy had saved her from being forced into the striped suit of a military prisoner awaiting court-martial.
Immediately after the Four had slept longer and more comfortably than any of them could remember and were sitting down in the kitchen of their new quarters to a breakfast that was nothing short of sumptuous, a stout RWA colonel had arrived with an armed escort and an arrest warrant in her fat fist with Cordelia’s name on it. Seemingly, Cordelia’s ill-fated ride in the NU98 had been a wilful and romance-driven adventure, a simple but irregular jaunt to the cabarets of Manhattan, embarked on with only the most flimsy official sanction. Colonel Patton had no tolerance for flimsy. As far as she was concerned, Cordelia was merely a deserter who had finally returned to face her judges, and not even a furious Yancey Slide could deflect her from what she all too delightedly considered to be her duty. It was only when Slide went to the very top—and the very top, in this instance, was Prime Minister Kennedy on a visit to the front—that Colonel Patton was sent packing with her guards and her warrant and the most categorical orders never again to bother the Lady Blakeney, who was now crucial to national security. Raphael supposed he was a little disappointed. He had never deceived himself that Albany was a paradise. It was a considerable improvement on the Mosul hell of burning, flogging, hangings, and constant fear and hunger, but it was far from being without its own pettiness, prejudice, and myopic bureaucracy.
On the other side, out across the river, in the spaces between the dull, camouflaged infantry formations, plumes bobbed, banners fluttered, the blades of drawn sabers and the points of lances glittered, and polished breastplates reflected the rising sun as the eager horses of a multitude of cavalry danced and pranced and waited for the charge to be sounded. From what he had learned from Melchior, it would be a long time before the bugles sounded the charge. The cavalry were only there to lend color and spectacle to what would be a grinding slaughter of infantry attrition. These pampered regiments were too pretty and too beloved of their generals to be thrown into the furnace until the wretched bloody infantry had smashed enough of a breach in the enemy defenses for them to gallop in with all the dash and flourish of an assured victory. As always, the foot soldiers were expected to lay the groundwork of annihilation. He wondered where his former squad might be in the sea of green. He wondered if Pascal had made it back and was not dangling at the end of a rope for his absence. He wondered if any of them would live through the day, or if Melchior really could bring the squad miraculously through their part in the assault.
The officers along the wall from Raphael were brought a field telephone. Orders, and probably orders of extreme significance, were about to be given. This was certainly an improvement in efficiency over the Mosul, who, save for a few Teutons, would have used a combination of runners and a heliograph in the same circumstances. What had Ranger Penhaligon said, spitting out of the back of the truck as they fled the Mosul camp? “No communications, see.” The telephone’s dynamo was cranked, and the senior general, the slim, thoughtful man who walked with a limp, took the handset. Raphael had yet to learn all the names and the precise ranks, but from the red tabs on his collar, the gold on the peak of his cap, and the way all the others deferred to him, although he seldom seemed to raise his voice, Raphael had to assume that the one who limped was the supreme commander. He was too far away to hear the spoken order, but, from the way the officers covered their ears in its immediate aftermath, he knew what the content must have been.
CORDELIA
The artillery bombardment, and the enemy on the move, had at least driven the resentment from Cordelia’s mind at how close she had come to being thrown in the stockade after all she had been through, both in the cause of Albany as well as simply preserving her own life. After they had been allowed to sleep, the Four had risen to a communal breakfast shared with T’saya and Yancey Slide, who appeared to have been assigned as their mentors for the duration, although Slide did not eat, just smoked a cigar and watched everyone else. Cordelia found herself sitting down to buckwheat pancakes, bacon, sausage, and three eggs, sunny-side up, and felt it was probably the best thing that had happened to her in a very long time. Unfortunately, as though to prove that all delight comes at a price, Grace bloody Patton, Colonel of Women, had marched her corseted, ramrod-stiff bulk through the door with enough MPs at her back to apprehend a fighting-drunk mountain jack.
“On your feet, Blakeney, while I read the charges.”
To raise a quizzical eyebrow might not have been the best reaction. Patton had come up through the ranks and harbored a deep loathing for fashionably commissioned aristocrats. Had she known where Cordelia had been and what she had done and witnessed, which, of course, she did not, it probably would not have impressed her, and she would have viewed the entire sequence of events with extreme suspicion.
“On your feet, my girl, and snap to it.”
Cordelia had then compounded all previous offences by looking at Patton with irritated contempt. “Can’t you see I’m eating my damned breakfast?”
She was one of the Four. She was the vessel of destiny. She might well save Albany before she was through. Who knew of what she might be capable? She felt that she had earned the right not be bothered by the like of Grace Patton, but once again her attitude and handling of the situation may have been less than wise.
“I’m giving you one last chance. One your feet, or I’ll have these men subdue and take you by force.”
Cordelia was simply not willing to play Patton’s game. It was something out of back then, and this was right now. She put down her fork and regarded Patton with a gaze of pure, highborn chill. “I have just come from a place where I was strung up naked with silk ropes for the cause of Albany. I have been in an airship crash and watched the crew massacred. I have fought with the Rangers and faced down Dark Things. And now you want to arrest me? You know something, Colonel? You aren’t that different from some of the fucking Zhaithan I encountered. And believe me, Grace, I encountered the very worst.”
Patton inflated like a furious bulldog and snapped at her military policemen. “Take her. Drag her if need be. She’s under close arrest.”
This had been too much for Yancey Slide, and he had removed the cigar from his mouth. “Hold up there a minute, colonel-lady. No one’s about to take anyone anywhere, let alone be dragging them.”
In the aftermath of Patton’s speech, the MPs were already looking a little doubtful. Slide had enough innate demonic authority, whether they knew who he was or not, that the MPs halted, unsure of whom to obey. Patton immediately revealed that she knew nothing of the Yancey Slide legend. Patton glared at him. “And who the hell are you?”
“I’m someone you really don’t want to piss off, colonel-lady.”
“What’s your name, civilian?”
“Slide, Colonel. Yancey Slide.”
Day dawned on Colonel Patton, and it was starting to look like a day of reckoning. “You’re Slide?”
“One and the same.”
Patton stood caught between duty and rumor, but she had been in the thrall of duty too long, and maybe that had put her a little out of touch with practical reality. “I’ve heard about you, Slide, but it doesn’t change anything. That woman’s mine. She’s a deserter, and she’s going to face a court-martial.”
The quarters that the Four had been assigned came equipped with a field telephone. Slide put his cigar back in his mouth, picked up the handset, and cranked the handle.
“Let me just make a call on this contraption.”
Patton’s jaw set. “It won’t make any difference. I have a signed warrant here from the Advocate General’s office.”
Slide ignored her and spoke in the phone. “Hey, central, give me the Top Drawer. Just tell them it’s Yancey Slide.”
T’saya looked up. “If that’s who I think it is, tell him I need to see him.”
Slide waited for about a minute. “John, yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a problem down here. I know you planned to come by and meet with us sometime today, but it might be a good idea if you were to make it like right now. We have a problem here that needs to be nipped in the bud.” Slide smiled and nodded. “I really appreciate that, John.”
Slide hung up the phone and looked round the room. “Okay. Everyone will just stay right where they are, and we’ll wait. In fifteen minutes, I guarantee this whole matter will be sorted out. In the meantime, I suggest that you, Colonel, help yourself to a cup of coffee (we have real coffee here for a change), and you, Cordelia, finish your breakfast.”
T’saya scowled. “You didn’t tell him I was here and wanted to see him.”
“He’s already well aware of that.”
Patton was about to protest, but Slide treated her to a look that might have killed a being of lesser body weight. “All I need is fifteen minutes, Colonel. Is that too much to ask?”
“It won’t make any difference.”
“Humor me?”
It might have been more dramatic if the door had opened right there and then, but they had to wait not fifteen but an entire twenty minutes before the drama occurred. The wait was clearly worth it, though, because when the door did open, no less than the venerable John F. Kennedy, the prime minister of Albany, entered, guarded only by a single Ranger with a shotgun. The MPs stiffened to attention, Patton looked close to physical explosion, and even Cordelia was surprised, although she did her best to hide the fact. The only ones who did not react at all were Raphael and Jesamine, who did not know any better, since the Mosul had taught them that Albany was a feudal kingdom, and Slide, who seemed to be on the most intimate terms with the prime minister. Kennedy leaned on his cane, assessing the situation in the room. “Am I to underst
and that you’re causing trouble already, Lady Blakeney? You certainly are a great deal like your mother when she was younger.”
Cordelia half rose and attempted a perfunctory curtsey. “I’m sorry, Prime Minister. This seems to be trouble left over from before I departed.”
Patton had recovered from her shock and was now in the process of deciding that all she was seeing was part of an upper-class conspiracy of privilege and nonaccountability, compounded by Kennedy’s famous womanizing. “I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but Lady Blakeney has been posted as a deserter and must answer the charges. If you feel there are extenuating circumstances, you will be free to offer testimony to that effect at her trial.”
Kennedy glanced at Patton’s MPs. “Would one of you boys be good enough to get me a chair? I am old, and I spend far too much time on my feet.”
A chair was found and placed, at Kennedy’s indication, between Cordelia and Jesamine. He seated himself and smiled at Jesamine. “Would you be so kind as to pour me a cup of coffee, my dear? I don’t think I know your name.”
