Far Called Trilogy 01 - In Dark Service (19 page)

‘You will, I say you will have them. Prayer can only take you so far, Father. Against the slavers, a repeating rifle will carry the day and bring our people back. Where will you go after Arcadia, though? That’s what the king will ask.’

‘Wherever I have to. I figured I’d ride the railway to Talekhard and book a commercial passage on board one of the big carrier planes. Follow the slavers wherever I have to.’

Gimlette raised his wineglass, one of the waiters rushing over to refill it. If the powerbrokers at court knew this assemblyman as well as the waiters here, then the expedition from Northhaven would be off to a fine start.

‘How are you going to follow the slavers? Could be anywhere by now. Across the sea to the Burn, east, west, north? Can’t track a weeks-old contrail, not even on a couple of hundred propellers. They’re nomads of the air, Pastor. You have to go back to ancient history before you find a chunk of land those skel savages called home.’

Jacob brushed his simple black church tunic. ‘They were last seen flying south. But I’m a pastor, assemblyman. I figure God’s going to show me the way.’

Gimlette looked at Jacob, his eyes wet and glistening and his brow sweating slightly, the man trying to work out if Jacob was being serious or not. Then his paunch rolled as he laughed. ‘You had me going there for a second, Father. Hell, the guardsmen got the best weapons and the best men, probably got the best trackers too, right?’ He pointed at the glass of red and caught the waiter’s eye again. ‘Some white wine too, to go with the crab. You should have some, Father, it’s as fine as fine can be. All the best wines come from Arcadia.’

‘I’ll stick with water. Meeting the king’s not an everyday experience for a simple country preacher. But don’t mind me. Benner Landor’s paying for a cathedral, now. What’s a bottle or two of white wine compared to the cost of that?’

The politician chortled and held his glass up high. ‘That’s the right attitude. As sober as a churchman, I say. But don’t you worry about the king. His Highness knows who supports him in the assembly. Just as I know which landowners support Charles T. Gimlette.’

Jacob raised half a smile in return as he heard the creak of wood from under the assemblyman’s seat.
A stout chair with the best view in the house, and it just needs to hold you up for as long as it takes the king to sign over a company of his finest fighters.

Jacob stared at his clothes in the mirror. The finery of the hotel room only reinforced the simple cut of his pastor’s clothes; threadbare compared to the expensive curtains, elaborately-woven carpets and polished walnut furniture. Simple blacks and greys that would no doubt look even plainer against the pomp and colour of the court. Well, he was who he was.
Never felt like apologising for it before
.
Isn’t any time to start now
. Jacob looked over at Wiggins sitting in an easy chair twice his size and whittling with his knife at a piece of wood. His legs rested on one of the crates of coins drawn from the bank. Filled with a small fortune, each freshly minted coin stamped with the black boar of Weyland on one side and the House of Landor’s crest on the other. A final little vanity for Benner – even his currency reminding those whose hands it passed through of the wealth and power of the man who had first paid it out
. Hell, the slavers will only care about the purity of the platinum – not the crest sitting on it.
Behind the constable, Sheplar and Khow examined the map that the Rodalian flier had picked up, a square booklet unfolded over the entire width of their table.

‘It’s not too late, old man. You can come with me to the palace.’

‘You want me travel to court in this here police uniform? Some fool is just going to try to post me on guard duty. What the hell would I say to the king anyhow?’

‘How about “Nice army, do you mind if I borrow it?” ’

‘That’s a fine try, but I’m fixing to stay here. Why don’t you drag Khow or Sheplar along with you?’

‘Our Rodalian brother would only remind the court that Rodal has a skyguard and doesn’t require big smoking factories to churn out its planes. And Khow, well, I just have a feeling…’
About how eager the assemblyman seemed to be to discover how we were following the slavers. Khow’s a card I’m keeping tucked up my sleeve for now.

‘Way I see it, Father, they’re more likely to throw behind us if they see one fool rather than four anyway. Besides, I’m for staying here and guarding our money. If one of the cleaning maids discovers this lot left on the carpet, we might need to radio Benner and beg for a second fortune.’

‘You guard it, then. I’ll do what I need to do.’

‘Nobody can talk them down like you,’ said Wiggins. ‘Whether the court or Northhaven, that ain’t changed.’

‘What are you carving over there anyway?’

‘Started off as a Rodalian kite, but the wings sheared off. So now, I thought I’d carve a traveller’s wagon. Maybe bring us some luck on our voyage.’

Jacob sighed. ‘You never could carve worth a damn.’

‘That’s why I need to practise so much…’

Sheplar and the gask seemed distracted leaning over the map. Jacob went across to see what had engaged the pair’s attention. Khow kneaded the furrows on his forehead with one hand while the other tapped at the calculator resting on the map. ‘Something has changed, I can feel it in my soul, I can see it in the numbers here.’

‘Change for the better or the worse?’ asked Jacob.

‘The weight of my son’s soul is drawing away from us faster now. Much faster. I do not understand how such a thing is possible. This development worries me.’

‘The greater the altitude you fly at, the fiercer the world’s currents,’ said Sheplar. ‘The slavers could be riding a fleet trade wind. We may follow them using the same skill.’

‘The velocity I see here is of an order different, akin to the difference in speed between bullet and bird,’ said Khow. ‘How can that be? How can he retreat so quickly?’

Jacob rested his hand on the gask’s bony shoulders, the quills under the twisted man’s toga flat and still. ‘If you can feel him, we can follow him. It doesn’t matter the distance or speed. We’re going for your son, just like we’re going for mine.’

‘Your presence registers as an outlier in my numbers, manling,’ said Khow. ‘Your very being disturbs my equations.’

‘If that’s all I have disturbed by the end of this evening, I’d say it was a good night’s work.’

Assemblyman Gimlette’s black lacquered coach had driven Jacob to a scene every bit as grand as the setting the pastor had imagined. Each ceiling in the palace higher than the steeple of his church, a ball busy with thousands of guests, velvet gowns and long elegant silk gloves for the women – a riot of colours: crimsons and greens and ivory whites – the men in dark tailored suits and uniforms with more braid and piping than cloth visible below. Everyone whirling in clockwork precision to the waltz-like crescendo of an orchestra seated below tall windows in the largest ballroom. Oil-fired chandeliers dangled from a high ceiling, constellations of crystal casting yellow beams into the vista, marble floors and medals and jewels sparkling across the dance floor.

Assemblyman Gimlette sported a black frock coat with tails that flapped as he strode alongside Jacob, pressing palms and returning greetings as they passed through the crowd of courtiers, politicians, businessmen, military officers and nobility on the fringe of the dance’s smooth rotations. He wore a colourful line of medals above the crimson sash bisecting his gut, although the Lord knows what they had been awarded for. Territorial officer service, or just keeping the restaurants on the Hill in trade, it was a tough choice.

‘It’s a sight, isn’t it?’ said the assemblyman.

‘You could fit Northhaven in a corner of the palace gardens,’ said Jacob.

‘Yes, I believe you could. I was arranging to have Duncan Landor presented at court next year. A buck that handsome, what a figure he would’ve cut. A shame, a damn dying shame, I say.’

‘You can reschedule the ceremony. If he’s alive, I’ll bring him back.’

‘Of course, of course. Let’s see what we can do to expedite that noble endeavour. Standing by the conservatory doors, do you see him? That’s our King Marcus.’

Jacob followed the line of the politician’s podgy forefinger. The man he pointed out was an unlikely monarch. A figure in a simple dark jacket only a little finer than Jacob’s, the man standing a couple of inches shorter than the pastor. If it wasn’t for the two red-­uniformed soldiers with golden brass helmets standing discreetly against the wall behind the man, hands resting on tall sabres, he might have mistaken King Marcus for one of the footmen taking a breather on the conservatory steps.

They approached the steps together and Gimlette bowed, Jacob following suit. ‘Your Majesty, I have the honour of presenting Father Jacob Carnehan of the parish of Northhaven.’

King Marcus had an open, contented face, early middle age drawing silver lines across the sides of his straight dark hair. The royal stretched out a hand towards Jacob, and when they shook, he covered the pastor’s hand with his own, a nod back towards the conservatory. ‘The honour is mine, assemblyman. If you would excuse me, the father and I will discuss what we need to outside.’

‘Of course, Your Majesty.’

King Marcus smiled towards Jacob. ‘Walk with me, Father.’ He crooked a finger towards the two soldiers behind him. ‘Please find Major Alock for me and have him join me in the lake garden.’ He turned back to Jacob. ‘Do you dance, Father Carnehan?’

‘Truth to tell, not much, Your Majesty.’

‘Excellent. You can never trust a man who dances to be sensible.’ He opened the door to the conservatory and Jacob followed the king outside. Lanterns burned across a neatly trimmed garden, turning the green space as bright as the ballroom they had left behind. Stones on the path crunched underfoot. Neat lines of trees concealed the sight of the distant palace walls, only the lights on the twin hills beyond to indicate the two of them weren’t strolling through the wilds of Northhaven. They followed the path to a lake. Dark green waters sparkled from the shimmer of lanterns dotted around.

‘Your Majesty, I can’t promise that what I’ve come to the capital for is going to sound anywhere near sensible.

‘I have the bones of your story from the good assemblyman,’ said King Marcus. ‘And I know some of the rest from the reports I receive from the radiomen and our secret service.’

‘You’re making your two guards nervous by leaving them behind,’ Jacob pointed out.

‘I noticed their annoyance too,’ said King Marcus. ‘But who in Weyland would want to assassinate me? King of a constitutional monarchy. Too weak to rule, too strong to be ruled? And the slavers are not yet so bold, I think, to attack the nation’s palace.’

‘It’s true, then, Your Majesty? Northhaven isn’t the only town the skels have raided?’

‘Sadly so. And that’s the last “Your Majesty” I want to hear from your lips tonight, Father. Haven’t you heard up north? I am the accidental monarch. The burden of my crown should have stayed my cousin’s and so on down his line.’

‘Yet you still wear the crown, sir.’

‘The collapse of snow on a slope brought it sliding towards me. You know what they call me behind my back inside the assembly? The
cobbler
. Four years ago I owned and operated the largest shoe factory in the capital. My wife and I designed half the boots and shoes on show in that ballroom. An avalanche. Of all the foolish capricious strokes of fate. It sounds insane, doesn’t it? A year after my brother died, I was installed and invested here. I saw the look on your face when the good assemblyman pointed me out to you. The reason you don’t recognise me is that I have so far resisted the mint’s attempts to put my face on our nation’s coins and notes. Finding my features on the back of a penny will feel a little too final as far as my fate is concerned. You see, Father, if I had my way, I would organise and modernise this nation. Weyland would have a skyguard of its own to claw those murdering skel raiders from the air. The Grand Army of the Lanca would form and we’d sail out to whatever Burn hellhole the slavers are operating from and torch their fuel depots and hangars. But the national assembly does not want a monarch to run the country like a well-tuned factory. They only require an ornamental fop to host parties for the wealthy and reward politicians with ill-earned titles when they retire.’

‘I have come here for a king’s help.’

‘Then for what it’s worth, you shall have it.’ He indicated a tall officer crunching down the path towards them. Much the same age as Jacob, the man wore the red uniform of the royal guards, a brass helmet with a dark brush atop the helm. A sabre swung on his white patent belt, a holstered pistol on the opposite hip. As the officer got closer, Jacob saw the newcomer must have been close to seven feet tall – probably the same weight as the assemblyman, but all of it granite-hard muscle.

‘This is Major Justus Alock,’ said the king. ‘Before serving in the royal guards, he was the most highly decorated officer on the eastern frontier. Bandits and nomads and outlaws were his daily bread. His men are experienced and loyal. Their talents are wasted here. I think most of them look upon service in the palace as their retirement, in truth.’

Jacob took the officer’s gloved hand. His handshake offered Jacob an experience not far off pushing his fingers into a mountain fissure and twisting. ‘A happy retirement, Major?’

‘We serve His Majesty. Where he commands, we follow,’ said the major, stiff and formal. There was a faint web of scarring on his face that whitened when he spoke. The trace of a grapeshot load? Having the major in train would be like having a pet boulder following Jacob around, but hard men were what he had come here for.

‘But following where, that is the question?’ said the king. ‘The assemblyman mentioned you were planning to pursue the skels to the south, Father?’

‘That’s the direction the slavers were last seen heading by our sailors.’

‘Initially, perhaps. But a ruse, surely? I am willing to wager the raiders will have turned east across the sea,’ said King Marcus. ‘Our army intelligencers believe the skels are based somewhere in the ruins of the Burn. It’s the closest market for disposing of human cargoes.’