Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

  Now wasn’t the time to think of that. ‘Chess will never be pointless, Singh. You can learn much of a man’s character from the way he plays.’

  ‘Or a woman’s?’ One of the MI5 people, a middle-aged woman he didn’t recognize.

  Alan turned to her. ‘Or a woman’s, of course.’

  She offered a hand. ‘Sarah Edwards. I’ll be heading things up today.’

  Turing shook her hand: a good grip, warm and forthright.

  She continued, ‘Do you know everyone else here? Let me introduce you—’

  He knew the Silver Helix members, of course – Singh had pulled in the new young Redcoat, it probably was time for the boy to get some seasoning, and Stonemaiden, so it wasn’t an entirely male contingent. Edwards added a quick flurry of additional names – representatives from Scotland Yard’s RaSP division, along with a few others from MI5. Some of them he’d met before, but Alan didn’t know any of them well.

  He missed Charlie Soper – after that business with Churchill so many decades ago, he and Charlie had had occasion to work together, more and more over the years. A reliable man, the sort you could count on. A good man in a storm. It was a shame there were so few of those to be found. Soper was retired now, enjoying a well-earned peace at last. A peace that Alan was determined to protect.

  The Lion sat down in a broad chair that must have been specially made to handle his bulk, and the others moved to take their seats. Singh slammed a fist down on the sturdy mahogany table. ‘Enough dilly-dallying, children. We must sort out where we stand, make this transition as soon as possible. When power changes hands, there is a moment, a gap, when no one is really in control. That’s the danger – there are always dark figures waiting, lurking on the edges. They’ll be the ones rushing in to fill the gap, and it’s our job to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  Sarah Edwards frowned at Singh; she was supposed to be in charge of this meeting. ‘Yes, let’s get started.’ Edwards leaned forward. ‘Did you hear that Double Helix is back? Will he be trouble?’

  Alan felt the stab of regret that always flashed through him when he thought of Noel – could he and Flint have done anything different? Trained the boy better, raised a better man? Or had Noel always been walking his dark path? ‘He says he’s retired—’

  ‘You can’t trust the bastard,’ Edwards said. ‘But I’m more worried about the Fists – they’re roiling right now.’

  ‘Can you blame them?’ Redcoat asked. ‘After what Henry said—’

  The Lion frowned. ‘Hush! He’ll be joining us any minute.’

  ‘But, Singh …’ Alan began, but the Lion cut him off.

  ‘Henry is king, Turing. What would you have us do?’

  Alan just shook his head. He could hardly ask them all to swear fealty to Richard instead. They’d think Alan’s hundred-and-eight-year-old brain had finally, suddenly, given out completely.

  ‘Threat analysis, Mr Turing,’ Edwards said. ‘That’s what we need from you – please put that brain of yours to work and help us sort through this mess. I want to know every likely attack on the throne – and I want to know which ones we’ll have to deal with first.’

  Threat analysis was worth doing for Richard too, of course. And while he was at it, maybe Alan would spend a little time chasing down Margaret’s lost heir. It was hard to imagine that some lost joker child could become a serious threat at this late stage, but it was never wise to overlook a piece on the board. If you did, the next thing you knew, a pawn would make it to the far end and queen herself, or your king would end up pinned by some sneaky knight.

  ‘I’ll do my best, ma’am,’ Alan said, as the door opened and Henry entered the room. They all rose hastily to their feet, chairs scraping back loudly.

  Henry smiled benevolently. ‘Then we shall rest easy, Alan, because your best is very good indeed.’

  It was dangerous to say no to a king. ‘Thank you, Your Highness. I’d best get to work right away,’ Alan said. ‘Calculating a problem this complex will take some time.’

  Stalling was his best tactic now.

  Green Man stood for a few moments, letting his gaze sweep over the assembly. The last of the murmurings stopped. He had their attention now, the nervous energy of the room directed solely in his direction. He made them wait a moment more than was comfortable, then began to speak.

  ‘Thank you for coming. There aren’t many of us around now that remember a time before Margaret was queen. But, let me assure you, there was. I cannot deny that there will be change, and some of the change is regrettable—’

  ‘Regrettable!’ Seizer snorted. ‘Henry just told us to bugger off to the bally moon!’

  Green Man’s wooden eyes narrowed behind the mask. He hated being interrupted. It ruined the flow of his speech. Seizer had always been difficult, but he was getting worse with age. ‘They are words, Seizer, nothing more. They can’t hurt us, and by next week the papers will have moved on to something else.’

  ‘They are the words of our king and he’s saying we’re no better than a pack of scrounging foreigners. Everyone who has ever hated us will take it as permission to act.’ He spread his hands. ‘And then, by God, we’ll have more than words to deal with.’

  A few of the other jokers nodded along, with one or two murmuring assent, while the others exchanged worried glances. Seizer might have no idea what he was talking about, but it was clear he’d tapped into the fears of the room.

  ‘People are free to speak,’ said Green Man. ‘Even if they use that freedom to show the worst parts of themselves. That doesn’t mean they’re free to act. If Britain First or some other group thinks they have leave to hurt us, they will find themselves sorely mistaken. Kings may come and go, but the Twisted Fists will endure.’

  Seizer tutted. ‘A fine sentiment, but it won’t protect us. We need to take action! Break a few heads to show them we mean business.’

  ‘If the Fists need to break heads, we will. Five for each of ours. But only if they leave us no other choice.’

  ‘Do nothing! Tha—’

  He could see Seizer wanted to say more, so he stepped forward, his foot making a loud crunching noise as one of Seizer’s discarded growths shattered beneath it.

  ‘No,’ he added quietly. ‘There are many steps between inaction and bloodshed. We know Henry is not the sort of man to be won over by reason, nor by violence. If we lash out at him now, it will only prove him right in the eyes of the media. No,’ Green Man said again, ‘Henry does not care about the morality of his position, but he does care about his reputation. A discreet threat should be enough to make him back off, perhaps even retract his earlier statements.’ Green Man lifted his chin and raised his voice ever so slightly. ‘Put out the word: I want everything we can get on our king-to-be. A man like Henry will have made mistakes and tried to bury them. Get out there. Dig them up. The dirtier the secret, the better.’

  The Twisted Fists were starting to move, much happier now that their nerves could be channelled. Even so, he could see Seizer considering whether to speak.

  ‘Dismissed,’ said Green Man, as much to him as to the room.

  The old knave deferred with a bow of his bent body, even as his eyes flashed displeasure.

  Wayfarer was right, he thought. My rivals have grown bold, and like Henry it’s going to take more than words to put them down.

  He flexed the heavy fingers of his right hand. It was clumsier than it used to be, but stronger. A blunt instrument. He’d used it to take lives before and if need be he’d take them again. But when he imagined having to crack a skull, it was not Henry’s that came to mind, but a knobbly one, much closer to home.

  ‘I’m bloody well not going to do it,’ Constance snapped, rubbing her index finger between her eyes.

  She gripped her phone even harder. It was difficult to keep a good grasp because of her arthritic fingers – her new iPhone was stupidly big – but she was past even noticing that they hurt.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but there is no other
choice,’ replied the Lion. ‘It’s your duty.’

  ‘I won’t do it,’ she said tightly. ‘Besides, I’m retired.’

  ‘If there was any other way,’ he said with real sadness and concern in his voice. ‘But your skills are known to the royals, and Henry wants to avail himself of them as soon as possible. And well you know that no one really retires from MI7.’

  She could almost see his face, noble and filled with compassion for her, and she resented it.

  ‘You’ve continued to help us even after your official resignation. You had no problems clothing the late queen, God rest her soul.’

  ‘That was her. Henry is nothing like his mother! After what he said? And on the steps of St Paul’s of all places? He’d rather drink poison than be served by a shop full of jokers.’

  ‘Constance,’ the Lion replied with a weariness she hadn’t expected. ‘This is the way it has to be. Besides, you know you’ll be going to the Palace, just as you did for his mother. He’ll never see your jokers. Out of sight and all that.’

  ‘No,’ Constance said. ‘No. I won’t do it. And don’t you dare ask me again.’

  She poked at the off button on her phone screen a couple of times before she hit it right. Damned arthritis, she thought as she slid the phone into the pocket of her dark grey, men’s-style trousers.

  ‘Bravo, Constance, bravo.’

  Constance spun around and saw that Bobbin and the rest of her tailors were clustered around the bottom of the staircase leading to the second-floor workrooms.

  ‘That’s one royal tradition we can afford to stop,’ Bobbin said. ‘He’s an odious man.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ It was Brian, one of her best tailors. He’d come to Constance desperate for work. His skills with a needle were perfection, but his skin looked like dirty chewed gum; however, while he looked disgusting, he did have a fresh, minty scent. ‘Things are going to get worse for jokers now unless we have friends like you. Thank you, ma’am.’

  Constance could feel herself blushing. With two quick tugs she straightened the cuffs on her pristine white shirt. ‘Very well,’ she said, shooing them away. ‘Back to yer jobs.’ Every so often her posh accent slipped, and the East End peeped through.

  Another brief chorus of ‘thank you, ma’am’ and then they marched upstairs. Constance waited until she heard the doors to the workrooms shut.

  ‘Bobbin,’ she said testily. ‘How did they overhear that conversation? I didn’t have it on speaker.’

  ‘You were shouting, and all they needed to hear was “Henry” and “not going to do it” and they knew very well what it was all about.’

  Constance nervously fussed with her outfit while worrying about letting herself be overheard. It was clumsy and after her time in MI7 she’d learned to be anything but.

  She rocked back and forth in her Converse trainers – her one concession to American fashion – and then stuck her hand into her pockets where she toyed with the bits and pieces of her craft she tucked away there. She knew the Lion would keep after her. It was his way.

  ‘Stop fretting,’ Bobbin said. ‘You said no and that’s that. Forget about it and come back to work.’ He took her hand then and gently led her into the back room. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to tell him everything.

  Losing Glory, then losing the Queen (who had insisted that Constance call her Margaret when they were alone), the weight of her secrets, and now turning the Lion down; it was a lot to take.

  Bobbin took her back to her drafting table, gave her tea, and sat her down so she could get back to work. And she felt centred again. He did have that effect on her. Now if only she had the courage to tell him everything else.

  It was a lady judge and she looked forbidding but also absurd. The black robe was appropriately austere, but the powdered wig perched upon her beautiful cornrows, decorated with pale blue beads, was incongruous. As if a gull had decided to fly into court and perch on her head. Noel pulled his attention from the wig and tried to read her expression as his barrister – also sporting a wig and a gown – began her argument.

  Noel had made a conscious choice to hire a woman to represent him in his fight to be granted sole custody of Jasper under the theory that if he had a woman willing to represent him it would indicate he wasn’t a complete wanker. It hadn’t fooled his representative. Judith von Bredow had declared he was in fact a total wanker after their first meeting, but he was a rich wanker so she had agreed to represent him.

  They had developed the arguments together so Noel listened with barely half of his attention. Only what the judge said would ultimately matter to this preliminary hearing. Instead he watched the face of the barrister hired by Niobe: an elderly man with a comfortable paunch and the air of a kindly grandfather. He was shaking his bewigged head and tsking quietly under his breath.

  After dropping Jasper off at school, Noel had paused for breakfast and a chance to peruse the papers. Richard’s remarks regarding his brother had been met with a stiff and very British response from the Palace, a response so polite it could rip skin from the body.

  Not so from the howling pack of tabloids. The Daily Mail and the Daily Express came baying after the Duke of York with unflattering photographs, suggestions that his and Diana’s marriage was on the rocks, and veiled claims about Richard’s sexual proclivities. Not so the Sun. Vitriol poured off the page and in the letters column an irate citizen called the Duke of York ‘an arse bandit’. Only the Guardian offered full-throated support of the Duke’s criticisms of his brother.

  Noel knew the kind of people who read the tabloids. Less educated, struggling in an increasingly unequal society, ready to blame others for their troubles: immigrants, jokers or gays. And despite the British reputation for decorum you had only to witness a football mob to realize that one’s kinsmen were as capable of violence as any other member of the human species.

  Judith concluded, thanked the judge, and sat down. Niobe’s barrister rose to his feet. In his black robe and with his bulk he was reminiscent of a breaching whale. ‘Your Honour, I find my learned friend’s argument to be vastly creative, appropriate when she really had no basis in law with which to support this manifest injustice.’

  The judge waved a hand wearily at him. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Ramsey, but spare me your oratorical gifts today. If you have a point kindly get to it.’

  He bowed his head in graceful acquiescence. ‘Of course, ma’am. The child is nine and he has been ripped away from his mother on the pretext that his status as an ace means that his mother, who is a joker, is unable to prepare him adequately for the world as a wild carder. The argument is that his father, who is also an ace, but has declined to use his powers and abilities, is a far better choice to raise the child than a loving mother. To rule in favour of this man would create a pernicious precedent—’

  ‘Getting a bit florid there, Ram,’ Judith drawled.

  The judge snapped, ‘I’ll decide when it’s too purple, Mr Ramsey.’

  ‘As I was saying, it could set a precedent that jokers are inherently inferior to aces rather than treating all people, whether afflicted by this virus or not, as equal before the law. Besides which, the court has always taken the presumption that a child is in most circumstances better off with its mother.’

  The judge cocked an eyebrow at Noel’s barrister. ‘I’m unconvinced that a parent should receive full custody merely on the basis of their wild card status. Therefore—’

  ‘Your Honour, may we have a postponement in order to gather expert opinion on the subject of families raising an ace child?’

  ‘Your Honour—’ Ramsey began.

  ‘No, I think that’s reasonable. It’s rare for two wild cards to produce a viable child. We want to give this one the best chance in life. You have five days, Ms von Bredow: make the most of them. We’ll resume at,’ she checked her diary, ‘nine a.m. on Monday March 9th. Court is adjourned.’

  Wayfarer’s knock made Green Man look up. He’d been reading the papers, trying
to gauge how much support King Henry was getting now the initial story had broken. This was more difficult than it used to be. Even supposedly sensible news outlets like the BBC had fallen prey to the ridiculous idea of always presenting both sides of an argument, no matter how nonsensical or irrelevant the counterargument might be.

  As a result he knew that some people agreed with Henry’s bigoted statements, and that some did not. However, he’d known this before he’d read a single one of today’s articles, and couldn’t help feeling that he was wasting his time.

  The papers were put aside, and the mask slipped into place.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and Wayfarer stepped inside. He didn’t need to say anything more; they’d worked together long enough that she could practically read his mind these days, even when he wished she couldn’t.

  ‘Seizer’s been quiet since the meeting,’ she said.

  ‘It’s clear he’s not quite ready to strike yet. I imagine he’s waiting for me to slip.’

  ‘I agree.’ She absently scanned a story that mentioned Henry’s new, much younger fiancée only in terms of what she was wearing and her current hairstyle, and swept it neatly into the bin. ‘What are you going to do about him?’

  ‘Nothing, unless he causes trouble.’

  ‘Which he will.’

  ‘When that happens … if that happens, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Wayfarer nodded. ‘I’m no fan of unnecessary violence, but just this once I think prevention really would be better than the cure.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, I’m afraid. Seizer is one of the old guard and not without allies. If I go after him without good reason, I’ll shatter the Fists into pieces when we need to be unified.’ He looked up at her. ‘I assume we have more interesting things to discuss than internal politics.’

  ‘There’s a young man outside who has a story I think you should hear. His grandmother worked at the Palace back in ’48.’

  ‘He has something we can use against Henry?’

  ‘No, but I think you’ll want to hear what he’s got to say.’