Three Kings

by George R. R. Martin

Noel laid the printout in front of the big Sikh while the Lion flipped through the copies of police reports Noel laid out his encounters with Henry. He could only hope these murders of seventy-two-year-old male jokers would bolster his unsupported word.

  Ranjit looked up from the pages and met Noel’s gaze. ‘Our intelligence indicates that these people are all members of the Twisted Fists.’

  ‘That is utter bullocks!’

  ‘Really? Then explain to me why our people fought a pitched battle with the Fists in the grounds of Windsor Castle last night?’

  ‘Maybe because they heard about this?’ Noel gestured wildly at the printouts. ‘They have their ways, and then there were the joker deaths without the normal five for one killing. I’d say limiting their response to just that bastard Henry showed incredible restraint on their part.’

  ‘This was an assault upon our government. We can no longer leave Green Man in place. Whatever his role in the Fists might have been he has become a danger. There is a warrant out for his arrest.’ The Lion stood and handed back the papers. ‘Stonemaiden will show you out.’

  ‘Ranjit, no, please wait, the joker prince is real. It’s why Henry—’

  ‘Good day, Noel. I have a country to protect.’

  ‘Are you daft?’ Constance hissed, staring at Turing with complete dismay. ‘I just brought you to Green Man, and now you want me to bring Noel to him as well? It’s mad. Completely mad.’

  Turing paced and nervously ran his fingers through his hair. It surprised her because normally Turing never looked anything other than cool and collected.

  ‘You must,’ he said quietly, but with real urgency. ‘I have the DNA, but I want to be absolutely certain. Noel can make inquiries without the inconvenience of travel.’

  ‘If you have the DNA, why bother checking out his childhood?’

  Turning turned away and murmured. ‘I have to be sure. No more errors.’

  Constance shook her head, exasperated and exhausted by it all. Would this madness and the ripple effect it was causing her country never end? And now Turing, by far the most coldly logical person she knew, was obsessed – as if putting Boyd-Brackenbury on the throne would fix something and make the world suddenly right. She allowed that having your husband poison an HRH might cause you to be in quite a state, but really …

  ‘Please,’ he pleaded. The tone was one she’d never heard in his voice before. It was a shock after the forty-odd years they’d worked together. ‘Please. We must.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said impatiently. She grabbed his wrist. ‘But you’re coming with me.’

  She gave a sharp knock on Green Man’s office door and heard his muffled, ‘Enter.’ As they did so, a slight joker with a rather startling resemblance to a demon from a Goya painting scuttled out of the room.

  Constance shut the door and Green Man looked them over with an expression that was both wary and puzzled.

  ‘Is something else wrong?’

  Turing started to speak and Constance gave his wrist a hard squeeze. His mouth clamped shut.

  ‘Yes,’ she began carefully. ‘I know I’ve asked a lot of you what with bringing Turing here, but his aims coincide with your own. He tells me that in order to completely verify Boyd-Brackenberry’s claim to the throne, he needs to use the powers of another ace.’

  There was a dour expression on Green Man’s face. She hoped she hadn’t pushed him too far.

  ‘And who would this miraculous ace be?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s someone I know as well,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve known him since he was a lad. And I know he very much wants to help find the true heir to the throne.’

  ‘You’re hedging,’ Green Man said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Just how bad is this ace?’

  ‘It’s No—’ Turing blurted out. Constance shook his wrist and glowered at him. ‘We need to tell him,’ Turing insisted.

  ‘His name is Noel and he’s a teleporter,’ she began. ‘Turing can send him wherever necessary to get the information we need, and he can do it in the blink of an eye.’

  Green Man leaned forward. ‘A teleporter? What does he look like?’

  Constance described Noel and his power quickly. She left out the bits about his other avatars because that was Noel’s business to tell.

  ‘I think I’ve already had the privilege of a fist-to-fist introduction,’ Green Man growled. It was a deep, resonant sound as if amplified by his wooden body. ‘He’s a murderer. He killed Dorothy. Why would I let him near me at all?’

  ‘Dorothy?’ Constance asked in confusion.

  ‘A harmless old joker, worked in the shop aboard the Queen Mary. I found him standing over her body with a gun in his hand.’

  Turing spoke up. ‘I know this case. We co-ordinated with the Met, fearing you and the Fists might take action. The woman was killed by a high-powered round fired from a sniper rifle. It could not have been Noel.’

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, Turing?’ Green Man asked, though it was more a threat than a question.

  ‘No, I’m not such a fool.’

  ‘And what do you have to say about this?’ Green Man asked. ‘You’re asking for quite a lot. And whatever happens is all on you, Constance.’

  She had to think for a moment. She looked at Turing, then dropped his wrist. He hadn’t been one of her favourite people of late, but she still knew him. She turned back to Green Man and said, ‘I’ve known Noel for a long time and he can be a bit of a bastard. Actually, he’s rather terrible in his own way, but you could do far worse than trust him. He’s the one who warned me about the plot against the old jokers. I guess I’m saying, you should trust both of them. Heaven help us.’

  Badb blinked against the light. She had fallen asleep again. Very dangerous indeed. Even worse was the fact that she could not remember where she was or, for an instant, who she was.

  An old woman leaned over her, her eyes full of concern and kindness. ‘You poor thing. You poor, poor thing.’

  This was Constance! A mere seamstress and yet so respected by the likes of the Green Man that the goddess had followed her once or twice, only to come up with nothing.

  ‘Is there anything you need? Water, perhaps?’

  Information, thought the goddess. That was what she needed. It ought to flow into her as fast as the blood seeped out. She flicked to a crow that lay in waiting just outside and saw, with shock, the men she had allowed to rescue the Princess. Noel and Turing.

  They must not see her here.

  ‘Help me stand.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the woman, but she was interrupted by a man behind her. Badb’s eyes were so poor now, she had not even noticed him in the dim light of the corridor.

  ‘Let me do it,’ he said.

  ‘You always think I’m too delicate, Bobbin,’ said the woman.

  Neither of them worried about the blood, although the man wore thick leather gloves so that Badb wondered if he might be hiding a joker deformity beneath them.

  Meanwhile, Turing hoisted a box of heavy equipment out of the back of his car.

  ‘I’d love to help,’ said Noel. ‘But my arm, you see?’

  What were they up to? What were they doing here? She had to know. She cast her mind around for a crow. Most satisfactory! She had remembered to hide a few around the building before she lost consciousness. For the most part they waited quietly under piles of rubbish and would remain there unmoving until they starved.

  ‘Has she fainted?’ asked Constance. ‘Oh, the poor thing.’

  ‘No,’ Badb told her. ‘Please.’ She allowed her voice to sound grateful. ‘I prefer to be out of the way. In … in here. On the old couch. Yes, so kind. But …’ She took in a big gulp of air. ‘Please, don’t mention that you found me in the corridor? Don’t … don’t mention me at all?’

  ‘Why would we?’ said Constance.

  Already they could hear Noel’s voice coming towards them. ‘You really think your machines can prove all that, Alan? I got close to him, and I’m telling you no
w, I didn’t like the look of him one bit.’

  He paused as Constance and Bobbin made their way back into the corridor.

  ‘Well, will you look who it is?’

  It had been fraught. At their introduction Green Man had unconsciously touched the arm where Noel had burned him, and the eyes behind the mask were cold and deadly.

  Noel had come right to the point, telling the big knave, ‘I didn’t kill that woman. Sorry about our little misunderstanding. Truce?’ He offered his hand, hoping the cast would underline that they were even now.

  For a few heartbeats Green Man made no move to accept the handshake. Then he said, ‘Truce. We have a country to save,’ he added as they shook. Noel’s hand looked like a child’s as it was enfolded in that enormous wooden appendage. ‘But I will kill you without hesitation if you play us false.’

  ‘Never thought otherwise.’

  Green Man seemed positively effusive when compared with meeting Maven and Boyd-Brackenbury. The old knave had been actually spitting with fury, saliva dampening Noel’s face as he shouted, ‘You tried to kill me, you bastard! I’ll see you punished when I come into my own.’

  Noel pulled out his handkerchief and made a show of wiping his face. ‘Well, that’s gratitude for you. Since I’m here to help you come into your own, you’d best hold off on any retribution until we get that settled.’ As he finished speaking Noel glanced at Maven. The look she bestowed on him promised retribution.

  Yep, one or the other of us is coming out of this dead.

  After all the threats and drama Noel went in search of Constance, reckoning he was probably back in her good books. He found her in another room sitting on a broken-down old sofa with her elderly beau. The crone was sleeping on another couch. Blood soaking into the fabric. Constance and Bobbin were holding hands and for a brief moment Noel felt a stab of pain. He shook it off and crooked a finger at Constance. She followed him into the corridor.

  ‘What, Noel?’ Her tone was sharp and suspicious.

  ‘Nothing. Just wanted a friendly face, more fool me.’ Her expression softened. He lowered his voice. ‘I don’t have a lot of friends here. What do you know about the old Irish lady?’

  ‘Nothing. Why should I?’

  ‘Because you’re both old?’ Noel quipped and earned a slap on the arm for it. ‘There’s something … she helped me … us find Sissel.’

  ‘Green Man said she helped him find Bobbin.’

  Noel took another long look at the bandaged figure. ‘A woman of many talents, it seems.’

  ‘A joker on the throne … it could change so much.’ Bobbin trailed off. Constance glanced at Boyd-Brackenbury and Maven who were sitting together on a sofa at the opposite end of the room.

  ‘Depends on the joker,’ Constance replied softly. ‘I always thought Boyd-Brackenbury was a bit odd with his whole I’m-the-rightful-king story, but now, who knows? He wouldn’t be my first choice.’

  Bobbin took her hand, ever careful that his spiny protrusions didn’t stab her. ‘There will be an uproar if he succeeds, but …’

  ‘No, there will be riots in the streets,’ she said. That much she knew. The Britain First crowd would burn the country down before letting a joker sit on the throne. Especially one like Boyd-Brackenbury. ‘What are we going to do about that?’

  ‘We try to create calm. There has to be an outreach between jokers and the normal folk. Bring aces into it. Maybe even you, Constance.’

  The very idea of exposing her power made Constance woozy. She’d spent her life hiding it as best she could. But Bobbin was right. If the face of a wild card was just an old lady who makes clothes – very special clothes, admittedly – then maybe people wouldn’t be so afraid.

  ‘Maybe, luv, maybe,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Do you think the country even wants a monarchy any more? After all this … this madness, I wonder.’ Suddenly, she felt every moment of her age.

  ‘I’m a simple man,’ Bobbin said. ‘All I know is that we Brits might complain about the monarchy, but no one else had better disrespect it. Perhaps with a joker on the throne, things will get better for all of us.’

  Constance considered Boyd-Brackenbury again. ‘And you think he’s the one to do that?’ Bobbin followed her gaze.

  ‘I hope so, Constance.’

  Turing’s instructions had been clear: ‘Find out all you can about Boyd-Brackenbury. There will be a massive reaction once we go public so we want no surprises. If we are going to challenge Henry we must be absolutely certain of our facts.’

  Noel had never visited Wolferton, the village where the Palace payments had been sent, and Boyd-Brackenbury had been raised, but his parents had once brought him to the nearby village of Sandringham, site of the Queen’s private home and shooting retreat. It had been years, but Google Maps and City View were his friend, so Noel in his male avatar form arrived in Sandringham with a pop of displaced air that startled the hell out of a shop owner busily sweeping his front step, and caused an elderly Pekinese being walked by its equally elderly owner to go off on a fit of hysterical barking followed by desperate wheezing.

  The old lady glared at Noel. ‘You aces have no concern for public safety. Why can’t you take the train like normal people?’

  Noel was in a foul mood. In his male form the cast was abominably tight, and the transformation had hurt his ribs so he had to work to suppress the urge to dropkick the yapping dog. Instead he murmured an apology, then turned to the shopkeeper. ‘Is there somewhere I can hire a car? I need to get to Wolferton.’

  ‘It’s not so far, two miles or so. I’d just use a taxi.’

  ‘Or walk,’ the old lady sniffed. ‘Young people today don’t—’

  ‘Yes, quite, I am, however, in rather a bit of a hurry.’

  He turned his back on her and, receiving the message, she moved off, towing her dog. The shop owner guided Noel to the nearest hotel where he had them call a taxi.

  Wolferton’s close proximity to the sea had Noel’s nostrils tickling with the scent of brine and seaweed. He had the driver drop him at the address for Boyd-Brackenbury’s mother. She was long dead, but he hoped there were some gossipy old folk who might be able to provide information about the sudden arrival of an infant to that home in late 1948.

  The residents of the terrace proved to be a waste of time: most seemed to be transplants fleeing the cities for the charm of country living. He stood on the pavement smoking and trying to put himself in the place of a woman who suddenly had custody of an infant. He found himself recalling Jasper’s first two years, the visits to the doctor for routine vaccinations, earaches, bumps and bruises. Niobe had been more than a bit over-attentive.

  He needed to get information on the local doctor. Of course the records would be private, but Noel was good at stealing things that were supposed to be kept private. He had a momentary worry that the NHS bureaucracy would make this a tough search, but a quick check of Google revealed that the National Health Service had been founded in July of 1948.

  ‘In the late forties? That would have been Dr Bevins. Long dead of course, but his patient notes are just delightful. Not at all dry.’

  She gave a gurgling chuckle. Dr Nalakini Khatri was an attractive young woman with a bright smile. Noel was seated in her office after having spun a tale about being a solicitor trying to locate an heir. She continued, ‘You can see how much he cared for the people here, but he also had some rather acerbic commentary about them.’

  Khatri was probably saying more than she should, but that was no doubt due to the fact Noel was still presenting as his male avatar. Women and some men went weak at the knees when faced with the overwhelming sexuality that was Thomas Landry, the latest identity Noel had taken for himself. He sometimes wondered why Lilith was always Lilith but the male form had had so many names – Simon, Bahir, Etienne, Ilya and now Thomas? Perhaps because Noel himself thought of himself as a man, so the sun god avatar seemed more false? He had a momentary wish he could talk with the Helix psychiatrist again. Actual
ly finding a therapist probably wouldn’t be a bad idea—

  Noel forced himself back to the moment. This was not the time to lose focus. ‘I’m interested in any information about a woman. Marjorie Boyd-Brackenbury and her son.’ He leaned across the desk. Khatri’s lips parted and her breath quickened.

  ‘I really shouldn’t …’

  ‘It’s been seventy-two years and it might mean a very large inheritance for our client.’ No shit, Noel added mentally. Just the throne.

  She gave in. Everyone always did.

  Consternation and frustration were his dominant emotions as Noel stared at the elegant handwriting on the yellowing papers. Dr Bevins had been the exception to the rule about doctors’ handwriting. His penmanship was perfection.

  And the tale written in the notes changed everything. They detailed the progress of a pregnancy. So why the hell had the Palace sent her a stipend for all those years? One that had continued to her son, Noel wondered?

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might still be around who would have known this woman?’ he asked the doctor.

  ‘Well, there is Dr Bevins’ daughter, Sandra. She’s in her eighties now, but she used to assist him in the office.’

  ‘She’s eighty-eight. Who knows if her memory is accurate?’ Turing objected.

  Turing shrank back as Noel pushed in too close. Despite the fact they were of a height, Noel projected ‘predator’ and no one knew that better than Alan.

  ‘I’ve seen the fucking doctor’s notes. She was pregnant. And while it took a while and enough tea and sherry that I’m more than a little drunk and my bladder’s bursting, the old lady did finally give up the village gossip. Boyd-Brackenbury was a maid at Sandringham. Rumour about the village at that time was that she got knocked up by Prince Philip.’

  ‘But the markers were all there for Victoria,’ Turing argued. He then broke off and shook his head. ‘Of course, Philip and Elizabeth were cousins. They would both show markers back to Victoria.’ He began pacing. The flesh-coloured make-up he wore was streaking, giving him bizarre silver slashes across his face and neck like robot warpaint. ‘This is suggestive, but not dispositive. She might have been pregnant when she took in the baby, or the pregnancy was faked to explain the infant. This might have been mere gossip or she was known to the Palace because of her work at Sandringham and was therefore an appropriate choice to foster the child. And finally one must take into account the age of your interlocutor.’