The Jade Queen

by Jack Conner

  “The Atlantans seemed careful to let none of the people of the area know their true identity, so as to avoid alerting their enemies and making new ones -- for the people in the area that knew of Atlantis hated and feared the Atlantans bitterly; to them they were demons of legend. Yet the Atlantans burned to recreate their glory. Thus, in secret, led by their long-lived Queen, they created this place. This city. It took many years, but they did, and here they dwelt for generations before, at last, their enemies found them again, and these jade walls ran with blood, and the golden dome overhead echoed with screams.” He coughed. “If you’ll forgive the poetic license.”

  They came upon a great mound in the center of the city, and it was here that a hive of activity swarmed, workers scraping off ramparts, hauling away sleds-full of dirt from a large open door.

  “Behold, the palace,” Higgins said.

  Great jade towers of all colors thrust high overhead, basking in the light of the sun, and Eliza beheld what looked a diamond-faceted dome in their center. The huge open door of red-liquored wood or perhaps more red jade gaped open.

  “Is this . . . ?” she started. “The Queen . . .?”

  Lord Wilhelm smiled, and again it was a very wolf-like smile. “Indeed.”

  Without another word, he strode through the doors and into the interior of the palace, everyone else hurrying after.

  Dirt caked the inside, Eliza saw with disappointment. This had obviously been the focus of much recent activity, and it had only recently been opened up to allow access. Eliza saw hints of gold-colored floors, brilliant mosaics and diamond-like windows, but little else. Electric lights had been strung throughout by the Society, and wires snaked everywhere, giving illumination to the workers who even now chipped away at the dirt.

  Lord Wilhelm paused in the center of the first great room. “Where is it?”

  “Right this way,” Higgins said, and for the first time he took the lead. “We only finished unearthing it yesterday. I called you as soon as we did. Lars and I went down last night to make sure of our findings while it was still early enough for you to cancel the trip, so our diggings are all very primitive, very much a work in progress.”

  “You need not qualify or apologize. Not if you have found . . . it.”

  Higgins’s face glistened with excitement. “I hope you will be pleased.”

  He showed them through several halls, then to a grand staircase leading below ground level. Jade stairs descended into a relatively low-ceilinged section of the Palace, and Eliza saw great monuments around her, or what looked like monuments through the dirt that caked them. She sensed a greater solemnity in the faces of those about her, a gravity, as if they trod through sacred halls. She began to suspect the monuments she was seeing were actually mausoleums of ancient kings and queens; they were too big to be anything else. This was the royal catacombs or necropolis.

  A short, rangy figure directed activity in the center of the room. Hearing the approach of Lord Wilhelm’s party, he leapt up, a smile on his dirty, bearded face.

  “My lord!” he cried, and bowed.

  “Master Peters, it is good you are well,” Wilhelm said. “Still busy, then?”

  “Work never stops! Especially with your arrival, we needed to make the area as free from debris and as readable as possible.”

  Readable? thought Eliza.

  “Of course,” Wilhelm said smoothly, not slowing his stride. Peters fell into step beside him, Lars on the other side. Higgins had fallen back to just behind them, and Eliza and Dr. Jung trailed in their wake. Dr. Jung appeared only partly sober.

  Wilhelm stopped before what must be the grandest mausoleum of them all. An exquisite structure of green jade, heavily carved and detailed, it dominated the room. Eliza saw no doorway but instead a great jade face carved into what must be the front of it: a great, beautiful face, the face of a woman, full lips and high brow, with elegant cheekbones and a hint of flowing hair, and Eliza did not have to guess whom she was supposed to be. No visible mechanism for opening the mausoleum presented itself to Eliza’s eyes. Did the woman’s mouth open by some alchemy, or did the whole thing swing away?

  This did not appear to worry Wilhelm. His eyes roved the surface of the mausoleum, studying all the countless bas-reliefs. Some were pictures, but most were hieroglyphs Eliza could make no sense of.

  As Wilhelm continued to study it, the others tensed with expectation. No one interrupted him. Eliza suddenly realized what Peters had meant by readable. He and his workers had been cleaning the Queen’s mausoleum to allow Wilhelm to actually read it.

  “He can decipher that?” she whispered to Peters, when he had drawn away to light a cigarette.

  Peters nodded, sweat dripping down his cheeks. “He’s made a great study of Atlantis and its culture, Lord Wilhelm. He knows more than any of us combined. He will figure out how to open it if anyone does. The Atlantans left detailed instructions, but they were only meant to be read by themselves.”

  “So he plans to open the mausoleum.”

  “What good would that do? The Sarcophagus is gone.”

  “But it’s right there, surely -- inside.”

  “If only! No, when the Atlantan enemies found them and invaded the city, slaughtering near everyone here, the last remnants of the Royal House, the Queen’s descendants, took the Sarcophagus and fled. As far as we know, they were the only survivors. Some say their line is still with us.”

  “But . . . if it’s not here . . . then why is Lord Wilhelm trying to figure out how to open it? What does he want with a corpse? She must be all dust by now, anyway.”

  Peters smiled, a strange, cryptic smile. “You will see.”

  She scowled. “Well, where is the Sarcophagus, anyway, or is that what he’s trying to figure out?”

  “Oh no. We know exactly where it is. It’s at the Palace, of course.”

  “But we’re at the palace!”

  He laughed at her frustration. “Not this palace. The Queen’s Palace. Queen Fontaine.”

  Chapter 15

  Lynch smiled as he saw the towers of the Palace approach. Lights below flooded the colorful towers so that they glittered and shone. A high, ivy-covered wall encircled the royal building, and a team of guards admitted long limousines through the massive, wrought-iron gate. An army of reporters with flashing cameras, and a sea of curious townsfolk, stood along the street and overflowing into it, jamming traffic and creating havoc but, Lynch thought, providing a nice background of hysteria. And here he was, going into the center of it. He smiled.

  The guards paused when the taxi arrived at the gate.

  “You must be kidding,” one said.

  Lynch smiled. “Check the guest list. I believe you’ll find ‘Lynchmort James’ listed prominently. Well, at least scrawled shamefully on there, maybe in a corner.”

  “You must be kidding,” the guard repeated. “You arrived at the Ball in a taxi?” In the end, they made Lynch show his ID -- a deliberate insult to someone invited to the Royal Ball -- before admitting him.

  He praised Nancy as the taxi rolled down the grand driveway toward the stately steps of the Palace itself. The magnificent façade glowed in the floodlights, inset with a thousand grinning gargoyles and angels, and the dome loomed brightly beyond it. He paid the speechless cabbie with a gold coin and sauntered up the stairs. Royal guards in all their plumage stood about, sometimes escorting aged nobles and aristocrats up the stairs. A select few journalists had the privilege of being allowed to lurk behind marble columns, snapping pictures only after permission was granted. A majordomo checked everyone off of the list and ensured that doors were held open and courtesies paid.

  Servants held open the huge high doors even for Lynch, and showed him graciously inside. As he trod upon the posh carpet, eyeing the gilded chandelier dripping from the ceiling, the priceless oils on the walls in between elaborate tapestries, and the high, stained-glass windows, he reminded himself that even if he should survive this whole affair, which was quite doubtf
ul, he had no money left, at least not to be able to afford to live as even a minor gentleman. He would have to rent some flat somewhere in the Blight or the like. He realized, somewhat to his surprise, that now that he knew Eliza lived, he no longer wanted that. He no longer wanted to lose himself forever in an opium dream, hoping for her to take him away. She was no longer a dream, she was in the waking world, and he needed to be, too.

  It further occurred to him, as he was shown into the exquisite ballroom, with its even more massive chandelier and expensive carpeting, that if he was to court Eliza as a proper gentleman, he must have means. Perhaps, he thought, passing a lovely woman dripping in pearl necklaces, he would have the opportunity to add to his fortune tonight. The odd lady wouldn’t miss a diamond ring or two, would she, or the odd gentleman his watch? A few such gems would set him up for some time to come, and he happened to know the best fences in the city.

  An orchestra played ballroom music, and it sounded appropriately old-fashioned in this ancient place, where so many figures from history had come and gone. How many romances of myth had been struck up right on this ballroom floor? Why, Lynch remembered that Queen Fontaine herself was supposed to have danced with King John II for the first time under this glittering chandelier.

  Women in gorgeous dresses flowed through the room, and men in their finery nodded to each other. Lynch had once or twice been to similar gatherings in his youth, but the ways of gentility had long escaped him. He was more comfortable in the Blight than the Palace. He tried giving a few nods, but people scowled at his appearance and moved on. He hailed a waiter, asked for a glass of port, and was promptly sipping happily. He found a group of men talking and smoking cigars, and under the guise of joining their conversation asked for a smoke. Once he was puffing away -- Cuban! what luck! -- he tipped an imaginary hat and left them. He had speared the cigar on the tip of his hook so that he could continue drinking with his right hand, and he drew ever more sinister looks as he went along. He wished he had some bubble-gum. That would have really irritated them.

  Many of the guests had just arrived -- it was only nine -- and most of these stood around the edges of the room. Others, who had grown more comfortable, likely through drink, danced on the floor to the ballroom music of an orchestra. Lynch, after his third glass of port, and some shrimp, and a few oysters, decided it would be a good night for a dance -- likely his last. Besides, he had nothing else to do until Queen Fontaine made her entrance.

  He strode onto the dance floor, singled out the most beautiful woman there, tapped her partner -- a fellow he recognized from the papers but whose name escaped him -- on the shoulder, and said, “May I steal your partner? I promise not to abscond with her.”

  The man, politely annoyed, nodded and stalked off.

  “I rather lied,” Lynch said, taking the surprised-looking woman’s hands, leading with his hook. Her surprise may have come from the sudden contact of her flesh with cold steel. “I would happily abscond with you. You are lovely. Eyes like sapphires, lips like a rose.” She smelled delicious, too, and he knew wealthy women had access to finer perfumes than the sort he was used to -- but he decided to share this insight with her later.

  Her sapphire eyes narrowed. “Still sporting the same bad lines as always, I see.”

  His eye widened. “Why -- Gwyneth Bumont! I wouldn’t have known you, all dolled up.” He lowered his voice an octave. “I’ve never seen you in wearing so much. I’m surprised to say it suits you. But I like the other better.”

  One corner of her mouth curled up. They had begun dancing, and other couples danced all around them, sweeping and swirling. The music picked up in the background.

  “So did I,” she admitted. “You weren’t bad yourself, if I recall.” Her eyes scanned his face, and he could feel her trying not to stare at his eye patch and scars. “The war didn’t treat you well.”

  “You should’ve seen the other guy. Now tell me about yourself -- do you still like to wear your heels to bed?”

  She flushed. “Lynch! Someone might hear you.”

  “Say no more. Perhaps there is a handy study or drawing room nearby . . .”

  She rolled her eyes. “Still one thing on your mind, then?”

  “Two now. The other being to save the world.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Oh, it’s getting more saved by the second. Do you know when the Queen’s expected to join us?”

  “Soon, I would imagine. The Prince is supposed to come, as well. I was afraid he wasn’t going to be able to. He was away. Thank goodness he was able to return in time. It is his mother’s birthday, after all!”

  “The little rascal!” He held her closer. She smelled even better close up. Her flesh was warm beneath her voluminous dress. “I was serious about that drawing room.”

  She stared at him frankly. “You do realize, you left me in a lurch back there? I thought I was . . . in a way.”

  “Ah. Well. Hmm. Years ago, you mean? Well, I’ve changed since then. Yes indeed. I’m a new man.”

  “Lucky I wasn’t that way. God! My father would have skinned you, and that’s after he skinned me. As it was, he had to bribe Lord Tymar’s physicians into convincing him I was a . . . you know.”

  “You’re married, then?”

  “Widowed. He was eighty-two.”

  “A shame. So now you’re a wealthy widow? It gets more and more interesting! I was just thinking to myself, Lynch old boy, you need to meet a beautiful, unattached woman.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Why, is that a diamond necklace you’re wearing? Splendid! Perhaps I can take a better look at it . . . in the drawing room. Better yet! Why don’t you wear it and your heels -- and nothing else?” He pressed her even closer. He was barely aware of the music in the background. He was sure his beloved Eliza would understand. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, if he set himself up with a wealthy widow he would have the funds to court Eliza in style. There was a flaw in that plan somewhere, but Lynch would work it out later.

  A horn blew. The dancers stopped and turned to the marvelous staircase descending from the upper levels -- a staircase designed, as far as Lynch could tell, solely to facilitate grand entrances.

  “Behold, honored guests, Her Highness, the Illustrious Fontaine, Queen of Casveigh.”

  More horns blew. All bowed, even Lynch, as the Queen descended. She looked good despite her years, Lynch thought. Diamonds glittered from pins in her silver hair, and her turquoise gown, inlaid with yet more diamonds, sparkled under the light of the chandelier. Her blue eyes gleamed, sharp and intelligent. When she reached the bottom, she tolerated one nearby noble to kiss her hand, then said, “Everyone rise! I want to see you dancing in five seconds -- or I send in the troops!”

  Laughter greeted this. The dancers resumed dancing.

  “Something, isn’t she?” Gwyneth said, as she and Lynch swung about the room. The orchestra had struck up a new song.

  “I’ll say. I’ll bet she doesn’t wear heels to bed. Of course, we still haven’t determined if you do anymore either.”

  She allowed a naughty smile. “Maybe you’ll find out later.”

  A man tapped Lynch’s shoulder, but Lynch shrugged him off, saying, “Get your own.” They danced on.

  The Queen circulated. People would approach her, bow to her, and say a few words before she moved on. A discreet line formed. She seemed to find it tiresome, however, and her route took her toward the dance floor. But who would have the honor of dancing with the Queen?

  When the song ended, Lynch bowed to Gwyneth and said, “It has been my pleasure -- and I hope that’s not the end of it.”

  “You’re leaving? My feet were just getting warmed up!”

  “Only for a moment, my sweet. Remember, I have only two things on my mind. I must see to one of them before I see to the other. But hopefully the first one won’t take long.” He smiled. “Then I can take longer with the second.”

  Her cheeks colored. “Hurry.”

>   He kissed her hand and departed, striking for the Queen. She moved with greater urgency toward the dance floor. Sycophants bowed and flattered on every side. She moved faster. Her eyes roved, seeking a suitable partner. She would have a date for the evening, of course -- a queen does not come alone -- but it would likely be an advisor or friend, not necessarily someone she longed to press her albeit aged body against. Lynch would be that someone -- he wished he had worn his uniform! that would get her attention -- and the press would have a field day with it tomorrow. QUEEN DANCES WITH PIRATE! Full story Page Two. Lynch smiled and drew nearer Her August Presence.

  How best to tell her what he needed to? How do you best phrase the sentiment Your son plans to murder you tonight. Did you follow that with Cocktail?

  Her eyes continued to scan the crowd.

  At last, to his delight, they lit on him. And stayed. He eyed her back, and allowed his face to slip into a hungry smile. Instantly, she made a beeline for him. He felt his heart skip a beat. He was going to dance with the Queen! He wondered if he should offer to let her lead.

  He strode toward her --

  A figure rose in front of him, appearing from the crowd as by magic. Startled, Lynch looked up into a face he knew well from the papers: Prince Michael himself, all dressed in his finery. He was a medium-tall man with a narrow face, thin mustache, hair carefully parted above his high brow, and a small dark mole sprouting from his left cheek. He carried himself like a fencer. His blue eyes were milky, unsettling, and his full lips were set in a hard line.

  He did not face his mother, as Lynch would have supposed, but Lynch instead.

  “Lynchmort James, I presume?” said the Prince. “Come with me.”