by Peter David
The furniture was likewise quite luxurious. Mr. Fang dropped into one particularly ornate chair and simply sat there, unmoving and unbreathing, although it would have taken a particularly sharp eye to make note of that second fact.
There was a noise at the double doors that provided entrance into the room. Immediately, Mr. Fang was on his feet, taking the time to straighten his coat in anticipation of the princess’s entrance. It was not, however, a princess who entered—either princess. Instead, it was a tall, stately, dignified gentleman. His black hair, streaked with a few shades of gray, was brushed back, and he sported rather large, and yet understated, muttonchops. He looked down his nose at Mr. Fang in a way that Mr. Fang found rather off-putting. But he tolerated it because killing the man did not seem a reasonable option.
The man walked stiffly with an elegant walking stick. He didn’t require it for actual locomotion; it was simply for show.
“May I help you?” Mr. Fang said with measured politeness.
“I,” said the gentleman, “am Sir John Conroy.”
“Ah.” Mr. Fang nodded. “Yes, of course. I believe I’ve heard of you. You have some influence within the royal household.”
“More than just influence, good sir,” said Sir Conroy. “The duchess and I have a good deal of influence over the day-to-day schooling of young Alexandrina.”
“The duchess? Oh, the princess. Yes, yes,” said Mr. Fang. “I’ve heard that. I have, in fact, heard a great deal.”
“Have you?”
“Why, yes. I heard that you created the entire educational system under which the princess has been schooled.”
“Absolutely correct,” said Sir Conroy. He tugged at his jacket yet again. It was some sort of nervous habit; that much was clear to Mr. Fang. “It has benefited her tremendously.”
“Clearly so. Benefited her so thoroughly that she fled the palace in order to escape it.”
Conroy’s face did not fall. He had far too much self-control to display such an open reaction. Instead, he permitted the smallest of smiles. “Sadly, it is impossible to predict every reaction that a teenage girl may experience or undergo. We will deal with her actions appropriately.”
“You will deal with them? You had no idea where she was or who she was with,” Mr. Fang informed him. “If we were still waiting for you to take action, no action would have been taken. That is simple truth, Sir Conroy. You know it as well as I.”
Sir Conroy’s tone dropped into one of pure frost, and his façade cracked just a touch. “I do not believe I need to be lectured by you, Mr. Fang.”
“You certainly need to be lectured by somebody, and I do not see why it cannot be me.”
Conroy took a deep breath and then let it out very slowly. “Mr. Fang . . . obviously, we owe you a debt. That debt shall be repaid. I was thinking perhaps five hundred pounds sterling should settle the matter nicely. Certainly a generous sum.”
“To be sure,” agreed Mr. Fang. “Most generous indeed. And to be blunt, sir, it almost seems that you are seeing this as some sort of opportunity to buy me off. Or am I misinterpreting your intentions?”
There was a good deal that Sir Conroy could have said at that moment. All manner of protestations came to mind, but quickly he realized that it would likely come to naught. Instead, his small smile became even more diminutive. “Mr. Fang,” he said, pronouncing his words very carefully, “what do you believe is going to happen here this evening?”
“I believe that I will be supping with the princesses quite shortly. And then I believe that Princess Alexandrina Victoria is going to make me a permanent member of her staff. Her chief advisor, as it were.”
“And what in the world would lead you to that conclusion?”
“The words of Princess Alexandrina herself. She seemed quite taken with me when I rescued her from the threats of the street. Threats that she was only in because she was fleeing your imprisoning teaching methods. Or did I not make that sufficiently clear?”
“More than,” said Sir Conroy stiffly. “And now, sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave such promises behind, and depart the palace immediately.”
“Against the wishes of the princess?”
“The princess is not entitled to have wishes.”
“I believe that she is. And I further believe that, sooner or later . . . sooner, by my reckoning . . . she is going to be the queen of England. Once that happens, in how high accord do you think she is going to hold someone who dismisses her desires so casually?”
Conroy paused for half a heartbeat and then called loudly, “Guards!”
The doors sprang open, and two guards strode in. They took five steps forward, came to a halt, and thudded their gun butts to indicate that they were at attention and ready to receive commands.
“See this fellow out,” said Sir Conroy.
It was at that point that Mr. Fang decided stronger measures needed to be taken. Fortunately enough, Sir Conroy was looking him directly in the eyes. Perhaps he felt that his severe gaze would be sufficient to persuade Mr. Fang that it was time to depart. Luckily for Mr. Fang, the direct stare into his eyes was all that he required to accomplish what he needed to.
He sent his mind into the thoughts of Sir Conroy and enveloped them quite easily. It was not difficult at all because Sir Conroy was so confident in himself that the thought of being hypnotized by someone, much less an unassuming police magistrate such as Mr. Fang, never would have occurred to him—mostly because he had never thought of hypnotism in his entire life.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Mr. Fang. “Your guards can return to their posts.”
“He’s quite right,” said Sir Conroy immediately, so quickly that the guards literally froze in position, bewildered as to what was happening. “Both of you can return to your posts.”
The taller of the guards looked at Conroy, then at his fellow guardsman, and then back at Conroy. “Are you quite sure, Sir Conroy?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, quite sure.” Conroy even sounded a bit irritated. “I’m unaccustomed to having to repeat myself.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard. Without another word, he and his companion strode briskly out the door, closing it behind them.
The moment that they had departed, confusion appeared on Sir Conroy’s face. He looked after the guards and then to Mr. Fang. “What . . . I don’t . . .?”
“You decided that the wishes of Princess Alexandrina should be attended to,” said Mr. Fang. “As simple as that, really. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“I . . . suppose not,” said Sir Conroy.
And for the moment, there was not.
SIXTEEN
IN WHICH THE DODGER ASSAILS BUCKINGHAM PALACE AND UNEXPECTEDLY RUNS INTO AN OLD FRIEND
Buckingham Palace was well known as one of the most heavily guarded buildings in the world, so much so that no one in his right mind—and for that matter, even most people in their wrong mind—would ever have considered for so much as a heartbeat the challenge of trying to break into it, and yet that was exactly the situation into which the Artful Dodger was finding himself thrust.
And he did not have the faintest idea how to go about doing so. Breaking into an ordinary house, something that he had indeed done before, was very different from attempting to gain entrance into Buckingham Palace.
Driving the coach was not the easiest endeavor that he had undertaken, but fortunately the horse seemed to be genuinely responsive to his hand. He pounded down the road, heading toward Buckingham Palace, determined to come up with some means of gaining entrance while en route. Nothing, however, came to him during the entire journey. As a result, the closer he drew to the recognizable spires of Buckingham, the more he began to slow down. Eventually, five hundred feet from the approach, he drew the carriage to a halt. The guards were lined up, unflappable as they typically were. Not a single one
of them was looking at Dodger. He had not registered on them, or if he had, they were managing to keep it to themselves.
“Think,” said Dodger to himself. Nothing was coming to mind. “Any suggestions?” he called to the horse, but the animal did not seem especially inclined to contribute to the conversation. That left Dodger back on his own. He desperately wished that Bram were there to lend a hand, but unfortunately that brave lad was being held in the police station, under armed guard probably. And if Dodger had to deal with one set of armed guards, he knew it was going to be the ones in front of the palace.
Oddly, his thoughts about Bram led his thoughts to wishing that Fagin was there—on some level, at least. Certainly, the creature’s vampyric ability would be of some use. With Fagin’s aid, he could climb up the side of the building, enter through a window, and find Drina that way. As quickly as the notion occurred to him, however, he rejected it. Whatever happened this evening, he had no desire to share credit for its outcome with the monstrous Fagin. He would have to stand or fall on his own, even though the only ally he had left to him was Quinn’s corpse in the carriage.
Then it hit him. It was not the most wonderful idea in the land, but at least it was something, and it was certainly far better than having nothing at all.
Quickly Dodger clambered down from the seat and threw open the door. Quinn was lying on his side, looking extremely rumpled and disheveled. Dodger’s heart went out to him. Quinn had been a decent and brave sort, and the fact that he had died during this endeavor was almost enough to cause the Artful’s own bravery to waver. With an effort, though, he shoved that bravery back into place and forced himself to think of Quinn as nothing more than a prop, in order to accomplish what he needed to do.
The Artful stripped off Quinn’s distinctive riding jacket. He was wearing a white shirt underneath that looked vaguely formal. His trousers were scruffy, though, so Dodger grabbed a blanket from the seat across from him and draped it across his legs. The result was that he looked fairly nondescript. He could have been a driver, yes, but he also could have been more or less anyone. That was exactly what Dodger required.
Artful made sure that Quinn was upright, leaning slightly against the right-hand side of the coach so that he would remain in a sitting position. “Make this work,” Dodger muttered to both himself and the corpse of Quinn. Then he climbed back up into the driver’s seat, snapped the reins, and drove the horse forward.
The horse moved at a brisk trot toward the main gates of Buckingham. Eventually, they drew sufficiently within range that the guards reacted to his approach. One of them came forward and put up one hand to indicate that the carriage should be drawn to a halt. The Artful obeyed, as he knew he would have to, slowing the carriage down until it was even with the guard.
“What’s all this, lad?” the guard asked.
The Artful’s heart was slamming against his chest, but with Herculean effort he managed to keep his voice level. “Sir Fensterdale is here for his appointment with the princess.”
“Sir Fensterdale?” The guard frowned slightly. “I know of no Sir Fensterdale due here.”
This, of course, did not surprise Dodger. He’d fabricated the name because he did not, off the top of his head, know any lords, ladies, sirs, or otherwise—other than the princess, of course. The specifics of it did not matter, though. All that mattered was getting the conversation started and then praying that matters went amicably from there. “Of course you don’t,” said Dodger. “Very hush-hush. Very secretive mission indeed. At least, that’s what I’m told, and it’s not as if they tell me much of anything.”
“Do you have any official papers?”
“Papers?” The Artful did his best to suppress a laugh. “Someone of Sir Fensterdale’s rank don’t need papers. He comes and goes where he pleases.”
“Well, my lad, this is Buckingham Palace, and I’m afraid no one comes and goes where he pleases here. So unless you have some proper paperwork, I’m afraid you’re going to have to turn this coach right around and go back where you came from.”
“Are you funning me?” said Dodger with rising incredulity. “You would treat Sir Fensterdale in such a manner? You must have no regard for your continued position as a guard here.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said the guard. He seemed more amused about Dodger’s attitude than anything else.
“If that’s your decision,” said Dodger, “then I suggest you tell it to the sir himself.”
“Not my job, lad,” said the guard.
That was unfortunate. It meant Artful was going to have to work even harder to pull this off. He was, however, game for it. Why not? He had no choice.
The Artful hopped down from his chair and walked around to the door. He banged authoritatively on it and then waited for the response that he knew would not be forthcoming. “Sir Fensterdale?” he called after several seconds had passed. “We’re havin’ some trouble with the guards.” When “Fensterdale” continued not to respond, he banged with more urgency. “Sir Fensterdale?”
Then he took a deep breath, praying that he could sell what came next. He pulled open the door, saying, “Sir Fensterdale?”
Then he counted to three and raised his voice in carefully controlled alarm. “Sir Fensterdale!” This was it. This is what he was going to have to do to sell his entrance. Quickly he yanked his head out from within the confines of the carriage and shouted, “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong with Sir Fensterdale! He’s not breathin’!”
The pure panic in his voice was sufficient to spur the guards forward. The one who had been speaking with Artful was the first one to the carriage. He pushed his head in and said, “Sir Fensterdale?” When “Sir Fensterdale” did not respond to the prompting, the guard reached over and shook his arm. He was instantly able to discern the fact that he was not dealing with a living human being. Quickly, he withdrew his head and called out in exactly what Dodger was hoping to hear—borderline panic—“Captain! We have a problem!”
The summons did not just draw the captain. It also pulled over a number of other guards who were curious to see what was going on. The Artful was backing up as quickly as he could, grabbing at guards as he went, crying out, “I . . . I think he’s dead! My God, I think he’s dead! What am I going to do!?” He kept pointing at the carriage as he continued to get closer, closer to the palace gates—ever closer. All the guards’ attention was on the carriage, and no one was giving any serious regard toward the panicked driver.
Thirty feet to the main gates, twenty . . .
Then a firm hand clamped onto Dodger’s shoulder. His head whipped around, and he saw a large guard with a thick mustache standing in his path, preventing him from moving another step. “And where do you think you’re going, young man?”
The Artful had no ready response to that, and so he did the only thing he could think of: He drove his fist straight up into the guard’s face. It connected solidly with the guard’s chin, snapping his head back. The guard was so startled by the move that he actually lost his grip on his rifle. Instantly, Dodger grabbed it, even as inwardly he felt a fresh surge of panic. He was holding a weapon in a yard filled with men who were also armed and, more to the point, were schooled in using it, whereas he’d only attended the school of hard knocks. So the idea of running into the palace armed seemed an amazingly bad one.
He reversed the rifle and swung it as hard as he could. The rifle butt cracked against the head of the guard, and the guard went down, his head striking the ground with a nasty sound.
The Artful spun. Amazingly, there were no other guards between him and the entrance; everyone else had been distracted by the emergency with the coach. With no time to lose, he sprinted at top speed toward the palace, and it was at that moment that the alarm was sounded for his approach.
Just as he arrived at the great doors to the palace, two more guards emerged. The Artful was no longer holding the
rifle, having dropped it moments after clubbing his opponent. This was fortunate because certainly the guards, if they had seen an armed intruder approaching, would have opened fire upon him, and Dodger’s adventure would have been over. Indeed, if he had been a full-grown man, they likely would have shot him just to play it safe.
Instead, they saw a teenage boy charging at them. As he approached, they both reached for him and simultaneously grabbed his overlong coat.
Which was exactly what Dodger was hoping they would do. He dropped to the ground and thus slid out of the coat. The two guards were left holding his empty coat. “Stop!” cried one of them, and he brought his rifle up, aimed true, and fired.
The Artful, in anticipation of being shot at—and true to his name—dodged to the right, and the bullet flew past him. Seconds later, he had entered the great hall of Buckingham Palace.
He wanted to pause, to stop and take in the splendor around him. A great staircase curved upward to the second floor, and servants were moving through the corridor. They stopped and gaped at Dodger, but none made a move upon him. These, after all, were people who were accustomed to being given orders, and if no one was ordering them to take the Artful Dodger in hand, then none of them was inclined to do anything except stare.
At random, the Artful picked a door to his right. He charged through it and into a large room that appeared to be some sort of library. Books stretched to the top of the ceiling; he could not recall seeing so many books in his life. If he had had sufficient facility insofar as reading was concerned, he might well have stopped and grabbed some books to take with him. But he had neither the time nor the inclination and so ran into the next room. This was some manner of stately room. He had no idea what it would be used for, but it certainly had enough courtly decorations.
He heard guards shouting from behind him:
“Find him!”
“Find the intruder!”
“Find the boy!”
Their voices echoed off the walls around him. He was not inclined to figure out from which direction the voices were coming; he just kept running, with no set plan, and simply hoped that perhaps he would happen to run into the princess or, even better (or worse), Mr. Fang.