Honour be Damned

by David Bishop

The Ripper with the gunshot wound sneered at Dante's naked body. "Well, well, well. What 'ave we 'ere? Looks like this one's been a naughty boy!"

  "He needs to be punished," the next Ripper agreed.

  "We'll cut out his lights and giblets," the Ripper cackled. "We'll feast on his sweetmeats for our dinner, eh lads?" A flying stiletto impaled itself in his left eyeball, the tip stabbing deep into the Ripper's brain. He was dead before his body hit the floor.

  "I don't share my sweetmeats with any man," Dante said smugly, smiling at the accuracy of his knife-throwing skills. "Now, if you were female, things might be rather different."

  The remaining two Rippers launched themselves at Dante, lunging at him with blades in both hands. "Look out behind!" Dante shouted, pulling his feet up to propel the first Ripper over his head. Penelope dropped to one knee and shot the Ripper as he flew past her in the air. When the murderous creature hit the floor, already twisting round for another attack, she used her final shot to remove his lower jaw. He stayed down after that. But the last Ripper landed right on top of Dante, twin stilettos gouging into the floor on either side of his face. Dante responded with a head butt, smacking his forehead into the Ripper's nose. Both of them screamed in agony, blood streaming down their faces. "Diavolo, that hurts!" Dante cried out.

  "Not as much as this will, my pretty," the Ripper promised, ripping a dagger out of the floor and pulling it back into the air, ready to plunge the blade through his enemy's heart. Dante yanked the other stiletto free and stabbed it into the Ripper's chest. He twisted the knife, making the blade squirm around in the wound. The Ripper vomited blood into Dante's face before collapsing on top of him, the knife falling safely to one side.

  Penelope rolled the Ripper away, moving closer to look at Dante. "Nikolai! Nikolai, are you all right? Speak to me, damn you!"

  His face split into a smile. "That's the first time you've ever called me Nikolai."

  "I thought you were-"

  "Dead?" Dante coughed up a mouthful of blood, spitting it onto the Ripper's corpse. "Not yet. It takes worse than that to kill me, even without my enhanced healing abilities." He sat up, crimson-flecked phlegm dripping from his face. "Is that all of them?"

  "Probably," Penelope said. "Rippers travel in squads of six or twelve. Count yourself lucky there were only half a dozen this time." She helped him up, wiping the scarlet mucus from his face. "Let's get you clean and find some fresh clothes. Then I must eat, or else I'll kill someone."

  Dante nodded at the corpses in the corridor. "What about this lot?"

  "Okay, I need to eat before I kill someone else."

  "No, I meant - shouldn't we dispose of them first?"

  Penelope sighed heavily. "I suppose you're right. The train will be spending the night over the Lake District. We'll put these carcasses into an empty compartment for now, then throw them out when we're above Lake Windermere."

  "You know," Dante said as they dragged the Rippers out of sight, "fighting these freaks would have been easier if we weren't cuffed together. Are you any closer to passing that key?"

  "Not yet," Penelope admitted. "That's another reason for eating soon. A little extra roughage in my system would help speed the key's progress." She pushed one Ripper into a vacant berth, then went back to collect another corpse. Right now I'm so hungry I'll eat anything they put in front of me." Her gaze caught sight of Dante's exposed genitals as the duo continued their grisly task. "Anything except sausages."

  ELEVEN

  "Women's tears are nets, not water."

  - Russian proverb

  "Traditional games of strength and agility have been practised in the Highlands for many, many centuries. These annual gatherings became formalised around 1820 as part of a national revival of tartan culture. With Caledonia now principally a tourist destination, the Highland Games are more popular than ever. Travellers from across the Empire come to witness such arcane sports as putting the shot, tossing the caber and throwing the weight. Highland dancing is an essential part of any Games, as is the inevitable skirl of the bagpipes. So, put on your kilt, strap down your sporran and get ready for a sporting event unlike any other!"

  - Extract from The Duffer's Guide to Britannia, 2670 edition

  Dante and Penelope spent an uncomfortable night on her bed, thanks to Penelope's insistence on keeping a row of pillows between them as a divider. "We may be handcuffed together, but that doesn't give you any claim over my body," she warned.

  "Don't flatter yourself," Dante replied. "Besides, I've seen how you treat uninvited sexual overtures. I'd like to keep my brains intact."

  Despite that, the two of them still ended up in each other's arms the next morning. Dante opening his eyes on Friday to find Penelope snuggling into his back. "I knew you couldn't resist me forever," he whispered huskily. Her scream of dismay when she woke quickly shattered that illusion. Both of them bounded off the bed in opposite directions, then were jerked back together by their handcuffs. A string of obscenities filled the air as their heads collided with a crack.

  Early morning ablutions proved just as problematic, Dante leaning out the bathroom door whistling loudly while Penelope emptied her bladder. She was considerably less squeamish, offering a stream of unwelcome observations as he tried to urinate. "We haven't got all day, you know. They stop serving breakfast in half an hour."

  "I am trying to concentrate," he replied through gritted teeth.

  "Well, it doesn't seem to be working."

  "Look, I find this difficult with anyone watching, let alone offering a running commentary!"

  "What about having the Crest in your head?" Penelope asked. "How does that work?"

  "We have an understanding. It allows me a little privacy when I need it most - like now."

  "How about when you're making love?" Penelope asked. "I imagine having an alien battle computer offering advice on your technique must be quite distracting."

  "Please," he said quietly. "Could you give me a minute's peace, okay? Just give me one minute of silence and then we can go and have breakfast, all right?"

  "One minute?"

  "Yes!"

  "Fine by me," Penelope said. Seven seconds of agonising silence followed, unbroken by the sound of any liquid splashing into the toilet bowl. "I mean, I have absolutely no problems with keeping quiet for that long. I-"

  "Oh, forget it!" Dante snapped, flushing the toilet and stomping out of the bathroom. "We'll go and eat. With any luck breakfast will shift the key from your vice-like bowels, putting an end to this nightmare for both of us. Then I might be able take a piss in peace and quiet!"

  Henry Windsor McKray blinked. "I think he's coming round," a voice whispered. The king breathed deeply, the smell of frying bacon drifting into his nostrils and awakening his taste buds. He opened his eyes to find himself in a small, pale green room filled with doctors, nurses, a camera crew and a chef. The last of these was clutching a sizzling skillet with seven rashers of bacon cooking on it, each segment cheerfully spitting pork fat into the air.

  "I say," the king murmured sleepily. "Is it breakfast already?" The doctors and nurses burst into spontaneous applause, laughing profusely at his first words in three days. "That bacon smells wonderful. Any chance of someone slapping it inside a roll with brown sauce for me?"

  "King Henry!" shouted a rat-faced reporter in a suit and tie, waving from behind the cameraman. "King Henry, how do you feel?"

  "Quite hungry," he replied, smiling weakly. "Positively ravenous in fact." A shrieking female voice became audible, getting louder by the moment. "Has someone let a banshee loose in here?"

  "Where is he?" the woman demanded from outside Henry's room, her aristocratic voice akin to hawk talons clawing a blackboard. "He's my bloody father! You will let me see him and you will let me see him right bloody now!"

  "Oh dear," the king lamented. "I thought my daughter was still in prison."

  Princess Marie-Anne burst into the hospital room, ruthlessly shoving doctors and nurses out of the way to
reach the king. Seeing his frail body on the bed, she began sobbing theatrically and collapsed beside him. "Father, my dear papa! Speak to me! Say something - if you're able!"

  "Hello. What are you doing here?"

  The princess looked up abruptly, surprise etched into her features. "You're conscious!"

  "Yes, that's right," Henry said brightly.

  "You're talking!"

  "Right again, daughter."

  "But... the doctors... they didn't think you'd make it!"

  "Well, here I am, on the mend."

  She glared at the doctors, her voice a venomous hiss. "You said he wouldn't make it!"

  The nearest surgeon shrugged, hands buried in the pockets of her white coat. "The king apparently possesses remarkable powers of recovery, your royal highness."

  "What's your name?"

  "Bhamra, ma'am. Doctor Parminder Bhamra."

  "You told me he had a one in ten chance of surviving his wounds - at best."

  "What can I say? He beat the odds."

  "He beat the odds," the princess repeated slowly, her gaze slowly taking in the camera crew filming everything in the room. "He beat the odds! What a blessing for us all!" The princess removed herself from the floor, adjusting her clothes and trying to recover some dignity. "Tell me, what was it that brought him back from the brink of seemingly not so certain death?"

  Doctor Bhamra pointed out the trembling cook in the corner. "Your royal chef, Ramsey, told us the king could never resist the aroma of frying bacon. We had tried everything else, so we decided to make an appeal to his sense of smell - and it worked! Quite remarkable."

  Marie-Anne raised an eyebrow at the chef. "I couldn't have put it better myself. Ramsey, remind me to give a special reward for the service you have done us all by reviving my father."

  "Y-Yes, y-your royal highness," the chef stammered fearfully.

  The king raised his left hand, trying to get some attention.

  "Yes, your majesty?" a nurse asked.

  "So, do I get a bacon sandwich or not?"

  Everyone in the room burst out laughing again, the princess laughing louder and harder than the others at her father's unwitting jest. "Oh, papa, what a joy it is to see you alive and on the way to recovery. Some days I think you'll out last us all!"

  "Well, you never know," he agreed.

  Marie-Anne leaned down to hiss in his ear. "I wouldn't count on it, you old goat!"

  Henry pinched her cheek, an affectionate gesture but for the force of his grasp. "You'll rot in hell before you sit in my throne, you poisonous little harridan," he whispered back at her.

  The princess dug her fingernails into his wrist, forcing him to let go, then stood upright again. "Well, I'll come back this afternoon to update you on all the important matters of state," she announced for the camera crew's benefit. "Two of the men responsible for your wounds and for murdering the Queen Mother are awaiting execution, while a third is being hunted down."

  "Babs is dead? I didn't know. That is sad news." The king's face fell, but he quickly rallied. "Still, she had a good innings, the old girl, you can't deny that."

  Marie-Anne rested a consoling hand on her father's arm. "Yes, the Queen Mother was an example to us all, with her youthful exuberance and playful attitude to life, Sadly, she was slain by three cowardly assassins. The worst part is you invited them into the palace."

  "Did I?"

  "Don't you remember, father? The man who murdered my beloved grandmamma was that vicious Russian renegade, Nikolai Dante."

  "Nicola? She would never-" Henry protested, but his daughter hushed him to silence.

  "Poor father, you're still confused by what's happened. I said Nikolai, not Nicola." Marie-Anne glared into the camera lens. "If you're watching, Nikolai Dante, I want you to know I will never rest until you pay for what you've done to my family!" In an instant her expression switched to a gracious smile as she addressed the doctors and nurses. "Would you all be kind enough to leave the room? I'd like to say a prayer of thanks at my father's bedside before I leave..."

  Doctor Bhamra nodded hurriedly. "Of course, your royal highness." She ushered all the others out, then bowed low before leaving, shutting the door after herself.

  Once father and daughter were alone, they dropped any pretence of liking each other. "You old fool!" Marie-Anne snarled. "Why couldn't you die like grandmamma?"

  "Some of us are made of sterner stuff," he snapped. "I have few illusions about your feelings for me, but having your own grandmother killed - isn't that beneath even you, dear?"

  "I didn't hire the assassins!" the princess protested. "If I had you wouldn't still be here."

  "Nicola will discover the truth," Henry insisted. "My betrothed never lets me down."

  "You really are madder than a gift box of badgers, aren't you? His name is Nikolai, not Nicola, and he fled London like the coward he is, leaving his two accomplices to die for him. Every policeman, every secret service operative and every bounty hunter in the country is stalking that pernicious piece of filth."

  The king smiled. "Most of our constables couldn't find their way out of a wet paper bag with a sharp pencil. Lovely uniforms but not a brain between them. As for the secret service - if you didn't hire the assassins, they probably did. I doubt they'll find young Nicola. Besides, she is a wonderfully resourceful woman. I've seen her get out of all manner of scrapes."

  "Nikolai Dante is as good as dead," the princess snarled. "That's if he isn't dead already!"

  "I wouldn't be seen dead eating some of this," Dante said, disdainfully studying the breakfast menu in the Flying Scotsman's dining car.

  "Take this one: porridge. What is porridge?"

  A traditional Scottish delicacy, made of oats stewed in milk or water. It is usually served with salt or sugar and milk, the Crest replied. According to legend, families would store it inside a drawer, cutting off a slice whenever they were hungry.

  "Sounds disgusting!"

  If you think that sounds disgusting, I won't tell you what is used to make a haggis.

  "Good." Dante lowered his breakfast menu to look at Penelope. "What are you having?"

  She smiled. "Definitely porridge, and possibly kippers to follow."

  "Kippers?"

  "Yes, a pair of kippers would be lovely. I haven't had kippers in years."

  "Crest?"

  A kipper is a fish which has been split from tail to head, eviscerated-

  "Enough, enough, I've heard enough," Dante replied hastily. "I'll stick with what I know. Last time I was in this country the hotel served something called a full Britannia breakfast. It included this delicious thing called a black pudding. It was round and had been-"

  Made out of suet, breadcrumbs, oatmeal and pig's blood.

  Dante swallowed hard. "Pig's blood? I ate a sausage made out of pig's blood?"

  Plus suet, bread crumbs and oatmeal, the Crest confirmed. You said it was delicious.

  "That was before I knew what was in it." He glared at Penelope. "I thought this was a cultured country, but you people eat the most obscene... Words fail me."

  If only.

  "I'll stick to toast," Dante decided. "You don't do anything strange to that, do you?"

  Penelope smiled. "Not unless you count spreading marmalade all over it."

  One of the stewards approached them, doing his best not to stare at Dante's clothes.

  Gordonstoun could only produce a spare kilt, so Dante was forced to wear that with a frilly white blouse borrowed from Penelope. The two passengers gave their breakfast orders and handed back the menus. They were seated at a corner table with Dante facing the dining car.

  "I can't see the assassin," he admitted after carefully studying the other travellers.

  "Maybe he didn't get back on at Nottingham. The train is much emptier today."

  "Because all the Cadre Infernale members stayed behind at your boss's estate." Dante bit his fingernails nervously. "No, I'm sure he's still on board. His timetable had the stops at Peebl
es and Orkney circled. Why would he get off before then?"

  Penelope shrugged. "Let's hope you're right, otherwise both of us are in trouble."

  The steward returned with their food, giving Dante a fully laden toast rack and putting two steaming plates of food in front of Penelope.

  "How long before we reach Peebles?" she asked.

  "An hour," the steward replied. "Can I get either of you anything else?"

  Penelope shook her head, while Dante kept his gaze fixed on the vast repast opposite him. "Are you sure you've got enough there?"

  She smiled. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day - didn't your mother ever teach you that?"

  "My mother was a pirate queen who kicked me off her ship before I reached puberty. All she taught me was how to fight and how to hate." Dante fell silent, deep in thought while Penelope munched her way through a meal fit for someone twice her size.

  Sixty minutes later the Flying Scotsman was coming in to land at Peebles, a charming lowland settlement next to the River Tweed. Penelope was still belching from her breakfast as the train settled smoothly on to the tracks at the edge of town. It rolled into the station and halted, the tannoy inviting everyone aboard to enjoy the Highland Games nearby. Dante stood quietly beside Penelope in the compartment, looking out of the window at the stone houses of Peebles in the distance.

  "Spatchcock and Flintlock will be executed tomorrow unless I clear my name, but I don't feel any closer to a solution than I did when the king was shot three days ago."

  "You believe this man on the train is the assassin?"

  Dante shrugged. "I'm not sure anymore. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if this whole trip has been a fool's errand."

  Penelope frowned. "You told me the man you've seen on board was one of the shooters."

  "I said he must be involved-"

  "Involved? You convinced me he pulled the trigger!"

  "I might have exaggerated," Dante said. "He was definitely standing on Westminster Bridge close to the spot where I confronted the assassin. After I was thrown into the Thames, rising mist made it hard to see, but I definitely heard him talking with someone else. He had an accent I didn't recognise, but it wasn't a dialect from Britannia. He told the other person he would see them soon and there was something about an old man with a short name - Troy? Malloy?"