Black Iron

by Franklin Veaux

  “Not to my knowledge, my lady. It’s discouraged in the Royal Guard,” Roderick said.

  “Oh, I see—hah. You’re entirely too clever.”

  “Mum’s the word, my lady. Now, where are you going?”

  “To the privy, if you don’t mind,” Alÿs said. “And the Lady Eleanor needs to go too. No, hush, you do. Will you be accompanying us, Roderick? No? I thought not. Please do feel free to wait outside the door if it will make you feel any better, there’s a good man.” She took Eleanor’s arm firmly in hers and half-led, half-dragged the taller girl toward the privy.

  “Are you mad?” Eleanor complained when the door had closed behind them. “We’re missing the good part!”

  “Shush!” Alÿs said. “I think we can do more than just watch.” She looked at herself in the tall, gilt-edged mirror and adjusted the front of her dress.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, those idiots out there are going to turn this into a bloodbath. They’re all nice and civil now, mostly, but you watch. As soon as we land, things will turn nasty,” Alÿs said.

  “So?”

  “I think we should do something.”

  “Us? Save the day? Ooh, how exciting!” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed. “What should we do?” She leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “We need to get a message to the ground. We need to tell the Cardinal what’s going on. He’ll know what to do.”

  “You mean like a secret plot?”

  “I really wouldn’t suggest putting it quite like that, exactly…oh, okay,” Alÿs said, seeing Eleanor’s expression, “we can call it that if you want. Just not in front of anyone else, alright? Now, what do we say?”

  “Help, the Guard has gone berserk and arrested the Queen!” Eleanor suggested.

  “I was thinking something a little less likely to get all of London in an uproar,” Alÿs said. She thought for a moment. Then she slipped her small silk handkerchief from its place in her sleeve.

  “What are you doing?” Eleanor asked.

  “Plotting.” Alÿs dug out a small pouch from its hiding place in her dress and fished out a small pot of lip paint. Working quickly with a fingernail, she scribbled a note on the handkerchief. “Here. Take this forward. There’s a little door in the end of the hall that opens onto a ladder that goes down to the signal room. Show this to the boy there. His name is Gerry. Gerry Highlander. Tell him to send this message to the Cardinal. He knows how to work the signaling lamp.” She pushed the scrap of cloth into Eleanor’s hands.

  “You want me to go into the commoner’s area?” Eleanor looked shocked.

  “Yes. Take this down to the signal room—”

  “Where the commoners are?” Eleanor’s mind had latched doggedly onto this detail of the plot and seemed disinclined to let go.

  “Yes. Just show this to Gerry.”

  “Is he a commoner?”

  “Who, Gerry or the Cardinal?”

  “Gerry! I know the Cardinal is no commoner.”

  “Yes!” Alÿs sighed with exasperation. “He’s a commoner. Don’t be that way. Sometimes secret plots mean talking to commoners. Go!”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because I have Roderick the Fierce, Protector of the Realm, following me around to make sure I don’t fling myself out a window. I don’t want anyone to know the message came from me. That’s why it’s secret, right?”

  Eleanor studied the cloth, brows knotted. “What does it say?”

  “It’s a secret message. It’s not supposed to be easy to figure out.”

  “Why is it in Latin? Nobody speaks Latin! I mean, besides…oh.” Understanding dawned on Eleanor’s face. “Right. Clever!”

  “Yes. Get rid of this after he sends it.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know! Use your imagination. Throw it in the fire or something.” Alÿs turned this way and that, examining herself in the mirror. When she was convinced she looked suitably presentable, she said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  They left together. Roderick, who had been waiting dutifully outside the door, picked Alÿs up the moment they passed through. He was not going to shirk his duty, oh no, especially not when the Queen herself had given him a command. And if the pursuance of his duty kept him away from the angry men with swords drawn in the center of the ballroom, well, that was just the way these things went sometimes.

  He fell into step beside her. She ignored him. Eleanor headed toward the far exit, where a door opened on to a steep set of narrow stairs leading forward and down. She crept down the stairs with aggrandized caution, a bit disappointed that the whole of the Court’s attention was so tied up with the spectacle of the Queen’s arrest that there was nobody left to not notice her exit.

  The standoff hadn’t changed much. There was still an air of wary tension, though it was a little more relaxed. The opposing forces seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement that things would remain as they were until the airship landed. Nobody could really go anywhere until then, and open violence would in all likelihood end up with some deaths that could prove inconvenient or even troublesome to the Kingdom. There was no immediate advantage for any side to provoke violence until they were on the ground, though after that, what would happen was anyone’s guess.

  Presently, Eleanor sidled up to Alÿs and gave her an exaggerated wink. “It’s done,” she said in a stage whisper.

  “What’s done?” Roderick demanded.

  “Nothing,” Alÿs said. “Girl stuff.”

  “Oh,” Roderick said. He didn’t know exactly what Girl Stuff was, but he had three sisters, so he knew that it was something he didn’t want to press for too many details about. Often, in his vague understanding, Girl Stuff involved the contents of handbags and other unmentionables, whose mysteries he didn’t fully understand and didn’t really want to. He had tried once, as a young boy, to find out what Girl Stuff was. The girls had shown him. For weeks afterward, everyone called him Roderick Rosylips. It wasn’t an experience he was keen to repeat.

  Time passed. The floor tilted as the airship descended toward its mooring. The standoff in the ballroom had changed very little, except that the Guardsmen with red plumes were gathered more tightly around the Guardsmen with white, and everyone looked a bit more tense. The ambassador’s bodyguards were wary, hands hovering near the hilts of their daggers, but they did not seem keen to interfere.

  The Queen herself looked a bit…smaller than Alÿs remembered. Of course, it was always more difficult to look commanding when two people with swords had you by the arms. Power lies in the hands of the person who wields it, after all. Sometimes those hands could change very quickly. Throughout the ballroom, little hurts were being remembered, little professional jealousies were being relived, the philosophies of those whose allegiance lay with a person were coming up against those whose allegiance lay with an idea, and somewhere in all that, the person who was Her Most Excellent Majesty Queen Margaret the Merciful had all but been forgotten. Power was on the move, trying to decide which hand best suited it.

  The thrum of the great engines changed pitch. The floor vibrated. The airship tilted down more steeply, then straightened. A couple of the more eager Guardsmen used the brief change in attitude to shift, ever so slightly, to more advantageous positions. Hands tightened on sword hilts. So this is what it comes down to, Alÿs thought. The Queen has the divine right to rule, right up until the right person thinks up a reason she doesn’t.

  Seemed about par for the course. Alÿs had read enough history to know that divine rights were nothing if not transitory.

  The vibration grew stronger, then stopped. The floor shifted again. There was a thump.

  And so it begins, Alÿs thought.

  There were several heavy, muffled thuds from outside. The curved wall of the ballroom split open. The broad steps descended.

  �
��Make way for the Queen’s Guard!” A tight triangle of men, all in white cloaks with red stripes, came up the steps and stopped abruptly. They took stock of the situation quickly. A mutter went through them. Swords were loosened in their sheaths.

  The man at their head had the look of a person who was accustomed to being obeyed and took it as his right to stab anyone who disagreed. His name was Max. Like many of his species, he had come empirically, via the time-honored scientific process of hypothesis and observation, to the conclusion that he should always be obeyed. That is, he had spent a great deal of time punching, kicking, stabbing, and occasionally biting people, and observed that the more he did these things, the more people listened to him. And since making that observation, he’d seen no reason to change his ways.

  Some of his men called him Max the Axe. He pretended not to hear them. Secretly, it pleased him. Max the Axe. It summed up his approach to command nicely.

  “What’s this, then?” he said.

  The tight spiral of angry armed men unfolded like one of those complicated choreographed synchronized dances, only with more swords. People managed to point at Julianus without really pointing at him. He took a deep breath and straightened fractionally. “I have placed the Queen under arrest. And now, if you will step aside, I will escort her to her quarters, where she will be confined until an inquiry can be convened.”

  Max narrowed his eyes. He felt on familiar and comfortable ground here. He knew exactly what to do: shout orders until people did what he wanted, and stab any people who didn’t.

  Go with what works.

  “Men, draw your swords!” he called. The air was filled with the metallic scrape of deadly intent.

  “Stand back,” Julianus said. “I am operating under authority of the Law. I have detained the Queen pending an investigation of heresy. Stand down your men.” He spoke with the conviction of one who believes the law is always just, the truth will always win, and puppies and kittens always go to heaven.

  “Is this really what you want?” Max said, in a tone that suggested he fervently hoped the answer was yes.

  “The Queen has been detained by due authority of the Law, pending an investigation of association with heretics,” Julianus repeated. “The truth of the matter will be determined by a lawfully appointed council.” He kept his grip on the Queen’s arm. The tip of his sword moved up slightly, still not quite pointed at anyone in particular.

  “Good enough,” Max said. “Men, adv—”

  “Make way for His Eminence!” thundered a voice from outside.

  Outside, on the landing pad, another large group of men appeared, striding toward the airship with purposeful intent. These men wore red robes edged with gold, and high, pointed steel helmets that identified them as members of the Pontifical Swiss Guard. Being of a more practical disposition than the Queen’s Guard, they were armed with rifles, not swords.

  A tall, thin man with white hair brought up the front of the procession. His narrow face seemed habituated by years of hard experience to wearing a perpetual frown. Behind his eyes lurked the kind of intelligence that misses little and approves of less.

  Max turned. This was not familiar and comfortable ground. The rifles had an uncomfortable advantage of range, and the bayonets at the ends suggested further discomfort to those who survived the opening salvo.

  “Your Eminence,” he said. A complex assortment of emotions battled like opposing armies for control of his face. “This is a matter for the Queen’s Guard. There’s no need for a man of the cloth to be here on such an unpleasant night.”

  The Cardinal strode forward. His name was René de Gabrielli, but few people knew that and still fewer called him that. To the majority of London, he was simply “the Cardinal.”

  His men spread out smartly into a loose semicircle, providing flanking cover. They moved, Max noted with surprised dismay, like disciplined and competent soldiers, especially for men of a religious persuasion. Max was a simple man, and like many simple men, he lacked a commanding grasp of history. He had never learned just how closely the martial and theological pursuits tended to follow one another.

  “I have heard reports of a certain…matter that might engage the interest of the Holy Church,” the Cardinal said.

  “I have this under control,” Max said.

  “Yes, I see that. All the same, indulge an old man. What is going on here?”

  “These traitors—” Max began.

  “I wasn’t speaking to you.” The Cardinal took another step forward, hands folded inside his heavy red robes. “You there! What is your name?”

  “Julianus, Your Eminence,” Julianus said.

  “Can you tell me what you are doing?”

  “I have placed the Queen under arrest on suspicion of heresy,” Julianus said.

  “I see,” the Cardinal said. “What an extraordinary thing to do. Do you have extraordinary evidence to support this extraordinary claim?”

  “Heretical associations, Your Eminence,” Julianus said. “I have reason to suspect the Queen of association with the Catholic Church of Rome.” A gasp went through the crowd. Behind him, people whispered to one another.

  The Cardinal raised an eyebrow. “Do please go on.”

  “We found a ring, Your Eminence,” Julianus said. “It bears the seal of the pretender in Rome. It was found in the Queen’s personal effects.”

  The Cardinal’s long, sour face soured more. “This might seem a minor detail, probably unimportant as such, but it is the nature of the ecclesiastical mind to be troubled by these trifling things. What, precisely, were you doing in the Queen’s quarters?”

  “We had been ordered to search them. There was suspicion of an…intruder, Your Eminence.”

  “An intruder. On an airship? How very interesting.” The Cardinal paced back and forth, appearing to take little notice of the tense standoff around him. The guards behind him adjusted their positions smoothly, maintaining their fields of fire. “And where might this intruder be now?”

  “We don’t know, Your Eminence. Apparently, there is a report that he may have, if I have this right, jumped out a window.”

  “Surely not,” the Cardinal said. “Even if we do not consider the most probable outcome of such an act, the windows of this airship seem quite small. Inadequate, I think, to permit the passage of an intruder. Unless this intruder was a mouse. A suicidal mouse, perhaps. Was this intruder a suicidal mouse?”

  Roderick stepped forward. As the only member of the Guard to witness the event in question, he felt duty bound to help set the record straight. “It was the door, Your Eminence. He went out the door. In the back. Where they load all the food and such,” he added helpfully.

  “Ah, the door. Yes. That makes far more sense.”

  “Thank you, Your Em—”

  “It appears we have a misunderstanding,” the Cardinal said. “I’m sorry, that’s entirely my fault. That was sarcasm. But perhaps our invited guests can offer some insight about our uninvited guest, hmm?” He nodded toward the ambassador’s party. “What do you have to say on this matter?”

  One of the ambassador’s men started forward, hand on the hilt of his knife. “I resent your implication,” he said. Two of the Cardinal’s guard pivoted smoothly in place to cover him with their rifles.

  The Cardinal raised his hands. “I mean to imply no disrespect. Being that you are not part of the Queen’s Court, and therefore not party to the, how shall I say this delicately…” He clasped his hands behind his back. “To the political ambitions some here might harbor, it is my hope you might be able to lend a bit of clarity to this matter.”

  The ambassador laid his hand on his bodyguard’s arm. “I am Tahrik Khaldun, ambassador for Caliph Rashid Mahmud. Alas, I fear I cannot make transparent what these men have made opaque. The events I have seen are as this man Julianus describes. As for the fate of those who leap from airshi
ps, I cannot say.”

  The Cardinal nodded. “No, of course not.” He turned to Julianus. “To charge a reigning monarch with heresy is quite serious. One might even say career-limiting. Perhaps, had I not arrived so fortuitously, terminally so. You appear to take the law quite seriously.”

  “I do, Your Eminence,” Julianus said. “The Law is the Law. Where would we be without it?”

  “Where indeed. The world needs people like you, Julianus. Your kind are very useful. Invaluable, even.” He appeared lost in thought for a moment. Finally, he turned toward Max the Axe. “You will stand down. The Queen will be taken into custody until an ecclesiastical tribunal can be convened. The law, as our excitable friend here says, is the law.”

  “But, Your Eminence—” Max began.

  “No, I insist. It is the correct thing to do. There are procedures.” He turned to leave, then seemed to notice the pontifical soldiers arrayed around him for the first time. “Also, my men will kill you if you don’t.”

  Max the Axe growled. He felt the evening rapidly slipping away from him, and he didn’t much like the feeling. Not only was nobody listening to him, there didn’t even seem to be anyone he could punch.

  For Her Most Excellent Majesty Queen Margaret the Merciful, the evening was also going sideways. She did not say a word as her red-striped guards sheathed their swords and stood aside. Julianus escorted her off the airship. As they left, the Church guards flowed seamlessly behind them, creating a band of red and gold between the Queen and her personal guard. Max the Axe growled again. He tried to push forward, but the wall of red capes and high helmets did not yield.

  Lords and ladies and serving maids streamed out behind her. Some chattered excitedly; others, of a more thoughtful disposition, reflected on what the Queen’s changing fortunes might mean for theirs. The small cluster of people around the ambassador watched, whispering amongst themselves.

  Alÿs followed after most of the throng had left, but not so late as to be behind the more common sorts of folks. Roderick kept step with her, not really escorting her, but making it clear that he was with her all the same.