Black Iron

by Franklin Veaux

  The doors opened again to admit His Excellency the Duke of Byron-on-shire, Margaret’s half brother and next in line to the Throne of England. The boy looked out of place among the old men in the grand hall. Sir Marcus of Rhinehelm, Regent to the Duke, followed after. His Excellency the Duke had, by right of title, a place on the Council, which was occupied by the Regent in his place until such time as he reached the age of majority. As far as Marcus was concerned, that day could not come soon enough.

  Lord Rathman entered shortly after, his face unusually somber. He nodded cordially to several of the other lords and sat.

  Her Majesty the Queen, as reigning monarch of all the lands under the protection of the British Crown, had her own entrance, just behind her throne. This doorway was more conventionally sized, and of course was covered in gold leaf, as befitted her royal status.

  An absolute silence fell with the abruptness of the executioner’s axe when Her Majesty entered the chamber. Her eyes scanned the crowded balcony. Everywhere they landed, people lowered their gaze.

  The assembled lords and the representatives of the most holy French Catholic Church all rose as one. The Cardinal caught Margaret’s gaze for a moment just long enough to be uncomfortable. Then, in accordance with tradition, he descended to one knee. The priests on either side of him followed his example. The rest of the hall, lords and commoners alike, genuflected together.

  Margaret permitted herself a small, tight smile. She crossed over to the throne and paused there, surveying the silent hall. For a long moment, the stillness of a tomb settled over the space, the people in it as immobile as a Chinese emperor’s terracotta army.

  Regally, without haste, Margaret sat. Life returned to the hall. The Cardinal rose, followed by his priests. Duty to Crown and God discharged, the lords resumed their seats. Finally, the commoners in the balconies, accustomed in the fashion of commoners the world over to prolonged discomfort, regained their feet. The normal sounds of crowded humanity crept back into the vast space.

  Margaret scanned the faces of the assembled aristocrats. Empty seats dotted the hall. Nearly a third of the lords were absent—an astonishing display of rudeness, even by the normal fractious standards of British governance.

  Margaret pursed her lips. The Cardinal tapped his fingers on his knee. Murmurs ran through the balcony.

  Lord Wombly blinked his rheumy eyes and raised his hand. “If it pleases your lordships,” he said, “I would like to get this bloody thing over with. Perhaps we can get started?”

  Lord Marlboro rose from his seat. This required some not-inconsiderable effort, as the lord was possessed of that particular combination of florid complexion, prominence of nose, and rotundness of form attainable only through many years of far too much wine. He leaned against the curved table in front of him. “I am sure his lordship, the most eminent Lord Wombly, is aware that we are here to discuss the security of the nation of Britain. I know his lordship’s petunias are also a pressing concern.” He looked around at the ripple of laughter that passed through the hall. “Nevertheless, I would suggest we wait for the rest of the Council to arrive.” He smiled pleasantly at Lord Wombly and sat.

  “I am not half as interested in my petunias as your lordship is in the fruit of the vineyard, I expect,” Wombly grumbled. A titter ran around the balcony. “If the security of the Realm is in such peril, how come half of us can’t be arsed to be here on time?”

  “A question I am sure will be answered to your satisfaction in the fullness of time,” Lord Marlboro said. “In any event, we cannot come to order until the Lord High Chancellor arrives. Unless I miss my guess, he appears to be among those who, in the lord’s vulgar if colorful words, ‘can’t be arsed to be here.’”

  “In the absence of the Lord High Chancellor,” Wombly said, “Her Majesty the Queen can call us to order. I would beseech Her Majesty to do so, so that we may get on with the business of debating the security of the Realm, or whatever it is we are supposed to be doing.”

  “Now see here!” Lord Edward, Baron of Harringworth, said. He rapped his knuckles on the table, then hoisted his tall, angular form to his feet. “This is most inappropriate. Most inappropriate. Lord Marlboro is right. We are here to discuss matters far more grave than your petunias or Lord Marlboro’s love of the grape. I say we wait.”

  Lord Wombly crossed his arms. “And I say we allow Her Majesty to decide. If—”

  He was cut off when the great door banged open. A tight cluster of men walked in: Richard Gaton, High Chancellor of the Council of Lords; Lord Clifford, Duke of Barnstaple; Lord Alexander Clay of Borneham; Lord Simon Hamilton of Clovenshire; and an assortment of other noblemen, some out of breath and still pulling on their powdered wigs. Lord Gaton bowed perfunctorily to Margaret. “Your Grace,” he said. “My most humble apologies. I was unavoidably delayed.”

  The latecomers took their seats. Margaret frowned, fingers curling into the ornate gold-plated armrests of her throne.

  “About time,” Lord Wombly muttered. “Now maybe we can get on with it.”

  Richard Gaton, Lord Chancellor of the Council of Lords and Keeper of the Royal Seal, regarded Lord Wombly through narrowed eyes. Gaton was a great believer in Civilization. Civilization was what separated man from beast. And the thing that defined Civilization was Protocol. Sure, indoor plumbing had its place. And language. And writing, there was that, too. But above all those things was Protocol, the greatest achievement of the human spirit, the true hallmark of a civilized people.

  And Lord Wombly did not properly respect Protocol. He had a distressing and distinctly un-British habit of speaking his mind. Worse, he showed utter disrespect for formality, tradition, and proper procedure. As far as Gaton was concerned, that meant Lord Wombly wasn’t a proper lord at all. A true lord recognized the importance of Procedures and Rules of Order and, above all, Protocol. Men like Wombly, with their coarse language and their distressing habit of speaking out of turn, were threats to all that separated humanity from a long, slow slide into barbarism.

  But a storm was coming, oh yes. It was very nearly here. And when it arrived, it would sweep away all the Lord Womblys who clogged the arteries of civilization, each and every one. Gaton awaited that day with satisfaction.

  In the meantime, there were traditions to be respected and protocol to be followed. Where would man be without traditions and protocol? No doubt in a cave somewhere, banging on the walls with sticks or something.

  “Keeper of the Rolls, are you satisfied that a quorum of lords is present?”

  “Eh?” said the Keeper of the Rolls, the Very Honorable (and also very ancient) Lord Benjamin Bellingsworth. He blinked and looked around. “Oh. Yes, yes, I’m sure we’re all here.”

  Gaton sighed and gave a silent prayer of thanks for the oncoming storm.

  “Very well. By the authority vested in me by the Crown and the lords assembled, I call the Council to order. Keeper of the Records, let the record show this meeting of the Council of Lords has begun at…” He opened his pocket watch. “Ten twenty-six in the morning.”

  “Aye,” said the Keeper of the Records, otherwise known as Lord Prescott Tiffendale of Porridge. He scribbled something in the enormous book in front of him. Each line in that great book, thought Gaton, represented one more rung on the ladder of progress. The choreography of procedure was the dance of enlightenment.

  “Thank you, Lord Tiffendale. The first order of business before the Council of Lords is the decision to permit the Ministry of War to evaluate the suitability of artificial living constructs, colloquially known as animates, in the prosecution of war to further the defense and stability of the Realm. I will now open the floor for discussion.”

  Lord Clifford rose. Gaton smiled. Right on schedule.

  “If it please the Council,” he said, “I propose we lay this debate on the table. There is a more pressing matter that concerns me: to wit, the disappearance of
the French princess Alÿs de Valois and the arrest of Her Majesty the Queen on suspicion of treason.”

  Margaret sat upright. The Cardinal froze in his seat, still as the dead, his face betraying nothing. In the balconies, murmurs swirled like dust devils on a hot summer day.

  Lord Rathman rose. “A motion to interrupt the established agenda requires a second. I don’t see—”

  “Seconded,” Lord Clay said. “I wish to hear what the Honorable Duke of Barnstaple has to say.”

  Lord Gaton’s smile grew. “There is a second. Lord Clifford, you may speak.”

  “Thank you.” Clifford adjusted his coat. “The arrest of a sitting monarch by order of Cardinal de Gabrielli, a citizen of the Kingdom of France, is unprecedented. My lords, we live in troubling times, most troubling times. That the Queen should be accused of heresy and collusion with Italians on such transparently trumped-up charges—it troubles me greatly.” He shook his head. “This is clearly an attempt by a foreign power to meddle in the affairs of the British state. I do not believe even for a moment that the Queen is a heretic. And the mere notion that the Crown might collude with the imposters of Rome?” He glared pointedly at the Cardinal. “Only a dupe would fall for such a ruse, sir. Only a dupe.”

  There was a smattering of applause from the balconies. “Silence!” Gaton roared. “Pray continue, Lord Clifford.”

  “Thank you, your lordship. Members of the Council, friends of my soul, something is rotten in the state of Britain, yes, very rotten.” He nodded vigorously for emphasis. “Very rotten…” His eyes turned misty. “We live in the greatest realm this world has ever seen. The nation of Britain is a beacon of light for the rest of the world, yes it is. We stand strong for peace and prosperity. I am proud, oh yes, proud to be here, proud to represent this greatest of all nations.” He sniffled. “Your lordships, we have much to be proud of. But all that we have worked for, all that we have fought for, it is all in peril. We risk losing everything, all because of weak leadership from the Crown!”

  Margaret’s face darkened. The Cardinal watched Lord Clifford with the curious attention a cat gives to a small rustling in the grass.

  “Weakness emboldens our enemies!” Clifford thundered. “They see our weakness, and it has made them strong! We have played right into their hands, yes, right into the hands of those who would do us harm!” He shook his fist at the dome above him, as though counting it among the enemies seeking to harm the British state. “Today, our borders are open to the tides of Israelites and Mohammedans and who knows who else! These people are not to be trusted. They are swarming to our shores from our enemies, Spain and Italy. They come from Afghanistan and Northern Africa and from the farthest East, and we know nothing about them. Can they be trusted? Who is to say? Queen Margaret has seen to it that they are welcomed here, yes, welcomed with open arms! Straight from the very nations we are at war with! Foreigners, pouring into our nation, undermining our ways, skulking about, sneaking in to do who knows what! And what does Her Grace do? She invites the representatives of the Caliphate to dinner! She carouses with them on her airship, while our people suffer! Why has she allowed these heretics and traitors into our land? What good have these foreigners ever done for us?”

  A roar of self-righteous outrage rose from the crowded balconies above the hall.

  “They built this hall,” a small voice said.

  Silence fell. Every eye in the Great Chamber swiveled to the speaker. Leo, the young Duke of Byron-on-shire and half brother of Queen Margaret, rose from his seat. “They built this hall,” the boy repeated. “My father brought in workers and architects from all over the world. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. He always said that we were made stronger when we welcomed outsiders.” He waved away Sir Marcus, who was frantically signaling him to sit. “The people coming here from Spain and Italy are fleeing the Inquisition. They are the enemies of our enemies. They are grateful for the safe harbor we offer here. They are loyal subjects.”

  “The Council does not recognize the Duke,” Lord Gaton said.

  “I don’t care!” the boy replied. “This is stupid. My father was right. You are all a bunch of frightened old men. The Muslims and Israelites are not a threat to us.”

  “And what does a boy know of the security of the Realm?” Clifford sneered.

  “Better than a bunch of frightened old men, seems like,” Lord Wombly said, rising. “This boy talks more sense than the lot of you, the way I see it.” He cackled. “You’re standing in a building built by foreigners asking what foreigners ever did for you. Pray remind us, how much gold do you make from trading with the Caliphate, hmm, Lord Chancellor? I hear you’re doing pretty well with the Russians too. And you, Lord Marlboro. You keep a private doctor from the Caliphate on your personal staff, do you not?”

  “Many of us do!” Marlboro huffed. “I don’t see your point.”

  “That is quite enough!” Gaton roared. Red mist filled his vision. “We will observe proper protocol here! The floor does not recognize the Duke of Byron-on-shire! Or Lords Wombly or Marlboro!”

  “Okay, okay,” Lord Wombly said. “No need to get all shouty.”

  Gaton composed himself with difficulty. “If you have something to say, my Lords,” he said, “please do observe the proper procedures. We are not barbarians!”

  “Are you sure about that?” Wombly said, looking pointedly at Lord Clifford.

  Lord Alexander Clay of Borneham rose slowly from his seat, like a great undersea creature surfacing from the depths to feed. “If it please the Council,” he said.

  “The Council recognizes Lord Clay,” Gaton said.

  “As your lordships know,” Clay began, “I am a great admirer of the Crown. I have nothing but the deepest respect for everything Her Highness Queen Margaret has accomplished during her brief tenure. It pains me, therefore, to confess that I am troubled by recent events. First, the implication that Her Grace might be guilty of heresy—a deplorable situation, it must be said, and I find myself concurring with Lord Clifford’s words on that matter—and now, I have been made aware that the Lady Alÿs is missing, and implicated by none other than the London Metropolitan Police themselves in a murder on Highpole Street.” Murmurs ran through the crowd on the balcony. Lord Clay spread his hands. “Yes, yes, the rumors are true. I spoke to the chief inspector this morning. The Lady Alÿs is a suspect in a murder.” The murmurs grew louder. “I do not believe our Queen is a heretic. Nor do I believe the Lady Alÿs to be a murderer. But someone wants us to believe these things, my friends, someone who bears us ill. And I ask myself, who benefits from these rumors? Who indeed! Undermining the Queen? Disrupting our alliance with France? This is foreign influence, I say! What do these foreign devils want? They want to see us fall! Now is the time for us to be strong. We will not fall!”

  “That’s right!” came a voice from the balcony. “We’ll show ’em!” A general cheer of assent went up from the crowd.

  “For too long, we have let these foreigners into our lands. We have welcomed them openly. And how have they repaid us? By undermining our government! By betraying our trust!” Lord Clay said.

  “Aye, that’s right!” the voice called from above. “An’ have you been down Highpole Street? How do all those so-called refugees have so much money an’ so many of us barely get by?” More sounds of assent rose up from the people jammed into the balcony. The Cardinal’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

  “The Lady Alÿs was last seen on Highpole Street by none other than the Royal Guard,” Lord Clay continued. “They were there searching for the spy who infiltrated the Queen’s airship. This cannot be a coincidence! All roads, it would seem, lead back to Highpole Street. Highpole Street, the foreigner district! Foreigners we allowed in, foreigners who eat away at us from within! We must put a stop to the rot!”

  “Aye! A stop to the rot!” came the voice. A cheer went up from the gallery.

  “T
o that end,” Clay said, “I propose an emergency curfew on all foreigners and residents of Highpole Street, beginning tonight at six o’clock and lasting until this state of crisis has ended. Until we have gotten to the bottom of this treasonous plot, we must protect ourselves!”

  “Do what needs doing!” called the voice from the balcony. “Do what needs doing!” The call was picked up by the rest of the crowd: “Do what needs doing! Do what needs doing!” As the cries grew louder, the owner of the voice that had started them, his face hidden beneath the brim of a hat, slipped out the exit.

  Thaddeus watched him go. He was familiar with most of the scams and cons that played out daily in ways large and small all around London. To his eye, the plant in the crowd stood out plainly. It wasn’t even particularly well done. The man in the hat and Chancellor Gaton had made eye contact too many times. That was rule one of that con: the huckster and the plant couldn’t be seen interacting with any familiarity.

  Amateurs.

  Thaddeus slipped out the door after him. The man hurried down the short hallway that led to the stairs, and from there to the road perpendicular to Teakettle Road. He was about Thaddeus’s size, dressed in an overly large coat. He kept his hat pulled down low over his eyes.

  Thaddeus hung back for a moment. The man showed no sign of being aware he was being followed. Thaddeus took a deep breath and, head down, set out after him.

  Inside the hall, the Cardinal had similar suspicions. He leaned over and whispered to the elder of the two priests seated beside him. The priest nodded and slipped quietly from the Chamber.

  Chancellor Gaton allowed the raucous cries from the balcony to continue. That ought to show ’em, he thought. There was a small but growing number of madmen in the nation who held distressingly untidy ideas about the people’s representation in the government. These folks seemed to feel that commoners—commoners, for the love of all that was holy!—should have seats on the Council of Lords. A handful of these lunatics even suggested, unbelievably, that an entire new Council should be created, populated entirely by commoners. The madness of that idea was self-evident, Gaton felt, to all right-thinking men, yet there were more of these people every year.