by Mick Farren
“It’s sometimes the only way when you’re making deals with devils.”
ARGO
The thought hardly made any sense, but, although he had no doubt that Colonel Gideon Windermere was wholly and totally human, something about him reminded Argo of Yancey Slide: the lazy posture that occasionally verged on insolence, the uncertainty about what he took seriously and what he treated as a joke, a strange and languid distance in the way he talked. Argo also did not know how much of this was good and how much of it was bad. “Are we more of the devils with whom you have to deal?”
Windermere laughed, seemingly not offended by Argo’s tone. “Quite the reverse. I’ve been very anxious to meet to you. As Jesamine said, you all have been in the shit close up. You have put Jeakqual-Ahrach to flight. I and my people have a lot to learn from you.”
“Is Jane Tennyson one of your people?”
Windermere blinked. “Good grief, her? Heavens no. She’s from naval public relations. Stiff and martial as they come. Don’t let the uniform fool you. The boys and girls of ES Section are neither of those things.”
During the exchange, Argo had been thinking. “You said you had a lot to learn from us.”
Windermere nodded. “That’s right.”
“I was wondering what we get in return.”
“In return?”
“You learn from us. What do we get from you?”
Windermere looked at Argo as though properly assessing him for the first time. “I though we were all in this for the overthrow of Hassan IX.”
Argo took a sip of his scotch. “It’s been my experience that, in war, even among allies, things are frequently transactional.”
“You want to know what’s in it for you and your friends? Is that what you’re saying, Major Weaver?”
“That’s what I’m saying, Colonel Windermere.”
“Well now…” Windermere pondered for a moment. “I imagine what I would do for you is to assist you however I can with your mission.”
Argo looked sideways at the Englishman. “Our mission?”
“We all know that you have an objective over and above just being here as part of Jack Kennedy’s goodwill visit, don’t we?”
“We do?”
Windermere eyes twinkled with a sly illusion. “That’s what Yancey Slide led me to understand.”
If Windermere’s objective was to take The Four totally by surprise, he more than achieved it. They looked at each other in amazement and then back at him. “Slide? He was here? When?”
“Just two days ago. He arrived on the HMS Constellation.”
“And you spoke to him?”
“Of course I spoke to him. Slide wouldn’t come to the NU without getting in touch. He and I go back a very long way. He claims it was in multiple timestreams.”
Argo knew he would be a whole lot happier if Slide was with them. “He’s here now?”
Windermere shook his head. “No, he stayed long enough to meet up with me and fill me in, and then he moved on. I assume he went to Oslo, but you never quite know with Slide.”
Argo was disappointed but found himself more ready to accept Gideon Windermere. He did resemble Slide. He had that same world-weary look, old beyond his years from too much premature experience; the air of someone who has been there and done that, maybe too much and maybe too often. And was perhaps only surviving or, at least, remaining, by keeping up an amused detachment. Raphael, on the other hand, was still mistrustful. “He filled you in?”
“That’s what I said.”
Jesamine also held on to her suspicions. “What exactly did he fill you in on?”
“He filled me in on your urgent need to know as much as possible about these White Twins, these apparent new creations of Jeakqual-Ahrach.”
This statement stopped all conversation. Even Cordelia was staring at Windermere in disbelief. “You know about the Twins?”
Raphael held up a hand. “I think we should stop this talk right now. We don’t know what he knows, and we don’t know what we might be giving away.”
Windermere finally seemed to be running out of patience with Raphael and Jesamine’s skepticism. “There has to be a point when we start marginally trusting one another.”
Jesamine scowled. “We’re the ones with the most to lose.”
“Would it help if I told you the decision I should work with you was made days before Slide embarked on the Constellation? Or that the plan was approved by T’saya, Miramichi, The Lady Gretchen, and Magachee?”
Jesamine swallowed hard. “Magachee was never in on this. She would have told me.”
“Would she?”
Jesamine sighed. It was war and she had to be realistic. “No, probably not.”
“So don’t you think that you should either grant me a measure of trust, or at least admit one thing?”
“What one thing?”
“That if I’m the enemy, and I know as much as I do, then you, my dears, are wholly and totally fucked.”
CORDELIA
Cordelia was using all of her considerable powers of self-control to contain herself. Gideon Windermere was adorable. After he had stopped Jesamine in her tracks, the lock of hair had again fallen in his face, and as he had casually blown it out of his eyes she had almost groaned out loud.
“If I’m the enemy and I know as much as I do, then you, my dears, are wholly and totally fucked.” No only was Colonel Gideon Windermere adorable, but his logic was irrefutable. They had to trust this bizarre character from the NU intelligence community, or they were basically going nowhere. Cordelia wanted the mystery of the White Twins resolved, and she wanted Windermere. She had no reason to think that the two objectives could not be combined. The Twins liquidated and Windermere possessed; the goals were in no way mutually exclusive. The others might start giving her the look if she took up with Windermere, but she really didn’t care. There was a war on and she wanted him. Jesamine was fucking Jack Kennedy, so she was without even a foot on the moral high ground, and the boys were only boys, and therefore didn’t count. Gideon Windermere made Cordelia think of a swashbuckler pretending to be a college professor, but one who had done enough swashbuckling to know what lay behind and beneath the romance.
“What is Morgana’s Web?”
Windermere looked at her a little curiously. “Why do you ask?”
Cordelia shook her head. “I’m not sure. When you said it, it just kind of resonated.”
“It’s a network of sensitives and windwalkers inside the Mosul occupation. Their communications are invaluable. They also cause their own havoc, and their poisons are legendary.”
“And they’re named for Morgana … the Morgana?”
Windermere nodded. “The symbolism is pretty obvious.”
Jesamine bit her lip and looked excluded. “I’ve never heard of Morgana. Is she some Norse thing?”
“Fifteen hundred years ago, Morgana was the renegade priestess at the court of Utha the Dragon King. It’s one of the Common Sagas.”
Jesamine had clearly never read the Common Sagas, but Argo covered her annoyed confusion. “When the Mosul marched into Virginia, some of the first books they burned were the Common Sagas.”
Jesamine sat stiffly. “I have never read the Common Sagas. I was not raised as a … Northern European.”
“Utha Pendragon was the legendary English king. He was supposed to have forged the first links that led to the thousand-year alliance between the Scandinavian Vikings and English of the Islands.”
Jesamine stopped pouting and half smiled. “Anyone who beats Teutons gets my approval.”
“His wife was Gwyneth and his mistress was the witch Morgana, who was both his salvation and his downfall. Morgana was the classic practitioner of shadow power and invisible manipulation. She held even Augustine in check. Or so the story goes.” Windermere turned his attention back to Cordelia, which was exactly the way she wanted it. “I’m still interested in why Morgana’s Web resonated for you.”
Cordelia
shook her head. “Nothing I can put into words. Just one of the prods that we learn not to ignore.”
“Some of the first reports to the Section came from Morgana’s Web.”
“Could we be put in contact with them?”
“It would seem like a good idea. But the final approval would have to come from Madame de Wynter.”
“Madame de Wynter?”
“Anastasia de Wynter. She is somewhat territorial about the London end of Morgana’s Web.”
“She’s part of your ES Section?”
“If you asked her, she might tell you that ES Section was part of her.”
“I don’t understand.”
Desire again overtook Cordelia as Windermere’s eyes twinkled playfully. “Anastasia de Wynter is always hard to understand. A defrocked priestess, a notorious libertine, an ex-minister of the Frankish Government-in-Exile. You name it and Anastasia has probably done it, and even been prevented from doing it again. She is what you might call an independent operator.”
“Can we meet her?”
“That’s already been discussed. In fact, Madame de Wynter is having one of her parties after the official reception at the Palace of Westminster.”
Cordelia’s face lit up. “A party?”
“No one should live their life without having gone to one of Anastasia’s parties.”
“And this is after the big formal bash?”
“It is indeed.”
Raphael groaned. “I’d forgotten about the reception.”
Cordelia smiled at him. “It won’t be as bad as you think it is. You can always get drunk.”
Argo leaned back in his seat. “That’s my plan.”
Windermere glanced at Argo and Raphael. “Don’t get so drunk you’re not able to make it to Madame de Wynter’s.”
“We’re all invited?”
“That’s the ulterior motive of the whole event, so you Four and Anastasia can become acquainted.”
Outside the train window, the day was ending in a red sunset, and they were passing through the suburbs of a big city. It could only be that they were heading into London. Windermere rose to his feet. “I have to be getting back to my compartment. We’ll be pulling in to the Sloane Square station in just a few minutes.” He turned and slid open the door to the corridor. “I trust I will see you all later tonight.”
“Will you be at the Palace of Westminster?”
Windermere nodded. “Of course.”
Cordelia beamed. “Then we will definitely see you later.”
After Windermere was gone, Jesamine treated Cordelia to a look of scorn. “Why didn’t you just get down on your knees and blow him in front of us?”
Cordelia returned the scorn with a smile of bland confidence. “I am much more subtle than that, my dear.”
FIVE
ARGO
Argo admired himself in the full length mirror. He had to admit that he looked pretty damned good in the black, gold, and green, full dress uniform of a Major in the Albany Rangers, with its gold braid, short swagger cloak, and tasseled boots. He liked it better still now he had his own rightfully earned campaign ribbons to wear on his chest, including the coveted Golden Order of the Bear that each of The Four had received for their part in the Battle of the Potomac. Compared to the Rangers’ forest green combat kit, the dress uniform was like a costume from some frivolous light opera, but Argo had to admit something might be said in favor of cutting a dash among the elite of a foreign city with a very glamorous reputation. The realization of the full potential of this voyage across the ocean had really only sunk in after he had checked into his room in the Asquith Hotel, and opened up the trunk that contained his official uniforms. He was in England, in London, and he was a decorated and battle-hardened hero from across the seas and, he looked as sharp as a tack in the full ceremonial fig. There was no way that he was not going to have himself some excellent adventures in the city. He had been drinking in corners for too long. It was time to strut his stuff for the girls of the Norse country.
The sudden rapping on the door was authoritative and also impatient. Surely it was not time to leave already? “Who’s there?”
“It’s Tennyson, Major Weaver.”
“I’m not quite ready to leave yet.”
“I need to have a brief word with you.”
Argo crossed to the door and opened it. Tennyson was flanked by two large men in civilian bowler hats and belted trench coats, who could only be policemen. Argo took a step back, looking these newcomers up and down. “I haven’t been here long to be in trouble, have I?”
Tennyson ignored him and stepped through the door, looking around, as far as Argo could tell, to see if they were alone. The two supposed policemen followed her inside, the second closing the door behind him. Argo moved to the room’s small complimentary bar and poured himself a scotch. “What’s this all about?”
“There’s been a development, and I was told to inform you.”
“A development?”
“After our train left Bristol, one of the stewards who was supposed to be on the train was found dead in the gentlemen’s toilet in Temple Meads Station.”
Argo blinked. “Dead?”
Tennyson nodded. “He had been shot once through the back of the head and his uniform had been taken.”
“But wasn’t he missed when he didn’t show up for his duties on the special train?”
“That’s the disturbing part. According to our records, he did show up. Or at least someone masquerading as him.”
Argo frowned. “But nothing happened. The impostor could have poisoned us or blown up the train, but he didn’t.”
“Therein would lie the mystery, Major Weaver.”
“Have you told this to the others?”
“The others of your group?” She shook her head. “I can leave it to you to pass on the information?”
A hint of need-to-know in Tennyson’s tone caused Argo to raise a curious eyebrow. “If I deem necessary?”
“You know the psychology of your group better than I do.”
Argo nodded. “Right.” He thought for a moment, looking puzzled. “Why choose me to tell them, Commander?”
Tennyson half smiled. “You seem to be the most reasonable.”
Argo sighed. “I’m not sure that’s saying very much.”
As Tennyson had been delivering the unsettling news, the two men in trench coats had removed their hats, but were now looking round at the hotel room with a cop inquisitiveness. Argo protested to Tennyson, “Who are these guys?”
“They’re Sir Harry Palmer’s boys from the Metropolitan Constabulary Special Branch. You’ll find we’ll be working very closely with the civilian police.”
The two large men nodded. “Just here to keep an eye on things, sir.”
“Nothing to worry about.”
One of them tapped an index finger on Argo’s sidearm. The Ranger issue, double-action revolver in its polished holster lay where Argo had left it on the room’s small writing desk.
“Wouldn’t be thinking of wearing this to the reception tonight, would you, sir?”
Argo tried for a jocular approach. “Not tonight. With this uniform, it’s a saber or nothing.”
The two cops did not smile. “Or on any other night, sir?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Going out in public with a revolver, sir, it just won’t do.”
Argo did not like the sound of this. Did these Norse coppers think everyone from across the ocean was a gun-toting hick. “I don’t understand.”
“We have a number of regulations governing the carrying of firearms by foreign belligerents, sir.”
“Belligerents? I’m a commissioned officers in the Royal Albany Rangers.”
Tennyson shifted awkwardly on her feet. “But the Kingdom of Albany is in a state of war with the Empire of Hassan IX. That qualifies you as a foreign belligerent.”
Argo smiled, but his face was hard. “The Rangers have a saying, Commander. ‘
You take my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers.’”
“We don’t want to take your gun, sir.”
“Just don’t take it to the party?”
Tennyson sighed. “Or anywhere else for that matter. I’m afraid it’s the law.”
“You just came here to report a murder in our party, and now you’re telling me I can’t legally carry a weapon outside the hotel?”
“I afraid that’s how it is.”
The policeman removed his hand from Argo’s gun. “Don’t worry, sir. You’ll be very well protected.”
“I have your word on that?”
“Oh yes, sir. You have our word on that.”
Tennyson was stiff and formal. “You’ll relay this information to the others.”
“You can count on it.” He moved to the door and opened it, indicating he wanted Tennyson and her brace of heavies to put on their bowlers and leave. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected to be at the Palace of Westminster and I need a few moments to get myself together.”
Tennyson seemed happy to leave, and she ushered the two Special Branch men out in front of her. “I regret having to tell you all this.”
“You don’t make the rules, Commander.”
“The automobiles should be here for you in a quarter of an hour.”
“Thank you.”
CORDELIA
Cordelia had paused for a moment to take in the Vikings. The guests made their entrances down the wide stone steps, under the Gothic arch and the hugely ancient, hammer-beam roof of the Great Hall of the Palace of Westminster, and these steps were flanked by elite Viking infantry of the Asgard Division. Even Cordelia had to admit a degree of awe at the way these men stood motionless, huge and heraldic, in their ceremonial winged helmets, gleaming gold chain mail surcoats, and with their traditional war hammers at parade rest. The Viking regiments had a reputation for berserker ferocity that quite rivaled the Highland Scotts, and went back for centuries, all the way to the Old Alliance that predated the formation of the modern Norse Union. They were like something from another time, even another world, but the old, long-tended leather, the burnished metal, and the royal blue fabric of their loose tunics under the protective layers of their archaic armor were still intimidating and not in the least absurd. Cordelia hardly, however, had time to linger. The Master of Ceremonies, in his traditional powdered wig and gold-trimmed scarlet coat, had announced her. “Major, the Lady Cordelia Blakeney of Albany.” And she had started down the grand staircase. Heads had turned and conversation had momentarily faltered among the knots of guests below her. Everything was exactly as Cordelia could ever have wanted it, and she felt justified in congratulating herself on her own cunning.