“Tyler?” gasped Emsley. “Get some black coffee into you, Rovzar.”
“Black coffee?” queried Frank with a quick smile. “Why black coffee, my lord?”
“Because you’re drunk,” Emsley replied carelessly. “That will do, I think,” Frank said, “especially in front of thirteen witnesses. You will do me the honor, Lord Emsley, of meeting me in East Watson Hall tomorrow morning at ten?”
Emsley paled. He glanced at Hussar, who was staring at the tabletop, and then at Frank. “But I—” he began. Frank raised his eyebrows. “All right,” Emsley said weakly. “Ten o’clock.”
“Now back to more important things,” said Frank. “George, tell them about your bedtime story.”
Tyler awkwardly outlined the story his mother used to tell him, and told them where she’d claimed the birth certificate was hidden.
“And Topo did have such a tattoo, gentlemen,” said Frank, with a little more conviction than he actually felt, “and I know where that copy of Winnie the Pooh is. I was with Topo when he was killed, and just before the Transports kicked down the door, I saw where he hid it.”
“Where?” asked Hussar.
“In the throne room. For the time being I’ll keep to myself the exact hiding place. Now pay attention, here is what we’ll do: I’ll assume a disguise and apply for the job of painting Costa’s portrait; I’m confident that I’ll get it. Once in the throne room I will quietly remove the Winnie the Pooh from its concealment, make an excuse to visit a bathroom, and blow a loud whistle down the bathtub drain.”
“And what will that do?” asked Hussar with exaggerated politeness.
“It will summon our army, which will be waiting in the sewers under the Ducal Palace. They will dynamite, from beneath, all the bathrooms, janitor closets and laundry rooms in the cellars of the palace, and attack through the resultant holes. I don’t think there’s any doubt that we can take the palace. And with an acknowledged prince to set on the throne, we can hold it.”
There was a thoughtful silence. “I think it’s good,” said Hodges finally. “I think it’ll work.”
“If you’ve got it right about this birth certificate,” said Hussar cautiously, “I agree.”
The others all nodded their somewhat qualified approval, except for Emsley, who looked nauseous.
“With George on the throne we’ll be able to evict the Transport from Octavio,” Frank said. “They won’t go cheerfully, but they haven’t become strong enough to openly oppose the government. In a year they would be strong enough. I suggest, therefore, that we mount our attack on the day after tomorrow, first to strike before they get any stronger, and second to prevent them from hearing about it in advance.”
“This seems hasty, your majesty ...” began Hodges.
“It’s quick, Hodges, but it isn’t hasty. Now send me maps of the palace sewers, and their connections with the understreet sewers. You’ll all be hearing from me tomorrow (later today, I should say), so be where I can reach you. And Hodges,” added Frank as they all stood up, “since it looks like I’m going to get no sleep tonight, bring me a pot of black coffee, will you?”
For the next three hours, Frank studied multi-level sewer diagrams and drawings of the palace, making copious notes and drinking quantities of coffee. Finally he threw down his pen and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
“I think I see how we’ll do it,” he said to Hodges, who was lighting his twelfth cigarette since the meeting. “The palace sewers all run into a long watercourse that joins the Leethee near the Bailey District. That’s the most direct route, and it shouldn’t be hard for you to get the army organized there. Then you run them up the line and into the pipes that connect with the palace. The pipes are all five feet high and probably well built, since they date from the time of Duke Giroud. Then you’ll just wait for the whistle.”
“Sounds good to me, sire,” said Hodges a little sleepily.
Frank sat back and drained his most recent cup of coffee. “Hodges?”
“Yes, sire?”
“Was the Subterranean Companions’ meeting hall ever a church?”
Hodges blinked. “Uh, yes. A couple of hundred years ago some philanthropist built two churches understreet. He later disappeared—some say he ascended bodily into heaven, some say he fell into the Leethee.” Hodges took a long puff on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “So one of his churches became our meeting hall, and one, to the northwest, was converted into a cheap hotel. It was destroyed, incidentally, when that bomb took out four levels last year. The place had two carved-iron gates out front, said to have been cast by some sculptor of note. They both fell into the Leethee flood when the explosion kicked the place apart. Haven’t been found yet.”
“Ah.” Frank reached for the coffee pot. “Well, I’ve got to figure out the arrangement of our troops, Hodges, but you can go home. Get some sleep; we’ll all be busy as hell later today.”
“Right. Thank you, sire.”
Chapter 3
Thirty miles northwest of Munson—separated from the city by slums, suburbs, small cities and, eventually, the most wealthy neighborhoods on the planet— stood the Ducal Palace, a grim fortress of centuries-old stone under the bright banners that waved from its walls.
The sun had made dust of the spring mud, and the merchants who thronged the gate and courtyard wore veils across their noses and mouths. Street musicians fiddled and clanged at every corner, storytellers babbled to rings of children, and palace guards fingered their sweat-damp sword grips and squinted irritably at the crowds. The place was a carnival of smells: garlic, curried meat, dust, sweat, hot metal and exotic tobacco.
Under the barbican, across the bridge and through the gate plodded a tall man on a gray horse. The man wore a ragged brown leather jacket and a white cape, and had wrapped a length of white cloth around his head and across his lower face, so that only his cold blue eyes, a glimpse of a scar and a lock or two of black hair showed. He was unarmed, and carried only a wooden box slung behind him on the saddle.
Whichever way it falls today, Frank thought, this is the end of a circular road I’ve travelled for a year. It’s been a busy year, too—I’ve been an art forger, a thief, a kitchen boy, a fencing teacher and a king of thieves. I’ve fallen in love, and climbed out of it. And I’ve seen more deaths—of friends, enemies and strangers—than I want to think about.
He nudged his tired horse across the crowded courtyard to the steps of the keep.
“What’s your business, stranger?” asked the guard, a red-faced man in the ubiquitous Transport uniform.
Frank unwrapped the white cloth from his head and shook back his hair. An artificial moustache clung to his upper lip. “I’ve come to paint the Duke’s portrait,” he said. “I understand he wants it done.”
“Yeah, that’s true, he does. Leave your horse here and go down the hall inside. Third door on your left. Are you armed?”
“No. I’m a painter.”
“Well, open up your box and let me see.”
Frank unstrapped his battered wooden box and handed it to the guard, who set it down on the dusty pavement and flipped up its lid. He rummaged about for a few seconds in the brushes, crumpled tubes and bottles, and then closed it and gave it back.
“Okay,” he said. “Go on in. Third on your left.” Frank dismounted and let a footman lead his horse away, then picked up his box and walked up the steps into the keep. The third door on the left opened easily when Frank turned the knob, revealing a counter behind which a dozen people sat at paper-littered desks. An old man shambled up to the counter.