Nader Demands Rights to Peshawar Province. The Persian situation was clearly deteriorating, with the Shah’s greedy eyes fastened on the southern provinces of French Indoostan. Of course, the idiot in New London wouldn’t be able to let something like that slip past him: Government Offers to Intercede with Court of St. Peter. As if the French would listen to British representations on behalf of a megalomaniac widely seen as one of John Frederick’s cat’s-paws . . . Prussian Ambassador Wins Duel. Well, yes—diplomatic immunity meant never having to back out of a fight if you could portray it as an affair of honor. Burgeson sniffed. Bloody-handed aristocrats. The streetcar bell dinged as it rattled across a set of points and turned a wide corner.
Erasmus folded the paper neatly and stood up. Nothing to do with the price of bread, he thought cynically as he descended the tight circular staircase at the rear of the car. The price of bread was up almost four-twelfths over its price at this time last year, and there had been food riots in Texico when the corn flour handed out by the poor boards had proven to be moldy. Fourteen dead, nearly sixty injured when the cavalry went in after the magistrates read the riot act. The streetcar stopped and Erasmus followed a couple of hopeful hedonists out onto the crowded pavement outside. The place was normally busy, but tonight it was positively fizzing. There was something unusual in the air. He took another deep breath. Not having his chest rattle painfully was like being young again: he felt lively and full of energy. And the night was also young.
The Cardiff Hotel—named for Lord Cardiff of Virginia, not the French provincial capital of Wales—was brightly lit with electricals, broad float-glass doors open to the world. A green-and-white-striped canopy overhung the pavement, and a pianist was busy banging both keyboards on his upright instrument for all he was worth, the brass-capped hammers setting up a pounding military beat. Burgeson stepped inside and made his way to the back of the bar, searching for the right booth. A hand waved, just visible above the crowd: he nodded and joined his fellow conspirator.
“Nice evening,” Farnsworth said nervously.
“Indeed.” Erasmus eyed the other man’s mug: clearly he was in need of the Dutch courage. “Can I get you something?”
“I’m sure—ah.” A table-runner appeared. “Have you any of the hemp porter?” Farnsworth enquired. “And a drop of laudanum.”
“I’ll have the house ale,” said Erasmus, trying not to raise an eyebrow. Surely it’s a bit early for laudanum? Unless Farnsworth really was upset about something.
When the table-runner had left, Farnsworth raised his tankard and drained it. “That’s better. I’m sorry, Rudolf.”
Burgeson leaned forward, tensely. “What for?”
“The news—” Farnsworth waved his hand helplessly. “I have no images, you understand.”
Burgeson tried to calm his racing heart. He felt light-headed, slightly breathless: “Is that all? There’s no reason to apologize for that, my friend.”
Farnsworth shook his head. “Bad news,” he croaked.
The table-runner returned with their drinks. Farnsworth buried his snout in his mug. Erasmus, trying to rein in his impatience, scanned the throng. It was loud, too loud for even their neighbors in the next booth to overhear them, and there were no obvious signs of informers. “What is it, then?”
“Prince James is—it’s not good.”
“Ah.” Erasmus relaxed a little. Not that he was pleased by news of the crown prince’s suffering—no matter that the eight-year-old was due to grow up to be tyrant of New Britain, he was still just a bairn and could not be held responsible for his parents’ misdeeds—but if it was just more trivial court gossip it meant the sky hadn’t fallen in yet. “So how is he?”
“The announcement will be made in about two hours’ time. I have to be back at the palace by midnight to plan his majesty’s wardrobe for the funeral.”
“The—” Erasmus stopped. “What?”
“Oh yes.” Farnsworth nodded lugubriously. “It will mean war, you mark my words.”
War? Erasmus blinked rapidly. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know?” Farnsworth seemed startled.
“I’ve been on a train all afternoon,” said Erasmus. “Has something happened?” Something more than a sick little boy dying?
“They caught one of the assassins,” Farnsworth said tensely. “An Ottoman subject.” He peered blearily at Burgeson’s uncomprehending face. “Prince James was murdered just after lunchtime today; shot in the chest from a building overlooking the Franciscan palace. It was a conspiracy! Bomb-throwing foreigners on our soil, spreading terror and fomenting fear. Naval intelligence says it’s a message for his majesty. The crisis in the Persian Gulf. Sir Roderick is recommending a bill of attainder to his majesty that will seize all Ottoman assets held by institutions here until they back down.”
Burgeson stared at him. “You. Have got to be kidding.”
Farnsworth shook his head. “All hell’s broken loose, the seventh seal has sounded, and I very much fear that we are about to be bathed in the blood of ten million lambs—conscripted into a war started as a distraction from the empty larders of the provinces, a matter which has most exercised the prime minister these past weeks.” He grabbed Burgeson’s hand. “You’ve got to do something! Make your friends listen! It’s the outside threat to distract and befuddle us, the oldest trick in the library. A brief successful war to wrap themselves in the glory of the flag and justify calls for austerity and belt-tightening, and to distract attention from the empty coffers and supply a pretext to issue war bonds. Only this time, we know the Frogs have got corpses. And so have we. So it’s going to be an unusually violent war. And of course they’ll clamp down on dissenters and Ranters. They’ll implement French rule here, if you give them the chance.” French rule—summary justice, the martial law of the Duc du Muscovy. The Stolypin necktie as an answer to all arguments, as that strange otherworld history book Miriam had given him had put it. Erasmus felt cold sweat spring out at the back of his neck.
“I’ll tell them immediately,” he said, rising.
“Your drink—”
“You finish it. You look as if you need it more than I do. I’ve got a job to do.”
“Good luck.”
Erasmus dived into the throng of agitated, wildly speculating men filling the bar and worked his way outside. A street hawker was selling the last of the evening edition: he snagged a copy and stared at the headlines. ARAB TERROR screamed the masthead in dripping red letters above an engravature of the boy prince lying on the ground, his eyes open. “Shit.” Erasmus looked around, searching for a cab. I’ll have to notify Lady Bishop, he thought, and Iron John. Find out what the Central Committees want to do about the situation. Another thought struck him. I must talk to Miriam; she knows of other worlds more advanced than this. They’re ruled by republics, they must have corpuscular weapons—I wonder what she knows about them? A cab pulled up and he climbed in. Perhaps we could achieve a better negotiating position if the movement had some . . .
BREAKOUT
Mike realized something was wrong the moment he passed the checkpoint on the fourteenth floor and found Pete Garfinkle and Colonel Smith waiting for him, with a blue-suiter behind them. The guard was carrying a gun and trying to look in six different directions simultaneously. This worried Mike. Armed guards were a normal fact of life in the FTO, but nervous ones were something new.