Farnsworth focused on the prime minister. Douglass might be old and withered, but there was still a sharp mind behind the wispy white hair and liver-spotted wattles. Moreover, to the extent Farnsworth could claim to know the prime minister at all, he struck the equerry as looking shifty—and Sir Roderick was visibly sweating. This is going to be very bad indeed, Farnsworth realized. They’re using the French corpuscular test to soften him up. What on God’s earth could be worse than Louis XXII with corpuscular weapons?
“Sire.” It was Douglass. Farnsworth focused on him. “This, ah, led me to question the diligence with which the Ministry for Special Affairs has been discharging its duties abroad. And indeed, Sir Roderick has instigated certain investigations without prompting, investigations which are revealing a very frightening deficit in our understanding of continental machinations against the security of your domain.”
“We . . . see.” The king sounded perplexed and mildly irritated. “Would you get to the point, please? If the situation is as bad as you say, it would be expedient to draw no attention to our knowledge of it, and to reassure those who know something of it but not the substance—therefore one should depart to dress for the opening as one’s progression dictates on time and without sign of turmoil, at least until after the next scheduled ISC meeting. So what exactly are you talking about?”
“Sir Roderick,” Douglass prompted.
Sir Roderick looked like a man about to be hanged. “Sire, it pains me to lay this before you, but in the wake of the disturbances in Boston three weeks ago I instigated certain investigations. To draw a long story short, it appears that certain of our paid agents at large have been in actual fact accepting the coin of a second paymaster, whose livres and francs have added color to their reportage—to say nothing of delaying vital intelligence. We are now trying to ascertain the extent of the damage, but it appears that there has been for some time a French spy ring operating in our very halls, and this ring has suborned at least one network of our agents overseas. My men are now trying to isolate the spies, and discover how far the rot has spread.
“I believe that in addition to perverting the course of incoming intelligence—which they were unable to do with the petard, it would seem, because weather ballonets with scintillation tubes accept no bribes—these enemy agents have been arranging for numerous shipments of gold to arrive in this country. Certainly more gold than usual has been seized on the black market in the past six months, and it appears that certain troublemakers and rabble-rousers have been living high on the hog.”
“The usual?” John Frederick asked coldly.
“Levelers and Ranters,” Douglass said quietly. He looked sad. “They never learn, although this treason is, I think, unprecedented in recent years. If true.”
The king stood up. “We do not tolerate slander and libel and anarchism, much less as a front for that bastard pretender’s machinations!” His cheeks shone; for a moment Farnsworth half-expected him to burst into a denunciation, but after a while the monarch regained control. “Bring forward the next ISC meeting, as soon as possible,” he ordered. “Sir Roderick. We expect a daily briefing on the fruits of your investigation. We realize you have had barely nine months to get to grips with your office, but we must insist on holding you responsible for the progress of the ministry. Should you succeed in leeching it back to health you will find us a forgiving ruler, and we appreciate your candor in bringing the disease to our notice—but if this pot boils over, it will not be the Crown who is scalded.” He glanced round. “Farnsworth, attend to our wardrobe. Lord Douglass, thank you for bringing the situation to our attention. We shall now proceed to appear our regal best for the state opening tonight. If you should care to seek audience with us after the recession of parliament, we would value your advice.”
“I am at your majesty’s service, as always,” murmured the prime minister. He stood, slowly. The minister of Special Affairs rose too, as Farnsworth moved smoothly to ensure the king’s progress back to his dressing room.
That evening, after the state opening and the royal progress from Brunswick Palace to the Houses of Parliament at the far end of Manhattan island, Farnsworth pulled on a heavy overcoat and slipped out through a side door of the palace, to visit an old acquaintance in a public house just off Gloriana Street.
Wooden paneling and a brown, stained ceiling testified to the Dutch origins of the Arend’s Nest: the pub’s front windows looked out toward the high-rise tenements crowding the inner wall of the bastion that had protected New York from continental aggression as far back as the late eighteenth century. Now a favorite haunt by day of city stock merchants and the upper crust of businessmen who filled the new office blocks behind the administrative complex, by night the Nest was mostly empty. Farnsworth slipped past the bar and stood next to a booth at the back with his coat collar turned up against the chill from the sea and his hat pulled down close to his ears. “You won’t fool nayone like that,” said a familiar voice. “You look like you’re trying to hide and they’ll pay attendance on ye when the police come asking. And now what time have you?”
Farnsworth shook himself. “I’m sorry, but my pocket oyster’s broken,” he said in a robotic tone of voice.
“Then ye’ll just have to tell me what time it says?”
He hauled out his watch and flipped it open. “Ten to nine.”
“Jolly good.” With a sigh and a rustle his welcomer moved aside to let him into the cubicle. Farnsworth sat down gratefully. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering your pint already.” He was a plump, slightly shabby man whom Farnsworth knew only as Jack. Farnsworth had studiously suppressed any instinct to dig deeper. Jack wore a dark suit, shiny at the elbows, and a red silk cravat that although clean was clearly in need of ironing. Beside him sat another fellow, unknown to Farnsworth: a long-faced man in early middle age, but with a consumptive pallor about him and a face that seemed to chronicle more insults than any one life should bear. Farnsworth removed his hat and scarf and placed them fastidiously on one of the hooks screwed to the upper rail of the booth. “Have you anything to report?”
“For whose ears?” Farnsworth picked up his glass. A full one sat untouched before Mr. Long-Face, which seemed an unconscionable waste of a good pint of porter to him. “No offense.”
“This is, um, Rudolf,” said Jack. “He’s from Head Office. You remember what we spoke about earlier.”
“Ah, yes.” Farnsworth shuffled uneasily in his seat. Head Office covered a multitude of sins, most of them capital offenses in the eyes of the Homeland Security Bureau. Far more subversive than any bomb-throwing wild-eyed democrat or fly-by-night unlicensed desktop publisher spreading lies and slanders about her royal highness’s enthusiasm for tight-breeched household cavalry officers . . . but the exchange of passwords had gone smoothly. Jack hadn’t used the bail out challenge. Which meant this was official.
“Nothing new. His majesty is trying to keep a placid face but is mightily exercised over the continental despotism. They’ve exploded a corpuscular weapon months ahead of what our spies said was possible. Sir Roderick is dusting under chairs and tables in search of a mouse hole, as if his head depends upon it—and indeed it might, if Douglass is of a mind to hold him responsible. There is the usual ongoing crisis over precedence in the royal bedchamber, and My Lady Frazier is vexed to speak of creating a new post of—well, perhaps this is of no interest? In any case, Douglass is exercised, too. He seems much gloomier than normal, and muttered something about fearing war was making virtue of necessity, and we must ensure the French use of the new weapons—corpses, he calls them, a vile contraction—is subjected to prior restraint by a mutual terror of annihilation.” With this, Farnsworth reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and produced a small envelope. He slid it across the table. “Usual drill.”