The committee offices on the first floor were seething-nobody was at their posts except for the militia guards, their rifles clenched in nervous hands. "Where's the chairman?" Erasmus demanded when they came to the first checkpoint.
"He's in the committee room, sir," said the senior man-Erasmus, being a regular enough visitor (and a member of the committee to boot), ranked above the regular interrogation such a question might have drawn from a stranger. "Can you tell us what's going on?"
"That's why I'm here." Erasmus grimaced. "There'll be a statement later." He glanced at his stenographer. "Minute that for me." He swept through the corridors towards the former dining room that Sir Adam had requisitioned as a meeting place for the committee, only pausing at the door where two heavies in the red, white, and blue armbands of internal security waited with shotguns. "Erasmus Burgeson, commissioner for information, here to see the chairman," announced one of his guards.
"Aye, right." These guards were going by the book. Erasmus waited patiently as the senior one uncapped a speaking tube and announced him, then listened for instructions. "You're to go in, sir. Your party"-a thumb gesture-"can wait in the guardroom."
Burgeson nodded at them. "You heard him." And then he opened the door.
The Committee for Democratic Accountability was neither accountable, nor democratic, nor even much of a committee-these words were all statements of aspiration, as much as anything else, for in the early days of building a better nation these words held power, and it was Sir Adam's hope that his institutions would grow into their names. Personally, Erasmus thought this was dangerously naive-he'd read a number of books that Miriam had loaned him, strange books describing the historical processes of her even stranger world-but it was at least worth a try. Not all revolutions ended up eating their young, and heaven knew it was an opportunity to break with the dead hand of the oppressive past, but the thought that this revolution might go the way of some of those in Miriam's books had kept him awake into the small hours on more nights than he cared to think about.
Inside the committee room, there was an atmosphere of euphoria. Sir Adam was standing behind the lectern, and about half the delegates from the district councils seemed to have packed themselves in. Someone had opened a crate of cava and orange farmers from down south were toasting shipyard workers from the east bay with foam sparkling from their chipped tea mugs. Erasmus grabbed the first shoulder he could catch inside the doorway. "What's going on?" he demanded.
"It's the king!" The man grinned broadly. "He's gone! Packed up his bags in New London and ran. The garrison in Montreal picked him up!"
A sharp stab of anxiety gnawed at Erasmus.
"Are they ours?" "They mutinied three weeks ago and elected a workers' and soldiers' council! They're with the white guards!"
Erasmus blinked. "Excuse me." He began to elbow his way through the crush towards the lectern where Sir Adam was earnestly holding forth to a gaggle of inner party graybeards who remained obdurately sober in the face of the collective derangement.
"Ah, Erasmus." Sir Adam smiled. "I gather the good news has reached you."
"I need to know where it came from"-Erasmus pointed a thumb over his shoulder-"if we're to get the word out where it's needed. I've got a stenographer waiting in the guardroom, and a front page to fill by three."
"That's easy enough." Burroughs gestured. "You know Edward MacDonald, I take it."
Erasmus nodded. "We've met." Ed, Lady Bishop's right hand man, nodded back, cautiously.
"He brought certain other news of your activities out east, news that I personally consider would stretch the bounds of credibility-if anyone less than Lady Bishop vouched for their truth." Burroughs contemplated Erasmus, an expression of perplexity on his face that reminded Burgeson of a schoolteacher examining a pupil who had just done something that, while not actually deserving of punishment, was inexplicably wrong. "We'll need to talk about it in due course."
"Yes, we will." Erasmus surprised himself with the assurance of his answer. "But this isn't the time for addressing longterm problems. We've got to get the word of these momentous events out first. Once the loyalists realize they have been abandoned by their false monarch, that will change the entire situation!" He nodded at Edward. "What's happened out east? What can you tell me that I can print? I need pictures, damn it! Who witnessed the events?"
The attack began an hour before dawn. Otto ven Neuhalle watched from a discreet distance as his men walked their precious M60s onto the front of the gatehouse from long range, firing parsimonious bursts-wary of his threats to damage any man who damaged his precious guns. The defenders declined to fire randomly into the dark, although a ghastly white glare opened its unblinking eye above the barred front gate, casting long shadows across the beaten ground before it-shadows that promised pain and death to anyone who ventured into view of the firing slits in the walls.
"Keep their heads down!" he shouted at Shutz and his men. "But watch for our own!"
They didn't have many minutes to wait. Creaking and squealing with an ominous rumble, two large wagons rolled round the shoulder of the hill, following the road that led to the gate. The bullocks that pulled them didn't sound too happy, roaring and lowing beneath their heavy burden. Otto bared his teeth as he heard the voice of their driver and the crack of his whip.
"This should be fun," a familiar voice commented from behind him.
Otto shivered as a chilly sweat broke out across the nape of his neck. "Your Majesty has the better of me." He turned around slowly-it was a faux pas to turn one's back on the monarch, and he had no desire to draw attention to it-and bowed deeply.
"Rise." The king gestured impatiently. The lance of royal bodyguards around him faced outward; the armor and colors he wore were indistinguishable from their uniform, but for the lack of an armband of rank. "Two minutes, no more. They should be shooting by now."
Otto found his tongue. "May I ask if the carts are for men or explosives, my liege? I need to prepare my men…"
"Explosives." Egon nodded towards them. "The driver will take them up to the gate then set them off."
"The-oh." Otto nodded. The driver would do what he was told, or his family would be done by as the king had decreed: probably something creatively horrible, to reinforce his reputation as a strong and ruthless monarch. "By your leave, I shall order my men to take cover just before the blast."
"We wish them to advance and provide covering fire for the cavalry immediately afterwards," Egon added offhand.
"Cavalry?" Otto bit his tongue, but even so the word slipped out first. Beyond the gatehouse was a wet moat, and then a steep descent into a dry moat before the gate into the castle's outer battlements. Nobody in their right mind would use cavalry against the layered defenses of a castle!
"Cavalry." The royal grin was almost impish. "I hope you find it educational."
"My lord-" One of the guards cleared his throat.
"Momentarily." Egon stared at Otto. "I intend to surprise everyone, Baron. This is just the start."
Otto bowed his neck jerkily. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Go." Dismissed, Otto turned to warn Shutz and his gunners about the wagons-and to leave the king's disturbing presence. Behind him, Egon was mounting the saddle of a stallion from the royal stable. A pair of irreplaceable witch-clan night vision glasses hung from his pommel.