Conflagration (23 page)

“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.

The fashions of the city were calculated, blatant, opulent beyond her wildest visualization, and at times leaning to the decadent. London couture was without any kind of standardization and certainly followed no single dictate. All the myriad of styles had in common was a provocative flamboyance, and a tendency to expose and even to flaunt. Colors ranged from dark and perverse to flagrant explosions. Soft fabrics clung to torsos, strategic slits allowed silk legs to flash, and extreme décolletage revealed flatteringly supported breasts. Waists were cinched by laced corselets, or stomachs were exposed with rings or jewels in navels. Hair might be cropped short or vast and elaborate. Had Cordelia made her debut at the party in the most stunning outfit that a combination of Albany, New York, and her own ingenuity had to offer, she would have still betrayed herself to the whole Palace of Westminster as so gauche to be almost a bumpkin, an out-of-touch rustic from the uncouth side of the ocean.

Cordelia had, however, thought her way out of the dilemma. If the Norse of London wanted extreme, she would give it to them. She had trumped style’s ace with her Ranger uniform, but not just any Ranger uniform. She had bullied, cajoled, and almost seduced an old, bald Seventh Avenue military tailor in New York into making her the full dress black, gold, and green major’s uniform. The only twist was that it was the uniform for a man. The ceremonial wear for women in the Rangers, of which there were precious few, was frumpy black evening dress with a small green approximation of a mess jacket. Approximation would never be good enough for Cordelia. For a while she had considered combining the short, frogged man’s jacket and swagger cloak with a long skirt, but she had rejected the idea. The men’s skintight cavalry breeches and the tall tasseled boots with the stacked riding heel were just too, too perfect. Cordelia might be going to the party in a man’s outfit but she definitely was not going to be mistaken for a man. Onlookers might think she was a dangerous lesbian, or some red-haired valkyrie hot from the new world, but no one would take her for a long-haired boy. Regulations almost certainly prohibited what she was doing, but who was going to enforce regulations? She reported to no superior officers. The rest of The Four knew nothing about it until she came down to get into the official car, and by then it was far too late. She wore the Order of the Golden Bear on the orange ribbon, and the fates help anybody who would deny her anything. As the reception progressed she saw a number of other women wearing men’s formal evening suits, but they could in no way challenge the perverse impact of her Ranger outfit.