Lloyd George studied his own hand. “I do not suppose it signifies whether Mr. Wang is in fact accredited as a high commissioner. By the time that woman is done with him, they will never admit otherwise in Beijing. This pointless war may yet be over, and our friends in Valetta and Phu Ket can return to their hall-of-mirrors vendettas with each other and the Lord God Almighty.”
“Sir.” That was rapidly becoming a comforting syllable.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Kitchens?”
“Sir?”
The Prime Minister leaned forward, his suit rustling as his shadowed silhouette bent. “You heard me.”
“Of—of course, sir. Who does not?”
“You might be surprised.” Fingers drummed on the surface of the desk. “I have been strongly advised to allow you to do yourself a fatal mischief. This would save the Crown the bother and expense of a trial, with all its attendant public humiliation at our many failures in protecting Her Imperial Majesty’s life and person.” More drumming, then: “Are you perhaps interested in this option?”
“Sir.”
“I shall take that as a negative. I am quite serious, you know.”
Despite the oncoming chill of evening, sweat poured down Kitchens’ back now. “Sir, yes sir.”
“God ordained the passing of the Queen at her appointed time. Bad science and worse judgment prolonged her life, at the urging of . . . certain elements in Government and society. Even a man in my position, perhaps especially a man in my position, is not privy to all decisions. There has been a very quiet argument over the meaning of certain subtle communications emanating from Her Imperial Majesty. You, sir, have resolved what was becoming the most vexing issue of state in modern times, as well as the most direly secret.” Another round of finger drumming. “So, while you are invited to be a suicide, you will not hang. I should not think to describe His Imperial Majesty, recently the Prince of Wales, as grateful for the killing of his mother. Neither is he blind to what has transpired.”
A long silence followed, the two men facing each other in deepest shadow.
Finally Kitchens could not stand the wordlessness. “Wh-where does that leave me, sir?”
“You are free to depart. No one would ever believe your story anyway, but should you choose to repeat it, there is a quite accommodating mad-house in my home borough from which politically inconvenient lunatics never emerge.” Lloyd George leaned forward. “A necessity of the modern state, I am afraid.”
Summoning his courage, Kitchens shook his head. “She has finished dying, but she asked for her throne to be broken, and for what has been undone to be remade. I would know if her wishes have been carried out.”
“You are also free to stay.” The Prime Minister’s voice grew even more slow and careful. “But your place in Government may be quite different. Few enough will know the truth. Many will never see you as anything but a lunatic.”
What of al-Wazir? Or Ottweill and those unfortunate men slowly breaking through the roots of the Wall?
“I will bear my ghosts, sir, if I can serve out the terms of Her Imperial Majesty’s desires in this matter. And my commission to the tunneling project remains unresolved.”
“The world spins ever faster, Mr. Kitchens. Men of your . . . unusual . . . experiences shall be quite valuable in the days to come. War or no war. The Wall abides, as you say.”
“Sir.”
Lloyd George stood and walked out without a farewell. The Prime Minister left the revolver behind.
After a while, Kitchens picked the weapon up to check if it was loaded.
EPILOGUE
. . . so have I loved you: continue ye in my love. —John 15:9
BOAZ AND PAOLINA
They stood along the rail of the Onyx Terrace. When the mists were gone, the view seemed to stretch all the way to the Mediterranean. She knew that was not true; she could do the math on the curvature of the Earth in her head without conscious effort. He knew that was true, for he knew that with the light in his heart, he could see the far side of Creation.
They were both right, and neither was wrong.
An airship slid slowly across the sky well below them. Vertiginous, steep, a sky that fell as sharply as a collapsing stair yet wide open as God’s unblinking eye. They knew from the shape of the gasbag that this one was Chinese, but already two British ships strained at the makeshift masts near the Jade Temple. Plus a third vessel, alien as a shark, familiar as a tooth, risen from the country of the Bone People far into the Southern Earth and come now to this place.
This was not a conference. The Jade Abbot wouldn’t hold with such. Rather, it was a dinner party, involving two librarians, one staying very close to a wounded, one-handed sailor; a very young but retired clock-maker; several veterans of the airship services of both great powers; as well as sundry submariners, denizens of the Wall, Correct People, sorcerers and other, stranger folk from distant lands, including a strange albino named William of Ghent who kept his distance from Hethor.
Should these sundry folk have occasion to speak over dinner, which in all its ramifications would last the better part of a week, so much the better.
Should an angel sweep down from the silver deserts and forests of the moon to pronounce some unknowable benison, so much the better.
Should Paolina and Boaz enter the red-lacquered halls of the Jade Temple and sit among the assorted princes, admirals, special clerks, and stout-hearted warriors, so much the better.
For now they stood on the sun-warmed terrace and watched the Indian Ocean curve away toward the all-too-round horizon and enjoyed the simple, silent pleasure of one another’s company. Alone, as everyone in this life was, but alone together. That one person complete and whole could multiply another’s whole completeness was nothing short of a miracle.
Her heart thrilled, throbbing in her chest. His mind raced, while the new-brazed seams in his face and body yet ached a bit. Their arms twined, their hands clasped, their heads close as the familiar sound of labored engines drifted from below and a solitary hawk harried the orchards lying to the West. Voices drifted from the temple building, argument mixed with the sizzling scent of cookery and the clink of wineglasses.
“It’s only just begun, hasn’t it?” she said. A warm echo from the Silent World agreed with her.
His hand gripped hers a little more tightly. “It will only ever be beginning.”
She turned into his embrace, kissed him tightly, and marveled once again that a man made entirely of Brass could have such a pounding heart.
Jay Lake, Pinion
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