The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time (35 page)

If she didn’t love the jerk, she’d never forgive him. She smiled at the thought. A day or two of silence after she got back to Provo would be punishment enough.

She dried herself off and climbed into clean clothes, forcing her mind away from her personal problems and back onto the problem of gathering intelligence.

Unfortunately, as Denise explained, the entire Band was being closely watched since Chris disappeared, so they’d been playing it very cool. The only information she had to send back with Susan was that the spy in Provo must be exceedingly well-placed.

According to a conversation she’d overheard at one of the Governor’s parties, he’d delivered detailed artillery ranging information on the Provo defenses. There was also a rumor going around the King’s intelligence service that the Allied Air Force wouldn’t be flying on the day of the attack. Denise wondered if there was more than one spy in Provo.

Susan had helped Denise work out a code to transmit information to the Allies on K.I.N.G. Susan had written syndicated crypto-quizzes for daily newspapers before The Dying Time and she’d finally found a practical use for that skill.

*

Ellen Whitebear was thinking about spies also. More particularly, she was worried because she couldn’t find any. She had enlisted a few of the old original Freeholders, but so far they’d turned up zilch. She’d made several attempts to radio Jim Cantrell or Provo, but the bad weather prevented that. She wished to hell Terrell would get that Huey fixed.

*

“Ugh,” Raoul Garcia grunted as he bumped his head on an open cabinet door in the Radio Shack. He rubbed the growing knot and blinked tears from his eyes. Still clumsy after all these years, he thought as he closed the offending door. The soldering iron in his hand was still hot so he carefully set it on its stand to cool.

Progress was slow and obtaining the right components was extremely difficult but ever so slowly he was building a small laser to aim at the moon base. He’d salvaged a twelve inch reflector from Godec’s Photo Supply in Colorado Springs and set it up at the Farnum Peak observatory. It hadn’t taken him long to locate the astronauts’ base of operations on the moon.

He didn’t know why they weren’t trying to contact people on Earth but when he finished his laser he’d damn sure contact them. Several of them should know Morse Code and they should be able to see the intensely focused light of his laser blinking at them.

He’d thought at first to use the radio, but now that Ellen told him the King knew where to find him and Sara...well, the King would certainly be listening so radio was out.

Chapter 33: California

Jamal Rashid paced from one end of the entry room to the other as he awaited his audience with the King. His eyes darted back and forth between the two guards who stood like bookends on either side of the Throne Room door. He hated the fact Prince John insisted on placing him in the middle of a dispute with King Joseph. Of course, John’s plan had its merits, but really, how could John expect him to argue with the King? And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was in the distinctly unenviable position of having to report that Prince Anthony was dead. Logically, he knew the King couldn’t blame him personally for that, but just the thought of witnessing one of the King’s tantrums gave him palsy. He was a tough man who’d done some hard things, but the King terrified him.

On the plus side, he could expand about recent military successes and introduce Jacques Lachelle, leader of the Troubled Land Band. The King enjoyed music. Still, nervous at the best of times, Jamal was positively twitching by the time a slave ushered him into the Royal presence.

Jamal needn’t have worried. The news of Anthony’s death so depressed the King that he promptly cancelled all audiences and declared a day of mourning. Joseph retired to his quarters, where he distracted himself with the son and daughter of a noble who had recently offended him. The noble’s head topped a pole in the parking lot outside the palace, its sightless eyes withered to raisins, its ears impervious to the screams of his children within.

*

The following day found Jacques Lachelle cooling his heels in what Jamal had described as a waiting room, though it looked more like a prison cell to Jacques. His eyes quickly took in the room again. On the small side, maybe ten feet by twelve, max, no windows, one metal door, locked from the outside, one director’s chair, occupied by himself. The lap of luxury. At least there weren’t any toilet facilities bolted to the wall. It was a good thing he wasn’t paranoid.

He had hoped to be given free run of the place. There were people here he needed to contact. The Band had wintered in Taos a few years ago and he had become friendly with a family named O’Rourke. The Band had provided the music the following Spring when their daughter Vivian married Dan Osaka. Jacques had seen the O’Rourke family among a consignment of slaves being shipped to California and what’s more, they had seen him.

While he doubted his ability to free them, at least right now, he had to reassure them he was on their side and would try to get them assigned someplace useful. The least he could do was let them know he’d tell Dan and Vivian where they were. So there he was, sitting in a “waiting room” planning how to set up an espionage network. Denise kept telling him he was an optimist.

The click of the door being unlocked brought him out of his reverie. Jacques stood up and faced the door as it opened. A large man entered the room, closely followed by two burly male slaves clad only in loincloths.

“Strip,” the man commanded.

“Wat you say mon?”

“Strip, or I’ll have them strip you,” the man said, indicating the two slaves.

“I be de guest of Jamal Rashid, who bring me to see your King,” Jacques said. “I t’ink you don’ wan’ insult me.”

“And I am Nicolo Bonetti, Commander of the Royal Intelligence Service,” said Nicolo. “No one is allowed into His Majesty’s presence until I, personally, have searched them.”

The two slaves started forward, but Jacques held up his hand stopping them. “Okay mon,” he said and began to remove his clothes.

When Jacques was naked Nicolo said, “Open your mouth.”

Jacques opened his mouth and Nicolo looked inside.

“Wider.”

Jacques stretched his mouth open wider.

“Lift your tongue so I can see under it.”

Jacques lifted his tongue thinking, Christ, I’ll bet I know what’s next.

“Turn around, bend over and spread your cheeks.”

Shit! I knew it, Jacques thought as he complied. Goddamned humiliating, he thought, then gasped and tensed as a finger was inserted into his rectum. The finger withdrew and Jacques flushed with anger.

“Stand up and lift your feet one at a time so I can see your soles,” Nicolo said.

Jacques did so, fuming.

“Okay, we’re done,” Nicolo said. “You’ll have to wait here for a while longer till we’ve searched your clothes.”

Jacques nodded.

“You’re blushing,” Nicolo said with a smirk. “Not everyone can tell when a nigger blushes, but I can.”

Jacques could contain himself no longer.

“Try having a stranger shove dere finger up your ass, mon and see how you lak eet.” His dark brown eyes bored into Nicolo’s. “Pah! You prob’ly enjoy.”

Nicolo smiled, fully in command. He took Jacques’s clothes and turned toward the door saying, “My oh, my. A thoroughly undisciplined and lippy nigger too.” He nodded toward the slaves. “Teach him some manners while I’m gone.” Then added, “Don’t leave any marks that’ll show after he’s dressed. After all, he is seeing the King.”

Nicolo was almost out the door when he stopped and turned to face Jacques. “For what it’s worth, I only enjoy searching beautiful women.”

“Betcha say dat to all de boys,” Jacques retorted and was rewarded with a flash of anger in Nicolo’s eyes before the door closed and shut off his view. The lock clicked into place.

The two slaves spread out but Jacques backed into a corner so they could only come at him one at a time.

“Look, mons,” Jacques said, spreading his hands innocently. “Wat you say we give dis a pass, okay? I mean, nobody see us een here. Skeen your knuckle on de wall an’ I groan a lot w’en butt-boy come back.”

“Nothin’ personal,” one of the slaves said, “but walls have ears. We don’t do what we’re told, we got big time trouble.”

Jacques sized up his opponents. They had the appearance of thugs, not trained fighters. “You gots beeg troubles now,” he said, as the first man bored in.

Jacques leaped into the air, launching a full bodied double foot kick. His first foot connected with the man’s jaw, breaking it and his other foot slammed into the side of the man’s head. The slave fell to the floor, limp as a wet mop.

The second slave bellowed and rushed forward, arms spread.

Jacques spun a hard kick into the man’s solar plexus, doubling him over. Then Jacques jumped up and locked his legs around the man’s neck in a scissors hold. Twisting in mid-air, Jacques pulled the thug off-balance, slamming him into the floor headfirst. The man’s eyes actually crossed as he slumped into unconsciousness.

Jacques untangled himself from the unconscious man, stood up and leaned casually against a wall facing the door. He was still in that position five minutes later when the door opened and Nicolo Bonetti walked in, accompanied by three armed guards and a naked female slave, who bore his clothes. So, the walls did have ears.

Before Nicolo could say a word, Jacques spoke up.

“You done wit’ my clothes, Butt-boy?”

Nicolo’s face flushed. A gun appeared in the hand of one of the guards.

“I could have you shot for insulting me, you stupid nigger.”

Jacques looked into the barrel of the gun and yawned.

“But you won’, will you Butt-boy?” Jacques challenged. “‘Cos eef you do eet might upset de King and I don’ t’ink you take dat chance.”

Nicolo made a visible effort to restrain himself. The gun in the guard’s hand wavered.

Jacques sneered at Nicolo, saying, “Jamal tell me you be an ass.”

Nicolo stiffened as if he’d been slapped.

“He not mention you be an ass-lover,” Jacques added. Then before Nicolo could interrupt, Jacques continued, “Jamal also tell me dat de King love music, an’ I be de leader of de most talented group of musicians lef’ een dis sorry country.” Jacques’s eyes flicked to the slave girl and quickly away, noticing both the studiously neutral expression on her face and the delight in her eyes as they met his briefly. “So, eef you done wit’ dis li’l charade,” Jacques added, “give me my clothing an’ get out.”

Nicolo stood there, stunned, fuming, his mind racing furiously. This wasn’t going according to the script. The man was supposed to be frightened. Instead, the insolent nigger challenged him, actually dared to insult him. And that was what had Nicolo so worried. How could this man be so sure of himself? Was he already under the King’s protection, or perhaps even in his service? And if so, why didn’t Nicolo know about it? Who was this guy?

Nicolo turned to leave, his confusion apparent even to the guards and the slave girl.

“Give the nig... man his clothes,” he said as he walked to the door.

“Hey! Butt-boy!” The words rang out loudly, in a commanding tone and before he could control himself Nicolo stopped, then flushed beet red as he realized he had just publicly admitted the words were for him. One of the guards quickly erased the beginnings of a smile before anyone but Jacques could spot it.

“Eef you evair call me nigger again, smile.”

Jacques’ss words echoed in Nicolo’s ears as he regained control of his legs and strode through the door in a towering rage.

Jacques laughed as the door slammed shut. His spur of the moment, instinctive, colossal bluff had worked! The guards left the room, grinning slyly at each other.

The slave girl offered him his clothes timidly. Then as he leaned over to take them she whispered, “You have just made a powerful enemy.”

Jacques looked her in the eye and said softly, “Not really. I deal wit’ glorified clerk lak heem all my life. You t’reaten to go over dere heads an’ you scare dem shitless. Dey all so paranoid, so afraid you know somet’ing dey don’, dat dey back down all de time. Not one real backbone een de lot. Butt-boy no t’reat to me till he figure dat out.” He gave her a wink, adding, “So don’ tell heem, okay?”

She smiled, ducked her head and started to back toward the door.

“T’ank you for de clothes,” Jacques breathed. “I weesh I could return de favor.”

She stopped and blushed. “You get used to it,” she sighed.

He pinned her with a hard stare. “Don’ evair get used to eet. Eet cost you too much of yourself.”

“Costs less than hope,” she responded and though her tone remained soft, inaudible to the microphones in the room, it still managed quite clearly to imply, “What could you possibly know about it?”

Seeing he’d gone too far, too fast, Jacques changed course. Sticking out his hand, he said gently, “Jacques Lachelle, pleased to meet you.”

“I...Irene,” she stammered, then fled through the door. No one had wanted her name in years. Slaves weren’t allowed the dignity of names.

As he dressed, Jacques noticed that no one had bothered to lock the door to his “waiting room”.

Less than an hour later, Irene was back, summoning him before the King.

She showed him into the Throne Room, then bowed low to the King and retired to her place in the corner. Jacques strode briskly to the steps at the foot of the throne, offered a brief but polite bow and waited to be addressed.

Nicolo Bonetti stood one step below and behind the throne, glaring at him, but Jacques only had eyes for King Joseph. The King’s dark blonde hair was clean, parted in the middle and swept back from his prominent brow, on which rested an enormous, jewel-encrusted crown that gleamed and sparkled in the light. His intense blue eyes blazed with alert intelligence. Only Joseph’s nose betrayed the image of royalty, for it had been broken so often it belonged on a back-alley brawler. A cloak of dark, rich purple, embroidered with gold and silver thread, flowed down from his massive shoulders and over the gilded throne. An open-necked, collarless shirt of scarlet silk showed through the gap in the cloak. Around his neck a heavy gold-link chain supported a gold medallion on which was stamped his own likeness. Forest green tights showed bulging leg muscles. Soft and supple, white doeskin, calf-high boots adorned his feet. Even seated, he towered above the others in the room. Jacques was not easily impressed, but this man impressed him, certainly not because of his taste in clothing. He dressed like a super hero in an old Marvel or DC comic book. No, it was the aura of raw power and intelligence that radiated from the King that made an impact.

Jamal Rashid stood to the right of the King, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was he who cleared his throat and spoke. “Your Majesty, I have the pleasure to present to you Mr. Jacques Lachelle of the Troubled Land Band, a most talented group of musicians.”

“I understand your talents extend beyond music,” the King said with the merest glint of humor in his eyes.

Jacques wondered if one of the microphones in the “waiting room” was wired into here. He nodded to the King and said, “I hope so, Your Majesty.”

King Joseph leaned forward, resting his head on folded hands. “Tell me then, musician, since you have demonstrated a penchant for damaging my property and since two of your band members turned out to be spies, how far am I to trust you?”

“Only so far as our interests be de same, Your Majesty,” Jacques replied with a smile, making Jamal wince. “But den, eef I be een your place, I trus’ no one.” Jacques looked pointedly at Nicolo, who paled.

The King threw back his head and laughed. He liked Jacques’s accent and his nerve. Jamal and Nicolo joined in uncertainly and somewhat nervously. Neither of them thought it particularly funny. Joseph noticed their discomfort and laughed even harder. Nothing he enjoyed more than a good joke at the expense of his inferiors.