The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 27

How strange a thing that was! How could he have explained it to the villagers he'd grown up with in Africa? These bits of metal, put in a frame, smeared with black stuff, and pressed upon these white leaves, had the magical property that they would make one man out of a whole metropolis into a terrified fugitive, while every other man whose eyes were exposed to the incantation would become his implacable pursuer. Yet the same bits of metal put in the same frame, but in a different arrangement, would have no effect. Indeed, Dappa wondered whether he might print up some handbills naming Charles White his his escaped slave, and putting some price on escaped slave, and putting some price on his his head. head.

The notion was appealing-even more so than that of putting a lead ball through White's body. But it was idle to think of such things. Escape Dappa might hope for. Revenge was not to be thought of.

They had come to the broad intersection of Cornhill and a large north-south-running street that changed its name from corner to corner. If they turned left here they'd be north-bound on Bishopsgate, headed for the South Sea Company, Gresham's College, and Bedlam. More likely, though, they would go right, placing them south-bound on Gracechurch Street. This soon became Fish Street Hill and ran past the Monument straight down to London Bridge.

The coach halted in the middle of this intersection, for an uncommon number of persons were gathered here. When Dappa looked out the right side he tended to see the backs of their heads, and when he looked to the left he tended to see their faces; for most of them were gazing at some spectacle to the south. Dappa could not tell what. He looked to the left, trying to read the answer in their faces. He found no useful information there, save that what they were looking at was rather high up in the air. But he did catch sight again of South Sea House, a very large compound one of whose gates was situated a couple of hundred yards away, on the left side of Bishops-gate. It was bigger, and newer, than the Bank of England. It was, in a way, the Anti-Bank; its collateral, the Thing of Value against which it lent money, was the Asiento: the trans-Atlantic slave trade, wrested from Spain last year in the war.

A sudden exclamation came up from the crowd. Dappa glanced to the right, and thought he perceived a trail of black smoke drawn through the air from near the top of the Monument. And then he made a second glance, for the lantern at the top of that colossal spire was disfigured by some sort of jury-rigged block-and-tackle device. A vulgar entertainment for the Mobb, was his guess.

But back to South Sea House. The sight of this evil place, looming like a pirate-ship off his larboard beam, had caused certain notions to fall together within Dappa's mind. A plan-not a sketchy one but a Plan whole and entire-had suddenly presented itself in his mind, and it was so obviously the right thing to do that he put it into effect with no deliberations whatsoever. For this Plan had the miraculous effect of removing the enormous ball of lead from his stomach.

He dropped to his knees on the floor of the coach and flipped the libel over on the facing bench. Out of his pocket came a pencil, and touching it to his tongue, as if this would put eloquence into it, he wrote Your grace, my lady-Johann did his duty bravely and well. Pray do not rebuke him when this carriage is found empty.When last you and I conversed, we spoke of my career as author of books, and teller of slave-stories. A similitude was formed, in which my works to date were likened to so many b.a.l.l.s of grapeshot, which when fired at our Enemy pose a nuisance but can never send any slave-ships to David Jones's Locker where they ought to be all. You exhorted me to leave off gathering more grapeshot and to turn my efforts to finding a single cannonball.Until today, I a.s.sumed that the cannonball-by which is meant, the story that will convince Englishmen, once and for all, of the absurdity and the enormity of slavery-would be found in some slave-auction in So Paulo, Kingstown, or Carolina. But to my surprise I, this afternoon, found that cannonball in the pit of mine own stomach. Minerva Minerva sails on the morning tide but you may find me in a gaol somewhere in London. I shall require paper, ink, and your prayers. sails on the morning tide but you may find me in a gaol somewhere in London. I shall require paper, ink, and your prayers.Your humble and obedient servant,Dappa Leaving this on the bench he flung open the door on the carriage's left side. A small open s.p.a.ce welcomed him, since no spectators would stand where the view to the south was blocked by the coach. Johann did not mark him; he was as fascinated as anyone else by the spectacle at the Monument. Dappa strode, but never ran, north through the crowd onto Bishopsgate. He phant'sied he might hear reward-seekers pursuing him through the crowd; never mind, if those did not, others would soon enough.

In a few moments' time he was seated in a coffee-house literally in the shadow of South Sea House, sipping chocolate and pretending to read the Examiner Examiner. As if he'd a right to be there.

Busy men were all around him, unrolling doc.u.ments on tables: charts of the Bights of Benin and Biafra, loading-diagrams of slave-ships, ledgers heavy with human a.s.sets. Familiar names flew around the place: Accra, Elmina, Ijebu, and Bonny. He felt, strangely, at home. Even more strangely, he felt at peace. Flipping the newspaper over, he licked his pencil again, and began to write.

Shive Tor DUSK.

IN A FEW MINUTES S SIR Isaac was on the deck of the hooker, his hair gleaming like a comet's tail in the fierce light of the burning Tor. Daniel stood near him, flat-footed under the weight of his Blanket, peering from beneath his rumpled Cap. A team of four dragoons were bent over the hooker's rail, straining to heave-ho Colonel Barnes aboard without snapping off his other leg. Isaac was on the deck of the hooker, his hair gleaming like a comet's tail in the fierce light of the burning Tor. Daniel stood near him, flat-footed under the weight of his Blanket, peering from beneath his rumpled Cap. A team of four dragoons were bent over the hooker's rail, straining to heave-ho Colonel Barnes aboard without snapping off his other leg.

Very quickly the longboat rowed away from them, for the water was now deep enough that it could move free of the dredged channel. The hooker drew a bit more water than that, and was confined to the channel for the time being. Pulling his cap off so that he could feel the flow of air over his scalp, Daniel verified his suspicion that the burning Tor was drawing in a powerful flood of air, some of which was catching on the hull and the bare spars of the hooker. She was being sucked directly into the pillar of fire, like a moth into Vulcan's forge.

Barnes was aware of it. The dragoons had begun exploring the ship, looking for an anchor, or anything that would serve the same end. There were none, as the anchor-cables had been chopped through in the coiners' haste to escape.

"Is there anything that seems heavy down there?" Barnes demanded of a dragoon who had been groping around belowdecks.

Isaac p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, as he too was very keen on finding something heavy.

"Only a great b.l.o.o.d.y chest," the dragoon answered, "too heavy to move."

"Did you look inside of it?" Isaac inquired, tense as a starving cat.

"No, sir. 'Tis locked. But I know what's in it."

"How do you know what is in it, if you did not look inside?"

"Why, I can hear it, sir. Ticking away just as steady as you please. It is a great big clock."

As if the tips of their noses were joined by a hawser that had just snapped taut, Daniel and Isaac swiveled their heads toward each other.

Daniel spoke to the dragoon, though he was looking Isaac in the eye. "Is it so so heavy that it could not be carried abovedecks and hurled over the side?" he asked. heavy that it could not be carried abovedecks and hurled over the side?" he asked.

"I heaved with all my might and could not budge it a hair's breadth, sir."

Daniel was asking himself whether he ought to let the dragoons know what was obvious to him and Isaac: that they were trapped on a derelict vessel with a ticking Infernal Device. But Isaac made up his mind quicker, and said: "Pray forgive Dr. Waterhouse's curiosity on so trivial a matter. He and I are amateurs amateurs of clock-work. As we have little else to do just now, perhaps he and I shall retire belowdecks and amuse ourselves with Horologickal chit-chat." of clock-work. As we have little else to do just now, perhaps he and I shall retire belowdecks and amuse ourselves with Horologickal chit-chat."

"And I'll join you," said Barnes, who had caught on, "if you'll have me, that is."

"Please be our guest, Colonel," said Daniel. He then led Isaac and Barnes toward an open hatch, which, against the fire-lit deck planks, stood out as a crisp black rectangle.

The White Tower DUSK.

FATHER e eDOUARD DE G GEX of the Society of Jesus stood up on one leg, for he'd damaged an ankle, and turned around to survey the debris trail he had left across the roof of the White Tower. Chiefly he desired to know where the contents of his satchel were. It seemed a good deal lighter now than when he'd jumped off the Monument a few moments earlier. of the Society of Jesus stood up on one leg, for he'd damaged an ankle, and turned around to survey the debris trail he had left across the roof of the White Tower. Chiefly he desired to know where the contents of his satchel were. It seemed a good deal lighter now than when he'd jumped off the Monument a few moments earlier.

Under the groaning rope, and interspersed with flattened Scotsmen and their far-flung dirks, sporrans, and tam-o-shanters, was a Milky Way of coins and the small leather bags they'd just sprayed out of. De Gex hobbled back along his track s.n.a.t.c.hing them up and stuffing them into his bag. Ashamed to see a man of the cloth performing stoop-and-pick labor in their midst, the stunned and bruised Highlanders drew themselves up, shook the dust from their kilts, and went to work gleaning coins and wee bags from the roof.

But de Gex did not leave off collecting and counting them until he had worked his way back to the west parapet. There he encountered the first man he had knocked down: a bulky fellow with a patch over one eye, who spoke to him in tolerable French. "In the name of the Auld Alliance," said he (referring to an extremely spotty but aeon-spanning series of diplomatic trysts between Scotland and France) "I bid you welcome to the Tower of London. Please consider it the property of France-"

"Pourquoi non? Since it was built by us." Since it was built by us."

"-and yours to command!"

"Very well, my first command is that you take down the banner of MacIan of MacDonald!" answered de Gex.

Lord Gy was not pleased to hear this. That much was on his face, as plain as a laceration. But he bore it with the insolent calm of one who has heard worse and would like you to notice that he is still alive. "I apologize," he said, "the lads were a trifle high-spirited. The sobriety and discretion of Paris are foreign to young blades who have just galloped down from the heather." And making a small bow, he turned in the direction of the banner. So did de Gex.

But both of them were astonished to find no banner at all: only a flag-pole that had been severed at waist level by one stroke of a very good blade. Next to it, the banner-carrier-a being made entirely of freckles, perhaps fourteen years old-was sitting in a gun-slit pinching a b.l.o.o.d.y nose.

Rufus MacIan hurried over to make inquiries. edouard de Gex, after the obligatory rolling of the eyes, looked about and noted, for the first time, that Jack was nowhere to be seen. In the commotion of de Gex's descent upon the White Tower, Jack must have taken the matter of the banner into his own hands. He must then have gone down stairs; and the nearest way down would have been through a door, now standing open, in the round turret that held together the northeastern vertex of the building. That turret loomed above the place where MacIan was interrogating the b.l.o.o.d.y-nosed freckle-boy, and it was obvious that MacIan would be headed that way in a moment.

De Gex commanded the Highlanders around him to remain at their posts, and strode toward the round turret. Several of the Scotsmen affected not to have grasped his order, and followed him; but MacIan, who was now aimed for the same door, turned round, his face very choleric, and bit off a few words in Scots that sent them all glancing away. He entered the round turret only two strides ahead of de Gex.

"Pity," said the latter, looking around the perfectly barren room, "all the astronomical devices are gone."

Lord Gy was already in the stair, on his way down. "Eh?"

"Didn't you know? This was where Flamsteed worked, in the days before the Royal Observatory was moved to Greenwich. The Prime Meridian of the English once pa.s.sed through this room-"

Which was perfectly trivial and beside the point, as de Gex well knew. But he did not like the look on the face of Lord Gy, and wanted to break his concentration. The gambit might have worked on a French n.o.bleman whose social reflexes had been trained to quivering perfection in the salons of Versailles. It failed on Lord Gy, who had ascended to the n.o.bility by cutting such a Frenchman in twain, and who at this moment looked as if he were ready to do it again.

The purpose of the round tower was to support a spiral stair. Finding Jack was a matter of winding down and gazing into each doorway that presented itself. They shortly tracked him down on the middle of the building's three floors. This s.p.a.ce, formerly the royal court of a King, had been given over in recent centuries to the storage of official doc.u.ments. Jack was squatting with his back to them in the middle of a cavernous fireplace shaking powder from a horn onto the Scottish banner, which he had folded a couple of times and stuffed beneath an andiron. On his career through the former throne-room he had swiped an armload of rolled-up papers from a dusty shelf and piled them under and around the banner to serve as kindling.

"Jacques-" de Gex began.

"Pardon me while I destroy the evidence, your virginity."

"Ye baistart!" exclaimed Lord Gy.

"Did I say, destroy the evidence?" Jack said, looking over his shoulder to see MacIan. "I meant that this sacred banner became torn and dirtied in the fray, and the only respectful way to dispose of it now is by a cleansing flame." And he held a pistol-an unloaded one, as it turned out-next to the banner and pulled the trigger. Sparks from the flint sprayed across powder-smeared fabric and became something more than sparks. A fizzy conflagration spread across the banner, like flames across a field of harvested stalks, only faster. Jack recoiled, staggering out of the fireplace to get clear of the smoke. Since a draught had not yet been established in the chimney, a good deal of the smoke followed him-indeed, was sucked into his wake so that he seemed to be trailing it behind him like a rocket. "Right, let's go somewhere we can breathe," Jack suggested, and strode past de Gex and MacIan, headed for the stair.

Now de Gex had seen a few duels in his day. These were at least as formal, and as premeditated, as weddings. But he'd also seen a sufficient number of sudden murderous stabbing-brawls to have understood that even they were not as spontaneous as they looked.

If you were strolling in the gardens of Versailles, you might one day hear sudden noises, and turn around to see, some distance away, one fellow-let's call him Arnauld-going after another-call him Blaise-with a drawn blade. From which, if you were a careless observer, you might think that Arnauld had just snapped without warning, like an ice-covered bough falling from a tree. But in truth the Arnaulds of the world were rarely so reckless. A careful observer, watching Arnauld for two or three minutes prior to the onset of violence, would see some sort of exchange between him and Blaise-a calculated insult from Blaise, let us say, such as a refusal to let Arnauld through a door ahead of him, or a witticism about Arnauld's wig, which had been so very fashionable three months ago. If Blaise were a polished wit, he would then move on, blithe, humming an air, and giving every appearance of having forgotten the event.

But Arnauld would become a living Exhibit. Symptoms would set in that were so obvious and dramatic as to furnish a topic of study for the Royal Society. Why, a whole jury of English savants could stand around poor Arnauld with their magnifying lenses and their notebooks, observing the changes in his physiognomy, noting them down in Latin and rendering them in labored woodcuts. Most of these symptoms had to do with the Humour of Pa.s.sion. For a few moments, Arnauld would stand fast as the insult sank in. His face would turn red as the vessels in his skin went flaccid, and consequently ballooned with blood from a heart that had begun to pound like a Turkish kettle-drum signalling the onset of battle. But this was not when the attack came, because Arnauld, during this stage, was physically unable to move. All of his activity was mental. Once he got over the first shock, Arnauld's first thought would be to convince himself that he had reined in his emotions now, got himself under control, was ready to consider matters judiciously. The next few minutes, then, would be devoted to a rehearsal of the recent encounter with Blaise. Affecting a rational, methodical approach, Arnauld would marshal whatever evidence he might need to convict Blaise of being a scoundrel, and sentence him to death. After that, the attack would not be long in following. But to one who had not been there with those Fellows of the Royal Society to observe all that had led up to it, it would seem like the spontaneous explosion of an Infernal Device.

De Gex was standing behind MacIan and had watched the banner-burning over the other's epaulets. The backs of MacIan's ears had gone cherry red. He'd not so much as twitched an eyelid when Jack had strode past him to the stair. De Gex knew what would be coming soon. There was nothing he could say now to interrupt the proceedings going on in MacIan's brain: the marshalling of the arguments, the sure and inevitable judgment. But there was something he could do do. He let his satchel down to the floor, and reached silently into the pocket of his ca.s.sock. It was not a lined pocket, but a slit that went all the way through the garment, and gave him access to what was beneath.

Father Edouard was a member member of the Society of Jesus, but he was a of the Society of Jesus, but he was a partic.i.p.ant partic.i.p.ant in the society of in the society of men men-to be specific, the men of London, the most beastly city he had ever seen, though he'd circ.u.mnavigated the globe. In his waistband, his fingers found the hilt of a splendid watered-steel dagger he'd picked up from a Banyan in Batavia. He drew it silently from its leather sheath. MacIan still hadn't moved. The room was silent except for the crackle of the flames spreading to the pile of ancient doc.u.ments Jack had strewn around the flag. De Gex broke the silence, a little, by stepping forward.

But this triggered a greater sound from behind him. Before de Gex could turn to see what it was, his dagger-hand had been seized from behind and twisted up behind his back. The fingers opened and the weapon dropped, but did not fall to the floor; it was intercepted by another hand. An instant later that hand appeared in front of him and brought the dagger to his throat. He had been embraced from behind by a man who smelled of sweat-sodden wool, of horses, and of gunpowder. One of the Highlanders had tailed him silently down stairs.

"Ye ir a man of kirk, so a sal gie ye benefit of clergy," said the Highlander into his ear, "binna ye speik sae much as a word, an then it'll be atwein ye and St. Peter as ti whaur ye sal be expoondin yeir next sermon."

Rufus MacIan turned around. His ears were no longer red. With barely a glance towards de Gex he strode to the spiral stair and followed Jack down to the first storey.

IT WAS PACKED TO the ceiling with gunpowder. Not wanting to blow what remained of his clan to kingdom come, MacIan removed a pistol from his waistband, made sure it wasn't c.o.c.ked, and laid it on a sill before turning his attention into the great room that accounted for most of the first floor. the ceiling with gunpowder. Not wanting to blow what remained of his clan to kingdom come, MacIan removed a pistol from his waistband, made sure it wasn't c.o.c.ked, and laid it on a sill before turning his attention into the great room that accounted for most of the first floor.

"What were you thinking?" asked Jack.

Jack the Coiner was standing at the head of an aisle between stacked powder-kegs. He had not drawn his blade, but he had pulled it a few inches out of its scabbard to loosen it, and he was standing in a sideways att.i.tude that, in a society where men routinely ran each other through with swords, was implicitly menacing.

MacIan kept his distance. "I dinna expect to live this lang," he said, "I hae nae thoughts concerning what we should dae after."

"Let me supply you with some thoughts, then," said Jack. "We are finished here."

"Finished!?"

"We have done all that we needed to do," said Jack, "excepting some trifles in the Mint which Father edouard and I shall attend to after you and the others are...gone."

"Gone!? An how dae ye expect to hold the Tower of London agin a Regiment, with nae one to man the defenses?" An how dae ye expect to hold the Tower of London agin a Regiment, with nae one to man the defenses?"

"It was never my intention to hold hold it," Jack returned. "So fly. Now. Escape to the heather. Savor your revenge. Unless..." it," Jack returned. "So fly. Now. Escape to the heather. Savor your revenge. Unless..."

"Unless what what?"

"Unless you prefer to go out as a hero of the United Kingdom, defending this house of your Stuart queen."

"Now that is insufferable," said Rufus MacIan. "That isna to be endured." Both hands came up in front as if he were going to clasp them in prayer. But they did not bate before his face, but kept rising and reaching back until they had found the handle of the Claymore projecting up above one shoulder. With one jerk it was out and in front of him. Suddenly Jack's weapon was likewise exposed, a handsome watered-steel blade, curved like a saber, and, in the Turkish way, slightly broader at the tip than at the guard. He held it in one hand. It would be an odd, ragged, improvised sort of duel: a medieval longsword against something that was not a cutla.s.s and not a rapier.

"Very well," Jack said, "hero of Britain it is, then."

Jack had the lighter and swifter blade. It would be suicide for MacIan to stand and await an attack, because it was unlikely he could move the Claymore fast enough to parry it. So he came on like a bull from a chute, feinting this way and that to make Jack commit himself, then winding up and swinging the weapon down at Jack's head with all his might. It was a blow that could not be fended off with any lighter weapon, and so Jack was obliged to spin back and away. MacIan pursued him into an aisle between stacked powder-kegs. In these narrower confines he would have less room to swing his long blade. But Jack had done nothing to break the momentum of the great sword and so MacIan was able to swing it around and ring down another terrible blow at Jack's head. Jack barely had time to get his sword-hand up. If he had held his lighter weapon horizontally, trying to bar altogether the descent of the Claymore, it wouldn't have gone well for him. But he had the luck, or the presence of mind, to make the pommel the highest part of the weapon, and leave the point angled downwards toward the floor. The Claymore came down with little loss of speed, but it was deflected laterally, missing Jack and crashing into the stone floor, where it sent a shower of sparks against the base of a keg of gunpowder.

There was, in Rufus MacIan, a responsible and level-headed military officer. For the last few moments this person had been muscled out of the way by another that shared the same skull: the raving Celtic berserker. The sight of those sparks striking that keg caused the latter to vanish like a will o' the wisp and the former to be reinstated. There was a momentary pause as Rufus MacIan waited to see if they and the White Tower were to remain in existence. But the sparks winked out, and nothing happened.

"Lucky that," MacIan remarked, and cleared his throat, for suddenly his lungs were congested. He noticed that Jack was standing rather close-too close to be struck with the long Claymore. Indeed, he had his foot on the tip of MacIan's sword. Rufus MacIan coughed, and felt something hot and wet soaking his beard. Glancing down, he noticed the hilt of Jack's sword, all encrusted with heathenish designs, pressed up against his chest.

"Oh, it's because I am a lucky lucky fellow, my lord," said Jack-though MacIan was feeling oddly distracted, and the words did not really register. "In every respect, save the one that most matters."

"TO THE P PYX, THEN," Jack said, stepping back and snapping his sword horizontally through the air. Blood rushed down the blade, jetted from the tip, and struck a nearby wall with a sizzling noise, making a long dripping slash across the dry stones. Jack said, stepping back and snapping his sword horizontally through the air. Blood rushed down the blade, jetted from the tip, and struck a nearby wall with a sizzling noise, making a long dripping slash across the dry stones.

De Gex was frozen for a three-count. He rolled his eyeb.a.l.l.s down in their sockets to verify that his dagger was now lying on the floor, i.e., no longer anywhere near his throat. The weight, and pressure, and the fragrance of the Scotsman were all gone. He bent down and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the dagger, then spun around to face Jack-and nearly lost his footing on a spreading hot puddle. The Highlander who'd been holding him at bay was curled up on the floor, eyes half open, face gray.

"That was very risky," remarked de Gex.

"Oh, I'm sorry, we're going to begin accounting for risk risk now?" Jack returned, astonished. "Do you have any idea what just nearly-" now?" Jack returned, astonished. "Do you have any idea what just nearly-"

"That will do," said de Gex crisply, for he knew that once Jack had got into a mocking mood it was as difficult to cure as the hiccups.

They descended to the first floor of the round turret. Though the most ancient door of the White Tower was situated in the opposite corner, along the Inmost Ward, a more recent one was available at the base of the turret stair. It deposited them upon a strip of green on the north side, between the White Tower and a row of storehouses that lined the inner surface of the curtain wall. Here Jack broke his stride for a moment, because the storehouses were as regular as shocks of grain in a field-row, and offered no points of reference by which he could establish his bearings. But raising his sights above their saw-toothed roof-line he saw the slotted parapets of three bastions behind them. Here, the fire that still burned in the Tower hamlets north of the moat came in useful, as very little light was now left in the sky. But the red fire-glow shone crisply through the crenellations on those bastions. Being now a dungeon o' learning where the Tower was concerned, he knew that these three were, from left to right, Bowyer, Brick, and Jewel Towers.

Someone was hollering to him from high above. Jack couldn't make out a word. He spun on his heel, leaned back, cupped his hands round his face, and bellowed: "Run away!" to the Scotsmen on the roof of the White Tower. Then he continued striding north across the green with de Gex. He was looking for a portal that would take him through the line of storehouses and get him to the base of Brick Tower-that being the middle of the three bastions. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the twilight, he thought he could see it: a break in the half-timbered house-fronts, right in the center. It was a wide gate where wagon-loads of stuff could be trundled in or out. Standing in it were two men, one a giant and the other the size of a boy: Yevgeny and Tom the Black-guard.

"I have found the way through to the sally-port," Yevgeny announced.

"You have a Yeoman?"

Yevgeny pointed to a Beefeater who was standing inside the storehouse with his arms pinioned behind his back.

"I'm glad you're finally here, mate," said Tom to Jack, "I been trying to explain to the Muscovite, here, this ain't the right way in!" He hooked a thumb back over his shoulder. "This here is Brick Tower! Jewel Tower's the next one down!" Tom stepped forward onto the green and pointed down the line to the bastion that stood in the northeast corner of the Inner Ward. A dozen or so men, who from their looks could have stepped off Blackbeard's flagship a quarter of an hour ago, were Loitering with Intent in that vicinity, and looking shrewdly at Jack.

"And of what significance is that?" Jack demanded.

An awkward silence.

Tom could be seen looking a bit pale.

De Gex sidled up and whispered something into Jack's ear.

"Oh, yes, of course, the Jewel Tower, Jewel Tower," Jack said. "That's where they keep the, what do you call them-"

"The Crown Jewels, sir," whispered Tom, now quite rattled.

"Yes, now I see where you are going-yes-of course! The Crown Jewels. Right." He considered it for a good long time. "Would you like to have a go at stealing the Crown Jewels, then, as long as we are here?"

"I thought that was the entire point of the Lay, sir," Tom answered, seeming very boylike indeed now.

"Oh, yes! To be sure!" Jack hastened to say, "by all means, yes, that's all I've ever wanted, really, to have some great b.l.o.o.d.y lump of gold with jewels stuck in it to put on my head. Diamonds, rubies-I'm mad for them really-go! Run along!"

"Don't you wish to-?"

"You've done splendidly to this point, Tom, and that lot in the corner seem trustworthy. Go and see what you can find in Jewel Tower and I'll meet you back here-"

Yevgeny cleared his throat.