Bank of Westminster

Chapter 17

Evening, 6:00 p.m., 18 November 1987.

Inner London, Westminster Bank District, Buckingham Palace.

Lanterns, carriages, knights, lions, scarlet carpets, blades and swords, fir trees—all fused into a single sheet of black. From a distance it looked like a forest of lances.

The rain had stopped; the air carried the faint scent of damp stone.

One after another, gentlemen in silk cravats and ladies in jeweled gowns stepped down from carriages. Under the golden glow, petals carpeted the red runner. Lion-Pupil Knights astride towering silver lions dipped into the ancient, unadorned salute reserved for honored guests.

"Why are there so many people at Buckingham tonight?" someone whispered from the shadows.

A quick answer came: "Anthony, eldest son of House Lancelot and Knight-Commander of the Lion-Pupil Knights, was assassinated by that bloodless scion who left the Inside—one of House Constantine's own.

The post of Knight-Commander now lies vacant, and every knightly Law family is pressing their enforcers forward, vying for command of the Lion-Pupil Knights."

Light swept across the darkness, catching the speaker.

"Roni!" The man who had answered rubbed his eyes, half-believing he'd seen a ghost. "Aren't you supposed to be herding sheep in a Scottish glen? What are you doing here?"

"Roni" clapped his shoulder. "Between you and me, I'm on the Lancelots' new security staff here at the Palace. We'll catch up another time."

The shoulder stung; teeth clenched, the speaker watched Roni melt back into shadow.

Since when had his childhood friend grown so strong? And what was this "security" post—some sort of military duty? In recent years the Inside had known peace; Old-Blood, dwarves, elves, even dragons kept to their own. Unless...

He shivered and leaned toward a passer-by. "Is the Fog Day coming again?"

...

Outside the Bath limestone walls of Buckingham Palace, Baron—already dressed as a footman—checked his pocket watch. Following the mansion map Mr. Baggin had provided, he slipped over an untended tangle of rose briars.

"Who's there?" a voice called.

Baron's heart lurched; he had not expected to meet a line of servants wheeling dinner trolleys.

They moved like ghosts—trained in noble etiquette, their footfalls silent beneath the evening clamor.

"You—"

The head footman stared, uncertain. Baron's hand inched toward the revolver beneath his coat.

"What took you so long?" the footman snapped, thrusting the trolley into his hands.

Relief flooded Baron. The Mimic's Chain was working.

Then the footman bent close, breath warm against his ear.

"Number Two saw Freya enter her bedroom a short while ago. Number Three—remember your task. Be quick. When it's done, leave by the hidden door in the art gallery—behind that da Vinci portrait of the young man."

Assassinate Freya? Me? So I'm playing the assassin?

If she dies, what happens to me?

Baron swallowed, offered a calm nod, and pushed the trolley toward Freya's chambers.

Whatever the real motive, he needed only to reach her. Besides, he could use this "mission" to prove his sincerity—two birds, one stone.

...

Across the courtyard, across the scarlet carpet, past the piercing eyes of the Lion-Pupil Knights and the towering Lancelot Monument, Baron navigated the palace's opulent corridors.

He stopped before a white-painted, brass-trimmed door of sessile oak. Two Lion-Pupil Knights stood motionless; he announced himself as a footman bringing refreshments for Lady Lancelot.

One knight lifted the silver cover, pupils flaring emerald as he inspected the pastries. Satisfied, he knocked, explained the visitor's purpose. A bright "Come in" sounded from within.

The door swung inward of its own accord—no one behind it, only a breeze ushering him forward.

Baron slipped into the lamplit bedroom, every step copied from memory—posture, cadence, the exact angle of the wrist as he wheeled the trolley. The moment he crossed the threshold, the Mimic's Chain quietly disengaged. The door shut at his back like a phantom sealing fate.

The room was dark—too dark. A cavernous suite: sitting room, vault, wine cellar—almost a miniature manor within a manor.

Baron set out the plates, one by one, on the sitting-room table. A fresh copy of the Times lay open; he folded it into his containment ring.

Task complete, he turned to leave—then caught the silhouette on the bed, veiled by gauzy curtains.

Time was short.

He bowed. "Lady Freya Lancelot, I offer my sincere apology for the harm I caused you yesterday."

"Ha—ha?" A deep male voice slid effortlessly into a woman's lighter tone, drifting from behind the curtain.

Baron lunged, tore the veil aside—

A size-eleven hairy foot shot out. He caught it, yanked its owner from the sheets.

Golden gorilla met black-haired heartthrob; their eyes locked.

...

"Spare me, young hero! I didn't mean to interrupt your tryst with Lady Freya!"

Jack—full name Jack-Caesar-Napoleon-Hannibal-Bismarck-Tang, Grade-D agent of Westminster People's Bank—squatted in the corner, arms shielding his bruised face.

Baron tried not to dwell on how surreal the night had become, nor on why this golden gorilla's name sounded like a clearance-sale bundle. Calmly, he asked how a Westminster agent had ended up in Freya's boudoir.

"Besides loans, investments, and asset management, we also handle containment," Jack said, sidling to the table for a cookie.

"Containment? Then why are you here?"

Jack chewed, gaze flicking everywhere. "Well... House Lancelot is famous for storing Forbidden Objects. My performance review is coming up—if I drop to Grade-E, I lose my bonus..."

Baron understood: the man was a thief of Forbidden Objects.

"So where's Freya?"

Jack stuffed cherry cake into his mouth. "Dunno. I arrived, didn't see anyone, found the hidden-door switch—then you barged in. So I hid under the covers..."

Baron raised a hand; he already knew the rest.

A knock sounded at the door. The knights outside had decided the footman had overstayed his welcome and were inquiring after Lady Freya's comfort.

Baron hissed for Jack to answer in her voice. Instead, Jack froze, cheeks bulging. A violent spasm shook him; his face turned scarlet.

Then—an enormous, room-shaking belch.

Jack scratched his head. "I know where the hidden door is. Follow me."

...

The bedroom door opened. Two Lion-Pupil Knights stepped inside, hands on sword hilts, calling for Lady Freya.

In the hush of night they received only a dull, muffled sound—the scrape and thud of something sliding shut.