---

Princess

A word daddys call their babies, tiara poised in perfect hair.

A dream-vision Diana for a Gaunt, starving nation,

shaped from infertile earth, a lie detector for a father and grandfather both.

Her mother is fiction, Queen of Moore's Pornotopia.

Kicking Nazi ass in a swimsuit (never noticing).

Trembling needles become golden cords for this pale bound Amazon. Come

add her to your shopping cart!

You watched a royal wedding,

but my Di was hitched for but one awful issue.

Hey: one's a mother, the other virgin. It's Papal approved!

Fingers digging in fishy Afghan soil, brushing off pregnant questions,

never taking her throne.

He wasn't good enough, immortal enough, and retconned the whole

bloody business while Steve went bald.

Hair. Again with the hair. Sensible ash blonde. Impossible black curls.

How long have we dreamed of her empathic blue eyes?

Acteon peeping through the window to snatch her in the shower,

run down by his papparazzi newshounds while she takes

invisible

to the air.

One Artemis, one artifice. Carter to Cartier.

Would these Brian Bolland lips refuse a kiss?

Forget bullets and bracelets,

Dream bed and breakfast.

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Seducing Victoria

Put off your mourning mantle,

Shake off your Alberts,

And rouse your lustful German blood awake.

The white breadcloth of your midwest youth

Fools the groundlings in Manchester,

But inside thirteen secrets cavor all untrammeled --

Burst from your collar to rocket Julian halos.

So let thy eyes change color.

Round the world in myriad complexity;

Multicogitation makes our landscape and

If the sun sets behind corn-color hair

I do not see it.

 

Place your hand upon the Hansom:

Wind and rain has scorched the top,

Springs creak from poor neglect.

The ride is gentle in the park, however,

Tight round the corner and in haste.

The horses strong, the yoke long,

And no more conscientious driver

Thrives in your Imperium.

 

From vessels, halls and abbey flies the Union Jack;

This is the Empire which we wed.

Tara and the Raj smooth our palms with silver

And echoing in the sea-foam vales

Wellington's vassals blow their horns

ÔGainst the Dark Continent.

Ten thousand Paynim cannot stop

The Maxim and the Nordenfelt.

Even in our heart the exploitation cancers;

Stone walls are the safe redoubt of peer and poor.

Our fathers in the Marshalsea

Leave the alleys to the bounders,

The adventuress pale in conspicuous consumption,

Toiling bodies and absinthe brains.

We blame hysteria

And market floor-mount Marvels to save a doctor's hands.

Are Burton's feet still readable in this sand?

We must make Meccans of ourselves,

Hail purple Night Mail

And subvert.

 

There -- our guides unseen, inaudible;

Mark him by his scars. Without them

He ineffable is. Half flight, half

Laborous beast, a heraldic monster

And his alleywise companion,

The Napoleon of feline crime.

Shadows house horrors that

Perforate our jaded paradigms,

For down this street Wallachia's monarch came interred

Sheathed in loam, driven by madness.

He would tie the red kerchief round her throat,

Dance the token Texan to his death,

And place a new Lucy in the firmament

Before Continental doctors had their way with him,

Crucified to tropes for our amusement.

Forgive them father, and he hears, absolves:

No academic theory can assault

That mystic night by Lake Leman

When all our terrors were born.

Follow the spirit through Polidori's lips --

Oh, his heart --

The adoring passion for his high-browed lord!

Now out his ear on path Promethean

As Mary Ð holy, bloody Mary Ð

Pulls taut the silk and bites it off:

Sew one, pearl two, and the gore is rancid on thy tongue.

Put acid to the plate of culture

And burn your way in with heady chemistry:

Lightning bolted to the manly neck É

Beakers fume and bubble É

A peal of thunder the final seed É

And It's Alive!

 

Across the ripples of the lonely pond

A mason works,

Brick to brick with mortar makes

A manor of a mausoleum.

What bouquet lurks in the dark liquors of his cellars!

A knife backed by limbs orangutan.

Rodents in the Cliffside, we que for it by name

While Ahab's mate mans his gurgling cask

And winks from a watery grave.

One by one we all come

To the lip of that clammy pool

Lured by "Come buy, come buy."

A penny to lay me a lullaby

Kneeling before our scaly green-eyed monster

Till, haunted by my father's ghost

I bloom spiral Ôneath the wine-dark sea,

Make a boast of ruined columns,

Glide in orichalcan domes

And, jewels for eyes, no mere man,

I am brother to zeppelins.

 

Seventy two thrumming blades

Hoist us robust into the middle air.

Darcy, Fogg and Kelvin grace the Promenade

Pining for the luminescent Jane;

Udolpho could not make her come, but her

Rejection was so sly I had it framed.

There it hangs Ð by the capstan.

An insidious doctor and the Beast

Crouch in the speedy library, intruders both.

He an interloper from another time,

A retrogressive shadow with serpent eyes

Too compelling to ignore,

While It, prolific mystery,

Turns his back on dawn and

Conjures angels with a pack of cards.

Gabriel walks the line of smart pressed

Boiler-men that work the gauges.

"Steam!" he cries, "Steam lads Steam!

It's ninety leagues to the Himalayas."

Lost Shamballa under cloudy cloak,

Round Karnak and the Giza plain

To Alamut and many-storied Irem.

Quarter speed cross Maple White Land

Where rabid pterodactyls swoop and hover.

Raise a glass at Gladys Lake to ape-like genius.

Jam your thumb in the eye of the Academy, Professor!

We'll follow three-toed footprints up smoking mountain slopes,

Use them as we use our dogs,

Until through darkness come we

To the lamp-lit shore within this lifeless crust.

Your pardon, Arronax;

Is there room at your table for a hundred rude mechanics, skin like chalk?

Teeth sharpened and hunger stoked?

I bring them and their flower-children brides to form a union.

In this way our little life is rounded

Over sidelong shoulders with a glance.

The little death of genre goes unfounded;

Resuscitate a Fiction to Romance.

Twin hypnotic wells of inspiration,

When deconstructed lecterns pitch and yaw,

Nurse a growing aimless generation

And offer solace to the Man of Law.

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The Emperor's Mission

Author's Note: This young adult novel is complete. I include the first three chapters here as a sample of the overall project; that being said I am personally not satisfied with the first couple of chapters. I find the initial transport to Arthurian Britain to be clunky. Once Lizzie and Nate get there, however, I happen to think this book rocks. If you are interested in reading more of The Emperor's Mission, just drop me a line.

• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2
• Chapter 3

THE EMPEROR'S MISSION
Volume One of The Millers' Tale

an original novel by

Jason Tondro

 

PRELUDE

"How do you hide an entire bloody house."

The frustration in Agravaine's voice was plain, but his companion had no immediate answer. Both men were well armed with swords, bows, and long knives, their torsos covered in thick leather jerkins that protected them from casual injury without making too much noise. This was no time for the heavy armor that, as knights, they were entitled to wear.

"She's not mortal like you or I," the other man said in a tight hiss as he scoured the soft earth of the forest for sign of his quarry. "She's half a demon, or something like that. Sure and certain her brother Merlin was a thing ethereal."

Agravaine grinned, a lopsided vicious expression that resembled the edge of a knife. "Merlin's not so frightening. Not for a long time."

At this, the other man looked up, and for a moment it seemed as if he might cuff his more talkative companion alongside the head. But the motion was restrained at the last instant, and he just glowered, murmuring, "Let us not disturb his spirit by tempting fate. Silence, lord, I beseech you, else she will hear us coming and all our pains will be for naught."

Turning, bow at the ready, he trotted quickly off into the thickening woods forcing Agravaine to follow, muttering under his breath.

 

In truth, it is not difficult to hide a house if you are doing so in a dense forest where the trails are hard to see, and if the house is actually but a single room cottage, and if you have chosen the location carefully to be obscured by the rise of a hill on one side and the sound of a quick moving stream on the other. It was inside this cottage that Ganeida, Merlin's sister, slept.

Sleeping had been a desperation tactic. Despite her efforts, disaster had struck Arthur's realm and now there was virtually nothing left. The King himself was in France leading an army against his best friend. Here in Britain, the Queen was a prisoner of Mordred, who ruled in all but name. Once, Camelot had been a place of peace and plenty, the Round Table an instrument of justice and equality. Where had things gone so desperately wrong?

And so she had slept.

To a sorceress like Ganeida, sleep was not merely a way for the flesh to recover from a long day's work. For the right kind of sleep allowed her to dream, and to dream was to enter another world -- a place of symbols, a place far removed from southern Britain in the last days of Arthur, a place where she might ask for help and pray to be heard.

It had taken her nearly a week to prepare. There were herbs and roots to find and to mix, stars and planets to observe and align, and she had been forced to go three days without food in order to purify herself. In the old days this would not have been much of an inconvenience, but Ganeida was not as young as she used to be and she had been hard pressed to bring the firewood in from outside, weakened as she was without food. But at last all was ready, the tiny cottage was hot and the air thick with the raging fire. She drank the potion she had made and, head already swimming, she found her way to the bed just as the earth vanished and the hundred hands of sleep reached out to make her their guest.

The air was thin but the moonlight bright, and she found her dream-self shivering in the cold by the side of a road. A carriage was coming, and she waited for it. She had far to go this night, and she would need to travel quickly. She did know how long she would be able to remain in this space. The horse-drawn coach slowed to a stop, the four beasts breathing misty clouds in the otherwise silent evening. There was a driver, but she paid him no mind, mounting the step hurriedly and closing the thin wooden door behind her. The bench inside was hard and uncomfortable. She fidgeted and kept her attention focused outside the window.

She had thought long and hard about the problem, and although subtle craft had always been her way -- a word in the ear of the King, or a false rumor to lure an ally away from harm -- she was forced to admit that perhaps the time for an army had come. Even if Arthur returned from France, he would be outnumbered by Mordred's troops, who were younger and much in love with the headstrong usurper. The great deeds of the Round Table were just stories to these knaves and bullies; they wanted action and Mordred gave it to them. By taking the throne and besieging the Queen he had shown his hand at last and the King would have no choice but to meet him on the field of battle. If he was to triumph, he would need help.

So she was looking for kings. In the carriage of her dreams she rode the highways of space and time seeking princes and potentates with an army at their command. Leaders by name and lineage -- men possessed of that peculiar majesty that prompted others to lay down life and livelihood. If she could find a king, she could find an army. And if she found an army, she would find hope.

 

"Ah," sighed Agravaine, looking over the other man's shoulder at the tiny cottage hidden in the trees. A trail of smoke led up from its chimney, and it had been through this that they had found it at last. Pure luck, but that's not what Agravaine would tell his brother Mordred when they returned to London. It was skill and cunning that had brought them to Ganeida's cottage, and the weight of that skill and cunning would belong to Agravaine. Who would know better?

His companion crept silently out from cover and began moving towards the house. He froze when a blur of motion sped out of the corner of his sight and vanished round the back of the house, but it was too fast for an arrow to hit and by the time he realized it was a cat, it was gone.

"We have to hurry," he said over his shoulder.

 

She had to hurry. Ganeida did not know how long she had been searching, but she had yet to find what she sought. Her spectral driver had taken the coach over trackless field and rugged slope. Invisible, only a dream, she had gone from Iberia to Constantinople. Twice she had sensed an earthly lord that would serve her purpose, and twice she had approached. Both times the figure had withdrawn into the mists of sleep almost in a panic, somehow sensing her ethereal form despite the dream stuff of which she was made. As if they recognized her errand and found it terrifying, they fled and she could not find them. Now Melpominee, her familiar creature, was biting Ganeida's palm in her bed -- a sure sign that danger loomed.

If she woke now, half-starved and insensate from drugs and sorcery, she would be worse than helpless. In her youth her magic had been efficacious and swift; she could have turned her assailants into toads or, her personal favorite, barnyard animals. But those days were long gone and she had paid the price for her profligate ways. Now she had only once choice: to complete her mission before time ran out. If she could.

Suddenly, the carriage began to jostle and bounce as the driver took her over a narrow lane paved in cobbles. With a word from her, the pace eased, and she was able to focus on the place her dream had taken her. It was a city, that much was clear, but a city unlike any she had ever known. It was cleaner, for one, without the sewage in the street and the animals running free that was true in London and, in fact, in every city in the land save Camelot only. The carriage had led her by silent command to the seat of government of this land -- wherever it was -- and when she glanced up she saw a peculiar flag high atop a building. All white it was, whiter than snow, and upon it was a bear walking patiently from right to left. There were words about it, but she could not read them. What land was this? She had no idea. From her vantage she could see down a steep hill towards the sea. There were buildings and people all round, though of course none of them saw her. She was just a dream.

With a clacking noise, the latch of the carriage door came open. Her hand hurt; Melpominee was biting hard. Clenching her fist to help keep out the pain, she stepped out into the street and noticed at once a man on the opposite corner. As couples walked by him the men tipped their hats and the women looked sidelong, queer expressions on their faces, embarrassed and curious at the same time. As she approached, she scrutinized him.

His coat was long, bright blue as a robin's egg. Short, rather ungainly in appearance, he made up for this deficiency with a tall hat in the same bright blue, marked with a white feather. There was a sword at his side and Ganeida took comfort in this. A man who wore a sword was a soldier, and could command other men to lift their swords as well. Here, she had to hope, she had found her army.

By now she had drawn near, and after waving with one plump, nimble hand to a gravely-dressed gentleman, he turned his gaze to her. A smile appeared, nestled comfortable in a brown beard and mustache. "Good morning, madam," he said. "I so seldom entertain guests."

And she realized, with a suddenness that took the breath out of her, that it was morning -- a bright, beautiful, warming sunlight pierced her thin nightgown and heated her limbs, making her feel better than she had felt in many long days. Those delighted brown eyes of his, welcoming and grateful, stunned her and she faltered. Not only could he see her, and this was surprise enough, but he was actually glad to see her.

"Good morning to you, lord ..."

He doffed his hat, making the gesture appear exceedingly generous. Bowing his head, he said, "Emperor Norton." And then, perhaps fearing that she, being foreign, would confuse him with some other Norton -- who administered the mill, perhaps, or owned a pig farm down by the lake -- he added, "Norton the First. Emperor of our United States of America."

The name meant nothing to her and she didn't have time to inquire. "My lord Emperor," she said, sketching a quick curtsey on the street corner, "I come to you to ask for a boon. Not for myself, but for the people of Britain."

The short Emperor hummed at this, replacing his hat and now ignoring the couples that walked by. They were staring more pointedly now, and another man in dark blue clothes gave a disapproving glance, but none dared approach. Ganeida realized that even if Norton could see her the rest of these souls could not, and they must wonder that their ruler had gone mad, talking to spirits that were not there.

"Much love exists between us and our cousins across the sea," the aging man said. "What is the nature of your plight?"

"My lord, His Majesty Arthur Pendragon, King of Britain, has been betrayed by his own son. Prince Mordred has taken the throne and even now lays siege to the Queen in London. The King returns from France with what remains of his army, but his allies are few. The bulk of the army stands with Mordred."

Norton stroked his beard. His fingers were like little sausages, his nails perfectly trimmed and his skin fresh. Ganeida had not seen such well-manicured hands since the heights of Camelot's glory, when there had been little else for knights to do but see to their own cleanliness and dress. Her own hand was now dull and throbbing. Melpominee had fled. That meant the intruders, whoever they were, were in the house.

"Calm thy nerves, madam," said the Emperor, gesturing placidly with one hand. "Of course I shall help you. I would be remiss in my duties as chief of state, not to mention as a gentleman, if I did not."

A wave of relief swept over her.

"I cannot go myself, of course. His Majesty has many duties to attend to. But I shall send someone to help you."

The wave pulled back, leaving Ganeida groping for support. "Someone? But ... Your Majesty. Great Emperor. Only armies can save us now."

"Oh nonsense. Armies are far more trouble than they're worth. Besides, how am I supposed to get an army to you? Have you ever talked to a soldier? All business they are. Supply lines and tactics and how to get from here to there in as little time as possible. Balderdash. Besides, there's no army in the world that can reach you where you are now, madam. Only dreamers, poets and painters can reach Camelot by way of California. Children are especially good," he said profoundly, nodding his head. "Especially good. Perhaps I will send you one of those."

She nearly erupted into a frenzy. Her fingers were like claws. What was wrong with this man? "Are you insane?"

Solemn, so solemn, he nodded. "Why, of course, madam. Ask anyone, they'll tell you. I'm utterly mad."

And she realized he was right. That was how he had seen her when all others had failed. That was why the people round here stared and whispered and giggled as they passed. She had found her savior, and he had turned out to be a madman.

"But enough of that," Norton insisted, for now he was all business. His expression was screwed up into a knot as if he was calculating higher mathematics. "If you are really worried, then I shall send two children." He held up fingers in a V pattern. "That should be more than enough. Can't imagine anything more clever than two children. Now then, when did these troubles of yours start."

"What? At ... at the very beginning of things, I suppose." She thought back, to the awful beginning. To the things that had led to Mordred being born, and the love between Lancelot and the Queen. "Yes," she decided. "Yes, the seeds of our destruction were planted before Arthur was even crowned."

Norton hemmed and shifted back and forth from one foot to another. "Well now, that makes things difficult, doesn't it?" he said. "Very well. I'll send you some help quite early, so that you are sure to have it when you need it. It is the only way to be sure. But you had best make them welcome, because they will be a very long way from home."

She was about to reply when she realized she could not breathe. It was a strange sensation. She put her hand to her throat, puzzled. No. No it wasn't working. She definitely could not breathe. Her lips opened, closed, opened again. Norton blinked a few times and stared at her.

"Madam, are you quite all right?"

Fireworks seemed to go off in her brain. She swayed on her feet, nearly toppling over. Her body was screaming for air but there was none to be had. Everything was going dark around her. The ocean tilted crazily, spun around and settled. She saw the bright blue sky high above and the seabirds, circling. Norton's face veered into view. Still, she could not breathe. Her throat and her lungs were paralyzed. She tried to reach up, reach out, but her limbs were too weak, too frail, too old.

Small choking sounds popped out of her as Norton watched, stunned into silence, until finally her body sagged in his arms and fell to the boardwalk, an ethereal corpse that none but a madman could see.

 

Agravaine watched, dry-mouthed and wide-eyed, as the other man withdrew his hands from Ganeida's mouth and nose. The sorceress' body lay there unmoving, her pale skin already turning blue. Black hair was strewn about the pillow, but it had been like that when they arrived. "I cannot believe you did that," Agravaine whispered, though he had not meant to.

The murderer looked up at him and stood. "It's perfect for us," he said. "Now we can leave her here and there's no evidence of a crime. No injury, not even a struggle. Just a woman who died in her sleep."

"It is true," Agravaine admitted, a note of admiration and horror in his voice. "You are the Knight Without Pity."

FROM CALIFORNIA TO CAMELOT

CHAPTER ONE

"You would have done much better on the math test if you would have studied."

Nathan just jammed his hands into his coat and said, "So what. I don't care. So I got a D in math. We can't all be brilliant like you and read Shakespeare."

His sister Elizabeth adjusted her grip on the backpack she carried over one shoulder. "You mean you can't be brilliant and read Shakespeare like me."

"That's what I said."

"No you didn't. You said..." But one look at her older brother and she could see from the narrow squint of his eyes that it was useless to talk to him. "Never mind," she said meekly, and he nodded, looking away. They had twenty more minutes to walk home from school, and not a word would pass between them until then.

It just wasn't fair, he thought. She was right. She always was. That was the problem with her. He was fifteen, she was fourteen, he was supposed to be the one with all the answers. It wasn't enough that she was already taller than he was. Nathan was still cataloging all the many ways in which life was unjust when he realized that Elizabeth was slowing down next to him and looking with a tight and pensive expression across the street. There was a short bald man there in a long coat, standing kitty-corner across the intersection and watching them intensely. Around his waist was a fancy belt, and something metallic hung from it, nearly reaching the ground.

"What's wrong," Nathan asked, somewhat pleased to see his sister afraid. "It's just a bum."

By now she had actually come to a complete stop, and she clutched her backpack straps with nervous hands. "He's disgusting." Suddenly her eyes grew wide, and her entire body tensed. "Oh my god he's coming over."

Indeed he was. Nathan watched as the strange man strode straight across the intersection, oblivious to the cars which suddenly slammed on their brakes and jerked to a stop in the middle of the street. Someone shouted at him but he did not notice. The coat was flapping with the steady stroke of his legs, and the metal shaft hanging off his belt stuck out back like a bizarre steel tail.

"Let's run."

Nathan actually laughed. "Oh, come on Liz. He's just an old weird guy. He won't try anything."

Her response was a hissed whisper. "What if he does?"

Nate shrugged. "Then I'll thrash him."

That earned Elizabeth's disbelieving gaze, and she was so dumbfounded by the impossibility of her brother's statement that she did not even realize the stranger was standing there until she suddenly smelled him.

"Oh god you stink."

She backed up behind her brother, who grinned at the newcomer and gestured to his belt. "Hey, is that a sword? Can I see it?"

The short, scrawny, bald man just stared at them. His beard looked like a bird's nest, so tangled and thick it was with knots and brambles. The once-proud coat was the faded color of old jeans, but broad epaulets of dingy gold stuck out like wings on his shoulders so that he appeared to be the captain of an ancient sailing vessel. Gold buttons, fat and fake, dribbled down the line of the coat, which was torn in several places. Boots were covered in road dust and adorned with a set of tassels that were distinctly non-masculine. He did indeed smell quite bad, but it was not the smell of beer nor cigarettes. It was sweat. Nathan felt the man's deep brown eyes look him over for a long moment, before he finally spoke.

"It is not a sword, young man. It is a saber. Don't you know the difference?" The accent sounded faintly English. It took a minute to extract the saber in question from its dull metallic sheath, but when it was exposed he held it out with both hands, showing it to Nathan. A glance backward and Nathan verified that his sister had gone from merely afraid to terrified, now that an actual weapon intended for the harm of others was naked in the stranger's hands.  "A saber," the old man continued, "is designed for use from horseback. Therefore it has a swept blade and only one edge, whereas when you say sword you are probably intending a long, straight, two edged infantry weapon."

It looked cheap and fake, with a handle of imitation pearl that was probably plastic. There were words written down the side of the blade, but Nathan could not read them. He was disappointed to see that it was not sharp, but despite the saber's tawdry pawn-shop appearance there was something thrilling and seductive about it. Nate wondered what it would feel like in his hand. Would it cut things. Could you really fight with something like this, as they did in movies.

"What does that say?"

"Ah." A fly buzzed round the man's head as he made a sage-like nod. "That is Latin. It reads ÔIn Hoc Signo Vinces.' Which is to say, ÔWith this sign, you shall conquer.' Do you know who used to say that?" Suddenly the bum on the street had turned into Mister Cunningham, Nathan's history teacher. The boy just shook his head. "No? Well, it is a long story. We don't really have the time now. But we always have time for basic courtesy." With an unsteady hand, the saber was replaced at his belt, and once again the back of his coat stuck out in a shameful way. "You don't know who I am, so I should introduce myself." He stood a little straighter, and squared his shoulders back, before saying, "I am Norton the First, Emperor of the United States." Then he bowed.

Nathan grinned. "We already have a President. I don't think we need an Emperor, too."

"Now, young man, that is no way to speak to a head of state."

"Oh, right. Right. Sorry, your highnessness."

"I prefer Your Majesty." But with a wave of his hand that unintentionally dismissed that persistent fly, Norton continued. "As I say we are running out of time and I must be brief. I need you to do something for me. It is very important. A lady in distress has asked for my help and, although she is not an Imperial citizen, nonetheless I feel obligated as a gentleman to come to her aid. Alas, I would be of precious little help to her in person, so I have decided to send you." He paused a moment and smiled with the few teeth remaining in his mouth. It was a ghastly sight that made Elizabeth -- nearly forgotten -- gasp in revulsion. "Oh," Norton added absently, "and your sister."

She almost screamed. "You know that we're brother and sister?" she said, panicked. "Have you been watching us? Are you a stalker or something? Nathan, come on." Reaching out, she grabbed her brother's shirt and started to pull. "Come on!"

Nate's answering exclamation did nothing to release his sister's grip, and he was forced to stagger along with her a couple of steps. He pried at her desperate hand. Sure, he had to admit that Norton was probably an insane serial killer wanted by the FBI, but he was ... interesting. He was unusual and strange. Nate did not want to go. He struggled with his sister but she would not release his shirt. The situation was made more complicated by the simple fact that this shirt was his favorite: his Chicago Bulls shirt that his father had purchased for him before Jordan retired the second time.

"Let go!" But she would not.

"Young man, young lady." Norton gestured with both hands, palms down, as he tried to calm them. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Please control yourselves. This is a very delicate matter and loud shouting or running or anything of the sort will only make this more difficult."

To Elizabeth, this warning sounded just like the last thing every Hollywood murderer said to his victim just before the blood starting spurting. She simply bolted across the street. Her death grip on Nathan's shirt did not break, and he had no choice but to follow her. He stumbled, swearing. She was such a girl! There were people all around, did she think that Norton would try something when everyone was driving by in ...

... Cars. There were cars heading straight for them. Nate heard the squealing of tires, the sharp blast of a horn. He even saw the angry face of a driver, swearing at the foolish kids who had gotten in his way.

That was the last thing Nathan and Elizabeth saw before the Dodge Daytona hit them both and knocked them to the blacktop like toys.

 

Back to the Emperor's Mission      Back to Top

CHAPTER TWO

"Is she alive?"

The first thing Elizabeth felt was a rock in her back. Right in between her shoulders. She tried to get up, and realized she hurt. All over. When her eyes opened, she was looking straight up into the sky and an older boy was kneeling down on the ground next to her.

"I think so," he said, to someone off to the right. He had an accent. The sun was shining right down in her face and at first Elizabeth had a hard time seeing what he looked like. But he took her hand and helped her sit up, and she saw he had brown hair in a soup-bowl haircut, with kind brown eyes. He looked perhaps sixteen. "You seem to have escaped harm, mistress," he said. He had a nice smile. "You are fortunate."

"Am I?" she said. "Thank you. Where's my brother?" That was when she looked around, and stopped talking.

The street corner was gone. The strange old man was gone. Broadway, the 7-11 and the cars, even the sidewalk and the rest of the city. It was all gone. Instead, she was on a stone road covered in dirt and mud. Grassy hills and barren fields went for miles, as far as she could see. More than a dozen horses, most with riders but others loaded with big cloth-covered bundles, stood waiting patiently in the middle of the road. Over a dozen men were standing about idly, and she saw Nate getting up not far away. Another young man, a few years older than Elizabeth, was helping him stand.

Nate was looking all around, periscoping his head this way and that. Then he met Elizabeth's eyes and they both realized they were in big trouble.

"Hi." She smiled at the boy kneeling next to her, and he smiled back, patting her a little on the shoulder and then getting to his feet.

"Father," he said, to a barrel-chested man with graying hair cut in the same way as his son's. "I think she's going to be all right." Turning back to her, he said, "This is my father, Sir Ector. And my brother, Sir Kay," he added, pointing to the young man by Nathan. "I'm Arthur."

Something about those names was familiar, but Elizabeth was too confused by what had happened. "I'm Elizabeth. That's my brother Nathan." With a quick flutter, she waved her brother over. "Nate? Come here."

He wasn't paying attention to her, looking up at the sky and at the horses and men in uniform. Elizabeth had to walk over and grab him by the elbow. "Nathan! What's going on!"

"How am I supposed to know? But I recognize their names. I think I'm dreaming."

"But then I'm having the same dream! Maybe I'm dreaming, and you're just in it."

"This can't be your dream," he insisted, pointing to the boy. "Because that's King Arthur."

Elizabeth scrutinized the boy who had helped her up. He appeared to be getting a lecture from his father. In an outfit of brown leather that was stained from travel on the road, he didn't look at all like a king.

"King Arthur?"

Nathan gave her that look he used when he knew something she didn't. It made her feel stupid, which was why he did it. Thankfully, there wasn't much he knew that she didn't, so he didn't get to use it very often. "No one knew who Arthur was before he drew the Sword from the Stone. His brother Kay there is just a liar and a cheat, and Ector, who was not fat on television by the way, isn't really Arthur's father. His real father is Uther Pendragon, but no one knows that except Merlin."

"You watched all this on television?"

He looked angry, which meant that she was right. "Oh that's just wonderful. I feel so much better now. We could be trapped in Camelot, with no way to get home, and the only clue we have is thanks to the Discovery Channel."

"Dad made me watch it when I got a C- on that history test."

She had to shush him quiet then, because Kay was coming over. He didn't look like the older boys she had seen in school, even the seniors who were close to graduation. His arms were thick and muscular, and his torso built to match. He wore a green sleeveless shirt over a second gray undershirt that was tighter and covered his arms with long sleeves. Ordinarily she would have laughed at any man who was wearing tights, as Kay was, but since he had legs thick as a dinosaur she realized he didn't actually look too bad. A cloak was pinned at his right shoulder with a beautiful clasp studded with emeralds. It was nicer than anything her mother had in her jewelry box back home.

"We were riding along when you ran out onto the road," he said in a gruff tone. He didn't seem happy to have been interrupted. Elizabeth immediately decided Kay was rather rude and thoughtless.

"It's not our fault," she said. "A man was chasing us."

Kay frowned. "Is your family close by?" he asked.

"No. We live far away." It was the best she could come up with.

Kay gave her a skeptical look. He was not satisfied. "Your mother and father. What are their names?"

"The Millers. Allen and Mary Miller."

Ector was approaching now, and he exchanged a glance with his older son before looking the up and down. "You are not dressed as millers," he said. "But then, you are not at all dressed in any way that I recognize."

Elizabeth looked down at the denim jeans she was wearing, along with a long sleeve purple top. Suddenly she realized she was cold. It had been warm in California, but the sky here was covered in gray clouds and the wind was freezing. The fields were lifeless beside the road and what few trees she could see were skeletal, reaching out with empty fingers. It was winter. She wrapped her arms around herself and said to Ector, "We were walking home and a man attacked us. We got in an accident, but our parents are the Millers. I'm not lying."

The man nodded, watching Lizzie closely. Apparently he decided she was telling the truth, "We have not time to escort you home, but I will send one of my footmen to help you the rest of the way. By your dress, it is clear your mill must be close. You would never make a long journey in such light garments. Can you describe the man who was chasing you? If he is a brigand or a thief, he should be seized at once."

She worriedly looked at Nate. Ector would send them "home," but home wasn't a place they could get to by walking. To stall for time, she answered Ector's question, describing the man that had stopped them on the street corner. "About your height," she said, "but very thin. Perhaps he hasn't eaten in a while. He's wearing a long coat of faded blue, and has brown hair with a mustache and beard. And he smells. Very badly," she added, making sure that Ector got that part.

While Ector passed this information on to a pair of his soldiers, she whispered in her brother's ear. "What are we going to do?"

"We have to stay near Arthur," he whispered back. "That way eventually we will meet Merlin. If anyone can send us back it will be Merlin."

She nodded. That made sense. But how were they going to persuade Ector to let them stay instead of sending them wandering across the English countryside? Already Ector and Kay were watching them as they whispered to each other. "Sir Ector?" she asked then, "Where are you going with all these men and horses?"

"The great lords of Britain, and the Archbishop, and the Bishops, have called all knights to London in order that a king might be chosen."

"And we are wasting time," said Kay. "We are almost there."

Ector gestured Kay down with the palm of one hand. "Calm yourself, my son. We shall be on our way soon. Arthur, fetch Robert, and tell him to pack a day's worth of supplies to escort these two youths to their home." Arthur nodded, and walked quickly off. He seemed quick to obey his father, unlike many boys she knew.

This time it was Nate who leaned over and whispered to Elizabeth. "I know what to do." Then his voice rose and he said, "Sir Ector, we need to talk to you for a minute in private. Before you send us away."

The old knight frowned at this disruption. "I am a man of patience, young master Miller, but not without limit. Already I have offered to lead you home and track down the villain who accosted you. What else do you require?"

"My sister and I only need a minute," he said. "I could say it aloud, in front of everyone, but I don't think you want me to do that."

That sounded a bit too much like a threat, and Elizabeth could see sour expressions on many of the men standing about, including Kay. Trying not to be noticed, she walked over to her backpack which lay on the ground where she had fallen. Elizabeth didn't know what was going to happen next, but her books and diary were in that bag, and she didn't want to lose it. As she slid it over her arms, she shivered from the cold.

"Very well," Ector said, but he was suspicious. He walked away from Kay, towards the side of the road where the grass nearly covered a large white stone. They both followed closely. When all three of them were far enough away, Ector gave Nathan a look that only parents could give, and said, "Now then, young master, what is this all about?"

Nate looked back towards the others. Arthur had rejoined his brother and was looking over anxiously. "I know all about Arthur," he said at once. "I know that he's not your son, and that Merlin gave him to you as a baby. I know about the Sword in the Stone and Camelot, and I think you ought to take us with you to London."

Ector blinked. He didn't say anything. Suddenly, he wasn't angry anymore; he was intrigued. His voice was a quick whisper, as if he was afraid Kay and Arthur could hear from where they stood so far away. "You know?" he asked. "God's teeth, how? You know the future?"

"A little, yes. Enough. And if you don't take us to London, I may have to start telling people the truth about Arthur. You don't want that, do you?"

Lizzie hid her face behind one hand. For a moment she had thought Nathan might actually be able to get them out of this, but he was back to his usual ways, alienating everyone he met. Ector's expression was angry once more. "Master Miller," he said in a cold and dangerous tone, "I am a knight of the realm, and not used to being threatened, especially by children. I do not think I like it. Now I don't know how you came by the knowledge you have, and I do not claim to understand everything you have said, but I will remind you that I could have you clapped in irons or simply slaughtered and there would be nothing you could do about it."

Elizabeth had to act before Nate ruined everything. Stepping between the two, she put a hand on Ector's sleeve and said, "Wait, please. I'm sorry my brother is so rude. We just need to stay with Arthur for a little while. We won't tell anyone what we know. Just help us, please? We're not going to hurt anyone."

Lizzie watched Ector's dark gray eyes as he decided what to do. She could usually tell if her pretty smile was going to work on someone, and this time she was right. Ector wasn't as hardened as he pretended to be. His pride had been roused, and his concern for Arthur, but he was, in his heart, a man who wanted to help others. "Very well," he said at last. "I shall take the two of you as far as London and the tournament, on one condition." He held up a finger and then pointed at the both of them. "You must not tell Arthur any of this. Merlin swore me to secrecy, and the boy thinks I am his father. I love him as if he were my own. If you tell him anything at all I will split your heads like melons. Do I make myself clear?"

She had heard enough lecture from her parents to know what to say. "Perfectly clear, sir." Turning, she led Nathan back towards the horses. "Why do you have to insult people all the time?" she hissed at him. "Does everything have to be a fight?"

 

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CHAPTER THREE

There were no horses to spare, so Nathan and Elizabeth walked. Arthur joined them, loaning his horse to another. "London isn't far," he said. "Only about ten more miles. We should be there before nightfall." The thought of walking ten miles didn't make either of them happy, but Arthur hardly seemed to mind, so it was no good complaining. Elizabeth certainly didn't want to talk about her home or her family, so she asked Arthur questions instead. Boys were always happy to talk about themselves.

Arthur's father was a knight with land in Britain and Wales. That meant he was wealthy, but there were others even more wealthy. As Arthur explained it, it seemed to Elizabeth that knights, barons, dukes and kings were organized like a corporation back home. There were people at the top, and people on the bottom. The ones on the bottom were farmers whom Arthur called serfs. They worked the land, but didn't own it. Instead, they paid rent to their landlord, who was a knight. Since they were poor and had no money, they usually paid with food that they grew on the farm, or animals they raised. Knights were higher up on the pyramid, but they didn't really own the land either. They answered to lords, who were even higher up. First there were baronets and then barons, then earls and dukes. Everyone in the system had someone above them, called their liege, and someone below them, called a vassal.

"Except for the man on top," said Nathan. "The king doesn't have to answer to anyone."

Arthur sighed. "Ah, but there is our problem, master Miller, for we have no single king who is liege over all men and women. Instead, we have many kings and dukes and other lords, all of whom answer to none but themselves. And they make war on each other for land and wealth while the people on the bottom suffer."

"It sounds to me," Elizabeth said, "like knights have all the privileges while the serfs get nothing."

For a while Arthur was silent, and Lizzie thought she had hurt his feelings. "For many, that is true, mistress Miller," he said at last. "Perhaps even for most. You see, the lords of Britain have not fulfilled their end of the bargain. A liege is obligated to help his vassals. To protect them from harm, and see to their welfare. And the taxes that the serfs pay should go to build bridges and strong castles and even mills like those your parents operate. But in these dark times the lords prefer to fight each other while the Saxons invade our homes."

"Who?"

"The Saxons," Arthur explained. "They come from across the sea. King Vortigern -- who ruled in the days of my grandfather -- fought many wars and he needed mercenaries, so he hired the Saxons to help him. They helped him all right, and then they helped themselves to our harbors, our villages, and our crops. They're settled now, raising families. We can't get rid of them. They're not far from here, either." Arthur pointed ahead, the way they were walking. "Just past London their territory begins. The city has been attacked many times."

"Why don't you all join forces and defeat them?" asked Nathan.

"It's no use," said Arthur, sadly. "When one lord tries to fight the Saxons, the other lords attack him while he's distracted."

"That's awful," Elizabeth said in sympathy.

Arthur just nodded, quite depressed. "That is why the Archbishop called the lords together. At the tournament they will finally pick one king to bring peace and justice to all England. We've never had a tournament before," he said, a sudden smile appearing. "It's a French thing. Hopefully whoever wins will be able to draw the Sword from the Stone. Kay will be fighting." He was clearly very proud of his brother. "He was knighted two months ago, and is an excellent fighter and rider, so don't think he was knighted just because father is old and needs an heir."

Lizzie didn't know what to think, but nodded anyway and said, "Go on."

Arthur told them about the tournament while Nate asked many questions. All the knights, their squires, and anyone else brave enough to try would crowd onto a field to fight until only one person was left standing. They were to use blunt weapons instead of their usual ones, to keep casualties to a minimum, but even so it was certain that some competitors would die. "There will be hundreds of knights there," Arthur told them. "It's dangerous, but much less so than real war. And no innocent farmers will get hurt as they do in true war."

That made sense to Elizabeth, but then Nathan asked, "Do you think I could fight in the tournament?"

"Nathan!" she said. "There is no way that you are going to put on armor and swing a sword around like Conan!"

They argued about it for some time, with Elizabeth imagining what their parents would say, and Nathan laughing and insisting everything would be fine. The debate did not end until Arthur asked Nate how experienced he was with a sword or spear. When Nathan had to admit that he had never even held anything like that, let alone used one, Arthur said, "Then I wouldn't fight in the tournament if I were you, master Nathan. Some of these men have been killing Saxons -- and each other -- for twenty years. I do not think they would worry much if they added one miller's son to the pile. They are bloodthirsty men who do as they please with no one to stop them."

By this time it was getting even colder. Arthur had found wool cloaks for each of them, which helped. Everyone's feet were hurting. It was impossible to see the sun for a long while because of the dark clouds, but eventually it sank low enough that their backs were lit with a haunting sunset. They reached the crest of a hill, and Arthur said, quite excited, "There it is! There's London!"

"It's ... small," Elizabeth said.

From where they were, the three of them could see the entire city, which was surrounded by a stone wall. The river flowed along the right side, and a single bridge led across to the far shore. Several roads wound towards the walls from all directions, and the city was surrounded by the tents and pavilions of hundreds of knights. The fields were probably barren this time of year, but there were far too many men and horses to fit comfortably inside the walls and little bare earth could be seen among the bright scarlets, blues, greens and whites of the lordly camps.

"We landed in London's airport last Christmas," Lizzie said, "and it was much bigger than this. Ten million people live there. Or more." She couldn't remember the precise number.

Arthur laughed. "Ten million? Oh no, Elizabeth. Ten thousand perhaps. It is the largest city in all England, but there's no city that big in all the world."

She shook her head. "One day, Arthur, this city is going to be enormous. A hundred times this big." She made a sweeping gesture across the landscape. "It will be on both sides of the river and people will come from all over the world to see it. And it will have a Queen, but no King."

Arthur was nodding and watching her, as if she was saying something very important, but Nathan just shook his head and laughed. By now the rest of Ector's men had walked past them over the rise, and they had to hurry to catch up. Lizzie's backpack bounced as they ran. Once they were walking again Arthur pointed to it and said, "Pardon, mistress Elizabeth, but I have never seen a sack like that. How does the cloth hold without tearing?"

She wasn't sure how to reply. "It's much stronger than it looks. I'll show you." She took the backpack off and held it in front of her while they walked. With one hand, she opened the zipper. Arthur gazed on in wonder.

"Books!" he said. "You have books!"

"Oh, that's just my English homework, and science and algebra."

"That paper!" Arthur said in wonder. "It is so white. I have never seen paper like that before."

She didn't really see what was so special about paper, but as she rifled through the contents of her bag she did see something he might find interesting. "You'll like this," she said. "It's my walkman."

Arthur looked suspicious. "Your what?"

"Let me show you." She took the headphones and the round player out of her backpack, zipped it up, and slung it back over one shoulder. "Hold still a minute; you have to put this on over your head." It took a moment of adjustment to put the headphones on Arthur properly, but then she nodded. "That's good. Now you press this button right here." When she pushed the play button, Arthur's eyes suddenly opened wide, although she could barely hear the music leaking through the speakers.

"Is it magic?" he said loudly.

She giggled and shook her head. "Shh. It's just a CD player. It's a machine. Built by people in a factory." She flipped through her favorite disks, each tucked neatly away in a plastic sleeve. "If you don't like that one, I have others."

Nate groaned. "Lizzie, he's not your boyfriend. Stop showing off."

She ignored him. "How about Madonna?"

Arthur looked at her with the most peculiar expression. "You can permit me to hear the voice of the Madonna?"

"Sure!" she said, and put the disk in the machine for him, replacing the old one very carefully in its sleeve. Arthur did not say anything at all for a while, and he seemed to be listening intently. They were getting close to the city gates by now, however, and he had to ask her to help him take the headphones off. Soon they were walking among many tents, people, and horses.

 "King Lot has come all the way from the north," Arthur told them, "and King Leodegrance, and King Alain, and the King of a Hundred Knights."

"Wait," Nathan said, looking cross. "I thought you said you didn't have a King."

Arthur was thoughtful. "Did I? That is not really true. England has many kings. Too many kings. Each has their own land, and refuses to answer to the others. But King Lot is a mighty warrior with many vassals. He will probably win the tournament and draw the Sword."

Nate grinned and said, "No, he won't," but Elizabeth shushed him before he could say more. As they walked, Arthur pointed out various flags and shields they saw, naming the lord represented by each one. Duke Ulfius, the Duke of Gloucester, the Earl of Salisbury -- there were so many! Elizabeth couldn't remember them all. There were just too many. And each of them were rivals, with armies of knights and squires. She couldn't help thinking that if only they could cooperate and stop killing each other, they might make life easier for the farmers, who were so poor they had to pay their taxes with chickens and sheep.

They found a camp site just as it was getting dark, and Arthur was suddenly very busy with chores. There were other men to put up tents and fetch water, but Arthur had to take care of Kay's horse and unpack all his clothes and weapons. Nate and Elizabeth were left alone for the moment.

She sat down, huddled in her blanket, and pulled her knees up to her chest. "What are we going to do?"

"I told you," Nate said. "Everything will be fine. We'll stay with Arthur until Merlin appears. Then we'll tell him we're from the future and he'll send us back. In the meantime, I can fight at the tournament."

"But Arthur said it was dangerous! You could be killed!"

Nathan laughed. "I can't be killed because this isn't really happening! It's just a dream. A very long, very realistic dream. That's all it is. You're not even really here. If you hadn't been fluttering your eyelashes at the King, I wouldn't have even noticed you."

She was insulted! "I was not fluttering my eyelashes!"

He began to mock her in a high-pitched voice. "Oh, King Arthur, try on my walkman. Let me play you my favorite music! Aren't I pretty?"

"This is all your fault anyway. If you hadn't let that old bum in that coat talk to us, we wouldn't be here."

He waved her notion away. "Forget about him. He was just a vagrant. He was probably arrested when the police arrived."

"What police?"

"The police that showed up with the ambulance," Nate explained to her, as if she was a child, "that took us to the hospital, which is where we are right now!" Standing up, he took a moment to smooth down his hair. "I am going to learn how to swordfight, and I will be in the tournament, and hopefully get to kill someone. It will be perfect."

Once he left, it took him only moments to find Arthur, who agreed to show Nathan a little about swordplay once he finished his chores. Arthur assured him he would be done soon, and then disappeared into his father's tent.

A small fire was going inside the tent, with smoke escaping through a vent in the roof. Ector greeted his son and said, "I trust all of your immediate duties are seen to?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes father, but I wanted to talk to you about master Nathan and his sister."

Ector gave him a penetrating and curious stare. "What did the three of you talk about?"

Arthur shook his head. "They are very strange, father. I cannot tell if they are completely ignorant or the wisest people I have ever met. They do not know even the most basic laws of knighthood. Nor do they know what Saxons are, or who the Dukes and Barons are. It is as if they have spent their entire lives in seclusion." He paused a bit, and looked up at his father, but Ector still said nothing. "I think they are very holy people," Arthur said at last. "If they were raised in a convent or a monastery it would explain why they seem to know so little about the world. Mistress Elizabeth speaks of things that have not yet come to pass. They sound like visions. She said one day London will be one hundred times larger than it is now, on both sides of the river. She has a crown which, when placed upon her head, allows her to hear the voice of the Madonna, singing. I myself have heard this."

As Arthur spoke, Ector grew more and more solemn. At last he shook his head; such things were beyond his understanding. "Arthur, I do not know who these two people are, or where they are from, but I do know one thing." He placed his hands on the lad's shoulders. "I know that tomorrow your brother and I will be fighting in the first tournament this island has ever seen, and the last man standing will walk to the Sword in the Stone and try to draw it forth. If he succeeds, that man will be King of all England."

"Yes, father."

"You should get some rest now. There's a big day ahead."

 

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The Iron Gentleman

Author's Note: If you read Marvel Comics you will get most of the jokes in this story. If you don't, suffice to say that the character of Iron Man is a Cold War creation; Tony Stark is a Howard Hughes style playboy who wears a suit of high-tech armor to fight crime and save the world. The rest is all flash.

 

    It was during the impeachment of the President that I first became an addict to world affairs, and ever since that time there was no surer way to gain my favor than to gossip with me over the events of the day, but in the time of which I write the newspapers had only one story, and one which never failed to fill me with despair: the events in Afghanistan and the awful tragedythat had, through cruelty, summoned forth the awesome military of a great nation. I had no knowledge then that I would soon be brought into the company of women and men who would change my life forever. But this was the year 1883, and I am ahead of myself.
    To many the sights and sounds of a large city are intimidating and even cause for fear, but nearly all my formative years were spent in Manhattan, and there are few shadows that startle. Still, when a great black coach clattered up alongside me, pulled by two magnificent animals visibly steaming from the chill of the morning and the furor of their exertions, it did give me pause. A man dismounted, and I gave him the courtesy of not walking on, for though I had much on my schedule for the morning I felt safe enough on a busy thoroughfare in the broad light of day.
    "Miss Penelope Potts?" he said, and his manner of speech identified him at once as an Irishman, a poorly educated one at that. As he stepped closer, my initial estimate was confirmed: his frame, though tall and not ill-proportioned, had the rough and uncomfortable character of a man prone to physicality, and the tailored coat and hat which would otherwise have looked quite handsome on a driver did in his case seem poorly suited. Above all I was struck by the naked homeliness of his face, which had plainly seen the business end of more than one hard-flung fist. One ear was so violently erupted that it resembled a vegetable more than a human organ, and his red hair, which I clearly saw when he removed his hat, stuck up from the craggy slope of his head like a pile of autumn leaves mixed with sticks and brambles.
    "I am," I replied. "May I ask what business it is of yours?"
    "No business of mine," he assured me, bland, "but of my employer, who would have a word with you."
    "And who is your employer?" I asked, without much courtesy, for it struck me that anyone who hired such a brute of a man must have either poor sense for people or less than perfectly honorable methods.
    But at my implied accusation the man straightened proudly, and there was a surprising indignation in his carriage. "Why, Mister Anthony Stark is the man himself," he insisted with a devotion that would have impressed me were the name not resonant enough. "And he's asked me to bring you to him straight away, if you're willing."
    I was nonplussed, for I had never to that time had any contact with Mr. Stark or his illustrious Company, and I admit that for a moment I was swept up in an imprudent regard for his fame and reputation. But I did not allow this to manifest in my face or appearance, and merely consented to accompany the driver, who guided me up into his master's carriage with an almost redemptive courtesy. Having located me, it now appeared that he had little need for urgency and it was some time before I found myself before a handsome home in the city. The Irishman escorted me through into the library, where I at last came face to face with an individual I had read about so often in my beloved papers.
    "Good morning, Miss Potts," he said, in a way so ordinary that I could almost forget his otherwise extraordinary appearance, the appearance that had earned him the just sobriquet of the Iron Gentleman. Anthony Stark has a lean and slender frame, but it is entirely invisible underneath the Invincible Iron Overcoat, the fantastic steel shell that covers his torso and limbs. The sleeves of the Overcoat are as thick around as a lady's waist, the legs even larger, and the breastplate bears resemblance to nothing so much as a humble iron stove. Although it is often impossible to render such details in the many illustrations of the Overcoat that have been made in daguerrotype, the entire surface of the steel torso and limbs is worked with an elaborate engravement which is difficult to describe. I learned much later that these designs had been worked upon the metal by the brilliant Doctor Lin Seng, whose Oriental aesthetic insisted that even the humblest tool serve the cause of beauty. This greatest tool of all then was likewise most beautiful, depicting dragons, tigers, the wind and the waves, blossoming plants and all manner of laden symbols which at the time were utterly beyond my ken.
    The fittings of the Overcoat are made with a kind of brass, visible most clearly around the joints when the light strikes just so. Over this metal skin he wore a vest of earthy brown wool, a starched white collar, and a paisley cravat. When I entered he stood, rising from a great tall-backed chair that must have been constructed with hidden braces that supported his tremendous weight. The helm which so often covers his face was absent, and I found myself staring at clean-shaven, elegant good looks that are the envy of every civilized man.
    But he was not alone, and at once I was introduced to those that were present with us in the library. With one open palm, allowing me a glimpse of the miraculous handiwork that went into the creation of his precision gauntlets, Mister Stark gestured to a somber woman dressed sensibly in black and white, her hair a shade darker red than my own and arranged quite simply. "May I introduce Miss Bethany Cabe," he said respectfully, "my detective-on-retainer."
    She extended her hand and so I took it, wondering aloud, "A detective? In the manner of the Pinkertons?"
    What passed for cordiality in her face fled at that moment, and her hand withdrew from mine. "The Pinkertons don't hire women," she replied bluntly.
    Stark continued. "Mister James Rhodes, another associate of mine," he said, indicating the black man which stood on his right, attired in plain yet flattering clothing that did nothing to conceal the trained physique of a professional fighting man. I recognized his demeanor at once.
    "With what branch of the Army do you serve, Mister Rhodes?" I asked with all the courtesy my strange situation allowed me. "Are you a Buffalo Soldier?"
    This seemed to surprise him, which pleased me, and he nodded. "I was. But the Indian Wars weren't for me."
    "A man must follow his concience," I agreed.
    "And of course you already know Mister Hogan, my driver," Stark concluded with a nod to the man who had brought me to this place. "But we all call him Happy."
    "I'm sure," I noted, avoiding Mister Hogan's eye, which I found dwelt on me too often for comfort, "that we have not yet become acquainted."
    Having accounted for everyone, Stark indicated a chair, silently urging me to make myself comfortable, and at once apologized. "I regret the suddenness of my invitation this morning. I hope it did not cause alarm and, if it did, I ask your forgiveness." Once I took the place he had offered me and Miss Cabe had also sat, Stark reclaimed his grand chair, the joints and limbs of his Overcoat making a nearly-silent grinding. But I noticed that both Rhodes and the coachman remained standing, one of them comfortably so.
    "I would like to extend that forgiveness," I assured him. "But I have three appointments today on business matters most pressing, and if I miss one of them it will reflect quite poorly on me."
    "I understand you are a typist," he said with some hesitation.
    "Is that what this is about?" The notion relieved me, for it was exactly to the purpose of securing work for myself as a typist that I had made my appointments that day, and none of them were comparable to a post with the Stark Industrial Company. With sudden enthusiasm I assured Stark that I had absolutely mastered the Remington. "I have never met anyone who can outpace me," I said with transparent ego. "My portable engine is the very newest model."
    My host had seemed interested at first in the description of my skills, but at last he sighed heavily and glanced at Miss Cabe, whose unapproving glare was even more obvious than my own desperate desire for work. When he looked back to me, his blue eyes were cloudy and troubled. "I cannot decieve you, Miss Potts. I have not brought you here to offer you employment with my Company, but rather to enlist your aid on a matter which concerns the very nation in which we dwell, and perhaps other nations too."
    The suddenness with which my employment had been dismissed left me rather put out, and I said, "I'm certain that I would be quite willing to lend assistance, were I possibly to be of any use to one as illustrious as yourself."
    "Madam, your father Jacob Potts is the owner of his own business, correct? Manufacturing kitchen items, pots and pans and the like?"
    "I have been here for rather a long time, sir, and still have no idea what this is all about. I would like that to be rememdied, thank you."
    "And your father is a Mason, is he not?"
    With this I laughed, my scorn apparent. "A Mason! At last you come down to it." I stood. "Mister Stark, the Masons are nothing but a social organization, no more threatening than, why, than the Bowler Club or the Chelsea. But I see now that you have quite fallen into our society's trend for conspiratorial fallacy, and I shall not force you to continue in it, no doubt slandering my father's good name in my unforgiving company."
    He had stood at once, of course, as soon as I had, and in the face of my derisive sneer he was suddenly more serious and earnest than I have ever, save only once, known a man to be. "Miss Potts," he entreated, speaking my name evocative of prayer, "please do not yet go. I have exhausted every avenue in this matter and am driven to desperation. The fate of our nation hangs in the balance. At least allow me to tell you all."
    For reasons which I am still not able to fully articulate, I sat. "Very well, Mister Stark. You had best be speedy."
    "For the past several months," he explained, "I have been pursuing the agency which arranged for the murder of President Garfield."
    "President Garfield was shot by a lunatic, Mister Stark, not an agency."
    My interruption did not perturb him. "So you, many others, and even the man himself believed before his execution, for I interviewed him at length. But, between his insistences that he was an instrument of Divine Judgement, his own claims of innocence by reason of insanity, and his demands that I pay him twenty dollars for the priviledge of our conversation, I was able to determine a most important fact. He was not in full possession of his memory."
    "I am not certain I see the importance of this."
    "Neither did I at the time. But it plagued my mind, and I probed further. Investigations undertaken by Miss Cabe here, and Mister Rhodes, suggested that the assassin had been abducted prior to the shooting by an organization based in Europe. An organization known as the Maggia, and which counts among its members many Captains of Industry, representatives of noble blood, and influential writers. The Maggia is a secret society, Miss Potts, a secret society bent on nothing less than world domination. And among their number are certain masters of hypnosis, who can convince a man to do things, after which he has no clear memory. Every scrap of evidence I possess suggests that the President was assassinated by the Maggia, using that poor fool as their mesmerized dupe."
    I admit that such a report from a figure as reputable as the Iron Gentleman put me at alarm. But I was still aggresively opposed to slander of my family name. "And where does my father fit into this scheme?"
    "Like many secret societies in the last hundred years," Stark went on, "the Maggia recruits candidates for its own membership from the ranks of the Masons. The Masonic Brotherhood may or may not be dangerous in itself," he said, making a conciliatory gesture which I quite refused to let soften me, "I would not dispute this matter with you. But it does serve as fertile ground for recruitment by other, more insidious, groups, of which the Maggia is but one. We learned yesterday that several high ranking members of the Maggia are in New York even now, and plan to attend a ball tonight at the house of William Sheffield. My initial attempts to monitor the event have met with failure, and no other option remains to me. I, we," and here he indicated his companions, "must gain entrance to that ball."
    "Your father, Miss Potts, appears on a list I have in my possession. A list of Masons that have been recruited by the Maggia. Conveniently for our purposes, he is also out of the state. On a business matter in Chicago, I am to understand. And I further believe that, were you to appear at that ball tonight with a guest, you would be admitted."
    My face was flushed even before I stood. "This is outrageous. You accuse my father of being an accomplice to the murder of the President. And by your own account you have been prying into my father's affairs, monitoring his business and his wherabouts. I suppose you think it great sport to insult a lady's family in this way, when she is powerless to oppose you, and when your word carries so much weight with the media, but I notice that even you dare not utter such a blatant smear in public, where others might hear. And I urge you, Mister Anthony Stark -- no, no, I warn you, to keep your paranoid delusions to yourself and your colleagues, behind the closed doors of this sanitarium. For if they see the light of day you will learn to your dismay that the tools of retribution are not entirely out of the reach of my sex. And now I would very much like to be taken to downtown Manhattan, where I am already late for an appointment."
    To say that Stark was heartbroken would be a gross understatement, and he nodded wearily, not even raising his steel-jacketed hand in farewell. "Mister Hogan, please see to it. Miss Cabe, would you kindly serve as an escort for the lady?" For this last I was grateful, for it would not do for me to arrive at a place of possible employment alone, brought in a man's cab. Nonetheless my conversation with the Iron Gentleman was through and I wasted no time returning mysef to the coach with my reluctant, dour-faced, escort close behind.
    The ride back was silent. I kept my eyes focused on the streets beyond, and I would gladly have erased the entire morning from existence if I had been able. Mister Hogan had brought me nearly to my goal when suddenly my companion spoke.
    "I told him you wouldn't help us."
    When I looked at her, it was Miss Cabe's turn to be staring out the window to the world beyond. Her expression was glum from force of habit, and I replied, "Yes, I'm certain you are very clever. Congratulations."
    "We should have just hired you to do the damn typing," she continued, as if she had not heard me. "We could have told you any story we liked, asked you to the party, and got through the door without you ever being the wiser. Let you work at the company for a few months and then be done with you. It would have been clean that way. Now his godly code of bullish honor is going to ruin us all."
    For a time I did not speak, but soon the coach slowed and then stopped. Mister Hogan opened the door and I took his convenient hand en route to the walk. Cabe was reaching to close the door when I addressed her finally.
    "You may inform Mister Stark that I will expect his coach between eight and eight thirty this evening. I will be in cranberry."
    I would not have exchanged her expression then for the wide world.
 

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    "I want to make perfectly clear, Mister Stark, that when my father's name is cleared from these groundless accusations I expect you to make a heartfelt apology." True to his reputation, Stark's coach had arrived promptly at quarter past eight, and we were now approaching the home of William Sheffield.
    "There is nothing I would rather do, Miss Potts," he assured me with what I think was real sincerity.
    "If we are to carry off this fiction," I decided, "you must call me Pepper, or Pep. Sheffield is a friend of my father's and to do otherwise would make it perhaps even more clear than it already will be that you are present solely as a spy."
    "I do not intend to avoid attention, Miss Potts. Pepper," he corrected then, with a forced smile. "Why Pepper?"
    "It is from the way I sign my papers, with my initials," I answered him absently. I could not pull my gaze from the swift-moving darkness of the city beyond the window frame. "And then my brother decided that my freckles looked like pepper. A silly story, perhaps, but useful on occasion, as when one learns that they are to meet a Pepper, or that the document they are reading was prepared by P.E.P., they do not at once recognize that person as a woman. The reception for Penelope Editha Potts would be much different."
    At last I saw the gates of the Sheffield home, and I recalled my gaze to Stark. "But you say you don't plan to avoid attention?"
    "How can I, really? No. No, my task will be to attract the eyes and the suspicions, allowing my associates to do the real work: identifying members of the Maggia and gathering any information on them that can be found."
    These words reassured me to no small degree, as I could not imagine the Iron Gentleman walking into a room and not attracting every eye in the place, and I had spent two hours fretting over what I thought was his dubious strategy for intelligence gathering before finally resigning myself to the night. As we disembarked from the coach my initial impressions were confirmed with dismal reliability. I could not help but gaze at Stark in awe, from the spot on the walk where Hogan had decorously helped me to dismount. When he emerged from the carriage his face was invisible to mortal sight, concealed behind a cylindrical steel helm engraved in fine detail with the same sort of Oriental designs which marked the breastplate and limbs. Covering his eyes were fine glass lenses rimmed in brass and surrounded by slender mechanisms which were quite unfathomable to me, but hinted at powers of irresistable perception. He wore his top hat with casual grace. Over his iron prison he had donned a handsome coat, white collar, and a tie and vest which blended almost presciently with the gown that I had chosen for the night. His iron hands were covered in gloves not of velvet but of tasteful white silk, and he carried a stout walking stick with practiced ease.
    "Mister Stark, I dare say this evening may be the most memorable I have ever managed."
    "By your tone I fear this is not a good thing," he replied, and now that he stood by my side I was forced to comprehend the enormous size and imposing altitude of the Iron Gentleman. Nonetheless he offered his arm, and I took it, and somehow in this engagement of ritual custom my fears were settled and the absurdity of the moment was elevated to refined manner. As we approached the door, which was open and already trafficked by couples entering and exiting, he said to me in a discreet tone,        "But if I am to call you Pepper, then surely you must call me Anthony."
    This correction brought my senses to alert, and I was reminded of my mission here: to clear my father's name and show this ridiculous matter of the Maggia for what it was. "You are right, of course. But not Tony."
    "No," he agreed. "Never Tony. Do you know what to say when we reach the door?"
    "Anthony, do allow me to do the thinking for a moment, will you?"
    This silenced him, and when we climbed the steps I felt my suspicions come true as every eye within the foyer turned to us. We were asked for an invitation, and I produced it with a smile. We were announced as Miss Penelope Potts and Mister Anthony Stark. Behind us, and melting swiftly into the servant's corridors, were Stark's agents, Miss Cabe, Mister Hogan, and James.

By this time I had my demeanor of warm civility well in hand, and I was already greeting a few of those individuals my father's business had led me to come to know. Nonetheless, Stark managed to whisper to me, "How did you get an invitation?"
    I waved amiably to the son of Jonah Jameson, the publisher of the Bugle, and replied, "It has been on my table for a week; I simply had no desire to go before today." But I could not resist looking up at him, finding blue eyes barely visible within that iron tower. "I'm disappointed in you, Anthony. If I had not recieved an invitation to a ball thrown by a friend of my father's, that would have been a mystery."
    He was not stung by my comment, to my gratification and to his own merit. Instead, he laughed. It was a refreshing sound from him, for until now he had been most grave, and he managed to pat my hand in a gentle way. "So it would," was all he said, and then he devoted his attention to the company around us.

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The Black Line:  Writing and other matters.

• The Song of Roland: Source for my Roland screenplay. A knight of France, overconfident but loyal to his King, is set up and killed. Charlemagne, with a little help from God, gets revenge.
  

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