Byron stared at him for a moment, then reached uncertainly for the other mug and brought it halfway to his mouth. “He told me not to drink,” he said.
“To hell with him,” muttered Doyle, wiping foam from his bushy moustache. “You going to let him tell you when you can have a drink?”
“To… to hell with him,” agreed Byron, though speaking with some difficulty. He took a long, deep sip, and when he lowered the mug his eyes seemed more focussed. “To hell with him.”
“Who is he?” asked Doyle.
“Who?”
“Damn it, the man who has programmed—sorry, harnessed, blinkered and saddled you?” Byron frowned in puzzlement, the new clarity in his eyes fading, so Doyle said quickly, “‘Good morning, my good man. I am Lord Byron. May I buy you a pint of something? If you’re wondering why a peer of the realm should be in a place like this’—who said all that?”
“I did.”
“But who said it to you, who made you memorize it? Those aren’t your words, are they? Try to remember who said all that to you.”
“I don’t—”
“Close your eyes. Now hear those words, but in a different voice. What’s the voice like?”
Byron obediently shut his eyes, and after a long pause, said, “Deeper. An old man.”
“What else is he saying?”
“‘My lord,’” and Byron’s voice even went an octave deeper as he quoted it, “‘these statements and replies should be sufficient to get you through these two days. But if things become close up, and louder, and you lose the veil of protection my guidance gives you, return to the camp here instantly, before the people in the streets tear you to bits like a crippled dog in a ratting pit. Now Richard will drive you to town in the wagon, and he’ll pick you up at six o’clock this evening at the corner of Fish and Bread streets. Here’s Richard now. Come in. Ready to go? Avo, rya. Rya, that toy the foreign chal brought—let’s start it up, my monkey would like to see it move. We’ll talk about that later, if you please, Richard. Right now take milord here to town.’” Byron opened his eyes wonderingly. “And then,” he added, in his own voice again, “I was in a wagon.”
Doyle kept his face impassive, but his mind was racing. God help us, it’s Romany again, he realized. What in hell is the man up to here? What can he hope to gain by brainwashing Lord Byron and turning him loose to make semi-treasonous speeches? He’s certainly making the man visible—all I had to do to find him today was follow the rumors of the lunatic lord who’s buying everybody drinks. Is he responsible for Byron being in England now? Anyway, I’ve got to hang onto this poor devil.
“Listen,” he said, “you’ve got some high-octane memories to retrieve, and we can’t do it here. I’ve got a room a few streets away—inherited it, sort of—and the people that live there aren’t inclined to be nosy. Let’s go there.”
Still dazed, Byron got to his feet. “Very well, I suppose, Mr … ?”
Doyle started to answer, then sighed. “Oh hell. I guess you can call me William Ashbless. For now. But I’m damned if I’ll stay William Ashbless for the whole ride. All right?”
Byron shrugged bewilderedly. “That’s fine with me.” Doyle had to remind him to pay for the beers, and during the brief walk to the lodging house Byron kept craning his neck at the buildings and the crowds of busy people. “I really am in England again,” he muttered. His dark eyebrows lowered in a frown that he wore for the rest of the walk.
When they’d reached the shabby building and picked their way up the stairs—which several families seemed to consider their personal chamber, swearing at the two young men and jealously hiding bits of horrible food as they climbed past—and reached the room that had once been Dog-Face Joe’s, and when they’d filled two cups from the coffee pot that was still warm over the coals in the fireplace, Byron fixed on Doyle his first alert glance of the day.
“What’s today’s date, Mr. Ashbless?”
“Let’s see… the twenty-sixth.” Byron’s expression didn’t change, so after taking a cautious sip of the coffee, he added,
“Of September.”
“That’s not possible,” Byron stated. “I was in Greece… I remember being in Greece on Saturday the, uh, twenty-second.” He shifted on his chair and bent down to pull off his shoes. “Damn, these shoes hurt,” he began, then picked one of them up and stared at it. “Where on earth did I get these? Not only are they too small, they’re about a century out of fashion. Red heels, of all things, and these buckles—! And how in God’s name could I ever have put on this coat?” He dropped the shoe and said, in a voice so tightly controlled that Doyle knew he was scared, “Please tell me the true date, Mr. Ashbless, and as much as you know of what has happened to me since I left Greece. I gather I’ve been ill. But why am I not with my friends, or my mother?”
“It is the twenty-sixth of September,” Doyle said carefully, “and all I know about your recent actions is that for the past couple of days you’ve been buying drinks for half the population of London. But I know who can tell you what’s been happening.”
“Then let’s go to him immediately. I can’t bear this—”
“He’s here. It’s you. No, listen—you were recalling verbatim conversations a few minutes ago. Do it again, and listen to yourself. Let’s see… try ‘Avo, rya.’ Remember hearing that, in a different voice.”
“Avo, rya,” said Byron, and the alertness fell out of his expression. “‘Avo, rya. He’s very kushto with it. Handled guns before, it’s clear. That’s good, Wilbur. Though he won’t need much skill—he should be only a few feet away from him when he’ll use it. Does he seem to be able to draw it with sufficient speed? I’d like to just have it in his pocket, but I’m afraid even a lord might have to submit to a search before entering the royal presence. Oh, avo, rya, the little holster under his arm gives him no problem. You should see him—it’s in his hand quick as a snake. And he’s shooting with no hesitation? It’s got to be automatic. Avo, the dummy is all shot to bits, he’s done it so often—’”
Byron leaped out of the chair. “Good God, man,” he exclaimed in his own voice, “I was to go kill King George! What abomination is this? I was a puppet, sleep-walking, taking these diabolical instructions as… docilely as a maid would agree to serve dinner! By God, I’ll get satisfaction for this… atrocious affront! Matthews or Davies will convey my challenge to… to …” He slammed his right fist into his left palm and then pointed at Doyle. “I think you know who.”
Doyle nodded. “I think I do. But don’t go off half-cocked here. You may as well inventory what you know before you rush into it. Tell you what—try ‘Yes, Horrabin,’ in the same voice that was asking the questions in that last conversation. Do you get anything from that?”
Though still frowning, Byron sat down again. “Yes, Horrabin.” Again his face went blank. “‘Yes, Horrabin, I’d have that one killed too. This has got to run like clockwork, and it’s conceivable he may know enough to obstruct it at some point. Better to err on the side of excessive thoroughness, eh? Incidentally, is the Antaeus Brotherhood still actually in existence? I mean, do they meet and all? If so, I say we destroy them too. They were evidently quite a thorn in our side at one time. A hundred years ago they might have been, your Worship, but it’s nothing but an old men’s club these days. I’ve heard the old stories, and it certainly sounds as if they were formidable once; they’re relics now, though, and obliterating them would only call possibly harmful attention to their history. That’s a point… very well, but post some of your people at wherever it is that these old men congregate—Off Bedford Street, your Worship, rooms above a confectioner’s—and have them report back here if they see any … oh, never mind. I’m firing at shadows. Why don’t you take his lordship here outside and run him through his lines again.’ “