The King

Of all the luck,' Burgess Chiswick opined, draped across the transom settee in the officer's wardroom, a warming mug of 'flip' in one hand and a long church-warden clay pipe fuming in the other.

'Yes, wasn't it,' Lewrie agreed in a sarcastic drawl.

'Sorry you missed us on the road, though,' Burgess went on, oblivious to Alan's disgruntled feelings. 'You must have been out of your lodgings like a race horse, soon as the letter came. We left London behind you. Went by Panton Street but they told us you'd already gone. Would have been nice to have coached down together.'

Alan had been barred from discussing the murderous incident on the road, so all he could do was nod in agreement.

'And then to find you'd stopped off at the farm and gone on,' Burgess told him, experimenting with blowing a smoke ring. 'Caroline was very disappointed she'd missed you.'

'Was she well?' Alan asked, abandoning his put-upon sulking.

'My sister is very fond of you, Alan. As is mother. Thinks you hung the moon. Or at least helped out. She's a fine young lady.'

'Well, that's moot for three or four years, ain't it?' Alan sighed.

'Hope you didn't mind, but she adopted your cat.'

'She did?'

'Didn't know you were fond of 'em,' Burgess marveled. 'Still, I can see the attraction. Affectionate old thing. Purred away like anything, soon's she picked him up, and rode in her lap all the way to Guildford in the coach. Thought he'd be happier on the farm. And… well, he's a part of you, d'you see, Alan. She said to tell you she'd take good care of him until you got back.'

'Yes, I suppose that's best,' Alan agreed, trying to picture anyone picking William Pitt up and trying to dandle him. 'After a warship, he'd enjoy terrorizing a herd of sheep. Devilish good mouser.'

'More a lap-cat the last time I saw him,' Burgess chuckled.

Shoes thundered on the double companion-way ladders from the upper deck, and their attention was drawn to the newcomer. The sight drew both of them to their feet, for its novelty if nothing else.

A man stood there, a man with skin the color of a cup of cocoa. Fierce dark eyes glared under thick brows-the rest of the face was hidden behind a greying beard and a thick mustache that stood out stiff as the cat-heads up forward that held the ship's anchors. The man was dressed in sandals over thick woolen stockings, loose knee- length trousers, a long-skirted coat that buttoned from waist to chin with a glittery multicolored silk sash about his waist, a burgundy colored old-style frock coat over that for warmth-and a turban.

'What the devil?' Burgess muttered.

'Namaste, sahib,' the apparition said, putting both mittened hands together and bowing slightly to both of them. 'Meestair Twigg sahib, want speech with Elooy sahib.'

'I think that might be you, Alan,' Burgess told him.

'Yes, but who the devil's this Twigg?' Alan wondered.

'My master, Elooy sahib. Kshamakejiye… excuse me… I am being Ajit Roy. You come, jeehan? Yes?'

'Yes,' Alan replied. 'Is he ashore?'

'Naheen, sahib,' Ajit Roy told him, pointing upwards. 'Is here on ship.'

'Keep the flip warm, Burgess,' Alan said to his companion. 'And if I'm not back soon…'

The servant padded back up the companion-way to the upper deck cabins under the poop, where the captain usually had his quarters. There were other cabins forward of his that Alan had thought might be reserved for passengers. Ajit Roy rapped on one door, and someone inside bade him enter. The servant swung the door wide and stepped aside to let Alan in.

It was a fairly spacious cabin, considering. About twelve precious feet long bow to stern, and ten feet abeam. Piled as it was with chests, it seemed more like a storeroom, though, or a rug merchant's tiny stall. Or an opium den, Alan thought, sniffing the air.

'Achh-chaa, Roy-ji… Kuchh der men vahpasahiye'.'

'Jeehan, Twigg-sahib,' Roy said, bowing himself out.

'Lewrie, I'm Zachariah Twigg,' said the man, who had been sitting on the bunk, as he unfurled himself to his full height. This Twigg was tall and lean, almost impossibly lean: all arms and legs. He was dressed all in black like some dominee.

'Your servant, sir,' Alan replied automatically, still befuddled, and thinking that he would most likely remain in that condition for some time to come.

'Sit,' Twigg commanded, pointing out a chair with the flexible tube he held in his hand. 'Captain Ayscough has related to me the peculiar circumstances of your incident. I want to ask you more about it.'

'And you are, sir?' Alan demanded as Twigg perched himself cross-legged on the bunk again and began to draw from the tube, which Alan now saw was attached to a tall glass hubble-bubble pipe. In the faint gloom, illuminated by only a single lantern placed on one of the crates, Twigg resembled some kind of bird of prey. The face was all hollows-in his cheeks, behind his eyes, on either side of his temples. And his eye sockets were deep and pouchy. He wore his own hair, combed back thin and close to the skull, and a prominent peak jutted like a cape between receding temples. And Twigg's nose was long, thin and narrow, like a raptor's beak, until it reached the nostrils, where it flared out into a pad of flesh and cartilage an adult walrus could have envied.

'Let us just say that Captain Ayscough answers to me. As do you, Lieutenant Lewrie,' Twigg told him with a brief, damnably brief, glint of humor. With the mouthpiece of the hubble-bubble pipe out of his mouth, the lips were caricature-thin, and pursed flat against each other in an expression of perpetual asperity. 'I and my partner, Mister Wythy, are ship's husbands, and the… owners, let us say. We were the ones bought her, raised the capital, and bought the cargo. Should anyone ask, you were here to discuss lading with me, as the fourth mate of a trading ship ought. Now discover everything to me.'

It was not a request. Alan stumbled out the story of his attempted murder, and the reasons he and Ayscough thought might be behind it.

Alan supposed England had spies. Any sensible nation did, and he gathered that Twigg and his partner were the front men for the adventure, the plausible story that would hang together should anyone become inquisitive. The prime movers of this subterfuge.

'Doesn't make any bloody sense.' Twigg snapped after a long silence. 'Not to take anything away from your abilities, Lewrie, but you're a rather small fish to fry, if someone was intent on delaying our departure. If it's murder they'd stoop to, better me and Tom Wythy, or Ayscough himself. Better a fire in the hold than slay a junior officer. Might have even done us a favor. Given us time to find a more seasoned mariner than you. I've read your records, Lewrie. You've come up hellish fast, considering.'

'If I do not please you, sir, perhaps you should,' Alan snapped back. It ain't like I'm talking to an admiral, he thought; he's no patron of mine whose back I have to piss down. They can send another man down from the Admiralty and I can hide out in Wheddon Cross with granny for a while until Lord Cantner cools off. Boring as that would be. Maybe coach back to Guildford and stay with the Chiswicks.

'1 would, but for the fact that you rose without too much 'interest' from those above you,' Twigg allowed, acting as if he was amused by Alan's irritation with his remarks. 'You're not the run-of-the- mill place-seeker, Lewrie. And you have this fascinating talent for snatching victory from the very maw of defeat. For survival. I value that, more so than I do dull-witted competence. It's a talent rarer than pluck and daring, or bravery. Any fool can be brave.'

'I see, sir,' Alan said, wondering if he had been complimented or insulted. Either way, he was still part of this lunatick venture, it seemed, down for three years of naval service unless he begged to be dismissed.

'We'll get to the bottom of this before we sail, at any rate.' Twigg shrugged, and sucked deeply on his hubble- bubble pipe, caving in those already cadaverous cheeks even more. 'Stores to be loaded on the morrow. Furniture, light artillery, military supplies for East India Company. Luxury items for our people out there as well. I expect we'll be awash in beer, ale and wine. You'll see to keeping the crew out of it, that it's locked up securely. Bring a fortune in Kalikatta once it's landed.'

'They can't brew their own, sir?'

'Muslims won't drink spirits of any kind. Hindoos have their own muck that'd flatten an Englishman, he were