The carriage passed on. In the next field was a team of women, their dresses filthy, lugging a plough behind a couple of men who were scattering seeds to be turned under.
A cold feeling came over Donald. He looked at his knees. He found it difficult to put into words the emotions seething in his limbs and guts. A blend of outrage and indignation. It was not for himself. It was for these strangers pulling, stooping, carrying and digging mud with their bare hands. They were the squalid tails of a coin with a gleaming mansion on its heads. Why could these thousands of natives not see that? Why did they not smash that ugly colonnaded monstrosity? It kept them down, so why should they keep it up?
There was no way of knowing whether all sovereign lands were like this. There was no way of knowing whether the rest of the lands controlled by the Dasti-Jones clan were like this. Since there was no way for him to find out, let alone do anything about it, there was no point in getting steamed up about it. He kept his eyes ahead for the rest of the drive to Canterbury.
*
Donald already knew from his legal work that Canterbury was the administrative capital of the Lands of Dasti-Jones. Around the centrepiece of the ancient cathedral was a neat town enriched by being the meeting place of the Dasti-Jones clan and the lesser manorial clans that lived under its protection. For someone thinned by ten days of prison rations, the smells from the restaurants and saloon bars were tantalising, whilst the young ladies in tight skirts and short dresses tormented his confounded needs.
For entertainment, the city offered a motor racing circuit, a horse-racing track, a dog-racing track, two casinos, a velodrome, a concert hall, a theatre and a grand hall. This much could he overheard from the driver’s monologue to his young side-kick, who had obviously never been to the capital before. The driver lowered his voice. From the contortions of the teenager’s face, he was obviously receiving knowledge of less salubrious attractions.
The first stop was a stone villa set behind its own frontier wall on the far side of the cathedral. Donald noted the coat of arms of the Krossington clan on the iron gates and on the pediment of the porch. He supposed this must be the embassy of the Krossington clan in the Lands of Dasti-Jones. Her Decency Sally Tabetha Eugenie Krossington-Darcy stepped down from the cabin and was promptly wrapped in a bearskin gown by a couple of maids, who ushered her indoors. An official signed a form and handed a receipt up to the driver with a tip of some silver coins.
The driver glanced back at Donald as if checking a load of boxes.
“Just the commoner to drop and then we’ll get a beer,” he said. “Right you lot, take up the slack…”
The carriage rolled on away from the cathedral into a short stretch of woodland, which opened out into what was obviously a glory depot. There were trucks and armoured staff cars parked, glory troops marching about with an affected sense of purpose, there were long brick warehouses, and of course, the ubiquitous two-storey administrative building in which Donald was delivered to new hosts. He passed a miserable night in a ground floor cell kept awake by tramping boots in the corridor, truck engines revving and sergeants yelling at their squads to look lively or they’d be on jankers for being such useless turds. The depot never slept, nor did its guests.
At just before ten o’clock in the morning, boots thumped up outside the door, there was a sharp knock. The man who entered was a team lieutenant, a dapper fellow of medium height with a long, lugubrious face and keen eyes.
“I am Team Lieutenant Theo Farkas.”
“Donald Bartleigh Aldingford.”
They shook hands. Donald estimated that Farkas was getting old for a team lieutenant, probably almost forty. This was surprising, as he seemed intelligent and capable enough for more senior rank.
“I have instructions to take you to the Euston depot in the Central Enclave,” Farkas said.
That was good news. Euston depot was only a quarter of a mile from Donald’s house.
“How will we get there?”
“By armoured car. Please follow me.”
Farkas was not joking about the armoured car. He led Donald out to a bloody great monster of a vehicle with no less than ten wheels, eight of which steered. From its back sprouted a Perspex turret mounting quadruple machine guns. Donald climbed a ladder onto the roof and descended into the interior through a hatch. The car was much less spacious than its exterior dimensions suggested. The turning cage and ammunition tanks for the turret occupied much of the central area. The drive shafts and elaborate steering took up the lower part of the hull. The engine had its own compartment behind the turret. Then there were tool boxes, first aid cabinets, a map locker and a rack of half a dozen submachine guns. This did not leave a great deal of room for passengers.
“Come and sit up front with us,” Farkas said. The vehicle was wide enough to allow three seats abreast in the cockpit with plenty of space around them. The driver took the middle seat, Farkas and Donald the flanking places. There was no windscreen as such. Instead, there
