Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Three

by Technomad

Sure enough, in a few days the royal family set out to the North. From what I had heard, the North was a beastly cold, barren place, and Winterfell was a giant sepulchre, so I wasn't sorry to miss the journey at all. In any case, there was a great deal to be done in Kings Landing.

Warrior and Black Prince had to return to Britain; some fribbling crisis or other had come up, and their presence was needed to keep the foreigners in proper awe of the Widow at Windsor and the Royal Navy. At least Penelope was staying. There was a chance of the locals trying their luck against our merchant ships, and having the means at hand to deal firmly with such incidents was very comforting.

Meanwhile, Dick Burton took command of the embassy. "You know, Flash," he commented to me, "having the chance to set up an embassy along the right lines is something I never thought to get the chance to do. I don't want to waste it!" Me, I'd have been happy to waste it, but under Dick's sharp eye, we all had no choice but to turn to and show good. Aye, well…I figured that the drinking kens and other places of low amusement down in Flea Bottom would still be there when we were done. And the food, lodgings and other comforts (Elspeth at the top of the list) were top-notch while we worked.

There was much to do, refurbishing our tower to proper standards. One of the first things we got at was erecting a tall mast on top of the tower, rigged to allow flag signals to be flown from it. From the parapets of our tower, the harbour was clearly visible, and Penelope could see and answer our signals. "Even though relations are smooth now, there's no harm in being careful," said Ruffian Dick. As you can no doubt imagine, I agreed wholeheartedly. We also installed a heliograph. I'd seen 'em in use enough times to know how useful they are.

That wasn't the only precaution we took. We hauled in heavy crates, which turned out to contain Gatling guns and ammunition for them, and set them up at points that commanded the entrances to the tower. The Westerosi had no idea what Gatlings could do; the poor fools who'd gone to Britain had been carefully kept away from any close sight of modern weapons. Even Brown Bess was miles ahead of anything they had.(1) They had no idea of how much more accurate our Sniders were, or how much faster we could load them. (2)

"That will be a surprise for them, if things turn ugly," said Dick, giving me a wink. I smiled to myself. I'm a practicing coward, unlike Dick, and the thought of having thick stone walls and Gatling guns manned by Marines between me and any howling mobs of enemies that might turn up felt very good.

We also met the members of the local British community. About five minutes after Westeros' existence, and the means to travel between it and Britain, had been revealed, there'd been a stream of people looking to try their luck on this virgin continent. Some of 'em were ne'er-do-wells, many one jump ahead of the law back in Blighty, or in the colonies. Others weren't.

Once we'd put our tower to rights, an invitation went out to all Britons in Kings Landing, to come to the embassy for a reception. We'd spared no expense; Ser Dontos' and Ser Lancel's money had been put to good use, even with me and the others who'd fleeced those fools dipping our sticky hands in the till, and we were able to hire the best entertainers and cooks Kings Landing boasted.

On the night, my beloved scatterbrain was all a-twitter. "Oh, Harry, I'm so looking forward to this! There'll be dancing! And music! And guests!" Like all of us, Elspeth had been working hard to get the embassy up and on a business basis, and to my surprise, she had proven useful. She'd helped hire the servants we needed, and had shown herself to be a shrewd bargainer when the subject of their wages came up. I guess that you can take the girl out of Scotland, but never Scotland out of the girl.

"And you, m'dear, will be the belle of the ball…as always," I said. Even though I knew my husbandly duty, I was telling the truth for once. Elspeth did look radiant. She'd a gown on that was the latest fashion from Paris, and she looked utterly radiant in it. She'd gained a stone or so since our marriage, but it was in all the right places. She saw the look in my eye, and moved away, laughing.

"No, Harry, my jo, I've just finished making myself presentable," she purred, knowing that I was thinking seriously of forgetting the reception and grabbing her and exercising the droit du seigneur on her. The medieval atmosphere had got my mind running along those lines. She was by no means averse, from the gleam in her eyes, but we both really did have to go to the reception. The looks she gave me, and the way she squeezed my hand, though, told me that we'd have a happy, exhausting time of it later.

The guests were a very mixed bag, unlike the usual run of house-parties back Home. The local contingent of God-botherers were out in full force. Clergymen can smell free food from fifty miles away. There was also an assortment of mercantile types, all hoping to make fortunes selling cheap machine-made cloth and such to the Westerosi, at prices that would make a Bombay Jew turn green with envy.

David Livingstone was there, of course. The second he'd heard of Westeros' existence, he'd abandoned Africa as though it were a creditor he couldn't pay, heading as fast as he could for a whole continent of people ripe for conversion in a climate that mightn't kill him. While I can take missionaries or leave 'em alone (preferably the latter) I couldn't find it in me to blame him for that decision. I'd seen more than enough of Africa, and personally, wouldn't go back there for a peerage and pension.

With his African laurels fresh on his brow, he was leader by right of the Bible-mongers, at least the Protestants. Isabel Burton's eyes lit up at the sight of the Catholic contingent, and soon they were deep in discussion of how to best get all the Westerosi to swim the Tiber. Good luck to you, Isabel, I thought; from my own experience of foreign parts, the local people were generally perfectly satisfied with their existing religions, and not amenable to changing just because some foreign busybodies said they should.

And unlike your typical Mumbo-Jumbo-land tribe, the locals here had a sophisticated religious establishment already in place. I'd not really looked into it in any detail, but with a High Septon, or highest priest, and a hierarchy of priests in place below him, the Faith of the Seven did not look like it would be easy to supplant. I didn't know that the locals went in for things like heresy trials or killing unbelievers, but I also didn't know that they didn't. As a long-time pagan (attached C. of E.; I read the lessons on important church holidays and keep in well with my vicar up at Ashby, but that shouldn't be confused with belief in God) I'd keep well out of conflicts with the Faith, and had cautioned Elspeth to do likewise. If Dick Burton couldn't keep his wife out of trouble with those people, back she'd have to go. Oh, what a tragedy that would be.

Livingstone came over to buttonhole Dick and me. While I considered him an utter ass, I had to admit that his African travels qualified him to be there in Westeros. He had been travelling about, and had a lot of information to share about the country, so we were glad to speak with him.

"Ambassador, Sir Harry, it's an honour to meet you both at last! I've followed the reports of your exploits avidly! May I tell you about my travels on this continent?" At least he wasn't havering on about whether Dick and I had accepted Jesus as our personal savior or not. I can take religious folk or leave 'em alone (the latter for preference) but many of them do try my patience with their eternal concern about my alleged soul. Particularly when so many of 'em are whited sepulchres themselves.

We agreed, and he took us over to a wall where a large map of Westeros was pinned up. Livingstone began pointing out places on the map, places that meant nothing to me at the time. "Well, we've established a congregation at Lannisport, here on the western coast. So far, none of the nobles have shown any interest, but we've a good few of what they call the 'smallfolk' at least listening to our preaching. That'll be important; the Lannisport area's got gold mines. That's why the Lannister family, the ruling local nobles, are so important. They could be valuable allies."

This was why Dick and I hadn't brushed the tiresome pest off. One of our assigned goals was to open Westeros to European, especially British commerce. Had my father-in-law been alive, he'd have been slavering at the thought of all those Westerosi wearing cheap calico woven in his mills, with the profits going straight into his pockets. Since he was dead (and roasting in Hell, if there's any post-mortem justice) it was my beloved Elspeth's cousin, Angus Morrison, who stood to rake in the gold.

And, speak of the Scotsman, there he was. "Hullo, Harry! Glad ye could make it here! Is this no' a grand castle?" Dick and David both gave him questioning looks, and I hastened to make introductions. "Aye, I've heard of ye, Sir Richard. Read yer book aboot yer trip tae Mecca! An' every Scot kens the name of David Livingstone!" Both of them lapped the flattery right up. Angus was smooth. I happened to know that he had read Dick's tedious book (the man's life was wildly adventurous, but his writing was dreary beyond all belief), but his real opinion of missionaries was akin to mine: that they were, on the whole, a tiresome bunch of troublemakers whom H.M.G. would be much better off telling that if they insisted on meddling in others' affairs, it was at their own risk. However, my pious countrymen would never have stood for that. So we poor redcoats would be stuck hauling the God-botherers' hot chestnuts out of the fire, forever and ever and ever.

Angus was full of news of his own: "We've found coal, an' there's lots of streams that we can dam for power! Wi' that, we can be settin' up factories a' over the place! His Majesty's verra interested in our plans. We've promised him a distillery, first thing!"

From what I'd seen and heard of King Robert, I'd wager that he'd sell his firstborn for a distillery. About the only faster way into his good graces would likely be a whorehouse. After my experiences in Santa Fe, I could have helped out with that, had Elspeth and Isabel Burton not been along.

"Do they grow tobacco here at all?" I wanted to know. While I had a good supply of cheroots along, I was conscious that they were probably among the only ones in all Westeros. Ensuring myself a supply of the weed would be a project after my own heart. Of course, I could send to Britain, but I have had enough sure-fire schemes go sour to want to ensure success if at all possible. And tobacco was a lucrative crop at home; possibly we could invest enough money to augment Elspeth's fortune significantly. Much as I love her, I must admit that my sweet featherbrained wife has a greed past all satisfying.

"No, that they dinnae," said Angus. "Now that ye mention it, though, I could poke aroun' an' see if the soil's right. There might be mony ither crops they dinnae hae that'd dae well here. An' puttin' brass in these nobles' pockets'd be a guid thing. They've got the right o'high an' low justice, an' havin' them see us as guid tae hae about would make things surer."

That made excellent sense. But then, nobody ever went wrong by counting on a Scotsman's money sense. I don't know if it's because they live in the arse-end of Britain in a place where the animals have to run from one blade of grass to the next to avoid starvation or not, but every one of those tartan buggers could smell a farthing from a hundred miles away, and would do whatever he could to get it. Even my loving Elspeth gets excited about raking in a few more coins: "mony a mickle mak's a muckle," to put it in her own Caledonian dialect.

Just then, I heard a familiar voice at my ear. The sound of it was enough to send my heart sinking into my boots. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the famous Sir Harry Flashman! Very long time no see! Aye, gratis superveniet quae non sperabitur hora,(3) as I seem to remember saying to you once before! Every time I see you, you've gone up in the world since I saw you last!" With my blood turning to ice in my veins, I turned to find myself confronted with one of the last people I ever wanted to see again. John Charity Spring, sometime Oriel scholar (4), sometime captain of the Balliol College slaver (5), sometime South African magnate (6), and all-time murderous lunatic, was standing there, his pale eyes blazing out of a face twisted into a smile that would scare a tiger.

He had changed little since I'd seen him last, as he had me shanghaiied off to North America. He was still the same burly bargee I remembered, gray-haired and older than I, but well able to look out for himself in a brawl, as I'd discovered in New Orleans and elsewhere (7). The scar across his forehead, which turned redder the angrier he was, was pale, so at least he was in what passed, in him, for a good mood.

He saw my expression. "Aye, 'tis me! When I heard of this whole new world, all ripe for British commerce, I was right here as quickly as I could put things in train! Carpe diem! With my loving Miranda now safely married off…an' to a man who owns half the Cape…there was little holding me in Africa. And plenty of good opportunities for me here! Ex Westeros hodie aliquid novi!"(8) His cold pale eyes ranged over the company. "Care to introduce me to your friends?"

I'd sooner have bidden 'em to supper at Castle Borgia, but needs must when the devil vomits into your pantaloons. "Elspeth, may I present Captain John Charity Spring, M.A.? Captain, my wife, Lady Flashman. And this is Sir Richard Burton," Dick raised one eyebrow and gave Spring stare-for-stare, but he was always a fearless bugger, "David Livingstone, and Angus Morrison. Mr. Morrison is my lady wife's cousin."

To my surprise, Spring stepped forward, gallantly kissing Elspeth's hand. "Your humblest servant, m'lady," he said, smooth as though he were being presented at Buck House, damn his impudence. "And I've followed your adventures, Sir Richard, but hadn't heard of your knighthood till recently. Livingstone and Morrison I've met." They all nodded. Livingstone was looking at him as though Spring was something he'd scraped off his shoe. (9) Well, the British colony in Kings Landing wasn't that big, and I should've thought that if Spring was a member, he'd've run across them before. "Aye, well, it's getting late. I'm for bed." And he turned and walked off through the crowd, leaving me quaking in my boots. I knew him well, and knew the awful turns that diseased intelligence of his could take. What might he do now that we were in the same town again?

[1] Before contact with nineteenth-century Earth, Westeros, and the other countries in its world, had been at a roughly medieval level for millenia. "Brown Bess" - the standard British flintlock musket used during the 18th and early 19th centuries - had many advantages over their traditional weapons, ease of use and training being among them.

[2] The British .577-caliber Snider-Enfield was a breech-loader, the first cartridge-loading firearm used in the British service. It was roughly equivalent to the American "trapdoor" Springfield.

[3] "The happy hour will come, more gratifying for being unexpected."

[4] Spring had once been a don at Oriel College, Oxford, until his expulsion from the college and university. The Flashman Papers do not include the reason for his dismissal.

[5] When Flashman first met him, Spring was the captain of a bark-rigged sailing ship, the Balliol College, used to transport slaves from Africa to Cuba in the illicit "triangle trade." This was illegal under international law, but highly profitable.

[6] After an involuntary voyage to South Africa, Spring became a great landowner in the Cape Colony.

[7] See Flashman and the Redskins.

[8] "Today something new out of Westeros!"

[9] Livingstone was a prominent anti-slavery crusader, and may well have got wind of Spring's earlier adventures in the "black ivory" trade.