Stephen Hunt - The Kingdom Beyond the Waves

‘We!’ said Ironflanks, unshouldering the largest jigging hull-opener any siltempter had ever seen — had even imagined possible — casting aside its thunder lizard-skin scabbard and triggering the blades into a fearful, whining rotation.

Amelia gazed out of the window down into the quad. Still the same manicured lawn, the students in their black gowns, following the sound of the steam whistles to their seminars. Nothing had changed here, nothing except herself, herself and the absence of a Catosian woman on the lawn with an intriguing clue for a disgraced academic to decipher. Maybe history really did repeat itself. Cycle after cycle. Age after age.

‘Professor.’

Amelia turned to see Sherlock Quirke pouring her a nice warm cup of caffeel. ‘I’m sorry, professor, my mind was wandering. You were saying …’

‘You can see the position of the High Table, the potential embarrassment.’

Amelia smiled. ‘Oh, yes.’

The Sepia Sea was bobbing with the rubble and bric-a-brac of an entire civilization that had never officially entered the history texts — whatever wreckage hadn’t been sucked into eternity by Billy Snow’s dark engine. Yes. She could certainly see the potential for embarrassment.

‘Why, I got this myself from one of the undergraduates back from Hundred Locks. Sixpence from a fishing stall on the docks above the great shield wall.’ He lifted the white Camlantean cup and poured some milk into it, then turned it over to spill the liquid onto his desk. He showed her the inside of the cup, left perfectly clean, not a stain or a trickle of milk remaining. ‘Frictionless surface, do you see? The Circle knows how their people did that.’

‘What, you mean a caffeel cup that doesn’t officially exist?’ said Amelia. ‘Or the frictionless surface?’

Quirke politely ignored her teasing. ‘I am certain there will be a revision authorized soon. A significant but discreetly handled revision of the texts. And should the blushes of the High Table be spared in the penny sheets and the journals, I feel certain that resources to document and archive all this new material will not be stinting; especially not for the person who found Camlantis in the first place.’

Amelia stood up. ‘Thank you for the drink, professor. You can tell the High Table three things. First, I’ll think about their offer. Second, I don’t come cheap — engagement in the world of private capital has opened my eyes to that old adage about knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing, and third …’

Quirke opened the door for his colleague. ‘Third, professor?’

‘Tell them that I didn’t find Camlantis. Tell them that you can never find it. You can only build it.’

Lord Meldrew patted his waistcoat. As if he were feeling the tweed to see how much room there was left in his stomach for the meat he was being helped to at the table. Damson Beeton nodded approvingly at her hired evening staff serving on the other side of the table, the spread sparkling with candlelight, their finest silver laden with food.

‘But Dolorous Isle has had a tenant for many years, damson,’ continued the elderly lord, looking at the guests newly arrived by boat and being ushered into the hall by crimson-coated retainers. ‘And this is the first soiree he has thrown for his neighbours since he moved in?’

‘We found ourselves with a surfeit of food in the pantry that needed getting through before it went off, my lord.’

Lord Meldrew chortled. ‘Oh that’s a good one, that’s sharp indeed, damson.’

‘More roast potatoes with your meat, my lord? I spiced them up with a little concoction of my own devising.’

‘Capital,’ said the ruddy-faced nobleman. ‘I don’t suppose I could entice you into my service, damson? It’s only the next island across. You could teach my old cooky a thing or two about how to relish the humble spud over at m’pile.’

‘I fear not, Lord M,’ said the housekeeper. ‘The truth is, I’m secretly watching the crook that owns this place for a covert department of the Jackelian state.’

‘Really!’ Lord Meldrew’s face glowed like a steamman’s stack as he rolled with laughter. ‘Oh, capital. That’s rich; but then your employer looks like a queer one, a fellow who appreciates a good ribbing now and then. That was him playing a flute in the orchard and ignoring all his guests as we walked up to the house, wasn’t it?’

‘The very same, sir. I’ll chase him into the mansion later on.’

‘And I shall chase some more of your roast down m’gullet while we wait upon his presence. Charcoaled and chewy, just the way I like it. It’s quite gamey, actually.’

Damson Beeton carved another slice of Septimoth off the table’s spit. ‘Yes, he was a tough old bird, sir.’

Nothing for the enemy. Nothing .