The Lancaster's Luck Collection

By Anna Butler

The entire Lancaster’s Luck trilogy—or, as Rafe Lancaster would put it: the ‘steampunk, coffeehouse, adventure, m-m romantic thingamajig’— in one volume, including The Gilded Scarab, The Jackal’s House, and The God’s Eye.

The Gilded Scarab
When Captain Rafe Lancaster is invalided out of the Britannic Imperium’s Aero Corps after crashing his aerofighter during the Second Boer War, his eyesight is damaged permanently, and his career as a fighter pilot is over. Returning to London in late November 1899, he’s lost the skies he loved, has no place in a society ruled by an elite oligarchy of powerful Houses, and is hard up, homeless, and in desperate need of a new direction in life.
Everything changes when he buys a coffeehouse near the Britannic Imperium Museum in Bloomsbury, the haunt of Aegyptologists. For the first time in years, Rafe is free to be himself. In a city powered by luminiferous aether and phlogiston, and where powerful men use House assassins to target their rivals, Rafe must navigate dangerous politics, deal with a jealous and possessive ex-lover, learn to make the best coffee in London, and fend off murder and kidnap attempts before he can find happiness with the man he loves.

The Jackal’s House
Something is stalking the Aegyptian night and endangering the archaeologists excavating the mysterious temple ruins in Abydos. But is it a vengeful ancient spirit or a very modern conspiracy?
Rafe Lancaster’s relationship with Gallowglass First Heir, Ned Winter, flourishes over the summer of 1900, and when Rafe’s House encourages him to join Ned’s next archaeological expedition, he sees a chance for it to deepen further. Since all the Houses of the Britannic Imperium, Rafe’s included, view assassination as a convenient solution to most problems, he packs his aether pistol—just in case.
Trouble finds them in Abydos. Rafe and Ned begin to wonder if they’re facing opposition to the Temple of Seti being disturbed. What begins as tricks and pranks escalates to attacks and death, while the figure of the Dog—the jackal-headed god, Anubis, ruler of death—casts a long shadow over the desert sands. Destruction follows in his wake as he returns to reclaim his place in Abydos. Can Rafe and Ned stand against both the god and House plots when the life of Ned’s son is on the line?

The God’s Eye
Rafe Lancaster is reluctantly settling into his role as the First Heir of House Stravaigor. Trapped by his father’s illness and his new responsibilities, Rafe can’t go with lover Ned Winter to Aegypt for the 1902/03 archaeological digging season. Rafe’s unease at being left behind intensifies when Ned’s fascination with the strange Antikythera mechanism and its intriguing link to the Aegyptian god Thoth has Ned heading south to the remote, unexplored highlands of Abyssinia and the course of the Blue Nile.
Searching for Thoth’s deadly secrets, Ned is out of contact and far from help. When he doesn’t return at Christmas as he promised, everything points to trouble. Rafe is left with a stark choice – abandon his dying father, or risk never seeing Ned again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Butler
• Release date: Jun 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224417018

Anna Butler

Anna was a communications specialist for many years, working in various UK government departments on everything from marketing employment schemes to organizing conferences for 10,000 civil servants to running an internal TV service. These days, though, she is writing full time. She lives in a quiet village tucked deep in the Nottinghamshire countryside with her husband. She’s supported there by the Deputy Editor, aka Molly the cockerpoo, who is assisted by the lovely Mavis, a Yorkie-Bichon cross with a bark several sizes larger than she is but no opinion whatsoever on the placement of semi-colons.

Book preview

THE GILDED SCARAB

Anna Butler

Lancaster’s Luck Book I

SECOND EDITION, OCTOBER 2019

About The Gilded Scarab

When Captain Rafe Lancaster is invalided out of the Britannic Imperium’s Aero Corps after crashing his aerofighter during the Second Boer War, his eyesight is damaged permanently, and his career as a fighter pilot is over. Returning to London in late November 1899, he’s lost the skies he loved, has no place in a society ruled by an elite oligarchy of powerful Houses, and is hard up, homeless, and in desperate need of a new direction in life.

Everything changes when he buys a coffeehouse near the Britannic Imperium Museum in Bloomsbury, the haunt of Aegyptologists. For the first time in years, Rafe is free to be himself. In a city powered by luminiferous aether and phlogiston, and where powerful men use House assassins to target their rivals, Rafe must navigate dangerous politics, deal with a jealous and possessive ex-lover, learn to make the best coffee in London, and fend off murder and kidnap attempts before he can find happiness with the man he loves.

**~*~**

Praise for The Gilded Scarab

The author created a world filled with danger, intrigue and society ‘Houses’ that pulled me along with her gripping, complicated and fast paced plot. I liked it… no I really enjoyed it, and found it vastly entertaining. —Literary Nymphs Reviews

I give this superbly woven tale top marks and my highest recommendations to anyone who likes a slow-build M/M romance filled with suspense and intrigue, even if you’re not a fan of steampunk or historicals. —Long and Short Reviews

This is steampunk at its best, a world lovingly crafted and vividly presented so that all the little nuances are instantly understandable… —Joyfully Jay Reviews

Butler’s newest book is a marvelously creative alternative history that perfectly captures the spirit of exploration and derring-do that is at the heart of the best Victorian adventure novels… —RT Book Reviews

Map of Bloomsbury

Showing the location of the Lancaster’s Luck Coffeehouse

Note:

Duke Street is now Coptic Street

Hart Street is now Bloomsbury Way

Chapter 01

Whenever someone asks how my life came to take such a sharp and unexpected turn—and they do ask, because people are insatiably nosy—they get my most charming smile. I know it’s charming because I practice it every morning in my shaving mirror. It’s devastating.

It’s even better without the shaving soap.

The short answer is I crashed one of the old Queen’s aerofighters into the African veldt, fighting the Boers.

The timing is the most important thing. Wait a heartbeat, savour a mouthful of the best coffee in London while they absorb that, and as their mouths open to ask more questions, drop in the next line.

At Koffiefontein.

I put a little gap between the syllables so they can’t miss it. Koffie—pause—fontein.

Some of them laugh. The clever ones, the ones who see the delicious irony when they think about how my life changed. How I changed. Not all of them do. Most people are… how shall I put this? Not the brightest lucifer in the box. It takes them a few minutes to understand before they snigger and nudge their companion with a Koffie! Like coffee, see. One of them Boer places, likely. Coffee fountain or some such. That’s rich!

No. Definitely not the brightest.

I saw the irony at once, though. Given my life since then, it had to be some sort of divine joke, a little prod to the ribs from the Almighty. Wake up, Rafe Lancaster, and pay attention! Change is coming.

It was a sign, of sorts. The first step into a new life when the old one was taken from me, sending me in the right direction—the crash at Koffiefontein, selling my mother’s jewels, reopening relations with my House, and yes, even the scarab. All of those things came into play.

Mostly it was luck. The famous Lancaster luck. They should name things after it. Ships, or aerofighters.

Or perhaps a racehorse.

**~*~**

Back in 1899, I was more formally known to Her Britannic Majesty’s Imperial Aero Corps as Captain R. J. Lancaster, squadron leader. I was based on the Ark Royal, the biggest aero-dreadnought in the Corps. A prestigious posting, of course, but then I was the best aeronaut the Queen had.

Bar none. Not the most modest, I grant you. Merely the best.

That autumn we were in action over the Orange Free State in what the newspapers liked to call the Boer War. It wasn’t a fully-fledged war with big staged battles like Waterloo, but attack-and-run raids from the Boers, with Her Majesty’s forces involved in short, scrappy fights to stop them. In my case, it involved leading my squadron of biwinged aerofighters to swoop down over the veldt to get the rebels to break off their attacks on an Imperium Army column, say, or an English-owned farm, or the railway line to the coast.

I had flown dozens of missions where small fast aerofighters dive over the enemy at only a few hundred feet and a hundred miles an hour, firing phlogiston-filled rockets or dropping bombs. Disconcerting for the people on the ground, I expect. It stood to reason they weren’t going to take a bombardment lying down.

The Boers had smuggled arms shipments though Germany and the Americas. They had cannons. Not popguns, but real laser-guided cannons, throwing out flechettes filled with phlogiston in a mercurial mix with aether and petroleum distillate. They didn’t hit very much, of course. To hit something moving as fast as an aerofighter takes skill and training. But they were enthusiastic about trying, and, heaven knows, tearing around the sky and throwing my ship into one manoeuvre after another while flechettes flashed past or exploded in a shower of sapphire and olive green sparks, was thrilling. Like flying through fireworks. Sometimes I had the little fighter standing on her nose or flipped over and flying upside down. Pure exhilaration.

But that particular day was a little too exhilarating. I’d dodged through one barrage, dropping a charge right on the heads of a gun emplacement, when another artillery unit got in a lucky shot. The shell glanced against the side of the aether chamber powering my fighter and cracked it open, sending me spinning out of the sky.

I had no warning. A loud bang, a flash of light, and the rudder wheel jerked out of my hands. The ship plummeted, venting aether and steam. I had been an aeronaut for almost ten years, but all my experience and skill didn’t prevent that instant where a man is too dazed and astonished to do anything but react. I yelled something most definitely unfit for the ears of the ladies, and my heart felt as if it were jumping right out of my chest.

Shock—it happens to the best of us.

It barely lasted a second. I grabbed the wheel and fought to get her nose up and keep it there.

Up you come. Up you damn well come!

The Lancaster luck was still with me. The laser shell hadn’t touched the petroleum distillate tanks or the phlogiston augmenter pipes. A little more of the famous luck… and yes! Just enough power in the pipes to trickle through to the engines. I’d get out of this mess. It might be a tight squeeze, but I’d get out of it.

As soon as I got her level again, I pulled in a big calming breath and got her limping back south on half-power. I wish I could say I straightened my shoulders and stared out of the cockpit window with the unwavering gaze, set chin, and steely resolve the illustrated newspapers employ to depict their heroes. But the truth is, I slumped in the seat and rested my head against the control panel while indulging in some heartfelt and inventive profanity. Very inventive profanity, if I do say so myself. Oddly, my breathing was hard and fast. Anyone hearing it would have thought I’d been running.

But there wasn’t time to indulge myself for long. I had to find somewhere to set the bird down, away from the Boers and close to help, before she fell out of the sky. I had to keep an eye on the instruments, of course, to make sure the phlogiston didn’t dip below the red line—that would mean serious, serious trouble—but mostly I stared out through the transparent aluminium canopy, searching the terrain ahead for somewhere safe to land.

My senior lieutenant, Ingram, brought his aeroship alongside mine. He was gesturing wildly through the clear canopy, but I sent him back with a sharp order to take command. Really, what was the boy thinking? He should be looking after my aeronauts, not flying alongside me waving like a coy village maiden spotting her errant lover. It wasn’t as if he could actually do anything, anyway, but watch me go down. He grimaced, waggled his wings, and curved away into a sky of the clearest, purest blue. Not a cloud in it but the man-made ones of smoke and electrified aether, shot through with dark actinic rays.

The aerofighter leaked aether like a sieve. She was as unsteady as a man after a night on the town, needing constant correction in her unstable flight. It was hard work. Damn close to holding the little fighter up by willpower alone. I’m not a nervous man as a rule, but I held the rudder wheel so tightly my fingers were white and aching. Every now and again I had to loosen my grip, flexing my hands to get the sting of the tension out of them, and rolling shoulders that insisted on hunching over.

Control on the Ark Royal, personified in the Comms officer, was squawking over the wireless Marconi communicator, demanding to know what was going on. I told him, although with less profanity than a moment or two earlier, because the way the Lancaster luck was going, the commander would listen in, and the commander didn’t hold with strong language. I was in enough trouble without adding him to the mix.

You’ve tried bleeding through more phlogiston? inquired Control. Switch to circuit omega-delta-two.

The only explanation for such inanity was that in times of crisis Control panicked, reached for a script, and stuck to it. Of all the stupid questions! Of course I’d tried trickling through more phlogiston, and I’d tried every circuit on the control board. But I needed to reserve some of the remaining phlogiston for a controlled landing, and the omega-delta-two circuit might as well have been on another ship for all the good it was doing on mine.

There was, of course, no point in losing my temper, but I was sorely tempted. Sorely.

Tried it. No response. Damnation. My voice shook. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t the Lancaster way. So I swallowed hard to get it under control and made myself slow down, not letting the words tumble out over each other the way they wanted. The aether superheated and mostly vented. There isn’t enough to keep generating steam for the engines, and I’m running on fumes here. I have enough distillate for a controlled landing if I preserve the phlogiston to help it along. Altitude five hundred feet, but I’m continuing to lose height.

We’re tracking you. Options?

I laughed aloud. I couldn’t help it. What options? There was no point in trying to land back on the Ark Royal. Hovering several miles away, she was close enough for me to reach, but her flight deck and landing bays were as narrow and confined as the mind of a maiden aunt. One mistake there, and I would have the dubious honour of taking Her Majesty’s foremost aero-dreadnought out of the sky with me. That wouldn’t look good on the record. I had no options at all.

I’m heading for the base at Koffiefontein. More room there. My hands were sweaty. I took the right off the rudder wheel, rubbing it dry on the leg of my flying suit. It stained the leather. I had a reputation to maintain—best aeronaut, luckiest aeronaut, nonchalant and devil-may-care aeronaut. This had to sound insouciant. I’ll have the whole veldt to play in.

The wireless communicator spat a burst of static at me. Whoever it was on the communications desk took a moment before answering. Acknowledged, Captain Lancaster. We’ve advised Koffiefontein. They’ll be ready for you. We’ll continue tracking. Good luck.

Acknowledged.

I was on my own. Koffiefontein being ready translated to two men pushing a water cart to deal with the aftermath. Getting the fighter there and getting her down in one piece… that was up to me. And as if to make the point sharper, my fighter took another downward plunge. By the time I corrected it and levelled her out, we were at two hundred feet.

Nothing to do but press on. The engines sputtered and popped every inch of the way, chuffing out clouds of steam and smoke and trailing bright sapphire sparks of escaping aether. It probably looked quite pretty from the ground.

The veldt is very different from England, home and beauty. No little fields and woods here, but vast flat grasslands spreading clear to the horizon. I passed over a stand of acacia trees, all sharp shadows thrown over the plain by the setting sun to my right. The aerofighter’s shadow slithered over grasses and trees and a herd of antelope bounding through the scrubby bushes.

Down to one hundred feet. The ship was on a long glide now, with barely any power at all. I nursed her along, preserving what little phlogiston was left in the tubes to give the engines a boost of power on landing.

Finally!

Rows of grubby white tents showed against the yellowy-green of the veldt grasses, and beyond them, the narrow strip where the ground had been levelled to make a landing area. One of the Koffiefontein squadron’s aerofighters was parked to one side. With luck, I’d miss it. Small figures ran toward the spot where I’d likely come down. This was going to be close. But I could do it. I’d do it, and regale the officers’ mess with yet one more story of the legendary Lancaster luck.

I had too much petroleum distillate in the tanks for a safe landing. I needed to vent it as I approached, but not so much the engines would stop. A very fine line to tread, there.

I used the ailerons to roll her to the right, turning her into the wind to land. She shuddered and flexed. A dull, booming crack from behind was all the warning I got, and an instant later the aether chamber blew out completely. She went down like the proverbial stone, pitching and yawing like a boat in high seas. I yelled and pulled on the controls with every ounce of strength I had, turning the wheel sharply to starboard to bring her around again, because if I let her get away from me, it would be the end. I would get no second chances.

She bucketed and bucked. It’s odd what a man’s mind does in the face of terrible danger. I wasn’t thinking about flying, I know. Hands and feet, heart and soul did it all by instinct, as if the little fighter were a part of me. No thought needed. I simply did it. And no, my whole life did not flash before my eyes—thank goodness!—but for one brief, vivid memory of hunting in Leicestershire, with the Quorn in full-throated chase after a fox, hounds and horses streaming out over the December fields, and me taking a hedge on my brother’s big, raw-boned chestnut. My stomach had flipped over then too. I much prefer betting on horses to riding the brutes.

Level again.

Get the wheels down. Get them down now. Get them down!

Metal ground and groaned as the mechanism lowered the wheels into position and locked them in place. I leaned back in the seat, bracing myself, pulling back on the rudder wheel as if my weight would help bring the nose up, help slow her. The body of the fighter twisted. The canopy windscreen cracked, then shattered, showering me with shards of aluminium. I couldn’t see the ground for thick white steam and dust. I couldn’t see it.

I couldn’t—

I don’t remember the actual impact. I can recall an explosive bang, loud enough to make my ears bleed, and then silence. I was on my back, somehow—I don’t know how I got there—with ash and dust floating past me. The sky… so blue and far away that my heart ached. Everything ached. Damn and blast. Everything ached.

So I closed my eyes to shut it all out.

Chapter 02

The ship was in splinters of polished wood and shards of bent metal, and not even I could walk away undamaged. I was lucky, but not so lucky as that.

The troopers at the base pulled me free of the wreck before the ship could catch fire, but still my tally was a broken arm, several ribs ditto, a twisted knee, and a bang on the head that left me lying in a darkened room for five utterly miserable days, sick and dizzy while the concussion worked itself out and the doctors dealt with the dent in my skull.

Mercifully, it’s a very thick skull, muttered the attending surgeon a week later, poking stubby fingers at the healing wound and asking if it hurt.

I forswore sarcasm while my health was in his hands. I was lucky. I’m always lucky.

The surgeon didn’t argue. Instead he had me tilting my head at all angles, looking up at the ceiling or to one side, or down at the floor, while he shone a bright light into my eyes. Then he had me tracking that damnable light from one side to the other and back again.

He hmphed to himself and went away, leaving me lying on my back in a narrow and hard hospital bed. I still ached badly everywhere, especially the broken arm. Moving in bed had my knee reminding me that it, too, was no longer top-notch. Breathing was an exercise in caution—not too deeply as to get the ribs complaining, and not so shallow that I’d end up with pneumonia. Miserable, miserable time.

I could live with the aches in arm, leg, and chest. I could live with the bruises in places I didn’t know I possessed until they hurt. I could live with the buzzing in my ears as my punctured eardrums healed. But….

But.

But my eyes were no longer perfect. The hospital tent was fuzzy, and the nurses were indistinct shapes until I blinked and squinted and brought them into focus. My eyes stung and hurt in the light. They were, to put no finer point on it, ruined.

I still can’t talk very much about what it meant to me. My injuries cut my life in two, neatly bisecting it into one compartment marked flying and the other not flying. But I didn’t try to hide from the consequences. I was never any good at fooling myself. Much better to fool other people.

The eyes weren’t something I could walk away from.

The Lancaster luck had deserted me.

**~*~**

A couple of weeks after I saw the surgeon, I was sent back to the Ark Royal. James Beckett, the ship’s doctor, was waiting for me when the aeroshuttle from Koffiefontein set me down. He’s a runty, pugnacious little Scot is Beckett, not overly given to sympathy. He always said a sympathetic doctor lost more patients to fatal indulgence than to fatal illness and no one would hurl that accusation at him. There was little likelihood of it. We trusted Beckett absolutely, but we looked to his nurses for sympathy and soft hands to smooth our fevered brows. A Beckett who greeted me by taking both my hands in his and looking solemn was not a hopeful sign. He whisked me straight to the sick bay for an examination. Another not-so-hopeful sign.

Headaches? Beckett shone bright lights into my eyes and stared into them like some demented lover trying to see the soul of his beloved. It was disconcerting. I liked the man, you understand, but not that much. My taste ran to men I wouldn’t get a crick in the neck kissing.

Better. The dizziness is better too.

Good. That’s good progress. Beckett moved to my left. He vanished into a sort of empty grey space that had replaced the peripheral vision on that side. I had to turn my head to keep him in view.

My stomach clenched. Well, that was that. I was going to lose the very fast aerofighters. If I couldn’t see to land on the deck of the carrier, if part of my vision had gone, the chances were Her Britannic Majesty, through the agency of the commander, would give me a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, hand me a gratuity, and put me on a ship back to London, mouthing some platitude about Your country appreciates your service and sacrifice, Captain.

Beckett patted my arm. First, Rafe, let me assure you that you will not go blind. I believe the headaches will wear off in time as your head heals from the injuries inflicted on it. It’s quite likely, too, once you’ve seen an oculist and had him prescribe you the correct spectacles for your current condition, that your eyesight will be adequate for all normal activity. Reading, writing, card sharping… that sort of thing should not cause you undue difficulty. Until you can consult a specialist, though, you had better keep your eyes shaded from bright light and guard against straining them. Did the base give you some lenses?

I pulled a pair of spectacles from my breast pocket and flourished them.

Well, put them on, man! They’re no damn use in your pocket.

They don’t help much. It was hard to hook the wire frames over my ears with one hand out of commission. Huffing with impatience, Beckett did it for me. Another battery of tests followed.

At the end of them, Beckett tutted and removed the spectacles. You’d think the base could do better than this. These aren’t helping much because they’re not suited to your eyes. He went to a cabinet at the far side of the room and rooted through it. Ah, these are better. Not perfect, but better.

He returned with another pair of spectacles, these with thin gold rims, and fitted them into place. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the lenses, but when they did, the room sprang into sharper focus. Well, they worked, at least, and much better than the pair the base surgeon had provided. Something else must have had my eyes burning and stinging.

Beckett nodded. You should always guard against overusing your eyes. You may expect headaches if you do, even once your sight is settled with the correct lenses. But I’m confident your sight should not deteriorate further and, as I say, with advice from the right specialist—Carrington in Harley Street’s the man—your eyes may improve. But what you don’t have, and never will again, is perfect vision.

A bullet needed biting. So I bit. Hard. So, not good enough to fly?

Beckett wouldn’t look at me. He put all his attention into packing up the ridiculous little black bag doctors insisted on carrying around with them.

James, will I fly again?

No. I’m sorry, Rafe. But no.

I’d known it all along, of course. But it still hurt.

He added, At least, not military fighters. When you’ve seen Carrington, and become accustomed to spectacles to correct your vision to average normal, I’m sure you’ll qualify to fly civilian aeroships.

Where was the comfort in that? Beckett’s words, their finality, meant my life had been cut away from me without chloroform to cushion the blow. I’d known. Of course I’d known. I’d braced for it, but even so, everything clenched again, and my thrice-be-damned eyes stung so badly I had to slip a finger behind the spectacle lenses and rub at them. It felt like a kick in the midriff from a horse.

Damn.

Flying was all I knew. All I had.

All right, lad? asked Beckett, tone gentle.

I drew a deep breath. Have you ever had that feeling when you’re right on the edge of sleep and you kick out as though you’ve mistimed the last of a set of steps? It’s as if you’re falling into a deep hole. It always wakes me up when it happens.

Aye. It’s a kind of nervous tic. The doctor chuffed out a mirthless laugh. He went back to the cabinet. It’s a common enough thing.

Well, the step I fell off is about as high as the Monument. I looked down to hide my face. A Lancaster never showed when he was beaten. Never. Damn. Damn and blast and what in Hades was I going to do now? Thank you, James. I’ll get used to it, I suppose.

You’re alive, lad. And that’s a miracle in itself.

Yes. I suppose the commander will have me sent home? Have you told him?

He saw the report from the base surgeon two weeks ago, Beckett said, and all he wants me to do now is confirm it. I’ll have to do it. You do understand?

Well, nothing to do there but nod. Of course Beckett had to tell the commander the truth. Of course he did. It wasn’t his fault he bore grim news.

Aye. Well, I expect the wheels are already in motion for a medical retirement. They should give you a pension, at least. I’m sorry, Rafe. I know it’s not the best news. Beckett returned and pushed something into my hand. Here. Get this down you.

It was a glass of scotch, his own remedy for all the ills to afflict humanity. It tasted wonderful.

He patted my shoulder. I know you haven’t had much time to think about this, but any idea what you’ll do?

I’ve had over three weeks. I looked up at him and managed a grin. It was time to paste on the Lancaster game face and look on this as a kind of hazard, win or lose on the toss of the dice. I knew before you told me, James. I didn’t want to believe it.

He nodded. I thought so. What will you do?

Don’t know.

What about your House? Will they help?

Like me, Beckett is a member of a Minor House, except for some odd reason he always called it his Clan, and on Burns Night he wore a dreadful tartan affair and drank lots of scotch. I can get right behind the drinking of a great deal of whiskey, but I draw the line at a kilt. Beckett doesn’t have the knees for one. His Clan paid for his education, of course, the way my House—Stravaigor—paid for mine. Beckett, though, is in good standing with his Clan. I was not in good standing with Stravaigor.

And that was an understatement and a half.

So I choked out a laugh of sorts at Beckett’s innocent inquiry. Not a chance, James. I am not in good odour there.

I can’t say I’m surprised, Beckett said, which was a touch unkind of him. What did you do?

It’s what I didn’t do. I finished off the scotch, and Beckett, bless him, refilled the glass. I didn’t take holy orders.

The expression on his face was priceless. He would have won plaudits on any stage in London for depicting Astonishment or Wonder. I had never seen a man’s jaw drop so far and not dislocate. You? Holy orders?

I shared his astonishment. I was twenty and just down from Oxford—

Sent down? What did you do?

Really, this lack of confidence was tiresome. I’m afraid some acidity crept into my tone. I graduated, James. I’m actually quite intelligent, little as you might believe it. First class honours. Greats.

Beckett looked as dumbfounded at that as at the thought of me in orders.

The problem was that, unlike my elder brother Peter, I have no interest in commerce. I wasn’t interested in a House position and couldn’t muster the saving grace of pretending an enthusiasm for managing my father’s lands and farms. I didn’t share his passion for sheep, to begin with. So he conferred with the Stravaigor. Between them, they decided to send me into the church.

The church, repeated Beckett, eyes round as pennies. No. I can’t fathom it.

Don’t I know it. Good God, if anyone were less suited than I to a life of religious service, I should like to meet him and shake him by the hand.

I’m trying to understand their reasoning. You said you had no passion for sheep, yet they thought it a good idea to make you a spiritual shepherd?

My House is fond of irony. I finished the second glass, but Beckett, a true Scot, was of limited generosity. He pretended not to notice me shaking the glass at him or turning it upside down. But forcing me into holy orders would likely have been the ruination of both me and the worldwide Anglican Communion.

I can think of no one more unlikely as a priest. They might as well ordain the Antichrist.

I’m hardly that bad! I ignored Beckett’s doubtful expression. In any event, I got out of it. Any port in a storm, and all that. The military had far more appeal, as well as being the usual career for excess younger sons. Still, it took every ounce of guile I had to convince the Stravaigor it would be cheaper to buy me a commission with a promise of no further calls on House coffers, than put me into a living and pay me to make poor sermons for the rest of my life. Thank the Lord he listened.

Aye, well. But if your House princeps is anything like my Clan chief, he’ll have washed his hands of you.

Precisely. I was left with the strong impression the House has no time for ungrateful sons who refuse to take its advice and direction. There’ll be no help now from that quarter.

Unless, perhaps, I confessed to a lifelong regret to having missed out on the sermons. I wasn’t that desperate yet. I had a small income from the farms my father had left me and a box of jewellery that had been my mother’s and bequeathed to me in her will. I didn’t expect the jewellery was worth much; my father was a country squire, not a nabob. Still, it was something. And Beckett was right about the pension. I was owed something after almost ten years’ service. But all told, it wouldn’t be a lot to finance my new life.

Well, you’ll have time to think about it, lad. Don’t rush into anything. Now, I had better go. Beckett patted my shoulder and departed, presumably to relay the news to the commander, calling to my batman as he left. Aye, I’m done there now. You can take the captain to his quarters.

Hugh Peters slipped into the room, come to offer an arm in support to get me back to my cabin. He’d been with me since we were stationed at Lucknow in ’94, and he looked at me hopefully. His face fell at whatever he saw on mine. His grin became a grimace.

That’s about it, Hugh, I said, agreeing wholeheartedly with the grimace. My eyes aren’t going to get much better. I expect the commander will send me home on the next ship.

Well, I’m heart sorry to hear it, sir, and I won’t be the only one. What will you do, sir?

I shook my head. I had no idea.

Chapter 03

If the week I’d spent sick and dizzy in the hospital tent had been bad, the one I spent superfluous was a torment. I almost begged to see Commander Abercrombie and get it over with. Almost.

If I were a poetic sort of man, I’d say I wandered the Ark Royal like a forgotten ghost. I wasn’t allowed on active duty. I had nothing to do and nothing to occupy me. Even with the improved spectacles Beckett had given me, I couldn’t read for more than an hour or two before my eyes watered and ached and I had to put the book or datareader aside. I spent the long days wandering around the ship’s corridors, watching the crew work. Hardest of all was watching the little fighters launch from the flight deck, knowing I’d never do that again.

On the day the commander finally sent for me, I’d spent an hour for’ard, in the starboard launch bay. The bay was empty. One of the engineers told me that three of the four flights of aerofighters in the Starboard Flight Wing were out on a mission over Bloemfontein. They weren’t expected back for hours, and the five ships from the remaining flight were on standby. It was very quiet. Three or four engineers were busy tidying up, getting the overhead rails back into the ready position to bring the remaining ships from the hangars if needed, and clearing away the soot from the launch tube. Aether from the aerofighters’ engine exhausts caught at the throat, and phlogiston from the augmenter pipes hung on the air, visible, pervading everything with the smell of hot tar.

I loved that smell. Loved it.

The engineers left me alone for the most part, and I stared for a little while down the launch tubes. They were as dark as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and a tighter fit than a miser’s purse. Far in the distance was a bright blue circle of sky. Nothing could beat it, the heady rush of a fighter craft hurtling down a tube at a hundred miles an hour, the sooty, smoke-smeared walls so close a man could almost reach out and touch them…. Damn. I’d miss that.

Staring down the tube was pointless, not to mention maudlin and self-indulgent. A wave to the engineers, and I headed aft. For a little while I wandered around the starboard landing bay. Sad when the most exciting thing to do was watch an engineer cleaning an inspection pit in the decking. He raised a hand in greeting, but I went no closer. The man was covered in oil and grime. Filthy job, that. Filthy.

I could use up several minutes crossing over to the port deck, letting the mechanics of getting there occupy me. The port deck would be as tedious as this one, but getting there was at least something to do. So, into the elevator I went, closing the metal grille gates behind me. The elevators went diagonally up the huge wings holding the fighter decks out from the main body of the ship. Damn elderly, those elevators, all brass and wood. Time they were refitted. It was a sign of desperation when I concluded that the elevator breaking down would at least offer a little novelty in my tediously long day, but I was thwarted there. It decanted me without incident into the antechamber at the top. A fire roared in the grate, warming the chamber for the few aeronauts who waited in reserve in case they were needed. They looked up when I got there.

Rafe! Rafe, old chap. Whatever are you doing wandering around like some sort of pedestrianised Flying Dutchman? Page was the Flight Captain of this little squad. A small man with a mouth of the right size for the foot he kept sticking in it. Come and play a game of whist.

I’m tempted, but I’d have to let one of you deal my hand, and do I trust you enough? I lifted my left arm, still in its cast. It itched like the devil under the heavy plaster of paris, but Beckett was pleased with its progress.

Page cocked an eyebrow at me. Bored?

Positively jaded.

One of the younger lieutenants laughed. You can’t be! It must be heaven, having nothing to do!

Idiot. Page’s foot in mouth disease must be contagious.

I forbore to beat the boy to death with my cast. Not when it’s forced on you. I’m an idle sort of fellow, as you know. I always thought I’d like to be the one man on the whole busy ship to sit back with a beatific smile on my face and watch you peasants labour.

Page grinned. But it doesn’t work like that?

It saddens me to admit it, but idleness is only enjoyable when I can throw it off when I’ve had enough of it. I don’t enjoy tedium when it’s forced on me.

Poor old Rafe! We can’t have you moping about the place like this. Come and play cards and keep us company.

They might be idiots sometimes, but really my fellow aeronauts were the best of good fellows. They had done their utmost over the last few days to stop me brooding. They probably all knew, bless them, that I was marking time and I wouldn’t be flying again. During the day most of them were out on patrols and engagements, or unable to leave the launch bay antechambers, yet they made the effort each evening to seek me out and made sure I had company at dinner at least. I was as lucky in my friends as I was in most things.

We whiled away an hour or two with cards, until duty called and they were sent out to relieve another flight. I came out of the card games a guinea or so richer too. That was always pleasant. It would help pay my mess bill.

I went up into the main body of the ship, to wander the main troop decks and roam through the officers’ mess to the exercise rooms and the barracks in search of some sort of diversion. I found it in the engine control room, set on a balcony above a compartment that makes the word cavernous appear small and confined. Beyond the railing, out in the engine room proper, the darkness was complete, the lights from the control room penetrating a mere hundred yards before being eaten up by shadow. Every three minutes the gloom was pierced by crackles of coloured lightning slashing through the dark like knives, making the shadows leap away to cower in the corners. In the lightning surge, huge pistons beat up and down and up and down, gleaming with polished brass and black enamel. The noise was incredible. Being trapped in a metal barrel with a dozen enthusiastic blacksmiths attacking the outside with hammers might come close.

It wasn’t one of my normal haunts. Too much steam and heat, and the smell of burnt oil got into everything. The chief stoker had raised an inquiring eyebrow at me. We don’t often see you down here, Captain. I heard you were on sick leave. Bored, are you?

I could hardly deny that diagnosis. You hit nails on heads with an admirable precision, Chief. You’re a credit to your training as an engineer.

The chief stoker laughed, and allowed me to take charge of one of the dials monitoring steam pressure in the engines. The highlight of my day, tapping a dial and calling out the numbers. To these straits was I reduced. It was a sad, sad waste of my talents.

That’s where Marks found me, with the industrious mechanics who kept the Ark Royal in the sky where she belonged. Marks liked to remind everyone he was a major, everyone’s superior officer and the commander’s adjutant. He kept his major’s crowns brightly polished in the delusional hope it would impress us. He was known on the flight decks as the Supreme Fusspot—and a great many other opprobrious epithets unrepeatable in mixed company.

He fussed his way into the engine control room, fussed his way past the stokers and engineers, and fussed up to me. He half ran everywhere, making little taps and dabs at everything and everyone with his podgy white hands. Lancaster! At last!—dab, dab at the dial—What’s wrong with your communications device, man?—dab, dab at my arm—I’ve been looking for you everywhere.—dab, dab at the dial again—What on earth are you doing in here?

Only one reason Marks had come looking for me. Only one. My stomach clenched.

Damn.

I managed a grin for the chief stoker, although I wouldn’t say it was one of my best performances. I’m assuring myself that the engineering crews are maintaining the ship the way they ought.

Get along with you, said the chief stoker, grinning.

Well, I don’t know why you’re down here when the commander’s looking for you. Marks fussed me into the elevator to the command deck, looking me up and down and pursing up his mouth until it was as prissy as a hen’s behind. He made those little dabs at the brass elevator button, tapping it half a dozen times. Typical! Can you ever act in a way becoming an officer and a gentleman?—dab, dab at my arm…. I got out of reach, leaving Marks looking sulky, with his mouth turning down—Down here getting covered in oil! Really, Rafe, it’s outside of enough. You’ll have to do as you are. He sent me to find you a good thirty minutes ago. He sniffed, and looked disconsolate, having nothing within reach to dab at. You smell of oil.

My mouth was suddenly quite dry. I had to swallow a couple of times before I spoke. He won’t care about that.

I let Marks fuss and bustle. It didn’t matter. The man was a contemptible sycophant at the best of times, and what he did or didn’t do couldn’t hurt me. Not now.

This was it.

So I did the one thing I could do. I squared my shoulders, nodded to the commander’s personal guard, and marched into the office when summoned, with my head high. Marks did his best to ensure the commander saw him shoo me in, of course. The man had to justify his existence somehow.

The commander was less outwardly sympathetic than Beckett. As I said, Beckett and I are from Minor Houses, our extended families having relatively little influence in the world except what they could get from hanging on the coattails of the great. Beckett had some fellow feeling, I think, a sense of the camaraderie felt by the little people bonding against the Convocation Houses, the eight rich and powerful families who make up the government and rule the Britannic Imperium.

Abercrombie, though, was a big gun, above me socially and politically. He was a member of Convocation House Huissher, and was high in his House hierarchy—one of the current Huissher’s nephews, no less. No fellow feeling there at all. He was a gruff bastard on a good day—not that I had ever seen many of those, since I seemed to sour his life by breathing—and he was no less gruff because he was telling his most troublesome aeronaut about the arrangements for my release from service.

As I expected, he talked about the medical retirement as a fait accompli. All that remained was to explain what it would mean in practical terms. Notice of the financial arrangements has come through from the Treasury, Captain. Your salary will be paid until the end of the year. Your gratuity has been calculated as a one-off payment of six months’ salary and will be remitted to your bank by the Paymaster General’s office next month. You have also been granted a pension for life rated at one-quarter of your present salary. That will be payable from 1 January.

That little? Surely I’d earned more than the minimum? I joined up in September ’90, sir. That’s nine years’ service, all of it on active duty here or in India. Surely the payment should be closer to three-quarters of a year’s salary?

You can blame the Treasury for that. They’re economizing again. This is an expensive war.

I refrained from rolling my aching eyes. The Treasury was the fiefdom of Convocation House Gallowglass, and I had no influence or contacts there at all. Is there no appeal, sir?

Enhancements to medical retirement gratuities have always been at the Gallowglass’s discretion, Captain. Six months’ pay is all that is mandated legally. Abercrombie pushed the paperwork across to me. Do you have House resources you can call on?

Damn. Only the bare minimum the law allowed. Nothing extra for service above and beyond. Damned parsimonious. No, sir. I’m House Stravaigor, as you may remember, but a cadet branch. The House saw to my education, of course, and purchased my commission, but I can expect no further aid there.

I’m sorry, Lancaster. And surprisingly Commander Abercrombie did sound sorry, although it must have really stretched his imagination to envisage the privations and problems faced by ordinary people who didn’t have his privilege to sustain them. The commander looked as though he’d bitten into a lemon. You are one of the most skilled aeronauts I have ever commanded, and you’ve served Her Majesty well.

Well, there was the sop to soften the blow. How it must have hurt the commander to admit it! He was right, of course. I was the best aeronaut on the ship. I may have joined Her Britannic Majesty’s Imperial Aero Corps in an act of desperate rebellion rather than patriotic zeal, but I loved flying fast little aerofighters, the faster the better. I owned that clear blue sky out there. Nothing could come close to the sheer joy and exhilaration of, as Shakespeare has it, soaring up from the sullen earth. At least all the wars and skirmishes that delighted the Imperium had allowed me to fly and get some damn excitement out of life.

Flying had become my life. And now it was gone.

I tightened my mouth against the sigh that I would die before allowing the commander to hear, pulled the papers toward me, and signed. A lump sum of six month’s pay was better than nothing at all, and the pension might just about keep body and soul together if I wasn’t choosy about how well. It was something, anyway. I wasn’t entirely destitute. I returned both copies of my discharge papers to the commander, who scrawled an elegant signature over them and handed one copy back.

Perhaps, said the commander, I can now run this ship without you whipping up half the crew into a frenzy over cards and gambling…. He paused as if waiting for a response.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! I enjoyed playing at piquet or whist or faro, and a guinea a point added spice to the game. I had deft hands for throwing dice at hazard, and knew the form of every racehorse in England. Guilty as charged, obviously. Still, despite Beckett’s acid comment about card sharping—the doctor was a notoriously bad loser—I was hardly running an illegal gaming hell. It was enough to make me the target of Commander Abercrombie’s periodic rages against gambling and drinking and womanizing on his ship, of course. Abercrombie was a teetotaller in every aspect of vice, with an old-maid’s horror of the seven deadly sins. What a miserable life he must lead.

Abercrombie snorted. Not to mention sending the other half into a frenzy of an indelicately emotional kind.

He was talking about Beckett’s nurses again.

I think I was about fourteen when I discovered how useful charm was. All of the girls and most of the boys giggled and blushed when I smiled. And as for diverting a tutor righteously angry about a missed essay, or my father, angry about pranks played on the vicar… child’s play. Being charming worked. So I spent a lot of time at the mirror practicing until I’d perfected the smiles, the sparkle, the brightness about the eyes.

It still worked. I was, though I say it myself, popular, and my company sought by all. At a ball, many of the gentlemen gathered around me for talk and cigars while the ladies repaid any slight interest with sweet, coquettish smiles and come-hitherish looks over the tops of their fans. They were susceptible to the effect of thick dark hair and dark eyes, although I’d wager they’d reconsider if they knew both came from my Anglo-Indian grandmother. Still, I was never at a loss for a partner at a ball, especially when I was in dress uniform. Many a lady—and her mother—had a soft heart when it came to a man in regimentals.

I often wonder if all those people were blind. Because no matter how gallant I was to the ladies, not one of them noticed it went nowhere. Not one. Not even the commander who more than once had loomed over me at a ship’s ball or in the mess to make it clear he was on the watch for impropriety. Because if they had been watching, they might have seen I was indifferent to the ladies and very, very discreet about the gentlemen. I really am not a fool. I kept that passion very quiet and never allowed it full rein on board ship. Abercrombie would have burst a blood vessel.

Which was a temptation.

The one saving grace to enforced retirement was that I no longer needed to suffer silently another unwarranted slur about my character. It was hard to fold my copy of the signed papers one-handed and put it in my breast pocket, but I managed it. You know, Commander, in general I don’t think rich dilettantes do a great deal of good in society, but Miss Nightingale is to be commended for her foresight in providing the right kind of diversion from the monotony of service life. The nursing service at least makes war a trifle more bearable.

The commander turned so puce that perhaps a breaking blood vessel was a certainty. Well, I no longer needed to care about staying on Abercrombie’s good side. If the man had one. So I smiled and saluted. I don’t believe there is a man in the service who could salute with as much insolence as I could. I’ve practiced that too. Abercrombie turned a fetching shade of burgundy and waved me out of the office with an audible Good riddance!

Well, that cut both ways. I wouldn’t repine about the loss of his company, either.

**~*~**

Next day every aeronaut on the ship escorted me to the starboard flight deck. They lined the entire route from my cabin to the deck, and my hand ached from the number of them catching it and wringing it. Every one of them said some variation of We’ll miss you, Rafe. Good luck, old chap, and keep in touch. I had a stupid cold, or something, and could barely speak a word in reply. My throat hurt.

As I passed, they fell in behind me and marched along in my wake. I reached the flight deck at the head of a small army. Beckett was waiting for me there, and his nurses formed a lachrymose guard of honour as I walked to the aeroshuttle that would take me to Koffiefontein to catch the train to Cape Town and a regular aeroship service home. Some of the men lamented with them—possibly, as I commented to Hugh Peters, because I had made them all pay their gambling debts before I left. But there may have been other reasons, and more than one held my hand longer than the world would consider polite or seemly. Some missed opportunities there, apparently.

I got a manly hug from Beckett. Hugh gripped my hand and wished me well. The poor boy had tears in his eyes, and he didn’t owe me a farthing. It was a fitting end to my military career, I suppose, that the last thing I saw of the Ark Royal was my batman’s grief and a nurse weeping into a capacious handkerchief about the size of a hospital blanket.

I should have asked her if I could borrow it. My eyes stung fiercely that day. Dust, perhaps. Yes. That’s most likely. Dust.

I kicked my heels in Cape Town for two weeks while awaiting transport, which at least meant the doctors there pronounced my arm healed and removed the damned cast. Cape Town isn’t a bad place to spend some time. I managed to get in a little walking around the city, and the scenery is quite spectacular. It wasn’t until 12 November 1899 that I arrived home, when my civilian-service aeroship landed at the aerodrome at Friary Park, north of Highgate. It was dawn and quite a contrast to the Cape. The ground was white with rime frost and the sky heavy and dark with the threat of snow.

I had spent most of my leaves at Le Touquet or Cannes, and it was seven years since I had last set foot on my native soil. I wasn’t quite thirty years old. I had no career, a fortune no man would call large and absolutely no idea what I was going to do with my life.

So, I took a metaphorical deep breath, bit the end off a cigarillo and stuck it between my teeth, shouldered my kit bags, and headed toward the edge of the landing field to find an autohansom to take me into the centre of London.

It was as well I liked adventure. It appeared I was facing one.

Chapter 04

For all their arrogance, Minor Houses have little political power of their own. Their power comes from the alliances they make and from servile bowing and scraping to their betters. They’re the jackals slinking around the kill, waiting for the lions to finish the better cuts of meat before rushing in to scavenge what’s left.

Stravaigor is one of several Minor Houses allied to Convocation House Cartomancer, assuring the Cartomancer of a constant supply of lower-level officials to staff the government departments for which he’s responsible. The senior appointments were reserved for his own sons and brothers, of course. The Cartomancer has oversight of the Imperium’s foreign policy. Slipstreaming in this diplomatic wake for the last few generations, the heads of my House—very successful jackals indeed—have accumulated a substantial fortune in the East India Company. At the time of my return to London, the House was heavily involved in developing the Far Eastern markets.

I don’t like the Houses. Quite simply, if I’m going to grovel and scrape and bow, I’ll do it on my own account. Not for a House of cousins and half cousins who care as much for me as I do for them. Sadly, despite my indifference, I had to sit through a progress report on the House’s fortunes regaled to me by my father’s cousin.

Now widowed, Cousin Agnes was housekeeper/manager at the hostel maintained in Russell Square for those of House Stravaigor’s members who couldn’t afford, or didn’t want, the expense of maintaining houses in town. I went straight to the hostel the day of my arrival and secured a room without difficulty. Thankfully, the rent was nominal, possibly because the room, on the second floor back, overlooked a narrow yard much beloved by the local cats. But while the house was as starched and upright as Agnes, with the same air of impregnable corseted solidity, the rooms were clean and comfortable. I was lucky to get the one Agnes offered. As I’d told Beckett, I was not considered a House member in good standing, and I had half anticipated being turned away.

Cousin Agnes was a deep-voiced, deep-bosomed woman with a hard eye and a harder heart. I had been designated the wastrel of the family at the age of twenty when I refused to take holy orders, and my service to the Imperium gave her no reason to change her opinion. Her greeting had been an effusive Well, well. If it isn’t Rafe Lancaster. Have they cashiered you at last?

I had powerful memories of Cousin Agnes. Not so much of her looks or voice or mannerisms, but her smell. She wafted about Bloomsbury in the same odour of peppermints and mothballs that had pervaded our family home near Salisbury whenever she had chosen to darken its doors. One inhalation of breath when I walked into the Russell Square house and I was taken back to childhood.

Still, common politeness demanded I ignore the scorn and plant a dutiful kiss on her cheek. It tasted of rose powder. Medical discharge, ma’am. I was injured in the defence of the Imperium. I deem it an honour, of course.

She sniffed. I hope your return presages a change of heart on your part, and an acknowledgment of your duty to the House?

I shouldn’t put a great deal of money on that prospect, Cousin Agnes, were I you. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.

I see you haven’t changed one iota. So unlike your brother. She sounded wistful. Dear Peter! Now he is such a hardworking and useful member of society! A loyal member of the House and always working in its best interests. He’s an example to us all.

I’d barely given Peter a thought for years. He’s five years my elder, and he’s so far enmeshed in House business he’s invisible. We have nothing in common, and emulating him doesn’t stand high on my list of ambitions. Agnes was fond of Peter and fond of comparing us, to my detriment. I didn’t care. He was welcome to her and her peppermints and mothballs.

Peter? I haven’t seen him for what? Six or seven years now. Seven. We last met at Papa’s funeral and that was 1892. Where is old Peter these days? Calcutta? Bangkok?

I was sorry I asked. I suffered through a recitation of Peter’s accomplishments over the last seven years and how in each new posting he proved what a credit he was to the House. Said with a sniff and the look that reminded me I was the opposite. Apparently Peter was currently in Shanghai, building a fortune in silk, ivory, and opium. God help the poor Chinese. They would need all their reputed inscrutability to deal with Peter Lancaster.

Good for him was all I said, swallowing a yawn and making sure Cousin Agnes saw me do it.

When I was a child, she’d had a habit of sneering by flaring her nostrils and twisting her mouth up at one side. It was more pronounced now that her skin was laced with fine wrinkles. It wasn’t a flattering look for her. Very well, Rafe. I can see it’s of little use appealing to your moral conscience about your duty to the House—

None at all, Cousin.

Then your rent is ten shillings a week with laundry included. No meals provided other than breakfast, which we serve in the parlour between nine and ten. The staff remove the dishes precisely when the clock strikes ten. Visitors by prior arrangement and gentlemen only. If you come in late, do so without disturbing anyone. She took the first week’s rent with the sort of snappy wrist action a card player might envy, and with evident reluctance, handed over a set of house keys. Since you have deigned to return, you might wish to consider approaching the Stravaigor. He may have advice to offer on your future. Once you have apologised and he has forgiven your offenses, of course.

I’ll consider doing just that, I lied, and