The Greyfriar (Vampire Empire, Book 1) by Clay & Susan Griffith;Clay Griffith;Susan Griffith (11 page)

Some of the old-timers of Alexandria grumbled as they shielded
their eyes while watching the American ship approach over the green
Mediterranean. Where are their battleships? they muttered. A man comes for
an imperial wedding and doesn't arrive on the greatest ship in the American
fleet? Hrnph.

Still, the vast crowd at Pharos Airport and along the quays cheered
with convincing vigor as the frigate hove out of the ceremonial escort of
Equatorian ships. Unlike the ponderous imperial capital ships that overshadowed it, Ranger was fast and nimble, a swift shark among plodding
whales.

The Equatorian prime minister, Lord Kelvin, stood on a reception
platform festooned with bunting and the flags of Equatoria and
America, and gave a satisfied smile. But not too much of a smile. Not so
much that anyone watching him would know he was smiling. That
would be bad form for the prime minister.

Beside Lord Kelvin stood two grandees of the Empire. One was
Admiral Kilwas, First Air Lord, author of the air campaign that broke
the rebels of Zanzibar. Beefy and dark, the admiral was resplendent in
his uniform and provided a necessary example of imperial solidarity,
being from the rich trading coast of Tanganyika. On Kelvin's other side
was the commercial behemoth Laurence Randolph, Lord Aden, master
of an incalculable fortune made from timber, coal, and oil that fueled the
steam and iron of the Empire. He sported well-tailored formal attire, a
singular figure, fit and handsome, appearing much younger than his
years, with a rakish mustache and bright eyes that showed he knew more
than anyone around him.

The American vessel tacked on final approach to the main air tower.
Any slip by the foreigners would become the talk of the city and would
injure their reputations in the minds of the Alexandrians. This thought
made Lord Kelvin's nearly nonexistent smile vanish. It simply wouldn't
do for the new imperial consort to start off on the wrong foot with the
people of the capital. The winds at Pharos were notoriously fiendish.
Kelvin had begged the Americans to take on a local pilot, but Senator
Clark had flatly refused, insisting his "boys could moor Ranger to a
chestnut tree in a gale."

The pennants on the Pharos One docking tower switched like angry
cats' tails. High on the mooring platform, a crew stood stiff-legged in
the blustery wind, waiting for Ranger's bowline. They were from the
emperor's household, responsible for handling Constantine's flagship on
those increasingly rare occasions when His Imperial Majesty went aloft.
Although it was a shocking breach of protocol for imperial household
staff to serve a mere American senator, Lord Kelvin had sidestepped that
embarrassment, and very cleverly he thought, by temporarily demoting
the entire crew. Once Ranger was secured, they would all resume their
duties in the imperial household.

Ranger closed fast on mighty Pharos One. The last of the spritsails
lulled, and the airship's prow turned to the tower. The bowline flew. The
tower crew caught it and made it fast, securing the line to a massive
multigeared mechanism. The center dial burned a luminous blue, and
then slowly the gears started to crank the bowline to secure the ship to the tower. The crowd seemed satisfied. Admiral Kilwas breathed out
through his nose. Lord Kelvin wanted to let out a breath too, but refused
to show such bad form. He watched for the venting of chemical buoyants
from the American ship, but it didn't appear. The admiral made a dismaying grunt of confusion as multiple cables dropped from the frigate's
gunwales to the ground. He even leaned over to another officer and
exchanged a few whispers. Kelvin silently urged him back into place.

Lord Kelvin's hands ached, but he wouldn't flex them for fear of
looking less than placid. His red ceremonial sash had worked itself up
along his neck and it chafed, but he refused to adjust it. It was bad form
to look uncomfortable. He would deal with the rash on his neck later.

Imperial dignitaries on the reviewing stand could see the port side
of Ranger and were shocked enough to murmur when the ship's gun
ports opened and cannons were run out. The crowd below was beginning
to seethe. They were surprised by the guns too. And then even more surprised to see men lined up along the ship's rails with the sunlight
glinting off their distant accoutrements.

Lord Kelvin was horrified when Admiral Kilwas requested his brass
spyglass and placed it to his eye like this was some common boat race
on the Nile. The admiral exclaimed, quietly thank God, in his native
Swahili, causing Kelvin to snort through his nose in reprimand. The
prime minister could make out the men at Ranger's rail taking hold of
the cables that dangled down in the wind.

Suddenly a broadside roared from the frigate, first starboard, then
port. The cannons' discharge was odd. Some guns belched red smoke,
some blue, and some white. The heavy multicolored smoke obscured the
ship like garish cotton.

Then men dropped out of clouds trailing wisps of red, white, and
blue smoke. Some in the crowd screamed at the sight of men apparently
falling to their deaths. The Americans plummeted wildly on the cables,
fifty of them in blue uniforms, with white cowboy hats flying madly
behind them on long latigos, and one trailing a fluttering American flag.
The commandos landed expertly at the base of the Pharos tower.

Admiral Kilwas leaned forward into the spyglass and laughed. Out
loud. Lord Kelvin almost flinched.

The crowd experienced a brief moment of confusion trying to understand how they should react before a flood of adulation swept over them.
They had been taken unawares, and although they could have shown
their embarrassment with scorn, instead they threw up their arms and
roared with pleasure.

The American soldiers formed rank with their flag-bearer in the lead
and began a loose-limbed march along the causeway toward the main
quay with the sparkling Mediterranean behind them. Fahrenheit sabers
dangled from their hips on one side, and sidearms were holstered on the
other. Their dark blue pants ended in high white gaiters and black
boots. They wore no jackets, but their heavy blue tunics had epaulettes
and a double breast of shiny brass buttons. Jaunty yellow kerchiefs fluttered in the wind. Broad-brimmed white hats shaded their eyes, and
their white smiles gleamed.

Lord Kelvin glanced at his leather-bound copy of the official agenda
on the podium in front of him. The band was off cue. He turned to page
two and eyed his prepared remarks of greeting. Then, with a surge of
panic, he realized that the Americans, descending via ropes like common
orangutans, would have left their imperial protocol officer behind. Would
they remember where to stand? Would they remember what to say?

A disaster, Kelvin thought. This has become a terrible disaster. Oh God,
now Senator Clark is waving to the crowd!

Senator Clark, who strode just ahead of the flag-bearer, threw his
meaty hand about as if he were signaling a barmaid for a refill. His frank
grin shone out from behind his full black beard and mustache. All of the
rustic commandos had similarly massive displays of facial hair.

Lord Kelvin's stomach twisted. Grooming and dress instructions
had been included in the protocol memorandum. Imperial style for facial
hair was mustache and perhaps muttonchops, if necessary. Full beards
were no longer appropriate, since the emperor had shaved his two years
ago. Surely the protocol officer had instructed Senator Clark of this fact.
Yet here he was looking like a wild man. And instead of full dress uniforms, the Americans were apparently clothed as some sort of cabaret
performers.

The senator leapt onto the stage, drew off his massive white gloves, and stuck out his hand toward Lord Kelvin. His booming voice rang out.
"You must be Lord Kelvin. I'm Senator Clark. It's my pleasure, sir."

His Lordship stared at the calloused fingers, weighing rudeness
against trying to salvage something of the protocol. The American
grinned and leaned forward expectantly. Kelvin couldn't be publicly discourteous. Therefore he forced himself to forget decades of training and
abandon the months of careful planning that had gone into preparing for
this very moment. This was the meeting of two great nations, two great
peoples. And it came down to this, a proffered mitt and a prosaic
exchange of bucolic pleasantries. Lord Kelvin slowly extended a hand.
Clark crushed it in a vise of friendship.

The crowd roared.

Clark turned back to the mob and lifted his fist into the air, still
clasping the hand of Lord Kelvin, who was horrified at being made part
of such a barbarous display. But the disintegration of the magnificent
ceremony wasn't quite over. Clark released Kelvin's hand, for which His
Lordship was grateful, but then the boisterous American actually draped
his muscular arm around Kelvin's morning-coated shoulders.

Clark waved his gigantic white hat over his head and guffawed like
a drunk at a burlesque.

Clark poured dark liquor for Lord Kelvin, Admiral Kilwas, Lord Aden,
and himself. He lifted his glass. "Gentlemen, I give you the alliance of
the American Republic and the Equatorian Empire."

The four glasses clinked, and the men drank after the admiral added
a "Hear! Hear!" Clark wiped a practiced finger under his luxurious mustache and slammed the shot glass onto the polished teak table. Lord
Kelvin took the barest sip and quietly set his glass down.

"Bourbon," Clark announced. "It used to be the American drink.
We still get it out of the old South. But there's a lot more rum in
America now. Rum's fine. But it's not bourbon by a long shot." He
poured again.

Admiral Kilwas raised his glass. "Death to the vampires."

"Damned straight!" Clark barked, and drank it back.

Lord Aden gave a quick charming smile at the American and sipped.

Lord Kelvin wet his thin, colorless lips again and replaced the full
glass on the table. In this private room, the prime minister didn't restrict
his movement as he did in public, so he felt free to run a hand over his
slick black hair. As he opened his mouth to speak, the American was
pouring yet again. Kelvin soon saw glasses poised at his eye level.

His Lordship lifted his drink, cleared his throat, and managed a
reedy, "To His Imperial Majesty, Constantine the Second. And to Her
Imperial Highness the princess Adele and the coming union." He put
the glass to his lips.

Clark smiled appreciatively and quaffed again, as if it were no more
than water. Even Admiral Kilwas could only slowly down this third
blast of bourbon.

The senator gave Lord Aden a lopsided grin and said, "Lord Aden,
pleasure to see you again, sir. Did you enjoy your trip to America last
year?"

"I did indeed. The capital in Panama City is lovely. I was most
impressed by the generosity of the people across the Republic."

"What about our chemical energy program? Impressive, no?"

"Yes. Quite."

"As our alliance progresses, we'll get you Equatorian boys off your
filthy steam power. We'll boost your chemical industries tenfold."

"Hm. No doubt chemical power will make a useful addition to our
existing systems."

"Oh, trust me, you'll forget all about wood and coal and oil once you
see what our chemical engineers can do. You saw USS Hamilton when
you were in Panama, didn't you? Our first fully powered air battleship.
Aluminum bursts. Magnificent stuff."

Lord Aden took another sip from his glass and smiled. "Yes. Interesting prototype. It shows promise for the future. But I note you arrived
in a sailing airship."

Clark laughed. "Yes indeed. I love Ranger. She's the most beautiful
thing aloft. But powered flight is the wave of the future."

"We must show you our steam airships." Admiral Kilwas nodded. "HMS Culloden is moored in Alexandria, I believe. We can certainly
arrange a tour."

The senator nodded. "Steam. Limited. We're not sitting on endless
coal in the tropics."

"We've done well," Lord Aden said quickly. "Your chemical technologies are fascinating, I grant you. But underpowered compared to
steam. And underdeveloped, as of yet. I think our present hopes are best
laid with fuels that work now."

Clark laughed a bit harshly. "Spoken like a man who makes his fortune in old energy." He reached into an army pack beside his chair,
pulling out a small cypress box that he threw open on the table. Cuban
cigars. He took one, applied a long wooden match to the tip, and sat
back, crossing his legs. "Your Lordships. Admiral. Shall we get down to
brass tacks?"

"Indeed yes," Lord Kelvin replied, quite relieved. Dignified discussion was much preferred over unpredictable and rampant vulgarity.

Clark blew a long stream of smoke. "I'd like to see the emperor."

"Of course." Kelvin consulted the vellum pages of the agenda. "You
are scheduled to attend the public audience with His Imperial Majesty the
day after tomorrow. With your men." His Lordship glanced up to assure
himself that Clark understood how accommodating he was being. "And
you have a private conference with His Imperial Majesty and the Privy
Council two days after that. If you consult the schedule we provided to
you, you will see all that." Kelvin kindly opened the leather-bound copy
of the agenda to the page detailing Clark's first audience with His Majesty
and slid the book along the table toward the American's dirty boots.