some other means—had picked the lock.
Was Fearnley-Standish capable of such a thing?
Burton’s eyes flickered to the crystals in his tumbler. He stifled the doubts in his heart as
he choked back the memory of white ankles. No, he told himself again. Not Roxie.
He opened the case. Inside, everything looked all in order. The three letters were there, inside a large, flat, leather
wallet, and nothing unexpected had been added.
Or had it? He
picked up the sealed envelope addressed to Mr. Brigham Young, President of
the Kingdom of Deseret and hefted it. It looked like the same envelope, but
whoever had opened the case might have switched envelopes, or might have
steamed the envelope open and switched out its contents. Might have, he considered, but to what
end?
He might be played like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, from
Shakespeare’s play. Hamlet had
swapped their sealed letter for another, hadn’t he? And where the original letter instructed the king to kill
Hamlet, the substitute instructed him instead to kill Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern.
Bad way to go, that. Embarrassing.
“Bhishma’s buttocks!” Burton cursed darkly. He was going to have to open the
letter. It wasn’t contrary to any
explicit direction he had received, but it definitely went beyond his
affirmative instructions, and it smacked of underhandedness and shady
ethics. Burton had no qualms about
raiding the enemy by stealth, but sneaking about to get around his allies, or worse,
his superiors, was unmanly and dishonorable.
On the other hand, he could not risk the possibility that
the Yankee Clemens was somehow responsible, and was sending Burton in to meet
Brigham Young bearing a letter that read Dear Sir, please commence aerial
raids on Richmond and Savannah at your earliest convenience. Sincerely, Victoria. P.S., have the bearer of this letter
staked to the ground in front of the nearest coyote den . The
tools that he and Fearnley-Standish had removed (that he had removed, he corrected himself with a rueful
grin, Fearnley-Standish hadn’t done a damned thing) from the Jim
Smiley the previous night and stowed in the
hold of the Liahona hadn’t been
here this morning, when Burton had made a point of checking. If Clemens hadn’t got his tools back,
then someone else had got them.
Burton sighed. There was no good way around it; he would have to look.
It was easy to steam the letter open, using a jet from the
convenience steam hose (usually used to make scalding hot tea or iron clothes
or clean filthy boots) below the hot spigot in the cabin’s little brass
sink. Burton unfolded the letter
inside with trepidation, sitting again at the table to read it. He knew that he was doing what he had
to do, for the sake of the mission, but he still felt like a thief, a
trespasser, a blasphemer.
It didn’t look as official as he had expected, nothing like
the credentials—no seal, no formalities, just a simple note on the
Palace’s headed paper with a signature—but then, Burton reflected, it
wouldn’t. The official mission was
his; the note was a personal communication, an assurance of personal interest
and sincerity from one head of state to another. He read the note with fear in his heart and a mounting
paranoia in his aching brain.
Dear President Young,
To the formal documents credentialing my envoy, I wish to
add my personal statement of confidence. Captain Burton is a man of proven
merit in many extraordinary circumstances, and I trust you will find him as
capable, as bold and as interesting as I do.
I trust also that we will be able to reach
agreement. All parties declare
themselves to be against the outbreak of hostilities, but you and I mean it
sincerely, and I believe that between us your Kingdom and mine can ensure that
the American squabbles regarding membership and secession are resolved in a way
that does not compromise our nations’ prosperity. Captain
Was Fearnley-Standish capable of such a thing?
Burton’s eyes flickered to the crystals in his tumbler. He stifled the doubts in his heart as
he choked back the memory of white ankles. No, he told himself again. Not Roxie.
He opened the case. Inside, everything looked all in order. The three letters were there, inside a large, flat, leather
wallet, and nothing unexpected had been added.
Or had it? He
picked up the sealed envelope addressed to Mr. Brigham Young, President of
the Kingdom of Deseret and hefted it. It looked like the same envelope, but
whoever had opened the case might have switched envelopes, or might have
steamed the envelope open and switched out its contents. Might have, he considered, but to what
end?
He might be played like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, from
Shakespeare’s play. Hamlet had
swapped their sealed letter for another, hadn’t he? And where the original letter instructed the king to kill
Hamlet, the substitute instructed him instead to kill Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern.
Bad way to go, that. Embarrassing.
“Bhishma’s buttocks!” Burton cursed darkly. He was going to have to open the
letter. It wasn’t contrary to any
explicit direction he had received, but it definitely went beyond his
affirmative instructions, and it smacked of underhandedness and shady
ethics. Burton had no qualms about
raiding the enemy by stealth, but sneaking about to get around his allies, or worse,
his superiors, was unmanly and dishonorable.
On the other hand, he could not risk the possibility that
the Yankee Clemens was somehow responsible, and was sending Burton in to meet
Brigham Young bearing a letter that read Dear Sir, please commence aerial
raids on Richmond and Savannah at your earliest convenience. Sincerely, Victoria. P.S., have the bearer of this letter
staked to the ground in front of the nearest coyote den . The
tools that he and Fearnley-Standish had removed (that he had removed, he corrected himself with a rueful
grin, Fearnley-Standish hadn’t done a damned thing) from the Jim
Smiley the previous night and stowed in the
hold of the Liahona hadn’t been
here this morning, when Burton had made a point of checking. If Clemens hadn’t got his tools back,
then someone else had got them.
Burton sighed. There was no good way around it; he would have to look.
It was easy to steam the letter open, using a jet from the
convenience steam hose (usually used to make scalding hot tea or iron clothes
or clean filthy boots) below the hot spigot in the cabin’s little brass
sink. Burton unfolded the letter
inside with trepidation, sitting again at the table to read it. He knew that he was doing what he had
to do, for the sake of the mission, but he still felt like a thief, a
trespasser, a blasphemer.
It didn’t look as official as he had expected, nothing like
the credentials—no seal, no formalities, just a simple note on the
Palace’s headed paper with a signature—but then, Burton reflected, it
wouldn’t. The official mission was
his; the note was a personal communication, an assurance of personal interest
and sincerity from one head of state to another. He read the note with fear in his heart and a mounting
paranoia in his aching brain.
Dear President Young,
To the formal documents credentialing my envoy, I wish to
add my personal statement of confidence. Captain Burton is a man of proven
merit in many extraordinary circumstances, and I trust you will find him as
capable, as bold and as interesting as I do.
I trust also that we will be able to reach
agreement. All parties declare
themselves to be against the outbreak of hostilities, but you and I mean it
sincerely, and I believe that between us your Kingdom and mine can ensure that
the American squabbles regarding membership and secession are resolved in a way
that does not compromise our nations’ prosperity. Captain
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