However, the revised story finally saw publication in
July 2012 in Jake’s Monthly Anthology –
Alternate History and again in September 2013 in Jake’s Monthlies: Recollections, a collection of the editor’s 50
favorite stories from his anthologies. I think the Alternate History edition and Recollections
are still available at Smashwords and Createspace, respectively. And I liked
the characters enough to reincarnate them in an actual historical setting in my
(alas, still unpublished) novel, The Tomb
of the Khan. In the meantime, please enjoy the adventures of Jack,
Isabelle, Bruno and the too smart for his own good Soviet spy, Alexei Vankin.
THE
KHAN’S SWORD
Hulagu
Palace, Jerusalem, Autumn 1921
Jack Solms felt the tip of his cane grab
the marble floor of the corridor as he stepped forward, swinging cane and
mangled leg into place. Again. And again. The Soviet envoys shoved past,
muscling him against the stands of armor that lined the walls. Isabelle Hulagu,
the third reigning queen of that name, swept by, touching his arm in passing.
He dropped further back in her wake. He concentrated on the floor, checkered by
light from the windows facing the palace gardens. Trying to hurry only made
things worse.
 |
| image: Wikimedia commons |
Jack’s cane
thudded on the threshold. “Sorry to be late.”
“My Lord
Advocate.” The sentry’s face reddened. “I can’t let you in.”
“Sorry, did you
say something? I’m a little deaf in that ear. Shell fragments and all.” Jack
waved a hand over the patchwork of scars on his temple as he shoved his cane
against the door.
“Lord Advocate! I
thought I’d find you here.”
At the greeting
from the Chevalier Bruno d’Ibelin, Jack turned. The chevalier hooked an arm
around his free elbow to pull him aside.
“That bit about
the ear won’t do anymore,” Bruno whispered. “They’ve caught on that you’re deaf
in whichever ear suits you.”
“Maybe I’m deaf in
both ears, Bruno. Did you think of that? All those bits of Boche steel shifting
around in my skull.”
“There’s nothing either of us can do to
help Isabelle.” The chevalier nodded toward the closed door of the audience
chamber, its once again impassive sentry on guard.
“But she’s my wife.”
“You’re the
Queen’s husband, Jack, but you’re not the king. Consorts have never been kings
here, not since the founder of this dynasty returned to his home country and
left his queen to fend for herself.”
“Spare me the
history lesson.”
“That’s an
American for you. But Isabelle Hulagu can handle herself. Unless, she’s, that
is, there’s . . .”
“Not you blushing,
too, Bruno? My wife’s pregnancy is progressing normally, thank you. Isabelle’s not a gal to go in for hysterics.”
The chevalier
stepped back. “Another thing about Americans. . .”
Jack raised a
crooked eyebrow. “I thought plain speaking was what you liked about us-–that
and relieving all you neutral countries of your worries about kowtowing to the
Kaiser. Or in your case, the Ottomans.”
“God, the Ottomans.” Bruno flicked a silk
handkerchief out of his coat sleeve and polished his monocle. “I never thought
I’d miss those bastards. Now I have to pray that what’s left of the bloody
Turks stand firm between us and these Bolsheviks.”
He screwed the eyeglass back into its
socket and fumbled at his breast pocket. “Cigarette?”
“Have one of mine.” Propping himself on
the cane the palace’s foundry had made to his specifications, Jack pulled out
the gold cigarette case, emblazoned with the Kingdom’s emblem of sword above
crown, that had been his wife’s wedding gift. “Isabelle just got a new shipment
in. American tobacco.”
Even after years
in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, he had to restrain his urge to light the older
man’s cigarette. The Ibelin name had been synonymous with wealth and canny
power brokering for a thousand years, and Jack was only the second-generation
scion of a Texas cattle ranching fortune. But as the Queen’s husband, he
outranked the chevalier, who was only the court historian. Still, neither could
enter her audience chamber without an invitation.
They stood waiting
for the Queen to make an official announcement of the envoys’ mission, not that
it wasn’t an open secret. Isabelle’s private secretary had shown Jack the note
of protest from the leader of the White Russian colony in Jerusalem. The
Whites’ last hope, Baron Ungern von Sternberg, retreating before the Red Army
to Mongolia, had declared that country independent, with himself as its
military head. Now Ungern was dead, betrayed by his own men in this so-called
year of grace, 1921. At least that was one Russian fewer, Jack thought.
The door of the audience chamber opened
and the Bolsheviks filed out, looking, to Jack’s eyes, less cocky than when
they had entered. A youngster with a brush of untidy hair eyed Jack’s cane and
scars derisively. Jack flicked a live ash from his cigarette onto the youth’s
head, grinning as his victim patted it out.
The chief envoy locked eyes with Jack from
behind steel-rimmed spectacles as he passed.
The envoy’s pale, scholarly face never changed expression. The clatter
of the Soviets’ boots died away, but Isabelle did not emerge from the chamber.
“I’d better excuse myself to polish up the
ceremonial sword,” Jack said as he watched the Soviets disappear down the
corridor. “It’s a good bet there’ll be a council of barons’ meeting called to
discuss this.”
The chevalier ran a hand over his chin.
“And I’ll just time for a shave. Nothing focuses the mind so well as a sharp
blade at one’s throat.”
