a wooden board from a crate that had been broken apart in the fight. Several nails stuck out from one end of the board, and this he hurled at the man with the wasps’ nest. The man yelped in surprised pain as the board hit him in the head, then staggered to his feet and scurried away, cradling the nest and pressing a palm to his bleeding scalp. It wouldn’t be difficult to catch up with the wounded man, but in those few minutes, Morris would be dead, and Huntley had seen enough death to know it was better with someone, anyone, beside you.
He might have joined Morris in the afterlife, though. Huntley looked up at the wall behind him. Two dozen neat holes had been punched into the solid face of the brick. Exactly where his head had been. If Morris hadn’t pushed him, those holes would now be adorning his own skull and his brains would be nicely splattered across half of Southampton, where they wouldn’t do him much good.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded from Morris. Huntley heaved himself up into a sitting position, with Morris leaning against him. “Wasps like bullets? From a glowing golden nest?”
Morris coughed, sending another bubble of blood through his fingers. “Never mind that. Something I have to tell you. A message to deliver. Must be delivered…personally.”
“Of course.” Huntley owed Morris his life. That bound him to his service. It didn’t matter that, in a matter of minutes, Morris would be dead. It was an unbreakable rule, one that was never questioned, never doubted. Honor was held at a premium when the rest of the world went to hell. “Have you a letter? Something I should write down?” There were a few books in his pack, but of any of these he would gladly sacrifice a few pages to transcribe Morris’s message.
Morris shook his head weakly. “Can’t write the message down. Even so, there are no mail routes to deliver it.”
A message that could not be written. A destination beyond the all-encompassing reach of the British postal service. Things began to get stranger and stranger. Huntley started to wonder if, perhaps, he was lying drunk in a gutter somewhere, already deep in his return to England alcohol binge, and everything that had happened, was happening, was a whiskey-induced delusion. “Where’s it going?”
“To my friend, Franklin Burgess.” Morris gritted his teeth as a wave of pain moved through him, and Huntley did his best to comfort him, brushing clammy strands of hair back from Morris’s forehead. “In Urga. Outer Mongolia.”
“That is…far,” Huntley managed after he found his voice.
Another ghostly smile curved Morris’s mouth. “Always is. Was headed to a ship to take me there when,” he nodded toward the horrible wound in his stomach as his smile faded. With his free hand, he clutched at Huntley’s jacket. The strength left in Morris’s grip surprised Huntley, but Morris was growing more and more agitated. Huntley tried to calm him, but to no avail. Morris became nearly frantic, spending the last of his energy as he tugged Huntley closer. “Please. You must deliver the message to Burgess. Thousands of lives at stake. More. Many more.”
Huntley hesitated. Inwood’s letter was in his pocket. The promise of a quiet future beckoned. What Morris asked was huge, a deviation from plans to settle in Leeds, and yet, to Huntley’s mind, an adventure into unknown lands was infinitely preferable to tranquil stability. The fact that he’d thrown himself into a fight minutes after arriving in England told him so. Intelligent, probably not, but Huntley never put much stock in dry logic. And Morris had saved his life, the ultimate obligation. He could not refuse the dying man.
He said, “Give me the message. I’ll deliver it to him.”
Morris seemed momentarily surprised that Huntley had agreed, but then pulled him down so his ear was level with Morris’s mouth. In words barely audible, he whispered into Huntley’s ear. Huntley didn’t quite know what to expect, but certainly not the two lines of nonsense that Morris faintly gasped. How could the lives of thousands or more rest on something not even Edward Lear would comprehend?
“Repeat them back to me,” Morris insisted. He was waxen and pale, his lips growing stiff and awkward. The blood from his wound was slowing now. The source was nearly tapped out.
Feeling not a little ridiculous, Huntley repeated Morris’s message—three times at Morris’s urging—until the dying man was satisfied.
“Good. You must leave. Tonight. Next ship leaves. Two weeks. Too late.”
Huntley, who hadn’t been relishing the idea of his return to England, was still surprised by the speed with which he was supposed to leave it. He had some money from his army discharge, but he doubted he had enough to pay for a trip to the other side of the world. Soldiering was not the way any man could make his fortune, though perhaps that was the reason it attracted such a variety of reckless fools, including himself. As if anticipating his objections, Morris added, “In my coat pocket. My papers. Take my place on the ship.”
His head still swimming with all that he had seen and heard within the span of an hour, Huntley could only nod. Then a thought occurred to him. “This man, Burgess,” he said. “I doubt he’ll trust me if I show up at his door with some ridiculous…er, coded message, and say that you’ve…” He let his words trail off, even though it was clear that they both knew Morris wasn’t going to make it out alive from the alley.
Morris’s eyes were dull and sinking into his face. Huntley could barely hear him when he said, “Waistcoat inside pocket.”
As carefully as he could, Huntley reached into the small pocket sewn into the lining of Morris’s waistcoat. He pulled from the pocket a small circular metal object that turned out to be a compass. In the dimness of the alley, he was just able to see that the exterior of the compass was covered with minute writing in languages Huntley could not read, though he suspected they were Greek, Hebrew, and, yes, Sanskrit, of which he had a small knowledge. He opened the lid. Each point of the compass was represented by a different blade: the Roman soldier’s pugio, the European duelist’s rapier, the curved scimitar of the Near East, and the deadly serpentine form of the kris from the East Indies. A classic English rose lay at the center of the compass. Huntley realized that the compass was exceptionally old, with the heaviness of precious metal. Whispers of the past seemed to curl from it like perfumed smoke, and the lure of distant shores beckoned from within it, more powerful than any siren’s call. It was extraordinary.
“Give that. To Burgess.” Morris’s breath grew even more shallow. “Say to him, ‘North is eternal.’ He’ll know.”
“I’ll do that, Morris,” Huntley said, straight and solemn.
“Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you.” He seemed to relax at last, no longer fighting the inevitable.
“Is there someone else I should tell about you? Some family?”
“None. Only family I have. Will learn soon enough.” And with those words, a final spasm passed through Morris, the body’s last struggle to cling to the knowable world. He arched up, almost flinging himself from Huntley’s arms as a strangled sound ripped from his throat. Then he fell back, eyes open, and Huntley knew it was done.
He looked down at the dead man’s face. Morris couldn’t have been more than forty or forty-five, a hale man who, though he wasn’t a soldier by trade, had kept himself well-conditioned. He was dressed finely, without ostentation, the quality of his clothing revealing a certain level of status few, including Huntley himself, would enjoy. Shame to have Morris’s life end so abruptly, shame to meet death in an ignominious, dirty alley, the victim of an unfair fight.
Huntley reached down and closed Morris’s eyes. He sighed. No, he never quite got used to death, no matter how familiar it had become.
Two hours later saw Huntley standing on the deck of the Frances, watching the lights of Southampton grow smaller and fainter in the dark of night.
Good-bye, again, he thought.
After Morris had expired, Huntley took the travel papers from the dead man’s pocket and saw that the ship on which he was intending to sail would be leaving shortly. There wouldn’t be time to call for the police, since