Three Kings. Группа авторов

drag England back to the Dark Ages.’ He squeezed, and Alan’s malleable metal skin hardened in response to the abrupt pressure. ‘The people want a brighter, more civilized future.’ Richard was standing up straighter now, dropping his hand from Alan’s arm. The light of the phone cast his face into dramatic chiaroscuro. Handsome, with those thick blonde eyebrows and mane of flaxen hair – the very picture of a king. ‘I should make a statement, make it clear where I stand. The people of England would support me.’ And then Richard’s voice dropped once more, hesitation returning, so that he looked almost like a boy again. ‘Don’t you think?’

      Alan couldn’t resist running the calculations. It was an interesting strategic problem, considered in that light, without any regard for bloodline or right of inheritance. Who would be better for England, Henry or Richard? Richard, surely. Henry was cold, unfeeling – the sort who would cut you dead at the dinner table, would blithely ruin you and your family too. Afterwards he’d go straight to bed and sleep as well as an innocent babe, certain he’d done the right thing; men of his sort always did, by definition.

      Henry was elderly too – at seventy-one, he’d make an aged king, and would likely only survive for a few more years. No doubt that was the sort of maths that had made Henry set aside his wife of forty-five years. Was he so sure that young Emily would be able to give him an heir? But even if she gave Henry a litter of heirs, it would be a long decade and more before any of them would be old enough to succeed him. Richard, by contrast, was only fifty-five, a far more suitable age for a monarch, one who could serve England for a long, steadying reign.

      But would the people support him? That was less clear: there were too many variables. When Alan tried to calculate the possibilities, dozens of futures spun off behind his eyes. England triumphant, a land united. England in flames, torn apart by civil war. The stakes were frighteningly high, and he could understand why Margaret had desperately wanted there to be a better option. But some lost heir, with no training, to take the throne based solely on an accident of bloodline? Nonsense. Surely Richard was better suited than that? The people would likely agree; the odds were surprisingly in his favour. Alan frowned. ‘I cannot promise, but I think … they might actually support you.’

      Richard took his hand then, pressed it to his chest. ‘And you, Alan? Would you support me?’

      Another interesting question. Richard was far from a perfect man. Yet there was the warmth under his fingertips, and a man who had never flinched away from Alan’s joker attributes. Under his rule, the jokers would have a champion. Surely, for England’s sake, Alan Turing should support the best man for the throne? Wasn’t that one of the lessons he’d learned during the war, that sometimes the right path to follow wasn’t necessarily the lawful road?

      Richard’s hand was warm on his, his blue eyes steady and intent. ‘Alan? Are you with me?’

      Alan hesitated, then said softly, ‘I’m yours to command, sir.’

      ‘Good.’ And then Richard was kissing him again, wildly. The make-up would have to be redone, but Alan couldn’t bring himself to care. His heart was thumping in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to catch a decent breath. What had he just agreed to?

      King Richard IV. It did sound good.

      ‘What’s this do?’ Jasper asked. They were at the warehouse where Noel stored the equipment for his magic act.

      Jasper was standing next to a tall wardrobe, resting his hand on the polished black wood. Noel walked over to join him. ‘That’s where I make people disappear.’

      ‘But they don’t really disappear, right, Dad?’

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘Am I going to go with you when you do the show?’ Jasper asked.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’ll miss school.’

      ‘Travel is also educational.’ Noel had a low opinion of American educational standards but so far Jasper seemed to be doing well at the private school, so apparently American private schools were keeping up standards.

      In late April Noel would be performing in Tokyo, an eight-day run on a big stage that required large equipment that supported the big illusions. He had already shipped the stage that would be installed over the theatre’s actual stage. Now he was inspecting the tools of his trade. Though in a world where people could ghost through walls, turn into thousands of wasps, actually fly, and (like himself) teleport thousands of miles in the blink of an eye or (like his son) braid and craft light into intricate designs, he wondered if there was still an audience for stage magic. In truth, he had started to abandon the bigger, flashier stunts in favour of close magic and mind tricks with cards and numbers. Those still had audiences oohing and aahing in wonderment. For some reason the Japanese wanted the big show and they were paying well, so he would oblige them. In his pursuit of sole custody of his son Noel had had to turn the day-to-day management of his Ace in Hand company back in Manhattan over to his assistant. He still drew a salary, but he had taken a pay cut so Dogsbody would get a rise. Which had necessitated a return to touring in order to maintain their lifestyle.

      Noel returned to his work and Jasper picked up a deck of cards and laid out a hand of solitaire. ‘You could do your homework,’ Noel tossed over his shoulder.

      ‘I know. Can you show me how to do a card trick?’

      Noel sighed, but he wasn’t really annoyed at his son’s interest. He came to Jasper’s side and gathered up the cards. It was hard to manipulate the cards slowly, but he tried to so that he could demonstrate how to control the placement of each one. ‘Now you try.’ He handed over the deck. The boy’s hands were a bit small to grasp the skill successfully but he tried until the cards suddenly fountained out of his hands, and he burst out laughing. Noel loved him for that. There was no pouting or fury, just enjoyment and a touch of self-deprecation. It was clear Jasper took more after his mother than his irascible father.

      ‘Let me show you how to pick a lock,’ Noel said as he removed his lock-pick case from his inner jacket pocket. They went over to the small door into the warehouse and Noel demonstrated. He started to hand over the tools when Jasper gave him an impish look.

      ‘I don’t need those, Dad. Watch.’

      He tried to reach for the setting sun but clouds had rolled in and he wasn’t able to make an effective plait. Noel turned on the flashlight function on his mobile phone and Jasper used that to fashion one of his creations. He then thrust it into the lock. Noel heard the tumblers fall and gave a sharp laugh of surprise.

      ‘Oh well done, you!’ He hugged Jasper close. ‘It’s getting late and cold. What say we stop for some takeaway and go home?’

      ‘Okay.’

      Noel locked the door again, and with his arm draped over his son’s shoulder they walked to where he had parked his Aston Martin. Is this my midlife crisis, he wondered. Or was stealing away his child more evidence of aberrant behaviour? Noel had always been coldly analytical until an infant had wrapped his tiny fingers around his thumb and he was lost. He dropped a kiss suddenly on the top of Jasper’s head. The boy looked up, startled, and gave him a shy smile but sadness lurked around the edges.

      ‘I love you, Dad, but I wish you and Mom would just … talk.’

      ‘We will. Eventually. And she’ll come around.’

      ‘That’s not talking, Dad, that’s telling.’

      Noel was stunned speechless. You are your mother’s child. Kind and empathetic. Is there any part of me in you? I suppose your intellect, but you will be a better man than me.

      ‘Get in the car,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.’

      Jasper turned on the radio as they headed towards their favourite Chinese restaurant, scanning through