Band of Gypsys Read Free Page A

room,’ said Sage to Alain, in English. ‘It would be slightly more fuckin’ use than where it is.’
    ‘Certainly not. It would mark the parquet.’
    ‘Welsh sovreignty wouldn’t be a deal-breaker,’ announced Mr Red, after a sub-vocal consultation, on a throat mike, with confederates elsewhere. (The New Plantagenets were not fanatical about appropriate Renaissance tech). ‘We believe in political union between England and Wales, but we can live with separation.’
    ‘Well, that’s good ,’ said Ax, smiling; and raised an eyebrow.
    They didn’t take the hint. The pinch-faced older man steepled his hands and leaned forward. His “real” name was Woodville, and he had form, racketeering and violent crime: a background of which Ax was well aware.
    ‘Mr Preston, Sir, having come this far, can we assume that we have Fred Eiffrich on board? Or are we, er, is Your Majesty waiting for that assurance?’
    Mr White (Henry Lovell, close associate of the British Resistance Movement, a body formerly known as the BNP), glowed like a rose, already tasting glory.
    In practice, Ax knew he would never have Fred ‘on board’. The friendship of the mighty is a fickle thing, you can never tell when their priorities are going to change. But Mr Eiffrich in theory made a very good stick to poke at monsters.
    ‘I could be. Or I could be mulling over my chances of waking up one morning in some draughty Norman tower, with a red hot poker up my bum. Or else starving to death in chains when you folks get tired of your new toy.’
    The Plantagenets looked shocked, the stove hissed. Ax grinned like a friendly wolf, and leant forward himself; becoming affable and confidential. ‘I don’t have to tell you this, but fact is, we’re getting head-hunted all over the shop. We’ve been looking at a rather nice package from the Sealed Knot.’
    The Plantagents bristled like startled cats at the hated name. ‘They’re lying!’ cried Mr White. ‘Whatever they said, it’s a crock of shit! Those bastards have no money and no credibility!’
    ‘They speak highly of you, too… And the Irish are putting out feelers, about Fiorinda for High Queen. They’re looking at the idea of having a decorative Head of State, like a lot of countries, and she’s an O’Niall you know. The Tyrone branch, the legitimate family, are cool about it. We’re thinking that might suit us very well.’
    Sage nodded in confirmation. ‘Nicer climate in Ireland.’
    ‘So, what can I say? It’s all up in the air. Why don’t you try the Mountbatten-Windsors? They’ve a posse of children, they might let you have one, for the right offer. Feel free. I don’t mind where you take your pitch, as long as you don’t try this game on any other member of my family, or any connection of mine.’
    Briefly, the mischief vanished from Mr Preston’s pretty brown eyes.
    M. de Corlay sighed, and pressed a banana-shaped yellow buzzer. At its discordant summons some Techno-Green muscle appeared, bizarrely costumed but convincingly armed, or packing heat , as they preferred to put it. The delegates stood, disconsolate, and donned their velvet with dignity.
    ‘Edward II wasn’t killed like that because he was a homosexual,’ exclaimed Mr White. ‘The homophobic element has been unfairly exaggerated.’ (‘ Unbelievable ’ muttered Alain, lighting another bidi.) ‘The issue is to leave an unmarked corpse—’
    ‘Tha’s our kinda meme,’ said beautiful Mr Pender: with such tigerish affection that the White Rose took a sharp step backwards. ‘Hey, compagnero You must be one of us.’
    When the lunatics had left the room, Alain delivered a small item of secure mail to His Majesty: who glanced at it and stowed it away, still falling about and cackling like a fool with his Minister. ‘You two are abusing my hospitality,’ said the little Breton. ‘This hôtel is a serious centre of techno-green utopian excellence.’
    ‘If you say so, Monsewer Jupette ( snarf, snarf