What was particularly strange about all this was that only the King and his ministers—none of whom had anything to gain from a premature disclosure—had been party to the information. From that point onwards they viewed each other with even greater distrust, double-checking their wallets as they went into cabinet meetings, and burning their account books before leaving home. But for all their vigilance, they never discovered who the traitor was.

This marked the start of the role played by the fire-eating Dr Delorme. Here was a treasonous plan, which would bring total destruction on the state of Alturia! Day after day his ranting editorials poured out molten lava against it—it was scarcely credible that one man could carry so much lava inside himself. And these daily outpourings were devoured with ever greater eagerness by the population. The government made one or two clumsy attempts to silence the press, but in that archaic world the techniques for doing so were still remarkably undeveloped.

The young King became more and more personally unpopular. Prior to this, the good-hearted Alturian people had always taken a misty-eyed delight in his youthfulness. Now, when he appeared in public, he was met by sullen, hostile looks. His oleograph portraits were stripped from the walls of public houses, and the popular baby soap, cider and travelling basket that carried his image became unsellable, however great the discount offered by their horrified vendors. The Alturian people, like southern races everywhere, loved to express their political opinions in the form of slogans daubed on walls. Now, instead of the universal “Long live the King!” and “Oliver our pride and joy!” there was a steady shift to such sentiments as: “Foreigners out!” “Death to Coltor!” and “Keep our sardines free!”

The unrest was quietly fomented by underground organisations. The Alturians, although gentle and dreamy by nature, were born conspirators. For decades they had channelled all their sporting inclinations in this direction, and the plotters, as we noted earlier, came from every level of society. Following ancient tradition, they swore an oath of loyalty to the ‘Nameless Captain’. There were those who thought that this being was a mere mythical notion, but others, the majority, were convinced he was a real person, who would come forward and declare himself at the critical moment.

The conspirators’ stated aim was to force the abdication of Oliver VII and replace him with the country’s grand old man, Geront, Duke of Algarthe—the person on whom Sandoval was to call the following day.

 

The one-hour taxi ride from Lara to Algarthe was not cheap, but that too was added to Sandoval’s expense account with the Revolutionary Committee. A man on a mission for important conspirators can hardly take the suburban train.

Some ten minutes before they reached the mansion, the car was stopped.

“Excuse me, sir—customs check,” said the military officer, whose appearance was so aristocratic Sandoval found it hard to believe that this was a matter of routine customs harassment. There was no inspection process, only questions about his name and the purpose of his journey. When he explained who he was, and that he was painting the Duke’s portrait, the officer saluted politely and waved him on.

The taxi turned into the park and proceeded up the broad yellow driveway. Two astonishingly ancient footmen stepped forward, opened the door and greeted him affably.

“His Highness will be delighted to see you,” they assured him. “So few people have come this way recently … ”

Sandoval made his way through the foyer, whose walls were hung with vast historic canvasses in the somewhat rhetorical style of the mid-nineteenth century. The Duke’s taste was for delicate miniatures, and these hereditary daubings had been banished to the entrance. In the second room stood some small earthenware statues; in the third, cupboards filled with kamea—little square objects engraved with kabbalistic symbols; in the fourth the Duke’s renowned collection of keys. Everything was in exemplary order.

He moved quickly on, up the inner stairway, to the Duke’s private apartments. In a room packed with Japanese watercolours another praeternaturally ancient footman received him and offered him a chair.

In no time at all Duke Geront appeared, supported by a young woman. The claimant to the throne was seventy-five years old and in rather poor condition for his years. He wore extremely thick spectacles, groping his way ahead as he walked, and his voice wavered into a sort of bleat; but his manner was decisive and intelligent. There was much more life in the girl, Princess Clodia. She was about thirty years of age, energetic and rather stern of feature: handsome enough, but as an old woman, Sandoval thought to himself, she would be really formidable.

“Ah, Sandoval,” the Princess cried, “so they let you through the cordon? How did you manage it? They have practically sealed us off from the outside world. Our mail is opened, they listen in on our telephone calls … ”

“You must remember, your Highness, that you are a claimant to the throne. There is a price to pay for that.”

“Have you brought news from the Committee?”

“Yes.