“And this medicine has made you so clumsy?”

Burton glanced at the stain on the monarch’s trouser-leg. “Again, my apologies. My coordination is all shot through.”

“Which, I venture, is also how you came by the black eye my aide mentioned.”

The explorer nodded and silently cursed Macallister Fogg.

The king grinned, revealing his cracked and uneven teeth. “You are a man of firsts, Captain. The first East India Company officer to pass all his language exams at the first try; the first non-Muslim to enter the holy city of Mecca; the first European to look upon the source of the River Nile; and the first freshly knighted man to spill wine on the royal bloomers.”

Burton shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other and looked into the king’s filmy white eyes. It was said that blind men develop a sixth sense. Did the monarch somehow know that Burton had been drinking until the small hours and was still hung-over?

“I suppose I’ll be remembered, at least,” he mumbled.

“You can be sure of that, Captain. Now, tell me, how many stragglers remain?”

Glancing around the presentation room, Burton saw five Yeomen of the Guard, three ushers, the Lord Chamberlain, and six of the Orpheus’s crew, the latter proudly wearing their medals. Isabel—soon to be Lady Burton—was loitering at the door and just managed a wave before she was politely guided out into the reception chamber.

“There are a few by the entrance,” Burton said. “They are departing.”

“Good. I have no objection to the post-ceremonial shaking of hands and uttering of niceties, but today there happens to be important business to attend to, and I would rather get on with it.”

Reflexively, Burton gave a short bow, even though the king couldn’t see it. “Then I apologise again, and shall make myself scarce.”

“No! No! This business concerns you. Do you see a door off to my right? I understand it’s painted yellow.”

“Yes, I see it.”

“Then please oblige me by leading me to it. You and I and a few others have much to discuss.”

“We do?”

Damascus. There must be a situation developing in Damascus. They want to send me there post-haste.

Burton moved his left forearm up into the grip of the king’s outstretched hand and escorted him to the door.

“Open it,” the monarch said. “Down to the end of the corridor, then turn right.”

“I wasn’t informed,” Burton said, carefully steering the sovereign through the portal and around a plinth that stood against the wall to the left. His host reached out and brushed his fingers against the bust of King George III that stood upon it.

“My grandfather. The longest reigning British monarch. With him it was all war, war, war. He was mad as a hatter. Some say he was poisoned.”

“Was he?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, and if he was, he probably deserved it.”

After a moment’s silence, Burton said, “May I ask you a question?”

“By all means.”

“Aside from the Royal Geographical Society, what royal charters have you issued this year?”

The king gave a chuckle. “My goodness! That’s not an enquiry I could have predicted! Let’s see. There was the University of Melbourne in March; the Benevolent Institution for the Relief of Aged and Infirm Journeymen Tailors in July; and I plan to issue one to the National Benevolent Institution in September. Why, Sir Richard?”

Burton started slightly at the use of his new title. He said, “The words royal charter were a part of an incomprehensible telegraph message received by the Orpheus during the aurora borealis phenomenon.”

“I see. And you are curious as to the significance?”

“I am.”

“Has my answer cast any light on the subject?”

“None at all.”

They reached the end of the passage and turned right into another.

“Fifth door on your left,” the king said. “So you weren’t informed of this meeting? That’s not entirely surprising. Events have been moving rapidly. Decisions were made overnight.”

They came to the door.

“In we go, Captain.”

Burton turned the handle and pushed. King George stepped past him into the chamber and was immediately met by one of the palace’s beautiful clockwork footmen—a thing of polished brass and tiny cogwheels with a babbage probability calculator supplying its simulated intelligence. It led him to the head of a heavy table in the middle of the room. Five men, who’d been sitting around it, rose as the monarch entered. Having heard the scrape of their chairs, the king waved at them to resume their seats. “Come, Sir Richard. Settle here beside me, please.”

As he moved to the table, Burton examined the room. Its panelled walls were hung with royal portraits, heavy velvet drapes had been drawn across the two windows, and bright illumination shone from a huge crystal chandelier.

He lowered himself into the seat on the king’s left and struggled to maintain his composure as he recognised the other men. Opposite him, Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli leaned back and tapped his fingernails on what looked to be Burton’s African reports. Lord Stanley, sitting on the premier’s right, reached for a jug of water, poured a glass, and slid it across to the explorer. Beside him, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the minister of arts and culture, long-haired and foppishly dressed, watched Burton with curiosity.

The far end of the table was occupied by His Royal Highness Prince Albert, who’d been present at the knighting ceremony. Next to him, on the same side as Burton, the home secretary, Spencer Walpole, fidgeted restlessly.

King George turned to the footman and said, “Are we all here?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the contraption responded in a clanging voice. It bent over the king until its canister-shaped head was close to his ear then chimed so softly that Burton couldn’t make out a single word.

“Indisposed?” the king said. “I rather think indolent would be a more appropriate word. Stand outside the door, please, and ensure we’re not interrupted.”

The footman bowed, ding-donged, “Yes, Your Majesty,” and left the room.

“Disgraceful!” Disraeli muttered. “The minister’s lack of respect plummets to yet greater depths.”

“We must indulge him,” the king answered, with a slight smile. “His eccentricities don’t undermine his value.”

“Just as long as that value remains intact,” Disraeli said. “Which, under the circumstances, remains to be seen.”

“Forgive me,” Burton said, glancing at the vacant chair between himself and Walpole, “but to whom are you referring?”

The king turned his blank eyes and answered, “The minister of mediumistic affairs.”

“Ah,” Burton replied. “I should have known.”

A dull pain throbbed just behind his ears. His mouth felt dry, his eyes hot. The acidic aftertaste of brandy still lingered at the back of his throat. He reached for the water and drained the glass in a single swallow.

I have discomfort enough. I don’t need the bloody minister of mediumistic mumbo-jumbo, too.

The king said quietly, “Well then, let us proceed. Mr. Disraeli, would you explain, please?”

Disraeli rapped his knuckles lightly against the tabletop, looked at Burton, and said, “Sir Richard, last Thursday evening, shortly after the Orpheus landed and while you were, I understand, at the Royal Geographical Society, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the head of the Department of Guided Science, walked into Penfold Private Sanatorium—you know the place?”

Burton nodded. “It’s where my colleague, Sister Raghavendra, worked before I commissioned her to join my expedition.”

“I see,” Disraeli said. “Well, Brunel walked into it and announced that, in two days’ time—that is to say, this Saturday past—he was going to have a stroke.”

“How could he possibly know that?”

“He received a warning from the Afterlife. The information was correct. At three o’clock on Saturday morning, he did, indeed, suffer an attack.”