“Sir—” the explorer began.

Stanley interrupted, his voice clipped. “Captain. I daresay you are keen to be reunited with your fiancée.”

“Er—yes. I wasn’t aware that—”

“That I knew of Miss Isabel Arundell? Oh, I’m aware of her, Captain. It’s very difficult not to be when one’s office is bombarded on a weekly basis by letters from her.”

Burton was suddenly lost for words.

“Apparently,” Stanley continued, “she considers you an ideal candidate for the consulship of Damascus, and is of the opinion that only an idiot would pass you up for the job.”

“She—she said that?”

“It was implied. Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Good. I’m relieved. I can trust my own judgement, then?”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea—”

Stanley’s stern countenance softened somewhat. “No, of course not. You were in Africa. But it has to stop. I’ll not be browbeaten by a woman.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Excepting my own wife, of course; may God bless her and have mercy on my soul.”

“I’ll have words with Miss Arundell.”

“See that you do.”

“On another matter, sir—”

“Yes?”

“I have a great deal of information for you regarding the disposition and resources of the Lake Regions.”

“Good man. In reports? Properly written up?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Have them delivered to my cabin. I’ll pass them directly to the prime minister when we reach London. Africa is one of those matters about which he prefers to form his own opinions before consulting with me. Your intended, I’m sorry to say, isn’t the only one who doubts my ability to make the right choices.”

Burton said, “Very well.”

“And enjoy the ceremony, Burton.”

“Ceremony?”

“At the palace. By George, don’t you know?”

“Know what, sir?”

“On Monday, Burton. You’re due at the palace. You are to receive a knighthood!”

At four-thirty that afternoon—it was Thursday the 1st of September, 1859—Captain Richard Burton, with his top hat in one hand and Oliphant’s cane in the other, stood beside Nathaniel Lawless on the bridge of HMA Orpheus and watched through a side window as the vessel’s rotors gouged a deep furrow through the top of a sickly yellow cloud. Ahead, four copper towers poked out of the pall, and beyond them, in the distance, the tips of factory chimneys and the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral were visible.

The sunlight, streaming from a clear blue sky, reflected glaringly from the four metal columns as the airship drew alongside them.

“Cut the engines, Mr. Wenham,” Lawless said to the helmsman. He turned to his chief engineer. “Out they go, Mr. Keen.”

“Aye, sir,” Keen replied. He lifted a speaking tube to his mouth and said, “All out!”

“Take us down, Mr. Wenham. As slow as you like.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Lawless said to Burton, “Just like they did in Africa, our riggers and engineers are now dangling at the end of chains outside the ship, and Mr. Wenham is venting gas from the dirigible, so we’ll sink very gradually. This time, though, the men outside won’t have to peg us down themselves—the station’s ground crew will be on hand to assist with trolley-mounted windlasses. The chains will be attached and wound in, hauling us down until we’re secured, and you’ll then be able to set foot on British soil again.”

The bridge suddenly turned gloomy as the fog swallowed the Orpheus.

Ten minutes later, the airship settled in the Royal Navy Air Service Station beside Battersea Power Station, the latter being the well-guarded headquarters of the Department of Guided Science.

The pride of the British fleet was home.

Lawless accompanied Burton down to the main doors, where Sister Raghavendra and Doctor Quaint joined them. They stood and watched as crew unbolted the big hatches and slid them aside before lowering the ship’s ramp. Fog rolled in. Lawless coughed.

Outside, two steam-horses—like miniature tall-funnelled versions of the famous Stephenson’s Rocket—emerged from the murk, pulling a large armour-plated six-wheeled carriage behind them. They drew up to the base of the ramp.

Lawless nodded at Quaint, who turned on his heel and hurried away, only to return moments later with Prince Albert, Lord Stanley, and Lord Elgin.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the prince said. Stanley and Elgin nodded their gratitude. The three descended the ramp and climbed into the vehicle. The steam-horses belched smoke from their funnels, jerked into motion, and dragged the carriage back into the cloud.

Burton squinted into the pea-souper.

“Well,” he said, pushing his top hat onto his head and leaning on the panther-headed cane. “It’s nice to see London again.”

“I can’t remember it ever being this bad,” Raghavendra remarked.

“And it stinks to high heaven,” Lawless observed. “I fear we must re-adjust ourselves after being spoilt by the beauty and purity of Africa.”

Burton snorted. “So says the man who enjoyed the luxurious facilities of his ship while Sadhvi, William, George, and I were struggling through methane-bubbling swamps with crocodiles trying to eat us and mosquitoes sucking our blood.”

“Point taken. Is that someone approaching?” Lawless jerked his chin toward a shadowy figure that, as they watched, detached itself from the fog and started up toward them.

“Ahoy there, Orpheus!” a voice called. “Welcome back to the civilised world!”

“Sir Roderick!” Burton exclaimed and strode forward to meet the man, clasping hands with him halfway along the ramp.

Sir Roderick Murchison, president of the Royal Geographical Society, was a tall and slender individual whose rigid demeanour belied the warmth of his personality. “Well done, Burton!” he effused. “Well done! You’ve placed a jewel in the crown of the RGS! The Nile is cracked at last!” He slapped Burton’s shoulder. “We lost track of you last night—apparently that extraordinary aurora borealis has disabled telegraph systems the world over—but I knew the ship was due this afternoon, so braved the funk to meet you. The rest of our fellows are waiting at the Society. No doubt you’re looking forward to the comforts of home, but you’ll attend a little reception first, yes?”

“Of course, Sir Roderick, I’d be delighted.”

“Good show, old boy! I say, though, you look perfectly rotten. Are you ill?”

“A touch of fever. Nothing I can’t cope with.”

Murchison peered past Burton, uttered a cry of pleasure, then hurried up to the airship’s door—the explorer followed behind—and took Sister Raghavendra’s hand. “My dear, dear young lady! May I be the first to congratulate you? You are absolutely the talk of the town. And I’m delighted to tell you that, as a mark of respect for your astounding contribution to Captain Burton’s expedition, the Society has seen fit to lift its ban on women. You are a member, Sister! What! What! A member! The vote was unanimous!”

“Thank you, Sir Roderick,” she answered, with a slight bob. “That’s splendid news. Simply splendid! A woman member! My goodness! I am honoured!”

“Captain!” Murchison said, turning his attention to Lawless. “You and your gallant crew will be granted honorary membership, of course. You are heroes to a man. The RGS holds you all in the highest regard. There will be medals issued by the palace, I guarantee it.”

Lawless smiled and gave an appreciative nod.

“Where is Lieutenant Stroyan?” Murchison asked.

Burton responded, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, sir, that he was killed last night.”

Murchison slumped. “No! By God! No! An accident?”

“Murder. Lord Elgin’s private secretary, Oliphant, went insane and cut his throat.”

Murchison slapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh my! Oh my! Insane, you say? Oh, poor William! He was a splendid fellow. I shall have to talk to him. I’ll give him a chance to settle, obviously, but I must offer my condolences, ask whether he has any messages for those he’s left behind.”