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By Root 506 0

comfort himself with the idea that things had been relatively under control so far. The church ceremony had been, thank God, rather short. Gabriel had finally deigned to appear just in time for the ceremony, dressed in a purple velvet frock coat that matched, with a true dandy’s sense of detail, the rings around his eyes, and sporting a floppy ascot that was exactly the wavelength of the northern lights. As a former Navy Cadet, Brentford knew a loose cannon when he saw one, and promised himself to keep an eye on his friend. The best man botched his assigned epistle, reading with the voice of an automaton running on low batteries and staring at Sybil in a curious, almost reproachful way, while, lost in her thoughts, she simply ignored him. As for the priest, he looked like some second-rate beau at a Circus Of Carnal Knowledge premiere, and only the ladies paid attention to his routine. Brentford could not help thinking that if he raised his eyes he would see Arkansky doing coin tricks with the hosts, interlocking the wedding rings like Chinese links, or changing the wine to water on the altar. And that as he lifted the veil of his bride to kiss her, he would see either Little Tommy Twaddle flashing his bright square teeth at him or the Ghost Lady whispering something important he would only half grasp. But in the end it had all gone smoothly enough.

Suddenly Brentford saw Mason storming toward him through the lobby of the Splendide-Hôtel. He had a satchel slung on his shoulder and under his fur coat was wearing a field uniform, on which a holster strap cut a bend sinister. Brentford sensed immediately that trouble was brewing.

“Congratulations!” Mason said, bowing to Sybil and giving her a nonchalant baisemain. He turned to Brentford, and taking his arm while shaking his hand, drew him a few steps away.

“Sorry about this, but can we talk for a minute?”

Brentford looked around him, then moved toward Sybil and, whispering in her ear, excused himself for a moment.

“This way,” he said, leading Mason into an empty, dimly lit smoking room.

“I had no choice. I’m leaving tonight,” Mason explained to Brentford, handing him a folder he took from the satchel.

“You’re leaving. On a mission?”

“Yes. You remember those Eskimos with rifles? They have been seen by one of our spy balloons on Prince Patrick Island. Near what seems to be an airship base. I am leaving immediately.”

Brentford wasn’t that surprised. This had been bound to happen sooner or later. He wondered if he should say Good Luck or something. But Good Luck to whom?

“And what is this?” he said instead, opening the folder.

“My wedding present. I’m not sure you’ll like it, though.”

Brentford spotted the letterhead, the moon-shaped C surrounded by seven stars.

“With the seal of the Council on it, it’s indeed possible that I will not.”

“These are my final instructions for the so-called hunting campaign.”

“The numbers seem impressive.”

“It’s not only that. How do you like fox as a food, Mr. Orsini?”

“Fox-hunting? It means either fun or furs.”

“I’m afraid that in this case it means furs.”

“The fur trade is reserved to the Inuit.”

“The Inuit are game, now. Not hunters.”

Brentford looked up at Mason, who stared straight in front of him and nervously bit his lips.

“Have the four Inuit fugitives been found, by the way?” asked Brentford in a voice that he hoped would sound detached.

Mason hesitated.

“I do not think so. As you know, these police matters are not within our responsibility.” He hesitated for a while, and finally said, turning toward Brentford, “Which I’m thankful for, as I suspect they could be innocent.”

“They are, believe me.”

Brentford browsed through the folder. It was a nightmare come true. The idea was to kill two birds with one stone, and then get the whole flock falling dead from the sky. Driving the Inuit out of the land by depleting the game and reclaiming a fur trade that would bring increased profits was only the first step. Then, Brentford knew, the cleaned-up land would be offered to the Forty Friends for all kinds of probes—oil, gems,