Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(37)

He’d always thought The Conclave was the power structure in the Transitive community. Now he saw it more as a decoy, a lightning rod in case someone needed to take the blame. It was Livingston’s view that the Ascendant pulled George Hastings’ strings. In return, Hastings appeared important to those who didn’t know the truth. It was all a game, like some amateur séance designed to awe the gullible.



I almost fell for it.

Alastair took a deep breath and strode across the street. If Livingston were inside the club, it would be awkward. If not, he would preserve the man’s position and might learn something of value during the encounter.

As he entered the antechamber, Ronald, the eighth room steward, snapped to attention. “Good evening, Mr. Livingston,” he greeted with a polite smile.

“Good evening, Ronald. I trust all is well,” Alastair replied, working hard to sound just right. Other Transitives could mimic voices with ease. He was too unseasoned to do it unconsciously.

“Very well now that you’ve returned,” Ronald said. “I trust you had no difficulties?”

“Only urgent business matters,” Alastair replied, offering his hat and cape. “Is the doctor here tonight?” It would be the kind of question Livingston would ask.

“No, sir, he’s not.”

“Pity. Hastings and Cartwright, then?”

“As usual, sir.” Ronald gave him a penetrating look that made Alastair uncomfortable. As the steward opened the door, the doctor prepared himself for the show.

“Ah, there you are Livingston,” Hastings called out, spewing a plume of cigar smoke into the air. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.” He sat on the far right, brandy and cheroot in hand. Cartwright was working on his crossword puzzle, brows knitted. He looked up, gave a nod, and then resumed his efforts.

Moving purposefully, Alastair settled into Livingston’s preferred seat. Ronald offered brandy and a cigar.

“Cigar only, thank you.” It took enough effort to hold Livingston’s form without adding liquor to the mix. The required level of concentration was wearying.



“So where have you been?” Hastings inquired.

“Business,” Alastair replied, taking a few puffs on the cigar. It was of excellent quality. He’d never understood where the money came from for these indulgences. Who paid for all the fine furnishings, the leather chairs, the food, alcohol, and Ronald’s attentive service? Though modest in size compared to many of the gentlemen’s clubs in London, this room was certainly top-notch. Lord Wescomb, even the Prince of Wales, would feel at home here. Yet no one ever asked for any fees.

Probably best not to know whose pocket we’re picking.

“The doctor hasn’t been here, either,” Hastings observed.

“No doubt embarrassed by our chess games. I always let him win, and I think he knows it.”

From the heartiness of Hastings’ laugh, it was clear that he hadn’t a clue this wasn’t Livingston. Alastair felt a thrill of exhilaration.

The moment Ronald retreated to the antechamber, Hastings leaned forward in his chair.

“We have a problem, one we could not address with the doctor present.”

“Which is?” Alastair pressed, relishing this moment.

“Sergeant Keats is in custody,” Hastings informed him. “From what I hear, he will be found guilty.”

“You sound so sure of that.”

“He will be found guilty,” Hastings repeated. “That makes it very dangerous for us.”

Cartwright flicked his eyes back and forth between the pair of them, but said nothing.

“Why is that a danger?” Alastair asked, his hackles rising.

“If he is found guilty, there is nothing to prevent him from revealing our secret to save his own skin.”

Alastair took another long puff on the cigar, just like Livingston. “You believe he will offer that information in trade for commutation of his sentence to a lesser penalty?”

“Or his freedom,” Hastings said, shooting a look at Cartwright and then back to Alastair. “He must not be allowed that opportunity.”



Hastings was coldly proposing Keats’ death, yet again. He had done so in the past, but had been voted down. To calm his burgeoning anger, Alastair blew a smoke ring and then instantly regretted it. Had Livingston ever done that? Well, too late now. “Your worry is admirable, but misplaced.”

“Why?” Hastings protested. “He can prove we exist.”

Might as well let the cat out of the bag. “On the contrary. I have it on very good authority that Keats is no longer capable of going en mirage.”

“How do you know that?” Cartwright asked.

“I know many things, gentlemen,” he declared, adopting Livingston’s authoritarian tone. “The injury the sergeant took that night against the anarchist rendered him Opaque, as it were. He cannot shift.”

Hastings frowned. “We’re wagering our existence on some rumor.”

Alastair shook his head. “It is not a rumor. Dr. Montrose told me in strict confidence.”

“And yet you share it with us?” Hastings challenged.

Alastair shrugged, as if it were of no import.

“Keats could heal,” Cartwright began.