The Eyes of a King by Catherine Banner Read Free Book Online

money.”
    “That may be.”
    Raymond limped back to the window and sat down heavily, motioning to the other chair. The man strode across the room but did not sit down. “It would take several people to carry fifty-three guns, would it not?” he asked.
    “Oh yes. You know, I heard nothing, but it must have taken a veritable army to cart the things off.”
    The man leaned forward, gripping the back of the chair so tightly that the tendons in his hands quivered. “A veritable army indeed.”
    “It is most peculiar,” Raymond went on. “I cannot think why someone would want to steal the least valuable weapons in the house.”
    “Perhaps …,” suggested the man, “they meant to replicate them.”
    “But whatever for?”
    “ To use.”
    “No … I can hardly see why. There are simpler ways of getting guns for hunting and suchlike; I would imagine even criminals have easier sources. And why take so many?”
    The man seemed deep in thought for a minute. “Tell me,” he said slowly. “Tell me—these weapons—are they very complicated?”
    Raymond thought about that. “Certainly not compared to the modern standard-issue weapons. But they are very well designed, some of those old firearms.”
    “Do you think someone would be able to replicate them, if they had an original to work from?”
    “I don’t know. It would depend what they wanted them for. The decommissioned ones could have been reactivated, I suppose, and then copied. But most of them were antiques. The replicas wouldn’t fool any serious collector.”
    “Well … say, for example, whoever stole your weapons wished to replicate them so that they would function. No more than function, simply so that they would fire. And then suppose they wanted to mass-produce them. Would they, in theory, be able to do that?”
    “With only what they stole from me?”
    The man nodded. “In theory.”
    “Yes …,” said Raymond. “Yes, I believe they would.” The man did not answer, so he elaborated. “A couple of them were sturdy bolt-action rifles. In the case of those particular weapons, their simplicity is what makes them so effective.”
    I woke suddenly. I was coughing again in the cold night air, and that was what woke me. In the darkness, I could see the light of the gas lamps on the cracks in the ceiling. I sat up. I heard that old man’s voice echoing in my head for a moment, as if his spirit was lingering in the room even after the dream was gone. Then the building was silent. Stirling was asleep, his face turned to the wall. The church clock in the square was chiming two.
    I realized that the book was lying on my bedcovers, that strange black book that I had found in the snow and all but forgotten. It was open. I picked it up, rubbing my eyes, and glanced at it. But before I had read half a page, I was wide awake and staring at the new writing.
    I was frightened suddenly. It was not just that I felt I had read this story before. It was the same, even to the last word the old man spoke, as my dream. And in the book, the story went on.

    R aymond enjoyed talking about his weapons to one so attentive. “Yes,” he continued. “I would go so far as to say that if time, money, and patience were no concern, someone could make a working replica of at least the simpler weapons.”
    Arthur didn’t reply. “Please, sit down,” Raymond told him, to break his unnerving stare. The man sat. “May I ask why you are so interested?”
    “Oh …” Arthur laughed distractedly. “No reason really—just curiosity. It seems a strange crime.”
    “Yes, it was strange,” said Raymond. And then he remembered why the man was here. “Anyway, about this butler’s job …”
    “Oh yes, of course,” said the man, but the thoughtful frown did not leave his face.
    “Look here,” Raymond said. “I’d like to employ you, but you tell me you have no training or experience. Do you have any references at all?”
    The man shook his head. “I was working in another