Sydney, as instructed in the note from John Pym's private secretary, arrived at Parliament at seven o’clock of a bleak, damp morning. An armored ruffian met him at the porch of St Stephen's Chapel. He was escorted through a baffling series of halls, antechambers and rooms, and deposited in a closet near (as best he could determine) the Painted Chamber, from which issued wall-muffled yet audible bellowed yeas and nays. Sydney assumed important votes were being taken on the business of the Kingdom. The closet was bare but for a table and chair and a piece of paper on which someone had scrawled "Bad uncle, will not pay for drink."

An hour elapsed. Then another. The bellowing ceased. Chairs scuttling on the floor, feet tramping away. The business of England is done for the day, Sydney thought. More time passed. Sydney speculated the business with the MAs and Ralph Halpenny meant he wasn't a priority with Pym or for that matter anyone outside Halpenny's lawyers, who this morning Hewitt was barraging with writs, a delaying tactic while they figured what, exactly, in the contract had been violated, and what could be enforced at law. Paige appeared, in the company of the ruffian; he brought mail and an apple. Syd shifted forward to accept the offering. The chair, a splintery Plantagenet-era relic, broke beneath him. The ruffian laughed. Paige blushed, ashamed, as the former hurried him down the hall.

Syd considered the table. It seemed sturdier. He unhooked his sword, leaned it against the wall, and sat. It was considerably more comfortable, especially when he leaned against the wall. He opened the first letter.

A dispatch from Firth. Back among Rupert's horse. The League of Ladies had attached itself thereunto, to Firth's considerable contempt. En route Shrewsbury, on loathsomely muddy roads, amid abominable food, flat, watery beer, and filthy bedding. Firth sharpened his pen and dipped it in vinegar. In "a wretched hamlet that rejoices in the name of Wellington," Charles "took it upon himself to inspire his army." The King gathered his little army -- upwards of three thousands now, Firth estimated, and, his indignation cresting; "or three thousand twenty-five, accounting for the Strumpets" -- in a circle around himself.

A barrel of powder draped "with curtain to which ermine had been clumsily stitched, and boxes stacked in a sort of rustic stair." Charles ascended. The strumpets were hissed to silence.  "This is as was done by the Caesar Trajan, one of his Majesty's advisors helpfully explained, when he made Sura his Marshall of the Empire; that is, gathered about him the Legions and made a similar grand expostulation (if standing on a Rag sewn by a Trollop, my Benefactor knew not); which I reproduce below (Speech, not cloth; of Charles, not Trajan."

Sydney dug a pencil from his pocket and took up the "Bad Uncle" paper. He lit his pipe and puffed contentedly as he read Firth's transcript.

"You. May not. Smoke."

Sydney looked up. He started and reached for his sword.

Before him, dressed in black, was a tall and frighteningly thin man. His face looked a bas-relief animated from the lonely grave of a plague victim.

"I . . . what? I can't smoke?"

"No, you may not."

"That's ridiculous."

"Isn’t," the spectral vision said confidently. "A rule of King James, who as is well known despised the habit."

"What’s it to do with James? God’s wounds, what of the privileges of Parliament?”

"Parliamentary privilege extends not to this chamber. Please extinguish your pipe."

Sydney, recognizing an immovable object, did as orderd. The spectre considered the broken chair. With a curl of his lip that contained in it all the mockery of the grave, he vanished down the hall, as silently as he first appeared.

Syd returned to the Firth’s transcription. "'I do promise,'" Charles said, "'in the p-p-p-presence of Almighty God...'" Sydney frowned. Mocking Charles' stutter was gratuitously nasty. There was so much else Charles could be abused for, why single out the quality that wasn’t his fault? No more of this, he scribbled in the margin. "' . . . to the utmost of my power to defend and maintain the t-t-t-true reformed Protestant religion established in the Church of England . . ."

Laud ritual/popish vestments/altar rails/prelatical meddling with consciences etc, Syd wrote.
"'I d-d-d-desire to govern by the known laws of the l-l-l-land and that the liberty and property of the subject may by them be preserved with the same c-c-c-care as my own rights . . ."

1628, Petition of right, assented to and immediately ignored, Parliament prorogued, “Thorough,” wrote Syd.

"'And if it please G-G-G-God, to by his blessing upon this Army, raised for my necessary defense, to preserve me from this rebellion, I do solemnly and f-f-f-faithfully promise, in the sight of God, to maintain the just privileges and freedom of P-P-Parliament, and to govern by the kn-kn-known laws of the l-l-l-and t-t-to m-m-m-my utmost p-p-p-power . . .”

Syd: Attempt to raise of the five members/Papistical plots/Ireland/Spain/&c &c&c.

He considered Firth’s notes, his own. It was remarkable: Charles' every utterance so reasonable, so noble, so intending to the good of the nation. And everything an absolute lie, down to the syllable and stutter. No, more than a lie; worse than a lie: an inversion, a standing-on-the-head, of what those worrds had meant since Great Bess, the Henrys, the Edwards, Magna Carta itself. And Charles knew this. He was not some brigand, happy with robbery:  Instead he would bully England toward the promised land of his conceit, convinced of his rectitude each every step of the way.

“Mr Holyfen.”

It was the specter again. His fleshless lips twisted into a smile that forced Syd to suppress a shiver.

“Follow me.”

Sydney folded the Firth’s letter and his notes. He left the apple on the table. He took his sword and followed the specter down the corridor. Syd’s footsteps echoed; the specter’s did not.

They entered the Painted Chamber. At the far end was a table, at which a man was studying papers. He looked up as Syd approached.

“Sydney Holyfen,” the man said.

“I am,” Sydney said.

The specter joined the unknown man at the table.

“The Old House, near St John’s Gate, London,” the man said. "That's where you live."

Syd nodded slowly. The man made a note.

“You,” the specter said, “four months ago, outfitted two ships in Southampton. To trade with the Virginia colony, for tobacco.”

“Are you from the Merchant Adventurers?”

“Answer the question,” the unknown man said. “The Matthew and the Mark, correct?”

“Who are you, exactly?”

“Unimportant,” the specter said. “Did you instruct the Matthew and Mark to venture into the Caribbean, and plunder Spanish treasure-ships and settlements?”

“No, I told them to acquire Cyclops from Prester John by the northern route to the Indies,” Sydney said. "What's this about?

The unknown man sighed. The specter shook his head.

“Under whose authority did you undertake this?” the unknown man said.

“God told me,” Sydney said. “God himself. A revelation, a vision. Which being between the Lord and I is private to my conscience.”

The unknown man and the specter traded a look. The latter shrugged. The former stood.

“Thank you, Mr. Holyfen,” he said. “That will be all.”

Footsteps. Sydney turned, hand on his sword; the ruffian, eating the apple Syd had left on the table.

“He’ll show you out,” the man said. “Bit of a maze here, if you’re not used to it. And Mr Holyfen, probably not a good idea to leave London.”

"Because should the Matthew and Mark berth . . ." Specter said.

"We will know ," the unknown man said, with a smile. "And we'll need to discuss it with you, first."

"Come on, then," the ruffian said. "Fine apple, by the way."