Chapter 25
Party
Three weeks rolled past with nothing more eventful happening for the friends than the sharing of the daily train rides to and from the city, a little routine that they each enjoyed, chatting away about their day to come on the way down and then giving review on the return.
Professor Wynyard reported from time to time that nothing more of interest had come out of the ground at Paturau. Each morning Wiremu milked cows and each night Wang worked the gold claim with his Grandfather. Max, feeling guilty at his comparative inactivity in the face of his friends' increased workloads used his evenings for extra study, dancing practice with his Mother and sword play.
Eventually Captain Von Tempsky did introduce his class to the double-edged Sabre. But this was of little consequence to Max who had already crossed that line some time ago in his ongoing practices with the Goth, Julian Roil.
Harriet maintained her absence from the weekly fencing class. Gilbert justified this to The Captain, in front of the students, by saying that she was focusing on her studies, the Haast Locomotive project and her entry for the League of Robot Wars. Lavisham seemed happy with this outcome. But something in Von Tempsky's manner indicated, to Max at least, that he may have had a change of heart toward Harriet and was therefore not so pleased with the news.
Talk around the University turned more and more toward the commencement of the upcoming League of Robot Wars. The Papers claimed that six official entries had been received to date, these coming from the combined apprentices of Rotheram & Scott and A&G Price, the boiler men and engineers of Onekaka Iron & Steel Works, the city of Nelson's Anchor Foundry and strangely The Parapara Haematite Paint Company. The Royal New Zealand Army Engineering Corp had also thrown its helmet in the ring, as naturally, had Leith Engineering.
Adding to this excitement were the reports that first year lads were bringing back to The Canteen after taking strolls down Cochrane Street. Here in the industrial heart of the city they had been watching progress on the construction of the League's 'Iron Arena', which the Army was building on an empty lot, for the purposes of robot combat.
And so it was that they all arrived quite suddenly at the date of Max's nineteenth birthday party.
“Splendid!” declared Max at the end of the meal, reaching across to grip Wang's hand for a moment. “Thank you my friend. Even better than the first time.”
“You are most welcome,” replied Wang inclining his head slightly. Happy eyes sparkled around the table and the professor refilled a number of depleted crystal glasses. It was proving to be a most enjoyable evening.
Wang had come to Skilton House early that Saturday, as prearranged, to help Mrs Skilton prepare the food for the dinner party. He had brought with him the ingredients for a number of the Chinese dishes that Max had enjoyed at their New Year banquet. These he had prepared as his gift to Max.
“But I have something else,” continued Wang, quickly reaching under the table and withdrawing a large red cylinder with a wooden stick protruding from its end.
“What is this?” asked Max, as it was placed in his hands. “The food was enough surely.”
“It is a skyrocket, a firework, if you please,” answered Wang. “I thought maybe we could let it off after dessert.”
“I think we very well could,” replied Max, turning the explosive over in his hands and avoiding his Mother's worried look. “Again, thank you. You spoil me.”
Wang lapsed into silence then, satisfied that he had communicated the depth of regard he had for his friend. His action released a small flood of gifts.
“Here,” said Wiremu, placing a large cardboard box in front of Max. “May you never run short.”
Puzzled, Max started to open the box.
“But all I asked for was a single black handkerchief. What is this?
“That was easier said than done. Open it.”
Inside Max found not one, but one hundred black bandanna kerchiefs with small white poker dots! His confused look produced an explanation from Wiremu.
“No one wants a black handkerchief, well no one apart from you that is. No market for the things. I turned the city inside-out looking for one. Finally found these at Mork & Tabworth's, on Rodney Street. But he wouldn't sell me just one, oh no. He was finally glad of a chance to be rid of a bad order. So, there we are Sir, a life time’s supply!”
Max laughed out loud and closed the box.
“May winter find me with a wet nose!” he declared. “You are really something Wiremu. Thank you.”
“Hold onto them,” said Julian Roil, quietly. “Then when you take over as Fencing Tutor from Captain Von Tempsky you will have something with which to dress up the uniform a little!” Maybe only Max got the joke, but everyone appreciated the compliment.
“From me,” said Julian, pushing a small cross shaped parcel across the table.
“Thank you.” Max unwrapped the black paper, then the white tissue within, to reveal a small silver letter opener in the shape of a rapier.
“Toledo steel,” remarked Julian, as Max turned the piece over in his fingers.
“The finest,” said Max appreciatively. “This is quite something!" And it was, all bright and polished silver. "Thank you, Julian. You spoil me, you all do.”
“Spanish steel,” said Dickie suddenly, with special emphasis on the word Spanish. “Very interesting.”
“Just a small piece to tide you over Max, until you own the real thing,” said Roil, lightly, ignoring Dickie and whatever he was inferring with his strange tone. Max studied Dickie a moment longer.
Always an enigma.
“Thank you Julian, it is grand.”
Dickie fumbled under the table then and produced a round object wrapped in newspaper. “Richard!” scolded Max's Mother, light-heartedly.
“Sorry Mrs Skilton,” stammered Dickie, pretending embarrassment. “But even if I had spent a penny on some pretty marbled paper... Max would have still dropped it on the floor.”
“Quite right!” agreed the professor, taking a sip of his port.
“Ever the pragmatist” said Mrs Skilton, patting Dickie's hand.
“My goodness! Dickie, this is quite a thing!” announced Max, and everyone turned to look. “You made it yourself didn't you?”
In Max's hand there was a polished metal face. A mask, complete with almond shaped eye holes. Max turned it over in his hands. It was amazingly light.
“Only of Onekaka Steel,” confirmed Dickie. The mouth was cut away so that the wearer's chin showed, and a loop of string was tied to each side so that the mask would stay in place. Undyed felt had been glued to the back. Max pushed it over his own features. It fitted perfectly. “Something for you wear to the Bal Masqué,” continued the inventor. “I got the idea from those books you are always reading...”
“What, the adventures of Von Tempsky!?” laughed Gerald.
“No the French fellow.”
“Dumas,” said Max quietly, marveling at the gift.
“That's the one! The Man in the Iron Mask.”
The mask was passed around and many an encouraging compliment was given its maker. Some pushed it onto the front of their own heads, but it never appeared to fit anyone else as well as it did Max.
Max was quite humbled by the pile of gifts accumulating before him. Gerald returned to the room then, holding a long cardboard box.
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“Last one, little brother,” he said placing the box on the table before Max.
“Really!?” said Max, recalling their conversation while aboard the HMS Harrier. “You didn't?”
“Don't count your chickens,” warned Gerald.
Max opened the long box flaps and gave a chuckle. Lying in the bottom was a big old Navy Cutlass. He lifted out the heavy grey weapon and gave Gerald an amused smile and shook his head.
“Good English steel!” cried his brother in mock defence. “Heavy and unbreakable. Bit like the Navy. It will be useful for strength training, at least.”
Standing, Max slipped his hand into the basket hilt and slowly lifted the curved single edged sword. It was very heavy.
“Good for fighting pirates,” remarked Dickie. Max raised an eyebrow in response, knowing full well that the pirate being referred to was Alister Stewart.
To Max the sword was practically an ornament and that was just fine.
It had been a great night. Wang's sky rocket, which it turned out he had made with his Grandfather, went off like a treat, filling the night sky above Skilton House with a great shower of red sparks and setting all the birds flapping and squawking in the aviaries.
Now Max sat with Gerald and Dickie on the veranda enjoying the last of the night's warmth. Wang and Wiremu had retired to the guest rooms and Julian had excused himself after dinner. Gerald now smoked a great horn pipe while the other two nursed a final port.
“Nice friends little brother,” mused Gerald. “Although not a young lady among them.”
“Not for lack of trying,” observed Dickie.
“Speak for yourself,” shot back Max. “And you hardly even up the score Gerald!”
“As I have said before...” responded the young captain lightly, letting the smoke roll away from his mouth. “...I am married to the Army. National defence is my bride...”
“And science is mine!” interjected Dickie.
“...No, my young man, Father and Mother will be looking to you to carry on the family name.”
“Fat chance of that,” snorted Max into his drink.
“Oh I don't know,” responded Dickie.
"They aren't exactly lining up," remarked Max.
“I wouldn't be so sure," said Dickie nonchalantly. "What about a certain Spanish lady?”
“What!? No! What are you talking about now?!”
“Spanish?” asked Gerald. “Grandfather will be turning over in his grave.”
Max didn't know what Dickie was talking about.
“Too much port Dickie? It's from Portugal, that’s near Spain.”
“Do tell, Richard,” said Gerald, leaning in. “I can see that Maximilian is not going to be forthcoming.”
“Yes Richard, enlighten us.”
Dickie ran his forefinger and thumb over his thin moustache.
“Oh, I only thought it might be worth mentioning young Max's connection to the Gothic Queen.”
“Who?” asked Gerald. “The Gothic what?”
“You mean the Lady Rowan?” said Max, letting his mouth hang open with surprise.
“But of course...”
“I have never even met her...”
“No, forgive me,” said Dickie raising his hands in quick defence. “I have let my imagination run away with me. I mean silly me. It is nothing that a leading member of the Gothic Council turns up at your birthday party and presents you with a gift of finest Spanish steel. Happens all the time. Forgive me Max. I have spoken out of turn.”
“I might,” spat back Max. “Give me about a week.”
Dickie really is impossible.
“So when do I meet this Rowan,” asked Gerald. “Is she a looker?”
Gerald was hard work too.
“And what on earth is the Gothic Council,” hissed Max. “No don't tell me. I don't want to know!”
They were quiet for a time then. Smoke rising, amused smiles twisting the mouths of the older two.
“Here is a question,” said Max after a time. “What do you know about Captain Von Tempsky, Gerald?”
Gerald blew out a plume of smoke.
“Why are you asking me? You are the expert.”
“Only on the story book character. Not the real man,” replied Max.
“Oh,” said Dickie, stirring again. “I didn't think you were interested in trying to discern the truth behind the stories. No don't tell me. I don't want to know!”
“Anyway?” said Max looking at his brother.
“Why do you think I would know anything about him?”
“Because,” sighed Max. “He is a military man. A Captain. A mercenary who has served in the army of every tin pot general who has arisen in the last fifty years. So why not Cameron?”
“Lieutenant General Duncan Cameron is not a tin pot. But what is your question?”
“Has Von Tempsky ever served in the Dominion's Army?”
“No.”
“Has he ever been contracted to it?”
“I'm not answering that!”
“I'll take that as a yes.”
“You can take it as you will. But for interests’ sake, tell me where you are going with this?”
“Just working out a little theory.”
“Which is?”
“I'm not answering that,” repeated Max, with some satisfaction.
“Suit yourself.”
“But here is the real question." Max decided to put a theory he had been working on to the test. "Why would the Army... the Royal New Zealand Army... contract a mercenary, like Von Tempsky, to cross over and enter the Northern Isle?! What could he possibly hope to achieve? I mean, dear brother, such an action would be against The Treaty.”
Gerald blew a slow smoke ring and didn't say a word. Dickie's eyes sparkled at Max's sudden audacity, he loved this kind of talk.
“I can think of a reason,” claimed the inventor.
“Such as?”
“Such, young Max, as the wreck of the Boyd.”
“Right,” said Gerald, rising quickly. “I'll be to bed. Goodnight gentlemen.” And he marched away.
“Sleep well.”
Max smirked. Gerald's sudden departure could only be confirmation that they were on the right track. Gerald was too professional to sit around talking conspiracy theories with his little brother, even his presence would be seen as collusion. Unless of course Gerald was just bluffing, in order to draw them away from the real story, one could never tell.
“The wreck of the Boyd, you say?”
“Indeed,” began Dickie, glad to have an audience for his story. “Way back in 1809 a trading ship called the Boyd anchored in Whangaroa Harbour, in the Far North, in the hope of loading Kauri spars for export. Now some time earlier a Māori chief by the name of Te Ara had travelled on board the ship, but he had been mistreated by the crew during the journey.
So when the Boyd was at anchor, the local Māori rowed out to her and in retaliation, killed nearly all the crew and passengers before burning the ship to the water line!”
“Right. So, the early days are full of these kind of stories,” remarked Max, once more underwhelmed by one of Dickie's tales. “Are you saying that the Army contracted Von Tempsky to carry out their own retaliation for the massacre?”
“No. The story is only half told. The thing about the Boyd was that she carried on board a chest full of money. Over thirty thousand pounds! Naturally the looters carried this off. If an expedition to the Northern Isle was ever mounted, it would have been to recover that gold.”
“But,” said Max. “The Army, the Government would not necessarily be behind that. Any band of mercenaries could have undertaken such a mission.”
“Exactly. The Dominion could never be seen to involve itself by sending in regulars and commissioned officers. As you say it would be in direct violation of The Treaty. They could however hire a band of Rangers unseen though a broker. Or such a band could have in fact initiated the mission off their own backs, not actually involving the Government at all. Either way an enterprise like that, to be successful, would have had to been undertaken by highly trained specialists. Hard men who could travel light, live off the land and fight at a moment’s notice. Men like a young Gustavus Ferdinand von Tempsky."