“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Hilitte asked, suffused with concern.
“I’m fine.”
She struck a sultry pose under the shower. “You want me to bring the girls in?”
“We did enough of that last night, and we will again tonight. I’m going to get breakfast now.” He stepped out of the bath and snagged a big towel with his third hand. Behind him Hilitte gave a small pout and ordered the shower off.
That was the one trouble with her, he realized: She really was too young to be anything but a bedmate. He couldn’t talk to her about anything, exchange ideas, argue problems through, reminisce about events. They never went to the Opera House together, and she swiftly grew bored at the more formal dinner parties he was constantly invited to—so much so that she rarely went to any these days, which was just as well. But she did have a delectably dirty mind and a complete lack of inhibition. It all came as something of a revelation after being married for so long. However unfair that was to Kristabel, Hilitte’s bedroom antics provided a grand way of getting his mind off the troubles of the day.
Which makes her more convenient than visiting the House of Blue Petals. Not necessarily cheaper, though.
Breakfast was taken in the huge state dining room with its long roof forever showing intense orange images of the sun’s corona from the vantage point of some endless orbit a million miles above the seething surface. Underneath the fluctuating glare, the long polished black ash table was capable of hosting city banquets for a hundred fifty guests. This morning it had been set for the two of them. The kitchen staff had laid out big silver ice-bed platters on one of the dozen bolnut veneer sideboards, laden with an array of cold smoked meats cut as thin as parchment. Petal-pattern segments of fruit, cheeses, and glass jugs of yogurt were laid out next to them like small works of art. Warm dishes contained scrambled eggs, poached eggs, fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon and sausages, and crisped mashed potatoes. Five earthenware pots contained the mixes of cereal, and a small charcoal grill was ready to toast any of the five different types of bread or warm his croissants for him.
Edeard sat down and stared over at the ridiculously extravagant spread of food without really registering any of it. He directed a ge-chimp to bring him a tall glass of apple juice and a bowl of cereal. Hilitte sat next to him, dressed in a thick toweling robe with fluffy pink house socks. She gave him a warm smile before issuing a whole batch of instructions to the ge-chimps.
They ate in silence for a few minutes as Edeard considered what he was going to ask the Skylords. He was sure they’d be in range by the following morning or a day later at the least.
What could possibly have upset their pattern? Change originated from him; he’d traveled back to start again enough times to know that by now. Everyone else would just carry on as before unless he did something to alter their paths through life. It was influence that mattered the most: He did something different, so the lives of the people interacting with him altered to varying degrees, and so the effect spread out like a sluggish ripple. The major difference he’d made each time since the epic voyage around the world was to explain how the Skylords didn’t need the towers of Eyrie to accept people for guidance, which out in the provinces always led to a rush to build some kind of homage tower in every town and city, to the detriment of the economy. His repeated clarification that it didn’t need to be a tower, just a broad open space for people to gather, was always blithely ignored (witness the tax revolt following the Great Tower of Guidance fiasco).
For all the change he brought, it was only lives he affected; he couldn’t change the weather or make the planets orbit any differently. So why are there only two this time?
The only possible answer was one he simply couldn’t accept.
Dinlay arrived soon after Edeard started munching away on his second slice of toast. The Chief Constable’s humor was as pleasant as always. Dinlay had joined the unification almost unknowingly and certainly very willingly; the acceptance of such a gentle universal communion was after all the thing his subconscious had yearned for all these years. Even then, some things about Dinlay had never altered.
Edeard watched closely for any sign of envy or jealousy from his old friend regarding Hilitte (he’d made very sure that this time he was the first to meet her as soon as she arrived in Makkathran armed with her mother’s lists of contacts). That old Ashwell optimism just never dies, does it? But no, Dinlay was unconcerned by Edeard’s latest girl; after all, he’d just married Folopa, who was a lofty catch even by his standards.
Dinlay sat next to Edeard and placed his smart uniform hat on the table, aligning it with the edge. His open mind revealed how satisfying that was, how it fit in with the view that the world should be an ordered place.
“Help yourself,” Edeard said, gesturing to the sideboard. He couldn’t help the wistful memories of when he and Dinlay had moved into the constable tenement after they’d finished their probation. Nearly every morning until he’d married they’d had breakfast together. The best days. No! The easiest.
A ge-chimp brought Dinlay a cup of coffee and a croissant. “You need to watch what you eat,” Dinlay said, eyeing the huge spread of food. “You’ll wind up Macsen’s size if you’re not careful.”
“No, I won’t,” Edeard assured him softly. Dinlay and Macsen hadn’t spoken for over a year now, which pained him. Maybe I should go right back to the beginning? Except he knew that was the most pitiful wishful thinking. This was the time when he’d gotten everything so close to being right. All that was left for him now was to bring those remaining provinces into the unification, along with a few recalcitrants left over in the city. When that was done, he could truly, finally, relax.
“Some news came in last night that you’re going to enjoy,” Dinlay said. “It would seem the Fandine militia is on the march.”
Edeard endured a nasty chill of déjà vu at the claim. The Fandine militia had last marched when he was voyaging on the Lady’s Light, but that was for another reason altogether. “Against Makkathran?” he asked sharply.
Dinlay’s thoughts were happy at providing his friend with a surprise and being able to reassure him. “Against Licshills. It would seem Devroul’s expansionist ambitions were too great for Manel.”
“I see.” Edeard didn’t allow anyone to know his own dismay that this time around Manel had fallen to the bad again and had set himself up as the Lord President of Licshills. “When did this happen?”
“Five days ago. Larose’s fast scouts brought the news as quickly as they could.” Dinlay sipped at his coffee, waiting for Edeard’s response.
“Five days. Which means they’ll be a fifth of the way there by now.”
“Are you going to try and stop them?”
“Oh, Edeard,” Hilitte exclaimed. “You have to stop them. There would be so many people killed if you don’t. The Skylords would never come again.”
Edeard gave Dinlay a shrug. “She has a point.”
“Yes, but … who would the city’s militia regiments side with?”
“Neither. We oppose both, of course.” Edeard was trying to work out what course of events they could play out. Clearly, the city forces would have to stall the provincial regiments while domination was used against the individual militiamen, pulling them into Makkathran’s unification. But ultimately there would be a showdown with the strong psychics at the core of each independent province. It was a situation he’d been avoiding for two years, hating the idea of yet more confrontation. But the only alternative was traveling back for yet another restart, making good the mistakes and problems before they emerged, and that was something he simply could not contemplate. Not again. I can’t do it. Living those same years yet again would be a death for me.
Dinlay nodded sagely. “Shall I tell Larose to prepare?”
People were going to die; Edeard knew that. The number would depend on him. Riding the city militia into the conflict was the only way to keep the number of deaths to a minimum. “Yes. I’ll
ride with them myself.”
“Edeard—”
He held a hand up. “I have to. You know this.”
“Then I will come with you.”
“The Chief Constable has no business riding with the militia.”
“Nor does the Mayor.”
“I know. Nonetheless, it is my responsibility, so I will be there to do what I can. But someone with authority must remain in the city.”
“The Grand Council …”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Dinlay admitted. “I do.”
“Besides, we don’t want to make Gealee a widow, now, do we?”
Dinlay glanced up from his croissant. “Gealee? Who’s Gealee?”
Edeard grimaced as he silently cursed his stupidity. “Sorry. My mind wanders these days. I mean Folopa. You can’t take the risk. You’re barely back from your honeymoon.”
“There’s an equal risk.”
“No, Dinlay, there isn’t. We both know that.” He pushed ever so slightly, sending his longtalk whisper slithering into Dinlay’s thoughts to soothe the agitated peaks of thought. Dinlay’s reluctance faded away.
“Aye, I suppose so.”
“Thank you,” Edeard said, hoping his guilt wasn’t showing. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“You normally know what you’re doing.”
It was all he could do not to bark a bitter laugh. “One day I will. Now come on.” He rose and gave Hilitte a quick kiss. “We have to get to the sanctum. Argain and Marcol are the first meeting. They seem pleased with themselves.”
“It’s nothing,” Dinlay said, finishing his coffee before getting to his feet. “Information on the criminals resisting our city’s embrace. They have some new names for you.”
“They’re not criminals.” Not yet, he added silently, wondering where all his guilt was coming from this morning. As if I don’t know: those Ladydamned Skylords.
“They should be,” Dinlay muttered darkly.
———
It was the way of his days now, meeting with people who were at odds with the city’s unity. Acting as moderator, smoothing the way for understanding between everyone. A version of being Mayor he’d never quite envisioned during the caravan trip to Makkathran too many decades ago. He’d always thought he’d be elected in a free vote, arguing with his opponents and winning people over. Instead, he’d been the only candidate in a city where everyone’s mind was attuned to his. Well, not everyone, he admitted, and that’s a big part of the problem. Some people knew how to resist or deflect dominance. But they still gave the appearance of sharing, of unity with everybody else. Everything would be running along smoothly for weeks, then one morning the constables would be called to premises that had been smashed up or a gondolier yard where boats had been broken. More worrying were the warehouses where fruit and meat had been ruined, chopped open or doused in cartloads of genistar excrement. That was happening too often for his liking, and it was always performed by genistars, leaving no trace of the perpetrator even in the city’s memory.
So Argian and Marcol and Felax tracked down those resisting the unification one by one, but their true numbers were unknown. Rumor had it in the thousands. Edeard suspected a few hundred, which left him content that his dedicated team would gradually wear down the resistance. It was almost like the good old days of the Grand Council committee on organized crime. Except even that was an illusion, a memory that when examined properly wasn’t so joyful. It was just another achingly long time spent shuffling reports and dossiers.
If anything was becoming a true constant in his life, it was the mountains of paperwork and those endless boring meetings. Can that really lead to my fulfillment? And if not, what?
The evening didn’t start well. One of the girls Hilitte brought to the bedchamber wasn’t used to so much food being available and ate too much during the meal beforehand, which led to her feeling sick when they all retired to the master bedchamber. With unity came minds wide open to each other. That meant the sensations of her nausea spread like a contagion.
After she’d hurried out, leaving those left behind to take deep breaths and calm their queasy stomachs, Edeard decided a quiet night spent by himself might be preferable to the usual frenetic physical performance. Sure enough, his day had been long, uneventful, and ultimately thankless. His one attempt to longtalk Jiska had resulted in the usual quick rebuff. His children had all taken their mother’s side. It was probably the main reason he’d turned to Hilitte and the others; their cheap adoration was an easy way of easing the pain of loss, no matter how shallow and flimsy the act. His one genuine thread of comfort amid the estrangement came from knowing that a unified world would provide them with fulfillment. He hadn’t failed them even though they would never acknowledge it.
He asked Hilitte and the remaining girl to leave him. Hilitte stomped out in a wake of hurt feelings and sourness with just an undercurrent of worry that her time as the favorite was drawing to a close. Such was his languor, he couldn’t be bothered to reassure her. He wove a thick shield around his feelings, cutting himself off from the mellow reassuring contentment of the unified minds glowing around him, and fell asleep.
He was woken out of his outlandish dream by the strength of worry from the approaching mind. For a second he had been back in the forest with the other Ashwell apprentices on their galby hunt, beset with fear without knowing why. But it was only Argian, breezing his way past staff with cool purpose, ignoring any requests to wait for the sleeping Waterwalker to be formally woken and informed of his presence.
“It’s all right,” Edeard longtalked through the bedchamber’s closed door. “Come in.” His third hand hauled a robe over as Argian strode in. Now that Edeard was shaking off the sleep, he became aware of just how deep the currents of anxiety were running in the man’s mind. Bitter regret was like the burn of bile. “What is it?” Edeard asked in trepidation.
“We caught them,” Argian said, but there wasn’t a trace of elation in the tone. That morning he and Marcol had been excited at the new leads they’d gathered, the information that that night there would be a raid on a shipyard in the Port district, where two half-built trading schooners would be burned.
“And?” Edeard asked.
“They fought back.” There were tears glinting in Argian’s eyes now. “I’m so sorry, Edeard. Her concealment was good; we didn’t even know she was there.”
Edeard became still, the hot blood pounding around his body suddenly turning to ice as he perceived the picture forming amid Argian’s thoughts. “No,” he moaned.
“We didn’t know. I swear on the Lady. Marcol hauled her out of the flames as soon as we farsighted her.”
“Where is she?”
“The hospital on Half Bracelet Lane in Neph; it was the closest.”
Edeard flung his farsight into the district, pushing through the thick walls of the hospital. As always, the sense revealed only gauzy radiant shadows, but he could perceive the body that lay on a cot in the ground-floor ward; he knew the signature anywhere. It was ablaze with pain. “Oh, great Lady,” he groaned in horror.
The travel tunnels took him down to Neph in minutes. As he passed under Abad, he sensed someone else flying along ahead of him. Two girls, holding hands as they hurtled headfirst, radiated fear and concern as their long dark skirts flapped wildly in the slipstream.
“Marilee? Analee?” he called. He had no idea they knew of the travel tunnels. Their thoughts vanished behind an astonishingly strong shield. The rejection was as shocking as it was absolute.
He rose up through the floor of the hospital a few seconds behind the twins. They were already hurrying toward the ward, glimpsed as shadows in the dark corridors, their heels clattering on the floor. He followed, every step slower than the last. The farsight of his whole family was converging on the hospital, their presence like malign souls.
Jiska was lying on a cot, a terrible reedy wail bubbling out of her throat. The level of pain filling t
he long room was enough to make Edeard’s legs falter. He was crying as he approached. Three doctors were bent over his daughter, trying to remove the burned cloth from her ruined skin. Potions and ointments were poured over the blackened, crisping flesh, doing little to alleviate the awful thudding pain.
He took another step forward. Marilee and Analee moved quickly to form a barrier between him and the bed, minds fiercely steadfast. They were clad in robes similar to his own signature black cloak, hoods thrown over their heads leaving their faces in shadow. Steely guardians of their mortally injured sister, determined to prevent any last violation of her sanctity.
“She has suffered enough, Father.”
“She doesn’t need you here to make it worse.”
“Jiska,” he pleaded. “Why?”
“Don’t do that.”
“Not here.”
“Not now.”
“Don’t pretend your ignorance is some kind of innocence.”
“You’re not ignorant. Nor innocent.”
“You are evil.”
“A monster.”
“We will do whatever we can to ruin your empire.”
“And destroy you.”
The two black-clad figures wavered in his vision, and he saw them on the tropical beach as it had never happened so many years ago, both in long cotton rainbow skirts, bare feet on the hot sand, both clinging adoringly to Marvane, rapturously happy as Natran performed the marriage ceremony.
“I do this for all of you,” Edeard wept. “I am bringing you fulfillment. The Lady knows I try to bring fulfillment to the whole world. Why do you reject me?”
“Your evil would enslave everyone on Querencia, and you ask us why.”
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