by Mark Henwick
Duchess. There’s no way I can get him to call me Zara.
And that’s the least of it—Gaude is continually frustrated with me, as I resist jumping into the social whirl expected of me.
My return as Duchess Aguirre-Tremayne has relegated him to my assistant as manager of the Tremayne Estate—no, the Aguirre-Tremayne Estate. It’s difficult to remember to call it that.
Gaude’s still fulfilling his role as adjutant to the duke on military matters, and he’s also general secretary to both of us on political matters.
That’s where he gets his revenge on me for taking over estate management from him.
“I have sorted through the invitations, and selected the ones it’s absolutely necessary for you to attend.”
“You can’t tell me I have to attend; they’re not state functions, Gaude. It’s not a political matter.”
“But it is, begging your pardon. As I keep saying, fully half of politics is conducted outside of government offices and parliamentary sessions. Decisions are made at these gatherings and then merely implemented in parliament.”
And the underlying message, which he would never dare to speak out aloud, is that the former duchess, Keren, failed in these duties. With the implication that failing might have contributed to the ease with which the Hajnal conspiracy managed to infiltrate Kernow.
He hands me the list he’s clutching. It contains twelve invitations for Bleyd and me to attend parties all over Kernow. I know Gaude has refused fifty more, but he’s digging his heels in on these.
And I know he’s right, in theory. The capital’s Autumn Season is the most important in the social calendar for the whole of Kernow. The administration is normally quiescent during this period. There are many social events throughout the year, but the key ones always begin at around this time, and, as Gaude says, the alliances and agreements made at these parties speed the administration’s busy winter sessions.
But this is not any other year. Bleyd has been travelling continuously to every corner of the globe, meeting everyone already. He doesn’t need to add to that.
I have a harvest to manage, sales to make, funds to raise for rebuilding our house, and daughters at important stages of their personal development to think about.
And, being honest, I love what I’m doing in Cardu as much as I hate social events that are really all about influence and position and politics.
The events Gaude wants me to attend aren’t like this party today. Oh, this is bad enough, but the people here who are giving me the eye? They can go jump in the sea. I don’t care. But I have to impress the powerful people I would meet at the parties on Gaude’s list. If I didn’t, Bleyd’s reformation of the system might become impossible to achieve, and everyone would know whose fault it was.
Attending Gaude’s entire selection of twelve parties would have me rushing from one end of Kernow to another the whole autumn. Expensive dresses would need to be made. Time-consuming fittings. Shoes and bags bought. Never the same outfit. Something would need to be done about my hair. Hotels would need to be booked and vehicles hired. Lists of names and faces would have to be memorized: which people I would have to speak to; what I would need to speak to them about; why it would be so important.
Weeks would be lost. Something would have to give.
And the elite would be watching me, like the children are watching the bear with his spinning plates: not so much in appreciation of my skills as in the delighted anticipation of disaster.
Alexis comes running over from the other side of the lawn, and Rhos immediately bounds out of the pool, dripping over everyone, to see if her sister’s all right.
Alexis gives her an enthusiastic hug and chatters excitedly about the bear.
My eyes prickle.
Gaude will no doubt think it’s the pressure getting to me that’s making me cry.
So I finally take a decision that’s been building for days now.
“I tell you what we’re going to do, Gaude.”
“Hmm?” He blinks.
“Using your skill and judgment, pick two of these invitations according to the following conditions: the Founding Family hostesses must be friends of each other and at least neutral to the duke’s political position and my social position.”
“But—”
“Pick two.”
He huffs, but provides the names. “Lady Andain and Lady Penrice.”
“Now pick two from outside the Founding Families. Same conditions.”
He frowns and hums a bit. “Mrs Vellacott and Ms Yawlan, both immensely influential in the Free Trade Party. But if you chose just these four invitations, the snub you will deliver to the others, especially the Equality Party, would be immense. Unwise, in the circumstances.”
“I will not accept an invitation from a group who would illegally sequestrate Founding Family estates as a matter of principle, Gaude.”
The Equality Party are poisonous. Behind their unimpeachable name lies naked greed and grasping opportunism. I suspect many of the leaders of having secret links with the Hajnal. It doesn’t help, for me, that exactly the same political party name is used by the Hajnal on Newyan.
And I can’t help that my face reflects my feelings on this.
“I understand,” Gaude says, making gentle placating gestures, “but the idea, as I’ve explained, is to get to them now, where they daren’t raise that option, thanks to the roles played by the duke and you against the Hajnal. That ‘glow’ won’t last forever. You must use it while you can.”
He’s right, damn him. I wipe the scowl off my face. It is possible, I grant, that my opinion of the Hajnal’s Equality Party on Newyan is coloring my attitude toward the party of the same name on Kernow. And, irrespective of that, Gaude’s strategic thinking is right. Get them now.
“Very well,” I concede. “Name me one hostess in the Equality Party who is reasonably influential within her party, doesn’t foam at the mouth, and is not hard-wired to eliminate the Founding Families’ rights and dispensations? Oh, and has had no irrevocable falling-out with the other four you’ve named.”
He purses his mouth in thought. “Mrs Lanyon,” he says finally with a sigh. “She’s amicable enough, and both her husband and brother are on the Equality Party Executive Committee.”
“Excellent. Write to all five of them and explain that I propose a new custom.”
Gaude’s face had risen on the belief he’d been getting somewhere. Now it falls.
“Explain that Bleyd and I will not be attending individual events, due to the pressures of actually having to work, as well as conduct repairs of damages to Cardu, sustained in the defense of a free Kernow. Explain that it is impossible for us to choose from the many wonderful, wonderful parties on offer this year. Explain that it has also occurred to me that the sheer number and location of them discriminates against those attendees who live far away from the central travel hub of Bason.”
Gaude’s mouth is working, but no sound is coming out, so I continue.
“I propose instead an annual main event, a Harvest Ball, somewhere in or near Bason. We will attend that one event. I propose that the five hostesses you’ve named form the first organizational committee, responsible for everything from the funding to the invitations, and that every year the organizers each nominate three possible successors, and the attendees at the ball elect the next year’s committee. A great honor and privilege, etcetera, etcetera. Be sure to tell them how much I envy them. I trust you as a master of diplomacy to put it better than I could.”
There’s a muffled snort of amusement from Hwa behind me.
Gaude’s mouth is still opening and closing when Lieutenant Moyle rushes out to join us. Alerted by some sixth sense, Talan, my personal bodyguard, appears at my side.
“Duchess, an urgent message from the duke,” Moyle says breathlessly.
My heart skips a beat, and he must see my face go pale. An attack?
“Nothing like that,” he says quickly. “A Terran warship transitio
ned at the planar zenith an hour ago. It’s the TSS Annan, inbound at speed. They messaged an urgent request for a meeting with you and the Duke at the Skyhook in Bason.”
“The Annan? You’re sure?”
He nods.
He doesn’t need to say any more. Of course I picked the name out of the list when the Terran Council announced their strategy of dispatching a naval ship to every planet known to have been touched by the Hajnal. The Annan was the light cruiser that had been selected to visit Newyan.
What are they doing here?
What the nova has happened?
Chapter 3
Kernow
One frantic day later, early in the morning, I’m prepping the twin engine Ariel for the flight to Bason.
Luckily, Bleyd has hired a larger, faster aircraft to get him and his staff to the four corners of the globe, leaving the Ariel for me.
I’ll meet my husband at Bason airfield, and then we’ll take a car to the Skyhook, where the captain of the TSS Annan and his ‘staff’ will meet us, according to their message. ‘Staff’ and not crew? What does that mean? It suggests the captain has a diplomatic mission rather than a military one.
Nothing I can deduce by worrying. Meantime...
Never hurry a pre-flight inspection. Never get distracted.
I can hear my old flying instructors even now.
I have sent Gaude and everybody else to stand twenty metres away while I go through my checks. Pushing the mental distractions away is harder. The forthcoming meeting, incomplete projects and untaken decisions chatter away in my mind. However hard I’ve been working, there always seems to be more to do the next day. And I’m leaving the girls behind for this trip.
I’m taking Talan. Bleyd would want me to take Moyle as well. According to my husband, I should have an escort of two at all times. But Moyle is Rhoswyn’s favorite and I need to trust the person I leave the girls with. He’ll spoil them terribly and I’ll have to deal with that when I get back. That feels acceptable.
I trust Gaude, of course, but he’s going to be too busy to spend time with them.
I’m also taking Hwa to Bason. Her decision. She just said she needed to be with me on this trip. She has a way of saying things sometimes; it’s like she gets an extra depth to her eyes which draws you in and reminds you that she’s not entirely human. That behind those eyes hovers a strange space where a pseudo-organic quantum state computer houses the person I think of as Hwa. The person who shared my mind.
I shake the thoughts off and complete the inspection.
As soon as I move away from the aircraft, Gaude is back at my side.
There are seven or eight contracts on his infopad. I’m the one responsible. I should review them all, I want to, but if I do, I’ll have to delay the take-off and miss my timed slot to land at the busy Bason airport. As it is, I’ll have barely enough time to meet Bleyd and get to the Skyhook.
And I do trust Gaude, however much we disagree.
Sighing, I call up the witness app and ID myself. As soon as the verification response is made, I tap each contract and press my thumb on the screen in the requested places.
“Done.” I hand the infopad back. “How’s the reaction to the Harvest Ball proposal?”
“Much better than anticipated,” he says reluctantly.
I suppress a smile. Sometimes what it needs is a bull in a china shop to break a hated tradition. There’s a good chance everyone has been fed up with rushing around all over the planet every autumn.
“It may require the event to be held over an entire weekend,” he says. “There’s just not enough time—”
“That’s acceptable. Well done, Gaude.”
I turn to say goodbye to a solemn Rhoswyn and Alexis, gathering them into my arms.
I get about halfway through my list of things they have to promise not to do while I’m away when I feel Talan and Moyle suddenly go tense.
The airfield is on a ridge. The approach road comes up a slope and there’s a man riding a horse along that at a flat-out gallop.
Talan is the first to recognize him and replaces her hand cannon back in its holster, to Rhos’ immense disappointment.
“It’s Warwick,” Talan says. “Haven’t seen him riding for ages. Certainly not like that. Wonder what’s put a thorn under his... errr... pillow.”
Rhos smirks at the last-minute change of phrase.
When he reaches us, Moyle takes the horse’s bridle as Warwick slides off. The owner of The Spyglass, the inn that is the center point of the village of Stormhaven, looks hot and flustered.
“Begging your pardon, my lady.” Warwick tries not to bob his head in a little bow. I’ve had to tell him not to. “Only, it’s very urgent and for your ears only. That’s to say, you and Miss Hwa.”
I let him usher Hwa and me away from the others. Talan cannot be sent away; she follows.
“If you call me your lady again, you will end up in the harbor next Feast Day, Warwick.”
“Expect I will anyway, my—I mean, Mrs Aguirre-Tremayne.” He half smiles. Mayors and publicans are almost always thrown into the harbor as part of the Feast Day fun.
“Zara, for the Goddess’ sake, Warwick,” I say. “Zara. You called Keren by her name, didn’t you?”
“I did that,” he says, looking down. The late duchess was here for sixteen years or so, and I’ve just arrived. It’ll take time. “I’ll try.”
“Anyway, anything that’s for me will have to be for Talan as well. Can’t seem to get rid of the woman.”
Warwick exchanges another quick half-smile with Talan. She’s a local girl. He’s known her since she was in school, and I can’t think of what secret news he’d have that I couldn’t share with her.
“That’s as may be good,” he mutters, his local Arvish way of speaking coming to the fore.
He’s sweating and visibly unsure how to word this news to me.
“I had a visitor, this morning,” he says in a rush. “You folks up at Cardu probably don’t hear much of her. Was Morgen Golan. She’s Stormhaven’s Morrach.”
“Morgen Golan?” I repeat. “Doesn’t ‘golan’ mean ‘seagull’ in the old language?” I’d been studying the ancient Cornish dialects of Kernow, which were deeply connected to the old legends and traditions.
“Morgen the Seagull,” Talan says in confirmation.
So it was a title, not a surname.
“The Voice on the Wind.” Warwick nods and I can see the hairs on his arms stand up.
“And ‘morrach’ has something to do with the sea?” A lot around here has something to do with the sea, and not all the legends are just stories. I shiver a little in premonition of what I suspect is coming.
Talan says, “Morrach means sea-witch. Every fishing village has one. They warn of storms and bad fishing days.”
All towns and villages on this coast have fishing fleets, and despite the insistence on low-tech solutions that characterize this whole world, every sizeable boat has a radio, and every sea has weather satellites watching it. Storm warnings are passed up and down the coast from harbor master to harbor master, boat to boat. The storms that come off the Great Western Ocean are not to be taken lightly.
But even in the brief time I’ve lived here, I’ve realized that much more is going on than appears at first. People on the coast know what’s happening in the sea before the satellites do. To an outsider who questions it, locals smile and say they hear voices on the wind, the golan—calling, warning them.
It doesn’t surprise me that the ‘golan’ might be humans who speak with the race that live in the sea.
I know that things pass from the land to the sea, and from the sea to the land.
Morrohow is the name they use here for the gifts of the great sea. I am one such. I was dying, drowning. But a darkness that seemed as vast as the sky raised me up, carried me and left me in the bay, where Warwick knew to look for me.
“You sent them a message,” Warwick says.
I did. He was the one
who advised me on it. A basket filled with the fruits of the land and two corn dolls, to represent thanks for two gifts that the sea gave. One for me, who lived. One for Keren, who died.
“They’ve sent a message back,” he goes on, his voice low and hoarse with awe. “Through the Golan. They’re saying you must go talk to them straight ’way. You and Miss Hwa.”
Chapter 4
Kernow
We can’t go straight away to talk to the sea people.
As it is, our journey is timed to get to Bason around the time the TSS Annan arrives in orbit and they’re expecting us to meet them at the base of the Skyhook shortly afterwards. If I had postponed the meeting with the Terrans, I would have needed to explain why.
I’ve taken the decision to be ‘Arvish’ in my dealings about the native race that live in the sea. We Arvish, living on the western coast of Murenys, consider the sea-folk’s secret is ours to keep. To outsiders, we talk of piskatellers and let them dismiss it as old folk tales and silly superstitions. I can’t use piskatellers as an excuse for delaying this trip.
And I have to know what’s happening with Newyan, even if I’m sure I’m not going to like it.
Still, as we fly over the ocean, Hwa and I look down on the glittering expanse thoughtfully. I know we’re both uneasy, thinking we’ve got the priorities wrong.
So does Talan, but she, of course, is fast asleep in the back. She has the soldier’s ability to sleep whenever and wherever an opportunity presents itself.
Could I have delayed the meeting at the Skyhook?
Surely this is just a courtesy call from the Terran navy. Surely.
“Will you be all right to fly straight back?” Hwa asks.
“I hope so,” I say. “Then we could meet this Morgen Golan tomorrow.”
She nods.
If that’s the way it goes, I’ll get to see my husband, but not for very long this time.
Ninety minutes later, as we’re tracking across the main continent of Kensa and approaching Bason, Hwa gets a message from the Xian delegation. They also urgently need to see her.