Spinspace: The Space of Spins (The Metaspace Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Kennedy

  The pipe slowed to a stop, and then reversed, rolling back to Kareef's feet. The slithering of his robe as he bent to pick it up again was the only sound in the room as she stared at it with the others.

  Xander regarded the two. “Have you also solved the swizzle?”

  Kareef frowned while Nathan stared at the floor. “No, we stumbled across both of these weaves while we were working on it,” the dark-skinned Muslim said.

  “Too bad,” the old wizard said. “But that's not important now. What you've both done is just as good, maybe better. You, Nathan, have discovered a tonespace weave, and you, Kareef, have mastered a spinspace one, and both without any help from a teacher. Do you realize what this means?”

  “That we can stay?” said Nathan.

  “That you put on the gray robe,” said Xander. “You all do, starting tomorrow. As of now, you're all journeymen wizards.”

  “But Kareef and I haven't made a swizzle,” Nathan pointed out. “You said that was the test for advancement.'

  “I know what I said. And I was wrong,” Xander told him. “I've always thought my apprentices would have to follow in my footsteps, and learn the swizzle, then the everwheel, then the everflame. But I was wrong.” He took a deep breath. “Apparently life's not that simple. “I'm hoping you'll all master everything we can discover, but I have to accept that you'll learn some things faster than others.” He strode forward past her, and she watched him shake Nathan's hand, and then Kareef's.

  “We're all going to change the world. Now get some sleep.”

  Chapter 82

  Jeffrey: two steps forward, three steps back

  “There are only two forces in the world, the sword and the spirit. In the long run the sword will always be conquered by the spirit.”

  – Napoleon Bonaparte

  The loneliest man in the in the world slipped off his scabbard, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. Anyone who knew he was the ruler of the Lone Star Empire would have been surprised by the plainness of that bed. He barely noticed; it was the price he paid for spending the night at his offices atop the skyscraper in Dallas, rather than back at the mansion on the lake.

  As he sat at the foot of the bed he turned his empty eyes at his reflection in the ancient mirror on the wall he faced. Christ, do I really look that bad? I'm not even thirty!

  He could face the fact that his commanders and advisors were unhappy about the alliance with Rado. He could face the fact that some of them must be plotting to replace him. He could face the drought that had reduced the crop forecasts this year, triggering the inevitable rationing plans. He could even face the fact that he was engaged to the heir of Rado, a woman he barely knew who never seemed to have the time to reply to his letters lately.

  But facing all of these at once, that was killing him.

  The face in the mirror had grown new lines around the eyes, and new creases in the forehead, as if someone had been whittling on it. The eyes seemed dimmed, the fires of his youth fading prematurely toward twilight. The mouth that used to know how to smile now appeared either angry or sad in repose: he was not sure which.

  Well, you wanted to be Honcho. Thanks to Xander, you got your wish. Enjoy!

  The man in the mirror did not appear to be enjoying.

  Jeffrey slid open the drawer on his nightstand and withdrew a fresh sheet of paper with the Honcho's logo: crossed swords under a single star. He made a mental note to have the logo redesigned. In Kristana's new Union, the flag now had two stars.

  He unscrewed the lid of the ink bottle and dipped his quill.

  “Dear Aria,

  The drought situation here is becoming severe. I realize that your time is full these days, but if you could find the time to send us some swizzles...or a wizard who can get our own irrigation swizzles working again, it would help preserve my position, the peace, and the Union we both support. And if you could answer my letters...”

  He stopped and crumpled the paper in a fist of disgust. Too needy! Never show weakness.

  He dipped the quill again and hesitated, trying to come up with a better opening sentence.

  “Dear Aria,”

  Someone pounded on the outer door of his rooms. Damnation!Who could that be? Sighing, he laid down the quill and stood up to stretch before striding to the door. “Who is it? What do you want at this hour?”

  “Sergeant Carson, sir! Want you to escape, sir. They're coming for you!'

  What was this nonsense? He slid the bolt and wrenched the door open.

  Carson saluted with a bloody hand, then shoved him back into the rooms and slammed and bolted the door again. “Sorry, sir. I hope you have an emergency exit, because they've already overcome the guards on the first ten floors. Lt. Lassiter sent me up to warn you while his men stayed behind to try to hold them off on the twelfth floor. But I wouldn't count on it, sir.”

  “Who is it? Who's coming.” But a pit opened up in his stomach. He could guess the names even before Carson ticked them off on his fingers.

  “Vaco, Anderson, Karlota, Jiminez...it's most of the senior commanders, sir.”

  “I'm not surprised,” he said. He wasn't. All contemporaries of the late Commander Brutus, and hardly better. If anything, he should be surprised that it had taken them all this long to be ready to move.

  As much as he'd wanted to believe he had finally sold everyone on the advantages of the new Union, the access to Rado's mines and tools, and the ability to use Rado gold to expand the army for more conquests, there were plenty who thought they could get all of the same advantages at the point of a sword, without negotiation or compromise.

  He buckled his sword belt back on. Oh, they'd been clever. They'd pretended to be won over, grumbling but conceding the value of uniting the two countries. And all the while, he was certain now, they'd been planning to follow through on his father's plan: unification by conquest.

  “Sir, you've got to hurry! They have axes – the door won't hold them back for more than a minute.”

  “I know that.” No time to change into a fresh uniform. He was just lucky they hadn't caught him in his underwear, fast asleep. He drew his boots on and picked up his hat. The man in the mirror still looked unhappy, but at least he was an unhappy soldier. He straightened the hat. “Come on.”

  He led a mystified Carson into the Honcho's bathroom. My bathroom, he reminded himself. It was nearly as large as the bedroom, thanks to the huge tub with its integral fireplace to heat the water that flowed down from the rooftop reservoir.

  He yanked at the second sink. With a squeaky grinding of concealed hinges it swung away from the wall, taking with it the mirror and a section of wall. In the revealed space, a concealed staircase loomed out of darkness. Few knew that it had saved the lives of two Honchos in the last hundred years.

  Carson's face sagged with relief when he saw the secret stairwell, but it tightened again with dismay when Jeffrey charged up the stairs. “Sir! You'll be trapped on the roof, if that's where it goes.”

  Jeffrey didn't even turn his head to answer. “Follow me, if you want to live through this.”

  I can't believe it's been twenty years since Dad showed me this. But the cobwebs believed. He slid his jeweled sword out of the scabbard and lifted it in front of his face to keep the old webs out of his eyes.

  Here and there a blackened bulb poked out of the wall into the narrow space, souvenirs of the time when some rich Ancient had occupied the top three floors of the building. Somewhere there must be a light switch for the electricity that used to power them.

  They emerged onto the roof of the tallest building in Dallas. On any other night he would have stopped to appreciate the view. Nighttime always hid the dirt of the city and the thousands of oil lanterns and candles turned it into a glittering sight to nourish the soul.

  Not tonight, though. If he bothered to crane his neck to look over the edge of the roof he would probably see a river of torches surrounding the skyscraper.

  “Sir, I closed the s
ecret door again but we both know they'll find it soon! Why didn't you head down the stairs? What can we do up here?”

  Jeffrey didn't turn around. “We can do this,” he growled, picking up a length of chain (forged two centuries ago) from a pile. A ring of metal big enough to put his hand through dangled from each end of the chain. He tossed it to Carson, picked up another, and then kicked the rest of the pile over the edge of the roof. He hoped it landed on someone.

  Without bothering to see if Carson was watching, Jeffrey strode to the far corner of the roof where an ancient antenna loomed next to a heliograph. In a second he had swung one end of the chain over a black-painted cable thicker than his thumb that stretched down and out into the darkness.

  “I hope you're not afraid of heights,” he said. Then he checked his sword belt, grabbed both of the rings and leaped off the edge of the roof.

  Chapter 83

  Enrique: horns of the altar

  “A son can bear with equanimity the loss of his father; but the loss of his inheritance may drive him to despair.”

  – Niccolo Machiavelli

  The Camerlengo found him kneeling in prayer in the private chapel attached to the Papal chambers. “Your Holiness? The Honcho is here to see you.”

  The Supreme Pontiff opened his eyes and climbed to his feet, a look of mild surprise on his face. “Already? Very well. Show him into Our audience room.”

  “He's already there,.Holiness.”

  “I see.” He threw the man a sharp look, and one of the corners of the Pope's mouth quirked in annoyance. But it was only to be expected, given the obvious reason for a midnight visitation. Jeffrey must be too agitated to be kept waiting.

  After adjusting the hang of his robes, he swept into the audience chamber like a ship under sail. As the haggard-looking figure rose from a chair he bypassed the papal throne and came to stand beside him. “Greetings, Excellency.”

  The Honcho eyed him as they shook hands. “You don't look very surprised to see me.”

  “Oh, come now, Excellency,” he said, sinking onto a seat beside Jeffrey's. “We both have known this day was coming. Warriors love war more than peace.”

  Jeffrey collapsed into his chair and ran fingers through his hair. “I'm afraid I counted on their loyalty to slow them down.”

  “I'm sure they still consider themselves to be loyal, but to the Empire, not to the current Honcho.”

  “Yes...but to whom are you loyal, Holiness?”

  “I am loyal to God and the Church, Excellency. But I'm sure you know the Church has always supported the established secular authority, and does not look with favor upon violent attempts to change it.”

  “Glad to hear it. So you'll help me?”

  As usual, he bypasses preambles and jumps straight to the hard questions. “You place us in an awkward position, Excellency. You are the rightful leader, to be sure. But the Church is not an army, or at least not one fit to take on actual militia.”

  Jeffrey gazed into his hands. “True. But I know you must have channels of communication to some of the less senior officers.” He raised his head and caught Enrique's glance. “I know from personal experience that you have a keen eye for a rising star.”

  He nodded. “From Our time as a cardinal, We understand stalled ambitions quite well, Excellency. We believe that.....yes?”

  Cardinal Mendoza had opened the door at the rear of the audience chamber. “Commander Jiminez is here to see you, Holiness.”

  Jeffrey sagged in his chair. “Game over,” he muttered.

  Enrique was certain he did not roll his eyes. “Let him wait for another five minutes, and then show him in.” He turned to the Honcho and pointed behind the throne “Through that door, Excellency. “We'll talk soon.”

  Warily, Jeffrey went to the door and opened it. Brother Marcus pulled him in across the threshold and shut it again with a click.

  Chapter 84

  Jeffrey: cat and mouse

  “History is a set of lies agreed upon.”

  – Napoleon Bonaparte

  He was ready to panic when the monk grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the door and shut it behind them. But why hide me? If he was going to betray me, why not just hand me over? Maybe the Pontiff was just not in a hurry. “Who are you?”

  “I am brother Marcus, Excellency. Please come this way.”

  Jeffrey followed the man down a dark and narrow corridor that he realized must be hidden in the wall of the audience chamber. Did it completely surround the room – except for the 'public' doorway?

  A short way down the dim hall brother Marcus halted and flipped open a panel revealing a window at head height smaller than his palm. “You can watch through this, Excellency. Because of the difference in light levels, no one will see your eyes.” He withdrew a slim box about a cubit long from an inner pocket. It looked like something you might use to carry a piccolo or a telescope. “You'll be able to hear what they say, too. A system of one-way baffles blocks them from hearing us, unless you really shout.”

  He opened the case and extracted a tube a little thicker than a cigar and a foot long. Flipping open another little door revealed another window, with a hole below it. He slipped one end of the tube into this hole. This window was more complicated than Jeffrey's, however. The window and its hole were mounted in a frame that let Brother Marcus slide them up and down. He nudged them until he appeared satisfied.

  Curious, Jeffrey leaned forward for a better look. When he saw the crosshairs neatly painted on the inside of the window, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Would you really kill Commander Jiminez?” he whispered.

  Brother Marcus glanced at him. “I would prefer not to attract attention,” he said. “But His Holiness prefers to be ready in case things do not go well.”

  Are you also ready to use the swizzle gun on me, instead?

  He very carefully did not ask that question out loud. Instead, he put his eyes to his own window.

  The Pope rose from the seat and made his way to the Papal throne. A minute later Jeffrey heard the sound of a door opening and Commander Hector Jiminez strode into the chamber. The man looked around, then came forward and kissed the ring on the hand the Pope extended, then made his way to the same seat Jeffrey had been in a few minutes before.

  Jeffrey began to sweat. Would the man notice the chair was already warm?

  “Greetings, Commander. To what do We owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  Jeffrey wanted to shake his head in admiration. Ricky was a cool one. To see and hear him, you'd never know he had been speaking with a hunted man minutes before. He made a mental note to never play poker with the Pontiff if he managed to survive this coup attempt.

  “I'm looking for Jeffrey Martinez, Your Holiness.”

  “You mean, the Honcho. Why would he be hard to find?”

  “I mean exactly what I said. We've decided it's time for a change in leadership. He managed to flee headquarters before we could take him into custody.”

  Before you could 'accidentally' kill me, you mean. Behind the wall, Jeffrey's fists clenched, and unclenched, hungry for a neck.

  Them Pontiff frowned.. “We must say We are surprised at this development. Don't all officers and men in the Lone Star Army swear an oath of loyalty to the man you are now...hunting?”

  Jeffrey's eyes narrowed. Yes, he thought. You must say you are surprised.

  Jiminez cleared his throat. “We swear loyalty to the Empire, first and foremost. The Honcho is, among other things, a symbol of that empire. And symbols can be changed.”

  “Indeed they can. We imagine there are those who are not entirely comfortable with the idea of the Lone Star becoming merely one among a constellation.” He took a sip from a goblet. “We imagine that some are already speaking of repudiating the accord with Rado.”

  Jiminez looked ready to spit. “Jeffrey betrayed his father's memory. He should have put that bitch Kristana in chains, instead of abjectly signing a treaty with her!”

&nbs
p; His Holiness nodded. “It can be argued that he might have succeeded, assuming he had better luck with her wizards than his much more experienced father and Commander Brutus managed. We have heard they proved surprisingly capable in the crisis.”

  “All wizards should be put to the sword!” Jiminez growled. “Abominations, the lot of them. But I'm not here to discuss them.”

  “Of course not, Commander. We must confess, however to be somewhat at a loss. Why then are you here? Surely your time would be better spent tracking down those who oppose your proposed change in leadership.”

  Jiminez eyed him. “Some have suggested,” he said, “that he might come to you seeking sanctuary, Holiness.”

  Standing at the spy hole in the darkness of the corridor, Jeffrey heard a clicking as the monk beside him withdrew something from a pocket of his robe. Bullets, probably lead balls. But killing Jiminez would only attract more attention!

  The Pope leaned forward and took his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “That would place Us in an untenable position,” he said solemnly. “It is hard to see how any help could be offered without betraying the Empire.”

  Help to whom? You sly devil. The Pontiff was putting on a good show all right. But for whom? Jiminez, Jeffrey...or both of them?

  The Commander shifted in his chair. From the ring-kiss earlier, Jeffrey presumed the man was a faithful Catholic, and therefore reluctant to accuse the Pontiff of sheltering an enemy of the State. He hoped so; that reluctance might allow the man to leave this chamber alive.

  “May I presume, Holiness, that if Jeffrey comes to you that we will be informed? I realize we can't expect you to take him into custody for us, but we would appreciate an opportunity to intercept him.”

  His Holiness regarded him. “I can assure you, Commander,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly, “that if the Honcho comes to Us, you will be informed of his presence here. We would certainly not want this unstable situation to persist any longer than necessary.”