The Science of Power

by Emerson, Ru

  “Bauxite.” Her pronunciation of the word was darker, he’d probably not have recognized it if she’d said the word first. “I think—yes. It is something in France also, a new thing and they only begin to work it but without any success to now. Or so I have heard. But Sorionne has control of nearly all the mines in French Jamaica.”

  “Aluminum.” Chris ticked off fingers as he thought aloud. “Okay. Aluminum. Metals. Steel. Foundries? Rails. Engines? Wire…”

  “Wire,” Ariadne responded suddenly. “And rails.”

  “Yeah, but that’s steel.”

  “Steel—yes, for the telegram and the trains, I remember now, Sorionne and Father arguing about the large firm which made wire and rails. There was a difficulty, because they wished control of Sorionne’s bauxite supply for something else, not rails or wire for telegraph….” She shook her head, visibly frustrated. Chris caught hold of her near hand.

  “Hey, no big deal, it’s a place to start.” Something Jen had said: The guy who’d done the telegraph deal with her in Sikkre, also the denim deal—he’d been pushing trains? I know I heard the guys’ name, I’ll bet I’ve even met with him. Someone who’d pushed trains to Chris, who’d needed no push in that direction at all. “Great,” he said finally. “It’s a start, and I have this feeling—yeah. Let me think about it awhile, see what I can come up with. Probably have another wire to send north when we get off the train at San Philippe.” Another thought occurred to him. “Sorionne. That isn’t the guy who—who wanted to marry you, is it?”

  Her color was suddenly high; she nodded. “But that, at least, is no longer a possible thing, is it?”

  “Ah—right. It’s not. Like, no chance in this world, okay?” Her fingers were warm in his but he thought the rest of her had gone tense and wary. “Um, lookit. I—ah—you and I, we haven’t talked about things, really. Ah—” He cleared his throat. “Jen said she told you that I wasn’t—that I wouldn’t—” His face was hot; hers was definitely red now. “Well, what she said—I won’t.”

  “You—”

  “Let me finish, God knows this is hard enough and I’ll never be able to say it twice, okay?” She nodded again. “I know we’re m-m-m-married, that priest did the whole thing and it took and—well, that’s that. Like, forever, because it’s your religion. I jus—I don’t feel like it’s real, if you know what I mean. It’s more like—we got thrown together, kind of sudden-like, and we were strangers and now we’re—we’re friends, right?”

  “Friends,” Ariadne said faintly. She swallowed, managed a tight smile and the least little nod.

  “Friends. That means—means we’re getting to know each other, see how well we can like each other. I don’t—I mean, I won’t—well, I’m not gonna push you, okay?”

  “Push—yes. I see.” A long silence. It was Chris’s turn to swallow; his throat was very dry. Had to drink all that orange, didn’t you, guy? Ariadne’s eyes had gone distant and she was still and quiet, long enough for him to wonder if he’d said the wrong thing somehow. “I see,” she said again, finally. “I think I do. You—this is not because of—of the thing I said in my father’s carriage about the knife. What I told you on that ship?”

  He shook his head. “Hey. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. Told you I don’t like knives, and okay, I was spooked at first, who wouldn’t be? Then, crawling onto a dead man. But it’s—it’s not because of that. I’ve just seen too many kids, too many guys, who go for the—oh, hell, who jump in bed with a girl first night out, and it messes up everything. It can, anyway. I don’t want to mess up any chance we have, that’s all.”

  “Yes. I see.” Her forehead puckered. “I think I do. If it is not the other thing—”

  “It’s not. I just wanted you to know, that’s all.” He stood, held out his arm. “Walk you back to the private car, lady?”

  Her smile was ironic once more; she inclined her head and took hold of his arm. “Merci, sir.”

  Four people in the common car at the moment: the couple who’d been arguing over the hamper, the older man who now slept full length on his seat and no longer snored, the woman who’d glared at him—she slept with her cheek against the padded wing of her seat, whuffling softly. At the end of the car, two curtained alcoves and the heavy, regular breathing of a deep sleeper from one. They crossed the platform, started into the empty private car. Chris was vaguely aware of someone coming toward them, a narrow man in a dark suit and broad-brimmed hat. Ariadne drew him to a sudden halt and fumbled at her sleeve.

  “Hey—you all right?”

  “Ah, merde—there was dust in that opening—” She brought up a lace-edged square and sneezed resoundingly. And again. Chris looked at the man as he passed them; total stranger, so far as he could tell in the near dark. The other merely eyed them in mild curiosity and kept going. Ariadne sneezed several times in rapid succession, swore, and sneezed again, staggering into Chris, who drew her up by her elbows. She rubbed her nose with the small cloth. “I despise dust. Did I just see someone?”

  “Here? Yeah. Went on by, though. No one I ever saw before. There’s a car beyond us for the crew, Eddie said there’s a guy goes back and plays cards with them. No one he knows, either.”

  “Ah.” She held the cloth to her nose a moment more.

  “You all right?” She nodded. “Good. Let’s get you away from that opening.”

  “Yes.” She sneezed once more and swore angrily. “Now, please.”

  “You got it, lady.” Moments later they passed through the canvas and into the next car.

  The narrow man in the broad-brimmed hat pressed aside the canvas at the other end of the private car and stood with his back against it, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. There was no mistaking either of them—the man couldn’t be anyone but M. Cray, and of course Ariadne Dupret would stand out anywhere. He consulted his watch in the faint light, thought for a moment, then strode back toward the common car and sought his sleeping alcove. Once inside, he turned up the small wall lamp and drew a thin leather memo book from an inner pocket. The message would have to go by wire from Marie Donne, only a short distance on. He’d have to be quick, get it ready, and find the attendant; the stop at Marie Donne was a matter of moments only. The message itself—at least that was simple, and very brief: MERCHANT CRAY, VISCOUNT DUPRET’S DAUGHTER ABOARD THE COASTAL, ARRIVE SAN PHILIPPE TOMORROW. He printed that out in large block letters, blotted the message, and folded it around a crisp new banknote. The car attendant would see it off the train and hand it over to the wire offices in Marie Donne. Thereafter…

  Thereafter, a wise man who would live to collect his reward—why, such a man would depart the train at Emile, when there is a halt for fuel. It should be possible to hire a horse or a carriage from Emile to the coast. Much as he disliked either mode of transportation, it would scarcely do for the Viscount’s half-breed daughter to get a good look at him. I had luck tonight; she was distracted when I passed and the light was not good. I have changed this past year, but she might remember this particular among her maid’s suitors.

  Best to let them think themselves unnoted. For the moment, at least. Once they reached San Philippe—he smiled grimly, turned down the lamp, and went in search of the attendant.

  2

  “Just breathe normally, Thukara.” The soft-voiced mid-wife laid both hands on Jennifer’s stomach, pressed gently.

  “I’m trying,” Jennifer said, her own voice mildly accusing. “You’re tickling me.” Miysa looked at her sidelong. “I can’t help it, I’m touchy.”

  “More than usual, even for you. Well, think of something else for the moment, if you can, and I’ll be as quick as possible.”

  “Mmmmm.” Think of something else, right. It was taking everything Jennifer had to stay on the large bed and under those cool, deft fingers. She looked toward the door, across the room, and into her dressing room, where Siohan was rinsing underthings and humming. She sighed, finally, folded her hands together across her ribs, and shifted into Thre
ad. The midwife’s twist of the silver cord and four red stones that lay on the low mound just below her fingers—another of Miysa’s specialized charms, that silver thing, but the woman hadn’t yet volunteered what it was supposed to do. Thread wasn’t any use—midwife charms weren’t simple market ones like those Dahven used to carry, but Jennifer couldn’t sense any of them, specialized or no.

  Miysa by Thread was a curious pattern: red, of course. That was the finding Thread, the first Jennifer had properly learned to wield. Under that, something as silvery as that cord. Jennifer refolded her hands, hesitated only briefly, then refocused her attention to just south of her hands, and under Miysa’s charm. No change in the pattern that was the baby, except size.

  She looked up and shifted back as Miysa tugged her loose dress straight, wadded the silver cord in her other hand, and shoved it into a deep pocket. The midwife smiled. “I still cannot be completely certain, Thukara, but I think—yes, I’m nearly positive everything is all right.”

  “You think—?” Jennifer smoothed the gauzy red fabric across her knees and pushed up onto one elbow.

  “Two things,” Miysa said crisply, and turned down fingers. “The stones did not change color and they’re extremely sensitive. Also, frankly, you still carry the child.”

  “I see.” It stopped her breath for one moment. The child is still alive, you’ve seen that much yourself. She managed a smile and sat all the way up. “You think I’d have miscarried if the damage had been serious, is that it?” Miysa nodded. “Well—thanks for being honest with me.”

  “You’ve never wanted convenient truth from me, Thukara, and a lie would do you no good in the long run,” the midwife said. She gathered up her other items, then fished a bottle from another of her several pockets. “Two drops in your tea, or whatever you drink on rising, each day until it’s gone. Have it put into something strong flavored, so you won’t taste this.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Jennifer took the bottle and eyed it doubtfully. “What is it? How bad is the taste? And what kind of bad?”

  “So your food stays put and does both of you the most good. As to the taste: well, you drink this in strong tea and you’ll never need to know.” Miysa leaned into the Thukara’s dressing room and said, “Siohan, I’m done here. Send at any time, if you feel the need, Thukara.” She inclined her head and left; Jennifer could hear her sandals clicking rapidly down the hall through the open doorway. Siohan came into the bedroom a moment later, wiped her hands on her apron, and held one out for the bottle.

  “You were listening.” Jennifer rolled her eyes and surrendered it. “What—afraid I won’t take it?”

  Siohan laughed. “I could hardly help but hear, you know, not from here to the back of your dressing room. Let us say, I’m certain you’ll find yourself too busy to ever remember.”

  “You’re right, of course. Don’t you dare put that stuff in my coffee, though.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of tampering with your coffee. Why don’t you stay here and rest a while if you can, Thukara? It’s the heat of day, after all, and much too warm for the time of year.”

  “Well—”

  “Think how warm it is in here, and how much worse it will be just under the roof, where your offices are,” Siohan added persuasively.

  “Well, I left enough paperwork on my desk that I shouldn’t—”

  “It will all be there for you, I promise. And the air should cool before much longer.”

  Jennifer laughed. “So it will. All right. An hour—no more, though.”

  “Good. I’ll bring you a roll and some of your chilled coffee, shall I?” Jennifer nodded; Siohan patted the pocket where she’d dropped the midwife’s little bottle, and went out. Jennifer fluffed pillows, tossed them toward the head of the bed, and fell back bonelessly.

  “Ahhhh, yes, let’s be lazy and worthless for once,” she said aloud. She considered this and laughed.

  “I am delighted one of us is cheerful.” Dahven’s voice. She looked up to see him slouched against the doorframe, the Heir’s leather document pouch in one hand and a sheaf of telegraph messages in the other; his brows were drawn together in a single dark line. “I stopped at your office; they said you were here.”

  “Miysa came.”

  “There’s—no problem?”

  “Just a regular visit.” No point in telling him what Miysa had said; he’d find a way to worry it, the way he had everything else the midwife had said thus far. “I’m giddy with the heat and playing hooky from my desk, that’s all,” Jennifer said. “That’s an impressive glare. Why do I get a look like that? Did I do something wrong?”

  “I—? Oh.” He managed a grimace that was probably intended as a grin. “Sorry. I wasn’t glaring at you, and you know it. No, Grelt and I have been snarling at each other over this armed company Afronsan wants at the ready.”

  “Still only at the ready? And still arguing? I thought it was all decided, at least as far as taking Dro Pent back.”

  “Jen—if the decision was only Afronsan’s. You know the problem.” She sighed. Dahven pried himself off the doorframe, dropped the dispatch case and the messages on the bed next to her, and threw himself into his chair. “What did the midwife say?”

  “Not much. She left more horrid stuff for me to take, aren’t you glad you aren’t the one doing the hard work?” He laughed shortly, slouched even lower in the chair, and crossed his heels on the edge of the bed. “About Vuhlem—sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Jennifer leafed through the top three messages, shook her head, and set them aside. “Afronsan has to first convince Shesseran there’s a problem, that Vuhlem’s behind it, that it’s too serious to be ignored, and then convince the Emperor to go with force….”

  “Yes, well, enough,” Dahven growled. “I got enough of that the past two hours or so.” One hand drummed the polished wooden rest. “All that time wasted, same as it would be for anything else, with the additional problem that Shesseran and Vuhlem—”

  “I know,” Jennifer droned wearily. “They schooled together; I’ve heard.” She sighed. “And, of course, Shesseran thinks the sun shines from an unnamable portion of Vuhlem’s anatomy—” Dahven broke into an unwilling chuckle. She waited while he laughed, and watched some of the tension leave his shoulders; his hands lay flat on the wooden rests. “So, what’s your problem?”

  “Ahhhhh.” Dahven tried to recapture his angry scowl but gave it up and rolled his eyes instead. “It’s Grelt being difficult with me. He says I can have any say I like in the planning—and no part whatsoever in the execution.”

  Jennifer’s eyebrows went up. “You mean, I’m not the only one in Sikkre with that much good sense?” He scowled, shook his head again. “Dahven, you know damned well you can’t go to Dro Pent. You’ve got Sikkre, me, our—”

  “I know that!” He sighed. “Sorry. I just—”

  “Dahven. This is me, remember? I’ve helped you bust heads, this isn’t the clinging-little-woman act, and Grelt isn’t insulting you or babying you. You’re not just Dahven, you’re Thukar, you’ve got responsibilities, a wife, an heir on the way—”

  “Ahhh, you’re as bad as Grelt,” Dahven broke in sourly. “I can take care of myself, I’ve been doing that since I was a mere babe. I’m not going off to get myself killed.”

  “No one means to do that, but things happen, remember? And the way things have been going the past year or so, it’s not the best idea to leave Sikkre in the hands of an outlander female. Wouldn’t Vuhlem like that? Can’t you see him pulling a Jadek here? Poor little woman can’t manage by herself, with an infant on the way, though that child might not be the Thukar’s—”

  “Jennifer!” Dahven waved his hands in her face and she grinned at him. “All right, all right. Sounds ridiculous until I remember everything Vuhlem’s pulled lately—and gotten away with.”

  “So. Just in case, don’t you think we ought to keep the true heir—yourself, sir—in very good and visible health? And well away from the front lines?” Silence. “By all mea
ns, sit in with Grelt and help with the planning, we need all the edge we can get. Figure out a way for Grelt to bat Vuhlem over the head and dump the body a mile offshore, he quietly disappears, and Shesseran’s no wiser.”

  “Jennifer!”

  “I’m being practical,” Jennifer replied flatly. “Keep in mind Vuhlem’s pulled at least one fast one in Dro Pent and another with the brandy, he’s playing for keeps. If he gets away with Dro Pent, think about what’s next door and a very good catch. Hmmm?”

  “Another reason I think I should go. You know I can take care of myself, and this way—”

  She snorted rudely, silencing him. “Grelt can think on his feet, too. And you can take care of yourself, I know that. So can I. We’ve both proven it. Unfortunately, so has Vuhlem. And so have—I’m sorry—so have your father, your brothers, and the Lasanachi.”

  A long silence. Dahven finally nodded; he leaned forward and grabbed the leather dispatch case. “All right. No, don’t look at me like that, I’m just grumbling. I was playing in Sikkre’s lower market when I was five and running it for Father just a few years later; you can’t expect me to like staying home while Grelt and others go to fight, can you?”

  “Don’t be silly. All the same, you haven’t run the lower market by yourself for a few years, you delegate these days. What’ve you got there?” It was as good a change of worn-out subject as any; Dahven opened the case and drew out a small pile of loose sheets and two bundles of paper wrapped in red string. He swore as several note-sized sheets slipped from his grasp and drifted to the floor. Jennifer eyed the stack of telegrams sidelong, sighed, and pulled them toward her. “What’s been decided, other than you can’t go?”

  “Thanks.” Dahven cast her a wry grin and bent over, to gather up the loose bits. He leafed through the stack. “Has the Heir’s wife even seen him since they wed? He must spend all his life at his desk….”