How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse--Book One of the Thorne Chronicles

by K. Eason

  “They can’t just arrest the Vizier of Thorne. There’s diplomatic immunity!”

  “You mean rules,” the Vizier said, very gently. “The sort of rules that might prevent a man from seizing a throne from a child by assassinating both of his parents.”

  “The same rules you think he’ll follow by not storming our doors.”

  The Vizier considered that. “I think he will count the cost of apprehending me here as too high, and too obvious. The Regent is not a direct man. He prefers artifice and subterfuge. A pitched battle—in which he might lose a number of people, and in which the Prince’s fiancée could be injured or killed—would be an unnecessarily public performance.”

  “Fine,” said Rory, after a moment. “Then I will accompany you, whenever you go to the embassy. That is Thorne territory as well. Whenever you are in public, Messer Rupert, I will be with you. Then Moss won’t dare to act.”

  As we have noted, the fairies did not gift—or curse—Rory with prescience.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In Which It Becomes Clear That One Should Always Ask Grytt

  There are several schools of thought regarding the proper balance between the rights of monarchs and the rights of their subjects. There are those anti-monarchists, such as Li and Francher, who advocate for a legal system maintained independently of the monarch himself, so that the law of the land (or ship, or station, as the case may be) applies to all citizens more or less equally; and indeed, this practice is the one most widespread in regions of void belonging to the Merchants League. But there are still traditionalists (particularly Herrick) who insist that the right of the monarch must be absolute, and supersede any other laws or customs. The monarch becomes, in Herrick’s system, a de facto deity, wielding the power of life and death, with no other legal check on his behavior than his own will. It is an appealing theory if one is the monarch, and rather less so if one is anybody else. It is also no accident that the historically preferred methods of dealing with this sort of monarch have been violent and rather permanent.

  The late King Sergei Valenko had been a strange combination of progressive and absolutist. On the one hand, he had attempted, via legislation, to codify the law of the Free Worlds, favoring the rights of individual stations and planets to self-govern under their own laws and customs. But at the same time, he had been famous for overriding the wishes of his own Council in other matters, the most infamous of which was an edict forbidding the establishment of an elected Free-Worlds-wide Tadeshi Parliament. The proposals (for there were many) included provisions for elections based on colonial population, economic significance, and longevity of membership in the Free Worlds. King Sergei’s edict objected to those proposals as invitations to tyranny, and castigated members of his Council by name for their transparent self-interest in promoting the power of their own houses or homeworlds, while limiting the powers of others.

  It may be that Valenko’s future biographers will posit that the King was, by being a tyrant himself, attempting to eliminate the politicking and maneuvering among his nobles—using tyranny to combat tyranny, if you will. They will almost certainly notice that Vernor Moss is not one of the council members named in that edict, but whether his ascension to Regency is attributed to a general inoffensiveness, or to the cleverness of his maneuvering (or whether the King is portrayed as doomed idealist or ravening despot), will depend on the prevailing political winds at the time of the writing.

  It will almost certainly not be noted that, among the works in the Regent Moss’s office, was a copy of Herrick’s Treatise on the Rights of Kings.

  Although Rory had been in Moss’s office, and had in fact glanced over his shelves, including the one on which Herrick’s Treatise resided, she was unfamiliar with the work itself, or with its author. The fault for this, if fault it was, could be laid at the feet of the Vizier. There are only so many hours in a week, and because the Vizier himself was quite familiar with Herrick (and several dozen more political theorists of whom no one has ever heard except other academics), and because he had taken for granted that he would be available to advise Rory, he had elected to leave Herrick off her reading lists.

  Had he chosen otherwise, perhaps Rory might have noticed the book in Moss’s possession, and drawn the obvious conclusions; and perhaps she might have mentioned its presence to the Vizier. Then they two together may have been better able to see the pattern in Moss’s Regency thus far, and to make predictions about its future trajectory.

  Or they could have asked Grytt’s advice, which no one ever did, at least on matters of politics.

  While this seems like a logical decision, it should be noted that, while she was not familiar with Herrick, or with Li and Francher, Grytt was very familiar with Kreshti history, and by extension, with seminal Kreshti writers. She would have recommended Rory read Kahandir, who, as one of the revolutionary founders of Kreshti, had a great deal of advice about tyranny, and the varying stages and methods of dealing with it.

  Grytt would also, if asked, have shared her opinion of diplomatic immunity and the likelihood of Regent Moss adhering to rules which he had not made himself (in that, she might have been in agreement with the Vizier); and she might have been able to verbally prepare Rory for what she foresaw as inevitable.

  But, as we have noted, no one asked her.

  Grytt was not offended by that oversight. She proceeded with the preparations anyway. She made certain that she had the unauthorized ’slinger, loaded and charged, slung around her hips on the following morning. She also made certain that she briefed the morning’s escort personally, reflecting as she did so that it was a pity that Stary and Franko were not a better representation of the original purpose for which militaries had been designed. Oh, those men were adequate at their martial skills, even competent. But it seemed to her that those soldiers in service to the royal household had achieved their positions largely because of familial influence, or because they were especially good at polishing boots and keeping their uniforms crisp; and it was not Grytt’s personal experience that the actual business of fighting (which was often attended by bleeding) had much to do with shiny footwear or creased trousers. When Samur had granted her free choice of the barracks on Thorne, Grytt had selected the best of the lot, and sacrificed to her ancestors that she never need use them in a manner to which they were unaccustomed.

  Grytt, like the Vizier, did not place a great deal of faith in the intervention of ethereal beings; she also knew that, under unusual circumstances, soldiers, like weapons, might surpass all expectations, or fail dramatically. It was her responsibility to predict the outcome. Stary and Franko were the most experienced of the staff and the ones Grytt would want at her back in a pitched battle. They were the best at following orders: told to hold the corridor, they would do so or die trying. But they also possessed the same mental acuity and flexibility as a bag of wet mice. Some days, the Princess would need well-armed, violent wet mice. But this was not one of those days.

  And so, this morning, Grytt selected the two most junior staff. The first, Thorsdottir, was a big-boned farmer’s daughter from Thorne’s northern continent. She was painfully aware of her common birth, and apparently unaware of her uncommon talent. She was also much smarter than anyone gave her credit for (except Grytt).

  The second, Zhang, came from a comfortably connected upper-middle-class merchant family. Her mother in particular had expressed great dismay when she enlisted in the royal guard instead of becoming a lawyer. Much of Zhang’s unflappable composure, for which Grytt had selected her as much as her martial skill, had developed as a bulwark against constant maternal disappointment. Zhang, in her turn, harbored an unsecret worship of all things Grytt. The reason for Zhang’s fascination had nothing to do with the several rumors circulating around the barracks (ranging from lascivious to aggrieved), and everything to do with Zhang’s own paternal grandmother, who had been a Kreshti marine killed in a skirmish with pirates. To Zhan
g, Grytt was the nearest thing to Grandmother she might ever meet.

  Grytt collected Thorsdottir and Zhang in the antechamber. She pretended to inspect their uniforms; and indeed, the pair were polished and crisp. They were also armed, to the limit of the treaty, with ’slingers of the same make and model as Grytt’s own. Grytt had seen their marksmanship scores, and had no doubt of the steadiness of their hands; she had also seen their service records, and knew they had never fired a weapon in combat.

  She was counting on both of those things. She explained—with capital letters and complete sentences—the scenario she predicted would take place that morning, or if not that morning, sometime Very Soon. She outlined several possible outcomes, identifying which of those she, Grytt, considered optimal, and which ones—indeed, all the others—were Completely Unacceptable. Zhang and Thorsdottir did not interrupt, which Grytt had expected. They also did not blink, which she found disconcerting, not least because she could see the doubts crowding behind their eyes like children at the sweet-shop window.

  She waited through several moments of rigid silence, after she had finished, before she asked, “Are there questions?”

  Zhang looked at Thorsdottir, who winced a little. “No, Guard-Commander.”

  “It’s just—” Thorsdottir blurted, and stopped when Grytt looked at her. “Nothing, ma’am.”

  Grytt made a grinding noise in her throat reminiscent of large, ill-used machinery.

  “Just say it,” said Grytt. “Whatever it is. However stupid.”

  Thorsdottir did not look happy, and for a moment Grytt thought she would refuse to answer and make another apology. That might have been the prudent response, for an ordinary guard to an ordinary captain on an ordinary day. Indeed, Stary or Franko would’ve done exactly that. Grytt held her breath, just a little. The Princess did not need ordinary.

  Then Thorsdottir’s jaw squared off into a stubborn angle. “You’re asking us to defy the Princess, Guard-Commander.”

  “I am.”

  “That’s treason.”

  “It is, if you’re strict on the meaning. Seems to me it’s our job to keep her safe, even if she’s determined otherwise. All goes well, she won’t give any orders. If not—our job is to keep her alive and unharmed.”

  “Right,” said Thorsdottir. “I hope it does go well, then.”

  Grytt almost smiled at her, and stopped it just in time. The smile sighed and went back into seclusion. The more familiar grimace took its accustomed place, perhaps a little smugly.

  “Huh,” she said. “So do I.” But she didn’t really expect that it would.

  And, of course, it didn’t.

  * * *

  • • •

  There were six Tadeshi security waiting in the corridor in front of the Thorne embassy. The morning crowds eddied around them in the same way fish avoid rocks in a stream, and the security paid the crowds exactly the same attention as rocks pay to fish. They were placed at intervals so that they might observe every possible approach to the embassy’s big front doors, over which protruded a single, smooth black hemisphere: the security camera, with Thorne security personnel somewhere behind the walls watching its feed. Grytt was familiar with the range on that particular model, and was not the least bit surprised that the Tadeshi security ranged themselves just at the edge of its limit, where they might not be noticed by personnel inside.

  Nor was she at all surprised to see the security; the Regent’s men patrolled the station at regular intervals, and residents (of which she only grudgingly considered herself) grew accustomed to their passage. Near the embassies, the concentration became somewhat higher. And truthfully, Grytt had anticipated an increased presence this morning. But six. Well. That seemed excessive. Or flattering, if she was fool enough to imagine the quantity of armed men waiting near the door was any reflection on her, or on the skill of the Princess’s guard.

  As we have noted, Grytt was no fool (although the battle-wise portion of her wits insisted otherwise, if she continued walking into what was clearly an ambush). The six were more likely a reflection of the importance of their task, both as gesture and advertisement. Moss, Grytt reflected grimly, had probably calculated exactly how many security one could dispatch to arrest a Vizier to both intimidate and ensure compliance. He wasn’t a fool, either.

  That Rory’s entire guard detail numbered two fewer than that half dozen, no more than two of which were permitted, by treaty, to accompany her (Grytt counted as body-maid, rather than guard), indicated to Grytt that Moss intended his six—of the more massive sort, this time, thick-limbed and tall—to remind Rory of how very powerless she was, in Urse.

  As a general tactic, Grytt approved of intimidation. As a specific tactic pointed at Rory, well. It would not have been a method Grytt herself would have chosen, unless she actually desired the opposite result; teenagers, in her experience, possessed a near universal tendency to defiance. She was surprised that Moss, who had dragged two sons through their teen years, would discount that tendency. Then she wondered if it was merely Rory he discounted.

  And then she gave up wondering at all for the meantime, because the Tadeshi security had finally noticed their approach. They drew together and ranged themselves in front of the embassy’s entrance—inside the camera’s range, now, so close to the doors that no one might get round them. Now the passersby noticed; they scuttled and darted, clearing a nearly perfect half circle of conspicuously empty deck.

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Rupert.

  “Hell,” muttered Rory.

  “That took long enough,” said Grytt, with her usual tone and volume. There was a small chance the Tadeshi might hear her, but they were not her audience. She couldn’t see Zhang, bringing up the rear as she was, but she thought she heard a little snort. Thorsdottir, on point, grew a bit straighter, and her shoulders a bit more square, until she appeared as formidable as any one of Moss’s bully-men.

  Grytt spared a moment’s regret that she did not have six Thorsdottirs before remembering that it wasn’t just Rory and teenagers who responded poorly to intimidation. She took a pair of deep breaths, held them, let them go, and looked over the opposition. Six Thorsdottirs or sixty: this wasn’t about numbers (which was fortunate; one need not be an arithmancer to see who had the advantage) or firepower (which was also fortunate, as the Tadeshi had ’slingers with greater range and capacity), but strategy.

  Grytt played a wicked game of chess, but she preferred the pieces to be wood or metal or plastic, and not flesh and bone, particularly when the opponent had only pawns on the board. Moss might be willing to sacrifice. She was not.

  One of the Tadeshi differentiated himself by stepping forward and raising his hand in an archaic, universal gesture (among bipeds; the same gesture had, early in relations with the k’bal, nearly resulted in an unfortunate incident).

  “Please stop,” he said, in a tone that indicated he expected compliance, as a figure of authority speaking to an ordinary citizen.

  Rory, of course, would have ignored the order, but to do so would have entailed treading on Thorsdottir’s heels. So she stopped and looked directly at the security officer.

  “Good morning,” she said, in a tone that clearly conveyed get the hell out of my way.

  The senior security officer frowned down at her. He made no attempt to look at his fellows; clearly he was in charge, and had no doubt of his orders. How nice, Grytt thought, to be so certain. She could see what he could not: there were nervous glances darting among the men in the back row. They were truly remarkable for their sameness. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The same solid cheekbones and jaw that suggested a skull perhaps thicker than average. A matched set of toadies, all with the same strict orders and marked lack of imagination.

  Grytt revised her opinion of Moss. He was not trying to avoid a conflict. He was trying to provoke one. Pawns ranged against a future Queen.

  “M
m.” Rupert cleared his throat. He sounded a little bit hoarse. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

  Senior Toady hurled his full attention at Rupert like a drowning man lunges for a rope.

  “Lord Vizier Rupert of the Thorne Consortium,” he said too quickly. “You are under arrest for acts of sedition and treason against the Free Worlds of Tadesh. If you will come with me.”

  “He will not,” Rory snapped, before Rupert could say anything. “He is a member of my staff, and out of your jurisdiction. Now move aside.”

  The Vizier’s hands stretched and knotted at his sides. Grytt fancied she could hear the creak and pop of tendons. He was trying to catch her attention; Grytt felt his stare pulling at her, willing her to look back.

  She ignored him.

  “The Princess needs to stand aside,” said Senior Toady, after what appeared to be a moment’s strenuous thought. He sounded faintly aggrieved. “We are here for the Vizier.”

  Rory raised her chin and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “And I have said already, you won’t have him.”

  She started forward, as if expecting the Tadeshi security to turn into smoke, or at the very least, step aside. Since neither was likely to happen, and because there is a certain loss of dignity if one’s sovereign runs into armed and armored men, and because Grytt had prepared her for just this eventuality, Thorsdottir stuck out an arm. Rory swatted it with all the effect a kitten might have moving a stone lion—which is to say, not aside, as she had planned. She was forced to stop a second time.

  Grytt, now a bit behind Rory, watched irritation creep redly up the back of the Princess’s neck, and watched her shoulders expand around a deep breath. There was a chance that breath, when released, would be quiet and take all Rory’s anger with it, but Grytt was not willing to take that gamble.

  “Your Highness,” she said.