by Mark Eller
Even while giving them her pride and defiance, Amanda admitted to herself that her situation was not a career enhancing event. Potential clients were not likely to trust her---ever--if they saw her now. Two of her new associates had already fled the sinking ship. Well, good riddance to them. They thought they were wise rats to run, but this ship had not yet sunk, and Amanda would not let it take on more water. She would jam caulk into every one of its cracking seams until the damned thing had no choice but to stay afloat.
Part of that caulk job was to show confidence with every step, with every gesture, and with every word.
Penfrost waited at the front door again. Did the man never take a day off? He stared at her with a greasy supercilious smile so wide he appeared to have four cheeks. A set of unfamiliar guards stood by his side. Amanda guessed she was the piece in some sort of hand-off relay.
"Why, Miss Bivins!" Penfrost exclaimed with false joviality. "It's a fine pleasure to have you with us again. Please come in." With a sweeping motion and a short bow, he waved her inside. "I must tell you, I admire your choice of attire today. It's much finer than the trash you wore when we first met."
Amanda gave him her best wintry smile. "Issac," she said, enjoying his shock at the insult of her using his first name, "you're a droll fellow, but really, you are so very small, and your insults are unimaginative. I suggest you read a few books to stretch your mind a bit."
He glowered.
"Shall we go?" she said to her new guards. "People are waiting."
"Not yet, they're not," the male guard said. "There's more than an hour before the meeting starts. A few important people want to talk to you first."
"Then lead on," Amanda said, reflecting that meeting with the opposition before attending the 'real meeting' had become an irksome habit.
The room she was shown into was more than plush; it was decadent. Its walls were awash with soft multi-colors that formed a mosaic of the Isabellan Nation. The trim was gold leaf, and every fixture gleamed of silver knobs and bases. A mahogany table sat in the center of the room, six high-backed chairs around its circumference. Recliners and couches lined the walls, and the couch tables were laden with boxed cigars, bottles of brandy, and glasses. The carpets were so thick that the nap curled over the toes of Amanda's shoes.
Several people lounged on the furnishings. The oldest nodded to the guards. One guard gave Amanda a little push before turning to leave with the others, closing the door shut with a solid click.
Clanking uncomfortably over to the closest chair, Amanda sat down. The chains around her ankles were uncomfortable. Her swollen right ankle felt like it was rubbed halfway raw.
"Why am I not surprised to see you here?" Amanda asked.
Miss Andrews frowned. "I have no time for your flip remarks. I want to introduce you to Mistress Balandice. Mistress Balandice, this is Miss Amanda Bivins."
"Hello, Amanda," the old woman said, holding an oversized book in her lap. "I may call you Amanda, mayn't I?"
"I prefer Miss Bivins," Amanda said while her insides did a quick flop. The Balandice family had been mildly affluent when they immigrated to Isabella more than two hundred years earlier. They were madly rich now. The family had enough money to buy almost any election or politician they desired.
In other words, Miss Amanda Bivins was in deep shit.
As if she had not known that already.
"How unfortunate," Balandice said. "I hoped we could get along. Miss Bivins, are you acquainted with Mistress Uppleton, Mistress Sinclair, and Mister Von Helsen? No? I did not think so. Are you aware of who they are?"
"Yes."
Yes, very much so. If any of N'Ark's corruption escaped the the Balandice family, it usually ended up in the hands of the families of those three. Now she understood why the head of IFBIS had folded. These people likely owned his soul.
"Good. You now know exactly what the situation is. We want those books, Miss Bivins, and we want Mister Turner. We also want those inconvenient papers you so foolishly forgot to leave in your office safe."
"I don't know where any of those items are," Amanda said. She felt proud of herself. Despite her fluttering insides, her voice sounded smooth and controlled.
"One of the books is right here." The old woman lifted the book she held. "The Gods of Mankind: an investigation into the gods man has created. Fascinating reading, but useless for making money."
"I haven't seen Mister Turner in some time. I haven't seen the books, and I'm not sure what papers you are talking about." Gods, they had found the books. They had been in her office safe. The papers were safely hidden, but she did not have a leg to stand on if she didn't have the books for leverage. But no, one of their demands had been for the books, so this one might have been pulled from the university before the raid. Maybe.
"You are a foolish young woman," Von Helsen said. His face was wrinkles folded into other wrinkles. He looked so old Amanda was surprised he could talk. "We know where you took the books. One of your hirelings, the late Mistress Camp, told us where to look." He shook his head. "She was a stubborn one. Most unfortunate. Even more unfortunate, Mister Turner removed most of the books before we reached the warehouse." His expression became grave.
Amanda almost fell apart with mixed guilt and relief. Mistress Camp was dead, but the books were safe. Aaron was safe, and as long as he was free she had a chance of living through this. Amanda really wanted to live through this. Living was the only way she could plot her revenge.
Mistress Balandice spoke. "Here is the deal. You give us what we want. In exchange we give you enough financing to expand your firm to a respectable size as long as you retain the people we tell you to hire. Mister Turner will be given enough money to live comfortably for the remainder of his years. As we see it, this is the only sensible solution to our difficulties."
Amanda wished she were not going to say what she was about to say. She fought for self-control. In this game of manipulation, the appearance of calm was her only weapon.
"No."
"Most unfortunate indeed," Mister Von Helsen intoned ominously. "I am afraid this meeting must close since you have another to attend. We will speak again after the meeting. It is in your best interests to reconsider our offer." He shifted in his chair and took a delicate sip of tea from a porcelain cup.
* * *
Being a social trendsetter was discomfiting. Here Amanda was, sitting in a room with at least two hundred people, yet she was the only one wearing chains.
Go figure.
She seemed to be very popular. Almost everyone watched her. She represented the best show in town at the moment. That gave her hope that she might not be as helpless as she appeared. Some of those watching eyes showed alarm--with good reason. Isabella's international reputation had advanced greatly in a very short time, thanks to sound political maneuvering and a supposedly phenomenal research program. Isabella was on the rise, yet had explored only the tip of the information iceberg Aaron's books represented.
But the books were missing, and these people thought Amanda knew their location.
Amanda folded her hands in her lap and smiled. Sometimes she needed to remember that life had more influences than just the great families. In many ways, the Federation was a house set on a shaky foundation. Some of the people attempting to strengthen that foundation were in this room. One or two of those might offer her protection if she played the game right.
There was movement by her side.
"I'm sorry," Mistress Catlow said. "I'm doing my best for you. There is a good deal of internal maneuvering going on. I tried talking sense to President Nickels, but she won't listen to me."
"Matters will fall out properly," Amanda promised the Minister, "but thank you for your concern."
Catlow studied her carefully. "Let's hope your self-confidence proves itself." She rested a hand on Amanda's shoulder. "Some of these people need to deal with a stubborn confidence like yours more often." She moved off, and Amanda was once again alone while su
rrounded by enemies.
First Speaker Yolanda Wendchek pounded for attention as the outer doors closed with simultaneous efficiency.
"It is July the twenty-third in the year seven hundred eighteen and this session of the Isabellan Federation Assembly is about to begin," the speaker said in a voice that carried throughout the acoustically designed room. "We are here to discuss the situation regarding a set of priceless and irreplaceable books that are the property of Isabella. Is anyone present who is not fully cognizant of the particulars of this situation? Is anyone present who wishes to put forth a reason as to why this discussion shall be delayed to another time?"
Her questions were answered with a long silence.
Satisfied, the speaker continued. "Now then, as we are all--."
"I have a reason for postponement," a voice interrupted.
A stir ran through the room. Turning her head, Amanda saw a woman walking through the aisles toward the podium. Behind her, wearing a deep frown but exuding an aura of arrogant confidence, came a well dressed man with a weathered face.
"Ambassadors Tremon and Delmac, this is a closed session. You are not supposed to be here."
"Certainly we should be here," the clanswoman said when they reached the front of the room. "You are speaking of items that are presently in Clan possession. We believe this gives us a right and a reason to come forward."
A real ripple of unrest ran through the room.
Sporlain quickly stood, Andrews and Harrison at her side. "I demand to know who allowed you two into this room!"
"I did."
Amanda almost fainted when Aaron's voice came from directly behind her. She twisted her head to see him, but suddenly she was not where she had been. She still sat in her seat, but standing beside her was the speaker, and the entire Assembly sat in a half-circle in front of her. Aaron moved into view.
Amanda found herself smiling. "Remind me to kiss you."
Aaron shot her a quick dismissive look, but that was all right. He had other things on his mind.
"At the first movement of aggression, I'll leave this room and never return to Isabella again! The books and I will go to Jutland or even Nefra. Now shut up and sit down or I'll leave anyway."
"What are you trying to do?" the speaker demanded as Tremon brushed her aside.
"I'm not trying," Aaron told her. "I'm doing. In good faith, I entered into a binding legal agreement with this country. I have papers and copies of papers proving that agreement. Those papers were signed by the past president and by many assemblypeople who are no longer here. Some of you also took part in the signing. Furthermore, I have gone through the files of a certain meeting that was held on the subject of creating that agreement and have seen the vote that this assembly took regarding me and the books I own. The vote was eighty-seven percent in favor of the agreement."
"Those records are sealed!" Miss Andrews snapped.
Amanda thought Aaron looked grand. He was scruffy and scratched. His hair was a mess, and he had a wisp of cobweb clinging to his shirt and behind his ear. He still looked grand. He vibrated with barely constrained energy. The deep anger she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes was no longer hidden. Instead, it blazed forth with a terrifying force.
He was grand.
"I unsealed them," Aaron said with an angry calm. "I unsealed them, because I lost faith in this country and this political body. We had an agreement, but the agreement was broken when Isabella made illegal copies of my books. It was further broken when she tried to steal them."
Leaning forward, he seemed to look every assemblyperson in the eyes. "You people and this country are without honor or integrity. You don't know how to keep your word--so I made another deal."
"With us," Tremon broke in, wearing an expression of great personal satisfaction. "The books are in Clan hands, under Clan control. The deal Mister Turner reached with the formerly honorable members of the Isabellan Federation is the same one he made with the Clan." She smiled smoothly. "However, since both involved parties in the later deal are trustworthy, our agreement is entirely verbal."
"But the Clan and their lands are now a part of the Federation," someone called out. "There's a treaty."
"Isabella rescinded that treaty," Delmac snapped.
Tremon nodded. "My friend is correct. Isabella gave that treaty less weight than was given to Mister Turner's agreement. Mister Turner has been to our lands. He has seen the results of the treaty and has agreed with me that, once again, Isabella is without honor. This country is like a dog who only responds when beaten with a stick."
She smiled again, and the smile filled her entire face. "We don't carry a stick, but we do carry a club. So far that club is padded because the Clan truly wishes to be a part of Isabella. The Clan wants education and advancement and the chance to live the life they choose. They do not desire to be second-class citizens on their own lands. They do not desire to be shoved onto reservations that cannot support them, and they do not care to give their best lands to those like the Sinclairs and the Uppletons and the Balandices or even the Von Helsens. We will accept new neighbors who are good neighbors, who are willing to pay for the land they receive, who are willing to live on those lands. We will form the borders of our own provinces and create our own local governments. We will choose our own representation in this Assembly."
"You are demanding more than the treaty allows!" Sporlain almost screeched. "I won't allow--."
"Shut her up." Aaron's voice was almost conversational. He was obeyed instantly as several people smothered Sporlain beneath the weight of their bodies.
"There will be a new treaty," Tremon repeated. "Clan will have the making of this one. Mister Turner will have his percentage; we will have ours. If Isabella breaks its word one more time, the books will either be moved to a country more honorable or they will be destroyed."
Tremon studied the stunned faces. Beside her Delmac stood with crossed arms. He wore a heavy scowl.
"This meeting is over. We will reconvene at ten tomorrow morning. Have your proposals ready and make sure they are more than fair."
Tremon looked over to Aaron, and Amanda followed her gaze. Aaron was still, silent, but the pure rage and fury burning in his eyes remained.
"One other thing," Amanda said. "There will be a Presidential Pardon for a young woman named Celine, no other name. She is my cellmate, so you will not have any problem discovering who I mean."
Gods it felt good to have the upper hand for a change.
* * *
Hours later, they left the personal quarters of the Clan ambassadors. More than a few nonnegotiable details of the new treaty had been settled.
Amanda's limbs felt lighter than air--amazing how losing several pounds of brass shackles affected a person's ability to walk.
"I'll no longer be the darling of the Isabellan Guard," Aaron said. "I know of one colonel in particular who will be very unhappy."
Tremon nodded. "Very unhappy. Her arrest for the subjugation and murder of my people is one of my demands."
Amanda saw several figures duck into a room, and her heart stopped for a moment. Fear made her weak, but then she remembered she was Amanda Bivins. She would not be frightened by a rich old woman.
"Death has fulfilled the prophecy," Delmac said softly. He almost sounded disappointed.
"I have fulfilled the prophecy," Aaron said emphatically. "Me, not Death. Nobody has died because of what I've just done."
Delmac smiled. "You are the Bringer."
"Could you wait here a moment?" Amanda asked. "I want to inform a few people that a different kind of war is on." She did not wait for an answer before hurrying to the just-closed door. She turned the knob and entered. It was time for these people to meet the farmer's daughter, and to hell with the social and political consequences.
"These are private chambers," a voice snapped. "Do you mind?"
"But I thought you wanted me to be your guest," Amanda said calmly. "Besides, didn't you tell me I should think over my answ
er?"
This was not the same arrogant crew she had encountered earlier. Now they were simultaneously subdued and angry. Balandice was pale, and Sinclair appeared furious.
"Do not play games with us, child," Von Helsen said. "We are not up to them. Your last play has cost us too much already. Assemblywoman Sporlain suffered an attack of the brain and is in danger of dying. We are told that even if she lives, she will never be the same."
"Oh, really." A wash of satisfaction rushed through Amanda. Although Sporlain's condition was none of her doing, she would claim it as part of her revenge. "That's such a good thing."
"You are speaking of a great woman!" Balandice snapped.
"I'm speaking of the bitch who hired murderers," Amanda corrected, ignoring the shocked expressions of the others. "Mister Chatham is dead. Almost fifty people died in the burning of Mister Turner's apartment. Do you really think he would forget that? Do you think he'd fail to act after being threatened and attacked by many of the people in this room?"
"He is only a single man," Von Helsen said firmly. "He has no family behind him. He is no threat to us." He stared at her pointedly. "His days are numbered. Tell him so."
"You're wrong," Amanda told them. "Aarons Turner is more threat than you can imagine. Wake up and smell the new world. All the Clan are now his family."
She studied the group. In return they looked at her as if she were some uncommon beast from the wild, a curiosity they would kill when they became bored.
"I'll tell you something else," she said. "I'm going to make him more than rich. I'm going to make him so much money in these next few years that his fortune will eclipse anything you ever dreamed of. I'm going to turn him into the richest man on this planet, and I'm going to make myself richer than you while I do it. Between us, we'll have so much power that I'll be able to twist your precious families to my will. I'll ruin your very names."
They looked at her differently now, cautiously wary. Amanda felt powerful and ruthless, as if part of the wild magic fury infusing Aaron had infected her. By giving warning she was being foolish, but she did not care because her warning served a purpose.