“All right.”
Gerson leans back against the wall, eyes running from Martel to the picture on the wall and back again.
“Where are you from originally?” asks Martel.
“Newhebb. Isle of Narrows. Joined the Impies. When my term was up, followed the Captain here. There he was a Force Leader. One of the best. Should have seen him at New Reimer. Something, it was. Took the entire crivet, himself. Well … him and two others. Got the Marshal’s Cross for it.”
Herlieu didn’t look that old. That meant part of his contract with the Duke was the cost of rejuv treatments. Probably worth it to the Duchess, since Herlieu ran a tight operation.
Gerson was saved from the need for further conversation by the arrival of a young woman. Blond, dressed in the blue-and-gold tunic and trousers, in the colors of Kirsten, she was narrow-waisted, slim-hipped, and large-breasted.
After an instant Martel realizes he is seeing Alicia, maid to the Duchess and bed partner to the Duke.
“Master Seine?”
Martel inclines his head.
“The Duke would like to see you, sir. In his study.”
Martel puts his feet on the floor, gingerly. The floor stays firmly underfoot. Running a quick check on himself, he decides he is in surprisingly good shape for all the energy he has expended.
Alicia leads the way.
The hallway, windowless, is lit with a uniform glow from the high ceiling and from the pale yellow heatstone flooring.
The fabric-covered walls display a pale cream-and-blue pattern of intertwined lilies and swords.
The Duke’s study is in the tower opposite the Duchess’ morning receiving room. Unlike the other rooms through which Martel has passed, the walls are of dark wood, or wooden bookshelves, though each shelf is permaglassed over and sealed.
The Duke, standing behind a massive and all-wooden desk of a design centuries old, wears a dark green dressing robe and white silksheen shirt, open at the neck.
“How’s Kryn, Master Seine?” The Duke’s voice booms as he extends his hand down toward Martel from his near-two-meter height.
Alicia, notes Martel, does not leave, but seats herself in a window seat in the far corner of the book-lined room. She will report to the Duchess.
Martel reaches out, taking in the man’s thoughts, and freezes time for them both for an instant.
Do I really have a daughter? My own daughter? All seems so vague.… And Seine … why … who is he? What report? Why can’t I remember more? Damned rejuv. Takes the good memories with the bad.
Duke Kirsten will be good to Kryn. Perhaps too good, but the Duchess’ hardheaded approach will provide balance.
Martel supplies more memories … image after image … thought after thought … Kryn as a dark-haired, serious-faced infant; Kryn taking a first step, holding on to the Duke’s hand; Kryn drawing a squiggly tower meant to be Southwich; Kryn stamping her foot in the courtyard; Kryn … Kryn … Kryn …
… and the Duke’s mind laps them up, image after image.
Martel stretches his reach further and time-freezes Alicia as well. Then he walks to the desk, places a small album on the corner. The cover is plain blue, bordered in gold, with the Duke’s seal in the center.
Inside are copies of holos he remembers from the Kryn of so long ago and some he has done just for this purpose. The Duke would have had such an album, since he lives in the past as much as the present. The Duchess would not. She believes she has had a daughter for her husband, most reluctantly, and while she will ensure that Kryn meets her standards, meaning excellence in everything, the Duchess lives in the present and future. No sentimental holos for her!
Martel retreats to where he had stood and unlooses the moment he has held in check.
“She’s fine, Your Lordship. Just fine. Adapting well, and doing excellently. Frankly, I don’t see why you were so concerned, or why you hired me for a personal report. I’m certain Lady Persis is giving you much the same information, or will. She’s an outstanding young woman and could go far if she chooses.”
“Like her mother,” muses the Duke. He looks down at the album quizzically, opens it, sees the first holo, smiles fondly, and shuts the cover.
“Her studies?”
“She excels, particularly in languages and in science. Very strong-minded.”
“Don’t know if I should have sent her away, Master Seine. I don’t know, but I probably spoil the girl too much. She needs a wider perspective, and I know the Duchess feels that way.”
“Are you asking me for a recommendation, sir?”
“No … but what would you do?”
“I cannot recommend, sir. Lady Persis runs a fine school. No school is home. But then, private tutors cannot teach the interplay of other fine minds, nor the relations between one’s peers.”
“Good points.”
Martel waits.
The Duke looks across at Alicia, as if to mark her presence, then looks back down at the album, which he picks up, fingers, and sets down again before continuing.
“All damned confusing…” he muses.
His face clears, and he looks straight at Martel.
“Would you join us for dinner, the main meal of midday here?”
“Your offer is most generous, and I would enjoy that.”
“Fine, just fine.”
Martel coughs, gently.
“Your Lordship … I did not anticipate such an invitation, and, alas, can wear only what I have on.”
“We’re not that formal. Wear what you have on. Black’s appropriate most places, anyway … except the Regent doesn’t seem to like it. Doesn’t bother me, though.”
The Duke looks at Alicia.
“Alicia, will you escort Master Seine back to his quarters … but first get him a bite to eat, and then give him a tour of the place. I’ll be late getting back.”
The Duke returns his eyes to Martel. “Sorry I can’t chat longer, but due at the Regent’s Council meeting. Sure you understand.”
“Most assuredly, Your Lordship. Most assuredly.”
Alicia rises to her feet and departs, letting Martel follow as he will.
Kryn? What about me if she comes back? I’m for his pleasure and her convenience. He lives for Kryn. Was it always this way? Don’t remember it like this … Black scares me. Master Seine … master of what? They all accept him … from nowhere … why?
Martel understands her questions and her fears. He tries to disarm some of them with another question he places in her thoughts.
What woman could show Kryn love?
Alicia frowns.
Love? Who knows love? Not hen not the Duke … for his daughter … maybe … for me? Just lust.
Martel decides to make a few more arrangements. He touches the Duke’s mind, even as the Grand Duke Kirsten is entering the flitter to take him to the palace. Alicia will be safe … and loved.
Next … a quick touch to the Duchess’ thoughts, giving her relief that the Duke loves the maid she has so conveniently provided.
How do you know, Martel, he asks himself, that your thoughts haven’t been rearranged the same way?
He drives the cold chill into his own deeps and pushes the thought away.
By the time they reach the kitchen, Alicia has thawed and Martel is ready for the warmed rolls and juice that are shoved at him in the back pantry.
From the kitchen the tour begins, and Alicia is thorough.
For that Martel is thankful, though his feet hurt long before they finish, because virtually everyone at Southwich has a memory of Kryn. And if some of the staff wonder at the bemused look on Master Seine’s face, so be it.
Once he leaves the environs of Kirsten, he will have to cover the palace, as well as some nobles and key staff in the Houses of Gatwick, Ngaio, and Sulifer. After that will come all the peerage records, and the records of Lady Persis’ School.
Along the way he will plant as many memories as he can with the general populace, the gossip columnists, and the
opinion leaders. Not that total coverage is necessary, particularly when the subject is the daughter of a Duke renowned for his privacy in a Regency court society that revolves around the Prince Regent and his latest boyfriend.
Dinner is served promptly at 1300 hours in the family dining room to exactly five people—the Duke, the Duchess, Captain Herlieu, Madame Herlieu, and Master Seine.
“How was the Council meeting this morning?” That is the Duchess, uninterested, but trying to break the silence.
“Same. Interesting problem, you know.” The Duke pauses to slurp his red-turtle soup. “Prince Edwin asked the Council to suggest ways to increase revenues while reducing taxes. Little difficult, would you say, Master Seine?”
“I’m not an expert in high finance, Your Lordship. It does seem rather paradoxical.”
“Polite way of saying it’s confusing. Those ninnies sat there and hee-hawed. Perhaps this … perhaps that.” The Duke frowns, puts down his soup spoon.
The Duchess takes another delicate sip of her soup, almost a consommé, lays her spoon on the Blackshire china, and surveys the table. The softness of the glow lights and the dimness of the exterior light, blocked as it is by the heavy draperies, reduce the sharpness of her nose, display her face as ten years younger or more, hinting at the beauty she once had been. Her silver hair, maintained by cosmetology, adds to the regal impression.
“Did the Council make any decision?” Martel asks.
“Of course! They made a decision to study the request. That’s what happens most of the time.”
“How did you vote?” asks the Duchess.
“Last,” rumbles the Duke, “and for it—the study, that is. Stupid study, but stupid to oppose it now. Right, Milady?”
The Duchess nods.
“Don’t they see the danger?” That comes from Herlieu.
“Which danger?” questions the Duchess. Her soft voice carries, silken with the feel of iron behind it. “The danger from within or the danger from without?”
“I’m a simple fighting man,” answers Herlieu, “and I worry about the dangers from outside. Once they’re taken care of, you always have a chance to set your own house in order.”
“But doesn’t a weak or disorderly house invite attack, and a strong one discourage it?”
“Makes my point, Your Ladyship. You have to be ready to fight in either case. If your house is disorderly or if it isn’t.”
Martel adds nothing. The last time around, he hadn’t cared to try understanding the intricacies of Regency infighting, and he still doesn’t. The Duke admits voting for something that is worthless with a total stranger present, and the Duchess agrees.
Martel lets his mind soak up the loose thoughts.
Few escape from the Duchess … a loose mélange from Herlieu … and a surprisingly ordered progression from the Duke. Martel zeroes in on the big man.
Edwin … not half the man his father the Emperor is … queer … doesn’t understand economics or military power … amused by politics … way to favor is to amuse him, and they all do … from Mersham to Stelstrobel … the Fuards pour credit after credit into R&D, ships, men … and Edwin asks about financing his annual carnival … Karnak, guard of the Empire’s Marches, does nothing. You, admit it, Kirsten, you do nothing either … too many jackals … all ready to pull you down … amusing, they’d find it … and they’re younger … maybe Kryn … if it’s right … haven’t thought that …
“Does Councilor Mersham feel more committed to internal or external problems?” ventures Martel.
“Councilor Mersham is gravely concerned about all problems, as they all are.”
“And the reaction to the Fuards?”
“Ha! We all are deeply concerned … deeply concerned … but also we are deeply concerned about the unrest caused by the latest tax levy which went to expand the Regent’s Palace and for a ten percent increase in the basic dole.”
“Did the increase make people happier?” asks Martel, remembering full well how his mother had snorted.
He is rewarded by a sniff from Madame Herlieu, a thin-faced redhead, a snort from the good Captain, and a raised eyebrow from the Duchess.
“I can see why you sent your daughter away.”
“Not sure I agree now,” mumbles the Duke. “Seemed good at the time. Now I wonder.”
“Experience in other milieus might give her a broader outlook,” comments the red-haired woman.
The Duchess nods again, and Martel reaches for the thoughts behind the nod.
Needs a lot more experience … maybe trip to New Augusta itself when she gets back. Then a cadet tour. Not many women do, but she can. Kryn will handle it.
For not having had a daughter until that morning, the Duchess is certainly busy plotting the path Kryn will take, Martel thinks to himself, a bit sadly.
“Why so downcast, Master Seine?” booms the Duke.
“Thinking about your daughter, I just wondered. My children,” he lies, having none, “won’t have to worry about high finance and privy councils, and sometimes I think they’ll be the happier for it. Lady Kryn will become our outstanding Duchess, maybe more, but I wonder if she’ll be happy.”
“Are any of us ever really happy?” replies the Guard Captain.
“Maybe not. Maybe we delude ourselves into thinking so. Is happiness everything? And can anyone stay happy if someone isn’t out guarding, and someone else ruling?”
What’s he want?
The Duchess is sharp, too sharp, and Martel keeps forgetting it. The sooner he leaves the better, and the less he says the better.
The main course is scampig, roasted and lightly basted with Taxan brandy. Martel enjoys it and says little.
“…’course the Prince got the next bird with that needle rifle. Not at all sporting. Single-action, but never have to reload. Real sport would do it with an old-style shotgun.… You hunt, Master Seine?”
“Not my province. Travel too much. Can’t do something well, usually don’t care to do it.”
I’ll bet there are some exceptions your wife knows. The unexpectedly salacious thought from Madame Herlieu catches Martel off guard, and he barely keeps from flushing.
The Duke doesn’t notice.
“… and the time he decided to use a bow against the dualhorn. Sounds fair, but he used an explosive arrowhead. What’s the difference between that damned electronic contraption he called a bow and a full-bored laser? Oh, so he could say he got the beast with a bow and arrow…”
Martel takes it all in, notes the names, and listens.
The dinner drags into the early afternoon, and later, and later.
It is close to 1600 before Martel walks out through the park gate, down the slight hill toward the Regent’s Palace, and into nowhere.
He has several days, weeks, of hard work ahead. But this time, damned if anyone is going to see him!
lviii
What the hammer? What the forge?
What the bellows? From what gorge
Came the fire, came the light,
Came the beasts that sowed the night?
Martel knows that the gods on high, specifically on Aurore, do not know he is backtime. Knows, also, that they do not believe travel backtime is possible.
In his wrapping of time energy, he debates his next move.
Which player next? Or players? The Fallen Ones, the Brotherhood, the Prince Regent? All the pieces need to be moved quickly, before the disappearance/destruction of the hammer-thrower can be verified.
The Brotherhood is the choice.
Brother Geidren. The image of the brown-robed “brother” slips into his mind as clearly as if it had been yesterday when he confronted her across the shield wall in the underground headquarters of that secretive and now-exiled group.
None of his experiences on Aurore have shed much more light on his knowledge of the Brotherhood, and the questions have only grown with their banishment and disappearance.
Are the Fallen Ones an adjunct to the Brethren? Allies?
Antagonists with mutual goals? All three rumors have persisted for a millennium … without answers.
Martel knows only when and where Brother Geidren had been once, and the single logical possibility is to relocate that position and follow with an appearance—once the Martel he had been has left for Aurore.
First, the underground and shielded quarters of the Brotherhood. That is simple.
More difficult is locating Geidren after Martin Martel has left for Aurore. Meeting himself would be catastrophic, in more ways than one. The energy release would render the entire point of the search moot, but not in any way in which Martel would be around to appreciate.
Are you ready for this?
Do you have any choice?
The answer to both questions is no.
From the requisite undertime distance, he tracks the departure of one young and stunned Martin Martel, and thence hastens back to the bunker of the Brethren, emerging in a silent corridor, wrapped in darkness, cloaked in his energies, and invisible to all but the most talented of espers.
Geidren is not alone, rather unsurprisingly, but with two others in a room which could only be described as a communications and command center.
Martel observes from a corner, bemused that the three, all espers, are so wrapped in their own dynamics and so trusting of their mechanical detectors and guard technicians that his presence goes unnoticed.
As an afterthought, he reaches out and puts the three guards who scan the command center into a deep sleep.
Kirsten? Main threat? Overthrow the Regent? Those thoughts come from the thin-faced blond and bearded man. Call him Aquinas.
More than meets the eye. Foreboding … doom on the horizon. Aurore? From the older man. Call him Mystic.
The Master Game Player? Or God? One choice or the other. Or your fears? Doesn’t matter. We’re outlawed. Queried Scholar pretext. How do we fight? Raise the Brethren? Underground? Passive resistance over time? Religion? Gerri Geidren’s thoughts ring with a soft chime.
Martel is impressed. Aquinas and Mystic are definitely second-raters next to the woman.
Religion … the great crusade, offers Aquinas.
Put the Unknowable against the Empire? Pervert the sacrament of Faith?
Haze and the Hammer of Darkness Page 54