I admitted I was.
“There was another Mad Dog in the legion, before I was born,” Lord Oswald said, with a faraway look in his green eyes. “They still talk about him today. Mad Dog Jag, they called him, back at the end of the Big One, the last interplanetary war, when it was almost over. They say he went nuts, couldn’t wait for the war to end on its own, so he killed his commanders, one by one, taking their places under the combat promotion rules, until he finally managed to make it out of the war.”
There had to be a point to this melancholy recollection, but my Lord was certainly taking his time getting around to it.
“All unproven, of course,” he said, finally. “But it got me thinking. What’s he doing these days? Where’s he at? I’m pretty sure I heard his full name once, and I remember thinking, it made sense, a guy like that could use the reputation to his advantage, and then I didn’t think anything of it any more. Now who was it?” Lord Oswald stepped into the jumper.
I followed, closing and securing the door behind us. We settled into our seats, but the prince still looked distracted.
“I keep thinking I’ve heard his name somewhere recently, that it has something to do with Prince Vere being in New Rome, but I can’t put my finger on it.” He stared at the jumper door, frowning, not looking at the door, but at something in his memory, and shook his finger at the phantom.
I voiced a command to take us back to the palace before I noticed the message light blinking near the manual control pad. As a matter of course, I always set the messages on manual retrieve before leaving the jumper, because it can be awfully unnerving hearing the jumper’s message computer bleat over and over, “You have a message, you have a message, you have a message,” as soon as I stepped in.
“Messages on auto,” I told the message computer, and waited until the barrage of announcements stopped. “Now, what’s my message?”
“You have no messages.”
I sighed. Computers could be so literal sometimes. “Okay, what’s his message?” I asked, jerking a thumb at my Lord in an obvious enough gesture that even the jumper cabin computer’s visual processor could interpret.
“Private message from Emperor Seraphim VI, New Rome.”
I raised an eyebrow and tapped my Lord on the shoulder, breaking his concentration.
“Hmm?” he asked, the faraway look still in his eyes.
I requested his message again.
He raised an eyebrow, too, but dismissed the message with a wave of his hand. “Later. We’ve got butterflies waiting, right?” He slapped my shoulder and winked.
I voiced a reluctant command to jump to the Butterfly Palace. I loved seeing the girls, of course, and many of them had become friends over the years. I never took liberties with them, and I wish my Lord wouldn’t, either, but I enjoyed the relaxation, and it gave me some solace that he seemed more troubled by their attentions since Lady Redwing’s arrival. Maybe he’d see what he had in her eventually.
Not today, though, I thought as we lifted off. In the end, who was I to tell the prince when to listen to his messages and when to seek the company of gorgeous young women?
The short trip to the Butterfly Palace was filled with tension, as my Lord brooded, silently searching his memory for the identity of this Mad Dog Jag. Personally, I didn’t think it was worth the effort, but I’m not a prince.
I’d hoped the dark mood would melt away once the girls came in to bathe us, but I’d hoped in vain. My Lord laid back in the bath, the hot water splashing over the edge of a huge ceramic tiled basin set into the floor. It was large enough to accommodate both of us and our four bathers, as well as a few more friends if we wanted. Steam lifted off the water’s surface to form a fog in the room. Combined with the steam from water thrown on hot coals piled in the corner, the precipitation in the air made visibility beyond my fingertips impractible. I stretched out and relaxed, floating in the water while my bathers waited patiently.
When Lord Oswald spoke, it was like the voice of a god booming from the clouds.
“Yes, Lord?” I sat up in the bath, and immediately one of my bathers started scrubbing my back.
“Do you remember when I hired you?”
How could I forget? My daddy’s farm wasn’t much different than any of the other farms around it, but we outproduced and outsold them by a factor of at least three. Daddy wasn’t a very smart man by most standards, but he recognized my knack for organization at an early age and exploited it, so I guess he wasn’t all that dumb, either. Every day after my schoolwork was done, I researched crops and planting and pesticides and soil and everything else I could glean about farming. The next season, with my advice, Daddy made some changes in the way the farm worked. I taught the Euclids how to rotate the crops for maximum benefit, how to plant for the soil that was in each area and how to correct the soil when needed. We changed over to crops with higher yields and even higher market prices and turned that farm into a model of efficiency. Within five years, our neighbors were begging us to buy them out so they could retire.
After the third acquisition, my daddy’s farm was huge. Lord Oswald caught wind of it by accident while inspecting the local legion, back when he was doing the traveling for that, and visited our farm. In a move that stunned us Euclids with its sheer brilliance, Daddy sensed an opportunity for quick advancement and made a bargain with my Lord. My daddy gained a signed document from the prince allowing him to make changes in any farm he pleased, for what they’d undoubtedly think a modest percentage — the farm’s additional income — and lost his ninth son to my Lord’s retinue. I took with me only the clothes on my back, a willingness to learn new things, and the promise of a new job as the prince’s personal secretary.
Hannah cried when I left, which I’d never seen her do, and she told me I was always her favorite. Then she told me, “Don’t sleep too much,” and laughed maniacally as I climbed into the prince’s long-range jumper. My heart leapt in my throat when she said that, and the beating in my ears kept my awake for the next three days straight.
In the fog of the bath, I could heart my heart racing again, waiting for my Lord’s voice.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while....”
The second bather started in on my chest, soaping me generously before scrubbing me with a soft sponge. I waited.
“I tried to bed Hannah.”
My anxiety vanished. I’d heard that men were supposed to be protective of their sister’s virtue but, surprisingly, I wasn’t. I kept expecting my fists to clench and anger to well up inside me so great that I’d feel compelled to challenge my Lord to a mortal duel, but nothing happened. I was about to say something glib, but found myself giggling instead. Hannah was a handful, that was certain; if he’d actually managed to bed my sister without losing any body parts, he’d probably have deserved a medal. And he said he’d tried, not succeeded. Besides, it was ten years ago, what did it matter now?
“You’re not mad?”
I thought of Lady Redwing and her dress laces. She was the prince’s lady, but would I refuse her if she asked? I didn’t know if the prince would be jealous, but it was clear she’d never ask and I certainly wasn’t about to, either, so long as she had her charms tilted to my Lord. If the situation changed, however unlikely that seemed, it would be the lady’s and my business, not my Lord’s.
And their attempted dalliance a decade before was Lord Oswald’s and Hannah’s business, not mine.
“I should be, but, no, my Lord. I’m not mad. It was ten years ago, and I gather you didn’t succeed.”
There was a long silence.
“Call me Oz.”
I tried to, but the words still wouldn’t form. I guess I still had too much respect for the prince to be that informal.
The rest of the bath went quietly, the bathers doing their jobs, the prince and I relaxing and enjoying the fruits of their labor. When they were done, we were treated to their renowned Butterfly Massage, and we left the Palace refreshed.
“Return to New Rome. You are expected Friday.”
Four thousand years ago, back on old Earth when it was still habitable, when the emperor called you to Rome, it was a figure of speech. He was also sending condolences to your family about your unfortunate suicide at the same time. In the Eternal Empire, a call to New Rome actually meant the emperor wanted you to come to New Rome. However, some of the old stigma still remained; if the emperor felt the need to call you to New Rome between your regularly scheduled visits, it generally meant you’d been a bad boy. Despite the message being private, the news was probably being circulated to eighty three planets already.
Something glinted in Lord Oswald’s eyes, a glimmer of recognition, as if he didn’t understand the implications of the message. “Now I remember,” he said, nodding. He paled with the memory, so much that his freckles stood out like some kind of skin disease. “Mad Dog Jag is in New Rome now.”
I knew where this was heading, and it sent a chill down my spine. If Mad Dog Jag was who I thought he was, and the stories about him were true, this call to New Rome might prove very dangerous indeed.
And Prince Vere was already in New Rome, waiting....
Something in my mind had clicked, too, and in the same flash as my Lord, I’d worked out Mad Dog Jag’s identity.
“Senator Jagumal Noir,” we said in unison, and I knew that I was right about the danger awaiting my Lord in New Rome.
Chapter 3
A Bomb of a Starship
BY TUESDAY MORNING, EVERYONE IN MY LORD’S PALACE SNIPED AT EACH OTHER. My nerves were rubbed raw listening to the petty arguments that nobody seemed able to avoid. Rumors about the prince’s impending demise floated airborne like a deadly plague virus, fouling the freshly-bleached marble of the palace halls, seeping into the pillowy bedchambers, soaking into the silk upholstery.
Two of the prince’s household jumper pilots quit, which wasn’t too much of a problem since they only handled short jumper runs for the staff. When my Lord went out alone, I doubled as the jumper pilot, which wasn’t too hard considering the jumpers are mostly automated and primarily voice controlled. That left only one pilot for the household, which caused minor civil disobedience, but they soon accepted the shortage. They simply had to cut back on pleasure trips and learn to share — I had no time to devote to finding new pilots.
New Rome was several days journey by starship, and my Lord only had a few ships fast enough to make it there in the time we had remaining. In fact, in another day, we’d be reduced to only one starship that could manage it — and even then, we’d be squeaking by just under the wire. The emperor said we were expected Friday, but not when on Friday, and that meant that we needed to be there as early as possible. If we were expected by lunchtime and showed up around dinner, that would be a grave offence to His Grace — or at least to his advisors, who kept a scrupulous accounting of each heir’s mistakes.
But we had to finish packing before we could leave. Once in New Rome, we had no clue how long we’d be required to stay, so we had to ensure we had clothes for any occasion, lots of them. As well as clothes for the retinue, which we couldn’t reasonably leave behind if we expected to make an appearance in the emperor’s court.
Higher rank in the Eternal Empire wasn’t so much a greater privilege as a greater expense. For the planetary governors, cash flowed in two directions, not just one.
New Rome collected tribute from each of the eighty three empire worlds, which was determined based on the individual planet’s importance to the empire as an entity. Oasis was a little off the beaten path, so the tribute wasn’t all the high, which suited my Lord just fine. In fact, sometimes a minor planet would fail to send in its tribute, claiming a lack of cash. The emperor put up with a certain amount of these shenanigans, and might even allow the situation to go on for several months, but eventually an example would be made of the planet, which would choke on embargoes of all its trade with other planets in the empire. Since free trade among the planets was the only tangible benefit to being part of the empire in the absence of an interplanetary war, this punishment served as a subtle reminder to resume tribute, which would be expected at a higher level from that point forward.
The tribute was collected in the time-honored tradition of taxing the citizens, with cuts removed by a long string of increasingly more important administrators and bureaucrats, who passed the shrinking remainders up the chain of command. Ultimately a portion of the taxes landed on the planetary governor's desk, who took his cut and, with much pomp and circumstance, handed over a ridiculously pared-down version of the original taxes to New Rome.
For most of those participating in the sanctioned crime, the money got sucked in from one source and most of it blown out to a different one, like a leaky conduit. For the planetary governor, however, some of that money had to go back to the citizens. In Old Earth’s Rome, the senators provided bread and threw circuses. The Eternal Empire’s version wasn’t significantly different, with welfare programs and public arts subsidies running rampant throughout most of the empire.
A planetary governor had to be vigilant with his official finances to make sure that his cut from the New Rome tribute was sufficient not just for spreading around to the common folk, but also for funding their households — without stiffing New Rome in the process. A negligent overlord could find himself drowning in a cash flow shortage before long, which he’d be forced to make up from his personal fortune, further exacerbating the shortage, at least for him. More than one planetary governor with a penchant for personal entertainment found himself destitute.
Once, a few years ago, the planetary governor of Copse appealed to my Lord for a loan. Overlord Ogden came to the palace on a rented starship — transport fee due! — without a retinue, having been forced to dismiss his entire staff. He was close to tears in his appeal, and I was nearly moved to offer him equitable terms from my own savings if my Lord refused him.
“Did I ever tell you,” the prince said to me, ignoring the pathetic overlord prostrating himself at the prince’s feet, “that I used to be a gambler?”
Lord Oswald often spoke of things he had done in his youth, before he hired me. My ears pricked up; his stories were always delightful and exciting to hear, especially the second or third time around, when he’d remember more juicy details.
As this was a new one, I allowed that I hadn’t known of it.
“You learn when to bet and when to walk away pretty quickly. A gambler’s very life can depend on his skill at estimating his chances of success at something.” He regarded the prostrate overlord critically. “Is it a good bet or not? What’s the chance of a return? Of a negative return?”
Silence reigned for a minute or two, during which the broken overlord’s sweat visibly soaked the top of his nearly bald head. I was almost convinced my Lord would let the poor man die of thirst before he’d give an answer, when a very attractive young woman was led into the room.
Her brown eyes went wide and she gasped with shock at the sight of the man folded over on the floor. She sprinted to his side, long brown hair whipping about her, and fell beside him to comfort him, shrieking, “Father, Father, what have they done to you?” and glaring daggers at us.
The prince rolled his green eyes and scratched his dark red beard disinterestedly. I rushed to calm the hysterical girl before the Angels that were detached to the palace came in with weapons drawn. A few minutes of wailing later, she was sufficiently calm to listen to reason, and I led her away, with the help of two Angels who’d predictably arrived within seconds of her outburst.
After I returned, just moments later, the girl safely in the Angels’ charge, the fallen overlord was on his feet, shaking my Lord’s hand furiously. After a spate of thanks, the overlord backed out the door, bowing continuously amidst a steady stream of more thanks in three
languages.
I ignored the spectacle. “He’s leaving already? Shall I fetch the girl? I left her in one of the guest rooms.”
A wry smile played on the prince’s lips. “No. Assign her to staff quarters; she’ll be staying. I’ve been cold lately.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
I gaped. What had happened? Had he bought the girl? Slaves were common in Old Earth’s Rome, but not in the Eternal Empire, where human life was valued above all else — except in war, of course.
My Lord’s lips trembled, as if he had swallowed something unpalatable, and ached to spit it out. Seeing my horrified expression, he burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said, still snickering. “But the look on your face was priceless; I couldn’t help myself.”
I exhaled and turned to leave. “I’ll fetch her, then.”
He stopped me with the clearing of his throat. “No, she really will be staying permanently. Lord Ogden can’t support his daughter and pay back my loan as well. Find something she can do here for us and fetch a secretary for Lord Ogden, to be dispatched on permanent assignment to Copse.”
I nodded and, still with my back turned, smiled at my Lord’s wise decision. Naturally, I saw to it that our investment in Miss Ogden’s presence in the palace proved profitable, as well, due to her almost supernatural gift for creating delectable desserts fit for the emperor himself. Besides her official role as pastry chef, she operated a small bakery in an exclusive fashionable district nearby — with a healthy tribute for the palace, of course.
Our investment — or gamble — in the overlord of Copse, proved even more profitable. The secretary I assigned to Lord Ogden — one I had personally trained — turned Copse around in about six months. Even from the first year after the secretary’s arrival, my Lord began collecting his own tribute from Copse, a happy arrangement that I expected to continue indefinitely, as Lord Ogden’s administration skills sans secretary bordered on suicidal.
Ninth Euclid's Prince Page 3