“I really would be honored to escort you to dinner,” Hawthorn said to the secretary. “Call me if you change your mind.”
The woman did not reply but put the silver stylet in her mouth. Allenson got the impression she was seriously considering the offer.
* * *
“Inspector General Allenson,” Fontenoy rose from his chair and offered his hand.
Allenson shook hands with a degree of relief. Fontenoy greeted him in the manner adopted by one gentleman to another of equal rank. That simplified matters hugely for Allenson as it defined the social niceties.
“Please be seated,” with his spare hand the Vice-Governor ushered Allenson towards a chair.
Fontenoy was technically an employee, which on Wagner made him of inferior rank. There were conventions appropriate for that situation. Indeed, it would be patronizing to an employee to treat him as an equal.
However, Fontenoy was also the senior Brasilian official in the Cutter Stream, which made him one of the four or five most powerful men this side of the Bight. By that count, he should be given all courtesies due to a gentleman of senior rank, such as one would offer to Trance Destry.
“Sar Hawthorn,” Fontenoy nodded politely in Hawthorn’s direction.
It occurred to Allenson that Fontenoy was far more used to dealing with complicated social conventions than any Wagner gentleman and so had taken the initiative to put his guests at ease. Fontenoy was both intelligent and sophisticated, but that was hardly a surprise.
Fontenoy wore a casual business suit cut in the latest Brasilian style. You had to look very carefully at his lapel to find an unobtrusive grey pin denoting his allegiance. Allenson might not have noticed the pin at all were it not decorated with a purple jewel that caught the light.
The Vice-Governor was of average height and coloration. It was impossible to guess his age. He looked biologically about forty but his chronological age must be double that. He was a little on the thin side with a sharp face and alert eyes that gave him a hawk-like appearance.
A quote from an old play looped through Allenson’s head. “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.” He told himself to get a grip. This was no time for distractions. In any case, he had no idea who Cassius was or why he had a hungry look.
“It is good of you to see us at such short notice, Vice Governor,” Allenson said.
Fontenoy waved a hand dismissively, like an uncle who has just been thanked for a generous gift to a favorite niece.
“I trust that your journey from Wagner was not too tedious?” Fontenoy asked.
“It had moments of interest,” Allenson replied, adopting the suitably blasé tone of one who regularly travels by carriage.
“And your enterprises on Wagner are prospering?” Fontenoy asked.
“Tolerably so,” Allenson replied.
He thought it was time that he reciprocated in asking a polite question but he knew so little about Fontenoy’s personal life that it was difficult to frame something suitably anodyne. He would normally have asked after the Vice-Governor’s family but he did not know whether Fontenoy was married, let alone whether he had children. Allenson realized that he had missed a trick. He should have researched some suitably trivial details about the man for purposes of small talk. He marked the error down as something not to be repeated.
Fontenoy’s title of Vice Governor made him the most senior official responsible for overseeing Brasilian interests in the Cutter Stream. The official Governor was a member of the powerful Gens Tegalliano. He had never visited the Stream and it was not expected that he ever would. The title was honorary and brought certain political and financial advantages, such as a monopoly on tea imports. About the only active duty required of the Governor was the requirement to appoint a Vice-Governor to do the actual work.
Allenson considered asking after the fortunes of the Tegallianos, as it was likely that Fontenoy was a Tegalliano client—likely, but not certain. In the end he settled for the most banal of polite enquiries.
“I trust your duties do not weigh too heavily?” Allenson asked. “The responsibility must occasionally be wearisome.”
“Indeed,” Fontenoy replied. “I often yearn to return home to Brasilia to catalogue my collection of Old Earth buttons. One does not seek high office but if called upon to serve . . .”
Fontenoy spread his hands in supplication and adopted a pious expression.
“Quite,” Allenson said, not daring to look at Hawthorn for fear of loosing a giggle.
Fontenoy would have schemed and maneuvered for such a plum position as Vice-Governor of the Stream and it would probably take nothing short of a plasma bomb to unseat him before he had made his fortune. The screen on his chair arm flashed, attracting Fontenoy’s attention. He glanced at it briefly before shutting it down with a single tap.
“Interesting,” thought Allenson. “Fontenoy must want to talk to me. He has something on his mind.” Allenson had a fairly shrewd idea what was on Fontenoy’s mind, given the sudden change in his secretary’s attitude earlier. Maybe Allenson had found a lever.
“I was a little confused,” Fontenoy said, breaking across Allenson’s train of thought. “I thought Sar Todd Allenson was Inspector General of the Militia but I see that you are Acting Inspector General?”
Fontenoy raised an eyebrow.
“My brother is unwell and unable to perform his duties,” Allenson replied. “I did not seek the office but if called upon to serve . . .”
There was a pause, filled only by Hawthorn turning a snort into a cough.
“Your brother is likely to be indisposed for some considerable time?” Fontenoy asked.
Allenson nodded.
“And so you wish me to ratify your appointment?” Fontenoy asked.
“I believe it is within your gift.” Allenson replied.
“Yes,” Fontenoy said, “and no.”
He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair touching his fingertips together to form an inverted V.
“While it is true that I have the authority to make such appointments unilaterally, I would normally allow the legislature to recommend a candidate. Politicians, in the lower house in particular, are prone to demagoguery. There would be accusations of cronyism and so on if I just appoint you,” said Fontenoy.
The lower house represented the smallholders and mercantile classes. Their interests lay primarily in matters such as local taxation—they were against it—and public works paid for by taxation—they were for them, especially when they won the contracts. Normally, they would simply ratify official appointments recommended by the upper house, since it was of little consequence to them how the gentry divvied up political appointments among themselves.
“Many in the upper house are associates of Destry Wayfaring and investors in the Harbinger Project. I believe they would appreciate the need for continuity in the post of Inspector General with a candidate close to both the previous incumbent and the Destry family,” said Allenson, drawing attention to his political connections.
“Ye-es,” Fontenoy said, without conviction. “I am also an investor in the Harbinger Project but of course I cannot let that influence my decisions, which must always be in the best interests of Brasilia.”
“And the Cutter Steam,” Allenson said.
Fontenoy made a dismissive gesture. “What is good for Brasilia is good for the Stream.”
Allenson was nonplussed. He did not understand why Fontenoy was being so unhelpful. The Vive Governor’s position and personal chance of enrichment depended on the good offices of the Stream’s leading families for support. Fontenoy must want something but he would never come straight out and ask for a favor.
“It seems we are at an impasse,” Allenson said.
“Not entirely,” said Fontenoy. “I will put a bill before the upper house in your favor when the opportunity arises. Unfortunately, at the moment I have a tricky problem that is taking up all my time and until it’s solved.
”
Fontenoy spread his hands, indicating the heavy burden that he carried.
“Indeed, perhaps I can help?” Allenson asked, with foreboding. Of course, he had no choice. Fontenoy had him over a barrel.
“Possibly,” said Fontenoy. “You are aware that we have an alliance with some Riders.” He consulted his screen, “the Chieftain of the Stone People Overclan, to restrict exploitation of much of the Hinterland to Brasilia, excluding Terra.”
“No,” Allenson said.
“Well we do, at least in theory,” said Fontenoy. “However, it has so far not been entirely productive. I have to find an emissary who can travel into the Hinterland to contact the Stone People and win their trust. We want to determine the extent of Terran penetration, if any, into the Hinterland. We suspect that they are moving along chasms from their colonies in Foundworlds.”
Foundworlds were a cluster of Terran colonies on the Cutter Stream side of the Bight. Chasms were fast-moving permanent currents within the Continuum. The Cutter Steam was a large chasm.
“I see,” Allenson said, with resignation.
“The emissary will need to be an individual in possession of a rare mix of qualities,” Fontenoy said.
He ticked them off on his fingers.
“The emissary will have to have a proven ability in team leadership, experience of the Hinterland, skill in dealing with Riders and great personal fortitude and determination.”
“And where would one look for such a paragon?” asked Hawthorn, softly.
Fontenoy pretended not to have heard him.
“The emissary will also have to be a person of suitable social status and official rank, as they will be representing Brasilia,” Fontenoy said. “But I cannot send an ordinary diplomat for obvious reasons. You can see my difficulty?”
“Indeed,” Allenson said, drily.
Fontenoy’s eyes widened. “But of course, why did I not think of it before?”
“I think he’s got it,” said Hawthorn, to no one in particular.
“You, yourself, are perfect for the position of emissary, Sar Allenson. You are a gentleman who has recently led a successful survey of the Hinterland. You lack official rank, of course, but that is easily fixed. I can ratify your appointment as Acting Inspector General of Militia immediately and, if I can regard this issue as solved, find the time to put a bill before the upper house to make the rank permanent on your return. There could be no suggestion of cronyism or influence pedaling in such circumstances.”
Fontenoy sat back in his chair, which rocked slightly.
“It seems we can help each other.”
Hawthorn cut in. “And you would guarantee in writing to veto any attempt to pass a bill that backdated the appointment of any other individual to Inspector General, in any way that might supersede Sar Allenson’s claim.”
Allenson found the comment embarrassing as it implied that Fontenoy’s word could not be trusted.
“Of course, I will have a Memorandum of Understanding prepared immediately and placed on record. What say you, Sar Allenson?” asked Fontenoy, who did not seem insulted at all.
“As you said, Vice Governor, it seems we can help each other.”
They shook hands
“Excellent.” Fontenoy rose to his feet and ushered them to the door. “If you will excuse me gentlemen, my next appointment is here.”
Allenson held the door open for a striking lady who swept regally past him into the office. It appeared that the florid faced man had been bumped again.
The friends walked across the plaza.
“You realize that we will have to penetrate deeper into the Hinterland than we have ever gone before?” Hawthorn asked.
“Yes, but we will be in friendly territory. After all, we do have an alliance with the chieftain of the regional Rider overclan,” said Allenson.
“I wonder whether anyone has told them?” Hawthorn asked, sourly.
CHAPTER 11
Redfern Villa
Am I tying this right?” Allenson asked, tugging at the intractable knot in the ribbon looped around his neck.
Hawthorn rose from where he sat in an armchair in Allenson’s room.
“I feel like a man preparing his own noose,” Allenson said, gloomily.
Hawthorn cocked his head and examined the offending article.
“If you loosened the knot slightly and put it beneath your chin rather than under your ear then it might make you look a little less like a condemned man.”
Allenson made the suggested adjustments and had to admit that he did look better. That did not lift his mood.
“Are you sure that you do not want to come to the party with me?” Allenson asked, hoping he did not sound too desperate.
“The invitation was for you only,” Hawthorn said.
“A formality,” Allenson said. “As my aide, you would be automatically included in any invitation.”
Hawthorn picked up his jacket and slung it over one shoulder.
“You know how I hate these well-bred dos,” Hawthorn said. “Besides, I have already accepted another invitation for tonight.”
Allenson stopped adjusting his evening wear.
“Not the young receptionist. Don’t tell me she contacted you?” Allenson said.
“No, well yes,” Hawthorn replied. “That is, the receptionist did get in touch but I am seeing her tomorrow. I am dining with Fontenoy’s secretary tonight.”
“I see,” Allenson said, examining himself in the full length mirror and wondering whether it was too late to order a different suit.
“You’ll be fine,” Hawthorn said, sauntering to the door. “You look very fashionable.”
Hawthorn paused to say, “Don’t wait up,” then he was gone.
Allenson checked his reflection again.
“Fine, humph. I look like a fleek done up in harvest festival finery,” he said gloomily, to no one in particular.
He considered retying the ribbon but doubted if that would improve matters. He considered taking it off and being fashionably opened necked but discarded the notion as madness. You had to be sartorially confident to break the rules of formal dress. Hawthorn could pull it off because, well just because, and whatever Destry wore was by definition fashionable.
Allenson picked up the invitation card that had been delivered by hand within an hour of his checking in to the hotel. The card was lavender in both color and scent. Embossed gold letters invited Inspector General of Militia Allenson of Pentire to attend a soiree at the villa of Sar Redfern of Redfern Dealing. The invitation was from Lady Redfern, indicating a social event rather than a business meeting. That puzzled Allenson because he knew no one on Manzanita socially other than a few of Sarai’s relatives. Word had clearly got round fast. That was the whole point of his ostentatious behavior, of course.
He checked the location of the Redfern property on his datapad and was not surprised to find that it was one of the lakeside villas. Nowhere was very far from anywhere else in Manzanita City so he intended to walk. The cool air would have been welcome to clear his head and he intended to rehearse some small talk on the way. It was a device that he had adopted as a psychological crutch for social events. He was hopeless at unprompted repartee.
* * *
Unfortunately, it was still raining when he left the hotel so he was obliged to hire a cab. This involved giving his destination to the hotel doorman, who took one step forward and raised his right forefinger, alerting a waiting taxicab. The doorman had so much silver braid on his uniform that he rattled when he moved.
Manzanita taxicabs had twin seats slung between the front wheels, while the driver sat behind over a single rear wheel, to which the pedal drive was also attached. This wheel was also used for steering. It was possibly the most ungainly and inefficient transport device ever devised, with the possible exception of the jet airliner. The vehicle did at least have a waterproof canopy, colored in rather bonny orange and white stripes.
A cab pulled up outside the d
oor and the doorman ceremonially raised an umbrella to escort Allenson the four paces to his seat. He also passed the address on to the cab driver so Allenson was spared that onerous task.
Allenson sat back in his seat but the cab remained stationary.
There was a polite cough.
The doorman waited patiently.
“Ah um, yes,” Allenson said clawing through his pockets in embarrassment. His money was in the last pocket that he tried and he could not quite get any out. His face burnt as he struggled with his garments. He held out the first coin he managed to extract, cursing the malevolence of inanimate objects.
“Thank you, sir.” The doorman touched the brim of his hat.
The so-in-so should look pleased, Allenson thought. That coin was a silver shilling rather than the threepenny piece that would have sufficed.
The cab started with a jerk, soon leaving the central business district where his hotel was located. It wound through the narrow suburban streets, which seemed to have been laid out by a drunk. Allenson lost all sense of direction. The terraces consisted of commercial premises on the ground floor, shops, bars and cafes, with living accommodation above. They all looked alike, except for the advertising signs. A neon sign on a bar advertising a drink called Jago caught his eye, as it plumbed the depths of tastelessness. The letters were lit by revolting pink light while the drink was depicted in bright fluorescent green. The letter “o” was damaged, spluttering and fizzing.
It was still malfunctioning several minutes later when the taxicab passed it for the second time.
“Right, you’ve given me the scenic tour now could we just get on,” Allenson said, cricking his neck around to glare at the cabby, who did not reply.
The cab dived down an alley, emerging onto the ring road right by the Redfern villa.
“Two shillings, squire,” said the cabby, twisting the meter around so that Allenson could check the fare.
Allenson counted out the exact value in coins and passed them to the cabby.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 15