Dreams of the Chosen

by Cawell, Brian

  The man arrives in seconds. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Get me Lessandro Dey. I have a little job for him.’

  JORDAN’S STORY

  Our second interview with Hartman was as different from the first as I could imagine.

  They left Mykal in the cell, of course. As an Esper, he had no part to play in the discussions, as far as Hartman was concerned.

  Eliita and I were ushered into the huge room, but this time, instead of a small table and a single seat, we were greeted with one big enough for us all to sit at – and enough food to satisfy a pregnant Ramanth.

  I wasn’t hungry, but refusal wasn’t a realistic option.

  Hartman was gnawing on a huge apple. As usual, he spoke with his mouth full.

  ‘Sit down, Jordan. It’s okay if I call you Jordan, isn’t it?’ Without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘What, exactly, did you mean by “cooperate”?’

  At the end of an hour, we were led from the room, but this time, our shackles were not put on, and we were taken to a small suite on the same level as Hartman’s audience chamber. It was over-decorated, of course, but comfortable, all the same. There were three bedrooms opening off a central living space, and a huge bathroom with a deep round bath and shell-shaped basins. It even had a shower – gravity fed from a tank on the roof two floors above.

  The third bedroom was for Mykal. They brought him in a few minutes later – only releasing his shackles when he was safely delivered.

  That was the hardest part of the negotiation. Hartman’s fear and hatred of Espers leaked through, even past the Shielding interference of the band. I had to play the affronted diplomat, pointing out that I had promised safe passage in return for his service to us, and that if he could not be released from the cells to stay with us, while the details of a treaty were worked out, then we would have to return to the cells too.

  Part of Bainbridge Hartman was just itching to take me up on the offer, but I had played my opening moves well, and he was seduced by the thought of the power we could bestow upon him, as the leader of the land.

  Later, when I learnt of the rebels and the threat they posed to his rule, it made sense that he would be so accommodating.

  After all, if things didn’t work out, there were still plenty of metal spikes in the torture chambers a hundred feet below where we were. From his point of view, it was a no-lose situation.

  From ours? Well, at least we were buying some time.

  When I went to sleep, Mykal and Eliita were talking in the living area. I closed my eyes, and eavesdropped for a while.

  Mykal was talking about Leana – again. I think he was more worried about her than he was about himself. Had she made it and was she scared? Would he ever see her again?

  And Eliita? She listened mostly and threw in some comforting words. That was always what Eliita did best. She was one of the most empathetic people I ever met.

  I drifted off thinking of Erin and hoping that she’d decided not to do anything stupid.

  40

  Fifth Column

  Berra

  Central Region

  February 1, 3384ad

  ERIN’S STORY

  ‘It’s not as stupid as it sounds,’ I said. But I’m not sure who I was trying to convince – Bran, or myself. ‘If we have someone on the inside, at least we’ll know what we’re up against – and who’s going to suspect my Lady Sharonne de Vries? Or Min, for that matter? He’s too young to be a threat, so if he goes in with her and she vouches for him, they won’t look twice at him. And with his Gift, he can send to us from anywhere within the Citadel.’

  If it had been anyone but Sharonne, perhaps Bran wouldn’t have needed as much convincing, but when it came to her, his objectivity was terminally flawed.

  ‘If they get caught—’ he began, but he didn’t get to finish the thought. Sharonne rose to her full height, fixed him with a regal stare and spoke – in a tone I had never heard and that I couldn’t imagine emanating from someone of her age and disposition.

  ‘Do you think that I need your permission, boy?’ Superiority dripped from every syllable, and the expression on her face shifted from regal disdain, through contempt, to a look of such utter disgust, that I had to slip inside to check that she was just acting.

  Then, as quickly as she had assumed it, she shed the cloak of her ‘Family’ persona, and became Sharonne again.

  ‘They will suspect nothing, Bran,’ she went on – gently now, touching his face with the backs of her fingers. ‘It is inconceivable that one of their own could be in league with Outsiders. We shall have the run of the Citadel.’

  ‘What about Armin? He’s not Family. Why would they give him the run of anything?’

  Now she smiled. ‘Because, my love, I will demand it. You have no idea how petulant a daughter of the Families can be, if she wants something badly enough. I have been on a long, exhausting journey. I am tired and bad-tempered, and this poor child has been my servant throughout the ordeal. Of course I would want him by my side at all times. He is like a faithful hound, or a favourite plaything. Why would they even think of refusing me such a minor indulgence? Besides, I was always one of Hartman’s favourites. He used to have me call him Uncle. If we were really related, I think I should probably slash my wrists, but that hardly matters. He will not make things difficult for me.’

  And so, it was settled.

  Armin and Sharonne would arrive at the front gates of the Citadel, travel-worn and weary, demanding entry and an audience with Bainbridge Hartman himself. Which would, of course, be granted immediately.

  She would tell the story of her teenage rebellion, and recount her long – and dangerous – trip north. She would speak of the devotion she had received from her young servant, and of his dog-like loyalty and dedication to her needs.

  Then, when she was given a suite and staff to serve her, she would ask about Adam, and try to enlist his help. His knowledge of the Citadel and its rules would be invaluable. As would Min’s ability to pick the brains of anyone in the place – including the Guard.

  With the vigilance of the defenders focused outwards, beyond the impregnable walls, an elite lady and her child-servant, whose position gave them the run of the place, should be able to search out any hidden secret within days, or hours, of their arrival.

  Meanwhile, the rest of us would try to blend in within the pigpen, without mooing too loudly.

  With Bran, Leana, Alek and Reggie to keep me in line, and our ability to get inside their heads, I didn’t think we’d have too much trouble with the locals. Especially as most of them were busy just surviving.

  Looking at the conditions in the town outside the Citadel, though, I was thinking that perhaps Sharonne and Min had scored the better assignment.

  Rumours of rebellion were whispered everywhere. We had heard them during our progress through the town, and the soldiers and Guards, who patrolled the streets of Berra, looked around nervously and jumped at sudden noises.

  The rebels called themselves the Scarlet League. They had done nothing violent, and little of major revolutionary significance, so far; just small stuff, really – distributing a news-sheet, explaining their movement’s philosophy; stealing provisions and distributing them to the starving poor of the city slums; daubing slogans on vacant walls, including a large red demand for equality on the Plascrete of the Citadel itself.

  Small stuff, maybe, in the face of the power they opposed, but it wasn’t the scale of the rebellion that counted. It was the fact of its existence. For over a year, they had shown that resistance was possible, that there were those who believed in the rights of all to live in freedom.

  Big ideas usually begin small.

  It takes belief to make them grow. They weren’t gearing up for a battle they couldn’t win. They were changing mindsets, slowly convincing people that it was possible – at some point in the futur
e – to win. That – not through riots or pitched battles – was the way to build a revolution.

  I thought back to our own history. In particular I remembered the lessons on what came to be known as ‘the Revolution of 101’, when Deucalion broke free, bloodlessly, from the chains of its colonial past. It happened quickly, but it was only possible because the people were ready for change.

  It hadn’t all happened by accident, of course. The Scarlet League had a leader. No one knew his real name, but he called himself Blakeney, and he understood his history. Which, in a world without books, was an amazing achievement.

  Then it was time to put the plan into action.

  The Citadel Gates

  February 1, 3384ad

  SHARONNE

  The shadows stretch across the open space that separates the town proper from the gates of the Citadel.

  Standing their posts at the entrance to the huge building, the soldiers and their Guard superiors scan the edge of the town for signs of threat or movement, so they see the girl and her young companion, the moment they appear, walking out of the shadows, with a determination and confidence rarely seen outside the inner sanctum of the Family quarters.

  She stops a few feet from the barricade.

  ‘I am the Lady Sharonne Antonia Honore de Vries, of the Family de Vries.’ She is speaking to no one in particular, as if rank and seniority among inferiors is a matter beneath her consideration. ‘You will announce me to your master, immediately.’

  The squad-leader, a career-soldier with a rugged face and a livid scar across his cheek, stares at her, uncertain how to react. Finally, he turns away.

  ‘One moment.’

  A few seconds later, he returns with the Guard duty-officer, who struts ahead of him.

  ‘Yes?’

  The Guard’s superior tone barely has time to register, before she reacts.

  ‘Your name, man.’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Your name. I wish to know whom I am reporting, when I demand your punishment and that of this . . . underling.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I informed you of my name, and yet you keep me waiting in the sun like a common town-dweller. If Hartman hospitality has been reduced to such insolence, I am sure that my father will have something to say to your master.’

  The Guard is visibly shaken.

  ‘My Lady, you must understand—’

  ‘Must? I must? You presume to tell a daughter of the Families what she must do?’

  Without waiting for any further discussion, Sharonne moves forward as if she expects them to let her pass. And they do.

  Armin follows in her wake, head bowed a little to hide the smile.

  Moments later, they are being ushered into an over-décored waiting room. Sharonne flops into a plushly padded sofa and Armin stands deferentially beside her. They have their ‘act’ well prepared.

  – When he enters the room, don’t look at him. You stand with your head bowed, until he acknowledges you. And if he doesn’t, you don’t look him in the eye. It’s important. We don’t want to get off on the wrong foot. He won’t do anything to me, but you – even if you’re my favourite, you won’t be able to get away with a breach of etiquette. At least, not until we’ve been here a while.

  The conversation is one-sided, of course. Armin can read her every thought, but she is deaf to anything he might send. They have practised the one-way communication over the past few hours, as it might well mean the difference between success and failure, life and death.

  ‘Sharonne? Is that you?’ Bainbridge Hartman stands in the doorway, staring at her. ‘I thought you were—’

  She smiles, knowingly, and rises to meet his kiss.

  ‘I’m sure my father wishes I were, Uncle. We never saw eye to eye on, well, anything, really. After my mother died, there was nothing holding me there, and I thought – Some of my happiest memories were here at the Citadel, with my cousins and you, so—’

  ‘So, you thought you’d join your brother here.’

  ‘Adam? He’s here? I had hoped, but—’

  ‘Where else would he go?’ He reaches out a hand and places it on her head. ‘Where else would you go? My home is yours, child. You know that.’

  Now she plays the dutiful child – a subtle shift that is not lost on Armin, who stands, head bowed, waiting to be noticed.

  ‘Uncle B. With your permission, I would like to introduce you to this child. He has been my servant and guide – and even my defender, once or twice during my journey here. His name is Armin. He is an orphan, but he learns quickly and his loyalty is without question.’

  Hartman nods, and she turns to Min.

  ‘Min, you are in the presence of a great man. This is Bainbridge Hartman, Head of the Hartman Clan and Leader of the Council of All Families. You have permission to look up.’

  As Armin raises his eyes, he is riding over the interference of the band, and reading the thoughts behind Hartman’s arrogant stare.

  – She brings this urchin into my house? No wonder her father had no time for her. Still it looks like a harmless pet, as long as it’s bathed and defleaed. Plenty of time for an accident, once she’s settled in.

  ‘I owe you a debt, child, for delivering my favourite niece safely to me.’ He turns back to Sharonne. ‘Perhaps he will make a good Guard recruit, when he is a little older.’

  ‘Perhaps he will, Uncle. You are most kind to mention it.’

  ‘Pure selfishness, my dear. I always need brave and loyal Guards, especially at times like this.’

  ‘Times like this? Is something wrong?’ She feigns disquiet and Hartman smiles.

  ‘Nothing for you to concern yourself over, child. Just politics.’

  Changing the subject, she sits back down.

  ‘Is Adam here? It has been so long, and I—’

  ‘He will be, child. Soon. He spends a lot of time outside the walls. I think he may have a girl tucked away somewhere and wants no one to know about her. I will tell him the good news, as soon as he returns. He will be as excited as I am, but it may be a couple of days. You know how young men are.

  ‘You must be tired after your journey. I have someone making up your rooms as we speak. Rest now. We will talk over dinner and by then, your brother may have arrived.’

  As if on cue, an old woman knocks and enters. Hartman looks up and nods to her. She comes forward.

  ‘Myriam, this is the Lady Sharonne de Vries. She has grown up since you saw her last. Please show her to her room.’

  The old woman bows slightly and turns to open the door. Sharonne walks through, followed closely by Armin.

  – So far so good. She concentrates on the thought, and Armin nods slightly. But his face shows concern.

  They walk the short distance to their rooms in silence.

  When the old woman has left and closed the door behind her, Sharonne turns to Min.

  ‘Okay, out with it.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ He is still looking worried as he sits down in the chair near the window.

  ‘It was to me.’

  ‘We can’t tell Adam anything about our plans.’

  ‘What do you mean, we can’t tell Adam? That’s the main reason for us being here. He’s my brother. He’s always—’

  ‘He’s Hartman’s right-hand man, Lady Sharonne. The son he never had. He’s not out there visiting some girl, he’s—’ He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. ‘Look, I know you love him and all, but he may have changed from the brother you grew up with.’

  ‘Changed? Come on, Min. He’s – Adam.’

  ‘And he’s in charge of rooting out the rebels and destroying them. That’s why he’s outside the walls, right now.

  ‘I was inside that fat toad’s head the whole time. While he was talking about Adam, all I could get was his plan for inf
iltrating the Scarlet League, and capturing its leaders, then torturing the identities of the other members out of them. He’s obsessed with it. I think he’s actually scared of them and Adam is his main hope. We can’t tell him a thing.’

  She wants to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know Adam, but part of her knows it would be useless. Secret thoughts don’t lie. Especially to Armin.

  And yet, beneath the knowledge and the shock, a part of her still clings to the hope that, this time, he is wrong.

  ‘I need a bath,’ she says, turning away.

  And only when she is alone, with the water running into the huge bathtub and a thick towel covering her face, does she allow the tears to flow.

  41

  The Pimpernel

  Berra

  Central Region

  February 1, 3384ad

  BLAKENEY

  The small crowd that moments ago was noisy and talkative and milling around in the cramped space, falls suddenly quiet.

  On a platform at the far end of the space, a man has appeared. Dressed in a tunic and black pants, with a wide belt and knee-length boots, he looks similar to the thirty or so men gathered before him.

  Unlike them, however, he wears a mask. It smiles a wooden smile, and covers his face, from forehead to chin, like the masquerade masks they wear to parties at the Citadel. Only his eyes are alive, shining through the holes in the painted caricature, and piercing the room with an intensity that makes each man and woman believe he is speaking directly to them.

  In the silence, his voice sounds loud, barely distorted by the mask.

  ‘Tonight, I need three volunteers for a small act of larceny.’

  His tone is light, and the crowd laughs.

  ‘Does it involve cracking heads?’ a man shouts from the rear of the room. ‘’Cause I’s really in the mood for cracking heads.’

  ‘No, Jonathon. No head-cracking. Hopefully, you’ll be in and out without anyone being any the wiser. At least until they go to move the stuff in the morning.’

  ‘What’s the prize?’ shouts another man.

  ‘Food, mainly. And maybe a bottle or two of Hartman wine.’ More serious now, he pauses before continuing. ‘It isn’t about the prize, though, Mannie. It’s about showing them that we can. It’s about building the reputation of the League. If we want people to follow us – to believe we can make a difference in the big things – we have to keep reminding them that the way things are isn’t the way they always have to be. I have reliable intelligence that the store will be unguarded tonight, at least for a couple of hours, while they have a staff-meeting. I guess they feel safe, because no one’s supposed to know it exists, anyway.’