by Blaze Ward
“Understood, Uncle,” Casey said serenely. “That’s why I need people like you and Jessica. Like Denis and Kigali. If Horvat will not listen, then I must break him. If Aquitaine resists, then I may have to break the entire Republic to my will. I will need people who are able to pick up the pieces later.”
“Conquer the Republic?”
She could hear the fear in his voice. Of losing everything he had managed to save over one of the most brilliant careers in the history of space.
Of losing his home.
“No,” Casey decided. She fixed him with an Imperial eye. “If it becomes necessary for war, I will return to those lines you and Judit negotiated with my Father, after Thuringwell, once Emmerich is done. And Jessica if she chooses to help. I could conquer Aquitaine, Uncle, especially if they manage to alienate Moirrey and Yan in the bargain. But I will not. No more than I will conquer the Protectorate of Man. Henri Baudin managed to found a star nation with music, rather than conquest, if you would believe the fanciful tales that have accumulated around his name. But it was the trade along the Story Road that made it possible. My weapon will be music as well, that and the florins a merchant might earn risking a border I will hold, but not cross. That much I promise you as Karl VIII.”
She had her doubts as to whether or not Horvat would believe her, if what she feared was coming to pass, both ahead of her as well as behind, but Nils Kasum would be believed when he repeated this conversation.
Casey considered a public proclamation on the topic, perhaps stealing Moirrey’s orbital, paper-bombs to deliver leaflets unto Republic worlds. Project Mischief, without the nastier edges that woman didn’t like to talk about in public.
Nils nodded soberly, however, aware of her reputation, and that of her family. Those words could be carved into a plinth and set into the courtyard of any palace, on any world in the galaxy, and they both knew it.
Nils remained silent for a few moments, and then rose. He bowed formally to her and departed, so silent that only the hatch marked his exit.
Casey began to type, diving into the DataCore and finding the files she wanted. She knew a gourmand like Kigali would also have the music she craved right now.
She set the volume just loud enough that it was like the man was in the room with her, a ghost sailing with her through the night of JumpSpace, and listened to Henri Baudin give his second, and possibly greatest, public recital performance, just days after he had proclaimed the Founding of Aquitaine.
That was the bar she would need to meet.
CHAPTER XXVIII
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 183/05/19. COXAND HALL, STRASBOURG, ST. LEGIER
THE HOUSE of the People was not in session today, so Cameron had been able to schedule a full hour meeting with his target, Reinhard Hjördís, representative from the House of the People. It was educational, watching the ebb and flow of people and business around him as he made his way through Coxand Hall, named for a man who had been an exceptional Pillar, the elected leader of the House of the People in a previous century.
The old building had been flattened with Werder. The House had not been in session, so very little had been lost in terms of institutional memory, save for the docents who guided tourists around.
Hjördís’s office was tucked down in the basement of the old auditorium that had been requisitioned when the People had to become the government for a year. There had been noises about building a new hall, later, or perhaps leveling this one and building something better in place, since the Dukes were in such swanky digs. Cameron wasn’t sure if anything would come of it, since the People sat in nearly constant session currently, only taking a few days off each month and a month every year.
Cameron evaded a small roller-truck hauling boxes down the hallway for some unknown destination and knocked on the outer door at his destination. It was open, and the chaos inside was noisy, so he stepped in and came to stillness.
Someone looked up, recognized him, and looked back over her shoulder.
“Reinhard, your meeting is here,” she called.
Not quite the way he had been expecting to be announced, but acceptable. Utterly at odds with the calm, deliberate protocols of the Dukes, and in that he found a measure of comfort.
What he was about to ask would task these people sorely.
Hjördís emerged from an office at the rear of the space. Cameron had noted fourteen people working in a space comfortable for five, but everyone seemed to be doing something they found meaningful.
The man himself was tall and lean, almost but not quite vid star handsome, with brown hair much longer than was either traditional or stylish today. He slid both hands down the front of a tunic to smooth it, took a deep breath, and smiled.
Cameron approached across the mess, presuming that nobody would stand to escort him all of four meters.
“Chief of Deputies, welcome to my office,” Hjördís said. “My apologies for the mess and noise. Please, come in and join me.”
Cameron followed him into the rear chamber, sliding to the side so two others could emerge from what had been a meeting of some sort.
Hjördís closed the door, leaving them alone.
“Can I get you something, Chief of Deputies?” the man inquired carefully, suddenly on his finest behavior.
Cameron sat in the nearer chair and relaxed with a smile.
“No, thank you,” he replied.
“What can I do for you then, Chief of Deputies?” Hjördís asked as he took the chair behind a large, messy desk, piled with papers, books, and three coffee mugs, all of which appeared empty.
“One, you can call me Cameron,” he said. “I appreciate that we’ve only now met on a personal basis, but I hope to be working more closely with you and your office in the future.”
“Cameron,” the man tried it on for size. “Please call me Reinhard.”
“Thank you,” Cameron smiled. “As to why I’m here, that’s a complicated, political puzzle, but all my sources seem to suggest you to be the first man I should consult.”
Hint: There are others I might engage. Also Hint: I have people watching you and all the rest like hawks spying a lame mouse.
“You are Her Majesty’s representative in all things, Cameron,” Reinhard noted. “He who executes the laws formulated by the two bodies.”
Classical, Cameron noted. Not just straight out of a textbook, but a modern one, where a second group of legislators was recognized as equal to the first.
“You are familiar with a new treaty agreement offered to us by Aquitaine?” Cameron continued.
“Indeed,” Reinhard said. “Although it has not been formally presented before the House of the People, we have all read copies of it and debated the relative merits. The nature of such an offer remains confusing, though.”
Cameron smiled. At least the man was smart enough to note that it didn’t quite seem to add up. Didn’t smell like fish that had gone bad, but certainly not the sorts of prime cut of ribeye you wanted for dinner, unless there was nothing left on the menu of your favorite bistro at the point you had managed to get caught up in meetings and the lunch rush had cleaned the kitchen out.
“Without placing you in a particularly awkward position of knowing more than is safe for you at the present, let me suggest that Her Majesty’s government would not necessarily view such an agreement favorably.”
Rather than speak, or even react, Reinhard studied him closely for several seconds, like poker players having just been dealt the final card face down and trying to estimate their odds.
The moment stretched to nearly a minute, which Cameron took as a favorable sign. The man was literally refactoring his entire mind around a new set of details, as well as their implications. The spies had been correct to point out this man as one of the potential future leaders of the House of the People, in spite of his relatively minor stature at present.
Reinhard could think.
“What does it benefit the Dukes?” Reinhard finally asked, having leapt across
several immense chasms of logic that probably would have utterly thwarted most of this man’s governmental peers.
“We are looking beyond the immediacy of this treaty,” Cameron said. “Implications of implications.”
Reinhard fell silent again, but for only a brief time.
“This, then, would be the parts you will not yet tell me?” he asked. “At present?”
“At present.”
Cameron nodded at the implicit implication that the information would be forthcoming at some point. And he was correct.
“In that case, I find myself at something of a loss, Cameron,” the man said, resting both elbows on the desk and leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands, like a schoolboy raptly attentive to a lecture. Cameron was not fooled. “The House of the People does not weigh in on treaties with other nations. That has traditionally been the sole purview of the Dukes.”
Cameron nearly laughed, considering how many other politicians would see this situation as a cue to share too much, convinced they had a worshipful audience. Those men never knew when to shut up and let others reveal too much.
He did smile at Reinhard, though. Conspirators about to play a practical joke on someone else.
“Traditionally, yes,” Cameron agreed. “However, there is no legal precedent precluding your body from taking up debate.”
Again, dead silence.
Cameron wondered if the man had an eidetic memory and was literally reading legal textbooks in his head as they spoke. Cameron had a few aides with such a talent. It made research wonderfully easy, as well as catching someone up in a lie later.
“Wald’s Emergency Protocols,” Reinhard finally replied.
“Indeed.” Cameron smiled like a professor who has a particularly bright student negotiating their way to a messily-complicated point. “When it became necessary for the People to govern, Her Majesty elevated your body to be the equal of the Dukes. That they have not pressed such a suit since the Dukes were reconstituted does not eliminate the legalities of the situation, both implicit and explicit.”
“They will not appreciate the assistance of such as ourselves impinging into their traditional prerogative,” Reinhard noted dryly. “Why does Her Majesty’s government wish to raise this point now? And why am I the selected ambassador to convey such a tidbit?”
Cameron did smile now. Broad and jolly. This was a man after his own heart. Feisty, but intellectual, and capable of fencing delicately with words where others tended to use a sledgehammer.
“This was why my little helpers suggested I approach you first, Reinhard,” Cameron said. “There is nothing at all wrong with the treaty, on the face of it. Some Dukes would likely become far wealthier than they are now. The creation of a secured zone between Fribourg and Aquitaine suggests a reduction in the need for military forces. We could have peace.”
“But?”
“What I am about to tell you comes under the Official Secrets Proclamations,” Cameron’s voice suddenly turned to wintered ice. A sword pulled from a snowbank, perhaps.
He waited until the man behind the desk nodded, himself suddenly serious and sober.
“One of my jobs is to express the paranoia of my spies, both inside the government, and in the Imperial populace, Hjördís,” Cameron let his tones grow quiet. “The maneuvering in the Dukes does not fit the traditional patterns we have grown to expect from such men. Moreover, the tendencies that they would introduce are absolutely at odds with where Karl VIII requires the Empire to be in another decade. We are watching dangerous men walk a delicate tightrope, at a time when the Empire itself is not as stable as it needs to be.”
“You think that the People should decline such a treaty, Cameron?” Reinhard asked. “I point this out because my own straw poll on the topic suggests a great deal of enthusiasm for increased trade, reduced taxes, and an end to the war that has plagued most of us our entire lives.”
Cameron nodded in recognition. This was his own rope to cross. Normally, the Dukes would have resisted such an agreement for exactly those same reasons, but they were in the process of pushing it forward, potentially dragging the rest of the government into a place where the general population would demand to make their feelings heard.
“You, specifically, Reinhard,” Cameron began. “Along with a handful of others, but your name stuck out at me. I do not doubt that the treaty could be seen as beneficial, especially as I am not at liberty to discuss other information, outside the small group currently involved.”
“Me?”
“I would greatly appreciate if the House of the People took up the case of the treaty, arguing the full text, the multiple implications, and the will of the Imperial populace on the topic,” Cameron leaned forward. “At great length.”
“What does that gain you, Cameron? Especially if the outcome is likely to be positive anyway?”
“Time,” Cameron said soberly. “Most conspirators rely on complicated schedules and lack of friction to achieve a series of what appear to be meaningless points, until the full structure is suddenly revealed at the end.”
“Conspiracies?” Reinhard asked carefully. “You think a few months will derail the evil deeds of others?”
Cameron grinned harshly.
“How do you think the Dukes will react, if the People suddenly take it upon themselves to debate a treaty with Aquitaine?” Cameron turned over one of his poker cards that had been face down until now. “As equals.”
“About as well as a pedestrian on a sidewalk when a plumbing pipe in a nearby building has ruptured and begun to spew liquefied shit all over the street below,” Reinhard’s face had a scowl to go along with such an oddly specific image. “You ask the People to rise up and in doing so accidentally disrupt whatever delicate timing you expect others to be following?”
“Do you think it was accidental that Aquitaine sent us such a momentous document at a time when Her Majesty was expected to be gone for more than year, Hjördís?” Cameron’s voice got cold and dark again. “Or that the Dukes are in such a hurry to debate it? I suspect someone was attempting to present her a fait accompli upon her return. Remember, such votes from your two bodies are still advisory. Karl VIII holds the ultimate veto, but she must exercise it with care, especially if the Dukes have worked themselves into a lather. They are more likely to close ranks in spite of personal animosities. And they could spend the rest of their vacation emphasizing things to their own planetary populations, thus hemming Her Majesty in even further.”
Reinhard fell silent. Contemplative.
“You ask a great favor of the People, Cameron,” he finally replied. “Over and above the implicit reward of making the People co-equal with the Dukes. Why?”
“Over generational terms, Karl VIII would like to eliminate the Dukes as a governing body, Reinhard,” Cameron turned over the next card on the table. “Her goal is to remake us to be more in the image of Aquitaine, where leading families have wealth and connections, but anybody can rise to the top of society, without the enormous assistance of aristocratic blood. The House of the People. Wald left a study in her hands, laying out a series of steps and waypoints that could get us there in the time of her grandchildren, if we have luck and peace on our sides.”
“Again, why me, Cameron?” he asked.
“You are as loyal as any man in this chamber, Reinhard,” Cameron said, showing the final card in his hand. “And a commoner with the most to gain for your descendants from such a course of action today. And a man who has the charisma and intellect to lead the People, without pushing so hard that she has no choice but to push back and turn into Karl V in response. Is that what you sought?”
Reinhard Hjördís gulped audibly at those words. Fell silent, but this was shock, not contemplation. Horror, perhaps.
“How soon should we undertake revolution, Chief of Deputies?” he asked, falling into the old patterns, the ones etched into his soul.
“As soon as you feel like creating the future, Hjördís,” Cameron smiled
and rose to depart.
CHAPTER XXIX
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: MAY THE TWENTY-FIFTH AT PETRON
YAN FELT LIKE A THIEF, skulking up to the door and rapping quietly on the wood, rather than ringing the bell or calling on the comm.
They had all trooped to the hospital three weeks ago, to dutifully say their hellos to Moirrey and Digger’s new daughter, Dina, apparently named for the feisty woman’s best friend back when they were teenagers. Vibol had delivered a series of onesies and other articles of clothing appropriate for such a newborn, although as far as Yan knew, the man had never had any children of his own, nor made such clothing before.
But it was Vibol and fabric. You would foolishly lose a lot of money betting against the man.
The birth had been flawless, attended by the best physicians the Court had available. And Moirrey was as beloved here as everywhere else, in spite of her efforts to slaughter so many men at First Petron.
Or maybe because of it. She had broken a lot of molds by showing the women-folk that they could be just as dangerous as the men. Many had paid heed to her example.
Digger opened the door quietly as Yan waited. He also walked like a thief in the night, so Yan didn’t feel so bad.
“Dina’s asleep,” Digger whispered as he gestured Yan to come inside. “Just got her finally settled about ten minutes ago. Moirrey’s in the main room. Can I get you anything?”
“Hopefully, I won’t be that long,” Yan said, following him in. “Mostly need to talk to her about some things that shouldn’t wait and I figure she’d feel better with something to do.”
“I’ll let you chat with her then,” Digger said. “I’ll be in the bedroom with Dina if she wakes.”
“Thanks.”
“Heya, Yan,” Moirrey said quietly as Yan walked into the salon. “Gots yer note about stopping by. What can I help you kills t’day?”