by John Meaney
Were there market chambers in the depths? Was a lonely stallholder’s son sitting now in some deserted corridor?
“Enough.” He waved the holo away.
He looked at the gripplecandies, but did not take one.
Instead, unsealing his tunic pocket, he drew out the hard teardrop-shape. Immediately it pulsed with white revolving rings of light.
“Thank you, my Lord”—remembering the party—”for this reminder.”
It was the emblem of A’Dekal’s think-tank, the Circulus Fidus.
The rings flickered out as he laid the holopin aside.
I could remain here, in my palace, never seeing my demesne.
He gestured open an enquiry lattice; its intricate triconic webs pulsed, inviting exploration.
Rule unseen.
“Personnel enquiry.” Indicating a multihued tricon.
Eat. Grow lazy. Collect my tithes.
The tricon’s facets unfolded: a motile origami in light, a subtle semantic maze through which only a Lord might navigate.
Dispense justice by proxy.
Drilling in, plunging—with noble-house access—down strata of a different kind: the layers of information hidden away within the world.
Never see my subjects.
Rows of blossoming tricons, unfolding, blooming, as he picked their tiny seeds of light. Every symbol held at least six meanings:
1) its phoneme sequence;
2) its chromosequence;
3) its numerological facets (where phonemes rhymed with integer values);
4) its mythos resonances (where colour suggested mythical figures—hero or villain, warrior or dragon—and therefore psychological characteristics);
5) its socio-cultural import (denoted by speed of motion and topographic transformation as it revolved, twisted, turned itself continuously inside out); and,
6) subtlest of all, its logosophic gestalt, whereby the mode-of-combination of the other five elements could enhance a tricon’s meaning, imbue it with personal or objective significance, even reverse (perhaps ironically) the surface message.
Talk only with my peers. Dissipate.
His equals.
Those trained in the labyrinthine thought processes which could appreciate a written language such as this. A communication modality of rich concepts and subtle, twisted connections.
Remain in my study, reading and researching.
By sheer good fortune, with Avernon’s friendship, he could be an ambassador, of sorts, to the world of logosophy: one of the first to work on the new model. He could explore its ramifications, publicize its importance, link it to other modes of investigation. Bring his own skewed insight to bear on Avernon’s magnificent work.
Write poetry, perhaps.
There was so much he could do here, reforming his demesne.
“But this is my time, isn’t it?”
Whom did he address? Fate itself?
Father’s knucklebones, falling into the acidic Vortex Mortis . . .
“And I have someone to thank, after all, for my Destiny.”
Facets: petals of shimmering pinks, heartbreaking emeralds, unfolding over and over. An invitation to pluck forth meaning from its holo core.
Mother’s cupric tresses. Her hips swaying as she stepped up onto the lev-cart.
“Show me where he lives, this one.”
Intricate control gestures, matching the convolution of its parts.
“The one I have to thank.”
Reaching inside, to its heart.
“Show me—”
Revealing . . .
“Gérard d’Ovraison.”
. . . the Oracle.
Lady Sylvana was his first visitor.
“Sweet Fate, Tom! What is this?”
It was small, with a ceiling which sloped at forty-five degrees.
“Er ... It used to be a Laksheesh-Heterodox chapel. Don’t worry, it’s been deconsecrated.”
She stared up at the jumble of small protrusions across ceiling and walls. There were three or four hundred shapes fastened there: from small fingerholds to half-metre twisted ridges, with a few grinning gargoyles scattered around for variety.
“I won’t ask.” Highlights rippled across her golden tresses as she shook her head. “Why—? No. Let’s go back outside.”
Tom glanced back around the chamber—his training-room for climbing: already he had practised dozens of problems, tracing convoluted routes among the tricky holds—and his smile faded.
I used to climb only for fun.
“This, at least, is pleasant.” Outside, Sylvana gestured along the gallery’s length. “A cool walk before dinner.”
It was Tom’s running-gallery, his substitute for the outer reaches of Lady Darinia’s Palace. Smaller, but his own.
“I’ve had one of the minor dining-chambers redecorated,” said Tom. “And my study.”
“Well, then.” Lady Sylvana took his arm. “You’d better show me.”
For a moment, Tom could scarcely breathe. Even through the heavy velvet of his black tunic, her touch electrified his skin. Then, regaining composure: “This way.”
A phalanx of servitors, both hers and his, trailed them as they walked.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” she said over dinner, “to see you invested. It must have been quite an occasion.”
“Oh, yes.” That same involuntary grin spread across Tom’s face. “I’ll say.”
Amusement twinkled in her eyes. “Was that how you looked at the time? Smiling uncontrollably?”
“Oh, no.” Tom laughed. “I’ve almost got used to the whole crazy notion by now.”
“This is the subdued look? I really should have been there.”
“I wish you and—” Tom stopped.
“Cord would have been there,” she said quietly “But the Field Marshal wouldn’t grant him leave. I gather old Takegawa’s something of a tyrant.”
There was a silence, during which servitors unobtrusively came to the long table, took away the platinum dishes, wiped the marble down with white linen, and brought in the next course.
“I like this decor.”
Sylvana’s gaze travelled around the sweeping transparent shelves and columns, the slowly moving mother-of-pearl panels. Peacock blue predominated; other chambers were deep green or lustrous red.
“Smartnacre and quickglass.” Tom gestured at a flowing translucent faux-buttress. “They’ll form a leitmotif.”
“Very nice.”
Dessert was sorbet and wild dodecapears. Tom picked at his, then placed his tine-spoon down on the tabletop.
“I didn’t know you and Corduven kept in touch.”
Not since your marriage was annulled.
“Yes.” Quietly. “Comms to that whole area are difficult. I think Takegawa keeps the academy deliberately isolated.”
Time to change the subject.
“On Old Terra, you know, they had open non-fibre comms, worldwide, for a long time.”
“Cooking their brains,” said Sylvana, “with EM radiation. Didn’t they also make themselves stupid with lead in their cooking-pots?”
“Don’t you mean aluminium?” Tom frowned. “Or was that the Romans?”
“Before the Monolingual Stases, anyway.”
“Probably.” The global monopolies, first of NetAnglic, then of WebMand’rin, had caused education and research to ossify. “Before they figured out the need for diversity.”
“Tell that to the Circulus Fidus. They’d like the whole of Nulapeiron to follow their stuffy ways.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t been following their polemic. Has—? Ah, there’s the daistral. Well done, Felgrinar.”
The grey-haired man who bowed in acknowledgement of Tom’s praise was Tom’s chef-steward. With the tiniest gesture of his white-gloved hand, he directed two junior servitors to set down the daistral pot and lay out the cups.
“Speaking of which,” Tom continued after the daistral was poured, “Lord A’Dekal, after
the ceremony, invited me to visit his demesne.”
“I’m impressed.” Sylvana raised her cup as though in toast. “Did you enjoy your stay?”
Tom kept his tone noncommittal. “I declined his offer.”
Sylvana lowered her cup, untouched.
“You turned down Lord A’Dekal’s invitation.” A smile slowly spread across her clear-skinned face. “Oh, my word!”
“The Lady Sylvana will decide the boy’s punishment.”
Frank blue eyes, appraising him.
“An arm, perhaps?’’
“Very well. “ Lady Darinia stood. “Before you deliver him, remove an arm.”
Her grey gaze swept over Tom.
“Either arm will do.”
Tom jerked awake. He was bathed in sweat, dripping, and his nonexistent left fist was tightly clenched, every nerve on fire.
“Damn it.”
It was the middle of the night, but he rolled from the bed, pulled on running-tights with integral shoes, stretched lightly and went out to run.
He passed the side corridor which led to the guest quarters, thinking of Sylvana in the ornate bed, swathed in white smartsatin— and jogged on.
Ghostly grey. No servitors in sight.
He ran up and down the long gallery for an hour. He was tireless: the more he ran, the stronger he became.
He finished with wind-sprints, then stretched out, performing variations on splits for fifteen minutes.
In his ex-chapel climbing-room, away from the main training configuration, a small looped cord hung from the ceiling.
Alternating, he performed sets of one-hand press-ups and one-finger chin-ups until his tendons were about to pop. Then he worked his abdominals, stretched lightly, and went back to his bedchamber.
He stripped, slapped a glob of smartgel against his chest and let it spread across him, cleansing and exfoliating. As the gel slipped off him and crawled back into its container, Tom climbed into bed.
Controlling his breathing, he began his relaxation: starting with his toes, working up his body, lightly clenching, then releasing, each muscle group in turn.
He slid into dreamless sleep.
“Who would have thought you’d come so far?” Sylvana’s voice was musing. “You’re hardly the same person . . .”
They were on a smooth ledge, by a wall encrusted with baroque carvings, overlooking a gentle slope. It was the edge of Tom’s palace, where dwelling melded into natural cavern. In the depression below, the sapphire-and-gold jewel which was Sylvana’s lev-car floated.
“A subversive notion.” Tom hitched an eyebrow. “Personality formed by environment.”
“Ah, Tom! Always looking for debate. Don’t you ever just relax and enjoy yourself?”
Below, three servitors were setting out a silver picnic table by the lev-car. One was oriental in appearance, and Tom realized suddenly that it was Tat, one of his former dorm-mates.
“Truthfully, my Lady?” Tom turned his regard on Sylvana. “I’ve never had much time for that.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you have.”
She placed her hand on top of his, for balance, as they descended the slope together.
After they were finished, one of the servitors fetched a message crystal for Sylvana. She excused herself and went inside her lev-car, while Tom remained seated.
It was Tat who came over to clear the dishes. His face remained servitor-impassive as he worked.
“Thank you, Tat,” Tom said quietly.
A chill worked its way along his spine. For the first time, Tom realized how wide the chasm was between his present circumstances and his former life.
Not once during the meal had Sylvana’s glance so much as flickered at the servitors’ hands as they laid platters, poured sauce, served drinks, took away dishes.
“A summons from Mother.” Sylvana returned, looking thoughtful. “By courier to Lord Shinkenar, then femtopulse to your message centre.”
Her complexion was flawless. Her pale-blue eyes were perfect. Soft, pink lips, wide mouth. Artfully arranged blond hair.
Tom forced himself to speak normally. “She wants you back home.”
“Yes . . . But I don’t think it’s serious.” Her smile was forced, but the worried frown which hid behind it caught Tom’s heart. “I’m glad I got the chance to visit, Tom.”
“So am I.”
He stood as she prepared to go back inside her lev-car.
“Come and see us. Mother would like to see you, too.”
“I will, my Lady.”
Sylvana gracefully climbed aboard, while Tom could only watch, entranced.
Two servitors carried the dishes aboard. Tat, gesturing, caused table and chairs to collapse and fold themselves into a knotlike bundle.
“Thanks, old friend.” Tom’s voice was almost a whisper.
Tat stopped dead, eyes down, then gave the tiniest of nods before picking up the folded furniture and carrying it into the waiting vehicle.
From a colonnade, with a long cape wrapped around himself, Tom watched as Sylvana’s sapphire-and-gold lev-car slid out of his realm and was gone.
Then he went back into the heart of his palace, shadowed by his own silent servitors.
~ * ~
41
NULAPEIRON AD 3413
“What’s your ambition, Felgrinar?” Tom asked his chef-steward. “What’s the one thing you’d really like to achieve?”
“Sir?” Felgrinar put down the infotablet he had fetched.
“Isn’t there anything you really want to do?” Tom leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the glass conference table, and crossed his ankles.
“Nothing, sir, beyond serving”—his face was a stone mask—”to the best of my ability.”
Only a former servitor could have sensed the full depths of Felgrinar’s disapproval. Did he and the other senior servitors resent their transfer from Shinkenar Palace?
“That will be all, Felgrinar.”
The Chef-Steward bowed his way out of Tom’s conference chamber.
“Damn.” Tom stared, unfocused, at the smartnacre walls. “Damn it all!” He slid his feet from the tabletop. “Access the tablet,” he directed the room’s system. “Show me everyone in the palace. Start with alpha-class.”
Tricons were arrayed above the glass table.
“Now that one looks familiar.”
Chuckling, he pointed, and the tricon unfurled.
“My Lord?” A familiar voice from the archway: Tom had already dissolved the membrane.
“Jak!” Tom stood up, and restrained himself from rushing around the table to greet him. “Thank Fate you’re here!”
“Anything I can do . . .”
“Sit.” Tom pointed to a chair across from him, then seated himself, knowing that Jak could not sit down first. “You’re here because of sloppy wording.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked for a list of all alpha servitors within the palace bounds.” Tom indicated the triconic lattice. “Not just those whose allegiance is to me.”
“I’ve been negotiating with your warehouse steward,” Jak said stiffly. “Importing procblocks is—”
“Don’t worry.” Tom held up his hand. “I’m sure that’s all fine.”
“Thank you.”
Tom waited for Jak to say more, then realized he would not.
“I don’t suppose you could call me Tom?” He stared at Jak’s impassive face. “Ah, well. You’ve called me worse things—”
A smile twitched on Jak’s face.
“—but perhaps you’d better not.”
“What can I do for you”—Jak paused, just long enough—”my Lord?”
“Where do I start?” Tom sighed, and nodded at the tricons. “I’ve got thirty-four servitors and servitrices to interview, and that’s just alpha-cl—”