And this renegade elf-queen of a petty province thinks she can control them? he thought, sipping his coffee. That makes her either some kind of goddess or some kind of moron. On the whole, I think I’d prefer the latter …
He was approaching the end of the article when there was a rapping on the carriage door. “Come,” he called, and the door opened to admit Delator Maradith. She was a small, slight woman in her mid forties, not particularly imposing even in her official uniform of a straight, high-collared black robe with the insignia of state embroidered in gold and silver thread: the anvil and the phoenix; the pen crossed with the sword; and, most prominently, the golden eye of the Republican Security Corps. She carried her helmet under her arm: a round brass skullcap, polished to a fine sheen, with the eye insignia stamped on the forehead. It had a fixed half-visor to protect the upper face, with narrow eye-slits and a sharp, wedge-shaped nose guard. This eerie, impersonal headgear certainly added to the delators’ aura of ruthless, mechanical efficiency. Without it, the lines around Maradith’s eyes and the streaks of grey in her blonde hair lent her more of an aura of vulnerability. However, Kasimir knew not to take this for granted. So much of RepSec’s work was undercover that being underestimated was one of the most lethal talents of any accomplished delator.
“You wished to see me, Lord Citizen?” asked Maradith, her voice almost as stiff and official as her posture. Much as Kasimir normally appreciated protocol, just now he sorely needed a more relaxed atmosphere.
“Yes. Please, sit down, and pour yourself some coffee,” he offered. Though mildly taken aback, Maradith quickly obeyed. “Have you had a chance to read this?” he asked, showing her the broadsheet.
“Err … no, sir,” she replied, a pained flash disturbing her stony expression and her voice so embarrassed that it was Kasimir’s turn to be taken aback. His curiosity got the better of him again, and he attuned his thoughts to visualising hers. When he saw the images and the memories passing through her mind, the truth dawned upon him, leaving him with the distinct sense of having put his foot in it.
“You’re unlettered … I’m sorry,” he said, awkwardly, although it did serve to wipe the embarrassment from Maradith’s face, and replace it with astonishment.
“How in the Abysm … ? I mean, how could you have known that, Lord Citizen? Am I that obvious? That wouldn’t be a great thing in my line of work.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Delator. I minored in telepathy at the Lyceum. That does give me an unfair advantage.”
“Telepathy, eh? Well that’s … interesting,” she said, trying and failing not to imbue the word ‘interesting’ with the tone of ‘quaint.’ Kasimir allowed himself a small sigh. This attitude was nothing new to him. Telepaths and seers had once been prized assets throughout Lucinia, and an essential fixture of every nobleman’s court. However, even during the days when the Lyceum was dedicated to the supernatural arts, people with an inborn talent for such skills had never been numerous, and the training to attain mastery in them had always been long and costly. Nowadays, with a harmonic telegraph station in every town, the field was as good as dead for all practical purposes. The ancient arts still remained on the Lyceum’s curriculum for their value in historical research, but even particularly gifted psychic adepts were ill-advised to try staking out a career in the occult. Pity, really, as this certainly is a lousy time to be staking out a career in politics, thought Kasimir, and put the broadsheet back down among the coffee rings.
“Anyway, never mind my telepathy,” he said, dismissively. “Forgive my asking, Delator, but don’t you find your, err, handicap a little debilitating in your line of work? I’d have thought reading was fairly essential in criminal investigation.”
“I get by, Lord Citizen. I’ve got that thing: eidetic memory, they call it. I can memorise and copy things for hours after seeing them, without having to understand them. Just my little gift, I guess, but it’s served me pretty well in my career.”
“I can see the possibilities in that. However, if I may allude to how well your career may, or may not be doing … You’ve been with RepSec for twenty-five years now, right?”
“Begging your pardon, Lord Citizen. Twenty-six years,” she corrected him, matter-of-factly. “It’ll be twenty-seven come this Cythril the fourth.”
“Indeed. An impressive service record, in some ways … yet not a single promotion, and I believe I know why,” he declared, proceeding carefully, although Maradith seemed neither disturbed nor even surprised by his words. “Having checked the records, I see that you were in fact offered a number of postings that could easily have led to advancement: one with the Reform Division, another with the Experimental Interrogations Research Unit, one with the Pre-emptive Liquidations Board … all of which you turned down. In fact, you appear to have spent your entire career walking the beat in Lyssagrad like some common provincial constable.”
“Begging your pardon again, sir,” she replied, respectfully although a shade reproachfully. “I worked six months in Anti-Terrorism back in Eighty-two.”
“My pardon. I was forgetting, and what a thing to forget … As I recall, you were offered that post after single-handedly discovering and, if I may say, heroically infiltrating that royalist cell who were planning to assassinate Senator Nyllsen. The senator, understandably grateful, rewards you with that opportunity. Six months later, though, and you are actually requesting to be transferred back to Urban Policing with the raw recruits and the talentless no-hopers. Am I imagining things, or is there possibly a theme here?” By way of reply, Maradith merely gave him a narrow, suspicious stare. “Come now, Delator,” he urged. “You know my reputation as a reformer … not to mention that I could just read your mind if I wanted, but it’s a lot of strain on me and a quite spectacular invasion of personal space. There were reasons I specifically asked for you to accompany me, rather than a higher-ranked officer. I would be very happy to have them confirmed, though.” In spite of his reassurances, Maradith’s suspicious stare continued for a few seconds, and it only subsided gradually as she answered him, in the most guarded of tones:
“I’ll have you know, Lord Citizen, I believe in the Revolution. My grandfather was one of Alyssa Skallagrim’s original Hundred-and-one, if you can believe that. He was actually there when they stormed the Sacred Basilica and took back the people’s tithes. He was there when she stood unarmed amongst the whole company of the Household Knights, and inspired them to side with the commoners. He was there when they made a funeral pyre of King Heremod’s Summer Palace, may the Abysm take him. I’ve always been proud to serve the Republic he fought alongside her to build. That was all I ever wanted to do. Still … I’m not blind, Lord Citizen, and I can’t say as I want to be a part of everything that goes on. The way I see it, I help people the most where I am: keeping the streets safe, arresting the nepenthe dealers, occasionally kicking a bit of royalist arse when I know for a fact it’s there … but if you must know, I can’t see that it helps anyone, or that it helps the Republic to tear out some poor bugger’s fingernails just for holding a prayer meeting, or giving him galvanic shocks just because his malicious sneak of a neighbour whispered that he might be a royalist. But hey, I’m no senator or high-up civil servant. Maybe that stuff is all necessary for our safety. I just know I’m happier where I am. I hope there’s no crime in that, Lord Citizen.”
“Not from where I stand,” replied Kasimir, gravely and approvingly. “Thank you for your openness, Delator. I mean to see your career suitably advanced if this mission goes well … according to your preferences, of course. Err, pardon my asking, but you obviously know your history better than me. Is it true that there were some Alvere in the Hundred-and-one?”
“Aye, a few,” Maradith answered, perfunctorily. “Might be as well you know though, sir: I wouldn’t call myself no Alvere-lover. Oh, I know they don’t make the cows go dry and swipe kiddies from their cradles and the usual homespun crap, but they’ve got their share of troublemakers. Can’t work the stree
ts as long as I have without knowing it. Every night in South District it’s the same story: thefts, muggings, whoring right left and centre … Sorry to break it to you, Lord Citizen, but they really don’t do themselves many favours, the way most of us see it.”
“I don’t question your experience, Delator, but how much of that do you think might just be caused by the dire circumstances most of them still have to live in?”
“Respectfully, that just doesn’t wash with me. There’s lots of poor folks everywhere who get by with the same or with even less, and don’t turn to crime.”
“And there’s lots of Alvere who don’t turn to crime either, but you never see them. You see the ones who do, of course, and you notice them because they’re strange, and we’ve practically made it a crime to be strange. I’m willing to bet you bring in more than a few criminals who aren’t Alvere every night in South District.”
“Guess so. Maybe you’ve a point,” she conceded, albeit with no great sense of conviction. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, though. Seen a bit of it already since this new Alvere queen reared her ugly head … Err, just a figure of speech, Lord Citizen. Wouldn’t dream of casting aspersions on the poor lady’s looks. Just on her politics. There’ve been some right nasty public demos down in Tanners Quay, that damn near broke out into full-scale riots. We’ve run out of cells on more than one occasion … Then you keep hearing of these bloody youngsters, running off to join the ‘real’ Alvere, and leaving their poor parents distraught.”
“You do at least have sympathy for the parents, then?” asked Kasimir, with a hint of triumph that only managed to elicit a deeper frown from Maradith.
“I’m a reasonable woman, Lord Citizen,” she replied, defensively. “I know that there are Alvere who do their best to settle down and live peaceably, and I’m more than happy to live with those who do. I just don’t reckon it’s going to help matters to have this rebel queen stoking old grievances. I know you’ve done a lot for Alvere citizens, sir, and it probably wasn’t easy for you to convince others it was the right thing to do. I don’t reckon you’ll find it any easier now all this stuff’s blown up. More than likely, you’ll find more and more people saying Alvere ought to have even fewer rights than they do now.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, Delator, but I think it was you who just read my mind,” said Kasimir, grimly. “Those were my worst fears, in a nutshell. I’ve spent my career trying to persuade the Republic that Alvere are no different from the rest of us … broadly speaking, and would happily integrate if we only made it worth their while. Then, just as I think people are starting to see the light, some renegade madwoman comes storming into northern Lucinia at the head of a mercenary army, starts dredging up the past, flinging provocations about … You get the picture.”
“Yes, and it certainly isn’t the prettiest, sir. Those Brythons especially: right bunch of psychopaths, even without these ‘magic weapons’ or whatever it is she’s supposed to have given them. Just broadsheet sensationalism, I guess,” she commented, although with an air of hope rather than certainty. “Err, you don’t think– ?”
“One of the first things they try to teach you at the Lyceum, Delator, is that magic is just science that hasn’t had its secrets outed yet, and there’s truth in that. A harmonic telegraph receiver would have seemed magical only two centuries ago, and possibly even this clapped-out vehicle that we’re sitting in, if it ever deigns to move. Having said that,” he admitted, picking up the broadsheet and studying the front-page heliograph again, “I couldn’t tell you how she keeps these ‘lofdrekkar’ or whatever they are afloat … or aloft. Only that we can rule out hot air and hydrogen gas.”
“Well now,” said Maradith in fascination, taking her first proper look at the image. “That’s … a flying ship, and no mistake. Nasty looking thing. Bet you could cause some damage with that.”
“By all accounts she did, but the ships themselves don’t concern me much. Heavier-than-air flight is a nice enough little gimmick to terrorise peasants and native Alvere with, but it hardly gives the Brythons a strategic edge. Steam dirigibles would serve us just as well for aerial reconnaissance, and we could always defend our main cities with balloon nets and mortars. It’s these fire weapons that concern me more; these ‘pyronades.’ Did you hear about them?”
“In passing, sir,” she answered, unimpressed. “I really don’t get that, though. Don’t get me wrong: fire’s scary shit. I’ve had enough bottles of burning oil chucked my way to know that … No-one uses it much in battle now though, do they? I mean, in the days before ships were all ironclad, I suppose incendiary arrows and flame jets were about the best reason to soil your drawers ever, but these days? If you ask me, these pyronade things just made enough flash, heat, and noise to scare the pants off Prince Rowan’s guards – those who still had any after seeing the flying ships, that is – and made them all turn tail and scarper, leaving the ships to fly peacefully over the town walls.”
“That’s partially true, Delator, but it ought to be noted that they only did that after having melted said walls.” He allowed Maradith a moment for her eyes to fully dilate and her jaw to drop before he went on. “Not all of the guards scarpered very successfully either, according to this report. There are no reliable casualty figures: just a bucket of blackened teeth and charred bits of slag that might once have been swords and muskets. You can imagine how this makes me feel. The only saving grace of the Brythons till now has been their obsolete equipment and shoddy tactics. Twenty years ago hardly any of their ships even had normal cannons. Now, all of a sudden … I’ve no idea from where this Gloriana got the knowledge to create such appalling weapons. Of course, there are myths that claim the Alvere were much more advanced in their golden age, while our ancestors were still struggling with the concept of stacking rocks, but I’ve never heard of anything that advanced. Wherever she got the information from, the fact that she chose to sell it to the Brythons is not going to endear her to many people … nor endear the Alvere,” he added, both regretfully and resentfully, before heaving a sigh. “She’s probably done more to undermine my reforms than all of the most ardent conservatives in the Senate combined, yet they send me to make peace with her. Ironic, isn’t it? If I could, I’d be happier to throw the wretched woman, her ghastly toys, and her pet marauders back into the Sea of Storms and erase this whole sorry incident from everyone’s memory. Not an option, sadly,” he concluded, sighed again, and slumped back into his couch.
“If I may, Lord Citizen, you are the sensible choice for an envoy,” said Maradith, encouragingly, although it did little enough to cheer him. “It’s well-known that there’s no-one of your status in the whole Republic who cares more about Alvere rights, and they couldn’t send someone lesser than you, sir. Rebel or no, this Gloriana’s bound to be insulted if they just send her some poxy prefect. The word is you’re slated for big things. Maybe even the Senate itself in a few years.”
“‘The word’ may not be very accurate after this assignment, but I suppose you’re right,” he replied, with sullen resignation. “However … that may depend upon you as well.”
“Me, Lord Citizen? Are you expecting that much trouble when we get there? I mean, I’ll defend you whatever happens, of course, but I wouldn’t have thought even the Brythons would stoop low enough to rough up a peace envoy.”
“You’re a romantic, Delator, but that’s beside the point anyway. You think I requested your presence as a mere bodyguard? I wish it was that simple … The Senate, you see, is deeply sceptical that there can be any meaningful peace with Alvenheim, now that the Brythons are involved. Even if they weren’t, the idea of the Alvere having these new weapons and of us not having them is disturbing enough. Which is where you, with your consummate skills in infiltration and investigation, come into the picture. Am I making sense, Delator?”
“I get it, sir,” said Maradith, brightly. “While you’re busy making friendly with all of the bigwigs, you want me to do some discreet snoo
ping around, see if I can get the goods on Gloriana’s magic toys, ‘out their secrets,’ so to speak? Not a problem, Lord Citizen. Just give me a lockpick and point me at her office, and the old grey matter will do the rest,” she declared, tapping her skull. “Better than heliography it is, sir. Doesn’t even need no flash powder. Lucinia will be back in the arms race before you know it.”
“That would be good,” said Kasimir, with little enthusiasm. “However … we have to face the possibility that she’s one of these jealous innovators who doesn’t like to put her secrets down on paper, for all and sundry to copy. I must admit, with allies like hers, I’d sooner just cultivate a good memory and keep it all in my head than risk waking up one day to discover that I’d become expendable.”
“Right … and so the Senate sent you because you’re a telepath as well?” guessed Maradith. “I get it: if there’s nothing there for me to find, then you can just pick her brains for the info. Cagey stuff.”
“That plan was mooted to me,” recalled Kasimir, bitterly. “You can picture the senators’ disappointment when I had to disillusion them of the idea that any but the greatest seers of legend – if you believe in legends – had the skill to sift and retain such detailed information from their subjects. I told them I’d try, or at least maybe get some insight on her plans, which they allowed might be better than nothing. However, they did have a contingency course. Should it indeed prove that Gloriana herself is the only source of information on these weapons, and that the Brythons themselves can neither make new ones nor even maintain the ones they have – very likely, given that their default solution for solving any problem is to swing an axe at it – there is one very … simple way to cut off their supply,” he concluded, with intense discomfort. The brightness had all gone from Maradith’s expression, although it remained calm and collected. She knows the score, even if she hates it, he thought, sympathising deeply.
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