The hall was filled with ghosts.
Everywhere about us stood knots of phantasmal men and women in close conversation of which we could hear nothing; not their words, certainly, but nothing of their movements, their breathing, their rustling robes. I could see the frescoed walls through their bodies, but fuzzily, as through a thin fog. In other parts of the hall, entire sections were more heavily veiled, as if the conversants required even more privacy.
I later learned this was exactly the case. The human-machine “servers” that ran this building were of such sophistication that they could isolate any area at the whim of its inhabitants, providing as much security from eavesdropping or even observation as desired. What a boon to a public building where sensitive topics were the order of the day! No need for private conference rooms; any bare patch of floor could be converted to an intimate meeting place at a moment’s notice.
It was a relief when a majordomo quickly emerged from the field of “spirits” and took charge of our small delegation with surpassing courtesy. While the baron was not a member of the Council, here in his own home country he was an honored guest, immune to exclusion even when those in charge would gladly have accepted his absence.
Our guide ceremoniously led us past the covertly jealous hangers-on and would-be personages toward a smaller, though no less grand, doorway into the hall that currently served as the council room itself. Maire had described with great pride the design of the chamber where her family had received their subjects for the past three centuries.
According to Maire, the carved “Servants have no secrets from the served,” above the entrance to this room held many meanings for the nobility of Dure. Firstly, it served to remind them that they were, in a real sense, only allowed to rule, no matter their titles. At any time, should their subjects—Nuum subjects, of course—so please, they could bring down the hierarchy of power with ease. I reflected that it had been done before, more times than these people could imagine. That motto also pointed up an interesting fact: This was the only room in the palace where “screens,” those fog-like areas of privacy, were forbidden. Here, in this room, all was open.
The architecture of the chamber itself reinforced this ideal. Instead of a petitioner standing before a large, imposing throne, surrounded by unsympathetically stern courtiers and advisors like the kings of old, here a man stood on a raised platform of his own, equal to the duke—and if he chose to stand, a bit above. Any audience, other than the duke’s own personal retainers, stood below and behind the speaker, giving an illusion of almost a personal conversation between governor and governed. A small part of my mind looked forward to seeing this, in hopes that someday I might introduce a similar egalitarian ideal to my own people. But once again, my hopes were to be dashed.
The raised platform I had been led to expect was gone. A small army of hastily-erected but imposing chairs crowded the dais as closely as they could to the vacant ducal throne without actually touching it, their occupants buzzing with conversation among themselves, their sycophants, and sometimes the seemingly empty air. But most surprising of all was the faintly-glimpsed privacy screen near the rearmost wall.
The baron hissed between clenched teeth as he saw it, and I saw the back of the neck of the man in front of me stiffen. My own heart sank; if this did not mean the old duke was dead, it surely meant that his days were numbered. I longed to divert my eyes to glance at the slight figure marching alongside me.
We were led without words to a spot on the right side of the chamber, near the front but several yards from the outermost of the chairs on the dais. There we assumed the positions that had been drilled into us—in my case, in the last few days. They had been frustrating, agonizing days, but necessary. Our plan had needed time to mature, but fortunately, certain of Farren’s closest allies had been temporarily detained in their homelands to combat a sharp spike in Thoran underground activity: Bantos Han’s contacts had been as good as promised. Now they were all gathered at last, and their own excitement filled the hall with an almost audible tension. Suddenly, a flicker of motion in the rear of the chamber told me that the offending screen had been dropped.
“My lords, your attention if you please.” The voice came from everywhere, giving it a phantasmal effect all its own. It did not apologize for its chauvinistic form of address: Everyone in its range was a lord, or nothing. Contrary to the proud tradition of this place, we did not count. I almost smiled at the thought. The days of their complacency were numbered.
The councilors headed for their seats before the voice had to take the embarrassing course of asking them to do so. What intricate etiquette dictated their seating pattern I know not, but it worked with a minimum of jostling or delay. Soon everyone was in his place. The ducal throne remained empty. My fist clenched when I spotted Farren with his own retainers opposite us and just a bit closer to the stage. I doubted not that this, too, had not escaped Baron Lottric’s attention. If even I could read the signs, how many could there be in this chamber who did not know outcome Farren intended for this farce? And of those, how many would do the right thing when the time came?
From behind the ducal throne emerged another man, draped in red robes that looked almost too heavy for him to bear. Even from our distance I could see the circles under his wrinkled eyes. The baron once more sucked in an angry breath, and perhaps I picked up on the wave of recognition sweeping across the hall: there was no other way I could have known that this was Lord Denis Maccen, the duke’s chancellor. Even though I had never laid eyes on him before, I knew that he was not a well man standing before us today. I refused to speculate on what his master’s enemies had done to him to persuade him to appear.
“My lords,” he said, giving lip service to the assembled councilors but including by silent appeal all of us standing silent before him, “as you have heard, the Duke Foret is gravely ill.” Another mental buzz greeted this information all had surmised, but only now had confirmed. I wondered if Lord Denis comprehended that his were the first official tidings, and if it might have made a difference had he known. “He is so ill that I—have been instructed to convene this emergency meeting of the Council of Nobles to consider the question of his successor.” Was his pause merely for breath, or for deliverance? “Lady por Foret, the Duke’s daughter, is missing from the capital, and unable to attend us. It is the Duke’s wish that you, lord councilors, undertake the business of succession in her absence, and with all the authority that His Grace would carry could he be here.”
That was it, then: the formal transfer of authority over the lands and citizens of Dure to the Council of Nobles. Maire and Lottric had predicted it, failing only to foresee the mechanism by which it could be done, the Duke’s chancellor himself. However it had been accomplished, it was a masterstroke; the datasphere would carry the old man’s speech to every corner of the planet. Even if they wanted to believe it, the people of Dure could never be sure whether power had been legally transferred, or wrenched away.
I shifted my feet. The baron whispered a calming thought. It was not yet time, the final die had yet to be cast. Not until the Council had committed itself…
From his seat nearest the throne, a councilor arose to speak to his fellows. A large, red-faced, balding man in a golden tunic and autumn trousers, his words only incidentally spilled over onto all of us who were the most affected.
“My lords, grievous as this announcement is, we knew already that only the gravest situation could give rise to this emergency session, when in lesser circumstances we could meet through the medium of the datasphere and share interaction with all of our peoples. The seriousness of our deliberations and our respect and affection for our comrade demand that we be here. But we would be foolish—and blindly negligent as well—to ignore the reality of the past few weeks. Thoran resistance to our rule has grown intolerable. After three hundred years a handful of malcontents has determined that they know what is good for the majority of the population, and they seek to bend us all to their will
. Thus, despite the gravity of Duke por Foret’s illness, we cannot linger. We must act now to protect the security of Dure, then return at once to our own homes to protect the sanctity of those as well.”
You had to admire the man; he was using the very upheaval we had created to aid our plan to propel his own agenda!
“I like to say that desperate times require desperate measures. Our times are not desperate, but the longer we fail to contain the senseless violence that threatens our peace the more drastic our eventual response must be. We all must return home as soon as our task here is done. In the absence of Lady por Foret, we must appoint a regent to act in the place of the duke her father. We are fortunate that a candidate exists who is both competent and willing to perform this duty.
“My lords of council, I call forward Lord Farren.”
The man I had hated for so many weeks and so many thousands of miles stepped up almost before his name was called. Right on cue, the council voiced its acclamation, those few who did not approve conspicuous by their abstention. With only one formal step to be covered before he was named regent of Dure, Farren allowed himself a tight little smile.
The chief councilor faced the nobles of Dure for the first time. “If any disputes the right of the council to so nominate,” he announced formally, “let him speak his reasons before us all!”
And that’s when I made my move.
Chapter 50
J’accuse
“I object!”
I shouldered my way past the baron and his guards, presenting myself to the hall. No one had expected anything of the sort; the chief councilor had already opened his mouth to finish his pronouncements. He stopped in mid-breath and stared at me in horrified bewilderment. Only slowly did Farren realize something was wrong, and turn to see what it was.
I was already in the center of the long empty aisle between the crowded nobles, my ceremonial retainer’s robe thrown back over my shoulders as I spoke. Maire and Lottric had both coached me carefully on what to say and how to say it; we had only one opportunity to act, and the slightest mistake could give the Council the opening it needed to remove me from the floor. Should they succeed in doing so, all would be lost. My journey, Timash’s hardships, all the lives lost and the blood spilled on my road to this moment would be for naught and the nation of Dure would be plunged either into merciless tyranny or savage civil war. Everything hung on this moment.
And I didn’t give a damn.
I faced down the entire Council of Nobles of Thora, turned to the man who had kidnapped Hana Wen, and gave vent to the hatred that I had waited all these long months to declare.
“Farren, you are a murderer and a coward!”
Literally, there was not a coherent thought in the room. No one had expected this; no one had ever seen its like. An entire planet awaited my next words, but my only focus was on the man I intended this day to see lying dead at my feet.
To give him credit, he recovered more quickly than any of them.
“Who are you?” His voice was calm, but I knew he was a master at masking his true emotions, and his mental shields were far more sophisticated than my own.
Denying him the satisfaction of a straight answer, I turned again to the Council.
“I am Charles Clee, Lieutenant in the service of King George of England.” None of this meant anything to them, of course, but I hoped that uncertainty would work to my advantage. If nothing else, it certainly confused them. I could see them exchanging worried glances. “I have come to call Lord Farren to account for the abduction of one Hana Wen of the city of Vardan.”
Farren almost exploded in exasperation. “Please! This man has come here with a private grudge over a Thoran girl! Guards! Remove him.”
“Wait!” echoed through the chamber in such commanding tones that Farren’s retainers froze in automatic response. Lottric—no, Baron Altaiv—stepped forward. “I would hear this man.”
Farren opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again at the look on Lottric’s face. I realized then that they must go back many years together, and even Farren knew when he had reached a line he must not cross. Not yet, at least. But that did not mean he was finished.
“Then at least sever the datasphere link to these proceedings,” he commanded. “I deserve not to have these slanders datacast for all to see.” His order was quickly carried out. We were isolated.
“Whoever you are, Charles Clee, and whoever you claim to serve,” admonished the chief councilor, “it is not a crime to take hold of a Thoran woman and do whatever one likes with her.” He glared at me, and then at Lottric for bringing me hither.
I drew his attention back upon me. “Nor is it for that, that I charge Farren with the intent to murder and with cowardice. The cowardice he displayed toward me on the day he took Hana Wen from her family. When I attempted to stop him, he struck me from behind.” That hit home; I saw Farren struggling to remember, then puzzlement when he did so.
“But that wasn’t you—he was a Nuum…” Too late he stopped. Not even his most ardent supporters could deny his confession. I saw it on their faces, and on his. It might not be enough to derail his plans, but it was a bump in the road.
“How fortunate you had them sever the uplink,” Lottric noted wryly. Farren blushed furiously, and I moved to take advantage. Time was running out…
“But the most serious charge of all, my lords,” I said, giving them their due at last, for now I had their complete attention, “is that of attempted murder—not of a Thoran girl, nor even of me… My lords, I charge Farren with the attempted assassination of Maire por Foret, Countess of Dure!”
That brought the house down.
I am told that despite the superb insulation of the great hall, the physical and mental uproar that resulted from my speech was heard in the street outside. The council was shouting, the chief councilor was calling for order, the nobles were aghast and babbling, and Farren was watching me with eyes that oozed loathing. Had he Harros’ power, I would have been struck dead on the instant. I returned his gaze with cold intensity, for now we both knew there was only one way for this day to end.
“My lords!” he cried when the tumult had died sufficiently. “You see now why I asked that the uplink be severed. Can you imagine, judging from the reaction of this honored body, how this news would have been received by the world? I demand that this Clee produce evidence of his claims, or by God I will strike him down myself!”
No better invitation had been handed down in the history of Man. I reached into my pocket and produced my evidence.
“My lords,” and by this I included them all, “I hold in my hand a branch library. As you all know, it is incapable of being altered to deliver false information. It can record only what it senses or what is programmed by a Librarian.” Again, Farren moved to speak, but his time it was the chief councilor himself who waved him to silence.
“Farren, you will have your turn.” He nodded sternly to me.
“This branch library has been in my possession for some weeks. For a brief time, however, it was in the possession of a man named Durrn, first mate on Countess por Foret’s sky barge, the Dark Lady. While in his possession, the library recorded the following conversation.”
Without any cue from me, the library replayed with perfect fidelity the conversation of the mutineers I had overheard while hanging from a maintenance harness outside the boat. I hadn’t even known the recording existed until the Librarian told us all in Lottric’s study, since when it happened I didn’t know it was Durrn who had stolen the Library. I watched Farren as everyone there heard the mutineers’ plan and their reference to him, and the slow drain of color from his face brought me an unholy pleasure.
When the record was done, there was no need for anyone to prompt Farren for his reply. Swift and slick as the cobra he resembled, he was ready.
“My lords, this means nothing.” He spread his hands innocently. “First of all, if this recording is true, it places this man on the countess’ sky bar
ge among the rowers. There are only two reasons why he might be there: Either he is a criminal, or he is not a Nuum. If he is a criminal, then he is not to be believed, and if he is not a Nuum, then he is in possession of a forbidden machine, which makes him still a criminal, and for which the penalty is death. In either event, we need look no further for the countess’ murderer!”
“Who said the countess is dead?” I challenged.
“If she is not dead, let her appear and take her rightful place as her father’s heir!” he flared, but even before the echoes of his voice had reached the walls he saw my wolfish grin and he knew he had made a ghastly mistake.
One of the baron’s other retainers walked up to the dais before them all, turned, and threw back her hood. There for all eyes to see stood Maire por Foret.
“It’s a trick of the rebels!” Farren shouted, and before anyone could move, he seized an illegal weapon from inside his own robe and shot the figure before him straight through the heart.
I leaped forward, slapping the gun from Farren’s hand with a swipe of my baton. Obviously a cheap copy intended for concealment and emergency use, it shattered when it hit the floor. Farren did not, even though I hit him a lot harder.
I twisted about to see where his errant shot had gone, relieved to see only a smoking hole in the steps of the dais, two feet from the nearest chair, in which the stunned inhabitant still stared down at the spot marking his brush with death. Of the woman Farren had shot, there was no sign. Holographic images cannot be harmed by gunfire, but her usefulness had ended and the Librarian had terminated her program.
“There’s no uplink!” Farren screamed from the floor. “You fools! There’s no uplink!”
The Stolen Future Box Set Page 35
