by Emerson, Ru
THE SCIENCE OF POWER
Ru Emerson
www.sfgateway.com
Enter the SF Gateway …
In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:
‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’
Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.
The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.
Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.
Welcome to the SF Gateway.
Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Website
Also by Ru Emerson
Dedication
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
Black storm clouds filled the sky over Bezjeriad, billowing across the low hills west of the harbor and turning the inland sea and inlet steel gray; wind blew steadily across the water, raising whitecaps.
No pleasant day to begin a sail from the most important Rhadazi port city, or try to negotiate the narrows to reach the harbor, and there were indeed no ships in sight. Lehzin, Duke of Bezjeriad, stared out the window of his highest tower, eyes moving restlessly from open water to the harbor, back again. Now and again he ran a narrow, long-fingered hand through thick, dark red hair, or picked nervously at a beard beginning to show silver. Rhadazi could sail in such weather, if needs must—so could many of the foreigners who had brought trade and prosperity to his city’s docks over the past several years. Most of his own people liked the challenge: negotiate the bay and that narrow entry to the inland sea, fight the odd currents just outside the inlet and then the isthmus formed by Bezjeriad on the north and the French Gallic states on the south…. Lehzin considered the last time he had managed such a maneuver, in high seas and winter winds. Years ago, of course—Lariman, his father, had still been Duke, and properly furious with him for it. I did no more than he’d have done, at that age, unwed and certain nothing could ever harm me.
He felt along the hard wooden window seat for the little bottle the Healer had left him, drew the cork, and drank down a swallow. It tasted horrid, as always, and for a very brief, uncomfortable moment he wondered if it would stay where it belonged. “Bah,” he mumbled aloud. “Seven days and my stomach still thinks it’s aboard a very small boat in high seas.” He set the bottle down, eyed it distastefully, and shoved it as far from him as possible.
Drugged wine. I drank Zero to toast the Emperor? Someone is mad. He and Eugenia both—but she’d taken only a tiny sip, because of Shesseran’s birthday; Eugenia hadn’t needed the Healer’s wretched liquid since the first day. Every Duke in the kingdom had received drugged wine, if Afronsan had it right. Lehzin glanced at the handful of thin paper—the most recent telegrams from the Emperor’s brother—and shook his head. Had someone seriously thought he might murder the Emperor, his Heir and all those who maintained the duchies, simply by sending each a special bottle of dosed liquor? “And if it went astray? Or some chose not to drink?” The Thukar and Thukara of Sikkre hadn’t, because of prior bad experience; the Emperor didn’t touch anything stronger than fruit juices these days—nor did young Aletto and his Duchess, up in Zelharri. Everyone knew that—locals and the foreigners who traded in Rhadaz alike.
It couldn’t have been meant as a coup, then—but what? All the unknown enemy had really done was infuriate their aged and aesthetical Emperor, Lehzin decided gloomily. And push the angry old man into closing all Rhadazi ports and borders.
And so Bezanti sat in the harbor out there, Rhadazi ships not allowed to leave Rhadazi waters. The foreign ships had been gone for several days now.
The Emperor himself is mad, closing the land’s borders, he thought flatly. I can vouch for five points along my own coast where the yellow rope rings of Zero are brought in. Or where they were. Now, since Shesseran XIV had tossed out all foreigners and closed the borders to any imports, the foreigners who brought important, useful (and financially beneficial) goods into Bazjeriad Harbor were barred—but those who brought Zero might as well have been handed a free pass to land anywhere along the vast and largely unpopulated seacoast.
He closed his eyes, turned away from the sight of so much commerce gone wrong, so much profit lost. It could make him ill. Or angry indeed. And anger directed against Shesseran was of no use at all; a man might as well shout at the wind to shift it into his sails instead of against them. The old man had always been stubborn and set in his ways, and he’d only grown worse in his age. Most of the credit for opening Rhadazi ports and the new trade would have to go to Shesseran’s younger brother and heir, Afronsan.
It was a wonder Shesseran had left Afronsan as Heir, even more a wonder he hadn’t insisted upon immediate removal of such things as the foreign telegraph.
Lehzin glanced at the uppermost paper, now three days old:
MY PERSONAL THANKS FOR THE AID YOU GAVE THE YOUNG MERCHANT CRAY AND HIS PARTY IN ESCAPING RHADAZ. IT WILL NOT GO UNNOTED WHEN I AM ABLE TO REWARD. KEEP CLOSE WATCH ON THE ISTHMUS AND YOUR BORDERS FOR FOREIGN SHIPS, OR FOR THOSE OF MERCHANT CASIMAFFI, AFRONSAN.
Casimaffi. I trusted that man, even when proof seemed against him. Even after all the rumor that he’d been part of the plot with young Dahven’s half brothers. Casimaffi had been so convincingly aghast, so appalled by the whole situation. And, of course, his family company, his ships—they’d been useful to Bez, bringing in foreign goods, creating trade.
The same could be said for the merchant Cray, of course—and he was doing his best to track the foreign source of Zero. “Luck to him,” Lehzin mumbled, and sorted through his pile of telegrams. They did little to improve his mood: More messages from Afronsan; word from the north that Jubelo was still very ill and Aletto hadn’t yet wakened; nothing new from Sikkre, save that the men who’d attacked the Thukar’s palace apparently didn’t know who’d hired them. “Wondrous surprise.” Another message, received early this morning, from Vuhlem up in Holmaddan, sent south to Cornekka via messenger and wired from Jubelo’s palace, expressing fury for the insult of the liquor and worry for the Emperor�
��s health.
“Of course Vuhlem wouldn’t have taken brandy, even in toast,” Lehzin told himself sourly. “At least, not openly.” The old pig was the Emperor’s contemporary and friend; they’d schooled together and Vuhlem supposedly shared his friend’s aesthetical tendencies. Lehzin, who’d met the northern Duke only a few times when he was still Latimer’s heir, thought otherwise—that high coloring, those red-rimmed eyes. That temper. His own father had carried the same sign, though Latimer drank heavily—and openly. Lehzin considered this briefly, shrugged it aside. Holmaddan’s problems weren’t anything to do with him, and besides, Vuhlem must be nearly seventy. Eventually, one of his furies or old age would do him in and he had only daughters to succeed him.
And at the moment, he must be angry indeed: Lehzin grinned. By now every Duke in Rhadaz knew about it: Vuhlem’s expelling the caravans; the Red Hawk grandmothers’ and Gray Fishers’ imperious appeal to the Emperor, and Shesseran’s angry defense of the caravans. Had to take them back, did he? What a pity.
One last, long sheet, this the message his man had brought him within the hour—from Afronsan, of course, and more the length he’d already become used to, in just the short while the lines had been in place. What we did before this swift, simple communication—I scarcely recall. He scanned down the page—it was mostly update. On Jubelo, who was eating once more, Aletto still down but his outlander Duchess and his guard captain efficiently managing for him. Personal thanks from Thukara Jennifer and Duchess Robyn for his aid to young Cray and his lady. And at the bottom—Lehzin stared at the paper, groped for the window seat and dropped onto it.
REPORT FROM DRO PENT SAYS VUHLEM HAS TAKEN PALACE, VERY LARGE ARMED FORCE HOLDING IT AND WUDRON’S LADY PRISONER AGAINST WUDRON’S COOPERATION. THUKAR READYING A COMPANY IF IT BECOMES NECESSARY TO TAKE EAST GATES OF DRO PENT BY FORCE; ASK THAT YOU READY SHIPS AND MEN TO SAIL NORTH AND ATTACK FROM WEST. BE AWARE VUHLEM MAY HAVE SHIPS—WORD FROM SIN-DUCHESS LIALLA THAT VUHLEM COOPERATING WITH LASANACHI. KEEP LOW PROFILE, BUT BE READY AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. LETTERS TO FOLLOW, AFRONSAN.
Lehzin dropped the page, buried his face in his hands, and groaned. “The whole world’s gone mad,” he mumbled. All the rest—and now this. Dukes attacking one another? Taking Duchies by force? What did Vuhlem want, all of Rhadaz? And if first Dro Pent—why, what would be next on his menu but Bezjeriad?
1
Chris came awake with a start as a hard hand gripped his elbow—Eddie’s, he recalled after one heart-stopping moment. “Jeez, guy, don’t do that!” He sank back into the plush cushions with a groan and clutched his temples. “God, my head.”
“You have been stuck in that seat for most of the day,” Edrith replied mildly. “And slept through three stops, including Liberté.”
“Liberté—naw, I remember that one.” Chris sat up cautiously, rubbed the back of his neck, and groaned again. Edrith’s face loomed above him, all shifting shadows and odd lines from the low-burning gas lamp on the far wall and the rolling, jerking motion of train over rough track. “Oh, man? I have the headache from hell. Liberté—yeah. Some guy outside the window was bellowing that, and it sounded like they were beating the whole train with aluminum baseball bats.”
“Alumi—never mind.” Edrith dismissed the odd bit of unfamiliar English with no effort at all. “They divide the train there, remember?”
“I know that. Most on down to the big lake, rest out to the coast, and obviously on rock track that was new during the Stone Age.” Chris edged up a little straighter, swore briefly as the car lurched, and edged the red velvet drape aside so he could look out. “It’s dark out there.”
“This surprises you? I said you slept all day, didn’t I? This is the south, remember, there is no dusk to speak of. Besides, mix thick cloud cover, no moon, and you get what?”
“I just had to hook up with a comedian, didn’t I? Where’s my—ah. Bag.” He pulled the thick case from under his feet and rummaged through the side pocket until he found a plain, flat tin box. “Remind me to buy Mom something nice this time out, I’d never have thought of getting any of these willow-bark thingies made up. There any water left?”
“Since no one drinks it but you, there should be.” Edrith shoved to his feet and turned the lamp up a little, then crossed to the dry sink next to the curtain-draped door. He came back with a heavy clay jug, a two-handled cup. Chris fumbled one of the tiny teabag-like squares from the box and dropped it into the cup, poured a swallow’s worth of water and swirled the contents, then drew a deep breath and drank it down. His nose wrinkled; he poured more water and drank, fast.
“Those have such a gross taste, I can’t even believe it.” He fished in the cup and drew out the now-empty gauze square. “Remind me, we get into New London this trip we just gotta track down a pharmacist who can do pills out of this stuff.”
“Get the equipment and find a willing Rhadazi to work it,” Edrith replied.
“Sure. Once Shesseran dies or comes to his senses. Gaaa. Gross.” Chris wrinkled his nose, drank more water.
“If they taste that terrible, why you take them at all—”
“Yah. ‘Cause it’s basically the same stuff Jen used to suck down, pills from that big bottle, remember? Killed headaches? I take it ‘cause I get ‘em and the stuff works, that’s why. You try Lialla’s trick with Thread when your head aches, I can’t swing it.” Edrith grinned, shook his head; Chris rolled his eyes, then closed them. Eddie never got headaches, probably wouldn’t know what one was if it landed on him with all four feet. “Gimme a few minutes, okay?” He leaned back gingerly. The touch of prickly red plush against his scalp set the whole thing pounding wildly again. “God.” He sensed rather than heard Edrith moving around behind him; long, capable fingers worked the muscles on either side of his neck. A long, companionable silence, which Chris finally broke. “Hey. Thanks.”
“Of course. Can you talk now?”
“I can listen, at least. What you got, you had to wake me up? You get that wire sent to Fahlia?”
“Last stop,” Edrith said. “Whether the Duke will be able to send it on to the Heir, though, with the Emperor in such a temper—”
Chris laughed, interrupting him midword. “Hey, don’t sweat that end of things, okay? We have enough problems, and the last person I’m gonna worry about is Afronsan. Wire was still in when we left, and I’ll betcha it still is. Besides, anyone’s gonna land on his feet once this mess is cleared up—well, anyway, that can’t be why you woke me up?”
“Nev-ver,” Edrith retorted. “But I thought you ought to know the attendant will be here shortly to ready beds and neaten the room. Also, since Liberté there are now only the two private cars, ours and another, which is empty, one standard-class sitting car with but seven passengers, the baggage car, the attendants’ car, and the dining.”
“Okay—you can count. So?”
“So I have walked end to end several times and also spoke with the attendant since our last stop. There is one man who plays cards with him, which I thought suspicious, but I have seen him since and I don’t know him; there is no one on all the train I recognize, no one who might be Dupret’s—at least, no one interested in me at all when I go about, or walk the platforms whenever we stop.” Faint noises and women’s voices from behind the screen, where Ariadne and her maid Dija had a semi-private area; Edrith and Chris both glanced that way and Edrith lowered his voice. “I think the lady would be glad if you offered her perhaps a walk and a proper meal; she has not been outside this box on wheels in—how many days now?”
“Same as me, five of them,” Chris mumbled. He was quiet for a moment, eyes focused on his fingers. He sighed then. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going nutty in here, she’s probably half-goofy with nothing to do but read and sleep. And if someone sees us, well, so what? They’ll probably spot us the minute we reach the coast and leave the train anyway.” Chris considered this, eyes fixed absently on the far wall. Leave the train: He didn’t want to think about it at the moment. Ju
st the idea of leaving the safety of this car and walking the length of the train—Get you in practice, dude. Get you warmed up to take on San Philippe. Right. The train line ended in one of the busiest small ports along the coast; anyone might be watching for them. But in a town of that size, they stood a better chance of not being recognized; it wasn’t as likely Dupret’s agents would be there, anyone who knew him and Eddie by sight. Our rotten luck, we’ll run right into one of Dupret’s boys.
“A real meal, on a proper table, with servers,” Edrith reminded him firmly. “There is fowl tonight, in a sauce of mushrooms and hot peppers.”
“Which we’d get in here anyway,” Chris said, still absently. He sat up straighter, shook himself. “But she’s used to eating nice and all that, she probably would like that.”
“Unlike either of us.”
“Yeah. Especially you.”
Edrith shrugged. “Such meals merely serve to remind me of the difference between a Dupret and myself: food which is not taken plain but covered in strange broths, and much too involved rituals for consuming them,”
Chris leveled a finger at his nose. “Right. Don’t give me that, you came in off the streets years ago and you can eat pretty when you have to, Eddie, I’ve seen you. You know how to do dinner deals at least as well as I can, and you’re like me, you eat anything that doesn’t fight back.” Edrith laughed quietly; Chris laughed with him. “All the same, guy, thanks for the nudge about dinner, I forget that stuff.”
“I know you do. However”—he cast a swift glance toward the screen—“you should begin to remember. You are wed to her and this lady will thank you for such considerations. But I had a selfish reason as well. You and I need to plan what to do once we reach end of line at San Philippe, which is not very far at all now. You are sleeping too much and thinking not at all. Some fresh air, food in a proper dining chamber—and the lady could use the time alone with you, and you with her.”
