by Emerson, Ru
“It’s not quite so bad as that, she sees him. In fact, I hear she’s using prophylactic until the Emperor dies, in addition to Afronsan’s silver bracelet,” Jennifer said blandly. Dahven blinked. “Well, wouldn’t you?”
“With her husband Heir to an Emperor who can’t beget an Heir of either sex on any of his wives and who’s paranoid about everything in sight? I’m surprised Shesseran didn’t make a provision of the Heirship that Afronsan stay single until he took the throne. Ah—was there a point to all this?”
“Took your mind off Vuhlem for a few moments, didn’t it?” Dahven grinned, set most of the papers and the dispatch case on the floor, and broke the red string.
“Mmmm. It would be easier to go cross swords with Vuhlem than deal with all this mess. Roads. I’m so tired of roads.” He turned a page, a second, turned one back, and sank a little lower in the chair.
“Consider the alternative.” She scanned down the first narrow sheet, set it aside. “I wish they would finish that supply of paper the Mer Khani left, I hate the feel of the stuff.”
“Mmmm.” Dahven’s attention was mostly on the document in his hands. “Way the Heir’s using the wire, it won’t be long.”
Silence. Jennifer read through two more lengthy messages, shook her head. “No action yet; Afronsan’s urging everyone to be ready but says he doesn’t have a lever to use on his brother at this point. Shesseran’s conceded the telegraph to be useful but he’s flat refused any more new things; Afronsan’s sent another wire to Fahlia for Chris to lay low and stay abroad for the time being. Poor Chris. He worked hard on those iceboxes.”
“Shesseran isn’t immortal; the work won’t go to waste.”
“I hope not. Mmmm. Lehzin’s extremely cross from the sound of things, having trouble with some of his own people harassing the foreigners still stuck in port. But Shesseran won’t let any ships come in to take them away, or let any of our ships carry them off, not even across the isthmus. Sounds like Chris and Ariadne got out just in time.”
“Mmmm. Nice of Shesseran. Man’s beyond rational thought.”
“Obviously. Poor Lehzin. There’s been no problem with our little pack of foreigners, is there?”
“No. I don’t think our merchants feel the foreigners are responsible for the sudden drop in outside money, like the Bezanti do. Well—not yet. I daresay the Mer Khani would like to leave but not if they’ll be stuck in Bez or Podhru.”
“Don’t blame them—ah. Cornekka’s passed on a Red Hawk message from Lialla.” Dahven looked up from his papers.
“Still not communicating with Zelharri directly, is she? I wish she’d quit using you as a go-between.”
“Well, she hasn’t asked me to pass anything on, so maybe she is. Communicating. And with Aletto in no condition to bully her into coming home, and Robyn not likely to bully anyone—”
“Damn Lialla. Does she even know about Aletto?”
“I think—yes, Red Hawk’s grandmother passed word, I remember Robyn said.”
“Well, damn Lialla anyway. What’s she doing up there now?”
“Getting into trouble; of course. What else when it’s Lialla? Actually—” Jennifer shook her head. “I shouldn’t pick on Lialla like that, she’s being more use than I’d have ever thought, up there.”
“Really.”
“Don’t say it like that; she got that bottle out, didn’t she? So we know for certain it’s Vuhlem behind the drugged brandy? And she found out what Vuhlem was doing with his dirty money.” Jennifer read down the message. “All right. She’s still in the caravaner’s house, and apparently the locals still think she’s Red Hawk, like her friend Sil, so no one’s bothering her at present. She’s got more company, a woman from that village. Where that bottle came from, the one Rebbe analyzed for us?”
“Yah. Nothing on where it came from before that, though.”
“Lasanachi ship. Nothing so far on where they got it, of course.”
“Of course.”
“She has more on Vuhlem’s secret army from that wretched boy. He’s lucky Lialla’s dealing with him; I’d have popped him one days ago. We’ll have to—no, I see, she had the grandmother send a message on to Podhru for the Heir, and a copy of this went down to Zelharri also. Nothing new about Zero. Here, you and Grelt will want this, troop stuff.” Dahven took the long sheet, folded it, and set it atop his stack. Jennifer set aside a message, a second, picked up the third. “Oh, good, something from Chris. Wow—they’re nearly all the way down the coast; says the train’s fast, clean, and classy; feels like he should be hung by his bloated capitalist thumbs, way they’ve been living.” Silence. “Says they’re all fine, no problems since Podhru, just boredom. It’s—” She ran a finger across the top of the sheet. “Well, all right, no problems up until three days ago.”
“With Chris, that’s certainly something.”
“Right. He’s—oh.” She read rapidly down the rest of the sheet. It fell from her fingers and she gazed blankly in the direction of the door for some moments. Dahven set his document aside and waited. When she finally spoke, it was to herself. “Metals. Smelting, refining, steel—aluminum? Steel… Bearings, plates, cogs, and… right.” She scooped up the sheet and turned to him. “All the Mer Khani are at that inn, aren’t they?”
“All of them. Why?”
“The one who signed the deal for denim—little man, nearly bald. John Carrey—no, he was the telegraph foreman.” She snapped her fingers. “Audren Henry, got it! The denim was a side deal, he works for the company that makes the telegraph wire, and he was in Sikkre to finalize the plans for connecting all the lines—”
“I remember him; also, I know he’s still in Sikkre. So?”
“Yes, but he was also trying to sell me on trains, did you know that?” Dahven shook his head. “Trains—that was partly Chris, of course, so I didn’t think anything of it when he started suggesting connecting lines between the Mer Khani and us, through the mountains. Especially since I knew Shesseran would never, ever go for it. Probably why I never mentioned it.” Jennifer held out the wire. “Read this.”
Dahven did, but he looked as perplexed when he finished as he did when he’d started. “Consortium I understand, at least the way Chris is suggesting: secret business partnership, right? But—the rest of it: Aluminum? Bauxite?”
“Lightweight metal, I don’t know anything more than you about the manufacture of the stuff. Just that I think I remember Chris saying it was just coming into use in a very few places recently, and I know it’s a hard one to make.”
“All right: Chris thinks there may be companies out there—Mer Khani and involving these—these two names?” She nodded. “He thinks these might be the men who are trying to bring Zero into Rhadaz? And—wait. There was a tea company Chris told me about, your old world…”
“I—it’s here, East India Company. Thanks, Chris, I’d’ve forgotten.”
“Still—why? Let me see, it was—sell drugs to the natives to be certain they’d have a guaranteed good price for their tea. But Rhadaz hasn’t anything like that tea, and the Mer Khani haven’t shown interest in any particular thing. Unless I’m missing some point.”
Jennifer enumerated on her fingers. “We have land. Lots of it, not very many people occupying it. A vast seacoast. Wars have been fought for a lot less of either. We also have minable metals. Unless things are very different between this world and my old one, we have metals anyone in a burgeoning industrial nation would want.”
“We have?”
“Ask Chris, if he ever gets back—or maybe we’ll have the Heir do that by wire. Also—we have Mr. Henry right here where we can talk to him.” She slid off the bed and shook her skirts down. “I’m going up to my office to track down a few particular contracts, and check some names. And then I think we send for Mr. Henry, and ask him some extremely pointed questions.”
The Thukar’s small hearings room was much less formal than the blue room—the walls were white, the floor dark tiled, the only furnishi
ngs two narrow benches flanking one deep window and near the opposite wall, a plain, polished oval table and half a dozen matched wooden chairs with padded arms. Dahven used the little room to wrestle out market problems, or deal with other matters where he wasn’t likely to need to pull rank on the other participants. He and Jennifer settled at one end of the table, waited while one of the kitchen women arranged an enameled tray holding bowls of fruit and bread, plain cups, and a pitcher of cool wine, another pitcher of chilled herb tea. She set a thick clay jug and a tall cup of water at Jennifer’s elbow, tweaked the bowls into line, and left. A moment later, the Mer Khani were shown into the room.
Audren Henry was indeed a small man, particularly next to the guardsman who escorted him and the two other traders who trailed behind him. In with him on the cloth deal, Jennifer thought. She could remember both faces, vaguely—not the names. Henry stopped short of the table, inclined his head, and indicated his companions as the guards drew back. “I—ah, I thought perhaps—ah—” He drew a large, dark kerchief from an inner pocket and blotted his forehead. “I thought, perhaps the Thukar and Thukara would not object if—”
He never before had stuttered so. Terrified, Jennifer realized. Odd, there was nothing in her note that should have frightened him so. She set that aside for later; likely she’d be terrified, trapped as this man was in a foreign country and an increasingly hostile climate. From the look of him, you’d think Dahven had the headman and the block all ready for him. Not funny. She set that aside with an effort. But it would certainly explain the two men: witnesses. She settled her elbows on the edge of the table; glanced at Dahven, who shook his head minutely, then gestured for the guards to leave them. My show. Thanks, my sweet, she thought dryly. “You have nothing to worry about from us. I had some questions on one or two of the recent contracts, and thought you could help me.”
“Um—questions. I—yes, of course.” He glanced at his companions; all three took seats at the end of the table.
Jennifer took a sip of water. “There’s tea and wine, help yourselves. I’m not going to bite anyone, Mr. Henry.” He managed a weak smile and sat back a little further in his chair. The other two men took a little wine and filled their companion’s cup. Jennifer fingered the small pile of contracts under her left elbow. “You work for several different companies, if I recall.”
“Um—well, yes. And myself, of course. It’s—it’s easier to send one man into Rhadaz, with instructions from several different interests.”
“And—there was—there was no reason not to close a contract of some kind for myself.” He swallowed. “If the opportunity presented itself. I didn’t think it was—that there would be a difficulty—”
“No difficulty there, Mr. Henry, and I understand how hard it must have seemed to your people to get someone into Rhadaz to conduct trade bargains. Even with the Heir’s willing assistance.”
“Ma’am—well, yes, it wasn’t anything simple.”
“So while you were finalizing the telegraph setup, you made a deal in the Sikkreni market for cloth, along with one or two others.” Momentary silence. Henry watched warily as she flipped pages and ran her finger down one sheet. She looked up and said sharply, “Who told you to suggest steam trains to me?”
“Who—I—trains?” He shook his head; thinning hair clung to his temples. His face had gone very pale.
“Let me rephrase that,” Jennifer broke in crisply. “How important was it to the head of New Holland Mining that you get the Rhadazi to agree to at least one rail line between your side of the continent and ours?”
“I—it wasn’t—the merchant Cray—!”
“Yes, I’m aware of Chris’s fascination with trains. Let me rephrase once more. The head of New Holland Mining: Is he also involved in our current problem with Zero?”
“I—Zero?” The little man paled so suddenly, she thought he might faint; one of his companions eyed him nervously and would have spoken, but Henry gripped the man’s forearm and gave him a wide-eyed, urgent look she couldn’t begin to translate. “Thukara—ma’am, I know about the stuff, everyone does, but—but that I’d have anything to do with it! Why, ma’am, that’s dirty trade, no man with a conscience would touch it!” Silence; Jennifer waited. “The trains—why, my bosses at the foundry in West New Holland only suggested I put in a word for them where it might do the most good, and, ma’am, we all know you’re out-lander and used to faster transport than what’s here.”
“How?” Jennifer asked sharply.
“How? Well, I mean—ma’am, we’ve our own out-landers, one or two of ‘em who’ve taken up with men in the foundry trade and who know about things like the large airships, fast vehicles of one sort or another and the special roads for them. But—” He was silent for a moment, lips moving and eyes closed. “But that—that wasn’t so much the matter, it’s only what the merchant Cray’s said often enough. Well, when he showed interest and then said to talk to you about ‘em—about the steam engines and the new width tracks, well, I was only doing what seemed like good business for all of us, you see that, don’t you?” He blotted his chin on his sleeve and watched her anxiously.
“It’s logical,” Jennifer admitted. She let her fingers drum on the pile of contracts. “I just wonder why it upsets you so.”
“Well—I—”
“Ma’am,” one of the other two put in quietly, “after all that’s gone down here, man can’t get back to a ship of his own, let alone back home. And after all the killings the past moon-season or so, on the streets and—well, and here in the Thukar’s palace yards—you can’t much blame a man for being fearful of his skin. Or his neck. Besides, it’s not like a man in Audren’s boots here could tell his bosses no, if they told him to do something for them.”
“That’s so.” Henry nodded emphatically. “Some, like the owner of the cloth mill down south who’s supplying cotton for the denim cloth—he’ll listen when a man like me tells him how things are in foreign places, and what I can press for in Rhadaz, and what not. And why. Some, like the foundrymen—well, the men I work for came up poor and the hard way, and now they’re rich and own half of West New Holland and all the mines, and there’s no telling them a single thing. They don’t listen, they talk. Ma’am, if they don’t like what I do for them, they’ll discharge me flat.”
“I understand. I had to work for others before I came here.” Another little silence; she glanced at Dahven, who slumped in his chair, eyes moving from one to another of the men opposite, but without much visible interest, and he was pulling apart a thick piece of seed bread, making little balls of it. “About the Zero,” she prompted. “You don’t know anything about it, and your employers don’t, either, is that it?”
Henry swallowed. “Ma’am, I told you, everyone knows about it back home—anyone who’s gone to sea or south from our borders for certain, most of the raw stuff comes from the Incan states, and it’s thick in the south islands—New Portugal and all. You’ve probably heard it’s in all big cities along the east slope, New Amsterdam and New London, right down to the Da Gama Isles off the southern tip. But it’s confined to the slums, pretty much. There was talk a while back to make it illegal, but the Parliament decided not. After all, it’s only the dirt poor who use it; they’d likely be dying of drink or filthy living conditions otherwise.” Jennifer could feel her face heating and Henry must have seen something; he stopped talking abruptly and cautiously edged back in his chair.
“I’m not unfamiliar with the attitude,” she said crisply. “I think we prefer to keep our social dregs alive, and maybe even see they get some kind of chance.”
Dahven dropped his bread. “You should be aware by now that in Sikkre we at least try to treat our dirt poor as people. It isn’t always easy or simple. All the same—” He turned a hand over, looked at Jennifer, who nodded.
“The Zero isn’t wanted or welcome here,” she said. “You are all aware of that by now, I’m certain.”
A chill little silence. The third trader set his
cup aside and shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, Thukara? You won’t recall me, it’s Oliver Stewart. Beg your pardon, but I don’t understand why you needed to send for Audren, to give him such a warning. If we’d any part in that kind of trade, I doubt we’d’ve been fool enough to even enter Rhadaz, let alone get caught here after that fiasco on the Emperor’s birthday. It would be—well, as bad as carrying guns, or bringing in alcohol, wouldn’t it?”
“Perhaps. Possibly not. And that wasn’t the reason you were sent for, Mr. Henry, if you recall.” She held up the top contract. “I’ve been doing a little research, comparing documents, checking names, companies—and there’s a pattern, a name or two that crops up whenever metals are involved. The telegraph wire, some of the workings for the new cloth mill, the three-horse harvesters that were dealt for this past spring. Steel carriage springs and joints.” Silence. “Geoffrey Bellingham and John Perry, Mr. Henry. New Holland Mining. Tell me about them, please.”
Audren Henry shook his head violently. “Ma’am, I can’t!”
“You can,” Jennifer said evenly. “I suggest also that you had better.”
“They’re—they’re partners in the largest steel mill in the country—our country, New Holland Mining. Those men also own the new bauxite foundry; there’s one or two other ventures, possibly, I don’t know about.”
“And?”
“And—I don’t know what you want, ma’am, honestly!” Henry drew out his kerchief, blotted his forehead, and wadded it hard in one white-knuckled fist. Jennifer waited. “They’re hard men, ma’am, I can tell you that. Hard and ungiving, and if either even thought you had something from me about them, why, that’d be the end of me, I’d lose my position and never get another!”
“They won’t learn from me—and none of you men are likely to tell them, are you? Are they involved in the Zero that’s reaching Rhadaz?” Henry stared at her. The silence stretched. “All right, you don’t know or you won’t say.”
“If I thought—” The little trader shook his head and fell silent.
