The Science of Power

by Emerson, Ru

  Chris drank tepid water from a metal cup one of the guards held for him, then glanced up at the sun; hours to go before dark. But in another hour, this part of the deck should be in shadow. His face felt burned, probably was. A puff of hot air billowed the cloth above them, creating shade for one blessed moment. His eyes closed. There wasn’t anything else he could do; he might as well try to sleep.

  Dija was crying again, trying to be quiet about it and almost succeeding. Edrith, who had been napping fitfully as their carriage jolted north over a rough road, kept his eyes closed. She wouldn’t thank me for saying anything, and—there isn’t anything else I can say for comfort, anyway. Dija knew the odds at least as well as he did—by now Dupret’s men might have tossed the two overboard, or Dupret himself might have murdered them, if he were aboard that ship.

  Maborre’s captain had been utterly shaking with fury once Albione’s men cast off; he had been all for chasing them down, or fighting the tide and storm winds to return to San Philippe and lodge a formal protest. Edrith was still astonished he’d managed to persuade the man to a sensible course: chase Albione and the man would send them to the bottom; he would probably also kill his prisoners. And San Philippe—they haven’t even a militia, only a soldier or so spread from the garrison at Marie Donne. Hell, they haven’t an embassy of any kind—French, Gallic, any at all. But why would they side with an African captain of a single ship, with no wealth or station, against someone like Dupret—or even Albione?

  Albione: Edrith couldn’t exactly remember where he’d come up against the man, what circumstance, there’d been so many foreign names and faces these past few years. He hadn’t gotten a clear glimpse of the man aboard Maborre, only the sense of height and elegant thinness. But somewhere he’d run across the man, or heard mention of him; he’d remember eventually. Obviously, another of those second-son-to-near-royalty types, possessed of enormous wealth, a towering pride, and the certainty of Dupret and all his class that they were above any law save their own.

  So Maborre had kept on course and brought them to New Lisbon, where Captain M’Baddah had stalked off to find port authorities and lodge his protest there and then with the French and Gallic embassies. Edrith had been left on the docks with a pile of luggage and a very distraught Dija. Maybe she is right; maybe I did wrong convincing M’Baddah. Maybe Albione would have been caught off guard, not expecting a ship like Maborre to chase him down; we might have taken them back. Maybe anything. Chris himself would warn his friend and business partner against second-guessing the past.

  Incredibly bad fortune all around, he decided gloomily. But I have done it this way; I continue the way Ernie would, reach Mondego, send wires to everyone and anyone who might resolve this lawfully.

  And word back to Rhadaz, to tell Chris’s family. Well, he wouldn’t think about that until he had to. Beside him, Dija coughed quietly and blew her nose. Edrith sat up; she blinked red-rimmed eyes and turned away from him to blot her face on a corner of her kerchief. “Dija, you’ll make yourself ill. Remember that they got away before.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Remember Chris is clever, and so is she; Dupret’s men might not be able to hold them—”

  “I know.” She nodded again. He patted her arm awkwardly; those two words were her only response, as they had been since he broke the news to her. He didn’t know what else he could say to help her.

  The sun had set a bare hour before; with tropical suddenness, it was black night—nearly too dark to catch sight of the four-horse enclosed carriage just pulling onto the broad docks of Philippe-sur-Mer. The moon would not be up for two more hours and there were enough clouds to obscure all but the occasional flash of whitecaps, out past the placid harbor. The coachman climbed down and flashed a lantern toward open water; a flash in reply from almost no distance at all, followed by the faint sploosh of oars. “Albione, ici,” came from the water.

  “Maurice, ici,” from shore. The coachman fully bared his lamp; a long boat came quietly in, three men in rough sailors’ cotton caps holding their oars high while a fourth stood in the bow, reaching for the nearest rail. In the very middle of the boat, Albione himself, immaculate in white linen jacket and trousers, and at his feet two bound prisoners. “You have them, sir,” Maurice said quietly. His underlit face bore a sudden, unpleasant smile.

  “Yes—not here. You brought the enclosed coach? Good. You and you—bring them, quickly, and keep things quiet here!” Albione moved forward and was handed from boat to dock. “Shield that lamp,” he added curtly. “There may be someone here to see—”

  “There is no one,” Maurice said flatly. “His Grace ordered the docks cleared this evening, after your first message came. There is rumor everywhere, among the dockworkers and the laborers.”

  “Yes, well.” Albione waved a dismissive hand. “Your master said they are not to be seen; we chance nothing.” He permitted himself a cold little smile as Chris and Ariadne were bundled past him and into the coach, inclined his head as Maurice handed him in after the two, closed the door, and climbed onto the driver’s box.

  Ugh, Chris thought sourly. I hate that big, nasty dude and I truly hate this coach. Bad memories of both. It was utterly dark inside the carriage, with Albione on the seat facing forward, the two of them facing back.

  Any thought he’d had of making a break for it had vanished when the crewman had hauled him to his feet at sundown. His legs were so stiff and cramped he couldn’t have stood on that dock without help, and he’d barely been able to keep his feet under him when they’d rushed him across the docks. Besides, I don’t doubt for a minute Albione would kill her on the spot, if he even thought I was thinking about running. Save Dupret the trouble.

  Ariadne leaned against him cautiously; when Albione gave no sign, her fingers sought Chris’s and gripped them, hard. His grasp tightened in reply. They haven’t searched either of us—maybe if no one does, and she still has that dagger… Well, it was a thought, at least. One dagger against a bunch of thugs armed with pistols, right. Still, it was something, and just now he’d welcome anything at all on their side. Don’t forget Eddie. Ariadne’s fingers moved again, and she pressed something into the palm of his hand—small, metal, and very warm, feathered somehow by the feel of it. Hide it. She might have spoken aloud, so strong did he sense what she wanted. Right. Hide something—with the original Mr. Bloated Thumbs sitting over there waiting for me to pull anything at all, and Godzilla on the bench out there in charge of the horses… He bit the corners of his mouth; a sudden vision of Robyn and himself, out camping, Robyn frantic about bears and then Bigfoot and possibly aliens. Like aliens were going to abduct an aging hippie and her bastard kid from the middle of a Sequoia campground—or any of these guys were gonna search someone who looked cowed and didn’t have a way off the island anyway? Chill, Cray. You laugh, the dude’ll probably run you through. Not funny. He gripped Ariadne’s curious little offering between thumb and index finger and shoved it into his sleeve. Seems to me the stitching was coming apart about here, and I was too damned lazy to find someone to fix it—hey. Proves there’s a reward for procrastinators. He slid the whatever-it-was between the inner and outer layers of shirt cuff on his left arm, gripped her fingers once more, and hoped she’d understand. Yeah. Like, understand what? He wasn’t certain he had any idea what she wanted, handing him her fiendish thingie, as his mom would’ve called it. Maybe she thinks I’ll toss it at Albione or her dad; maybe it’s a voodoo thingie and I’ll start sprouting long nose hairs, fangs, scare ‘em all to death. Almost funny—except for the circumstances.

  And he wasn’t all that certain she wouldn’t use him like that. Her mother’d had the magic, didn’t she say that? And of course charms—if it was a charm—anyone could buy and use those. So what is it, what’s it for, what’s it do—and why do I have it? What use was it? The down spiral of increasingly gloomy thoughts was broken when the carriage drew to a sharp halt and the door was flung open. Dupret’s darkened town-house
door only steps away and, holding the carriage door and another half-shuttered lamp, his man Peronne.

  Albione jumped down and stood with folded arms, waiting for Peronne to unfold the carriage steps; Chris could see lamplight gleaming on the barrel of the nobleman’s pistol against the man’s immaculate white coat. He gestured with it, the least amount, and spoke in a low, flat voice: “Bring them from there, you and Maurice. You two, remember what I told you.” He waited until the bulky Maurice came down from the driver’s box, turned on his heel, and strode inside. Ariadne gave Chris a resigned look, sighed faintly, and went unresisting with Peronne. Chris edged himself out of the carriage as well as he could for bound arms and dead legs; Dupret’s enormous bodyguard grabbed his near shoulder and hauled him out. When it became clear Chris couldn’t walk, the man swore under his breath, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and hauled him off his feet. Three long strides; the door closed behind them with a very solid thud and Chris heard the bolt snap into place.

  Momentary dead silence. Then Albione’s arrogant, impatient voice: “Light, so please you.” A heavy thump; Ariadne swore furiously. Peronne slid the lantern cover aside to bathe the narrow, high-ceilinged hall in light. He set it on a small table and went to open the door to Dupret’s study. More light, all at once, pouring from the study and from the hallway above. Chris blinked rapidly but it was some moments before he could see.

  Ariadne sat in a pool of spread, badly wrinkled skirts, glaring up at Albione, who stared down his nose at her. Peronne was gone, but there were voices in the study, beyond the open door. Up the broad staircase, on the landing, a dark woman was lighting the last candle in a hideous, visibly expensive chandelier. Dupret stood very still in the hallway just above her, hands in his pockets and his face expressionless.

  Behind him: someone. Chris squinted as the chandelier was shifted into position—he couldn’t tell. Ariadne hissed something under her breath, got her knees under her and rose unsteadily as Dupret started down the stairs.

  “My dear child, how pleasant to see you once again,” he murmured, and as he reached the last step, added, “Peronne, take M. Albione into my study, give him brandy. I will join you in a moment, my friend.” Albione nodded curtly and followed the servant; the door closed behind them. “Maurice, unbind them.” He waited until the servant was done. Chris’s arms fell heavily to his side. His fingers were numb, his wrists ached and burned. “Thank you. Now, go tell Marie my guests have arrived, see that the room is ready.” The servant bowed deeply and strode down the long hall, through a narrow door set under the staircase. Dupret drew a small knife from his vest pocket and began cleaning already immaculate nails. “You left the island much too soon, Ariadne; it was not my intention that you go so far.”

  Ariadne laughed sourly; one long-fingered hand clung to the newel at the base of the stairs and Chris thought she’d have fallen without its support. There was nothing wrong with her voice, though. “Yes! You would have kept us atop the hill, next to my mother and under as many mètres of dirt!” Dupret’s head snapped up; his eyes were black. Ariadne glared back at him. “You think I do not know what you had done to him, to bring him here, what you had put in his champagne? Do you think I am not aware what you mean now, despite this pretense?”

  “You know more than is sensible. Both of you.”

  Chris cleared his throat. He wanted to put Ariadne behind him, but his legs were working full-time just to hold him up, and his arms weren’t cooperating just yet, either. “Hey. Inquiring minds and all that. I’m just trying to figure out why we’re here, and not at the bottom of the San Philippe harbor.”

  Dupret offered him a cold little smile. “But such an end for a noble child and her husband! Besides, we did not talk much, you and I, when you were last here.”

  “Yah. Like that’s my fault.”

  “Besides,” Dupret went on, “according to the man I had aboard the trans-Gallic express, there were four in that compartment: you and she, a woman servant and a man who might be your servant or your usual companion. But when you were discovered upon the docks in San Philippe and later aboard the black ship, there were only two.”

  “I told your fancy thug,” Chris growled, “she got homesick and Eddie had to take her back north.”

  “Tell another one,” Dupret said flatly. “A businessman to break from his business and pay two train fares, merely to accompany a servant!”

  “Yeah, well, you’d what? Have clonked her over the head and dumped her in the bay? Eddie and I don’t operate that way, and neither does Ari, okay?”

  “There were none leaving on that train from San Philippe, save a local merchant and his family, all known to the chef de tren. There were no such persons in the two hotels, no horses or carriages sold or rented. For the servant, I care nothing, but your companion—”

  Chris laughed. “Sure, I’ll bet you’d like to get your hands on him. Does the phrase ‘Fat chance’ give you any ideas?”

  Dupret raised one eyebrow, finished cleaning his left thumbnail and stepped down onto the tiled hall floor. He was smiling, but his cheeks were splotchily red, his eyes all pupil. Yow, Chris thought. Forgot what a nut basket this dude is. His throat was suddenly very dry. Dupret’s right hand seemed to have taken on a life of its own; his fingers were dextrously weaving the little knife over and under, back and forth. Chris forced his eyes away from it.

  Ariadne shoved herself away from the banister and stepped between them. Dupret stopped. A very long, tense silence. The Frenchman finally nodded once. He looked at the nail knife, smiled faintly, closed it, and put it away. “I see.” He turned away, shouted up the stairs, “Lucette!” A muffled response from somewhere above. Dupret stood aside, gesturing toward the stairs. “After you, so please you.”

  Chris managed one step but he groaned faintly as his foot came down. Ariadne glanced at him, then wrapped a strong arm around his waist. Using her for balance, he managed to get his legs moving; after the fourth step it was a little easier, but the stairs were purest agony. On the landing, he glanced at her; her face was drawn and her lips set in a hard line. “I can manage,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” Ariadne said, but she didn’t let go of him. Chris was very conscious of Dupret, two stairs below them. His back felt extremely vulnerable. His knees wanted to sag with relief when they reached the top of the stairs and Dupret walked around them, but the man merely indicated direction with a wave of his arm and bowed them on.

  Ariadne stopped short, dragging Chris to a halt. “Lucette?” A young woman came out of the nearest doorway. Lucette’s the maid, right? Chris asked himself. She looks more like the kept woman to me. “This is my rose silk!” Ariadne’s voice vibrated with outrage.

  “It was your rose silk,” Lucette replied shortly. She ran a fondly possessive hand across the spread of skirt. A deep red stone in a heavy gold setting nearly overpowered her long, narrow hand. Dupret came around them and stroked her shoulder.

  “Certain things have changed around here,” he said softly.

  Ariadne brought her chin up. “I see this for myself.” The other woman smiled coldly, raised one hand to cover Dupret’s. The other toyed with a small pendant, set on a long silver chain. Dupret disengaged his hand, patted hers, and indicated the open doorway she had just come through. Dim light touched the hallway.

  “You will stay in here, for now,” Dupret said. “And be grateful I do not kill you both on the moment. You and I”—he looked at Chris—”we will talk, tomorrow. You will consider the way of sense, and tell me where your partner is, or it will go hard on both of you.”

  “Sure,” Chris said. “Like you won’t kill us anyway, right?”

  Dupret smiled; it wasn’t a nice smile. “There are ways to die, and ways. Some take longer than others. Remember that.” He turned to Ariadne. “You will remember how great the drop from these windows is, and what is below them. Also, there are men inside and others watching the house. You cannot get any distance, and an attempt to escape will only
anger me. You do not wish me angry. Also, if either of you dares try an escape, you will both pay for it. You understand this?”

  “Right,” Chris said flatly.

  “There is nowhere you can go—no one of this island would dare aid either of you against me; no one of the foreigners will, either. My sweet, there is food for them, and water?”

  Lucette nodded. “Marie brought it, just now.”

  “Then—there is nothing else for us to say to each other tonight. Unless you—?”

  Chris sighed heavily and said, with exaggerated patience, “He’s on his way north with Ari’s Rhadazi maid.”

  “You lie no better than you play at cards, M. Cray.” Dupret shoved him inside and pulled the door to. Chris heard Lucette’s high, giggly laughter, Dupret murmuring something too low for him to catch, then retreating footsteps.

  The room was large, with high ceilings; one small lamp on the far wall was lit, two candles in a plain silver sconce on the table set against one wall, between two many-paned windows. A large bed, hung with white gauzy drapes, stood in the corner; there was a door opposite, an enormous, ugly cabinet next to that. Carpets littered the smooth, shiny dark wood floor. It spoke money, of course, but not as outrageously as Dupret’s study or his dining room.

  Ariadne stood with her back to him, hands clutching the nearest chair, all her attention seemingly fixed on the table, the ornate tray and the linen napkin partly covering it. Chris gritted his teeth and crossed the room. His thighs ached ferociously and something in his left knee stabbed sharply whenever he put weight on it: Just from sitting too long, he told himself. Painful, anyway. Her shoulders were tense.