The Science of Power

by Emerson, Ru

  She glared down at Edrith. “He drinks, or you tell him nothing.”

  Edrith chuckled. “Hey, you know?” He spread his hands wide; the bundle remained just outside Chris’s reach.

  “He is hurting, look at him,” Ariadne said flatly.

  The laughter was gone. Edrith set the packet on the far edge of the bedside table, took the cup from her. “She is right, I looked like that and you would think me dying. And badger me into taking wretched powders. Nasty goo first, you.” Chris rolled his eyes.

  “It’s a conspiracy. I should have known better than to ever leave you two alone together. Ari, this stuff is—”

  “Drink,” she said flatly. “We go back to Philippe-sur-Mer, I get some decentfrom Oncle Frere.”

  Edrith turned his head and stared at her; he had an arm behind Chris’s shoulder, the cup at his lips. “Uncle—Uncle Brother?”

  A smile pulled at the corner of Ariadne’s mouth; she shook her head, waved a hand toward the cup. “Give him that first. He can tell—you—later.”

  Chris giggled faintly; he winced and set a hand between his mouth and the cup. “That’s not fair, making me laugh. And will you at least let me have some of the flat bread in that tin, to wash this stuff down? You would not believe how bad it tastes.”

  A short while later, he was sitting up, reading the voluminous message, eating dark triangles of flat bread, and shaking his head. “I still don’t see what’s so funny, Eddie,” he said finally. He let the last sheet slip to the counterpane, looked at the remaining half-piece of flat bread, shrugged, and popped it in his mouth.

  Edrith gathered up the pages, stacked them neatly together, and dropped them back on the small bedside table. “Not in the message, just the fuss we all had, leading up to it, you know?” His voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “‘Do we dare go to the Mer Khani over this matter? How do they react? Do they murder the messenger? Make as though there could be nothing wrong with these two men? Are they part of it all?’ And then, after so much hair pulling, a message like this?”

  Ariadne turned from the far window. “If you even begin to think I read all that length of message in English,” she said, but fell silent as Chris shook his head.

  “You don’t have to, I’ll—yeah, it would take too long to ‘splain, so I’ll som op.” He shook his head again, broke into spluttering laughter. “God. Humiliations galore, all right—for your old man and a couple Mer Khani.” Ariadne simply stared at him. “Never mind, old data. Even if I told you later, you wouldn’t begin to figure it.”

  “Some committee in the Alliance Parliament decided we had at least the basis for an inquiry, so someone dropped a formal notice on New Holland Mining Consortium, told ‘em, ‘We hear you’re dealing drugs to our Third World neighbors across the mountains, and we’d like to hear your explanation of events. And we want the explanation three days from now, when we come to your headquarters to look through all your paperwork, your smelting plants, and your personal effects.’” He paused.

  Ariadne shook her head. “But wasn’t that what M. Barton said he would ask?”

  “It’s the money aspect,” Chris said. “Like your old man—like Dupret. Those who have the big money don’t play by the rules the rest of us have to play by; New Holland probably never expected anything like that.”

  “But this inspector investigates on what we told him?” Ariadne gestured toward the voluminous message.

  “Barton said the Alliance government really doesn’t like the drug traffic, remember? I guess they don’t, if they’re willing to investigate based on less than hard evidence. You know, if one of us had actually seen your old man and this John Perry shaking hands over a crate of Zero.”

  “Oh.” She considered this.

  “They went in, turned everything upside down. Didn’t find any Zero, but they took piles of contracts and letters away with them, said they’d come back in a day or so. John Perry and Geoffrey Bellingham were both there, protesting madly, Bellingham on about his family honor, Perry about the disgrace, raising the roof. Perry followed them out, though, and told them he put family money into the company but didn’t have anything to do with the day-to-day business. And when they went back two days later, the man was gone. Just flat disappeared.”

  “Oh,” Ariadne said again. “And the other—Geof—I cannot say it, that man? Has he also vanish?”

  “Geoffrey Bellingham. No—they found him,” Chris said flatly. “He left a long note, they think it’s his writing but they aren’t certain. Bellingham’s note said John Perry kept a large part of the company business to himself. He doesn’t know, but suspects the Parliament should check Perry’s family finances and his links to southern French and French Jamaican bauxite mines—and to a French nobleman named Henri Dupret, down in French Jamaica. A long bit about the Bellingham family honor, then a lot of other stuff I don’t really understand, about Perry, his family, his connections—” Chris sighed. “Whatever it all meant, I hope the Inspector Whoosit has it figured out, because he can’t ask Bellingham. Guy hung himself, right before they showed up.”

  CHRIS TO THUKARA: INFORMATION TO FOLLOW VIA SHIP RE ALLIANCE INVESTIGATION, COPY GOING SEPARATELY TO NEW EMPEROR; APPEARS THEY AND FRENCH BETWEEN THEM CLOSING DOWN LARGE PORTION OF DRUG TRADE, THIS SIDE OF THE CONTINENT. PLENTY OF SHIPS AND FINISHED ZERO STILL OUT THERE, THOUGH, DON’T GET COMPLACENT.

  FOUR OF US GOING WITH FRENCH TO PHILIPPE-SUR-MER, GOTTA SWEAR BEFORE DUPRET THE STUFF WE SIGNED IS TRUE; TELLING YOU NOW SO YOU KNOW WHERE THE BODIES ARE, IF SOMETHING GOES WRONG.

  CHRIS

  First trains, now a ship that actually moved at a decent speed. Chris leaned against the high, polished wood rail of Auguste Lyonne’s bow and sighed happily. The air temperature wasn’t nearly what it had been the last trip he’d taken to Philippe-sur-Mer, the humidity was reasonable—he could almost forget where they were going and why, and about the cargo down in the hold. They should haul Albione’s aristocratic backside up here, him and all his lousy crew, make them sit on the deck in full sun, see how they like it.

  Then again, the hold of a ship wasn’t the nicest place to be. For a snotty nobleman like Albione—yeah, he was better off where he was. Besides, he’s not up here to spoil my view. He pulled the hat cautiously over his brow; the sun was bright and would burn him, no matter how cool the air felt. “Burn me worse than I already am,” he mumbled. His face still felt too tight. One of the French crewmen slowed; Chris shook his head, waved the man on. Talking to myself out loud again. To think I used to pick on Mom for that.

  He stretched cautiously; the original powders that healer gave him must’ve been old or something. The new ones were doing a much better job; only an occasional twinge when he pushed too hard to let him know he had cracked ribs, and he felt alive again for the first time in way too many days. He leaned against the rail once more, this time with his back to the sea, gazed from the long, graceful bow of the ship to her low, smoking stack, to the two small decks above this main deck. Auguste Lyonne had three masts, but the sails were furled and covered in dark green cloth. Backup, in case something went wrong with the steam engine, which had only recently become reliable. According to the steward, nothing had in her initial ten swift voyages across the Atlantic and back.

  So, Chris thought idly; his eyes fastened absently on the broad wake behind the ship and the very blue water to either side. So how do I find the right lever to persuade the French to build some of these for Rhadaz?

  Nothing came to him at the moment; there’d be something they’d like in trade, though. He’d work on it. And Ariadne had a good in with her uncle, that could only help.

  Poor Ariadne; she’d been closeted most of the morning with Giraut and a massive, impressively uniformed French navy captain, compiling a list of Dupret’s men in French Jamaica and those she knew of around the Caribbean; what addresses she could recall. She must be about ready to throw something. He grinned faintly. Like maybe Dupret into the harbor.

  He turned ba
ck to look in the direction they were heading. At this rate, they’d reach Philippe-sur-Mer in a couple of hours; he should be able to see it before midday. Behind him, two soldiers clomped by, heavy boots making the wood beneath his feet vibrate as they took the regular hourly turn around the whole deck. Soldiers everywhere—Ariadne’d had that right, they’d brought a full company, and every one of them armed to the teeth—seasoned veterans of the eastern wars, all ready for action. Nothing to worry about. Maybe she was right about that, too.

  He still didn’t feel totally safe—he definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing Dupret again, even with the odds tipped so heavily in their favor this time around. But that wasn’t the situation, that was Dupret; the man made him nervous. You got cause. But there isn’t a thing the man can do to you this time; get this done, behind us. Maybe Ariadne even meant it, about starting a real life together after it’s over.

  Hard to even conceive of such a thing: they’d had so little normal, ordinary time together since Dupret’d brought them together. Maybe—if her uncle Philippe was serious about deeding her Dupret’s properties in French Jamaica, like he’d suggested in that fat letter, and if Chris could work out a deal with him on those steam cars—Yeah. We could have—not Dupret’s old town house, but maybe something else, in Philippe-sur-Mer or better yet, out in the country for part of the year. And then, the place in the mountains I picked out that very first trip north of Podhru for part of the time. Maybe after this, it really will be time for me to start setting up branch offices, letting someone else do the traveling except when there’s a touchy deal or a major one like the cars…. He settled his chin on crossed arms, began considering possible sites for branch offices, men he could trust to run them. It was with considerable surprise he heard the bell announcing the approach of land, what seemed only minutes later.

  Another hour; the Auguste Lyonne lay hard against the wharf and Giraut had gone ashore moments earlier with all but five men of his full military company, leaving two to guard the locked entry to the hold, the other three on deck. Ariadne stood near the ramp, hands clutching her skirts as she watched the last of the bright uniforms disappear between two of Dupret’s warehouses. She looked pale and very tense, and when Chris cleared his throat, she jumped convulsively.

  “Hey,” he said quietly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I know. It is—” She glanced up at him, then back at once toward the docks. No one moved out there; there wasn’t anyone in sight and not another ship in the entire harbor, except for a long, ramshackle fishing boat tied to a step some distance away. “The waiting,” she managed finally.

  “Yeah. It’s tough. We could go back to the cabin—”

  She was already shaking her head. “No. I stay here, get it—get everything over with, as quickly as may be.”

  “I understand.” Her hands were creasing the dark green silk skirt. “Um—you decide yet what to do, once that’s taken care of? I mean, if you want them to leave us here, if you think it’ll be safe—”

  “I—I haven’t thought.”

  “Sure. All right.” He wasn’t wild about staying here, waiting for the next available ship to take them back to the mainland, so they could catch the train north. Even with Dupret gone, with most if not all his hired help taken away. Even with a dozen or so of the French soldiers staying behind to maintain order. The alternative wasn’t wildly appealing, either; going back to New Lisbon on the same ship with Dupret and Albione, even if they were separated by several decks and a couple of large locks. If something went wrong—

  Too late to worry about it, though. Hell. Should’ve found a way around this. Look at her. She looked as tense as he felt.

  The soldiers left on deck walked around the ship, watching the shore, watching for incoming ships, for any sign of trouble. It was extremely quiet; a gull shrieked as it swooped low over the stack, and Ariadne caught her breath in a shrill little squawk.

  The soldiers had made three complete circuits of the ship and were well into the fourth when Chris touched Ariadne’s arm. “Listen,” he said. She was already nodding.

  “I hear—they return. I—if they—” She bit her lip, caught hold of the railing, and leaned across it to stare into shadow. Half a dozen soldiers emerged from the gloomy street, at least that many men, heavily fettered, in their midst. Ariadne held her breath, finally shook her head. “No. Not—not there.”

  Dupret’s men—a few of them. Not Dupret himself. One of the fettered men glared at Chris, another said something under his breath as he passed Ariadne; the soldiers shoved them across the deck and toward the stern. He vaguely recognized one or two; didn’t actually know any of them. Several minutes passed; the soldiers went back down the ramp, back into the streets. More came a short while later, five bound men with them; another ten right on their heels. A long break; shadow had moved considerably before the first soldiers came back, two dust-covered men in their midst. Ariadne watched them cross the deck, disappear toward the stern and the hatch leading down to the hold. “From the sugar plantation,” she murmured. She glanced upward, drew the small watch from around her throat, shook her head. “If he somehow—”

  “They might be holding him out of sight,” Chris said. “Make sure they’ve got all his men so there isn’t any trouble when they do bring him in.” Ariadne bit her lip again, dropped the watch back into the open throat of her white shirtwaist, and leaned against the rail once more as three men came into sight: the captain and one of his junior officers flanking a slight dark man. Ariadne’s shoulders slumped. “Merely the eldest son of Sorionne,” she murmured. She counted on her fingers, lips moving silently. “Thirty—there are only a few not yet here, and some of those may have left the island.” She brought her chin up as Sorionne’s heir and his guards passed; the man glared at her and clearly wanted to say something nasty, but the two men flanking him hauled him off his feet and down the deck.

  Another long, silent hour. There was more sound from the streets now: people shouting in the distance and the echoing clatter of men running close by, a horse going the other direction. Edrith came up next to Chris. “What goes?”

  “Not much at the moment,” Chris said. He took off his hat, blotted his forehead against his shirtsleeve. “I wonder if—”

  “Wait,” Ariadne said tensely. She pointed back along the docks, where late-afternoon shadow lay heavy. “Listen—”

  Chris listened; horse or horses, and the creak of carriage wheels. “I—yeah, wait, I see it now.” He pointed. Ariadne caught her breath; her hands gripped the rail so hard the knuckles stood out white. Henri Dupret’s matched horses and his carriage came slowly along the wharf.

  “Peronne,” Ariadne whispered. “Driving the team, you see?”

  Chris did, but next to Peronne, easily half again his size, the navy captain sat, his sword upraised and glinting red in a stray sunbeam. “Oh, jeez,” he whispered, and touched Ariadne’s hand. “They—they really did it, they got him. I—” Blood thudded against his temples. They actually nailed the bastard! He could have cheered. Ariadne, though: “Are you up for this?”

  She glanced at him; her hand closed over his fingers in a painfully tight grip. “I am ready. Oh yes,” she whispered, “I am ready indeed.”

  Chris eyed her sidelong, but her attention was for the carriage that had just drawn up next to the ramp, and her face, like her voice, was frozen into a complete lack of expression. The captain jumped down, opened the near door, and stood with his sword at the ready; one of the junior officers emerged first, followed by one of the bottom-ranked, followed by Dupret—bare headed, in rolled-up shirtsleeves, his wrists manacled. Giraut came out behind him, a pistol in his hand; he gave it to the common soldier, turned to take a gentleman’s travel case from Peronne. Dupret staggered; the captain caught hold of his arm, steadied him, indicated the ramp with his chin. Dupret spat, freed his arm, and started up the ramp, his eyes searching the rail. They touched on Ariadne, froze; he hesitated, then came onto the
deck and stopped. The captain muttered something; Dupret ignored him as Ariadne took two quick steps sideways to bar their way. She held up an imperious hand for silence when the captain would have protested.

  “Canaille,” she hissed. “I laugh at you and at your dishonor! Return to France and your brother, and know that I did all I could to see you shamed!”

  “Unnatural child!” Dupret brought up his hands and doubtless would have struck her down but Chris stepped between them, shoving her out of the way. His face was hot and he was as angry as he’d ever been in his life.

  “Hey, you dumb jerk, pick on someone closer to your own size. You’re getting everything you deserve.” Dupret hesitated only briefly, then delivered a sharp, open-handed slap. Chris laughed and hit him back, hard enough to send him staggering into the men guarding him. “Eat that, Dupret!”

  The soldiers would have led him away; Dupret dug in his heels and shouted, “My honor! You saw, all of you!”

  “Your honor!” Chris laughed again. “You wouldn’t know honor if it bit your nose off!”

  “Whatever accusation is brought against me, I am still noble, still a Dupret, and still son of the Due D’Orlean!” Dupret topped him; his voice echoed from the nearest buildings and bounced off the water. “That—that outland commoner struck me, you saw, all of you! I demand—I have the right to demand satisfaction, here and now!”

  Chris stared at him; the laughter was gone. Before he could say anything, Ariadne came from behind him and caught Giraut’s attention. “You dare not let such a farce occur!” she said flatly.

  “Shut up!” Dupret snapped at her. He turned his head. “You! You are second son of the Comte d’Arles, you know what the law of France is. I am accused, not convicted, and a Due’s son! You saw that man—”