‘Well luckily that won’t happen,’ she retorted. ‘The Empress has him now. Maybe you should take your biology theses to her? I’m sure she’d be very grateful.’
‘That particular front has already been covered by the Professors of Exobiology,’ Astor informed her, deadpan. ‘If he had fallen out of the sky I might have something to say about how hard he hit the ground and how many pieces he would have been in, but that’s about it.’ And so Minna’s ignorance was proven. She had not even insulted him.
‘You’re mean,’ Yenie said to him suddenly in her little girl voice. It was surprisingly cutting.
‘And you’re stupid,’ he replied after a moment’s due surprise and recovery. ‘You hang out with people who use you and don’t care.’ And with that he walked on to his waiting tea cups and pale companions.
Yenie sat, rigid and silent, a study in the effort not to cry.
Minna looked after Astor with loathing.
‘He’s an asshole,’ Daraon said, waving one hand to order more tea, more cake, more everything on Minna’s tab although he ignored Yenie. He patted Minna’s foot, as if she was the one who needed consolation.
Her back was to Yenie, but she betted the little fool was still blinking back tears. She thought that she ought to defend Yenie and kick Daraon for his thoughtless misdirection, but she didn’t want to. Instead, she felt angry that Yenie was such a weakling. She glanced around the web and saw expectant faces, waiting for the cue of what to feel, who to talk about, what to say next… She used to love that feeling of command it gave her but for some reason that was absent today. She picked up the largest piece of cake.
‘I think we should have a party.’
They dissolved into excited planning almost immediately. Minnabar felt the awful moments slipping away from her into the past. Soon she had nearly forgotten them and when full dark came on and the moons rose she led the way home as if nothing had happened.
TRALANE
Tralane was in the kitchen talking to Carlyn when she heard the commotion of the web’s return. Both women stopped their conversation and turned an ear to the half-open door that led on to the halls. Tralane’s senior student, Jardant, continued his methodic rolling and slamming of bread dough on the stone slab at one of the workbenches. Beyond him two of the lesser house retainers, a mother and son, chopped and stirred at soup and some kind of fruit pastry preparations without looking up from their quiet organisation. As in most of the larger houses in Glimshard, early evenings were a time of congregation in this room and its size and organisation reflected the expectation of large and hungry crowds. Tralane’s had the majesty for five times the five actually present but unless the Scarlets were in for feeding it rarely saw even that many at once.
She met Carlyn’s gaze. Both women mouthed the overheard word, ‘party’ and grimaced. At once they began to gather their plates, bits and pieces of cigarette fixings and the wine and made noises about moving up to the workrooms for Jardant’s benefit.
He wasn’t fooled by their apologetic mumbles and lifted his head, straightening as he gave the dough a really good slam into the marble, resting his hand on it so that his palm and fingers sank slowly through the shiny mass and it oozed out all around in huge, elastic bulges. His white linen shirt hung off him like a workman’s tunic. Between it, the black marble and the white dough he was a showground curiosity, a blond, tanned, worked-out labourer absorbed in his task. His every move was as apparently studied as an expert model under the constant and constructive eye of the photographer but at the same time he’d always seemed to be absolutely oblivious to all the reasons that Carlyn had nicknamed him Best in Show. Tralane thought the entire thing was a masterful performance to begin with but in the four years he had been her student and among her household she’d never been able to get proof – if it was an act it was one without any intervals.
‘I see what you’re doing,’ he said, looking at the guilty pair of them through hanging golden curls.
‘Bring some more wine when you come up,’ Tralane said. ‘I’m going to have another crack at the goggles. You can show Carlyn your new equipment.’
He shook his head. ‘Fine. But I am not cooking for all of them. I’m not even making tea.’
‘Jard, I’ve told you a billion times, you live here. Do what you like.’ Tralane tucked the wax-wrapped cheese under her arm and grabbed her glass.
‘She treats me like a servant,’ he grumbled, going back to the bread.
‘You let her,’ Tralane said – another mystery there. Jardant showed no inclination to do anything about Minnabar’s suggestive commands other than tolerate them as though he really were a servant. Technically, his position as student included household duties as part payment of his education and board but there was no question that Minnabar pushed her luck with him, although she usually reserved it for when there were some Scarlets around to observe. He was only six years older than Minnabar, which left him fourteen short of Tralane but always chose older adult company over any younger. The other obvious possible reason for his disinterest was not in doubt – Jardant dated men and women but had never done so with any serious intent. He was married to engineering.
Tralane and Carlyn left him to his fate without a backward glance. Carlyn led the way through the halls and over the worn carpets with ease, taking the first elevator up to the level of the array and then walking to the workshop via the stairs. The high-array elevator car was officially broken and Tralane wasn’t even going to tell Carlyn she had fixed it. She looked at its dark doorway as they passed it and felt a flicker of pleasure at her secret, the roof deck, the hidden flyer. It was followed by a slew of cold disquiet as she was forced to also remember the purpose of those things, what they’d been reduced to. Her mind filled with the image of Alide’s smug face and the over-scented smell of his carriage.
Carlyn pushed the workroom door open and Tralane took a deep breath of the chemical odour there – polish, oil, degreaser, burnt metal. Better. She was able to deposit her half dinner on the bench without slamming anything. Carlyn walked her bottom on to one of the wooden stools opposite Tralane and set out her picnic items with precision, pushing Tralane’s instruments and debris aside with careful moves of her small hand. Carlyn’s home was neat and everything she owned was organised and clean. She never made any remarks about Tralane’s surroundings for which Tralane was grateful.
‘So,’ Carlyn said, looking up at the glass roof overhead as it began to rain. ‘You’ve got some big news?’
‘I can lipread at five hundred metres,’ Tralane said, sitting down in her old armchair and resting her plate over the worn blurt of stuffing that was flattened from many similar crushings. She was about to say more when there was a knock on the door.
‘Yes?’ she called, wearily, seeing Carlyn already drawing breath to reply.
Jardant opened it and leant half into the room, arms still dredged to the elbow in flour. ‘Runner here for you.’ He retreated and there was a brief murmur and scuffle of the odd dance of people trying to dodge one another and both going the same way. A moment later a girl with a brown ponytail and immensely long legs dressed in the Empress’ tabard and shorts paced into the room and looked around with an ‘oh my’ glance at the paraphernalia until she caught Tralane’s eye. Then she gave a small start, as though instantly reprogrammed with manners.
‘Pardon the interruption Professor Huntingore. I’ve been asked to convey an invitation to you on behalf of the Empress and General Borze. There will be a banquet and dancing with entertainments at the palace tomorrow night. Please attend by the seventh hour. Shall I take your reply now?’ She handed a silver envelope to Tralane, addressed by an expert scribe’s hand. Tralane knew from experience that all details would be inside, together with a written invitation.
As she took it, the runner looked at Carlyn and gave a small bow. ‘And Professor Loitrasta. I also have one for you.’ She pulled a satchel around from where it had been hanging behind her hip and riffled throu
gh a large number of silver envelopes, at last finding the correct one and handing it over.
‘Thanks,’ Carlyn said, leaning forward to take it and being careful not to dislodge her dinner plate. She added as she returned Tralane’s glance, ‘Of course we’ll both be going.’
‘Marvellous!’ said the runner with practised joy. ‘I will convey the good news to her Highness forthwith.’ She was about to leave when she paused, hand on the door, and turned back. ‘That man who showed me in…’
‘Jardant,’ Tralane supplied with clear pronunciation. She saw Carlyn smile out of the corner of her eye.
The runner did not notice. ‘Is he your… um…’
Tralane fought the urge to roll her eyes. ‘Student. He is my senior student. But not my Um… so feel free.’
The girl twitched with genuine pleasure, hands briefly clenched, eyes alight, smile brilliant. She almost squeaked. ‘Thank you.’ And was gone, her soft and rapid tread vanishing almost instantly along the hall.
‘Good old Bestie,’ Carlyn murmured, biting into her apple. ‘Now, about this lip-reading thing. What are you talking about? Some piece of equipment I assume.’
‘Well, I was going to tell you all about this Karoo creature but you know about him now,’ Tralane began. She picked the goggles off the bench and skipped back to the recordings she’d made earlier, handing them over to Carlyn with casual grace, as if they were a commonplace item.
Carlyn took the goggles and looked down into the eyepieces which were already playing back the juddering, badly focused images from that afternoon. She looked up at Tralane, put her dinner plate on the floor and then with a quick look at the straps, put the goggles on her head. ‘Holy fuck.’
Tralane paused to enjoy the moment. It was sweet, being able to share something she’d made, done, found. Inside her mouth news of the crystallograph and the storm recordings waited, longed, begged to be said. She knew that if they came out then Carlyn would be endangered. But without her Tralane didn’t know what to do. She’d spent a lifetime being casually contemptuous of politics from her convenient position in the back end of a forgotten subject. Now that her research was known to the Minister of War, was required, was conscripted, secret, she couldn’t think straight. The sense of personal danger and of threat to her family was so intense it made her thoughts scatter. Her tongue was twisted with the need to talk and the imperative not to. Now was the time to be clever and cold. She needed reassurance so badly.
‘Empress took the Karoo to the palace,’ Carlyn said with disgust. ‘Probably showing him off.’
‘She’ll give him back.’ Tralane said thoughtlessly.
Carlyn pushed the goggles up on to her forehead. ‘Well, treasure, you certainly found a damn good gadget here. Don’t suppose you’ve got more than one pair?’
Tralane shook her head. ‘There may be more but…’
‘Yes, trawling through the Archives required. I see.’ Her gaze was unusually sharp and made oddly more so by the jaunty angle of the goggles and her mass of blond curls. ‘You look like death, Hunt. What’s the matter?’
Tralane, unable to stop because the thought had just occurred to her and she was in such familiar company, said. ‘Someone in my house must have told them.’
‘Told who what?’
Tralane realised what she was doing. ‘Sorry, thinking aloud.’
Carlyn pulled the goggles back down again for a minute and then took them off and handed them back. ‘Do you want to talk or am I going to have to beat it out of you?’ She sipped her wine and frowned. ‘I’ll set Isabeau on you.’
Tralane pulled the obligatory face of mock horror. ‘I can’t tell you. It’s under the war act.’ That at least was true.
Carlyn stuck her jaw out and then hesitated, watching Tralane’s face. ‘You’re not kidding. Are you in trouble?’
‘Yes. And that’s why I can’t tell you about it,’ Tralane adjusted the goggles.
‘But… is it about the pamphlet?’
Tralane glanced at a box under one of the benches where several hundred undistributed copies of the damned thing gathered dust. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Because you’re not the only one who thinks the war is a complete mistake. We’ve been trying to get permission to send an investigative team to the front because of the involvement of the Karoos, but all the Ministry say is that they can’t spare the men to protect an expedition. They seem to be expecting an opportunist attack from the plains, which I have to say does seem likely but it’s all because we’re stretched out to buggery and beyond with the effort of reaching so far south. It’s insane. Even for a significant find. There’ll be other finds.’
Tralane nodded. The pamphlet and its arguments for abandoning the southern front seemed like ancient history now. She wished she’d never written the thing. ‘It’s possible someone took that more seriously than I thought.’
‘You’ll have to stop being cryptic and implausible if you want help. It was persuasive but it wasn’t that good.’
Tralane looked at Carlyn and sighed. ‘Maybe it will all go away.’
‘They’ve started poking around looking for weapons,’ Carlyn suggested, sketching in the air with movements of her wine glass. ‘They’re flat out of ideas with current technology and they remembered they had a Sircene stockpile up here in the old town and maybe there’d be something in it worth having if only they knew what it was.’
‘You’re partly right,’ Tralane said.
‘You haven’t been taking the war seriously have you?’ Carlyn sat and gave her a long, accusing stare. ‘Ah, don’t look so annoyed. Nobody has here. We’re all encouraged to think of it as the Empress’ project, and her problem, a feature of the larger Empire that’s nothing to do with us and never likely to touch us. Not generals are we? But now we’re sending our men and soon there won’t be that many left.’
Tralane sat with this for a moment. Her objection to the war had only really stirred recently once she’d begun getting letters from the Ministry asking for reports on her research. Until then she had only been aware of it as a thing that cropped up in the news. She looked at Carlyn, smiling faintly. ‘I’ve been a fool. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Carlyn shrugged. ‘It was never a good time. You looked happy for once. Didn’t wanna spoil it.’
‘I did?’
‘You did.’
‘Because I had my head in the sand again.’
‘Not in the sand. In the guts of the mystery machineries. It’s what you’re meant for, Lane, so don’t take it as some kind of accusation. We all have our things. After Sundesi you deserved a little me-time.’
Tralane barely winced at the mention of her ex. ‘Doesn’t seem like such a good thing when it means I take my eye off the ball everywhere else and by the time I look up everything’s shot to hell.’
‘Yeah, well. Like I say, we all have our things. I just see yours easily from over here.’
Tralane noticed the shift of tone. ‘So what have you been missing?’
‘Minor inconveniences of departmental funding. But I’m on it now. Anyway, tell me more about what you’ve been working on.’
Tralane took a deep breath, held it for a split second, then, ‘I’ve been trying to understand how the crystallograph works.’
Carlyn looked at her flatly. Crystallographs were few but they were hardly legendary. They recorded sound into crystal which another crystallograph could play back when attached to the correct speaker apparatus. They did suffer, however, from the fact that although their operators knew how to use and repair them they did not understand what exactly was going on. Only engineers ever used them, employed for the purpose as Recorders and Relayers, and sometimes they tinkered and attempted to record images or thoughts, but they had no theory as to the exact nature of the workings. They knew what things did. They did not know why. As with most Imperial technology it was a trade secret bound in the blood of the lines. It wasn’t just that machines were difficult to use or required special s
kills; non-bloodline engineers could not and never would be able to understand them. This was also true of other physicomagics, such as alchemy and metallurgy.
Lately there had been attempts to advance abilities using music and art, but these only enhanced latent abilities, they did not open gateways where the blood kept them closed. Tralane’s crystallograph was hers naturally, doubly so as a Sircene-line device. If anyone was going to come up with the theory of how it worked, she would, and if she didn’t, then nobody would. It was her duty and her joy to attempt to fulfil this destiny. But for Carlyn there was that moment of pause where she must think and adjust over her natural reaction to say, ‘What’s to understand? They work just fine.’ Much as Tralane would say to Carlyn if offered a shot at decoding the useful information from a rock. They had to struggle to even want to know anything about non-line expertise.
Pursuing the knowledge for its own sake was also a specialist inclination, one rarely mentioned except in the exclusive company of other academics. A scholar’s purpose was to serve, not to gain unexplained and mysterious powers which might threaten the natural order that went, Empress: Ministers: Sciences and Arts: Everybody Else. Theoretical work was threatening in and of itself because it offered understanding that could not be explained to non-liners. Not even the Empress. It was for peacetimes, for lazy times, when practical affairs were ebbing. For Tralane to admit to theorising now ought to lead Carlyn to suspecting correctly that this was work connected to the war.
Glorious Angels Page 8
