In the Empire of Shadow

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  And when the sound of the impact had faded, she heard a strange arrhythmic chorus of faint clickings. At first she took it for leaves settling, but then she realized it came from the wrong direction.

  She turned, and saw a dozen blasters, drawn and aimed, triggers clicking uselessly against copper contacts. Carson’s men were avenging their fallen commander—or trying to.

  “Men of the Empire!” Raven called, his hands upraised in an orator’s gesture. “Yon usurping fool is dead; drop your arms, an you’d not taste the same!”

  “The hell you say,” someone called.

  “Raven,” a quiet voice said—a woman’s voice, speaking from the side, not from the line of men by the ship.

  Startled, Raven turned, and found Susan Nguyen standing straight, legs braced, her pistol held out before her, gripped firmly in both hands. Her black handbag, whence the revolver had come, lay open at her feet.

  The barrel of the little gun was pointed directly at Valadrakul’s head, from a distance of perhaps four feet away. The wizard was utterly motionless, his hands hanging stiffly at his sides.

  “This gun works here,” Susan said, speaking calmly but emphatically. “You’ve seen it.”

  “Aye, mistress, I do so recall,” Raven replied warily.

  “You are not going to hurt anyone else. Neither is Valadrakul. If anyone else is harmed, your wizard dies. Clear enough?”

  Raven flicked his gaze to Elani; Prossie’s own eyes turned to follow, and she found that Pel and Amy stood one on each side of the female wizard, each gently restraining one of Elani’s arms.

  “Now,” Susan said, “we are all going to sit down quietly, and talk this out, and settle what we’re going to do, and we’re going to do it without any sort of violence, because the first person to use violence is going to get a bullet in his gut. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, mistress,” Raven said, “’tis plain as the day. And it pleases me well—I’d no wish for strife. Yon fool drew ’gainst me, and I’ve no blade; am I to perish undefended by the hands of such as he?”

  “You know perfectly well that blasters don’t work here.”

  “Ah, but mistress,” Raven protested, “in the heat of the moment I misremembered.”

  Susan did not reply to that.

  She didn’t lower the gun, either.

  For a moment, no one spoke; then Ted Deranian burst out giggling.

  “What an anti-climax!” he shouted. “No gunfight, no wizard war! My subconscious is wimping out on me.”

  “Shut up, Ted,” Pel said.

  Ted ignored him, and turned to Susan.

  “Lady, if you’re a real person and I didn’t just dream you up,” he said, “I sure hope you don’t try this sort of thing in the courtroom!”

  Chapter Five

  “But I tell you, I am your rightful lord!” Raven shouted.

  The Imperial soldiers shuffled their feet and cast uneasy, mocking glances at one another.

  “The hell you say,” one man muttered.

  “Mr. Raven,” the lieutenant explained patiently, “leaving aside that you killed the colonel, or at least your man did, and while it may have been self-defense, I’m not saying it wasn’t, still, that ain’t the approved procedure for promotion, and as I was saying, even leaving that aside, you aren’t in the chain of command.”

  “And I have the word of General Hart that I am,” Raven insisted.

  “You got the paperwork, the signed orders, you let us see ’em,” the lieutenant answered. “Otherwise—you don’t have the uniform, you don’t have the rank, you don’t have anything. You’re a civilian.”

  “I am a nobleman born!”

  “That don’t mean shit to us, sir. Our oath is to the emperor, nobody else. You could be the bloody King of the Franks himself, and we’d still have to tell you to call your Dad and get the papers.”

  Pel, watching and listening from a few yards away, could see that a couple of the soldiers were not happy with that particular claim; he wondered who the King of the Franks was. He supposed it might be a title given to the heir to the throne, like the rank of “Prince of Wales” in Britain. It seemed a very odd thing to him that there would be such archaic titles in an interstellar empire.

  “Listen, man,” Raven argued, “your master is dead, and you are in the enemy’s lands, lands that you know naught of, and where I am all that you have to guide you. Your lord, the General Hart, sent you hither to aid me—me, and none other. Then is’t not madness and folly to deny that command is fallen to me, that Colonel Carson is no more?”

  “Mr. Raven,” the lieutenant explained wearily, “you are not in the chain of command. I am. I was the colonel’s second-in-command, and with him gone, I am in command. You are a civilian, and as long as you are, you can’t possibly assume command. That doesn’t mean we can’t cooperate.”

  “Permission to speak, Lieutenant?” one of the men called.

  Startled, Raven and the lieutenant turned.

  The man who had spoken—Pel didn’t know any of the soldiers’ names yet—was leaning comfortably against a tree; now he straightened, and pointed to Prossie. “We’ve got a mu… I mean, a telepath with us, Lieutenant,” he said. “Why not ask her? Check with Base?”

  “Aw, come on,” someone called. “She’s the one who started this and got the colonel killed!”

  “No, that was the guy over there in the funny clothes,” another voice protested.

  “I don’t mean she killed him,” the first replied, “but she was the one who said things were screwed up!”

  “So maybe they were screwed up!”

  The lieutenant looked over his men, chewing his lip as he did so, then turned to look consideringly at Prossie.

  “All right, Thorpe,” he said. “You call home and tell us what we’re supposed to do.”

  “’Tis a waste…” Raven began.

  The lieutenant thrust out a warning hand.

  Susan Nguyen cleared her throat warningly.

  Raven fell silent, and two score eyes focused on the telepath.

  * * * *

  When Colonel Carson fell, Prossie had not waited for orders; she had immediately relayed the news to Carrie and told her to tell someone in authority.

  Carrie had done so—she had left her cubicle and gone running for the Office of Interdimensional Affairs. Her orders were to report anything received from other universes to the Under-Secretary, and that included messages from Prossie, as well as contacts with the handful of psychics on Earth, or with Shadow’s creatures.

  The Under-Secretary was not in.

  “It’s urgent,” Carrie told the receptionist.

  “I’m sure it is,” the receptionist replied. “Have a seat, and the Under-Secretary will be back momentarily.”

  Carrie hesitated, and glanced toward the door—she made it look as if she were seeing if there were any sign of the Under-Secretary’s approach, but in fact she was turning away so as not to stare while she read the receptionist’s mind in hopes of finding out just where the Under-Secretary was.

  The receptionist was not thinking about Under-Secretary John Bascombe; she was thinking about an idealized, muscular, blond and handsome male figure. This was the man she felt she deserved to have married, and she was convinced that she had not found him because telepaths, with their sneaking and spying, had stolen him away. There were hundreds of the dirty mutants out there, far more than anyone knew, but they kept themselves secret, only a few admitted what they were in order to get into the government where they could spy on everything better, and steal all the good men away from deserving ordinary women.

  It took Carrie several seconds to dig down past this depressingly familiar paranoid fantasy and locate recent memories.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” the receptionist asked, mentally adding, “Mutant bitch.”

  Carrie realized she had been staring foolishly out the door of the office. The receptionist, despite her belief in a conspiracy of evil, lawless telepaths, didn’t y
et realize that her thoughts had been illicitly spied on, but the idea might occur to her at any second.

  “No, that’s all right,” Carrie said. “I’ll try again later.” She turned and headed back out into the corridor.

  The Under-Secretary had been taking a long lunch, and was lingering over his final cup of tea; Carrie hurried to the cafeteria, to catch him before he left.

  He looked up in surprise as she entered.

  “Telepath,” he said, “what are you doing here? This room’s off-limits for you!”

  “Yes, sir,” Carrie said, “but I think this is an emergency.”

  He put down his cup.

  “Colonel Carson has been killed, sir,” Carrie told him, coming to attention.

  “By Shadow?”

  “No, sir. By one of the wizards in his own party.”

  Bascombe let out a long, deep sigh. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, get out of here, anyway—no telepaths are allowed in here. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carrie turned and trotted out to the hall.

  She waited, and a moment later the Under-Secretary emerged, walking quickly. “Come along,” he ordered.

  She followed, but to her surprise he did not return to his own office; instead he led her down to Level Six, to General Hart’s office.

  Five minutes later the three of them, Hart and Bascombe and Carrie, were seated in Hart’s office with the door closed.

  “Now,” Hart said, “tell us all about it.”

  * * * *

  “They’re still arguing,” Prossie told the others.

  “Who is?” Lieutenant Dibbs demanded.

  “General Hart and the Under-Secretary for Interdimensional Affairs,” Prossie replied.

  “Just what are they arguing about?” Amy asked.

  That was not easy for Prossie to answer. Carrie was relaying not just the two men’s words, but some of their thoughts, as well. While the spoken debate purported to be a discussion of the best way to ensure the survival of the rest of the expeditionary force, the actual subject, as both men knew, was the fact that General Hart had deliberately tried to screw up the Under-Secretary’s project and had been caught at it. Both Hart and Bascombe knew, however, that Bascombe could not come out and say that openly—if the mission failed he would take at least part of the blame, and trying to shift it to Hart would just make him look worse.

  He could, however, take Hart down with him, in a variety of ways, since Hart’s sabotage had shown up so quickly. If the party had been wiped out by Shadow’s forces, both men would have been able to get out cleanly—under-estimating the enemy was a mistake, but an understandable and forgivable one, relatively minor, nothing at all like deliberately sending people to be killed.

  So each man was now looking for a way out that would leave him blameless. Branding Raven as a dangerous lunatic or treacherous foreign outlaw was one possibility—in that case, Lieutenant Dibbs should be put in command and Raven arrested or killed. Denouncing Carson posthumously as a renegade was also a possibility, but if he had surviving family or friends that might be risky. And in either case, what should the survivors do next? Should they continue their mission and attempt to penetrate Shadow’s stronghold, or should they abandon the enterprise, take shelter, and wait for rescue?

  That latter possibility assumed that rescue was possible. General Hart was not at all clear on how travel between universes worked; the Under-Secretary had a better grasp of the subject, but did not care to enlighten a man who was, when all was said and done, his political adversary. And even knowing what he did, the Under-Secretary was thinking in terms of re­opening the space warp and lowering a line; the possibility of using wizards’ magic had not yet occurred to him.

  “Whether to continue the mission,” Prossie said.

  * * * *

  Amy was seated cross-legged on dry, dead leaves, forearms resting on her knees, watching as Raven and the Imperials argued, and feeling sweat moisten the back of her T-shirt; it wasn’t really very hot, and she hadn’t been doing anything very active, but the thicker air seemed to make perspiration come more easily. She felt a vague discomfort in the general vicinity of her stomach, as well, and wasn’t sure whether or not that could be attributed to the climate and atmosphere.

  Beside her stood Elani; Amy was staying close to the wizard, who was, after all, her ticket home to Earth, to peace and sanity and her own home.

  As far as Amy was concerned, it made no difference at all who was in charge of the group, so long as Raven agreed to let Elani send the Earthpeople home.

  Still, she could see that it mattered very much indeed to some people—with a shudder, she stole a glance at Colonel Carson’s body, lying undisturbed on its bed of fallen leaves.

  More death. That was not anything she wanted to see. She had managed to live forty years on Earth without seeing more than half a dozen corpses, and those were mostly at funerals; she had never seen anyone die until she had stupidly agreed to step through Pel’s basement wall and take a quick look at Raven’s world.

  But then there had been Cartwright, killed by Shadow’s monsters—though he might have still been alive, Amy told herself, when she escaped through the portal into the Empire. There had been Peabody, killed by the pirates aboard Emerald Princess. And others. She hadn’t seen them all die, but Pel’s wife Nancy was dead, and their daughter Rachel, and Raven’s friend Squire Donald, and Lieutenant Godwin, and the two little people, Grummetty and Alella. People aboard the Princess—she didn’t know all the names. People killed in the fighting when the Empire’s Task Force Umber came to the rescue.

  And the two on Zeta Leo III who had held her prisoner, Walter and Beth—they had both been hanged by the Empire. She hadn’t seen that, it had happened after she was aboard Emperor Edward VII on her way to Base One, but it had happened, and the two of them were dead, and it was partly her fault.

  It was partly their own damn fault, of course, for keeping slaves, and abusing her, and killing that other woman, whatsername, Sheila. Walter was a murderer, and Beth was his accomplice—but if Amy had kept her mouth shut, probably no one would have known that, and the two of them would still be alive in an Imperial prison camp somewhere.

  If anyone asked her now, she wouldn’t testify—she was over the need for vengeance, and had had her fill of death. She looked at Carson’s body and swallowed hard, feeling suddenly queasy.

  Elani looked down at her, eyes bright.

  “Is aught amiss, lady?” the wizard asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amy replied. She felt no need to explain her misgivings. “I just don’t feel very good.”

  “Ah, certes, you’d be home, I’ll wager. Well, methinks this parley is near its end, and we’ll soon be sending you hence.” Elani’s motherly smile suddenly dimmed. “Or be it more? Have you the Sight, lady? Is danger at hand?” She raised her head and lifted a hand.

  Amy started to protest, then stopped.

  If Elani wanted to check for danger, it might not be necessary, but it couldn’t hurt.

  * * * *

  “An they summon you home,” Raven said, “’twould be simple courtesy that I call for volunteers ’mongst your men.”

  “My men are under my orders,” Lieutenant Dibbs insisted loudly.

  “Ah, but you’ll see that you might soon be under my orders, an your superiors so state—true?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dibbs agreed, “but until I get orders to that effect, I’ll just do as I think best. And if we’re ordered home, we go home. Thorpe, any word yet?”

  Prossie shook her head. “They’re still talking,” she said. “I think they’re planning to go on, but they haven’t settled the details.”

  “They’ve said naught of who’s to command?” Raven asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you inquired?”

  Prossie hesitated.

  “Lord Raven,” she said, “I’ve told Carrie that we need to know who’s in cha
rge, but she can’t just interrupt a general and an undersecretary, she can’t make them listen to her. They’ve got what they consider more important matters to settle first. If it’s any help, the Under-Secretary wants to put you in charge, but General Hart says you should be in an advisory capacity, since you’re not only not in the military, you aren’t even an Imperial subject.”

  “Ah…” Raven turned away angrily, spat on the ground, then turned back. “You’ve no doubt of that, lady? That lying scoundrel Hart would have me play the native guide, and no more, and his promises that I’d command are no more than devil’s smoke?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Prossie said.

  “In my own land, he’d have me a mere servant to this ill-born stripling?” Raven gestured toward Dibbs with the three bandaged fingers of his left hand.

  Prossie nodded.

  “I’ll not have it,” Raven shouted. “I will not and I shall not!”

  “So what are you going to do about it, then?” Dibbs demanded.

  The rightful lord of Stormcrack Keep turned his attention from raging at the treetops to defending his right. “Silence, fool,” Raven commanded. “Hast forgotten that thy Under-Secretary would place me above thee? Durst address thus one who shall perhaps shortly hold thee in thrall?”

  “I’m a freeborn Imperial citizen, sir, and I’ll speak as I please,” Dibbs retorted.

  Raven grabbed at his swordless belt in frustration, and cast a glance at Susan. The revolver was no longer aimed directly at Valadrakul’s head, but it was still held securely in the lawyer’s hands.

  “’Tis all…” he began.

  “Raven!” Elani cried, interrupting him. “Shadow!”

  Pel, who had been sitting nearby and listening to the debate, started; he looked about wildly, but saw only the downed spaceship, the cluster of people, the surrounding trees and underbrush.