Isolate

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The usual small stack of petitions and letters was waiting for Dekkard when he reached his table desk, and he immediately set to work.

  Less than a bell later, a Council Guard announced a single visitor, a Sr. Jerrohm Kaas, who came and met with Obreduur for less than half a bell.

  Visitors were rare, first, because appointments had to be arranged in advance; second, because most people who could benefit from seeing Obreduur were from his district, which was effectively a two-day journey by ironway; and, third, because commercial interests saw little point in trying to cultivate him. For that rarity of visitors, Dekkard was definitely glad.

  A third before fourth bell, after checking with Karola to make sure Obreduur wouldn’t need him until noon, Dekkard made his way to the Council Hall, where he descended to the lower-level offices of the Council legalists.

  Even before Dekkard could frame his request to the stern-looking, dark-haired receptionist or clerk, she spoke.

  “Are you here to pick up something?”

  “No, Councilor Obreduur assigned me to get background information on the law regarding import tariffs on fine-art imports.”

  “You’re security.”

  “I’m also an assistant economic specialist for the councilor.”

  The clerk frowned.

  “Would any security type want to know the law on import tariffs on fine arts unless his councilor wanted it?” Dekkard kept his tone patient and gently sardonic.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Steffan Dekkard, Councilor Obreduur.”

  She opened a small book, one that Dekkard could see was the roster of councilors and their staff members. After riffling through it quickly, and then checking Dekkard’s name, she looked up. “Your passcard, please?”

  Dekkard eased it from his wallet and offered it.

  After studying it, the clerk nodded, almost grudgingly. “Let me see who would be best to advise you.”

  A good sixth of a bell passed before the clerk returned and escorted Dekkard to a small corner desk in a back room and said, “Sr. Ihler, Steffan Dekkard from Councilor Obreduur’s office.” Then she slipped away.

  The grayed legalist smiled pleasantly and gestured for Dekkard to take the straight-backed chair.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” said Dekkard. “It might seem unlikely…”

  “I have to admit that it’s a bit odd for a security aide to be asking about tariff laws.”

  “It is, but I come from an artisan background, and there’s no one else on the staff who does. My mother and sister are both portraiture artists.”

  Ihler nodded. “What is the nature of the question?”

  “More of a request for background, sir. Certain importers may be importing large numbers of various forms of fine art, not just a few pieces for individual collectors. These pieces of fine art are labeled as housewares, which are tariffed at less than half commercial fine art. I’m curious if there’s any law or provision against misrepresentation. I couldn’t find it, but I’m not a legalist.”

  Ihler nodded. “There are two possibilities. The first and most common charge is inadvertent misclassification, which requires paying the proper tariff and a penalty. The penalty can range from twenty percent of the legal tariff to a hundred percent, based on the volume and actual value of the art. The second and more serious charge is felonious misclassification. That would be unusual. In fact, I’ve never heard of a case. The penalty there could require incarceration, tripling the tariff due, and losing one’s dealer import license.”

  Dekkard waited.

  Ihler shook his head. “That, unfortunately, is the simple part. Guldor has a legal definition of fine art. It’s not in the statute books, because it’s based on case law, but I’ll have a copy made of the pertinent language and sent to your councilor’s office. Argental doesn’t have a legal term for fine art, because it doesn’t allow what we would call fine art. The only legally and commercially acceptable art is portraiture, because likenesses are deemed functional for purposes of records and identification. In Argental, nonfunctional art can be destroyed under the provisions of the Cultural Frivolity Act.

  “Atacama allows all manner of art, but makes no distinction about the levels of art. This may be where your problem arises. Under Atacaman law, fine art is simply part and parcel of housewares. That, of course, does not excuse the importer from making the proper customs declaration…”

  By the time Dekkard left Legalist Ihler, he just hoped he could remember everything.

  When he returned to the office, Ysella looked up questioningly.

  “I now know why the councilor wants me to handle as much of this as possible.” Dekkard turned to Karola. “The Council legalists will be sending some legal papers here.”

  “I’ll make sure you get them, Steffan.”

  “No one else will want them,” replied Dekkard not quite morosely, as he returned to the more mundane, and actually more interesting, task of crafting draft replies.

  Almost precisely at third bell, a Council messenger delivered a thin folder. It contained ten pages of printed case law opinions and definitions dealing with fine art. Then, just before fourth bell and the time Dekkard was about to leave to ready the Gresynt to pick up Obreduur and Ysella, another Council messenger arrived with a small box, which she delivered to Karola, who, after the messenger departed, handed it to Dekkard.

  “Go ahead,” said Karola. “Open it.”

  Dekkard did. Inside was a smaller box, the size that might hold cufflinks or a cravat pin, but inside that box was a gold-edged, square silver pin, in the center of which was a “66” on top of an ornate “C”—the same pin that Macri, Roostof, and Raynaad wore every day. Engraved on the top edge was C. OBREDUUR and on the bottom STEFFAN DEKKARD.

  “Just don’t lose it,” said Avraal.

  Dekkard just looked at it for a moment. Finally, he slipped the box into the inside pocket of his security grays. Within minutes, he was headed out the door to fetch the Gresynt.

  As he walked down the staff stairs and out through the west doors of the Council Office Building, he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of what the pin represented.

  “Congratulations, Steffan!” called a voice.

  Dekkard turned to see a blond woman standing beside a younger and very muscular isolate. It took him a moment to recognize Frieda Livigne. Wondering why she was offering congratulations, he turned and walked to join her. “Congratulations for what?”

  “Your becoming an assistant specialist. Not many isolates do that. Now, it makes much more sense why you didn’t want to go into commercial security.”

  Dekkard was more than a little puzzled. “How did you know? I just got my pin this afternoon. I haven’t told anyone besides the other staffers.”

  “Oh, all the specialists and legalists have to be approved by the Security Committee, well, by the staff, really. I saw your name.”

  “Thank you. I’ve only really just started.”

  “Everyone has to start somewhere. I’m sure that you’ll do a good job.” Livigne smiled, an expression guardedly warm and professional. “We have to go. It’s good seeing you again.”

  As Livigne and the isolate headed into the Council Office Building, Dekkard frowned. Approved by the Council Security Committee? It wasn’t as though he happened to be dealing with military or security matters.

  He was still thinking about it when he brought the Gresynt to a stop under the covered portico, although he also worried about the dark green clouds to the east of Machtarn, since he wanted to pick up his tailored clothes right after he delivered Obreduur to the house.

  Dekkard had no more gathered up the councilor and Ysella and pulled away from the Council Office Building than Obreduur asked, “Steffan … how are you coming on the tariff matter for the Artisans Guild?”

  “Roostof gave me the statutory language, and I met with Legalist Ihler over at the Council Hall this morning. He gave me more background on the scope of the problem, since
there are conflicting legal definitions of art in different countries. He sent more material this afternoon.”

  “How soon can you do a summary of the problem … just a page or so?”

  “Noon tomorrow, sir?”

  “That would be fine, but I won’t get to it until a little later. There’s a party caucus at fifth bell, and a Workplace Administration Committee meeting at one.” With that, Obreduur settled into reading the papers he’d brought with him.

  After what Dekkard had read about tariffs, he was definitely beginning to see why Obreduur was reading all the time.

  The trip back to the house was uneventful. Once Dekkard finished with the Gresynt, he hurried off at a quick walk toward Excellencia, glancing eastward at the slowly approaching clouds. His suits, barongs, and shirts were ready, and, once outside the store, he immediately hailed a steamhack, given that he could see the rain falling on the eastern parts of the city.

  “Where to, sir?” asked the steamhacker as Dekkard closed the door.

  “East Altarama Drive. Seven sixty-three.”

  “Seven sixty-three east Altarama Drive it is. You’re a security type works there, right?”

  “I work for him, there or at his office.”

  The hacker turned left, then left again, so that he was driving south on Imperial. “What’s it like being a security type for someone that wealthy?”

  Dekkard doubted that Obreduur was that wealthy, but simply said, “It’s like any other security job. Most of the time it’s very routine. Once in a while it’s not. How long have you been a hacker?”

  “Sixteen years, just like my old man.”

  When Dekkard didn’t reply, the hacker asked, “You come from a security family?”

  “Artisan family. That talent didn’t find me.”

  “Sometimes that happens.” After a time, the hacker turned left on Altarama. He didn’t speak again until he pulled up in front of the house. “Nice place. Your boss ever been attacked?”

  “Once.” So far.

  The hacker shook his head. “You can have it. Be two marks.”

  Dekkard gave the hacker two and a half.

  “Thank you, sir. Good evening.”

  Dekkard was halfway up the drive when the first raindrops began to pelt down, but he only got a little damp before he reached the covered portico. He was about to head up to his room to hang up his new clothes when Ysella appeared, holding an envelope.

  “You ran off so fast that Rhosali didn’t have a chance to give you this.”

  “I wanted to get my suits and shirts before the rain hit … and the barongs you helped me pick out.” Dekkard took the envelope.

  She smiled. “You cut it close. I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned toward the staff room.

  Once Dekkard hung up his shirts, suits, and barongs, he immediately opened the envelope and began to read.

  Dear Steffan—

  It’s always good to get a letter from you. You make life in Machtarn sound so interesting, but, knowing you, you just don’t mention the tedium. Every occupation has those times. You always were the restless one, and your greatest accomplishment was to surmount those times, and, for that alone, your father and I are most proud of you.

  Naralta is thinking of opening her own studio. She feels that those patrons who like my work are put off by hers, and those who like her work are turned away by mine. From what I see, I fear she may not be right, but she’s always wanted to be successful in her own right, and that’s her choice, and she has to be the one choosing, not us …

  Dekkard nodded as he continued to read his mother’s clear and flowing script telling about her recent work and the day-to-day events in Oersynt. His eyes narrowed as he read the lines on the top of the third page.

  … have you heard of the New Meritorists? A group of them assembled in Geddes Square yesterday. I couldn’t understand what it was all about, except that they claimed that councilors weren’t ever personally accountable for their votes. They weren’t there long, though. Security patrollers showed up, along with some Army soldiers. Naralta and I hurried off as soon as I saw the patrollers. I heard shots after that. You don’t ever forget that sound …

  You don’t ever forget … Dekkard’s parents had never said much about their departure from Argental … except that it had been difficult. Difficult enough that they’d been shot at?

  … There must have been at least fifty people demonstrating. It could have been more. Some of them were students, but I don’t know why they were there. The only mention in the Gazette was that a group of hooligans had been arrested for disturbing the peace at the square …

  Dekkard wondered if the demonstration in Oersynt had been at the same time as the one on the Council grounds. If so … that suggested a much larger and widespread organization … and if both groups of Meritorists were armed …

  Dekkard finished reading the letter, then folded it and slipped it into the drawer in his nightstand table. Still thinking about his mother’s words about not forgetting the sound of shots … and the demonstration in Oersynt, he went downstairs for dinner in the staff room, where Hyelda served a pear and cheese ravioli with veal cutlets, the same meal that was on the Obreduur dining table, which was usually, but not always, the case.

  “I saw you bringing in some clothes before the rain really came down,” observed Rhosali.

  “Avraal persuaded me that my wardrobe needed some additions.”

  “You two always look so nice. When you’re not in your gray uniforms no one would know you’re security types.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment,” replied Dekkard.

  “It is. When you two went out together the other day, folks would have thought you were swells or Landors.”

  “I just like to look good,” replied Ysella. “Steffan looks good in anything. I have to work at it.”

  While Dekkard definitely disagreed, he didn’t say so.

  Once dinner was over and the four staffers rose, Dekkard followed Ysella into the back hall and said, “Do you have a minute?”

  “I do,” replied Ysella, “but if this is to be a serious discussion, it might be better to repair to the portico.”

  “I yield to your better judgment.”

  When the two stepped out of the house, still under the roof covering the portico, Dekkard realized there was another reason why she’d suggested there. The drumming of the heavy rain on the roof made successful eavesdropping unlikely.

  “What’s on your mind, Steffan?”

  “Several things, actually. First, Frieda Livigne congratulated me on becoming a specialist. She knew because she’s a staffer on the Security Committee.”

  Ysella frowned, but said, “That makes sense.”

  “It still bothers me. She also said that now it made much more sense why I’d turned down commercial security.”

  “Hmmm … you might want to mention that to the councilor. What else?”

  “The New Meritorists. By the way, is that from the old Meritorists? And why did the old Meritorists choose that name?”

  “The original Meritorists thought councilors should be evaluated by the merit of their votes. At least, that was what my father said. What about them?”

  “The letter I just got. It was from my mother. There was a demonstration by the New Meritorists in Oersynt last week, about the same time as the one here. Security patrollers and Army troopers dispersed them, and she heard shots.”

  “She wasn’t involved, I hope?”

  “No. She and my sister left before the shooting started. They happened to be passing near the square.”

  “We definitely need to tell Obreduur that. Now.”

  With that, the two turned and made their way inside and into the main hall.

  For once Obreduur wasn’t in his study, but reading in the front parlor. He looked up from the journal he held. “You two look rather serious. What is it?”

  Dekkard repeated what he’d told Ysella.

  Obreduur nodded. “I heard about the
demonstration in Oersynt yesterday. There were others across Guldor as well. Kathaar, Veerlyn, Neewyrk, and Uldwyrk. There are likely others that Security shut down and managed to cover up. You might also like to know that the demonstrators outside the Council Hall were the ones to open fire, not the Council Guards.”

  Ritten Obreduur, who had been reading in a green leather armchair that matched the one in which Obreduur sat, just nodded as if she’d known that all along, which she doubtless had.

  “It’s also not surprising that Councilor Maendaan and his staff are watching changes in the staff positions of Craft Party councilors. They hope that will give the Commerce Party some idea of what we might do. All you two can do is your best.” He paused. “I do appreciate your letting me know about both events.”

  “Sir,” ventured Dekkard, “why do you think the New Meritorist demonstrations are happening now? Times are much better than in the Black Centuries or even fifty years ago.”

  “For you and for me they are. For many Landors, they’re not. With the growth of industries, they have to pay farmworkers more, and crop prices aren’t rising that much, even with the tariffs on swampgrass rice and emmer wheat-corn from the Teknold Confederacy. You come from a family of skilled artisans, but the growth of larger workshops and steam-powered factories destroyed the skilled weavers a century ago. Those who labor in the textile mills around Veerlyn, Uldwyrk, and even Gaarlak are paid far less in real marks than the old weavers were. Steam lathes and punch-carders have replaced all but the most skilled cabinetmakers. People from those trades are angry. They need someone to blame. The Great Charter makes it difficult to blame anyone. These would-be revolutionaries and reformers claim that holding each councilor accountable for his vote will improve things. And it will, for a few years. But it will also give everyone targets at which to aim their wrath. And then we will follow Teknold down the road to anarchy. Why? Because once votes are made public, those with power and marks can target councilors who oppose them, and the temptation becomes ever greater for each councilor to give in to either marks or popularity, if not both.”