The Will to Battle

by Ada Palmer

  Sobs wracked me, too fierce to let me even nod, but Martin understood. I think he understood things I didn’t. I asked him, once my sobs subsided, if he knew what it was going to be like, Jehovah’s new world, which Martin has spent all his life protecting since that childhood day Caesar made him Vicar, Nepos, Familiaris, and Minister Porphyrogenito, all at once. Martin smiled. I have rarely seen a man so comfortable saying, “No.”

  CHAPTER THE NINTH

  Repercussions

  Written July 30–August 1, 2454

  Events of April 15

  Burgos

  “Madame”—Martin gave a strict bow—“your irresponsible abuse of Mycroft Canner is completely unacceptable.”

  I did not tattletale, reader, but Martin Guildbreaker is no fool. With a scrap of paper and an offhand remark by Cato Weeksbooth it had taken him and Papa four days to expose O.S. Do you think he could not unmask my kidnappers within an hour? Martin stopped off to confront Madame before even returning to Alexandria, bringing me—the living, limping proof of her transgression—still handcuffed to his arm.

  “I can guess your goal,” Martin continued, the slow, forced patience in his voice an imitation of his Emperor’s tone but softer, as a blade of bronze is softer than a blade of steel, “but Mycroft is a fragile and unique resource, and it was sheer luck that they survived this. The consequences for others aside, you must realize how Mycroft’s loss would have crippled our ability to communicate with the Porphyrogene.”

  “Not nearly so much as death would.” Madame gazed up at Martin, her face uncommonly candid, as when the curtain falls and actors become people once again. “I will not see my Jehovah die, Martin, no matter what I must destroy, or whom.”

  On the last word her gaze shifted, not to me, but to the Emperor who stood beside us, summoned by Martin’s call and radiating cold rage like the marble of a hillside monument which marks some unforgiven massacre. I doubt I would have had the strength to stand in the presence of Caesar’s anger, even if I had had the strength to stand at all. Instead I slumped on the ground beside Martin. The rustic mosaic floor was not perhaps the best bed for a wounded man, but Saladin was, wrapped around me, his warmth coaxing my thinned blood to move again as he explored with touch and tongue the parts of me our enemies had marred. Sun warmed me too. Martin and I had reversed the sunset on our flight from parts east back to Europe, and late afternoon blazed down between the columns that ringed this ancient courtyard, Spring and Sun working their annual conspiracy to nurture weed flowers in every crack. The warmth was welcome, but even more welcome was the glare, which hid with silhouette the face of the other figure who sat on a stone rail to our right, chaperoning us: His exhausted Majesty Isabel Carlos II. No, reader, we are not in Paris anymore. Madame’s estate was riot’s first victim. The sparkling halls, whores’ dorms, flesh pit, and silk-walled salons, even the nursery where a young God learned to speak, are now burnt waste. We are in the ancient Abbey of Santa María la Real de las Huelgas, just outside Burgos. Here the Middle Ages put forth their best stone face, fort-thick walls and slit-thin windows, somehow still managing a feminine delicacy in the ruffling of terra-cotta shingles and the curve of the rounded apse. The abbey is one of the oldest pieces of the Spanish royal estates, host to kings’ treasures, reliquaries, retired dowagers, and, frequently, royal weddings. Here king and queen become one flesh, and one dust too in the royal tombs whose intricate sarcophagi were tended once by nuns, now by nation-strat-appointed custodians. Before war drove God out of politics, the ruling abbess here was one of the most powerful women in all Europe; now Isabel Carlos II prayed that these cloister walls might be enough to hide Madame.

  “There are arenas in which I have never trusted you, Joyce”—MASON stepped forward—“and others in which I have.”

  “As it should be, yes.” Madame was exquisite as she sat on a bench of sun-washed stone, her oceanic gown of mourning black sparkling with constellations of gemlike somethings stitched into the fabric. “You know I feel the same.”

  “Do you realize how thoroughly this has destroyed what little remained of the latter?”

  “Yes, I believe I do, but I had the chance, Cornel. I had to take it, and I had every right to take it.”

  “You had no right—”

  “I had every right!” Her words ricocheted around the cloister’s square. “Nature makes rights, Cornel, not Romanova, or Thomas Carlyle, or you, or any man. It’s a mother’s natural duty to protect her child, at any cost. I’d rip a man’s throat out with my teeth if I had to to protect our Son, even your throat, Cornel, and I’d rip out Mycroft’s in a second!” Her chest heaved within her bodice like a chick struggling in its shell. “Someone had to do something.”

  Already MASON’s voice was weaker, steel dulled to iron. “I am doing all that can be done.”

  “No, you’re doing all you’re willing to do—no, not even that much. You’re doing all you think you ought to do, without even considering any action that’s unbefitting of your office. And that’s what you should be doing. You’re the Emperor. I’m not. So while you sit in your tower governing billions as you’re supposed to, I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing: anything I can to save our Son!”

  Anger’s storm surged in Caesar, but broke as he met Spain’s eyes. The king’s presence urged decorum, as a library’s solemn walls force tirades to couch themselves in whispers. MASON breathed deep. “You’re right. I am limited by my office, and that also means there are limits to what I can let you do.”

  “To Masons, yes, but I haven’t harmed a Mason, have I?” She faced him straight. “The only limits on what can be done to Mycroft Canner are the ones you personally set. I trusted that, as Jehovah’s father, you would be willing to risk one little Familiaris.”

  MASON frowned. “I do not have sole claim on Mycroft’s life.”

  “Legally you do.”

  “There’s more to it than law.”

  “What matters more to you, Cornel? The wishes of a dead Utopian who never shared your feelings, or our living, breathing Son?”

  Fierce as a bear, Caesar charged and seized Madame by her porcelain-white shoulders—or he tried to, but the last step failed him, his ankle twisting at the scarless seam of his transplanted left foot. He toppled forward, cracking his forehead against the wall, and would have fallen bodily on Madame if Saladin had not caught him. My own Saladin. He had sprung up to defend his mistress, as a guard dog should, and when MASON stumbled he was too close to fight off the human instinct to help a falling man. He caught the Emperor under the shoulders and steadied him, at least until MASON’s eyes caught sight of his savior. The Emperor jumped as if the fingers on his back were scorpions, and struck with his elbow, bloodying Saladin’s nose as he knocked the monster away.

  “Oh! Cornel! Are you alright?” Madame’s touch was all nursing, pawing at the Emperor’s forehead where it had struck the stone. “Your poor head! Let me see. You’re bleeding!”

  “I’m fine!” MASON stormed back, batting at the security robots which swarmed in from the corners, bleeping. His guards burst in at once, Spain’s too, followed by both their on-duty physicians and a flock of Madame’s maids. An absurd pause held us as the doctors scanned and bandaged Caesar’s forehead. I did not watch. I had a wounded Saladin to soothe and taste, and blood salt dissolved the present as sun dissolves sleep. My name awoke us.

  “You’re right, I misused Mycroft,” Madame was saying as the door thumped shut behind the last departing guard. “I presumed you’d permit it to save dear Jehovah, but it was still presumption on my part. Either bring me to court for abusing a Servicer, or decide you’re not going to prosecute and move on, but don’t expect me to feign contrition, and don’t pretend you too don’t want to ignore the law and kill our Son’s enemies.”

  “An Emperor does not ignore the law; I make it.”

  She brightened. “You mean Natekari’s motion to declare Sniper an enemy of the Alliance? Oh, pass it, Cornel. Pass it, please! It woul
d make things so easy!”

  “I may pass it, but there are other ways, within my laws. The Empire faced assassins long before we built Romanova. We are not unprepared. That’s why I don’t want you interfering.” He peered at her portrait face. “I want you to promise me you won’t try anything like this again, and I will hold you to it.”

  She blinked. “To keep away from Mycroft? If you insist.”

  “Mycroft is not the issue. After this I’m not lending Mycroft to anyone again, no matter the errand.”

  “But Caesar!” I dared cry.

  “Silence, Mycroft.”

  “The others need me! Ancelet! Achilles!”

  MASON’s kick flew with the full violence of hate, not at me but at Saladin who held me, slamming him square in that jaw which had ripped Apollo’s flesh. Saladin yelped, and Madame clicked soft disapproval through her frown, as one should at misbehaving pups whom a guest has justly disciplined. I gave Caesar his required silence.

  “Madame,” the Emperor demanded anew, “promise me you won’t try to use your own means against O.S. This isn’t just bribery and nepotism anymore, it’s war. Leave it to government.”

  Madame crossed her arms in a sparkling, lacy huff. “You want me to keep my hands out? Cornel, I don’t play at that era when the lady was shut up in a dollhouse fussing over the silver; I play at the era when she had a secret hand in every plot. Whatever you may say, I shall pursue Jehovah’s enemies to the world’s end, with my full resources and liberty.”

  “Now’s not the time. The world knows you’re at the heart of this. They’re hungry for an excuse to prosecute you, or lynch you. Think of the consequences for your fellow Blacklaws. It’s hard enough fighting Cook’s Eighth Law motion with set-sets involved in O.S. If you draw any more attention the Nurturists will turn on Blacklaws in a heartbeat, and many will turn with them.”

  The surprise in Madame’s voice might have been genuine. “You think they’ll use our Jehovah as an excuse to take away Blacklaws’ children?”

  “They won’t have to, they’ll use Dominic, and Ganymede and Danaë, and Heloïse, don’t forget Heloïse ran into the Senate in a nun’s habit, and that’s not the worst of it. When people put it together that a Blacklaw started all this—”

  “Merion Kraye started all this.”

  “You started Merion Kraye,” he answered flatly. “What about the real Eighth Law? You haven’t just angered the Leviathans, you’ve set us all on fire! Don’t pour salt on the burns. It’s a wonder the other Blacklaws haven’t already called a lynch mob down on you.”

  “I’m not a Blacklaw anymore.”

  “What?”

  Madame blinked, as if surprised at his surprise. “I registered a few hours ago. I’m a European now. And a Spaniard.”

  The Emperor turned on the king, slightly too quickly. “You’re going through with it?”

  Fatigue made His Majesty’s soft voice softer. “We are.”

  “You’re actually getting married.” Caesar had to hear it out loud, even if in his own voice.

  “It is the honorable thing.”

  “Honorable? Honorable is doing your duty by your Hive and nation. Do you honestly think your people believe that taking responsibility for a bastard is worth abdicating at a time like this?”

  “No, I don’t.” Isabel Carlos did not meet Caesar’s eyes.

  “But you’re going to abandon them anyway?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Then you don’t intend to abdicate?” MASON’s tone grew night dark, almost urgent. “You told me a King of Spain can’t marry a prostitute. You promised me!”

  Madame smiled. “We took a poll. Seventy-something percent of Europe wants His Majesty to keep the crown after the wedding, including ninety-something percent of the Spanish nation-strat. It’s heartening having such a warm welcome from my new people.”

  Caesar does not curse, not even under his breath. “Spain, you know Madame only wants this so they can visit the graves of Madame de Pompadour and whatever other famous royal mistresses, and gloat about becoming a real queen.”

  Spain’s gentle eyes met MASON’s as he corrected, “Empress.”

  “What?”

  What should we call the emotion that made His Majesty’s lips tremble so? Apology? “You know the Senate has ordered Europe, as well as the Humanists and Mitsubishi, to present a draft for the correction of our government after O.S.” A weary breath. “Popular support is for an imperial system, based on yours. They will, I expect, choose me.”

  “An Emperor? A European Emperor?” So many monarchs would fix the piercing gaze of rivalry on a new peer—instead MASON … relaxed, until he too showed that fatigue I saw on Spain’s face, like charioteers’ fatigue, their arms exhausted from wrestling too-powerful beasts through Ares’s frenzy. Wise men do not envy Emperors.

  “It doesn’t matter why Madame wants to marry me,” Spain said at last. “Honor demands it, and the people, my people, approve it.”

  “So whatever the public wants is suddenly permissible?” The Emperor crossed his arms. “Isn’t that the logic behind the Wish List?”

  The king shook his head. “The will of the public does not make the marriage permissible, merely acceptable. I don’t yet know if we will have permission.”

  “Permission?” Caesar repeated. “From what, if you already polled your Spaniards?”

  Madame cocked her head. “We’re going to Rome next week. Didn’t Jehovah tell you?”

  Martin’s fist, cuffed to mine, clenched, the motion barely palpable through the Cannergel which lined my special cuffs. Something was about to transpire, something Martin had anticipated, planned. Arranged. The middle voice, that is how I often think of Martin. There was a third option in Homer’s Greek between active and passive verbs, the middle voice, a subtle space between the doer who creates or kills and the recipient who is created or is killed. Between these opposites lies he who causes but does not do the deed himself. The patron touches no stone, yet builds the cathedral; the judge wields no sword, yet strikes off the traitor’s head. Martin says nothing, yet this conversation is his creation, born from the conjunction he has carefully assembled: MASON, Spain, Madame. Even when Odysseus planned the horse, he did not saw the boards himself. Martin expected something, something worth making his Emperor come here.

  “I trust you mean you’re going to Romanova,” MASON pronounced.

  “No, real Rome. The Vatican Reservation.” Sunlight on Madame’s painted face made her smile too bright. “His Catholic Majesty and I have much to arrange.”

  Law’s sting made Isabel Carlos II rise at once. “I will not have this conversation without a sensayer present.”

  « Majesté … » Madame purred.

  “No. Playing around in Paris as we have was crime enough, but I will not break the First Law while standing in my family’s ancestral nunnery.”

  “Are you going to have Jehovah legitimated?” The question broke from Caesar like storm over a mountain peak.

  The king marched with perfect posture toward the door.

  MASON blocked the exit. “Are you going to Rome to get papal dispensation to marry a prostitute? Or are you going to legitimate your bastard?”

  I could not see the king’s face, but I could see the tremor in his jaw. “I’m sorry. I know it’s against our arrangement.”

  “I will not let you make Jehovah your heir.”

  “Prince Leonor is dead.”

  “There are others in line for your throne.”

  “It has to be my child.”

  “You have cousins.”

  “I had cousins; death by Merion Kraye.”

  A different, blacker anger joined the rage already rumbling through MASON. “Kraye killed your entire family?”

  “I have a great-great-aunt who is one hundred and sixty-six years old and succumbing fast.” Isabel Carlos II turned back toward us, composed again and perfect as a marble bust. “You have your continuity in law, MASON.” He held his hand out.
“Ours is this blood. It flowed through queens, saints, emperors, and it flows through my one surviving child. I cannot change this fact, not even if it means breaking my word to you.”

  Even optimism sounded rough in Caesar’s throat. “You’re not too old to have another child.”

  “True”—Spain nodded toward the Lady—“and we will try to have another child, Joyce has promised that, and if we succeed that could solve everything. But I could also be assassinated tomorrow. I’m holding the European Hive together with nothing but residual family trust. Neither Spain nor Europe can feel safe unless I have a successor.”

  MASON’s stance solidified, his left foot’s imagined weakness eclipsed as danger eclipses pain. Martin’s grip solidified at the same time, his hand and arm supporting me as I slumped against him, bracing me—for what?

  “I will not let you make Jehovah your heir,” MASON pronounced.

  “They are my heir.”

  “I will not let you make Jehovah take the Crown Prince’s oath of loyalty to you and the Spanish people.”

  My stomach heaved, but Martin’s support kept me from writhing hard enough to strain my wound. An oath? Jehovah take an oath? The manacle that bound my arm to Martin’s could be broken or, in desperate times, the hand gnawed off, but to the Great Scroll’s Addressee words are more real and more unalterable than breathing, fact, or matter. The stuff that His Peer’s world is made of. Prison wraiths surged around me, dense as Tully’s war-cancer, weaving their spiral bonds of smoke-ribbon like maypole dancers in my mind. A God sworn vassal to the King of Spain? Divine Infinity and all His Goodness yoked to the self-interest of one arbitrary nation-strat? You did not see Him, reader, in the weeks before He was sworn in as Romanovan Tribune, how He pored over its oath of office with linguists, lawyers, sensayers, family, strangers, performing desperate and stubborn exegesis on every word until he satisfied himself that He could understand and execute the pledge to “exercise My judgment to identify and oppose laws which strip too much of human liberty.” So much thought He gave to an oath He could shed with resignation any second, as crabs shed their cramped shells. That was nothing to this—a lifelong oath of loyalty to the Spanish people? I retched again, and lost myself in a maze of insane solutions. Have Spain annex the whole Earth? Replace Jehovah’s bone marrow to purge him of the blood of kings? Travel back in time and murder Charlemagne before he could bear children? Surely, reader, you have wandered in the mire of half-sleep, and forged from dream logic plans that waking must call mad.