by David Drake
Three other assistants were in the library. Two were fondling one another in a corner. Their lives were at risk if in passion they managed to dislodge the boxes stacked to either side. The third assistant was Vanness, who was actually trying to organize a crate of what were probably logbooks. Alone of her “assistants,” Vanness had the interest that was a necessary precondition to becoming useful. The Kostroman wasn’t any real help now, but Adele could cure his ignorance if she just got some room to work in.
“Hey, save me seconds!” Bracey called to the couple in the corner. Adele’s presence hadn’t concerned them, but now they sprang apart.
One of Bracey’s companions tugged his arm, nodding toward Adele behind them. Bracey waved the bottle to her and said, “Hey, chiefie! Want a drink?”
Bracey burped loudly; his companions lapsed into giggles. Adele looked through the Kostroman as if he didn’t exist, then walked to the data console she’d spent most of the past two weeks getting in order because that was within her capacity to achieve without the help of anyone else … and she didn’t have the help of anyone else.
The console was of high-quality Cinnabar manufacture and so new that it was still crated in the vestibule of the palace when Walter’s supporters took stock after the coup. It came loaded with a broad-ranging database which could, now that Adele had completed her labors, access information from any of the computers in the government network; better and faster than the computers could reach their own data, in most cases.
Adele rested her forehead against the console’s smooth coolness and wondered whether starving on Bryce would have been a better idea than accepting the Kostroman offer. But it had seemed so wonderful at the time. She’d even told Mistress Boileau, “It’s too good to be true!”
Adele smiled. At least in hindsight she could credit herself with a flawlessly accurate analysis.
Adele was a Mundy of Chatsworth, one of Cinnabar’s most politically powerful families while she was growing up, though the Mundys’ populist tendencies meant they were generally on the outs with their fellow magnates. Adele hadn’t been interested in politics. When she was sixteen she’d left Xenos for the Bryce Academy. Her choice was made as much to avoid the alarms and street protests escalating into riots as for the opportunity to study the premier collections of the human galaxy under Mistress Boileau.
That was fifteen terrestrial years ago. Three days after Adele Mundy reached Bryce, the Speaker of the Cinnabar Senate announced that he’d uncovered an Alliance plot to overthrow the government of Cinnabar through native agents—primarily members of the Mundy family. The Senate proscribed the traitors. Their property was confiscated by the state or turned over to those who informed against them, and those proscribed were hunted down under emergency regulations that were a license to kill.
Adele had a bank account on Bryce, but it was intended to provide her first quarter’s allowance rather than an inheritance. Mistress Boileau herself replaced the support which had vanished with the Mundys of Chatsworth. Her charity was partly from kindness, because the old scholar’s heart was as gentle as a lamb’s on any subject outside her specialty: the collection and organization of knowledge.
But beyond kindness Mistress Boileau realized Adele was a student with abilities exceeding those of anyone else she had trained in her long career. They worked on terms of increasing equality, Adele’s quickness balanced by the breadth of information within Mistress Boileau’s crystalline mind. Nothing was said, but both of them expected Adele to take Mistress Boileau’s place when the older woman died at her post—retirement was as unlikely a possibility as the immediate end of the universe.
Maybe without the war …
Cinnabar and the Alliance had fought three wars in the past century. This fourth outbreak had less to do with the so-called Three Circles Conspiracy than it did with the same trade, pride, and paranoia which had led to the earlier conflicts. Those were politicians’ reasons and fools’ reasons; nothing that touched a scholar like Adele Mundy.
But the decree that came out of the Alliance capital on Pleasaunce touched her, for all that it was framed by politicians and fools. The Academic Collections on Bryce were a national resource. Access to them by citizens of the Republic of Cinnabar was to be strictly controlled.
Mistress Boileau suggested a way out of the crisis. She had friends on Pleasaunce. They couldn’t exempt Adele from the ruling, but they could make Adele an Alliance citizen as soon as she renounced Cinnabar nationality.
A moment earlier Adele would have described herself as a citizen of learning and the galaxy, not of any national boundary that tried to limit mankind. Cinnabar was a memory of the riots she saw in person and the slaughter she missed by hours.
But she was a Mundy of Chatsworth, and she would be damned before any politician on Pleasaunce made her say otherwise.
Then the Elector of Kostroma asked Mistress Boileau, Director of the Academic Collections on Bryce, to recommend someone to run his new library. The request had seemed a godsend at the time. Now …
Bracey cried in alarm. Adele raised her head.
Bracey sprang backward, bumping into the boxed remains of several electronic data units that might antedate the palace. One of his companion drunks vomited. Most of the yellowish gout cascaded onto a gunnysack filled with loose paper of some kind, but splatters landed on Bracey’s boots.
“Bracey,” Adele said, her voice a handclap, “get out, and take your fellows with you. And stay out!”
“Aw, don’t knot your panties, chiefie,” the assistant said. His boots were red suede; he tentatively rubbed the toe of one against a pasteboard carton, smearing but not removing the splash of vomit. “I’ll get one of the maids to—”
“Get out, by God!” Adele said.
Bracey’s face clouded. The friend who still stood had been watching Adele and had seen more than a short, slim female in nondescript clothing. As Bracey opened his mouth to snarl a curse, the friend tugged his arm and muttered.
Bracey shook himself free, then dragged the sick man up by the collar. “Come on, Kirkwall,” he said. “If you’ve ruined these boots, I’ll flay another pair from your backside, damned if I won’t!”
Two men supporting the third, the Kostromans shuffled out of the library. Adele remained by the data console, following them with her eyes. When she looked around the room again, the other assistants and the two carpenters were staring at her. All of them turned their heads instantly.
“I’ll take care of this, mistress,” Vanness said as he trotted toward the mess of vomit. He waved the bag which had held the logbooks, to use as a wiping rag.
The bag itself might identify where the contents had come from—
But Adele caught her objection unvoiced. There was nothing she’d gain from speaking that would justify the seeming rebuke of a man who was trying to do his job.
“Yes, very well,” she said instead. She turned her hawk glance onto the carpenters. They’d resumed measuring their plank against the brackets they’d yesterday fastened to the paneling and the frames mortised into the brick fabric of the wall.
“You two!” Adele Mundy ordered. “Come along with me to see your mistress, and bring that silly piece of veneer stock with you. I need proper shelving now, and I don’t mean enough for a medicine chest!”
She was a Mundy of Chatsworth. She might very well fail, but she wasn’t going to quit. With her face hard, she set off for the cabinet shop in the arches supporting the causeway to the palace gardens.
* * *
“I believe there’s only one more matter to be considered at this time, sirs and madame,” said the Secretary to the Navy Board. She was a woman at the latter end of middle age, utterly colorless in tone and appearance. Her name was Klemsch, but two of the five board members couldn’t have called her anything beyond “Mistress Secretary” without thinking longer than they were accustomed to do.
With absolute rectitude and self-effacement Klemsch had served Admiral Anston for over thirty
years. Because of that she was herself one of the most powerful individuals in the Republic of Cinnabar.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Anston,” Guiliani grumbled. “Does it have to be today? I have an engagement.”
“It shouldn’t take long,” Admiral Anston said, politely but without any hint that his mind might be changed. He nodded to Klemsch. “Invite Mistress Sand to join us, please.”
“I knew I should have stayed in bed today,” the Third Member muttered, scowling at the table’s onyx surface.
Three of the junior board members were senators; Guiliani was not, but the present Speaker was her first cousin. She and La Foche had naval rank themselves, but Admiral Anston was the only serving officer. He had earned both his rank and his considerable private fortune waging war successfully against Cinnabar’s enemies.
No Chairman of the Navy Board could be described as apolitical, but it was accepted by all who knew Anston that his whole loyalty was to the RCN itself. At this time of present crisis, even the most rabid party politician preferred the office to be in Anston’s hands rather than those of someone more malleable but less competent.
Mistress Sand entered the conference room without an obvious summons. She was a bulky woman, well if unobtrusively dressed. “Harry,” she said, nodding. “Gene, Tom, it’s good to see you. Bate, my husband was just asking after you. Will we see you next week at the Music Society meeting?”
“We’re planning to attend,” the Third Member replied. “At least if my granddaughter’s marriage negotiations wrap up in time.”
All the political members of the board knew Mistress Sand socially; none of them wanted to have professional contact with the genial, cultured woman.
“I told my fellows that this wouldn’t take long, Bernis,” Admiral Anston said. “Why don’t you lay out just the heads of the business rather than going into detail as you did with me?”
Sand nodded pleasantly and opened her ivory snuffbox. She placed a pinch in the hollow formed by her thumb and the back of her hand, then snorted it into her left nostril.
There was a chair open for her at Anston’s right. She remained standing.
“The Alliance is planning some devilment on Kostroma,” Sand said. Admiral Anston wore a slight smile; the four junior board members were frowningly silent. “I’m afraid that the risks are such that we need to take action ourselves.”
“There’s already trouble with the new Elector, isn’t there?” the Fourth Member said. “Time we took the place over ourselves and cut the subsidy budget, I say.”
“The reasons we decided Kostroma was more valuable as a friend than as a possession,” Anston said, “appear to me to remain valid. But we can’t permit the Alliance to capture Kostroma, and the Kostromans are unlikely to halt a really serious Alliance invasion. Their fleet is laid up and their satellite defense system hasn’t been upgraded in a generation.”
“Walter Hajas isn’t going to like us interfering,” Guiliani said in a gloomy tone. Her family had invested heavily in the Kostroma trade, so the probable disruption had personal as well as national importance to her. “Let alone us basing a fleet on Kostroma. A few ships refitting at a time, sure, but the harbor’s already near capacity with the merchant trade. If we reduce that, a lot of people lose money and the new Elector gets unpopular fast.”
She shook her head in dismay. “As do we.”
“We don’t have a battle fleet to send!” the Second Member said. He looked up at Anston in sudden concern. “Do we, Josh? I understood we were too stretched for proper patrolling against privateers.”
Three ships in which the Second Member was a partner had been taken by Alliance raiders in the past year. That was partly bad luck and partly a result of the member spreading his investments over nearly a hundred vessels … but it was also true that closer patrolling of systems known to outfit privateers might have helped.
As little as the political members liked what they were hearing, none of them had questioned the seriousness of the threat. Mistress Sand wouldn’t have come before the full board this way if she’d thought the matter could be handled through normal channels.
“I don’t foresee the need of a fleet if we act promptly,” Mistress Sand said. “Or for a permanent presence. We can fulfill our requirements with an improvement to Kostroma’s satellite defense system and perhaps some experts to maintain and control it. The personnel wouldn’t have to wear Cinnabar uniforms.”
She rotated the snuffbox between her thumb and forefinger. It was cone-shaped and the carvings on its surface had been worn to tawny shadows.
“We were planning to upgrade the defenses of Pelleas Base,” Anston said to his fellow members. “The new constellation is already being loaded on transports. While I’m not comfortable in my mind about Pelleas, the Kostroma situation appears to be more immediately critical.”
The political members nodded. Guiliani muttered, “You could buy a battleship for what one of those damned satellite constellations cost, but I suppose we’ll find the money somewhere. I’ll have a word with my cousin.”
“We’ll need an escort,” said the Fourth Member. “All it’d take is for illiterate pirates from Rouilly to grab that load!”
“I think we can scare up a few destroyers for a cargo of such importance,” Anston said without cracking a smile. “And it occurred to me that guardships get too little out-of-system time to be at peak performance if they should be needed. The Rene Descartes isn’t as fast as a newer battleship, but she can keep up with a transport.”
“Walter Hajas can be made to understand that the squadron’s presence is temporary,” Ms. Sand said. “Merely a training exercise.”
“A guardship?” the Third Member said. “What are we leaving unguarded, then?”
“Admiral Koffe’s heavy cruiser squadron arrived at Harbor Three yesterday for refit,” Anston said, skirting the nub of the question. “That can wait while … Admiral Ingreit, I think I’d recommend … returns from Kostroma with the Rene Descartes.”
“Christ,” the Third Member muttered. “Well, if you’re sure, Anston.”
“None of us can be sure of anything except our ultimate demise, Harry,” Mistress Sand said, smiling as she returned the snuffbox to a pocket in the front of her silk jumper. “But I think we can reasonably expect a good result—”
Her words lost the overtone of good humor, though a stranger wouldn’t have thought the stocky woman sounded worried as she concluded, “—so long as the squadron arrives at Kostroma in time. I’m afraid there may be very little time.”
* * *
There was a fountain in the plaza fronting the Elector’s palace: a fish-tailed Triton sat on a shell and blew water vertically from a conch. The stream splashed onto the shell and finally drained into the passing canal.
Though the fountain was twenty feet high and therefore imposing, Daniel didn’t find it in any way attractive. He felt much the same way about the palace itself.
Well, unlike the other three members of the delegation, Daniel didn’t even live there. Admiral Martina Lasowski and her senior aides doubtless had more serious concerns than the fact they were housed in a three-story pile of beige brick with pillared arches in the center and windows of many different styles on the wings.
Daniel frowned as he walked over the final narrow pedestrian bridge. Because Daniel was a supernumerary, the admiral had permitted him to find his own accommodation—a harborside apartment. Being billeted in the palace at government expense would have saved money, but at a cost to the freedom of his personal life.
Still, the money would have been nice. Daniel’s spending had exceeded his combined income—naval pay and a small annuity settled on him at his mother’s death—ever since he broke with his father. He’d gotten considerable credit simply because he was a Leary of Bantry, but even that had stretched close to the breaking point.
If not beyond it. Maybe his sister would see her way clear to a loan.
Daniel no longer told himself that he’d
cut back his expenditures in the near future. That hadn’t happened in six years, so it wasn’t probable now. It cost a good deal to keep up the show required of an officer worthy of promotion, and besides, he’d gotten a taste for high life in his early years.
The palace entrance was a rank of eight archways, with six more in the row immediately behind the first and four final arches giving onto three broad steps to the tall doors. The pillared court stretched sixty-five feet back from the plaza, and the amount of greenish stone in the columns was staggering.
Daniel’s mother had raised him at Bantry, the country estate claimed—in legend, at any rate—by the Leary family when the first colony ship arrived on Cinnabar. His sister Deirdre was the elder by two years. She, Corder Leary’s pride and presumptive heir, spent most of her time in the family townhouse in Xenos under the care of nurses and other hirelings.
Deirdre had emerged from the capital milieu of vice, pomp, and riot as a sober, pragmatic woman who drank as a duty, ate to fuel her body, and had no vices rumored even by political enemies. Daniel, the product of mother love and rural sport, was … less of a paragon.
Well, Deirdre’s virtues weren’t those of the Republic of Cinnabar Navy. The RCN was a place for hot courage, quick initiative, and the willingness to follow a fixed course when orders required it. Daniel thought he might someday be an RCN officer whom others spoke of, if he survived.
And if he ever got a command. Talent could help an officer to a command, and luck was useful in the RCN as well as all the rest of life. But the best way to a command was through interest: the help of wealthy and politically powerful citizens. People like Speaker Leary, who would have preferred to see his son in Hell rather than in the navy.
Which was why Daniel had joined, of course. One of the reasons. He’d been drawn also by his uncle Stacey Bergen’s tales of far worlds. Those were some of Daniel’s warmest and earliest memories.
The vast entrance alcove was lighted only by the sun shining onto the plaza in front of it. That should have been sufficient now at midmorning, but Daniel’s eyes took a moment to readapt from full day to these shadowed stones. In bad weather the hawkers, idlers, and thieves thronging the plaza came here for protection. Their trash remained to eddy disconsolately among the pillars.
