“I like to see the shadows across the plains grass,” Sylvia answered.
He eased his way around the absolutely clear walkway to the eastern side and looked at the Imperial Palace again. Seen from the tower, it was a low mound of lusterless gray metal anchored by five squat golden towers, none of which reached half as far into the sky as the lowest tower of the city.
Somehow, Nathaniel would have expected the highest tower of all to have belonged to the Emperor.
“On stormy days, you can see the plains grasses dancing with the wind, and the patterns change as the winds play through the towers.”
Sylvia must have used a scope. Either that or she watched from a lower vantage point. His vision was supposed to be excellent, but he could only make out the general bending of the grasses from his office.
“After the Ecologic Rebellion, all of this had to be restored square by square. Just a hundred years ago, my mother said, there were bare patches you could see from the towers.” Sylvia twirled and looked up at him. “I’m hungry. What are you in the mood for?”
“Something simple… something you like… something… somewhere an Envoy would not discover.”
She grinned, and there was a hint of wildness in the gray eyes.
“But not too dangerous,” he added quickly. “Food and danger don’t mix. Not without poor digestion.”
As they dropped down the shaft, he wondered if he had let himself in for more than he should.
After a long tunnel train ride, well past the Port of Entry, and a long walk, punctuated with a drop shaft, followed by another long walk through the first angled and jointed corridor he’d seen on Terra, he was certain of it.
He kept his fingers playing over the detectors in his belt, but no energy foci were registering.
At irregular intervals, hallways joined and branched from the main corridor, and a few local residents hurried on their ways, not bothering to look at either the Ecolitan or his escort.
The flooring was harder, and the sound of footsteps echoed more than in the tower corridors.
“This is one of the older residential areas. People who don’t like the towers, mainly. It dates back to right after the Rebellion.”
Sylvia led him off the main corridor and around a gentle curve in the hallway to a dead end, but it took him a moment to realize it.
At first glance, he thought it was a garden plopped into the middle of the rabbit warren they had scurried through. His second look took in the umbrellaed tables under the low trees and soft lighting. People were seated at most of the tables, but Sylvia led him along a gravelled path through a hedge and to a table for two, set by itself.
“Astounded… amazed… speechless… almost,” he muttered, “but not quite.”
“I hope so.” She laughed.
“Whatever you say, dear Lady. I am in your hands.” And he was, because as flighty Sylvia had flitted through the afternoon he had lost sight of the fact that she was a perfectly competent intelligence agent. She pointed to the table. “A seat?” He sat, and she settled herself across from him, taking the napkin, real cloth, Nathaniel noted, and putting it in her lap.
“I would like to set the record straight, dear Envoy.” She looked squarely at him, and the scatterbrainedness was gone, her eyes cold like slate.
“One, I understand the impossible situation you face. Two, you have behaved like a perfect gentleman while being a total bastard. Three, you asked me to trust you, and I did, and a lot of people died. It was necessary, but I don’t like it. Four, I helped you do it, but I don’t want to talk about it. Five, I can’t help liking you. Six, dinner is my treat.”
The Ecolitan managed to keep his face nearly expressionless, even with the sinking feelings that settled in the pit of his stomach.
Sylvia smiled. The coldness was gone, as if turned off by a switch.
“This garden was planted blade by blade, stem by stem, by the owner. It’s unique in Noram, maybe anywhere on Terra. And the food is as good as the atmosphere.”
“May be the only one in the galaxy,” commented Nathaniel. “Never seen one like this with such flowers, paths, trees, especially totally indoors.”
A young woman, black-haired and black-eyed, edged through the hedge and looked at Sylvia, who nodded.
The waitress departed, to return with two slender crystal glasses filled with a golden liquid. “Sniff it first,” urged Sylvia.
He did. He couldn’t place the bouquet, but the warmth of it recalled a summer’s evening and seemed to relax the tension in his back and legs.
Sylvia took a sip of hers. After a moment, he followed. The taste was stronger than the delicacy of the bouquet suggested, but the warmth of the trickle that eased down his throat was totally without a sting or hint of bitterness. “Arranged everything, have you?”
“Absolutely everything. Memories are the most important thing you’ll take back to Accord. I want you to remember this dinner.”
“And the Empire, too?” he queried, teasing. “Empires are people, as I think you once said, and we all share the same stars.”
“With such artistic interests and concerns, how did you get from the study of dance to the Foreign Service and to the Senator’s office?” And to the Intelligence Service along the way? he wondered as well.
“That’s a long story, and not one to tell tonight. Let’s just say I don’t like doing the same thing for very long, except dancing, which I can’t for reasons we’ve already discussed. So I change as I can. Maybe I’ll emigrate, but emigration is a one-way ticket. You don’t do that without a good reason.”
The waitress reappeared with two thin china plates, each containing a salad. Nathaniel touched the edge of the plate.
“Real china,” confirmed the dancer/intelligence agent/ woman across the table from him.
The lighting dimmed in the garden, and the small lamp on the table came to life with a flame of its own.
Nathaniel took a last sip of the liqueur. Sylvia had already finished hers and started on the greenery. He followed her example. The small salad was as good in its way as the drink had been. “Lord Whaler?” He started.
“What do you really think of the Empire? In your heart of hearts?”
“That you ask of a diplomat? Or an Ecolitan?” She just looked at him.
“It’s difficult to put the feelings of a lifetime into words, and not in my own language, but I will try.”
“Take your time. I’ll listen.”
“The Empire is different, so different. It’s large, always pressing at Accord. Some fear the Empire because it is big. Some wish it would go away. Some want to destroy it…”
“You?”
“The Empire is dead at heart, I fear, although no one, or few except the Emperor himself, knows it. “ He took another bite of the salad before going on. “Dreams, aspirations, are the shadows of the future. Art, also. At the Hall of Sculpture, there were only a few people. You saw the dancer. I wondered at the man breaking free of the earth. But where were the other dreamers? The Emperor’s Palace does not soar to the skies but buries itself in the earth.”
“But what about the growth, the new systems, the explorations, the success in battles?”
“They are not from the heart of the Empire. The young of the outer systems bleed and strive. Like Accord, they will some day want to dream their own dreams. I hope the Empire is wise enough to understand when that time comes. But I doubt that.” She shivered, though the air was warm. “You paint a dark picture, and your words are compelling. I suppose that’s why—” She broke off as the waitress came through the hedge to remove the small plates.
He wondered where she’d been heading, but before he could ask, she threw another question at him. “Why did you take the job?”
“I was asked by the House of Delegates.”
“Were you required to accept?” Her tone was dry, a slight curl at the comer of her mouth. In the dim light, he wasn’t sure if she was masking lightness, a mild skepticism, or out-and-ou
t disbelief.
The slight breeze carried the faintest hint of orange toward him as he waited. Finally, he spoke. “No. But duty, responsibility…”
“Does everyone on Accord take duty so seriously?” He laughed. With her put-on seriousness, it was impossible not to.
“Does everyone here take duty as seriously as you do?” he countered, hoping for a laugh in return. He got it.
“Touche, dear Envoy. I suppose I deserved that.” Another set of china plates appeared from the hands of the waitress, as if by some sort of magic. The main course was equally simple, a single slice of meat under a golden sauce, and a side dish of long slice beans, sprinkled with nuts and a clear sauce. “What is it?”
“My secret.”
He waited until she started before venturing a bite. Like the salad and the liqueur, the meat was excellent, with an almost cristnut flavor that lingered after each bite. “Gentle men are the most dangerous, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“They give the impression of weakness, of confusion, and they often let themselves be pushed on minor matters because they’re only willing to fight for the most important things.”
“Perhaps. But is such a person gentle?”
“Would you consider yourself a gentle person. Lord Whaler?”
“In those terms, no. I would not.”
“I would, I think,” she mused, looking, but not really looking, at him with an unfocused expression. He waited, not willing to commit himself. “Why?” She paused. “Because power is only a means to an end, rather than the end.” Her eyes focused on him, but the seriousness was gone. “How do you like the food so far?”
The Ecolitan couldn’t answer, his mouth full, and finished the rather large bite he had taken. “Delicious.”
“The dessert is heavier. But I do admit to a sweet tooth, and I’ve selected an old favorite.”
The dinner plates disappeared at the magic hands of the waitress and were replaced with crystal bowls filled with a brown pudding like substance topped with white fluff.
The taste was distantly familiar… chocolate. He’d had it once before, years ago when he and Raoul had done student drops on Fioren. A real luxury, chocolate, at fifty Imperial credits a gram. His estimation of the cost of the dinner rose further. Whatever it cost, he was enjoying it. The chocolate dessert was followed with two small snifters of Taxan brandy. “Never have I been so royally treated.”
“I hope not. I hope not.”
Over the low hedge, he caught sight of sparkles in the air. Sylvia glanced in the same direction, then back at him.
“Marchelle can overdo it. Replica fireflies. Real ones can’t be brought into the tunnels.”
He sat there in quiet, the subdued hum of conversation from other tables barely audible, wondering why Sylvia had gone to such lengths. Wondering if she had set him up for a rude surprise.
“Time to depart,” she announced. “Time to get you back to your Legation and me back to my cubbyhole before I turn into a scull again. Ci’ella complex, you know.”
Not understanding a word, he nodded, his fingers dropping to his belt and still finding no energy fields, no snoops, no other devices in the vicinity.
Nathaniel left the grassy lawn, the hedges, and the tables with a feeling of regret, not sure why.
“Always hate to leave,” Sylvia murmured, “but there’s a purpose for every time.”
Pleasure or not, dinner or not, Nathaniel forced himself into combat alert, mentally ticking through the checklist. If ever there were a time to be alert, now was that time, when he didn’t feel the slightest bit like it.
He stayed next to Sylvia, through the curves and lift shafts back to the tunnel train, alert for any deviation from the route by which they had come. The train was almost empty, and that worried Nathaniel. Sylvia wore an amused smile but said nothing. “Few use the train,” he commented halfway back toward the Diplomatic Tower, feeling the silence weigh on him.
“Right now. Too late for most and too early for the real carousers. Aren’t many of them any longer.”
With his newfound understanding of the Imperial population control techniques, he understood why.
He lapsed back into silence. Never had he mastered the art of small talk while keeping thoroughly alert. That was for espionage types, not Ecolitans.
A few souls were in the concourse of the Diplomatic Tower when the two of them swung off the train, but, again, he could find no trace of either tails or energy concentrations.
Finally, they reached the portal to the Legation, which was opened by the duty officer as they approached.
“Here’s where we part company, dear Envoy.” She took his hands in hers. He stiffened, unsure of what to do. “You’re expecting the worst, have been all afternoon. You’re too ethical. Even when you play dirty, you play fair.”
Turning to face him full on, Sylvia stood on her tiptoes, brushed her lips across his forehead and stepped back, still holding his hands. “Good night.”
She was gone, gliding toward the drop shaft before he could open his mouth. When he did, he left it open because there was nothing to say.
What could he say? Obviously, he was more transparent than he thought.
He closed his mouth and turned toward the still-open portal.
Heather stood inside behind the console. “Still here, Heather?”
“All day, Lord Whaler. I trust you had an enjoyable outing.”
“Enjoyable but puzzling. Most puzzling.” He shook his head as he started toward his private quarters, still alert, still checking. Neither his office nor his quarters had been touched, further snooped, or otherwise tampered with so far as he could tell.
He was still shaking his head when he finally climbed into bed. Another social encounter with the women of the Empire was unlikely, for a while at least. Another might well undo him totally.
The faintest hint of orange blossoms drifted into the room as he closed his eyes, but when he looked, the space was empty. He turned over and willed himself to sleep.
…XXXV…
Even after a full day more of studying the history and development of New Augusta from the viewpoint of the Imperial historians, followed by another night’s sleep, Nathaniel felt he had only a slightly more than superficial grasp of the motivations of the people with whom he was dealing. He understood better some of the phobias of the Imperial citizenry, such as the dislike of the color black, which, interestingly enough, had been the color adopted by the Directorate after Alregord.
Perhaps Accord had been wrong to let the Institute choose the combination of military expert/scholar. Were his well-intentioned machinations leading the way to disaster?
Despite his elementary precautions, Sylvia could have set him up for assassination or an incident which could have totally embarrassed him or reduced his credibility. Instead, she had treated him to a charming afternoon and evening, while making clear she knew exactly what he was up to. But she hadn’t explained her reasons. Maybe they were supposed to be obvious, but to him they certainly weren’t. He shrugged as he donned his blacks. The week ahead was going to be interesting enough without adding worry on top of worry.
Should he get into his office early? Too early, and Mydra would be suspicious. Too late, and she’d glare.
He laughed at himself for the thoughts. Like the generally unseen Imperial men, he was reacting to the pleasure and displeasure of the Imperial women.
The hell with it! Forest Lord take the foremost. He liked being at work early, and he was going to enjoy it.
He took a cup of liftea in his tiny kitchen and eased through the apartment quarters into his office. The shadows of the westernmost towers reached the foothills below the mountains, but the rational side of his mind questioned what his eyes told him. Were the towers that tall?
The sky was cloudless, as it was so often, and he enjoyed the blue heights. The skies over the Institute displayed clouds more often, in keeping with the generally wetter weather he was u
sed to.
He leaned back in the swivel, debated whether he should try to finish the Imperial version of the history of New Augusta or enjoy the view. The view won. “Lord Whaler?”
Mydra stood in the open portal from the staff office. “Beautiful morning, Mydra, is it not?”
“If you say so.” She looked at his console. “I’ll be feeding some communications which need authorizations into your console. If you could take care of them this morning, I’d certainly appreciate it.”
“Fine. Will do them as soon as they’re ready.” So much for the history of New Augusta and the view. Duty called. He drained the lukewarm remainder of the tea.
With a touch on the power stud, the second faxscreen lit and projected the first communications.
Most were either letters back to students, supplying information or referring them to the Institute for more detailed studies. Another batch was composed of routine denials of emigration requests from Terra to Accord.
He found himself amused that the facsimile of his signature remained as the principal validation of communications after centuries of electronic transmission methods.
“After all this thinking machinery, someone still has to read and authorize this junk.”
Midway through the program stack, the intercom buzzed. “Lord Jansen for you.”
Moderately surprised that a call though the main office was actually being routed to him, he jabbed the stud. “Lord Whaler.”
“Alexi Jansen, Lord Whaler.”
“Good it is to hear from you.”
“We’ve had a chance to go over your proposal, Ms. Du-Plessis and I, and I was wondering if you and your staff could talk over some of the points raised.”
“Most happy to do so.” Jansen cleared his throat and waited. Nathaniel waited also, then realized that Jansen was in a difficult position. The Minister couldn’t really demand that they meet over at the Ministry of External Affairs, nor did he want to talk in the leaky confines of the Accord Legation.
Nathaniel cleared his throat in return, gestured around his office. “Alas, not terribly suited are my spaces, but pleased would I be if no other space is available.”
The Ecologic Envoy Page 21
