by David Weber
Darcel hadn’t asked the emperor about any ulterior motives which might explain his willingness to deprive himself of the best Privy Voice in the multiverse, but it would have been entirely in keeping with things Zindel had already said to him. There were more reasons for his entry into politics than an old survey crew Voice’s needing a job when a lot of the resources formerly used on exploration were redirected towards war. Prince Janaki had told him he had important work to do for Sharona, but Darcel had found that difficult to believe. He still did, in many ways, but he’d been shaken to his marrow when he’d accidentally shared bits of one of Emperor Zindel’s Glimpses and seen himself at the side of a future Empress Andrin. He supposed he’d started down that road when he and Alazon pointed Andrin at the blessed ambiguity of the Unification Treaty’s stipulations, but the emperor’s Glimpse went far beyond that.
Alazon didn’t know everything about that, because he couldn’t share the details of that Glimpse with her—much as he loved her, they were both Voices, bound by the confidentiality oaths which went with their Talents—but she clearly understood that the threads of his and Andrin’s lives were somehow interwoven, and she was both immensely pragmatic and someone who’d seen imperial politics from their very heart for years. If he was to play a part on that sort of stage, he needed the stature and position from which to play it, which was why she’d insisted Darcel follow through and seek election. At the same time, she’d also insisted he couldn’t be directly tied to Emperor Zindel during the campaign, which was the real reason she’d resigned her position at the emperor’s right hand. Had she stayed Privy Voice, no one reporting on his candidacy would have let a mention of the campaign be complete without a reference to how close to the Winged Crown’s influence he would have to be, and that could definitely have been a two-edged sword in New Farnal.
New Farnal might have been populated and governed initially with significant assistance from the Ternathian Empire, but the public didn’t necessarily warm to monarchies now. Even a monarch as generally approved of as Emperor Zindel was still in the words of Darcel’s own mother, “An unelected genetic lottery winner. He could easily have been a despot, and Ternathia wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it without one hell of a war, and we’ve already got enough warfare going on as it is, don’t you agree?”
It was in the light of that sort of attitude that Alazon had decided to leave her position as Privy Voice to spend her days and nights with him on the campaign trail. The fact that Zindel undoubtedly expected her back didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t known that when she handed in her resignation, and Darcel was amazed still she’d been willing to risk her entire career for him.
he Sent.
The laugh lines around Alazon’s clear gray eyes crinkled in greeting and, possibly in response to his thought, she darted a gentle look towards the waiting voters. Darcel turned back towards the crowd with her hand in his.
The next constituent wore a pin supporting one of the other Voices running for the same seat as Darcel.
She offered her hand anyway, and he took it. He would have done that under any circumstances, but her grip was firm and her gaze met his forthrightly, and he found himself smiling at her. She clearly wasn’t going to be supporting him, but Voices were better than most at sizing up others’ motives, and whatever her motives for choosing a different candidate, she was open about it. And she was also refreshingly free of the sort of demonization of political opponents he’d already encountered entirely too often.
At least she wasn’t one of the conspiracy nut “Truthers” who were trying to deny anything had really happened out there on the frontier. Or who believed, if something had happened, that the Portal Authority—including one Darcel Kinlafia—had somehow provoked it. For that matter, she wasn’t even one of the depressingly large number of people who figured he was only one more political hack who’d vote for anything if given a large enough private campaign donation.
Darcel smiled at the open adversary, waved her in the direction of the complimentary buffet, and turned to the next member of this town’s League of Women Talents.
Darcel sent a mental grin back. Alazon’s mind fitted his own so comfortably he had to keep a tight focus to avoid acting a like a love struck puppy in front of the crowd of would be voters. There was no hiding that he adored her and that the feeling was mutual, but they were both expert Talents, well able to keep their mental communication private even from the other Voices in the crowd if they stayed focused. And there were always other Voices in the crowd.
His life as a political candidate now included a steady stream of professional news Voicecasters, sometimes following him individually and sometimes simply appearing among the prospective voters. The best of them had a Talent control that exceeded his own and kept complete mental silence until they pounced. The small town reporters like the two from rival news organizations covering this particular stop, on the other hand, leaked like toddlers trying to keep a secret.
Slight shifts in the nearest Voicecaster’s level of excitement warned Darcel he expected something interesting to happen.
The next woman in the newly formed line was a grey-haired lady with a self-important if not exactly regal bearing. She held his hand and professed her eagerness to see him take a seat in the new Imperial House of Talents.
“Lady Durthia,” Darcel repeated the woman’s name back to her and thanked her for the support using one of the standard polite phrases he could now murmur in his sleep. People seemed to appreciate him cycling through six or seven different ways of saying the same thing rather than repeating the same precise lines again and again. Politics. He kept his sigh strictly internal.
The woman leaked irritation at him. In his surprise at having an emotion projected at him, he didn’t catch what she actually said.
“I appreciate your support, Lady Durthia.” Darcel answered a beat too late, echoing a suggested response from Alazon.
Only the Talented were eligible to vote for members of the new empire’s House of Talents, since—like its equivalent in the Ternathian Parliament—it was to be the only part of government authorized to introduce legislation binding exclusively on the Talented population. Since that was the case, Darcel fully expected most of the crowd to be Talented. What he hadn’t expected was an untrained if very weak projective. She squeezed his hand once, and immediately Darcel had no doubt that, for all her smiles and gentle words, she quite viscerally despised him. And that she also hadn’t realized she’d just pushed that angry mental outburst at him.
Not everyone with a Talent trained and used it. This woman should have at least applied a basic effort to learn control but clearly hadn’t.
He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. Politeness for the grey in the woman’s hair was all that stopped Darcel, a child of New Farnalian university professors, from chastising her on the spot for wasting that shriveled remnant of a very rare Talent.
“Lady Durthia.” Alazon leaned across and said out loud, “Thank you for the kind words. Darcel appreciates your support.”
He waved a cordial goodbye at the projective and turned to Alazon during a brief pause in the receiving line.
Lady Durthia fluttered an affected wave at the two of them as she flitted off into the crowd turned campaign stop party. Her beaming face looked as if meeting Darcel had been the best thing in the known multiverses.
Darcel welcomed the next person in line, relieved when she proved to be a soft-spoken Animal Speaker serving as Whitterhoo’s veterinarian for all the pets in town. She was also planning to vote for him. A light handshake and a few words exchanged seemed to leave that woman just as happy as Durthia had appeared to be. The line moved on.
Darcel waited for Alazon to continue the mental explanation. Something in the feel of the pause told him she was organizing complex thoughts before sharing them.
With so many years as Emperor Zindel’s Privy Voice and effective political chief of staff, Alazon held an intuitive grasp of political interactions. Darcel still had to think things through and ask questions to make sure he understood.
Startled by her response, Darcel failed to avoid a bear hug from an overly friendly man accompanying the next league member.
The newest intern, the one with the forgettable face, deftly drew the man off before he could follow up with anything more enthusiastic and kept the crowd moving. The political team Alazon had built for him was a masterpiece in action. Darcel credited her practical experience in politics and deep personal network for assembling such a skilled support staff for his campaign.
Kelahm somehow deposited the man farther off in the crowd in front of Lady Durthia, who welcomed the newcomer and his wife with mutual hugs.
Tears blurred Darcel’s vision for a moment before he forced them away.
* * *
Alazon Yanamar left Darcel to handle the rest of the long line of well-wishers. The team had finally gotten him off the train platform and into the assembly room proper that had been rented for this campaign stop. They’d also made sure it had a good strong roof to hold off the rain if another squall came through.
He was good at these moment-by-moment meetings with Talents young and old who wanted to lay eyes on their candidate. He’d also work the line faster if she wasn’t mentally whispering in his ear, and that meant a shorter wait for those at the end of the line who might simply leave if forced to stand too long.
She scanned the room to reacquaint herself with the mood of the rest of the crowd and caught the nonverbals passing lightning-quick between the Voice she’d drafted for campaign coordination, Istin Leddle, and the double handful of Darcel’s political staff scattered across the room.
Two of the staff took station farther up the receiving line to gush about their excitement for the campaign and subtly remind the constituents not to crush Darcel’s hands. They might also encourage those at the end of the line to stay for the long wait to see the candidate himself.
The team was good. And Alazon watched her husband-to-be with a deep sense of pride. He was good too. Other campaign managers taught their candidates complex tactics for pretending empathy with potential voters. Darcel didn’t need any of that. He liked people, and it showed.
The next pair in line had brought a baby, and Alazon suppressed a laugh as one of her interns produced a baby blanket. Darcel deftly laid it over his arms and bounced the cooing infant without ever touching the child directly. He’d insisted on something being found to keep the babies safe when the first of the mild campaign illnesses caught up with him and even the smallest infants kept being pushed into his arms anyway.
Istin had suggested blazoning the campaign logo across the thing like a banner, but Alazon had nixed that in favor of a discrete appliqué in one corner. The parents loved them. She made a note to order more.
She’d also have to see about getting more regional campaign offices and finding out which of the interns were interested in long term employment on the Kinlafia staff. It wasn’t too soon to plan for Candidate Darcel becoming Minister Kinlafia.
Perhaps a trip outside New Farnal would be good. For this first election, Alazon’s goal for Darcel was to secure a position in the new House of Talents by a large enough margin to carry a sense of mandate. The polls showed he was popular everywhere. If a few fellow delegates owed their elections to his support…Alazon began mentally calculating the costs of leaving his base electorate for a day trip or two compared to the impact of merely giving a few supportive Voicecast interviews.
* * *
Kelahm chan Helikos, member of the Ternathian Empire’s most elite personal protective service, served tea and delicate biscuits to the ladies of the Whitterhoo League of Women Talents waiting in the drizzle outside the packed meeting hall. He’d certainly worked in worse conditions. The crowd was cheerful and no one paid him much attention.
He hadn’t even had to provide his cover story yet: Kelahm Helikos, adult middle son of a prosperous animal healer, taking a few months off from the family business to volunteer on the Darcel Kinlafia campaign.
Talents that could detect lying, rare though they were in the general population, were too commonly hired to serve as political correspondents for Kelahm to risk any overt falsehoods in his cover story. So everything he said about himself was true. He simply left out many other true things no one would think to ask about.
For example, he wouldn’t mention the chan honorific earned from his military service before his recruitment into the Ternathian Imperial Guard. Nor would he mention that his father had also served in the Imperial Guard before retiring to an out of the way game preserve and setting up shop as an animal healer just to keep himself busy. And if the reason Kelahm had volunteered to join the Kinlafia Campaign had to do with his superiors’ orders, as indeed it had, he had no intention of mentioning that fact either.
The other interns clearly didn’t care for standing in the warm rain, so he’d arranged his security screen by suggesting they shuttle full carafes of tea and warm covered trays out to him for distribution among the crowd. The bedraggled pair he’d replaced had happily agreed.
Three hours into the shift, Kelahm had to partake of the tea himself when one of the interns started joking that he had some kind of Talent granting imperviousness to weather. He didn’t. But displaying too much self-discipline led to the wrong sorts of questions.
The tea was chilled with ice brought down from the mountains and deliciously sweet on his tongue. The cookies were rich enough to replace his lunch if he could have had a dozen more of the petite dainties. Kelahm brushed the crumbs off the front of his slightly oversized shirt and complimented the Whitterhoo League of Women Talents on their baking skills.
He could easily have refrained from eating the food and drink meant for the voters, but he had to play his part. This first day in a new cover was always the hardest.
He needed to convince the other interns he was entirely as they expected him to be, with his personal depths being limited to quirky tastes in music and perhaps a bit more naiveté about the world than they themselves had. Once they had him mentally slotted he could do whatever he had to do for the real job: Darcel Kinlafia’s protection.
Privy Voice Yanamar’s blonde assistant brought out the next load of sweets. Kelahm corrected himself, Voice Yanamar’s assistant. She’d made it quietly clear that none of the campaign workers were to use her previous title while she ran Voice Kinlafia’
s staff. Especially not here, where feelings about the Calirath dynasty remained a bit ambiguous. That was the sort of detail she never got wrong.
Voice Yanamar was an excellent, if massively overqualified, campaign coordinator, and none of the staff she’d selected were a threat to Darcel, so Kelahm had moved quickly past them after his initial review reconfirmed their loyalty. Unfortunately that meant he’d met everyone but didn’t really know any of them yet.
Istin of the pale Bernith Island skin and driven professionalism common to all the Privy Voice’s Talented protégés settled beside him as if he’d decided to have some cookies himself while out of sight of the team supporting Kinlafia in the main hall, and Kelahm suppressed a smile. The young man was almost certainly after the same view that had attracted him to the small rise in the first place.
Kelahm hadn’t stopped scanning the crowd for threats while taking his break, and he’d picked out a spot where he could see the train station and a good stretch of the track. His Talent worked at close range as well, but he’d already scanned the group inside for the complex instability that might presage an attack on Kinlafia. Outside, he had more range to deal with and redirect those who really shouldn’t be allowed within arms reach of the candidate Emperor Zindel had assigned him to protect. Watching the train station let him keep an eye on the cars on which Kinlafia and the Privy Voice would head to the evening’s next stop. He couldn’t see the backs of the cars from here though, and the crowd looked to be thinning, which marked the nearing end of their stay at Whitterhoo.
