Pathspace: The Space of Paths

by Matthew Kennedy

  “Well, apart from free room and board and protection from his enemies, he gets your men to scavenge for him. All those bits of alien trash they've collected for him over the years.”

  “Those things are for the school. They're not for him. They're part of something for the benefit of everyone.”

  Ludlow sneered at that. “Then why is he the only one with access to them?”

  Ah, she thought, a second item on your agenda. “For the same reason that only the Army has access to military items. If we managed to locate a still-functional computer of the Ancients, I wouldn't turn it over to children, would I?”

  Ludlow's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. Really, Ludlow, she thought, it is far too easy to prick your ego. Am I trying to provoke hum into making a scene, she wondered, that will give me an excuse to eject him from my employment?

  “No, of course not,” he grunted, making an obvious effort to get control of himself and reestablish his mask “But a second set of eyes never hurts. You never know what someone else might notice that you yourself missed.”

  “True enough,” she said. “But I trust his judgment, in his own field. With regard to the first matter you brought up. I do not pick his apprentices, so you really can't expect me to order him to take you back on as one. Is there anything else?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Well, there is another topic I wanted to bring up. But perhaps it can wait for another time.”

  She fixed regarded him. “Mr. Ludlow, I'm sure you've heard rumors that we are preparing for another war with Texas. If there is anything else you believe needs saying, I'd advise you to say it now, in case I'm too busy to listen later.”

  He pursed his lips. “It's about your daughter.”

  She shouldn't have been surprised, but mentally she shook her head. For a man of such limited ability, his ambition was astonishing! “What about her?”

  “I cannot help but notice all the time you are taking with her education. Yet is seems to focus on the wrong things entirely. Geopolitics, for example. She doesn't need that.”

  The Governor put her hands on her desk, palms down and resisted the urge to vault over it and strangle him. “And why not?”

  “Oh come now,” he said, smiling. “We both know she's destined for a political marriage someday. She should be learning skills appropriate to such a destiny.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Oh? What skills are those? Are you saying my daughter should be learning how to cook, how to gaze adoringly at a man and give emotional support?” Has he managed to forget who he is talking to? she wondered. Is his ego so enormous that it blocks out my face?

  “I wouldn't put it that way,” he replied. “Perhaps she does need some knowledge of the world, after all. But a little training on more feminine skills would not be wasted on her.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Mr. Ludlow. You may return to your duties.”

  His eyes narrowed again, but instead of speaking he turned and left the room. It was reassuring to know that at least he knew when an interview was over. After the door closed behind him, she closed her eyes and remembered a conversation with the General.

  “How do you do it so well?”

  Those beloved hazel eyes regarded her. “Can you be more specific?” He smiled in gentle humor. “I do many things well.”

  “Yes you do. But how do you manage to deflect advice you know is wrong … without alienating the people who work for you?”

  The General stroked the side of her face. “Never let people tell you their jobs. As the leader, you will decided what they work on. If they know what they're talking about, listen. If they don't, you listen, thank them for the advice, then forget it.”

  Remembering, she wished she had asked one more question. What do you do with someone whose ambition exceeds their ability?

  Chapter 21

  Jeffrey: “between the profit and the loss”

  As they rode north, he thought about his conversation with Cardinal Esperanza. There were so many questions bubbling up in his mind about it that he was surprised he could stay in the saddle.

  First, why hadn't the man seemed surprised at all about the assassination? Was that because he had a part in it? Esperanza didn't strike him as a violent type, but one thing was obvious. They did have something in common, as the man in red had suggested. Both of them were waiting for their chance at power. Had the cardinal expedited his? He seemed awfully sure that he would be elected to succeed poor Rodrigo.

  Which brought up the second question. How was he so certain of election? The cardinal was not much older than Jeffrey. Didn't the College of Cardinals usually pick someone older? He was chagrined to admit that he knew very little of the inner workings of the TCC. For all he knew, many of the senior leadership of the Church were younger men these days. But Esperanza's certainty had been very convincing.

  Up ahead, Brutus signaled for a halt. Time to rest the horses and grab some chow.

  He supposed he ought to be grateful that Commander Glock had been detailed to lead this foray, but he'd never liked Brutus, and he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual.

  Jeffrey swung down off his horse and dug into the saddlebag for some jerky. His thoughts strayed back to the cardinal. If he hadn't actually planned the assassination, he was certainly unsurprised by it. Therefore he had been in the loop. Whoever had killed Rodrigo must have decided that Enrique would be more agreeable to whatever they had planned.

  He stopped for a moment, struck by another possibility. Could his father have been the one behind it? Whatever made the hole in Rodrigo's skull had come sideways across the chamber – the Honcho had been in zero danger. After a moment, thought, he discarded that line of reasoning. His father had been getting along with the current Pontiff just fine, from what he'd observed during their audience. Rodrigo had appeared perfectly willing to accept the need for alien shortcuts. He'd listened to reason. There was nothing to indicate the Honcho had felt more extreme methods were required. Unless he'd given the order before the audience even began. “How far are we from the border, Commander?” he asked Brutus

  The older man took a bite of his own jerky before answering. “We won't see action before tomorrow,” he said. “Probably tomorrow afternoon.” He took a swig from his canteen and recapped it, eying Jeffrey. “Don't worry, we'll keep you safe.”

  Jeffrey bristled. “You're in charge, I get that. But how am I supposed to get any useful experience if I just hide behind your men when we have to fight?”

  “Well now, that is a problem,” Brutus admitted. “But before we solve it, maybe you can tell me how I keep my job if the heir to the throne gets hurt on my watch?”

  “I have no intention of getting hurt, Commander.”

  “Swell. Because I have no intention of facing a firing squad.” He spat out a piece of gristle. “Get back to your horse.”

  Chapter 22

  Xander: “weave the wind”

  The lad was progressing nicely, if gradually. Soon he could be relied upon to survive most confrontations, if only by concealing himself. Sometimes, Xander was hard put to repress his envy. If only I'd had the benefit of a mentor half as good for me as I am being to him. How much more might I have accomplished by now? But such thoughts were useless. And gods knew he didn't want the lad to have to learn as slowly as he himself had. There was no time for it.

  There were occasional rumors of something that could. Each piece of the Tourist leftovers that Kristana's men brought him gave him a chance to puzzle out more of the magic technology, the psionic engineering of the aliens. So far he had learned pathspace from the swizzles, spinspace from the one everwheel they'd found in southern Wyoming, and tonespace from the coldboxes and everflames. The thing he had his heart set on, though, was finding the tissue regenerator that had been the undoing of the medical industry of the Ancients. He was hoping to learn the uses of healspace from it. If he could only find one and do that, he might have even more time to do what was needed. But he hadn't. He c
ouldn't heal even the simplest wound, let alone undo the accumulated damages of aging, and so the best he could do was see the Academy up and running before he walked with his ancestors.

  Just now, though, he walked in the gardens, on his way to the rooftop. He paused to rub the leaves of a bush of peppermint and smelled his fingers.

  A flicker from up ahead caught his eye: another failing glow-tube. Frowning, he strode up to a spot under it and reached out with his mind to re-sculpt the tonespace around the glass, combing the frequency distribution with deft touches until the tube lit up again with its usual steady blue-white radiance. Satisfied, he resumed his progress toward the staircase. He had already passed most of the mints, but now he paused at the planting of catnip that Aria kept for Otto. He reached out to break off a small piece for his cat and slipped it into a pocket of his cloak before continuing.

  When he opened the door to the stairwell, the air inside was colder than he had expected. Had Autumn slipped by him already? Sometimes it seemed that the fewer years he had left, the faster they slipped through his fingers. But maybe it was well that they were nearly into Winter. Surely the Honcho would think twice of attacking Rado when the snows made footing treacherous and the cold sapped muscles of man and horse alike.

  He emerged onto the roof and swept it with his eyes, seeking the lookouts. The nearest one was no far. Xander strode toward him, wrapping his cloak more closely about his aging bones.

  “Hello, Timothy,” he said. “Keeping warm, are you?”

  The lookout grinned. “That I am, sir. Whatever you did to the perch has helped more than I can thank you for. Last winter I almost have froze my butt to it more than once.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” said Xander. He'd put a faint everflame spell on the stone bench, a gentle warping of its tonespace so that there was always a warm spot for the man to sit on and a warm updraft to fend off the chilly breezes up here. It was the least he could do for the men who sat the lonely vigils up here. “Is the city quiet?”

  “As a grave, sir.” Tim turned his eyes back toward the southern horizon as he spoke. “As it happens, I've been expecting the latest world from the outposts any time now. I don't need to tell you, I get nervous when they're a minute late, considering everyone says Texas is overdue to try their luck against us again.”

  Tim eyed the water clock again. It was a simple affair, but Xander was justly proud of his innovations. Originally a sand hourglass, it now held oil warmed by a faint everflame spell so that the viscosity – and the clock's accuracy – would not be affected by the coldest blizzard. He'd had them tint bands of transparent colors parallel to the ends, so that as the top slowly drained by the dripping of the opaque oil, the lowest color glowing would tell the hour. The highest part near the top of the glass was colored red, then orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, then red at the just above the constriction between top and bottom halves. Each hour of the watch could be easily read even in the darkest night by the miniature glow-tubes in the top and bottom. When Tim reached the end of his hour watch, and the entire rainbow red-to-red of the empty top was showing, his replacement could just flip the thing over and start over again.

  Finding good transparent tints had occupied the Court alchemist for the better part of a season, but everyone agreed it was well worth the effort. When needed, eight-hour watches could be split in half or any whole number of hours, for that matter. The crafters were turning them out as quickly as they could, calling it the Xander clock now. Some of them had told him privately he should talk to the Governor about getting a royalty for his idea – it could turn out to be a lucrative export. Xander didn't need to glance at the clock to know sunrise was near. Blue twilight had already lit the skyscraper. “No need to be nervous yet,” he told Tim. “They'll be able to use the sun-mirror in a few minutes.”

  At night the signals were sent with a glow-tube lit box with hand-operated shutters. Another of Xander's ideas; he'd gotten it from an old book on naval vessels of the Ancients, that had used a similar technique. But daylight was brighter than the glow-tubes, at a distance, so the outside surfaces of the controllable shutters on the signal box were mirrored. All they had to do was orient it correctly to reflect the sunlight from the East at sunrise to the north and flip the shutters open and closed in the same old Morse.

  “Ah! There he is.” A orange light flashed three groups of five to get their attention. Xander fell silent as the distant fellow blinked them the morning report. As the blinking continued, he frowned. Movement north spotted. Scouts.

  Tim turned back to him after the message ended. “Is this it, sir? Do you think their army is following the scouts they've seen?”

  “I doubt it,” said Xander. “But they could be, for all we know. If the Honcho is planning to invade, he's smart enough to either hit us before the snows make it hard, or else wait for Spring.”

  “By the time we spot his army,” Tim pointed out, “they could be within a day's ride of the borderlands.”

  “I know, I know.” Xander brooded on that and came to a decision. “Stay warm, Tim. I have to go tell the Governor. This news won't wait for the changing of the Watch. Keep an eye peeled in case they sight more troops.” He turned on his heel and strode off.

  He had to remind himself to take the steps carefully as he descended. Remember, your bones aren't as strong as they used to be, you old fool. I should have implemented that drop-chute idea a long time ago. One shaft and a good parachute would be faster than these damned staircases! But he had delayed working out the safety details to go out and find a new apprentice. If they had the motors of the ancients, they could get the building's elevators going again. But that might take many years. In the meantime a carefully-deployed drag chute and a safety net made of rope would have to serve. When he could take the time to get them to set it up, that is.

  His hasty footsteps ion the stairs alerted the dogs, who raised a racket that he had no time for. “Get out of the way!” he barked back at them, and leaped over them from the last few steps hoping he wouldn't crack his ribs against a locked door. As it happened, the guard was just beginning to open the door to investigate the barking when Xander crashed into it, knocking the door the rest of the way open and spilling both of them into the hallway. “Sorry!” he growled at the guard, as he sprang to his feet and dashed down the corridor to the Governor's rooms.

  Kristana was just coming out of her rooms to inspect the morning watch reliefs when he arrived panting at her door. “Lookouts report a scouting party heading north,” he wheezed. “I have to go check it out. The main army might not be far behind them.”

  “Take some men with you,” she advised him.

  “By the time we ride down there, they could be burning farms in the borderlands,” he told her. “By all means, send some men, but I can't wait for 'em. I can move faster by myself.” He whirled and sprinted for the stairwell before she could argue.

  Jon and Edgar were murmuring something to each other when he reached his quarters. They looked up and tried to engage him in conversation as he brushed them aside and unlocked the door. “No time now,” he said, as he reached for his staff.

  “Is it true that your new apprentice is going to be the one you've been looking for?” Edgar asked, anyway. “Will he last longer than the last one?”

  “He might,” said Xander. “If you keep him safe and keep him from leaving.” His fingers closed on the staff and he whirled and strode down the hall and out of their sight.

  Entering the stairwell, he ran up the stair again, without thinking about what would happen if he missed one. One thing he regretted about this 'scraper was that none of the windows opened. The ancients had worried about many things that had not come to pass with the fall of civilization, such as chemical and biological assaults.

  When he emerged onto the roof again, he stopped to catch his breath. Foolish of me to run up the stairs. I'm not a young wizard anymore.

  Timothy's relief had not yet come. The guard turned, surprised
at his reappearance. “Did you forget something, sir?”

  “No,” said Xander, twisting the end caps off his staff and stowed them in a pocket of his cloak. A bass hum, or a deep whistle, came from the staff. “I keep telling myself I won't do this again,” he muttered.

  “Sir?” said Timothy. “Do what?”

  Before Tim could stop him, Xander leaped off the roof.

  Chapter 23

  Jeffrey: “Looking into the heart of light”

  He coughed as the wind shifted. “Was that really necessary?”

  Brutus tossed the torch aside and gazed out over the burning field. “Sometimes you have to send a message,” he said.

  Jeffrey closed his eyes, trying to escape the images of the four bodies in the burning farmhouse. “Even if there is no one left alive to hear it?”

  Brutus grinned. “Oh, it'll be heard. Just not by them. The next time we come through here the locals will be more cooperative.”

  The others were returning to the tethered horses. Jeffrey didn't meet their eyes. Is this the way an army operates? Are these the men I really want to lead? “We're barely over the border,” he said. “Aren't you alienating the same people who will be farming for Texas, once we capture the land?”

  Brutus turned and lit a cigarette from the flames of the house. “Don't be stupid,” he said. “We'll be moving our own people in. He took a drag and pulled his gloves on before slipping his horses' reins from the hitching post. Tugging on an arrow buried in his saddlebag, he freed the shaft, inspected the point to see it had not reached the flesh of his mount, then broke it and threw the pieces into the inferno the house had become. “And I don't like being shot at by farmers.”

  Jeffrey swallowed and swung back onto his own horse. Was this really just a scouting expedition? Brutus seemed to be drawing attention to himself, as if the commander was itching to start the war before the Honcho had intended. Or was he just following orders Jeffrey didn't know about?