“That should fix it.” She undid hidden catches and lifted the top off the box. “You know that picturemaker we’ve been using in our latest issues? I’ve made some refinements.”
Maccioso looked at the machine’s innards. It did resemble the picturemaker Tarune used. In that device, light was focused on a cellulose plate coated with a special green dye. Wherever light fell on the plate, the dye faded toward transparency. If the plate were properly coated with fixing lacquer, a permanent picture resulted.
Tatja pointed. “See, this clock movement pulls the tape through the central area. Once every two seconds, this shutter flicks open. On alternate seconds, the shutter on the other side of the box takes a picture. So we have a record covering nearly three hundred degrees, a picture every second for ten minutes.” She pulled the reel out of the clicker and began to examine it under a large magnifying glass. Maccioso had a distorted view of the pictures through the same lens.
The first thirty pictures covered Svir’s approach to the keep. Every other picture was reversed, since it had been made on the opposite side of the cellulose. Despite this and the fact that the pictures weren’t as clear as ones made with one-shot devices, the sequence gave Maccioso the strange sensation that he was sitting on Svir’s shoulder. On every second frame, Svir’s head blocked out part of the picture.
Tatja carefully inspected each picture, becoming increasingly excited as they showed the interior of the keep. Here the exposure she had chosen was more effective and the pictures sharper. “See, the paneling, the paintings—they weren’t in any of the reports. And here, I’ll bet this is what snagged Hedrigs.”
Maccioso squinted at the tiny picture. It looked no different than the three or four previous. “That rectangle on the wall—it’s some kind of window. My guess is the guards have heard of those poison gases we saw in the Sutherseas. That little window is one end of a periscope, and the observer is in another room, protected from the gas, and apparently beyond Ancho’s range.” They looked at the rest of the pictures, but the last ones were badly underexposed, showing nothing but vague green blurs. They saw something of the crown room. In one of the pictures, Tatja claimed she saw a group of men.
She reached for tiny dividers. “We know that Ancho can broadcast through almost twenty feet of porphyry.” She made some rapid measurements of relative sizes on the tape. “That periscope window is about three inches by three.” She sat back and her eyes unfocused for a moment. “Now assuming their optics are no better than elsewhere, that periscope can’t have a resolution better than half an inch.” She looked up and flashed Maccioso a dazzling smile. “I’m all set!”
Tatja got up and began to take off her clothes. Maccioso stood up too. Admiral, barge captain … helpless little boy. For almost five years he had loved and feared this woman. She had worked miracles for the Tarulle Company, magic that he knew must one day turn on them. As Tatja laid her shirt on the chair, he reached out a huge hand to grab her shoulder, forcing her face close to his.
“You never intended this scheme to save Fantasie, did you?”
Tatja shrugged. “You know the saying, Ked. ‘Things are not as they seen.’”
“What are you after, damn you?” He shook her, but received no answer. “Well, if you think we’re going to sit still for this, you’re mad!”
“Poor Ked,” Tatja said gently. Her hand moved softly up his arm, found a nerve in his elbow. As he jerked back, she slipped from his hold. “It’s true. We’ve come to a … parting. And I have put you all at risk.” She reached into an alcove and drew out a full suit of black armor. The crown’s inspector general was about her height, but the armor had been designed for a male. In places it chafed tight, but she managed to get it on.
She slipped a steel-edged rapier into its sheath and picked up Ancho from the desk. At the door she turned to face him. “Your chances are good if you keep Brailly on a leash. And go through with the diversion. You really have no choice.”
Kederichi Maccioso stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. His voice came almost gentle. “That’s right, you … bitch.”
Seraph was in its last quarter, and the evening wake period was ending. Nearly a million people—the entire population of the capital—were crowded along the water’s edge. In the waning blue light the crowd was a mosaic carpet covering the streets and the roofs of the lower buildings. The festival was its noisiest as the Bayfastlings cheered the first sacrifices being towed into the bay. These were the secondary sacrifices, the appetizers. The barges formed a continuous train out to Sacrifice Island. They were stacked high with worked jade, optical devices, paintings. Hanging from the stern of each, an oil-wick torch lit the sacrifices.
A twisted smile crossed Tatja’s lips as she regarded the scene.
She descended to the sub-pier passageway reserved for official use, and five minutes later emerged on the city side of the crowd. There were plenty of people here, but there was no need to push through crowds. She spoke quietly to Ancho, petted him just so. According to all her theories, Ancho would accept her as his new master, but this was the critical test. She couldn’t tell whether he was radiating or not. Certainly the signal was having no effect on her. Then she noticed that people came to attention as she walked past. Good Ancho.
She reached the keep without incident. The guardsmen looked her over very carefully, this being the second inspector general they had seen that day. But they let her through. As she stood in the darkness between the two doors, she moved the dorfox to her waist. The armor plates gave him good purchase, and now he was below the view of the periscopes.
As she came to the doors of the crown room, Tatja spoke in a low, masculine voice to fool any listening tubes. Even with her visor up, she knew the armor would deceive the hidden observers. And of course the guardsmen in the hall didn’t have a chance. With Ancho’s help, even her fingerprints passed inspection.
Once in the crown room she moved quickly to the royal records. She lifted out the drawer she wanted, thumbed through it, and pulled out a single sheet of vellum. Good. It was the same form as had been publicly displayed at the Assignation of the Regency. From her pouch she drew a seemingly identical paper, smudges and all, and slipped it into the file. She smiled to herself; she had spent hundreds of hours crafting the forgery. It was the high point of her brief career in the drafting arts—and totally beyond the skill of ordinary humans.
Then she left, ignoring the puzzled guards. They had expected the IG to supervise the removal of the prizes.
Tatja found the stairway to the Conciliar Facet unguarded. This was unexpected good fortune. Perhaps Maccioso’s diversion had been more effective than she’d planned.
She removed the black resin armor and set the outfit on one of the display racks that lined the base of the stairwell. This was the most perilous part of her plan. Ancho would be a marginal use, an emergency escape tool at most.
From a cloth pouch she drew a white dress and jeweled sandals. She slipped them on, put Ancho on her shoulder, and ran up the stairs. This stairway wasn’t often used, since it was a single spiral ascending four hundred feet. Most people preferred to go by stages. Even so, Tatja kept the rapier. Except for that, and the dorfox clutching her shoulder, she might have been an Island girl at a communion picnic.
She took the steps three at a time, so fast that she had to lean toward the center of the spiral to keep her balance. After she first conceived this scheme, she spent much effort scouting Bayfast, studying the people and the keep. Tar Benesh had created the Festival of the Ostentatious Consumption to draw attention from a much more solemn event that took place every five years at the same time. The top people in the bureaucracy were scrupulously honest, but if she were even minutes late, she would have to wait five years—or possibly forever. taking the back way would avoid Renesh’s Special Men, but if she were wrong about the bureaucratic esprit of the rest, then she would likely die.
Tatja. took the four-hundred-foot stairs in a single sprint. At the
top of that flight was an entrance to the Conciliar Facet, a pentagonal amphitheater that crowned the enormous polyhedron that was the keep. Beyond the next door was the final test. She slid the door open and crept onto the uppermost tier of the amphitheater. There was a cool breeze, and Seraph blue covered everything. From the city came crowd sounds.
Less than a third of the seats in the facet were filled, and those were down in the center, by the podium and reading lamp. Virtually everyone here wore bureaucratic black. An important exception was the gross and colorful bulk of Tar Benesh, sitting in the first row before the podium.
Tatja glanced around the Facet. Maccioso’s diversion must have worked. Few of the guards appeared to be Benesh’s bully boys. There were only fifteen or twenty armed men present. Of course one of them might still be rotten, but that was a chance she must take. She noticed one man just five feet from her hiding place. The fellow leaned unprofessionally against the edge of the tier, blocking her entrance. She reversed the hilt of the rapier and moved swiftly forward, ramming the pommel into the base of the man’s neck. He collapsed quietly into her arms. She dragged him back, at the same time watching for signs that someone below had noticed.
The speaker’s voice came clearly to her. She knew there were about five minutes until the ceremony reached its critical point. She looked at her rapier. It was no longer an asset. Without putting herself in silhouette, she reached up and slid the weapon over the battlement. There was a faint scrape and clatter as it slid slowly down the side of the fifty-foot facet. Tatja set Ancho down, and petted him. Only the most subtle effects would be much use here. They waited.
The ceremony was nearing its end. On the podium stood the Lord High Minister to the Crown, the highest bureaucratic officer of Crownesse. The man was old, but his body was lean, and his voice was clear and strong as he read from the curling parchment. He had the air of a man who was for the thousandth time repeating a fervent and sincere prayer, a prayer that had so often been fruitless that it had become almost perfunctory.
“And so in the Year of the Discovery nine hundred and seven did the Crown Prince Evard II and his sister, the Princess Marget, take themselves aboard the Royal Yacht Avante to tour the eastern reaches of their Dominions.
“And on the fifth day of their voyage a great storm sent their yacht upon the Rocks of the South—for so we have the word of the ship’s captain and those crewmen who survived the tragedy.”
Tatja stood up slowly, out of their view. She fluffed out her skirt and waited intently for the moment that would come.
“The royal children were never found. So it is that the regent continues to govern in their stead, until such time as our rulers are recovered. On this twenty-fifth anniversary of that storm, and by order of the regent, I ask that anyone with knowledge of the royal family step forth.” The Lord High Minister glanced about moodily. The ceremony was almost a legal fiction. It had been fifteen years since anyone had dared Tar Benesh’s revenge with a story of the lost children. It is not surprising that the minister almost fell off his stand when a clear, vibrant voice answered his call.
“I, Marget of Sandros, do claim the crown and my dominions.” Tatja stood boldly on the uppermost tier, her arms akimbo. Behind her, and invisible to those below, sat a small animal with large ears. The startled bureaucrats stared at Tatja, the beautiful woman who had turned a ceremony into a coup. Then their eyes turned to the regent. The gaily dressed dictator advanced six ominous steps toward Tatja. His pale eyes reflected hatred and complete disbelief. For twenty-five years he had ruled the most powerful country on Tu—and now a lone girl was challenging him at the very center of his power. Benesh gestured angrily to the guardsmen—the sleek professionals with thousands of hours of target and tactical experience, the deadliest individuals in the world.
“Kill the impostor,” he ordered.
TWELVE
When they came, Svir was ready.
He and Cor had lain quietly in the darkness, telling each other their stories in frightened whispers. As Cor massaged the numbness from his arms, Svir told her of his one backstop against Tatja’s treachery. Brailly Tounse—who seemed to hate Tatja as much as Svir did—had provided him with five pounds of Michelle-Rasche powder. Now that powder lay in the heavy weave of his jacket.
“It’s safe until the cloth gets twisted tight,” he whispered to Cor. “Then almost any extra friction will set it off.”
He struggled out of his jacket. Cor helped him wedge the fabric into the door crack. Though only a small portion of the jacket could be jammed in, it would be enough to set off the rest of the powder. Then they retreated to the far corner of the cell. there was nothing more they could do. He hadn’t said so to Cor, but the best they could hope for was a quick death. If they weren’t killed in the explosion or by the guards, then the next stop was the torture chambers. Their present cell was a carefully contrived filth-pit, designed to prepare prisoners psychologically for what was to come. Somehow the prospect of torture and death no longer provoked absolute terror in him. Cor was the reason. He wanted to hide his fear from her—and to protect her from her own fears.
He put his arm around Cor’s waist and drew her to him. “You came out here to save me, Cor.”
“You did the same for me.”
“I—I’d do it again.”
Her reply was clear and firm. “I, too.”
When they came, there was plenty of warning. It sounded like a whole squad. The heavy footsteps stopped, and when they began again, there were only two or three men. Svir and Cor slid under the filthy straw. The footsteps stopped at the door. Svir heard the key turn, but he never heard the door open. For that matter, he never actually heard the explosion. He felt it through his whole body. The floor rose up and smashed him.
He forced himself to his feet, and pulled Cor up. Svir was scarcely aware of blood flowing down his jaw from his ear. The doorway was a dim patch of light beyond the dust and smoke. They gasped futilely and ran for the opening.
The blast had destroyed the bottom hinges and blown the rest of the door into the ceiling. In the hallway lay the two guardsmen. Both were alive, but in much worse shape than the prisoners. One, with a severe scalp cut, tried ineffectually to wipe the blood from his eyes. Svir and Cor stepped over them and ran down the hall. Then they saw the men at the end of the passage—the backup section. The two prisoners came to a sudden halt and started to turn in the other direction.
A guardsman smiled faintly and twisted a lever mounted in the wall. A weighted net fell onto the two escapees. As the guard approached, Svir lashed out at his legs, hoping to provoke lethal retaliation. The guard easily avoided the extended hand, and grabbed it with his own. “You know, fella, for someone whose life we’re supposed to protect, you’re making things damn difficult.”
Svir looked back blankly. He couldn’t make sense of the words spoken. The net was removed, and the guards marched Svir and Cor down the hall. The couple looked at each other in complete confusion. They weren’t even treated to the paralysis the guards had used before. It was a long uphill walk, and the guards had to help Cor with the last part. Svir wondered if he had gone crazy with fear and was seeing only what he hoped to see. They came to the final door. The guard captain went through. They could hear him through the open doorway.
“Marget, the individuals you requested are here.”
“Fine,” came a familiar voice. “Send them out. I want to talk to them alone.”
“Begging your pardon, Marget, but they have repeatedly offered us violence. We could not guarantee the safety of your person if you interview them alone.”
“Mister, I told you what I wanted.” The voice took a tone that brooked no argument. “Now jump!”
“Yes, Marget!” The captain appeared at the door. He gestured courteously to Svir and Cor. “Sir and Madam, you have been granted an interview with the queen.”
“The—Queen?” Cor asked incredulously. She got no answer. They were pushed past the door and found them
selves standing on the top tier of the Conciliar Facet. By the light of waning Seraph they saw a beautiful girl in a full-skirted dress.
Tatja turned to them. “You two look like hell,” she said.
Svir started angrily toward her, his fright and pain transformed into hate. There was a scuttling sound on the floor, then a tugging at Svir’s clothing. A soft wet nose nuzzled his neck. Ancho! Svir’s hands reached up and petted the trembling animal.
“Marget?” asked Cor. “Queen? Really you are the Lost Princess of Crownesse?”
Tatja looked beyond them, at the departing guards. “You might as well know the truth. You can’t do anything about it. I was no more Marget of Sandros than you; now I am incontrovertibly the queen. My footprints match those of the infant princess which are kept in the crown room. You should have seen the look on Benesh’s face when the Lord High Minister announced that I was heir to the crown. The regent had the royal children murdered twenty-five years ago. The job was botched and he couldn’t produce bodies that would pass an autopsy. He knew I was a fraud but there was no way he could prove it without revealing his own guilt.”
Svir looked across the curving dome of the keep at the city. The crowd sounds came clear and faint through the air. The crowd had moved away from the waterfront. There would be no sacrifices tonight—the people had been told that the crown had been claimed. Crownesse had a queen. That called for the largest of festivals, a celebration that would go on for many days.
Svir turned to Tatja Grimm. “You had to lie and cheat and steal and—probably—murder to do it, but you certainly got what you wanted. You control the most powerful country in the world. I wondered what could make you as vicious as you are. Now I know. The hidden motive that mystified me so much was simple megalomana. Female ‘Tar Benesh’ has taken over from male. Is this the end of your appetites,” he said, the hate rising in his voice, “or will you one day rule all Tu?”
The Tatja Grimm's World Page 11
