by John Meaney
Had he attempted to remove his ID earstud, that would have been different: a microwave alarm would have shrieked to the Palace systems, which would have tracked him until his apprehension by the Dragoons.
“A deliberately encouraging system, don’t you think? Hence, too, the merits.” Maestro da Silva stood. “Good day.”
The float-pad drifted aside as he stepped through the membrane and was gone. Tom watched as the wall reabsorbed the pad.
“So?” Jak came inside. “What did he want?”
Tom shook his head.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Rank: Lord-Meilleur-sans-Demesne.” The steward-minor consulted the display blossoming above his wrist. “Name: Corduven d’Ovraison.”
Tom nodded as a topographic tricon appeared in front of him, projected by his tunic’s smartstrip.
“A problem,” the steward-minor continued, “with the gentleman’s wardrobe, I believe.”
“I’ll sort it out.”
Once outside the kitchen complex, Tom stopped close to the softly glowing wall and whispered: “Is this correct? Level three, right spiral, twelfth chamber: guest name is d’Ovraison.”
A ripple of agreement.
D’Ovraison?
“Er, thanks.” Tom patted the wall, his thoughts a distracted jumble.
D’Ovraison.
His nonexistent left arm flared with pain as he walked. He could ask the Palace to speed up his journey, but refrained.
When the young Lord Avernon was in trouble, the floor had flowed. And late one night, when Tom had replaced the borrowed lattice blade in the kitchen, the Palace had caused him to sink through a corridor floor to the level below (though still in this stratum: the Palace was complex) to avoid a night patrol.
His footsteps slowed.
Psyching himself up to cut out the implant had involved classic double-think—he could do a better job if his mind lost its tranquillity: witness the length of time it had taken to come to Lord Avernon’s aid—while the true reasons lay hidden in dark shadows.
But, as he stopped outside Lord d’Ovraison’s chamber membrane, the force of hatred thrummed inside him like a deep, resonant chord.
“Tasteless, isn’t it?”
Incense in the air. Walls decorated in a moving maze of soft maroon on ochre; regular-looking pattern, drawn with one continuously shifting line.
“I’ve seen better,” said Tom, surprising himself.
The young man—maybe two SY older than Tom: blond hair; taut, elegant face; deep grey eyes—was standing by an intricate black and silver sculpture formed of intertwined Möbius ribbons and Klein surfaces. Thoughtfully, he tapped a fingernail against it.
“I expect a mercy killing would be in order.”
“I’m sorry?” Tom exhaled softly, releasing tension.
“My suit. Buggy smartsatin.” D’Ovraison crooked a finger. “Come this way.”
Tom followed Lord d’Ovraison into the next chamber. A stack of opened penrose cases lay by the bed; on top lay a grey-black suit of clothes with impossibly elongated lace ruffs.
“Take this.” D’Ovraison draped the suit over Tom’s outstretched arm.
Tom started to bow, but it moved and the suit was slithering up his shoulder, lace ruffle embracing his throat, beginning to tighten just as d’Ovraison tugged the sleeve back and slapped it smartly. It fell limply, as though stunned.
“Disrupts the microwave op-codes.”
“Er . . . Thank you, sir.”
“Please don’t call—Well, never mind. Just keep an eye on that thing.”
Despite himself, Tom laughed. “Be a material witness, you mean?”
“With strong moral fibre.” A raised eyebrow. “May I ask—?” But a low chime sounded, and he turned. “Go ahead.”
Above the twisted metal, she appeared: pale and beautiful, blond tresses intricately tied up with white silk.
“Hello, Cord.”
“Sylvana.” D’Ovraison sketched a bow, graceful yet sardonic.
Lady Darinia’s daughter.
“Old Drago’s reciting the Elder Edda tonight, in Old Terran Norse. Did you know?”
“I’ve only just arrived.” D’Ovraison gave a twisted smile. “Somehow that escaped my notice.”
“You know how the rhyming works?”
D’Ovraison started to shake his head. From one side, Tom mouthed the answer: Alliteration. Not quite the correct term, but—
Taking the cue, d’Ovraison said: “Willingly would I/Wend my way with thee/ Whither ever thou—”
“Yes, all right. But I was thinking of the lev-bike race tonight.”
D’Ovraison folded his slender arms. “Sounds rather macho to me.”
“But if you were to take me—”
“—then Lady Darinia’s matchmaking proclivities would be satisfied.” D’Ovraison glanced in Tom’s direction. “And you could skip the Edda. Quite.”
“Is there—? Oh, Thomas Corcorigan. How are you?”
Tom was rooted to the spot, and he felt his face flush.
She remembers my name. The constant fire of his left arm momentarily cooled.
“Er, well, thank you.”
But she…
The fire of his missing limb returned; he felt hot, confused.
Her attention was once more on d’Ovraison. “Come on, Cord. Rescue me from boredom. Please?”
“Well ...”
In the holodisplay, Sylvana held up a small violet crystal, shot through with milky inlays. “It’s my only chance to give you Galdriv’s latest paradoxicon.”
“That’s blackmail.”
After Lady Sylvana’s image had disappeared, Lord d’Ovraison turned to Tom.
“Where’s this race meeting, do you know?”
“Veneluza Galleria.” Since the terminal was still on, Tom sketched out a control gesture—awkwardly, because of the smartsuit’s weight— and a topographic tricon grew into being.
“Got it.” Cool, grey eyes. “Neatly done.”
Tom bowed. “I’ll take the suit to—”
“A moment, please.” An ironic smile played across d’Ovraison’s delicate features. “Don’t take this the wrong way—you’re not my type, old chap—but I’d like you to accompany us tonight, if you would.”
“I . . . Of course.”
“Chaperon duty. I’m sure you understand.”
“Ah.” Involuntarily, Tom smiled in return. “It’s not only Lady Darinia who has designs on your future.”
D’Ovraison looked delighted that Tom had spoken so freely. “I need a bodyguard. Deal?”
Tom shook his head, but only at the absurdity: a Lord could command him completely.
“Deal.”
Tom began the ritual of bowing out, but d’Ovraison stopped him. A penrose case unfolded at d’Ovraison’s approach, and he pulled out a small white object.
“Tom, wasn’t it? This is a present for Lady Sylvana.” He held it out: a tricon, in metal. “What do you think?”
Solid, it lost the subtlety of a holo, but the meaning was clear: This statement is a falsehood.
“I’m sure my Lady will appreciate it.”
He wants me to identify it as Epimenides’ paradox.
But Tom’s reticence seemed only to amuse d’Ovraison. “Well, then. Do you recognize the material?”
Tom shook his head.
“It’s antimony.”
Then something strange happened. Tom and d’Ovraison burst into completely simultaneous laughter, shook their heads at the same time, then chuckled in total unison as d’Ovraison replaced the tricon in its case.
“Subtle, my Lord.” Tom bowed.
“Perhaps so.” D’Ovraison gave the tiniest of bows in return. “Tom? In private, I’d prefer that you call me Corduven.”
Back in the kitchen complex, Tom’s sub-gamma-servitor status gave limited access to LineageNet, and he traced the arcs until one node was highlighted, its tricon slowly revolving.
Oracle Gérard d’Ovraison.<
br />
“Damn it,” said Tom, then glanced around. No-one was listening.
A golden drone passed silently overhead as he shut down the display.
I like you, Corduven.
Tom closed his eyes, opened them.
Why did you have to be his brother?
~ * ~
21
NULAPEIRON AD 3405
There was no sound.
Early, seated in a balcony halfway up the high wall, Tom watched the riders practise. The groined ceilings were fifteen metres above polished marble floors, and silver lev-bikes hurtled along the halls, span into impossible turns, twisted upside down and came together in daredevil formations of four bikes, almost touching.
There was no audience, save some servitors on the flagstones below, and a cloud of microdrones which flitted out of sight as a lone lev-bike whipped past.
I could never do that.
Just leaning over the balcony’s edge gave Tom vertigo. He sat back and adjusted the collar of his tunic: cream, slashed through with turquoise. Ugly, but expensive-looking.
“Selfish,” Chef Keldur had said, while servitors bustled around him. “That’s what Lord d’Ovraison is.”
“Sir?” Tom raised an enquiring eyebrow, ignoring the warning look from Jak.
“It’s his PenSextoMilDay tomorrow, and we don’t even know his favourite dish.” The Chef shook his head. “Visiting without his retinue. What’s the world coming to?”
“I could, er, ask him tonight, if you like. At the races.”
There was muted laughter from the other servitors. Driuvik murmured: “Awfully good of you, old chap.” “Frightfully decent of you,” someone else stage-whispered.
Chef Keldur glared.
“He asked me to accompany him.” Tom swallowed.
“By name? You, in particular?”
Tom nodded.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? Driuvik! Put that down, and order Corcorigan suitable clothing. Come on, boy! We don’t have all day—”
There had been sidelong looks from the others, even Jak. Subtle adjustments of personal space, keeping their distance.
So? A lev-bike whipped past, perilously close. Should isolation worry me?
Down below, spectators were beginning to file into the spacious halls and galleries, while servitors and drones bore drinks and light pastries. Tom stood up, took the winding staircase down through the balcony floor, and slowly descended.
“Drink?”
Tom jerked back: a servitor had mistaken him for a freedman.
“No thanks.”
Tom turned away before the servitor could say anything more, and searched the crowd for Lord d’Ovraison—for Corduven—or Lady Sylvana.
“We’ve brought in visiting specialists.” Chef Keldur had waved an arm, indicating a group of young Zhongguo Ren, dressed identically in black satin suits. “A treat for his Lordship: they’ll provide the luncheon.”
Tom’s association with Corduven had raised him in Chef Keldur’s esteem. While they waited for Tom’s clothing to arrive, Keldur talked to him.
“He’s ordered Zhongguo Ren cuisine before?” Tom asked. But he had noticed Sous-Chef Bertil in the background, morosely observing, and guessed that intrahouse politics were also involved.
“Indeed, though—”
Wait.
“—he doesn’t eat much.” Keldur patted his own belly. “As for the dinner—Well, we’ll wait till you’ve talked to him, shall we?”
I know her.
Porcelain-pale features, long hair reaching to her waist. One of the Zhongguo Ren.
“May I take a look?”
Keldur nodded, glad that Tom was taking an interest. “Go on.”
The dishes were elaborate, the display as important as the taste. Most of the Zhongguo Ren were standing idle: these were just samples for Chef Keldur. Tomorrow, for a full-scale luncheon, everyone would be involved.
“Very nice,” murmured Tom, moving closer to the young woman.
She gave a warning glance.
Lowering his voice: “Is Zhao-ji all right?”
A tiny nod.
“Do you see him much, Feng-ying?” Tom dredged her name up out of memory.
But she turned away then, an odd glint in her dark eyes, and Tom had no choice but to return to Chef Keldur’s side.
“Congratulations, Tom.” Corduven, dressed resplendently with a blue-gold cape thrown back over one shoulder, pointed for Tom to sit.
Side by side, on one of the balconies near the cathedral-high ceiling, they sat. Tom dared not look behind him: among the eight servants standing to attention were Jak and Driuvik.
“Yes, quite.” From her seat on the other side of Corduven, Lady Sylvana leaned over and transfixed Tom with her smile. “Congratulations are certainly in order.”
Tom swallowed. “I don’t quite, er . . .”
“Consider this your official notification, then.”
She sat back and nodded to Corduven.
“Ah, right,” Corduven said. “You saved Lord Avernon’s life, Tom.”
“I—” Tom stopped.
He had merely raised the alarm. The Palace itself had dragged the young Lord to the salle d’armes, where Maestro da Silva had applied first aid until the drones arrived, followed by medic-servitors.
“—golden sash, old chap,” Corduven was saying. “Just a symbol. But it’s worth a thousand merit points.”
One of Lady Sylvana’s retinue, an auburn-haired young woman— something peculiar about her turquoise eyes, but Tom could not concentrate—handed something to her mistress.
A thousand merits?
Down below, the crowds were gathering. Was it their murmuring or the rush of Tom’s blood in his ears that filled his hearing?
“Here you are.” Corduven took the folded sash from Lady Sylvana and handed it to Tom. “Don’t put it on now.”
“Er, thank you.”
Did he understand Corduven correctly? That he had been awarded a thousand merit points, along with this sash? He did not dare to ask.
Corduven presented Lady Sylvana with a small box, which unfolded to show the white metal paradox tricon Tom had seen earlier.
“What? Oh.” She held it up. “An antinomy, cast in antimony.” Her laughter was girlish, uninhibited. “That’s very subtle, Cord.”
Corduven turned towards Tom and winked.
Silver arrows whipping through the air.
“Sweet Fate,” murmured Lady Sylvana. “I didn’t know they could go that fast.”
Earlier, she had joined in the applause as the bare-headed riders had bowed to dignitaries, who were seated on balconies. Then the young riders—some freedmen, some noble younger sons; one slender noblewoman—had pulled on their helmets and taken their mounts.
Twenty silver lev-bikes had risen as one into the air and hung there, quivering, until the start signal’s golden beam had lanced through the air and they leaped forward.
Here, at the outer reaches of the Palace, the vast airy tunnels were natural stone, sans smart-tech. The lev-bikes whistled among gar-goyle-spotted columns, twisted in and out of gallerias, soaring impossibly fast, and disappeared.
A tense silence overlaid the crowd: it would take about a minute to complete a circuit and reappear.
“Oh, for Fate’s sake,” said Sylvana.
Tom peered over Corduven’s shoulder. The auburn-haired servitrix had given a crystal to her mistress; Sylvana’s bracelet, reading by induction, was directly projecting a recipient-eyes-only display.
“We have to talk privately, Cord.” She spoke in a very low voice. “In the corridor outside. Quickly.”
Corduven stood, motioning Tom to remain.
“We’ll be right back.” A frown creased Corduven’s taut-skinned forehead.
