by John Meaney
Armed robbery. But the money was needed to finance operations. Even if the few noble members of LudusVitae—and associated organizations—could afford to bankroll everything, the massive movements of money would be noticed and tracked, sooner or later.
Vilkarzyeh crossed the control chamber and joined them. “The first raid’s due to start.”
“Hmm. Thanks, Qing.”
The oriental man bowed, hearing the dismissal in Tom’s voice.
“There won’t be much tac-feedback. That’s due to you, of course.” Vilkarzyeh smiled. “Though, with you here, we’d probably know soon enough if the authorities had our comms tapped.”
“Best to remain undercover.”
“Naturally.”
“I mean, completely unseen.”
“Ah.” A knowing nod from Vilkarzyeh. “Elva Strelsthorm has been digging, has she?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Vilkarzyeh pretended to watch the tac-display.
“It’s true,” he said, “that we’ve never gone public before. But after Prime Strike, that will be the time to present our terms.”
“Maybe.” Tom had not planned beyond that point.
“Definitely. And who better than Lords with official recognition? Lords who understand the noble ways of thought.”
“You and me, you mean.”
“I see myself as your lieutenant, Tom.”
No, you’re setting me up for a fall.
The young Zhongguo Ren, Qing, was in earnest discussion with the support team. Then he nodded, tapped one of them encouragingly on the shoulder, and headed back towards Tom and Vilkarzyeh.
“Thank you, Alexei.” Tom tried to keep his voice sincere.
A fall. And then you’ll take over, and leverage that into leadership of the Planning Council.
Qing: “Pentomino Two and all three Gliders report success. Minimal casualties.”
But I’ve got two years to prepare for you.
Aloud, Tom said, “Minimal casualties?”
Vilkarzyeh shrugged. “We’re going to war, Tom. I thought you’d realized.”
“Oh, yes.” Tom stared at the tac-display, seeing nothing. “I knew that when we started.”
Many nights he awoke with purely imaginary triconic lattices fading before his eyes. Though he would have run earlier, he would go again: tearing along deserted tunnels as though devils were at his heels.
If he was away from home, undercover in some strange demesne, he would unroll his flat running-pad and run—alone in some strange chamber—automatonlike on the spot, eyes set to infinity-focus.
He travelled anonymously to many demesnes, met hundreds of people, losing track of where he was. When he could, he listened to individuals’ stories: the draper whose mother died of a curable wasting disease, unable to pay for treatment; the astymonia sergeant whose sister had been taken by an Oracle’s entourage; the old couple who had lost four sons in the Belkranitsan food riots. The schoolteacher who cried as she recounted the conditions of her young pupils’ lives. The young men and women with clenched fists and fire in their eyes as they talked of strikes broken by deadly force, families evicted at graser point, of enforced bans on education.
Then Tom would leave behind copies of his poems, designed to stir the populace to rebellion.
A pitiful effort.
A chime. It was late evening and Tom was at home in his own demesne; as usual, he was in his study.
“Come in,” he said.
“My Lord.” It was Elva. “I don’t suppose you fancy going to a wedding?”
There was an outstanding invitation to which he had not replied: Lady Sylvana was throwing a party; it was the third such invitation and it was probably time he went.
As for the wedding, that was the day before: ten strata down, in the same demesne, Elva’s brother was getting married to his long-time fiancée.
Tom had not even known she had a brother.
“It’ll be strange,” he said, “going back to Lady Darinia’s demesne.”
“A homecoming, my Lord?”
“I guess so.”
Although it was contrary to normal policy, Tom had asked Jak if he wanted to come along—but Jak was too busy on the tax-regulation reforms, running committees which in other demesnes would have been presided over by their Lord.
One had only to glance at warehousing and distribution revenue to see just how diligent Jak was in fulfilling Tom’s fiduciary duty. Had they not been diverting funds to LudusVitae, the demesne would have shown an amazing profit for its first year.
Two arachnargoi, rented from a hong in Lord Shinkenar’s realm, hung stationary in the high-ceilinged inner court of Tom’s Palace. Small cases were being drawn up into the thoracic cargo holds.
“Definitely going home in style, my Lord.” Jak was there to see them off.
“I’ll say.”
Elva gave Jak a brief hug.
Then, catching the eye of one of the loading-crew, she went over to talk to him.
“I’m off. Take care of my realm, Jak.”
Tom grabbed a slender hoist-tendril, and it drew him upwards. He grinned as he saw Elva give the stevedore a goodbye kiss.
Good for you, Elva.
She glanced upwards, saw Tom looking, and shrugged. But her cheeks were faintly pink as she caught a tendril and ascended after him.
Inside the arachnargos, he helped her onto the cargo hold’s catwalk.
“True love?” he murmured.
He could not help laughing as she blushed bright red.
Immersed for so long in deadly plans, Tom found it hard to think of ordinary life proceeding as usual: marriages and funerals, everyday employment, shopping—damn, I didn’t buy a present—and the trivial, bickering arguments and off-the-cuff humorous pleasantries which made up a normal day.
“Hey, not bad!” Elva was riding up front with Tom.
“Oh, of course.” Tom looked out at the great, square-cross-sectioned thoroughfare: its white and pink marble, its massive floating sculptures. “You haven’t been here before. This is Rilker Broadway, named after her Ladyship’s father.”
It was Elva’s home demesne, but the first time she had travelled through the Primum Stratum here, and her eyes were wide in amazement.
When they alighted at the Palace, there were twenty servitors to lead the way. Tom recognized none of them.
What do they think of me?
Servitor-impassive expressions hid their thoughts. He wondered, as they walked on foot through the familiar plush corridors, whether the servitors knew he had once been one of them.
The walls became nacreous, more opulent, as they came to the inner Palace.
Shimmering.
Just for a moment, a faint ripple—as though of recognition— passed across the nearest wall, and was gone.
Tom smiled.
His party numbered ten: himself, Elva, four of her troopers, two servitors and two servitrices in the Corcorigan livery. The guest suite was big enough for all of them. It was unusual, though not unknown, for servitors to remain in the same quarters as their masters.
An invitation tricon was hanging, magnified, at the antechamber’s exact geometric centre. Tom pointed: unfurling, it gave details of a small gathering to be held late tonight, in the ballroom near Lady Sylvana’s apartments.
Sylvana . . .
“It’s time, my Lord.” Elva.
“Let’s go.”
One of the servitors handed Tom an old cape, and he pulled it on. Pausing by the door membrane, he laid his palm against the wall and said, “It’s good to be back.”
Then, ignoring Elva’s questioning look, he went out into the corridor; four troopers hurried out into protective formation.
“I don’t suppose Trude will be there?” He had not seen her since his recruitment into LudusVitae.
Elva shook her head. “Not as far as I know.”
Reaching the Palace boundaries, they entered a round, bronze-panelled, flat-ceilinged cham
ber. Tom used his thumb ring’s control codes, and the entire floor slowly revolved, corkscrewing downwards.
It took a whole minute to descend to the Secundum Stratum.
“Well, that was different.”
Tom chuckled as he led his party out into a rich-looking corridor. Though smaller than a typical counterpart above, it was nevertheless panelled in dark red mother-of-pearl, with glowing surrounds. It was as rich as any part of Tom’s palace.
Elva and all four troopers took off their uniform tunics and reversed them, displaying motley patterns. Each garment was different; all were fluorescent and garish. Two troopers shook out bright lightweight half-capes and draped them around their shoulders.
Startling, but an effective disguise.
Tom took off his thumb ring and tucked it inside his waistband, though he would need it for the floor hatches. Normally there were few security checks on descent—none on lower strata—but he was using noble-house privileges: allowing his escort to carry pocket grasers, on Elva’s insistence.
There was less anonymity this way, but he could always justify a nostalgia trip.
“Now we look more like a wedding party,” said Elva.
But, as they walked, her four troopers constantly scanned their surroundings—guarding their legitimate Lord and senior LudusVitae executive officer—and their hands stayed close to their weapons.
Five strata down, they stopped in a market chamber while Tom paid too much—unhesitatingly crediting the merchant with an amount which would have kept Father in profit for half a year—for a decorated goblet.
“You think that’ll be OK?” he asked Elva, as the merchant’s young daughter wrapped the goblet.
“Perfect, my—My brother will love it.”
“Good.”
Later, as the six of them descended once more, Tom said: “I don’t even know your brother’s name, nor his fiancée’s.”
Elva held out a tiny tricon woven from copper and tin: an invitation. “She’s Trilina U’Skarin. My brother’s Odom Strelsthorm.”
“U’Skarin?” Tom frowned. “Isn’t that Arlanna’s family name?”
Elva had not known Arlanna during Tom’s servitor days, but the two women had attended LudusVitae security briefings together. “They’re related. Second cousins, I think.”
“If she’s going to be there, we could all have gone down officially.”
“She isn’t,” said Elva. “Arlanna’s not going.”
“Oh. Families.” Thinking: Mother. “Or was it Sylvana, not granting leave of absence?”
Elva looked as though she was going to say something, then shrugged.
Up ahead was a busy crowd, and the corridor was narrowing, so Tom let the troopers lead them through a small Aqua Hall—floating copper sculpture, water fountains, citizens queuing with empty containers—and out into a dank side tunnel.
Tom: “So why isn’t Arlanna going?”
Elva mis-stepped into a puddle, and splashed dirty water.
“Because—” A short exhalation. “Because I told her you’re going to be there.”
“What?” Tom stopped.
One of the troopers span, expecting trouble. Then all four took up static formation, scanning the deserted tunnel.
“At the last briefing,” said Elva. “I told her.”
Tom shook his head. “I didn’t think Arlanna hated me. Have I—?”
“She’s got strong feelings for you.” Elva tilted her squarish jaw upwards. “But not hate.”
It took him a moment.
Then, “I’ll be heisenberged,” Tom said.
Elva looked at him.
“True love, my Lord?”
~ * ~
54
NULAPEIRON AD 3414
Butterfly wings, flapping. Turquoise and gold, five metres across, beating steadily above the archway.
“Not bad,” murmured Tom.
“For this stratum, anyway.” Elva.
They went inside, keeping to the semi-ovoid chamber’s rear. All the guests were standing: it was the Laksheesh-Heterodox tradition.
A chanting began just as Tom caught a glimpse of short red hair in one of the front rows. A wide-shouldered man. Tom stood on tiptoes, and was certain.
Dervlin!
It had been so long. They had met only on a couple of occasions, but those had been turning-points. Images and questions span in Tom’s mind—from memories of the post-funeral meal, to Zen Neuronal Coding.
But the priestess was entering, flanked by attendants—and the whole congregation bowed as the betrothed couple stepped up onto twin floating obsidian discs.
“—to bind each to the other, meld two into one—”
Reviewing old memories. So like the dead Pilot’s, Dervlin’s flowing fighting-style.
“—since birth until this moment, separate twines—”
And questioning his remembrance. Why would Pilots out of legend be interested in this world?
“—swear before Destiny to hold this truth—”
And what of the Oracles’ origins? Even with the Strontium Dragons’ help, LudusVitae had only hints to work on.
“We do.”
For that matter . . . was Karyn’s Tale literally true? Or did the crystal’s ware rewrite itself, for its own purposes?
“—may kiss—”
Smell of incense. Happy applause.
Rustle of purple silk. “I wanted to thank you.” Hands in a mudra of benediction.
From the doorway, one of Elva’s troopers gave a slight nod in Tom’s direction, wanting to talk; but Tom could not get away just yet.
“For what?”
The priestess had headed straight for him as the rest of the congregation began making their way to the post-ceremony reception.
“Helping me to regain my faith.”
“I don’t—”
And then he recognized her: the young priestess who had been with her senior, the Antistita, when Father was dying. And at the funeral.
“When your father died, I had been undergoing a crisis of conscience—and confidence, I suppose—and then the Antistita knew, just knew, when it was time for me to . . . see you.”
There were lines on her face now, from the constant strain of ministering to the faithful: an endless series of traumas. Tom wondered how many parents, how many children, she had seen die since then.
“I’m honoured”—Tom bowed formally—”to have helped in any way.”
She turned to follow the general movement then, and Tom walked alongside, but dropped away as the plainclothes trooper drew near.
“Thought you should know, my Lord—astymonia patrols. Three teams in the vicinity.”
“Keep alert.”
Up ahead, the priestess’s two assistants now flanked her. Tom smiled to himself, very slightly, and headed towards the reception chamber.
Away from the ceremonial chapel—built by the donations, Tom noted, of people who had practically nothing of their own—the decorations were simpler. The reception’s door was a plain ochre hanging, more like a private dwelling.
At least they believe in something.
Running footsteps and he turned, crouching.
“I told ya we was late!”
His plainclothes trooper bodyguards were moving from their posts, but Tom motioned them back with a subtle hand signal.
“Your bleedin’ fault.”
“But you said Trindle Chamber, so that’s where—”
The trio, puffing, came to a sweaty halt in front of Tom.
“Mind out, mate,” one of them said. “We’re goin’ in there.”
The short one had a small paunch; the thin one was prematurely bald. But it was the third who caught Tom’s attention: burly, potbellied, purple birthmark splashed across his face.
Stavrel.
Even before Algrin and the Ragged School, there had been Stavrel to make Tom’s life miserable.
“You two”—Stavrel addressed his companions—”go get some grub for me.”
