Standing beside the dress uniforms and the evening suits and the clerical collars had been a small deer.
It was not some sort of extraordinary pet. Its gaze had been following the movements of a conversation, and then it was taking part in it, its mouth forming words in a horribly human way. Hamilton had looked quickly over to where a swirl of translucent drapery had been chatting with the chaplain. Nearby, a circling pillar of … they had actually been continuously falling birds, or not quite birds, but the faux heraldic devices often displayed by the Foreigners whose forces were now encircling the solar system. He’d guessed that the falling was the point, rather than the … he’d wanted to call it a dress … being a celebration of the idea that the Foreigners might flock together and make their plans in great wheeling masses. The pillar held a glass of wine, supported somehow by all those shapes dropping past it. These creatures were all ladies, Hamilton had assumed. Or rather, hoped.
“It’s all the rage at the Palace,” said Turpin. “It’s all relative this, and relative that.”
Hamilton hadn’t found it in him to make any sensible comment. He’d heard about such things, obviously. Enough to disdain them and move on to some other subject. That the new King had allowed, even encouraged this sort of thing, presumably to the continuing shame of Elizabeth … he’d stopped himself. He was thinking of the Queen, and he could not allow himself to feel so intimate with what she might or might not think of her husband.
“Not your sort of thing?” asked Turpin.
“No, sir.”
Turpin paused a moment, considering, and offered a new tack. “The Bodlean is, I believe, now infinite.”
“Good for it.”
Turpin had nodded towards the corner. “So. What about him?”
He was indicating a young man, talking to a beautiful woman. Hamilton’s first thought had been that he was familiar. Then he had realized. And had first found the anger that hadn’t left him since. This was what downed Foreigner vessels had brought here. Of course it wouldn’t all be used for frippery. Or perhaps now frippery had invaded war.
It had been like looking at the son he’d never had, at his own face without everything time had written on it. There was for a moment a ghost of a thought that they’d taken away from him that moment of seeing a son. That had been the first of the many ghosts.
The hair was darker. The body was thinner, more hips than shoulders. The boy had worn not uniform, but black tie, so they hadn’t managed, or perhaps even wished, to get him into the regiment. The young woman the boy was talking to had nudged him, and he had looked towards Hamilton. It was the shock of running into a mirror. The eyes were the same. He hadn’t known what his own expression had been in that instant, but the younger version of him had worn a smile as he made eye contact. It hadn’t been in the slightest bit deferential. It wasn’t attractive, either. But Hamilton had recognized it. He contained his anger, knowing that this boy would be able to read him like a book. Hamilton had had no idea that such things were now possible. This must be a very secure gathering, for the two of them to be seen together. The boy had expected this. He had been allowed that.
He had turned back to his superior officer with a raised eyebrow. “Who’s the girl?”
Turpin had paused for a moment, pleasingly, taken aback by Hamilton’s lack of comment about the boy. “Her name is Precious Nothing.”
“Parents who like a challenge?”
“Perhaps it was a memento mori. She’s—”
“With the College of Heralds, yes.” Hamilton had seen the colors on her silk scarf, which was one hell of a place to put them.
“Well, only just about, these days. She’s a senior Herald, but she’s been put on probation.”
“Because of him.” Hamilton found the idea of a Herald being linked to such a peculiar creature as the boy utterly startling. Heralds decided what breeding was, what families and nations were. The College held the records of every family line, decided upon the details of coats of arms, were the authority on every matter of grand ceremony and inheritance. Of course, every other week now one heard rumors that the College was on the verge of dissolution or denunciation, as they tried and failed to find some new way to protest at the new manners. They seemed continually astonished that His Majesty was being advised this badly. Some of this conflict had even reached the morning plates. But it had always gone by the evening editions. To Hamilton, the idea of parts of the body public fighting each other was like the idea of a man’s punching himself in the face. It was a physical blasphemy that suited this era as an index of how far it had all gone.
“You really haven’t another word to say about him?” Turpin had asked, interrupting his woolgathering.
Hamilton had feigned a moment’s thought. “How is he on the range?”
“Reasonable. You were only ever reasonable.” He hadn’t emphasized the you.
Then the Warden had clinked his glass with a spoon, and the ladies and the gentlemen and the trompe l’oeil and the small deer had gone in to dinner.
Hamilton had been relieved to find that the younger version of himself had gone to the far end of the dining table that stood on a rise at the end of the hall. In any other circumstances, it would have been comforting to be back in this place, with the smell of polish and the candlelight, but as he looked out at the tables of undergraduates, he realized that something was missing. There would normally be numerous servants moving between the rows, delivering plates of food and refilling glasses. Suddenly, he saw just such a meal appearing beside one chattering youth, something which caused the lad no surprise whatsoever. Hamilton had been seated opposite Turpin, and now he looked back to him.
“Hidden service,” the senior man said. “Happens in a lot of places now. The servants move through an infinite fold, in effect an empty optional world, beside the real one. One more use for the new engines. And neater, you must admit.”
Hamilton didn’t feel the need to agree with such young opinions from his old mentor. He was now wondering if the man’s new smoothness of face was because this was also a younger version. But no, surely not, here was still the experience, the tone of voice he was used to. Turpin had seen that look. “One of the out-of-uniform men found it for me,” he said, as if he was talking about a carriage. “As soon as the great powers recognized that various of the engines that had fallen into our hands gave us access to optional worlds, outside the balance, the Palace felt it was our lot’s duty to start mapping them, to find out where all these open-fold tunnels lead. Our regimental hunting parties have been going all over.”
Hamilton thought he understood now why he hadn’t been included in that effort. “Including another one of you?”
“Several. The original owner of this was only a Newton or so different to the original. Well, in physical terms. Where he came from, a lot of our conflicts didn’t happen, hence the smoothness of face. Our lads put him in the bag, and when they got back, connected his mind to an infinite tunnel. Like using a terrier to root out a fox. Once he was out, I moved in, using the same method. Should keep me going for a bit longer.”
Hamilton had found himself wondering at that statement. His balance had been thrown by the boy, and so he’d allowed himself the seditious thought because it had felt not so dangerous then, that Turpin was seeking not, as he said, an extension of his service but actually tactical advantage at Court. He was now more like those he served were. And never mind the distance that took him from his officers. “What if optional worlds start raiding us in the same way?”
“First thing we thought of. We seem to be unique, at least in all those options nearby. We’re the only ones who’ve encountered the Foreigners. Or they may even only exist in this world. If they do start popping over, we may have to start making treaties with optional Britains rather than raiding them.’
“And extending the balance into them?”
Turpin had raised his hands. Perhaps he felt this was beyond his duty or understanding.
“H
ow can there be younger versions of people? How is there an optional world where … I’m … his age?”
“These worlds form in waves, I’m told.”
“Like the waves that interfere with each other in this world to create the heights and depths of the balance?”
“Presumably.” There had been that impatience with the matter of the balance once more. “Some waves are a bit behind us in time, some a bit forward.”
“And there are some options where there are chatty deer and pillars of birds? Or are those just fashions anticipating such stuff?”
“A little bit of both. There’s a rather large selection box, all told.” Turpin had leaned forward, as if wishing Hamilton would get to the meat of it. And Hamilton had been pleased that it hadn’t been him that had taken them there. “Listen, that younger you, he’s the first of his kind to be brought over. He’s got nobody’s mind but his own. He’s a whole chap, a volunteer from a world so like ours that there wasn’t an iota of difference.”
“Except no Foreigners?”
“Exactly.”
“And no balance?”
“Yes, yes!”
Hamilton had wondered if Turpin was planning on putting his mind in the boy’s skull. But he’d hardly have invited them both to a social occasion first. “If we can do all this now, and I didn’t know we could—”
“I’m telling you now under a seal. You’ll find, if you look, that your covers have already reacted to my tone of voice. You won’t be able to tell anyone any of this.” He looked suddenly chagrined at Hamilton’s startled look. “Not that you would, of course!”
Turpin’s manners seemed to have changed with his new body. That had been shocking too, a shock like one felt sometimes at things one had heard were said and done at Court. “If we can do all this now we’ve got their engines, why can’t the Foreigners open a tunnel at the blockade, pop up in Whitehall and have at us?”
“Good question. The great powers have been pondering that. Together.” Enough had been made public for Hamilton to understand that there was now a significantly greater degree of cooperation between the courts of the great powers of Europe. The arrival of the Foreigners had forced that, when the haphazard capture of the new engines in various parts of the solar system might otherwise have set the balance rocking. There, he suspected, was the hand of the deity in this. If it was anywhere. “The leading theory at the moment is that, for some reason, the Foreigners forbid, among themselves, the use of optional worlds. That it’s a principle of whatever mistaken religion they practice. Optionalism is perhaps just a side effect of what they use as propulsion, but so far we’ve only made sense of the side effect, and none at all of the propulsion.”
“Can we use it to surprise them?”
“Working on just that.”
This was far more the sort of conversation Hamilton had been used to with his commanding officer. He had found himself regretting his earlier reactions, understanding them, regaining control of himself. Tonight, whatever else it was, was surely planned as a test of his character, and so far he had just about stumbled through. What he felt about anything was as beside the point now as it had always been.
Turpin had spent the rest of dinner sounding him out about the myriad aspects of the shared defense strategies being adopted by the “grand alliance” of great powers. There was some new addition to their ranks every day. Savoy, most recently. There were even rumors the Turks were going to join. Hamilton had wanted to ask where the balance was in all this. What was going to happen to it if every nation was on the same side? Was the arrival of the Foreigners and their engines, at the same time, the fatal shock, the final moment when the balance would collapse and resolve into some new social or actual reality, as experts in the matter had often hypothesized? Was that what was happening all around them now? He had always conceived of that moment as being grand, somehow, and not a matter of finding wild animals in the Warden’s rooms. Or was this just some particularly ferocious swinging of the pendulum, which would resolve itself, as it always had, into a gentler motion?
But Turpin, true to his new form, hadn’t mentioned the balance at all, apart from when he’d joined in the grace before the meal. Hamilton had half hoped one of the divines would strike up a debate on the subject. He had known, through the gossip of his maid, Alexandria, that all was not well among the clergy, that the next synod at York was going to be rough on His Majesty and his terrifying commonwealth of nations, but there was no sign of that here. These particular clerics were as content to swim among this stuff as that Herald had been.
All through the conversation, Hamilton had kept his gaze on his superior. He hadn’t wanted to be seen craning his neck to get a look at the younger version of himself. He had continued to affect nonchalance. And hoped he was not projecting affectation. The bell had rung, the students had started to exit, and the Warden had invited his guests back to his rooms for brandy. Turpin had announced that he wanted to talk to someone and gone ahead.
As Hamilton had entered, the younger man had stepped straight to intercept him. Precious was with him. She had had an interested look on her face. Turpin had already got to the other side of the room, thank God, so there had been nobody to attempt some sort of crass introduction. But Hamilton had known his superior officer’s gaze would be upon him now. He still hadn’t known what was expected of him. But if this was a game, he was going to win it.
“Major,” said the youth. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this moment.”
“I wish I could say the same.” That had come out like an insult. So he had kept his jaw firm and damn well let it stand. “Where did they find you?”
The youth had seemed unperturbed. “Oh, in some dusty corridor of what one might still call reality.”
“This year’s model.” Hamilton couldn’t help but look at Precious rather than at his younger self. She was looking back at him too. He wondered in how many ways she was comparing them.
“Most people would be full of questions,” said the youth.
“It’s the nature of innocence to question, the nature of duty to accept.”
“And it’s the nature of age to be too sure of itself.” The boy had been ready to get angry if he felt he had to. He seemed very conscious of his honor. Sure he was being looked at too. Which was why Hamilton had poked him on the nose just then, to see his control, or lack of it. That rationalization, horribly, had come to Hamilton only after the fact.
Perhaps that was the point of this, to see which of them displayed the most grace? Had the boy been told what fate might await him if he failed whatever test this was? Could it be that Hamilton was, after all, being allowed to inspect his new … vehicle? Or was this his replacement? He couldn’t let himself dwell on that possibility. Hamilton had instead turned politely to Precious. She was petite, with long red hair set off by a green evening dress that … yes, the influence of the optional was here too, the dress had been, or still was, a sunlit meadow. To be in her presence wasn’t so much to see it as to be in the presence of it. She was used to being looked at and sought it. Her freckles didn’t look girlish on her, but somehow added to the passionate seriousness of those eyes, which held an expression of tremendous interest, a challenge to the world that equaled that of her dress. She had a welcoming mouth. “So,” he’d said, “where did you meet me?”
She’d smiled, but she hadn’t laughed. “We were introduced at the College of Heralds. Colonel Turpin brought him to visit. But I note that we haven’t been.”
“You’ll have to forgive me. I assumed we had already shared … a degree … of intimacy.”
He’d wondered if she would bristle at that. But she had smiled instead of being offended. Still, it had been a forced smile. She wasn’t quite on board for the anything goes of the new manners, then. Still a Herald at heart. Hamilton had found something he liked in her. Which should have come, he supposed, as no surprise.
“Why do you think,” the boy asked, “that Turpin
wanted us to meet?”
“Perhaps he’s deciding on a suit, and wants to see both tried on.” He had looked back to Precious, as if suggesting she might be doing the same thing. She’d just inclined a fine eyebrow.
The boy had stepped between them then. He had decided on both a need to bring this intangible contest into the physical world and a way to do it. “Tell me, Major,” he said, “do you play cards?”
The Warden, no doubt encouraged by Turpin, had quickly warmed to the notion of a game. The select crowd, who had doubtless now realized what they were looking at when they looked between Hamilton and his younger self, had been intrigued, had talked at the top of their voices about it. He supposed, as the cards were prepared and he’d looked again at the throng, that there were clusters of people like this across Greater Britain now, in the most fashionable salons, changing their shapes and their ages and their appearances and the balance be hanged, and from now on they would all be grabbing at the novel and the extreme like they were bloody Icelandic. Perhaps the blockade had done this. Perhaps they were all starting to dance as the ship went down.
The game, someone had decided, should be clock seconds. Neither he nor the boy knew it. Which again, Hamilton supposed, was no accident. They had each taken a hand of ten from a new deck, one of a series being placed on the table. Hamilton took a glass of comfort while he was at it, a Knappogue Castle, from the Tullamore distillery, a pure pot still whiskey. Nothing served here or at High Table would be the kind of thing that the covers in his head could shrug off. That was the whole point of evenings like this. To get at the reality, that had been the thought, he supposed, back when those invited here had been interested in that. So now he was accepting a disadvantage. The boy, of course, had had to do the same, and, despite Precious’s warning glance, had taken the same measure.
Rogues Page 45
