Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (70 page)

“The medtech should be here in a couple of units.”

“Gerson,” orders the Captain, “you wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the door has irised shut, Martel opens his eyes.

The title Red Room is appropriate. Fabric walls, red with gold threads, twinkling like the ones in the fabric hangings of the Duchess' bedchamber. Red coverlet on the square stratobed. Red heatstone tiles on the floor. The arched ceiling overhead is red, as are the silksheen sheets that show at the upper edge of the bed.

Martel wonders at the picture—a religious figure from the ancient times before the Empire—then realizes it has been chosen because the man is dressed in red robes … merely for the color.

Gerson, the guard, sits in a red slouch chair, facing the door.

“Oh,” moans Martel, “my head.”

Gerson says nothing.

Martel eases up into a sitting position, looking around the room.

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You had a fall. Duchess had us bring you here. Red Room,” supplies Gerson.

“I remember telling her about her daughter, Kryn.” As he spoke Martel supplied a set of memories for Gerson as well, tinted to match the guard's underlying prejudices and experiences.

This is getting too complicated, Martel. The more people you meet, the more memories that seem necessary … could spend months at this.

Martel squints, thinking about all the records involved, the possible travel to Albion to make sure that records exist at Lady Persis' School and in the minds of the necessary teachers, as well as a few “classmates.” Plus the Prince Regent's court and the society media.

He groans again, not entirely acting.

Will the result be worth it?

Do you have any choice?

He shakes his head, wincing at the jab of pain, leaning back and letting his thoughts set about the tasks of self-repair.

You don't have to do it all today, you know. You've got a few years … maybe.

He tests his energy link foretime. So far, the use of present-time energies hasn't damaged the linkage. But he can sense the limits to his control and to the total energy he can command here in the backtime. He cannot handle as many focal points, nor with as much precision.

Does it have to do with his location, the development of Aurore later on, or with the energy shunts backtime?

He shakes his head again. This time the ache is gone, but the questions remain.

Life had been much simpler as a simple newsie, playing at a minor god in the wings, coming up for breath every few decades, and avoiding any real commitment or involvement.

Now there is the question of Emily. He has taken care of her immediate future, but he still knows nothing of her past.

Does it matter?

He dozes, pushing aside the questions that hammer at him.

“Master Seine?”

He jerks to alertness.

“Medtech Nerril. Let's take a look at that business on your forehead.”

Martel sits and lets the medtech clean the scrape. He could have healed the superficial damage, but what would have been his excuse for staying? Besides, a look at the Regency society from inside, even from the semiservant's position he has created, might be helpful and interesting. Might make his next efforts easier.

Might be stalling, too.
Martel pushes away his own doubts, knowing the mental reservations will return, and return.

As Nerril cleans the cut with the sonic spray, Martel injects a series of memories of Kryn. He also plants the compulsion for the medtech to update Kryn's medical records. Nerril will actually be creating the records, while thinking that he is merely adding to them.

Martel catalogues all he must do … at a bare minimum.

The Hall of Records must be visited for the official record of Kryn's birth to be created, plus the peerage registry and the social lists. A few references would slip by, but Kryn would have years to mend the gaps by her physical presence, and who would deny her existence, when she was so obviously present and the records showed her birth? Particularly with such a powerful mother and respected and doting father?

“I said … that's all, Master Seine.”

“Oh … sorry … daydreaming.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Fine. Fine.”

Nerril packs up his equipment, collapsing it into the ubiquitous green bag.

Gerson stands by the door, twiddling his thumbs.

“Why don't you report back to Captain Herlieu that I'm fine?”

“Orders. Wait for him.”

“All right.”

Gerson leans back against the wall, eyes running from Martel to the picture on the wall and back again.

“Where are you from originally?” asks Martel.

“Newhebb. Isle of Narrows. Joined the Impies. When my term was up, followed the Captain here. There he was a Force Leader. One of the best. Should have seen him at New Reimer. Something, it was. Took the entire crivet, himself. Well … him and two others. Got the Marshal's Cross for it.”

Herlieu didn't look that old. That meant part of his contract with the Duke was the cost of rejuv treatments. Probably worth it to the Duchess, since Herlieu ran a tight operation.

Gerson was saved from the need for further conversation by the arrival of a young woman. Blond, dressed in the blue-and-gold tunic and trousers, in the colors of Kirsten, she was narrow-waisted, slim-hipped, and large-breasted.

After an instant Martel realizes he is seeing Alicia, maid to the Duchess and bed partner to the Duke.

“Master Seine?”

Martel inclines his head.

“The Duke would like to see you, sir. In his study.”

Martel puts his feet on the floor, gingerly. The floor stays firmly underfoot. Running a quick check on himself, he decides he is in surprisingly good shape for all the energy he has expended.

Alicia leads the way.

The hallway, windowless, is lit with a uniform glow from the high ceiling and from the pale yellow heatstone flooring.

The fabric-covered walls display a pale cream-and-blue pattern of intertwined lilies and swords.

The Duke's study is in the tower opposite the Duchess' morning receiving room. Unlike the other rooms through which Martel has passed, the walls are of dark wood, or wooden bookshelves, though each shelf is permaglassed over and sealed.

The Duke, standing behind a massive and all-wooden desk of a design centuries old, wears a dark green dressing robe and white silksheen shirt, open at the neck.

“How's Kryn, Master Seine?” The Duke's voice booms as he extends his hand down toward Martel from his near-two-meter height.

Alicia, notes Martel, does not leave, but seats herself in a window seat in the far corner of the book-lined room. She will report to the Duchess.

Martel reaches out, taking in the man's thoughts, and freezes time for them both for an instant.

Do I really have a daughter? My own daughter? All seems so vague.… And Seine … why … who is he? What report? Why can't I remember more? Damned rejuv. Takes the good memories with the bad.

Duke Kirsten will be good to Kryn. Perhaps too good, but the Duchess' hardheaded approach will provide balance.

Martel supplies more memories … image after image … thought after thought … Kryn as a dark-haired, serious-faced infant; Kryn taking a first step, holding on to the Duke's hand; Kryn drawing a squiggly tower meant to be Southwich; Kryn stamping her foot in the courtyard; Kryn … Kryn … Kryn …

… and the Duke's mind laps them up, image after image.

Martel stretches his reach further and time-freezes Alicia as well. Then he walks to the desk, places a small album on the corner. The cover is plain blue, bordered in gold, with the Duke's seal in the center.

Inside are copies of holos he remembers from the Kryn of so long ago and some he has done just for this purpose. The Duke would have had such an album, since he lives in the past as much as the present. The Duchess would not. She believes she has had a daughter for her husband, most reluctantly, and while she will ensure that Kryn meets her standards, meaning excellence in everything, the Duchess lives in the present and future. No sentimental holos for her!

Martel retreats to where he had stood and unlooses the moment he has held in check.

“She's fine, Your Lordship. Just fine. Adapting well, and doing excellently. Frankly, I don't see why you were so concerned, or why you hired me for a personal report. I'm certain Lady Persis is giving you much the same information, or will. She's an outstanding young woman and could go far if she chooses.”

“Like her mother,” muses the Duke. He looks down at the album quizzically, opens it, sees the first holo, smiles fondly, and shuts the cover.

“Her studies?”

“She excels, particularly in languages and in science. Very strong-minded.”

“Don't know if I should have sent her away, Master Seine. I don't know, but I probably spoil the girl too much. She needs a wider perspective, and I know the Duchess feels that way.”

“Are you asking me for a recommendation, sir?”

“No … but what would you do?”

“I cannot recommend, sir. Lady Persis runs a fine school. No school is home. But then, private tutors cannot teach the interplay of other fine minds, nor the relations between one's peers.”

“Good points.”

Martel waits.

The Duke looks across at Alicia, as if to mark her presence, then looks back down at the album, which he picks up, fingers, and sets down again before continuing.

“All damned confusing…” he muses.

His face clears, and he looks straight at Martel.

“Would you join us for dinner, the main meal of midday here?”

“Your offer is most generous, and I would enjoy that.”

“Fine, just fine.”

Martel coughs, gently.

“Your Lordship … I did not anticipate such an invitation, and, alas, can wear only what I have on.”

“We're not that formal. Wear what you have on. Black's appropriate most places, anyway … except the Regent doesn't seem to like it. Doesn't bother me, though.”

The Duke looks at Alicia.

“Alicia, will you escort Master Seine back to his quarters … but first get him a bite to eat, and then give him a tour of the place. I'll be late getting back.”

The Duke returns his eyes to Martel. “Sorry I can't chat longer, but due at the Regent's Council meeting. Sure you understand.”

“Most assuredly, Your Lordship. Most assuredly.”

Alicia rises to her feet and departs, letting Martel follow as he will.

Kryn? What about me if she comes back? I'm for his pleasure and her convenience. He lives for Kryn. Was it always this way? Don't remember it like this … Black scares me. Master Seine … master of what? They all accept him … from nowhere … why?

Martel understands her questions and her fears. He tries to disarm some of them with another question he places in her thoughts.

What woman could show Kryn love?

Alicia frowns.

Love? Who knows love? Not hen not the Duke … for his daughter … maybe … for me? Just lust.

Martel decides to make a few more arrangements. He touches the Duke's mind, even as the Grand Duke Kirsten is entering the flitter to take him to the palace. Alicia will be safe … and loved.

Next … a quick touch to the Duchess' thoughts, giving her relief that the Duke loves the maid she has so conveniently provided.

How do you know, Martel,
he asks himself,
that your thoughts haven't been rearranged the same way?

He drives the cold chill into his own deeps and pushes the thought away.

By the time they reach the kitchen, Alicia has thawed and Martel is ready for the warmed rolls and juice that are shoved at him in the back pantry.

From the kitchen the tour begins, and Alicia is thorough.

For that Martel is thankful, though his feet hurt long before they finish, because virtually everyone at Southwich has a memory of Kryn. And if some of the staff wonder at the bemused look on Master Seine's face, so be it.

Once he leaves the environs of Kirsten, he will have to cover the palace, as well as some nobles and key staff in the Houses of Gatwick, Ngaio, and Sulifer. After that will come all the peerage records, and the records of Lady Persis' School.

Along the way he will plant as many memories as he can with the general populace, the gossip columnists, and the opinion leaders. Not that total coverage is necessary, particularly when the subject is the daughter of a Duke renowned for his privacy in a Regency court society that revolves around the Prince Regent and his latest boyfriend.

Dinner is served promptly at 1300 hours in the family dining room to exactly five people—the Duke, the Duchess, Captain Herlieu, Madame Herlieu, and Master Seine.

“How was the Council meeting this morning?” That is the Duchess, uninterested, but trying to break the silence.

“Same. Interesting problem, you know.” The Duke pauses to slurp his red-turtle soup. “Prince Edwin asked the Council to suggest ways to increase revenues while reducing taxes. Little difficult, would you say, Master Seine?”

“I'm not an expert in high finance, Your Lordship. It does seem rather paradoxical.”

“Polite way of saying it's confusing. Those ninnies sat there and hee-hawed. Perhaps this … perhaps that.” The Duke frowns, puts down his soup spoon.

The Duchess takes another delicate sip of her soup, almost a consommé, lays her spoon on the Blackshire china, and surveys the table. The softness of the glow lights and the dimness of the exterior light, blocked as it is by the heavy draperies, reduce the sharpness of her nose, display her face as ten years younger or more, hinting at the beauty she once had been. Her silver hair, maintained by cosmetology, adds to the regal impression.