Paradox (24 page)

Dislocation; yet almost nostalgia.

My home.

Sitting in his study, in a wing of his palace—his own palace—able to do anything: access any crystal in his library, go for a run, order anything at all from the—from
his
—kitchens.

“Destiny.”

Empty room. Sweeping shelves of narrow glass; a twisting baroque lev-sculpture; rows of crystal-racks. A huge bowl of candied gripplecubes was set out on a side table.

No duties.

If he wanted, he could summon one of his servitors…Fate, he could summon
all
of them.

There was nostalgia, because it was like his childhood: neither owned by anyone nor weighed down by expectations. Yet it was also entirely new.

What do you do when your dreams are fulfilled?

Maestro da Silva had told him of this. When his ablest fencers were trying out for the sector squad, he would warn them. It was so hard to get into the squad, they would focus all their mental imagery—during an entire Standard Year—on passing the team selections.

Then, in the big inter-sector championships, the selected fencers would turn in a lacklustre performance: because their SY-long goal had been satisfied, and there had been no time to lay down a new objective in their deep, unconscious psyche.

So what do I do now, Maestro?

“Display schematic: Veldrin Provincia.”

A long, tall, twisted shape, a multi-tiered cylinder bent out of true. Translucent layers. But the holo, slowly revolving above the glassine desk, was labelled not as Veldrin Provincia, but by its new designation.

Corcorigan Demesne.

Twenty-one strata (though bigger demesnes had more) were stacked beneath his Primum Stratum. Did the lower inhabitants know of their change of Liege Lord? How many would care?

Were there market chambers in the depths? Was a lonely stallholder's son sitting now in some deserted corridor?

“Enough.” He waved the holo away.

He looked at the gripplecandies, but did not take one.

Instead, unsealing his tunic pocket, he drew out the hard teardrop-shape. Immediately it pulsed with white revolving rings of light.

“Thank you, my Lord”—remembering the party—“for this reminder.”

It was the emblem of A'Dekal's think-tank, the Circulus Fidus.

The rings flickered out as he laid the holopin aside.

I could remain here, in my palace, never seeing my demesne.

He gestured open an enquiry lattice; its intricate triconic webs pulsed, inviting exploration.

Rule unseen.

“Personnel enquiry.” Indicating a multihued tricon.

Eat. Grow lazy. Collect my tithes.

The tricon's facets unfolded: a motile origami in light, a subtle semantic maze through which only a Lord might navigate.

Dispense justice by proxy.

Drilling in, plunging—with noble-house access—down strata of a different kind: the layers of information hidden away within the world.

Never see my subjects.

Rows of blossoming tricons, unfolding, blooming, as he picked their tiny seeds of light. Every symbol held at least six meanings:

1) its phoneme sequence;

2) its chromosequence;

3) its numerological facets (where phonemes rhymed with integer values);

4) its mythos resonances (where colour suggested mythical figures—hero or villain, warrior or dragon—and therefore psychological characteristics);

5) its socio-cultural import (denoted by speed of motion and topographic transformation as it revolved, twisted, turned itself continuously inside out); and,

6) subtlest of all, its logosophic gestalt, whereby the mode-of-combination of the other five elements could enhance a tricon's meaning, imbue it with personal or objective significance, even reverse (perhaps ironically) the surface message.

Talk only with my peers. Dissipate.

His equals.

Those trained in the labyrinthine thought processes which could appreciate a written language such as this. A communication modality of rich concepts and subtle, twisted connections.

Remain in my study, reading and researching.

By sheer good fortune, with Avernon's friendship, he could be an ambassador, of sorts, to the world of logosophy: one of the first to work on the new model. He could explore its ramifications, publicize its importance, link it to other modes of investigation. Bring his own skewed insight to bear on Avernon's magnificent work.

Write poetry, perhaps.

There was so much he could do here, reforming his demesne.

“But this is my time, isn't it?”

Whom did he address? Fate itself?

Father's knucklebones, falling into the acidic Vortex Mortis
…

“And I have someone to thank, after all, for my Destiny.”

Facets: petals of shimmering pinks, heartbreaking emeralds, unfolding over and over. An invitation to pluck forth meaning from its holo core.

Mother's cupric tresses. Her hips swaying as she stepped up onto the lev-cart.

“Show me where he lives, this one.”

Intricate control gestures, matching the convolution of its parts.

“The one I have to thank.”

Reaching inside, to its heart.

“Show me—”

Revealing…

“Gérard d'Ovraison.”

…the Oracle.

Lady Sylvana was his first visitor.

“Sweet Fate, Tom! What is this?”

It was small, with a ceiling which sloped at forty-five degrees.

“Er…It used to be a Laksheesh-Heterodox chapel. Don't worry, it's been deconsecrated.”

She stared up at the jumble of small protrusions across ceiling and walls. There were three or four hundred shapes fastened there: from small fingerholds to half-metre twisted ridges, with a few grinning gargoyles scattered around for variety.

“I won't ask.” Highlights rippled across her golden tresses as she shook her head. “Why—? No. Let's go back outside.”

Tom glanced back around the chamber—his training-room for climbing: already he had practised dozens of problems, tracing convoluted routes among the tricky holds—and his smile faded.

I used to climb only for fun.

“This, at least, is pleasant.” Outside, Sylvana gestured along the gallery's length. “A cool walk before dinner.”

It was Tom's running-gallery, his substitute for the outer reaches of Lady Darinia's Palace. Smaller, but his own.

“I've had one of the minor dining-chambers redecorated,” said Tom. “And my study.”

“Well, then.” Lady Sylvana took his arm. “You'd better show me.”

For a moment, Tom could scarcely breathe. Even through the heavy velvet of his black tunic, her touch electrified his skin. Then, regaining composure: “This way.”

A phalanx of servitors, both hers and his, trailed them as they walked.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” she said over dinner, “to see you invested. It must have been quite an occasion.”

“Oh, yes.” That same involuntary grin spread across Tom's face. “I'll say.”

Amusement twinkled in her eyes. “Was that how you looked at the time? Smiling uncontrollably?”

“Oh, no.” Tom laughed. “I've almost got used to the whole crazy notion by now.”

“This is the subdued look? I really should have been there.”

“I wish you and—” Tom stopped.

“Cord would have been there,” she said quietly. “But the Field Marshal wouldn't grant him leave. I gather old Takegawa's something of a tyrant.”

There was a silence, during which servitors unobtrusively came to the long table, took away the platinum dishes, wiped the marble down with white linen, and brought in the next course.

“I like this decor.”

Sylvana's gaze travelled around the sweeping transparent shelves and columns, the slowly moving mother-of-pearl panels. Peacock blue predominated; other chambers were deep green or lustrous red.

“Smartnacre and quickglass.” Tom gestured at a flowing translucent faux-buttress. “They'll form a leitmotif.”

“Very nice.”

Dessert was sorbet and wild dodecapears. Tom picked at his, then placed his tine-spoon down on the tabletop.

“I didn't know you and Corduven kept in touch.”

Not since your marriage was annulled.

“Yes.” Quietly. “Comms to that whole area are difficult. I think Takegawa keeps the academy deliberately isolated.”

Time to change the subject.

“On Old Terra, you know, they had open non-fibre comms, worldwide, for a long time.”

“Cooking their brains,” said Sylvana, “with EM radiation. Didn't they also make themselves stupid with lead in their cooking-pots?”

“Don't you mean aluminium?” Tom frowned. “Or was that the Romans?”

“Before the Monolingual Stases, anyway.”

“Probably.” The global monopolies, first of NetAnglic, then of WebMand'rin, had caused education and research to ossify. “Before they figured out the need for diversity.”

“Tell that to the Circulus Fidus. They'd like the whole of Nulapeiron to follow their stuffy ways.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I haven't been following their polemic. Has—? Ah, there's the daistral. Well done, Felgrinar.”

The grey-haired man who bowed in acknowledgement of Tom's praise was Tom's chef-steward. With the tiniest gesture of his white-gloved hand, he directed two junior servitors to set down the daistral pot and lay out the cups.

“Speaking of which,” Tom continued after the daistral was poured, “Lord A'Dekal, after the ceremony, invited me to visit his demesne.”

“I'm impressed.” Sylvana raised her cup as though in toast. “Did you enjoy your stay?”

Tom kept his tone noncommittal. “I declined his offer.”

Sylvana lowered her cup, untouched.

“You turned down Lord A'Dekal's invitation.” A smile slowly spread across her clear-skinned face. “Oh, my word!”

“
The Lady Sylvana will decide the boy's punishment.
”

Frank blue eyes, appraising him.

“
An arm, perhaps?
”

“
Very well.
”
Lady Darinia stood.
“Before you deliver him, remove an arm.
”

Her grey gaze swept over Tom.

“
Either arm will do.
”

Tom jerked awake. He was bathed in sweat, dripping, and his nonexistent left fist was tightly clenched, every nerve on fire.

“Damn it.”

It was the middle of the night, but he rolled from the bed, pulled on running-tights with integral shoes, stretched lightly and went out to run.

He passed the side corridor which led to the guest quarters, thinking of Sylvana in the ornate bed, swathed in white smartsatin—and jogged on.

Ghostly grey. No servitors in sight.

He ran up and down the long gallery for an hour. He was tireless: the more he ran, the stronger he became.

He finished with wind-sprints, then stretched out, performing variations on splits for fifteen minutes.

In his ex-chapel climbing-room, away from the main training configuration, a small looped cord hung from the ceiling.

Alternating, he performed sets of one-hand press-ups and one-finger chin-ups until his tendons were about to pop. Then he worked his abdominals, stretched lightly, and went back to his bedchamber.

He stripped, slapped a glob of smartgel against his chest and let it
spread across him, cleansing and exfoliating. As the gel slipped off him and crawled back into its container, Tom climbed into bed.

Controlling his breathing, he began his relaxation: starting with his toes, working up his body, lightly clenching, then releasing, each muscle group in turn.

He slid into dreamless sleep.

“Who would have thought you'd come so far?” Sylvana's voice was musing. “You're hardly the same person…”

They were on a smooth ledge, by a wall encrusted with baroque carvings, overlooking a gentle slope. It was the edge of Tom's palace, where dwelling melded into natural cavern. In the depression below, the sapphire-and-gold jewel which was Sylvana's lev-car floated.