The Promise of the Child (18 page)

Crook glanced back to Von Schiller. “Florian and I believe something must be done. You must allow us to find and punish Maneker.”

“Must, must,
must
,” muttered Sabran, adjusting his crown.

“He is responsible for the most appalling atrocity since the Volirian Conflict. The Devout have made their statement clearly—oppose us or suffer. Already Satrapy Parliaments are rushing to appease them. What are you going to do about it? They think they are protected on the sacred Old World, but we have debts we might call in; Prism armies are ours to command, should we need them. The Melius Provinces will not dare harbour him when they see our strength.”

Von Schiller looked nervously at the ground. “What Crook means is that we must be seen to do something. Our strength must be observed.” His eyes remained lowered. “But also our clemency.”

“
Clemency?
” repeated Crook, disbelieving.

“Well …” Florian glanced between the two men, though Sabran was apparently transfixed by the mountains behind them. “I only mean that the Firmament's last act of retribution following the Volirian Crisis did not have quite the desired consequences. Perhaps this time we should be more sensitive. This fellow, Aaron the Long-Life as you so charmingly call him, Most Venerable, could represent our hopes and aspirations for a new age. He must see our … quality.”

Crook wanted to strike Von Schiller. They hadn't come all the way out here to discuss clemency, to start talking airily about new ages like idiots sitting on a mountainside. His Most Venerable Self was still apparently paying them no attention, his lips moving silently as if in response to some conversation only he could hear. The wind whispered across the rocks, the sound of cold, dead eternity.

“What of the suspicious Prism movements recorded all over the Firmament?” Crook insisted. “The rumours of some new weapon being devised on Drolgins by those revolting Vulgar? They are the ones who need to see our strength—and our malice.” He leaned forwards, lightly touching Sabran's sleeve, knowing Von Schiller would not approve. “Give me this power, Most Venerable, and I shall safeguard our beloved Firmament against all evils. I shall make sure you cannot be supplanted until it is your rightful and just time. Make me Vice-Regent: you shall not regret it.”

Sabran spoke quickly for once, snapping from his reverie. “Power? What power? You do not know the meaning of the word.” He looked off towards the valley floor again, his lips moving, and then he grinned. “I know,” he said, as if to someone just at his side. “Yes, he is, isn't he? He doesn't understand.” The Most Venerable suddenly burst into laughter, waving a hand in front of his face. “Stop!” he cried, wiping his eyes. “Stop it! You're too harsh. He is young.”

The silence that followed was total. Crook stared at the ruler of all the Firmament, then looked back to Von Schiller, who was staring at the rocky ground. He could see then, as the wind moaned and his hair swept lankly across his forehead, that all was lost.

The Eldest got to his feet. “I must go now. I wish to be at the far side of the valley before dusk.”

“You're
leaving
?” wailed Crook.

Sabran didn't turn back to look at him, instead collecting his rags and twigs. “Must get some miles under my belt.”

The two Amaranthine stood to watch him go, the wind tugging at their exuberant dress. Crook turned to Von Schiller. “Thank you, Florian.”

“Even-handedness—”

“I don't care about
even-handedness
. Signal that ship, get it back here. I'm not finished with this.”

Von Schiller looked gravely at him. “You're not thinking of undermining him, are you, Horatio? Undermining the Most Venerable? It can't be done.” He took a step towards Crook. “I will not allow it.”

Crook glared at him. “You won't
allow
it? You are first in line, heir apparent, and yet you appear to have allowed a charlatan who somehow invades the dreams of men to become king. You allowed thousands of our fellows—those of the Virginis Parliament who still saw sense—to die.” He staggered, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “You'll see, Florian, that there are limits even to your influence.”

The Voidship reappeared half an hour later, its engines bellowing into the rubble. Florian Von Schiller climbed aboard, his fingers numb. The small captain, caped in ruffled velvet likely bought with the proceeds of the lucrative voyage, looked at him questioningly.

“Just me for the return journey, Captain,” he said, dumping his bag and peering out of a porthole. “My friend has decided he'd like to stay. Indefinitely.”

Guest

Lycaste walked back along the drying sand from the caves, the stick still in his hand. He'd not had any imaginary friends as a child—hadn't wanted any—though he supposed it wasn't unhealthy in a young boy like Briza, especially on such a lonely, unpopulated stretch of continent. The boy had only ever met a few children his own age, those who accompanied the Players. He hadn't really understood them, nor they him, so used was he to purely adult company, and the prospect of sharing toys had finally smashed any prospect of even a frail truce between them. It didn't matter—Briza was already developing into the sort of boy Lycaste never was, sure to be popular and loved.

He retraced his steps along the water's edge, thinking of the night he met Eranthis among the fruit trees. The sky had cleared miraculously, the breeze now clean and cool. All sorts of lumpish strands littered the beach, landed by the waves, and he picked his way among them looking for anything interesting, turning objects with the end of his stick. Gnarled pieces of bleached driftwood were everywhere, their sinewy arms coated in places with olive strands of drying seaweed. It was good firewood, worth collecting and storing. As he picked up armfuls, he passed the remains of Briza's sandcastle and stopped to look. It had been battered by the rain and smoothed to nothing but a hump in the sand.

He came to the orchard, noticing activity through the kitchen window of his third tower. So they were making themselves at home in his house now without even thinking to ask. He looked at the stick in his hand and felt faintly ridiculous, dropping it in the snake-infested woodpile at the edge of the trees along with the driftwood.

Lycaste opened his door, knocking as he entered in the hope that it would show up their rudeness, but nobody noticed. Pamianthe appeared to have chosen to stay after all and was busily pouring something from the pot into his best bowls and cups. She looked up, shocked for a moment.

“Lycaste! Is it all right to use these cups? Only … well, you'll see—go in.”

“What?” he began to ask, taking stock of his finest crockery and ceramics laid out, ready for the dining room. The servants had begun to prepare for dinner, though it wasn't nearly late enough. He looked at her, still wary of outbursts.

“Just go into the other room, you'll see.”

Lycaste shook his head and headed for the next chamber, expecting to find the old fool Jotroffe there, snuck in while he was away looking for strangers. If the crazy old fart was going to start talking about balloons again he'd just have to head for bed, shut the door and be done with it.

“Ah!
This
is Lycaste, the master of the estate.” Eranthis stood up from her chair in the centre of the room. Lycaste took a step inside as his eyes adjusted, aware their number had swelled. Impatiens and Pentas sat together on some cushions, Briza at their feet playing with some of Lycaste's figures from the palace. Another man sat next to Eranthis, someone he'd never seen before. He smiled and stood, roughly Eranthis's height—rather short for a man, though still nowhere near as small as Jotroffe.

“Lycaste,” Eranthis said, “meet Callistemon, Plenipotentiary of the Greater Second. Did I get that right?”

“Perfectly,” said their guest, offering a delicate yellow hand. He had a pleasant, boyish face, with light, slightly curled hair dangling over his smooth forehead. “Very pleased to meet you, Lycaste.”

Lycaste took the man's hand awkwardly, noticing how it was turned down, expecting supplication. As he did so, he coloured a formal cream, hoping he hadn't remembered too late. Callistemon smiled and his pink eyes flicked back to Eranthis. He let his hand drop to his side and sat down slowly, picking up a cup and turning to regard Lycaste once more.

“I must say, Lycaste,” said the Plenipotentiary, “this is an extraordinarily beautiful place to live. You must feel very fortunate.”

“I do,” he replied, carefully arranging himself on a patterned settle. The room was hardly used these days and the cushions were dusty.

“He was the envy of the port for a while,” said Impatiens. “I think a few people had hoped the place would be up for sale instead of handed down.”

Callistemon took a sweet from a bowl Eranthis was offering around. “How long have you owned the property, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Twenty years or so,” Lycaste said. “I've redecorated some of the chambers.”

“You've done a fine job. It was your uncle's, I understand?”

Lycaste couldn't see the point of the man's questions. He half-suspected the first Plenipotentiary he'd ever met had come simply to offer him a sum for his house. “Yes. I can show you the papers—I have them somewhere.”

Callistemon laughed, exposing long teeth. “That won't be necessary. I have records.”

There was a brief silence in which Lycaste exchanged a bemused glance with Pentas. He wanted to be alone with her more than ever and hoped the Plenipotentiary's visit would be brief.

“Now you're all together,” the young man said through a mouthful of syrupsnap, looking around, “I expect you're wondering why I'm here.” He dusted his fingers against each other with a smile. Lycaste scowled, noting where the powdered sugar drifted so that he could have the birds clean later.

“Well, the Second—and therefore to some degree the First—has decreed that it's high time for a census of the outlying Provinces. I'm here, first and foremost, to count you all, but I am also expected to make notations on the state of affairs down here—deeds of land ownership, assets, holdings …” He looked suddenly apologetic. “I don't mean to pry, of course, though I'm afraid my questions will need to be answered to the best of your abilities.” Lycaste could hear the youth in his voice, even if it did carry the Second's lilting slur.

Callistemon sat up in his seat, smoothing the fabric of a cushion. “I also hear there was an accident recently—a man was bitten by a fish of some kind? He remains unwell?”

“A shark, Plenipotentiary,” said Impatiens, glancing at Lycaste. “The seas are dangerous here.”

“Gracious,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “I'd heard there were wilder things in the south, but …” He looked at Impatiens uncertainly, finally shaking his head as if to clear it. “Getting back to this census—I have it written that there are two hundred and six in the Province, but the information is, regrettably, rather old. It has been some time since the First attempted to catalogue what goes on in the Nostrum Provinces.” He reached down into a small satchel, producing an expensive-looking paper book and ink-pen.

“There are three hundred and fifteen now,” said Eranthis, watching the Plenipotentiary testing his pen.

“I will need their names and locations,” he said, scribbling something. “They all have to be visited at some stage.”

“How long will you be staying?” Eranthis enquired.

“It all depends on the cooperation of the locals, I'm afraid. I hope Impatiens here won't find me a nuisance while I'm staying with him.” He laughed before Impatiens could reply, flicking through the book. “Now,” Callistemon said, sucking the end of the pen for a moment and glancing to a list at the back, many of the points underlined, “I have rather a … specific thing to ask of you. I hear there is an unusual person here going by the name of Jotroffe? Jatrofe?”

Lycaste stirred from his doze, sitting straighter. He wondered what the Plenipotentiary wanted with Jotroffe.

“Yes,” said Impatiens. “He wasn't on your last census?”

“No, he wasn't.” Callistemon looked hard at Impatiens. “There are some things I'd like clarified, if you don't mind.” He turned the page, pen poised, looking around the semicircle. “Where did he come from, does anyone know?”

Impatiens shrugged. “Possibly out west.” His eyes suddenly widened. “Is he wanted for something?”

Callistemon's pen remained at the ready. “Do you know him well?”

“Not really—we see him from time to time, if we're unlucky.”

“Unlucky?”

“Meet him yourself, you'll see.”

Callistemon put the pen down. “Where does he live?”

“Nowhere. He wanders—he's a hermit.”

“It is as I thought.” Callistemon appeared to think for a while as he stowed his notebook. “I would very much like to be taken to him, perhaps tomorrow?”

Impatiens puffed out his cheeks. “That might be difficult. He sort of … appears when he wants to.”

“I see.” The Plenipotentiary rummaged in the bowl and took another sweet. “Nevertheless, I'd be grateful if you'd try to find him for me. I'm supposed to follow up on any …
irregularities
I discover on my travels.”

“Where else have you been?” asked Pentas excitedly, surprising them all.

Callistemon cocked his head. “That's a Seventh accent, if I'm not mistaken? A fellow traveller, I see.”

Pentas smiled and nodded. “So is my sister, Eranthis.”

“Oh, I can see you are sisters—you share your beauty.”

Lycaste rolled his eyes, noticing with a hint of jealousy that both girls looked delighted at the comment.

“In answer to your question, I have visited all of the Provinces on my way here, coming down through the Eighth and Ninth with a company of Players and staying in one of their fascinating wheelhouses. Next stop is the Eleventh, though truth be told I'm rather worried about my grasp of the local dialect.”