Chapter 6

 

Life, reflected Palgrave, had its consolations. Calderon and he had been in daemon country for over a day now, and had so far not seen a single daemon, which must, in his book, be permitted to count as rare good fortune. On the other hand, the soldiers who had escorted them from the pass to their present location – a shabby and neglected barrack-like house, with an air of long desertion – were by no means models of patience or charisma. Palgrave would have described them more along the lines of ‘surly uniformed louts,’ had he been especially keen on the idea of a broken nose. In spite of the troopers’ apparent urgency to get the ambassadors and their small entourage of armed guards into Fort Rowan and out of sight, Palgrave had got the distinct impression that they were, at least in the general opinion, far from welcome.

        This was, to his mind, confirmed by the food that was eventually delivered to their quarters, with marked poor grace: tough, salted meat; black barley-bread even tougher than the meat; and water (which was, at any rate, fresher than both). Had he not worked up a raging appetite over the journey, he would have dismissed both dishes as being unworthy of the considerable effort of chewing, and enquired of his master whether or not this bore all the signs of a studied insult.

        “I don’t think so,” answered Calderon, thoughtfully. “Someone’s been expecting us, at any rate, and it’s not even as if we asked for any food. These may be rush arrangements, but I expect we’re getting the same stuff as they are. It’s an occupation force, after all, and this country’s too poor for any half-decent looting. Takes me right back to my army days, you know.”

        “They serve our boys crap like this? Begging your pardon, sir.”

        “Actually, I was in an Arriman prison at the time. Somewhere near Deldecca, I think. I was silly enough to let myself get caught in the last border skirmish, back in one hundred and two. So then, at least I’ve some fellow feeling with our unfortunate hostages. I wonder where they’re holding them.”

        “Could be anywhere, sir. Place is crawling with soldiers. Seem to have done in all the daemons, by the looks of things. Or got ‘em under lock and key.”

        “Have they, indeed?” muttered Calderon, looking out of the window across the thatched roofs of the town, the building they occupied being one of the few two-storey structures in Fort Rowan. “Take a look at this, then.” Palgrave came to the window and followed his master’s gaze to an plaza of packed dirt, which was rapidly filling with a motley crowd, divided into close-knit groups of armed, helmeted, green-and-grey-uniformed figures, and clusters of thin, hairless, pale-skinned, ill-clad figures. A high wooden platform, guarded by a full squad of marines, had been erected at one side of the plaza, and the crowd congregated before this unpretentious altar. In due course, as the gathering settled down, a grey-clad figure ascended the platform and stood before them, her long garments fluttering in the perpetual mountain breezes, her steel mask catching the odd glint of sunlight, an inviting target for any assassin who could possibly aim and fire before the nearest marine had time to get in the first shot. Palgrave noted that one had drifted into their room as the rally began, his carbine held ready for action, and move a little further away from the window, content to sacrifice the superior view for the sake of diplomacy, not to mention a back free of bullets.

        He doubted he was missing anything much. Miss Kitson – as he knew full well he had better stop thinking of her – had begun her obligatory address, but she was doing it in a rather annoying mixture of classical Lucinian – spoken by the Albinor – and the language of the daemons, which was a corrupted and hybrid version of the same. This did not make it terribly easy for Palgrave, with his extensive but decidedly modern education, to follow the drift of the speech. Her addresses to the Albinor were reasonably comprehensible, thanking them for their patience, urging them for a very little more, promising them rich rewards and recompense for the abuses of the past, and so forth, carried with a slightly deranged intensity that suggested, beyond all plausibility, that she believed what she was saying. The daemon part of her oration was lost on Palgrave, save a few significant words: “Progress,” “Prosperity,” “Pleasure,” “Reform,” “Justice,” and enough to make him realise that it was nothing remotely unique in the history of speechmaking. It seemed to please the onlookers, however, to judge from their thunderous applause, punctuated by the occasional gunshot: not from hopeful assassins, but from a small pistol that the regent herself was carrying. She had fired three rounds from it without apparently reloading, although she fidgeted a little with the barrel after each shot. Palgrave found that marginally impressive. Compared with the speech, at all events.

        “Well,” commented Calderon, drawing back from the window and onto one of the wooden benches that were scattered haphazardly around the room, possibly having once upon a time been beds. “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” His tone was clearly rhetorical, which was just as well. Palgrave detested the thought of being in open disagreement with his master, even over a matter of no more importance than – in his opinion – a downright vulgar piece of cant and posturing, and thus was glad of the opportunity to remain silent. His safety was further guaranteed when, moments later, after the marine had left them alone, another of the Albinor entered the room, greeting them by name in clear and fluent classical Lucinian, which even Palgrave had no trouble in following:

        “Welcome to Fort Rowan, gentlemen. I am Lord Lycon. I hope your journey has not been overly unpleasant, but there were certain difficulties. Lord Corin – the occupation commander – has proven somewhat... obstructive. I hear that your emissaries were turned away. May I assure you, that the regent and I are sincerely regretful at this business.”

        “This was done without the regent’s knowledge?” asked Calderon, and Palgrave was not surprised to note a faltering of Lycon’s fixed smile. When he spoke again, it was with polite, but marked forbearance:

        “My dear Lord Robert. What was it you took in your masters year, again? Classics and… telepathy, I believe it was. Do not try to interrogate me – even by gentle probing – and you may learn a little more. Certainly, a damn sight more than you will learn back on the pass, if you would like to be returned there. Maybe not? Then, for your information, it is true that our regent has enemies among her subjects. This is to be expected in such turbulent times. Her ascension was, however, constitutionally sound.”

        “Err. Do you mind my asking a little more about that, My Lord?”

        “We shall see, My Lord.”

        “It just occurred to me, that Miss Kit... that Gloriana can’t be all that closely related – if at all – to the previous ruler. Or was she married to him?”

        “No, but it was mooted. I do wish I had your skills, Lord Robert. You seem to know a good deal about Her Highness that is a complete mystery to me. You incline me to greater openness, indeed. If, that is, you will fill me in on your information, to begin with.” Palgrave was called upon, and repeated for Lycon’s benefit the ‘Wonderful and Surprising History of Virana Kitson, Gun-Runner and Fugitive Extraordinary,’ as it were. The Admiral’s worn but majestic face lit up with interest at several points during the narrative, almost lapsed into mirth at the account of her painful attack upon her would-be daemon suitor, and hardened somewhat when it reached the subject of her mutilation. The tale was soon concluded, and after a thoughtful pause, Lord Lycon spoke, in an altered tone: softer, more natural, and probably a fair omen from the ambassadors’ point of view:

        “Mr. Palgrave;  I am infinitely obliged to you. And now, Lord Robert, let me tell you something of the remainder. Indeed, your Miss Kitson – Her Highness – did arrive in the company of daemon pirates, as we believed. Their kind had been attacking our fishing vessels for some years, and we arrested these outcasts as soon as they set foot on our shores. It was that pistol of hers that first attracted particular attention: you may have seen it, during the rally.” Palgrave indicated that he had. “Excellent, Mr. Palgrave. Then, you may appreciate what it meant to us. The possibility of powerful new weapons, at such a time. Quite a temptation for our navy. I had her released at once, and presented her at court. She promised great things, and asked no less. Which is to say, she did offer to supervise the construction of the new weapons, but she was not prepared to have them used unless she had the power of command over our forces. Difficult, but by no means impossible, or unprecedented. There was always, as she suggested, the possibility of a straight division of power between her and His Royal Highness, if he was prepared to marry her.”

        “That much power? For a royal consort?” remarked Calderon.

        “Indeed, My Lord. Ever since our forefathers’ exodus from your lands, we have followed a martial code. We do not tolerate cowardice or indolence in our rulers. Granted, our ladies are not in the habit of commanding the navy, but constitutionally speaking, the case was sound. Or would have been, if King Crito the seventh – ever may he dwell among the gods – if he had been, shall we say, a little more enthusiastic in the cause of the nation. I was positively at pains to bring His Highness to an awareness of his responsibilities in this matter, but I regret to say that we saw them quite differently. I told him that marrying the lady need not mean one second’s worth of intimacy with her, and was hardly going to prevent him from keeping a whole crew of mistresses at his beck and call. Nor did it mean relinquishing control over the navy, since he could hardly doubt the steadfast loyalties of such men as Lord Corin and myself. But all in vain, as he insisted that the whole idea was too revolting to admit of contemplation. An intractable man, His Highness, and had he survived, I don’t imagine we should be here now, and your old friend Queen Rowan would still be making free with both our supply lines. Why you lot didn’t properly sort out this little nest of brigands years ago, I’ll never know. Where was I? Oh yes. His Highness. Tragic, but quick. Explosive device. One of Gloriana’s little toys.”

        “She didn’t plant it,” stated Calderon, with unguarded horror. Lycon smiled, or at least grimaced, and continued, with a mixture of sympathy and veiled threat:

        “No, she didn’t. It was stolen from her workshop. By hands unknown. You’re sweating, My lord. Give your mind a rest. Besides which, all that probing won’t ever stand up in a court of law. But as I said, we’ve never tolerated indolent rulers, and whatever else you can say about her, Gloriana has been anything but indolent. I don’t suppose it will do her much good... There! See, My lord: no need for your secret rummaging, when I blurt out my inner thoughts so generously! But there it is: our constitution allows for the Admiralty to appoint a regent in times of a succession crisis, and since the king had died without issue, and we were in the midst of a national emergency, we took the expedient course. And the right one, in my humble opinion, although there are those who believed that it was a temporary measure only, not to mention a minority who didn’t accept it to begin with. But these are internal matters, My Lord, and should be of no concern to you.”

        “It all seems a rather unusual system, by our standards. I would have thought, My Lord – if you’ll pardon me – that you must be closer in line to the throne of Albinor than Miss... Gloriana.”

        “Oh, immeasurably closer. But I’m sure your insight can deduce some good reasons why that succession might have been even more controversial, unpopular, and open to all manner of unworthy insinuations. I, at all events, do not consider myself to be a traitor, but I have no particular wish for others to do so.” This comment led to some moments of embarrassed silence, broken by Calderon:

        “Lord Lycon; you have been most obliging. But if I may press on to the matter of our troops–”

        “Not with me, you won’t, My Lord. That is the business of Her Highness, and you may discuss that with her when we receive the summons to court. Far be it from me to overstep the mark.”

        “You transported the court to Fort Rowan?”

        “I refer to Her Highness’s courtiers, most of whom were doubtless born hereabouts. She invested all her fellow fugitives after her ascension, and I expect they were only too glad to be part of this little revenge outing of hers. They’ve all moved into the palace, and I expect we shall be paying them a call presently. You look unwell, Mr. Palgrave. But I shouldn’t be unduly concerned. From my limited experience, these daemons seem to live up to their popular image: excepting Her Highness, they are indeed a collection of aggressive and idle sensualists. They are also completely disinterested in anyone who is not conspicuously young and pretty, I’m sorry to report. Joke, Mr. Palgrave. Though if you were thinking of coming along with any young and pretty members of your entourage, you might want to reconsider, unless diplomatic staff in Lucinia are ten a shilling.”

        “That reminds me:” declared Calderon, hardening inscrutably. “Palgrave; I want Prentis to come along with us.”

        “May I infer from your secretary’s less than approving looks, that this ‘Prentis’ is, as I suspect, the young and pretty type? Seriously, My Lord. If he’s not essential, leave him, or you may find him being returned to you covered in bites and scratches, best luck. Come to that, I wouldn’t normally recommend you to be steering that particular course. You look younger than forty-seven, anyway, and with respect, you’re not a strong-looking man. No help for it, though. Avoid eye contact, I’d suggest. Except with Her Highness, of course, unless you’re going there to fling insults. As for this Prentis fellow, whether you’re bringing him along as an assistant or as a decoy, I really wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

        “Call it an experiment, My Lord. I have a theory, which I am very keen to put to trial.” Neither the words nor the cold, resolute delivery did anything to elevate Palgrave’s opinion of his master’s reason or morals. Lycon’s eyebrows raised a little, in what might have been very well suppressed indignation or mere curiosity.

        “I shall say no more,” declared Lycon. “Of course, one hears that you Lucinians are great ones for research and discovery, although one takes little personal interest in such matters. However, I think even I may be allowed to be impressed at your ruthlessness in the pursuit of knowledge. Far be it from me to question the practices of strangers, though. I think you’d better fetch this lad, Mr. Palgrave. Your master is adamant, and I’m quite curious to see him now.”

        Appalled and open-mouthed, Palgrave did not hesitate, but carried out his duty with mechanical faithfulness. Mr. Edgar Prentis, assistant secretary, was brought from the ground floor room of the barracks, where the armed escort and a couple of other clerks had been quartered. In his early twenties, and though with nothing especially striking in his appearance, he was basically a well-favoured young man, with an air of bland, respectable impenetrability which any hot-blooded daemon might very easily read as a challenge, and take considerable delight in annihilating. Where their volatile caprices might lead from this point, there was no telling. There were many morbid speculations, however, which both Lycon and Palgrave were kind enough not to express to the young man’s face, although he might have made no end of inferences from the disconcerting smiles that Lycon was failing miserably to suppress. If this at all unnerved him, there he betrayed no sign of it as he addressed Calderon:

        “You wanted to see me, My Lord?

        “You’re to come with us to the palace,” replied Calderon, his voice very calm, but altogether too deliberate. Palgrave was certain that he detected a trace of anger or hatred, but knew better than to pass comment on it. Nor had Prentis, it seemed, missed that note: his answering, “As you wish, My Lord,” was undercut with faint anxiety, unless Palgrave was just conferring his own upon the banal expression, which was, he had to admit, as like as not.

        A few minutes later, a marine delivered the summons to court, and, as Lord Lycon facetiously put it, they ‘set sail.’