As she stood on the toilet seat and peeped out of the narrow window, sunlit dust swirled in motes about her.
She could see the courtyard. Three horses were saddled; her father was standing by one, both gloved hands resting on the reins, and with a suppressed whoop of relief she saw that his secretary, the dark watchful man called
Medlicote, was climbing onto the gray mare. Behind, Lord Evian was being heaved into the saddle by two sweating stable hands. Claudia wondered how much of his comic awkwardness was an act, and whether he'd been prepared for real horses rather than cyber-steeds. Evian and her father were playing an elaborate and deadly game of manners and insults, irritation and etiquette. It bored her, but that was how things were at
Court.
The thought of a future lifetime of it turned her cold.
To hide from it she jumped down, and tugged off the elaborate dress. Underneath she was wearing a dark jumpsuit. For a moment she glanced at herself in the mirror. Clothes changed you. Long ago, King Endor had known that. That was why he had stopped Time, imprisoned everyone in doublets and dresses, stiffed them in conformity and stiffness.
Now Claudia felt lithe and free. Dangerous, even. She stepped back up. They were riding through the gatehouse. Her father paused and glanced toward Jared's tower. She smiled secretly. She knew what he could see.
He could see her.
Jared had perfected the holo-image in the long nights of sleeplessness. When he had shown her herself, sitting, talking, laughing, reading in the window seat of the sunny tower, she had been fascinated and appalled.
'That's not me!'
He'd smiled. 'No one likes to see themselves from the outside.'
She had seen a smug, pert creature, her face a mask of composure, every action considered, every speech rehearsed. Superior and mocking.
'Is that really how I am?'
Jared had shrugged. 'It's an image, Claudia. Let's say its how you can appear.'
Now, jumping down and running back into the bedroom, she watched the horses pace elegantly over the mown lawns, Evian talking, her father silent. Job had vanished, and the blue sky was mottled with high clouds.
They'd be gone at least an hour.
She took the small disc from her pocket, tossed it, caught it, put it back. Then she opened her bedroom door and peered out.
The Long Gallery ran the length of the house. It was paneled in oak and lined with portraits, books in cabinets, blue vases on pedestals. Above each door the bust of a
Roman emperor gazed sternly down from its bracket. Far down at the end sunlight made brilliant slanting lozenges across the wall, and a suit of armor guarded the top of the stairs like a rigid ghost.
She took a step, and the planks creaked. The boards were old, and she scowled, because there was no way to turn that off. There was nothing she could do about the busts either, but as she passed each painting she touched the frame control and darkened them—after all, there were almost certainly cameras in some of them. She held the disc gently in her hand; only once did it give a discreet bleep of warning, and she already knew about that, a crisscross of faint lines outside the study door, easily dissolved.
Claudia glanced back down the corridor. Far off in the house a door banged, a servant called. Up here in the muffled luxury of the past, the air was fragrant with juniper and rosemary, pomanders of crisp lavender in the laundry cupboard.
The study door was recessed in shadow. It was black, and looked like ebony; a bare panel, except for the swan. Huge and malevolent, the bird stared down at her, neck stretched in spitting defiance, wings wide. Its tiny eye glinted as though it were a diamond or dark opal.
More likely a spyhole, she thought.
Tense, she lifted Jared's disc and held it carefully to the door; it clamped itself on with a tiny metallic click.
The device hummed. A small whine emerged from it, changing tone and pitch frequently, as if it chased the intricate combination of the lock up and down the scales of sound.
Jared had gone into patient explanations as to how it worked, but she hadn't really been listening.
Impatient, she fidgeted. Then froze.
Footsteps were running up the stairs, lightly pattering.
Perhaps one of the maids, despite orders. Claudia flattened herself into the alcove, cursing silently, barely breathing.
Just behind her ear, the disc gave a soft, satisfied snap.
At once she turned, had the door open, and was inside in seconds, one arm whipping back out to snatch the disc.
When the maid hurried by with the pile of linen, the study door was as dark and grimly locked as ever.
Slowly, Claudia withdrew her eye from the spyhole and breathed out in relief. Then she stiffened, her shoulders tight with tension. A curious, dreadful certainty swept over her that the room behind her was not empty, that her father was standing at her back, close enough to touch, his smile bitter. That the horseman she had seen leave had been his own holo-image, that he had outguessed her as he always did.
She made herself turn.
The room was empty. But it was not what she'd expected. For a start it was too big. It was totally non-Era. And it was tilted.
At least she thought so for a moment, because the first steps she took into its space were strangely unsteady, as if the floor sloped, or the perspective of the bare gray walls rose to odd angles. Something blurred and clicked; then the room seemed to gently even out, become normal, except for the warmth and the sweet faint scent and a low hum she couldn't quite identify.
The ceiling was high and vaulted. Sleek silver devices lined the walls, each winking with small red lights. A narrow illumination strip lit only the area directly below it, revealing a solitary desk, a neatly aligned metal chair.
The rest of the room was empty. The only thing marring the perfect floor was a tiny speck of black. She bent down and examined it. A scrap of metal, dropped from some device.
Astonished, still not quite sure she was alone, Claudia gazed around. Where were the windows? There should be two— both orieled casements. You could see them from outside, and through them a white pargeted ceiling and some bookshelves. Often she'd wondered about climbing up the ivy to get in. From outside, the room had looked normal.
Not this humming, tilted box too big for its space.
She paced forward, gripping Jared's disc tightly, but it registered no warnings. Reaching the desk, she touched its smooth, featureless surface and a screen rose up silently with no visible controls. She searched, but there was nothing, so she assumed it was voiceoperated. 'Begin,' she said quietly.
Nothing happened.
'Go. Start. Commence. Initiate.'
The screen stayed blank. Only the room hummed.
There must be a password. She leaned down, placed both hands on the desk. There was only one word she could think of, so she said it.
'Incarceron.'
No image. But under the fingers of her left hand a drawer rolled smoothly open.
Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay a single key. It was intricate, a spun web of crystal.
Embedded in the heart of it was a crowned eagle; the royal insignia of the Havaarna
Dynasty. Bending closer, she looked at its sharp facets that glittered so brilliantly. Was it diamond? Glass? Drawn by its heavy beauty she bent so close her breath misted on its frostiness, her shadow blocking the overhead light so that the rainbow glints went out.
Might it be the key to Incarceron itself? She wanted to lift it. But first she ran Jared's disc cautiously over its
