Tatja Grimm's World

The barge had reached its pier space and was so firmly tied in that it was difficult to tell where barge ended and pier began. Seraph cast a bright, cheerful twilight across Bayfast. The clashing colors of the city were transformed into pastels. Here and there those pastels were highlighted by yellow and green sparkles where people had uncovered their evening lamps. This shimmery, glowing pattern stretched up to the edge of the seaward cliffs and around the bay to the inland cliffs, which cut off the Monsoonal Drag and made Bayfast a placid spot even at this time of year.

Svir left the barge and walked along the waterfront. The Festival of the Ostentatious Consumption was not due to begin for another six hours, but the citizens of Bayfast were already competing for the best sites along the waterfront from which to watch the events on Sacrifice Island. Svir knew he looked strange walking so dourly among the happy people. His severe costume contrasted sharply with the plaids and monocremes of the Bayfastlings. But he had his special reason for not wearing the costume Tatja had suggested.

The people of Crownesse were happy, confident, and nationalistic. Their ancestors were mainly from the Chainpearls. The hardships of The Continent had forced a dynamism on them. Their bureaucracy was talented, flexible, and—above all—devoted to the crown. In the centuries since they declared their independence from the sea, their culture had spread far: from Sfierro and Picchiu—the old Llerenito colonies in the north—all the way around the coast to the southern tip of the Continent. For the most part (and as such things go), the crown’s rule had been a beneficial thing. That changed abruptly twenty-five years ago, when the implacable Tar Benesh appeared in the King’s Court. The king had died and Tar Benesh had become the regent. Shortly after, the king’s children had disappeared in a sea wreck.

Since that time, Tar Benesh’s rule had been a study in expanding tyranny. He had, with the faithful help of the bureaucracy, transformed the open spirit of the Bayfastlings into an aggressive barbarism which could embrace things like the Ostentatious Consumption, and which would enslave the world rather than lead it.

Svir was walking east, toward the keep. That enormous polyhedron loomed black over the warehouse roofs. Even the ingenious Bayfastlings had needed seventy years to build this ultimate protection for the crown. Nothing short of a year-long artillery bombardment could breach that artificial mountain—and the keep had artillery of its own.

Svir stopped before he reached the plaza that surrounded the keep. He slipped into the entryway of a closed shop and covertly inspected the castle port. Once more the horrible fear rose in him, making every movement slow and clumsy. He was going to die. The whole plan was so complicated, and depended so heavily on Ancho and the tenuous information Tatja had about the keep’s design. But he knew he wasn’t going to back out. Tatja had discovered a motive strong enough to make him take the risk. It had worked with Cor and now it was working with him.

A figure dressed in the uniform of a guard captain walked across the plaza toward the port. That was the signal to begin. The “captain” was a Tarulle agent whose job it was to tip the guardsmen at the door to look sharp because the crown’s inspector general was expected momentarily. In truth, Inspector General Stark was supposed to visit the keep at this time, but he had been detained by other Tarulle agents. In any case, the guardsmen at the door were prepared to assume that the next authority figure they saw was the inspector general.

Svir fumbled open the suitcase and lifted out Ancho. The animal responded nervously to his obvious anxiety. Svir tried to reassure him. As per instructions, he depressed the tiny button on the box strapped to Ancho’s back. The contraption immediately began making a click-clock-click sound.

What if the device were a bomb hooked up to a clock, timed to explode after they were in the keep? For a moment, he considered ripping the machine off Ancho’s back. But there were limits to paranoia, even when it involved Tatja Grimm. Since his survival was necessary for the salvation of the Fantasie collection, the device probably had some beneficial purpose.

He stood up, put the dorfox on his shoulder, and petted him. The animal began radiating immediately. His first target was a middle-aged merchant—one of the few people who were not yet at the waterfront. As the man passed Svir and Ancho, his eyes widened and he performed the nodding bow reserved for members of the bureaucracy. Svir smiled and walked onto the open area before the Keep. In some peculiar way, when Ancho used the effect on others, it made Svir feel confident, competent. And this feeling of authority actually seemed to feed back to the animal, making him perform even more effectively. Svir strolled briskly across the plaza.

The two guardsmen came to rigid attention as he approached. One of them saluted. Svir offhandedly returned the gesture. He passed his credentials to the guardsman. At the same time he spoke the ritual words. “The crown’s agent to inventory the prizes.”

The senior guardsman looked up from the papers. “Very good, sir.” Both men wore ridiculously ornamented dress uniforms, but there was nothing ornamental about their weapons. In a single glance, the guardsman gave Svir a thorough once-over. His alert and active mind checked for the minor details that would give an impostor away. Unfortunately for the guardsman, his own mind made him see the details he was looking for. If questioned later, both guards would swear they saw the crown’s inspector general enter the building, not Svir Hedrigs.

The fellow returned Svir’s papers to him and turned to a speaking tube that protruded from the black stone of the castle wall. Except for the words “Inspector General,” Svir couldn’t hear what was said. But that was enough. He had passed the second hurdle. At each checkpoint, the word would be passed back as to who he was supposed to be. With a greased sliding sound, a thirty-ton cube of stone lifted into the ceiling of the entrance. Beyond was darkness.

Svir walked in, striving not to look up at the mass of stone above him—or back at the city which would soon be blocked from his view. The stone cube slid down smoothly. He stood in the dark for almost five seconds. Ancho chirped nervously, and the device on his back continued its click-clock-click. He rubbed Ancho’s neck, and the little dorfox began radiating again. None too soon. A second block of stone was lifting. Algae-generated light flooded the chamber. He stepped into the hallway revealed and handed his papers to the guardsman standing there. Two were right by the entrance, while a third stood on a crenelated balcony. All three wore unadorned uniforms of bureaucratic black. They weren’t nearly as formal as the fellows outside, but they seemed just as competent. Svir’s identity was passed by speaking tube to the next checkpoint.

He walked on. The hall was well lighted and ventilated—even though it was within a mass of stone four hundred feet high. In some places the stonework was covered by wood paneling and cabinets filled with the arms of early kings. He passed through three more checkpoints, each of a different design. Whenever he had a choice of routes, he took the middle one—he was following a radius straight to the center of the keep, to the crown room vault.

Some of the outer passages were almost crowded. Bureaucrats were making final arrangements for the evening. Svir walked aloof from these, and hoped that none of them compared notes on exactly who they thought he was. As he approached the center, however, there were fewer and fewer people. Besides the guards, he encountered only an occasional very high-ranking bureaucrat.

Here the identification procedures became more complex. The walls were always paneled and the floors heavily carpeted. Svir wondered at this strange luxury in the most secret part of the keep. Besides the usual paintings and displays, there were small glass windows at regular intervals. Beyond that glass, Svir could see only darkness. Probably there was someone back there watching, guarding the guards. Svir was suddenly very glad that Tatja had had Ancho practice at deluding hidden observers. Now he knew the reason for the luxurious trappings. Besides hiding the observation posts, they probably concealed a variety of weapons and deadfalls.

Finally he reached the last checkpoint: the doorway to the crown room itself. It was conceivable that at this moment only the inspector general and Tar Benesh himself had authority to enter this storeroom of the nation’s greatest treasures and most secret documents. Here the clearance process was especially difficult. For a few uncomfortable moments, Svir thought they were going to take his fingerprints and run a comparison right there. Would the illusion extend to fingerprints? But apparently that procedure was used in special cases only, and Svir was not subjected to it.

As they opened the outer vault door, he casually turned to the officer in charge. “Captain, I have instructions to move some of the prizes out to Sacrifice Island right away. I’d like to have a couple of squads ready when I finish the general inventory.”

“Very good, sir,” she answered. “We have about twenty people with the proper clearance for that job. I can have them here in fifteen minutes.” She handed Svir an algae lamp. “Don’t forget this, sir.”

“Uh, thanks.” He accepted the lamp uncertainly. “If everything’s in order, my inventory shouldn’t take that