century there have been a number of basic scientific discoveries. The pharmacists of the Sutherseas have developed drugs which control most of the major diseases. A physicist in the Osterlai Archipelagate invented that picturemaker we use. All over the world, revolutionary advances are being made. Rey Guille was right, you know: Organizations like Tarulle are responsible for this. For centuries they spread ideas from island to island until finally scientists stopped thinking of them as fantasy and actually invented what writers described. I’m making a gift of that
“How magnanimous.”
Tatja ignored him. “These inventions and techniques are going to have effects far beyond what is obvious— just think what that picturemaker will do for parallax astronomy. If they all were brought together and worked over intensively, the changes would be even more spectacular. But you people on the islands are too lazy to do that. The people of Crownesse are not. They’ve had to work awfully hard just to stay alive here on the Continent. They will take your inventions and use them and develop more inventions, until they control the entire planet.”
She looked up into the sky, at Seraph and the bright star Prok. “I’ve had five years on the Tarulle Barge, enough time to sail the world, enough time to guess what this place really is. Myth and standard archeology agree that we originated somewhere deep in The Continent, that man moved to the islands recently—just before the rise of civilization. What else could explain the absence of prehistorical remains on the Islands? But every year the biologists and the explorers come closer to the true answer. That truth would be known around the world if I published all the stories I am getting at
“Do you understand me? This is a world of shipwreck, where people lost their memories and their minds.” Her arm brushed at the sky. “And Seraph is too near; any fool can see that. Out there must be empires so vast they can ‘lose’ whole planetary systems.” Tatja’s voice changed, lost its authority and its spite. She turned to look at Svir and Cor; her eyes were soft. For a moment she wasn’t the master of all events, but a young girl, very much alone. “You call me megalomaniac. That is to laugh. What is worth having here? Ruling this world does not interest me, except for one thing: I’ve never found anyone I can talk to, anyone who can understand the things I often want to say.”
Svir suddenly understood the meaning of her scornful smiles: hopeless envy.
“And that is why I am going to turn this world upside down, and make of it a fire so
The fallen goddess turned from the parapet and the gay crowds. She didn’t look up as she walked away.
Part 3
THE FERAL CHILD
Thirteen
The astronomer royal was all wet. At Bayfast the Waterfall lasted more than forty days: nearly a fifth of the year. For the last thirty-eight days and nights it had rained without pause. The city’s troughed streets were filled with swift-moving water. Behind all sounds was the rumbly hum of myriad droplets striking stone and wood and water. After four years, the astronomer royal was still not accustomed to the monsoon climate of the Continent. At the back of his mind was the irrational thought that when the rain stopped, Seraph might be washed from the sky.
Svir Hedrigs considered returning to his carriage. It wasn’t worth it; he was already too wet. By the Bayfast logic, if the rain is warm—why stay dry? With a mixture of irritation and envy, he watched the guardsmen on the pier. They appeared to enjoy being wet to the skin. They wore their black uniforms with a cockiness that said being soaked was the height of fashion.
His carriage was parked on the roadway at the root of the pier. Beyond the roadway were the naval warehouses, constructed of marble bricks and rock paste. The quarries on the inland cliffs seemed inexhaustible, and the Crown’s Men had used them to build one of the most beautiful warehouse districts in the world. Architects claimed that this part of the port could survive artillery attack and was absolutely nonflammable. Svir wasn’t so sure about the first claim, but he was certain that during the Waterfall no fire would start outside the warehouses. The pier had an inch of water on it even though it was more than ten feet above the bay.
Perhaps he should have stayed in the dryrooms of the keep. But as astronomer royal, he felt this was a job which could not be delegated. The fastboat they expected was to bring the latest reports from the Doomsday observatory, four thousand miles upcoast and more than twenty-nine thousand feet above sea level—above the monsoonal precipitation. During the Waterfall, the Doomsdaymen were the most important source of astronomical information the crown possessed. Svir’s job was to arrange such reports for Marget’s consideration. And since Marget really needed no help in the interpretation of astronomical data, the astronomer royal frequently felt superfluous. So it did his ego good to come down to the most restricted area in the naval district and welcome a fastboat that was—incidentally—from a war zone.
In fact, thought Svir as he glanced around, he was the highest-ranking officer in the area. The only other first-level officer was a vice-admiral from naval intelligence. The broad band on Svir’s sleeve identified him as a high minister. He generally tried to conceal the tiny crown above that. The crown indicated he was an appointee rather than a member of the civil service.
The astronomer royal squished unhappily across the pier, toward the admiral. The navy woman saluted. “Good day, m’lord.” Svir suppressed some sarcasm as he noticed there was no humor in the admiral’s blue eyes. “I was told the fastboat would arrive by twenty-five hours.”
“That’s right, sir. But unless the wind is steady, the hydrofoils are useless and the boat is as slow as any other.”
Svir didn’t point out that, except during the Turnabouts, the Monsoonal Drag always blew right for high- speed travel along the coast. The admiral seemed worried enough. Svir casually covered the crown on his left sleeve with his right hand. Four years ago, who would have guessed that one day the most powerful people in the most powerful country in the world would address him as their superior? Even more fantastic, who would have guessed that he would be married to someone as wonderful as Coronadas Ascuasenya? Ever since that night in Krirsarque, his life had been like the story of the Little Sailmaker: success piled upon fantastic success.
But he did not delude himself. He was riding the bow wave of the most spectacular success story in the history of the human race: the career of Tatja Grimm, aka Marget of Sandros, Queen of Crownesse. Tatja’s rise to power had been miraculous, and her progress since even more so. Many of her projects seemed pointless, extravagant, half-witted. But a half-wit she was not. For every person who despised her, there were now three who worshiped her. And that ratio was improving. Her fastboat program had seemed ridiculous. Who wants to know what’s happening on the other side of the world within twenty days of the event? But that program had already repaid itself five times over. With a comparatively instantaneous picture of the world’s markets, Crownesse merchants came close to their wildest dreams of avarice. Such success gave people an excuse to overlook her other projects. As far as Svir knew, there were only two people besides Tatja who knew her ultimate purpose—and he was one of those two. He often thought his present post was pay for his silence. Marget was merciful.
Svir glanced at the admiral, and wondered what her explanation of the Marget Mystery might be. The officer was staring across the bay at the inland cliffs. On the ridge line stood the signaling mosaic that relayed messages from the seaward cliffs: the Somnai. Through the rain, Svir could barely see the shifting patterns on the mosaic. “That’s it, sir!” the admiral said. “The Somnai batteries have spotted the fastboat… It’s entering the bay right now.” Her relief was plain. The expedition sent to put down the Picchiu rebellion had been lightly equipped. It had been Marget’s idea to use fastboats to transport two thousand troops for a surprise pincer attack in cooperation with the Loyalists. This insurrection was the only blot on the queen’s record. Forty days earlier, fastboats from the north reported rumors claiming Marget was an impostor and that her accession had been accomplished by fraud. This
