claim was especially disturbing because it was true. Four years had passed since the accession, and except for the deposed Tar Benesh, no one had protested before (though Svir suspected that the highest members of the bureaucracy guessed the truth). Then the rumors blossomed into armed insurrection. Marget’s shock troops had departed just ten days ago. The returning fastboat would bring news of the battle as well as the astronomical reports that Svir was interested in.
A half-hour passed. The fastboat appeared in the rain-grayed distance. The bay was comparatively windless, and the boat’s crew was rowing it slowly toward the pier.
Svir shook his sleeves, hoping to free the sticky linen from his skin. He had had about enough of feeling like a drowned rat. He squinted, trying to get a clearer view of the fastboat. Its boom masts were in the vertical position and its sails were reefed, but there was something strange about it, nevertheless. Then he realized that the boat’s port side had only three masts while the starboard had four. He could see the stub of the amputated boom still hanging in the extended position. The boat listed slightly to port.
He pointed to the boat. “Admiral, that boat’s been shot up.”
The old woman stared for a few seconds. Then she glanced back at the astronomer royal, noticed the crown on Svir’s sleeve. “So it has.” Apparently the admiral reserved “sir” and “m’lord” for her real superiors: civil service people. She turned and walked quickly away, toward the end of the pier. Svir followed.
There were two large holes in the fastboats hull, barely above the water line. A suspicious brown stain covered portions of the foredeck. The Guardsmen made way for Svir as he walked to the edge of the pier. Now he was only a yard from the little craft. A sickly smell came from below-decks. He looked at the sailors.
They were busy making the boat secure. They moved quickly, efficiently, but their faces were strained and their eyes fixed.
Finally the main hatch opened and the commanding officer appeared on deck. His uniform was as sharp as fatigues ever are, but his arm was in a sling and the left side of his face was a smear of medicant and blood. Following close behind him came a sailor carrying the strongbox that was the fastboat’s cargo: the reports from upcoast, from the war zone.
Svir felt a bit nauseated. He knelt to give the wounded man a hand up. The fellow saw the gray band on his sleeve, came to attention, and saluted.
“Lieutenant Mori reports return Fastboat One Nineteen, m’lord,” he recited.
“Gods, man, what happened?” Behind him, Svir felt the admiral trying to maneuver him away from the edge of the pier. High minister or not, Svir’s question was a substantial breach of protocol—if not security. But the wounded Lieutenant Mori was too exhausted to notice much beyond the rank on Svir’s sleeve.
“The Rebels have artillery, sir. I don’t know how. They wiped out our main force in half a day. My recon group followed the Rebels into the Doomsday area. They fought the Loyalists at Kotta-svo-Picchiu. The city was razed. We left then. Apparently they saw us. Overtook us in one of our own fastboats.”
The admiral gasped, and Svir could imagine her surprise.
But the admiral was shocked by the wrong thing. Kotta-svo-Picchiu had housed the second-largest telescope in the world. The insolent Doomsdaymen often insisted that the queen use the Kotta Eye for her projects, rather than the High Eye at the top of Heavensgate Mountain. Marget was not going to be happy about this turn of events.
Fourteen
Svir leaned forward, delighted by the feel of a dry shirt sliding across his back. Thank goodness these ministerial conferences were held in a dryroom—at least the Bayfastlings wanted their maps and documents kept dry. The room was deep within the Crown Keep. Along the walls were racks of maps and overlays—one of Marget’s innovations. The ten top ministers of Crownesse sat at the table. All wore plain black uniforms. Sometimes Svir thought these bureaucrats were ostentatious in their worship of the utilitarian. Only once in a generation did they all wear their dress uniforms.
Tatja Grimm stood at the head of the table, a pointer in her hand. As Queen of Crownesse she was expected to dress lavishly at all times, but at cabinet meetings she could get away with a jeweled semiskirt and silk blouse, her red hair combed smoothly over her shoulders. The ruler of half the civilized world appeared to be around thirty years old. Svir knew that was due to artful makeup. In fact, she was not much past twenty, and in some ways still younger than that.
The report from upcoast had seriously disturbed her, though Svir might be the only minister who saw this. When she was truly upset, she often lost her ability to gauge the understanding of her audience; sometimes her speech became so elliptical only a mind reader could follow. Other times—as in the present case—she went to great lengths to explain the obvious. At the moment she was lecturing them about the Upcoast situation map. It showed the Continent stretching west and northward from Bay-fast. The four-thousand-mile-long Doomsday Mountain Range separated a narrow coastal strip from the Interior. That coastal strip was the breadbasket of Crownesse. Now the northernmost province, Picchiu, had revolted against the crown.
“Fortunately, Sfierro Province remained loyal to our rule, and has raised a large army to oppose the Insurrectionists. Ten days ago we sent two thousand troops to land north of the Picchiui—here.” She tapped the pointer on a spot some ten miles south of Kotta-svo-Picchiu, at the border of the Doomsday Province. “Doomsday refused to supply troops,” she grimaced, “but we hoped to trap the Insurrectionists between our well-trained troops on the north, and the Sfierranyii on the south.
“Gentlemen, we were stomped. Our so-called shock troops were decimated. If not for the ‘undisciplined’ Sfierranyii, the Insurrectionists would have it all now. Instead, the Loyalists chased the Rebels north, to the Picchiu River. In the most recent battle we know of, Kotta-svo-Picchiu was destroyed. We are now fighting a war on the very borders of Doomsday Province.
“In its way, this is as bad for us as if the Picchiui had been victorious. The Doomsdaymen need little excuse to declare their independence of us. Their lands are beyond the effective range of our military forces. The destruction of Kotta-svo-Picchiu—a Doomsday city, despite its name—gives them excuse. The forty-inch telescope just outside the city was destroyed.” She took a deep breath. “Gentles, you know I have my … quirks. One of them is a profound love for things astronomical. I needed that telescope. I also need the good will of the Doomsdaymen to give me access to their other telescope—the High Eye. We
Haarm Wechsler stood and moved to the head of the table. Wechsler barely topped five feet, and weighed not more than one hundred pounds. But as Minister of Information, he was a man with a long lever; he controlled the most extensive espionage operations in history. He bowed spastically to Tatja. “Thank you, Marget. I’ve reviewed the reports Lieutenant Mori brought from my agents Upcoast. They mosaic an interesting picture. All we’ve known till now is that the Picchiul Assembly simply passed a resolution declaring that Your Majesty—your pardon—achieved power through fraud. This was so obviously ridiculous that we ignored it—until the assembly further resolved to sever its connections with what it claimed was an unlawful government here in Bayfast. Now my agents report this is all the work of one Oktar Profirio. Profirio is an elusive individual—and a preternaturally talented one. He is a member of the Provincial Assembly—an appointee, replacing a member who died last year. That appointment was on, uh, 17 Summer 936. Before that date he had no fame whatsoever.” Wechsler set his notes on the table and looked about the room impressively. “In fact, I suspect the name is an alias. Though Profirio sounds like an Upcoast name, there is no clan in Picchiu which bears it.”
Tatja interrupted. “It could indeed be an alias, Minister Wechsler. But about thirty years ago a family of poor nobles named Profirchte moved from the Tsanart Islands to Picchiu. I understand they changed their name to Profirio.”
