Tal said, “I’m not too sure of that speech myself. He was talking more clearly before.”
“No, he wasn’t,” said Spider. They looked at him, and he stood his ground. “He wasn’t. Tal’s been translating.” Adrian bent over the One again, his configuration stabilizing into Controlled Curiosity. ‘Talk to him,” he said, pointing to Tal. “Explain to him why you’re here.”
The One turned at once to Tal’s beautifully clear configuration. “I was left here by the masters to guide you in using the Crown. I see from his aura that this one in charge of you has used it recently. I wish to express my pride and admiration of his strength, but with all respect, I have doubts about the readiness of your people to handle the full sharing. I hope, I beg, that we may talk further before he uses it again.” He aimed his words straight for the heart of the configuration and watched them disappear into the target.
Tal blinked. Adrian said, “You understood that?”
Tal said slowly, “He wants you to put off using the Crown again until he’s had a chance to look things over.”
“He says the Curosa left him here to help us with this?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Well,” said Adrian, standing up straight, “I can’t say that that’s unreasonable. Especially since we hadn’t been planning on using it at all. I didn’t know you had this rapport with Redemptionist aliens, Tal.”
Tal regarded him seriously. “It’s not a talent I feel comfortable with.”
“He has some oddball talents himself, doesn’t he,” mused Adrian. “You weren’t even involved in the Crown effect. He picked you out just by knowing you’d physically touched it.”
Tal glanced warily at the One, then back to Adrian. “I have a lot to finish before Blackout, Adrian. What do you want done with him?”
“Let’s think things through before we make anything public. Put him in some rooms out of the way somewhere, give him whatever he needs. Blackout’s getting closer, it’s true—let’s face one complication at a time.”
“Good,” said Tal, with some relief.
They left Adrian’s office. Tal said, “Spider, take him to C and put him up there until I can clear some rooms.”
“Me? What are you going to be doing? You want me to walk a dangerous alien through the City by myself?”
“I’ll be cleaning up the mess you left in smuggling to Baret Station.” He said to the One, “Go with Spider here, he’ll take care of you. Tell him what you need.”
“I’ll go with Spider,” agreed the One.
“See how cooperative he is?” asked Tal.
Spider still looked put out. “It’s not my fault the smuggling operation got interrupted. I didn’t start the war.”
“Was I blaming you?”
Hartley Quince was alone in his office when he was informed of a live link-message from Baret Station.
“Accepted,” he said, “This is Officer Quince.”
“I’m the Coordinator of Refugee Determinations for Baret Station,” said the speaker on his desk link. “I was given your name by one of our clients.”
“Oh?” said Hartley.
“We’ve picked up someone claiming to be an Opal citizen. We made three planetary descents in the past week to clean out any Station personnel who might still be on-surface—or any other customers—and we evacked this one from Everun Port. He says his name is William Stockton.”
There was a pause from the speaker, then it went on: “He says you’ll pay his transport fees.”
“He does, does he?” said Hart. He could imagine the scene: Will at the port, maybe with a handful of refugees, being offered evacuation at a price. How many people took the Station up on it? He wouldn’t be surprised if Will were the only one that day.
Willie could have had a life on Baret Two. He’d have to start over, but he was bright and trained and he could always join one of the armies—the Republic’s, if he had any brains. They’d look out for their own after they won. But if he took the Station’s offer and then couldn’t pay for passage and upkeep, not to mention all the other ransom items they’d add to the bill, they certainly wouldn’t bother to return him downhill. Willie had just effectively limited his options to the Opal or death.
And his life would be personally expensive. “He does, does he?” said Hart. “Egotistical bastard.” But he was smiling.
Chapter 50
He had been he said, an unconscionable time dying;
he hoped they would excuse it.
MACAULEY, OF CHARLES II OF ENGLAND
Geoffrey Famham was dead. The old Chief Minister of Security had been lingering more or less on his deathbed these past ten years, and people had gotten into the habit of thinking he would lie there immortally, when his widow sent the notification to Bishop Kalend and the black banner was let down in front of Saint Tom’s.
Barely were the funeral rites over when Lord Muir trotted out his son Harry before Adrian, humbly suggesting his fitness for the post. Brandon Fischer preferred Virgil Au-Yeung, an admin with twenty years of experience in internal administration. He wasn’t quite noble, but they could shove him up a rank or two; nobody would object to seeing him on the lowest aristo rung. “It fits in with your policy,” he pointed out to Adrian. “Promoting people who can actually work the department, instead of figureheads.”
Adrian nodded at this, as he did at every suggestion, and on the following Sunday he called a special meeting of all ministry chiefs and their first admins in the Cavern of Audience. It had to be after service, of course, and St. Tom’s was packed that day with people who considered themselves on the cutting edge of information, craning their necks to see if Adrian was with anybody, or looking at anybody.
He wasn’t with anybody but Iolanthe, and she could hardly be the candidate. He sang “I Believe” in a good, strong, enthusiastic voice, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I believe for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows. I believe that somewhere in the darkest
