Modern science, as it is practiced today, consists of two primary branches. The first, designated strictly on the basis of alphabetical serendipity, is alchemy, and concerns itself with the study of the transmutation, manipulation, and understanding of substances. The second is arithmancy, and focuses on understanding and manipulating the mathematical principles which underlie, according to the famous treatise by deMorales, “alle thinges grete and smalle in this Universe, fromme Aether to Man Hymeselff.” The k’bal say, simply, that arithmancy is the language in which the song of the universe is sung. Even the mirri, who deny the science of arithmancy and instead refer to it as magic, say it is the breath of the universe, present in all things. (We exclude here the opinions of both vakari and alwar, whose discovery by the multiverse’s human inhabitants is still some time in the future by this chronicle’s timetable, and whose opinions do not fit as well with our metaphor here.) Arithmancy is, therefore (and despite its place in the alphabet), considered the first principle science, the one on which all others rest. The egg, if you will, that comes before the chicken.
Alchemists, naturally, object to that claim. Not to its objective truth, but to the prejudices and attitudes which accompany the title. Because of arithmancy’s claim on first principles, alchemy is often seen as a lesser science, concerning itself with the mere physical manifestations of a more pure arithmantic truth. Some alchemists attempt to argue—the most eloquent of whom is M. Fantome—that it is the interaction with the physical, the intersection of matter and arithmancy, that is the most important course of study, since everyone, even arithmancers, must exist in their bodies (a fact which no arithmancer will dispute). Much energy, ink, and effort has been expended on this debate, from both sides, and to no real resolution; but the debate has produced an assumption, by the layperson, that alchemy and arithmancy do not overlap in practice. This is, of course, untrue.
The one fact on which both branches of science agree, however, is that the practical applications of arithmancy and alchemy do not play well together.
It was past midmorning and creeping up to early lunch when Rory finally declared breakfast finished, and herself and Zhang ready to meet with the Regent. The patisserie up-ring had proven to be out of the specific eclair she had wanted, which entailed a further search, culminating in the most populated café in the entertainment district, nearest the public voidport and, not coincidentally, a twenty-minute walk from the administrative offices.
The cumulative effect of the delay would, by Rory’s calculation, be nearly sixty minutes, from her exit from her flat to her arrival in the Regent’s office. Enough time, surely, for Thorsdottir to find Jaed, though Thorsdottir’s escape and presumed rendezvous were not the sole reasons for Rory’s delay.
She had a plan. One, she was sure, that Messer Rupert and Grytt would have disapproved of; but they weren’t here, and that left her fewer options.
Rory’s academic interests lay predominantly with arithmancy, and Messer Rupert had encouraged this; but he had been too conscientious to neglect the other sciences. She had done her time with alchemy, both theoretical and applied (having argued, while pointing at a skinned knee, that a Princess needs some knowledge of first aid). But her most useful alchemical knowledge came from history, and the various uses to which compounds and elements had been put, particularly by arithmancers.
The Vizier had encouraged her scholarship. He had also cautioned her against practicing arithmancy while alchemically altered. He could not, therefore, be blamed if she did so anyway, using as historical precedent a catastrophic incident in which Hermet, Vizier of what had then been only the Kingdom of Thorne, had attempted to revolutionize void travel by circumventing the requirement to tesser-hex through a gate. He had attempted to do so using a particular pharmacological substance which purported to expand consciousness, and thus facilitate his ascent (or descent, depending how one views it) through the many layers of aether. No one had ever found his vessel, the station from which it had launched, or the moon around which the station had orbited; the planetary system itself, absent a gravitational feature, had never quite recovered, necessitating the exodus from—which was a finer way of saying abandonment of—the homeworld.
Rory had no intention of tesser-hexing anywhere. Nor did she have access to Hermet’s alchemical resources. She had only what she had scrounged from the Vizier’s personal medical supplies, and her academic alchemy, to approximate the effects she required. She only needed to be able to hold a defensive hex while carrying on a conversation. It was a small requirement, compared to a tesser-hex. Standard battle-hexwork. But as she was no battle-arithmancer, it would require all her wits, intellect, and concentration in equal measure, and she was short of all three. Messer Rupert had never imagined a scenario in which she would be without himself and Grytt, and thus feel compelled to rely on the weapons remaining to her, though he would have, Rory was certain, protested the word weapon as a synonym for arithmancy.
So, while sharing a table and a pair of eclairs with Zhang, Rory slipped a tiny capsule from her sleeve and swallowed it, along with a bite of eclair, taking care to do so while the Tadeshi security pretended not to watch her every move (and were not, in fact, watching at that moment). Rory was certain that if they had been watching, it would not have helped. The capsule was small, and her movements natural, and only Zhang noticed, and that was because Zhang was sitting across from her, back to the Tadeshi, stabbing unhappily at the eclair as if reducing it to crumbs and custard would approximate actually eating it. Zhang paused in her assault on the pastry when she spied the capsule. She was not Thorsdottir, who would have asked about and possibly objected to its presence. But she frowned as thunderously as her partner, and pressed her lips together in a white line that said your Highness more clearly than words.
Rory ignored both the Thorsdottir in her mind, and the Zhang across her table, and chased the pill with an unPrincesslike gulp of coffee, which had the additional effect of scalding her throat as it washed the capsule down.
“A stimulant,” Rory murmured, “for mental clarity. Messer Rupert kept it,” she added, a little defensively, when Zhang continued to stare. “It doesn’t last long.”
“Princess,” said Zhang.
It wasn’t quite a your Highness, but it wasn’t a stirring endorsement, either. Rory took greater care with the second capsule, a precise ten minutes later, dropping it into the last forkful of eclair and conveying it to her mouth that way. Custard did not require much chewing, and the capsule slipped down easily. This time, Zhang pretended not to notice.
Then Rory finished her coffee, set her fork in the middle of her plate, and pushed the plate to the center of the table.
“Finished?” she asked.
Zhang put her own fork down with obvious relief. “Yes.”
Rory nodded, then raised her hand and crooked her fingers at the Tadeshi. It was the sort of gesture reserved for social inferiors by people who forget that servants and waitstaff can, and do, spit in the soup. The three security, having no access to food or revenge, simply grimaced and stood and came over.
“We’re ready,” she said. “You may escort me to the Regent, now.”
A precise twenty minutes later, Rory, Zhang, and the Regent’s security arrived at the Regent’s office. The doors opened as they approached, which could have been courtesy and was, more probably, an indicator of how very expected (and how very late) their arrival was.
Rory set her feet on a straight line toward the doorway, commended her forward progress to balance and momentum, and closed her eyes. The first of the capsules pulsed red across the back of her eyelids, in time with her somewhat accelerated heartbeat, which was itself an effect of both capsule and coffee. Her mind felt extraordinarily sharp. Clear. Unfogged by sleep or worry. Her pressing problems—Grytt, Ivar, the Regent—receded to the edges of her awareness. There, certainly, and no less dire; but absent the chest-tightening worry, and the knot in her belly, and the tendency of her breath to catch in a throat gone tight with panic. What remained: the problems themselves, laid out like equations, spiked with variables and constants, begging solution.
The Regent figured highest among those problems. The longest equation. The most variables. The one most in need of solving.
She had perhaps four steps to go, before the doors. Rory required three of them, and Zhang’s hand on her elbow (for balance, when her left toe discovered an imperfection in the deckplate unaccounted for in her initial calculations), to shape a false aura for herself. It was an elementary arithmantic ruse, but a good one, though its effectiveness was dependent on the skill of its creator. Messer Rupert had seen to it that she was very skilled indeed, but against the level of defense she expected from the Regent, she would need to sustain the hex, and adjust it as necessary. Thus, the second capsule, which enabled her to tap a deeper level of the aether, and anchor her hex to that. She should, if she’d done it right—and the doubt, that gnawing uncertainty, was banished to the same place as the worry-knot—seem perfectly normal, perfectly unthreatening, to any local defenses in the Regent’s office. A mantis-lion, fully camouflaged. The perfect leaf.
Rory found the Regent exactly as she’d hoped: visibly annoyed, his long fingers strangling each other, a tic beating in his jaw, his eyes glacially furious. A part of her noted the intensity of his displeasure, and the corresponding tension in Zhang. She would have been nervous herself, perhaps even unsettled, forty minutes ago. She would be again, in another forty, when the capsule wore off, so it was in her best interests to move, and speak, quickly.
Rory unfurled her haughtiest smile and struck first.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, my lord Regent. You are most generous.”
The Regent noted the difference in her, and disapproved of it: that was clear enough from the shifts in his posture and the manner in which his gaze traveled over her face and figure.
“Princess. How very kind of you to come. I had hoped to see you earlier. Perhaps my men did not explain the urgency of my request.”
where is your damned body-maid
Rory kept her smile firmly in place. “Your request? I’m sorry, Regent. I don’t understand. I asked to see you.”
His nostrils pinched, then flared. “Well.
the hell you did
You’re here now. Please. Sit.”
There was exactly one available chair in the room, not particularly well-padded or comfortable in appearance, turned precisely square and centered in front of the Regent’s desk. The other chairs had been drawn back to the room’s perimeter, making the office look a little bit like an interrogation chamber. The arrangement was intended to make Rory feel like a recalcitrant child or a frightened detainee. She considered, for an alchemically accelerated heartbeat, playing to the Regent’s expectations; but that was not the kind of leaf she was, today.
“Thank you,” she said, and took her time arranging herself in the chair. She dragged it a half meter back from the desk, and off-center, and tilted it forty-five degrees to the plane of the desk. She sat, and crossed her right knee over her left, and folded her hands neatly around it.
“My lord Regent, I came to ask you about Prince Ivar.”
“Prince Ivar.” The Regent, for one blank moment, stared at her. Then he recovered, clearing his throat and glancing at his turing. Looking for an aura report, Rory guessed. From his expression, she guessed her hex was working; or at least, the Regent did not blurt liar at her.
“Yes, my lord.” Rory frowned. “I received a message from him. A very strange message.”
The Regent sat up straight, as if someone had poked him unexpectedly with a pin. “You. Received a message.”
“I did. Last night. Midway through third shift.” Rory paused. Her heart kicked at the confines of her ribs and chest. She willed it to calm down, and took slow breaths to drive the point home. An unexpected side effect of the alchemical enhancements, perhaps, which would be tolerable so long as the capsules worked.
The Regent interpreted her momentary silence for hesitation. His lip curled. It was, Rory thought, supposed to be a reassuring smile. It failed rather spectacularly.
“Are you certain it was from Prince Ivar? I ask, Princess, because the Prince is currently on Beo—as you know—and his opportunities for communications with Urse are limited by his duties there. There is also the matter of the electromagnetic storms, which render ordinary messages quite impossible.”
“I am aware.” Rory permitted her own imposter smile to appear. It had teeth, and a half-life just long enough to ensure the Regent noticed it. “But that’s the curious thing, my lord. The message did not originate on Beo. It came from Urse.”
“That’s simply not possible. I’m afraid someone must be playing a prank on you, Princess. May I, ah, inquire about the contents of the message?”
Rory shook her head, feigning embarrassment.
“You mean, was it a love letter? No, my lord. That’s why I’m here. It was . . .” She winced, and not entirely for dramatic purposes. Her heartbeat had given up its kicking, and had begun galloping in earnest, leaving precious little space in her chest for her lungs. Her skull had evidently shrunk two sizes as well. “Disturbing. The letter said that he wished to dissolve our engagement. That he was being forced into the marriage, and did not desire it, and wished my collusion in finding a solution to our, oh, how did he say it, mutual problem.”
The Regent shook his head. He offered a thin, tepid smile. “That does not sound like Prince Ivar. It’s likely a prank, Princess. A poor joke.”
damn you Jaed
The fairy gift had not caught Rory entirely off guard since her adolescence. She had almost forgotten the sensation, which had inspired many unfortunate incidents before she had learned to control her reaction. Even so, the sensation was so unexpected, here and now, that she was grateful for the sturdiness of the chair. She had expected the Regent to be unsettled, even alarmed by her mendacity. She had not expected him to believe in its feasibility, and she had not, would not ever, have predicted that he would blame Jaed so easily and automatically. It was as if he’d expected Jaed to send such a letter, which was absurd, unless—
Her brain pushed against the confines of her shrinking skull. She pressed her fingers hard into each other, grounding her focus in that discomfort, and stared at her bloodless fingertips.
“A prank played by whom, my lord? And for what purpose?”
The Regent heaved up a sigh that was entirely sincere in its exasperation. “A romantic fool,
Jaed
who, having seen the public spectacle you and my son have been making with each other, wishes to see it made real.”
“But to work to dissolve our engagement would be treason, my lord.”
“Indeed, your Highness. Highest treason.”
Rory had rehearsed the expression of offended innocence a dozen times, and it still felt odd from the inside. “Jaed and I are not laboring under any illusions, my lord. I assure you. Our liaison is honorable.”
“And yet, Princess, you
know very well
can see how the behavior might look to
my stupid son
individuals who are not aware of the intricacies of diplomacy.” The Regent tried on a smile two sizes too small. His teeth winked through the thin stretch of his lips like bone in deep cut. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, your Highness. If you could forward the message to me, I will have my security ascertain who sent it, and
might be too soon to arrest him
deal with him accordingly.”
Rory nodded, and knowing she failed to conceal her distress, hoped the Regent misinterpreted its cause. She wanted to leave now, retreat to her apartment, and consider this new knowledge. She needed to see Jaed, and talk to him, and determine his culpability.
Then she recalled that any discussion of the Regent or Jaed would take place only among her, Zhang, and Thorsdottir, which reminded her what the true purpose of her visit was. Baiting the Regent had been the excuse, and it had yielded more information than she’d anticipated, but that couldn’t distract her.
Rory remembered to breathe, and did so. Her skin felt hot. All of it, except the palms of her hands, which felt like half-melted ice. She turned the palms flat on her trousers and rubbed them surreptitiously.
“But that brings me to the second reason for my visit. I would like to see the Vizier. It has been several weeks, my lord. I have received no official advisement of his arrest, or his prosecution, or an order for deportation. So unless you are counting him a prisoner of war—which would be curious, since the Free Worlds and the Consortium are at peace, and my presence here is proof of that—I have a right to see him, my lord Regent. I am his sovereign representative.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
he’s missing
Well. That was interesting. Rory made her eyes wide as eggs. She suspected the expression fooled no one, exaggerated as it was; but the fog on the borders of her vision was drawing closer and more insistent, and she needed all the light she could get. “I must insist, my lord.”
“I’ve explained my position. The man is suspected of crimes against the Free Worlds of Tadesh.”
“You have, my lord. But now I’ve explained my position, so perhaps we can negotiate.”
A smile flickered across Moss’s lips like oil over water.
the hell
“I would be happy to
marry you off sooner than later
consider your request, Princess, except I fear there may be greater violations of treaty to consider.”
“My lord?”
“Your body-maid. Grytt.”
She let herself hesitate. Her false aura should, at this point, be turning an anemic shade of puce.
The Regent steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. It was a credible imitation of thoughtful consideration, laced with pity. “I feel I should remind you, Princess, that you are responsible for your staff. No, wait, let me finish. I also understand how one might be deceived by individuals in whom one places one’s trust. There is a great difference between a failure in judgment—and the treason of a close associate—and a deliberate act of sabotage. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, my lord. Though I do not understand your implication.”
“I don’t believe that is true. Your loyalty to your people is commendable, but I must insist, for the security of Urse, on an honest answer to this question. Do you know where your body-maid is, at present?”
“No, my lord.” Rory shifted in her chair, taking the position the Regent had first intended for her: hands white on the arms, knees together, exposed as both supplicant and accused. “She’s been missing since last night. I fear something has happened.”
The Regent spent a long, deliberate moment staring at his turing. The lines around his eyes deepened. Whatever he saw there, it did not please him.
“Something has,” he said. “It pains me to be the one to tell you, Princess, but I believe your body-maid is part of a conspiracy to rekindle the war between our people.”
“Impossible,” said Rory, too loudly. She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake. We have
nothing
extensive video records. Grytt attempted to
abscond with my prisoner
steal a shuttle during third shift. When confronted, she responded with violence. She
killed three of my men
did not survive.”
Rory put both hands over her mouth. She hoped the portion of her face which remained visible approximated shock and horror sufficiently. She did not quite trust her lips, which were not sure if they should smile—Grytt had rescued Messer Rupert—or scowl—why hadn’t Grytt told her she was mounting a rescue?—or smirk—because the Regent had lost that battle entirely.
Then she remembered that he was lying to her and attempting to provoke a reaction, and that she needed to produce an appropriate response. She bit her disobedient lip, and made fists and pressed her knuckles against her cheeks.
“Are you telling me that Grytt is dead?”
“I
wish
am. You understand,” the Regent added with poisonous gentleness, “why I am reluctant to return the Vizier to you, or to permit a conversation. I believe you are a victim, Princess, of terrible advisors. It is only fortunate that you don’t know anything about their machinations, or suspicion would fall upon you. And that really would jeopardize
your usefulness to me
the treaty between the Free Worlds and the Consortium.”
The fairy gift did not include audio accompaniment, but the flavor and tenor of its report suggested diabolical laughter.
Rory forgot, for a moment, just how awful she felt. She forgot she was sitting in a chair, unarmed, in front of a man who had murdered his King, his Queen, and very probably his Prince, and that any action she took against him would be both ineffective and counterproductive. She very nearly forgot to be a leaf.
“Princess?” The Regent leaned forward. His brow creased in a new pattern. “Are you all right? You’re flushed.”
Which was when she realized that the first of her alchemical advantages had expired, which meant the second would fail soon, too. Without her hex, her aura would be visible to him, and while reading an aura would not reveal the same level of detail as her fairy gift—she knew, having compared their effects with great rigor—it would reveal clues about her emotional state. She needed to terminate the interview, and quickly.
An ideal leaf would, at this point, burst into tears while protesting her innocence. Rory feared she would choke if she tried to speak. Instead she covered her face completely, and let her shoulders round. She sniffled loudly, amplified by her palms, and scrubbed her hands hard across her cheeks. And she was entirely surprised when she lifted her face out of her hands and found her palms smeared with blood.
Nosebleeds are a common side-effect of arithmancy taken too far. Messer Rupert had warned her of that, by example. Rory considered, for a horrified heartbeat, whether or not the Regent would know that, too, or whether she should attempt to conceal the seepage. Foolishness, she realized a moment later. The Regent could not help but notice. He would draw whatever conclusions he drew. At the moment, she had the element of surprise and a desire to end the interview. Time to end her leafiness, and become the mantis-lion—running away from a bird, rather than devouring a beetle, but still.
She shoved her chair back, tipping it in the process, and lurched to her feet, spilling a little of herself in the process.
“My lord,” she said. “Please excuse me.”
“Princess?” The Regent looked sincerely surprised. He began to reach for her, registered what was happening, and leaned back as far as his own chair would permit. His face drained of the very substance dripping onto his carpet.
“It’s nothing,” she said, sniffling past her fingers. “Station air is very dry. If you could direct me to a water closet, however—”
“Of course, yes, out there.” He stabbed a finger at the doorway.
Zhang was already beside her, hand under Rory’s elbow. She knew about Rory’s breakfast supplements.
“Your Highness,” she said, and took a bruising grip. She steered Rory out of the office and promptly turned toward the main foyer, exactly away from the water-closet.
Rory guessed their destination, and decided to give the order anyway.
“Thorne embassy,” Rory whispered to Zhang. “Now.”
“Yes.” Zhang propelled her forward at a pace which suggested she expected pursuit.
So did Rory. She had startled the Regent, perhaps even frightened him, but he would recover. A man did not achieve his position otherwise. But she had learned that he did not adjust rapidly to surprises. He was a planner, a schemer, she’d known that; but he was not, as Grytt would have said, worth beans in the field.
That had to be useful. Somehow.
Rory let a breath go when they cleared the municipal complex’s doors with only shocked stares from the security, though two of them reached for their comms. This was an advantage of the Regent’s control; no one acted on his own initiative, and asking for orders took time.
The fifty meters across the plaza between the Tadeshi municipal complex and the Thorne embassy were the longest of Rory’s life. She did not dare run. She walked briskly, pinching her nostrils together, thankful for the practical properties of her garments, into whose black fibers all manner of stains could be lost. She was less thankful for the stares and attention. They probably think someone hit me, she thought. And then: Wait. That could be useful.
Rory let her hand drop a little further. Made a point of looking around, making eye contact with as many faces as possible. There were usually media personnel loitering in the vicinity, waiting for a story. Bleeding Thorne Princess Flees Tadeshi Municipal Offices sounded promising.
The security at the Thorne Embassy were not the caliber of the royal guards, but they were Consortium military, and disinclined to let their Princess linger in apparent distress, whatever their orders to remain at their posts. A handful came out and met Rory and Zhang a little less than halfway across the plaza. They formed a breathing barrier around the Princess, though none quite dared Zhang’s white-knuckled familiarity.
“Are you all right, Princess?” asked the duty sergeant.
“Yes, thank you,” said Rory. “It’s just a nosebleed. You know. Dry station air.”
“Of course,” said the sergeant. She looked dubious.
“No one struck her.” Zhang’s voice rivaled the deckplate for cool, hard, and flat. “But the Regent may pursue. Let’s get the Princess inside.”
They did, rapidly, sweeping Rory through the embassy doors past a growing throng of the curious.
“No one appears to be following,” the sergeant said.
“No,” said Rory. “And I don’t think anyone will.” Rory accepted a damp cloth from one of the secretaries and blotted her face carefully. “Thank you. The Regent believed me. He thinks I’m a victim. And he doesn’t know that we know about, ah.” Rory registered her audience, at that moment, and amended herself. “What we know about. It’s all right. Return to your posts. I’ll be in my office. Zhang?”
“Princess.”
“You can let go, now.”
“Yes, Princess.”
“Have you gotten any messages from Thorsdottir?”
“No, Princess.”
“All right. That’s probably a good sign. Let her know to come here. We’ll be waiting.”