Context (70 page)

NULAPEIRON
AD 3420

That
night he dreamed he was before the traders’ tribunal. The other boys from the
Ragged School—the real thieves -had escaped; but the security mannequins held
Tom fast.

Tom still clutched the purloined
tunic which Algrin had pushed into his grasp. In a moment of sickening insight,
he realized that he was guilty by the traders’ laws, and that the punishment
was mortal.

‘My Lady
—’
He stops, unable to plead
before Lady Darinia, visiting this stratum on a whim, with only an academic
interest in such administrative matters. The Lady, unconcerned, turns to her
young daughter, seeks her opinion.

‘It should be quick. The boy
should not undergo cruel or unusual punishment.’

Until that moment, Tom has known
nothing of the nobility, save that they are lovers of paradox and wordplay,
masters and mistresses of logosophy.

Sylvana has endorsed his
execution.

“Very well,’ says the Lady
Darinia. ‘Take him to a holding—’

And that is when his words burst
forth:

‘But that’s cruel.’

The traders exclaim angrily, one
of them rising to strike down this impudent boy. But Lady Darinia stops the
tirade.

‘Explain yourself, boy.’

He knows the executioner is away,
due to return in three days’ time. They will hold him in a cell, as though
leniency were his due—saving him mental torture—until the true extent of his
punishment is revealed.

‘The wait itself is cruel and
unusual punishment,’ Tom argues desperately, half aware that he is
recapitulating classical allusions, archaic principles all logosophers must
know. ‘By your own logic, you have to pardon me.’

For a second, there is stunned
silence.

Then the traders erupt in anger—but
Lady Darinia raises a finger, and they stop.

‘He argues prettily, Mother.’
Sylvana is pale, with golden hair, as youthful as Tom himself. ‘And we need
more Palace servitors.’

Thus did Sylvana save his life.

Then
the inevitable coda:

‘An arm, perhaps?’ suggests
Sylvana.

‘Very well.’ Lady Darinia, ruler
of this realm, rises to her feet. ‘Before you deliver him’—grey gaze sweeping
over Tom—‘remove an arm.’

And, with no change in
expression: ‘Either arm will do.’

So did she change that life
forever.

In
the morning, there was still no word from Corduven; but a message from Lord Jay
A’Khelikov invited Tom to a nearby daistral house for breakfast.

And does Sylvana live nearby?

His endurance run was on a
laminar-flow pad in the study: running hard to nowhere. He drank a litre of water
beforehand, another afterwards. Then he sat at the wide quickglass desk, and
read the invitation again.

This chamber, he realized
suddenly, was similar to the study in his own palace, during his brief reign:
too similar for coincidence. And of all his former noble acquaintances, only
Lady Sylvana had visited him there.

Was the apartment’s very layout a
subtle message?

What else have I missed?

Tom sighed. He had been away from
noble life for too long.

Or not long enough.

Over
daistral, Jay quizzed Tom about his intentions.

‘The war effort is gearing up.’
Jay poked at a bowl of cold rice and sliced dodecapears. ‘And, er, tactically
trained Lords with real battle experience are not exactly plentiful.’

‘I’m not—’

But Tom’s attention was caught then
by a complex holo, like a golden net, floating above the next table.

Tac simulation.

And he noted that other diners in
the daistral house, male and female, looked lean and fit. In fact, they exuded
robust vitality in a way that suggested everyone, like himself, had already
pushed themselves through extreme physical training, despite the early hour.

‘... them hard.’ One of the young
men was pointing into the simulation. ‘And continuously.’

‘Right,’ agreed a colleague, as
she gestured for the holo to rotate. ‘Pound ‘em here and here, until they give
it up.’

A smile was hovering on Jay’s
lips. Tom looked at him, then returned his attention to the young officers’
strategy discussion.

Then he asked a quiet question
which stilled their voices and caused them to turn their lev-stools to face
him.

‘You’re targeting civilians, is
that it?’

One of the young men looked at
Jay—a flickering glance, as though seeking permission; Tom noted Jay’s minute
nod in reply—then addressed Tom directly: ‘An outmoded concept, surely. An
entire culture supports a military action, regardless of some members’
non-combatant status.’

‘So everyone in a culture is
identical in outlook, are they?’

There was a pause, then a young
woman—the one who believed that pounding the enemy was called for—spoke up.

‘Definitely not, sir. That’s why
isolation and continuous bombardment will make the general populace give up
their military leaders, and revoke allegiance to the enemy.’

‘After Flashpoint,’ one of them
said, smirking, ‘perhaps they’ll be all the more willing to engage in
revolution.’

Tom shook his head. ‘If someone—some
external power—destroys your home, uses blockades to cut off food and other
supplies, does that weaken your community spirit and allegiance to your Lord,
or does it strengthen it?’

They were silent for a moment.

Then another young officer, who
had been silently regarding the model, pointed to the heart of the glowing
network. ‘Penetration,’ he said, ‘is what we need. Feints here and here, then a
lancing strike, straight to the core.’

‘Taking out their strike
capability.’ One of his colleagues nodded. ‘Nice. And effective.’

There was a chorus of agreement.
Then, with an air of expectancy, they looked at Tom.

Across the table, Jay smiled.

‘It could work.’ Tom spoke
slowly. ‘Say that it does. What do you do next?’

‘Send in massive occupying
forces.’ It was the fellow who believed all targets were legitimate. He pointed
into the model. ‘Spread them out, keep the population under the thumb. The iron
fist, I mean.’

‘No . . .’ The young woman beside
him shook her head. ‘Give them aid. Rebuild the med centres and the schools.’
She looked at Tom for approval.

He smiled gently, and said: ‘And
if you’re dependent on an outsider for handouts—for your very existence, I mean—what
do you feel towards them? Love and gratitude?’

‘Ah.’ She understood immediately.
‘Bitter resentment, more like.’

‘Especially if the outside force,’
said her quiet colleague, ‘is a former enemy.’

‘Bloody Chaos,’ said the
belligerent one. ‘How do you ever win a war?’

Tom looked at Jay.

‘I believe,’ said Jay A’Khelikov,
‘that was Lord Corcorigan’s point.’