Paradox (25 page)

“A subversive notion.” Tom hitched an eyebrow. “Personality formed by environment.”

“Ah, Tom! Always looking for debate. Don't you ever just relax and enjoy yourself?”

Below, three servitors were setting out a silver picnic table by the lev-car. One was oriental in appearance, and Tom realized suddenly that it was Tat, one of his former dorm-mates.

“Truthfully, my Lady?” Tom turned his regard on Sylvana. “I've never had much time for that.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I don't suppose you have.”

She placed her hand on top of his, for balance, as they descended the slope together.

After they were finished, one of the servitors fetched a message crystal for Sylvana. She excused herself and went inside her lev-car, while Tom remained seated.

It was Tat who came over to clear the dishes. His face remained servitor-impassive as he worked.

“Thank you, Tat,” Tom said quietly.

A chill worked its way along his spine. For the first time, Tom realized how wide the chasm was between his present circumstances and his former life.

Not once during the meal had Sylvana's glance so much as flickered at the servitors' hands as they laid platters, poured sauce, served drinks, took away dishes.

“A summons from Mother.” Sylvana returned, looking thoughtful. “By courier to Lord Shinkenar, then femtopulse to your message centre.”

Her complexion was flawless. Her pale-blue eyes were perfect. Soft, pink lips, wide mouth. Artfully arranged blond hair.

Tom forced himself to speak normally. “She wants you back home.”

“Yes…But I don't think it's serious.” Her smile was forced, but the worried frown which hid behind it caught Tom's heart. “I'm glad I got the chance to visit, Tom.”

“So am I.”

He stood as she prepared to go back inside her lev-car.

“Come and see us. Mother would like to see you, too.”

“I will, my Lady.”

Sylvana gracefully climbed aboard, while Tom could only watch, entranced.

Two servitors carried the dishes aboard. Tat, gesturing, caused table and chairs to collapse and fold themselves into a knotlike bundle.

“Thanks, old friend.” Tom's voice was almost a whisper.

Tat stopped dead, eyes down, then gave the tiniest of nods before picking up the folded furniture and carrying it into the waiting vehicle.

From a colonnade, with a long cape wrapped around himself, Tom watched as Sylvana's sapphire-and-gold lev-car slid out of his realm and was gone.

Then he went back into the heart of his palace, shadowed by his own silent servitors.

“What's your ambition, Felgrinar?” Tom asked his chef-steward. “What's the one thing you'd really like to achieve?”

“Sir?” Felgrinar put down the infotablet he had fetched.

“Isn't there anything you really want to do?” Tom leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the glass conference table, and crossed his ankles.

“Nothing, sir, beyond serving”—his face was a stone mask—“to the best of my ability.”

Only a former servitor could have sensed the full depths of Felgrinar's disapproval. Did he and the other senior servitors resent their transfer from Shinkenar Palace?

“That will be all, Felgrinar.”

The Chef-Steward bowed his way out of Tom's conference chamber.

“Damn.” Tom stared, unfocused, at the smartnacre walls. “Damn it all!” He slid his feet from the tabletop. “Access the tablet,” he directed the room's system. “Show me everyone in the palace. Start with alpha-class.”

Tricons were arrayed above the glass table.

“Now that one looks familiar.”

Chuckling, he pointed, and the tricon unfurled.

“My Lord?” A familiar voice from the archway: Tom had already dissolved the membrane.

“Jak!” Tom stood up, and restrained himself from rushing around the table to greet him. “Thank Fate you're here!”

“Anything I can do…”

“Sit.” Tom pointed to a chair across from him, then seated himself, knowing that Jak could not sit down first. “You're here because of sloppy wording.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I asked for a list of all alpha servitors within the palace bounds.” Tom indicated the triconic lattice. “Not just those whose allegiance is to me.”

“I've been negotiating with your warehouse steward,” Jak said stiffly. “Importing procblocks is—”

“Don't worry.” Tom held up his hand. “I'm sure that's all fine.”

“Thank you.”

Tom waited for Jak to say more, then realized he would not.

“I don't suppose you could call me Tom?” He stared at Jak's impassive face. “Ah, well. You've called me worse things—”

A smile twitched on Jak's face.

“—but perhaps you'd better not.”

“What can I do for you”—Jak paused, just long enough—“my Lord?”

“Where do I start?” Tom sighed, and nodded at the tricons. “I've got thirty-four servitors and servitrices to interview, and that's just alpha-cl—”

“Begging your pardon, my Lord…”

“Any time, Jak. Say what's on your mind.”

“You're going to interview them personally? The palace staff?”

“Well, yes.” Tom frowned. “How else can I get to know them?”

Jak said nothing: but that was eloquence in itself.

“By Chaos, Jak!” Tom shook his head. “I really did need to talk to you, didn't I?”

“Looks like it,
my Lord
.” Emphasis on the title. The designation which meant Tom could never “get to know” his servitors.

“So what do I do? Tell me.”

“Not fair. I don't know the details. But your chef-steward isn't too dynamic, is he?”

Tom sighed. “I didn't want to start by getting rid of people.”

“No need to.” Jak was reviewing the tricons' surface layers as he spoke. “Let him keep his title, just bring in a majordomo. Then you can—”

“Yes, that's right.”

Tom stood up, motioning Jak to remain seated.

“Do you think you could do the job? And would you want to?”

“Chaos! Sorry, I meant—”

“That's OK. Do you want it?”

“I'm a lot younger than Felgrinar,” Jak pointed out. “Could be awkward.”

“So am I.”

“You've other advantages, my Lord. But I'm up for the challenge.”

“Good.” Tom grinned. “Very good. I'll put in a request directly to Lady Darinia.” He swept the triconic display into oblivion. “And I'll leave the interviews for my new majordomo to conduct.”

“Sounds good.”

“But first…Here's something I was going to ask everyone. What are your weaknesses?”

Jak frowned, but realized the question was sincere.

“Rough stuff,” he said finally. “Peacekeeping. I can handle stevedores—usually—but you need someone like Lieutenant Milran. I didn't notice any palace security on the complement.”

“There are some watchmen and the like, at phi level,” said Tom. “But you're saying I need a head of security?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe you're right.” It was not a thought to bring him comfort. “Anything more?”

“I'm sure lots will spring to mind later.”

Security. Servitor management. What else was he missing?

“I guess”—Tom looked at him—“there are things they don't teach in the Sorites School.”

“I could have told you that…my Lord.”

That night he fell asleep without the benefit of an extra training session.

Claustrophobia
…

But there was a period during which he slipped in and out of grey wakefulness—

Things with him, in the shadows
.

—never quite dropping out of the dream—

Dripping. A liquid dripping upon his cheek
.

—then giving himself up to exhaustion, slipping back beneath sleep's veil, surrendering to the half-seen images.

It was huge: a big black cargo train, such as Tom had not seen since his days in the Ragged School. And it had been necessary to descend five strata to see it.

“My Lord.” Jak looked concerned. “Seriously. You should not be down this far.”

In truth, the twenty uniformed servitors surrounding Tom—some of them conscripted from kitchen duty just for the occasion—looked pale and nervous.

“Do they have any
particular
reason,” asked Tom quietly, “to hate their Liege Lord here?”

“Nothing I've heard of.” Jak peered into a shadowy side tunnel. “But I have a feeling—Hey!” He shouted to a gang of stevedores. “Watch those cargo-bugs!”

The near-sentient black spheroids, rolling on their stubby legs, had begun to veer off the ramps leading into the cargo cars. Quickly, the loading-crews brought them back under control with spit-wands and sheer manhandling.

“As I was saying, my Lord, you shouldn't be here.”

“Damn it.” Tom spoke out, knowing that he would be misinterpreted. “I ought to be able to walk safely in my own demesne, no matter the stratum.”

“Even so.”

“Yes, all right. I'm not going to hang around.” Reaching inside his waist sash, Tom drew out a crystal sliver. “Take this, would you?”

“Of course. What's on it, my Lord?”

“Details of my new security chief, I hope.”

Jak raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“When you get back to Lady Darinia's demesne, do some investigating, would you? See if the person would be interested in transferring allegiance. Check she's as suitable as I think she is. Let's confer before I offer her the position.”

“OK.” Jak spoke automatically, but his gaze was on the loading-crews, watching the cargo for which he held responsibility.

“And, Jak…”

“My Lord?”

“If you decide to transfer allegiance, and Lady Darinia agrees, I really will be your Lord. For the long term. You understand?”

Am I a hypocrite?

Jak bowed, very low. “I do, my Lord.”

It was awful.

Hood up, hem of his tattered black cloak just skimming the foetid puddles, he walked along a twisted tunnel. Stepping aside to avoid two burly men hauling a battered smoothcart—its bottom plates worn, to judge by the scraping noise—Tom was careful not to lean against the damp, mossy walls.

My demesne
.

Even the fluorofungus was mottled with black: the kind of infection that it was a public duty immediately to report, to avoid its spreading.

When Jak returned, perhaps Tom could get him to start some programmes which would clean all this up.

But we'll need to get the Primum Stratum sorted first.
Tom could almost hear the objection. Down here, ten strata below Tom's palace, noble intentions seemed far away and useless.

It had been two tendays since Jak's departure, and his return was imminent. But Tom had wanted to descend, to see the lower parts of his realm with his own eyes.

If it's this bad here, what's it like lower down?

Tom kept his long cloak drawn around him, not certain whether his subjects here would know of their new Lord's deformity.

“What d'you want?” Scowling, grime-blackened, warty face. Bleary eyes. A battered flask in a pocket of his tunic.

“I, er, was looking for the market,” said Tom.

But he straightened his stance as he said so, relaxing his shoulders, and the other man unconsciously took a step back.

“That way,” he said after a moment, gesturing with his wart-encrusted chin.

From the alcove behind him, two more men stumbled out and glared at Tom, oblivious to their comrade's drawing-back.

They stopped dead as Tom allowed his cloak to fall open: whether at the sight of his stump, or of the long redmetal poignard in a cross-draw position on his left hip, Tom could not tell.

“Thank you.” He addressed the man who had given him directions.

Walking on across increasingly uneven flagstones, avoiding water dripping from ceiling cracks, Tom realized that he truly wanted to see the local market chamber. Would it be like the one he had grown up in within Lady Darinia's demesne?

He did not even know in which stratum his original home had lain. But it was not like this one. Surely, his home had been larger, not as grubby as this. The stallholders' tentlike awnings were stained and
faded. The few marketgoers seemed bent by woe, malnourished and clad in near-rags.

It should not be like this
.

Grimly, he walked around the chamber's pentagonal perimeter, noting the small barefoot children—one with the blank expression but sullen watchful eyes of a thief—and the spiritless haggling, the paucity of goods displayed on the old fabric-covered tables.

The scarlet tricon, just on the edge of his peripheral vision, caught Tom's attention.

Dark, and grimy enough to blend in with the surroundings, it might not even have been the same tent that Tom had seen in Lady Darinia's demesne. But it was the same tricon, projected virtually so that it appeared to hang deep inside the rock wall against which the tent was pitched.

Placing his hand lightly on his poignard's hilt, he stepped inside.

Dim lighting—low scarlet beams peeping out from gaps in a drape at the rear—and long shadowed tables, covered in translucent membrane. Inside were rows of weapons. Immediately, a poignard caught Tom's attention: silver rather than redmetal, but otherwise it could have been twin to the weapon at Tom's belt. He reached down—

“Stop! Don't touch the membrane!”

A slight, shaven-headed man in a dark tunic held out a hand in warning; Tom froze.

“Come here.” The man crossed to a side opening in the tent, and beckoned Tom. “Take a look.”