Quartz, page 20
Rafe waited.
Leo’s hands clenched around the arms of his chair. “We have reason to believe that foreign interests have started to meddle at a higher level than before in the internal affairs of Oakhaven. You heard about Dunbridge?”
Rafe nodded. Tristan’s former tutor and minder had been quietly removed from his position. “Tristan told me about his gambling debts.”
“He’d been selling access to the Prince, taking bribes for bringing Tristan to certain parties, throwing him in the way of certain people.” Leo sighed heavily. “We’ve always known that foreign powers have bought out some of our own people—indeed, some are useful for feeding misinformation back to their masters. We do the same in other states. But what’s been going on here—the havoc caused by the antimachinists for one, several classified documents going awry, information leaking who knows where.” Leo shook his head. “This is just to give you the big picture. You’re supposed to be on leave. There’s no need for you to be involved in all of that just yet.”
Rafe made a sudden gesture, a sharp intake of breath, quickly stifled.
Leo paused, then continued. “Yes, you are still a junior assistant, still new to the ministry. No matter what your relationship to me is, no matter how much I trust you and your abilities, certain information must be kept to as few as possible. According to many of my colleagues, I’m probably telling you more than I ought to, even now. But you need to know the gravity of the situation, so that you view your task as more than an old man’s way of keeping you out of trouble.”
“Which is?” put in Rafe, when Leo had been silent for a while. His uncle must be very worried, even more worried than the two deep lines furrowing his brow indicated.
“I need you to keep an eye on Prince Tristan. I think—I fear—that a foreign power might be trying to eliminate our Machine.”
“By taking out Tristan? It’s Roland they need to worry about.”
“Roland is better guarded and fiercely pro-Machine. And he only has one son. With Tristan out of the way, Roland has few choices for an heir, and he’ll be vulnerable to an internal attack. He’s not made himself very popular at home. Our foreign foes may think that the antimachinists will take care of Roland, who they view as some kind of Arch-Machinist, if their fear-mongering propaganda is to be believed.”
“By foreign powers, do you mean Blackstone, sir?”
“Possibly. They are the likeliest of villains, aren’t they? But Ironheart has reason to hate us, as well. And we’ve coexisted with Clearwater fairly peaceably for the last hundred years, but that doesn’t mean that one of us wouldn’t take the opportunity to gain a clear advantage. Even Shimmer might take an interest.”
“Why stop there, sir? Why not suspect the Trans-Point States? Or non-state entities, like the antimachinists?”
“Because, dear Rafe, those possibilities have been ruled out. Would you like to come to my office and go through all the documentation we’ve gathered so you can set your mind at rest that the traveling performers are not plotting to take over our government and impose obligatory fire-dancing sessions on the citizens?” Leo’s tone was weary rather than acerbic.
Rafe flushed, though a small part of him insisted that an intelligence agent ought to be suspicious and ask questions. Uncle Leo had taught him that. “No, sir.”
“Very well, then. You’re the best man we have to keep a close eye on Tristan without him suspecting. He’s always looked up to you. And if you find anything suspicious, anyone in his circle who seems out of place, let me know at once.” Leo checked his pocket watch. “Almost time with my meeting with the First Minister.” He made a face. Dewfleur was a consummate politician, more interested in popularity than policy. “And Rafe?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your hair, boy, your hair.” Leo disappeared down the hall, whispering over the plush carpet.
That made two people today. He really must need a trim. Rafe tried to smooth down his hair, using the shiny surface of a spherical sculpture as a mirror, then gave up and went downstairs to the gentleman’s nook.
The man in the gleaming mirror in front of him still bore the signs of recent stress in the lines around his mouth and a certain hardness of the eyes. After gelling down his hair, Rafe glanced at the cosmetics on the wide marble counter. Pots of pomade, powder and rouge, trays of patches, jars of fine-tipped soft-bristled brushes. No. He had never been a fop and any inexpert attempts to disguise his tiredness or conceal his scars would only draw attention to himself.
The curtain behind him rustled, was pulled aside, and the Marquis of Rocquespur's face appeared in the mirror beside Rafe's.
Rafe went very still. He forced himself to unclench his fist and pick up his comb from the counter.
Rocquespur gave him a quick glittering black-eyed glance, and Rafe nodded a wordless hello. A cloud of stinging scent enveloped the Marquis wherever he went. Rafe picked out lavender and cinnamon before his nose packed up and went to hide.
Rocquespur applied rouge to cheeks and lips with a fastidious, feminine hand. Rafe kept his gaze from cutting to Rocquespur’s face in a kind of horrified amusement. Rocquespur’s wig was a cascade of tightly-coiled curls framing a face powdered a dead white. Black patches adorned his face, including one shaped like a lantern and the size of Rafe's thumb on one whitened cheek. A hideously ugly garnet brooch glared out from its bed of gold and violet lace at Rocquespur’s throat. The rest of his attire was no better; his jacket was plum, with full pleated skirts and giant gold buttons carved into monstrous faces, his long purple waistcoat clashed with the violet lace, and his loose knee-breeches were too yellow to match the gold ruffles. He wore his signature diamond-buckled red high heels, putting him to Rafe's height.
Rafe nearly reeled from the cumulative effect of what Rocquespur considered to be appropriate legislative garb. To Rafe’s overpowered eye, he looked as if dressed in the dark—or was completely colorblind. For years, young bucks had speculated as such. He wondered why the beautiful and always well-dressed Sable Monarique hadn’t stepped in to attire her patron in more suitable clothes. Rafe tried to picture Rocquespur in the understated charcoal grays and sooty blacks of current men’s fashions and failed miserably as he waited for the Marquis to either say something or leave. He didn’t trust himself to begin a conversation with courtesy while simmering over the recent vote.
Rocquespur tipped out snuff from an enameled box onto the back of his hand and inhaled the fine powder. Rafe looked away as the Marquis wiped the brown powder off his face and hand with a handkerchief of yet another shade of purple. Brown flecked the pristine marble counter. Only the aristocratic refugees of Goldmoon—the self-styled "true citizens" who had fled the revolutionary regime of Blackstone—persisted in using snuff. And Rocquespur. Perhaps he was related to Goldmoon nobility somehow. His background wasn’t detailed in the Oakhaven Peerage, which usually meant he’d risen to his current position from the ignominy of the middle class.
"Well, young Grenfeld." The Marquis spoke in a voice made hazy and hoarse from years of snuff and smoking. "It looks like your uncle may soon be looking for other employment. The Dewfleur government is on shaky ground." There was a sneer in his tone.
That was the Marquis—no subtlety, no charm, no effort to be anything other than unpleasant. The effect did everything to set people's backs up.
So Rafe countered it by being his most pleasant. "I'm sure Uncle Leo would like nothing else than to work on cataloguing his art collection and continue his studies. But I doubt Dewfleur’s fall would affect him much. Because if it did happen before elections, the King would form an interim government and I’m sure Uncle Leo would be appointed to the cabinet again. Perhaps even as Minister of Internal Affairs.” Rafe smiled with relish at the idea. That would give Leo more authority to look into Rocquespur's affairs. Mercersmith, the current Minister, was squarely in Rocquespur's money-pouch.
Rocquespur's sneer stayed, but all the pleasantness was gone from it, leaving a fixed snarl. His canines were painted red, giving him the look of one who had just finished drinking blood. “Yes, more power would suit Leonius Grenfeld very well. But would he wield it wisely or not? And that young Rafael, is something you might have to decide sooner than you think.”
His words needled Rafe more than they ought to have. Putting on his most sweetly vindictive smile, he met Rocquespur’s hard black eyes, so like Isabella’s, in the mirror. “I’m sure many would agree with me when I say that Uncle Leo’s leadership is preferable to that of some others I will not name.” Rocquespur could not miss the insinuation, but the man's eyelashes barely flickered.
Instead, he gave Rafe a pitying look. "I suppose there are some things one must discover for oneself." He left before Rafe could shoot off a reply.
The comb Rafe had been holding broke with a snap. With a sharp sigh, Rafe tossed the pieces into the wastebasket and left to find Prince Tristan.
Chapter Twenty One
Oakhaven
RAFE STROLLED INTO THE palace conservatory halfway between Pollen and Fruit. He raised his eyebrow at Tristan, dressed in just an undershirt and leggings, standing on a plinth. A fussy little man ran around him with a tape measure.
“Don’t ask,” said Tristan, sourly. “In fact, don’t say anything.”
The fussy man squeaked, “Your left arm, please, Your Highness!” and whipped the tape measure around Tristan’s wrist and elbow, then darted away, making notations on a small pad of paper.
Rafe leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll just enjoy the view, then, shall I?”
Tristan snorted. After a few minutes of dignified silence, filled with more measuring, he said, disgusted, “This is so that they can make a sculpture of me without my being here. Though why they bother is beyond me. The time I’ve spent just standing here, being bent into unnatural angles, they could’ve just used to sculpt me from life. Yesterday they took a mold of my head, including my face. My face! I had to sit there, not moving a muscle for an hour! I’m lucky that they thought to leave me some air holes, I suppose.”
“It’s all part of the royal privilege, Tristan. Leaving several representations of yourself littering the palace so that posterity can properly honor you.”
Tristan snorted again. “No doubt they’ll be sighing over me and saying things like, ‘My, he was a fine looking youth before the Machine got to him’.”
“You flatter yourself,” said Rafe, keeping his tone light, but he gave Tristan a warning look over the head of the measurer. It was one thing to express his feelings in privacy among friends, another to have it known abroad that the Crown Prince and future Machine Operator was not happy about taking on his hereditary role for the public good.
“I haven’t seen you at all since you returned,” said Tristan abruptly. “What are you doing here?”
“What, I’m not allowed to pay a visit to my favorite cousin? Care to meet me for a practice round at Westbridge’s?”
“Huh. What about your work?”
“I’m on leave.” Rafe shrugged a shoulder.
“Oh?” Tristan raised both his eyebrows. He had never managed Rafe’s trick of the one-eyebrow lift, and it had always rankled him. “Well, not entirely unexpected after Blackstone and Ironheart.” His tone was snide.
Rafe kept his expression amiable, though the insinuation about his failures stung. He said with casual rue, “They were going to send me to Clearwater on a routine assignment but the Fisher Council complained. They’d prefer their city remain intact. So here I am.”
Tristan raised his nose in the air. “Unlike you, I have responsibilities. I’ve been assisting Father in the Operations Room and attending meetings and taking notes. Just like I’m supposed to. I’m being good.” The last word was etched with bitterness.
An irritated voice rose from beyond an archway. “Don’t pester me now, Arnold. Why else are you around but to deal with things like that? That’s your job, not mine.” Roland stumped into the room, wiping his blackened fingertips with an oily rag. “Do they think I’m some kind of scorched speechwriter?” he demanded of the conservatory at large. “Oh, hullo, Rafe. Haven’t seen you much since that Blackstone debacle. Ah, and there’s Tristan, too.” Roland beamed fondly at his son and Tristan flushed and looked away.
Roland dismissed the measuring man with a wave, then turned to Rafe. “Tris has come along well, wonderfully well, these past few weeks. I thought I’d never make a king out of him. He hardly showed any interest in the Machine. Why, when I was his age, I was in the Operations Room every day, polishing levers and oiling wheels, anything I could do to show my father that I was serious about the work. Tristan? Nothing. But then one day, he comes to me and says, ‘Father, I’m ready to take on some responsibility, ready to step into my role. Show me how.’ And I did, and he’s doing wonderfully, really wonderfully.”
Tristan winced at this effusive praise and developed a fascination with his feet.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Rafe guardedly, after a sidelong look at Tristan.
“I could use the extra help,” said Roland bluntly, “after the Assembly’s latest vote. Rocquespur pushed his cohorts into it—even got some of the cool heads in the Assembly to vote yes. Him and his five seats. Leo’s been trying for years to revoke that privilege.” Roland shook his head.
Rafe said nothing. He didn’t like Oakhaven sinking to Blackstone’s level. For all his life, Oakhaven had stood for liberty. Now she was taking over a former ally. What was it with Rocquespur and his ability to bring out greed and avarice in everyone?
Roland was less concerned about the morality of Oakhaven’s foreign policy than the logistical burden it imposed on him. “Do you know how many resources I need to shift to supply Ironheart?” he grumbled. “And the antimachinist leadership is still at liberty.”
“Have there been any new developments, sir?”
Roland grimaced. “We’ve circulated posters based on Tristan’s descriptions, but no one’s come forward yet. What we have found out is that they’re a well-funded group, with access to high-level government information. It could be anyone in the bureaucracy so we’re keeping things tight around here. Wil’s got a plan.” Roland lowered his voice and leaned in. “We’ve laid a trap for them on Elm Street for tomorrow after moonset. Leaked the word that we’re moving vital machine components on the Circle Line ahead of schedule. That should bring the maggots out.” Roland rubbed his hands together. “All they’ll find, though, is a lot of soldiers packing rifles and grenades.” Rafe glanced over the King’s shoulder and noted Tristan listening intently. When he caught Rafe’s eye, Tristan dropped his own gaze. There was something shifty about his stance.
A silvery chime sounded. The King beamed. “There she is, calling me. I must go.” And off he rushed, back to the Machine.
Rafe looked at Tristan. “So what about that fencing? I could use the practice, I’m afraid. You’ll be able to even the score dramatically today.”
Tristan shook his head. “Sorry. I have an appointment in the city. Father’s got me observing the light machinery at work, talking with the operators and all that.”
“I’ll come with you, then,” said Rafe. “I might need a career change some day.” Tristan shrugged. It wasn’t an invitation, but without an outright refusal, Rafe strode beside his cousin with determined cheerfulness.
Rafe kept up some casual conversation as they left the palace, squeezed into an empty trolley with Tristan and his guards, and rode it into the Iron District. Once back on the cobbled streets and out of earshot of the trailing guards, Rafe asked, “So, tell me, what are the valid points the antimachinists are making?”
Tristan started. “Wha…? You heard my father that day. Are you trying to get me disowned?”
“No. You’ll note that I waited until we were safely out of the palace to bring this up. Come, now. You’ve been giving this some thought. Probably even have a copy or two of their literature under the mattress.”
Tristan looked very guilty.
Rafe groaned. “Seriously?”
“Well, isn’t it good military strategy to know the enemy?” began Tristan belligerently.
“Yes, but for Sel’s sake, don’t hide anything you don’t want found under the mattress! It’s never as safe as you think. Trust me, that’s the first place anyone will look.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll just… um… move it.”
“Burn it,” advised Rafe. “Be sure to stay nearby until it’s all gone up in smoke and turned to ashes.”
“I will.” Tristan took a moment to gather his wits. “But, anyway, the antimachinists have several points. Like, machines taking the jobs that people could do.”
“Yes, because people are lining up in queues stretching for miles, shovels in hand, ready to dig the subways and mine tunnels,” said Rafe, dryly.
“Well, no. There’s nothing wrong with machines doing that sort of work. But there’s all the new machinery in the factories, taking over making cloth and furniture and such. The jobs women did to bring in a little bit extra, but now you have to go work in a factory to do now. And then Ma—well, one of the main antimachinist people says that the upper classes—that’s us—is using the machinery and the agri-caves to lord it over the rest of the people, keep them helpless and dependent.”
“Yes, I believe that the whole Blackstone revolution was founded on that idea,” commented Rafe to the street lamps.
Tristan rushed on. “But the main thing, the really big thing, is that they find the Machine scary. A thing that can see and hear and be everywhere, that makes decisions and gives directions, that shows intelligence and emotions—you see how Father talks about it! They don’t like that something like that is so powerful, that controls the whole city, that has even my father in thrall to it, and”—in a burst of defiance—“neither do I!”
“And all this is behind your recent interest in the Machine? A desire to—what? Wrest control from the Machine? Free your father from its thrall, as you called it?”
