The Grand Ellipse Read online

  “I’ll start target practice as soon as I find a spot where nobody minds flying bullets,” Luzelle promised.

  “It will come to feel quite natural to you much sooner than you imagine,” Karsler told her.

  Once more she thought to catch a hint of something like sadness or regret in his voice, but no disapproval, and she thought, How unlike Girays he is! Girays would have pestered me to death over this, and pretended he was doing it out of concern for my welfare. It’s pleasant to be regarded as a mentally sound adult.

  They exited into the sunlight, where the somber mood of the shop faded swiftly, despite the weight of the new, dense little paper-wrapped parcel that she refused to allow her companion to carry for her. On they went along the narrow street until the vista before them widened and she confronted an astonishment of palaces—high, glittering, and presumptuous, each wonderfully individual.

  She had never in her life seen anything to equal the complexity of the iridescent coils coiffing the violet towers of the mansion directly before her. Another, even more imposing, sported four slim blue spires crowned with orbiting silver star-bursts. Another, inconceivably vast, was clothed from ground to summit in luminous marble mosaics. Then there was the grandly peculiar conglomerate of vertical cylinders sheathed in beaten copper weathered to the color of jade. And the ambitious fantasy sprawling full length beneath nested domes, each dome elaborately pierced and sliced to reveal the complex polychrome layers beneath. And the gilded behemoth straddling no fewer than four separate quays. And the white giantess clothed in marble fretwork airy as petrified frost. And the—but no, she couldn’t take them in at one glance, they were too numerous, too remarkable, and the dance of sunlight on the silver waters of the greatest of canals too distracting.

  She drew a wondering breath. Karsler Stornzof turned to her and smiled.

  “The Lureis Canal,” he said.

  The center of the city, the heart of Lanthi Ume, famed throughout the world. She had seen many colored prints and paintings of this scene, but none that did it justice. For a time they paused to marvel, then moved off along the walkway known as the Prendivet Saunter that edged the great canal. And now she noticed a displeasing multiplicity of grey-uniformed figures strolling the neighborhood, but refused to let the oppressive Grewzian presence dampen her enjoyment. Resolutely she pushed the recurring images of the morning’s horrors from her mind.

  Too soon they came to the Prendivet Hotel—big and modern, but constructed in stylistic harmony with the neighboring mansions upon the site once occupied by a palace known as Vallage House. Reputedly one of the wonders of the city, Vallage House had been torn down, or burned down, or otherwise disposed of in the distant past, but for some reason popular legend had it that the glorious old structure crowning the remote extremity of Cape Consolation in the land of Strell, and likewise known as Vallage House, was an exact replica of the Lanthian original.

  They went in, crossed the lobby, and passed through a tall arched doorway into the restaurant, where a solicitous head-waiter seated them at once. Luzelle glanced about uneasily. The place was handsome enough, well lit and well appointed, but disturbingly grey with Grewzian officers. She had never seen so many high-ranking enemies assembled in one room, and she hoped she never would again. Yet here she was, lunching with one of them.

  She consulted the menu. Sophisticated, delicate Lanthian seafood dishes, interspersed with such red-blooded Grewzian favorites as offal pudding, deep-fried mutton gobbets, and raised venison pie.

  “This place is popular among your countrymen,” she observed without enthusiasm.

  “That is almost inevitable,” he told her. “The Prendivet Hotel is next-door neighbor to the mansion called Beffel House, in which my compatriots have established their headquarters. They find this spot most convenient for their meals.”

  “Most convenient,” she echoed dryly, but dropped her eyes before his straight gaze, which somehow made her feel unsure, as if her implied criticism had been misplaced or even unjust.

  The waiter reappeared. Luzelle requested mussels in broth, while Karsler ordered an omelet, and it crossed her mind that she had dined in his presence a couple of times aboard the Karavise, and never yet seen him touch meat. But she gave the matter little thought, for her attention fixed almost at once on a neighboring table where a familiar well-tailored figure sat amid a gathering of very senior Grewzian officers.

  “Isn’t that a general sitting across the table from your uncle, over there?” she asked.

  Karsler’s eyes followed her discreetly pointing finger. “General Uhrnuss,” he confirmed. “Overgeneral Brugloist beside him. There is also the Overcommander Hahltronz. The others I do not know by sight.”

  “Brugloist—he commands the whole Grewzian army in this part of the world, doesn’t he?”

  “The Southeast Expeditionary Force, yes.”

  “Your uncle and the overgeneral appear cordial.”

  “They roomed together for a couple of terms at Leistlurl, I believe,” he told her, naming the oldest and most inflexibly exclusive of Grewzland’s great universities.

  “They seem very intent on something or other. I wonder what it could be?”

  She did not have to wonder for long.

  The food arrived, the conversation altered direction, and soon, to her surprise, she found herself telling him about the Judge, the hideous quarrels, and her final withdrawal from her father’s house. She revealed nothing of the shattered betrothal with a fellow Ellipsoid, nothing of her own financial straits, or of her dealings with the ministry, yet her voice ran on, loosing recollections that she could never have imagined herself sharing with a near stranger, much less a Grewzian. She could hardly account for her own loquacity, but supposed that Karsler’s air of intelligent interest devoid of intrusiveness invited confidences. He was remarkably easy to talk to, but the reverse did not seem to hold true, for she noticed that he spoke very little of himself or his own past. She gave him plenty of opportunity, left several conversational openings into which many men would happily have leapt, but he remained courteously reticent, and finally she began to contemplate in earnest the various means whereby she might gently and painlessly pry his mind open, at least a crack.

  But she never got the chance to try, for just then the Grandlandsman Torvid Stornzof rose from his seat and crossed to their table, where he paused, arms folded and monocle glinting.

  Karsler rose dutifully, and observed in Vonahrish, “You honor me, Grandlandsman. Will you join us?”

  Decline, Ice Statue, Luzelle urged silently. Go away.

  “News, Nephew,” Torvid announced in Grewzian, equally ignoring the invitation and Luzelle’s presence. “I have lunched with the Overgeneral Brugloist, whose response to this morning’s local impertinence is commendably decisive. The overgeneral informs me that Lanthi Ume’s harbor is to be shut down until further notice. For the present, neither admission nor departure is permitted. Such firmness speaks eloquently.”

  “All sea trade ceases?” Karsler asked in Vonahrish. “The Lanthian economy is fueled by such commerce, is it not?”

  “I am not conversant with the internal ordering of our various subject nations.”

  “The city is largely dependent upon imports for its ordinary foodstuffs and provisions.”

  “Well?”

  “The harbor blockade effectively places Lanthi Ume in a state of siege, with predictable results.”

  “The local resistance might have considered that possibility prior to its small experiment in insolence.”

  “The majority of citizens, completely uninvolved in the affair, will shortly begin to starve.”

  “Then they will see that their own comfort dictates a repudiation of the resistance, and all concerned stand to profit by the lesson.”

  “Perhaps they should thank you for the instruction,” Luzelle murmured, but the grandlandsman seemed not to hear her. Karsler heard her, however. She saw her own voice in his eyes.

  “And
if they do not repudiate the resistance?” Karsler inquired. “What then?”

  “I cannot say.” Torvid shrugged. “Neither of us will be here to observe.”

  “The race, you mean? Certainly we can proceed overland to another point of embarkation from Dalyon, but the time involved in such an undertaking is considerable, and we must resign ourselves to a delay—”

  “There will be no delay,” Torvid stated. “Not for the two of us. We are Grewzian, and we may rely upon the loyalty and support of our countrymen.”

  “Loyalty is not the issue here and now.”

  “You will not acknowledge it as such, but your misconceptions scarcely alter reality. I will state the facts clearly. The harbor has been closed. For the present there will be no unauthorized entries or departures. However, the Lanthian merchant vessel Inspiration has received the overgeneral’s personal approval, and will embark for Aennorve in approximately one hour’s time. We two sail with her, the only passengers permitted aboard.”

  Unfair! Despite linguistic limitations, Luzelle understood Torvid’s discourse clearly enough to know the worst.

  “Did you arrange this, Grandlandsman?” Karsler asked.

  “Permission for the Inspiration to sail, with the two of us aboard, yes. I cannot take credit for the closing of the harbor, however. I did not create the situation, but perceived its possibilities, merely.”

  “I see.” Karsler eyed his uncle. “I almost wonder if it is sporting to exploit such a vast, unearned advantage.”

  “Pah, must you bewail your own good fortune? Should the enemy retreat before you in battle, would you hesitate to press your advantage then? And do not try my patience with artificial distinctions drawn between a battle and a race, there is no time for such foolery. Pay your reckoning, and let us be off to the docks. Or better yet, allow me.” So saying, the grandlandsman produced his wallet and extracted a couple of notes, which he dropped carelessly on the table. As he did so, his eyes encountered Luzelle’s, he affected to recognize her for the first time, and finally switched over to her language. “Ah, the little female traveler, the daredevil in skirts. Miss Dulaire, was it? Denaire? Contraire? Excuse me, but you must understand, I find all Vonahrish names eminently forgettable.”

  “But what an inconvenience, Grandlandsman,” Luzelle murmured sympathetically. “And yet I believe it quite possible, by dint of application, to overcome the handicap of a congenitally weak or defective memory.”

  Torvid’s face congealed.

  She was certain that she saw Karsler’s lips quirk, but the smile was gone in an instant. His expression was once again grave as he turned to her and observed with his customary formality, “I regret that our lunch must conclude prematurely, and I hope you will pardon my discourtesy in leaving you so abruptly.”

  “It’s no discourtesy under the circumstances,” she replied. “I thank you for all of your help and kindness, as well as for your good company.”

  “I hope we may lunch again another day, at leisure. In the meantime, do not neglect to practice with the Khrennisov.”

  The grandlandsman shot his nephew a penetrating glance.

  “I’ll practice, I promise,” vowed Luzelle. “I’ll be drilling two-biquin bits at twenty paces, the next time we meet.”

  “In Toltz, perhaps, upon conclusion of the race,” Torvid Stornzof suggested. “Surely not before.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t count on that, Grandlandsman,” Luzelle returned. “Someone whose opinion I respect believes that these inequities of political fortune may yet balance themselves, before the race is run.”

  This time Karsler made no attempt to repress his smile, and the light in his blue eyes quickened her blood. She cast about for something else to say, something that would hold him a little longer, but invention failed.

  “Safe voyage,” she offered simply, with a smile of her own.

  “I thank you. Until the next time then, Miss Devaire.”

  “Luzelle.”

  “Luzelle. Safe voyage.”

  The overcommander bowed deeply, while the grandlandsman inclined his head infinitesimally. Together they turned and walked out of the restaurant.

  Luzelle sat watching them go, her eyes fixed on Karsler Stornzof’s figure until it vanished through the tall doorway. Gone. She felt extraordinarily alone and let down, which was curious, for she was used to traveling on her own and not usually troubled by solitude. She was troubled now, however; lonely and unaccountably glum.

  But there was nothing at all unaccountable about it, she reminded herself. Had it slipped her mind that she’d just received the worst possible news? The Grewzians, of all people, the Grewzians were about to snatch the lead in the Grand Ellipse. This latest monstrous coup placed Karsler Stornzof and his unlovely kinsman so far ahead of the field that they would never be caught. She herself and her fellow disadvantaged Ellipsoids might proceed along the Dalyonic coast to some free harbor, to Hurba or perhaps to Gard Lammis, thence embarking for Aennorve, but the delay was disastrous.

  She could save time, money, and energy by acknowledging defeat here and now. She could go back to Sherreen. Back to the Judge’s house.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  … Inequities of political fortune may yet balance themselves.…

  They’d better balance themselves, and soon. She’d balance them herself, if necessary.

  But how?

  5

  “SEE, NEVENSKOI, I’ve brought a gift for our clever green friend,” announced King Miltzin IX. Turning to the pit-of-elements, where the sentient flames crackled demurely, he tossed in a small sheaf of papers. “There you are, Master—er—Fire. Feast and be merry.”

  EatEatEatEatEat? queried the hot green voice from the pit.

  Enjoy, Nevenskoi assented in silence, and the papery fuel vanished in a bright instant. Aloud he added, “Your Majesty is most kind, most generous. My Sentient Fire conveys its gratitude.”

  “Our fire might moderate his gratitude, if he knew what he consumed.” Mad Miltzin smothered a chuckle. “That wad of trash we just disposed of contained no fewer than two score requests for private meetings from various ambassadors and diplomats. Have you ever heard the like? Didn’t I foresee that I’d be persecuted? And so it has proved. They’re like carrion flies, these foreigners. They’re buzzing around everywhere, and I’m the decomposing delicacy of the day. They want our brilliant Master Fire there and they’ll stop at nothing to get at him—through me, just as I expected. But they won’t succeed, you see. The Low Hetz remains neutral, now and always. Eh, Nevenskoi?”

  “As Your Majesty wills.” Nevenskoi nodded bleakly.

  “I’ll speak to none of them. I’ll not be sucked into the squalid whirl of foreign quarrels. They’ve made their own problems, and they must not look to me for rescue. I disregard both abject pleas and veiled threats. The complaints, arguments, and accusations are food for Master Fire, nothing more. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, Your Majesty.” He is suppressing the most glorious discovery of the age. Nevenskoi bowed his head deferentially, the better to disguise the frustration burning visibly in his eyes. As always, his liege’s blithe imperviousness set his teeth on edge. And as always, he concealed all external sign of disquiet. The internal signs were insistent, however. His stomach performed the flopping dance of a hooked fish, his intestines writhed and popped. The familiar twinges knifed through him, but he refused to bend. He heard the rumble of internal thunder, and prayed that the king did not. Great sorcerers transcended dyspepsia.

  “Well, our flaming beauty there is likely to enjoy many a hearty meal, if these drooling foreigners continue—but really, Nevenskoi,” the king interrupted himself, “this is awkward. Our fire has a mind, he must have a name as well, else we’re guilty of gross discourtesy. I know, let’s call him ‘Matchless,’ because he is surely without equal, and also because he’s kindled without benefit of friction. You see the amusing double meaning there? Or wait, what about—Nonpyreil? Ha! You see—”
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  “Indeed, Sire.” Nevenskoi winced. “But such a notably … witty … title is perhaps too sophisticated to suit my creation. I’ve another suggestion, simpler, yet also the product of Your Majesty’s luxuriant fancy. You have already addressed the sentient flames as ‘Master Fire,’ and the title seems appropriate. Let it then be Masterfire.”

  “Masterfire.” Miltzin tasted the name. “Masterfire. Plain, direct, descriptive. Excellent. I like it.”

  Nevenskoi did not know that he could say the same. Masterfire? What about Mistressfire? He had no idea which gender, if either, legitimately applied. A question easily answered, however.

  Do you like it, loveliness? he inquired voicelessly. Does it suit, is it good?

  Goodgoodgood!

  Calorific satisfaction danced in Nevenskoi’s mind. Masterfire. Acceptable. Welcome. A name, an identity. Goodgoodgood—

  “Good,” he said.

  “Well, as I was saying,” Mad Miltzin continued, “Masterfire is likely to enjoy many a hearty meal in the days to come, for now your countrymen have commenced a bombardment.”

  “My countrymen, Sire?” Preoccupied with his creation’s sensations, Nevenskoi had lost track of the conversation.

  “Your compatriots, your Rhazaullean folk, man!”

  “Bombardment, Majesty?”

  “A merciless assault, quite merciless. Not that I actually read any of these melancholy missives, mind you—I believe I’ve already expressed myself on that topic—but I recognize that peculiar Rhazaullean script when I see it, and lately it’s been coming at me in basketloads. I suppose it’s not surprising, all things considered. I suppose you’re concerned.”

  “That is so, Majesty,” Nevenskoi concurred, mind working strenuously. It was not easy to tear his thoughts from the embrace of Masterfire, but necessity pressed. He found himself a little confused, a little disoriented, but knew that things would be right once he marshaled his faculties. What was Mad Miltzin chattering on about?