The Grand Ellipse Read online

  “Miss Devaire.” He bowed. “Allow me to express my admiration of a lecture at once eloquent, informative, and absorbing.”

  “You are most generous, sir.” Her cheeks were still hot and her heart still hammered. Did he notice? His face was unrevealing as it was nondescript. “Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac, is it?”

  “It is. I take it you have received and reviewed my letter.”

  She inclined her head.

  “May we discuss the contents?”

  “Yes, but not here.” Any moment her parents would emerge from the auditorium, and she did not want to confront them a second time. “One minute, please.”

  Before he could reply, she ducked into the cloakroom, found her pelisse and hat, hurriedly donned both, then paused an instant to check the result in the mirror hanging beside the door.

  Bad, as usual. “… the vulgarity of your appearance …” Her father’s words rang in her mind. He was right, of course. Her angry color was still too high, for even now, despite advancing age, she had never fully mastered that troublesome temper of hers. Her lips were too red, as if painted, and too noticeable. Her wide eyes of pale, pure aquamarine, still ablaze with emotion, glared out of her sun-bronzed face like coach lanterns. The density of long lashes and the arch of strong brows several shades darker than her hair only heightened the objectionably obvious contrast. The general effect, despite the sobriety of conservative dark-blue garments, was arguably … garish. Again she could hear her father’s voice.

  She didn’t want to hear his voice or think of what he had to say about her. She wanted to get out of the building. She sped from the cloakroom, and there was the Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac regarding her with an eyebrow cocked quizzically.

  “Ready,” she told him, and rushed for the exit. She knew without looking that he followed.

  They emerged into University Square, where the grey stone architecture of the ancient lecture halls echoed the grey of an overcast sky. A fine rain, scarcely more than mist, sprinkled down to cool Luzelle’s heated face. Drawing a hungry draft of chilly air, she cast her eye about the square. Thronged with students, as always during term time afternoons: unshaven youngsters, sporting their caps and long woolen scarves with native Sherreenian panache. Busy, vital. Edged with ornamental shrubs just beginning to bud. A few yards distant loomed the old Nirienne Bell Tower, originally known as the King’s Tower, a title lost in the aftermath of the last century’s great revolution. Likewise lost—the famous Ten Monarchs, once ranged in an arc before the entrance. Those life-sized effigies of Vonahr’s greatest kings were long gone, reduced to marble gravel by a furious mob over sixty-five years ago. The space they once occupied now belonged to an uninspired bronze statue of Shorvi Nirienne, Father of the Republic, whose writings had fueled the revolutionary ardor that toppled a monarchy.

  The last hereditary king of Vonahr had died at the hands of his subjects, while the aristocratic class once known as Exalted had suffered a drastic pruning. Those formerly-Exalteds so fortunate as to survive the revolution had found themselves stripped of ancient privileges, noble titles, family wealth and possessions—stripped of everything beyond inviolable arrogance. That serene assumption of innate superiority lived on, proof against every assault of reason and reality. Oddly enough, the present-day world seemed full of simpletons quite ready to furnish the deference to which so many descendants of exterminated seigneurs imagined themselves entitled.

  Luzelle Devaire did not number among such simpletons. She slanted a sidelong glance at her companion. Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac, whose name marked him as a formerly-Exalted, projected none of the traditional hauteur of his class. His aspect was professorial and unassuming. Unlike Master Girays v’Alisante.

  The Marquis v’Alisante, as he would have been, but for the small matter of the Vonahrish Revolution that had deprived his grandfather of title and of life. Very much the would-be grand seigneur. Pretentious, self-important, insufferable ass. Back in town again. The women pursue him in droves.…

  Let them, and welcome. She’d far more important matters to consider.

  “I know a good café in Cider Alley,” vo Rouvignac’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you rather walk?”

  “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs isn’t far off,” she countered bluntly. “That is surely the proper place to conduct an ordinary business interview?”

  “The business at hand is far from ordinary.” Vo Rouvignac never blinked. “And best transacted discreetly.”

  “Why?” Luzelle challenged, suppressing all visible signs of uneasiness. Already the exchange showed signs of fulfilling her father’s worst predictions.

  “Because, Miss Devaire, should you decide to accept our offer of sponsorship, it is very much in the best interests of all concerned that your connection to the ministry remain generally unrecognized. That is for your protection as well as our own.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “Hostile attention.”

  “I’m accustomed to that. Thank you for the warning, but it comes a little late. Your letter failed to request confidentiality and I’ve already shown it to my father, thus drawing considerable hostile attention.”

  “That is not quite what I meant.” Vo Rouvignac smiled a little. “Throughout his life, the Judge Udonse Devaire has demonstrated consistent devotion to Vonahrish interests. His loyalty is hardly open to question. I spoke not of your family members, but—”

  “You did, sir,” Luzelle interrupted. “And with considerable assurance. How should you know anything of my father’s attitudes or actions?”

  “Surely it can’t surprise you to learn that your background has been investigated.”

  “Investigated—I? How dare you?”

  “I assure you, a standard safeguard—”

  “An offensive invasion of privacy!”

  “A woman so much in the public eye as yourself, Miss Devaire, may scarcely expect to enjoy the anonymity of a more commonplace individual.”

  Commonplace? Respectable, did he mean? No matter, Luzelle decided. She was capable of dealing with this latest critic. Her chin came up, and she drew a preparatory breath.

  “Please understand,” vo Rouvignac forestalled her, “that I mean no disrespect. You will perceive the necessity of our precautions, once you come to appreciate the delicacy of the situation we now confront.”

  “You offer to sponsor my participation in the Hetzian king’s Grand Ellipse race. What’s particularly delicate about that?”

  “On the face of it nothing, and that is all to the good. Have you not stopped to wonder, however, why the Ministry of Foreign Affairs would choose to concern itself in this matter?”

  “Vonahrish prestige,” Luzelle returned at once. “The Grand Ellipse is attracting international attention. The newspapers and sporting gazettes have focused upon the competition for weeks. Speculation is intense, and I’ve read of enormous sums wagered upon the outcome. The victor, whoever it may be, garners great glory for his or her own country.” And a valuable piece of real estate for herself.

  “Quite true. Yet the sponsorship of a well-equipped contestant demands a considerable outlay of capital, and the endeavor itself might be termed frivolous. A large expense of such dubious necessity is particularly difficult to justify now, at a time of national crisis.”

  “The national crisis seems to have escaped my notice, Deputy Underminister.”

  “Understandable. Relatively few of our countrymen realize that invasion is imminent. In the near future—possibly a matter of weeks—Vonahr will be assaulted by forces of the Grewzian Imperium. For the present, it is best that the threat continue largely unrecognized.”

  Luzelle stared at him.

  “The information I am about to impart is sensitive,” vo Rouvignac continued. “I believe, however, that you are fit to receive it. But come, let us find someplace and go indoors. It is starting to rain in earnest.”

  The big drops were now
pattering down fatly. Students were running for cover. Bowing her head against the onslaught, Luzelle accepted the arm her companion offered, and together they hurried across University Square into the mouth of Cider Alley, where the overhang of the old-fashioned houses afforded shelter. Presently they reached a small but very smartly painted café, and entered to find the place crowded with rain-spotted refugees. Vo Rouvignac managed to commandeer the last unoccupied table, beside the kitchen door. Seating themselves, they ordered lemon tea. For some moments neither spoke.

  The steaming mugs arrived. Luzelle took a sip and set her drink aside. Meeting vo Rouvignac’s eyes, she answered him at last; characteristically, with a question.

  “How do you know that the Grewzians plan an invasion?”

  “The independent reports of several agents confirm it,” he told her. “Even were that not so, the situation is self-explanatory to those who take note of such things.”

  “Anyone who reads the newspapers knows that the Imperior Ogron favors expansion. He’s annexed or invaded various territories to which, theoretically, Grewzland possesses legitimate claim—”

  “Utterly false justifications, for the most part.”

  “—certain foreign allies of the ousted governments have offered active resistance, which the imperior has crushed—”

  “Attacking upon the flimsiest of pretexts.”

  “—but the Grewzian activities have generally directed themselves eastward. Well, to the south also, these days. There’s nothing I’ve read or heard to suggest that the imperior has any intention of shifting his attention west toward Vonahr. Certainly Grewzland possesses no reasonable claim to Vonahrish soil, and cannot pretend otherwise. We’ve attempted no meddling in Grewzian affairs, offered neither threat nor provocation. Furthermore, the Imperium now comprises such a vast area, it hardly seems probable that Ogron should regard a Vonahrish conquest as necessary or even desirable—”

  “Miss Devaire, you are an intelligent young person and reasonably well informed, but more than a little naive,” vo Rouvignac observed, so mildly that the words lost their sting. “You argue upon the assumption that Grewzian policy is the product of rational, well-intentioned, more or less civilized intellects. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. Grewzian policy is dictated by the will of the Imperior Ogron III. The imperior, a vainglorious mystic fancying himself a latter-day embodiment of the Gorzlaar of Grewzian folklore, is the natural scion of a culture traditionally celebrating personal courage, martial prowess, and fanatical patriotism. The Gorzlaar, if you’ll recall, is a legendary warrior-king-god destined to conquer all the civilized world, thus leading the Grewzian people to their glorious collective destiny. The imperior has embarked upon this project with much élan, and assuredly will not cease either until he has accomplished his goal or until he is forcibly halted.”

  She believed him. Something in his dry professorial certainty convinced her, and she attempted no further denial, but instead inquired, “If that’s true, why keep it a secret? Shouldn’t our people be warned?”

  “Such a move would only hasten the Grewzian assault.”

  “But Vonahr must arm herself, and quickly. The army must mobilize, the border cities strengthen their defenses, the munition factories increase production, the navy modernize its—”

  “Useless,” vo Rouvignac cut her off calmly. “Moments earlier you mentioned the newspapers and gazettes. If you read them, then you already know that the Imperior Ogron has spent the last half decade or so preparing his country for war. And to give credit where it’s due, he has done an excellent job. Grewzland now possesses the largest, best-equipped, and best-trained army in the world; an unsurpassed navy; the most modern and efficient factories and railroads; great natural resources—its own, augmented by those seized from a growing roster of subject nations; a skilled and enthusiastic workforce; and, thanks to the great war effort, a flourishing economy. While the imperior has thus busied himself, we Vonahrish have essentially … fiddled. The inattention of years is not to be remedied in a matter of weeks. I assure you, we are quite unfit to resist the impending invasion.”

  “But we are not alone.” Luzelle’s mind cast swiftly about in search of salvation. “The city-states and western Republican-Enclaves must surely recognize the Grewzian threat. Kyrendt, Travorn, Ferille—clearly it would be to the advantage of all to form a defensive alliance with Vonahr.”

  “Not a bad thought, saving the sad reality that the condition of the nations in question hardly differs from our own. They can furnish little assistance.”

  “What are you saying, then?” Luzelle demanded. “That Vonahr is about to disappear down the maw of the Grewzian Imperium, and there’s nothing at all we can do about it? Perhaps you advise immediate and unconditional surrender?”

  “That, at least, would avert wholesale destruction.”

  “What sort of wretched weak-livered talk is that, coming from a Vonahrish official? Have you any idea how those Grewzian pigs treat their conquered territories?”

  “A pretty clear one, I believe. Please calm yourself, Miss Devaire. I admire your spirit, but must advise you to rein it in until you’ve heard all I have to say. I do not advocate surrender at this time. There is another possibility worthy of investigation. It involves a new and potentially devastating weapon, of—er—arcane origin.”

  “You surprise me. I didn’t think anyone in today’s government would admit to a belief in the significance of arcane phenomena. A world blessed with gaslight, steam engines, and indoor plumbing has no further need of sorcery and superstition, or so I’ve been told.” So she had indeed been told, more than once, by no less than Master Girays v’Alisante himself. And he’d dismissed her arguments to the contrary with that intolerable superior smugness of his. She only wished that he could be here now to discover how wrong he had been.

  “The ancient disciplines are by no means bereft of their partisans or their practitioners,” vo Rouvignac observed. “Even today there are princes and presidents aplenty known to seek counsel of sorcerous savants. One such ruler is Miltzin IX, king of the Low Hetz. Miltzin, a collector of human oddities, extends his patronage to a number of so-called magical adepts. The favored group includes several known swindlers and confidence men, but at least one member is widely believed to possess genuine talent of a high order. This man—calling himself ‘Nevenskoi,’ and claiming unverifiable Rhazaullean nationality—has let it be known to his sorcerous colleagues all over the civilized world that he has succeeded in kindling a new form of fire, a blaze imbued with rudimentary sentience and subject to its creator’s human will.”

  “The fire is supposed to be aware?” Luzelle demanded. Her companion nodded, and she opined, “Nonsense!”

  “You may well think so, but in fact the report has been confirmed. Too many reliable correspondents have submitted eyewitness accounts of remarkable demonstrations at King Miltzin’s Waterwitch Palace to doubt the truth of Nevenskoi’s disclosure. Clearly this Rhazaullean adept has accomplished all that he claims. The Sentient Fire exists. It is capable of unsupervised advance or retreat, expansion, contraction, gluttonous consumption or self-denial, all at the behest of its human master. The potential military value of such a discovery at this time is incalculable, particularly to those among us disinclined to cultivate a taste for Grewzian offal pudding and Imperiorstein ale.”

  “Hard to believe, with so many so certain that the old arts are dead,” Luzelle murmured. “You’re certain there’s no mistake and no trickery?”

  “Entirely certain.”

  “But how agreeable for His Majesty Miltzin. I suppose the bidding is feverish.”

  “By no means. The king will have none of it. Determined to preserve traditional Hetzian neutrality, Miltzin has declared himself unwilling to part with the secret, to anyone, at any price. Already he has declined a bouquet of assorted offers, resisting the eloquence of the world’s most persuasive ambassadors, including our own. His Majesty displays no sign of weaken
ing, but perhaps the continual importuning has begun to fray the royal nerves. As of last week, all known foreign representatives were expelled from the Low Hetz. Requests for audiences with the king are routinely denied. Diplomatic correspondence is perused by Miltzin’s personal secretaries, and no plea pertaining to the Sentient Fire is permitted to reach the king’s eyes.”

  “Is His Majesty blessed with a singular sense of humor, or is he merely feebleminded?”

  “He is an eccentric one, beyond doubt.”

  “Aren’t there ways of circumventing eccentricity? The Low Hetz hardly qualifies as a great power. What’s to prevent Vonahr from loosing a few regiments upon the city of Toltz, seizing this Nevenskoi, his records and arcana, and conveying all back home to Sherreen without further ado? And why don’t we strike before the Grewzians think of doing the same? Doesn’t it seem to you that every second of delay is—”

  “Softly, Miss Devaire. Do you imagine that you are the first to think of that? The scheme is enterprising but impractical. You see, Miltzin IX keeps his tame sorcerer stowed away in a secret workroom hidden somewhere in the depths of the Waterwitch Palace. The workroom’s location is known to few. Moreover, the Waterwitch itself—built on a small island set amid treacherous swamplands outside of Toltz—is accessible only by means of three successive drawbridges. This location and design, evidently appealing to His Majesty’s sense of whimsy, in fact provide excellent defense. An assault upon the palace is sure to be a protracted affair, during the course of which Nevenskoi and his knowledge will undoubtedly vanish, perhaps forever.”