Robert Silverberg: The Palace at Midnight

He said sharply, “Is that what you came here for, to ask our help against San Jose?”

She stared at him in surprise. “Are you in a hurry, Mr. Christensen?”

“Not particularly.”

“You sound awfully impatient. We’re still making preliminary conversation, having a drink, two diplomats playing the diplomatic game. Isn’t that so?”

“Well?”

“I was telling you what happened to me on the way north. In response to your question. Then I was filling you in on current political developments. I didn’t expect you to snap at me like that.”

“Did I snap?”

“It sounded like snapping to me,” she said.

Christensen took a deep pull of his bourbon and water and gave her a long steady look. She met his gaze imperturbably. She looked annoyed, amused and very very tough. After a time, when some of the red haze of irrational anger and fatigue had cleared from his mind, he said quietly, “I had about four hours sleep last night and I wasn’t expecting an envoy from Monterey today. I’m tired and edgy, and if I sounded impatient or harsh or snappish, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I understand.”

“Another bourbon or two and I’ll be properly unwound.” He held his empty glass toward the hovering waiter. “A refill for you, too?” he asked her.

“Yes. Please.” In a formal tone she said, “Is the Emperor in good health?”

“Not bad. He hasn’t really been well for a couple of years, but he’s holding his own. And President Morgan?”

“Fine,” she said. “Hunting wild boar in Big Sur this week.”

“A nice life it must be, President of Monterey. I’ve always liked Monterey. So much quieter and cleaner and more sensible down there than in San Francisco.”

“Too quiet sometimes. I envy you the excitement here.”

“Yes. The rapes, the muggings, the arson, the mass meetings, the race wars, the—”

“Please,” she said gently.

He realized he had begun to rant. There was a throbbing behind his eyes. He worked to gain control of himself.

“Did my voice get too loud?”

“You must be terribly tired. Look, we can confer in the morning if you’d prefer. It isn’t that urgent. Suppose we have dinner and not talk politics at all and get rooms here, and tomorrow after breakfast we can—”

“No,” Christensen said. “My nerves are a little ragged, that’s all. But I’ll try to be more civil. And I’d rather not wait until tomorrow to find out what this is all about. Suppose you give me a précis of it now, and if it sounds too complicated, I’ll sleep on it and we can discuss it in detail tomorrow. Yes?”

“All right.” She put her drink down and sat quite still, as if arranging her thoughts. At length she said, “The Republic of Monterey maintains close ties with the Free State of Mendocino. I understand that Mendocino and the Empire broke off relations a little while back.”

“A fishing dispute; nothing major.”

“But you have no direct contact with them right now. Therefore this should come as news to you. The Mendocino people have learned, and have communicated to our representative there, that an invasion of San Francisco is imminent.”

Christensen blinked twice. “By whom?”

“The Realm of Wicca,” she said.

“Flying down from Oregon on their broomsticks?”

“Please. I’m being serious.”

“Unless things have changed up there,” Christensen said, “the Realm of Wicca is nonviolent, like all the neopagan states. As I understand it, they tend their farms and practice their little pagan rituals and do a lot of dancing around the maypole and chanting and screwing, and that’s it. You expect me to believe that a bunch of gentle goofy witches is going to make war on the Empire?”

She said, “Not war. But definitely an invasion.”

“Explain.”

“One of their high priests has proclaimed San Francisco a holy place and has instructed them to come down here and build a Stonehenge in Golden Gate Park in time for proper celebration of the winter solstice. There are at least a quarter of a million neopagans in the Willamette Valley and more than half of them are expected to take part. According to our Mendocino man, the migration has already begun, and thousands of Wiccans are spread out between Mount Shasta and Ukiah right now. The solstice is only seven weeks away. The Wiccans may be gentle, but you’re going to have a hundred fifty thousand of them in San Francisco by the end of the month, pitching tents all over town.”

“Holy Jesus,” Christensen muttered, and closed his eyes.

“Can you feed that many strangers? Can you find room for them? Are the people of San Francisco going to meet them with open arms? Is it going to be a festival of love?”

“It’ll be a fucking massacre,” Christensen said tonelessly.

“Yes. And the witches may be nonviolent but they know how to practice self-defense. Once they’re attacked, there’ll be rivers of blood in the city, and it won’t all be Wiccan blood.”

Christensen’s head was pounding again. She was absolutely right—chaos, strife, bloodshed. And a merry Christmas to all. He rubbed his aching forehead, turned away from her and stared out at the deepening twilight and the sparkling lights of the city on the other side of the bay. A bleak bitter depression was taking hold of his spirit. He signaled for another round of drinks. Then he said slowly, “They can’t be allowed to enter the city. We’ll need to close the imperial frontier and turn them back before they get as far as Santa Rosa. Let them build their goddamned Stonehenge in Sacramento if they like.” His eyes flickered. He started to assemble ideas. “The Empire might just have enough troops to contain the Wiccans by itself, but I think this is best handled as a regional problem. We’ll call in forces from our allies as far out as Petaluma and Napa and Palo Alto. I don’t imagine we can expect much help from the Free State or from San Jose. And of course Monterey isn’t much of a military power, but still—”

“We are willing to help you,” Ms. Sawyer said.

“To what extent?”

“We aren’t set up for much actual warfare, no, but we have access to our own alliances from Salinas down to Paso Robles, and we could call up, say, five thousand troops all told.”

“That would be very helpful,” said Christensen.

“It shouldn’t be necessary for there to be any combat. With the imperial border sealed and troops posted along the line from Guerneville to Sacramento, the Wiccans won’t force the issue. They’ll revise their revelation and celebrate the solstice somewhere else.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you’re right.” He leaned toward her and said, “Why is Monterey willing to help us?”

“We have problems of our own brewing—with San Jose. If we are seen making a conspicuous gesture of solidarity with the Empire, it might discourage San Jose from proceeding with its notion of annexing Santa Cruz, don’t you think? That amounts to an act of war against us. Surely San Jose isn’t interested in making any moves that will bring the Empire down on its back.”

“I see,” said Christensen. She wasn’t subtle, but she was effective. Quid pro quo, we help you keep the witches out, you help us keep San Jose in line, and all remains well without a shot being fired. These goddamned little nations, he thought, these absurd jerkwater sovereignties, with their wars and alliances and shifting confederations—it was like a game, it was like playground politics. Except that it was real. What had fallen apart was not going to be put back together, not for a long while, and this miniaturized weltpolitik was the realest reality there was just now. At least things were saner in Northern California than they were down south where Los Angeles was gobbling everything, but there were rumors that Pasadena had the bomb. Nobody had to contend with that up here. Christensen said, “I’ll have to propose all this to the defense ministry, of course. And get the Emperor’s approval. But basically I’m in agreement with your thinking.”