Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

“Pfaugh, again. Work for apprentice draftsman. No great skill. But one may essay task as étude.” A nod to the underling caused the bill to disappear into a fold of her gown before she scuttled back to her station.

At the appointed time, the Grand Secretary directed the Assistant Palace Undersecretary of Off-World Affairs to escort them into the throne room. “Rags?” the harper whispered in Gaelactic as they proceeded down the hallway. “After all the work I put into this wardrobe?”

“Self-deprecation is mandatory here,” Donovan answered curtly. The Fudir added, “You should see officials defer for places at a banquet table.”

“Och. Mother and I hold to a faith that values humility, but that sort of servility smacks of unseemly pride. And I thought off-worlders were exempt from the rules on bribes…”

“Do you tip service workers? A bribe is simply a tip offered before the service. Besides, I only asked his opinion on the calligraphy of a Gladiola Bill.” Donovan interrupted and said, “Hush, both of you. And remember what we told you. Don’t mention that your mother has vanished. She came from the sky; and if she’s vanished into the sky—”

“Then she’s lost the Approval of the Sky,” the harper returned wearily. “I know. I know.”

Donovan turned to her. “And through her, the emperor she appointed. Tell them your mother’s gone missing and it’s tantamount to a call for revolution. And don’t think old Frog-Face back there won’t lead it, either.”

At the Assistant Undersecretary’s nod, White Rod knocked on the Golden Doors with the head of a mace. These doors ran floor-to-ceiling and were made of intricately carved rosewood displaying in each panel scenes from the life of Morning Dew. The whole was painted over with a golden lacquer. Méarana admired the attention to fine detail: the studied indifference of the scholar at his terminal, the boredom on the face of a bhisti shuttle-pilot. There would not be the like of these doors anywhere in the Spiral Arm.

The doors swung open on a broad room. The throne on which Resilient Services perched was fashioned of solid gold. The stiles had been molded in the form of climbing ivy and from them on threadlike wires hung leaves of artfully tarnished copper. This gave them a greenish cast and, when movement caused them to sway, they tinkled like wind chimes. Under the throne, for some age-long and forgotten reason, rested a large stone. The high back rearing above the yellow-robed emperor, bore four ideograms: the motto of the sheen. “Behold the August Presence,” the Voice of the Sheen cried out. “Behold the Resilient Services Reign, who provides the sheen with robust and reliable infrastructure!”

Now there’s a battle cry to rally the troops, said the Brute.

It works for them. The earthquake destroyed so much. Why not make its restoration a quasi-sacred duty?

The Fudir scolded them. “Quiet. We’re not here to mock their customs.”

“Who,” the Voice demanded, “approaches the August Presence?”

The Fudir bowed, sweeping his arm to the right and holding his left over his heart. “I hight Donovan buigh of Jehovah, special emissary of the Particular Service to the Court of the Morning Dew. My companion is the ollamh Méarana of Dangchao, master of the clairseach.”

The emperor had gone, first pale, then flushed. “Ah. So,” he said. “You much resemble my illustrious predecessor, and I had thought… Ah, I had thought she had returned to resume her duties.” He clapped his hands and a flunky struck a hanging gong. “Bring forth the crumpets and scones!”

Underlings and flunkies scurried about in what appeared to be absolute confusion, but from which in short order emerged a table in the center of the hall, dressed with cloth, napkins, and fine bone-china cups. Three soft-backed chairs were arranged around it, and a silver tea service wheeled into place. A tray of biscuits, ceremoniously escorted, was placed on the table, and the visitors were shown to their seats. The emperor stood and descended from the Ivy Throne, unhooking his yellow robes of state and handing them to the Assistant Deputy Undersecretary, Count Wardrobe, who bundled, folded, and scurried off with an economy of motion.

Beneath his robes, the emperor had been wearing a simple day suit: a cutaway cloth coat of dark blue possessed of brass buttons over a plain buff waistcoat and matching pantaloons. His feet were shod in riding boots with golden spurs; and at his throat was gathered a stiffly starched cravat. He took the seat at the head of the table and, with a flick of his wrist, dismissed his ministers and staff. These scurried to the walls, where they stood in various poses pretending to converse with one another, but watching always for a summons from the Presence.

“Tea?” the Presence said, holding a cup under the samovar.

He proceeded through the ceremony with meticulous detail. One lump or two? Cream? Scone? Jam? Each motion practiced; each stir a precise radius and number of revolutions.

The Fudir supposed this was the Thistlean equivalent to the Terran ceremony of bread and salt. More elaborate, of course, in that mad and fussy Thistlean fashion.

When all had been served by the emperor’s own hand, Resilient Services intoned formally, “We shall now make small talk.”

The harper was uncertain how to begin; but the Fudir said easily, “How do matters stand since the great thistlequake, your imperial majesty? Recovery proceeding apace, I hope?”

“Oh, yes. Quite, thank you,” the emperor responded. “And for duration of Tea, you call me ‘Jimmy.’ Port Tsienchester not yet fully operational; but perhaps by end of sixmonth. You.” He pointed at the harper. “I mistake you for another. She, too, from Kennel. She give mandate to rule. How I curse that day.”

“Bridget ban can be very persuasive,” said the Fudir.

“Ah. You know her.”

“She is my mother,” said the harper.

“And I have been charged to escort the daughter to her.”

The emperor cocked his head. “And where that?”

“I regret, ah, Jimmy, that the information is privileged. You know the ways of the Kennel.”

“Why do you curse the day my mother made you emperor?” the harper interjected. “She made you emperor of one of the Fourteen States.”

“That curse.” Jimmy turned a little in his seat. “See sigils over throne? Love-heaven. Person. Protect. Heaven-below. In ancient tongue: Low tyen chay, pow tyen-sha. It say that man who love heaven-sky will protect empire. But heaven perfect. Never fail, never fall. Heaven-below, Sheen Jenlùshy should be imitate that perfection. Never does. But if emperor love heaven good enough, everything fine below, too. Never fail, never fall. One Man must be regular as sky, must be never-changing. I move in orbit, like planet. Go here, go there. All same ceremony, all same word. All pest black-fly ministers buzz round me. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Do this, do that. All ‘veddy propah.’ No mistake. Mistake in heaven-below cause mistake in heaven-above. Very bad. Calf stillborn. My fault. Did not recite sunrise prayer proper. Bandit rob exchequer in Bristol-fu. My fault. Did not make proper ablution. All universe connected through dough. Everything affect everything. Mountainslide in Northumberchow Shan…”

“Your fault,” said the Fudir. “We get it. I can see cosmic oneness has its drawbacks. If you forget to clip your toenails, who knows what horrors might be unleashed? I can see why none of the Fourteen States wants to conquer the others. Considering what can go wrong in one day in any one sheen, being emperor of the whole kit and kaboodle must have been hell on wheels.”

Jimmy frowned. “Please?”

“Never mind him,” said the harper. “He’s a Terran.”