Peter Hamilton - The Evolutionary Void

Every second sentence is a criticism these days . “It is centered correctly,” Edeard persisted stoically. He permitted a hint of excitement to filter through his mental shield.

Kristabel let out a sigh of exasperation and concentrated on the image.

“There’s a … I don’t know, it’s like a little white nebula.”

“It’s not a nebula.”

She straightened up. “Edeard!”

“An hour ago it was several degrees farther from Alakkad. It’s moving. And before you ask, it’s not a comet, either.”

Kristabel’s anger vanished. She gave him a shocked look, then bent to the telescope again. “Is it a ship? Has it come from outside the Void like the one which brought Rah and the Lady?”

“No.” He put his arms around her and smiled down into her confused face. “It’s a Skylord.”

Mayor Trahaval was throwing a large party every second night, moving through the districts with a relentless pace to drum up support for himself and the local representative candidates who endorsed him. The Seahall was the only place in Bellis grand enough for such an occasion. With its unusual concave walls shaded a deep azure supporting a roof that was made from clashing wave cones, it really did have a marine theme, even down to the unusual ripple fountains that curved around the ten arching doorways. This evening the usual seating had been removed to make room for the tables laden with food, and a small band was playing at the center. The guests had been chosen with almost as much care as had gone into the lavish canapes. There was a broad mix of Bellis citizens to socialize with Trahaval and his entourage of stalwart supporters, from the smaller merchant families desperate for political influence to street association chiefs, local guildsmen, and ancient Grand Family patriarchs and matriarchs, as well as a vetted selection of “ordinary working folk.” The idea was the same as it was for every party in every election. Trahaval and the Upper Councillors would mingle with and talk to as many people as possible so they would spread the word among their friends and family that he wasn’t aloof after all, that he understood everyday problems, that he had a sense of humor and knew a good bit of gossip about his rivals and some Grand Family sons and daughters.

Edeard had no idea how many times he’d been to identical parties over the last four decades. The only number that registered was too many .

“Oh, come on,” Kristabel said quietly as they made their way under the gurgling water that surrounded the main doorway. “You can do this.”

“There’s a difference between can and want to ,” he murmured back. Then people noticed that the Waterwalker and the mistress of Haxpen had arrived. Hopeful smiles spread like wildfire. Edeard put on an equally enthusiastic “happy to be here” face for everyone to see, twinning the burst of enthusiasm from his mind. He helped Kristabel out of her scarlet and topaz cloak, unbuttoned his own signature black leather cloak, and handed both to a doorman.

I wonder if the Opera House cloakroom fiends are here tonight? They’d get a good haul out of this lot .

“Macsen and Kanseen are here; look,” he said cheerfully.

“You’re not to talk to them until you’ve talked to at least fifteen other couples,” Kristabel ordered. “Once you and Macsen start, that’s it for the evening.”

“Yes, dear.” But he grinned because the rebuke wasn’t as sharp as they had been of late. Kristabel had actually brightened up considerably in the last few days since he’d spotted the Skylord. And anyway, she’s right. Macsen and I are a pair of dreadful old bores .

A third hand pinched sharply. “And less of that,” she warned.

“Yes, yes, dear.”

They smiled at each other, then parted. It was easier to work the crowd separately, they’d found.

A wine importer cornered him first. The man and his very young wife were keen for trade with Golspith province, where some excellent vineyards were producing some wonderful new varieties. The merchant’s third hand plucked a glass from a waiter. It turned out he was proud to be sponsoring all the party’s drinks for Mayor Trahaval tonight. Edeard took a sip and agreed the new wine was all he had promised. “So if you could see your way to mentioning the ruinous tariffs to your beautiful wife …” Which Edeard promised he would do.

Funny how people still thought he was the boss in their marriage.

Then came the street traders’ association chief. The man assured the Waterwalker of his vote and those of his fellows for Chief Constable, but then, Edeard had always taken care to maintain good relationships with the associations.

Next was a Guild Master from the shipyards. A local Councillor, a woman: “Just completely inspired by your wife, so I stood at the last election, and now I’m on the Council.” Three sons from the district’s Grand Families, wanting his opinion of joining the militia regiment. A shopkeeper. A chinaware dealer called Zanlan, who was the fifth son of a third son in a big merchant family, inordinately pleased to have broken free and set up for himself, importing interesting new cargoes from many provinces. “I’m a member of the Apricot Cottage Fellowship,” he told Edeard proudly.

“I think I’ve heard of it,” Edeard muttered diplomatically.

“We’re new, a generation like myself who aren’t going to sit about living off our families. Things are changing on Querencia, and we want to grasp those opportunities for ourselves.”

“That’s the kind of talk I like to hear,” Edeard said, genuinely impressed.

“Of course, none of the established guilds and associations recognize us. They’re probably frightened of the competition. And the Orchard Palace ignores us completely; we get frozen out of so-called open contracts.”

“Leave it with me,” Edeard promised. “I’ll make some inquiries.”

“All we ask for is a fair market.”

Then there was a blacksmith. A female apprentice from the Eggshaper Guild who was a little overawed and a little drunk.

He was on his fifth glass of the appalling new wines and his third plate of heavily spiced pastries when he caught sight of Jiska and hurried over. “You count as a party guest,” he told her. “Talk to me.”

“Oh, poor Daddy. Is Mummy bullying you horribly again?”

“I’m on a quota.”

“Sounds dreadful.” She gave him a knowing grin. Jiska was the second of their seven children, blessed with her mother’s fine-featured beauty but with Edeard’s dark hair. She was wearing a simple sky-blue dress with a narrow skirt, contrary to this season’s fashion. But then, Jiska had never gone for the excesses of Makkathran’s society, for which Edeard was extremely thankful.

“So where’s Natran?” he asked.

“He sends his apologies; there was some crisis at the ship. The new sails weren’t right; bad rigging or something.”

“There’s always a crisis with that ship. Is it actually seaworthy?”

“Daddy!”

“Sorry.” Actually, he quite liked Natran. The man was from a trading family, but after serving time with the family fleet, he’d acquired a boat of his own. He was determined to found his own fleet and fortune.

“He’s doing very well for himself, you know,” Jiska said defensively. “His agents have several profitable cargoes lined up.”

“I’m sure they have. He’s a smart young man with a whole load of prospects.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh … have you ever heard of the Apricot Cottage Fellowship?”

“Yes, of course. Natran is affiliated. It’s made up of people with a similar background to himself who’ve banded together for a greater political voice. What’s wrong with that?”