Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Reign of the Brown Magician

“Terms?” Pel needed a second or two to absorb that; he was still bemused by Curran’s appearance.

Then it sank in, and the matrix turned angry red as he repeated, “Terms?” His voice rang and echoed, and tree-branches creaked warningly.

Ambrose Curran stepped back involuntarily and threw up an arm to shield his eyes as the ragged man vanished behind a blazing, surging cloud of scarlet energy. White and red light flashed across the forest, interspersed with sharp-edged stripes of black shadow where the trees blocked the furious brilliance.

“Yes, my lord,” Curran said, “but I assure you, the terms are not onerous in the least. As His Imperial Majesty’s representative, I promise you we seek only the friendship natural between two great and puissant lords and their respective realms.”

According to accepted protocol that was a proper way to phrase it, but Curran had some doubts as to whether this Brown would like it. From his speech and appearance the man seemed to be rather a rough and ready sort, not a traditional aristocrat at all-and that was hardly surprising, since he was, after all, a usurper.

“I don’t want your fucking emperor’s friendship,” said the roaring voice from the glowing cloud. “I want my wife and child!”

“Of course,” Curran said, just managing to keep his voice steady. He wished he knew whether this obscenity was an indication of the Brown Magician’s fury, or simply a lower-class usurper’s natural style. “And we intend to deliver them, just as soon as we have your assurance that you will cease your interference in Imperial affairs.”

“I don’t give a shit about Imperial affairs!” the voice screamed, and Curran heard branches crack and fall. The cloud was showing several colors now, changing too fast for Curran to name them all. “I want Nancy and Rachel, I want them lowered down a rope from that fucking hole in the sky you’ve got up there, and I want it done now, or you can kiss your whole fucking Galactic Empire good-bye!”

“My lord…”

“Just shut up with that ‘lord’ crap while you’re at it, and get your ass back up that ladder!”

“I have my orders, Mr. Brown…”

“Then they’ve ordered you to die, you stupid son of a bitch! Last chance!”

“And you think they’ll deliver if you kill me?” Curran shouted, backing away another step.

The air suddenly stilled, and for a moment an unnatural silence fell. Then the voice spoke again, and to Curran it sounded more like growling machinery than like anything human.

“State your terms, then, errand boy.”

Curran did not think this was the time for formality or protocol; he gave his position in the simplest, most direct way he could. “We want your spies withdrawn, that’s all. We know we didn’t get them all. We want them out of the Empire, and your word that you won’t send more. As soon as they’re gone, we deliver the bodies.”

Again there was a moment of eerie stillness. Then the voice, once again sounding human, said, “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“You really want them withdrawn, or would you rather they turned themselves in? You could question them about whatever they did for Shadow before I took over; might be interesting for your cops.”

Curran hesitated. That hadn’t been covered in his instructions; no one had considered the possibility that Brown could be so ruthless as to turn his own people over to Imperial Intelligence.

It seemed an irresistible opportunity, and after all, if Secretary Sheffield decided it was a mistake, he could just have them all sent through the warp.

Or killed.

“Either one would be satisfactory,” he said.

“They’ll turn themselves in, then,” the voice said. “Easier for me-I don’t have any use for them here.”

“As you please.”

“It may take a few days for word to reach ’em all.”

“Of course.”

“If you get back up that ladder and get the gears turning on your end, I’ll get started on mine. I want those corpses soon -you tell your people that. No more stupid delays; as soon as my people start surrendering, you get those bodies here.”

“I’ll deliver your terms, of course.” Curran bowed again.

“Go on, then!”

Curran turned and walked off with as much dignity as he could muster, hoping he wouldn’t have any difficulty finding the ladder and donning his space suit in the dark.

He was not looking forward to that long climb.

The welcome at the top should be pleasant enough, though; Brown had, after all, agreed.

* * * *

Pel didn’t bother to watch as the Imperial geek put his space suit on and started up the ladder; despite his shouting, he knew it would be hours before Curran could get his message through and the bureaucracy could process it. He didn’t really expect the bodies to be delivered for a day or so.

Pel shook his head as he trudged back toward I.S.S. Christopher.

That outfit Curran wore was really amazing; now that Pel was over his initial surprise and subsequent fury, he could marvel at its absurdity. The Galactic Empire really did have some odd quirks. Why would they dress their ambassadors, or whatever they were, like that?

It certainly made them distinctive, anyway.

Which was probably the point.

If that regalia was what ambassadors wore, what did the Emperor wear for formal occasions?

It didn’t matter, of course. What mattered was getting Nancy and Rachel back. And that would be easy enough; all he had to do was order Gregory to spread the word-everyone was to pass the message on, then surrender to the Imperial authorities.

That was really reasonable enough; when Pel had first heard that the Empire had terms he had expected something difficult or unpleasant. Once he had his family back, though, what did he need spies for?

He wondered what the Empire would do with them all; Pel didn’t know himself how extensive Shadow’s network of spies actually was, but he was fairly sure there were at least a couple of dozen. He supposed they’d wind up serving time in prison for espionage.

If they had been real people, Pel might have felt guilty about that, but surely they were all simulacra or fetches or other Shadow-creatures, and from everything he’d seen of those, they had such a flattened emotional response that prison probably wouldn’t bother them much.

And maybe he could work some sort of trade later on, buy them free somehow.

Maybe he should have said that he’d withdraw them, rather than suggesting that they turn themselves in-but what would he have done with them all, here in Faerie? They’d have just been in the way.

And it would have taken ages to round them all up.

He stumbled over a broken branch, and, annoyed, vaporized it in a shower of emerald-green sparks.

Then he was in the clearing, the bat-thing’s remains rearing up before him in an eerie maze of black flesh and white bone; he marched past without paying much attention, up to the hatchway of Christopher.

He’d open his portal to Gregory’s place, whatever it was, aboard the ship; he didn’t want to do it out here in the open, where stray birds or chipmunks or something might wander through it. He wondered if birds ever flew into the Empire’s space-warp up there, to emerge into vacuum and die.

That was a nasty thought.

And for that matter, he wondered why air didn’t flow constantly through the opening into the space beyond. Did the warp create some sort of static field, perhaps, that held it back?

He didn’t know-and it didn’t matter.

The interior of the ship wasn’t quite as he remembered it; there were dead leaves here and there, a few seats had been removed, and it appeared that something had chewed at some of the maroon leatherette upholstery.