2

Audiences

Down the passage in Tiriel’s Tower, men and women on plastic chairs and the Tempestas payroll map the progress of the corrosive storms sweeping away the last remnants of the old world, but here in Lord Vane’s study, news arrives, and orders leave, on paper. He is deeply radical and yet deeply conservative. One such order has brought his only son’s young governess, Nancy Baldwin, to the door. She knocks. ‘In!’ bellows Lord Vane, who does not wait for the door to close before delivering his diatribe: ‘Why is that boy simpering over art books?’

‘I was asked to give him an education,’ replies Miss Baldwin gamely. Stocky in build, with a plain but resolute face, she stands her ground physically as she does in argument.

‘He is heir to the world’s last kingdom, not a student of daubs and scribblings.’

The boy, thirteen today, stands awkwardly to one side of his father’s large, ornate desk, hands behind his back. ‘It’s only two hours a week,’ he interjects quietly.

‘You speak when you’re spoken to,’ snaps Lord Vane in a voice which cows most opposition.

But the boy has learnt courage from Miss Baldwin. ‘She teaches me Machiavelli too,’ he says.

‘Does she, now? It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both. Do you teach that, Miss Baldwin?’

The boy interrupts a second time. ‘Two impulses drive us: love or fear. Isn’t that the choice we rulers have to make?’

Lord Vane rises from his equally ornate chair. He approaches his son, as if to strike him. Instead, he spins round to face Miss Baldwin once more.

‘From now on, he’ll be taught by the Master of the Weather- Watchers.’

The boy’s head sinks low to his chest.

‘Mr Jaggard is no teacher,’ says Miss Baldwin. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘He is not a man who shares.’ ‘He will if I tell him to.’

‘And he revels in our tragedy.’

‘Our tragedy? You mean theirs! If the world had listened, if the world had acted, most could – would – have survived. More to the point, Jaggard has a clever son about the same age. They’ll get on famously.’

Clever, indeed, she thinks, but slippery as an eel and not her idea of a good influence.

Lord Vane softens, and that is his reputation: generous, once he has had his way. ‘I’m not dismissing you, of course. You can help young Potts with the library databases.’ He turns back to his son. ‘But no art books for you, now or ever.’

Next in is a fresh-faced Peregrine Mander.

‘Ah, young Mander! Is the art of the old world logged and recorded?’ asks Lord Vane, sitting down again at his magnificent pedestal desk.

‘Hardly all of it, my Lord, but what I hope is the crème de la crème.’ ‘Your postcard idea was genius. No galleries to turn people soft,

but a space-efficient record of our wasted craftsmanship.’ ‘I’m pleased you approve, my Lord.’

‘Just keep my son away from them. Arty-farties are unfit to govern.’ ‘I have limited experience on that topic,’ replies Mander cautiously.

‘Miss Baldwin says you’ve mastered the Matter-Rearranger.’ ‘You never master the culinary arts, you merely develop them.’ Lord Vane smiles rarely these days, but he does now.

‘I have to say, Mander, you speak like a man in his sixties.’ ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, my Lord.’

‘Good, because I’ve a proposal. I need a fetcher and carrier. Someone to make mealtimes a pleasure. Someone trustworthy, to keep an eye. Are you up for it?’

Mander nods gently as Lord Vane encourages him.

‘I want you to stand out and be respected. So, how about the traditional kit?’

‘Which tradition is that, my Lord?’ ‘Personal service.’

‘Ah, the gentleman’s gentleman.’ Mander mulls, but briefly. ‘I shall visit the Tempestas’ tailor this very afternoon.’

In Mander’s complex mind, it is rare for an offer to seem instantly right, but this one does. He will be inside the citadel of power, yet will pose no threat in his white tie and tails. The dress and deferential language of the butler will make him near invisible, but, boy, he will listen. And, in his own way, he will act. Lord Vane has no idea what a promotion this is.

‘So, you’re game?’

Game he is, and game is the word. ‘I trust I’ll not disappoint, my Lord.’

‘That’s settled, then. I feel this will be a long and fruitful rela- tionship. Keep an eye on my son, too. We can’t have a wimp for an heir.’

Two satisfactory audiences, from Lord Vane’s perspective: objec- tives accomplished without conflict. But the next may be more testing.

A young outlier waltzes in, no respectful pause at the threshold like the others. She looks a maverick too: one eyebrow higher than the other, a nose which tilts slightly to the right, a quizzical lopsided smile. At least the eyes are the same colour. They say she is a sponge for detail and mistress of the colourful phrase.