Читать книгу Trekmaster - James B. Johnson - Страница 15

11. TJ

“Forgive me. Padre, for I have sinned.”

“You do not even know the meaning of the word.” The Chief Padre put ice into his voice.

“Are you plotting against me? Would you take my life?” TJ made his voice just as hard. He fixed Roaland Cruz with a stony glare.

“If it were the Lord’s will,” Cruz replied evenly.

The admission surprised TJ and made him wonder if he was pursuing a wrong guess. “Is it?”

“I know not.” Cruz shrugged.

TJ decided to try a different track. “Have your padres reported anyone confessing to attempting murder or hiring assassins?” He knew Cruz wouldn’t answer, but his question established the gravity of the situation to the padre and put an unspoken threat out in the open.

“I could not say so if it were so. And if one did, the father-confessor would not tell it.”

Like hell, TJ thought. He knew anything that could be of use to the padrehood would be passed up the line, particularly something of political importance to Cruz.

TJ had tightened his security. He wanted to show a sense of practical concern, one that would make potential and real adversaries think a long time before they challenged him, either openly or as they had been, in secret. He had allowed some of his famous anger to seep through publicly. He scowled about court and was harsh in judgments. At his direction, known criminals were being rounded up about the city and interrogated. He had little hope for success with this, but it was a fine show of royal strength and prerogative. Additionally, it flagged his determination to his enemies.

Padre Roaland Cruz stood before him. Camp slumped in a corner. TJ’s guards stood outside the Chief Padre’s receiving chambers. TJ had found it more effective to storm into the territory of others rather than order them into his presence at the palace. Not only did it impress people with his power, but showed his impatience and urgency. TJ folded his hands behind him and began pacing. Cruz’ chambers were thoughtfully appointed—comfortable but bare. Obviously the Chief Padre did not wish to flaunt any wealth here where he greeted most visitors. Yet TJ knew Cruz had a taste for luxury, fine wines, and thoroughbred horses for breeding and racing. Unlike many of his padres, Cruz had no penchant for women. TJ regretted Cruz’ vows of abstinence for it took away one possible handle to the Chief Padre. Even though celibacy was no longer required by the Church, many of the padres still practiced it. TJ looked at the simple cross attached to the wall. Then he glared at Cruz again, trying to make him nervous, silence speaking more than words. Cruz cleared his throat and TJ thought that it was lucky for Cruz that he had to wear those cumbersome brown robes since his legs were like parentheses. His drawn face was thin and clean shaven, topped by the regulation short hair.

“Perhaps, TJ,” Cruz said, “there are some zealots who like not what you have done to the Church.”

Was Cruz trying to misdirect his attention by admitting the possibility? “A hell of a lot of them,” TJ said. “Though, as usual, they pay no attention.”

“I’ve heard that speech before, TJ,” Cruz said.

TJ ignored him. “Devil’s balls. I conquer the whole planet, for all practical purposes, and you as Chief Padre in Crimson Sapphire inherit that mantle for all Catholics on Bear Ridge. No longer do you lord over one simple kingdom, now you have a whole planet of souls to play with.” That is to say, thought TJ, you owe me.

Cruz looked exasperated. “What with all your bureaucratic levels in the ethnarchies and your constant governmental reorganizations, we hardly ever find the right officials to plead our case.” He paused and rearranged his robes about his knees. “Also, mind you, that the padrehood in the outer ethnarchies is looked upon as suspiciously as are your bureaucrats. It is not an easy life for my padres when they’re considered invaders, carpetbaggers.”

TJ ignored this last—it was a recurring argument between them. “Take your case to the people. I will not interfere—but you’d best not interfere with the Muslims or Protestants. You can have all the atheists you can find.”

“You, TJ, are you atheist?”

“No.”

“You are drifting away....”

“Roaland, you know damn well I have no interest in confessing to you or your minions of padres.” TJ cursed inwardly, knowing somehow Cruz had gotten them back to their old argument and distracted him from his purpose of coming here. Their discussions almost always ended with Cruz accusing him of killing indiscriminately and TJ shouting that Cruz and his Church had benefitted from the Consolidation wars. He was aware of the lapses in logic on both sides, and suspected Cruz was, too.

“Cut the beefaloe skin. Padre. I would like to know who is trying to kill me. And why. Perhaps some extremist group of padres? Rebels? Who?”

“None,” Cruz said as if it were the last word.

“I warn you. Padre....”

“Warn me?” Cruz’ face tightened and his eyes seemed to expand.

“Not only do I warn you, Padre, I threaten you or any of your padres should you or they be involved. Also, you can put this in your canons: do not interfere in my plans for entry into the Federation.”

Cruz began waving his arms in that specific manner that was noted across the land. Thousands made annual pilgrimages to Crimson Sapphire to attend his services. “Your Majesty, you overstep your bounds. You mind your state business and I shall mind the business of the Lord.” He waved his arms, became conscious that he was doing so, and settled his hands on his hips. “The people are under my spiritual charge. I do not think the people of Bear Ridge are ready for your coming age. We are not ready. And I oppose what you are doing to gain technology and commerce with other planets. I shall oppose you legally where possible; I shall oppose you theologically at every step. The message shall go out to every padre and every flock.”

TJ kept his face from reacting. He suspected Cruz had already done what he was promising to do. He found it tricky and dangerous to his rule to crowd the Church too much. Certainly he had the power—but how long would that power last if he simply had his way in everything? No, he had to work within the system, cajoling, tricking, deftly and diplomatically manipulating. Using as little of his royal power as he possibly could. Then Cruz surprised him.

“You intend to place, perhaps one day, a space field out on the plain, do you not? Where the wonderful farming soil is thirty feet deep?”

Taken aback at the change of subject, TJ nodded. “Yes, we can farm elsewhere.”

“And where do the whorehouses go?” Cruz demanded. “And the gambling dens? And the moneychangers? And the beggars selling their sisters to the spacemen? Tell me where?”

“We have already got prostitution,” TJ said, tone defensive.

“Yes. and for that I cannot dream what terrible punishment God will make your lot for eternity.”

“Probably to sit and listen to religious services,” TJ snapped.

“Flippant blasphemy.” Cruz stabbed his finger at TJ’s chest. “Just as naming the Muster medallion after the Finger of God. Placing God’s name on a symbol for killing.”

“Padre, you...,” TJ started, then stopped. One of the mysteries of the Muster medallion was what the symbol on it referred to and meant. And TJ was content to allow speculation. For he knew none who suspected the answer would tell it. “Think what you like, Chief Padre.” His voice was curt.

“As you will, Highness. You must excuse me, for I have to plan a crusade which just occurred to me.”

TJ’s eyes glinted. “Do not cross me, Cruz, for here I am the supreme authority. I judge that you have just made a threat. And I judge your crusade will be against Fed membership.” He held up a large palm. “Do not interrupt me when I speak. For this is the one and only warning. Should you choose to go ahead with your plans, I shall amend the tax laws to include your Churches, their property, and your finances. Take about ten minutes. And the tax rate, since your income is, in effect, unearned, shall be ruinous.” TJ found he could barely contain his anger—yet he knew it was wrong. He should have been more diplomatic with Cruz, conned him a little, given some ground for the Chief Padre’s support.

Cruz’ face expressed disbelief. “You wouldn’t dare. It would end in a religious war none of us could afford.”

TJ couldn’t ignore the unmistaken challenge. “If so, the Church would have many martyrs to consecrate. Do you, Roaland Cruz, wish to be the cause of so many deaths?” Oddly, he recalled a statement from his reading of Earthe history. “Stalin once asked, ‘How many divisions has the Pope?’”

Cruz ignored the comment. “I know you, Shepherd, and that you would do....”

“What you do not realize, Padre, is that if a religious war breaks out, we shall certainly not obtain the Federation Council seat. And I will have no ambitions left to me, and nothing else to do—save squelch your puny rebellion to ease my anger.” He saw that Summer was now standing, body tensed. TJ forced himself to relax.

Cruz said, “Your position is understood, Majesty, and shall be taken under consideration.”

TJ couldn’t resist a last shot. “Could it be, Padre, that you envision a Church-run world with yourself at the helm?”

“It could be no worse. But that is not my intention.”

“Good day then, Padre. Watch your step for there are many pitfalls along the road of power. And I am a mean pitfall.” He did not wait for a response, but turned and strode out of the room. The jester scurried to catch up. Down the corridors they went, surrounded by guards and scattering lesser padres and acolytes from their path. TJ wondered how serious Cruz was. Cruz had always been right there at the periphery of the action, a dedicated man certainly, but an opportunist nonetheless. Both of them had always been careful not to overstep themselves, both aware of the no-win situation. Neither would personally win any power struggle regardless of who emerged victorious. Yet TJ had never seen Cruz so angry. He wished he himself had been able to control his temper better. But on the rare occasions he gave in to the impulse, he immediately felt better. It was difficult to be impartial, benign, gracious—kingly.

Outside, he climbed upon his stallion. The black pranced a little on his white-stocking feet. TJ had found stallions always skittish, yet he must ride the most magnificent to be found. Image sometimes was everything. His guards hurried to catch up. The dozen men clattered on the flagstones to Bearpaw Avenue, a main thoroughfare through the city. Summer Camp rode a splotched mule in his accustomed position at TJ’s left side. TJ was right-handed and Camp ambidextrous.

People waved and shouted and smiled. TJ forced himself to change roles and submerged his anger. Actually, he really liked this part of being King. Vanity? he wondered. Maybe. But he still enjoyed the feeling.

“TJ,” Summer said in a voice designed to reach the King’s ears only, “if you meant to stir the pot, you done it good. You’ve got one snarv-mad Chief Padre on your hands.”

“Did you really think he would admit to being a part of some plot? No. A little prodding here and there and maybe the opposition’s plan will be moved up, tried in haste next time. And thus be more vulnerable.”

“Slow down a bit,” Camp said, kicking his mule in the sides to urge the animal to keep up with the King. His floppy, long-tailed jester’s hat blew in the wind and makeup concealed his appearance. “I don’t know if these scare tactics will work. If these people, whoever they are, know what they are doing, we won’t catch them this way. Especially if it is a deep plot to prevent our entry into the Fed.”

“And if we don’t find them this way, Summer, we’ll know they are professional at least, and that they plan well. Which will be more than we know right now.” TJ paused. Wearily, he said, “I fear that it may escalate. Suppose it is not one specific group but a coalition? Then the opposition powerbase would be spread out and thus more difficult to contend.”

“Point taken, boss. Here’s a big crowd. Smile.”

“Got any candy for those kids?”

“In my saddlebags.” Summer tossed rock candy to street urchins. Among the candy were coins of small denominations. Originally, he had instigated throwing candy and coins to children as a tactic to get them out of the way so the King’s party could travel uninterrupted, but the practice had become custom—and Summer had thus insured that it did not appear to be a gesture of largess from a condescending King.

“In another generation, Summer, those kids will be in school learning how to install showers and work on weather satellites and not be on the street.”

“You hope.”

“I know.” He felt a surge of confidence that wasn’t really warranted. But his verbal battle with Cruz had sharpened his perceptions and given him a taste of action, passive though it had been.

“Hopefully your plans will work out.”

TJ tugged on the reins to slow his mount. “Summer, you are trying to say something. Say it.”

“Sure, boss. If the Chief Padre wasn’t a part of a conspiracy against the crown before, he will be now.”

“Cruz is smart, full of political savvy,” TJ said. “He’d jump at the right opportunity regardless. But he’s not going to expose himself, take chances. No, we can yell at each other all day—that won’t change things except on the surface. However, we’d better watch him close. And he’s not my problem. What I’m worrying about is how to discredit Tirano. That has me worried.”

“He’s a fool, TJ. He’ll sink himself.”

“It’s not that easy, Summer. Look at it from the Fed’s point of view. All things being equal, which would they choose—Bear Ridge or Two Tongues? Tirano and Two Tongues of course.”

“Toss-up.”

“Good thing I’m the King,” TJ said. “The Fed can reap profits from Two Tongues we cannot match. That silly little mite dust. As if anybody needs an aphrodisiac. Anyway, the Fed simply slaps a tax on the dust and their budget is balanced for the next Fed fiscal year. They are not politically stupid. Surely they’ve had their eyes on Two Tongues since they rediscovered this system. We might even have been admitted to consideration just to make the selection of Two Tongues for the Council seat look legitimate and fair. Lord knows they’ve had plenty of time to evaluate. Why did they send such a young and inexperienced evaluator as Sharon Gold? And certainly they know Tirano and his peculiarities. So they don’t care if Tirano is an ass or not, they care about the revenue he can bring and, consequently, the power. That expensive mite dust provides one fine power base. Ironic isn’t it?”

Summer didn’t answer.

TJ concentrated on not colliding with Lieutenant Timmons in front of him. “What we need,” he thought aloud, “is to come up with something from Bear Ridge that is appealing to the Fed and that would provide a comparable tax base.”

“I might not be King,” Summer said, “but I know there ain’t any easy answers. What do we have? Sheepaloe hides? Beefaloe meat? Funny wood for crossbows? Super wool from sheepaloe? Those things don’t match with energy weapons and synthetic fabrics.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be a product, Summer.”

“Oh?”

“How are we on time?” TJ changed the subject.

“Close.”

Ahead of them on Bearpaw Avenue, TJ saw the grandiose building that housed the Forty. Circular, with stone pillars, it sat upon a low hill where it seemed to lord over its surroundings. The Forty was the sitting body of the major nobles left in Crimson Sapphire. And they also spoke, as representatives, for the few remaining nobility outside of the capital city. TJ, as victor in the Consolidation wars, had stripped titles and property from nobles of vanquished countries and city-states who had opposed him. The nobility of Crimson Sapphire had fared better as a result of being on the winning side. And, TJ admitted, it would have been political suicide to eliminate them. But he had been minutely eroding their power on every occasion he could. And had made no nobles, given no titles.

They dismounted and the lieutenant and a squad of the palace guard went ahead to announce his arrival.

TJ, with Summer cavorting at his side, strode confidently up the wide marble stairs and down the corridor to the amphitheater where the nobles had gathered. He had called them into session this morning, allowing time only for notification. TJ wanted the Forty off balance for this meeting. As he entered, he put a scowl on his face and walked purposefully down a ramp to the center of the large room. The other squad of soldiers escorted him. The first squad was already positioned around the upper level. Nobles stood quietly at their places in a semicircle up the dozen levels of seating. TJ arrived at the floor of the chamber and his guards split and turned to face the crowd. TJ walked to the dais in the center. The current president of the Forty, the Lord Mayor of Montreal, knelt before him. Montreal was the closest city to Crimson Sapphire and had been under Shepherd rule before the Consolidation wars.

TJ paused, looked searchingly at the man at his feet, and turned to look about the room. He said nothing. After he judged the pause long enough to establish his dominance, he indicated the president to rise. TJ did not give the sign for the Forty to sit.

TJ fixed his gaze on the president’s eyes. “Was it you, Franz?”

The Lord Mayor of Montreal involuntarily stepped back. TJ’s words were the prearranged signal to his guards. The squad at the top of the room cocked their crossbows. The squad on the floor facing the nobles pulled their war assegais to the ready position. A little drama TJ had designed.

“No, Your Majesty,” Franz said. He was a man of average height, given to wearing conservative dress. Since TJ had changed the ground rules on the nobility, they had become more business oriented, more involved in the dealings of their holdings, and thus less the deliberative body. They still advised the King, yet he seldom sought their advice. TJ knew his program for the nobility was working—since they had stopped interfering with government so much and started directing their own businesses, most of the nobility had become wealthier and their holdings had increased. TJ was confident that as long as the profits held or rose, he had effectively severed the nobility’s authority and thus decreased their power. Now he had only to deal with them as a formality—or as merchants. Franz fidgeted and obviously felt he had to say something. “Does Your Majesty suspect us of complicity in the assassination attempt?”

“I suspect everybody, Franz, you in particular. Would you have my throne?”

“No, Sire, I....”

“Or would you rather have electricity and aircars—or own the rights to some new technology?” He scanned the room. “What is it to be, Franz? Make your choice now. Do you want to try for my crown, or do you wish to be one who controls commerce to and from Bear Ridge? I suspect the landholders and industrialists in this room won’t be able to count their profits.” TJ saw that Franz was shaking off the intimidating effects of the Gyrenes.

“Our position is well known, Majesty, we are with you.”

“Is it now?” TJ asked. Franz was obviously smart enough to see through TJ’s anger. He continued on the principle of “kick ’em while they’re down” and said, “Let the word go out, then, that those who oppose me shall be held to account, and swiftly removed. Their holdings liquidated and given away to middle level management people, holdings broken so that they could never again be identified as once great and large. I don’t understand you Forty. There is an emergence of middle-class business people, farmers, men of vision who are growing with the times—and consequently encroaching on your profits. You should be tending business and protecting yourselves from this economic onslaught—not plotting and gabbing like old women here in these outdated rooms. And the only way you are going to beat your rising competition is to beat them under my rules. Keep ahead of competition. Get the new technological franchises. Will you remain here broken men, or will you be in the forefront of expansion? You, you Forty, think long and hard, for there is thin ground underneath you.” TJ paused for effect. He knew the simplistic terms he used weren’t all that true. The Forty could do away with him and still gain Federation entry. Yet he hammered his point in further. “Opposition, I can and will break. Including you. The only power base you actually retain is an economic one. And that, right now, is insufficient to overthrow me and my family.” Abruptly he stopped and, hands on hips, glared around the room from face to face.

He knew what most of them were thinking. They should have thwarted him when they could, before he had consolidated what he had won in battle. They had laughed at his seemingly outrageous governmental reorganizations. They had laughed when he had abolished all previous national boundaries and drew arbitrary lines on maps to establish ethnarchies. And then he had appointed his own men, strangers to those ethnarchies, as province chiefs or ethnarchs. The geographical and demographical arbitrary boundaries, the nobility and former rulers had learned to their displeasure, totally changed the land. Different peoples were thrown together. Ethnic groups, religious groups, geographical groups all found themselves mixed economically and politically. Thus none could agree sufficiently with each other to form formal opposition to the King and his reorganization. Previous neighbor nations found themselves split in many ways, joined obscenely with portions of others which all managed to completely dissolve any regional loyalties. And with the new organization and the dreaded taxmen, TJ knew he had the odds designed in his favor. In the short few years since, he had insured against returning to the old ways.

TJ knew that they, the smart ones, were aware that this was his most devious and complete triumph. “Franz, you might think about retiring and letting your sons take over.” Summer cartwheeled for emphasis. “I will have no opposition. And I will have the name of the one who hired the assassin. My wrath will descend on any group I think had a part in the plot. Pass the word.”

“It shall be done, Majesty.”

“Another thing.” TJ changed the timbre of his voice to a more conversational tone. “This woman, the Federation envoy. I’ve told everyone involved to be completely open with her. Tell her anything she wants to know.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do so with temperance. For instance, she need not know about your dialogue here today.” He scratched under his beard. “Nor of any skeletons buried. Nor of any opposition to our proposed Federation membership. Is that understood?”

TJ heard no dissenting voices—as he expected. Most of the nobles present would protect what little power and authority they retained. Undercutting them and their authority was neatly done, he admitted. Yet, the possibility that a disgruntled faction threatened him still existed. Some must wish to return to the old days before Consolidation, others simply wanted more power. TJ knew that historically the nobility had gradually taken over from monarchies and then succumbed themselves to emerging merchant classes. TJ had simply accelerated the process. But he held power for himself, always scheming to prevent any group from making him either a figurehead or unnecessary at all. A hidden reason he had so designed the confusing bureaucratic organization was to protect himself and the crown. He had built the system so that one-man rule was necessary. He did not fear a planet-wide revolt as the memories of the long Consolidation wars still lingered. And his changes came just slow enough to keep from causing unrest and trouble, and fast enough to keep his potential enemies off balance.

That is until the plunge for entrance into the Federation.

The people did not seem to dislike his rule either. For the moment they were safer since there was no war. Taxes were less, crime was down—a fairness doctrine seemed to rule the world. A sharp move, he thought, to appoint only women as criminal judges. Not only for the publicized reasons that women were more suited to the job and harsher on criminals and softer on victims, but the big plus for him was that the move endeared him to over fifty percent of the population. The smart ones had figured it out, but what could they do? It had become an acclaimed stroke of genius and enhanced his reputation. And further solidified his position. And, he grinned to himself, it worked. Women were proving to be better judges.

“So be it,” he said calmly and walked up the ramp to exit.

A noble he passed looked up with a smile in his eye and winked. The symbol of the Muster swung loosely from his neck chain. TJ returned the gesture.