Dream Drive Ch. 08

Ellesmere stopped at the side of the stairwell. Charles paused with her. Ellesmere ran her hands over the wall, feeling at it with her fingertips.

He was about to ask what she was doing when she opened a passage straight into the wall. It was a concealed door, the seam blended in with the wallpaper. He never would have found it in the dark.

"For a second, I thought I had it wrong," she whispered.

The stairs past the door were a tight fit. Charles brought his arms in close and stooped his head. He winced with every creak as they wound down into the ground below the house.

They emerged in an equally cramped hallway. There was a dumbwaiter cut into the wall at the base of the stair, complete with clean plates ready for the next morning's breakfast. Another tiny candle sat in an alcove next to it, casting a murky yellow haze over the space. Apart from their breathing, it was silent.

Ellesmere kept on down the hall; they felt their way along the wood beams and paneling. Charles narrowly missed knocking his head several times. They soon hit a series of wooden doors. She looked at them, then looked back at him, and shrugged.

Charles reasoned that the rooms furthest from the stair were probably least desirable. He pressed past her, then tried the door. It made a rough creak, opened.

Charles immediately smacked his forehead on the door frame. He gave a light curse and massaged the spot with his thumb. It didn't help much.

The room couldn't have been more than five by five feet. A bed was jammed on one side, topped by a lumpy mattress. A dresser with two drawers took up the remainder of the space. There was a small wooden shelf holding the bare stub of a candle and some small metal object. He waved Ellesmere forward and closed the door behind her.

When he turned, she was already sitting on the bed. Tired of keeping his head bowed to avoid the crossbeams, Charles duly sat on the floor at her feet. He leaned his head back and sighed.

There were a million things that needed accomplishing, but, with the adrenaline fading, throbbing aches in his body were coming to the forefront. He could feel the beginnings of an ugly headache taking root somewhere above his nose. A few minutes of rest would help more in the long run. "I think we're safe, for the moment," he said.

He heard a flick of something - a light, sharp clinking. Ellesmere was bent near the shelf. Sparks flew from between her hands.

A flame burst to life at the end of a stick of wood. The room was lit gold and orange. Ellesmere held the stick to the end of the candle. When it caught, she waved the fire out and set the tools back on the shelf.

She saw him watching and cocked an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you were traumatized back in the armory."

Charles schooled his expression back into his usual smile. "I think fire and I will need some time to kiss and make up. The prospect of being burned alive in a small space isn't appealing at the moment." He gestured toward the tools on the shelf. "I haven't seen that before."

Ellesmere lifted the metal object. "This?" Charles nodded. "It's a tinderbox. For lighting candles, starting fires? You haven't seen one?"

"We've invented methods that decrease the risk of setting the house on fire."

"More of your mysterious magic. I haven't seen much of it, yet."

"Speaking of," Charles said, "why not just draw that rune again?"

"It takes effort to keep a grip on my spirit. I'm about out of effort." Ellesmere leaned back against the wall, letting her legs dangle off the mattress. She examined a cobweb that spanned the corner of the room nearest her head. "I can't believe people live like this. My servants have much more space."

"Many live in far worse conditions."

"Really?"

Charles remembered Jackson's apartment - the cracked concrete. Stairways with rusted-out handholds ready to break off. The place had echoed with noise, both from the constant sirens and from other tenants. He had no idea how Jackson ever got to sleep. "Really," Charles said. He looked at the door. "Do you think someone would notice our light from the hallway?"

"Only if someone wakes up," she said.

His legs rebelled at the idea of getting up to check. "I think I'll let the risk slide this once."

They sat in silence for a time. Charles's nose itched from the dust. He rubbed it to stave off a sneeze. He watched the candle flame dance and bob. Every shadow in the room moved in flickering time, as if the light and dark were playing a perfect game of Simon Says.

Rachel loved that game. She'd always make him play it when he went to her room - a one-on-one match. Rachel was Simon, and Charles followed her lead, trying his best not to be lulled into a pattern. If he tried to quit early, she huffed and puffed until they kept going, and they always kept going until he lost.

If she didn't have Shakeman's, would things be different? Would she help run the company? Would she have avoided becoming the fragile thing she was now?

Charles folded his legs into his chest. He had to keep his head on straight. Find Rachel, get her back to Boston, where it was safe. Then he could think. She'd logged into Isis in her apartment, back in the hospital. She'd reappear there. At least he had that.

He'd underestimated Isis. Even after the incident with Gary Morgan, Charles felt that it wasn't that big a deal - barely better than human. Having a health bar didn't stop you from being tied up, and Charles would rather have his combat chassis any day.

He'd been wrong. The right person with the right motivation could do a tremendous amount of damage. He'd just proved it. And there was the massive potential for growth - they had no idea how strong a marked person could become.

He needed a way to manipulate information about Isis. The company might not be able to handle it on its own - the government would have to be involved. Ransfeld Security already conducted or supported a significant percentage of clandestine GAU operations. Simple to revamp that into a counterterrorism unit - a special type of terrorism that, conveniently, only Ransfeld was equipped to handle.

Charles was a well-known figure. The lines and phrases he'd use to describe the situation to the unwashed masses began to materialize in his head. He would need the PR campaign to end all campaigns.

"They say..." Charles glanced up. Ellesmere swallowed, then started again. "They all say the people love me. But what do I know? About this? About these servants, their lives? I don't think I can bear that weight."

"Why're you asking me?" Charles said.

"But you're an emperor too, aren't you?"

Charles shrugged. "The closest thing to it. Explaining my world to you...I don't know. Imagine your world with, I don't know, another three or four hundred years of technological advancement. That's where I live."

"World?" Ellesmere asked. "You're from another world?"

"Yes," Charles said. He raised a hand. "If I can, I'll show you. I'm not sure if other people can make the trip. But an explanation..."

He was surprised when she accepted it with a nod. "It's like trying to explain the empire to the tribesmen out in the west. Or so I've read, anyway. They even don't understand basic ideas like land ownership. To them, the land just is, and they walk on it, following around the animals they hunt. Four hundred years of development...I can't imagine it."

"No," Charles said. "You can't."

"But how do you do it?" Ellesmere asked. "Rule?"

Charles rubbed his forehead a bit. The headache was past its peak; it was steadily throbbing its way into a background annoyance. "I rule," Charles said, "with efficiency. I'm good at picking out key things about people very quickly. My father taught me all about that."

"What do you mean?"

"People are money," Charles said. "He'd take me by the shoulder and point." He mimed the action. "See those people, boy? They're walking wallets. It's our job to take their money - and to do that, we have to climb inside their heads and find out what makes them tick. If you do that, then they'll give you everything they have - not because you're selling something they want, but because they think they must have what you happen to be selling, or their lives will be worse off for it."

"That sounds..." Ellesmere shook her head. "Cynical isn't quite the right word."

"It doesn't matter. He's right." Charles's smiled turned into a sneer. "Every day, pounding it into me. Remember their names - people are proud, they like to be remembered by people they think are important. People are vain, so compliment them. People don't want their beliefs challenged - they're looking to confirm what they already know. Be the confirmation that they're right, that everything's good, and that you're the friend that understands."

Ellesmere made a sharp frown. "People should be validated from a place of good will, not by someone with ulterior motives."

"Morals aren't part of the equation," Charles said. "But he didn't have enough vision."

"And you do?"

"What is money good for?" Charles asked. "Why are we here? What are we doing? What is the purpose of humanity? His greed didn't - doesn't - answer those questions. I suppose money helps protect a family. It lets you construct a shell, like a skyscraper - a castle, I mean - and hire men to protect you and those you care about. But what about after that? Are we going to actually do something about the roving hordes of bandits, the crowds stricken with disease and poverty? Or sit back and forever treat the symptoms with high stone walls?"

"On that count, I agree entirely," Ellesmere said. "The empire shouldn't be about enriching nobles further. It should be arranged so that one day, a man here..." She patted the bed, then pointed toward the ceiling. "...might live up there. There wouldn't be bandits if they could make a reasonable living in safety."

"You're still thinking too small," Charles said.

"How so?"

"Mankind isn't good enough to accomplish what you want."

"Now that is cynicism of the highest order," Ellesmere said. "How can you say such a thing?"

"Because I've seen it," Charles said. "I see it every day. I saw it with my father, I see it in the streets. History bellows it on every page. Hundreds of years of scientific advancement, and all we've done is cover up violence and pain and suffering with a shiny veneer of progress. In some ways, we've made it worse. We made it so that more people can live in one place than ever before, and now no one gives a damn about other people. People are numbers, bar codes, scanned in and out of massive housing units that serve to feed them and allow them to relieve themselves in designated spots." Charles spoke with his hands, outlining his grievances with his fingers as if they all sat in his lap. "It's a house of cards that would breed far more discord if it weren't for the perpetual war being fought by the world's elites, a constant threat to keep people in line. Even then, we still have our minor little rebellions, the Wolves running about in the shadows, thinking that even more violence will somehow topple the system. Like thinking that crying at the edge of the ocean will change the tides." Charles smiled. "No, Ellesmere. People are flawed, hopelessly, critically flawed. Even I am flawed. But I'm at least free enough to realize that we must remake ourselves before we can remake the world."

Ellesmere absorbed his words for a moment, then folded her arms. "You have an impressive resolve," she said, "but I'm not sure if I buy into your philosophy."

"Most don't, at first," Charles said. "You'll see."

"You sound confident that I'll see," Ellesmere said. "Have you considered you might be wrong?"

"I have. I'm not invincible, not even with this magic. But I'll win, because no one knows the rules of the game I'm playing."

"Except me."

"You and a few others."

"Perhaps," Ellesmere said, "you offer these lofty justifications to excuse killing innocent people that get in your way."

Charles met her gaze. Ellesmere's bright green eyes were undaunted. Hadn't she been in tears a little while ago?

Then again, she was a princess. She couldn't have attacked Sir Gerod if she was made of Jello. In fact, considering the circumstances, she was holding up extremely well.

"Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor," Charles said. "I'm going to kill many people, surely. That's what happens when you fight for a cause. But if I did nothing, people would die anyway. At least there's a possibility I'm right and all the deaths will mean something - that things will change, in the end. That some deaths now will mean fewer deaths later. "

"Shouldn't we look for methods that don't involve death?"

Charles leaned back with an incredulous expression. "You let me know when you find one. I'll be sure to switch right over."

Ellesmere thought for a moment. Unable to rebuke his statement, she changed tack. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish? What's the end result?"

"Humanity, united, working toward a post-scarcity economy without the use of violence as a major problem-solving solution," Charles said. "That is, a state of being in which everyone has everything they could want, when they want it. Along with reasonable population control legislation."

"And you're going to cut through the tangled horrors of the world and pull us all there, into your utopia?"

"I guess so."

"He guesses so," Ellesmere said. "Tell me - did God Himself call out to you and instruct you in His will? Your arrogance is astounding."

"I don't have any other pressing appointments," Charles said, "and I have more money than God, anyway."

Ellesmere snorted softly. "You're either the most brilliant man I've ever met, or you're completely and utterly mad."

Charles's foot was falling asleep; he moved his legs, trying to get some feeling back in them. "How did we get into this conversation?"

"I asked you how you ruled," Ellesmere said. "I believe you have told me."

"So how would you rule, oh lady-of-the-people?" Charles asked.

Ellesmere placed her hands in her lap. "I...would rule very differently. I suppose the army would have to stay, to keep the unruliest of nobles in line. But I would direct funds away from that Satan-built palace and back toward the empire."

"Satan-built?" Charles asked.

"The emperor taxes his people to death, then turns about and wastes it," Ellesmere said. "He's a strong ruler, but it's sickening to watch the sheer volume of gold that goes toward lavish parties and inane physical contests. Jousting, tournaments, that lot. Subsidizing the laziness of nobles he likes. That gold could be maintaining the roads, or building new ones. Bridges to ease travel, public works projects at large. Wells, sanitation. Heaven forbid we focus on long-term economic development. There is a city I've read about - across the western sea, mind you - that has a system of troughs that ferries waste into the river, where it is swept away. They say it's improved the public health enormously. Hadraan is one of the greatest cities in the world, with perhaps the greatest concentration of magicians, and its wealth is being squandered. I should rather see taxes fall than more coin wasted on transporting rare fish from half a continent away for some fat pig of a lord. I don't even like fish!"

"Princess," Charles said. "Not so loud."

"Oh." She covered her mouth. "I apologize. I tend to get worked up over these things."

"So I've noted," Charles said. "Your heart's in the right place. Perhaps you'd make a good ruler - but you're not digging deep enough." He rolled his shoulders. "I shouldn't blame you for that. I see far because I stand on the shoulders of giants."

Ellesmere sniffed. "There's that arrogance. I admit your world must be quite a place, but Hadraan is a high enough spot for me."

"How wonderfully humble of you."

"I thought your father told you to compliment people," Ellesmere said. "I haven't heard many compliments."

"An addendum," Charles said. "Compliment everyone except for the people that hear too many compliments."

"You don't know I receive many compliments," she said. "Perhaps my indignant and unwomanly attitude earns me heaps of scorn."

"Bullshit."

"Wh - no. It's the truth."

"It might be partly true, but the scorn happens behind your back," Charles said. "The rule applies whether or not the compliments are false, and you're too pretty to not receive compliments."

"Was that a compliment?"

"It was an observation. I'm not interested."

Ellesmere blinked a few times, looked at the candle, then back at him. "Let's...returning to what you said earlier. Your father sounds like a hard man, I grant you - bitter, even - but did that call for his death?"

"He locked me in a room, once," Charles said. "He gave me food, drink. All the books and tools I'd need. But he wouldn't let me out of that room until I'd fooled a person from another country into thinking I was a natural-born speaker of their language."

For a moment, the only sound was the tiny burning wick of the candle.

"Are you making that up?" Ellesmere asked.

"Not at all," Charles said. "I learned fluent Spanish in three months. I speak nine languages now. Four fluently, five proficiently. That was enough to get him off my back.

"You see, I wasn't a walking wallet," Charles said. "I was the son. I was the prodigy of the great George Ransfeld. And he made me that prodigy, pushed me into the mold he'd designed before I was born, because that's the kind of man he is. I'm very, very good at doing what he wanted me to do - running his empire, taking it to as yet unseen heights. But the irony is." Charles grinned into the dark space under the bed, where the candlelight couldn't reach. "The irony is that I'm better at it than he is. He's no longer fit to lead. But there's the flaw in his character - he'd never admit that. He could never see it. And so I'm removing him, gently. I don't care what he did to me. But after what he did to my sister, I'm granting him a mercy."

They fell quiet again. The candle flickered. Shadows jumped. Charles shifted on the floor, trying to find some comfortable position, but it eluded him. Ellesmere stayed motionless, hands still in her lap.

"Has it occurred to you," Ellesmere said, "that the true irony is that you want to do to all mankind what he did to you? Force what you see as inadequate into a mold of your own design?"

"Every day," Charles said.

"Why do you hate him?" she asked. Charles said nothing; his gaze was on the floor. She leaned toward him. "What did he do to your sister?"

"It's none of your business."

"I'm an empress," she said. "You're an emperor. I want to know what drives you. I might need it."

"I don't care."

"I've trusted you," she said. "I followed you this far, made that bond of yours. I stole. I climbed the palace wall. Maybe not gracefully, but I did it. Return some of that trust to your employee."

Charles ran a hand through his hair several times, brushing it straight. His smile faltered somewhat. He cleared his throat. He thought about standing for a moment, but then he'd be back to stooping. He sighed and tried to straighten his legs the other way, but he didn't have enough space. He gave their cramped servant room an ugly look.

"It seems you do have a weakness," Ellesmere said. "I was beginning to think you were entirely inhuman."

Charles snapped his head to her. "You know what he asked me to do when I went to visit him the other day? When I went to see him on the deathbed I put him in?" He waited until Ellesmere shook her head. "Take a guess. No, really. Guess."

Ellesmere shrugged. "I couldn't imagine."

"He asked me to take care of my sister. To find out where we went wrong."