Leal walked to his side and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You see, all things are possible."
Keir took a deep breath, and let it out. He smiled at her. "Thanks." She nodded, half-smiling.
"I'm still a stranger here, though." He looked down, past ledge and shingle, down the sheer walls of the admiralty to where on any world-bound building, grass or stone or soil would begin. There was only air, and soaring clouds half-lit by the city glow. "I can't even read your letters."
"How lucky for you, then," said Leal, "that I'm a teacher currently lacking a student. I can teach you to read."
"I don't want to be a burden."
"Hmm." She tapped her chin with a fingertip. "Well, then, why don't you tell me everything you know about Artificial Nature? And the Renaissance? I'll add it to my book. You may know more than you think; and what you know could be more useful to us than you realize."
The first rule of the Renaissance was to keep what they were doing secret. --Then again, he'd already given most of it away before they'd even left Aethyr.
He smiled wryly. "It's a deal."
12
DAYS PASSED IN a flurry of dispatches, expeditions, and consultations. The prime minister took their case to his cabinet, and the decision was made--for now--to indulge Chaison Fanning, just in case it turned out that Leal's story was true. The very first order of business was to verify that, and so a small flotilla of ships made for the sunless countries the very next day, charged with finding Serenity, establishing a safe bridgehead at the door, and entering Brink. Maerta had promised Leal that she would try to rescue Hayden Griffin and the stranded Home Guard airmen from the plains of Aethyr. With luck, they would be able to return the Guardsmen to their people and win some allies there.
In case the rescue didn't happen or the rescued Guardsmen were hostile, Chaison had a Plan B for contacting the Home Guard, and it involved sending Antaea Argyre on a journey to the principalities of Candesce.
That expedition was arranged; meanwhile, Venera's spies went into overtime, tracking the movements of a small set of people who were nominally stateless refugees, but who certainly didn't act like them. The name Inshiri Ferance came up again and again; it began to seem like she had visited every sun in Virga--just, not Slipstream's.
Chaison and Venera Fanning worked together almost without consultation (though that might go on under the covers at night, as some speculated), he organizing the logistics of a new diplomatic network, she calling in favors, sending out invitations, and frankly spying on everybody.
Leal's message to the people of Virga had not yet been announced, but the ripples from its impact were already spreading.
* * *
"THE SIMPLE FACT is, you can't worry people into acting," Admiral Fanning had said at the crowded strategy session. Keir remembered him shrugging. "No matter how much truth you have on your side, and no matter how compelling your arguments, people simply won't move if they don't have to." He had taken a piece of chalk and drawn a white slash through the words "Artificial Nature" written on the chalkboard behind him. Next to it he'd written one of many curious new words Keir was learning lately. This one was "velleity."
"That's our true enemy," he said. "Velleity means 'having a vague desire to do something, but not enough will to actually do it.' If we take our message of urgent action around to the nations of Virga, that's what we're going to get: a vague interest, some desultory waves of the hand, and no commitment.
"So, our first tool will be outrage and excitement."
Keir saw little of that today as he strolled the iron pavement of Rush, Slipstream's capital city. He did see a lot of rushing about in Quartet Two, Wheel One--but that was because the merchants were still making out like bandits from the Freedom Day tourists, many of whom had stayed to enjoy a rare heat wave cooked up by Slipstream's sun controllers. There were plenty of stalls in alley mouths, a few street performers on the odd corner, lots of traffic on foot and in man-powered jitneys, and many smiling faces. The headlines in the newspapers were in small type these days. In more than one sense, a new summer had settled on Slipstream.
"There's the shop," Leal said. "You go on--I'll see you back at the palace."
He grinned at her. "'Back at the palace.' I like that."
They'd just been clothes-shopping, since he couldn't wear his Brink-made apparel without attracting attention, and the boy's clothing he'd borrowed from a mate on the Torn Page of Fate had apparently shrunk. That was today's excuse, anyway; Leal had been dragging him out into the streets every day since they'd arrived. He had to admit it was helping him gain his bearings.
She sent him a luminous smile and turned away. He paused at the beveled-glass door to the bookstore and glanced back, in time to see her raise her face to a beam of hot sunlight from the nearby sun. Of course, Slipstream was as exotic to her as it was to him. He smiled and hauled on the heavy door.
Doors that didn't open for you automatically; gaslight in the evenings; no screens, no scry--it was all bewildering and wonderful, but there was a kind of beauty to life here that he was starting to appreciate. Beauty like these books! He stood by the door, breathing in the scent of the paper for a moment and gazing around in wonder. The walls were lined with leather-bound folios, and most of the floor space was taken up with shelves. The amount of actual information here was infinitesimal--his scry implants could have carried a billion bookstores' worth--but that hardly mattered. Each book was a thing, the care and material going into making it announcing to the world that this knowledge or this story, however small, was a treasure. He flipped through a few of them in delight as the bemused shopkeeper watched.
"Anything I can help you with?"
"Well, maybe." He let his accent shine through. The paper bag containing his clothing would help with this role, but Leal had told him severely, "No pretending. Be what you are: a foreigner." So he didn't hide his hesitation at finding a spot to put down the bag; and he looked around carefully to make sure they were alone before saying, "I hear there's a book I can't buy from you."
The shopkeeper's open expression became veiled. "Don't know what you mean. We have a free press in Slipstream, since the Pilot's death."
"Well, it's not officially banned, but I heard the admiral bought up the whole print run."
"I really don't know--"
"Oh, come on! Do I look like a spy?" --Which was the worst kind of thing to say if you really were a spy, of course, but he was going to obey Leal's instructions to the letter. "You're my last chance; I'm leaving for home tomorrow."
The shopkeeper sighed heavily. "Listen, son, if a book's been banned--officially or not--do you really think you'd be likely to find a copy here?"
"Well, exactly. So..."
The man leaned over the counter. "Where's the last place you'd expect to be buying books?"
"Oh, I don't know. The docks? The butcher's?"
"There's a cheese shop two blocks spinward," said the shopkeeper innocently. "That's pretty much the last place I'd look."
"Huh. Thanks, I'll bear that in mind." Keir left the shop, and five minutes later he walked out of the cheese shop with a brand-new copy of Antaea Argyre's controversial new autobiography. It was, of course, buried in the bag under his new clothing.
The book had been produced in record time. Keir had stopped by while Antaea was still dictating it to the bank of ghostwriters Admiral Fanning had attached to her. Dangling one leg over the velvet arm of the chair she was slumped in, idly swirling a wineglass in her hand, she had been answering yet another question about her mad dash across the airs of the world. The writers were typing madly at their baroque cast-iron "type writers"; torn and crumpled pages forested the floor of the admiralty office where this secret activity was taking place. Keir had shaken his head at her, and she'd rolled her eyes in reply.