The Heart of Winter 1

sorry, I meant to post this earlier, but our Morrison's delivery was early and I got sidetracked by the logistics of packing fish fingers. 

Sheridan Winter’s bride, Fanny, died in a freak snowstorm on her way to marry him, and his heart has been frozen ever since. Fanny’s little sister, Lucy, would like to melt the heart of Winter, in which she is aided and abetted by Sherry’s sister, Marjorie. Sherry looks as though he might be ready to emerge from his frozen state, but unfortunately, two young people who love each other very much, and know each other fairly well, but not well enough, can hurt each other very badly in any attempt to drag romance into the relationship.

Fortunately, Sherry’s mother is ready to come to the rescue of a romance she would like to promote, with calm good sense and an understanding of both young people.

Chapter 1

 

Winter Hall,

Oxenbridge,

Wiltshire,

7^th February 1787

My dearest Marjorie,

You will remind Sherry that poor dear Lucy finishes school at Easter, won’t you? He promised Fanny that he would care for her little sister if anything happened to her, and it’s four years now since poor Fanny died. Is there no sign of him recovering? Really, one has to admire his loyalty, but he should think of the family name as well. I expect he will foist poor Lucy onto you, my love, but at least Babbington is an easy-going husband to you, and will not make a fuss. But do make sure Sherry is polite to her, and pays, for having promised, he should keep his  promise, and ignoring the child in case she has grown to look painfully like her sister is the height of bad manners. And she looks nothing like poor Fanny, poor child, being shamefully skinny, and quite red in aspect, where Fanny was ethereally blonde. 

Can you ask in town if there is any preparation to deal with moles? I have had mole catcher after mole catcher, and the little beasts are, I swear, laughing at me.  Another hill has popped up within sight of the window as I write. It is fortunate that Sherry has never had any desire to flatten the lawn, for it would be fighting a losing battle. I just object to the unsightly effect the moles have. If they would only leave small hills, I should mind less. But Sherry cares for nothing but keeping himself occupied, and, I suspect, tipsy. It is high time he got over it, and married. I wager half his grief is bad habit, and would improve if  he would only take a course of liver pills and find a girl compliant enough to learn to sport in the bedroom.

Your loving mother.

 

8 Harley Street

London

12^th February 1787

Dearest Mama,

I have reminded Sherry of his duty to pick up Lucy from the academy in Bath, and offered to have her to stay. Babbington does not, as you surmised, mind, he is very good natured, which is why I married him. Sometimes he is too good natured and  I have to work to irritate him enough not to just agree with me, but he is getting to know when I expect him to be a prop and stay, and disagree with me tactically. You trained Papa well enough, so I am sure Babbington will learn. And he does care enough to put his foot down  if he really minds. I had to wheedle to get him to agree to let me wear a robe a la reine. But he has agreed that they are not immodest and that I look very nice in one. He likes being able to embrace me without panniers or bum-roll! So I expect my summer wardrobe will include more of the same. And I will outfit Lucy in such, for the heat in town in summer can be prodigious.

You are right about Sherry, I fear; he is always at some gathering or other, looking like the soul of sobriety and never less than half cut. He has not moved out of blacks, and though it is a coup for any society hostess to get him to come to her event, if you ask me, his presence is enough to cast a blight anywhere. He is sarcastic and almost rude when he does speak to anyone, he does dance now, but only with married women or gazetted flirts, whose name he then forgets next time he meets them. He is downright disagreeable these days. I hope he may fall in love with Lucy and be spurned by her, for he deserves it, but he will not.

Mama, on no account buy any patent preparations for moles. It is all a hum, and some of them are dangerous. Just resign yourself to the little perishers until they move on and then have the men roll the lawn.

Your loving daughter, Marjorie.

 

Mrs. Godings School

4 Laura Place

Bath

14^th February, 1787

 

Dear Sherry,

Mrs. Godings says I ought not to be so free with a diminutive of your given name, but I remember you telling me I should get used to you being family. And when you write to me you sign yourself ‘Sherry’ not ‘Sheridan Winter’ so I will use it unless you tell me not to do so.

Marjorie said she would remind you that term ends on March 23^rd, which is the end of my schooling, so I will have considerably more luggage than can be squeezed into a curricle. Which is a shame, because there is nothing like driving in your curricle at prodigious speed. You will collect me, won’t you, not urge me to hire a chaise? We don’t have maids at school, and we are not allowed much in the way of an allowance, as you know, being my trustee, and I would feel somewhat intimidated stopping for comfort breaks in inns without someone with me. I do not think anyone could mistake me for a woman of easy virtue, though I am not precisely sure what a woman of easy virtue might be, or why it is undesirable, since I would love to find it easy to be virtuous, as I have to pray very hard to want to repent of my numerous catalogue of misdeeds [Miss Godings’s description] and not to want to giggle at them again.  I ask you, Sherry! When a poor little duckling has been separated from its mama and the rest of the gaggle [do ducks come in gaggles?] what else is one to do but pick it up and arrange a temporary pond in a bath tub? I wasn’t even trying to be naughty over that, nor do I consider it wrong. I know I was bad to put lye soap in Amabel’s comb so it made her hair icky and stung her scalp, but people who boast of their golden curls and make disparaging remarks about red hair and sneer so are almost asking for retribution. I opened my eyes wide and said that I had set the comb to soak because of the huge amounts of scurf jammed in it [a calumny but she deserves it] and must have  failed to rinse it properly. So I got away with that, which is my worst actual misdeed this term. I was whipped for firing paper pellets at the back of Amabel’s neck with an elder stem pipe I made but it was well worth it for the shriek she put up about being stung by bees. In January? Honestly!  And it wasn’t me who ground sugar to put in the salt-cellar. I don’t know who did, but I do not approve of Mrs. Godings not believing me, for I either have an excuse or I own up to my misdeeds.

Anyway, if you get a report on me, I didn’t do that, but they didn’t find out that I slipped Amabel some senna for accusing me.  I bet she did it to get me into trouble.

Love,  Lucy Laughton.

 

Sheridan Winter chuckled at the letter. What a harum scarum child Lucy was! Surely she could not be leaving school? He counted on his fingers. She had been fourteen when Fanny had been caught in that snowdrift on the way to marry him, and froze to death, freezing his heart with it. She must be eighteen now... well, she was old enough to come out, and his sister was willing to bring her out. Marjorie was always a good sport.  He had asked her more than once why she had married a dry stick like Frank Babbington, and Marjorie had told him, ‘Bab is reliable, Sherry!” as if that explained it all.

He had better write back to Lucy that he would be there to pick her up.

 

11 Upper Wimpole St.

London

17^th February

 

Dear Lucy,

Yes, I did invite you to call me Sherry, in anticipation of becoming your brother; we are both bereaved, but I still count you as a little sister, or possibly my favourite pest. You don’t seem to have grown out of being a pest; don’t think I have forgotten you filling my boots with frogspawn to test my temper to see if I was suitable for Fanny. I was impressed by your fearless and unapologetic owning up to the deed, and explaining why. Your loyalty to your sister earned more approval from me than disapprobation. I was also pleased that you were desirous of returning the frog spawn to its pond, in the hopes that some would survive; and I remember you checking it out until it hatched.

However, I am mostly writing to tell you that I will be picking you up in the morning of the 23^rd March, and I will bring a maid engaged by Marjorie for your countenance as the road to Bath cannot readily be traversed to London in one day. I have heard that the mail can do it in 13 hours nowadays, but you do not want to be rattled like a pea in a frying pan, and moreover I have too much respect for my nags. Consequently we shall stay overnight somewhere sufficiently respectable. I expect Marjorie will know which is the best hostelry.

No, you may not dress as a boy to be either my tiger or sit on the driver’s seat. I may teach you to drive in London, but only in a curricle and only in the park. I may let you sit up beside me if it is fine on quiet stretches, if you promise to behave yourself.

You see, I know you too well.

Sherry Winter.

 

“He does know me too well,” said Lucy to herself.

 

Mrs. Godings School

4 Laura Place

Bath

21^st February

Dear Sherry,

I look forward to your arrival.  I have mostly enjoyed school, but I am finding it boring now. I did study some of your school books which I filched from the attic when I was staying with your Mama last year, which were more interesting. It’s not fair, boys have more fun than girls. However, I now know more about Arithmetic than we are taught, and I want to try out the theories of Fermat and Pascal when I am on the town.  But I also understand acids and bases and I shall add tartaric acid to the toothpowders of all the preceptresses for the last morning, so I can watch them froth at the mouth as most toothpowders are based on soda ash. It should be a really good show! Then I can put aside such pranks in order to become a young lady, which is not going to be easy, but at least will have the novelty of being different.

Your pest, Lucy.

 

“She is a pest,” murmured Sherry.

“Who is?” asked his friend, Bernard Underwood. Bernard was heir to a viscounty, and had been through school and university with Sherry.

“Fanny’s little sister; she’s leaving school. They are probably glad to be rid of her. But that’s what you get when a young girl with a lively, enquiring mind is trammelled into the things girls learn at school. Well, she has money, so she doesn’t have to marry straight away. She can afford to wait for someone who appreciates her.”

“Just as well; if I recall correctly, she’s a carroty little thing with freckles and skinned knees,” said Bernard.

“I’m sure she’s grown out of having skinned knees,” said Sherry, who was not actually sure, but had a vague feeling that Lucy was his pest and he needed to defend her.

“Well, if she ain’t, it’d be peculiar,” said Bernard. “Cured of skinned knees, I mean. You don’t have young ladies with skinned knees.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever looked,” said Sherry. “Never mind my pest’s knees! I’m supposed to be a brother to her, and I’m glad she doesn’t look like Fanny. It would be too cruel.”

 

 

8 Harley Street

London

March 12^th.

 

Dear Lucy,

I have engaged a maid for you, who is the younger sister of my personal maid. Her name is Molly, and she is a little rough around the edges, being used to helping around her father’s farm and not having gone into service before. However, I am sure she will oblige in every way, as she seems keen and eager. Sherry will divert to see Mama and pick Molly up on his way to collect you. Try not to plague him too much.

Marjorie.

 

2, The Cottages,

Winteringham estate

Wiltshire

13^th March

 

Dearest Maggie,

Cor, who’d of thought I’d be in service to a fashionable young lady! I’ll reelly have to mind my P’s and Q’s, speshully in front of Mr. Winter who is wot they call ‘orse-tear’ or in other words a Friday-faced curmudgeon. I suppose it is called ‘orse-tear’ because it’s enough to make a nag weep. 

I hopes my lady ain’t as managing as yours.

Molly.

 

8 Harley Street,

London,

18^th March

Molly, you little fool, I am having to waste my Sunday off writing to you so you behave. The word is ‘Austere’ and has nothing to do with horses. It means of serious mien, and not demonstrative. And don’t you dare talk to him or ask about it! He was engaged to marry your new lady’s older sister, who died, and he is bereaved.  Now you behave yourself and don’t you cause me mortification for asking questions all the time.

Your sister, Margaret.

 

“Oh, that is romantic, I should think he will fall in love with Miss Lucy now she’s all grown up, shouldn’t you?” said Molly to her brother, Jack.

“Now you do as you’re told, behave yourself, and never mind romance, Molly Meadowes,”

“You have no soul,” said Molly.

“Well, some on us has to grow out o’ that nonsense to make a way in life,” said Jack. “And I know you, your tongue is hung in the middle. You’d think at fifteen you’d of grown out of such nonsense, but we can do with you getting a wage so we can get another cow.”

Molly stuck a tongue out at her brother’s back, and took her bandbox to await being taken up by Mr. Winter on his way to Bath.

 

the student problem 9

 Apologies for yesterday

Chapter 9

 

And the rest you doubtless saw on the tridcasts, or read on the web. Lady and Miss Bronteen were intercepted and replaced with body doubles on the way to greet the emperor, their hair ornaments removed, and placed into a sealed room to observe. Serenaa and I returned with her father, who had forgiven me for wanting to marry her by the time I arrived. And I agreed to teach the rest of the year, so long as I could be married first, so I had a way of dealing with the frustrations caused by other students.

The principal sighed, and agreed. Serenaa was going to get an emeritus degree in psychology for her part in uncovering the plot in any case, and she planned to write books on the psychology of fashion. I was looking forward to encouraging her.

 

From the diary of Serenaa Kerufin

 

I just looked over what I wrote in Jump Space on the way out. Well, I managed to note down everything that was said that Gunny and I overheard, with comments on intonation and what I perceived as intent, which was harder after my mother joined the conversation. However, it looks complete and dispassionate, and having delivered the report I was able to cry all over Daddy. I don’t think I cried too much on Gunny; we had that rather splendid kiss which was a most excellent distraction from my woes, but I do need to accept my mother’s rather lukewarm rejection of me [to be rejected in a positive sort of way is one thing, to be brushed off so casually is more hurtful I find. She’ll be horrified when she discovers that I’m instrumental in laying information against her; and daddy says it’s ok to do so. I just feel really hollow inside.

He was inclined to be angry with me for throwing myself at Gunny, and him letting me,but I told him that doubtless he would have brushed me off had it not been so necessary to save our lives by making like illicit lovers. And once you’ve taken that toy out of the box, it can’t be put back, which Daddy sighed and agreed.

And at least he agrees I couldn’t pick a better man.

 

Harry arrived!  Oh, my! And I just leaped into his arms with a most inappropriate squeal of delight, and he caught me, and held me tight enough it almost hurt, and I swear he was crying in relief.  And we just hung on to each other, until Daddy cleared his throat, loudly.

And then Harry blushed, and put me down, and lost himself in a welter of half sentences, which isn’t like him at all.

And then Daddy nodded.

‘I can see how much my daughter means to you, to hold her like that, rather than go straight for kisses,’ he said. And Harry said, ‘She means everything to me, sir.’  And Daddy said, ‘oh, for goodness sake, snog her into submission but please don’t let me see you groping each other, my digestion is too delicate.’

We went away to explore that concept, which was very nice, and Harry refused to let either of us shed any clothing.

We fell asleep curled up together, and I slept well for the first time since I wrote to Harry about the awful things I was hearing.

On the way home

Harry and I did not have too much time to misbehave in Jump Space as Daddy kept our noses to the grindstone covering protocols. The reason for this became obvious when we stopped off on the way and met up with the emperor and his entourage on progression, to give our reports in person. My blood ran cold when I thought that I might just have gone along with Lisilli and been talked into wearing a deadly hair ornament, had I not had my eyes opened by Harry.

The emperor asked me if there was anything I wanted, and I am afraid I made a complete idiot of myself squeaking ‘Only to marry my Harry, sire,’ which he laughed about and said that such was not within his gift, but that he suspected my wish would be fulfilled. But he did have the court women make me a wedding gown in the latest court style. Court style in general also favours jump suits, since Xander is an active and peripatetic monarch, and too much floaty stuff is a bar to keeping up with it. Tabards over with decoration on seem to be the norm for men and women both, in slightly different styles, and with cloaks for nobles. Harry wore uniform, like Daddy. Anyway, a wedding gown doesn’t have to allow as much freedom of movement, and to show it as something special, it is a contrast to the more utilitarian costumes, being made up of satin bands criss-crossing all the way down from the bust [the uppermost criss crosses going over the shoulders and encompassing a breast each] and all the way down to the knees where the skirt flared out in stiffened pleats. It is very flattering to a slender figure. I also came away with sundry tabards.

 

Back Home.

Well, it was almost anticlimactic. The Lady and Miss Bronteen who really greeted the Emperor were ringers, and you could have heard Lisilli clear to the other side of the galaxy about being deprived of her chance to meet the emperor.

And once I’d done the pretty and showed him around the campus, we could get rid of the visiting dignitaries and get back to normal. I had a wedding to go to.

 

 

Our wedding was small and fairly private, with very few guests, but Miss Ondarool and Mr. Guffah were two of them.

Miss Ondarool and Mr. Guffah were delighted that I was not dead after all. She hugged me and I’m afraid Mr. Guffah was so overcome that he licked my face. He was so embarrassed poor lad, I had to reassure him.

I would have worn uniform to get married in had I not been presented with a suit to get married in by the emperor, and it would have been churlish not to have accepted and worn it. Serenaa looked a picture in a thing which sort of hugged her figure – and what a figure to hug – with a heap of wrappings, and then exploded out like a flower’s bell from the knees. Somehow, although the top part reminded me of a figure-of-eight bandage, it looked a million credits. I wanted to unwrap it.

 

We withdrew to our quarters, where Serenaa proceeded to leap my bones.

“I missed you, I missed you, and then we were with Daddy,” she said. “And I was so scared someone might try to do away with you. I’m so glad they didn’t.”

I decided that I would do everything in my power to make sure that she never found out about any of the attempts on my life.  I doubted Kassi Ondarool wanted to say how she had gone looking for her friend; it had not been a pleasant experience.

I made soothing noises and kissed her.

And she was just as delectable to unwrap as I had imagined, even if it was a whole dress and not wrappings at all.

She seemed to enjoy unwrapping me as well, and tracing the muscles on my belly all the way down to where she might provoke a reaction, and then letting her fingers wander off to seek out my scars and make me growl at her.

We had a great deal of fun winding each other up something rotten before we decided to get on with the fundamentals of the case, which was also sufficiently good fun we had to try it again in various configurations to see if it was as good as last time.

It always was.

I didn’t really want to get up to teach, but I had promised. And Serenaa was going to continue coming to classes anyway, because she felt she had more to learn.

 

It was a bit odd to be back in the classroom, looking at the sea of now familiar faces, albeit some of them now missing forever. And I grieved for those young people so led astray as to have willingly got themselves into this situation.

Most of the class cheered me, and were glad I had been instrumental in stopping a civil war, which was what would have happened; and most of them were aware that this would have meant their deaths in one military or another.

 

Miss Bronteen was not grateful in the least that her life had been saved more directly;  apparently she blamed me for spoiling her opportunity to show off her new fashion to women of the court. At least she was no longer in my class, but in a secure unit where she could be more gently helped. Miss Faruu turned out to have known exactly what was going on, as did Mr. Dretanaar; and for their youth were merely serving a life sentence in the sort of penal battalions where high fashion meant being clean.

“What did you learn from this whole business?” I asked the class. Miss Ondarool put her hand up right away. I nodded to her.

“To marry an industrialist with no interest in politics,” she said, earnestly.

“And knowing one’s limitations is an important lesson too,” I said.

“Sir, what alerted you to how it would be done?” asked Mr. Ruhe.

“Well, Mr. Ruhe, you will laugh at me, because it was a coincidence,” I said. “The brain puts together clues, but sometimes makes a shortcut jump from what one is seeing, to something which makes sense of what one is seeing. I had the accounts of Lord Bronteen examined, noted that he had a new swimming pool, and also, looking at the new fashion, thought how like certain poisonous flowers the hair ornaments looked. Especially the ones with green globes. In my head I linked this to chlorine, used to clean swimming pools, but also deadly as a gas. However, that was where the coincidence lay, because I knew chlorine would not be deadly enough, especially in small quantities. So I asked Miss Ondarool to ask Miss Bronteen how she came up with the idea, and I apologise to Miss Ondarool for putting you potentially at some risk; but Miss Bronteen was happy to brag that her daddy had bought her a snowglobe, and had remarked how pretty it would be as a hair ornament. That it was his idea was confirmation.”

“Thank you, sir, for being honest about the way you got there. What was the gas?”

I shuddered.

“H14,” I replied.

I wasn’t the only one shuddering. H14 was banned, because although it was supposedly a fast-acting, fast-dispersing gas, it could also enter the water systems of a world and cause horrible birth defects for years afterwards.

It would have been unkind to even speculate that this explained a lot about Miss Bronteen.

There were other people who spoke up.

One of them had been one of Miss Bronteen’s disciples, Miss Aadniraa.

“I’ve learned that there’s a big difference between resenting those of different background and wanting to kill them,” she said. “I’ve been looking into genetic differences to try to prove inherent superiority, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said, surprised and genuinely pleased that she had been so big as to apologise. “It takes a big person to admit that they have been misled. I hope you will always continue to read and study and find things out for yourself, rather than let others lead you.”

“I want to repeat this year,” she said. “And come back one day to teach this subject. I can give more personal views on how easy it is to be led astray; I’ve been reading and making notes on Yin G’warz to see where he was bedazzled and blinded by those his parents associated with, so that he missed a lot of fundamentals of what was going on at his own social level and above, even whilst noting the poverty his parents ignored.”

“That, one day, may be a most excellent doctorate thesis and seminal work,” I said.

She looked pleased.

Most of them felt that they had learned not to be taken in by apparent superficiality. I hoped they were right.

I, however, got to go back to my lovely wife where there was very little debate until we were quite satiated.

I was a very happy man.

 

Being a very happy man lasted until I received the big parchment letter covered in seals which was a patent of nobility making me count of the damn planet in Faruu’s place. And promoting me to general.

The personal note apologising and explaining that he had to exploit his most loyal subjects was no help at all.

 

Bloody aristocracy and emperors. No gratitude.

 

the student problem 8

 Himself and I awoke sneezing and coughing snot monsters. no brains here, only snot. 

Chapter 8

 

I wasn’t going to see Serenaa for at least two weeks; that’s how long jump-drive takes. A week each way. But at least her father would be able to use the new wormhole communication.  I don’t know how it works, and I don’t want to know, but it’s near instant communication up to three parsecs. And you can’t send packages; electronic code only. And certainly not living beings. I know that because there was an attempt at espionage by one of the megacorps who got wind of it, and the spy tried to escape being caught by sending himself.

It was two years before I could face liver and bacon casserole again.

Normally the speed of travel is the speed of communications, but the wormhole communication was a game-changer, and apart from that one leak, it’s strictly military need-to-know. Major Kerufin was a man in the know, and he would use it to his contacts all the way up to Emperor Xander. With a bit of delay – you can’t open a wormhole within three light minutes of another, so the stations to send and receive have to be a bit... scattered – that message would be in Capital being read to Xander within about six hours. In time to let him know about the insurrection before he left on his progression.

Thank any powers in the universe for that.

If I could manage to figure out what was going to happen that would kill Xander, Lady Bronteen, Lisilli Bronteen, and anyone with them, I would try to do so. 

This was an odd sort of system. This world, Teeofaan, was the capital of the subsector, and the seat of the duke, which was Lord Duranor. Baron of the world was Faruu. Baron Bronteen was baron of the three large moons, one of which was virtually a double planet with Teeofaan, named Teeobhan, the two named after mythical twins in old Wiłanu legends. One of the moons orbits both at a far orbit, the other, closer, goes in a figure of eight about both. They are named Uushi and Teherru, after the consorts of the twins. Teherru, consort of Teeobhan, was also Teeofaan’s mistress, and was killed by her husband. Somehow I doubted that Henduuri Faruu was boffing Lady Bronteen as well as Moruunaa Kerufin. Hen-Hen? I hated the woman just for that, as much as her trying to trammel Serenaa into convention.

Still, I suppose I should be glad that Serenaa was more her father’s daughter than her mother’s; if my lovely Serenaa had been applying her beautiful and devious little head to espionage on the wrong side, she’d be in Xander’s place before the year was out.

I did not think that she had been dissembling with me.

No, her sweet lips had never been kissed before, and she was eager to learn and to show off what she was learning. And her shock over her mother’s involvement... she was not simulating that.

Kerufin would be shocked, too, but perhaps not as much. He had regretted his marriage, or so I had heard, almost from the first week of the honeymoon. It was perhaps why he was so keen on teaching recruits, ‘if you don’t want to wake up over the breakfast table opposite the woman, don’t mess her about off the dance floor.;

A lesson learned hard; but his noble title was, at least, for deeds done, not seed squirted from the august testicles of his sire.

No, I don’t like aristocrats.

Well, time to get my contacts sleazing their ways through Baron Bronteen’s bank details, and other transactions. It’s amazing how arrogant men can be about the money trails they leave.

 

Reading week ended, and I confess that so far all I had heard about was Bronteen’s new swimming pool and the fashion bill for his wife and daughter.

And I had to put up with the new fashion accessory which was adopted by all of Miss Bronteen’s set, though I thought unwillingly by Miss Faruu.

Which was odd. Or maybe she hated the idea of someone else having an original idea. She was taking it out on Kassi Ondarool, who had attached herself to Rauf Guffah. Sensible girl.

Miss Ondarool was wearing a jumpsuit with a belted sweater like Serenaa, and looked better for being clear of the excess makeup and tortured hair of her former fellows, whose monoringlet now depended from a ruddy snow globe.

Well, I say a snow globe, they were yellow, green, or brown, with floating sparkles, eternally shaken as their bodies moved, and with bright silk petals around as if the globes were the centres of exotic, and probably toxic, flowers.

 

I twigged in the middle of the night.

And I doubt that the swimming pool had anything to do with it because chlorine gas, whilst toxic in quantity, would not be sure enough. But it added things up in my mind, and reminded me that there are neurotoxins strong enough to kill if one droplet touches the skin.  Which is why anything which might be a container for such is not allowed near the emperor or other visiting dignitaries. But hair ornaments?

My blood ran cold.

 

oOoOo

After the next class, which was on how not to irritate various alien dignitaries [it was entitled ‘changing diplomatic stance to the non-human outlook, but we all knew what it meant, except maybe Miss Bronteen,] I found my blood running hot.

With anger.

There were four young men waiting outside the classroom, and they were joined by Mr. Dretanaar, who had not enjoyed being told that his attitude was likely to get himself sliced up by Baburi.

The four young men carried grav ball racquets, and one of them passed one to Mr. Dretanaar.

“Now, sir,” sneered Mr. Dretanaar, “We wanted to discuss with you what we think of a Soll’d like you laying your filthy earthy hands on a pure blood like Serenaa Kerofin. And if you start begging, you might just survive the beating.”

“You are young fools,” I said. “You should disperse, and if you do so quietly, I will only set you essays on why the genetic heritage of the earthborn is identical to that of those native to Wiłu.”

They looked at me as if they could not believe their ears.

“Is this teach of yours for real, Agguur?” one of them asked Mr. Dretanaar. “Does he think we’re carrying these batons for fun? Even if any one of us could not beat up some earthy-blooded mongrel anyway.”

“He needs to accept our superiority,” said another.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

“What very silly little boys you are,” I said. “None of you could come close to beating me up on your own. Even with your little weapons.”

“I’ll show him; hold back,” said the first.

Good. I was hoping that would happen; any four I could take. Five might have a chance to injure me.

He advanced, swinging his baton.

A gravball racquet is about two feet long, wider at the far end than the handle, and it has an iron ball inside it which slides up and down the hollow centre the right width to allow it to move freely. Using momentum to get the ball in the right place within the racquet to get the right weight of strike on the free-moving gravball ball is part of the skill. It can also be used to move the players about to some extent. In a gravity well, the iron ball is subject to gravity as well as to momentum. This makes it more sluggish to use.

Just as well. I wouldn’t want one of them in my ribs.

He came at me with a round sideways stroke, aiming to strike at my kidneys.

He was not expecting the slow-moving weapon to be grasped, pulling him off balance, and to be rabbit-punched on the back of the neck as he came forwards.

One down, and out for the count.

The others gaped.

“It was a fluke,” said one of them. “Get him!”

They didn’t have a clue how to use footwork, or to do anything but swipe at me. And they were entirely confused when I not only put down Mr. Dretanaar, but also used the force of doing so to catapult myself off the top of his head, twisting in midair to come down behind them, where I had more room to manoeuvre.

A marine with room to move is a killing machine. They were nasty youths, but I did not kill them. I scientifically broke ten legs and five arms. In enough places that they would be in boneknitter machines for a week or so.

“You have your right hands to write that essay still,” I said. “And because I’m kind, I’m going to call the meatwaggon.”

Whatever story they decided to tell the medics probably did not involve the five of them being broken like puppets by a teacher shorter than any of them.

 

I went to see Mr. Shagaanuu, the principal.  I also swept his office for surveillance devices; there were none, but you can’t be too careful.

“You got a letter clear to Deneb, to Mr. Beecher,” I said. “You have friends who have new technology.”

“You have something to report?” he asked.

“Plenty,” I said, grimly. “I sent Miss Kerufin to her father to report some of what we found out, to keep her safe. But I know how the assassination of the Emperor is to be achieved, with nerve gas carried by unwitting carriers, who could be scanned by the best psycher in the Imperium without showing guilt. Because they are pawns for the sacrifice.”

“Surely the Emperor would be met by members of the local aristocratic family?” said Shagaanuu.

“Yes,” I said. “And I need to get the message out in case the third time they try to kill me is successful.”

“Dear me, Mr. Lime, isn’t that melodramatic?”

“Treason is usually along the lines of melodrama,” I said. “Item; the goons waiting in my flat. A trap I sprang. Item; some youths set to beat me, ostensibly for kissing Serenaa Kerufin.”

He latched onto the piece of information I thought least relevant at the time.

“You kissed a student?” he gasped.

“I’m not a real teacher, and we’re going to be married,” I said. “It was only an excuse. Faruu is actually shagging your vice principal, so don’t act like it never happens.”

“She... he... are you sure?” gasped Shagaanuu.

“Are you seriously more put out by that than that someone wants to kill the emperor and has tried to kill me?” I asked, amused.

“I... no, of course not. You are sure the youths meant to kill you?”

“One of them said if I pleaded enough they might not kill me. Five of them with gravball racquets.”

“But... but that is deadly intent! How... you managed to run away?”

“I put them in the hospital,” I said. “Grow up, Shagaanuu, I’m a marine. I kill people for my monthly wage, But they are on to me, and if anyone seriously wants me silenced, it could be at the expense of a large hole in the ground formerly known as Brighthill College of Academic Excellence. Or at least the collateral damage of a few dead students. I want to talk to someone who can get information to Kerufin, Capital, or Beecher.

“Wait here,” he sighed.

 

The person he came back with was a Newt – Tsshst I should say – who radiated eagerness from every gill. She was a high-ranking female, judging by the headdress, so I bowed in the proper manner, bending my knees, and clenching my buttocks as if to curl the tail I don’t have. I don’t know how they can tell if you do so, but they can, so I did.

“You may be easy, Gunnery Sergeant,” she said. “I am Mwaphlphp, and you need to get a message through?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “The news that Duke Duranor is part of a plot to kill the Emperor, aided by Barons Faruu and Bronteen, Lady Kerufin, who hopes to kill her husband and accepted that her daughter would die as well, and Baroness Faruu and sundry others should have reached capital by now.”

“It has, and I and my organisation have been briefed to try to find out the means.”

“There’s a new fashion fad for globes containing moving glitter as part of hair ornaments,” I said. “I am almost completely positive that some neurotoxin will be enclosed in the globes worn by Baroness and Miss Bronteen. The fashion has made its appearance already, in order to get people used to it. The baron is happy to sacrifice his wife and daughter. They are unaware of this. I am now a danger to the public and need to leave.”

“You drive?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll arrange to have an explosive device attached to your car. Park over the manhole near your flat. Your car will be doctored to allow you to slide out of the seat and through the bottom, as you inflate a dummy. Through the manhole, you can start the car remotely and Mr. Harry Lime will be blown to smithereens. Where do you want to go?”

“To Major Kerufin.  Can my other flat be packed? I assume you know where it is.”

She pouted in the way which meant a smile.

“I arranged it for you,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

“Take to your car first thing in the morning,” she said.

 

oOoOo

 

I did check the car for any other devices before I moved it over the manhole.

I found one, too.

Well, when it blew up in the morning, whoever had left it would assume he had been successful.

I slept like a baby.

A baby who was teething.

Every noise had me starting in case it was an intruder. In the end I got up and listened to Shegwally baroque music.

And then I got up, went down to the car, discovered a hole in the bottom of it, and an inflatable figure with a quik-inflate can, and slithered down as I hit the inflation button. The manhole cover swung out of the way and I descended into a drain.

However high-tech a world might be, a drain is a drain is a drain. I pressed the convenient button on the convenient box, and heard a detonation above me.

“Thiss way, Mr. Lime.”

Another Tsshst. As well as being superb bureaucrats, they are happy in damp tunnels like sewers; no doubt something the Imperial Intelligence Service makes use of.

Three hours later I was on a freighter out to the next system over, where Major Kerufin had his office.