Chapter 4

Harold Betten hobbled slowly away from the governor's mansion.

Mansion! What a perversion it was! The masterwork of stone had been built a palace, a castle. It had been the home of a great lord, and now they called it a mansion. They made it into the residence of a governor.

Levinigh was no longer a capitol city, but much of the old architecture remained intact. Rising up out of wheat fields and orchards, the array of spanned arches and heavy walls had once been a sight to inspire awe and invoke fear. Now it was much softened: green banners flew from the turrets; trees and flowering bushes fronted the stonework; newer and busier markets lined the streets. Images of the dragon etched in stone had been shattered, and banners bearing the blood-red crest had been burned.

Sounds of celebration in the streets faded as Harold pushed his empty cart along the road, away from the city. Idiot people, commoners that had never been part of the government's inner circle, crowded the former capitol as if they had some right to be there. They cheered for the new baby, the governor's fourth son--his first three were adopted.

He had sneered inwardly at the message: '... the first son born to governor Kudo Milan and wife Bela... ' He detested the happy face he wore while he made his deliveries. But it was necessary, if he wanted to remain undetected. The spy network had been bent and broken during the change of fief, and there were ongoing trials in the cold, stone courtrooms of the palace--mansion. If he needed any reminder of his delicate situation, four discovered Hai Krun agents had been executed in the last month alone.

The city diminished with distance, and at last sank behind a gentle hill. It was all gentle hills, each tall with wheat and corn, and a main road that wound between them. Mountain foothills in the North, forest on the East, seacoast all along the South and West. It was good country, good land, but it was now always becoming less.

Some called it the Slow Softening. Of course the commoners were overjoyed--freed at last. Thousands of them already changed their occupations, moved to new homes, crossed friendly borders. Free markets open everywhere! An economy based on supply and demand! Where was the control? Where was the direction? How could commoners be expected to make decisions?

The lord Iordan defined a new set of laws, but they were laughable. Of course the people loved him--he allowed them to do almost anything! And the new governor, this Milan: he was bent on rooting out 'the remaining evil.' How could he be respected when he had no respect for himself? He had married the wife of that senator-slave, and then named the province after him. The Dain Province! It was an outrage; but the only protest could be silent.

It all came back to the senator, Illian Dain. Harold heard the rumors fly a year ago, just as the spy networks were beginning to fall apart. He had broken the drug's hold. How had he done that? It was supposed to be impossible. He had broken through--and died in the process--but had stopped the last trap from closing. If not for him, Iordan Lei would be dead. If not for him, the dark-haired woman calling herself 'Empress' would be dead. If not for him, the lord Darrak Krun would be ruling from the Cloud City, his son Duain from Levinigh. That damned senator!

After a last turn, Harold wheeled his cart off the road and set it in its place beside the small barn. He took the path along a long wooden fence, broken now in more places than it had been the year before. His fields of hybus plants waved in straight planted rows beyond fence to the left; behind were the first line of orchard trees. Then at the end of the path a low farmhouse, blocky stonework with a heavily thatched roof.

The front door sagged on its hinges, and it protested loudly against opening. He slipped his sandals off inside the door, bare feet silent on the stone floor. The trappings inside the house were not quite ordinary for a farmer and businessman, though he thought nothing should attract suspicion. There had been a team of the new police here, investigating; he tried to see the place through their eyes. Kitchen: heavy table, cupboards, ceramics of dried fruit, jugs of oils, bins of grains. Office: old desk, sheaves of parchment, quills and inks, shelves, candles. Sitting room: padded chairs, worn rug, wall torches, stone idols of Arimus the Archer and Dionelo the Beast. Bedroom: low bed, battered wardrobe, grass-fiber tapestry on the wall. It was not the home of a commoner in the old Hai Krun. There was too much nicety, too much luxury. There was nothing overtly suggestive. Still, he had to be careful.

Harold crossed the room, stooped to slide the Dionelo statue away from the wall. There was a secret compartment inside that statue, concealed in the stonework in minute detail. No one even gave the idols a second glance; symbols from the fallen culture were still common; only the dragon crest was forbidden.

From inside the statue, he took a tight roll of parchment and smoothed the creases. The document was old, successfully hidden for almost a year. Still, he read the words from time to time. If for no other reason, it was a reminder of all he fought against.

Danger ahead. Lord Krun is fallen in openly declared kama-hut. Change of fief to Iordan Lei, IV.

Consul Hai disbanded. Senators, other key figures dead from drug dependency. Agents in the Cloud City have been diverted/killed before they could continue administering doses.

New empire declared and claimed by a woman, Anna Petrova. Identified by black hair and brown eyes.

Krun allies are not ready to move during the confusion. There will be no open resistance at this time. Maintain contact without drawing attention.

Senator Illian Dain broke the drug's influence. FIND OUT HOW.

The secret mark, the spies' signature, was tucked in the lower corner. Similar letters of instruction had gone out to all of the agents and spies before the network collapsed. There were still pockets, small groups. But large-scale organization was near impossible under the current level of suspicious scrutiny. For now it was mostly watch and wait.

He sealed the letter back in its place and went to his desk, sat down. There was a report sitting there, meant to sound innocent; he re-read it.

Hybus crop study:

Recent harvests compared with Original harvest. Small changes in soil composition, but no real impact on the plant. Soil summary: higher mineral concentrations, fewer nutrients, salts and pH balance outside of normal range. Overall plant growth seems for now unaffected.

Product batch within tolerances, chemical properties unchanged from original design. No indication that Product batch was faulty or damaged.

Product failure cannot be attributed to flaws in harvest or production.

With a tired sigh, he folded the parchment and set it aside. That cover letter was followed by pages and pages of details confirming the summary. Why had the drug failed? How had the senator freed himself from the hypnotic compulsion? All of the recent test subjects had suggested the drug was perfect, none of them able to break free even when stressed far beyond their limits. One man had gone so far as to sever his arm, gouge out his eyes, and disembowel himself, all with a happily obedient smile on his face. Still, if the drug was to be of any further use, they had to discover what made the senator different from all the rest.