L. E. Modesitt, Jr., bestselling author of The Mongrel Mage, has a brand new gaslamp political fantasy Isolate.
Industrialization. Social unrest. Underground movements. Government corruption and surveillance.
Something is about to give.
Steffan Dekkard is an isolate, one of the small percentage of people who are immune to the projections of empaths. As an isolate, he has been trained as a security specialist and he and his security partner Avraal Ysella, a highly trained empath are employed by Axel Obreduur, a senior Craft Minister and the de facto political strategist of his party.
When a respected Landor Councilor dies of “heart failure” at a social event, because of his political friendship with Obreduur, Dekkard and Ysella find that not only is their employer a target, but so are they, in a covert and deadly struggle for control of the government and economy.
Steffan is about to understand that everything he believed is an illusion.
A Macmillan Audio production from Tor Books
Release date:
October 19, 2021
Publisher:
Tom Doherty Associates
Print pages:
688
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The giant corporacion Eastern Ironway apparently used its contacts and influence to illegally gain underpriced coal leases in the protected Eshbruk Naval Coal Reserve, according to a letter sent to the Imperador and Premier Johan Grieg. The leases were granted to Eastern Ironway by the Minister of Public Resources, Jhared Kraffeist, late last year, despite the fact that corporacions are forbidden by law to obtain coal or any other resource from such reserves …
… Eastern paid the absurdly low price of 200,000 marks, as well as a “commission” amounting to 10 percent of that sum. According to the letter, an investigation by the Justiciary Ministry found that all records of who had received the commission have vanished …
Obtaining those leases, also according to the letter, allowed Eastern to quickly begin mining operations and to obtain fuel for its locomotives at a far lower cost than coal obtained elsewhere …
Minister Kraffeist refused to comment on the allegations …
The signature and title on the copies of the letter distributed anonymously on Eastern Ironway stationery to newssheets all across Guldor and to all councilors were removed, but it appears to have been written by an official of Eastern Ironway privy to all the details of the leasing procedure …
Given the seriousness of the charges, Minister Kraffeist was summoned to the Council Hall to meet with Premier Grieg …
At the request of the Imperador, the Premier has ordered the Council not to take up any legislative matters while the Palace and Premier review the matter …
Gestirn, 13 Springend 1266
2
Duadi
14 Springend 1266
DEKKARD woke suddenly in the darkness of his small room above the garage, a garage housing the most recent of the modest dark green Gresynt steamers that were one of the hallmarks cultivated by the councilor. Keeping with Obreduur’s penchant for avoiding obvious ostentation, the garage was only large enough for a pair of automobiles, one the larger eight-seater used by the councilor, and a smaller six-seater driven by his wife the legalist to and from her office and elsewhere.
Dekkard quickly rose, shaved, and took a brief lukewarm shower, then dressed in his duty security grays—a gray military-style tunic and matching trousers, with a black belt for his truncheon and gladius … and the concealed brace of throwing knives. Out of habit, he wound his watch, then left his room and took the rear staircase that served the staff. Once on the main floor, he took the back corridor to the kitchen and the small staff room where he, Ysella, Rhosali the housemaid, and Hyelda the cook all ate … or could talk or gather in their infrequent free time.
The staff room held only Rhosali. That scarcely surprised Dekkard, since the family, except for Obreduur himself, was not known for rising earlier than required and since the same was true of Ysella, and sometimes even Rhosali, while Hyelda was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast, both for the four staff and for the family, those in residence at the moment, since the eldest son was in his second year at the Military Institute in Veerlyn.
Dekkard knew breakfast would be simple—café, orange juice, and heavy croissants, with a slice of quince paste, or, if Hyelda was feeling cross, tomato jelly. While waiting for Hyelda to set out the large tray from which the staff helped themselves, Dekkard poured himself a mug of café and took a sip. He was about to take a second sip when Hyelda appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“The Ritten wishes a word with you.” The cook gestured.
Dekkard immediately stood, nodding to Rhosali, before leaving the staff room. From there, he walked through the dish pantry, opened the service door to the breakfast room, closing it behind him, before coming to a halt several paces from the table, where the mistress of the house presided over her end of the table. She had been a legalist long before marrying Obreduur, but he seldom mentioned her present or previous practice, and Dekkard felt he wasn’t in a position to ask about specifics unless others voiced them. Just as he hadn’t been about to ask why she had spent two weeks in Gaarlak, when she had no family there. But then, she had traveled to various cities in Guldor during the two years Dekkard had worked for Obreduur. Dekkard had gathered that she still did legalist work for various guilds and other clients, and that might be why the Obreduurs could live in East Quarter, given that councilors weren’t paid comparatively that much.
Ritter Obreduur sat at the other end, sipping café as he read through the morning newssheet. The title, which had originally been given only to landed nobility, now also applied to councilors and their spouses, not only while they served, but thereafter, although it was not hereditary. Except for Obreduur’s white linen jacket, and whatever scarf Ritten Obreduur would wear over her outerwear, the two were dressed for the day.
“You’re always so formal, Dekkard, I’m sure you already know what I need.”
“Lighting off your steamer, Ritten Obreduur?”
“Exactly. You can finish your breakfast first.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Dekkard inclined his head. “Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“I’ll need to leave a sixth earlier, Steffan,” said the councilor without looking away from the paper, a paper held in his left hand, the one with the bent and twisted little finger and the one adjoining, a legacy from his much younger days as a stevedore.
“Yes, sir.” Ten minutes earlier wouldn’t be too bad.
The councilor did not reply, nor look in Dekkard’s direction, not that Dekkard would have expected it, and the isolate slipped out of the breakfast room and headed back to the staff room. His lighting off Ritten Obreduur’s steamer would save her only a few minutes, but if that was what she wanted, he was happy to take care of it.
Ysella had arrived in the staff room in Dekkard’s absence, crisp as always in her duty grays, identical to his, except that she carried only a personal-length truncheon, and she looked up from her plate as Dekkard returned. “What did she want? For you to light off her steamer?”
“Of course.” Dekkard seated himself and immediately added more café to his mug and took a swallow. He noted that Hyelda had provided slightly larger slices of quince paste than usual. He appreciated that, because, as the son of Argenti parents who had fled the cold and the altitude of the Silver Heights—and the comparative lack of opportunity for artisans—he’d been raised on more substantial breakfast fare. After a little more café, he drank the small glass of orange juice in one long swallow, then split the croissant and slipped the quince paste in the middle, and began to eat it like a sandwich.
Ysella shuddered. “I still don’t see how you can eat so much sweet in the morning.”
Dekkard swallowed the mouthful he’d been chewing, then replied, “I’ve told you. Quince is bittersweet, not honey-sweet.”
The empie just shook her head, as did Rhosali, who took a last swallow of café, then rose and hurried off to begin her day.
“We’re leaving a sixth earlier this morning,” Dekkard said. “The councilor didn’t say why.” He almost winced when he realized how unnecessary the second sentence had been.
“You always say something about his never explaining,” replied Ysella. “By now, you should know I understand that.”
“I know you understand. It’s just that it feels rude to me not to say something.” And I know you can’t sense what I feel. Dekkard wondered, far from the first time, whether other isolates felt the need to explain to empath partners, given that empaths couldn’t sense any emotion from isolates, while they could from normal people, and even from other empaths who weren’t careful about blocking their feelings.
Ysella smiled. “Steffan … I know … but I do understand.”
“Thank you.”
After quickly finishing his breakfast, Dekkard rose and walked to the garage, where he opened the garage doors, then topped off the water and kerosene in both steamers before lighting off their boilers. Even with the request from Ritten Obreduur, Dekkard had the councilor’s steamer under the front portico ready to go at a half before second bell, a sixth earlier than Obreduur had requested. He’d even had time to clean the few mud splatters from the glass of the front windscreen and the side windows. He rolled down the front windows on each side of the steamer a precise three digits, just enough that there would be a slight breeze in the rear on the drive to the Council Office Building.
Then he took another look at the pale green sky over the city, a sky with just a hint of haze, although that would likely thicken over the course of the day, but at least there was no sign of rain.
Ysella accompanied Obreduur down the granite steps from the small mansion that most of the Sixty-Six would have considered modest, but then circled around to the other side, because her job was to sit up front where she could sense trouble more effectively. As a security aide, while on duty she was unofficially exempted from the customary headscarf worn by either the few professional women or the wives or daughters of the upper classes, either commercial or landed.
Dekkard waited for the councilor to seat himself, then released the brakes and pressed the throttle pedal, and the Gresynt accelerated smoothly and quietly as Dekkard guided it out from under the portico and along the concrete drive leading to the gates. Once on Altarama Drive, heading west, Dekkard checked the rearview mirrors to see whether anyone was following the steamer, then looked farther ahead, but he saw only a smaller Realto steamer turning in to the drive of a mansion easily thrice the size of the councilor’s dwelling. That mansion belonged to the chairman of Transoceanic Shipping, or so Ysella had told Dekkard.
Dekkard and Ysella had been especially wary ever since the attack nearly a month earlier, although there had been no other attempts and no obvious signs that Obreduur was being watched or shadowed, but all that meant was that no one had gotten close enough for Ysella to sense the range of feelings possessed by an attacker—or the total lack of emotional radiation from an isolate.
As he continued driving, Dekkard wondered who the councilor might be meeting or receiving, or what else he might be doing, because the Council was only in pro forma session pending the Imperador’s decision on whether to remove Premier Grieg or to dissolve the Council … or possibly, to do neither in the wake of the Kraffeist Affair and the underlying peculation, the extent of which remained to be discovered. As if it ever will be.
Some four blocks later, he turned off Altarama and onto Imperial Boulevard, easing the Gresynt in behind a limousine with a poorly adjusted burner, although most wouldn’t have noticed the thin gray wisps of smoke. At least the smoke wasn’t black and odoriferous, unlike what poured from the chimneys of the large manufactories around cities like Oersynt, Kathaar, or Uldwyrk.
Imperial Boulevard was the smooth, asphalt-paved main thoroughfare that ran north from the harbor to the Imperador’s Palace, and consisted of two sets of double lanes divided by a median featuring raised marble-walled gardens flanked by soft-needled Folknor pines. Marble sidewalks not only stretched between the center gardens and the trees, but also flanked the outer sides of the roadway. By decree, later ratified into law by the Council, all structures located within a block of the boulevard had to be built of stone and roofed either with tile or slate and could not exceed five stories, although few were more than three. Dekkard had to admit, even in his more cynical moods, that Imperial Boulevard was impressive, with all the hotels and business buildings, and the view of the Palace of the Imperador was especially striking.
“Steffan,” said the councilor, “we’re early enough that you don’t have to drop us off. Just park the steamer, and we’ll walk.”
“Yes, sir.”
After driving a mille and a half, he turned off the boulevard onto Council Avenue, the last major cross street before the Way of Gold, which not only split around the circular Square of Heroes, but ran along the south edge of the Palace grounds. On the north side of the square was the formal entrance to the Palace. Dekkard drove another half mille, before slowing the steamer as they approached the guard post at the entrance to the covered parking area for councilors.
After visually inspecting the steamer, the emblem welded to the front bumper, and those inside, the guard, dressed in the standard pale green uniform, waved the Gresynt through the open gate. After parking the steamer, Dekkard shut off the burner, and he and Ysella escorted Obreduur from the garage across the drive to the Council Office Building and up to the office.
All councilors’ offices were identical, consisting of three connected chambers: the councilor’s private inner office, with a small attached bathroom containing little more than a sink, toilet, and closet; the anteroom, holding a receptionist and her desk, with chairs and a leather-upholstered backed bench for those very few waiting to see the councilor and two table desks at one end for junior assistants, usually for staffers who also provided security in some form or another; and a moderately large staff office for the councilor’s senior legal or political staffers and several clerks with typewriters and their mechanical brass calculators.
Obreduur smiled warmly to the receptionist who also served as his personal secretary just before he walked past her desk and toward his office. “Good morning, Karola.”
“Good morning, Councilor.”
By the time her words were out, Obreduur was closing the inner office door.
“You’re early,” said Karola.
“He wanted to be early,” replied Dekkard. “The boulevard wasn’t crowded.”
“I was afraid you’d be here first. They had trouble with the omnibus, something about a leak in the flash boiler. Anna and Margrit kept telling me we’d make it, but I wasn’t sure.”
“What about Ivann and the others?” asked Dekkard.
“All the Crafter legalists are meeting with the Craft Party’s head legalist. Ivann said he didn’t know what it’s all about. Both Ivann and Svard went. Felix is in the office. I put the latest petitions and letters on your desk.”
Dekkard nodded. “Thank you.” As he walked over to his desk, and the stack of petitions, and a handful of letters, awaiting him, he pondered the reason for the meeting of all the Crafter legalists. Had the Premier asked the Justiciary Ministry to indict someone else associated with Minister Kraffeist … or had Grieg asked for one or all of the indictments to be withdrawn? But if it involved Kraffeist as Minister of Public Resources, why weren’t the commercial aides like Felix invited?
Shaking his head at what he didn’t know, Dekkard sat down at his table desk and looked at the stack of paper, all presumably from the Oersynt-Malek district from which Obreduur had been elected.
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