Eric Flint's Blog, page 267

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 20

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 20

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s helped, though maybe not as much as being a weremyste. And being successful, and rich, and ruthless.”

“You see? When you try, you can be quite smart. So again I ask you, why do you think you’re here?”

Thinking about it for all of two seconds, I came to the conclusion that playing games with the guy made little sense, and could very well get me killed. By this time, news of the attempted bombing was all over the media — television and internet — as was speculation about the intended target of the bomber. And as Amaya had made clear, he had plenty of sources to fill him in on those details that wouldn’t find their way into standard news reports.

“You want to talk about the attempt on Mando Vargas’s life.”

“Better.” He glanced at my drink. “Finish that club soda and then have a beer with me.”

He stood before I could respond. I drained my soda water, and by the time I was setting it down, he was handing me a bottle of Bohemia Stout.

“Do you want a glass?” he asked.

I held up the bottle. “It’s in a glass.”

Amaya grinned, and we both drank. It was a good beer, heartier than most Mexican lagers.

“So, what can you tell me about the man who tried to blow up Mando’s plane?”

“Mister Amaya, I was called in by a friend on the PPD–”

“Kona Shaw. Your former partner.”

I masked my frown by taking another sip of beer. “Yes. She asks me to help her from time to time, because she knows that I’m discreet. I can’t help her if–”

“I’m going to stop you there and make this easy for you,” Amaya said. A note of impatience had crept into his tone. I’d pushed him about as far as I could. “I want you to assume, for the remainder of this conversation, that I have a gun pointed at your heart.” He opened his hands and flashed another of those perfect, predatory smiles. “Now as you can see, I hold no weapon in my hands. But you’re going to pretend that I do. And you’re going to keep in mind as well that if by some chance you lie to me, or hide information from me, I’ll learn of it before long. And I will be very displeased.”

I said nothing, but after a few seconds I nodded once.

“Splendid. Now, the man with the bomb?”

“I assume you know that he was a white-supremacist,” I said, with a silent apology to Kona. “As far as I could tell, he wasn’t a sorcerer, but he did have access to some high-tech toys. The bomb in his luggage was sophisticated enough to get past security and onto the plane.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t a myste?”

“Why would a weremyste need a bomb to blow up a plane? For that matter, why would he need to sacrifice himself to do it?”

“He might use a bomb because it would raise fewer questions than would magic, and because it would make a statement on behalf of his fellow skinheads. And if he was a good enough myste, he might not have sacrificed himself.”

I considered this, but after a few moments shook my head. “I used a seeing spell; and so basically saw his murder. He was harassed by a myste before he died, and he had no idea what was happening. He wasn’t a sorcerer. But whoever killed him was.”

I watched Amaya as I said this last, hoping that he might give something away. He didn’t.

But he did ask, “Did you see the myste who killed him?”

“No. He must have had him or herself camouflaged, or concealed in some other way. Howell — the bomber — he didn’t see a thing before he died.”

“And the magical residue?”

“Green, vivid, fading fast. Whoever killed him is pretty powerful.”

“Was it on anything other than the body?”

I laughed. “You already know everything I’m telling you. Why would you waste your own time like this?”

“I’m wasting nothing,” he said, with quiet intensity. “I have an idea of what might have happened; that’s all. I need for you to confirm my guesses. Now, was the magic only on the body?”

I shook my head. “No. It was on the plane as well — on the instrumentation in the cockpit.”

He nodded at this, weighing it. Then, “Anything else about the magic?” It was his turn to watch me. But on this point, I could conceal what I knew with little chance of being found out. I was the lone person who had seen that transparent residue, so he wasn’t going to learn anything different from one of his many sources.

“Not that I can think of. Why?”

“No reason. I’m merely being thorough. So what do you think happened?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ve given me the basic facts, sparing no detail, I’m sure. And now I’m asking you to formulate a theory. What happened to James Robert Howell? Why is he dead, and why is Mando Vargas still alive and, by now, on his way to Washington, D.C.?”

“I have no idea.”

“But what do you think?”

I drank more of my beer, pondering the question. “Is Mando Vargas a weremyste?” I asked after some time.

“He is not,” Amaya said. “But you’re thinking the right way.”

“Does he rely on your magic?”

He shook his head and took a drink as well. “Mando and I have been friends for a long time. He relies on me for counsel, for support, and, on occasion, for financial contributions in support of his non-profit activities. But not for magic.” A smile thinned his lips. “He does not approve.”

“And he does approve of the rest of what you do?”

“Have a care, Mister Fearsson,” Amaya said, his expression hardening. “The rest of what I do or don’t do is beyond the purview of this conversation.”

When I didn’t respond or shy from his gaze, he sat forward. “You believe me to be the worst kind of villain, don’t you. You think that because of how I make some of my money, I must be a monster. Mando knows better. He sees nuance where you and your police department friends do not.”

“He doesn’t worry that his association with you might hurt the causes he fights for?”

Amaya laughed again, and once more I sensed that he was mocking me. “How many Anglo politicians associate with men like me, with men worse than me? Surely you’re not so naïve as to think that Mando is the only public figure with friends who have gotten rich by less than legitimate means.” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Mando knows that I have put far more money into the Latino community than I’ve taken out of it. He has watched me fund community centers, drug rehabilitation centers, playgrounds, housing initiatives, and take no credit at all for the work, because of the harm that would come from my name being associated with the projects.” He stood, walked to the window, and stared out over the city once more, his hands buried in his pants pockets, his broad shoulders hunched. The western sky still glowed like embers in a fire, and the lights of the city seemed to be scattered at his feet, glittering like jewels in a dragon’s lair. “The history of this country is littered with Presidents and governors and senators who had ties to men far worse than me.”

“You told me a moment ago that I was thinking the right way,” I said. “So you must have a theory of your own about today’s events. Would you care to share it with me?”

He remained at the window, and for several moments he didn’t answer. At last he faced me. “You haven’t said yet what you think happened.”

Amaya had led me to an obvious conclusion, though I wasn’t sure I believed it, at least not yet. “If what you’ve said is true, then I would guess the murder of James Howell had nothing at all to do with saving Mando Vargas’s life.”

His smile this time was genuine. “Very good. And here I’d grown worried that you might let me down.”

“But whoever killed Howell and disabled the plane, had to have been trying to save lives. Otherwise–”

“Otherwise why bother?”

“That’s right,” I said. “So the question is, who else was on that plane? Who was so worth saving that James Howell had to die?”

“My question exactly,” Amaya said, walking back to his chair. “A question I would like to hire you to answer.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 41

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 41

“No effort will be spared in finding all that were involved, even those who dare not show their faces again in our city.

“I take only a few more moments of your time this day, my friends, to announce a mark of my royal favor. Some years ago, the pernicious act of a hateful minister in service to our King caused loyal and brave members of a noble — nay, a royal — family to be cast into exile. This day we rescind that banishment, and welcome my dear brother César, and his sons, back to their native land. Dear brother, we grant you a pardon for whatever crimes are supposed to have been committed to cause such a false judgment. It shall be as if they have never been.”

Vendôme turned at this and knelt before Gaston, who placed a hand on his head for a moment and then offered him his hand to bring him back to his feet. The two royal brothers embraced; Gaston spoke some words into Vendôme’s ear, but no one else in the hall was able to discern what was said.

When Vendôme returned to his place, a mask of calm upon his face, Gaston extended his hands wide in a theatric gesture.

“To you, my fellow Frenchmen, we pledge the loyalty of a devoted monarch, and offer you the assurance that we will be ever ready to offer an attentive ear to just entreaties, a pious heart in my supplication in your behalf, and a steady and strong sword in the prosecution of justice in our realm and beyond whenever — and wherever — it is needed. We ask only that you pray with us — and for us.”

****

Though it would have been his preference to immediately take up residence in the king’s Apartments, Gaston recognized the need for propriety. Therefore, on his instructions, Vachon had established himself — and his royal master’s effects — in a suitable guest suite. Marguerite had adjoining quarters, and his daughter not far away: not close enough to anger his wife, but close enough to annoy her. He loved Marguerite dearly . . . but he loved La Petite Mademoiselle de France dearly as well. The two women would need to learn to get along with each other.

His presence in Paris introduced a vast number of petitioners to his schedule, even on his first day at the royal palace; but Gaston was not interested, or prepared, to receive any of them. Still, there was one whom he could not refuse. Accordingly, late in the afternoon of his arrival, a distinguished gentleman presented himself at the outer door of Monsieur Gaston’s apartments. He was admitted at once; the sitting-room was spare and nearly empty, but for Gaston himself and César de Vendôme, whom he had invited to be present.

There was only one chair, and Gaston occupied it, with his half-brother standing behind. The gentleman visitor offered a courtly bow.

“Be welcome, Don Antonio,” Gaston said. “Be at your ease. What can we do for you?”

“I thank your Royal Majesty for taking the time to speak with me,” said Don Antonio de Zuñiga y Davila, the Marquis de Mirabel.

He was a figure well known at the French court. For nearly fifteen years he had been King Philip of Spain’s personal representative. Greying at the temples and with a carefully-trimmed beard, Don Antonio was exquisitely turned out. He wore the ruff and extensive lace cuffs still in fashion at the Spanish court, with a silken doublet over which he bore the heavy collar and cross of the Order of Calatrava.

“It is our pleasure.”

“Your words this afternoon were worthy of the highest praise, Your Majesty,” he said. “On behalf of my master, permit me to extend the most sincere condolences on your loss. King Louis was a friend and brother to my own monarch, and it pains him greatly to hear of his death — and the manner in which it came to him.”

“It pains us as well,” Gaston said. “It is a regret that we have no Ravillac on hand to immediately punish.” He glanced back at Vendôme, who said nothing and did not change expression — except perhaps to slightly clench his fists. If Mirabel noticed it, he gave no sign.

“The monk who murdered your royal father was mad, Your Majesty — but his act was performed in public, before many witnesses. This heinous deed took place elsewhere, as I am told.”

“Indeed, yes. But we sense that you did not come merely to convey this, Don Antonio.”

The Spanish ambassador looked slowly from Gaston to Vendôme and back. “I wish to discuss matters that are delicate in nature, Your Majesty.”

“Our brother enjoys our most complete trust,” Gaston answered, smiling. “Whatever you have to say to us, Don Antonio, you may say in front of him.”

“As you wish, Majesty.” He folded his hands in front of him, and then let them fall to his sides. “There are a few questions to which I am commanded to obtain answers. Most pressing is the location and condition of my master’s royal sister, Queen Anne. Can you apprise me of her current whereabouts?”

“Ah. Regrettably we cannot.”

“I see. I would have expected her to be here . . . it was understood that she was heavy with child and had gone into seclusion, as a . . . precaution due to her delicate condition. King Philip is eager to know that she is well, and whether she has given birth.”

“We can readily understand your royal master’s curiosity in this matter, Don Antonio. Regrettably, Queen Anne’s seclusion was a closely-held secret, its location known to but a few.”

“But not yourself.”

“Unfortunately, we have been long absent from the land of our birth, Señor,” Gaston said. “So no.”

“A few, including –”

“Our late brother,” Gaston said. “And his minister.”

“The distinguished Cardinal Richelieu. I have noted his absence as well,” Mirabel said. “I am surprised that he was not on hand to welcome you to Paris.”

“We, too, are troubled by his absence.” Once again Gaston looked back at Vendôme, long enough that it would be impossible for Mirabel not to take note of it. “That the queen and our brother’s minister, as well as . . . others . . . are not in Paris is a matter of the gravest concern. It is no mere coincidence; and in view of the cardinal’s long legacy of intrigue, we fear that there are darker connotations.”

Mirabel’s right eyebrow elevated, but otherwise his face remained a mask of diplomatic composure.

“I do not completely take Your Majesty’s meaning.”

“It would be improper to impugn the motives or actions of our royal sister-in-law in any way,” Gaston said. “But Cardinal Richelieu’s intrigues and plots are of such depth and are of such long standing that the most stalwart and clever can be caught up in them. It is impossible to say what role he may have had in the tragedy.”

“You are suggesting . . . that he may have had something to do with the assassination of the king? It was understood that he was in the king’s company when the party was attacked.”

“And his body was not found among the dead,” Gaston answered smoothly. “Nor was the body of his trusted créature, Servien. We find that somewhat curious, Don Antonio. Don’t you?”

“I had not considered the matter, Your Majesty.”

“It is no more than speculation,” Gaston said, with a wave of his hand. “There is no evidence to support it . . . yet the queen is absent, the king is dead, and the cardinal is missing. We have no suitable explanation.”

Mirabel did not reply for several moments; Gaston let his last words hang in the air, remaining silent while the Spaniard considered it.

“That brings me to my second matter, Your Majesty. I am empowered to offer any assistance that you might find useful in locating Her Royal Majesty the queen, and in uncovering the truth regarding the death of His Majesty.”

“Assistance?”

“My master has servants whose methods are exceedingly effective in extracting the truth, Your Majesty.”

Gaston’s expression never wavered. “Please convey our sincerest gratitude to our royal brother for his offer,” he said. “But we will manage with our own servants. And our own methods.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” Mirabel said.

“Was there anything else?”

“There are some matters that require consultation, Your Majesty,” Mirabel said. “But they can wait until after Your Majesty’s coronation.”

“Very well,” Gaston said. “Then you have our leave to go.”

Mirabel executed another courtly bow and withdrew from the room, not turning his back until he was outside the door. Vachon waited in the doorway, and after a few moments gave a curt nod, indicating that Mirabel had departed.

“Well,” Gaston said. “That was interesting.”

“I am glad you found it so,” Vendôme said. “The Spanish wish to offer us — what? Inquisitors?”

“Or some such thing. I suspect that is only the beginning of their demands.”

“Have you made some foolish bargain with them, Gaston?”

“I’m not sure I like your tone, Brother.”

“You already have your noose around my neck, Gaston. You can hardly threaten me further. I will take whatever tone I please — in private.”

“I suppose I should thank you for that mercy,” Gaston said. The smiling mask had gone. “In answer to your question, César, I have made no foolish bargains with the Spanish; but we must needs become more intimate with them than heretofore. They are our co-religionists, after all, and it is not clear to me that they are the enemy.”

“Of course they are the enemy, Gaston. The Spanish would as soon slit our throats as take us by the hand.”

“I don’t think it is at all clear. Our chief enemy is not Spain: poor, backward Spain, last century’s great power. We have far more to fear if we look east. The up-timers and their self-styled Emperor Gustav Adolf, assuming he regains his full faculties, are a far more potent threat to our native land, César, not to mention his up-timer conspirators. A few years of exile may have blunted your perceptions even further than I previously thought.”

“You think you’re the soul of wit,” Vendôme snarled. “I do not find you the least bit entertaining.”

“I do not seek to entertain.” Gaston rose from his seat. “I will want to know what Mirabel knows, and what he is telling his king. But what I most want to know is where Richelieu is, and where Anne is. Now that you have been granted a royal pardon, your movements should be much less constrained. Make whatever inquiries you can, and take whatever steps you need, but find them. Both of them.

“This isn’t the last time we’ll be taking questions from Don Antonio de Zuñiga y Davila, and the next time I should like to be better prepared.”

“I have your leave to withdraw, then?”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Gaston turned away, waving his hand in dismissal. If he saw the anger in Vendôme’s eyes he did not take note of it.

When his half-brother had gone, Gaston stood for a long time, looking about his largely unfurnished sitting-room. He was angry: if there had been something breakable close to hand, he would have hurled it to the floor or against the wall — but there was nothing but a heavy chair.

You already have your noose around my neck, Vendôme had said.

“Yes,” Gaston said to no one in particular. “And sooner than you think, Brother, I will take great pleasure in pulling it tight.”

 

TRYING TO KEEP LITERARY AWARDS FROM FAVORING LITERARY CRITERIA IS AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY. GET OVER IT.

Having come up with that nifty albeit long-winded title, I’m tempted to just write “see above” and take a nap. Mission accomplished…

Sadly, some people need to be convinced that “inevitable” means “not evitable.”

You don’t think there’s such a word as “evitable”? Tch. Of course there is! If there weren’t, how could anything be in-evitable? “Evitable” derives from the Latin evitare (“to avoid). It’s an adjective that means capable of being avoided; avoidable. In essence, what the Sad Puppies are arguing is that if people follow their lead, the tendency of the Hugo Awards to be slanted in favor of what are generally called “literary” qualities can be avoided.

No, sorry, it can’t. You have as much chance of eliminating the tendency of a literary award to be tilted in favor of literary factors as you have of doing any of the following:

Getting a fashion competition to award first place to blue jeans and a sweatshirt. But they’re so comfortable! And people wear them all the time—including those God damned probably-a-bunch-of-pinkos (PABOPs) when they’re not putting on a public show.

Getting a dog show to award “best dog of show” to an unpedigreed mutt. But he’s such a good dog! Friendly, great with kids, never growls at anybody except people trying to break into the house and then—hooweeeeee!—watch the bastards run for their lives. And they gave the award to that—that—look at the damn thing! Its skull is narrower than a high-heeled shoe! God damn pointy-headed effete asinine retards (PHEARs).

Getting a gourmet cooking competition to award first place to a dish consisting of a cheeseburger and fries. But almost everybody eats cheeseburgers and fries! Try setting up a chain of escargots-and-tofu restaurants and see how fast you go bankrupt! This is pure snobbery, what it is. God damn highbrow elitist stuffed shirt icky abominable nabobs (HESSIANs).

Shall I go on? And on… and on…

What the Sad Puppies can’t seem to grasp is that any sort of award contest is automatically going to be biased in favor of whatever qualities those people who pay attention to the award—which always involves some effort and some expense—are prone to considering important. Getting infuriated because the tastes and preferences of that relatively small and self-selected pool of voters don’t match those of the population as a whole is just silly.

Of course they don’t match.

Most people who eat food—that’s everybody who isn’t dead or on a feeding tube—don’t eat expensive gourmet food except on occasion. But everybody who attends a gourmet tasting does so only in order to eat gourmet food.

The same is true with wine tasting, flower arranging, art shows—you name it, and if it involves a relatively small and self-selected portion of the populations of all people who drink wine or like flowers or look at art from time to time, their tastes and preferences will diverge at least to a degree from those of the mass audience. If that weren’t true, then the entire population (of people who drink wine or like flowers or look at art from time to time) would be participating also.

But they don’t. Most people who like flowers don’t attend flower shows. Most people who drink wine don’t attend wine tasting events. Most people who enjoy art from time to time don’t habituate art galleries and only go to museums on occasion.

That’s the way it is. Complaining about it is as pointless as complaining about the tides or the 23½ degree inclination of the Earth’s axis with respect to the plane of its orbit.

Of the roughly five million people in the United States who regularly read fantasy and science fiction, only a tiny percentage—considerably less than one percent—will ever attend a Worldcon or take out a supporting membership in order to vote on the Hugo awards. In fact, the majority of people who do attend Worldcons don’t vote on the Hugos.

It is both time-consuming and expensive to attend a Worldcon, especially if you don’t live in the city where it’s being held. And even if you just want to vote for the Hugos you have to pony up $40, which is not a trivial amount of money for most people.

What that means is that the people who do vote on the Hugos have a real interest in doing so. Whereas the great majority of F&SF readers simply don’t care if their favorite authors do or don’t get awards. Why should they care? Their reading choices are not determined by the awards in the first place.

Let me give a personal example from outside the field of fantasy and science fiction. In addition to F&SF, I also read mysteries from time to time. Among my favorite authors are Robert Parker, Carl Hiaasen and Elmore Leonard.

The mystery genre, like fantasy and science fiction, has its own set of prestigious awards. The mystery genre has a ton of awards, in fact, way more than F&SF does. Among them are:

          The Edgar Awards
          The Crime Writer Association (CWA) Dagger Awards
          The Nero Award
          The Shamus Awards
          The Anthony Awards
          The Macavity Awards
          The Agatha Awards
          The Hammett Prize

Which of the above awards, if any, have been won by Robert Parker, Carl Hiaasen and Elmore Leonard?

I don’t know. I don’t have a clue. I have not the foggiest idea.

Because I don’t care. It doesn’t matter whether any of these three authors has won any awards. If I discovered that none of them had won any awards that would not change my opinion of them one eeny-teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy little tiny bit. What do I care what some people somewhere else have decided is or isn’t good mystery fiction?

That is how the vast majority of people who read fantasy and science fiction feel about our own genre’s awards. They simply don’t care.

Do. Not. Care.

          Pay. No. Attention.

          Couldn’t. Care. Less.

So why should an author who sells well enough to make a living at it care whether his or her particular audience is one that pays much (if any) attention to the Hugo awards? Maybe they do, but more likely they don’t.

I think the reason some people get befuddled by this is because they suffer from one of two misconceptions. Or both, often enough.

The first misconception is that the voters who choose the Hugo award winners are in some sense a representative sample of the F&SF readership as a whole. To put it another way, some people seem to think that the (relatively very small) Hugo voting population is an accurate reflection of the reading tastes and opinions of the F&SF audience as a whole. But that’s not true.

More precisely, it’s only partially true. To some degree, of course, there is certainly an overlap. Very rarely if ever is a Hugo award, at least for the most popular category of “Best Novel,” handed out to a novel that almost no one except for Worldcon attendees has heard of. But it remains true that the preferences of Hugo-voters overlap with or are representative of those of the mass audience only to a degree.

That should be obvious to anyone. The two most popular fantasy series over the past two decades have been Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, completed by Brandon Sanderson, and George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. Jordan never won a Hugo and neither did Sanderson, for his work on that series. (He did win a Hugo for an unrelated novella.) George R. R. Martin has won a Hugo four times, but those were all given for his short fiction and mostly predate his big fantasy series. Various volumes in the Song of Ice and Fire did get nominated for the Hugo, but none of them won.

On the science fiction side of our field, probably the most popular purely-SF series of the past two decades has been David Weber’s Honor Harrington series. Weber has never won a Hugo. In fact, he’s never been nominated for one. This, despite the fact that there are two annual SF conventions devoted specifically to the Harrington series, which between them draw close to a thousand attendees. If a significant percentage of those people also attended Worldcon, Weber would be winning Hugo awards regularly. But there’s just not much overlap between the two groups of readers.

So it goes. That disconnect existed even in  the “good old days”—remember that Andre Norton, Hal Clement, Richard Matheson, Fred Saberhagen, James H. Schmitz and A. E. Van Vogt never won a Hugo award—and it’s gotten considerably more pronounced in the modern era.

The second misconception is perhaps even worse, because it tends to be shared by the people who do vote on the Hugos. That’s the notion that, while Hugo voters may not be representative of the mass audience, they do represent the opinions of the “elite” of the F&SF audience. To put it another way, theirs is the “best” opinion.

Uh, well, no. It isn’t. Or more precisely, it’s only an “elite” opinion in certain rather narrow ways.

It is true, overall, that people who attend Worldcons and vote on Hugos regularly have a better and more in-depth knowledge of the F&SF genre than any equivalently-sized group of people who gather anywhere in the world to discuss the matter and register their opinions. But in what sense does this also represent a better gauge of literature as a whole? (Or call it “story-telling” if the term “literature” makes you uncomfortable.)

Simply put, it doesn’t. In some ways, it’s even a handicap. Fans of F&SF who are devoted enough to undertake the time and expense of attending Worldcons are often—not all, not even most, but it’s still true of plenty of them—a tad on the obsessive side. They read a ton of F&SF and… not much else.

This was driven home to me a few years ago when I got into an argument with some F&SF fans online on the subject of what does or does not constitute a good gauge of the quality of an author’s work. I advanced the—to me, anyway—blindingly obvious criterion that the only thing that really mattered in the long run was which authors were still being read half a century or a century after their work was published. And I also made the point that popularity was usually a better indicator of whose work was going to survive than awards were.

Not a perfect gauge, certainly—the phenomenon of flash-in-the-pan literary success goes back for centuries. To name one example, in her heyday the writer known as “Ouida” (the pen name for the British novelist Maria Louise Ramé, who died in 1908) was extremely popular. So popular, in fact, that Puccini began working on an opera based on one of her stories. Eventually, he lost interest but the opera was finished by Mascagni.

Today, she is barely remembered at all. Only a few of her books are still in print, and those mostly in electronic or used paper editions. Nevertheless, popularity is not meaningless—especially when it maintains itself over time.

My critics were outraged by my opinion and one of them took it upon himself to prove me wrong by posting online the Publisher’s Weekly list of the most popular books of the year 1950.

Triumphantly, he pointed out that he’d only heard of one of the ten authors. The others, he said, had sunk into obscurity.

Here’s the list:

The Cardinal, by Henry Morton Robinson
Joy Street, by Frances Parkinson Keyes
Across the River and into the Trees, by Ernest Hemingway
The Wall, by John Hersey
Star Money, by Kathleen Winsor
The Parasites, by Daphne du Maurier
Floodtide, by Frank Yerby
Jubilee Trail, by Gwen Bristow
The Adventurer, by Mika Waltari
The Disenchanted, by Budd Schulberg

I’d say I was astonished, but I wasn’t astonished at all. His attitude was what I expected. A lot of F&SF fans are oblivious to the Big Wide World of literature. He’d “never heard” of John Hersey, Daphne du Maurier, Budd Schulberg…

Gah. I’d heard of most of them. The only three who weren’t familiar to me were Robinson, Winsor and Bristow. Which is not surprising—I looked them up—because all of them had only one or two well-known books and they’d long since faded away by the time I started reading widely in the mid-1960s and thereafter. I’d read something by five of them—Hemingway, Hersey, Du Maurier, Yerby and Schulberg, and although I’d never read Waltari I had seen a movie based on one of his books. (The Egyptian, starring Jean Simmons, Victor Mature and Peter Ustinov.)

Before anyone puts up an outraged post to the effect that lots of F&SF fans are widely read, spare yourself the effort. I know that. But plenty of them aren’t—and they inevitably have an influence on the collective opinion of fandom as it is registered in Hugo award voting.

Years ago, early in my career as an author, a very well-established and popular author said to me: “The best way for a writer to starve to death is to listen to what the fans tell you.” The comment wasn’t a sneer at fans, mind you. The author liked fans and attended plenty of conventions. She was simply making the point that the tastes and opinions of SF fandom do not track those of the mass audience all that well.

Nor are they necessarily better. Never lose sight of that when you assess what Hugo awards do and do not represent. What they are is simply the recorded opinions of F&SF’s assembled fandom—that portion of it which attends a Worldcon or buys a supporting membership—at any given time.

To win a Hugo, or even to be nominated, is certainly an honor for an author in our field. But that’s all it is—an honor. It’s not a gauge of anything objective, it does not necessarily reflect anything beyond the opinion of that (relatively tiny) slice of the mass audience for fantasy and science fiction, and it certainly does not determine anything about the worth of an author’s work. The only thing that will make that determination, in the long run, is whether an author’s work survives over time.

The Hugo voters, in their wisdom or lack thereof, decided that Christopher Anvil, Hal Clement, L. Sprague de Camp, Richard Matheson, Andre Norton, Fred Saberhagen, James H. Schmitz, A.E. Van Vogt and Jack Williamson were not very noteworthy. Of those nine authors, five of them are now in the Science Fiction Hall of Fame and two out of the other four—Anvil and Schmitz—have had their complete works reissued in modern editions. (Full disclosure: Okay, fine, I’m the one who edited those reissues—but they sold pretty damn well for reissue volumes.)

Quite clearly, the Hugo voters were… ah, mistaken. (That sounds more dignified than “full of crap.”) Those are not the only times that Hugo voters have been…. ah, mistaken. They certainly won’t be the last, either. In this, the Hugos are like all awards. You win some, you lose some, so to speak.

What I’ve never been able to understand about the Sad Puppies—and still don’t, after all the wrangling—is why they care in the first place. Nothing in their stance makes any sense to me at all.

To begin with, they have nothing but contempt for Hugo voters, as they have expressed repeatedly. In Brad Torgensen’s own words, “the field of SF/F is a thoroughly progressive playhouse”—and that’s the main beef he and Larry Correia and their supporters have with what they view as the F&SF establishment. That being the case, I have no idea why they care what Hugo voters think in the first place.

The presumption I’m left with, since there seems to be no other explanation, is that somewhere in the darkest and most insecure recesses of their psyches, the Sad Puppies have this gnawing feeling that the Hugos really do confer some sort of worth or dignity upon their work, even though they insist the Hugo voters are a pack of progressive scoundrels. (And they really are scoundrels, too. “Puppy-kickers,” no less.)

I am a “progressive”—on the far left side of that label, to boot—and I do not have any animus against Hugo voters. And yet I don’t look to them to provide me with any sort of affirmation for the value or lack thereof of my work as an author. They have their opinion, to which they are absolutely entitled—and I have mine.

Guess which one of those two opinions really matters to me? Unlike the Sad Puppies, I am simply not ego-challenged. I understand full well that people who vote on literary awards will, taken as a whole if not each and every one, tend to look on the issues involved differently than I will. That is true by definition. If I did agree with them, I wouldn’t be writing the kind of stories I write in the first place. I’d be trying to write stories that line up closer with the attitudes of Hugo voters.

How would I do that? How the hell should I know? Which word in I don’t care what Hugo voters think causes people—especially the Sad Puppies, who really do seem to care—the most trouble?

In the nature of things, for instance, fans who vote on awards for science fiction and fantasy works will tend to place an emphasis on originality and innovation, whether of style, narrative structure, or content. (Not all of them, of course. But enough will to affect the voting.) But those are things I just don’t care much about.

With a few exceptions, none of my stories is particularly innovative. My focus—not surprisingly, given my history as a political activist and historian—is on the content of the stories, especially what you might call the social ethics and virtues depicted and promoted. (I try my best not to be preachy about it, but I do have a viewpoint and it is reflected in my stories.) Those are the things I care about, and care about passionately.

My first novel, Mother of Demons, is an adventure story in the course of which my own (very positive, indeed heroic) view of how one should look upon human history is explicated. But the plot itself—humans crash-land and are marooned on a planet inhabited by intelligent aliens at a lower stage of technical and social development—is not innovative at all.

The Belisarius series, which I co-authored with David Drake, is a combination of time travel, alternate history and military SF. I dare say it’s a dandy story, but the underlying point is an examination of what it means to be “human” in the first place. Is “humanity” ultimately defined by genetics or it is, in the end, defined by deeds? Is the human race shaped by its heritage alone, or does it shape itself in the course of time? David and I came down firmly on the anti-genetic-determination side of that debate.

But there’s nothing especially “innovative” about the story. It does not advance the frontiers of F&SF (so to speak) one little bit. It uses well-established and existing tropes, it does not explore new ones. That’s because what I care about is the story itself, not how it’s told or what it develops that is new and different. Trying to do that, in fact, would probably just have weakened the story.

The same is true for the work I’m best known for. The 1632 series began with my novel 1632, whose central theme—yeah, sure, there’s plenty of action and no fewer than four romances, but there is a point to the damn book—is the critical importance of democracy and egalitarianism to the emergence of any sort of just society. The series that sprang from it continues to explore those themes in various ways.

I could go on, but that’s enough. My point is that what concerns me has very little to do with what are usually considered “literary” qualities. And what is true of me is true of any number of authors. The subjects that interest us the most and that we feel strongly about telling stories around are often not the issues that are of most interest to people who vote on the Hugos or other awards.

So be it. There are no hard feelings on my part. Why should there be?

In the end, the demand of the Sad Puppies is self-defeating. What they want, essentially, is for a literary award to stop being a literary award and become a “good story as we define it” award.

Sorry, but that’s not going to happen. The only way it could happen would be for the attendees at Worldcons—or at least a whole lot of supporting members—to be comprised of Sad Puppy fans and enthusiasts. The problem is that the sort of people who are most inclined to enjoy Sad Puppyish stories are the ones who are not very inclined at all to spend the time and effort to attend a Worldcon. Whereas the sort of people who are inclined to attend Worldcons and vote on Hugos are the sort of people who really do care about literary issues.

Remember what I said about the Honor Harrington fans? Every year, close to a thousand of them spend the time and money to attend a convention devoted entirely to Weber’s popular series. If those same people poured into the Worldcons and voted as a bloc, they’d run the Hugos year after year after year.

But they’re not going to, because they don’t care that much—insofar as any of them care at all.

 

One final point. The Sad Puppies seem to feel there’s something deeply unfair about the fact that literary awards are tilted in favor of literary criteria. But I don’t. My feeling is this: the tilt is not only inevitable, it is also justified. The fact that I am focused almost entirely on story-telling in my own writing does not mean I am oblivious to the fact that literature has many sides to it—and in the final analysis, F&SF is not a “genre.” It is a branch of literature.

Innovation is important, whether or not I’m personally inclined in that direction. Narrative experimentation is worthwhile, whether or not I usually avoid it. The same is true for all aspects of literary fiction.

I said the following, in my first essay on this subject:

To put it another way, every successful author has to master two skills which, although related, are still quite distinct: they have to be good story-tellers; and they have to be good writers.

          Of those two skills, being a terrific story-teller but a journeyman writer will win you a mass audience, and is likely to keep it. On the flip side, being a journeyman story-teller but a terrific wordsmith will win you critical plaudits but won’t usually get you much in the way of an audience.

I’m an author whose principal—indeed, almost exclusive—interest is in story-telling, not literary technique. And I’m good at it. What this means is that I get awarded at least twice a year when my royalty payments arrive. In the end, I think there’s something a little mean-spirited—or a little piggy, let’s say—about authors who sell well but envy other authors the awards they receive and covet the awards for themselves.

I mean, for Pete’s sake, what’s wrong with authors who may not sell that well getting an award from time to time? How is this doing me any harm at all? Or any of the Sad Puppies, for all their constant griping and grousing?

To me, it seems a reasonable and fair way to even things out a little. And the operative term is a little, trust me. If you could resurrect the shades of Andre Norton and the other great-but-unawarded authors of our history and ask them “would you trade your long years of being able to write full-time for a bunch of shiny rockets on a shelf?” I can guarantee what their answer would be, one and all.

Are you crazy? We were writers and we got to do what we wanted to do, for years—for decades, most of us. We wrote. And wrote, and wrote, and wrote. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.

 

All right, I’m done. This will be my past essay on the subject of the Hugo controversy, although I may respond to something that comes up from time to time. I’ve got a novel to finish.

I will be attending Worldcon this year, by the way. I hadn’t planned to, but given the way I got drawn into this fracas I eventually decided I ought to show up. Having given everyone else my opinion—at length—on what they ought to do, it seemed incumbent on me to put my money where my mouth was. (Figuratively speaking.)

(for the other posts on the Hugo controversy, visit the Hugo Controversy category.)

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 40

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 40

Chapter 24

Paris

As the carriage approached, Gaston could see the beautiful girl into which his daughter had grown. She sat astride a handsomely-turned out pony, her attire a perfect small copy of an adult’s riding habit, topped with a feather-decorated hat that was completely haute couture.

Anne Marie Louise, Duchesse du Montpensier — Mademoiselle de France — mesmerized him; yet withal Gaston could feel Marguerite’s smoldering anger. She had provided her husband with no children as yet; and this young child, all that remained of Marie de Montpensier, her husband’s first wife, captivated him even though — or perhaps despite — the fact that he had not laid eyes on her in nearly four years.

When the carriage came to a halt, the young princess dismounted with assistance from her governess, the formidable Madame de St. Georges, daughter of his and Louis’ own governess Madame de Montglat. With slow, measured steps she walked the short distance to where her father and stepmother sat waiting. She executed a perfect court bow, inclining her head and awaiting recognition.

“Rise, child,” Gaston said. He stood — and again felt the disdain (or possibly more anger) from his wife; he ignored it. A servant scurried around to the side of the carriage and placed a step-stool; Gaston descended to the ground and stood before his daughter, helping her to her feet.

He held her hand for several moments, looking down at her and favoring her with his best smile.

“I have missed you so much, Papa,” she said, doing her best to maintain her dignity; but she was ten years old, and appeared to be bursting with joy. “Your Majesty,” she added, her eye catching the cold gaze of her stepmother.

“We do not need to be so formal in private,” Gaston said. He glanced over his shoulder at Marguerite, whose expression said, speak for yourself. He ignored that as well. “I am so blessed to have you ride into our capital together.”

“Thank you, Sire,” she answered. She raised her chin proudly in a gesture that painfully reminded him of Marie, his first love, her mother. Holding her hand, he helped her up the steps into the carriage, where she settled herself in the seat opposite her stepmother. Gaston followed her and resumed his place next to Marguerite.

“Good day to you, Your Majesty,” the girl said politely to the duchess of Orleans. “Am I to call you Maman?”

****

The arrival of Gaston in Paris on that fine early May day was a cause for celebration. As far as any in the open carriage could tell, the citizens of the capital were delirious to see their new King, his consort, and his young daughter; if there were reservations among those in the crowd, it was to see César de Vendôme, Monsieur Gaston’s older brother, riding behind the carriage with his two sons François and Louis: it was a sign of royal favor, an indication that their exile was at an end.

On Gaston’s part it was a sly coup de theatre — César would have been happy to ride in the carriage with the king he had helped create, but Gaston had rejected the idea out of hand a few hours earlier before they had met up with his daughter.

“You will be better received if you are part of my escort, Brother,” he had said. “You can thus adequately display the arms of your noble house, and show off your excellent horsemanship.”

“I am to be reduced to the status of a mere guardsman?”

“I would hardly characterize it thus.”

“It seems that way to me.”

“Really.” Gaston seemed already bored with the conversation. “I cannot be responsible for your perceptions, César. You are légitimé de France, a well-respected soldier and a member of my family and my household. Having you ride in the royal entourage sends exactly the right signal: that whatever your past infractions might have been, a new reign means an amnesty.”

When Vendôme began to renew his protest, Gaston said, “If you would prefer not to enter Paris in my company, you are welcome to make your own way. I was merely trying to portray you in the best possible light.”

“My . . . infractions are based on the judgments of the late Cardinal Richelieu, as you know.”

“Ah, yes. Cardinal Richelieu.” Gaston had removed his glove and examined the nails on his right hand. “A shame that he was felled by assassins . . . he is dead, is he not, Brother?”

Vendôme had reddened slightly but said nothing.

“I think you had best leave perceptions to me, Brother,” Gaston said. “You have an unfortunate tendency to see things less clearly than you should.”

****

Terrye Jo rode into Paris some distance behind Monsieur Gaston and the other prominent figures. The others in the entourage accorded her some respect — she was an up-timer, after all, and had some scientific knowledge and wizardry at her fingertips — but she was still a servant, or an employee, or in some category that kept her at a distance from the front of the line. Still, she had been provided with some very nice clothing by the duchess of Savoy — not a woman’s riding dress but a man’s outfit tailored to her size and shape, complete with an ornate hat that she’d had to pin in place since her natural hair was too short and she refused to wear a wig.

Long before she could see most of Paris she smelled it. Bigger than Turin or Grantville or Magdeburg, Paris was one of the greatest cities in Europe — and that meant it was full of people and everything those people produced. The river reeked the worst; they approached from the west, passing along the bank as they rode through some sort of royal forest. It was almost a relief when the road veered away from the river to a wide gate. Beyond, she could see a large tower and at least a dozen churches — including Notre Dame, which she remembered from a picture in a book.

The rest of Paris was unfamiliar. No Arc de Triomphe, no Eiffel Tower. She wondered if there would be guys in little moustaches and berets playing the accordion, or if that belonged to the twentieth century too — or to bad movies.

“If only old Baldaccio could see us now, eh, Donna?” Artemisio guided his horse close enough to rub up against her; she had to keep herself from fending him off with a well-placed kick from her riding boot.

“He’d just be lecturing us on everything he knows.”

“Or thinks he knows.”

“Or that. Monsieur is getting quite the reception, isn’t he?”

They were just passing through the Porte St. Martin and onto a fairly wide boulevard; people on either side were waving and shouting. She could see the Guy Fawkes mask that was Gaston’s smiling face turning this way and that, acknowledging the crowd.

“They like seeing a real man,” Artemisio said.

“As opposed to . . .”

“His brother,” he said. “You know what they said about him.”

“That can’t have been true. He was married for twenty years, wasn’t he? He — it — that sort of thing isn’t something you could keep secret for that long.”

“You might be surprised, Donna. I have heard a story that there is a cavaliere — a gentilhomme — here in Paris, a brave soldier and swordsman, respected by all, who is actually . . .” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “a woman. She has kept the secret for many years waiting for a chance to revenge the death of her brother, who taught her how to handle a sword.”

“No reason that couldn’t be true.”

“Except that it’s probably some story. Imagine, a woman swordsman!” He laughed, then stopped laughing when he saw Terrye Jo’s frown. “What?”

“Why is that funny?”

“She would be a down-timer, Donna. I can believe it possible from someone such as you. But a down-timer woman disguising herself as a King’s Musketeer or some such? Preposterous.”

He gave the last word in his best impression of Umberto Baldaccio. Terrye Jo tried to keep her anger hot — but after a moment she couldn’t help but laugh as well.

****

Even the reception of the procession at the Louvre was ceremonial. The guild masters of Paris and at least a dozen of the noblesse d’épee were on hand to greet Monsieur Gaston as he arrived. The noblemen saluted with their ceremonial swords, while the merchants presented their king-to-be with the honors of the city. Six noblewomen dressed in samite were present to welcome Princess Marguerite and Mademoiselle, the little Anna Maria Louisa. They executed perfect obeisances, and presented each of them with perfect white roses. It made for excellent theatre.

When all had disembarked and dismounted, the prince and his train walked slowly through the polite and approving crowds into the palace, going directly to the salle de réception. Gaston took up the king’s seat, with Marguerite at his side, and his daughter on an ornate chair one step below. César de Vendôme stood at the same level, a sword in his hands pointed down at the floor. His sons took up positions one step below that. Louis, still feeling the effects of his wound, was a bit slower than François in doing so. Other nobles, both the noblesse d’épée of medieval origin and the more modern creations of the noblesse de robe, assumed positions according to their ranks and stations. When all were properly arranged (by their own act, or by the fussy direction of the royal masters of court protocol), the salle became quiet, and Gaston stood, looking out across the crowd.

“My dear countrymen, my lords and ladies. It is with great joy that I stand before you this day, to claim what is mine by right: the throne, crown and scepter of our beloved kingdom of France, and to be proclaimed Most Christian Majesty.

“But it is also with a heavy heart that I return to my native land, in the wake of the base and cowardly attack upon my dear royal brother Louis, whom men called ‘the Just’. To say of him that he was pure of heart, and that our Father in Heaven smiled upon him and his reign as our sovereign, is to grant him a scarce fraction of that which was his due. We can be sure that his good works, his piety and his devotion to country and to the Lord God Almighty have given him a worthy place at the right hand of the Father.”

Gaston paused for a moment, his hand upon his heart, his head bowed as if in humble prayer.

“As with our own blood kin, our devoted father Henri, he was taken from the mortal world before his work on this earth was done. As was true when that king was struck down by an assassin’s hand, his heir — my dear brother Louis — had no higher duty than to carry on, and try to carry forth the labors that kingship imposes, a heavy burden upon the man who bears the crown and sits upon the throne.

“We do not know the identity of the craven assassins who performed this vile deed. I promise you, my countrymen and subjects, that no effort will be spared to find these criminals and cause them to suffer for their crimes — in a measure sufficient that when death comes at last, it will be a welcome surcease . . . and yet their pain in this world will be a mere foretaste of that punishment that awaits all regicides in the infernal region prepared for their eternal torment.

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 19

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 19

I stared out the window, watching mansion after mansion slip by as we crawled through the lanes of the subdivision. All of them were vaguely similar: manicured lawns, Acacia trees in the front yards, sprawling Spanish mission-style houses behind faux-adobe walls and wrought iron gates.

“It’s not my memory I’m worried about,” I muttered.

“Believe it or not, I am your friend, Jay. Jacinto doesn’t want to kill you. Not today. If he did, do you really think he’d have me bring you to his home?”

I exhaled, not realizing until then that I’d been holding my breath. Luis was right, though that did little to improve my mood. Jacinto Amaya was one of the Phoenix area’s most prominent crime lords. He ran a drug trade that distributed to much of the American Southwest, and he was reputed to traffic in people as well. Some said that he helped undocumented workers reach the States and then set them up with employers, taking a finder’s fee as well as a cut of the pay the laborers received. He also had a stake in Phoenix’s prostitution industry, from street level hookers to thousand dollar-per-night call girls. And, naturally, he controlled several legitimate businesses as well, most prominently the Chofi Luxury Hotels, which, as I understood, he had named for his eldest daughter and which had strong ties to Arizona’s growing tribal casino business.

I’m sure there were other components to his criminal empire that I was forgetting. But the drug trade was the most important by far; it brought in the lion’s share of his cash, and it accounted for the most brutal of his crimes. He had been implicated in more killings than I cared to count, most of them so clean, so professional, that we’d never been able to prove a thing, and most of them so brutal that no one was likely to come forward with evidence against him.

Paco steered us onto a cul-de-sac and followed it to the end, stopping before a broad pair of gates and another guard house. Amaya’s guards were a lot younger and a lot bigger than the guy who’d let us into the subdivision. They wore ballistic vests over their uniforms, which must have been stifling, even with the sun down, and they carried modified MP5s with laser sights.

One of the men came to the car and peered inside.

“Hola,” he said, grinning at Luis. “Quien es el gringo?”

“Fearsson,” Luis said. “Jacinto nos espera.”

“Si.”

The guard straightened and waved to the uniformed man. A moment later the gates began to swing open.

“Hasta luego,” the guard called, as he tapped a hand on the roof of the car.

Paco eased the car forward into the brick courtyard that served as Amaya’s driveway. We parked, and my three friends walked me into the house, passing another pair of armed and armored guards.

We passed through a foyer — tile floors, exposed beams, and a stylized crucifix that appeared to be made of ivory — into an enormous room with polished wood floors, more exposed beams, and some of the most beautiful Oaxacan folk art I’d ever seen.

A man stood at a bank of windows, which faced back toward downtown Scottsdale and encompassed a twilight sky that glowed with yellows, oranges, and pinks.

He turned at the sound of our footsteps and I halted midstride. He was dressed in suit pants and a matching vest, a blue dress shirt and a silk tie. His hair was shot through with silver and perfectly groomed, his skin was a soft olive. I thought his eyes were brown, and I had the sense that he was smiling at me, but I couldn’t be certain.

The magical blur of his features was too strong.

“Justis Fearsson,” said Jacinto Amaya, his voice a deep baritone, his words untinged by any hint of an accent. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

He strode across the room, a hand extended. I gripped it, not yet trusting myself to speak. He put his other arm around my shoulders, leading me farther into the room. I could make out his grin now. It was unrestrained, and utterly sincere. I’d been in Amaya’s presence for no more than a few seconds, and already I could see what I never would have known from a police file or a newspaper article: this was a man whom others would follow, regardless of where he led.

“Would you like a drink, Jay? It’s all right if I call you Jay, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, finding my voice and adding, “Mister Amaya,” as an afterthought. “Club soda, please. And Jay is fine.”

He nodded and began to fix my drink, but I noticed that he didn’t offer to let me call him Jacinto.

“I’m sorry to have sent Luis and his friends for you, but I wasn’t sure you would come if I merely requested that you do so. And I’ve been eager to speak with you.”

“There was a time, I believe, when you were eager to kill me.”

Amaya laughed, stepping away from the bar to hand me my drink. “Not really, no. You were never important enough to kill. Forgive me; I mean no offense. But I have far more dangerous enemies than detectives in the Phoenix Police Department. And once you left the force — forgive me again — but you were not someone to whom I paid much attention.”

I raised my glass in salute and sipped the soda water. “You and everyone else.”

“But that’s changed, hasn’t it, Jay?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose,” he repeated with a chuckle. He put an arm around my shoulder again and steered me to a plush leather chair near the window. I sat, and he took the chair next to mine. Luis, Paco, and Rolon were still in the room, but Amaya seemed content to ignore them, and so I did the same.

“Killing Etienne de Cahors was no small thing,” he said.

I looked his way, raising an eyebrow. Cahors’s name had been in the papers as Stephen D. Cahors, and I’d only spoken of him by his true name to a handful of people.

My obvious surprise seemed to please him. “My resources within the magical world are as extensive as those outside of it.”

“Did you know who he was before he died?” I asked.

“No,” he said, without any hesitation or hint of pretence.

“What would you have done if you had?”

The smile sharpened. “An interesting question. I’m not in the habit of giving aid to the PPD. On the other hand, he was killing Latina women, and he was using dark magic to do it.” He fell silent, perhaps still weighing my question. “But you have me getting ahead of myself.”

“I didn’t know that you were a weremyste,” I said, placing my glass on the small side table next to me, and meeting his gaze. “That would have been handy knowledge back when I was on the force.”

He laughed again, showing perfect teeth. “Yes, I’m sure it would have been. That’s not something we tend to share with the general public, though, is it?”

“No, it’s not. Why am I here, Mister Amaya?”

His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Why do you think you’re here?”

It hit me like an open-handed slap to the face, and I kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner. The plane, and the attempt on the life of Mando Rafael Vargas. In that instant I would have given a whole lot of money to see the color of Jacinto Amaya’s magic.

But I wasn’t sure how much I ought to say. Kona had brought me in on an ongoing investigation involving not only the PPD, but also several agencies of the Federal Government. She had faith in me, and in my discretion. I had a pretty good idea of what she’d think of me sharing what I knew with the leading drug kingpin in Arizona.

“I’m not sure,” I made myself say, realizing that his question still hung between us.

Amaya’s eyebrows bunched. “You disappoint me. Of course you know, or at least you know some of it.”

“Well, let’s assume for a moment that I do. You must realize that I can’t tell you anything about an ongoing investigation. The person who brought me in is trusting me . . .” I trailed off, because he was laughing. At me, most likely, which tended to piss me off. “Is something funny?”

“Who do you think you’re dealing with?” he asked, some of the polite veneer peeling away from the words. “Do you honestly think I need a PI to tell me what’s going on inside the Phoenix Police Department, or inside the FBI, for that matter?”

“Is that how you’ve stayed out of jail all this time?”

He went still, like a wolf on the hunt. But I heard Luis and his friends stir behind me. Amaya glanced back at them and put up a hand, probably to stop them from pulling me from the chair and beating me to a bloody pulp. When he faced me again, the pleasant veneer was back in place, though more strained than before.

 

BRING THE STRUCTURE OF THE HUGO AWARDS INTO THE MODERN WORLD

In this essay, I want to address the second of the two objective problems with the Hugo Awards that I referred to in my last essay. That problem is the ever-widening distance between the structure of the awards and the reality of the market for fantasy and science fiction.

When the Hugo Award was first launched, in 1953, four awards were established. The distinction between them was based on word count, as follows:

Best short story: Any story up to 7,500 words.

Best novelette: Any story between 7,500 and 17,500 words.

Best novella: Any story between 17,500 and 40,000 words.

Best novel: any story longer than 40,000 words.

A little more than a decade later, in 1966, the newly-founded Science Fiction Writers of America (which later became the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America) launched the Nebula Award, which is considered the other major award in F&SF. The award structure they adopted for written fiction was identical with that of the Hugo; i.e., the same division between three short form and one long form stories, using the same word counts.

At the time, it made perfect sense to structure the awards in this manner, that is to say, heavily in favor of short fiction and with the definition of novel set with a very low word count. The genre of F&SF was predominantly a short form genre, and what (relatively few) novels got published were generally in the word count range of 40,000 to 60,000 words.

Today, that structure is hopelessly outdated. Short form fiction is now a very small part of fantasy and science fiction, whether you measure that in terms of money—where it’s now a tiny percentage of the income authors receive—or in terms of readership. It’s certainly a larger percentage of the readers than it is of income, but it’s not more than 10% and it’s probably closer to 5%.

People who are active in fandom are often surprised to hear this and sometimes think it’s nonsense, but that’s because reading short fiction is much more common in fandom than it is in the general audience for F&SF. There are many more people who only read novels than there are people who read any short fiction at all, much less do something like subscribe to a magazine or regularly read anthologies of short fiction.

Publishers and authors who get regularly published are well aware of this reality. For at least a quarter of a century F&SF as a publishing industry has been entirely focused on novels—and especially on novels which are part of series. It’s that last aspect of modern F&SF that has made the existing structure of both the Hugo and the Nebula awards hopelessly obsolete.

There are very few authors today who can make a living as full-time writers unless they have at least one series to anchor their career. It’s not absolutely impossible but it’s really, really difficult any longer to base a career on stand-alone single-volume novels as was common in the 60s, 70s and into the 80s. And there are many prominent authors today who work solely or almost solely in series or multi-volume stories.

I’ll use myself as an example. As of today, I’ve published forty-eight single-volume novels—i.e. novels which fit between two covers, not as part of a collection—with my forty-ninth coming out in three weeks. My fiftieth novel will appear in January of next year. I’ve also published six other novel-length stories, defining “novel” as anything over 40,000 words, as part of collections.

Of the full-length novels, only two out of the forty-eight were stand-alone. Those are my first novel, Mother of Demons, and one of the novels I wrote with Dave Freer, Slow Train to Arcturus. There’s a third novel, Time Spike, which is in an intermediate category. As a story, it stands alone, but it’s indirectly connected to the 1632 series.

Of the six short novels I’ve written that were published as part of collections, only one of them is a stand-alone. That’s Diamonds Are Forever, which I co-authored with Ryk Spoor and which was published in the collection titled Mountain Magic. The other five are all part of series: three of them in my own 1632 series, one in David Weber’s Honor Harrington series and one in Bill Fawcett’s Clan of the Claw setting.

That’s not at all uncommon, these days. And there are some authors who work exclusively in series or multi-volume stories. Jim Butcher, for instance, has yet to publish a stand-alone novel-length story. To give another example—multiple examples, rather—the big majority of authors working in the sub-genre of paranormal romance work only in series, at least when they work at novel length.

The truth is, there is no financial incentive at all for a modern F&SF author to write anything except series and multi-volume stories. For the good and simple reason long ago enunciated by the bank robber Willie Sutton: “That’s where the money is.”

(Yes, I know that’s an apocryphal legend and he never actually said it. Who cares? A good apocryphal legend takes on a life of its own. For Pete’s sake, accountants have an official “Willie Sutton rule.” We lowlife scribblers can’t use it too? Pfui.)

I have spent a lot of time and felled a lot of electrons debunking the claim of the Sad Puppies that the Hugo Awards today discriminate against popular authors for reasons of political bias. That much of what they say is nonsense, and some of it is blithering nonsense.

But there is a grain of truth lurking beneath their claim, because it is in fact true that there is a quite heavy bias against popular authors in the way the awards are determined—the Nebulas as much the Hugos. That’s not due to anything conscious on anyone’s part, and it’s not due to any sort of deliberate bias or discrimination. It’s simply inherent in the divergence between the reality of the market and the structure of the awards.

When most popular authors work exclusively or almost exclusively in series or multi-volume works like trilogies and quartets (and quintets, and sextets) and 75% of the awards are given out for short fiction, then it is inevitable that most popular authors will never get a Hugo or Nebula award.

It’s not impossible to win a Hugo while working in a series, as Lois McMaster Bujold has demonstrated four times. But Bujold is an outlier for two reasons. First, she is extraordinarily skilled at making each novel in her Vorkosigan series work well on its own. And, second, the series itself is designed to be fairly episodic. Except for the first two volumes and the most recent one, it follows one single character as he passes through his life and has various adventures. In that respect, it’s quite similar to the type of series that dominates the mystery genre.

But many series are not designed that way. Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series, for instance, began along those lines, but as the series progressed each volume served to expand and deepen the background setting—call it the Dresden Mythology, if you will—as well as depicting a specific adventure. It is extremely difficult by now to gauge any single volume in the series as a stand-alone story.

With my 1632 series, except for the first novel, it’s impossible to do it at all. The series is designed as a series, as a whole, as an increasingly complex and interlocking network of stories. By the end of next month, there will be fifteen novels published in the series, eleven anthologies of short fiction and sixty issues of an electronic magazine—with somewhere around 130 authors participating in the project. How in the world is anyone supposed to gauge any single story in that series in terms of awards as they are currently structured?

David Weber’s Honor Harrington series isn’t quite as much of a web, but it’s awfully close. At the moment, he has three major story lines being developed through the novels, with short fiction anthologies serving to feed directly into the series as well as develop side stories and explore the historical background of the setting. He’s using novels for that purpose also. Story lines are constantly interacting with each other, and there are by now close to a dozen major protagonists. Honor Harrington, who was at the center of all the early novels, is now the first among equals as a character. The novels can’t be gauged the same way the individual novels in Bujold’s Vorkosigan series could be.

There’s a different sort of problem with “series” that are actually single stories with one narrative arch. These are really more like novels than series, but they’re so long they need to be broken up into two or more volumes. The archetypical form of these stories is the well-known trilogy, but they can range anywhere from two volumes to six. In a few cases, even longer.

The individual volumes in such multi-volume works rarely work well as stand-alone novels. A classic example in our field is Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. It’s normally called a “trilogy” but it’s actually a single novel that was so long it needed to be divided into three volumes. It’s impossible to characterize each of the three volumes as a story in its own right.

The only effective way to bring the Hugo (and Nebula) awards back into line with the real conditions under which authors work is to break up the now-solitary “novel” category and expand it into three or four separate ones. Absent that measure, no amount of “expansion” or “inclusiveness”—no matter how it’s done and for what purpose—will accomplish much of anything. As it stands now, the existing “novel” category in the awards is a cup into which people are trying to pour a barrel’s worth of stories.

What I’m going to do now is present what I believe would be the best structure to replace the existing one, and explain why I think it would be the best. (Not the “ideal” structure because that’s impossible. Any structure will have some defects and drawbacks.)

Having done that, I will work my way backward, so to speak, to show the various modifications and adjustments that could be made. I realize that there are some practical considerations involved in giving out awards, especially for organizations dependent on volunteers for most of the work. And I’m quite sure I’m not fully aware—or plain ignorant—of what some of those practical considerations might be.

I’d recommend replacing the existing four awards with seven, as follows:

Short Story. Anything up to 7,500 words.

Novelette. Between 7,500 and 17,500 words.

Novella. Between 17,400 words and 40,000 words.

Short Novel. Between 40,000 and 80,000 words.

Novel. Any length above 80,000 words so long as it remains within one cover, if it’s a paper edition. If only an electronic edition exists, it cannot exceed 300,000 words (which is pretty much the effective limit of a paper edition).

Multi-volume Stories. Any length above 80,000 words provided: a) it is divided into at least two volumes in paper editions none of which is shorter than 80,000 words or is more than 300,000 words if it exists only in an electronic edition. And b) it must be a completed work.

A multi-volume story can only be nominated once, as is true with a novel or a piece of short fiction. However, the period of eligibility for nomination would be three years from the publication date of the final volume, not one year.

Series. In order to qualify, a series must have either three volumes in paper editions, none of which can be shorter than 80,000 words or, if it exists only in electronic edition, must be at least 300,000 words long.

A series could be nominated (and win) more than once. But nominations would be subject to the following restrictions. After a series has been nominated, whether it wins or not, it will not be eligible for another nomination until it has accumulated (for lack of a better term) another 300,000 words of text, and at least three years have passed.

There is no period of eligibility for series, provided that not more than five years has elapsed since the publication of at least 80,000 words. (This is to forestall the nomination of series which were discontinued long ago.)

The first three categories, the ones for short fiction, are identical to what exists now. The next two categories simply divide the existing novel category into two categories, distinguishing between “short novel” and “novel.” This is quite straight-forward.

It’s with the final two categories—multi-volume stories and series—that things get more complicated. It would obviously be simpler to reduce this to one category called “series” and leave it that.

The reason I dislike that idea is because, however awkward it might be to make this distinction, it is nevertheless a very real distinction. There is as much difference—quite a bit more, in fact—between a trilogy or quartet that has a single story arch and an ongoing series as there is between a short story and a novelette or a novella. Many authors prefer to work in trilogies and quartets—sometimes expanded to five or six volumes—rather than series properly speaking. (I.e., stories which either have no end at all or require so long to get there that there is no longer anything that could be described as a single story arch.)

The problem with compressing the two categories into one is that, willy-nilly, the more elaborate and long-running series will usually crowd aside the trilogies and quartets. If people feel strongly that seven categories of awards is too many, then there are better ways to compress the categories than to do it at this end. I’ll explain those possibilities later.

To give an idea of how this would work in practice, I will use a hypothetical work called The Whatever Saga.

The first volume of the saga comes out in, let’s say, 2017. We’ll call it Book One. It has a one-year period of eligibility to be nominated for “Best Novel.” And let’s suppose that it does in fact get nominated and even wins.

So. The Whatever Saga has racked up its first Hugo award.

In 2018, Book Two comes out. It also gets nominated and wins the Hugo for Best Novel.

In 2019, Book Three comes out. It does not pick up a nomination for Best Novel but it is now eligible for a Best Series nomination. But the Saga has worn out its welcome a little bit, so it doesn’t get nominated for anything.

In 2020, Book Four comes out. It’s a marvelous volume and gets a lot of people really excited. So it picks up two nominations—one for Best Novel and one for Best Series.

It wins in the Best Series category, but doesn’t win the Best Novel award.

In 2021, Book Five comes out. It doesn’t get nominated for Best Novel and it’s not eligible yet to be nominated again for Best Series.

BUT, it is clear from the story itself—not to mention public statements by the author—that Book Five concludes The Whatever Saga. So it gets nominated for Best Multi-Volume Story.

And wins. But whether it won or lost the Hugo for Best Multi-Volume Story, this is the last time it will ever qualify for an award. A work can’t be nominated more than once in the Multi-Volume Story category, and since no further additions will be made to the story it will never requalify for a series award.

When all is said and done, The Whatever Saga picks up a total of four Hugo Awards: two for Best Novel, one for Best Series, and one for Best Multi-Volume Story.

The likelihood of any story picking up this many awards in three different categories is very low, of course. I just used it to illustrate how the system would work.

The only other major decision that would have to be made is whether or not to include short fiction as part of the material making up multi-volume stories and series. I would strongly urge that short fiction be included, because a number of series—although not very many multi-volume stories—do have short fiction as an important and integral element.

Probably the clearest example of this is my own 1632 series. In addition to the fifteen novels, the series has eleven anthologies (in paper as well as electronic editions) and sixty issues of a magazine. There is some overlap between some of the anthologies and the magazine, but most of the stories in the magazine never get reissued in paper.

I included a three-year period before a series could requalify for a nomination because if I didn’t series which have multiple authors and incorporate short fiction, like the 1632 series, would requalify every year if that was left simply to word count. I don’t want series that generate a lot of short fiction to gain an additional advantage, but I do feel that short fiction should be included. It’s too early to know for sure, but I think that as time passes we’re going to see a lot of short fiction being incorporated into series. And there will be some series that are mostly composed of short fiction. A current example of that is Larry Niven’s Man-Kzin Wars series, which now has over a dozen volumes, few of which consist of full-length novels.

The above proposal is what I think would work best. But if, for whatever reason, a lot of people feel strongly that seven award categories is too many, I would recommend the following modifications. Modification A would result in a six categories of awards; Modification B would result in five; and Modification C would retain four categories—the same number that exists now, although not the same categories.

MODIFICATION A

This modification would keep the Short Novel, Novel, Multi-Volume Story and Series categories as they are above. The adjustment would come by compressing the other three categories down to two, as follows:

Short Story. Anything up to 15,000 words.

Novella. Anything between 15,000 and 40,000 words.

In other words, the novelette category would be eliminated altogether. Frankly—and I say this having written several of them—I’ve come to conclude that the novelette is something of a bastard category anyway. It’s defined in the Oxford dictionary as follows:

“chiefly derogatory: A short novel, typically one that is light and romantic or sentimental in character.”

Other dictionaries define it as “a novel that is regarded as being slight, trivial, or sentimental” [Free Dictionary] and “a short novel that is often about romantic relationships and is usually not very serious” [Cambridge Dictionary].

The definition in Webster’s is more terse: “a brief novel or long short story.”

The point is there is nothing sacrosanct about the novelette. I wasn’t there at the inception of the Hugo in 1953—hell, I was only six years old—so I don’t know what the thinking was behind creating the category in the first place. I suspect it was mostly arbitrary, and was motivated by a desire to create three categories of short fiction in order to spread the awards around as much as possible.

That would have been a reasonable enough motive, at the time. But it doesn’t really hold much sway any longer.

There is, however, a definite difference between a short story and a novella, and that would be retained.

MODIFICATION B

Five categories would be created, as follows:

Short story. Anything up to 17,500 words.

Novella/Short novel. Anything from 17,500 to 60,000 words.

Novel. Anything longer than 60,000 words contained in one volume (if paper) and not more than 300,000 words (if purely electronic).

Multi-volume Story. Any completed story above 80,000 words provided it is divided into at least two volumes in paper editions none of which is shorter than 80,000 words or is more than 300,000 words if it exists only in an electronic edition.

Series. In order to qualify, a series must have either three volumes in paper editions, none of which can be shorter than 80,000 words or, if it exists only in electronic edition, must be at least 300,000 words long.

This retains three awards for long form fiction and one award for short fiction, with a fifth award (Novella/Short Novel) being more or less divided between the two. Keep in mind that this still retains 30% of the awards for short fiction (1.5 out of 5), which is a far higher percentage than short fiction represents in the real world.

MODIFICATION C

Four categories would be retained, but the proportions between short and long form fiction would be reversed.

Short Fiction. Anything up to 30,000 words.

Short Novel. Anything between 30,000 and 60,000 words.

Novel. Anything longer than 60,000 words contained in one volume (if paper) and not more than 300,000 words (if purely electronic).

Series. Anything longer than 60,000 words contained in two or more volumes (if paper) and at least 400,000 words (if purely electronic).

Not surprisingly, I think the modifications get worse as the number of award categories get compressed. But this is the way I would do it, if it’s felt to be necessary.

All right, enough on this subject. In my next and hopefully final essay if nobody ticks me off too much or something new doesn’t get raised, I will address the third of the three factors underlying the problems with the Hugo. This is the only one that is basically subjective in nature. Simplifying somewhat, it’s the tendency of people voting for literary awards to be somewhat biased—it might be better to say, more oriented toward—emphasizing what can be called “literary” considerations more than the mass audience does.

As I will show, this is not so much a “problem” as an inevitability. You can consider it as a problem, of course, but you are no more likely to “fix” it than you are to “fix” the tides or the 23½ degree inclination of the Earth’s axis with respect to the plane of its orbit.

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 18

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 18

Chapter 7

All three of the men in my living room were Latino. They were very well dressed; two of them — the ones standing — were NFL huge, dark-haired, dark-eyed. I probably should have checked more closely for distinguishing marks — scars, tattoos, that sort of thing. But my eyes were drawn to the black Sig Sauer P220s they both had aimed at my chest.

The third man sat on the couch, his legs crossed, his arms draped casually over the back cushions. Him I recognized.

Luis Paredes was a weremyste who I had known for years. He was short, barrel-chested, with a beard and mustache that he had trimmed since the last time I saw him, and black eyes that always made me think of the flat, disk-like eyes of a shark. Once, when I was still a cop working in narcotics, I had busted Luis for possession of pot with intent to sell. Later, after I lost my badge and became a PI, I helped him out with an employee who had been stealing from his bar. I never would have called us friends, but neither would I have expected him to show up in my house with a couple of armed goons.

He was an accomplished weremyste, powerful enough that his features were blurred. All weremystes appeared that way when I first met them — smeared, so that it seemed someone had rubbed an eraser across their faces. The effect lessened with time, or maybe the more time I spent with a runecrafter, the easier it was for me to compensate. But that initial impression was unmistakable; whenever I met another runemyste, particularly a powerful one, I knew it right away. Looking more closely, I realized that his friends were sorcerers, too, though the blurring effect wasn’t as strong with them. In a battle of spells Luis would be the most dangerous of the three. Of course the other two guys could simply shoot me.

One of them stepped around my coffee table, his .45 still levelled at my heart. He didn’t say anything, but he reached into my bomber, pulled my Glock from the shoulder holster, and handed it back to the other goon. I heard the metallic ring of the round being unchambered and then the slide and click of the magazine clearing the grip. I didn’t figure I’d be getting that mag back. The guy in front of me grabbed my shoulder, spun me around, pushed me against the wall, and frisked me. When he was done, he turned me back the way I’d been, flashed a smile that could have frozen the tap water in my pipes, and crossed back to where he’d been standing.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Jay?” Luis said, his tone too smug by half for my taste.

“Why don’t you get the hell out of my house, Luis? And you can take your attack dogs with you.”

He frowned. I’m not sure his goons even blinked. They were well-trained.

“I think maybe we should try that again. Why don’t you sit down, Jay?” His eyes had the flat, sharky quality again, and his tone was more pointed this time. “Be smart, mi amigo. We’re three weremystes, you’re one.” He gave a little shrug. “We’ve got three guns now, you’ve got none. And Rolon and Paco here have biceps that are about as big around as your thigh. So how do you intend to make us leave?”

It was a fair question. I walked to the arm chair that sat across from the sofa and dropped myself into it, my eyes never leaving Luis’s face.

He opened his hands and grinned. “There, isn’t that better?”

“What are you doing here, Luis? Why would you break into my place?”

“A friend wants to talk to you,” he said, leaning forward. “You know that I run the Moon, but I have another job. Something I do on the side.”

The New Moon was a bar in Gilbert that catered to weremystes and myste-wannabes — people who had no magical abilities but, for whatever reason, liked to act as though they did. I often went there when I needed information about Phoenix’s weremystes; in fact, that was one of the places I’d been planning to go to ask about the murder at the airport. I’ll admit as well, that sometimes I went to the Moon for no reason other than to be with other mystes, to know that I could talk about the next phasing, or the one I’d just been through, with people who understood and put up with the same crap I did month to month. Sure, it was a dive, but it was a comfortable dive.

Luis had been running the place for as long as I could remember, and I always assumed that he owned it. But if he was working a second job I might been wrong, which left me wondering who the owner might be.

“Is this second job legal?” I asked.

“You a cop again?” There was no hint of humor in the question.

I laughed, high and harsh. “What do you want from me? You break into my house with a couple of guys who look like they’re itching to shoot me, or kick the crap out of me, or set my hair on fire, and you start telling me your employment history. Why the hell are you here? Who’s this friend of yours?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

I started to object but he continued, talking over me. “And before you start another fucking speech, keep in mind that I could have grabbed you, let my boys knock you around a bit, and thrown you in the back of my car.” He paused, rubbed a hand over his face. “But the fact is, you were right about the Blind Angel Killer being a myste, and I was wrong. I feel I owe you one.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. Killing Cahors was pretty much the beginning, middle, and end of my resume these days, but it was a big deal, and no one understood that better than another weremyste.

Luis stood. “Come on.”

“Can I change? I’ve been . . . working out.”

I didn’t have it mind to run, or to call the police; I really did want to change. But Luis wasn’t ready to trust me that much.

“I’m not taking you out on a date. Now, get up.”

I stood, and let the three men escort me out of the house. Luis paused to let me lock the door, and then led me over to the lowrider.

“Yours?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I drive an Audi. This is Paco’s.”

The behemoth who had taken my pistol grinned again.

I sat in back with Rolon, who still had his weapon in hand. I had no idea where we were going, of course, but I had assumed that we would be headed into Gilbert. Instead we got on the 101 northbound. We sped through Tempe and crossed over the Salt River.

“You going to tell me where we’re going?” I said, breaking a lengthy silence.

“To see my friend,” Luis answered.

“That’s helpful.”

Nothing.

We exited the freeway in North Scottsdale, and followed the side streets into one of the wealthier neighborhoods of a town known for its wealth. Before long, Paco steered us into a gated subdivision called Ocotillo Winds Estates. The uniformed old man in the guard house waved the car through on sight, although he didn’t appear to be too happy about it. Beyond the guard house was a round lawn that probably demanded more water in a week than the entire state got in rainfall each year. And to make the display that much more ostentatious, a huge fountain danced in the middle of the expanse, its waters misting in the wind.

“You’re moving up in the world, Luis.”

“You ever heard of Jacinto Amaya?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again. I’d been on edge from the moment Luis said my name and made me drop the mail. But for the first time this evening, I felt truly afraid.

“Jason Amaya? Are you screwing with me?”

“Jason is a name he uses to make Anglos feel at ease. If you want to get on his good side you’ll refer to him as Jacinto. And you’ll call him Mister Amaya.”

“That’s who we’re going to see? That’s the guy you’re working for?”

Luis stared back at me, his silence all the confirmation I needed.

“I thought we were friends.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything! I worked in narcotics for eighteen months, and then I was in Homicide for over five years. And I spent a significant part of that time trying to nail Amaya for one crime or another. This man hates me; I’m pretty sure he wants me dead!”

Luis rolled his eyes. “Do I need to remind you again that you’re not a cop?”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 39

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 39

Chapter 23

Pau

In the last few days, Servien had been thinking a great deal about the comte de Brassac, and his revelations concerning the Company of the Blessed Sacrament. Brassac, he was sure, had violated a principal rule of the Company by revealing it to him, and of his membership in it; but these were difficult, extraordinary times.

He wondered if there were others, elsewhere in the country or beyond, who were just learning of the society.

The servant found him in the library, examining a family history of the Château de Pau’s most famous resident — Henry of Navarre, who had been born here and had embraced the True Faith so that he could become king of France.

“Monsieur le Comte asks that you attend him at once,” the servant said. “By your leave, Monsieur.”

“Of course.”

As they walked down the great staircase, Servien said, “do you know what this is about?”

“I do as I am commanded, Monsieur.”

“A wise course.”

The comte de Brassac was waiting at the bottom of the stair with a younger man who shared his features; indeed, Servien — a careful observer of such things — would have thought that the comte, at half his age, would have looked thus.

“Allow me to present my oldest son Alexandre. He brought me a report that might interest you as well. My son, this is Monsieur Servien, intendant to His Grace the cardinal-duc de Richelieu.”

The man offered a polite bow, which Servien returned. The three began to walk toward the inner courtyard.

“We have visitors,” Brassac said. “They are very well armed and trained — and led by an up-timer.”

“An army?”

“Not in the normal sense,” Alexandre answered. “But given their arms and equipment . . . well, if any two dozen horsemen could be considered an army, then this label might fit.”

“How can I be of service?”

“Very simple, Monsieur Servien. I need you to tell me: are these friends or enemies?”

They emerged into the bright May sunlight to find four riders still mounted, with more than two dozen in Brassac livery keeping close watch upon them. Three were subordinates, but clearly well-equipped as Alexandre had said; they remained still, a few feet apart from each other.

The fourth, a somewhat older woman, dismounted as they approached. She seemed to favor one leg very slightly; at first Servien attributed it to the cavalry sword at her waist, but he concluded that it was in fact a weakness of some sort — perhaps an injury. Still, she walked very steadily to where the comte, his son, and Servien stood.

She nodded to Alexandre, who acknowledged it.

“You must be the comte de Brassac,” she said. She glanced at Servien, but didn’t have anything to say to him.

“Louis de Galard de Brassac et de Béarn,” Brassac answered. “The rest of your command is outside the château?”

“This is my honor guard,” she answered. “Maddox’s Rangers. In service to Marshal Turenne. I’m Sherrilyn Maddox. Colonel Maddox to them; you can call me Sherrilyn.” She stuck her hand out, and neither Brassac nor Alexandre seemed to know what to do; Servien extended his hand to her and took it, and found a firm, steady grip.

“I am Étienne Servien, intendant to the cardinal-Duke de Richelieu,” he said when the handshake was over. “You must be the up-timer of which so much has been heard.”

“You know her, then,” Alexandre said.

“Not personally,” Servien answered. “But I do know that the Marshal engaged the services of a Grantvilleuse” he made sure to use the female version of the noun — “to train some of his troops.”

“Is Marshal Turenne planning to invade my lands?”

“I wouldn’t call it an invasion,” the up-timer answered. “We’re here at his direction. The rest of the army is on its way; we’re just the advance guard.”

“And what are his intentions?”

“Your boss,” she said, looking at Servien, “assumed that there would be trouble coming from the south. When we heard about the death of the king, we packed up and began to move down here. If there’s any sort of invasion, My Lord, it won’t be by the Marshal — it’ll be by the Spanish.”

“And how do I know that you are, indeed, from Marshal Turenne’s army?”

She placed her hand on the hilt of her sword. Everyone in the courtyard tensed; but Brassac held up one hand. Maddox seemed to realize that she had sent the wrong signal.

“If I may be permitted to draw the sword to show it to you, My Lord.”

Brassac nodded. The up-timer looked around her, then slowly drew the blade from its scabbard; she brought it to her shoulder, then extended it, flat across her right forearm, with the hilt so that Brassac could grasp it.

He picked up the sword and examined the guard, which bore the d’Auvergne crest; he noted an inscription along the flat of the blade nearest the hilt.

“A generous gift from the Marshal,” Brassac said, and offered it back, hilt first. Maddox took it, saluted, and replaced it in her scabbard.

“I believe I have given good service in return, My Lord,” she said.

“No doubt.” Brassac turned to Alexandre. “My son, please make these soldiers — and the rest of Colonel Maddox’ command — comfortable. Colonel, I welcome you as our guests for the time being. As for the rest of the army . . .”

“I’m sure they’ll find a place to camp.”

Brassac turned with Servien and they stepped inside the building once more.

“So Marshal Turenne is invading,” Brassac said as they made their way back toward the library. “After a manner of speaking. Perhaps he has news of which I have not heard.”

“I’m sure the Marshal would have the same question for you.”

“An interesting response.”

“May I ask a question, My Lord?”

“Ask away.”

“Who is the king of France?”

Brassac stopped walking. They were at the foot of the grand staircase; he glanced from Maddox to Servien, and then back to the up-timer.

“He is the sovereign lord to whom your commander has pledged his fealty,” Brassac said. “Your understanding may be more clear than mine. Perhaps you should answer the question.”

“I asked you first.”

“And I am a peer of the realm and you are a hired soldier. I know that you up-timers are known for their forthrightness, Colonel Maddox, but you and your command are in my home, in my lands. Courtesy extends so far, and then stops. Who do you believe to be the king of France?”

“I’m not sure,” she said at last. “Marshal Turenne wasn’t sure either. It’s why he moved his army so that Monsieur Gaston could not take command of it.”

“Where is Gaston now?”

“Again, My Lord, I’m not sure. We heard that he was traveling to France from Turin, where he was a guest of his brother-in-law the duke of Savoy. I imagine he’s in Paris by now, or close to it.” She took a deep breath. “And now, Comte, maybe you’ll answer my question.”

Brassac did not respond, but looked at Servien; the intendant inclined his head and spoke.

“The king of France,” Servien said, “is an infant child, ten days old, the son of His Highness Louis XIII and Her Majesty Queen Anne. He was born just before his father was ruthlessly murdered before my eyes.”

There was a very long silence, then Maddox spoke.

“When we passed through Toulouse, there was a royal herald or something proclaiming Gaston d’Orleans as the king. He’s to be crowned in two weeks or so at Reims. Does he know about this baby?”

“We believe he does,” Brassac said, looking at Servien. “We believe that they are in terrible danger.”

“From Gaston?”

“Or his agents. It is unclear whom he has chosen as allies, or what he has promised them. When do you expect your commander to arrive?”

“At least ten days from now. They move at good speed, but it’s still an army. And that’s if they don’t meet up with any opposition.”

“That is not what I fear,” Brassac said. “The question is whether the Spanish themselves will invade before they arrive.”

She smiled slightly. “The Marshal assumes that before the Spanish march over the mountains with their tercios, they’ll send a scouting party to check things out. He thought we might be able to stop them.”

“Stop,” Servien said, “meaning –”

“I think you are being disingenuous, Monsieur Servien,” Brassac said. “Colonel Maddox’ ‘Rangers’ consist of the best marksmen in Marshal Turenne’s army. ‘Stopping’ infiltrators on French soil means exactly what you would assume it means.”

Sherrilyn Maddox smiled even more broadly. “It means target practice.”

****

Paris

When word began to circulate of Monsieur Gaston’s imminent arrival in the capital, members of the elite Cardinal’s Guard began to absent themselves from the precincts of the Louvre, and from their barracks nearby. For fifteen years, the distinctive uniform of Richelieu’s personal troops had been ubiquitous in Paris — Guardsmen were admired, feared, resented, the subject of rumor, and considered a law unto themselves.

Now they were almost impossible to find. This, more than anything else, was demonstration that the cardinal himself had fallen. It was said in the markets of Les Halles and the public places in the city that the new king, Gaston d’Orleans, would surely not retain him in his long-held post; it was Richelieu who had caused Gaston to be exiled from the realm.

And surely, it was said, Gaston will be a better king than his brother. At the least he will provide an heir to the throne . . . something Louis had never done. Had not even the most recent pregnancy, attended with so much fanfare, resulted in another failure? Surely if there was an heir, it would have been announced.

Gaston approached, and the guardsmen had seemed to vanish. Their disappearance was not mourned.

 

NO, AWARDS AREN’T “FAIR.” NEVER HAVE BEEN, NEVER WILL BE. SO WHAT?

 

What I want to do in this essay is go back to where I started in my very first post on subject (“Some comments on the Hugos and other SF awards,” posted April 16), which is to discuss the problems the Hugo awards actually do have—which, as I’ve now spent a lot of time explaining, has nothing to do with the political issues that the Sad Puppies insist are central.

I singled out three key problems, two of them objective and one which is of a more subjective nature. The first of the two objective problems is the subject of this essay.

It’s not complicated. The genre of science fiction and fantasy with all its related sub-genres—some of which, like paranormal romance, are so popular they often get their own sections in bookstores—has become enormous. It is a far, far larger field than it was half a century ago. But even back then, there was always some disparity between the tastes and opinions of the people who voted for the Hugo awards and the F&SF readership as a whole.

To name what is probably the most outstanding example, Andre Norton never received a Hugo award. She was only nominated twice.

But she was hardly alone in being overlooked in the Hugo awards. Many other prominent and important authors of the time, whose stories filled the major magazines and the shelves in bookstores, also never received a Hugo award and in many cases were never even nominated.

Christopher Anvil was never nominated. Not once.

A Bertram Chandler was never nominated.

Hal Clement was only nominated once. He didn’t win.

Sprague de Camp did win one Hugo, but it was for his autobiography and came almost at the very end of his long life. He never received the award for his fiction, despite that fiction being an enormous body of work spanning more than half a century.

David Eddings, one of the most popular fantasy authors of all time, never won a Hugo. He was never even nominated.

Randall Garrett was nominated three times but he never won.

Keith Laumer was nominated twice, but never won.

Murray Leinster was nominated twice and won the Hugo for Best Novelette with “Exploration Team.” But when you measure that against his incredible career—this was the man Time magazine once dubbed “the dean of science fiction”—that’s pretty slim pickings. (If you want to see just how incredible that career was, take a look: http://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/ea.cgi?257)

Richard Matheson was never nominated.

Mack Reynolds was only nominated once. He didn’t win.

Eric Frank Russell was only nominated once. He did win, though. (For “Allamagoosa,” in the best Short Story category.)

Fred Saberhagen never won a Hugo and was only nominated once.

James H. Schmitz was nominated twice, never won.

A.E. Van Vogt was never nominated.

Robert Moore Williams was never nominated.

Jack Williamson was only nominated once for a fiction piece, for the novella “The Ultimate Earth” in 2001. He did win, but…

One nomination? For Jack Williamson? We’re talking about an author whose first story was published in 1928 and who kept writing until his death—at the age of 98, in the year 2006.

And I’m not even including popular authors of their time such as Leigh Brackett, E. E. “Doc” Smith, Fletcher Pratt and Edmond Hamilton because their careers mostly pre-dated the inception of the Hugo award. But all of them except Pratt lived and kept writing well into the 1960s—into the late 70s, in Leigh Brackett’s case—and the only one of them who was even nominated was “Doc” Smith. (Twice, both in 1966. He didn’t win.)

And yet… I’m willing to bet that almost everyone reading this essay has heard of every one of these authors except possibly one or two.

Think about that, for a moment—and then consider these facts. Of the sixteen authors I listed above who barely registered if they registered at all on the Hugo awards…

Five of them, almost one-third of the total, were eventually inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. (Williamson, Van Vogt, Norton, Clement, Russell.)

Five of them, almost one-third of the total, were eventually named Grand Masters by SFWA. (Williamson, de Camp, Norton, Van Vogt, Clement.)

Most importantly, the way an author like me looks on these things, all of them except Mack Reynolds and Robert Moore Williams are still in print—I’m talking about current, paper editions—and Reynolds and Williams are readily available in electronic and used paper editions.

I’m not going to do it, both because it would be very time-consuming and rather invidious, but I could dig through the records of writers who won more Hugos than any of the ones above and show that many of them are no longer in print and certainly not recognized in the SF Hall of Fame or by SFWA as Grand Masters. Some of them have been almost completely forgotten.

My point should be obvious. Even in the past, when our field was much, much smaller than it is today and Hugo Award voters had a much easier time assessing the entire field, there were always authors—plenty of them—who wound up getting barely noticed or entirely overlooked. Despite, in some cases, being authors who are today considered to be among the most important authors in our history.

Nowadays, the situation is far worse. The genre has become so huge that it is no longer possible for anyone to keep track of it in its entirety.

It. Can. Not. Be. Done.

Period. What that means, inevitably, is that there will be even more in the way of accidental and haphazard factors determining—or at least influencing—which authors get noticed by the fans who vote on the Hugos and which authors don’t.

There is no way around it. Anyone who tells you that it is possible to make the Hugo Awards “fair”—much less “fair and balanced”—is delusional.

Yes, they can be made somewhat fair-er. Mostly by adjusting the awards so that they fit modern publishing conditions instead of reflecting conditions that haven’t existed for decades. I’ll discuss that issue in my next essay. But even those adjustments are not magic wands. No matter what you do, no matter what measures are taken and adjustments are made, there will always remain an element of chance when it comes to which authors get nominated and win awards, and which don’t.

Thinking about this as an issue of “fairness” is a mistake in the first place. Making things “fair” is essential if you’re trying to design a contest. In a long foot race around a track, for instance, the starting position of each runner is staggered depending on which lane they occupy. That way each runner has the same chance of winning the race.

But the Hugo Award is not ultimately a contest, even though we tend (unfortunately) to use the terminology of contests. We speak of “winners” and “losers” even though neither term is really applicable to literary awards.

In what sense has a Hugo award “winner” won anything? Who did he or she defeat?

The other nominated authors? That’s ridiculous. They weren’t directly competing with each other in the first place. To do that, you’d have to set up the Hugos as a real contest, i.e., one in which everyone started on exactly the same footing. For instance, for the category of Best Novel, every contestant might be required to write an urban fantasy set in Duluth in the year 2015 featuring dwarves and dragons—no elves, not allowed!—which is between 110,000 and 112,000 words long, is written in the first person, and features at least one appearance of figures from Ojibwe mythology.

Now, that would be a real contest. That would be “fair.”

What you actually get are several stories which usually have nothing in common with each other except that they all fall within the (very, very broad) category known either as “fantasy and science fiction” or sometimes “speculative fiction.” None of them are really competing against each other. They’re simply the stories that the voters chose to honor by nominating them to be a possible recipient of the Hugo Award. They are not “contestants,” they are simply the agreed-upon pool from which one of them will receive the additional honor of being called “Best [Whatever]” and never mind that calling it “best” is damn silly. What it really should be called is “Most Favored by the Most People [Whatever].”

Okay, I know that’s awfully windy and we’re probably stuck with “best.” But don’t ever forget that what a Hugo Award really is, is an honor. It is not a “victory.” Nobody is “defeated.” All that happens is that one story gets an additional honor that the others didn’t get.

If people can think of it that way, then the issue of making the Hugo Awards “fair” loses its edge. It should still be made as reflective as possible of what authors are actually doing, rather than trying to cram stories into a pre-existing and ill-fitting framework. But people should stop thinking of being nominated for a Hugo (much less winning one) as a contest in which one person emerges as the “winner” and the rest are “losers”—and the ones who don’t get nominated at all are the “sorry-ass losers.”

An author—a very, very good author—might go through his or her entire career and never get nominated for a single award, or perhaps just one or two. Big deal. You are now in the company of Andre Norton, Fred Saberhagen, A. E. Van Vogt and Jack Williamson. How is that anything to feel badly about?

The best advice I ever got on this subject came very early in my career and it came from my mentor David Drake. What he said to me was the following:

“There are three things a writer can look for: readers, money, and awards. Decide which of those are most important to you, and in what order. Then guide your career accordingly. For me, my priorities are, first, to have readers; second, to make money; and third—a long way third—to garner awards.”

That struck me as good advice at the time. Today, almost two decades later, I know it to be excellent advice.

The only awards I’ve ever won as a writer were first place in the winter quarter of 1992 in the Writers of the Future contest, and the Darrell Award for Midsouth regional F&SF in 2008. That’s it.

Moving up my list of priorities—way up, in my case—I’ve been very successful as a writer in financial terms. The income from my last royalty period was a lot closer to six figures than four figures.

This is nice. This is very nice.

But the thing that pleased me the most about that royalty report was how long it was. It covered three pages and listed seventy-four separate titles that I’d earned royalties from in that period. Of that number, thirty-nine were novels; twelve were anthologies in which I had one or more stories, and the remaining twenty-three were from anthologies that I’d edited.

I have other volumes floating around out there that didn’t earn royalties this last period. But even leaving those aside, seventy-four volumes means that a lot of people somewhere in the world have recently or are right now or will be soon reading either a story of my own or I story I liked and brought into (or back into) the world.

There is no better feeling, for an author. An award sitting on a shelf would be very pleasant to have, no question about it. And money, of course, is always welcome. But I didn’t become a writer to make money or win awards. The truth is, when I started on this career I didn’t expect I’d ever make enough money to have a “career” at all. Then, when the money did start coming in—a lot more than I expected—I raised my sights to okay, I think I can scrape by on the money I make. I didn’t expect I’d earn nearly as much as I did as a machinist, but I didn’t need to. I just needed to make enough to keep myself and my wife afloat and help my daughter through college. If I could do that, I could devote the rest of my life to shaping the stories I wanted to tell the human race. Not because I thought they were the best stories anyone could possibly tell—I’m not that egotistical—but because they had one absolutely unique quality. They were my stories, born and bred and molded in the crucible of my life, and the one thing I could give the world that no one else could.

Any author who needs more than that to motivate his or her work is not really an author in the first place. They’re just trying to make a living by doing something that’s easier than working on an assembly line or waiting on tables, and less stressful than being a firefighter or a surgeon.

There is nothing wrong with that, of course. It’s an honest living. If you’re good at it, it’s even a useful living. But you’re not an author.

So, to those of you reading this who are writers yourselves and may have a story eligible to be considered for a Hugo award, have at it. But approach it like an author.

Don’t get worked up because a lot of what happens with awards isn’t “fair.” No, it’s not. It wasn’t “fair” a generation ago—consult the ghosts of Hal Clement, Andre Norton, Richard Matheson and James H. Schmitz—it’s not “fair” now and it’s not going to be “fair” after you’re dead and have joined those ghosts. Accept that now or you will just sink into stupid and pointless resentment.

Yes, there are some steps that could be taken that would improve the situation. I’ll get into those in my next essay. But there is no way to get around the objective reality that only a tiny percentage of eligible authors will ever or can ever receive a Hugo award—or even be nominated for one—and the odds that you will be in that select group are tiny. You will certainly improve your odds if you can write really well, but that’s all you can do—improve them.

If you can’t accept that—accept it ungrudgingly; better yet, cheerfully—then you’re not thinking like an author. You’re thinking like a damn fool.

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 38

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 38

Chapter 22

Maintenon, France

Mazarin had become accustomed to the idea of intrigue, of deception in plain sight, as a part of his career within and without the Vatican. His relatively recent association with Cardinal Richelieu, the man who — in some other future, never to be reached — would pass the mantle of ministerial authority to him, only enhanced that acclimation.

Most of those who saw the small party of seven — himself, Achille d’Étampes de Valençay, Queen Anne and her infant son, her lady-in-waiting the duchesse de Chevreuse, the up-timer doctor, and the Savoyard servant — saw nothing but a noblewoman and her entourage traveling from place to place. Mazarin wanted to continue that way — they could not move quickly by carriage, with a mother just out of childbed and an infant only a few days old — but it was also clear that they could not avoid all contact for fear of arousing suspicion.

A full day’s travel brought them as far as Maintenon, a small town on the banks of the Eure. It lacked any sort of reasonable hostelry, of the sort suitable for a traveling noblewoman, much less the queen of France.

As the servant attended to watering the horses by the side of the road, Mazarin and Achille held a conversation.

“It seems simple enough,” the knight of Malta said. “Maintenon is the home of the Marquis de Rambouillet; we will go to his manor house and request lodging for our honored lady.”

“Whom he will immediately recognize.”

“Not necessarily,” Achille answered. “She is recently widowed; she will wear a suitable veil. I would be more concerned about you, Monseigneur.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You are . . . better known than any among our company, with the exception of Her Majesty.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Mazarin took off his hat, examined it and flicked a tiny bit of road-dust from the brim, and placed it back on his head. “If we choose to stay with the Marquis, word will reach Paris that we have been there. His wife is the renowned salonnière.”

“And he is likely to speak of it.”

“The Marquis and the Marquise have their own . . . diversions,” Mazarin said. “But I suspect that such news would be passed on in short order. We cannot go to Maintenon.”

“We cannot reach Dreux before nightfall,” Achille said. “We must go to Maintenon.”

“Why Dreux? Why have we chosen this direction in preference to all others?” The morning of their departure from Baronville, Mazarin’s principal concern had been for Anne and the infant; he had let the other man determine their direction.

“Which way would you rather go, Monseigneur? We cannot go toward Paris — Her Majesty has many enemies there. There is nothing to the south or west.”

“And to the north?”

“Ultimately, the Low Countries,” Achille answered. “Her aunt in Brussels.”

“You wish to travel to the court of Lady Isabella? Are you mad? The Hapsburgs are the enemies of France.”

“The Spanish Hapsburgs certainly are, I’ll admit that,” he said. “But perhaps not the Austrians. And the king in the Low Countries — that’s another matter entirely.”

“It is a terrible risk.”

Achille laughed and looked away from Mazarin toward the carriage. The up-timer nurse, who had disembarked to stretch her legs, looked curiously at the two men.

“Tell me what part of this venture is not risky, Monseigneur. We travel in the company of the queen, who may be in danger from anyone she meets and has only us to defend her. Her husband and his chief minister have been slain by assassins, led by an exiled bastard prince who — I do not hesitate to remind you — is still somewhere nearby, and has two dozen men for each one of us.

“Has anyone explained all of this risk to Her Majesty? Do you believe she truly understands?”

“I am extremely well acquainted with the queen, Monsieur,” Mazarin said. “There might have been a time when she was innocent with respect to such things, but it is far in the past. She understands completely what is happening, and what our situation has become. Do not underestimate her.

“I wonder sometimes if we understand it nearly as well.”

****

Achille was right: there was no other choice than the Château de Maintenon. And he was also right to note that Mazarin was better known than he was; therefore, it was logical for Achille, rather than Mazarin, to approach the château and request lodging for his mistress and her company, while they waited without.

Mazarin’s first introduction to Achille’s lack of diplomatic skill came with the arrival of a troop of a dozen horsemen, their hauberks and helmets dappled with the wan light of the last quarter moon. The carriage had remained on the lane near the château; Mazarin stayed on the top bench with Artemisio, while the others stayed within.

The leader of the horsemen approached the carriage, holding his hand up to keep the others at a distance.

“Good evening,” Mazarin said.

“Monsieur,” the man said. “Good evening. You are . . . companions of the Knight of Malta, I presume.”

“He has made your acquaintance.”

“I found him arrogant, demanding and –”

“I can just imagine. Achille is impetuous –”

“To say the least.”

“And undiplomatic. But . . . I thought it best to have him approach with our humble request.”

“A troublesome choice.”

“May I have the courtesy of your name, Monsieur?”

“My name is Charles de Sainte-Maure; I am the Marquis de Montausier. Monsieur de Rambouillet, who not in residence at this time, is my . . . he is the father of my intended.”

“Congratulations.”

“Merci,” the man answered with exaggerated courtesy. “Who is the distinguished lady on whose behalf the Knight of Malta is so eager to offend?”

“I would invite you to step inside our carriage and find out.”

“Very mysterious,” he said. “But I shall humor you.” He dismounted and walked toward the carriage. “Who are you, and who could be so important?”

Mazarin did not answer, but looked down toward the carriage door, which had been opened slightly from within. Montausier stepped up and opened it, then stepped in. A moment later he stepped out, his face transformed by surprise.

“Please follow me,” he said without looking back at the carriage.

****

“They did not treat me with proper respect,” Achille said, placing the bread crust on the plate before him. “I’m sorry, Monseigneur. I cannot accept an affront to my dignity, or the honor of my order.”

Mazarin looked from Achille to Montausier.

“No particular offense was given to him,” Montausier said. He picked up his wine goblet and took a sip. They were sitting in the nearly-deserted dining hall of the Château de Maintenon; the queen had been comfortably lodged in quarters upstairs. The candles had burned low in the candelabras.

“With respect,” Achille said, “I beg to differ.”

“Is this how it is going to be?” Mazarin said. “We are trying not to attract any attention. Is that not meaningful to you?”

Achille shrugged. “I do not quite see your point, Monseigneur.”

“Diplomacy is not one of your primary skills,” Mazarin said. “We should consider ourselves fortunate that the Marquis is not in residence.”

“He has gone to Paris,” Montausier said. “The King is dead.”

“You don’t say.”

Montausier seemed to be considering whether Mazarin was serious or not; but after a moment he smiled. “Yes. Of course you know that. Is Her Majesty aware of . . .”

“Of course,” Mazarin said. “And she is in great danger. It is why we are here.”

“If you had merely explained yourself . . .”

“I was very clear –” Achille began, but Mazarin held his hand up.

“My Lord de Montausier,” Mazarin said. “I have no other choice but to trust in your discretion. Tomorrow we must be gone from here, and no one must know that we tarried with you. Monsieur Gaston is likely not in the country, but his spies likely are.”

“Now that he is to be king, he can command anyone he wishes.”

Mazarin stood suddenly. “He is not the king of France, My Lord. He may believe that the crown belongs to him, but it does not. It belongs to that infant upstairs. As long as the baby lives, he is the king of France.

“With respect, My lord Marquis, I ask you to remember that.”

Montausier was taken aback, enough that his hand moved down toward his scabbard. With a glance at the standing Mazarin and the still seated Achille, he stopped that motion.

“I give you my word,” Montausier said at last.