A CONFUSION
OF PRINCES
A CONFUSION
OF PRINCES
GARTH NIX
First published in 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Garth Nix
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
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ISBN 978 1 74175 861 0
Cover artwork by Larry Rostant
Printed in Australia by Griffin Press
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To ANNA, THOMAS, and EDWARD,
and all my family and friends
and to
PHIL WALLACH, game designer and software engineer,
and LES PETERSEN, illustrator and graphic designer,
who with me worked on the online game Imperial Galaxy,
which was based on this book well before
I finished writing it
and also to
ROBERT A. HEINLEIN and ANDRE NORTON
Contents
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3
4
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6
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10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
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Epilogue
1
I HAVE DIED THREE times, and three times been reborn, though I am not yet twenty in the old Earth years by which it is still the fashion to measure time.
This is the story of my three deaths, and my life between.
My name is Khemri, though this is not the name my parents gave me. I do not know who my parents are, and never will, for I was taken from them as a baby.
This is one of the secrets the Empire keeps well. No Prince may ever know his or her parents, or the world of their birth. Even trying to find out is forbidden, which just about sums up the paradox of being a Prince. We have vast power and seemingly limitless authority, except when we try to exercise that power or authority beyond the bounds that have been set for us.
It’s still about a million times better than being an ordinary Imperial subject, mind you. It just isn’t everything that I thought it was going to be when I was a child, a Prince candidate being carefully raised in considerable ignorance in my remote temple.
So I’m one of the ten million Princes who rule the Empire, the largest political entity in recorded history or current knowledge. The Empire extends across a vast swath of the galaxy, encompassing more than seventeen million systems, tens of millions of inhabited worlds, and trillions of sentient subjects, most of them humans of old Earth stock.
It is Imperial policy that all these mostly planet-bound yokel types know as little as possible about the apparently godlike beings who rule them. Even our enemies—the alien Sad-Eyes, the enigmatic Deaders, and the Naknuk rebels—know more of us than our own people do.
The ordinary folk think we’re immortal. Which is natural enough when they typically have something like their grandfather’s grandfather’s grandmother’s nice commemorative stereosculpture of a good-looking young Prince on the family mantelpiece and then they see the same Prince handing out Grower of the Month awards at the annual harvest festival or whatever.
It would be the same Prince too, because while we’re not actually immortal, if we get killed we do mostly get reborn into an identical adult body. It’s a technical difference, I guess.
And it’s only mostly reborn. Our enemies know that we do not always come back from the dead. To have died three times like me is no big deal for a Prince of the Empire. There are others who have died nine, twelve, twenty times and still walk among our ranks. There are even Princely societies where you have to have died a certain number of times to join. Like the Nine Death Lifers. Bunch of idiots if you ask me. All suicidal for eight deaths and then super cautious afterward? Who’d want to join that society?
Particularly since you never know if you are going to be reborn. It’s up to the Emperor, and every now and then a dead Prince’s name just vanishes from the lists without explanation, and if you’re dumb enough to make inquiries, you meet a lot of blank-eyed priests who don’t know anything and a weird kind of absence of anything about that dead Prince if you directly ask the Imperial Mind.
But before I get into my whole life story and all, let me take you through the bare facts of my childhood. I am presuming you’re not an Imperial Prince, which you’d better not be or I’ll have wasted all the careful preparations that are supposed to make this record detonate with a ridiculously large antimatter explosion if it is accessed by any kind of Princely sensory augmentation.
I guess not recording it in the first place would be more secure. But I have my reasons.
So. I would have been close to a year old when I was taken from my parents. Though I have no recollection of my early life, it is likely that I was born on a typical Imperial world of the outer quadrants, a planet once marginal for human life but long since remade by the trinity of Imperial technology: the machines of Mektek, the biological agents and life-forms of Bitek, and the wide-ranging and powerful mental forces of Psitek.
This is important, because if there’s anything that makes the Empire what it has become, it is these three teks. Sure, the Sad-Eyes have better Psitek, but then we kick their parasitical little guts in with Mektek and Bitek. The Naknuks have taken Bitek further than we have, so we do them in with Psitek and Mektek. The Deaders . . . it’s a bit hard to know exactly what their primary tek is since they always blow themselves up when they’re beaten, but certainly the trinity of teks works against them as well.
All Imperial tek is managed and controlled by priests, who are divided into orders that worship different Aspects of the Emperor. They serve Princes in all technical roles, but it’s worth remembering that they also get orders directly from the Imperial Mind. Princes forget that sometimes, usually to their cost.
Okay, where was I? Getting taken from my parents. Here we go.
On a day like any other day, my parents would have had no knowledge that by nightfall their infant son would be gone forever.
The first sign would have been a gathering darkness, a vast shadow too sharp edged to be a cloud. Looking up, they would have seen an Imperial battleship glide across their sky, an enormous, jagged flying mountain of rock dotted with structures built to the fashions and whims of the Prince in command.
Under the shadow of the ship, bright spots of light would suddenly spark, thousands and thousands of them, that a moment later would fall like brilliant rain.
They would know then, I suppose, my parents of long ago. Imperial battleships do not drop thousands of mekbi t
roopers on rural villages without reason.
Sometimes I wonder what my parents did as the first wave of troopers descended, and the wasp-ships launched as well, spiralling down to establish a perimeter to make sure no one tried to evade the opportunity of giving their children to the Empire.
I suppose they did nothing, for nothing could be done. But unlike most other Princes, I know something about ordinary children. I have seen parents and their children together when they are not awed or terrified by the presence of a Prince. So I know that the bond between them is stronger than Princes— who have no parents and are not allowed to have children—can imagine. So perhaps they tried to escape, desperation driving them to flee or hide.
But with a perimeter established and search squads armed with advanced scanning tek, there could be no hope of evasion. My parents must have eventually joined the lines of people waiting for the troopers to check everyone against the census while the Priests of the Aspect of the Inquiring Intelligence mentally investigated any anomalies. Maybe there was a Sad-Eye infiltrator lurking inside a host body, or a Naknuk spy, or some small domestic criminal or terrorist, but these would be rare excitements. Mostly it would be routine.
Then, finally, at the head of the line, my parents would meet the Priests of the Aspect of the Weighty Decision Maker, priests with glittering eyes, blue fluid swirling behind the transparent panels in their shaven skulls, all attention focused on the approaching couple and their child.
The genetic testing would have taken only a few minutes, using Bitek viral assays and ultrascopic Psitek scan. Then the terrible news, presented as an opportunity for joy and delight in being able to serve the Empire.
‘Your child is accepted as a Prince candidate.’
Sometimes I think about what it must have been like for my parents to hear those words. I also wonder what choice they made next, for the Empire in its great compassion does allow such parents one choice.
Not to keep the child, of course. The Empire needs Princes and so must take the candidates. But it does allow the parents some small mercy. They can be made to forget they ever had that child, their memories thoughtfully rearranged by the Priests of the Aspect of the Emperor’s Loving Heart, before they are physically relocated to another world to begin anew.
Or they can choose death. As with all Imperial justice, this is done on the spot. It would be fast, faster than they might expect. Mekbi troopers stand behind the parents when they state their choice. Accelerated muscles and monofilament blades act upon the mental command of the presiding Prince, and it is all over in a moment.
I do not think of my parents often, for there is no point. But I do have some reason to hope that they chose memory erasure and a new start, and that somewhere out among the far-flung stars they live still and have new children. Children who were not taken away to be made into Princes.
That is how I became a Prince candidate of the Empire and embarked on my candidacy, being shipped from temple to temple as each stage of my remaking was successfully completed.
For Princes are made, not born. The genetic testing is merely to see if we have the potential for all the meddling that is to come, and a reasonable probability of surviving it.
I don’t really remember the first decade of my candidacy. I only know what I was told about it later. For many years I was kept in a dream state, in a bath of Bitek gloop, my mind directly stimulated with educational and developmental programming, while viruses rewrote my DNA and changed and improved every part of my body.
Even after I was brought up into consciousness, I was often returned to the dream state in order to aid recovery from the surgeries that bonded Mektek enhancements to my bone and flesh.
Once my organic body met the requirements and the Mektek enhancement was done, I spent most of my time in the sometimes nightmarish mental space where I learned the particular Psitek capabilities reserved for Princes, the arts of domination and command, and the more ordinary techniques of mental communication, shielding, and so forth.
I’m not sure if you can call this a childhood, now that I think about it.
From the age of ten to seventeen, I was fully conscious, being taught more mundane things by various priests, and I played with holographic friends and the mind-programmed children of servants. It was always my games we played. From very early on, I knew I was a Prince, and very special, and in my own mind absolutely certain to rise even higher and become Emperor in time. Everything reinforced this, and in fact for some time I thought I was the only Prince in the whole galaxy, a willful misapprehension that persisted to some degree even after I had been taught that I was one of millions.
This was because even though I had been told of the existence of other Princes, I had not yet met any. Nor did I know when I was going to, until one day I awoke with the familiar mental voice of my tutor, Uncle Coleport, whispering in the back of my mind. (I called him ‘Uncle’ because that is the mode of address for male priests. Female ones are called ‘Aunt’, but of course there is no familial relationship.)
:Prince Khemri. This is the day of your investiture, the sixteenth anniversary of your selection. Your Master of Assassins awaits an audience:
I opened my eyes and smiled. It was the first time in my life that I had been addressed not as ‘Prince Candidate’, but ‘Prince’, My remaking and training was complete. I would commandeer a sleek, deadly warship, probably a Verrent corvette or something similar, and go out into the Empire and immediately make my mark.
Or so I thought.
As I was dressed by my valet, a mind-programmed thrall, I reviewed what I knew about the investiture of a Prince, which was surprisingly little. The first step was to be assigned a personal court, and the most important member of that court was the Master of Assassins. He or she was directly assigned by the Imperial Mind and so could be entirely trusted. My Master of Assassins would help me select my other staff and vet them, an essential process. If a Prince could not depend upon their court, they would not long survive.
I met my Master of Assassins in one of the temple’s reception rooms, a chamber of pleasant waterfalls paying homage to a past Emperor’s love of water features. It was a favoured spot for punishment details, and as was often the case, the sound of the falling water was being suppressed by the work of novices who stood in the pools up to their waists, blue pulsing in their temples as they flexed their Psitek strength. I had been there once when the rumble of a waterfall suddenly cut in, and I saw an unconscious novice float by and be sucked under where the flowing river met a bulkhead. The priests also undergo harsh training, sometimes with fatal results.
:My name is Haddad <
>. I am sent by the <> to serve you, Prince Khemri:
Haddad was also a priest. All the assassins are priests of the Emperor in Hier Aspect of the Shadowed Blade. Unlike most of the other Aspects, assassins do not specialise in any one of the trinity of Imperial teks; they are generalists who use all teks in the service of their Prince.
:Greetings, Uncle Haddad. I accept you, and bind you to my service:
‘Good, Highness,’ said Haddad. ‘Speak aloud. What weapons are you carrying?’
‘None,’ I replied. I was surprised.
‘We are in a temple—’ ‘We are in a reception room of a temple, Highness,’ said Haddad. ‘It is not covered by the general truce. Have the priests here trained you with Bitek weapons?’
‘No. . . ’
‘Any weapons?’
‘Sword and dagger, hand blaster, nerve-lash, the basics for duelling,’ I said. Haddad was looking around, moving about me, an ovoid instrument that I did not recognise in his hand. I presumed it was some kind of weapon.
For the first time in my life, I was becoming nervous, and already the euphoria of becoming a Prince was fading, to be replaced by an emotion that I had never really felt before and was slow to understand.
Fear.
‘Slowly back away toward the inner door, Highness,’ said Haddad. He had sto
pped circling and was now intent on one of the waterfalls, watching the novice who stood there, supposedly shielding us from the noise of falling water.
I hesitated for a moment. Now that I was finally a Prince, I was reluctant to take any more orders from a priest. But there was something in Haddad’s voice, and after all, he was my Master of Assassins. . . I started to retreat toward the inner door that led into the temple proper.
The novice in the closest waterfall moved. His hand came out from under a sodden robe, ready to throw a small silver box. But before it left his hand, Haddad fired his weapon. A blindingly bright bolt of energy shot across the chamber, shearing the novice in half.
‘Back!’ shouted Haddad as I stood watching in disbelief, still several feet from the door. His voice cut through even the sudden roar of the waterfall. ‘Back!’
The small silver box rose from the bloodied water to hang in the air, and it opened like a flower to reveal a central stamen of pulsing red that was pointed directly at me. Haddad fired again, but the box jinked away, and the energy bolt missed it by a hair.
I turned and dived for the door, a door that exploded in front of me as the silver box delivered its payload directly above my head. I rolled away from the smoking, molten remains of the doorway and twisted around, thinking that I would see the silver box reorienting itself for another attack.
Instead I saw it struck by Haddad’s third shot, my additional eyelids and visual filtering automatically adjusting so that I was not blinded forever by the brilliance of the nanofusion implosion as the box’s power plant overloaded.
Haddad picked me up, and together we ran to one of the other doors and entered the temple. A Priest of the Aspect of the Mending Hand coming the other way bent his head to me before leading his gang of acolytes onward to repair the damage caused by the would-be assassin.
‘How did . . . who would . . .’ I started to say, the words I wanted not coming readily to my tongue despite the efforts of internal autonomous systems that were trying to steady my heartbeat and restore calm.
‘We will talk in your quarters, Highness,’ replied Haddad. ‘They are safe. For now.’