Mechwarrior: Dark Age #27

The long hall echoed discordantly with the murmur of a hundred voices. A step behind, Nikol tried to mimic the stately, demure walk of her mother and almost stumbled in the heavy layers of a dress she wore but once a year. Did Mother add extra layers to this dress just to see if I could walk in a strange public forum without falling? She wouldn’t put it past her mother; she tried to keep the small smile at that thought off her face . . . hoped she succeeded.

Peripherally, she noted the differences between a formal reception on Oriente and this one on Asellus Australis. While her mother promoted a somewhat informal attitude for such meetings, the initial progress of nobility toward the throne always was met with proper and silent decorum. As such, the whispering she heard startled her in its strangeness. Is that what you want me to take from this, Mother? That each encounter around us must be met with an open mind? The smile tried once more to push her lips up, but she kept a proper blank look in place. More likely that such open-mindedness allows for a quicker understanding of how to bind others to you. Now, that sounds like my mother.

Nikol almost stumbled again and refocused her attention, ignoring the whispers and more important, ignoring her mind as it raced with possibilities. One. Two. Three. Four . . . two dozen steps went by, and then she almost squeaked as she missed bumping into her mother by a finger’s length. She kept her eyes downcast after coming to an abrupt halt, suddenly fearful of hearing snickering from all around her. She breathed noisily—the heavy scents of perfume, sweat and too many lilacs making her want to scratch her nose—trying her best to ignore the heat flaming her face. I don’t care what they think. Why am I suddenly embarrassed?

Nikol forgot all about her embarrassment and her head jerked up, surprise etching her features. Her eyes found the steward, standing in his finery at the base of the two-step dais that held a half dozen individuals, two of them seated on matching wooden chairs. Now, that’s interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that her mother’s shoulders had not twitched a millimeter. Her mother inclined her head as though she were accepting a high honor.

‘‘Lord Garith, Lady Joslyn. Lord Collin, Lady Katirn. ’’ Jessica’s warm voice managed to almost instantly calm the hushed whispers in the room, her charisma enrapturing all in attendance with a bare handful of words.

Nikol struggled to school her features, but knew it was likely a failure as her mind leapt into overdrive. Why are you ignoring the slight, Mother? No one in the Oriente would dare use any last name but Marik. Yet she knew her mother well enough to know a method must exist to this madness. You always have a method, Mother. Even if I don’t always see it.

‘‘Of course, Your Grace,’’ Lord Garith said serenely. ‘‘I must admit we were a bit taken aback by your request, as we had no news you would be in-system, much less desire a formal meeting.’’

Nikol widened her eyes and managed to see past her mother to Lord Garith without appearing (she hoped) as though she were a rubbernecking tourist. The dapper gentlemen in his late fifties looked well suited to be the ruler of Asellus Australis. More important, his face appeared to hold honest interest.

‘‘A last-minute decision, I must admit,’’ Jessica continued. ‘‘I am on my way to Paladin Victor’s funeral on Terra. I found myself ahead of our travel schedule and decided that I wished to convey my personal gratitude, especially when I heard that Lord and Lady Septunarin were on-world.’’

‘‘It is a happy coincidence that others are in attendance as well. Lady Tillin. Lord Golliel. Lord and Lady Yanez.’’ Jessica inclined her head in the direction of the rest of those gathered on the dais.

Though Nikol could not see her mother’s face, if it matched the tone of voice, she was turning the charisma on full-tilt. Don’t recognize Lord and Lady Yanez, but Lady Tillin rules Sophie’s World and I think Lord Golliel rules Lungdo? She trapped a sigh, slightly flustered. Why didn’t Mother tell me what was going on—why we are stopping at these backwater worlds? I could have at least studied some to know which ruler is from what world in this region. A sudden thought brought her up short, as a memory from their family meeting the week before they departed Oriente surfaced.

She lost the thread of the conversation for several minutes as she batted that concept around. Of course her mother lied when necessary. Nikol was too much a student of ruling—despite sitting in seat five from any throne—to not be aware of such a need. Yet she couldn’t remember hearing her mother pronounce such a blatant lie before, especially to another ruler. Particularly when Nikol couldn’t see the need for the lie. Just tell them you made plans to stop by in person. Wouldn’t that make them preen all the more that Lady Jessica came calling to them specifically? Once again, Nikol seemed to be missing the method. She knew it was there. Knew her mother lived and breathed her methods as surely as Christopher lived and breathed the need to throw himself off a cliff. Yet it remained just outside her reach.

Nikol focused on the words of Lord Garith, and almost gaped like a fish as her mother accepted the invitation. We’re going to stay longer! We’re not ahead of schedule, we’re actually behind after the repairs in the last system took an extra half day to finish, Mother. Why are you doing this?

The two stood bundled in borrowed, bulky cold-weather gear under the deep awning, waiting for a hovershuttle to take them out on the tarmac to their waiting DropShip. The blizzard had arrived swiftly, catching everyone unprepared.

This burg isn’t even large enough for an inside walkway out to the DropShip. Nikol shook her head in amazement. She’d been to many worlds, but to find a DropPort with only a handful of cradles for DropShips ... she looked around, almost expecting to see a shepherd or a herd of cows. She winced at the unintentional slight to the inhabitants of this world. Mother would never have such a thought. But Christo would . . . and he would say it out loud. Nikol smiled.

‘‘Are you going to ask?’’ her mother finally said. Surrounded by their security detail, and blanketed by the blustering weather that kept all but the most critical personnel inside, no one would hear their low-voiced conversation.

The words came soft with a smile, and yet still stung. At least Elis isn’t here. She never cared if Christo overheard her mother’s rebukes. You get them as often as I do, brother of mine. And Julietta or Janos . . . she couldn’t care less what they thought. Might as well be my aunt and uncle. But Elis . . . her all-knowing sister managed to gloat without ever allowing such an unseemly look to grace her perfect features. Damn you, Elis.

‘‘Okay,’’ she finally replied. ‘‘Let’s try again, then.’’ As always, her sarcasm failed to even dent her mother’s perfect equanimity. ‘‘Why have we wasted almost ten days on this side trip when we’re actually behind schedule?’’

Nikol breathed in the hypercold air, using the chill of it hitting her throat and lungs to calm her voice. After all this time she’d learned that anger never fazed her mother; it only caused Nikol . . . discomfort . . . in the long run. ‘‘You know what I mean, Mother. Five days back to the jump point. Unless you plan on having the captain burn to the nadir point at double g’s?’’

‘‘It was an innocuous lie, wasn’t it? Just a small one. A little one. So, why would I provide such a little lie to rulers I’d planned on coming to treat with?’’

Nikol stomped her feet several times, the vibrations bringing apparent warmth to extremities encased in too-thin boots. Nikol had been kicking that thought around for hours, all through the too-long meal, its insipid conversations and the overeager boy who thought he was a man trying to hit on her, not to mention the sickly sweet dessert that she could still taste despite thoroughly rinsing her mouth several times already. Why would Mother lie about that? It all revolved around why they came here, and she fell back to asking the same frustrating question.

‘‘Weren’t you listening, my dear? I came to thank them for how well they have treated my ambassador and trade delegations over the last several years. Their wild grain stock is an absolute delicacy, and has proven quite a profitable import to the Protectorate.’’

She ground them louder for effect. ‘‘We’re on our way to the most important meeting of leaders of the Inner Sphere since the founding of The Republic of the Sphere following the end of the Jihad fifty years ago. We’re behind schedule, and you take almost two weeks to travel to a no-name world to thank them for importing rice!’’

Nikol clamped her jaw tight, frustrated and yet amazed as ever that her mother could apply such a stinging rebuke couched in tones of honey. ‘‘I apologize, Mother,’’ she said, stamping her feet again to gain some warmth and buy her some time. Gazed into the darkness of the heavily falling snow to watch for approaching headlights. Hoped the hovershuttle would arrive and alleviate the situation. ‘‘You still didn’t answer my question,’’ she managed to get out.

‘‘No. You usually tell me what my opinion should be.’’ Nikol sucked in a deep lungful of cold air, shocked at her words, desperate to take them back as eyes that so closely mirrored her own, despite her mother’s age, locked with hers. For once, her mother’s façade seemed to crack momentarily, a shadow of something moving behind her eyes before the tender smile of a favorite aunt quickly took their accustomed place.

‘‘Perhaps,’’ her mother said. ‘‘Then again, perhaps I’m finding that giving you your opinion no longer serves my purpose. Perhaps I wish to find out what your opinion is, without my own getting in the way. But ask yourself this, Nikol, as you search for the right questions. Why wouldn’t I come to this world?’’

Though one part of Nikol wished to rail at the silliness of turning her question into philosophical-sounding rhetoric, her mother’s other words seemed to rob her of the ability to think of any further questions beyond one: she honestly wants my opinions?

The hovershuttle pulled up in a blast of cold air and snow, and the security detail swept forward to verify the safety of the vehicle. Nikol surreptitiously stared at the fine lines of her mother’s face around the edges of her fur-lined hood, and a single thought drummed in her head, despite a thrum of growing excitement she tried to temper. . . .

Lester Cameron-Jones finished pulling off the leather doublet and placed it haphazardly on top of the matching kilt on the overstuffed chair. Despite the room being lit only by candles, the saffron flowers woven into the reddish material were still garish. I suppose it’s a good thing these aren’t my chambers.

With only a slight strain, he pulled the purple undershirt off and then the russet pants; almost lost his balance as he pulled off his boots. Could they make this blasted outfit any more difficult to remove? That he agreed to wear the ceremonial clothing in an effort to placate conservative elements within his government only snarled his agitation more. In another moment he stood naked, his aging, trim figure a pale ghost in the candlelight. Mood lighting? More like a wake.

As he stepped toward the bed, the plush emerald carpet (he could almost ignore how it clashed with the rest of the décor even more dramatically than the chairs) soothed his taut nerves as it brushed against his naked soles, pulling away the anger of another fruitless session in the Palace of Mirrors. Why will the Assembly not understand? Of course I’ve got to go.

He reached the edge of a bed almost three times the size of his own modest king-sized one and stopped as the coverlets rustled and shadows moved under the depths of a heavy canopy. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, shifting his mind to a place he traveled only once a month. Waited several long moments as he commanded his body to obey, then slipped between the sheets.

Despite the warm body that awaited him, the sheets seemed preternaturally cool to his skin, sending a shiver out to his tingling fingertips. Flesh touched flesh, the hiss of thousand-thread silk imported from Molokai the only sound beyond quickened breathing.

An hour later he lounged in the hated chair, stirring a cup of selaj tea, a cool blue robe sheathing his body in a comforting embrace. Emlia entered from her bathroom, clothed neck to foot in her own robe. As she made her way to the table recently occupied by his clothing and now containing a set of the finest Brahma River china, Lester carefully placed his cup on a saucer and poured a second cup. She gracefully sat down in the matching chair across from him, her blond, shoulder-length hair easily hiding the gray starting to come in, while her smile lit her beautiful face and her eyes shone with endless love and her gratitude for the monthly service rendered; nothing would be spoken on the subject, as usual.

‘‘I assume the esteemed governor of Tiber is voicing his displeasure at your acceptance of The Republic’s invitation?’’ Her soft voice lilted with the edge of her deep intelligence that had won his heart so many years ago.

He chuckled. They both shared a smile at the idea of the concept ‘‘esteemed’’ being associated with David Eislan. Man’s more pig than human. ‘‘Sometimes I wish Duke Seren would have the balls to rein the pig in.’’

He set the cup down, grabbing a linen cloth to dab at his bathrobe as he glanced up apologetically. ‘‘Sorry, dear. Just . . . they simply don’t want to see.’’

He shook his head, anxious for his hands to be occupied, but he folded them in his lap instead. ‘‘This isn’t about me. This is about the Fiefs. If we’re to ever gain any respect, the rest of the Inner Sphere must recognize us. Must respect us. How many times have our trade overtures to the Confederation and Commonwealth been shot down in the last decade alone? It’s reached a point where our trade delegations practically prostrate themselves in an effort to gain an audience with the chancellor, just so that he can berate them and send them on their way. Berate me.’’ He clenched his fists, anger over the wording of the chancellor’s last correspondence—after sending the Fiefs’ trade delegation packing—still a fresh sting, like an hours-old gauntlet to the face.

A calming hand touched his forearm, its reassurance enhanced because the contact was through the robe, not directly on his skin. ‘‘Anger solves nothing, my dear.’’

He breathed in the heady scents of candles and the soft caress of wet loam from the window he had cracked (both masking other, unpleasant aromas lingering from their earlier activities) and let his anger go. ‘‘You’re right, Emlia. I’ve got to find a way for them to see.’’

‘‘I will see what I can do. The Gala of Lights is coming.’’ She withdrew her hand after another squeeze. ‘‘I’ll miss our dance, but I should be able to plant a few seeds here and there.’’

‘‘Of course not, dear. But a few well-placed words should build enough of a tangle to keep our esteemed governor from gaining any further ground while you’re gone. But, dear . . .’’ She paused, eyes narrowing. ‘‘You must return with something concrete. For the Fiefs.’’

A companionable silence fell, the slight clink of china and sipping sounds soft counterpoints to the thickening patter of rain now washing through Regulus City. ‘‘Oh,’’ he said, remembering a passing conversation with his head of intelligence. ‘‘I want you to meet with Salazar.’’

‘‘Salazar feels it’s more than bandits this time. I trust his instincts, dear. Just want you to be kept informed . . . want Salazar to know that I take this situation seriously. He always works better when he feels I’m paying attention.’’

They shared a smile, and the comfort only decades of daily friendship brings settled like a shield of armor around him; he drank in the sight and scent of his wife, knowing he would be long, long months without her strength.