The tired, stressed techs deserved their triumph, Ng thought, watching them exchange insults and compliments. Nyberg had placed any communications from Hreem the Faithless on the priority decoding list. So far, they still had not cracked Barrodagh’s codes, or Juvaszt’s, but they’d just sent word that Hreem’s had been unraveled.
On her way back to the Grozniy, Ng stopped at the Situation Room to see for herself.
“Most of this appears to be a kind of serial vid put together by one of Hreem’s techs,” the head tech explained, waving a hand toward the screen. “He’s been sending edited versions of the Dol’jharian fleet’s attacks and atrocities to new recruits. But this one is new—a real communication.”
On the screen, a face appeared, distinctive with the harsh lines of habitual cruelty. A thick mane of hair and a gaudy uniform of gold-trimmed red, worn half-tabbed over a grizzled chest, completed the picture of one of the most infamous Rifter pirates on the Naval bonus chips.
“Senz lo’Barrodagh,” Hreem said, “I will be pleased to proceed to the Suneater, but I have a suggestion first. We’re conveniently near to the Barcan system. Lord Eusabian might like production of their Ogre battle androids secured for his own use, by someone who knows how to take orders.”
A tap windowed up Barrodagh, who pursed his lips in thought, and then nodded. “You are right, Hreem,” the Bori said. “The Lord of Vengeance could use the Barcan materiel to effect, and he also has use for those who follow orders.” He smiled thinly. “But the Barcans might have taken more precautions than we know of, and I fear for your safety. I will dispatch Neyvla-khan and his fleet to join you. They have just finished—an admirable job—securing the Minervan Tetrad.”
Hreem’s mouth tightened, but he shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Sure. We’ll be waiting for ’em.”
Both screens blanked.
Neyvla-khan. Where have I heard that before?
Someone behind Ng whistled. “Now, that,” he said, “will be interesting. I wonder which of them has the longer record for uninterrupted villainy?”
And as several people turned to face the speaker, he went on, “The Neyvla clan has been terrorizing the Rouge Sud Octant since before I was born. And,” he added in a hard voice, “It was their fleet that slagged Minerva.”
The little Rifter tech spoke up from the back, “And long before they swore a blood oath to Eusabian they swore a death vendetta on Hreem.”
o0o
At first, Osri Omilov was amused by the differences in his reception. It seems to be true, he thought, returning the sketchy bow that Aristide Masaud gave him. Leave off the uniform and there goes your identity.
“What a rude bore,” Kenzit muttered without lowering her voice as Aristide turned to the next guest without speaking to the sisters. “Doesn’t he recognize us from the royal box at the concert?”
“He’s merely a secondary cousin,” Pomalythe returned with a dismissive wave. “Holds no title or directorships in the family businesses—I checked, if you couldn’t be bothered.” And when Kenzit rolled her eyes, “I trust the principal members of the family will acknowledge us, after the Aerenarch honored us specifically.”
A walk between the polished metal panels of the doors threw back distorted reflections of four dark-haired people with angular jaws. Startled, Osri recognized himself among them.
Masaud thinks I’m another Ghettierus.
He trailed after their mother, who bullied her way through the guests on the ballroom floor as she looked for the best table, and the best people; until now, Osri had not understood how disliked his mother and half-sisters had managed to make themselves.
“Oh, Telos,” Poma whined. “They’ve called up Highdweller decor. I hate Highdweller taste.”
“Feel like my next breath will be vacuum,” Kenzit grumped. “Or else we’ll be puking from null-grav.”
Osri, who enjoyed Highdweller life despite his Downsider upbringing, appreciated as much of the ambience of the salon as he could despite the twins’ complaints. It was hard, he decided, to point out exactly what distinguished the architecture of the Highdweller overculture. It was less any one detail than an accumulation of details: the slight exaggeration of vertical scale, paradoxically combined with a feeling of closeness and enclosure; the fact that the focus of accents and flourishes tended to be up and inward, rather than down and outward; and a more three-dimensional feeling to the masses and spaces created by the furnishings.
His mother paid the décor no attention. She forced her way through the crowd, and balked of prey she deemed of suitable rank, she attained her secondary goal: a circle of seats along a main concourse.
Bickering halfheartedly, Kenzit and Poma squeezed in beside Osri. Their mother settled into the seat with the best view, then activated the table console to order for everyone.
Osri sat back, resigning himself to a tedious stay. At least his mother hadn’t brought one of her light-accursed lovers—but then she wouldn’t, unless she could manage to snare one with higher rank than Basilea. If she had one, she’d want him as escort, not me.
Amusement at his mother’s predictability sparked resentment at his father’s refusal to come. Why was he so obdurate? He at least knows the hosts of these never-ending parties. But despite a daily bombardment of abusive messages from Basilea Risiena, Sebastian had remained adamant: he was too busy.
So Basilea Risiena had promptly turned her fire onto her son, and to escape her tireless harassments, Osri had given in. He had, however, refused to wear his uniform. It was not his duty to go, so he would attend as a civilian.
The difference in his reception had been obvious from Aristide’s bow; it was not long before the difference became obvious to Osri’s mother.
“Don’t you know anyone?” Kenzit whined presently.
Guests were still arriving, and Osri had only seen one familiar face, but he’d managed not to catch the person’s eye.
“I told you I don’t,” Osri replied. “Until the war I spent all my time on Minerva. Civilian Douloi don’t visit Minerva. At least, they don’t visit the areas I lived and worked in.”
“But there’s bound to be an officer from the Tetrad Centrum passing by,” Basilea Risiena muttered, jabbing her finger into Osri’s shoulder. “Whether you know the person or not, salute.”
“I can’t,” Osri said. “I’m not in uniform.” Now he understood his mother’s plan: anyone of suitably superior rank who stopped to salute or return his salute could be dragooned into introductions, and from there bullied into dancing with one of the twins.
An overwhelming desire to laugh had to be hidden in his cup. Basilea Risiena started tapping her nails on the table. Poma and Kenzit promptly began bickering with her about it; Osri turned his attention away, wondering how long before she got angry and either left or sent him away, so he could escape.
Because they had an excellent view of the ballroom, Osri could watch the patterns of spectacularly-dressed Douloi. Why did people go to these things, anyway? Who wanted to be squashed into too small a space with too many of the people one least wished to see?
Osri didn’t see anyone he would talk to. In fact, he did not see anyone in uniform at all.
Curious, he turned in his chair for a better view and scanned the room. No. Not one uniform. How did this happen? Either Naval personnel attended in civilian dress the way he was, or were they invited at all? He scrutinized individual faces for anyone familiar. None: the only person he’d recognized was an analyst.
Had the Navy and the civilians polarized that much? No one would have bothered telling him. He paid no more heed to talk of social functions than he did of politics, and everyone who knew him knew it.
As his gaze sifted the crowd, he noticed that fewer than usual were dancing, though the music was well played. Knots of earnest talkers stood along the sides, excited gestures indicating subjects of great interest. The largest knot, a crowd in itself, had gathered around the Harkatsus Aegios as the tall, grim-faced man spoke animatedly.
Images connected in Osri’s mind: red-haired Ivard, talking to a young Douloi who was pointed out as the Harkatsus heir; Ivard’s whisper, “Regency council.”
“At least you can smile,” a hard voice said in his ear.
Startled, he turned his head to catch his mother’s frown. She poked him in the arm. “Do you see anyone you know?”
Osri shook his head, speculation racing through his mind. He said to Pomalythe, “Why don’t you ask someone to dance?”
“Because I don’t know anyone in this crowd, idiot! Haven’t you been listening?”
Their mother cut Pomalythe off before she could go into a rant. “Osri, take Poma out and dance. Then you can introduce her to someone.”
An idea. “Mother, why don’t I take a quick walk through the crowd, and if I see a friend, I’ll bring them over.”
“Two friends,” Kenzit said, with a glare at Pomalythe.
Osri mumbled that he’d be right back, then escaped with a sense of freedom that swiftly cooled into urgency. He arrived at the back of the crowd around the Aegios, who was talking, his hands spread, his smile wide.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” Harkatsus was saying. “It is time—right now—to throw our support behind the new Aerenarch. He will learn the ways of government, and meanwhile, those of us with experience can guide him.”
Approval murmured through the crowd, then a woman said, “But the Aerenarch wishes to rescue the Panarch.”
Harkatsus bowed acknowledgment. “Thus proving his Family loyalty—and his inexperience. Think! How can we recover a man who is probably guarded by the biggest fleet Eusabian of Dol’jhar can field, when we were not able to stand against his forces when we had the superior numbers? Do not forget their skipmissiles. They are real.”
“That’s true,” someone muttered. “I saw what one shot did to the Korion.”
The murmurs altered, sharpening consonants and sibilants indicating shared emotions reinforcing a rise in excitement. Alarm flashed Osri’s nerves into anxiety when Harkatsus lifted his hands, fingers spread. “That’s right! You’re all quite right. And remember, the Navy—which exists to serve—can do nothing in a power vacuum. The Aerenarch awaits his father; the Panarch is beyond reach, and nothing is done. It is up to us, those who also serve, to proclaim our wishes, to help guide the new Panarch. . . .”
Osri backed away slowly. He knew he had not seen Brandon.
The Aerenarch isn’t here, either.
He paid no attention to politics, but he listened to Naval news. And the prime topic of late was the deadline, which had all but run out.
He stared at Harkatsus, the flattery and easy words coalescing into meaning: They are going to force Brandon to give up rescuing the Panarch.
For an endless moment he stood alone in the press of jeweled and scented Douloi, his loyalties pulled in two directions.
He could stay put and do nothing, which in one sense would be just. He’d once sworn to see to it that Brandon was given over to justice for his reprehensible abandonment of duty and honor at his own Enkainion.
Except Osri had since learned that duty and honor were not as simple to define as he’d once thought. The facts were unchanged, but the reasons behind the facts were still a mystery—and, as sudden urgency moved him smoothly through the crowd, he acknowledged that his faith had not been betrayed, it had only changed form.
I believe Brandon wants his father back. That’s where I need to begin.
Osri took two or three quick steps, and with a sense of relief found the door to the disposers. He wasn’t one of those persons adept at keeping privacies private.
As the door shut behind him, he hit Brandon’s private code.
o0o
Low clouds drifted over the lake; now it was time for a nurturing rain. Vannis saw a couple sitting on a secluded sand spit put up an umbrella, and on a rise above the water’s edge, a man with a sketchpad backed under a tree.
A cool breeze ruffled through Vannis’s hair and skirts, and she gestured to Yenef, who touched the console.
A brightly bannered awning slid silently overhead as the first droplets stung cheeks and arms. Brandon looked down at the ruffling lake water and the droplets ringing outward to intersect with other rings before vanishing into ripples. Vannis studied his profile, reluctant to break his reverie. Guilt and regret pulsed through her again.
Then he moved, draining his glass and leaning companionably on the railing. “Am I poor company?” he asked with a quirky smile. And lifting a hand in a gesture of appeal, “Ought I to do my duty by the Masauds?”
Vannis’s attention shifted from the long fingers so close to her own hand, up to his expectant blue gaze. Again she felt an almost unbearable urge to blather out the truth. But what could he do? Nothing. Or he would already have done it. “Stay,” she said, and gave him her most winsome smile. “Am I so dull?”
“Never.” He caught her hand up and kissed it, with that mocking grand air that always made her want to laugh. She curtseyed in the same manner.
Brandon spoke to the air, his back to the railing. “Why don’t we make this a real party?”
Vannis laughed, relieved and intrigued with his sudden change of mood. “Of course,” she said. “This is for your pleasure.”
He bowed. Was there irony in the flourish of his hand? “Jaim,” he said. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Come on, don’t let this excellent spread go to waste.”
The Rifter picked up one of the fine porcelain plates and began loading it.
Brandon surprised Vannis by walking across the barge to the concealing Rhidari panels. Pulling them aside, he addressed the musicians, who looked up in fourfold shock: “The music is superlative, but I can hardly hear you for the rain. Come out and eat something with us.”
Wordlessly they laid down their instruments and filed out in a row. Brandon held the panel open until the last of them had passed, then let it pivot shut. He turned to Yenef. “Dear lady,” he said, giving her a polite bow. “Please. Will you honor us with your company as well?”
Yenef’s face remained wooden, as a proper servant’s always must, and even as she made her reverence, her eyes sought Vannis’s. Vannis helplessly signed back that she was free to do what she liked. Though she still retained control of the timing, control of the party itself had passed out of her hands.
So she followed Brandon’s lead, smiling left and right as the musicians helped themselves to the food, but she wondered if her moment had slipped by and found her wanting, exactly as she’d felt after that very first conversation, when he so unaccountably brought up the fate of his brother’s lover.
She occupied her hands by placing delicacies on a plate, then stood against the rail as Brandon went from one to the other of the unlikely guests, asking names, making jokes, asking about past performances and where they had studied. Thus he bound them together into a party of sorts, with the musicians finally laughing freely.
Vannis found herself distracted by Jaim, whose smile was rare and unexpectedly attractive. What was this Rifter to Brandon? The Aerenarch had not talked about his experiences with the Rifters except in the most general way. Yet there was some kind of bond: he had taken this one as his personal liegeman, and another as his cook, and visited a third, the boy who had somehow annexed the Kelly genome. The only ones he seemed to avoid were the stone-faced Dol’jharian captain and those hideous white-furred sophonts that everybody said could kill with psi.
And he had not visited the one in prison, brother to Fierin vlith-Kendrian.
Jaim ate silently as Brandon’s questions turned into general conversation. He didn’t speak until the subject veered to music, and then the breadth of his knowledge was surprising.
Brandon laughed and talked, glancing idly at the lakeside. Distracted, Vannis also looked out at where three or four young men strolled despite the rain, one tossing a glowing null-ball into the air and watching as it ever so slowly drifted back to his hands.
Then Brandon moved to the pavilion, clapping loudly.
“Well put,” he said to one of the musicians. “I see the influence now. And I thank you, most profoundly.” He looked to the right and left, then bowed, the formal bow of admirer to artist. “Jaim!” he called. “Help me remember. When we do return to Arthelion, I’ll want these players there.” He backed up, his gestures wide and mock solemn, as if he were drunk.
One of the musicians, flushed with Srivashti’s expensive wine, snickered like a youth; the others watched as Brandon clowned, describing in increasingly silly terms his future coronation. “. . . and we can issue Ysselian roaring flutes to all the children in the procession, and Foneli nose-trumpets to each temenarch . . .”
Brandon mimicked the sound of the ritual flutes of the Yssel clans with a hideous droning noise through his nose, alternated with demented tweets, backing up as he did so. The poler paused, his pole suspended in the air as the Aerenarch climbed up on the rail, his arms waving.
“And you—” He gestured grandly to the lead musician. “—can compose a divertissement for strings, winds, and Karelaisian Mace.”
He snatched the pole from the steersman, tossing it into the air and catching it with a wide two-handed grip, miming with exaggerated care the actions of the mace bearer, swaying from side to side while banging the ends of the pole on the deck.
Jaim snorted with laughter and ducked out of the way as the pole narrowly missed his skull. Then, as the other end came down, Brandon seemed to lose his balance. Jaim was fast, moving swiftly to his side, but somehow Brandon escaped his grasp, falling outward and flailing helplessly with the pole.
And then—Vannis watched it unfold with dream-like slowness, helpless to intervene—the end of the pole swept around and smashed into the control console, which erupted with a flare of light. A wave of nausea swept through her as, with a buzzing screech, the little geeplane used to stabilize the barge overloaded and the entire barge slowly upended, dishes sliding down to crash with musical tinklings against the rail as it tilted with majestic grace toward the spin axis far overhead. The deck slanted steeper and steeper, provoking inharmonious bumps and thumps as the musical instruments slid over the side and splashed into the water.
Two of the musicians screamed and dived after them; the geeplane gave a final despairing howl and the barge lurched up to a near-vertical stance and then toppled over, flinging them all, with a mighty splash, into the cold lake.
Vannis caught her breath before the water closed over her, and she found herself entangled in the ripped awning. She fought free of that and then ripped away her skirts, which clung to her legs. Kicking free of her gown, she swam toward the bobbing, cursing heads.
Screams, high and hysterical, turned out to be Yenef, who insisted some creature had bitten her. A confusion of wildly swinging lights and agitated voices converged on them, and suddenly they were surrounded by the young picnickers, who seemed to have found long rowboats and lights among the reeds.
A woman gripped Vannis under her armpits and pulled her smoothly from the water. Vannis let her head drop back against the edge of the boat as the picnickers helped fish the others out of the water. She gazed between dripping locks of hair at the distant lights, hovering between tears and laughter; it was such a spectacular disaster! How would she explain bringing a soggy wet Aerenarch to the Masaud ball for their damned coup?
What a historic moment! she thought, and then: But where is Brandon?
She flung back the heavy dripping mass of her hair, and scanned the soaked figures for Brandon’s familiar person. Now she noticed what had escaped her before, weapons at the sides of the purposeful men and women. The short, trained exchanges revealed that they were Marines.
They were all looking for Brandon.
Curse the darkness, anyway! Vannis’s heart thumped painfully as she squinted over the churned-up waters, dreading the discovery of a floating body. “Was he caught under the barge?” she asked.
No one answered.
“Might have swum to the shore, sir,” a man said.
Another answered in a clipped murmur, too low to catch. Then one of them turned to her, sketched a salute, and said, “Your Grace. With your permission, we will return to the shore.”
She lifted a hand. “Whatever is best.”
Srivashti will blame me if he’s drowned. With desolate certainty: Not as badly as I will blame myself.
Other noises filtered in as her shock dissipated: Yenef sobbing; one of the musicians bemoaning the loss of his instrument; the hiss of machinery, the mess of floating dishes, instruments, and cushions from the barge, with heads bobbing up and down as Jaim and the Marines dove over and over in a fruitless search. Vannis peered at the black waters, seeing greenish-blue lights shifting around underwater.
“I’ll have to replace the barge,” Vannis said, wondering how she would pay for it.
No one answered. If they even heard her, they didn’t care. The world had gone crazy—almost enough to make that strange, desperate laughter return. Until they reached the shore, and Vahn, the Aerenarch’s Marine chief of security, ran down the path and slammed Jaim against the landing rail. “Where is he?”
Jaim shook his head, his long braids splattering water on Vahn’s immaculate uniform. “I don’t know,” he said, hands out wide.
For a moment it looked as if Vahn would gut the Rifter right there, and Jaim just stood, chest heaving, making no effort to defend himself.
Vahn released Jaim, addressing the Marines in a clipped tone: he never once looked Vannis’s way. They established that everyone else was accounted for, and then they started the short walk toward the Enclave.
o0o
Brandon waited until the door slid shut behind him, melding seamlessly into the wall. He glanced around: bed neatly made, bedside console dark. The bain was empty, and the wardrobe. He had already found and disabled ancient imagers set into the walls. A touch to his boswell, and he was satisfied they were still dead.
He moved to the wardrobe, stripping off his wet, dank-smelling clothing, then hesitated before the shower; using anything might signal Vahn’s guard in the kitchen alcove.
Grinning, he pulled out fresh shirt and trousers. Whatever was to come next, he would go to it smelling like a swamp.
His boswell flashed, an unfamiliar ID. He tabbed the accept.
(Young Seeker, look you for a bolt-hole?) Though he’d only heard it twice, he recognized the laughing voice immediately: the ancient Prophetae, Tate Kaga.
(No,) Brandon said.
The oldster’s laughter echoed weirdly through Brandon’s bones. (So! You have chosen to end your long sleep, eh? But first there’s one here to waken. Will you come?)
Brandon pulled on his last boot and ghost-stepped back through the bedroom, pausing before the pile of sodden clothing.
(You’ll have to tell me more than that, Old One. I’ve just skipped one trap, and am probably on my way into a bigger one.)
Once again Tate Kaga laughed. (Makes-the-Wind never sets bars, but breaks them! I have here the body of Telvarna’s captain. Her spirit is elsewhere. Come! Summon her back. Her last word was “Arkad.”)
The communication ended.
Brandon paused before a window, looking up at the lights that hid the Cap. It seemed he had one last chance to bridge that gulf, and he knew he had to take it.
So he turned his back on the Cap, rummaged in a drawer beside the bed, then signaled the hidden transtube access to open.
A small portal opened in the mosaic-decorated wall before him. Looking around the tiny pod with its dusty, still air, Brandon wondered which of his trusting ancestors had had these private egresses built into the Enclave—and why. Making a mental note to search the archives more thoroughly when he had time, he sat down and keyed the destination for the spin axis. All those years exploring the Palace Major had taught Brandon and Galen that ancestors inclined to secret passages were also fond of secret records.
If I lose, there might be nothing but time.
He had known from the moment he told Lenic Deralze that he would go through with his escape from Arthelion that the consequences would eventually catch up with him, but the reasons had outweighed the risks.
The problem was, by the time he had reached Charvann, the reasons, and the risks, had changed forever. Yet the action would still exact its price—as it had from Deralze.
o0o
Vahn stopped when one of the guards ran down the path.
“He’s just been inside,” the man gasped. “And now he’s gone.”
o0o
Osri would not have blamed Brandon for skepticism or even total disbelief. He knew he would have responded with the latter.
Brandon had thanked him and signed off before Osri could respond. That was fine. Osri didn’t need to know more; the conviction that he had acted right cleared his head like a week of sleep during better times. He touched his boswell again, this time activating the direct link Captain Ng had given him.
Again the response was immediate. (Lieutenant Omilov?)
Osri swiftly outlined everything Harkatsus had said.
From her end, Ng listened, her mood grim. Shutting out the ritual of systems check on Grozniy’s bridge, she said to Osri, (Who else have you contacted?)
(Only the Aerenarch.)
(Well done, Lieutenant. I’ll take it from here. Keep an eye on developments there and boz me if anything changes.)
Osri sighed in relief, running the water in the disposer to cover the sound. Anything could happen now—it was even possible that Srivashti, or Harkatsus, or whoever had someone planted in communications, would hear of this conversation shortly.
But it was out of his hands. He had done his duty.
No, he had done right.
At her end, Ng bozzed Nyberg. (The cabal is in motion.)
Admiral Nyberg’s voice came clear and cool and expressionless over the neural link. (Thank you, Margot. We’ll leave this dinner—the exigencies of duty—and I’ll return to the Cap to await events.)
Margot Ng tapped her boswell off and stretched in the command pod of the Grozniy as her XO, Perthes Krajno, continued to run her alpha crew through systems check.
She was pleased to see them back on duty although Lt. Rom-Sanchez, now a lieutenant commander, should by rights now be commanding a frigate, and the two ensigns, the irrepressible young Wychyrski and the beautiful Ammant—both now sub-lieutenants—had earned enough rank points to transfer anywhere.
The nature of the service was, you trained a young set of officers until they were perfect—at which time they’d go on to their own commands, leaving you with a new and younger set of pups. But they’d all confronted Ng as a group as soon after the orders went out for double watches to get Grozniy ready. They offered to turn down promotions that would take them from serving as her alpha crew, and she’d agreed, with one exception. Nefalani Warrigal’s unmatched mastery of the hyper-Tenno she had invented made her indispensable on Ares, especially if the Aerenarch won through and commanded recall of the Fleet.
He just might, she was beginning to believe. He just might, she thought again, remembering the Aerenarch at the Archon Srivashti’s party, effortlessly playing the complex game of Douloi social maneuvering.
Social and political maneuvering, she thought. At the time the Aerenarch had given no sign that he was aware of the intent beneath the verbal feints and parries, but she had since been convinced that he had indeed known very well. What had then seemed a teasing game of “Do you remember?” with his old tutor had provided a shield for Sebastian; she was not certain that the gnostor—distracted as he was by his Jupiter Project—was aware of how expertly he’d been warded from the political questions that, Ng was sure, had been one intent of the party.
It’s now up to you, Brandon vlith-Arkad. The time for feints and parries was past. Either the direct thrust—or the game would be forever lost.
She rubbed her tired eyes. Should she interfere? Could she interfere?
Instinct was definite: Yes, and yes. But it must be within the boundaries of her sworn oath, because the Navy could not, and should not, and must not take direct action in political affairs.
But she could, should, and must be ready once the leader emerged . . .
And so it begins, she thought. No, it had begun ten years ago, when the ambitions of the then-Aerenarch, Brandon’s eldest brother, Semion, had ruined a blameless family to cut short his youngest brother’s career. All for fear of Brandon’s capabilities.
Fears well founded, it would appear. The Navy had given up on Brandon, because that was the rules. But Brandon had not given up on the Navy, in spite of the rules.
If she was right and he was about to act at last, it was time for the Navy to repay his faithfulness.
She leaned forward and touched the tab that would enable her to address the entire ship.
“This is the captain speaking. I need volunteers for a mission.”
She paused, looking up into the startled gazes of the bridge crew. Commander Krajno turned in his pod, while Lieutenant Commander Rom-Sanchez jerked upward from his consultation with a tech underneath a console, uttering a muffled oath as his head banged into the open panel. She smiled at them, and then, still connected to every corner of the massive ship, continued:
“I’m afraid this mission will set back the exchequer for danger pay . . .”
o0o
Kestian Harkatsus noticed the young man with the heavy brows, large ears, and angular jaw only because his movements took him against the flow of the guests in the Masaud ballroom. Then the man disappeared around a corner and Kestian forgot him, reveling in the rapt attention of the growing circle of Douloi as he expatiated on Cooperation, Order, and Service.
“. . . and when we have once again established a competent government, aligned behind the Aerenarch, giving him the benefit of our many years of service and experience, then it will be time to strike back at the usurper.”
He caught the eye of the old Archonei of Cincinnatus midway back in the crowd. She gave him a thin smile.
It was going just as they had planned—in the absence of any Naval personnel, there was no potential center of opposition. Social opposition had already been defeated; no one of any importance danced now, in spite of Charidhe Masaud’s personal invitation to do so.
Kestian spotted Aristide Masaud standing on the fringes of his group and his smile broadened. Hesthar, it seemed, was right about that family; ambition always outweighed the caprices of personal loyalty. “Without a strong government,” he continued, “the Navy, burdened with the task of managing Ares and the refugee population, cannot effectively prosecute the war.”
Kestian paused as his listeners reassured one another in their agreement. He spotted Tau Srivashti on the other side of the room, but the Archon did not return his gaze. His face was abstracted as he bent toward the Kendrian heir, Fierin; unease chilled Kestian as he comprehended that neither Srivashti nor Fierin was speaking.
Has Tau received a privacy he hasn’t shared? Kestian knew that Srivashti was monitoring the actions of the others, especially Vannis and the Aerenarch. But then, so was he.
(Father?) Dandenus’s voice came through his boswell. Kestian nodded a deferential agreement to a temenarch busy repeating the gist of his words back to him and surreptitiously answered the privacy. (What is it?)
(There’s something wrong with the barge. It . . .)
(What?) Alarm burned in Kestian at the worry in his son’s voice. Since the boy had disgraced himself at the Ascha Gardens party he had forbidden him to attend any but the smallest social functions, a fact well known. Which had turned out to be a perfect cover—he’d dispatched Dandenus to watch Vannis and the Aerenarch from a distance.
(It blew up! No, it tipped over, and everybody was splashing around until a bunch of Marines came to pull them out. I can’t see the Aerenarch.)
(Get out of there. You mustn’t be seen. Don’t call me again until you are safe.)
Kestian blinked, to find the temenarch expecting a reply. He bowed. “You make your point very cogently,” he said, as Cincinnatus frowned in Srivashti’s direction in mute question.
Why hasn’t Srivashti alerted me? The alarm cooled into anger. I am head of the group. They’d chosen him! Why was Srivashti concealing information from him?
Someone else in the crowd, some heel-kissing Chival, had taken over and was hectoring the crowd, again, repeating everything Kestian said and looking about for approval.
A privacy: Srivashti! Under cover of the talker, Kestian accepted.
(Hesthar couldn’t hold Nyberg. She does not think he is on his way here.)
As the Archonei began answering the Chival in her high, crackling voice, Kestian excused himself from the group with a general deference, modulating it with a humorous lift to his brows to indicate a summons of nature, and made his way to the disposers. He nearly collided with the big-eared young man he’d noticed earlier.
Privacy assured, he signaled Srivashti. (What is going on?) He was glad of the emotional cloaking effect of boswell communication; he was not sure he could have concealed his anger or his anxiety otherwise.
(No doubt you already know of the problem at the lake.) Kestian sensed a worrisome implication in that statement, but events were moving too fast to give him the luxury of reflection. (I cannot reach Vannis. She is no longer wearing her boswell.)
Kestian clutched his head, trying to think as Srivashti continued.
(We must assume that Nyberg is returning to his office in the Cap to await developments. He will not act on his own.)
(And the Aerenarch?) asked Kestian.
(I do not know), replied Srivashti, then went silent. Questions streamed through Kestian’s mind. Why had Vannis removed her boswell? Had she been hurt in the barge disaster? Too bad to be so clumsy; Kestian dismissed her from his mind. (Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? We are ready here, and the Douloi are behind us. The Aerenarch can’t stop us now, and if Nyberg will not come to us, we must go to him and present him with the newly formed council.)
(You appear to have that well in hand. I will follow your lead. As for the Aerenarch—Felton has a knack for finding those who lose themselves.)
Somewhat mollified, Kestian left the disposer, in time to see the thin, lank-haired servitor in dull green livery depart through an unobtrusive door. Kestian had not even noticed Felton’s presence.
Shrugging, he rejoined the group, where Y’Talob was now holding forth, his earlier reluctance evidently erased by the apparently solid consensus now apparent among the guests. With satisfaction, Kestian noted the relative positions of the various players: the cabal were in dominant stances, deference apparent in the crowds circling them. Even Charidhe Masaud had been drawn in, as Y’Talob reiterated everything Kestian had said. They were all repeating his words, in total agreement, exactly as an obedient crowd ought to do.
His confidence returned, bringing with it his earlier euphoria. History was in the making, and he was a part of it. Y’Talob saw him, and deferred: now that they were in agreement, it was time to take the lead.
“Because we are all of like mind, my friends,” Kestian said, “let us discuss the formation of a Privy Council. I will lead off by nominating my esteemed neighbor, the Archon of Torigan, whose grasp of trade issues is scarcely equaled.”
Murmurs of polite compliance wreathed Y’Talob as he bowed profoundly, then spoke: “If I may serve the polity that has given me birth, and gifted my Family for eight generations, I can ask no higher. May I in turn nominate the excellent Aegios of Boyar, whose abilities with respect to economics are renowned?”
One by one they pulled each other in, applauded by an ever-growing circle. Even the absent Hesthar was nominated, in a superbly passionate speech by the elderly Cincinnatus: her age guaranteed preference. And last was Tau Srivashti, who closed the circle by proposing Kestian as their chief.
Kestian’s head rang with glory, and a flush of pride suffused his neck and cheeks as Charidhe Masaud bowed, smiling, and music began once more.
He missed the signal that returned the party to her governance, but she made her desires clear as she extended her hand to him to lead off in the Masque-Verdant Quadrille. A subtle movement of the nominees converted them into a circle apart; the rest of the guests withdrew slightly, indicating acceptance of the decision, and soon the ballroom was filled with people dancing.
At the end of the quadrille, the new Privy Council left the Masaud salon, departing for the Cap via transtube. The atmosphere in the pod was electric, but no one spoke. Kestian studied them all, committing each moment to memory: these people would guide the destiny of the Thousand Suns. Personal inclination had to be set aside. He must exert himself to bind them into a cohesive body the same way he had done with the crowd of Douloi elite.
Unless . . . Reminded of the barge disaster and the disappearance of the Aerenarch, Kestian sensed control slipping once again. He sought Srivashti’s face for reassurance, but the Archon gazed out at the glory of lights.
Where was the Aerenarch? What was he doing? What could he do?
Nothing, Kestian decided, nothing. Really, a pleasant young man, but clearly not suited to the demands of government. They would find him presently, and he’d have no choice but to fall in with the desires of his people.
Kestian sat back and considered how to win the last of the Arkads to supportive cooperation—and obedience.