CHAPTER 16

The base had a chapel. Lisinthir had not visited it during his first stay with the Pelted, but he knew about it, and when TrustBody released him from the hospital section it was his first errand. Entering it, he was surprised at how much it reminded him of the Eldritch ones he'd grown up with; for all its sleek metal alloys, the quiet, the closeness, even the smell of candle wax and incense, all of it seemed of one piece with the churches he'd known. And like those, there was a bank of candles, some lit, some nearly extinguished... some waiting. He found a wooden taper in a tray of sand and lit its tip from one of the strongest flames, then set it to the first candle. Raynor, he thought, whose decision had made their success possible. Danne, next... a Hinichi, that one, short and a wintry gray. He'd died with Raynor. Sarya, the engineer second, who had followed her chief into death: no doubt he was waiting to receive her with a hero's welcome. One by one, Lisinthir lit the candles, naming the Quicklance's dead. Then he began on the wounded, and since none of them had escaped without wounds, he needed the remaining pillars to do the work.

He touched one of the candles briefly, ignoring the sting of the hot wax. So bravely they'd fought, his Pelted comrades. He loved his Emperor and Queen, and thought there was value in some of the Chatcaavan beliefs. But that the Pelted were meek and unworthy... that one was completely wrong, and he was glad. Whatever gods those dead had served had surely gathered their souls to their breasts by now. Which left him.

Lisinthir faced the abbreviated altar, undressed save for a simple white cloth and the glowing sphere of light projected over it: small enough to be cupped with a single hand, and yet mesmerizing. He went to one knee, careful of his coat skirts.

What did he serve, anymore? And who would gather his soul when the time came? He recalled his whispered words to the Emperor, the morning after that fateful experiment that had changed the heart of a tyrant, and with it the course of history. I serve life, life, life.

"God and Lady, Living Air and Dying," he said, soft. "Be my company into battle, and my solace after."

There was no answer, but he was content with that. It was in silence that he found the freedom to move... for if the gods did not speak, it was so their children could find their own voices. And he... he was circumscribed, embraced on every side: Eldritch gods, and Chatcaavan, old and new.

Satisfied, he bowed his head once and went to the conference to which he had been summoned. The first act, he thought, was concluding. It was time to open the second.

The conference room was awash in Fleet's luminaries and the human Navy's, and no less than the head of Fleet, the White Admiral, had joined them—a human, Thomas Newell—as well the head of covert operations, the Night Admiral, a Hinichi who neither gave Lisinthir his name nor accepted his offer of a palm-touch. Lisinthir was more amused than offended; let the man keep his secrets. Lisinthir suspected they would become better acquainted soon enough.

The last of the group arrived, was introduced, sat down, and he found their attentions fixed on him. Some of them were better at hiding their curiosity than others; Lisinthir tried to imagine what they were seeing. One of the rare and reclusive Eldritch, and the only Ambassador ad'Chatcaavan Empire to ever accomplish anything productive for the Alliance. A man in a white coat edged in black, wearing black pearls in too-long hair, whose sartorial finery was as distant from Fleet's austere uniforms as could be managed without absurdity, who looked ready for a ball rather than a meeting this serious, saved only from that impression by the swords.

A man, Lisinthir thought, who knew things they didn't, and needed to. He recalled the reluctant words dragged from the dying technician on the Chatcaavan vessel... the dying Navy technician. The dragon hadn't intended to reveal anything, but he'd slipped too often, referring to them-the-inferiors when talking about other Chatcaava. That was all Lisinthir had needed to hear to put everything else together.

He remembered a map, and the light in the Emperor's eyes when discussing the size of the challenge involved in juggling all his many internal factions. One never rests, but one never grows bored. Thought of other conversations, confidences passed in lovers' embraces. The unity I could buy with a war against the Alliance would be a falsehood. Nor would it last long.

O my love, he thought, fighting anger... always anger, stronger than fear, hotter than blood. You have been betrayed, betrayed by the Navy you lifted to prominence. And now your enemies court a collapse of your Empire with their greed. I fear you were right: a war against us will destroy everything in the end. I pray you can bring the traitors to heel, that you will have the time to gather your power again. But if you can't....

But they were introducing him. "...just returned from the Empire with intelligence that may be pertinent to our operations. Ambassador?"

He stood and rested his palms on the table, considering them. Such faces, he thought. Good faces, for the most part. They would serve their people's need, and in that service, see to his own, see to his Emperor's, see to his Queen's. Would they be ready? Would their efforts be enough?

They were what he had to work with. Gods be with them all.

"Aletsen," he said without preamble. "There are signs that the Empire is poised to fragment, and therein lies our greatest peril... and our greatest opportunity."