13

Rogonin

sotto voce

whispered, in an undertone

To Brennen, even the outbuildings of the Rogonin estate looked magnificent: fronted with white marble, their corners and doorposts carved with fruiting vines. The central residence was a monstrosity, rising three stories to a blackened metal roof and spreading long wings in each direction. As Electoral Ministers of Trade, the Rogonins had amassed an estate that would support some Federate space colonies.

It couldn’t compare, though, with the Angelo fortune. Firebird had been raised with wealth that staggered him, in a palace larger and grander than this villa . . . almost as large as the Sentinel College, filled with more treasures than Tallis’s Museum of Culture. Carradee had insisted, as they walked through the portrait gallery after an electoral meeting, that all Netaians owned that palace and its contents, just as they all took vicarious pride in Crown activities.

“All?” he’d asked cautiously.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she repeated firmly, “All.”

He eyed Rogonin’s hedges for possible assailants. He came with two guards, one a tall woman in Tallan ash gray and the other a young Sentinel, but he led up the curving approach himself. A support craft hovered silently over the riverfront grounds.

An execution yesterday had done little to improve his mental state. One Federate ensign, kidnapping one Netaian girl, might undo all the rapport Danton had worked to build these two weeks. As the “strong second,” to appease an outraged high-common class, Brennen had been obliged to access the soldier, confirm his guilt, escort him into a public square, and witness his death. Brennen hadn’t slept that night. Trained and experienced though he was, his nerves insisted that to execute in battle or self-defense was one thing, in cold blood another.

Vultor Korda, furthermore, had vanished from Citangelo. Brennen had run a complete data search and even checked public places for flickers of epsilon energy, but as he feared, both proved fruitless.

Four stairs rose to Rogonin’s carved, ebony-framed door. He took them quickly and knocked. A girl’s face appeared on a tri-D panel that had been invisible on the white background. “Yes?” she asked.

“I wish to speak with His Grace the Duke, miss.”

“He is out, Your Excellency. Didn’t the gate man tell you?”

Even in holo he could see she was lying, just as Rogonin lied when he claimed to be too ill to return to the occupation base for questioning. “This is government business, miss. Please ask His Grace to come to the door.”

The image vanished. Behind Brennen, his guards watched the grounds. After a moment he extended a probe inside the door. He recalled the stale, musky savor of Rogonin’s presence from his brief scan interview. When he felt it approach, he steadied himself for a struggle.

The screen lit again, this time with Rogonin’s jowly face. “Your Excellency.” The eyes widened, an attempt at surprised innocence. “How may I help you?”

“I must speak with you in person, sir, regarding a matter that concerns you closely.”

“Excellency, that is out of the question. I am in my chamber. I do not feel well.”

Brennen angled his hand and focused epsilon energy into the door’s opening circuits. As it slid aside, he shifted his focus and caught Rogonin in command.

High ceilings rose above the unmoving nobleman, and ornate white-upholstered furniture stood along the broad entry hall. Two servants flanked the duke, staring in alarm.

“Take us where we can be alone, please, Your Grace,” Brennen said.

His movement made awkward by the compulsion of voice-command, Rogonin shuffled toward a door on the hall’s left. At Brennen’s nod, the Tallan guard swept the room with her stare and then came to attention in the doorway.

Antique weapons hung on the study’s walls over indigo leather furniture. Only one exit, only one window. Secure enough. Brennen waved Rogonin to a deep armchair and dropped his hand.

The duke hung back, clutching the wings of his chair. “Sir, this is the House of Claighbro and you have no right to force entry. I shall speak plainly with the governor about this intrusion.”

“Governor Danton has issued me a warrant. Evidence has been given us that suggests this house conceals a store of weapons.”

The duke glanced at several swords that hung on his study’s walls “If this is a problem,” he said sarcastically.

“Tactical weapons,” Brennen interrupted. “Please sit down, sir. My greatest desire at the moment is to see you cleared from suspicion, but I can do so only by searching either the grounds or your memory. Mind-access will take less of your time and demand fewer of your resources.”

Rogonin remained standing.

Brennen motioned his Thyrian guard forward. Rogonin’s fury exploded through Brennen’s static shields. He countered by sending a calming frequency. “He won’t harm you, and we have no desire for unpleasantness. Please.”

Rogonin opened his mouth and took a deep breath. He meant to shout. Brennen caught him again in command. “Sit down,” he directed. The duke complied. “Please don’t force me to have you restrained in your own house, sir. I only want to clear you.”

He let the command slip a little. Rogonin rose halfway out of the chair before Brennen could reestablish control.

He exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. You leave me no choice.” He nodded to the Sentinel guard. Carefully balancing his energy with the other’s, he relinquished control. The moment transfer was accomplished, Brennen turned inward for his carrier, modulated it, and thrust it at Rogonin.

The duke’s pain and rage sizzled, but Brennen held the carrier steady, probing quickly and hard for a flaw in the natural defenses of the nobleman’s alpha matrix.

Rogonin had no idea how to resist. Brennen breached him in a second. His point of awareness plunged into heavy, distasteful pressure: strange voices, alien images, Rogonin’s struggle to reassert his will, and a hatred as bitter as clemis root.

“We spoke of weapons,” Brennen said softly.

Vision cleared. He seemed to stand in a dim room. Crates lined two walls, oblong cases of energy rifles and smaller, blocky metal boxes that might hide anything from handguns to photo-enhanced warheads. Filed with the image was its location below the villa’s main floor. The interrogation lasted only a few seconds.

Brennen opened his eyes. Rogonin sprawled in the chair, almost convulsed in useless physical resistance. Brennen signaled his aide to let him go.

“Very well, sir,” he said as the duke composed himself. He hated to arrest the man, which would scandalize the nobility, but inaction could mean violence. “I’m afraid you must come with us to the governor’s office, to answer additional questions.”

“You have no authority,” the nobleman fumed. “I’ll see you—”

Brennen angled a hand but did not command.

Rogonin shut his mouth and stood up. The guards stepped to his side. The Tallan woman caught one of his wrists in a restraint, touched his shoulder, and marched him out.

Unhappily, Brennen followed.

Three data desks, two secure interlinks, and a full-time recording apparatus had turned Princess Phoena Angelo’s second parlor, in the palace’s private wing, into the headquarters for a covert resistance operation. Soon it might threaten the Federacy, with or without Carradee’s support. Burly House Guards watched her door in case the Federates suddenly altered their hands-off policy. Phoena might be gravely inconvenienced if they searched these rooms.

Phoena and her mother had often talked privately about the need for strong leadership, and of Carradee’s reluctance. Those talks had led Phoena to hope that Siwann meant to quietly dispose of Carradee before stepping down from the throne.

Now Phoena must lead secretly, without recognition. But only for Netaia and its rightful rulers, she reflected, smiling with dignity. Deadly endeavors, she believed, were justified to focus power where it could be wielded. All her life Phoena had served that ideal—more sincerely, she felt, than any other member of her family. It grieved her to see Carradee display weakness . . .

Well. Her inconvenient older sister Lintess had met an untimely end. Her father Irion, who had privately confronted her about Lintess’s death, had been thrown from a startled hunting stallion.

Now—nearly midnight, two days after Muirnen Rogonin’s arrest—a message light pulsed over Phoena’s secure cross-town link screen. She glanced around the parlor before seating herself. She still lacked the equipment for disciplining her own people and any spies they caught: She wanted more monitoring devices, certain pharmaceuticals . . . and for emergencies, a restraint table.

She touched a key. Vultor Korda’s pasty face appeared on the CT screen. “There you are,” he said. “I got your roster. Did you find a ship?”

“Of course.” She glanced over her shoulder. Earlier, she’d held a meeting of heirs. The suite had emptied, except for her private staff. One burly House Guard stood just inside her richly carved door. “Are you ready?” she demanded.

Korda nodded. “The diplomatic codes were hardest to get. You owe me for that one.”

She shrugged. “You’re sure we can get Rogonin out of lockup?”

“No trouble,” he insisted. “His guards weren’t any problem before.” Yesterday, Korda had escorted her to Muirnen Rogonin’s prison cell, at a midcity police facility occupied by the Federates. At three guard stations, she’d been ignored as if she wore a cloak of invisibility. Korda had used his powers to make the Feds look right past her. “You sure he’s mad enough to cooperate?” Korda demanded.

“Oh yes.” She’d only told Rogonin, “I’ve found a way to strike back.” With his grounds violated, their weapons seized, and his brain made a Sentinel’s picking grounds, Rogonin would’ve volunteered for almost any mission to embarrass the Federacy.

“False transponder for the ship?” she demanded.

Korda nodded again. “Ready to install.”

“Diplomatic credentials?”

“We’ll be as welcome on Tallis as Danton himself. With the transmission lag, by the time Tallis can double-check with Danton, we’ll have struck. Now, you promised—”

Phoena stretched her long legs and signaled her personal girl to bring a cool drink. “Yes, I promise. If Tallis grabs you, I’ll have you freed within weeks, or less.” Unless that endangered her cause, of course. Korda was a unique and valuable servant, but to save her home world, she would sacrifice him. “Enough money,” she explained, “can buy almost anyone’s loyalty for ten minutes . . . or ten years. Isn’t that right?” she asked, loading her voice with sarcasm.

The Thyrian traitor touched his forehead and made a mocking half bow.

During three dull weeks, Firebird had rarely seen a smile wrinkle Ellet Kinsman’s clear oval face. Gradually, Ellet let their conversations—obviously manipulated to familiarize Firebird with the Federacy—touch on her own people.

Firebird leaned against the wall nearest her anteroom window, careful to avoid the security grid, simultaneously watching Ellet on the lounger and the free, outside world. Tiny clouds mottled the afternoon sky.

“What’s the main difference between a Sentinel and a Master Sentinel, then?” she asked, continuing a piecemeal inquiry. “Is it a matter of degree, or a different set of skills?”

“Both.” Ellet touched her four-rayed star without relaxing her tutorial stance. “The line of eligibility isn’t drawn at any arbitrary point on the Ehretan Scale. Some ordinary potentials also influence trainability. Focus, for example, is a function of any mind’s power to concentrate. Other potentials are solely our own. I could levitate a fairly massive object if I could rest afterward. General Caldwell could control his own rate of fall, a more subtle and difficult skill.”

A passenger shuttle swooped past Firebird’s window. She ached to be outdoors. “Is it a physical center in the brain, then? A—Ellet, this is an awkward question. I was taught that your people are genetically altered. Who created the epsilon abilities? And why? Didn’t they know, didn’t they guess, there could be trouble?” A whole world, depopulated.

“There is a physical region, involving several brain structures.” Ellet’s brows came together over her shapely but prominent nose. “As for our origins and history, you may read about those in the MaxSec library.”

“I have,” Firebird admitted, “but I think those chapters were written by non-Sentinels. I’ve studied some science. I’m amazed that the . . . chromosomal engineers achieved so much.”

“And so,” Ellet said stiffly, “you wonder if your own scientists might duplicate the feat?”

“Ours only work on plants and animals. Human research is considered immoral.”

“That also was true on Ehret.” Ellet’s voice dropped, and she looked away. “We believe we were exiled for our ancestors’ disobedience in creating those gifts. But only the few, the obedient survived to reenter galactic society.” She lifted her head. “There are reasons beyond ourselves.”

Ellet’s superior mannerisms made Brennen’s kindness shine by comparison. Firebird folded her arms across her chest. “I’m only curious.”

“You are too curious. Every people has racial secrets. You must learn to respect them.”

“I do,” Firebird insisted. “But tell me about those reasons beyond yourselves. Who do you serve . . . above the Federacy?” Ellet’s absolute emotional control had started to irritate Firebird. It made Ellet aloof, untouchable—whereas Brennen’s gave him a comfortable steadiness.

“We serve the Eternal Speaker, who created space and time.”

Firebird straightened, bemused. These people didn’t bother with small matters like Strength and Valor. “Space and time?” she echoed.

“Yes.”

“Then this . . . Speaker would have to exist outside of both.”

“Exactly.”

Firebird frowned, unable to imagine so transcendent a being. Something Brennen had said sprang into her mind. You intended to die for something you don’t love? She eyed Ellet. “Do you love that Speaker, Ellet?”

The Sentinel raised an eyebrow. “You are overstepping.”

Yes, but it seemed relevant. “Why are you so reluctant to display any feeling, Ellet?”

Ellet laughed, a puff of breath and no more. “Consider it yourself. Among telepaths, broadcasting emotion is boorish—performing private functions in public. We restrain ourselves because some of our colleagues can send well but shield poorly.”

Evidently Ellet would rather discuss her people than her god. “Why?”

“Talents vary.”

“Range, then. How far away can you sense a person’s emotion or send the carrier wave?”

“That too varies with Ehretan Scale. There are exceptions under unusual circumstances, but generally, the width of a large room is the range of a solid epsilon carrier.”

 . . . Just as Brennen probed her across Twinnich’s war room. The experience had been an infuriating public humiliation, but actually, the sensation itself wasn’t as unpleasant as Korda had led her to believe—nor were the long personal sessions.

Her thoughts slipped out in words. “Between a starbred man and woman, are there . . . experiences others don’t have?”

“Yes.” Ellet drew up tall on the lounger and delivered the word like a slap.

Though startled by her vehemence, Firebird pressed, “Such as—”

“The subject is not your concern.” Ellet flushed deeply. “I think I’ve talked long enough. I wish to listen to you now. Play your clairsa.”

Well. She’d touched a nerve at last. Firebird knelt to pick up the narrow instrument, took a stool, and sat down.

The sonata she chose came mechanically at first because it took her a minute to erase Brennen’s face from her mind, but as the composition moved from minor to modal, its chords swept her back toward the Netaian frame of reference. Her links with her past, with her deep sense of self, had weakened as she studied the Federacy. Netaian music made her strong again.

Ellet broke into her reverie. “I must go.”

“Come soon,” Firebird said absently. Ellet locked the massive door behind her. Firebird finished the sonata, then softly plucked out an old ballad, humming as the strings rang brightly. It was a servitor song, a plea for freedom.

Maybe this powerless sense of imprisonment was how servitors and low-commoners felt about their lives. She could relate to the lyrics in a wholly new way.

You intended to die for something you don’t love? The words echoed in her memory.

Reconsider your deities.

There’s a higher call on your life now.

We serve the Eternal Speaker, who created space and time.

Firebird held the silent clairsa against her chest. Compared with the Powers she barely even understood, that concept seemed unbearably grandiose. Could any mere human grasp it?

She tried for half a minute, shrugged, then replaced her hands on her clairsa strings and played an old love song.

Several days later, Ellet brought unsettling news. Preparatory to the Assembly elections, Netaia’s reorganized Electorate had sent an embassy to the Regional council. They were petitioning for a gesture of cooperation.

“What are they asking for?” Firebird asked uneasily. She and Ellet sat on opposite ends of the green lounger.

“You tell me.”

Guessing was no challenge. “They want to take me back.”

“Correct. To quote, ‘The surrender of First Major Lady Firebird Angelo, reportedly captured at the battle of Veroh.’”

Firebird considered. On Netaia, now officially governed by the Federacy, she might be legally safe . . . but it would take more than Federate law to change the heirs’ deeply held convictions, and only one recalcitrant (or faithful) heir to kill her. “I suppose they’re still waiting for news of my suicide. They’ll never forgive me for surviving to be interrogated, and it wasn’t my fault.”

Ellet gave her a sharp glance, as intent as any of Brennen’s.

“Not my fault,” Firebird repeated. She stared through the wall, seeing Rendy Gellison before he died in his groundcar, killed by falling debris. Accidental death—maybe. “I don’t want to go back,” she admitted. “I’ve gotten used to the idea of living.”

Ellet rose. “I’ll convey your wishes to the council. They’ll be considered along with the Netaians’ petition.”

“Why is the Federacy negotiating with them at all?”

Ellet raised an eyebrow. “Politics. Some highly placed people seem to think Netaia’s resources will fall into Federate control if its rulers are treated . . . delicately.”

“That’s greedy,” Firebird murmured. “If the Federacy wants to impress the Netaian people, it should show honor and patience and strength.”

“Some forces in the Whorl would like to see the Federacy show weakness. They have agents on Tallis. SO exposes their spies when we find them.”

“That sounds like an easy job . . . for you people.”

Ellet hesitated, looking as if she wanted to speak, then strode out. Later that evening, she returned with a startling escort: His Grace Muirnen Rogonin of Claighbro, and—incredibly—Vultor Korda, who looked pasty-faced in tight black shipboards. As the men preceded Ellet into the brown permastone anteroom, Firebird rose from her lounger, where she’d sat comfortably curled around her clairsa. Two burly Tallan guards followed Ellet. Firebird came to attention, glad she hadn’t yet undressed for bed. Silently she berated Ellet. You could’ve warned me! Brennen would’ve shown that courtesy.

“Gentlemen.” She tried to sound cordial. “Come in, sit down.”

She motioned them toward the lounger. One guard came to attention beside her door, the other at the room’s opposite corner. It was good to see Tallis take “protective custody” seriously.

Rogonin settled his bulk on the lounger, hands on the knees of his black sateen breeches. Korda joined him. Ellet walked behind them to lean on the windowbar.

Rogonin’s soft green eyes absorbed every detail of the bare little anteroom and rested finally on Firebird, who stood near the door, feet apart and hands clenched at her sides. “Suns, Firebird, this is no place for a lady of your house. Aren’t you ready to go back?”

Rogonin had left the title off her name, which he never would’ve done back at home. Clearly, she was in disgrace among her own class. She sent Ellet a questioning glance.

“The council,” Ellet informed her, “has tabled the Netaian request until your period of temporary asylum ends, in six weeks.”

Firebird nodded.

“But they did allow us to speak with you personally,” insisted Rogonin, “and to convey their assurance that if you choose to return with us, they will guarantee you safe passage to Netaia.”

“I see.” Firebird envisioned a return on their terms. She would step off a Federate ship, leaving behind a Federate guard who’d seen her safely home. The redjackets would wait below.

Beyond her glasteel window, streams of cars flowed along wide avenues to an arc of low hills, then climbed to the passes and vanished. A little higher, wing lights blinked on atmospheric craft. Higher still, the nearest stars looked brighter, noticeably colored, and shifted to new positions.

“No, Rogonin,” she said quietly. “I’ve chosen to stay.”

“Then you must settle matters here,” he answered. “Yourself.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“Your electoral colleagues sent a last gift. It was taken away.” He glared at one big Tallan guard.

“What was it?” she demanded. She probably knew.

Ellet confirmed her guess. “Dagger. Very ornate. Poisoned,” Ellet added.

“A quick one,” rumbled Rogonin. “In the hope you retain some sense of honor.”

Korda leaned forward. In the presence of Ellet, who had completed training Korda only began, she doubted he would try any Ehretan tricks on the guards, but she watched him closely.

“I have a message from your sister.” Korda’s strident voice became singsong. “Your people are shamed. The treachery you have dealt us will not be undone in many lifetimes. You would be wise to return and end the bitterness with which people speak your name.”

He didn’t say which sister sent the message, but the words, calculated to sting a proud wastling soul, struck home. Where was her Valor, her Fidelity? She wavered. Could she go back?

As she glanced aside, she saw Ellet’s eyes widen, focused on Korda. The Sentinel opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it in a tight line.

What was this?

Firebird cleared her throat. “I want to go back,” she said firmly, “but I don’t feel this is the time. Thank you for calling on me, though.”

“I think you’re mistaken.” Korda leaned forward, hands almost touching his feet.

Firebird tensed. That was an odd gesture. She shook her head and stepped backward. “It’s not time,” she repeated.

The quick probing of his fingers inside his boot top put her on full alert. It was the old game of stick tag, only this time, it was no game.

Ellet’s jaw twitched. She blurted, “He’s got a weapon!”

Korda whipped out a tiny rod. Firebird feinted left to draw his fire, then threw herself hard to the right.

Korda’s first shot grazed her left shoulder. As she crouched to dodge again, she recognized the Vargan stinger, no longer than a stylus, but deadly if one of its energy bolts struck a vital area. Its little power cell could deliver four more shots.

But Korda toppled, stunned by a guard’s shock pistol. Rogonin struggled to his feet. “How dare you?” he cried. “That man has diplomatic immunity.”

“He just lost it.” Ellet gripped her empty holster. “Or so I hope. Get up. I’ll take you back to your quarters.”

Rogonin thrust out a finger. “Your immunity is just as temporary, Firebird. Netaia will have you back, if the Federacy wants peace with us. No invader can hold our world for long.”

One guard carried Korda, whose breath came in wheezes. Rogonin followed, and then the other guard.

“Were you hit?” Ellet asked.

Firebird fingered the scorched fabric. “Just grazed,” she said, shaking her head. As blood rushed to the burn, it started to sting.

“I’ll send a med.” Frowning, Ellet strode out.

Firebird drooped on the lounger. Ellet! her mind cried. Ellet was her friend, her teacher!

But plainly, Ellet had realized—even before Firebird—that Korda somehow brought a weapon past MaxSec scanners. And Ellet hesitated to speak for several seconds, a lapse that could’ve proved deadly.

Why?