“Not one that you’ll know, no.”
Trillian spent a moment putting on a show of fuming. Then she slowly smiled.
“You realize that will put you on the planet behind Alaric Wolf’s forces,” she said.
Vedet put his hands on his hips and looked briefly like a military statue of himself. “I know nothing of the kind. Alaric Wolf has not shown any indication of leaving.”
“If that’s what you think, you’re behind the news. You might want to check your intelligence more frequently.”
“Really?”
“I assume you’ve developed sources within the Wolf camp.”
Vedet frowned, apparently trying to take his measure of Trillian. “Why should I bother developing sources in my ally’s camp?”
Trillian turned her back to him, walking toward the bookcase behind her, pretending to look at the titles some Helm bureaucrat had left behind. Her steps were slow and casual. “You’re right,” she said briskly. “You shouldn’t. You definitely shouldn’t find out if they have heard any interesting chatter around camp.” She turned back toward him, snapping her heels together as she did so. “Thank you for your time.”
She left feeling quite content.
* * *
Later that night in her quarters, Trillian had Klaus crack open a bottle of wine and pour a couple of glasses. If everything went as planned, she would never go back to her dingy office again, and in a week it would be used by some greasy Helmdown bookie.
Her quarters were plain, without so much as a single picture on the wall, but they were orderly since she had barely used them. She sat with Klaus by a metal table with a white tile top. The wine, which Klaus had rooted out of a Helmdown wine cellar at some point in the past two weeks, was probably more expensive than all the furniture in her living space combined.
“To mistrust,” she said, “and may I never forget its value again.”
“Amen,” Klaus said, and they clinked glasses.
The wine was excellent, full and fruity, with a nice hint of black currant. She took a sip small enough that a single glass could last a full week if she kept herself under control.
They talked. They didn’t talk business, or politics, or war. They talked about wine, and holovids, and the type of things that people talk about when they’re living normal lives. It was enjoyable, made even more so because Trillian knew exactly what was going on in the Lyran and Clan Wolf camps, and it was what she wanted to happen.
It didn’t take long. She and Klaus had about an hour before both of their comms beeped with message after message after message. They all had different words, but they said the same thing.
All three armies would be set to leave Helm in two days.
21
Marik Palace
New Edinburgh, Stewart
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
22 May 3138
The world had changed. That much was clear. Anson was surrounded by familiar people, with all the familiar trappings he had brought with him to Stewart. He’d wanted people, including himself, to get to work right away without wasting time on making the place feel like theirs. So it all should have been the same. But it wasn’t.
He didn’t spend a lot of time trying to decide how it was different. Maybe the air was dirtier, maybe the cleaning staff had been less than diligent, or maybe his eyes were just failing. It didn’t matter. Things looked different, but he could adjust. He could function.
The one place where he still didn’t feel comfortable was his office. Every time he sat behind the massive gray desk, he could feel inertia in the air. It only made sense—he’d spent almost all of one week sitting there doing nothing, and that atmosphere did not vanish easily. He felt as if he aged twenty years the minute he set foot in that room. So he had spent a lot of time wandering the palace, looking for a room that suited him better.
He knew where not to go. His staff had their section, the serving staff had their section, and the large group of people who were continuously busy on tasks Anson did not know or care about had their section. He didn’t want to be too near any of these people, mainly because he was not in a mood to be easily found.
So he traveled back corridors and dim hallways. There were entire sections of the palace that had been forgotten, parts that had been hastily built decades ago when Stewart had been an important planet in the Free Worlds League and the demands of the nation required more staff, more space. That space had stopped being used when the League crumbled and the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth constricted into a nation that didn’t need a seemingly infinite bureaucracy. Some of these rooms were crammed behind, between and beneath existing structures, and they were usually simple spaces, plaster walls and gray carpet in uniformly rectangular rooms. Most of them didn’t have windows.
They were quiet, though. Anson was certain his security detail would have a fit if they knew he was wandering around in unmonitored areas. They were under firm instructions to leave him the hell alone when he was in the palace, and they only agreed to his demands because they could post guards in every known corridor. But they apparently didn’t know about these hallways, or didn’t think anyone, particularly Anson, would bother with these areas. But here he was, the captain-general of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth, walking through dim passages without a guard in sight. It made him love this part of the palace.
Most of the rooms weren’t usable, though. They had been stripped of furniture, and Anson couldn’t even be sure that electricity was still flowing to them. He didn’t envy the drones who had been stuck down here when these rooms had been in use.
Even though the rooms were empty and generally unpleasant, the walks did Anson good. He hadn’t liked what Daggert had come up with at first—his plan for victory did not fulfill any definition of the word Anson was willing to acknowledge. But the time he spent alone gave him time to reconsider. That didn’t mean he liked the plan, but at least he had started to understand what the hell Daggert had been talking about when he first outlined it.
The second day he walked through the abandoned hallways, Anson found something besides empty offices. The palace had not only hosted many more bureaucrats in the past; it also provided space for many diplomatic visitors. There were still plenty of empty rooms in the main section of the palace, waiting for foreign dignitaries, but Anson found a group of rooms in one section of the basement that had been housing for second-tier diplomatic guests. They were close enough to the surface that a line of windows near the ceiling let in some natural light, and there was one room in particular that caught Anson’s fancy. It had obviously been designed with Draconis Combine fashions in mind, possibly to make emissaries from that nation feel comfortable. It had a low table and several long benches around the walls covered with silk pillows. The benches didn’t interest Anson much, but the table was the perfect height. With a few pillows thrown on top of it, it made a perfect ottoman for an armchair that he dragged in from a nearby room. With a comfortable place to sit, warm, even light from paper lanterns and holoart on the walls showing craggy mountains and high, narrow waterfalls, Anson was comfortable.
It was with great regret that he told key members of his staff about his new hideaway, but he knew that simply disappearing for long stretches of time was not an option. Krist and a few other senior staff members knew where to find him, which meant his daily briefings continued.
Cole Daggert, for one, barely seemed to notice the new surroundings. He was there now; he had just walked into Anson’s new room, standing stiff and firm, looking Anson directly in the face, just like he did in any other room. Anson briefly wondered if Daggert was ever comfortable anywhere.
Maybe he would have been comfortable if I had let him resign, he thought, and laughed harshly to himself.
“What do you want?” he said, with more spite than he felt. He had been feeling oddly calm since his outburst of two days ago, but he had an established pattern of how he communicated with his staff and he didn’t have the energy to change it.
“There is a message from Lester Cameron-Jones I thought you’d be interested in.”
Anson rolled his eyes. He couldn’t think of anything the old man of the Regulan Fiefs would have to say that he’d find interesting. “All right, go ahead.”
“In the interest of countering other powers that are gathering in the area, he has a proposal for you—he thinks it might be wise for you to make him your heir.”
Anson took his feet off the table and leaned forward. “He thinks what?”
“That he should be your heir.”
Anson felt a rumble deep in his chest. He didn’t have to force it—it came out fast and smooth, all on its own. But he was surprised when he opened his mouth and heard a laugh, not a roar.
He laughed. For a solid minute he laughed. Daggert stood, spine straight, while Anson Marik doubled over in laughter. When Anson composed himself enough to look at his tactical adviser, he thought he saw a slight smile playing on the corner of his lips.
“Lester wants to be my heir, does he? Good hell, he’s finally gone delusional. Heir to what? What does he think I’ll be leaving behind me when I’m gone?”
Daggert looked at his noteputer. “He’s not specific about that,” he said dryly.
“All right, send him a reply. Tell him no, for two reasons. First, there’s a damn good chance I’m not going to be leaving much behind me when I go. Second, whatever I have to pass on sure as hell is not going to him. And that’s all.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon is ready to talk. Where would you like to meet him?”
“That’s today?”
“Yes, my lord. We agreed it should happen as soon as possible.”
Anson stood. Suddenly, the room seemed much less inviting and comfortable. He took a few steps, then stopped in front of a holoimage of a mountain peak poking through a thick layer of clouds. The image was sharp and crisp, and Anson could almost feel the cold winds that carved the stone streaming out of the picture. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t summon the words for what he wanted to say, so he closed it.
“Sir?” Daggert said. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” He turned to Daggert and pulled himself to his full height, arms folded across his chest. “Nothing at all.”
“Should I bring him here?”
“Yes. That will be fine. Go get him.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Daggert bowed quickly and walked out of the room.
Anson remained standing for a while after he left. He knew what he wanted to do with Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon. He wanted to yell, to put the fear of God and Marik into him. He’d make him fight with everything he had because he’d be scared of what Anson would do if he didn’t. That was the way Anson worked. That was what he was comfortable doing.
But that wasn’t going to work anymore. He and Daggert had talked, they had agreed on a plan, and if it was going to work he had to operate in a new way. Whether he felt like learning new tricks or not.
He had a few more minutes before Cameran-Witherspoon arrived. He tried to remember how Daggert had explained it. He tried to believe that it made sense, and that it would be worth the effort.
* * *
Daggert led Ian Cameran-Witherspoon through the disused corridors of the Marik palace. If he was curious about the path they were following, he gave no indication. Cameran-Witherspoon was tall and matched Daggert’s stride with ease as they approached Anson’s new retreat.
Daggert wondered if Anson would still be standing in the same spot where he had left him. He found himself looking repeatedly at Cameran-Witherspoon as they approached Anson’s room, trying to gauge his mood. He hoped the force commander would be patient with Anson, as he was not sure how well Anson would be able to make the intended point—or if he would just give up and fall back into old habits.
He could feel his heart beating as he opened the door to Anson’s room. He probably shouldn’t be nervous—in one sense, this was a meeting mostly for morale, a conversation that would be longer on rhetoric than on specifics.
In another sense, though, this meeting carried perhaps their only hope of ultimate success.
Anson was still on his feet, but he was no longer staring at the picture on the wall. He was instead near one of the high windows, the bottom of which was at the level of his chin. He was looking up and out the window, likely seeing nothing more than the black exterior walls of the palace. But he was staring at it like it was a great work of art.
Though, come to think of it, Daggert could never remember Anson Marik ever showing any interest in art.
“Captain-General Marik,” Daggert said. “Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon is here.”
Anson turned. His face was flushed, his brow creased, the way he generally looked when he was preparing to deliver a shout that would tear his lungs in half. He was breathing heavily, practically panting, like he had just climbed a thousand stairs.
“Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon,” he said. “Who do you serve?”
Cameran-Witherspoon looked calm but curious, his blond curls looking tousled as always. He looked quickly at Daggert with a raised eyebrow. Daggert tilted his head toward Anson, indicating that Cameran-Witherspoon should just answer the question.
“I serve you, Captain-General,” Cameran-Witherspoon said.
“No, you don’t,” Anson said.
Cameran-Witherspoon looked at Daggert again, then at Anson. “Are you questioning my loyalty?” he said. Daggert noted the lack of an honorific—Cameran-Witherspoon was not one to sweet-talk his way through a conflict.
“No,” Anson said. “I’m telling you if you think you’re loyal to me, you’re wrong. You shouldn’t be.”
“Then who should I be loyal to?”
“You command the Silver Hawk Irregulars. You’re supposed to defend the Silver Hawk Coalition. You’re loyal to them, first and foremost.”
Cameran-Witherspoon’s mouth became a diagonal line. “Then what the hell am I doing on Stewart?”
Anson’s face reddened, he took a deep breath—then he smiled. “Right. Good point. You’re here because the biggest threat to the Silver Hawk people is coming here. It doesn’t matter if this was never a Silver Hawk planet. You want to defend them, and the fight is here. That’s what you’re doing here.”
Cameran-Witherspoon didn’t respond, and there was an uncomfortable silence. Anson looked at Cameran-Witherspoon, Daggert looked at Anson, and Cameran-Witherspoon kept looking back and forth between the two of them, apparently trying to figure out what he was doing there.
Finally he spoke. “What am I doing here?”
“You’re getting your priorities straight,” Anson said. “You serve the people of the Silver Hawk Coalition first. Them before anyone. You need to understand that.”
“Fine. I understand it.”
Anson frowned and rubbed his forehead. “I’m not sure that you do.”
“What exactly do you want from me?” Cameran-Witherspoon said. “Bring in someone from one of the Silver Hawk planets and I’ll bow down in front of them if you’d like. Would that help?”
“Don’t screw around with me!” Anson barked.
“I’m just not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”
“How much more plain can I make it?” Anson started to take a step forward, then stopped, legs and hands both trembling. “Your first duty is to your people. Your people. Not me. Not any other politician. Your goddamned people.”
“All right, fine,” Cameran-Witherspoon said. “I serve the people. So if some of my people fall to the Elsies, or the Wolves, does that mean I’m Lyran? Or a Clanner?”
This time Anson couldn’t stop himself from stepping forward, two quick strides. But he managed to stop short of bowling into the force commander. “Damn it, Cameran-Witherspoon, are you listening to what I’m saying, or are you just dumb? Your people. You serve your people. Do you think it’s best for
your people to become Lyrans? Or, God help them, Clanners?”
“No.”
“Then don’t become a thrice-damned Clanner! You are a Silver Hawk. Be a Silver Hawk!”
Daggert looked at Cameran-Witherspoon. It didn’t appear that he understood what was going on any better, but he had decided not to fight it anymore. “Yes, my lord. I will.”
“That’s it, then. We’re done.” Anson stepped back and returned his gaze to the window.
Cameran-Witherspoon walked out quickly, and Daggert scurried to keep up with him. It wouldn’t do to have him lost in these corridors.
“What the hell was that?” Cameran-Witherspoon said, and Daggert wasn’t sure if the force commander was talking to him or himself. “What in the hell was that about?”
“It was something the captain-general felt needed to be said,” Daggert replied.
“Why? Is he dying or something?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“The defense of the realm.”
“Crap, you two must be sniffing the same fumes. Neither of you is making much sense. Look, I’m going to do what I do. The Lyrans and the Wolves are going to come here, and I’m going to try to kick their asses. I don’t know what Anson expects me to do.”
“Then think it over,” Daggert said. “Maybe you’ll come up with something.”
Cameran-Witherspoon rolled his eyes. “Right. Listen, let’s get you two a mountain to sit on and you can be as oracular as you please. Until then, though, as long as you’re here around us mortals, it would be nice if you could make some sense.”
“Sorry to let you down.”
“Now, that I understand,” Cameran-Witherspoon said.
Daggert was worried the meeting, brief as it was, had been a total loss. But then Cameran-Witherspoon spoke again and showed he was already turning some of the meeting over in his mind.
“And another thing,” he said. “What was all that ‘serve the people’ bullshit? Since when has Anson Marik put the people at the top of anything? Don’t get me wrong, I love the Silver Hawk Irregulars, and I’ll forever be in his debt for giving them to me, but I don’t think you’ll ever find anyone who says that Anson’s top priority is anything besides himself. Since when is he a man of the people?”
The Last Charge Page 20