Nik laughed. “That’s right, rub it in.” He could afford to concede that success to Derith; they were in this together.
On the screen, the image of the hall had dissolved to a vid of the trial of Yvan Tomulis, four hundred years previous, populating the tall desk with three Justicials in their ritual garb. The center judge stood, leaning over her desk and shaking a finger at the defense vocat, lecturing her sternly. At the vocat’s quiet reply, the jurist snatched up her golden mask and flung it at the other woman. Its sharp edge cut the vocat’s forehead cruelly, but she replied in even tones, not pausing to wipe at the blood streaming down. “I give you the words of Socrates, your honor: that you have amply proved the true strength of your argument.”
The scene faded and Nik’s story continued.
“Ooh! That was double-edged,” Derith said admiringly.
“I’m not going to be the Panarch’s lapdog,” said Nik. “Kendrian really does look guilty. But to his credit, His Majesty is being discreet in his support.”
“Right,” Derith replied with a laugh. “Discreet being the code word for covert exclusive.”
Nik shrugged. “You’re complaining? But I still can’t figure why Ixvan is running the show alone, unless he’s dug up something no one else could find fourteen years ago.”
At a desk nearby they heard the sudden hiss of a brain-suck dose, followed by a harsh gasp. Omplari went rigid over his console, his fingers racing across the pads as he navigated the Net in the induced synesthesia of the drug.
“He’s going to kill himself,” Derith muttered.
“He’d just go to another feed if we take him off the stuff. All the runners say there’s some spectacular deep mining going on, and the whole Net is starting to shake.” Nik grimaced in frustration. “I just wish I could get my hands on whatever’s being dug up. I have the feeling that the trial is the focus of it all, and the biggest story of all is waiting there.”
“All things come to they who dive,” Derith intoned, and then blew out her breath in a loud raspberry noise. “If the Net is shaking that hard, all sorts of things are going to rise to the surface belly-up.”
o0o
Vannis sat back, her layered shanta-silk skirts rucked about her feet like seafoam. She observed her reflection in a wall of polished volcanic stone: the single line of pearls in her hair, threading the graceful twist of braids; the green-blue gown that highlighted the green in her eyes; the pure, graceful curve from shoulder to hip.
As always the evidence of outer mastery steadied her inner control, and she turned her attention to the cadenced flow of chatter around her. The musical part of the evening was over and the guests had repaired to a number of small chambers to converse, to observe one another conversing, and to nibble at the exquisite food circulating unceasingly on trays borne by attractive young servitors.
It reminded Vannis of the still surface of a pool—one that hid flesh-eating fish and jagged rocks. Tensions evidenced in the placement of people: adversaries on opposite sides of a room, certain subjects alluded to and then avoided, often with acid smiles; the sudden fixity that indicated a boswell privacy—but that was evident only in those imperfect in the art of dissembling.
Vannis knew she was peerless at dissembling. Thus she could sit well posed in a chair that artistically framed her, and think about other matters entirely.
Such as exactly what her sudden wealth meant. It had been days now since she had windowed up her credit rating to find that she had gone from near insolvency to virtually limitless resources. There had been no message, and when she saw Brandon he did not refer to it, yet she knew who had to be her benefactor.
They saw one another frequently, though always at social gatherings. He talked to her of music and history, but said nothing of politics or the silent struggle dividing the Navy. She had found out, through one of the Masauds, of the Panarch’s remarkable new habit: daily, at five in the morning it seemed, he joined some of the officers in physical training.
“He just appeared one day,” Oreic told a small group. “My cousin Efrain is posted on the Norsendar and saw it himself. Unmarked jumpsuit, no bodyguard, stood in the back. Wouldn’t stand on rank. Every day, no matter where he’s been the night before . . .”
Where had he been? Vannis had been watching, and there was no one among the Douloi, male or female, who had betrayed pride of possession. Interesting. Either he was celibate, in which case why would he spend nights anywhere else, or someone was much more adept at dissembly than she, but so far had not come forward to make either social or political challenge.
Brandon would never use his wealth or rank to create a personal sense of obligation, any more than she wanted to make herself a pensioner. The best way to convince Brandon that she would be a worthy kyriarch would be to show him. She only had to find the appropriate means.
So she sat thinking and listening for undercurrents as some of the younger heirs tried to impress their elders by describing some new and risky game of chance they had invented at one of the spin-axis emporia.
Then her boswell tingled. She flexed her inner wrist and heard Brandon’s voice. (Can you possibly get away and come to the Enclave? We’ve achieved a breakthrough in the Kendrian case. You ought to be here for the gloat.)
(I will leave within moments.)
(Don’t use the transtube. Jaim will meet you.)
Beneath the jeweled bodice of her gown her heart thrummed a tense counterpoint to the distant music. She rose slowly, setting her glass of wine aside, and then wove her way through all the rooms on a deliberate circuit, so everyone who might even spare her a thought would assume she was elsewhere.
At the right moment—she had been long practiced in graceful exits—she slipped away and walked out the front door of the villa into the cool air. A tall, knife-lean figure emerged from the shadows of some trees, startling her. Weak light from the windows etched a jutting cheekbone and jaw, and picked out highlights in chime-woven Serapisti mourning braids: it was Jaim, the somber-faced Rifter bodyguard.
He was tall, taller even than Brandon, and when she took his offered arm she felt the controlled strength there; strength and control together were her sexual triggers, she knew, and sure enough, here was a decided twinge of attraction. What would sex with a Rifter be like?
She listened to the man’s slow breathing as they walked not to the transtube, but into the darkness of the park. She had heard him speak only rarely, and his accent was that of the underside of a Highdwelling or other habitat.
The art of seduction includes not just the pique of invitation or the pleasure of the act, but the decorum of the aftermath and the graceful acceptance of the lover’s diminished interest. Did he understand how Douloi played the game?
“This way,” he said, and they changed direction, veering off the dimly lit pathway into plunging darkness. Her slippered feet encountered wet, chill grass and she nearly stumbled over unevennesses in the ground.
Jaim’s grip tightened but remained impersonal. Then, before she could voice a protest, he said, “Here.”
They walked downward a few meters, and she sensed walls closing in, then Jaim’s breathing changed as he did something with his free hand. She was guided onto a flat, slick surface. A door closed behind them with a quiet snick, then light sprang into being.
“A tube,” Jaim said, indicating an open door opposite.
“Where are we?” she asked, a tendril of delicious alarm prickling along her nerves.
“Not far from the Enclave. Entrance.” His face didn’t change, but she sensed humor.
He had not used any honorifics.
The pod hissed forward a short distance, then the doors opened onto a richly carpeted hallway. The scent of night-blooming jumari identified the place as the Enclave indeed before they walked through an archway into the parlor.
Jaim vanished around a corner as Brandon came forward, smiling. He was dressed formally in dark brown, with a discreet glint of gold about his person: what party had
he been to and left? Some of it he had brought with him, for there were other people in the room.
“Vannis,” he said, kissing both her hands. “Come. You remember Lieutenant Omilov.”
Vannis nodded, sparing a brief glance for the stiff man with the big ears. Nonpolitical, but trusted by Brandon. She turned her eyes to the woman next to him—
“Fierin!” Vannis exclaimed, surprised.
Isolation had spectacularly benefited Fierin vlith-Kendrian. The girl rushed forward, looking rounder and younger than Vannis remembered ever having seen her.
“Oh, Vannis.” Fierin sighed midway between laughter and tears, closing her in a convulsive embrace and kissing her. “I never even had a chance to thank you for what you did.”
“If it transpires that there will be a happy ending, that is my reward,” Vannis said, turning her attention back to Brandon.
“There is a strong possibility.” A different timbre to his voice and an air of barely contained excitement sparked an echo of her earlier triumph. She had a fondness for the girl, but the real triumph was this evidence that for Brandon she had crossed into his inner circle. “First let me introduce you to the rest of our conspirators.”
He gestured to the room at large, and Vannis turned. A very tall, spare man with thinning silver hair rose to his feet and bowed, the short, uncompromising bow of the Polloi.
“Gnostor Ixvan, vocat for Fierin’s brother,” Brandon said.
Behind him sat two women, the contrast between them striking. One was a short, dumpy, middle-aged military officer with disheveled gray-touched hair, the other a tall woman with a strong-boned oval face and slanted dark-fringed black eyes. Her hair was also black, pulled straight back from a perfect hairline; when the woman turned her head slightly, Vannis saw a long blue-black tail of glossy hair falling against her plain black flightsuit.
A prickle of recognition ran through Vannis, then Brandon said, “Commander Thetris and Captain Vi’ya, both of whom have done a heroic job of noderunning.”
The officer gave a short nod; the Dol’jharian tempath sat, silent and unmoving.
“And Montrose, one of Kendrian’s crewmates.” This last was the huge, ugly man who had played so beautifully at Brandon’s concert ages ago.
Brandon took a step toward the low table, gathering everyone’s attention. He flicked a glance at Vannis, indicating Fierin with a subtle turn of his head, and she moved to comply, sliding her arm around Fierin’s shoulders.
“The news is this. We have obtained proof that Jesimar vlith-Kendrian was framed for murders arranged by the Archon of Torigan.”
Fierin gave a little gasp, quickly silenced.
“What we do not know yet is why. There are indications of wider complicity, more conspirators. In fact, it may be that your parents’ murders are linked to the Dol’jharian attack.”
Though Fierin made no sound, tears welled in her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.
Brandon’s regret was plain. “There are links in this affair to Hesthar al-Gessinav and Tau Srivashti, both of whom are also deeply implicated in the execution of Dol’jhar’s plans.”
Vannis tightened her grip on the girl. “Do you know why?” she asked.
Brandon shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He gestured toward Sedry Thetris and Vi’ya. “Our two noderunners have sent multiple worms out into the DataNet under my priority code, overriding all else. Someone—we suspect Gessinav—has been destroying certain replicated data incoming to Ares. If their worms can find an intact replicate out in the DataNet and bring it back, we may have final proof.”
He picked up a decanter of wine with a flourish and began to pour it into fragile stemmed goblets. “But Lokri is safe, Fierin.” He raised his glass. “To justice.”
Everyone stepped forward to take a glass, including Fierin, whose gestures were the brittle, controlled ones Vannis had been accustomed to seeing; her trembling fingers took a glass, but she nearly spilled it, and set it down again. Blushing like an adolescent, the big-eared lieutenant moved more quickly and picked one up for her. Their voices blended softly.
Vannis could have read their lips. Magnanimous in joy, she left them to their privacy. Let them celebrate. She had chosen her cause well; patience had rewarded her. Brandon had not even tried to hide his triumph. With the skill of the tapestry-maker she would use her flashing needle to weave a the golden-bright thread of shared victory around them both.
Might she win on the personal front? The difficulty of the quest made the prize all the more worth having.
She turned, seeking Brandon’s blue gaze. He was not near, nor was he facing her. Vannis found him on the other side of the room. He was in the process of offering a glass of wine to the Dol’jharian woman, who had not moved.
As Vannis took a step toward them, the woman hesitated. Brandon said something in a low voice. The angle of his head, the quiet murmur of his voice, set Vannis’s nerves flaring.
Vi’ya extended a hand—long, well made, and strong, with no ornamentation whatever—and took the goblet.
And Brandon’s fingers closed around hers, then traced the line of her wrist in a brief but revealing gesture of tenderness.
Shock plunged an icy knife into Vannis’s heart and twisted, hard.
She looked down at her wine and counted breaths. One, two, three. Past the singing in her ears she became aware of Brandon’s voice—speaking a toast.
The others lifted glasses, and belatedly she lifted her own, but she only touched her dry lips to the liquid without tasting it. This pain is jealousy, she thought, fighting for control, for clarity. I am jealous of a Dol’jharian Rifter who has no manners.
Someone laughed, proposing a second toast. Vannis’s arm ached but she raised her glass again, forcing her lips into a smile.
“We’ll do this again, after the trial.” He had moved away from the Dol’jharian and stood at the table again. His smile hardened. “It’s time to discuss the interim. I have attempted to protect the investigation by assigning Rear-Admiral Willsones to equal status with al-Gessinav. However, Hesthar has shown us ample evidence of her talents with data manipulation, and it is entirely possible she has discovered at least in some measure the work you have done. I want every one of you to carefully circumscribe your activities until the day of the trial. We will shortly discuss the details of a protection plan that Meliarch Vahn has come up with. He and his team will be your invisible guardians until the trial is over.”
Fierin clasped her hands tightly together under her chin. “Can’t you just arrest them now, Your Majesty?”
Brandon shook his head. “Without hard evidence, an attempt to move too soon could hurt us badly. Everyone here knows how high emotions are running. There is abundant evidence of tampering with the newsfeeds. We suspect that Hesthar has been behind the heavy emphasis on the perfidy of the Rifter fleets. The ochlologists tell me that the revelation of high-level Douloi complicity in the attack—remember that everyone on Ares has suffered grievously from it—would inevitably trigger riots, perhaps worse.”
“But why must Jesimar go to trial, now that we know? Can’t we petition for Manumission?”
Although there was no change in his mode of speech, abruptly Brandon was speaking as the Panarch. “I’m sorry, Fierin, but justice must be seen to be executed. And the gnostors of ochlology insist the trial is necessary to dissipate the growing tendency toward baiting crowds. Its focus is Jesimar, and he will not be safe unless he is publicly exonerated.”
Montrose had moved closer and listened intently, his scowl deepening.
“As well,” Tovr Ixvan murmured, “the evidence was obtained without let or warrant. It can be used only to establish innocence, not to prove guilt.”
“Do you mean we can’t touch Srivashti?” Montrose’s voice had lowered to a rumble.
“Nor Torigan nor Gessinav. I’m afraid not,” the vocat said, “since His Majesty is unwilling—for reasons he has explained —to expose this information to obtain Writs of Nescienc
e against them.”
“That’s exactly why I became a Rifter!” Montrose shouted.
Brandon looked his way.
“Srivashti destroyed Timberwell. My family died in the ruins. And the authorities there told me they could do nothing. Now we hear of an even greater betrayal, and still you will do nothing?” Montrose’s voice rose to a bellow that made the room ring.
“‘After the first death, there is no other,’” quoted Brandon after the resonance of Montrose’s anguish had died away. His voice was quiet, full of genuine regret. “You cannot rank such betrayals. But do you think that it stops here, that there are no other crimes in Tau Srivashti’s past? Would you sacrifice your crewmate for vengeance? We deal in justice here, not revenge, and justice you will have, Montrose. That I promise.”
The big man stared at him for a long beat. Then, surprising Vannis with his grace, stiff though his posture was, he executed a genuine deference in the proper mode, his face was still florid with anger.
Brandon bowed formally in return, sealing the promise. Then he drew attention away from Montrose by pouring out more wine for everyone, and turning the conversation to the vintages he’d found in the Enclave wine cellar.
The conversation became general, moving naturally toward customs on different worlds. Brandon let Ixvan lead. On the periphery Montrose sat there, silent and grim. Twice he blinked and wiped his eyes. His manner relaxed incrementally.
As the wine flowed, Brandon sent people over to Dyarch Vahn one at a time to discuss the details of their part of the protection plan.
Vannis remained where she was, thinking rapidly. Her political goal? She very nearly had it.
The personal goal?
She remembered the night she brought him Fierin’s chip. Before Brandon and she had returned to the ballroom, there had been that damped communication on his console: the strange-looking little man Barrodagh who talked of needing tempaths for the Suneater. Vannis had read his lips, and then Brandon’s as he put the words under seal.
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