by Blaze Ward
It was a tunic of the old Slavic style, such as might have come from Skuodas, his home world. The front hem came down to just above the knee, split for horseback, with a six centimeter, complicated, Nordic pattern sewn in bronze, white, and black, perhaps four centimeters from the bottom. The same embroidery and pattern was present on sleeves that would only fall to just past the elbow, as one was expected to wear a longer, softer shirt underneath, or studded leather bracers, depending on whether your field of combat was the boardroom or the meadow.
Torsten found his feet drawn closer to the figure as he lost track of the rest of the room. He hadn’t seen an outfit like this one in perhaps decades, since he was a boy.
The placard around the neck hole was much wider than at the hem or arms, running almost to the point of the manikin’s shoulder and coming down to mid-chest still two handspans wide, with corners and a point at the center, plus a gap down the center that was two fingers wide at the sternum and three at the top. Here, the tailor had repeated the other pattern, around both the outer and inner edges, with a different design Torsten didn’t recognize in the larger space between them. A simple, leather belt rested on the hips, held with a plain disk for a buckle.
Torsten felt a ghost at his shoulder. He turned to find Vibol Harmaajärvi lurking. The man was not grinning, but the light was there in his eyes. The tailor was approaching sixty years standard, and taller than Torsten by a few centimeters, but skinny, almost lanky. As always, a number of pins were stuck into his right cuff for quick use, and his hands were covered with tailor’s chalk.
“You will be wearing cropped jodhpurs,” the man announced in that voice that would brook no argument. “Buttoned on the outside of the calf from knee to ankle, and done in a good bronze seamed with gold, as soon as I find the right fabric. None has been acceptable, as of yet. Black, short boots of a soft leather. White, linen shirt underneath.”
“I see,” Torsten temporized.
He had come down here to discuss fashions for the Emperor, not himself. If that still remained an option. He might be Chief of Deputies, but Vibol Harmaajärvi was Jessica’s secret weapon against the galaxy. Nobody and nothing intimidated the man.
“When was I to be wearing this outfit?” Torsten gestured vaguely at the manikin.
“At your wedding to Jessica,” Vibol pronounced. “It will be a traditional event for a favored son of the planet Skuodas. I presume Ladies Casey and Moirrey will attend as her Wardens. I will need to get accurate measurements for your two as well, so I can complete the wedding party. Admirals zu Wachturm, Jež, and Baumgärtner will of course be in dress uniforms, as will First Lord Naoumov and all Command Centurions in attendance.”
Torsten turned back to the blue tunic, so simple and almost plain, and yet so laden with potential meaning.
“How did you…?” he began, sputtering quickly to a halt.
Vibol turned suddenly and strode across to a wood bookshelf Torsten had previously ignored. The tailor pulled a worn, green-bound book down and placed it on the work table between them. Torsten had followed. Perhaps drawn in by the man’s serene gravity was a better term. The desk separated them but offered Torsten scant protection.
Torsten lifted the tome to read the spine. The book itself was old and worn. And this cover had the feel of being a replacement, considering the raw, worn edges of the pages.
Skuodas: Rebirth and Empire.
Torsten could remember reading this book in school thirty-some years ago. The history of his homeworld, one of the few that had survived the fall of mankind and the thousand years of darkness, before wandering merchants and explorers had brought them from the iron age to space in a single generation, like so many other places that had survived.
And then, a century later, the Kingdom of Fribourg had arrived, not even yet the Empire. As conquests went, it had been quick and relatively painless. And the three centuries since had been good for his home.
Torsten opened the book and noted the little placard on the inner cover page, added after printing.
From the personal library of Emmerich Wachturm, Duke of Eklionstic.
Wow.
Torsten felt his mouth screw sideways as he considered. His day had completely derailed by now.
“I had not given the topic of my Wardens that much thought, as yet, Master Tailor,” Torsten finally offered. “I have been in service, both to the Navy and the government, for twenty-five years. Many of the men I would have considered were at Werder with Karl VII.”
“Then it will be necessary to locate and nominate their replacements, sir,” Vibol said with a firm tone. “I cannot imagine you will lack volunteers, but they must be men of character, whose every association reminds you of how you came to be standing there and why they would deserve such an honor.”
“I see,” Torsten acknowledged after a moment. “I had actually come to talk with you about Her Majesty.”
“Her wedding will not be for several years yet,” Vibol pronounced. “So while I have the design, the work itself must be delayed, as I expect her to grow more fully into her figure over that time. The sewing itself will be a matter of a week or so. The embroidery another three days.”
“And she already knows what she will wear?” Torsten was surprised.
“She has not given it any thought at all, Chief of Deputies,” Vibol countered. “She is an Emperor and will be consumed by more important tasks until then. When the time comes, she will have the perfect attire, as will her Wardens: Jessica, Moirrey, and Duchess Freya.”
A lifetime’s naval training kept Torsten from simply collapsing into a handy chair at the calm certainty of the man’s words. He fell into parade rest instead, feeling as if he were back as a new recruit, standing his first watch with that grizzled Chief of Boat handy to keep him from pushing the wrong button.
“No suitors have been identified,” Torsten finally offered, weakly.
Vibol just smiled at him. Torsten felt like the man had restrained himself from patting the Chief of Deputies politely on the head, as one would a precocious child.
“What do you know?” Torsten queried nervously.
“One of the most interesting things about being a tailor is that people forget I’m here, even as I have them standing perfectly still atop a pedestal, pinning things in place so I can get the perfect fit,” Vibol offered. “Important conversations occur around me, and idle gossip, with the presumption that I am far too busy to listen, and never looking at my principal while I work. Certainly not touching them at the moment when a particular name is spoken, to feel the sudden emotions surge through their body.”
Torsten was shocked. And guilty.
How many conversations had he had with Casey in the warehouse through the back door, her standing in that pedestal? Or at the hotel, while Vibol went about his work, crafting a new wardrobe for the Emperor to replace the one she lost here and the clothing of her youth that no longer fit broader shoulders and hips as she turned into a woman?
Torsten realized that he was a fantastic econometricist, but a lousy spy.
“I’m just glad you have as high a security clearance as I do, Master Tailor,” Torsten finally acknowledged.
“Just so, Chief of Deputies,” Vibol said.
“Please, call me Torsten,” he replied.
Torsten had a feeling the man would be a fixture in their lives for years. At least until they both saw Lady Casey married off.
“Torsten,” he said, shaking hands. “I am Vibol.”
“Indeed,” Torsten said. “Thank you.”
“It is my duty and my joy, sir,” Vibol said. “Now, how may I be of service?”
“I had come to ask if you were including outfits that might turn a man’s head, when worn by Emperor Karl VIII,” Torsten said. “To perhaps remind him that she was also a woman, and not just an Emperor.”
Torsten stopped and bowed deeply to the man.
“I had not given thought to how far ahead of the rest of us you would be on that topic,
” he continued.
“Just so, Torsten,” Vibol said. “It is interesting work, taking a woman who feels self-conscious about herself, or considers herself to be an ugly duckling, and transforming her into a goddess. Thus has my career been fulfilling, most recently aiding Lady Moirrey and Ambassador Bhattacharya. Lady Casey will have outfits for all seasons and all occasions. There are formal robes of older rulers in museums and pictures. Those are the easiest to replicate, as I merely need to size them down to a woman of my scale, from her mighty forebears. For others, there will be times when she needs to present as an Imperial matron of breeding and class. Those fashions needed updating, so she will be the plate from which the rest draw, when I am done. In between, I have carte blanche into which to cast Kasimira’s beauty and resilience, a lure that will draw in any she needs to attract, however it needs to be done.”
Torsten remembered to breathe. Eventually.
Everyone spoke of the Master Tailor in hushed, reverent tones. And his genius was an everyday thing, where you could see his work striding the halls of a dowdy hotel that had become an Imperial palace, adorning a young woman.
Everyone had underestimated the man. Except Jessica. Torsten had no doubts that his love had known exactly what she was doing, sending Vibol here, but still making it clear that he belonged to her.
Torsten wondered if Vibol would eventually retire to Corynthe with her. With them. He had seen the larval stage of what Jessica was building out there, in his time aboard Kali-ma. He could only imagine what a Master Tailor might do with such potential. Desianna would be utterly thrilled.
Torsten bowed again. Deeper this time.
“Then I will presume that we have both identified the same prospect,” he said. “And that you will arm her with the sword and shield she will need, when it comes time for that battle.”
“An interesting choice of words, son of Skuodas,” Vibol replied. “But yes, she will have everything she needs, even if my contributions are merely to frost that cake. I did not bake it.”
“You did not, Vibol,” Torsten agreed. “But we men are visual creatures, and she will need that to turn his head from the task at hand. Thank you, and I will bid you good day.”
Torsten nodded again and departed with a lighter step than when he entered.
He wondered if his Emperor had figured out her own mind.
Chapter LII
Imperial Founding: 180/04/19. Mejico, St. Legier
Vo was just digging into his first burrito when Alan Katche walked into the restaurant and made a beeline towards him. Reese Borel was close behind, so something must be up. Vo took a bite and chewed, cognizant that he might have to wrap it up and eat on the run from the looks on their faces.
No alerts had sounded, so all hell hadn’t broken loose, at least not yet. Might, yet, given Alan’s grim smile and Reese’s total lack of expression. Celine materialized with two more mugs, getting to the table before they did.
Both men came to parade rest. Vo didn’t feel like looking up at them this morning.
“No,” he ordered, pointing with a fist. “Sitting.”
Both men sat across from him. Katche had a slab in his hands, obviously the source of his excitement today.
“There’s news,” Alan observed in a vague, excited voice.
Vo chewed and ignored the provocation.
“How well do the folks back home like you?” Alan continued.
“Why?” Vo barked around a bite of eggs and chorizo.
“New RAN squadron just cleared for orbit,” Alan continued. “Hendrik routed them to us. Reese is coordinating the reinforcements, but I might want to get you involved personally.”
Vo paused, sucked down some coffee, and sat his burrito down. Hopefully, he’d get back to it while it was still hot.
He cocked his head at the men rather than reply.
“Legate Digger Wolanski,” Alan emphasized the title. “Your old mate from Thuringwell. Along with the Twenty-Third Ladaux Construction Legion.”
“Construction Legion?” Vo repeated. “A whole legion of those folks? Gentlemen, there’s your new Imperial capital city. I suggest you go deep into the operational reports of the time they spent in Corynthe. I was here, but I’ve read some of it. Contact Torsten Wald and get his entire planning department assigned to Digger’s HQ. Those boys and girls will be bringing big toys and wanting to play immediately.”
Vo sipped his coffee.
“Oh,” he added quickly. “And tell Lady Moirrey straightaway. That’s her fiancé. Also, if you feel like being a shit, sneak a note to Vibol Harmaajärvi. Moirrey will want some new outfits for her beau. Two days warning and she might greet him like Aphrodite rising out of the sea. She is allowed to borrow a couple of tanks or skiffs, with crews, if she needs a backdrop for her performance.”
Both men laughed. Vo snuck another bite. They didn’t need his involvement for any of that. Something else must be going on.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Reese turned his attention to Alan. Vo did the same.
“So,” the Primus Pilus drawled. “We’ve talked, inside the family, of our next steps, but haven’t really sprung anything on the Grand Admiral or the Emperor.”
“That’s right,” Vo prompted.
“I’m extremely interested in the ships delivering Twenty-Third Ladaux,” Alan said. “I’ve studied the type, but the fleet doesn’t really have anything like it, because they don’t do crazy shit like we will.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Vo bit into the burrito and let Alan talk while he chewed.
“In about eighteen hours, there are going to be two RAN Assault Carriers in orbit, along with several other warships that don’t make any sense,” Alan said. “Two freighters I can see. They’re hauling supplies for the crews and spare parts. Three of the new style corvettes are escorting the force. The flagship has me confused, and I was hoping you had friends we could leverage up there.”
“What’s the flagship?” Vo asked as he swallowed. Halfway done. If he could keep them talking another three minutes, he wouldn’t have a cold breakfast in an hour.
“She identifies as RAN Arad,” Reese joined the conversation. “A Fleet Strike Carrier.”
“Fleet Strike Carrier?” Vo asked. “Fleet carriers are the big jobs. Strike carriers are built on a heavy cruiser hull, or an Expeditionary Cruiser, like II Augusta. Old Auberon was a Strike Carrier. Aquitaine doesn’t build combat variants at that scale, because they go right on to Star Controllers. Fleet Strike Carrier?”
“Yes, sir,” Reese was emphatic. “Fleet Centurion Vlahovic is in command.”
“Iskra?” Vo was shocked. “I would have thought she’d retire by now. Star Controller Auberon was her baby, and it was headed for the wrecker after Trusski.”
“So you got friends?” Alan was hopeful.
“Contacts, at least, Alan,” Vo said.
“Good enough that we could borrow a couple of Assault Carriers for six months?” Alan pressed. “Or hitch a ride with them? Firepower like that is going to the frontier. That means the Fleet Centurion.”
He paused and considered logistics.
“Rohm is taking over as Grand Marshal,” Vo said, mostly to himself. “As good a time as any for us to withdraw to barracks, if we can pull this off. You’re right that they’ll deliver Digger and then have nothing much to do until it comes time to withdraw his force. Two Assault Carriers are enough to put the full 189th on the ground somewhere in two loads, if we pack tight. And we could use the extra space for supplies and replacement vehicles. Normally, that stuff is on one of your replenishment freighters, and has to be broken out of cold storage over days. How quickly could you come up with load plans, Alan?”
“What’s our lift capability likely to be?” the Primus Pilus asked.
“If we assume a normal load for an armored division, eight DropShips and two GunShips each,” Vo replied. “Since this is a construction legion, those are probably heavy armor carriers, like Achaemenes that was wi
th us for LVIII Heavy at Thuringwell. Even if Digger’s in a hurry, you’ll have a week before they can get it all arranged, and then probably another week or ten days to deliver everything, since they can take their time.”
“We’ll have something in a couple of days, Vo,” Alan said. “But I won’t put the men into motion until you tell me.”
“Good,” Vo said. “I’d hate to get everyone’s hopes up, and then find out that Iskra’s orders are to drop everyone and then return home for something, with them not coming back for a year.”
“Next steps, General?” Reese asked.
“Get me a call set up with Iskra Vlahovic as soon as she’s in orbit, so we can see what our options are,” Vo said. “After that, I’ll talk to Wachturm and the Emperor and see what support we’ll get there.”
The two men left quickly enough that Alan still had his coffee mug in one hand, absentmindedly, so Vo could guess where that Beyond the Dragon Gates cup had probably originated. Vo finished off his burrito and idled at his coffee, thinking about his options.
Things were coming to an inflection point, a fancy word Vo had learned in business school to describe that arc when a line suddenly turns into a curve and goes a different direction. His life would be going a different direction, shortly. Hopefully, she would let him go do the thing he had promised, with the whole 189th Legion behind him.
If not, he had enough money saved up to go buy a small ship and turn himself into a pirate. And he was pretty sure where he could recruit a crew.
It was way too bloody early in the morning, or late at night, but RAN Arad had been running a little ahead of schedule, so Vo had stayed up way past his normal bedtime to talk to his old shipmate, Iskra. The line was secured, for what that was worth. Mostly, it meant that only Imperial Security and a few others would likely be listening in, rather than anyone with a dish and a halfway competent decryption rig.