I don’t know where I’m going to
but with you to light my path,
I will keep on running through
the borderlands of death.
Folding the scrap carefully, he put it in his wallet, reset the security system, and left. The door shut and locked behind him, sealing off the past and confining the present.
What it did to the future, he didn’t care to think about.
* * *
In their mother’s red-roofed, two-story house in Simla, Antoine laid the envelope, still sealed, on the low, square, solid ebony table beneath the lounge area’s bay window and handed his mother Mariwen’s letter and the note she had discarded. Amari Rathor accepted them without comment, read the letter first, and then the wrinkled note twice, back and front, taking in each word as a new mother looks into the eyes of her firstborn. Then she lowered herself onto the window seat’s brocaded cushions and placed the two pieces of paper on either side of the tabletop.
Antoine sat with her and slid the envelope across the dark gleaming wood like an offering. Amari’s chest rose and fell once. Picking it up, she broke the seal with a thumbnail and removed the crisp folded sheet. Setting it between them, half-open, the outer folds lifted by the leverage of the crease, she pulled her hands back into her lap. Antoine reached out and opened the rectangle of paper fully, pressing it flat.
Together, they read:
This journey is mine to take
This dream is mine to hold
Beyond the farthest shore
And across the bourne untold
To undiscovered countries
beyond the borders of my soul.
These steps I take for you
not knowing where I go
Arms and eyes open wide
blind and dumb and deaf
Paving my fate with fire
and all that I have left.
I know that I will stumble
I know that I might fall
I know that I am finite
I cannot conquer all
But in my heart—
Fire, burn—
Dream, live—
Light my path, Love . . .
Amari picked up Mariwen’s letter again, reread the first paragraph and broke the silence. “That silly girl. Free verse has been perfectly acceptable for over a thousand years.” She paused to blot her eyes with her scarf. “The rhyme scheme is nicely coherent—the way it breaks at the end . . . very nice.” She tapped the paper with an index finger. “I might—I say might—have softened the rhyme at the end of the fourth line. Perhaps it’s a tad harsh? Unknown, might be better? Perhaps. But one shouldn’t fuss. It’s really quite fine.” She slid the letter on the table and looked out the window. “Don’t you think?”
Antoine glanced at the sheet, captive in a slanting shaft of late sun that made the ink shine purple. Next to it, the note Mariwen had discarded with its cramped writing lay in Amari’s shadow. “I do indeed. Yes.”
“Yes. Quite so.” Their mother turned away from the vista and twitched her scarf back into place. “I’ve—never been . . . more proud.”
With no more sound than the whisper of silk on brocade, Amari stood and walked across the room to retrieve the old-style flat photo of her late husband from the corner of her writing desk. Laying it face down on the table, she opened the back of the frame and pulled Mariwen’s note close. First smoothing the wrinkles from it with all the exquisite tenderness of mother’s boundless love, she folded the ragged edges precisely and slipped it behind her husband’s photograph. Closing the frame—and still without a word; no sound in the room but the swish of her silks over the imperceptible sound of their hushed breath—she returned it to her desk.
Coming back to stand by Antoine, Amari laid a hand on his arm. “Your supper is waiting. I’ll not have it go to ruin.” Nodding, he started to get up. “No—no,” she scolded. “Sit. I’ll fetch it.”
He sat.
Chapter 23
OverHallin Estate, outside Halevirdon
Halith Evandor, Orion Spur
“But Grandfather, there must be something you can do!”
Her grandfather looked at her with that slight frown, a concentrated expression about the eyes, that told Arianna how badly she’d made a muck of this. “Must” was not a word to use to admirals, especially not to her grandfather, and most especially not when she was getting so far above herself, meddling in his affairs this way. And now, despite swearing to herself that she would act calm and respectful, she’d blurted that out. Worse, she’d made it a challenge—nothing calm and respectful about that—and it was crushingly obvious that even before this point, her act hadn’t been all that good, anyway.
“There is something,” he addressed her sternly. “Obedience to orders.”
Arianna squeezed her hands together until the tips of her fingers showed an angry red. That was the reason for this whole discussion: orders. Full admirals were not ordered about like errand boys. Their orders were inscribed in parchment—real parchment—and hand-delivered by special courier. And yet, just this AM, her grandfather—Lord OverHallin, commander of the elite Prince Vorland Fleet—had done something so inexplicable she couldn’t begin to comprehend it, and it had nothing to do with any orders.
It all started yesterday, when Undersecretary Danilov unexpectedly arrived (as he always did) like a plague-carrier spreading alarm and despondency. He and Grandfather met briefly and privately (as they always did) and he left, quite as abruptly as he came. Arianna considered that, as the manager of the admiral’s estate, it was her duty to know things. If it took some occasional eavesdropping to know things, that was all right. Eavesdropping on her grandfather and the undersecretary was entirely different, however, and also nearly impossible. But it was not quite impossible and Danilov’s appearance crystalized the deep foreboding she’d felt since Lessing’s second meeting with Kris just over a week ago.
It was clear from that meeting that there something extraordinary about Kris—besides the obvious. And Commander Huron was a prize of incalculable worth. Of course her grandfather had sequestered them on his estate once he’d become aware they’d been captured. He had every right to do so and only one thing could override that right and oblige him to give them up: a special order direct from the hand of the Princeps himself.
But while she’d gathered enough snippets from her grandfather’s meeting with Danilov to infer that General Heydrich had asked Jerome to issue such an order, the Princeps hadn’t done it yet. So why had he ordered his security detail to turn over Kris and Commander Huron to the local Military Security office first thing that AM? It made no sense. She knew there must be a lot she was missing—her grandfather never acted in an unconsidered fashion—but she couldn’t imagine why’d he’d take such a drastic step: almost certainly surrendering them to the very person he was trying to keep them away from.
However much the admiral might have tried to shield her from the more brutal realities of her society, no amount of effort could obscure Heydrich’s reputation, and Lady Gwen had confided to her a good deal more than her grandfather would have liked. She had no illusions about what awaited Kris should she fall into the general’s grasp. How could they avoid that now?
Gathering her thoughts, she relaxed her painfully cramped hands and played her last card. “I hear you, Grandfather”—managing her tone much better this time—“but I have something I wish to tell you.”
He made an inviting gesture with one hand. “You may.”
“It was Tros. He told the general they were here.”
The statement was a huge leap, in more ways than one. General Heydrich could not have requested an order from Jerome without knowing the identities of the persons he wanted handed over. Someone must have told him. Arianna guessed that someone was Tros. But making her case meant revealing more than was comfortable about what she knew and how she’d come to know it. Yet, she had no other choice . . .
The admiral continued to stare at h
er, a measuring look that made her want to squirm. He knew full well how she felt about Tros. “You seem very confident,” he remarked at length.
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“Are you prepared to reveal the basis of your suspicion?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“Then do so.”
Taking a deep breath, she began. “No one outside our household knew of the commanders’ presence besides that man Lessing. When Commander Kennakris refused to help him, he threatened to betray her to General Heydrich.” This was all in her report of Lessing’s second meeting with Kris, and the admiral merely nodded. Screwing her courage to the sticking-place, she stepped onto dangerous ground. “When the team you sent to fetch Lessing found him, he committed suicide.”
“Did one of the team tell you this?” His tone had chilled. The admiral did not tolerate loose talk.
“No. Not directly, Grandfather. He didn’t know I could hear him and it was not in an open part of our premises. The environment was secure.”
“Not entirely secure, it would seem.”
Was that a hint of amusement she heard in his tone? She couldn’t tell from his expression.
“Continue,” he prompted.
“If Lessing made good his threat and the general had agreed, Lessing would have had no reason to kill himself. He had no reason to fear you, either. He must’ve panicked.”
The admiral encouraged her with a nod.
“So General Heydrich did not agree. Perhaps Lessing was already suspected of disloyalty. Perhaps the general threatened him and when the team arrived, he mistook them, panicked and killed himself.”
“Most astute,” her grandfather said, with some noticeable warmth. “Why would Lessing have not revealed their identities before he committed suicide?”
“It would have been foolish to reveal such valuable information without a guarantee he would receive something he wanted in return. If he tried to bargain with the general and failed, he could have thought the general would send people to interrogate him. I understand his suicide was . . . such that no information could be retrieved from his brain. Whatever he knew, he did not wish others to learn.”
“I see.” The admiral stroked a finger down the side of his mouth. “So you have ruled out Lessing, then. We must therefore harbor a traitor in our midst. You believe it is Tros. Can you prove it?”
“Not yet, Grandfather”—with a slight lift of her head. “But I shall.”
Her grandfather leaned back, easing his posture. “No doubt you would, but let me save you the trouble. Tros has been detected and shall be dealt with. He was too careless in the manner in which he accepted the general’s bribes.”
Tension unwound in her like a mainspring releasing. “Yes, Grandfather.” But she gathered herself for one more effort. “But can you not do something for Commander Kennakris?”
His expression turned grave. “What has been done, is done, Arianna. It is in the nature of these things. You should not concern yourself.”
Suddenly, she wished he was angry. This kindly tone held nothing but an awful finality.
“I understand, Grandfather.”
“And in future, if you wish to know something, rather than over-listening conversations you may ask me.”
“Thank you, Grandfather.” That was a huge mark of confidence, inviting her into his inner sanctum this way, but the thrill she would have felt at any other time was drowned by an acute sense of failure. Maybe not her failure—maybe there was nothing for it; it was just in the nature of things, as he’d said—but it still felt like failure all the same.
“It is well, then”—a gentle dismissal.
“Yes, Grandfather. I shall go now.”
He gave her a silent parting nod; she acknowledged it and turned to leave. Her legs felt like lead. It was nearly impossible to move them, but she did.
* * *
Eighty-six hours later, Admiral Caneris had Second Breakfast interrupted by a call from his aide. Guessing the reason, he tapped the glowing icon on his xel. “What is it, Johan?”
“It’s General Heydrich, sir,” the young man answered. “He’s been contacting us most urgently. It seems the two prisoners you ordered released to his people have been lost in the system. He has not been able to locate them.”
Caneris had thought as much. The day after his meeting with Arianna, the general had called in person, bearing an authenticated order from the Princeps, which it was high treason to disobey, and demanded the admiral release Commanders Huron and Kennakris into his personal custody. Caneris informed the general, in a tone sheathed in ice, that he was unable to comply with the order: the prisoners were no longer with him. Having no further use for them, he had consigned them to the POW system. The general was at liberty to search the premises if he doubted Lord OverHallin’s word.
Despite the admiral’s offer, doubting his word would be a grievous insult; Caneris would be fully justified in calling him out for it. General Heydrich reflected on the fate of his nephew, stated in equally frigid tones that doubting the word of Lord OverHallin would never at any time cross his mind, and left, minimally consoled by the thought that if the admiral was lying, he could no longer make use of the prisoners without admitting his treason, and if he was telling the truth, it would be a simple matter to have his people find them. In this latter belief, however, he had been disappointed.
“I see.” Caneris maintained perfect control of his countenance. “Please inform the general, with my compliments, that I am not concerned with the ineptitude of his subordinates. If he does not wish these things to happen, he would be well advised to retain people who are competent.”
“Yes, sir.” His aide showed the flicker of a smile. “Shall I quote you word for word?”
“Yes, Johan. Do.”
Part 2: Orion’s Price
I don’t know where I’m going to
but with you to light my path,
I will keep on running through
the borderlands of death.
– of private authorship
Chapter 24
Hiro-Ion Designs
Vyrolansk District, Halevirdon
Halith Evandor, Orion Spur
“Lady Geris, I simply do not know what to say,” the manager of Hiro-Ion Designs repeated for the fifth time, wringing her translucent hands for good measure. “Nothing like this has ever occurred before. I have personally contacted the vendor, of course, and they are putting the utmost effort into it—the highest priority—but I’m afraid that it is simply impossible to get the shipment here in time for his Lordship’s gathering.” The elderly woman had already come close to demolishing her elaborately coifed silvery-white hair, and now she was plucking at it again as she gestured towards the large flat boxes with their burden of sumptuous gowns, a dozen of them shimmering in all colors of the rainbow—a Halith rainbow—from the bloodiest alizarin to a smoky indigo. All but the thirteenth gown, the most critical; the centerpiece: a nearly unbelievable confectionary construction the color of moon glow on new frost with a tight fitted bodice, a skirt like a flowing cloud of ice-crystals, and trailing god-wing sleeves.
It was also the problem. This particular gown absolutely required a pair of handmade ivory kidskin thigh boots with white-gold butterfly buckles, seventeen per boot, and the boots were not here. The boots were not here because the metal for the buckles, the genuine Zalamenkar white gold, had not arrived. The convoy carrying it had been delayed at the Hissarlik junction, which was currently closed to all but military traffic, because the Ilion Fleet, in an unannounced maneuver, was about to deploy to parts unknown. As a result, the material for Lady Sonja’s vital buckles was languishing at Dalian Station over Haslar, a mere two light-months distant, waiting for the junction to clear. And no one could say when that would be.
This wasn’t the first time military expedients had intruded on Lady Sonja’s plans and undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last, but it vexed her even so. She’d planned this event with special care�
��it was the vital reditus party to celebrate her husband’s return from adventus and she’d seen to the guest list with an astute political eye. There were things afoot that she knew she was not fully cognizant of; things that certainly affected her husband’s position most directly and it was critical for him to be seen with the right people in the right way at this juncture.
That, of course, meant it was critical for her to be seen as well, and not just seen, but seen showing to full advantage. And there were very few other women, even in Halevirdon, who could get away with wearing that dress. Which was the whole point. So while it would never do to reveal it outwardly, inside she was seething. Substituting another alloy for the buckles, even if it could be treated to look identical, simply would not do. Something entirely new would have to be arranged.
The manager was well aware of all of these facts, but her anxiety was such that she could not see her way to a clear solution. At last, she spread her hands in abject supplication. “We do have another shipment just arrived—some most exceptional pieces. If your ladyship would allow, I might introduce them to you, in case there should be something suitable.”
Lady Sonja sniffed.
“Of course, this shipment shall not be charged to you. Indeed, the credit is posting to your ladyship’s account as we speak. And if there is something suitable in our new shipment, it will of course be our pleasure to extend it to your ladyship in partial—that is, as a token—um—of our regret for this”—calamity? No, not quite—“incident. Now if you will come this way, your Ladyship.”
The manager bowed and smiled, a stiff expression as she was trying to work out how she would deflect the wrath of Lady Bertram for letting her hated rival plunder her shipment. At least Lady Bertram would be on Vehren another week and maybe by then the Zalamenkar white-gold would have arrived, in which case . . .
Lady Sonja acquiesced with a mere bend her lips and allowed herself to be guided through the locked back doors into Hiro-Ion’s employees-only warehouse. Knowing full well who the shipment nominally belonged to somewhat mollified her. Soraya Bertram might be Beelzebub’s own bitch, but she had good taste, if a trifle outré at times, and in this case, outré was just what Sonja was looking for. As in, say, that pair of albino leopard-anaconda boots over there. The heels weren’t ideal, but she could live with that, and the moon jades set up the sides could work if she got a matching necklace. That would mean redoing the neckline of the bodice to something slightly scandalous, but there was no harm in that either. Indeed, she was beginning to warm up to the idea . . .
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