In keeping with her station, Shi Huu owned hundreds of different dresses, one for each day of the year, all replete with complicated cultural, historical, and seasonal symbology. Something of a bore to her, but much loved by the weavers, dressmakers, fitters, jewelers, seasonalists, historians, and fan trimmers who were dependent on the Imperial wardrobe for their livings.
Finally, bound within layers of brightly colored, carefully folded silk, and accompanied by a trio of senior eunuchs, Shi Huu began the long, stately journey from her quarters to the air throne, where the day would officially begin. After an hour spent there, she would be conveyed to the fire throne, the water throne, and the earth throne, each of which was used to communicate with different sets of officials, many of whom had traveled hundreds if not thousands of miles to see her, and waited weeks or even months for the privilege of a ten-minute audience.
Beyond the obvious symbology involved, the purpose of the various throne rooms was to keep that day’s supplicants separated from each other and thereby control the extent to which they could interact. A rather useful tactic instituted by the last Emperor’s grandfather—and potentially threatened by the introduction of off world telecommunications devices. Just one of the reasons why Shi Huu feared the off-worlders and the impact they could have on her world.
However, before the Empress could reach the air throne and settle into cushioned comfort, it was first necessary to negotiate the maze of hallways, passageways, and corridors for which the inner city was known. Her elevated, jewel-encrusted clogs made a rapping sound as a page led the party through the halls, courtiers bowed, and commoners fortunate enough to witness the procession hurried to prostrate themselves on the cold stone floors.
Some said that the plans for the two-thousand-year-old mostly wooden structure had been handed from heaven, with each room representing an aspect of divinity and each walkway a path to enlightenment.
Others claimed that the complexity stemmed from an effort to confuse would-be assassins, lead them astray, and provide guards with an opportunity to intercept them.
Still others, Shi Huu among them, believed that the labyrinthine palace was the result of incessant remodeling carried out by generations of royalty, none of whom had much if any respect for the structural decisions made by their predecessors.
Finally, having entered via one of six possible passageways, the Empress and her procession swept into a large chamber that had been decorated to match the throne that sat at its center. A dome provided light from above, clouds had been painted on a pastel blue ceiling, and live field flits sang from inside their golden cages. Even the closely woven throne had been elevated off the floor to resemble a woodsy nest.
The Empress climbed four steps, turned, and took her seat. Her breakfast was ready and waiting. It consisted of a pot of scalding tea, three kas crackers, and six mola berries. A discipline which helped explain why her body remained trim while most females of her age and socioeconomic status had a tendency to gain weight.
Shi Huu took a sip of tea, smacked her lips, and nodded to one of eunuchs. The official day had begun, and in keeping with the symbology attendant on the air throne, the Empress would first hear a series of reports. These varied from day to day but could generally be categorized as having to do with finances, civil matters, or military affairs. Which eunuch would go in which order was generally determined by them, so when Dwi Faa stepped forward, the Empress knew that the first item on the agenda was civil in nature. A rather broad category that covered everything from the policing of street vendors to massive civil unrest. A favorite topic ever since Lak Saa and his fanatics had launched their incessant attacks on the status quo. The eunuch bowed. “Good morning, Your Highness. May I say that your beauty seems to grow with each passing day?”
Shi Huu knew Dwi Faa was trying to soften her up, and knew that he was lying, but appreciated the effort involved. It would never do to let that show however—which accounted for her reply. “If words were gold, you would be wealthy indeed . . . Now, let’s dispense with the flattery and get to work.”
The court, some thirty individuals in all, took the opportunity to laugh, but none too loudly lest they offend the eunuch and find themselves banished to one of the more distant provinces.
Dwi Faa was completely unabashed. He bowed in order to acknowledge her order and began his narrative. Though susceptible to flattery, the Empress was no fool, and understood the extent to which negative reports could be shaded to make them more palatable.
During the earliest days of her rule one eunuch in particular had insisted on systematically misrepresenting the extent to which the all-important wheel tax was being ignored until the day came when his head arrived on a platter.
The grisly object was placed on the chair where the minister normally sat, where it remained understandably mute until the meeting was adjourned, and the head was removed. Not a word had been spoken regarding the matter, nor were any required. The lesson was clear: Lie if you wish . . . but be ready to pay.
With that in mind, Dwi Faa launched his report. “It’s my duty to inform Your Highness that a most regrettable incident took place during the night. Emboldened by the darkness, and desirous of imposing themselves on the minds of our citizens, some thousand members of the Tro Wa emerged from their hiding places to light lanterns and parade through the streets. During this illegal demonstration they were heard to shout, ‘Death to the foreigners!’ and two off-worlders were impaled on stakes.”
“What kind?” Shi Huu asked, placing a berry between her lips.
“They were humans,” the eunuch replied matter-of-factly.
“Serves them right,” the Empress said, popping the berry’s skin to let the sweet juice flood her mouth. “What were they doing in Polwa to begin with? I gave them an entire city to live in, and now they want more.”
Dwi Faa knew the last statement to be false, since the off-worlders had paid an exorbitant sum for the land on which Mys sat, constructed all of the buildings at their own expense, and been taxed to the hilt. But there was no point in saying so, and he didn’t. “The off-worlders were ministering to the sick, Highness—as part of what they refer to as a health program.”
Shi Huu waved a bejeweled hand. “Meddling, that’s what I call it. Continue your report.”
“Yes, Highness. Once the impalements were completed the malcontents attempted to march on the inner city but were dissuaded from doing so by members of the Imperial guard. More than eighty members of the Claw were killed, three hundred were arrested, and the rest managed to escape.”
Hoo San, the eunuch with responsibility for the military, stood a little taller. The Empress turned in his direction. The Emperor, who had been shrewd in his own way, and unknowingly served as Shi Huu’s mentor, had fathered dozens of sayings. One of them fit the situation perfectly: “Praise costs less than gold . . . and is frequently more effective.”
The Dawn Concubine nodded. “Thank you, Hoo San, for a job well-done.
The military officer’s uncut fans stood straight out from the side of his head. He bowed in mute acknowledgment.
“So,” the Empress said thoughtfully, “my old friend flexes his muscles. But why? Because he means to move against me? Or as some sort of diversion?”
“Only the sixteen devils know for sure,” Dwi Faa replied vaguely, “but the puzzle has many pieces. I beg your indulgence while I document two more . . .
“First it is my duty to inform you that hill bandits attacked the village of Ka Suu, put your tax collectors to death, and seem determined to stay.
“And second, though equally disturbing, is the fact that your nephew managed to escape from his palace and is presently at large.”
Shi Huu considered each item in turn . . . and knew them to be related to each other. Countless efforts had been made to find the hill bandits and put them out of business. Countless efforts had failed. Not only were the criminals dangerous, not to mention expensive, they continued to preach a philosophy of self-g
overnance.
Worse yet was the fact that Mee Mas, the Imperial nephew, took their quasi-democratic rhetoric seriously, and even went so far as to refer to the brigands as patriots. Not openly, of course, but within his circle of intellectual friends, most of whom had never done a day’s work in their entire lives.
But if Mee Mas were to hook up with the bandits, and be used by them, her nephew might become more than a mere embarrassment. The Empress felt a steadily rising sense of anger. “His guards, what of them?”
“Under arrest, Your Highness . . . awaiting your pleasure.”
“Put the guards to death and force their families to watch. I’ll leave the method to you.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Redouble your efforts to find my nephew. Kill him if you must—but capture him if you can.
“As for the hill bandits, the Emperor had a saying: ‘Never attack an enemy that another will attack for you.’ Summon the spindly one, tell him that we need help from his off-world troops, and let them take Ka Suu back from the bandits.”
It was a good plan, a brilliant plan, and the eunuch offered his deepest bow. “Of course, Highness. It shall be as you desire.”
THE FOREIGN CITY OF MYS, ON THE INDEPENDENT PLANET OF LANOR
As befitted her relatively lowly status, Christine Vanderveen’s office was on the north side of the embassy, facing the Strathmore Hotel. There was nothing special to look at, but it was a place to focus her eyes while her mind wandered. Big things were afoot, that much was obvious, but only for those in the more senior slots.
The morning staff meeting had been canceled in the wake of the attempt on the ambassador’s life, the department heads were meeting to come up with a response to the murders in Polwa, and a roundtable would be held later in the day.
Details were sketchy but it sounded as though two members of the Transcendental Health Corps, both women, had been dragged out of their clinic and murdered by members of the Claw. Vanderveen had met one of them, a big-hearted xeno-physiologist named Jane Munot, and been unable to prevent the tears when she heard news of the physician’s death.
Then, as if to prove that the bad things really do happen in threes, Frank Busso had called in to notify the ambassador that five members of his flock had been beheaded, and that others were starting to arrive at the mission in hopes that he could protect them.
Vanderveen jumped as the door closed behind her. She turned to discover that Harley Clauson had entered her office. He smiled understandingly. “Upsetting isn’t it? Daw Clo, a member of the Claw, it’s hard to believe.”
“Yes, it is,” Vanderveen agreed, her mind going back to the many little favors that the LaNorian had done for her. “It’s scary to think that he hated us that much . . . and managed to hide it so well.”
“Yes,” Clauson said, “It certainly is. Mind if I sit down?”
The question was little more than a formality, and the FSO- 2’s posterior had already made contact with the chair’s cushion before his subordinate could say, “No, of course not.”
It wasn’t all that warm yet, but little beads of perspiration had still managed to colonize the foreign service officer’s forehead. He used a white handkerchief to dab at them. “Sorry to impose on your morning—but I could use some help. Minister Dwi Faa wants to meet with the ambassador, and I was asked to take part as well. The ambassador plans to lodge a formal protest regarding the murders. It won’t change anything, everyone knows that, but the effort must be made. Even though the meeting is scheduled for 9:00 A.M., Dwi Faa likes to keep his visitors waiting, so it could be a long day.
“That being the case, I won’t be able to keep an appointment scheduled for ten. All of which is a long, roundabout way of asking if you would be so kind as to attend in my place.”
Vanderveen brightened. The meeting couldn’t be of much consequence, or the ambassador would have assigned it to himself rather than Clauson, but anything was better than writing reports. “Of course . . . I’d be glad to.”
“Excellent!” Clauson said gratefully. “The meeting is to take place in the Shawa District just south of the inner city in Polwa. It seems that Madame Las Laa, one of the late Emperor’s cousins, would like to make arrangements to import off-world plants to further embellish her garden. She tried to do so but ran into the rules requiring the need for in-depth bioassessments prior to the importation of alien species. A silly thing, really, but you know how it is, we need friends no matter how dotty they may be.”
Vanderveen sighed. She was going to attend a meeting with a no doubt imperious and possibly senile old bat. Just her rotten luck. Still, there weren’t that many chances to visit Polwa sans escort, and that would constitute an adventure in and of itself.
Clauson, who had a seemingly uncanny ability to read her mind at times, chuckled and shook his head. “No, you won’t be venturing forth alone. Major Miraby was kind enough to provide you with an escort.”
Vanderveen looked hopeful. “Lieutenant Beckworth perhaps?”
“No,” the senior FSO answered easily, “Lieutenant Santana.”
“The same Lieutenant Santana who shot Daw Clo?”
“Yes, and I would think you could take comfort from his martial abilities.”
Vanderveen frowned thoughtfully. “The lieutenant is something of a loose cannon . . . one that may very well go off. Did you know that?”
Clauson looked genuinely surprised. “ ‘Loose cannon’? What ever do you mean?”
“Santana was broken to second lieutenant when he refused a direct order from a Ramanthian officer during the Thraki war.”
Clauson shrugged. “That’s unfortunate, but so what? The Legion must have confidence in his abilities, or they wouldn’t have sent him here.”
“Would you like to know who that Ramanthian officer was?” Vanderveen asked meaningfully.
“No,” Clauson answered slowly, “but I have a feeling that you’re going to tell me.”
“Damned right I am . . . The officer that Santana refused to obey was none other than Force Leader Hakk Batth, one of Ambassador Regar Batth’s two lifemates, and the Ramanthian military attaché on LaNor.
Clauson frowned. “How do you know all this?”
Vanderveen shrugged. “I waited until Miraby went to lunch, sat down in front of his comp, and pulled Santana’s P-1 file.”
“That was inappropriate, unethical, and possibly illegal.”
“Are you going to report me?”
Clauson shook his head. “No, I might lose you if I did, plus your father would pull strings have me sent to Drang. But what I am going to do is find an appropriately subtle way to make sure Miraby is more diligent where internal security is concerned—and dump the quarterly activity report in your lap.”
“You would have anyway.”
Clauson smiled contentedly. “Yes, I probably would.”
Knowing that most of the day would be lost to the trip into Polwa, and conscious of the fact that her reports would still have to be written, Vanderveen left for work two hours early. It had rained during the night. The streets remained damp and a light morning breeze had pushed the worst of Polwa’s stench off to the west. There was the sound of a distant trumpet as the Imperial troops started to stir—and a determined whir of wings as a flit left the protection of a nearby tree.
Because of the way Mys was laid out, and the fact that Vanderveen’s apartment was located in the corporate sector, it was necessary to walk south toward the Transcendental Cathedral, turn west, climb the stairs that led up onto the street that everyone called Embassy Row, but was actually named “Legation Street,” face north and cross the Jade River.
It was too early for off-worlders to be up and around, which meant that all of her fellow pedestrians were LaNorians. A fact that wouldn’t have troubled the diplomat before but did now.
Many of the locals were on their way to jobs in the shops that lined the southeast side of Embassy Row, the Strathmore Hotel, or the embassies themselves. They tende
d to nod politely and murmur, “Hoso poro” (good morning), before continuing on their way.
There were others, however, scruffy types who pushed wheelbarrows along the street, or carried huge bundles on their backs. They glowered, sent resentful looks in her direction, and mumbled what might have been insults.
Or, was that her imagination? And how meaningful were appearances anyhow? Daw Clo had dressed as well as someone with his responsibilities could be expected to dress and been unrelentingly polite. That hadn’t stopped him from killing Corporal Wu however . . . or from attacking the ambassador as he lay in his bed. Vanderveen wondered how many of those around her would cheerfully slit her throat and walked a little faster.
Once opposite the embassy, and in sight of the legionnaires who flanked both sides of the entrance, Vanderveen discovered that she had been holding her breath. She let it out, crossed both lanes of traffic, and said, “good morning” to the guards. They knew her, of course, but were still required to check her ID prior to letting her in.
The diplomat entered her access code in the panel next to the door, waited for it to hiss out of the way, and went to work. It seemed like only a few moments later when someone knocked on the door—but a quick glance at the lower-right-hand corner of her comp screen revealed that two full hours had passed.
Vanderveen said, “Come in!” and turned in time to see Corporal Dietrich enter the room. He wore a Class A uniform overlaid by a ceremonial combat harness replete with six ammo pouches, a translator, a radio, and other items of equipment which the FSO couldn’t identify.
Like her peers she was familiar with the stubby weapon slung under the noncom’s arm however. All foreign service personnel were required to qualify on three basic weapons twice a year. The CA-10 carbine was capable of firing eight hundred rounds per minute and had a muzzle velocity of 2,612 foot-pounds per second. It looked like a wedge with a peg-style grip mounted slightly back of the muzzle, a pistol grip and trigger assembly just to the rear of that, and a thirty-round magazine that protruded from the bottom of the receiver. “That’s a lot of weapon for what amounts to a garden party,” Vanderveen commented sarcastically.
For More Than Glory Page 9