Node respond, he thought as his consciousness faltered.
Blackness closed around him.
Jaibriol settled into the violet cushions, running his fingers over their pile, enjoying the rich texture. The black lacquered table before him stood low to the ground. Azile Xir sat across from him, reclining in more of the oversized pillows, and his wife Zylena was to Jaibriol’s right, curvaceous in a deep violet dress, as if she were a classic Highton sculpture. Lamps shaded with purple and blue glass cast diffuse light over the dinner party, nothing too bright. The faint perfume of Sharminia incense scented the air. The glimmering embroidery on the pillows disguised a mech-tech network that responded to Jaibriol’s every movement, seeking to relax his muscles, but no cushions could mute the pressure of Azile and Zylena’s Aristo minds. Jaibriol stayed tense, his head aching, and the cushions kept working, ever so subtly, throughout the evening.
Even so, he appreciated the efforts Azile and Zylena had taken with this dinner. They spared no honor. It felt strange without Tarquine, but as dinners with Aristos went, it was better than most.
Zylena swirled the red wine in her crystal goblet and lifted it to Jaibriol. “Your esteemed health is a joy to the empire, Your Highness.”
He wanted to say, To me, too. Of course he could never be so direct. He did nothing more than nod, but he added an extra depth to the motion, indicating his appreciation of her words.
The Hymn of Carelli was playing in the background, a haunting composition by a slave who had been a favorite of Jaibriol’s grandfather. Carelli had created some of the most exquisitely heartbreaking music Jaibriol had ever heard, sublime works of art created by a genius who lived in the gilded hell of an emperor’s provider.
“It is auspicious that Empress Tarquine has graced her home with her presence,” Azile said. He speared a red spice-olive with a small gold fork and ate with the reserve of someone who could take or leave such an expensive delicacy.
“Indeed,” Jaibriol said. Azile was fishing, trying to discover why Tarquine had gone home, other than the official story, that she was doing an annual visit of her family estates. Jaibriol had no intention of elaborating.
As Jaibriol sipped his wine, he stretched out his legs next to the table, across the deep-piled rug of violet and gold. Real gold, for people to step on. He doubted he would ever adapt to the exorbitant wealth Aristos took for granted. Inside, he would always be the boy who grew up in the wilderness with no amenities, no civilization, no people even, other than his family.
A thought came from the node in his spine: Do you wish me to neutralize the alcohol content from the wine you’re drinking so it has no effect on your body?
Yes, good idea, Jaibriol answered. As much as he wanted to be mind-numbingly drunk, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t do much of anything he wanted; it would either put him in danger or weaken his standing among the Hightons. He wondered what was the use of being supposedly the most powerful human being alive when you were trapped by your own power.
What he really wanted to do was return with his family to Prism, the planet where he had grown up. But his parents were dead, and even if he had known what happened to his two brothers and his sister, he doubted they would want to live in that primitive isolation again. They were free somewhere, unfettered by titles. He had tried to find them, with no luck, and he feared to deepen his efforts, lest he draw attention to them. As long as they were hidden and unknown, they were safe.
A girl padded into the room in bare feet, and Jaibriol felt as if the temperature suddenly rose. She was lushly curved, with black hair falling down her back. The blue halter she wore glimmered like sapphire and barely covered her enlarged nipples, with gold chains going around her neck and back to hold it in place. The skirt hung low around her hips, held up by a jeweled belt of sapphires and diamonds, its gauzy blue cloth barely reaching her upper thighs. The sweet curve of her legs showed through the translucent material, as did a g-string held in place by slender gold chains. Her skin sparkled with gold overtones, as did the gold and sapphire collar around her neck and the guards around her wrists and ankles. She was so unbearably beautiful, Jaibriol felt as if he couldn’t breathe.
She carried a gold tray with three platters, each covered by a curved dome of platinum. Kneeling gracefully at the table, she bowed her head to Jaibriol.
“You may continue,” he said, amazed at how aloof he sounded. The aroma from the platter was making his mouth water. Or maybe it wasn’t the food.
“Her name is Sheen,” Azile said. “If she pleases, Your Glorious Highness.”
Jaibriol wanted to groan. Azile was offering him the pleasure girl for whatever he wished to do with her. And he could think of plenty. Except he couldn’t touch her. Among Hightons, where heredity was everything, adultery was punishable by execution. Of course that was all a sham. It only counted as adultery when it happened with another Aristo. It didn’t make one whit of difference what they did with pleasure slaves. Providers weren’t human, after all, so enjoying their charms wasn’t adultery. Jaibriol wondered if the Hightons ever considered the full implications of that. If their slaves weren’t human, then they were having sex with animals. How exalted. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Tarquine would pulverize him.
That wasn’t his only reason, though. He stayed true to his wife because he loved her, God help him. More startling was Tarquine’s fidelity. Over the years, he had woven his security network wider and deeper, until he knew everything that went on in his personal realm. He would know if she cheated on him with her slaves. It never happened. True, she was one of the few people alive who could outwit even his security. Hell, she had developed a lot of it. But he also knew from her mind. His formidable empress, incredible as it seemed, remained true to him.
“Your generosity is unparalleled,” Jaibriol said. Azile knew him well enough to understand it was “no,” phrased to acknowledge the honor the Intelligence Minister intended him.
A man in a tunic and trousers of black velvet stepped forward and knelt next to the woman. Carnelians glittered on his shirt cuffs and the edges of his boots. As the girl lifted the cover off the platter, the tantalizing aroma of steak drifted into the air. The man was holding a gold tine he never let out of his sight. He removed a gold steak knife from the sheath on his belt and cut a piece of the meat, then stabbed it with his tine, swirled it in the sauce on the platter, and ate the food. He similarly took a bite of each delicacy on the plate, including the buttered aparini spears, roe pâté, and a medley of sea sweets.
Jaibriol bit back the urge to dispense with all this business so they could eat. He had, after all, brought the fellow with him, which is why the man wore carnelians, the royal gem. As much as Jaibriol wanted to eat, he wanted even more to stay alive. He seriously doubted Azile would try to poison him, but he could never be sure of anything.
I’m receiving the data from your tester’s biomech web, his spinal node thought. The food is safe for you to consume.
Thanks. Relieved, Jaibriol nodded to his taster. The man rose and stepped back, blending into the room’s décor. Jaibriol always made sure his taster had the chance to eat his own meals first, of a quality similar to what he was going to taste; otherwise, he would have a few bites of a feast and then have to watch while others dined, which seemed excruciating to Jaibriol.
He nodded to the beautiful girl. “Please proceed.”
As she served dinner, Jaibriol eased his mental barriers. The warmth of her empath’s mind poured over him. He had to protect himself as much from her as from Azile and Zylena, in her case so she wouldn’t realize he was a psion. He also felt Azile’s tension. The Intelligence Minister knew he was a suspect in the assassination attempt and hoped this dinner would help allay suspicions. Such an irony, Jaibriol thought, that his empathic abilities—his greatest vulnerability among the Aristos—were also his greatest advantage. In this culture of hidden meaning and tangled intrigues, he sensed people’s intentions in ways they would never dream possible for
their emperor.
The food was incredible; it was all Jaibriol could do to keep from wolfing it down like a half-grown youth. To slow himself, he spoke with aloof approval to Azile and Zylena. “The Line of Xir defines the word gourmet tonight.”
Azile inclined his head. “We find satisfaction in the fields of Tapinazi.”
Tapinazi. So that was where this food came from. Jaibriol didn’t know much about the region, which was on another continent, but if everything they produced tasted this good, he ought to bring one of their cooks to be his personal chef. He couldn’t help but smile. “We haven’t yet had time during this dinner to think about Tapinazi.”
Azile chuckled and Zylena’s lips curved upward, which from Hightons indicated a great appreciation for his joke that he enjoyed the food so much, he hadn’t had time to consider where it came from. Jaibriol didn’t think he wanted to know what it said about him, that Aristo humor made sense to him now. It had been completely opaque when he had come to Eube eleven years ago.
The provider continued to kneel by the table, her head bowed, her eyes downcast. Jaibriol could tell she was starving. Azile did it deliberately, making her suffer because it caused him and Zylena to transcend. Jaibriol wasn’t even sure they knew; it had become so much a part of their lives, they took for granted the pleasant feelings they enjoyed when their providers were uncomfortable. Jaibriol gritted his teeth. He so much wanted it to stop, it was all he could do to keep from offering the girl a place at the table to dine with them.
Azile glanced from the provider to Jaibriol and smiled, apparently assuming the emperor’s interest in the girl came from a different type of hunger. It did, actually, but Jaibriol was doing his best to convince himself otherwise.
“She’s from a fine line,” Azile said. “The Shaltania Diamond Pavilion.”
“A many-faceted gem,” Jaibriol said.
“It seems the military agrees,” Zylena said. “At least, the army.”
So that was the latest gossip, that the General of the Army, Barthol Iquar, was buying providers from Shaltania. They had Jaibriol’s deepest sympathy.
“One hears many rumors, of course,” Azile said.
“Indeed,” Jaibriol said, wondering what Azile had to tell him.
“Rumors of military provisions,” Azile added, his gaze intent.
Military provisions. Interesting. Jaibriol concentrated on Azile, and through the haze of his discomfort, he caught the Intelligence Minister’s meaning. Azile had discovered that Barthol was using psions in an attempt to steal access to the Kyle mesh created by the Skolians. The general had neglected to include that “minor” fact in any of his ESComm reports or updates.
Jaibriol inclined his head to Azile. “A man’s title can say much with only one word.” Which was his way of saying, You’re clever, Intelligence Minister, to figure that out and even smarter to let me know. If Azile was seeking to regain favor, he had just taken a big step in that direction.
A hum came from the wrist comm Jaibriol wore as part of his shirt cuff. He glanced at its screen as silver glyphs scrolled over the mesh. In the same instant, a buzz came from across the table. Looking up, he saw Azile frowning at his own wrist comm. The Intelligence Minister glanced at him, started to speak, then waited. The haunting melody of the Carelli hymn played softly in the background.
From the glyphs in his screen, Jaibriol knew Azile was receiving the same message. He brushed the open toggle on his cuff, then raised his wrist and spoke into his comm. “Go ahead.”
The voice of Robert Muzeson came into the room. “Your Highness, we’re receiving a priority message from the Iquar Estate.”
Jaibriol’s pulse jumped. He met Azile’s gaze the table and saw the same look of alarm.
“What is the message?” Jaibriol asked.
“There has been an accident, Sire,” Robert said.
One thought burst into Jaibriol’s mind: Tarquine.
Even as Jaibriol drew in a breath to ask, Robert added, “The Empress is fine.”
Jaibriol exhaled. “Good.” As his pulse settled, he asked, “What kind of accident?”
“Barthol Iquar was knocked off one of the ocean piers,” Robert said. “I’m sorry to bring you such news. He’s in a coma.”
A chill walked up Jaibriol’s spine. “What happened?”
“He hit his head against the pier and fell into the water. It isn’t clear which put him in the coma, the head injury or drowning.”
“Why the hell didn’t his guards pull him out?”
“They did, Sire. They immediately gave aid, and within moments the estate staff had General Iquar in the infirmary at the main house. But his doctors can’t revive him.”
“I’ve seen that infirmary,” Jaibriol said. “It has better facilities than the hospital here.”
“They’ve spared no effort for him,” Robert said. “When the Empress learned what happened, she came down herself to oversee his treatment.”
Damn. Tarquine shouldn’t be “overseeing” anything. He didn’t want anyone to believe she had any connection to the accident. “Where was the Empress before that?”
“At the main estate,” Robert said. “She was relaxing with some friends by the sea pools. She is quite improved, Sire.” He sounded relieved to give Jaibriol better news. “The trip has been quite beneficial for her health.”
The idea of his driven wife “improving” by doing nothing but lounging beside exotic pools would have been funny if it hadn’t implied such deadly consequences. Tarquine, be wise, Jaibriol thought. If she had caused the accident or if she took advantage of Barthol’s condition to exact revenge, she could implicate herself in his death. It was more important to Jaibriol that his wife be well and safe than to make Barthol pay, especially given that their only evidence against the general was the obscure predictions of a dice game neither of them understood that well.
“Thank you for notifying me so promptly,” Jaibriol told Robert. “You have done well.” He regarded Azile across the table as he spoke, and the Intelligence Minister nodded lightly, accepting Jaibriol’s unspoken command that Azile look into the matter.
“I am honored by your words,” Robert said. “I wish my news had been better.”
The Carelli hymn continued in the background, its key minor, as if it were mourning the ethereal beauty of its own melody. The singer was a classically trained soprano, her voice so pure she sounded like an angel, especially when she hit the highest notes with an exquisite vibrato.
Jaibriol knew he should be dismayed by Barthol’s accident. To lose his Joint Commander in such a difficult time could turn into a disaster. He tried to remember the principles of honor he held so dear, ideas of conscience and judgment that he had respected his entire life, a moral code that would never allow him to sanction the murder of another human being. Instead, he could think only of his heir, the son he would never know, the child who had died in Tarquine’s womb.
XIV
Mesh Dreams
“It will never work!” Admiral Chad Barzun stood his ground, his square-jawed face set in firm lines as he challenged Kelric.
All of Kelric’s advisors were standing. Given the tension, he doubted anyone would sit any time soon. They had gathered around the oval table in one of the Orbiter conference rooms, their imposing figures reflected in its gold surface. His four Joint Commanders were present, either in person or as holographic simulations. Also present was Barcala Tikal, First Councilor of the Assembly, the civilian leader of the Imperialate, a gangly man with dark hair greying at the temples. Kelric had summoned the Inner Assembly councilors as well: Stars, Nature, Industry, Judiciary, Life, Planetary Development, Finance, Domestic Affairs, Protocol, and Foreign Affairs. Protocol stood next to him, working at a table console, monitoring input from those advisors who were attending as holos, flicking menus above her screen like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Her hair was a new color today, red this time, sparkling like rubies, with mesh studs dusted over it like black glitter.
A solitary woman stood in the head of the table, her delicate frame a dramatic contrast to the others in the room, most of whom towered over her. She was Dehya, the Ruby Pharaoh. Her melodic voice filled in the gold-walled chamber. “When Imperator Skolia came to me with this idea of a face-to-face meeting at the peace summit, I reacted similarly to all of you.” She looked them over. “I have since changed my mind. I support the Imperator’s proposal.”
Good gods. Kelric hadn’t expected that. This meeting had suddenly become less hopeless.
Naaj Majda, General of the Pharaoh’s Army, stood across from Kelric. At six-foot-five, in her dark green uniform with a general’s braid on the shoulders, she was a formidable presence. Dark hair streaked with iron framed her ascetically elegant face. “Your Highness,” she said to Dehya. “It would be difficult for security to ensure your safety or that of your family in such a meeting.”
“We would have to coordinate security with ESComm,” Dehya acknowledged.
Naaj gave her a sour look. “ESComm will never coordinate anything with us.”
“Ah but, General,” Dehya said. “You would have the chance to meet face to face with your ESComm counterpart. Surely he would value his own safety enough to coordinate.”
Naaj snorted. “What safety? My supposedly esteemed counterpart, Barthol Iquar, is brain dead.”
The Councilor for Life, a vibrant fellow who oversaw health, human services, and education, made a choked sound, as if he didn’t know whether to be shocked by her statement or groan. Roca gave Naaj an exasperated look. The Councilor for Finance started to smile, then stopped himself.
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