Carnelians

by Catherine Asaro

  They soon entered an unfamiliar room, a place nicer than Harindor’s best pleasure palace. His fanciest rooms were rife with big red pillows, purple curtains, and scrolled decorations on the walls, arches, ceilings, and anywhere else he could put the overdone artwork. In contrast, this room was elegant. Paintings decorated its ivory walls in pastoral scenes of deep green velvet trees draped with rosy streamers, all nestled in lush hills dotted with blue-stone outcroppings.

  Ambassador Shazarinda was already here. Aliana recognized him from her visit to his office two days ago, when she and Red had officially requested asylum. Tall and slender, with black eyes and a hooked nose, he had impressed her from the moment she met him. She wasn’t sure of the right word to describe him. “Gracious,” maybe. She had never known anyone with that personality trait before, so she wasn’t sure she had it right. Now however, with two ESComm soldiers flanking him, he mostly looked stiff. He nodded to Lensmark, a brief motion, strained and controlled.

  Then Aliana saw Tide.

  He was standing in the corner, his face so deliberately neutral, she knew he was scared. Two soldiers stood with him and it felt like a punch in the gut to see him trapped that way. Aliana wanted to tell them to leave him alone, but she saw the warning in his eyes, that look he had so often given her when he was training her to control her impulsive anger, the one that meant, Stay back, stay quiet, stay cool.

  The ESComm officer with Lensmark said, “Ambassador Shazarinda.”

  “I want it on record,” Shazarinda said. “You entered the grounds of this diplomatic mission without permission, and no one here has waived immunity.”

  “Tell it to Lord Orzon.” The officer indicated a console by one wall. “We can contact his offices from here.”

  Aliana looked at Red and he stared back at her, his gaze stark. As of yet, no one had bothered with the two rough and supposedly slow-witted children, but if they contacted the Muzes, someone would soon ask questions. She was scared for herself, desperately afraid they would learn the truth about Red, and terrified for Tide.

  XVI

  Simple Messages

  Millions of transmissions every hour came into the communications hub of the Urbanech Medical Complex on the planet Metropoli. The message from the Steward Medical Center was buried in the deluge. It landed during a shift directed by Calli Bascel, the only human component in the hub. She was scanning the flow of three-dimensional data with her enhanced vision and optical nerves, which processed the input at mesh speeds and picked out messages that might need human attention. She wouldn’t have even noticed the Steward message, except it set off an alarm.

  “How bizarre,” she said. It was a simple request for analysis of the data from a blood test. Any med-tech could do it. Then she saw the holo-stamp of origin. Ah. A Skolian embassy in Trader space. That was what had activated the alarm. It wasn’t unusual for embassy personnel to request a Skolian analysis rather than using a local center run by the Traders. One never knew what Traders might do. Sometimes they blocked Skolian petitions to use their facilities. Even if they honored the request, they didn’t always have the proper facilities to analyze Skolian tests. Rumor had it that they sometimes faked Skolian results, which led to health problems, even deaths.

  Calli was about to send the message to an appropriate med-tech when it vanished. A line of words glowed on her screen: Test results forwarded. She spent several seconds trying to discover where the results had gone. In the meantime, thousands of messages piled up. She finally gave up and turned her attention from the minor request. Wherever it had gone, they could worry about it there.

  General Barthol Iquar hated hospitals. He narrowed his gaze at the med-tech examining him.

  “Please focus on my index finger,” the tech said, holding it near Barthol’s nose.

  “I see your finger fine,” Barthol snapped. “Finish the test.”

  The med-tech lowered his hand. “My apologies, General. I didn’t mean to offend.” With deference, he added, “Because of your great value to the empire, sir, we want to do everything possible to ensure your health and well being.”

  “My health and well being would be a lot better out of this hospital,” Barthol said irritably. This idiot was just a tech, not even an important taskmaker. “Get my clothes.”

  The man flushed, his face turning red. “Sir, please, I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t leave.”

  Barthol’s voice turned to ice. “What did you say?”

  “The empress t-told us.” He stumbled over his words. “She said to give y-you the best treatment. Absolute best. That if any less was provided, we would suffer. She s-said you would want to leave before you should, and we weren’t to—to let that happen.”

  Tarquine ordered him confined? Barthol realized he was clenching the smart-sheet that covered his lower body. He uncurled his fingers and spoke in a slow, deliberate voice. “I told you to get my clothes.”

  Panic showed on the man’s face. He knew the choice Barthol offered him; defy the General of the Eubian Army or defy the Empress. “Sir, please—” His voice cracked.

  Barthol didn’t believe for one instant that Tarquine was concerned about his welfare. She was trying to assert dominance over him. Bitch. He touched the comm panel on the rail of his bed.

  “My greetings, General Iquar,” a woman said. “What may I do for you?”

  “One moment,” Barthol said. He spoke to the med-tech. “What is your name?”

  The man swallowed. “Ren Haquailson.”

  “Do you have any children?” Barthol said softly.

  The blood drained from Ren’s face. “Sire! I’ll get your clothes.” He spun around.

  “Get back here!” Barthol’s voice cracked in the air.

  Ren whirled back faster than he had turned away. “I’m sorry. Your Lordship, Your Glory, great esteemed General, I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry. Whatever you want, I’ll do. I swear.”

  Keeping his gaze fixed on the tech, Barthol spoke into the comm, his voice clipped. “Send the following message to my head of security. The children of Ren Haquailson, a med-tech on the hospital staff, are to be auctioned to a buyer on another planet.”

  “Please,” Ren begged. “I’ll do anything you want. Don’t take them. They are my life.”

  Barthol met his gaze with firm knowledge of his righteousness. “They are no longer anything to you. They will belong to whoever buys them.” His voice hardened. “Remember that the next time you think to defy your masters. Now get out of my sight. Now!”

  After the ashen tech left, Barthol swore. Damn Tarquine! She was the bane of his life. He could take her Iquar title, but he could never own either her power or her sleek, sensual body. If he had to obliterate the entire Qox Dynasty to right that unforgivable wrong, he would rip it apart with his own hands.

  The Minister of Protocol, a willowy Highton with her hair cut in a bob, spoke to Jaibriol. “The message came in this morning, Your Highness. We cleared it as fast as possible.”

  Jaibriol was standing up, leaning against his black desk, which reflected the colors he had chosen today for his office. The walls glowed with the sunset over the Kayzar Sea, a line of red, rose, and gold in a dark blue sky with several moons, including carnelian Mirella, gold Zara, and of course silver Tarquine. He had decided to have an octagonal room today, with rounded corners between the walls, floor, and ceiling. The domed ceiling was the deep blue of twilight, lightened by the orb lamp that hung from its center. Nanobots laced the gems that dripped from the lamp, allowing him to tune the crystals to a vibrant blue color that shaded into rose and then gold at their tips. People assumed he chose those hues for the sunset theme, but it was actually a tribute to his mother, Soz Valdoria, the former Skolian Imperator, whose dark hair had turned rose and then gold at the tips.

  One of the wall panels, however, showed a far less aesthetic display than Glory’s haunting sunset. Protocol had used it to play a message from the Skolians, their response to Jaibriol about the summit. The playba
ck had finished with an image of the Ruby Pharaoh seated in an elegant wooden chair next to a table. Kelric stood behind her chair, the Fist of Skolia, a massive war god with a square chin and powerfully handsome face. Seeing his uncle always left Jaibriol feeling inadequate. He was acutely aware that Tarquine was in the room, standing several paces away, watching. He could never forget she had owned Kelric for a short time before Jaibriol had met her. The warlord of his enemies had been his wife’s lover.

  Deal with it, he told himself. She is your wife. Not his.

  Jaibriol spoke to Protocol. “I find myself pleased by Ministry diligence.”

  She inclined her head, acknowledging his approval of her work.

  “An intriguing display.” He motioned at the image. “It invites the commentary of an expert on alien codes of behavior.”

  Protocol, the only acknowledged expert on alien codes of behavior in the room, went to the panel. As she walked by him, he felt as if he were losing his balance under the force of her Highton mind.

  You’re gritting your teeth, his node thought. Should I relax your jaw?

  Yes, Jaibriol answered. Thank you.

  Protocol tapped several panels disguised as arabesque designs on the wall. The display showing the Ruby Pharaoh shifted to earlier in the message and began a replay. The pharaoh was saying, “We agree that we must select a neutral place of meeting, regardless of how we are met.”

  Protocol spoke dryly. “It is amazing how many ways one can find to illustrate one point.”

  Jaibriol smiled slightly. “So it is.” The pharaoh just kept saying the same thing over and over, in different ways. “It is also remarkable how a thousand illustrations may offer nothing new.”

  “Unless the artist wishes the repetition and lack of depth to be the point,” Protocol said.

  “How very Highton,” Tarquine murmured.

  Jaibriol wished she weren’t there, watching Kelric. But she was right; the pharaoh did sound like a Highton. Dyhianna Selei was also saying far more than anyone else—except Tarquine—knew.

  Jaibriol turned to Protocol. “As always, the insights of protocol add light to the sunset.”

  She bowed. “It is my honor to serve, Your Glorious Highness.”

  Jaibriol tilted his head, indicating they were done.

  Tarquine waited until Protocol left, watching the Minister with her red gaze. Then she strolled over to Jaibriol and waved her hand at the panel. “Would you care to explain that?”

  He shrugged. “It’s Pharaoh Dyhianna saying absolutely nothing at great length.”

  “I wasn’t referring to her words.”

  Jaibriol knew exactly what she meant. Hidden within that holo, the Ruby Pharaoh and Skolian Imperator had sent a very different message than the spoken words.

  Quis dice.

  “It’s nothing,” Jaibriol said.

  “Nothing? An interesting game.”

  “I don’t recall discussing a game.”

  Tarquine came closer, intruding on his personal space. Her voice flowed like dark molasses. “I’ve heard it said that when the prey plays games with the hunter, such prey is brave indeed.”

  Jaibriol resisted the urge to yank her close and forget about Kelric. She was trying to unbalance him, prod him into saying more than he intended. She was too damn good at it, but he wouldn’t give in, not this time.

  “Fortunately,” he said, “we have no prey here to play with.”

  Her smile curved. “Perhaps. Or maybe my toys are here. Singular, that is.”

  “I would have thought you’d outgrown toys.”

  The empress touched his nose with the tip of her long finger. “When did you learn to pretend so well, hmmm?” She trailed her finger down to his lips. “Quis dice,” she purred. “All over that table. And here I thought you invented the game.”

  He moved her finger away, his hand curling around hers. “You know I didn’t.”

  She regarded him curiously. “Did Kelric?”

  “No.” He realized he was still holding her hand. He let it go and stepped back, putting distance between his hormone-addled body and his dangerous wife. It was either that or throw her across his big black desk.

  Tarquine watched him with her eyelashes half lowered over her sultry eyes.

  “Gods,” Jaibriol muttered. She ought to be registered as a deadly weapon.

  “Hmmmm?” she asked.

  Oh, what the hell. If he didn’t tell her what she wanted to know, she’d twist his libido into knots and then go off, stranding him alone in his big office. “Kelric didn’t invent it. I’m not sure where it came from. His wife, I think. He and the pharaoh are sending us a message with it.”

  “He wants you to play Quis.” She switched gears smoothly, from seductive to political, with an ease that never stopped astounding him. He didn’t think she even consciously realized what she was doing. “But you can’t send Quis moves as if you were playing chess by long distance. One message, they can get away with. The gems all over that table look like a deliberate display of wealth. It fits that empty speech of theirs, the way it sounds so Highton. One such display will make no one suspicious. But you won’t get away with more than that.”

  He exhaled. “I know.”

  A hum came from Jaibriol’s wrist comm. Frowning, he glanced down. It was a page from Robert. He touched the receive panel. “Qox here. What is it?”

  “Sire, I received a message from the Iquar Estate,” Robert said. “General Iquar checked himself out of the hospital and returned home.”

  “Robert, hold for a moment.” Jaibriol toggled off the comm and glanced at Tarquine. “Barthol recovered enough to do that?”

  Her face and mind both became shuttered. “He hates hospitals. It’s an Iquar trait.”

  Jaibriol tried to fathom her reaction. This happened every time he tried to talk to her about Barthol’s accident. Had her nephew outwitted her, or did she have nothing to do with his accident? He didn’t see why she would go home to “recuperate” otherwise. He eased down his shields and tried to read her mood, but he caught no more than her curiosity about Quis.

  “You seem more relaxed in your relationships lately,” Jaibriol said, probing.

  She regarded him blandly. “I’m always relaxed.”

  “Right,” Jaibriol said. “And I’m always Highton.”

  “You are the ultimate Highton,” she said, as if it were the ultimate compliment.

  He tried a different tack. “So is Barthol.”

  Tarquine made an unimpressed sound, like a brief gust of breath. “Barthol is the ultimate Barthol.” She turned back to the holo of the pharaoh and Kelric. “You should replicate that Quis game on the table.”

  It was exactly what Jaibriol intended to do. He also didn’t intend to let her change the subject. “You don’t think Barthol is the ultimate Highton?”

  Tarquine slanted him a glance. “If you are the ultimate, husband, there can be no others.”

  Sparring with her was getting him nowhere. It rarely did. This much he knew: if she had wanted her nephew dead, Barthol would be in his grave.

  And yet . . . Barthol was an Iquar, thoroughly and without remorse, as brilliant and as hard as diamond. Had he outwitted Tarquine? It would be the first time Jaibriol had seen anyone manage that feat. Or the Quis could be wrong. Maybe Tarquine had discovered it wasn’t Barthol who had tried to kill them. If the dice could be that convincing and be wrong, he didn’t dare use Quis to help him with Kelric. Too much was at stake.

  Jaibriol touched the receive toggle on his wrist comm. “Robert?”

  “Here, Sire,” his aide said.

  “Keep me posted on General Iquar’s condition.”

  “I will.” After a pause, Robert added, “We do have a complication.”

  Jaibriol wanted to groan. Was there ever not a complication. “What happened?”

  “One of the med-techs tried to discourage the general from leaving the hospital.” Robert cleared his throat with the self-conscious scrape Jaibri
ol recognized. He wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

  “I take it the general didn’t approve,” Jaibriol said.

  “No, sir. He confiscated the tech’s three children and put them up for auction.”

  “What the hell?” Jaibriol stared at his wrist comm as if it had sprouted two heads.

  Robert plunged on. “Sire, I fear the father may do something drastic.”

  “Like what?”

  “Suicide.”

  “For flaming sake.” Jaibriol wanted to strangle Barthol. “Send the children back to their father, and transfer him and his entire family to my staff at the palace.” Barthol would be furious at the interference, but damned if Jaibriol was going to let him destroy the man’s life over nothing.

  “Right away, Your Highness.” Robert sounded relieved.

  “Let me know when it’s done,” Jaibriol said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Jaibriol toggled off the comm and scowled at Tarquine. “Your nephew ought to be thrashed.”

  Her face was completely neutral. “He’s an excellent commander.”

  Jaibriol’s patience was evaporating. “Yes, well, our excellent commander will be furious when he finds out I stopped his petty retaliation against the med-tech for having the audacity to, oh-my-God, show concern for your dear nephew’s unexalted health.”